(Written to the tune "My Favorite Things" from "The Sound of Music,
with just a FEW extra verses - HEY! It was a full year!)
Polar Bear Plunge not just once but try three times
Daily long walks with my old dog when she whines
Dark chocolate in boxes and coconut cakes for church
And my favorite red cardinals on my redbud did perch
The Big Apple we bit for our anniversary of twenty
Broadway and skyscrapers, food and frolic in plenty
Julia Roberts was with Regis but my story fell flat
The Hamptons and Jimmers tried cheering me STAT!
Tornado on Good Friday just missed us by THAT MUCH
Our city felt true loss but mass generosity a huge crutch
My video caught tragedy and the newspapers they wrote
Parts of the story to the Weather Channel did float
The Becks swooped on in and a road trip we did make
With mom to Missouri for a car that we did take
Fun fights over Twizzlers and licorice did rule
Boy, that Craig and that Tempa are sure pretty cool!
When my weight’s up
When I can’t sup
When it’s time for Advil
I try and recall just what’s in my cup
And then I regain my good will
The 4th in Colorado was a holiday to remember
Since we can’t fly over to see everyone in December
Galvans and Geisers, Aguirre, Sanchez, and Sweigard
Ann, Reba, and Katie were all fine reward
There were weddings and funerals and 5 brand new babies
I met with my Earth Divas, a fine bunch of ladies
Sarah got her license and Zach lost his braces
John and Ash' huge pup is still licking faces
Roofers with nail guns and Bunco wine at Nancy’s
My 40th birthday month with all sorts of fancies
A haircut and blog did make their big reveal
And South Carolina was fabulously surreal!
Turkey Day with Valdez’, including our Ollie
Biscotti in batches sent everywhere but Raleigh
John got his dream job and Gary a new life
My neighbors are All-good, Lockyear, Kenny and his wife.
For two days Uncle Zopie convinced me to sit down
Oh, the Mission Trip snot caught with nary a frown!
Facebook brought to me a world of old and new
Lost friends in Smyrna and Canadian cousins,too
When the kids yell
When things ain’t swell
When I’m less than fine
I make myself focus and then choose to dwell
On all of my highlights . . . for 2009!
Thursday, December 31, 2009
Tuesday, December 29, 2009
A Puddle of Interest
The sky spreads out beneath my foot, rippling blue washing out to muddy brown along the edges. It's a revelation to me: my size 9's treading across the heavens, even if only for the briefest of moments. Tree tops emerge from the toes of my shoe, the green leaves an impromptu spray of color across my silver-topped sneaker. There is a world at my feet in an instant and then lost just as suddenly as I walk on through. Splash! Splash! The hem of my pants absorbs the caps of tiny waves. For a moment, I am the unintentional creator of a monsoonal event. And then it passes. The sea is calm. Left behind is the oak leaf my eyes sought initially, a wee boat afloat in the puddle spanning the corner of this street I daily pace.
It has no place left to go. No other shores upon which to dock. And, soon, this weathered vessel will be land bound when the waters upon which it sails dry, revealing the concrete basin which played temporary host to this mini oceanic vista. The winds will come. The winds will take it away, catching like the sails on a true ship, lifting it to the true skies high above the true tree tops. There, no mirror exists of the world below. No giant foot sprouts green hair and crosses the great expanse in a few single steps. There are no inconsequential storms without reverberations. There . . . all is permanent. All is real.
I turn for one last look at the mud puddle and its rustic boat moving slowly across the safe surface. I enjoy the illusion a final time before again moving on. Full steam ahead.
It has no place left to go. No other shores upon which to dock. And, soon, this weathered vessel will be land bound when the waters upon which it sails dry, revealing the concrete basin which played temporary host to this mini oceanic vista. The winds will come. The winds will take it away, catching like the sails on a true ship, lifting it to the true skies high above the true tree tops. There, no mirror exists of the world below. No giant foot sprouts green hair and crosses the great expanse in a few single steps. There are no inconsequential storms without reverberations. There . . . all is permanent. All is real.
I turn for one last look at the mud puddle and its rustic boat moving slowly across the safe surface. I enjoy the illusion a final time before again moving on. Full steam ahead.
Saturday, December 5, 2009
A Tiger and His Tail
So what are we gonna do about ol' Tiger Woods? It seems he's been driving long past the fairway and putting far beyond the green. So much so that, ahem, his balls are now in the rough. In fact, it appears his wife may be the Woods' family member to receive the lion's share of the press coverage in the immediate future for her golf club wielding form.
Unless you dwell in a cave, camp on a remote cliff, or reside outside the reach of broadcast technology, the recent story concerning the world-class golfer phenom has probably crossed your path more than a few times in the past week or so. He had a minor traffic accident in the wee hours of the morning on his very own street. Initial stories reported his wife used a golf club - perhaps a 5 iron? - to rescue him; later stories suggested she utilized it to clobber him after discovering he'd been seeing another woman. At last glance, that tally was up to four extra-marital physical relationships as well-built unknowns have emerged to clamor for the public spotlight.
Whatever the real story is, the press and the public are gobbling it up, hand over fist, serving up and consuming new versions, edited versions, and alleged versions with dizzying speed. Until now, this mega golf champion enjoyed ultra-positive coverage in the media, including a polished appearance on the "Oprah Winfrey Show" several years back with Miss Oprah herself leading the adoring fan pack. He could do no wrong. Multi-million dollar endorsement deals sealed his financial success and introduced him into the living rooms of viewers who otherwise had no interest in how many strokes he took to get from hole 1 to hole 18 on any given PGA day. Though he did not lay singular claim to his black heritage - instead choosing to encapsulate his mixed Asian, African American, Caucasian blood with the term 'Cablinasian - he was considered the next black athlete superstar when Michael Jordan stepped down. In all arenas, Tiger Woods managed to appear endearingly wholesome, appealingly virile, and beyond fault.
Now, back to my opening question: what are we gonna do about Mr. Woods?
WE shouldn't do anything about Tiger Woods. I'm fairly certain his WIFE will do something about him, perhaps something TO him. She may even take him someWHERE: to counseling, to court, to the 'cleaners!' As well she should take her tiger by his tail! It is their private relationship business, after all. He's neither a pastor nor a politician. He didn't abuse a minor or rape a golf groupie. If all as it seems to be shaping up, he's simply a famous philanderer. Perhaps a STUPID famous philanderer. Whoa . . . how original!
But US, the big WE, the adoring fans, the admiring public, even the apathetic viewers, who collectively gasped and wallowed in shock at this older-than-dirt transgression between man and woman, women, whatever number, we should only be surprised at ourselves! Who told us Tiger could do no wrong? Who told us to believe his public image? Who told us he existed outside the scope of temptation and marital discord? Just because he can swing a big stick with grace and hit a wee round target into a distant pocket within the earth better than most other human beings on this planet is no reason at all to dismiss his very humanity. As singularly unique as he is in comparison to most of us folks, there yet remain sharp points of commonality that not a one of us can escape. For a wide variety of reasons - and in Tiger's case, fairly expected and predictable reasons given his status and wealth - husbands stray off course and venture into sand traps (wives do, too, but the numbers tend to lean toward our testosterone-laden gents), often sinking knee deep before they realize the position they've put themselves and those around them in for the sake of an urge.
Yes, he's famous and as such provides excellent fodder for the news outlets when his Escalade gently crashes into a tree. Yes, there are those train wreck-watchers who take a sick delight in witnessing the unexpected fall of a hero. But, when do WE draw the line in the sand? When do we decide to exercise our option to choose real news over salacious gossip? When do we lower the curtain of privacy over a hurting family and allow them the chance to deal and heal outside the scope of prying eyes? When do we discourage fame seekers from making laughing-stocks of themselves by refusing to attend their press conferences and leaving their 'rag' stories on the rack? When do we say enough is enough . . . ENOUGH ALREADY . . . and democratically determine ourselves to be a nation of grown-ups with enough problems in our government, health system, infrastructure, and our own backyards to keep us busy for a decade of Sundays?
I'm thinking today is good.
Unless you dwell in a cave, camp on a remote cliff, or reside outside the reach of broadcast technology, the recent story concerning the world-class golfer phenom has probably crossed your path more than a few times in the past week or so. He had a minor traffic accident in the wee hours of the morning on his very own street. Initial stories reported his wife used a golf club - perhaps a 5 iron? - to rescue him; later stories suggested she utilized it to clobber him after discovering he'd been seeing another woman. At last glance, that tally was up to four extra-marital physical relationships as well-built unknowns have emerged to clamor for the public spotlight.
Whatever the real story is, the press and the public are gobbling it up, hand over fist, serving up and consuming new versions, edited versions, and alleged versions with dizzying speed. Until now, this mega golf champion enjoyed ultra-positive coverage in the media, including a polished appearance on the "Oprah Winfrey Show" several years back with Miss Oprah herself leading the adoring fan pack. He could do no wrong. Multi-million dollar endorsement deals sealed his financial success and introduced him into the living rooms of viewers who otherwise had no interest in how many strokes he took to get from hole 1 to hole 18 on any given PGA day. Though he did not lay singular claim to his black heritage - instead choosing to encapsulate his mixed Asian, African American, Caucasian blood with the term 'Cablinasian - he was considered the next black athlete superstar when Michael Jordan stepped down. In all arenas, Tiger Woods managed to appear endearingly wholesome, appealingly virile, and beyond fault.
Now, back to my opening question: what are we gonna do about Mr. Woods?
WE shouldn't do anything about Tiger Woods. I'm fairly certain his WIFE will do something about him, perhaps something TO him. She may even take him someWHERE: to counseling, to court, to the 'cleaners!' As well she should take her tiger by his tail! It is their private relationship business, after all. He's neither a pastor nor a politician. He didn't abuse a minor or rape a golf groupie. If all as it seems to be shaping up, he's simply a famous philanderer. Perhaps a STUPID famous philanderer. Whoa . . . how original!
But US, the big WE, the adoring fans, the admiring public, even the apathetic viewers, who collectively gasped and wallowed in shock at this older-than-dirt transgression between man and woman, women, whatever number, we should only be surprised at ourselves! Who told us Tiger could do no wrong? Who told us to believe his public image? Who told us he existed outside the scope of temptation and marital discord? Just because he can swing a big stick with grace and hit a wee round target into a distant pocket within the earth better than most other human beings on this planet is no reason at all to dismiss his very humanity. As singularly unique as he is in comparison to most of us folks, there yet remain sharp points of commonality that not a one of us can escape. For a wide variety of reasons - and in Tiger's case, fairly expected and predictable reasons given his status and wealth - husbands stray off course and venture into sand traps (wives do, too, but the numbers tend to lean toward our testosterone-laden gents), often sinking knee deep before they realize the position they've put themselves and those around them in for the sake of an urge.
Yes, he's famous and as such provides excellent fodder for the news outlets when his Escalade gently crashes into a tree. Yes, there are those train wreck-watchers who take a sick delight in witnessing the unexpected fall of a hero. But, when do WE draw the line in the sand? When do we decide to exercise our option to choose real news over salacious gossip? When do we lower the curtain of privacy over a hurting family and allow them the chance to deal and heal outside the scope of prying eyes? When do we discourage fame seekers from making laughing-stocks of themselves by refusing to attend their press conferences and leaving their 'rag' stories on the rack? When do we say enough is enough . . . ENOUGH ALREADY . . . and democratically determine ourselves to be a nation of grown-ups with enough problems in our government, health system, infrastructure, and our own backyards to keep us busy for a decade of Sundays?
I'm thinking today is good.
Thursday, December 3, 2009
Hoping Late Into The Night
It's another 1AM kind of evening, backsliding every so wearily into morning. It is dark outside but with a full moon offering relief from the deeper darkness that I know resides around the world and around the clock. It is these dark things, dark acts, darker hearts, which often invade my mind and disallow the natural cycle of sleep, night after night.
But maybe I should be more specific. My words make it sound as if I lie awake pondering all manner of crime and plunder, fearing what comes next, anxious over that from which I can not protect my children, drowning out the evil voices and tortured mental images with a healthy dose of 24-hour technology, salty snacks, and a good book or ten.
I don't . . . though I am all too aware of these elements. The awareness has, over the course of my forty years, broken and re-broken my heart to the point where, though it is mended, the repaired shape resembles very little the original vessel appointed me at the hour of my birth. This new vessel, however, is better able to take on and retain a very precious cargo: that of hope. It is the possibility of hope, of human conversion triumphing over the blighted darkness, which stirs me into a state of 'unsleep.'
There was a family conversation around the kitchen island earlier this evening: an active debate concerning the overall character of people who make racist remarks and perpetuate the caustic slurs created by the white man to exert power over the 'lesser' peoples of the lands he chose to invade and conquer for resources and riches, whether or not he actually held 'ownership' of said lands. We hit upon England, France, Spain. Traveled over the controversial terrain of Christopher Columbus. Settled amongst the Indians of North America and the original inhabitants of Texas. Contemplated entire tribes ripped apart on the African continent, made to endure generations of subservience, expected to live out their hard-fought freedom on the continent not of their choosing in a hostile environment.
It's origins stemmed from the revelation of an incident between my son and an acquaintance from school. A sharing of a painful secret followed by an inadvertent revelation to others resulting in a shoving match in the cafeteria. The other boy, shamed by what his fellow students had overheard, reached for his secret weapon, eager to inflict a comparable amount of shame on my son. "You dirty Mexican!" he yelled. Volleying back, my hormonal 14 year-old threatened to beat the crap out of him if he didn't shut up. Teachers got involved. The vice-principal was informed. My son hid the story from us for a day, though he nervously told the higher-ups otherwise, until the ol' iPhone informed me the middle school is a'calling. Fast forward to a 3-day suspension for each kid and a PMS'ing mama who manages to maintain her cool . . . but just barely.
