Hope is scary

robin williams

A friend of mine and I recently talked about signs. Things that are more than happenstance, a glimpse into something designed, destined, happening with certain and perfect reason, and then we talked about the scary feeling whenever something occurs in life that is so inopportune, and aligned so that you might have imagined a creator before, but now—now you’re certain beyond reasonable doubt and…what then?

In my life I’ve seen periods where death came and went, converging in this apex of my own bubble of trials in such a way that the formula was apparent. As if above me in the sky I saw written: x2 X 42 = 2014

How we think this is the way it will always be until the next season of change smacks us in the face, propelling us forward into a whole new adventure.


Such a funny word, because it’s only part of the equation. Eventually it stops. Altogether it ends.

I wrote on Facebook about Robin Williams and the arguments, obsessive complaints, and happy pretenders, all of us a people who are unwilling to look at the unimaginable pain in the face because that’s exactly what it is: Pain.

The bible says, “The sorrows of the world is death.”

Helk yeah, brother.

And compassion is slow in coming, it seems.

But this post is about two movies, instead. I watched Shrink the other day totally on accident and Robin Williams is in it as a patient to a shrink who’s given up on life himself (Kevin Spacey). Kevin’s character is selling books about how to be happy when in reality his own wife had committed suicide and he’s a fraud. The movie premise is basically about him being a hypocrite who’s selling his own success for the steps toward happiness, but he doesn’t believe it himself.


This movie was the weirdest parallel I’ve ever seen to the current loss of the great comedian Williams.

But it gets even weirder.

Williams plays a patient who’s trying to convince the shrink that he’s a sex addict when in reality he’s an alcoholic.

He loves his wife, he says, but he wants to feel like a man again. Then he breaks down crying asking for help, saying he’s so lost.

You don’t have a soul if you can watch this part without completely feeling gutted. Here is art imitating life in such a bold and strangely apparent way, it’s unbelievable.

I felt sick for him, and sad, and terribly depressed seeing the man himself on my giant 55-incher saying he hated his life with tears in his eyes.


We seek what we seek, and I tell ya, it’s not always everything we hoped for.

And that brings us to hope.

Now, I know you think this is an excellent word. A fabulous and happy word. But I learned otherwise over the weekend. Hope terrifies. It’s almost as bad as depression in how scary of a thing it is to people.


We watched ‘Heaven is for real’ and I was so inspired but also awed by the truth of the idea that the people around the Burpos basically freaked over such a certainty. They were fine with some fluffy, far away idea. But…as a reality? Get out of here!

Sure, we sing about it at church and stuff…but actually having proof? Not on my watch!


Whether you believe the little boy or not, you have to see the trueness of the towns reaction.

Old times they’d have been burned for witches.

Something so close and tangible (heebeee-jeebees!) vs. some other plane of existence as a nice and fun idea—rather starring us smack in the face comes with a whole bag of possibilities.

Wow. That’s scary crap, man.

We all got swagger until we realize the spiritual side of things is as nerve wracking as a Alfred Hitchcock film.

Magic isn’t as fun when it’s not bottled in a book or telivision. When it’s making the unthinkable happen in a place were scientific “rules” apply, we tend to either block it out or completely freak.

“You mean the universe is magical balls floating in space and they might kill us some day? Yes. Yes I do.”

In the movie the boy goes out of his body, yes, but he sees the “heavens” inside his dad’s church like a wall opening up. Like a veil lifting. (that’s how the Bible describes it too)

I’m not saying I know exactly if he saw anything like that, or if it was all a dream, or that I felt like any boy that young could give an accurate account, but the idea of it is uplifting and I love being uplifted. It’s not really the wise that sneer at every fancy. It’s the fearful, I’ve begun to realize.

And I’m old enough to stop being such a stickler, cynic, wah wah. So there.

But I get scared too thinking that this whole place is just sitting here in my living room waiting. Ahhhhhh! We are going to die! We’re all going to die!

That’s sort of how it felt, and why?

Because: Hope is so-so scary.

