Cross-Examine

Cross-examine: (legal) to examine a witness called by the opposing side

I often hear authors explain how they stumble into what they call “writer’s block.”

It’s a condition in which they progress the story, but for some reason or another, they don’t know where to take the tale from this point going forward.

Many of these writers express great exasperation, nervousness and frustration over this uneasy stall.

But the truth is, every one of us suffers from writer’s block. Except it’s actually our real lives.

What halts us is the introduction of deception.

Once we’ve convinced ourselves that it’s impossible to proceed on with what we want to accomplish and still be truthful and above-board in doing it, we might just make a selection that is dishonest, and then find ourselves, like the authors, completely at a standstill.

Why?

Because if we go forward, somebody might come along, notice our deception and cross-examine us in an attempt to get to the truth.

Of course, we certainly don’t want to go backward and look like a loser.

I dare to say, there are people who have lived in the middle of what we shall call “a living block” for years, because they have such a fear of being exposed that they practically have to stay absolutely still to keep from drawing attention to themselves.

Cross-examination is a part of life.

I will agree with you—people who pursue it are annoying and worthy of being avoided.

But there’s always going to be someone who wants to know how we got to where we are. What is the extent of our involvement or guilt in some matter?

Of course, trying to hide only amplifies the interest of the interrogator.

Talking too much and making too many excuses also certainly rings the bell foretelling of great deceit.

So you see, once again, we find out that telling the truth is the only way to escape ‘living block’—allowing us to go forward without being nervous concerning the cross-examination that comes from those who believe it is their job to be the prosecuting attorney, the jury and our judge.

 

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Critical

Critical: (adj) judging

Two sentences:

  1. I am so good.
  2. I am no good.

Amazing, isn’t it?

Just changing one word in that phrase—from “so” to “no” or from “no” to “so”—renders a completely different conclusion.

It’s where the human race bounces.

Somewhere between so and no, we’re always on a journey to over-exaggerate our value or else proclaim ourselves wormlike.

Matter of fact, if I were to capsulize—perhaps even in a nutshell—what prevents us from becoming nutty is realizing that both profiles are stimulated by a flash-bang of insanity somewhere in the deep regions of our cranium.

No one is SO good.

Even in the midst of excellence, there is error that challenges to increase effort.

And no one is NO good.

Even within those souls we consider worthless, one can find value, even if that one only refers to God.

This is why a nation, or dare I say, a world of critical souls saying critical things to make their critical nature produce critical cynicism, causes the planet to teeter on a critical cliff of danger.

A critical condition.

I don’t agree with the axiom, “if you can’t say something good don’t say anything at all.”

Nor do I assert that everyone who is critical offers something to the “great conversation.”

I have developed a simple procedure in dealing with my fellow humans:

If I view something, hear something, watch something or read something that they have produced and there is nothing at all that I like about it or understand or appreciate or concur with, I remain silent.

Because to be honest, a critical contribution is only valuable if it follows a positive encouragement. If there’s nothing positive to say, being critical places the burden of guilt onto the judge.

In this case, that would be me. I can’t afford the guilt.

If they pursue, and say, “You didn’t have any opinion on the material?” I quickly grab the beauty of the lower seat and reply:

“Sometimes things go over my head.”

 

funny wisdom on words that begin with a C

 


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Crayon

funny wisdom on words that begin with a C

Crayon: (n) pointed stick or pencil of colored clay, chalk, wax, etc., used for drawing or coloring.

Elaborate was my plan.

Yes, many details, pieced together, far beyond my five years of life.

I loved crayons. But my mother never bought me a box that had more than twelve—and then, she never purchased the actual Crayola unit, which was so recognizable to my friends. So sometimes I showed up to play with our coloring books with my white box of eight crayons and they asked me, “Don’t you have crayons?”

It was mean. They could see that I had crayons—they just knew mine were “fake” and I was one of those kids who couldn’t afford “real” Crayolas.

I can remember like it was yesterday the first time I saw the gigantic container holding sixty-four crayons.

It was huge.

You couldn’t even use all the crayons—each hue pleaded for attention.

Fortunately for me, my friend allowed me to borrow from his pack of sixty-four, leaving me nearly teary-eyed and completely breathless. I never wanted to leave his home. After all, this was a house that contained the ultimate box of crayons, with sixty-four different opportunities.

Yet what started out as a pleasurable journey into the world of color ended up with me envious and angry.

So when my friend wasn’t looking, I reached in and took out six of my favorite colors from the pack and stuck them in the front pocket of my pants. To make sure he wouldn’t miss the crayons and there wouldn’t be a gap in the order as they stood like little soldiers in a row, I inserted some Kleenex into the slot and squished the crayons together, hoping to disguise the absence of the stolen six.

It worked.

He packed up the crayon box, put it away, and an hour later my mother came and picked me up.