My issue with the adolescent moment is probably not what most of you think. Though I am, for all intents and purposes, the white man in my family -- German, Swedish, possibly English, with a smattering of American Indian of which specific nation I am ignorant -- as my husband is of mixed-Hispanic descent with a splash of French somewhere in the mix, I am fully aware of prejudice and have experienced its toxic effects to an extent. Though a story for another day, my stepfather of many years during the tender years of my own adolescence was a black man who served in the Vietnam War and suffered horribly for it. His marriage to my mother created unwelcome buzz in our extended family and caused a stir in public settings in many a venue. Our nomadic lifestyle placed us in schools and in neighborhoods where we were not always the majority. I don't write any of this to say I could ever fully understand what it is to be a minority and be forced to endure the unfairness of social dislike based solely on skin color and ethnic origin. I only endeavor to explain that my limited exposure created within me strong empathy and an unending desire to press on in the face of this ignorant giant, striking it down limb by limb. I understand that while the whole may be impossible to conquer, taking down its members, one by one, might just topple the infrastructure of racism.
So, the discourse between mother and son focused less on the hateful words and more on the reaction he had to the words. And, also how he will choose to react to such words, feelings, undercurrents in the workplace and the dating scene, etc., etc. in his high school years, college, and beyond. My position is simply that he can't fight as big an opponent as prejudice with his fists every time he comes into contact with it. In fact, I assert that he gives prejudice the upper hand each time he reacts with emotion rather than using a 'think twice, speak once' approach. Though action movies tend to say differently, I believe the reasons for a just knockdown-dragout are actually few and far between. We all see the ongoing effects of sustained war: glorified fighting with countless casualties on both sides. Instead, the right words, or a decided and deliberate lack thereof, might actually persuade the offender to reconsider. Either in the moment or on down the line. Plant a seed, not a fist.
I want my son to believe there are possibilities for change and they can begin with him. My advice was to practice a few choice lines at home for use in such situations to let other kids know it isn't all right to address him as such (because terms like 'beaner' and 'wetback' are evidently tossed about in less tense, more casual settings) without bringing an altercation to the school lunch table. I told everyone, as we licked the last bit of blueberry pie from our bowls, that most people are not all bad, including those harboring the ignorance that is racism. Internally, there are blind spots within all of us to truth and reality. Knocking down walls and aiming a floodlight in those areas does wonders. If we remember that we have power beyond violence, we can be an instrument for truth. Be aware of the bad but reach for the good. Period.
My husband says I've watched "Remember the Titans" with Denzel Washington one too many times. Huh. He's seen the football flick more times than I have, but the interesting point he may have forgotten in the glib delivery of the remark is this: it was all true. A racially divided town, school, and football team really did experience change-of-heart and extraordinary, seemingly impossible friendships did develop. My husband says he has no use for people who use racially-charged words. They are inherently bad and don't deserve a second chance. He says if I was something other than white, I would feel the same way. But, I pointed out that I know plenty of non-white folks who do not believe as he does. And, further, I've had enough scenarios thrown at me over the years -- difficult childhood, running away, brother in prison, the drowning of my niece and nephew at the hands of my post-partum psychotic sister, enduring private disappointments -- to witness myself in action: though not a perfect human being, I practice the very fundamental beliefs I preach. If I was a person of color but retained the same personality and character, I know I would always hope, and seek the truth, and try to exact peaceful influence if at all possible.
It's not all right that a teenage boy who plays on the same baseball team as my son, attends the same classes with him each school day, and has parents at home capable of imparting awareness the same as my son, called him a 'dirty Mexican.' It's not all right that stronger examples of ignorance and hatred exist and happen in our city, our county, our state, within the borders of our country, and around this globe on a 24/7 basis. The long list of crime shows to be found on the television didn't invent the atrocities which are the bread-and-butter of their plot lines. No, we are spinning on an axis of evil which could very well overwhelm us but for the one thing I refuse to surrender despite all I know: the faithful practice of hope. One person at a time. One after-midnight blog at a time.
Starting with me.
(I was fully prepared for bed at 5 minutes to 1AM. Then came the end credits for the very intense "A Time To Kill" with Samuel L. Jackson, Sandra Bullock, and Matthew McConaughey. Though I've seen this film before, and read the book, I found myself with intense visceral reactions at several key points in the show. The gospel song bringing down the house as the key grip, animal trainer, and set design designates scrolled down the screen stirred my writing juices.
Please note: I realize that the 'white man' did not invent prejudice or racism. Even within the same race, people managed to create systems whereby the powerful exercised their seeming superiority over the powerless. However, for our intents, in modern and historical America, with our unresolved issues concerning Black America and the polarizing debate over our illegal population of Mexican residents, the weighted term 'white man' fits the bill.)
But maybe I should be more specific. My words make it sound as if I lie awake pondering all manner of crime and plunder, fearing what comes next, anxious over that from which I can not protect my children, drowning out the evil voices and tortured mental images with a healthy dose of 24-hour technology, salty snacks, and a good book or ten.
I don't . . . though I am all too aware of these elements. The awareness has, over the course of my forty years, broken and re-broken my heart to the point where, though it is mended, the repaired shape resembles very little the original vessel appointed me at the hour of my birth. This new vessel, however, is better able to take on and retain a very precious cargo: that of hope. It is the possibility of hope, of human conversion triumphing over the blighted darkness, which stirs me into a state of 'unsleep.'
There was a family conversation around the kitchen island earlier this evening: an active debate concerning the overall character of people who make racist remarks and perpetuate the caustic slurs created by the white man to exert power over the 'lesser' peoples of the lands he chose to invade and conquer for resources and riches, whether or not he actually held 'ownership' of said lands. We hit upon England, France, Spain. Traveled over the controversial terrain of Christopher Columbus. Settled amongst the Indians of North America and the original inhabitants of Texas. Contemplated entire tribes ripped apart on the African continent, made to endure generations of subservience, expected to live out their hard-fought freedom on the continent not of their choosing in a hostile environment.
It's origins stemmed from the revelation of an incident between my son and an acquaintance from school. A sharing of a painful secret followed by an inadvertent revelation to others resulting in a shoving match in the cafeteria. The other boy, shamed by what his fellow students had overheard, reached for his secret weapon, eager to inflict a comparable amount of shame on my son. "You dirty Mexican!" he yelled. Volleying back, my hormonal 14 year-old threatened to beat the crap out of him if he didn't shut up. Teachers got involved. The vice-principal was informed. My son hid the story from us for a day, though he nervously told the higher-ups otherwise, until the ol' iPhone informed me the middle school is a'calling. Fast forward to a 3-day suspension for each kid and a PMS'ing mama who manages to maintain her cool . . . but just barely.
My issue with the adolescent moment is probably not what most of you think. Though I am, for all intents and purposes, the white man in my family -- German, Swedish, possibly English, with a smattering of American Indian of which specific nation I am ignorant -- as my husband is of mixed-Hispanic descent with a splash of French somewhere in the mix, I am fully aware of prejudice and have experienced its toxic effects to an extent. Though a story for another day, my stepfather of many years during the tender years of my own adolescence was a black man who served in the Vietnam War and suffered horribly for it. His marriage to my mother created unwelcome buzz in our extended family and caused a stir in public settings in many a venue. Our nomadic lifestyle placed us in schools and in neighborhoods where we were not always the majority. I don't write any of this to say I could ever fully understand what it is to be a minority and be forced to endure the unfairness of social dislike based solely on skin color and ethnic origin. I only endeavor to explain that my limited exposure created within me strong empathy and an unending desire to press on in the face of this ignorant giant, striking it down limb by limb. I understand that while the whole may be impossible to conquer, taking down its members, one by one, might just topple the infrastructure of racism.
So, the discourse between mother and son focused less on the hateful words and more on the reaction he had to the words. And, also how he will choose to react to such words, feelings, undercurrents in the workplace and the dating scene, etc., etc. in his high school years, college, and beyond. My position is simply that he can't fight as big an opponent as prejudice with his fists every time he comes into contact with it. In fact, I assert that he gives prejudice the upper hand each time he reacts with emotion rather than using a 'think twice, speak once' approach. Though action movies tend to say differently, I believe the reasons for a just knockdown-dragout are actually few and far between. We all see the ongoing effects of sustained war: glorified fighting with countless casualties on both sides. Instead, the right words, or a decided and deliberate lack thereof, might actually persuade the offender to reconsider. Either in the moment or on down the line. Plant a seed, not a fist.
I want my son to believe there are possibilities for change and they can begin with him. My advice was to practice a few choice lines at home for use in such situations to let other kids know it isn't all right to address him as such (because terms like 'beaner' and 'wetback' are evidently tossed about in less tense, more casual settings) without bringing an altercation to the school lunch table. I told everyone, as we licked the last bit of blueberry pie from our bowls, that most people are not all bad, including those harboring the ignorance that is racism. Internally, there are blind spots within all of us to truth and reality. Knocking down walls and aiming a floodlight in those areas does wonders. If we remember that we have power beyond violence, we can be an instrument for truth. Be aware of the bad but reach for the good. Period.
My husband says I've watched "Remember the Titans" with Denzel Washington one too many times. Huh. He's seen the football flick more times than I have, but the interesting point he may have forgotten in the glib delivery of the remark is this: it was all true. A racially divided town, school, and football team really did experience change-of-heart and extraordinary, seemingly impossible friendships did develop. My husband says he has no use for people who use racially-charged words. They are inherently bad and don't deserve a second chance. He says if I was something other than white, I would feel the same way. But, I pointed out that I know plenty of non-white folks who do not believe as he does. And, further, I've had enough scenarios thrown at me over the years -- difficult childhood, running away, brother in prison, the drowning of my niece and nephew at the hands of my post-partum psychotic sister, enduring private disappointments -- to witness myself in action: though not a perfect human being, I practice the very fundamental beliefs I preach. If I was a person of color but retained the same personality and character, I know I would always hope, and seek the truth, and try to exact peaceful influence if at all possible.
It's not all right that a teenage boy who plays on the same baseball team as my son, attends the same classes with him each school day, and has parents at home capable of imparting awareness the same as my son, called him a 'dirty Mexican.' It's not all right that stronger examples of ignorance and hatred exist and happen in our city, our county, our state, within the borders of our country, and around this globe on a 24/7 basis. The long list of crime shows to be found on the television didn't invent the atrocities which are the bread-and-butter of their plot lines. No, we are spinning on an axis of evil which could very well overwhelm us but for the one thing I refuse to surrender despite all I know: the faithful practice of hope. One person at a time. One after-midnight blog at a time.
Starting with me.
(I was fully prepared for bed at 5 minutes to 1AM. Then came the end credits for the very intense "A Time To Kill" with Samuel L. Jackson, Sandra Bullock, and Matthew McConaughey. Though I've seen this film before, and read the book, I found myself with intense visceral reactions at several key points in the show. The gospel song bringing down the house as the key grip, animal trainer, and set design designates scrolled down the screen stirred my writing juices.
Please note: I realize that the 'white man' did not invent prejudice or racism. Even within the same race, people managed to create systems whereby the powerful exercised their seeming superiority over the powerless. However, for our intents, in modern and historical America, with our unresolved issues concerning Black America and the polarizing debate over our illegal population of Mexican residents, the weighted term 'white man' fits the bill.)
Monday, November 30, 2009
Gary's and John's Brotherly Love for Sistah G.
Brother John's signature on his family's birthday card to me. Our man of relatively few written words outside of business:
"Wow! 40 sis! Really!
We're gettin' old.
You're an excellent human!!"
********************
November 19th, 2009
Penned in the calligraphy-style handwriting he reserves for his 'special' letters to me, mom, and the kids.
Gloria,
In my prayers for you, the vast countless thoughts of our Father descend upon you as a gentle calming mist settles upon the petals of a mountain wild flower. He causes you to bloom with His soft and gentle light. Your anxieties and heartaches flow from you in a stream of living cleansing water.
In my prayers for you, He reveals the true desires of your heart by giving them to you. Your eyes are lifted toward the awesome warmth that emanates from Him through His Holy Spirit. Your heart bursts with a peace that knows no bounds, nor can it be extinguished by the cares of this world.
In my prayers for you, the patience you've exercised, the hope, faith and love you harbor for your little brother is come to fruition and healing is done at last.
In my prayers for you, God opens your eyes and heart so you can see and feel what my love and gratitude, loyalty and humble devotion to seeing YOUR peace and joy fulfilled really is. Only a broken spirit such as mine, one that has been nurtured, loved, cared for, and believed in by one such as you, can know the futility of searching for words to describe the endless thanks I feel.
I love you. Happy Birthday Sis. Love, -ME (Gary for those who can't guess.) XOXO infinity
****************
Folks, hang on to your brothers. Make it work. They are worth the effort and occasional forehead slap. When they're not around, appreciate those friends and neighbors who temporarily fill in for them! As the magnet on my fridge extols, IF IT AIN'T ONE THING, IT'S YOUR BROTHER!
"Wow! 40 sis! Really!
We're gettin' old.
You're an excellent human!!"
********************
November 19th, 2009
Penned in the calligraphy-style handwriting he reserves for his 'special' letters to me, mom, and the kids.
Gloria,
In my prayers for you, the vast countless thoughts of our Father descend upon you as a gentle calming mist settles upon the petals of a mountain wild flower. He causes you to bloom with His soft and gentle light. Your anxieties and heartaches flow from you in a stream of living cleansing water.
In my prayers for you, He reveals the true desires of your heart by giving them to you. Your eyes are lifted toward the awesome warmth that emanates from Him through His Holy Spirit. Your heart bursts with a peace that knows no bounds, nor can it be extinguished by the cares of this world.
In my prayers for you, the patience you've exercised, the hope, faith and love you harbor for your little brother is come to fruition and healing is done at last.
In my prayers for you, God opens your eyes and heart so you can see and feel what my love and gratitude, loyalty and humble devotion to seeing YOUR peace and joy fulfilled really is. Only a broken spirit such as mine, one that has been nurtured, loved, cared for, and believed in by one such as you, can know the futility of searching for words to describe the endless thanks I feel.
I love you. Happy Birthday Sis. Love, -ME (Gary for those who can't guess.) XOXO infinity
****************
Folks, hang on to your brothers. Make it work. They are worth the effort and occasional forehead slap. When they're not around, appreciate those friends and neighbors who temporarily fill in for them! As the magnet on my fridge extols, IF IT AIN'T ONE THING, IT'S YOUR BROTHER!