If the movie has it down exactly as it is then we’d simply step from one room to the next when we die.

How amazing would that be?

And how scary is it to hope for that and have it be wrong?

Very and lots!

BECAUSE it’s a lot of eggs in a single basket. And that’s why people don’t buy into it as easy as pie.

Think about it. We’re in a place where everything that looks too good to be true IS. Pyramid schemes abound!



Then there’s the number ONE problem about believing in this idea.

IF there is a heaven and a creator….what does that mean to me? What questions does that pose for my life?

And if I don’t go off gently into the night when I die…but instead I am in the night now—THIS is the night, and I wake up into the light, what then?

What then…

(cue spooky music)



“You shut your mouth when you argue with me!”

break up

Have you seen the commercial “Not sorry” from Pantene?

It’s the one where every woman is saying sorry for something to a man.

Then it says, “Don’t be sorry.” And they go on with a smug expression saying, “Sorry, not sorry.”

Firstly. I don’t know that many women walking around so sweet and innocently saying sorry for nothing.

Second. There is no weakness in being polite. MEN do it too. I promise.

Third. If you are a loud mouth braggart like me. And I’m a woman. You have cause to be sorry once in a while

It’s funny. Whenever I plan a specific topic it falls flat, and another one comes up organically in my life that just forces itself into the front of my temporal lobe.

I’d wanted to talk about arguing on Facebook, but then real life arguments of BOTH social networking and friends dealing with divorce and so on became apparent that it’s more common than the simple Facebook commentators spreading like a vast disease over our internet.

I’m sorry, I’m not sorry.

“Foot in mouth syndrome”<< I’m pretty familiar with this. In fact, it’s so common you’d think I’d buy dressing for my tootsies. You’d also think that my all you can eat buffet of crow would get old but I’m not so picky apparently.

I love when people tell me at church, “Well you must be Peter!”

Oh yes. Definitely. I’m a disciple who walked on water.

I’m just me and it’s pretty lame, much lamer than accidentally flubbing in front of the Son of God, that I can promise.

But it’s okay. That’s the reason I do need help so much with this flapping participle filled with teeth and gums that can’t seem to quite stop.

Oh look! Honour is now typing her thoughts haphazardly in a blog now! A second blog! See, she really and truly does NOT know when to shut up.

Ummm, duh.

So, back to the arguments.

It’s funny cause I’d been hearing a few things about “striving for peace.” That has a nasally annoying ring to it, right?

How does one strive for peace?

Peace should just be easy. Easy as pie, is peace, and a piece of peace pie sounds nice a la mode.

Sure, because everything that is beneficial is so easy!

Take for example wedded bliss, and not just any marriage, my own in fact. When Mr. Woods and I got together you’d think someone gave us a commission, paid bonus’, to try and rip each other down—I’m not kidding.

We took turns, as the usual barely twenty-something and eighteen-something’s do, pulling the rug out, laying down banana peels, and even doctoring the wounds later by pressing on the bruises once in a while like, that HAS to hurt, does it hurt? Ouch! (giggle-snort-squeal)

I mean it, people. We acted like our house was a cage match. We even used the big “D” word like it was going out of style. “You got pickles on my hamburger?” Divorce! (Me not him) “You were late to a party I never told you about?” Divorce (Any guesses? Me again.) I won’t point out his but I promise they were equally hilarious as in heart attack hilarious.

Then there are the myriad of frenemies in life. Now, I’m sure you all think I’ve probably been a great friend, an example like me…after all, I’m disciple Peter or what’s the girl version? Let’s call me Apostle Patricia! Oh, I like the sound of it already.

So me, Patricia, and quite saintly, I was definitely friend numero uno…right? Well yes, that is if you enjoyed hearing how wrong you were for the most part. If you liked being told almost every aspect of my life as well and why it was important to hear about it…and hear about it some more. Suuuuuuure, then I was the best friend you could have.

