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A Letter for Troubled Times
Letter To A Young Activist During Troubled Times
By Clarissa Pinkola Estés Ph.D.
Do not lose heart. We were made for these times.
I have heard from so many recently who are deeply and properly bewildered. They are concerned about the state of affairs in our world right now. It is true, one has to have strong cojones and ovarios to withstand much of what passes for "good" in our culture today. Abject disregard of what the soul finds most precious and irreplaceable and the corruption of principled ideals have become, in some large societal arenas, "the new normal," the grotesquerie of the week. It is hard to say which one of the current egregious matters has rocked people's worlds and beliefs more. Ours is a time of almost daily jaw-dropping astonishment and often righteous rage over the latest degradations of what matters most to civilized, visionary people.
You are right in your assessments. The lustre and hubris some have aspired to while endorsing acts so he
War on Conspiracies
"They (who) seek to establish a system of government based on the regimentation of all human beings by a handful of individual rulers...call this a new order. It is not new and it is not order." ~FDR
A sworn Testimony by a concerned vigilant Vanguard from the free people of America
-For a new millenium free from tyranny-
Within the reflection upon our history as a republic, the need is apparent for an established free society to assert their just derived dominion over their own self determination and thus declare to the annals of eternity, the reasons which prompt them to disavow the authority delegated to the entity, the Federal Government of the United States of America.
The verifiable truths we've held to prudent scrutiny have evidently revealed the origin of the deterioration in lawful government and consequently, the waning inalienable Rights endowed by our Creator henceforth manifested within the latent American Constitution. For reverence to our heritage, it shall be reiterated
Bo.When Lindsay was born, Bo was there. Standing beside her mother, he was the first thing she ever saw. But he was not her father; her father stood on the other side.
Bo was there until the very moment she died.
The sun shone bright through the windows of her pink-laden room. She loved pink. And black.
“Because Bo is black,” she’d told her parents.
Her imaginary friend, they soon concluded.
“Bo is all black,” she described one night as her father tucked her in, “His skin and his hair and everything. He doesn’t talk a lot.”
Her father frowned.
“He sounds scary.”
“He’s not,” she insisted.
Bo sat on the bed and said nothing.
Her father kissed her good night and turned out the light.
“Why can’t Dad see you?” she asked.
“Are you real?”
“Are you real?” he replied.
“How do you know?”
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