Saturday, November 28, 2009
Forty Words for Forty Years
Ah, the 40th birthday. The big ship sailing in. Or, away . . . depending on your take concerning the milestone matter. Me - I rode a sleekly rigged and tightly outfitted schooner right up to the dock. Let someone else sink out at sea with their Titanic. From the onset of this year, I've viewed my 40th birthday as nothing less than a stopping point for reflection, realignment, rejoicing and NO, count 'em, NO regrets. (Those nasty little boogers accompanied me all along the way before I hoisted them over the side and into the waiting mouths of ravenous sharks!) I even managed to kick off the year of change with a frigid dip into the icy waters of the local swimming pool -- ye olde annual Polar Bear Plunge. (Disclaimer: the waters were not as chilly as expected due to unseasonably warm temps, but I promise you it halted the proper function of my lungs and exacted two-tiered goose pimples!)
Among the embarrassment of riches I received by making a huge fuss over my fourth decade of life, were several generous gifts from my husband, including the food-laden bell-ringing party. The iPhone arrived pre-birthday and is well exercised. The laptop in all her pink glory revealed her identity late in the festivities; she assists in aiding my 'speech' on this blog at present. The riding boots made their well-heeled debut during the second half of the shindig. Our gift bag laden coffee table doubled as a generous portion of the evening's entertainment.
About one-third of the way through the unwrapping, I begin to feel rather uncomfortable with the seemingly unending pile of goodies, bearing contents both large and small, amusing and serious, sweet and tart! My daughter conspired Secret-ly with Victoria to bestow a lovely pajama set; my neighbor and her husband set themselves in good stead with the most clever present(s) of the night. Two sisters sent two gifts which arrived two days in a row to my surprise and delight! (Clarify: sisters one to the other and NOT my own siblings.) There were cards and well-wishes and candies and books with a few gift cards thrown in. Not a bad haul but not at all the reason for the party.
I wanted the people. All of my people, or as many of them as we could gather, together for a few hours under the same roof for my viewing and hearing pleasure. I hoped to observe them as they interacted one with the other. I looked forward to the epicurean pleasure they would undoubtedly experience when they partook of the tables upon tables of victuals, from smoked wings to cake and ice cream to chips and fruit to veggies and dips to nuts and candies to wines and deli meats to gourmet cheeses. Phew! You're full by this point, no? As they dined without limitations, I would feast with my eyes upon my human smorgasbord of folks, grateful for their friendship, companionship, blood history, the entire gamut. People, people, people. MY people, if I may be so bold.
Because it is the people for whom my birthday bell tolls, their sentiment and sacrifice, their wit and verve, it should come as no surprise that I zeroed in on one particular birthday card. Cards from the right people exude such personality and personal feeling -- the succinct and often clever epitome of the giver's impressions of the recipient. I absolutely love them and believe Hallmark answered a holy calling! While there was not one bad apple in the bunch, the card of honorable mention contained perhaps the most perfect of presents for a gal such as myself: words. (A charming pair of earrings also accompanied this card which I mistook initially for a fashionably wrapped teabag!) Words straight up. No mixer. No chaser. No supplemental adverbs or adjectives. Just a collection of forty words for forty years.
They read as follows:
Strong, articulate, smart, kind, motherly, awesome, hot, stylish, funny, entertaining, kind-hearted, beautiful, fit, culinary, artist, horticulturist, faithful, loving, spiritual, photographer, patient, forgiving, author, intelligent, philosophical, passionate, well-rounded, natural, dedicated, courageous, profound, sensible, striking, dancer, honest, virtuous, frugal, brilliant, astute . . . and (yes, she has said it before now) weird.
Now, I am head-over-heels for my iPhone - who I named 'Girlfriend'; please note I called it a her - and the laptop, boots, gift cards, and all the rest are nothing to frown at. I haven't and I won't. It's just that those forty words say in a most direct fashion what one single gift cannot encompass with such wide scope. There may lie within the perfection of this gift the makings of a tradition to be passed from person to person, friend to friend, occasion to occasion.
I propose each reader try this approach to writing with someone on the other end of their pen. It would do away with the fear most people feel when attempting to come across as witty and unique in the signing of their cards. I have several wonderfully supportive and expressive friends who refuse to send me cards or letters of any kind on the excuse that they can't come up with anything as good as my sentiment for them. Such a wounding . . . we writers enjoy being written to - dangling prepositions and all! If we wanted to read our own words, we'd simply write to ourselves. This clean march of words, one quality, one description, one right after the other with merely a comma for accompaniment, eliminates the guesswork and pressure to perform. And, aside from assigning it as the subject for this blog entry, I can not begin to express the sheer pleasure I derived from the reading and absorption of those fabulous forty words.
So, hunker down and give 'em forty!
Among the embarrassment of riches I received by making a huge fuss over my fourth decade of life, were several generous gifts from my husband, including the food-laden bell-ringing party. The iPhone arrived pre-birthday and is well exercised. The laptop in all her pink glory revealed her identity late in the festivities; she assists in aiding my 'speech' on this blog at present. The riding boots made their well-heeled debut during the second half of the shindig. Our gift bag laden coffee table doubled as a generous portion of the evening's entertainment.
About one-third of the way through the unwrapping, I begin to feel rather uncomfortable with the seemingly unending pile of goodies, bearing contents both large and small, amusing and serious, sweet and tart! My daughter conspired Secret-ly with Victoria to bestow a lovely pajama set; my neighbor and her husband set themselves in good stead with the most clever present(s) of the night. Two sisters sent two gifts which arrived two days in a row to my surprise and delight! (Clarify: sisters one to the other and NOT my own siblings.) There were cards and well-wishes and candies and books with a few gift cards thrown in. Not a bad haul but not at all the reason for the party.
I wanted the people. All of my people, or as many of them as we could gather, together for a few hours under the same roof for my viewing and hearing pleasure. I hoped to observe them as they interacted one with the other. I looked forward to the epicurean pleasure they would undoubtedly experience when they partook of the tables upon tables of victuals, from smoked wings to cake and ice cream to chips and fruit to veggies and dips to nuts and candies to wines and deli meats to gourmet cheeses. Phew! You're full by this point, no? As they dined without limitations, I would feast with my eyes upon my human smorgasbord of folks, grateful for their friendship, companionship, blood history, the entire gamut. People, people, people. MY people, if I may be so bold.
Because it is the people for whom my birthday bell tolls, their sentiment and sacrifice, their wit and verve, it should come as no surprise that I zeroed in on one particular birthday card. Cards from the right people exude such personality and personal feeling -- the succinct and often clever epitome of the giver's impressions of the recipient. I absolutely love them and believe Hallmark answered a holy calling! While there was not one bad apple in the bunch, the card of honorable mention contained perhaps the most perfect of presents for a gal such as myself: words. (A charming pair of earrings also accompanied this card which I mistook initially for a fashionably wrapped teabag!) Words straight up. No mixer. No chaser. No supplemental adverbs or adjectives. Just a collection of forty words for forty years.
They read as follows:
Strong, articulate, smart, kind, motherly, awesome, hot, stylish, funny, entertaining, kind-hearted, beautiful, fit, culinary, artist, horticulturist, faithful, loving, spiritual, photographer, patient, forgiving, author, intelligent, philosophical, passionate, well-rounded, natural, dedicated, courageous, profound, sensible, striking, dancer, honest, virtuous, frugal, brilliant, astute . . . and (yes, she has said it before now) weird.
Now, I am head-over-heels for my iPhone - who I named 'Girlfriend'; please note I called it a her - and the laptop, boots, gift cards, and all the rest are nothing to frown at. I haven't and I won't. It's just that those forty words say in a most direct fashion what one single gift cannot encompass with such wide scope. There may lie within the perfection of this gift the makings of a tradition to be passed from person to person, friend to friend, occasion to occasion.
I propose each reader try this approach to writing with someone on the other end of their pen. It would do away with the fear most people feel when attempting to come across as witty and unique in the signing of their cards. I have several wonderfully supportive and expressive friends who refuse to send me cards or letters of any kind on the excuse that they can't come up with anything as good as my sentiment for them. Such a wounding . . . we writers enjoy being written to - dangling prepositions and all! If we wanted to read our own words, we'd simply write to ourselves. This clean march of words, one quality, one description, one right after the other with merely a comma for accompaniment, eliminates the guesswork and pressure to perform. And, aside from assigning it as the subject for this blog entry, I can not begin to express the sheer pleasure I derived from the reading and absorption of those fabulous forty words.
So, hunker down and give 'em forty!
Byte Bite
Amended definition for PAIN:
'stabbing one's raw cold sore with the stiff bristles of one's toothbrush with inadvertant swift motion.'
Can I get an 'ouch-ouch?'
'stabbing one's raw cold sore with the stiff bristles of one's toothbrush with inadvertant swift motion.'
Can I get an 'ouch-ouch?'
Friday, November 27, 2009
Magnanimous
Though I awoke from an uncomfortable night of sleep - having dozed off in the reclining chair while attempting Scrabble on my iPhone as numerous episodes of Thanksgiving gorge converged and diverged within my swollen-with-'food-baby'-belly - my mind was at rest. A most calm and joyful state of rest, I might add. A mental and emotional rest which completely transcended the still tumultuous state of my stomach AND the newly-developed lower back pain from my awkward evening of slumber in the Easy Boy.
It seemed that in whatever direction I chose to look, appreciation abounded. The warm light filling my bedroom, bathing every surface in a golden wash of enhanced color, was succor to my eye. Later in the day, that same light fingering its way across the bowl of deep orange clementines on the kitchen table actually stole my breath for a second. Piles of folded towels and sheets yet to be stowed in the linen closet reminded me of the comforts my family enjoys each and every day; running up the stairs to put them away, I marveled in the relative comfort of movement I exercised in the small climb to the second level of our home. The panoramic sweep of our suburban back yard, viewed through handsome windows with blinds in need of desperate repair, told me that to have one's own chunk of earth on this spinning planet was a very good thing even if it wasn't the farm for which my heart yearns.
Each thought to enter my mind delivered satisfaction. Wandering over the memory landscape of yesterday's Thanksgiving adventure at the new home of my brother-in-law and his wife, I once more toured their gorgeously appointed formal dining room. Generally speaking, I see little use for these spaces in modern homes, but today in my brain's viewfinder, I admired the handsome circular table they are not quite ready to use with its perfectly selected and utterly unique chairs. I touched on the tall marble-topped credenza, recalling how well it showcased the fine selection of holiday pies. With its high windows and curved archways and the round rich rug echoing these lines, I saw a space which would provide years of excellent fellowship over equally fantastic meals. It pleased me to realize that I would, one day soon - I hope, be a member of one such episode of fellowship.
Every feeling to cross my heart elicited gratitude. There is a woman, roughly my age, for whom my emotions have been guarded due to my history with a somewhat similar woman from my past in the area of friendship and family. My personal interaction with her was limited to only a few meetings -- all of which were pleasant from my perspective. But, other individuals with whom I share a longstanding bond of history and love, voiced strong objections based on circumstances to which I was not privy. Circumstances I heard soley from their point of view. A conversation with a relative who often speaks in brief excerpts of profound reason caused me to reexamine my reactions to this woman. This morning, I felt a need to appreciate her for the life she had to live and for the life she is trying to live. I felt the need to give her a voice of her own where the familiar cadences of friend's past did not interject. On the heels of this realization rushed a flood of thankfulness which I readily welcomed.
There was none of the usual 'reality check' amendments to the moments . . . not even a one. The standard upon-waking list of to-do's, followed by the even more standard grouping of chunks-of-time on the clock, rounded out by the swift realization that my day was spent before it had ever begun, failed to present themselves for my inspection. (The sun, presently low in the western sky, alerts me that I have yet to see these familiar denizens of my mind and in all likelihood will NOT see them today!) Because I know the rarity of such days, even with a heart and mind as open to goodwill as mine, I felt an urgency to record this particular collection of hours before they spent themselves well, good and with finality. Thus far, it has been a most magnanimous day. And, with a prescience I trust today, I forecast more of the same to the end.
MAGNANIMOUS:
free from petty resentfulness; high-minded, noble; proceeding from or revealing generosity or nobility of mind, character, etc.
It seemed that in whatever direction I chose to look, appreciation abounded. The warm light filling my bedroom, bathing every surface in a golden wash of enhanced color, was succor to my eye. Later in the day, that same light fingering its way across the bowl of deep orange clementines on the kitchen table actually stole my breath for a second. Piles of folded towels and sheets yet to be stowed in the linen closet reminded me of the comforts my family enjoys each and every day; running up the stairs to put them away, I marveled in the relative comfort of movement I exercised in the small climb to the second level of our home. The panoramic sweep of our suburban back yard, viewed through handsome windows with blinds in need of desperate repair, told me that to have one's own chunk of earth on this spinning planet was a very good thing even if it wasn't the farm for which my heart yearns.
Each thought to enter my mind delivered satisfaction. Wandering over the memory landscape of yesterday's Thanksgiving adventure at the new home of my brother-in-law and his wife, I once more toured their gorgeously appointed formal dining room. Generally speaking, I see little use for these spaces in modern homes, but today in my brain's viewfinder, I admired the handsome circular table they are not quite ready to use with its perfectly selected and utterly unique chairs. I touched on the tall marble-topped credenza, recalling how well it showcased the fine selection of holiday pies. With its high windows and curved archways and the round rich rug echoing these lines, I saw a space which would provide years of excellent fellowship over equally fantastic meals. It pleased me to realize that I would, one day soon - I hope, be a member of one such episode of fellowship.
Every feeling to cross my heart elicited gratitude. There is a woman, roughly my age, for whom my emotions have been guarded due to my history with a somewhat similar woman from my past in the area of friendship and family. My personal interaction with her was limited to only a few meetings -- all of which were pleasant from my perspective. But, other individuals with whom I share a longstanding bond of history and love, voiced strong objections based on circumstances to which I was not privy. Circumstances I heard soley from their point of view. A conversation with a relative who often speaks in brief excerpts of profound reason caused me to reexamine my reactions to this woman. This morning, I felt a need to appreciate her for the life she had to live and for the life she is trying to live. I felt the need to give her a voice of her own where the familiar cadences of friend's past did not interject. On the heels of this realization rushed a flood of thankfulness which I readily welcomed.