Now, it was the next morning that my friend’s mother called my mother and asked if I knew anything about “missing crayons.”

I did but I wasn’t going to tell them.

The subject was dropped. They decided to take me at my word.

It would have been the perfect crime had it not been for the fact that I forgot to remove the crayons from the pocket of my pants, and my mother washed them in the machine—only to come out of the laundry room screaming over the messy, sloppy and smeary result.

I not only lost my crayons—I not only was unable to use what I had stolen—but the evidence of my guilt was now clearly melted all over my trousers.

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Comfortable

Comfortable: (adj) clothes or furnishing providing physical ease and relaxation.

I didn’t become a writer because I favor timeclocks. Deadlines were always dead to me.

I avoid them.

It happened to me this morning. I got up in the middle of the night and enjoyed a creative time of scrawling and bawling. I often do that.

The sheer beauty of God’s Universe and the joy I have in emoting about it sometimes turns me into a silly little girl who just found out that the boy she likes
didn’t check the right box on the note she sent asking if he liked her.

So when I awoke again, at what would be considered a normal “getting up time,” I was not comfortable with such an explosion of energy.

Guilt slipped in.

I thought to myself, I’ve got to get busy–write my blogs and post my articles, prepare my podcast. Hardboil my eggs.

My God, without all of these responsibilities, who am I? I become just some sort of guy walking around, breathing air, enjoying life as it happens, appearing to be without reasonable constraints.

I rolled over.

Sure…my blogs are getting posted later today. I assume this will merely create intrigue rather than disapproval. And if there are people out there waiting for them, they shall have the pleasure of perusing them in the afternoon.

It is important on our journey to be comfortable. You can tell when you’re around someone who is festering a gut-full of tension, because all you have to do is suggest the idea of pursuing comfort in your adult life, and they will quickly explain why this is impossible, irrational and a sign of having a “Peter Pan Syndrome.”

Peter Pan wanted to stay young.

I don’t need to be young. I can get old…

Just as long as you let me be comfortable.

 

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Cold-blooded

Cold-blooded: (adj) without emotion or pity; deliberately cruel or callous

The reason we call someone a sociopath is because our social abilities should be on a path. When they aren’t, it is odd, it is dangerous and it shows that something is horribly wrong.

Although it seems to be popular to imitate ruthless, the conscience placed into us by a Creator keeps us from being able to pull it off without great personal destruction.

I remember coming into the yard of my home and seeing that my dog had killed some guinea pigs my son was using for his science fair.

I could have sworn that my puppy was smiling.

That canine had no idea that he had done anything wrong. Matter of fact, he seemed a little proud of his teeth prowess.

Not until I began to yell and chase him did he realize there might be a problem and that he should get the hell out of the way.

You see, that’s not the way it is with people.

Maybe we watch too many TV shows.

Maybe that one hundredth horror movie was detrimental to our thinking.

But even though human beings are temporarily capable of cold-blooded actions–where it seems like they have no soul whatsoever–they actually are so tormented that they often end up mentally ill, committing suicide.

The danger with being cold-blooded is that too often guilt sets in–and it’s your own blood that’s cold.

 

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Closure

Closure: (n) the process of closing something

A papa’s brain is very reluctant to accept the death of his thirteen-year-old son–especially when that boy had been in a vegetative state for nearly six years, following a hit-and-run car accident.

When the young man died, it seemed righteous. After all, his only daily companion had been pain with discomfort, along with a few gentle
touches.

The father didn’t feel great grief over the loss, just immense guilt. Matter of fact, for the next six months, the young boy kept calling to him in his dreams, asking his father to come to a creek in the middle of the woods in Central Louisiana. The significan ce of the location was baffling–but the purpose for the union was obvious.

It was a retreat into nature to find a natural way to heal bones and brains, and restore the little fellow back to wholeness.

Night after night the beckoning came, and the father joined his son by the water, feeling the coolness of the breeze as they feverishly worked on exercises and pursued healing.

Then, just as quickly as the invitation had come, it was gone.

He was gone.

But what the young boy from the dream had succeeded in doing was taking away the guilt from Papa’s mind. Spending those nights dreaming of a cure gave Daddy some closure.

It was an act of mercy.

It was a mission of kindness.

It was apparently something that God allowed the young soul to do … before going to receive his reward.

 

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Chastity

Chastity: (n) the act of abstaining from sex

Sex is problematic because it feels good.

If there were no sensation other than the satisfaction that the male seed was traveling into the woman’s uterus to create children, it is
doubtful that the world could be populated.

So the Creator, in His wisdom, made the encounter the best few minutes of your life.

Although there are men who tout that they can go on for hours, the true goal is the last seven seconds.

That’s the memorable part. The rest is exercises to prepare for the game.