The type of character blessed upon me has a way of opening a lot of fight club doors if I let it. Don’t worry, I’m not blaming you…unless you are wrong, which is usually the case. (fixes halo)

But along came Joe Dirt. HA! I bet you thought I’d bring up the bible right here. Some of you are just WAITING for me to surprise you with a scripture. Not yet. Have patience. (Waves apostle hands like a Jedi)

Joe Dirt makes a comment in the movie: “Is this where you want to be when Jesus comes back? Pickin on little Joe Dirt?”

Now, to be fair, we have heard this in church before but it stuck with me a bit more when Joey said it because it’s the truth AND funny which makes things more memorable for me. Did I want to be in a brawl when things ended? Did I want to have been a terrible wife, or friend, or even just some poor excuse for a human on that big day?

Let’s say for the sake of those who don’t read this for their sermon (tongue firmly in cheek) that I got hit by a bus instead of being whisked away into the fluffy, white clouds as any good Patricia the disciple should, and instead I fall off a cliff (Smack!).

Do I want my last moments to have been arguing with Susy on Facebook? Or tumbling through the air with balled fists having just hung up on Jenny who I told in all my saintly-ness to shove it? Or even worse, telling my hubs the D word and then BAM, BUS in the FACE!

And so it was then that this talk of peace-keeping was buzzing in my ear.

I had some unfinished stuff going on in my life, some things I’d participated in with my own comments (when don’t I?) that definitely could have been kept to myself, or better yet tossed into the inferno’s of hell, and so I thought, well, in for penny Patricia.

“Striving for peace” ended up being me cutting a path toward fixing things with almost anyone who’d let me. I chopped my tongue out mentally when something arose that I knew would create a fight, war, or grudge.

And I shared my new found “Strive for peace” mantra with buddies of mine who also tried it. Voila. We’ve dropped a load we didn’t even know that we held!

My new saying is: There’s no weakness in being sorry.

My second one is: There’s no weakness in crossing a burnt bridge either. (that’s right. I said ‘burnt’)

I’m not a wimp and my Apostle status remains intact! TADAH!

Down with pride. Up with peace!



Do it. Read this. My new salty-blog!

Welcome! to what I lovingly refer to as the Salty-blog.

That name was taken. I know, I know, it’s great. Sigh.

But Words with Salt is just as nice 😀

And so here she is (cue music). My new blog!

We get to be many things in this grand ole opera called life. Lots of hats to wear, or pants, and I felt that in order to categorize these things one must sometimes make lists. Or blogs. Or movies, but I like to start small.

My growth and experience is not the same as someone else’s and so it’s great because the blogs I read, be that inspirational, author memoirs, equestrian, and so on, show perfectly that life is vastly varied while at the same time we’re tied together by so many commonalities. I almost always find another way to look at things, maybe some enlightening struggle through faith, or even just how to bake a better cake through other people’s cathartic wall-mall.

I cherish the output of so many in this technical age, and some of them show strife like a badge of honor through crisis and frustration, not gloating mind you, but those that wear the scars of their past fearlessly turning them into a conversation piece filled with sage advice and learned wisdom — that part… I find fascinating.

It felt like a party I’d like to join and since my other blogs are sectioned off with velvet ropes strictly for authorship and riding, and there was that one floppy blog where I went through a beatnik period with beret hats whilst smoking and writing poetry…but we shall not remember that now shall we. Shall we!

The educational process is not a straight line. In life we zig, we zag, we drop off the face of the earth before standing in a room filled with people screaming, “I’m talking loudly!” Just me…? Okay then, but certainly we understand the ebb and flow of our vicious and sometimes lovely cycle, or more basically the one hundred mile per hour day that then suddenly halts to a crawl where you play the venom-spewing patience game and hope to earn extra credit for your pilgrim’s progress.

That’s where this blog will hopefully go, from the dingy basements to the effervescent rainbows.

Plus I needed a new spot for more word-nerd evaporation so what that means for you is: Please notice the fasten seat-belt sign and the exits are not formerly labeled because we’ve actually kidnapped you for this blog.

And if you’re reading this Grandma, hi, and I miss you.

Don’t worry, I promise a more controversial topic in the future.  *gets salt ready*