There was none of the usual 'reality check' amendments to the moments . . . not even a one. The standard upon-waking list of to-do's, followed by the even more standard grouping of chunks-of-time on the clock, rounded out by the swift realization that my day was spent before it had ever begun, failed to present themselves for my inspection. (The sun, presently low in the western sky, alerts me that I have yet to see these familiar denizens of my mind and in all likelihood will NOT see them today!) Because I know the rarity of such days, even with a heart and mind as open to goodwill as mine, I felt an urgency to record this particular collection of hours before they spent themselves well, good and with finality. Thus far, it has been a most magnanimous day. And, with a prescience I trust today, I forecast more of the same to the end.
MAGNANIMOUS:
free from petty resentfulness; high-minded, noble; proceeding from or revealing generosity or nobility of mind, character, etc.
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
Cat-tharsis
My neighbor doesn't like my cat. No, that isn't quite true. What she actually said was that though it was a strong word to use, she 'hated' my cat. I believe the actions 'get rid of' and 'kill' were coolly laid out before me, and the other women at our neighborhood function within earshot that night, during the course of her short dissertation on the lackluster feelings she has toward my freewheeling feline. In the most honest and perfunctory of tones, she went on to say she dislikes animals in general, pets in specific, dogs and cats in the finite. Her ailing father's manic mutt irritates her to no end and almost cost her a tailbone on the basement stairs a not too long ago.
It aggravates her that she must keep her garage closed against possible molestation of her car's cloth top by my offending handsome pet. It annoys her when she escapes to the haven of her lovely back porch to recline in her comfortable chairs, any one of the four, only to return to reality with a hair coat spread across her ample behind courtesy of my wandering orange kitty. She is vexed by her husband's continuing friendliness towards my boundary-retarded stalker of bird and bunny. I wonder if she would be disturbed if her hubby kicked or shot at him instead? Mmm, probably not.
But what can I do? What should I do? Where does my responsibility for this animal begin and end? Cats simply are NOT like dogs. They can't be kept on leads or trained to remain behind fences or kept from causing chaos at the bird feeder. He is an indoor-outdoor pet who showed up on our doorstep two years ago just weeks before Thanksgiving as a scrappy, scrawny critter with an unending appetite and a penchant for belly rubs from strangers. Unlike the previous strays, he did not depart, choosing, instead, to adopt us as his family, his home base. My son took an intense liking to him as did my daughter. I surrendered to their desires and before long, I, too, fell under his masculine charm. At nine months of age, his wanderlust was ingrained and well-exercised. Who was I to strip him of that freedom? Who was I to pull out his nails, one by one, and restrain him behind glass and wall for the rest of his life? He was destined to the lifestyle he was leading when he came to us, and we resolved to allow him that right despite the dangers he might face. Better he be happy in death then to devolve into a frustrated tomcat confined to 2,900 square feet of living space with plenty of spots for spraying out of feline vengeance.
From block to block, home to home, there are fans to be found. He is admired and watched, crooned over and petted, fed and watered -- so much so that his collar now prominently displays a purple tag with the admonition "Please Don't Feed Me" -- to such a degree that his already highly developed ego took on a luster never before seen in such an animal. Fabio, as he was named by a neighborhood boy who sincerely believed all cats are Italian (NOT my son but his friend), has a substantial body of believers dedicated to his spoiling and he spreads himself around with gusto on a daily basis. During my morning walks, I've even come across him in the neighborhood BEHIND ours! That is covering some distance. I often wonder if most folks know from whence he comes. Sometimes, I think even HE forgets, except at mealtimes and naptimes! My pantry door, my ankles, my daughter's bed: these he recalls with deep fondness. But, our need to rub up against his fur the way he rubs up against us around mealtime, is NOT held in high regard. Now that he has staked us out as territory, we are mere markers in his big-game-hunt existence. Sometimes I feel a bit taken advantage of, but the trade-off has been worth it. He's not needy. His independence and orneriness are quite appealing. I am NOT an animal hater. I find there to be great value in pet ownership. Dogs and cats and the rest of the menagerie.
So, I will do what I can do for my neighbor. I CAN bestow upon her a peace offering in the form of a basket of goodies. Let's see . . . one of those sticky roller brushes for collecting hair and lint from clothing. A spray bottle like the one we use at home; even if she just displays it near a chair and shakes it once in awhile, he'll get the message. A container of cat-repellent from PetSmart which can be applied around the perimeter of her back patio and porch. I can have my son make a boldface sign to remind her nice husband NOT to pet the animals! I'll include a gift card to her favorite local Mexican restaurant, stressing the Margarita's in the note card which will be thoughtfully positioned next to one of those wee picture books from the store with endearing photos of animals. I can promise her his pelt upon his demise or advise her to keep it if she transgresses against him in a weakened moment. As I want to keep the peace and do like this woman as a person, overall, I will sign it, "From One Christian Sister To Another . . . Sorry 'Bout The Cat!"
What else can I do?
It aggravates her that she must keep her garage closed against possible molestation of her car's cloth top by my offending handsome pet. It annoys her when she escapes to the haven of her lovely back porch to recline in her comfortable chairs, any one of the four, only to return to reality with a hair coat spread across her ample behind courtesy of my wandering orange kitty. She is vexed by her husband's continuing friendliness towards my boundary-retarded stalker of bird and bunny. I wonder if she would be disturbed if her hubby kicked or shot at him instead? Mmm, probably not.
But what can I do? What should I do? Where does my responsibility for this animal begin and end? Cats simply are NOT like dogs. They can't be kept on leads or trained to remain behind fences or kept from causing chaos at the bird feeder. He is an indoor-outdoor pet who showed up on our doorstep two years ago just weeks before Thanksgiving as a scrappy, scrawny critter with an unending appetite and a penchant for belly rubs from strangers. Unlike the previous strays, he did not depart, choosing, instead, to adopt us as his family, his home base. My son took an intense liking to him as did my daughter. I surrendered to their desires and before long, I, too, fell under his masculine charm. At nine months of age, his wanderlust was ingrained and well-exercised. Who was I to strip him of that freedom? Who was I to pull out his nails, one by one, and restrain him behind glass and wall for the rest of his life? He was destined to the lifestyle he was leading when he came to us, and we resolved to allow him that right despite the dangers he might face. Better he be happy in death then to devolve into a frustrated tomcat confined to 2,900 square feet of living space with plenty of spots for spraying out of feline vengeance.
From block to block, home to home, there are fans to be found. He is admired and watched, crooned over and petted, fed and watered -- so much so that his collar now prominently displays a purple tag with the admonition "Please Don't Feed Me" -- to such a degree that his already highly developed ego took on a luster never before seen in such an animal. Fabio, as he was named by a neighborhood boy who sincerely believed all cats are Italian (NOT my son but his friend), has a substantial body of believers dedicated to his spoiling and he spreads himself around with gusto on a daily basis. During my morning walks, I've even come across him in the neighborhood BEHIND ours! That is covering some distance. I often wonder if most folks know from whence he comes. Sometimes, I think even HE forgets, except at mealtimes and naptimes! My pantry door, my ankles, my daughter's bed: these he recalls with deep fondness. But, our need to rub up against his fur the way he rubs up against us around mealtime, is NOT held in high regard. Now that he has staked us out as territory, we are mere markers in his big-game-hunt existence. Sometimes I feel a bit taken advantage of, but the trade-off has been worth it. He's not needy. His independence and orneriness are quite appealing. I am NOT an animal hater. I find there to be great value in pet ownership. Dogs and cats and the rest of the menagerie.
So, I will do what I can do for my neighbor. I CAN bestow upon her a peace offering in the form of a basket of goodies. Let's see . . . one of those sticky roller brushes for collecting hair and lint from clothing. A spray bottle like the one we use at home; even if she just displays it near a chair and shakes it once in awhile, he'll get the message. A container of cat-repellent from PetSmart which can be applied around the perimeter of her back patio and porch. I can have my son make a boldface sign to remind her nice husband NOT to pet the animals! I'll include a gift card to her favorite local Mexican restaurant, stressing the Margarita's in the note card which will be thoughtfully positioned next to one of those wee picture books from the store with endearing photos of animals. I can promise her his pelt upon his demise or advise her to keep it if she transgresses against him in a weakened moment. As I want to keep the peace and do like this woman as a person, overall, I will sign it, "From One Christian Sister To Another . . . Sorry 'Bout The Cat!"
What else can I do?
Monday, November 2, 2009
I Text You Not!
I was almost the cause of a traffic accident today. Yup, most certainly almost was. Right there on Memorial Boulevard in front of McDonald's just past the Northfield light. And, as humiliating as it is to report, it was text-related. I know! I know! It is illegal. It is beyond ignorant. I have children who drive and have received countless orders from me geared toward the appropriate use of cell phones . . . not to mention accompanying threats if I discover they have veered from the approved course in the matter.
So, WHY, then, did this happen with me at the helm?! Well, let me clarify: yes, it did involve texting; and, yes, it did involve my vehicle executing a sudden braking when I whipped my head up and caught the flashing red of the tail lights on the vehicle in front of my maroon Chevy Silverado double-cab truck. But, I was not glancing furtively at my shiny purple flip-top Sony Ericsson cell phone in a foolish attempt to peruse a random message which, while most assuredly not relaying anything of a life-or-death manner, could cause a life-or-death matter to abruptly and violently occur. No, no, most assiduously no, I say.
Before my neck pivoted my vision back to the windshield where it should have remained the entirely of this little incident, it was the woman in the next lane, seated in the navy 4-door sedan of indeterminate make and model upon whom my high-powered gaze was fixed. Before the intersection light changed from 'stop' to 'go,' I caught her quick little fingers moving over the keys of her cell phone. As the flow of traffic propelled us forward into the next long business block, it ticked me off to no end to realize she was continuing her Class C misdemeanor offense communication. Yes, folks, I almost crashed and created a minor traffic drama in the middle of a manic Monday because I was angrily foaming at the mouth over the texting habits of someone else! Oh, the cruel irony . . .
On July 1st of this year, a law was passed in this here state of Tennessee. I know it was. I heard it on the news. I read it in the newspaper. I praised the gents in their suits and high places for gifting their constituents with this rather speedy decision under Senate Bill 393. I discussed it with my family. However, the stiff fine for this offense concerned me then. And, per the multitudes of drivers behind the wheel in cars next to mine or those of my friends and family and fellow Tennesseans, who still engage in this cellular roulette, the $50 slap-on-the-wrist-holding-the-phone yet concerns me.
Um, folks, a citizen littering in our lovely state is fined $50. That fee rises as the amount of litter-per-litterer rises. While the clean-up of said litter does cost us $11,000,000 just to pick up litter in unincorporated areas of the state (a little known fact, astounding in its own right), its impact is decidedly less than that of a multi-car pile-up on the highway resulting in countless deaths and injuries which then reverberate in a ripple effect of exponential strength and pain (loss, suffering, insurance, funerals, emergency personnel response, and on and on) all stemming from one ignorant person's need to glimpse one more inane 'LOL' on the LCD panel of their Blackberry or IPhone.
Yes, I text. Yes, I understand its appeal, especially with the kids of this thoroughly technological age, though I will always prefer a phone call, letter or e-mail, myself. But, I don't, don't, do not text while I am behind the wheel and engaged with other vehicles on the streets and highways and biways anywhere. There is no equal trade-off in value here: hmmm, discovering your friend is 'OMG, so bored' for the fifth time that day versus taking the lives of a family of five in the minivan just up ahead. That is no exaggeration. THAT is the reality here. And, let's face it, I shy away from the illegal aspects of any activity. Call me silly! I've told my own children that if I hear of them texting and driving, or receive news that they've been spotted by another in the practice, their ability to drive the car or truck under the name of their parents will be revoked on the spot. .
Now, I realize my rule may be considered a bit of a severe imposition on drivers in general, but should not the punishment for the reflex-impairing behavior be a bit more, shall we say, attention grabbing? Perhaps the text-offense merits a larger monetary remuneration for the state's coffers -- slap on another zero to that $50. Or, say, the loss of the offending bit of technology for a month? Next time, a year? Third time, no cell phone for life. Sound familiar? Well, check out a the stats for text-related accidents versus drunk-driving accidents in the past year or two. You may be well surprised. Or, perhaps like me, you won't.
Grrr.
Be responsible. Be smart. Don't text and drive. As they say, the life you save may be your own . . . at the very least.
So, WHY, then, did this happen with me at the helm?! Well, let me clarify: yes, it did involve texting; and, yes, it did involve my vehicle executing a sudden braking when I whipped my head up and caught the flashing red of the tail lights on the vehicle in front of my maroon Chevy Silverado double-cab truck. But, I was not glancing furtively at my shiny purple flip-top Sony Ericsson cell phone in a foolish attempt to peruse a random message which, while most assuredly not relaying anything of a life-or-death manner, could cause a life-or-death matter to abruptly and violently occur. No, no, most assiduously no, I say.
Before my neck pivoted my vision back to the windshield where it should have remained the entirely of this little incident, it was the woman in the next lane, seated in the navy 4-door sedan of indeterminate make and model upon whom my high-powered gaze was fixed. Before the intersection light changed from 'stop' to 'go,' I caught her quick little fingers moving over the keys of her cell phone. As the flow of traffic propelled us forward into the next long business block, it ticked me off to no end to realize she was continuing her Class C misdemeanor offense communication. Yes, folks, I almost crashed and created a minor traffic drama in the middle of a manic Monday because I was angrily foaming at the mouth over the texting habits of someone else! Oh, the cruel irony . . .
On July 1st of this year, a law was passed in this here state of Tennessee. I know it was. I heard it on the news. I read it in the newspaper. I praised the gents in their suits and high places for gifting their constituents with this rather speedy decision under Senate Bill 393. I discussed it with my family. However, the stiff fine for this offense concerned me then. And, per the multitudes of drivers behind the wheel in cars next to mine or those of my friends and family and fellow Tennesseans, who still engage in this cellular roulette, the $50 slap-on-the-wrist-holding-the-phone yet concerns me.