There are those who insist they enjoy the exercises, similar to muscle men who go on and on, discussing the value and delicious taste of a kale health shake–but basically, it’s that last seven seconds. And those seven seconds can control your life and make you do really stupid things if you’re not able to put it in perspective.

Standing in the way of common sense and clear thinking is the concept of chastity.

Although the individuals who preach this doctrine tout the value of purity and the glory of being free of guilt and sexually transmitted diseases, it does leave one hollow, without feeling love–vacant of a certain measure of satisfaction that was intended for our species.

Even the Creator said it’s “not good for a man to be alone.” Because in that loneliness is a sense of incompletion, because of not being loved and feeling the physical benefits of the experience.

  • What is the right amount of sex?
  • What is the wrong amount of sex?
  • When is sex evil?
  • When is sex good?
  • Is it only good if you’re married? (May I be truthful and say that married people, to judge by their facial expressions, are the worst advertisement possible for marriage.)
  • Is sex only good if it’s naughty?
  • Is sex only exciting when it’s with strange flesh?

These are great topics for discussion, that should be debated in a house of worship instead of a locker room.

But since religious people are afraid of sex and locker rooms don’t have that intimidation, many of the misconceptions, misrepresentations and even dark applications for this glorious piece of pleasure will continue to be whispered by those who are truly ignorant.

 

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Bliss

Bliss: (n) perfect happiness; great joy.

Dictionary B

I have never bought into the lie–this mistruth being that human beings have no control over themselves, their emotions, and therefore, most of the time, their actions.

Playing the victim is an immediate convenience which imprisons us in a lifetime of scrutiny.

Not for me.

  • I can control my selfishness. When I do, I have a sense of bliss.
  • I can control my temper. Once again, bliss.
  • I can control my erroneous training, which instructed me in the pride of prejudice. Blissful.
  • I can control my hypocrisy by refusing to deny my weaknesses. The arrival of bliss.

Bliss is when we take responsibility for our lives and therefore, can rejoice over our growth and escape the shame of our guilt.

 

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Befuddle

Befuddle: (v) to make someone unable to think clearly.Dictionary B

It all boils down to one question:

What do you want?

Do you want to look good or do you want to live with the truth?

They aren’t the same, you know.

The truth does make you free. But if your goal in life is to look good, freedom doesn’t always achieve that purpose. Freedom just makes it possible for you to walk around without guilt.

That’s why the truth befuddles human beings.

We actually see no advantage to telling the truth–because we prefer lying and deceiving our fellow-travelers to telling the truth and sleeping well.

The truth befuddles.

It befuddles politicians because then they’re stuck with their record, which is always a mingling of achievement and carelessness.

It befuddles theologians because the obvious question of “now, how is God different from Santa Claus?” makes them defensive and causes them to fall back into an attack mode of scriptural brattiness.

It befuddles the educational system, because just about the time we are convinced that education has progressed us, new knowledge shows up to confound the wise.

And since we do not want to appear befuddled, we select to become aggressive and childish, protecting our egos at all cost.

Befuddled is the ridiculous idea that we should always be in a position of power. What could be more silly?

Why would we think that any part of creation would have the advantage of understanding all creation?

I never met a dog who was actually aware of my needs.

Why would I think that I, a mere mortal, should not occasionally be befuddled, since I don’t hold the keys to any kingdom … but only find myself stuck in traffic?

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Beelzebub

Beelzebub: (n) another name for the devil.Dictionary B

“Marty did it.”

When I was twelve years old, it was the favorite phrase of my friends and myself.

Marty was a scrawny, bespectacled, weak-willed, sweet farm boy who really didn’t have any power and only gained importance to us when we did something stupid, were trying to escape responsibility, and used him to displace our guilt.

You know what was interesting? It worked–because Marty didn’t really defend himself.

The teachers began to believe that he was the problem child, and even sent him to the guidance counselor for correction.

Marty was so desperate for attention that he somewhat enjoyed the accusations because it gave him identity.

I deeply regret that I was never able to apologize to Marty for making him become the sin-eater for all of our pranks.

After a while, I grew out of it.

I came to the conclusion that if I was going to become a functioning human being I needed to take responsibility for my own actions instead of using Marty as my excuse for iniquity.

Such is the case with Beelzebub.

The Old Devil gets blamed for everything except for those natural disasters we want to lay on God.

Beelzebub absorbs the attention and builds a false kingdom of power around his alleged misdeeds.

When we are childish in our spirituality, we yearn for Beelzebub to step in and take the blame for our shortcomings.

Matter of fact, this may be the sign of truly discovering God: the day you wake up and accept the ramifications of your deeds as your own doing instead of searching the terrain for a devilish accomplice.

Somewhere along the line, one has to conclude that we are known by our own fruits.

It is not Beelzebub that bedevils us.

It is our own lust that draws us away.

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