Um, folks, a citizen littering in our lovely state is fined $50. That fee rises as the amount of litter-per-litterer rises. While the clean-up of said litter does cost us $11,000,000 just to pick up litter in unincorporated areas of the state (a little known fact, astounding in its own right), its impact is decidedly less than that of a multi-car pile-up on the highway resulting in countless deaths and injuries which then reverberate in a ripple effect of exponential strength and pain (loss, suffering, insurance, funerals, emergency personnel response, and on and on) all stemming from one ignorant person's need to glimpse one more inane 'LOL' on the LCD panel of their Blackberry or IPhone.
Yes, I text. Yes, I understand its appeal, especially with the kids of this thoroughly technological age, though I will always prefer a phone call, letter or e-mail, myself. But, I don't, don't, do not text while I am behind the wheel and engaged with other vehicles on the streets and highways and biways anywhere. There is no equal trade-off in value here: hmmm, discovering your friend is 'OMG, so bored' for the fifth time that day versus taking the lives of a family of five in the minivan just up ahead. That is no exaggeration. THAT is the reality here. And, let's face it, I shy away from the illegal aspects of any activity. Call me silly! I've told my own children that if I hear of them texting and driving, or receive news that they've been spotted by another in the practice, their ability to drive the car or truck under the name of their parents will be revoked on the spot. .
Now, I realize my rule may be considered a bit of a severe imposition on drivers in general, but should not the punishment for the reflex-impairing behavior be a bit more, shall we say, attention grabbing? Perhaps the text-offense merits a larger monetary remuneration for the state's coffers -- slap on another zero to that $50. Or, say, the loss of the offending bit of technology for a month? Next time, a year? Third time, no cell phone for life. Sound familiar? Well, check out a the stats for text-related accidents versus drunk-driving accidents in the past year or two. You may be well surprised. Or, perhaps like me, you won't.
Grrr.
Be responsible. Be smart. Don't text and drive. As they say, the life you save may be your own . . . at the very least.
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
Before Singing AMAZING GRACE At The Funeral For Jonathon Aguirre
(*Written on the flight to Colorado in lieu of sleep. I was not sure if I would be able to say anything, but felt the need to put pen to paper for a few brief but heartfelt words. I kept it short though my affection goes long into the night.)
"This song of grace is my prayer for Chuck and Josephine, for my Uncle Ben and Aunt Virginia, for Michelle, Rachel, Desi, Brian, Deborah and Joseph. It is my prayer for each one of us here, family member, friend and acquaintance, who grieves the terrible loss of Jonathon Aguirre -- a young man with whom my entire family fell in love, based on the pure merits of his heart, charm and energy.
In Ephesians 4, verse 7, Paul tells us that grace is given to each one of us according to the measure of Christ's gift. I was personally impressed with how well Jonathon exercised Christ's precious gifts. I believe that in the days, weeks and months to come, everlasting grace will heal the broken hearts before me. They will cling to the countless pleasurable memories of an exceptional young man.
With his brightness of being, his endless capacity for humor, his penchant for self discipline, and his sheer joy for all the good and simple things in this life, Jonathon Aguirre managed to accomplish at the age of 19 what few of us ever figure out given a much longer existence.
This is his legacy. If we but live out one aspect of his person, we honor him and we honor the exemplary efforts of his parents and grandparents, who should feel justifiably proud even in the midst of their present sorrows. For through their love and parenting, they gifted the world for a brief but glorious time with a radiant light, a handsome star now belonging to the [His] heavens."
LYRICS FOR AMAZING GRACE
Amazing Grace, how sweet the sound,
That saved a wretch like me.
I once was lost but now am found,
Was blind, but now I see.
"This song of grace is my prayer for Chuck and Josephine, for my Uncle Ben and Aunt Virginia, for Michelle, Rachel, Desi, Brian, Deborah and Joseph. It is my prayer for each one of us here, family member, friend and acquaintance, who grieves the terrible loss of Jonathon Aguirre -- a young man with whom my entire family fell in love, based on the pure merits of his heart, charm and energy.
In Ephesians 4, verse 7, Paul tells us that grace is given to each one of us according to the measure of Christ's gift. I was personally impressed with how well Jonathon exercised Christ's precious gifts. I believe that in the days, weeks and months to come, everlasting grace will heal the broken hearts before me. They will cling to the countless pleasurable memories of an exceptional young man.
With his brightness of being, his endless capacity for humor, his penchant for self discipline, and his sheer joy for all the good and simple things in this life, Jonathon Aguirre managed to accomplish at the age of 19 what few of us ever figure out given a much longer existence.
This is his legacy. If we but live out one aspect of his person, we honor him and we honor the exemplary efforts of his parents and grandparents, who should feel justifiably proud even in the midst of their present sorrows. For through their love and parenting, they gifted the world for a brief but glorious time with a radiant light, a handsome star now belonging to the [His] heavens."
LYRICS FOR AMAZING GRACE
Amazing Grace, how sweet the sound,
That saved a wretch like me.
I once was lost but now am found,
Was blind, but now I see.
T'was Grace that taught my heart to fear.
And Grace, my fears relieved.
How precious did that Grace appear
The hour I first believed.
Through many dangers, toils and snares
I have already come;
'Tis Grace that brought me safe thus far
and Grace will lead me home.
The Lord has promised good to me.
His word my hope secures.
He will my shield and portion be,
As long as life endures.
Yea, when this flesh and heart shall fail,
And mortal life shall cease,
I shall possess within the veil,
A life of joy and peace.
When we've been here ten thousand years
Bright shining as the sun.
We've no less days to sing God's praise
Than when we've first begun.
Monday, October 12, 2009
GARY - A Wordless Playground Story
"Emotions, in my experience, aren't covered by single words. I don't believe in 'sadness,' 'joy,' or 'regret.' Maybe the best proof that the language is patriarchal is that it oversimplifies feeling. I'd like to have at my disposal complicated hybrid emotions, Germanic train car constructions like, say 'the happiness which attends disaster.' " --Calliope/Cal Stephanides, heroine/hero of MIDDLESEX by Jeffrey Eugenides
This passage caught me, held me, whispered its truth in my ear even as my eyes read, and reread, the lines copied here and those beyond. (Page 217 in the 'Home Movies' chapter of Book Two if you are interested past this blurb.) It if difficult to lasso a single word, throw it down on the page, and have it cry out the fullness of feeling in a moment, within a heart, in a chain of events confined to a single day yet encompassing a complexity of expression all along the vast spectrum of human emotion. For instance, how can death rub shoulders with pleasure in the space of an hour and coexist? Why does alarm co-mingle with relief and not cause guilt? These are compound feelings requiring compound descriptions. Though my love runs deep for specific single words, I realize that single words are isolating and limiting at best. Even with the most audacious of authors, the most passionate of pens, some element of the human experience is lost in the translation.
In a recent letter from Gary, he wrote concerning the mailed copies of my blog which he had read. He lamented over his inability to find enough adjectives to fill out his writings for the blog. He wished he possessed a style more like mine. He felt his words were inadequate. With great haste, I addressed and stamped a letter downplaying his misgivings, alleviating his doubts, assuring him that his STYLE was just fine. His descriptions were more than adequate as he writes in the most natural of ways about hybrid emotions without purposely seeking to do so. His experiences have laid the wooden slats for a swaying span of bridge which extends from his life, over a valley of tumultuous memories and troubled waters, and into the land of my life, the lives of my readers, of OUR readers. Across this expanse we are all able to meet in the middle, balancing against the rocking, steadying ourselves in the midst of unfamiliar but accessible territory.
Forget single adjectives. Tell us your story, Gary.
September 28, 2009
When I was twenty-two years old, I was at a prison in Sacramento (actually Represa, CA) called New Folsom -- at least by everyone I know. I was young, dumb, inexperienced, and addicted to heroin.
I had a job in the main kitchen & went to work five days a week at noon. My life, for a guy starting a thirteen-year sentence, was okay. I really didn't see myself living to see freedom again. Didn't much care, really. It's hard to explain that feeling, that mindset. I hope never to feel that way again. Maybe even forget it.
So, I come out for work one day. We all gotta stand around outside for the work-change, 'til they open up & process us. My work-dog, Joker from San Fernando Valley, is squatted down out front, smokin' a cigarette. I squat down next to him & ask him what's up. It was pretty quiet on the yard, a little tense, but not unusually so.
I started to jump up & go holler at a partner of mine in front of one-block, and Joker snatched my arm & told me to sit down & keep still. The blacks had something going on.
So I watch, and I see two blacks walk by, one of whom I work with & talk to every day. They stop in front of one-block, in front of two more blacks, and one of them, my co-worker, pulls out a knife, raises it way up high, and stabs this dude in the chest.
I will never forget the way that guy dropped. Exactly like if you were to hold a rag doll upright and suddenly let it go. He literally folded like a string puppet cut loose.
"That fool's dead, youngster," Joker told me. I watched that kid chase the other guy up the hill, across the yard, wielding that bloody knife. My eyes were steadily drawn to the body of the victim. He was lying in the most awkward position, dead & still.
The guy I worked with was my age, doing a life sentence. I guess he didn't too much give a shit, either.
We went to work. I got even more loaded than I was at the time, & when we got off that night, I had to walk around the crime scene tape to get into one-block where I lived. There was a blood stain on the concrete, but that was all.
I had never witnessed a murder. Never did again, though I saw a lot of attempts. I've sat & listened to guys tell stories and make light of all kinds of terrible things. It's usually the prevailing attitude. There's nothing light about that bloodstain, all that was left of that guy.
I noticed, during my short time out there (he refers to his 3 weeks of freedom in October of last year) that prison shows, documentaries, interviews, etc. are popular [with free folks]. They talk to guards, wardens, etc. and they pretty much all say what savage pieces of shit we are. I wonder how many of them could live my life? How long 'til they tapped out?
I heard somewhere that you can judge a society on how they treat their prisoners. Welcome to America. You know how many times I've seen guards do things as bad or worse than what many inmates are in prison for? I've been thrown down stairs while handcuffed, pepper sprayed, shot with block guns & generally battered around many times. Woo! Hoo! What fun.
California is on the verge of bankruptcy, yet they pay babysitters of us [us - 'prisoners'] wages far, far higher than teachers or actual police officers. How can that be?
All these years I've been seeing psyche people, and they never gave me the tests, or talked to me in the manner that a doctor recently was able to figure out a diagnosis for me in a matter of about eight hours. Now they're gonna send me to another institution when they figure out how to get it done, & stop 'continuing' the matter [in successive court hearings]. When a judge orders ME to do something, I get locked up if I don't obey. When he orders someone who's not a scumbag convict, but an officer of the court or whatever, they get to drag their feet & lolly gag with no punishment whatsoever.
That's the world I live in. I'm trying to learn how to be better, but my patience is wearing thin. I feel like that bloodstain . . .
This passage caught me, held me, whispered its truth in my ear even as my eyes read, and reread, the lines copied here and those beyond. (Page 217 in the 'Home Movies' chapter of Book Two if you are interested past this blurb.) It if difficult to lasso a single word, throw it down on the page, and have it cry out the fullness of feeling in a moment, within a heart, in a chain of events confined to a single day yet encompassing a complexity of expression all along the vast spectrum of human emotion. For instance, how can death rub shoulders with pleasure in the space of an hour and coexist? Why does alarm co-mingle with relief and not cause guilt? These are compound feelings requiring compound descriptions. Though my love runs deep for specific single words, I realize that single words are isolating and limiting at best. Even with the most audacious of authors, the most passionate of pens, some element of the human experience is lost in the translation.
In a recent letter from Gary, he wrote concerning the mailed copies of my blog which he had read. He lamented over his inability to find enough adjectives to fill out his writings for the blog. He wished he possessed a style more like mine. He felt his words were inadequate. With great haste, I addressed and stamped a letter downplaying his misgivings, alleviating his doubts, assuring him that his STYLE was just fine. His descriptions were more than adequate as he writes in the most natural of ways about hybrid emotions without purposely seeking to do so. His experiences have laid the wooden slats for a swaying span of bridge which extends from his life, over a valley of tumultuous memories and troubled waters, and into the land of my life, the lives of my readers, of OUR readers. Across this expanse we are all able to meet in the middle, balancing against the rocking, steadying ourselves in the midst of unfamiliar but accessible territory.
Forget single adjectives. Tell us your story, Gary.
September 28, 2009
When I was twenty-two years old, I was at a prison in Sacramento (actually Represa, CA) called New Folsom -- at least by everyone I know. I was young, dumb, inexperienced, and addicted to heroin.
I had a job in the main kitchen & went to work five days a week at noon. My life, for a guy starting a thirteen-year sentence, was okay. I really didn't see myself living to see freedom again. Didn't much care, really. It's hard to explain that feeling, that mindset. I hope never to feel that way again. Maybe even forget it.
So, I come out for work one day. We all gotta stand around outside for the work-change, 'til they open up & process us. My work-dog, Joker from San Fernando Valley, is squatted down out front, smokin' a cigarette. I squat down next to him & ask him what's up. It was pretty quiet on the yard, a little tense, but not unusually so.
I started to jump up & go holler at a partner of mine in front of one-block, and Joker snatched my arm & told me to sit down & keep still. The blacks had something going on.
So I watch, and I see two blacks walk by, one of whom I work with & talk to every day. They stop in front of one-block, in front of two more blacks, and one of them, my co-worker, pulls out a knife, raises it way up high, and stabs this dude in the chest.
I will never forget the way that guy dropped. Exactly like if you were to hold a rag doll upright and suddenly let it go. He literally folded like a string puppet cut loose.
"That fool's dead, youngster," Joker told me. I watched that kid chase the other guy up the hill, across the yard, wielding that bloody knife. My eyes were steadily drawn to the body of the victim. He was lying in the most awkward position, dead & still.
The guy I worked with was my age, doing a life sentence. I guess he didn't too much give a shit, either.
We went to work. I got even more loaded than I was at the time, & when we got off that night, I had to walk around the crime scene tape to get into one-block where I lived. There was a blood stain on the concrete, but that was all.
I had never witnessed a murder. Never did again, though I saw a lot of attempts. I've sat & listened to guys tell stories and make light of all kinds of terrible things. It's usually the prevailing attitude. There's nothing light about that bloodstain, all that was left of that guy.
I noticed, during my short time out there (he refers to his 3 weeks of freedom in October of last year) that prison shows, documentaries, interviews, etc. are popular [with free folks]. They talk to guards, wardens, etc. and they pretty much all say what savage pieces of shit we are. I wonder how many of them could live my life? How long 'til they tapped out?
I heard somewhere that you can judge a society on how they treat their prisoners. Welcome to America. You know how many times I've seen guards do things as bad or worse than what many inmates are in prison for? I've been thrown down stairs while handcuffed, pepper sprayed, shot with block guns & generally battered around many times. Woo! Hoo! What fun.
California is on the verge of bankruptcy, yet they pay babysitters of us [us - 'prisoners'] wages far, far higher than teachers or actual police officers. How can that be?
All these years I've been seeing psyche people, and they never gave me the tests, or talked to me in the manner that a doctor recently was able to figure out a diagnosis for me in a matter of about eight hours. Now they're gonna send me to another institution when they figure out how to get it done, & stop 'continuing' the matter [in successive court hearings]. When a judge orders ME to do something, I get locked up if I don't obey. When he orders someone who's not a scumbag convict, but an officer of the court or whatever, they get to drag their feet & lolly gag with no punishment whatsoever.
That's the world I live in. I'm trying to learn how to be better, but my patience is wearing thin. I feel like that bloodstain . . .
Saturday, October 10, 2009
I Should Be Sleeping
I'm in South Carolina, stylishly ensconced in a posh beach resort courtesy of half-off rates I stumbled across while perusing 'Hotels.com' for . . . well, hotels. A resort just yards from the white sand along the Isle of Palms strip of the Atlantic Ocean never crossed my fiscally conservative mind as an option. And, then in a display of online providence, the proper combination of website advertising, pricing and need culminated in a mental explosion, decision, purchase, which led me, my husband and my son to the Wild Dunes Resort on one of the many small islands dotting the harbor town of Charleston where, incidentally, the first official battle of The Civil War was fought. (The Confederates won and held their position until just days before the North emerged victorious in the overall struggle.)
In the main, we had a swell time. Sunrise on the beach was all you'd think it was cracked up to be. A molten sun spilled rich color, reminiscent of ripe fig and peach, across the gentle waves of the morning sea and led right to where we stood in awe of the sight. Of course, compulsive girl that I am, I recorded it on digital camera and cell phone and IPHONE, sending text messages out to a few chosen friends and family as the scene unfolded. (Maybe there should be a TAKE 2 in eight hours and 21 minutes without the tourist aspect. Just me, my God and the natural tableau which allows day to usurp night.)
However, this is not a forum for extolling the virtues of the 'Fall Break Impromptu Getaway.' Though, it's not the worst idea I ever had. Nor is it a free endorsement for 'Wild Dunes' -- though they give real meaning to truth-in-advertising. What this is, as I sit in the dark of the living room in our 1-bedroom well-appointed semi-condo room with palm trees just outside our terrace, while my two men slumber in the aftermath of prime college football viewing with bellies yet swollen from a pizza-and-dessert gorge at Whole Foods Market, is a painfully sharp contrast to the end-of-the-day being had by people we love living half a country away from us at present.
While we cruised the bicycle paths up and down the incredible streets of our island getaway on rental bikes, our cell phones were busily ringing and beeping and vibrating within our backpack of trip necessities. I told my main man to leave them be. They'd still be there when we completed our tour of colorfully fantastic beach homes and lazy lagoons full of turtles and wading fowl. But, the sounds of technology would not cease and my husband could not long endure the thoughts of concern over their frequency.
On both of our mini-screens were missed calls from his mother and brother. Not a good sign as they knew we were on vacation and would not chat us up without good reason. Oh, how I wish that had not been the case. The one side of the conversation my son and I witnessed stirred a deep sense of unease within us. The news relayed doused all fires of fun and frolic: someone had died.
Early this Saturday morning, on a road leading into Walsenburg, Colorado, black ice conspired with the wheels of a vehicle to convey a young man of nineteen years to his death as he made his way from college to his parents' home for the weekend. Jonathon Aguirre, son to Chuck and Josephine Aguirre, brother to Michelle, Rachel, DesiRae, Bryan, Debra and Joseph, grandson to Ben and Virginia Aragon, nephew to Juanita Aragon, relative and friend to countless, met his end in a lonely random car accident. Because he was late and they were worried, his mother and father ventured out in search of him and happened upon the scene just moments after he was pulled from the driver's seat and swiftly escorted to the local hospital. He was most likely killed upon impact. A small blessing to consider that he did not suffer. We look where we can for any consolation available at such dark times as these.
This kid . . . he was special. Truly. These are not the post-mortem superlatives of a grieving cousin. I say he was exactly what he was in life and will be remembered as such long past his death. He liked and was well-liked. You'd wish him to be the visitor at your table for any occasion. He was a cure for the rainy-day blues. Smiles and laughter seemed to originate from the center of his being in a never-ending supply available to any and all at no charge. Baseball was his passion. He played it well and with vigor. His sense of discipline was impressive in one so young: he cared for his body through food and exercise as though he believed it to be the temple the Lord says it is. Though distance kept us from seeing him often, the time in which we collectively shared space and conversation was so memorable that we replayed our impressions of him over and over again. My kids found him charming; my middle daughter thought him worthy to date had there not been blood between them.
We last basked in the glow of his attention during our vacation in July of this year. At one point, I wandered away from the kitchen at our Aunt Donna's house only to return fifteen minutes later. Jonathon glanced my way, that wide red smile in place, and exclaimed, "Where'd you go? Sit down here. I want to visit with you!" Now, I wish I'd spent the entire evening sitting at that old oak table with him. Later that night, I lovingly and firmly ordered the entire Aguirre troupe to pose on the newly-erected porch steps of the house on the family hill for a group photo. Jonathon thought it the perfect ending to a festive evening. You can see it in his face when you look at the picture. When we set foot in the 'Boro, I plan on enlarging that shot and framing it for his parents. Never have I been more pleased to be the annoying point-aim-and-shooter of our large clan.
I want them to know they did well. By them, I mean his mom and dad. That should extend to his grandparents, too, as he and his siblings grew up in their home. They worked hard raising those children, with Jonathon as number three, and they heaped love and attention in massive amounts. He represented the Aguirre family well and naturally. He loved each and every one of his siblings in a very openly affectionate manner. Their closeness was noticed by all of us cousins. I can not bear to imagine the hole his untimely passing has left in each of their hearts. I pray the Lord's grace upon them at this time. I pray the countless healing tears will fall and soothe the seemingly endless ache within. I pray time, family and friends will facilitate healing in the days, weeks, months and years which follow the initial shock of this tragedy.
Though intimately acquainted with the agony which accompanies the sudden unanticipated loss of children, I've not lost my own. Whatever contemplations I've entertained in the past few years can not begin to taste as bitter as the draught which has been forced on Josephine and Chuck. I share a mother's grief with this mother of seven. People often say it must be easier to bear a child's death when there are more children yet left. I don't agree. She has merely magnified maternal feelings seven-fold . . . her mourning is thus magnified to this same extent.
I yearn to bear at least one-fold of this burden for a woman who has lost the first son of her womb and of her heart. And, I'm intensely sorry for the loss this planet endures in losing one of its finest persons. We are all dimmed in his absence.
Godspeed, Jons.
In the main, we had a swell time. Sunrise on the beach was all you'd think it was cracked up to be. A molten sun spilled rich color, reminiscent of ripe fig and peach, across the gentle waves of the morning sea and led right to where we stood in awe of the sight. Of course, compulsive girl that I am, I recorded it on digital camera and cell phone and IPHONE, sending text messages out to a few chosen friends and family as the scene unfolded. (Maybe there should be a TAKE 2 in eight hours and 21 minutes without the tourist aspect. Just me, my God and the natural tableau which allows day to usurp night.)
However, this is not a forum for extolling the virtues of the 'Fall Break Impromptu Getaway.' Though, it's not the worst idea I ever had. Nor is it a free endorsement for 'Wild Dunes' -- though they give real meaning to truth-in-advertising. What this is, as I sit in the dark of the living room in our 1-bedroom well-appointed semi-condo room with palm trees just outside our terrace, while my two men slumber in the aftermath of prime college football viewing with bellies yet swollen from a pizza-and-dessert gorge at Whole Foods Market, is a painfully sharp contrast to the end-of-the-day being had by people we love living half a country away from us at present.
While we cruised the bicycle paths up and down the incredible streets of our island getaway on rental bikes, our cell phones were busily ringing and beeping and vibrating within our backpack of trip necessities. I told my main man to leave them be. They'd still be there when we completed our tour of colorfully fantastic beach homes and lazy lagoons full of turtles and wading fowl. But, the sounds of technology would not cease and my husband could not long endure the thoughts of concern over their frequency.
On both of our mini-screens were missed calls from his mother and brother. Not a good sign as they knew we were on vacation and would not chat us up without good reason. Oh, how I wish that had not been the case. The one side of the conversation my son and I witnessed stirred a deep sense of unease within us. The news relayed doused all fires of fun and frolic: someone had died.
Early this Saturday morning, on a road leading into Walsenburg, Colorado, black ice conspired with the wheels of a vehicle to convey a young man of nineteen years to his death as he made his way from college to his parents' home for the weekend. Jonathon Aguirre, son to Chuck and Josephine Aguirre, brother to Michelle, Rachel, DesiRae, Bryan, Debra and Joseph, grandson to Ben and Virginia Aragon, nephew to Juanita Aragon, relative and friend to countless, met his end in a lonely random car accident. Because he was late and they were worried, his mother and father ventured out in search of him and happened upon the scene just moments after he was pulled from the driver's seat and swiftly escorted to the local hospital. He was most likely killed upon impact. A small blessing to consider that he did not suffer. We look where we can for any consolation available at such dark times as these.
This kid . . . he was special. Truly. These are not the post-mortem superlatives of a grieving cousin. I say he was exactly what he was in life and will be remembered as such long past his death. He liked and was well-liked. You'd wish him to be the visitor at your table for any occasion. He was a cure for the rainy-day blues. Smiles and laughter seemed to originate from the center of his being in a never-ending supply available to any and all at no charge. Baseball was his passion. He played it well and with vigor. His sense of discipline was impressive in one so young: he cared for his body through food and exercise as though he believed it to be the temple the Lord says it is. Though distance kept us from seeing him often, the time in which we collectively shared space and conversation was so memorable that we replayed our impressions of him over and over again. My kids found him charming; my middle daughter thought him worthy to date had there not been blood between them.
We last basked in the glow of his attention during our vacation in July of this year. At one point, I wandered away from the kitchen at our Aunt Donna's house only to return fifteen minutes later. Jonathon glanced my way, that wide red smile in place, and exclaimed, "Where'd you go? Sit down here. I want to visit with you!" Now, I wish I'd spent the entire evening sitting at that old oak table with him. Later that night, I lovingly and firmly ordered the entire Aguirre troupe to pose on the newly-erected porch steps of the house on the family hill for a group photo. Jonathon thought it the perfect ending to a festive evening. You can see it in his face when you look at the picture. When we set foot in the 'Boro, I plan on enlarging that shot and framing it for his parents. Never have I been more pleased to be the annoying point-aim-and-shooter of our large clan.
I want them to know they did well. By them, I mean his mom and dad. That should extend to his grandparents, too, as he and his siblings grew up in their home. They worked hard raising those children, with Jonathon as number three, and they heaped love and attention in massive amounts. He represented the Aguirre family well and naturally. He loved each and every one of his siblings in a very openly affectionate manner. Their closeness was noticed by all of us cousins. I can not bear to imagine the hole his untimely passing has left in each of their hearts. I pray the Lord's grace upon them at this time. I pray the countless healing tears will fall and soothe the seemingly endless ache within. I pray time, family and friends will facilitate healing in the days, weeks, months and years which follow the initial shock of this tragedy.
Though intimately acquainted with the agony which accompanies the sudden unanticipated loss of children, I've not lost my own. Whatever contemplations I've entertained in the past few years can not begin to taste as bitter as the draught which has been forced on Josephine and Chuck. I share a mother's grief with this mother of seven. People often say it must be easier to bear a child's death when there are more children yet left. I don't agree. She has merely magnified maternal feelings seven-fold . . . her mourning is thus magnified to this same extent.
I yearn to bear at least one-fold of this burden for a woman who has lost the first son of her womb and of her heart. And, I'm intensely sorry for the loss this planet endures in losing one of its finest persons. We are all dimmed in his absence.
Godspeed, Jons.
Tuesday, September 29, 2009
GARY - Inked
September 18th of 2009
I always have tattoo ink on me, my fingers stained, my pants smeared from wiping my hands. Shirts? Fuhgeddaboutit. Dots, splots, speckles and spatters. Take a picture and you can play the Rorshach game with it. I think I see a wizard holding a glass . . .
I do all the work it takes to set up, to prepare to get ready to put ink on the skin because I love it. I love creating something on someones skin and hearing them say, "I love it."
I got stories for a hundred and one-teen American endless nights. They all end up with me having ink on me, stained beyond removal. We all end up with ink on us. It's the cost of doing what we love. Mostly for who we love.
B.B. [King] said he did what he did because love came to town. Amen O-G {means 'original gangster' as initially used by true gang members; now it can also refer to a pioneer and master in any given field}. Amen.
Why in the hell isn't there a complaint desk somewhere? Somebody to tell me why? Scratch that. I'll tell you why. The reason is we wouldn't have time to do anything else. We'd be at that sucker every damn day.
Those of us who have people who actually listen to us, well, words fail miserably when it come to explaining what that means. It means the difference between choosing life over death, to the other option.
So, like, I used to be just a recovering addict & convict, but now I have mentally diseased tagged onto the end there. Kind of like a tail on a kite, blowin' in the wind, string broken, flailing at each gust of wind. So, yeah, I'm what you call a triple threat. A guy's gotta have a repertoire, ya' know? {He put after this sentence: Don't even check the spelling, just ride with it.}
There's a certain freedom that comes when you've just laid down the last little piece of security-blanket- bullshit-lies you've been telling yourself & the world forever. "This is me. I'm all the way me. Dinged-up, cylinders misfirin', oil leakin', primer-red, rust-bucket me."
I'm thirty five on November 26 this year. Fifteen years in prison, jail, and now I'm off to the place where they give you fancy white coats that save you the trouble of using your own arms, like a sucker, when you could be sucking your meals thru a straw and living in a clean, white, soft-walled cubicle. Mmm . . .
But, seriously, it beats prison with a huge stick. I believe I'll retire the old J-21474 tag on my handle, thank you very much. {That 'tag' was his identity in prison; any letter sent his way without that number was sent back. When he was released last October, I was over-the-moon with the idea of never writing it again. I've actually had to train my brain NOT to write it on letters now; it's not required on the county level. I want to keep it that way!}
Close your eyes (after you read this) and remember . . . remember your first kiss, your first broken puppy-loved heart. Think on the people & moments what made ya' who ya' be. Think of all those terrible, painful moments in your life that put one more solid, true piece of wisdom inside you, never to be shaken out of the great basket of unchanging stuff in life.
The true, the real, the loves & honesties are gonna be the same for eternity, like it or not. Might as well just accept those ink stains as the price of admission. It's well worth all the other stuff that comes with it.
It's been a long time since I've written anything like this. {I guess he doesn't consider his incredible letters to me, so expressive, so open, so very THERE, in that statement.} Something that actually flowed out of me. It's nearly 2AM & I have court at 10AM. I got the rest of my life to sleep, right?
I phoned my sis (the one who so graciously zapped this to you after typing it out) at 10:30PM last night, 12:30AM her time & asked her to explain to me [that] this is real and not some big game where they take it back at the last minute and send me up for six hundred years.
Yeah, prison-hardened me, callin' a girl to give me a phone hug and tuck me in for the night. {Gee, when is the last time I was referred to as a girl? But, I often call him a boy.} Funny thing. I'd do it again right now, if I could. {Funny thing, I'd give fifty phone calls just to tuck him in for the night in person right now.}
There is no moral [here]. No hook. No poetic justice. No ironically genius epipharrific jazz. Just remember to appreciate the ink stains on your life & self. Rub some off on some deserving soul near you. Here, come a bit closer. Let me flick a drop or two on you . . .
You're the lead actor in your movie. Be a good thespian & ham it up a bit. Don't take any of this shit too serious. Nobody leaves this world alive. Enjoy it 'cause it's unbelievably short.
L8R, -- Me
My brother needs to get his stories out there. As long as he wishes, I hope for this blog to exist as a forum for that necessary expression and expulsion of demons, episodes, memories and events. I don't care how he writes those words, in what order or array, as long as he just does it as the old Nike adage goes. (GRIN!)
On the subject of tucking in -- a short revelatory history: I did not read this post before transcribing it. It came to me new as the sentences entered my mind via my eyes, did a short circuit through my heart, and found its way here from the rote action of my ten digits. This morning during my walk while listening to "The Count of Monte Cristo" on my IPOD, hoping against hope that Monsieur Morrel would not do the noble thing and shoot himself to preserve his family honor, I found myself clutching my hand to my chest as a flashback from my precious time with Gary during his freedom last year hit me hard. The emotion overwhelmed me with its tenderness and its ferocity of feeling.
We enjoyed several late nights and early mornings of endless chatter, catching up and laughing and just being. At the end of these nights, I sank into Brother John's couch with my comforter while Gary pushed his air mattress as close to the couch as it could go without actually becoming one with the piece of furniture. When he was snuggled in, with his eyes covered beneath his t-shirt out of sheer habit - guards shining their flashlights into the cell at all hours of his sleeping cycle for years on end - he would reach up to find my face and lightly, quickly, so earnestly trace my features to reassure himself that I was, indeed, there. To ensure I was not an apparition dreamed up by his fevered and lonely mind. To prove his freedom a real and solid thing with a new cast of characters of his own choosing and hoping. Once reassured, he would either hold my hand for a time or simply rest his arm on the couch until we both nodded off, with him experiencing some of the most relaxed sleep he'd ever had since his early childhood. To point, he really was as a child in these tender moments. It both broke and boosted my heart.
Can you imagine?
I always have tattoo ink on me, my fingers stained, my pants smeared from wiping my hands. Shirts? Fuhgeddaboutit. Dots, splots, speckles and spatters. Take a picture and you can play the Rorshach game with it. I think I see a wizard holding a glass . . .
I do all the work it takes to set up, to prepare to get ready to put ink on the skin because I love it. I love creating something on someones skin and hearing them say, "I love it."
I got stories for a hundred and one-teen American endless nights. They all end up with me having ink on me, stained beyond removal. We all end up with ink on us. It's the cost of doing what we love. Mostly for who we love.
B.B. [King] said he did what he did because love came to town. Amen O-G {means 'original gangster' as initially used by true gang members; now it can also refer to a pioneer and master in any given field}. Amen.
Why in the hell isn't there a complaint desk somewhere? Somebody to tell me why? Scratch that. I'll tell you why. The reason is we wouldn't have time to do anything else. We'd be at that sucker every damn day.
Those of us who have people who actually listen to us, well, words fail miserably when it come to explaining what that means. It means the difference between choosing life over death, to the other option.
So, like, I used to be just a recovering addict & convict, but now I have mentally diseased tagged onto the end there. Kind of like a tail on a kite, blowin' in the wind, string broken, flailing at each gust of wind. So, yeah, I'm what you call a triple threat. A guy's gotta have a repertoire, ya' know? {He put after this sentence: Don't even check the spelling, just ride with it.}
There's a certain freedom that comes when you've just laid down the last little piece of security-blanket- bullshit-lies you've been telling yourself & the world forever. "This is me. I'm all the way me. Dinged-up, cylinders misfirin', oil leakin', primer-red, rust-bucket me."
I'm thirty five on November 26 this year. Fifteen years in prison, jail, and now I'm off to the place where they give you fancy white coats that save you the trouble of using your own arms, like a sucker, when you could be sucking your meals thru a straw and living in a clean, white, soft-walled cubicle. Mmm . . .
But, seriously, it beats prison with a huge stick. I believe I'll retire the old J-21474 tag on my handle, thank you very much. {That 'tag' was his identity in prison; any letter sent his way without that number was sent back. When he was released last October, I was over-the-moon with the idea of never writing it again. I've actually had to train my brain NOT to write it on letters now; it's not required on the county level. I want to keep it that way!}
Close your eyes (after you read this) and remember . . . remember your first kiss, your first broken puppy-loved heart. Think on the people & moments what made ya' who ya' be. Think of all those terrible, painful moments in your life that put one more solid, true piece of wisdom inside you, never to be shaken out of the great basket of unchanging stuff in life.
The true, the real, the loves & honesties are gonna be the same for eternity, like it or not. Might as well just accept those ink stains as the price of admission. It's well worth all the other stuff that comes with it.
It's been a long time since I've written anything like this. {I guess he doesn't consider his incredible letters to me, so expressive, so open, so very THERE, in that statement.} Something that actually flowed out of me. It's nearly 2AM & I have court at 10AM. I got the rest of my life to sleep, right?
I phoned my sis (the one who so graciously zapped this to you after typing it out) at 10:30PM last night, 12:30AM her time & asked her to explain to me [that] this is real and not some big game where they take it back at the last minute and send me up for six hundred years.
Yeah, prison-hardened me, callin' a girl to give me a phone hug and tuck me in for the night. {Gee, when is the last time I was referred to as a girl? But, I often call him a boy.} Funny thing. I'd do it again right now, if I could. {Funny thing, I'd give fifty phone calls just to tuck him in for the night in person right now.}
There is no moral [here]. No hook. No poetic justice. No ironically genius epipharrific jazz. Just remember to appreciate the ink stains on your life & self. Rub some off on some deserving soul near you. Here, come a bit closer. Let me flick a drop or two on you . . .
You're the lead actor in your movie. Be a good thespian & ham it up a bit. Don't take any of this shit too serious. Nobody leaves this world alive. Enjoy it 'cause it's unbelievably short.
L8R, -- Me
My brother needs to get his stories out there. As long as he wishes, I hope for this blog to exist as a forum for that necessary expression and expulsion of demons, episodes, memories and events. I don't care how he writes those words, in what order or array, as long as he just does it as the old Nike adage goes. (GRIN!)
On the subject of tucking in -- a short revelatory history: I did not read this post before transcribing it. It came to me new as the sentences entered my mind via my eyes, did a short circuit through my heart, and found its way here from the rote action of my ten digits. This morning during my walk while listening to "The Count of Monte Cristo" on my IPOD, hoping against hope that Monsieur Morrel would not do the noble thing and shoot himself to preserve his family honor, I found myself clutching my hand to my chest as a flashback from my precious time with Gary during his freedom last year hit me hard. The emotion overwhelmed me with its tenderness and its ferocity of feeling.
We enjoyed several late nights and early mornings of endless chatter, catching up and laughing and just being. At the end of these nights, I sank into Brother John's couch with my comforter while Gary pushed his air mattress as close to the couch as it could go without actually becoming one with the piece of furniture. When he was snuggled in, with his eyes covered beneath his t-shirt out of sheer habit - guards shining their flashlights into the cell at all hours of his sleeping cycle for years on end - he would reach up to find my face and lightly, quickly, so earnestly trace my features to reassure himself that I was, indeed, there. To ensure I was not an apparition dreamed up by his fevered and lonely mind. To prove his freedom a real and solid thing with a new cast of characters of his own choosing and hoping. Once reassured, he would either hold my hand for a time or simply rest his arm on the couch until we both nodded off, with him experiencing some of the most relaxed sleep he'd ever had since his early childhood. To point, he really was as a child in these tender moments. It both broke and boosted my heart.
Can you imagine?
Sunday, September 27, 2009
Fall-l-l-ing
Fall has arrived. This year the acorns are enormous and picture-perfect. No, Martha Stewart perfect! I would enjoy admiring a bowl full of them on my dining room table. It's easier than attempting to fit the entire oak tree in my home. Much like the turning leaves in hues of browns and reds and all manner of earthy shades in between, acorns for me signal the changing of the guard. I've been their biggest secret fan since I first laid eyes on them in Seattle, Washington as a small girl. The tree-lined streets in older neighborhoods offered a visual feast of the squirrel snacks in clusters along the branches and in dizzying array at the foot of their parents. They stir my desires to wear long-sleeves and jeans; to sprinkle cinnamon and nutmeg atop the foam on my chai lattes; to place lovely pumpkins of all proportions on my porch and patio; to light a blaze in our outdoor fireplace and watch the flames with my family; and . . . to handle the damp and malodorous football clothes in my son's gym bag after football practice.
Sc-r-r-r-r-a-a-t-ch-ch-h-h the needle on the record! Hold up a red hot minute! Why are his rank jerseys and socks making their way into my personal musings about the greatest season of the year? Can't anything, ANYTHING, just be about me? Must this intrude upon my inner sanctum, my woman-cave, my, sigh, blog?!
As I was saying before my olfactory senses suffered a PTSD attack due to my earlier laundering this afternoon, autumn is here. It was officially welcomed earlier this week. The TODAY show even announced it to their entire viewing audience in between world news updates and make-overs with Kathie Lee and Hoda. I must confess to a warm tingle which suffused my entire body with the innocent pleasure that only crisp cool air and the scent of homemade baked apple anything could inspire. Speaking of inspiration, there is a poetic appropriateness to the changes which take place as summer surrenders her last breath to possession by autumnal airs. The same air upon which hordes of blackbirds and gaggles of Canada geese take flight en route to their winter addresses. A winter address? I have a winter address and it is identical to my spring, summer and fall address. I wouldn't mind winging it to hang out for a few months with my avian friends in other parts. Maybe I could set up a temporary P.O. box. Then, I wouldn't concern myself overly much with the first report cards of the school year, wondering why that 'A' looks suspiciously like an 'F' with a slight alteration on its right side. There would be no fund-raising e-mails from the baseball booster club or magazines to sell for the middle school to neighbors up to their eyeballs with unread issues from last year's orders!
Stop! Halt! Cease and desist! Or, should I say cease to persist?! For the love of all things seasonably mild, THIS again? Is it absolutely necessary to drag outsiders into this otherwise charming rendition of Gloria of Sunnybrook Farm? For just the littlest of whiles, can't I be Heidi of the hills, living with her grandfather and his goats, at one with nature and peace and simple happiness?
So, like I mentioned before intruders stormed the gates of my hideaway fortress and forced me to bare arms, er, bear arms, that interim period between the extremes of heat and cold has gained entrance into our weather once again. The next few months are ripe for harvest moons and corn mazes - not to be corn-fused with maize. Hearty sojourners will point their cars to higher altitudes and gaze upon the new deciduous foliage wardrobes before their wearers go naked for winter. Hot steaming cider will give new life to old mugs previously hidden behind sweet-tea glasses. Brothy soups brimming with chicken and vegetables and thick stews replete with chunks of beef and potatoes will find their way to the dinner table. Rakes will replace shovels and weed-whackers. Scarecrow men will adorn front lawns, and garden patches with just-about-ready jack-o-lantern candidates will entice excited children to bring them home. Halloween, with its orange and black motif, and trick-or-treaters with gobs of mini-chocolate bars I'd like to heist, will offer the backdrop for the 20th birthday party for my first child. Yes, I'm whipping up an intense three-layer pistachio cake in green and black with a rich chocolate ganache frosting. We'll fork over the cash for her and then turn right around and do it all over again the following weekend for my middle child. As brilliant as we were in spacing them three years apart, where's the genius in birthdays separated by a mere week ?!
Huh? Excuse me, but I'm doing WHAT again? Wandering away from the theme? Rambling off the beaten path? Digressing from the main? Ohhh, I give up. They win. They are my theme. Fall is only the briefest of sidebar plots in the big story. Perhaps I'll try again in the winter. Everyone will be in the froze, with blue lips and mock- turtlenecks and Ugg boots, hoping for egg nog and gaily wrapped packages. Maybe they will be too distracted to butt in to my mental meanderings. But, until then, somebody please pass the candy corn.
Sc-r-r-r-r-a-a-t-ch-ch-h-h the needle on the record! Hold up a red hot minute! Why are his rank jerseys and socks making their way into my personal musings about the greatest season of the year? Can't anything, ANYTHING, just be about me? Must this intrude upon my inner sanctum, my woman-cave, my, sigh, blog?!
As I was saying before my olfactory senses suffered a PTSD attack due to my earlier laundering this afternoon, autumn is here. It was officially welcomed earlier this week. The TODAY show even announced it to their entire viewing audience in between world news updates and make-overs with Kathie Lee and Hoda. I must confess to a warm tingle which suffused my entire body with the innocent pleasure that only crisp cool air and the scent of homemade baked apple anything could inspire. Speaking of inspiration, there is a poetic appropriateness to the changes which take place as summer surrenders her last breath to possession by autumnal airs. The same air upon which hordes of blackbirds and gaggles of Canada geese take flight en route to their winter addresses. A winter address? I have a winter address and it is identical to my spring, summer and fall address. I wouldn't mind winging it to hang out for a few months with my avian friends in other parts. Maybe I could set up a temporary P.O. box. Then, I wouldn't concern myself overly much with the first report cards of the school year, wondering why that 'A' looks suspiciously like an 'F' with a slight alteration on its right side. There would be no fund-raising e-mails from the baseball booster club or magazines to sell for the middle school to neighbors up to their eyeballs with unread issues from last year's orders!
Stop! Halt! Cease and desist! Or, should I say cease to persist?! For the love of all things seasonably mild, THIS again? Is it absolutely necessary to drag outsiders into this otherwise charming rendition of Gloria of Sunnybrook Farm? For just the littlest of whiles, can't I be Heidi of the hills, living with her grandfather and his goats, at one with nature and peace and simple happiness?
So, like I mentioned before intruders stormed the gates of my hideaway fortress and forced me to bare arms, er, bear arms, that interim period between the extremes of heat and cold has gained entrance into our weather once again. The next few months are ripe for harvest moons and corn mazes - not to be corn-fused with maize. Hearty sojourners will point their cars to higher altitudes and gaze upon the new deciduous foliage wardrobes before their wearers go naked for winter. Hot steaming cider will give new life to old mugs previously hidden behind sweet-tea glasses. Brothy soups brimming with chicken and vegetables and thick stews replete with chunks of beef and potatoes will find their way to the dinner table. Rakes will replace shovels and weed-whackers. Scarecrow men will adorn front lawns, and garden patches with just-about-ready jack-o-lantern candidates will entice excited children to bring them home. Halloween, with its orange and black motif, and trick-or-treaters with gobs of mini-chocolate bars I'd like to heist, will offer the backdrop for the 20th birthday party for my first child. Yes, I'm whipping up an intense three-layer pistachio cake in green and black with a rich chocolate ganache frosting. We'll fork over the cash for her and then turn right around and do it all over again the following weekend for my middle child. As brilliant as we were in spacing them three years apart, where's the genius in birthdays separated by a mere week ?!
Huh? Excuse me, but I'm doing WHAT again? Wandering away from the theme? Rambling off the beaten path? Digressing from the main? Ohhh, I give up. They win. They are my theme. Fall is only the briefest of sidebar plots in the big story. Perhaps I'll try again in the winter. Everyone will be in the froze, with blue lips and mock- turtlenecks and Ugg boots, hoping for egg nog and gaily wrapped packages. Maybe they will be too distracted to butt in to my mental meanderings. But, until then, somebody please pass the candy corn.
Thursday, September 24, 2009
How Are You? He's Fine.
A gentleman approached me the other afternoon with a question. That most standard of all questions. "Well, Gloria, how are you?" Now, we were at a tailgate party for the middle school football team. He was the president of the booster club. We had spoken casually several times over the course of setting out watermelon, cooked meats, cold pasta salads, packaged cookies, and those rather large orange Thermos beverage dispensers full of lemonade. I figured since we had covered the everyday greetings in those earlier chats, he must intend for me to answer honestly as opposed to politely: one being how life really is treating me; the other being the locked-in "I'm good, real good, and you?" that falls so easily, so inanely from the lips of so many.
Before I progress, I must tell you I often trip over this popular greeting phrased as a question. When I find myself giving the standard reply, I internally administer a good swift kick! My close friends know this about me. It is a mindless social pleasantry -- I truly, really, wholly detest thoughtless, executed-by-rote social pleasantries as a practice. I don't, however, detest being pleasant. Nor do I dislike the sparing art of being social. But this one question sticks in my craw -- so ubiquitous, empty and bland. It's like me eating one of my rye crisp crackers without almond butter and grape preserves; not worth opening my mouth over. No one truly expects a mindful answer. In fact, a mindful answer produces looks of dismay and discomfort in the one doing the querying. They are conditioned to speak it; others' ears are conditioned to receive it and regurgitate the common reply. Period. End of exchange. Though I realize this is the expected modus operandi, I don't subscribe to it. Maybe this speaks more to the rebel in me, mellow though it may be, who chafes at the expected. But, it seems to me if such words as to one's true state are put out there, one ought to feel the freedom to answer and actually see the listener's ears visibly perk up.
But enough soapbox expounding.
The gentleman with the seemingly earnest question? Remember him? Well, I fixed my eyes upon his ears and gave him my answer. "You know, I'm about as good as can be expected. I have my ups and my downs. But, I'm plugging along, doing the work, expecting things to get better as they usually do." As he knows about my brother, Gary, following the story by e-mail somewhat along since early fall of 2008, he threw in the follow-up, "Is that because of your brother in jail?" And, being socially adept enough to realize I could not possibly hope to, nor did I want to, relay the full import of this past year's developments to this man I barely knew, with skirted cheerleaders running around us, Oreo cookies in hand and their breathless stories about the boys in helmets and uniforms falling from their lips, I said, "Yes."
Because he continued to stand there, in front of me, positioned to receive more news, I went on. I updated him on Gary's upcoming transfer out of the prison system and into the state hospital system. I explained why that was good news. I touched upon mental illness and treatment. I mentioned the rebirth of my brother's faith in Christ and his yearnings to remain in the fold. As I spoke, I discerned a subtle shift in my fellow booster club member's features. I noted his eyes wandered past me, taking in the clouds and the football players as they marched across the field into the stadium, though he continued to nod and comment in the affirmative. When he reengaged, he opined as to the wonderful fact that now, with Gary's faith restored, he could clean up his act and work on those things in himself that needed fixing. He could be strong and emerge from his brain fog and make better choices and live out the rest of his life with purpose. There was a bit more. It was all peevishly positive, much like the encouraging speeches he intones at the beginning of football season to all of the parents; much like the group prayers he leads before we eat our common meals during our months together as parents to middle school athletes. What he lacked, however, was true understanding. And, any ability to see that he should try and understand beyond the accepted stance that being active in Christ will make us all happy and healthy. He left no opening for a mental illness diagnosis to exist. Gary's difficulties were rooted in weakness and an inability to function under God's grace.
What I say is this. It is that very attitude, so heartfelt and righteous, probably without vanity but also without discernment, which allowed Gary's intolerable situation in this life to go for so long without being recognized for what it was. Mental illness was not a thing said aloud or given any space upon which to walk or room in which to spread its wings. Whatever was wrong was all in his control to change. Totally and completely. His unwillingness to surrender to what God had for him was his downfall. Everyone tried to help and he pushed them aside. Everyone was blameless. Their role in aiding Gary was over because he did not accept their plans and ideas on who he was and what he was to become. Yet, no one took the time to try and know him and understand his pain. He was a boy in severe crisis. The general answer was to drag him to church. (Not that I downplay the significance of the body gathering.) Get him rededicated to the Lord. Show him the error of his ways. Put him in a program and get the scripture pumped into his head and heart. Convert him from the way of the black sheep of the family and enclose him within the ranks of the accepted and the expected.
If it had been discovered that a tumor resided in his brain and was to blame for his behavior, that would have been all right. There would have been prayer for healing. Trips to the surgeon. Books on how-to-cope. An actual surgery to excise the invader. Physical therapy to recuperate him, to make him whole, to reconnect the synaptic connections within his gray matter.
As it turns out, there WAS, and is, a tumor in Gary's brain. Insidious and invisible to the naked eye, thus allowing it free reign and room to develop for hundreds upon thousands of days: bipolar disorder, compounded by Post Traumatic Stress Disorder from his childhood. It has been detected and traitor! we know your name! My brother can learn about the differences in his behavioral and thought processes which cause him to stand out from average folks. No longer must he agonize over what is wrong with him and wonder why he does the crazy things he does. He won't need to rely upon street drugs or alcohol to self-medicate. And, all on his own, by his lonesome, even with a relationship with Christ, he could not simply will his way through the complex chemical processes which are active and present in his physiological being any more than he could have willed away a brain tumor.
Whether or not modern-day healing takes place, which I believe it does, it is ignorant to hold the mentally ill responsible for an illness they did not choose, when they have not the knowledge or treatment to corral it and correct it, just as it would be ignorant to put blame on a person born with cerebral palsy or an individual who contracts a serious illness later in life. This is an imperfect and fallen world. Biblically, the Lord did not state that the sick need healing but the mentally ill can pray away their dementia or throw memorized verses at it and receive deliverance. I think a case can be made for differences between mental illness and demonic possession if there are those who wish to take that stand. Infirm is infirm. All who suffer and bear the weight deserve our empathy and our understanding. If one is not in the know, either get in the know or hold your tongue lest it inflict permanent or long-lasting damage. And, think as to whether you would desert your spouse or child or good friend in the midst of a protracted battle with a physical affliction. As tough as it can be to hang with them in the down moments, should we then cut our emotionally ill loved ones from our lives? I, for one, say no, we should not.
Before I progress, I must tell you I often trip over this popular greeting phrased as a question. When I find myself giving the standard reply, I internally administer a good swift kick! My close friends know this about me. It is a mindless social pleasantry -- I truly, really, wholly detest thoughtless, executed-by-rote social pleasantries as a practice. I don't, however, detest being pleasant. Nor do I dislike the sparing art of being social. But this one question sticks in my craw -- so ubiquitous, empty and bland. It's like me eating one of my rye crisp crackers without almond butter and grape preserves; not worth opening my mouth over. No one truly expects a mindful answer. In fact, a mindful answer produces looks of dismay and discomfort in the one doing the querying. They are conditioned to speak it; others' ears are conditioned to receive it and regurgitate the common reply. Period. End of exchange. Though I realize this is the expected modus operandi, I don't subscribe to it. Maybe this speaks more to the rebel in me, mellow though it may be, who chafes at the expected. But, it seems to me if such words as to one's true state are put out there, one ought to feel the freedom to answer and actually see the listener's ears visibly perk up.
But enough soapbox expounding.
The gentleman with the seemingly earnest question? Remember him? Well, I fixed my eyes upon his ears and gave him my answer. "You know, I'm about as good as can be expected. I have my ups and my downs. But, I'm plugging along, doing the work, expecting things to get better as they usually do." As he knows about my brother, Gary, following the story by e-mail somewhat along since early fall of 2008, he threw in the follow-up, "Is that because of your brother in jail?" And, being socially adept enough to realize I could not possibly hope to, nor did I want to, relay the full import of this past year's developments to this man I barely knew, with skirted cheerleaders running around us, Oreo cookies in hand and their breathless stories about the boys in helmets and uniforms falling from their lips, I said, "Yes."
Because he continued to stand there, in front of me, positioned to receive more news, I went on. I updated him on Gary's upcoming transfer out of the prison system and into the state hospital system. I explained why that was good news. I touched upon mental illness and treatment. I mentioned the rebirth of my brother's faith in Christ and his yearnings to remain in the fold. As I spoke, I discerned a subtle shift in my fellow booster club member's features. I noted his eyes wandered past me, taking in the clouds and the football players as they marched across the field into the stadium, though he continued to nod and comment in the affirmative. When he reengaged, he opined as to the wonderful fact that now, with Gary's faith restored, he could clean up his act and work on those things in himself that needed fixing. He could be strong and emerge from his brain fog and make better choices and live out the rest of his life with purpose. There was a bit more. It was all peevishly positive, much like the encouraging speeches he intones at the beginning of football season to all of the parents; much like the group prayers he leads before we eat our common meals during our months together as parents to middle school athletes. What he lacked, however, was true understanding. And, any ability to see that he should try and understand beyond the accepted stance that being active in Christ will make us all happy and healthy. He left no opening for a mental illness diagnosis to exist. Gary's difficulties were rooted in weakness and an inability to function under God's grace.
What I say is this. It is that very attitude, so heartfelt and righteous, probably without vanity but also without discernment, which allowed Gary's intolerable situation in this life to go for so long without being recognized for what it was. Mental illness was not a thing said aloud or given any space upon which to walk or room in which to spread its wings. Whatever was wrong was all in his control to change. Totally and completely. His unwillingness to surrender to what God had for him was his downfall. Everyone tried to help and he pushed them aside. Everyone was blameless. Their role in aiding Gary was over because he did not accept their plans and ideas on who he was and what he was to become. Yet, no one took the time to try and know him and understand his pain. He was a boy in severe crisis. The general answer was to drag him to church. (Not that I downplay the significance of the body gathering.) Get him rededicated to the Lord. Show him the error of his ways. Put him in a program and get the scripture pumped into his head and heart. Convert him from the way of the black sheep of the family and enclose him within the ranks of the accepted and the expected.
If it had been discovered that a tumor resided in his brain and was to blame for his behavior, that would have been all right. There would have been prayer for healing. Trips to the surgeon. Books on how-to-cope. An actual surgery to excise the invader. Physical therapy to recuperate him, to make him whole, to reconnect the synaptic connections within his gray matter.
As it turns out, there WAS, and is, a tumor in Gary's brain. Insidious and invisible to the naked eye, thus allowing it free reign and room to develop for hundreds upon thousands of days: bipolar disorder, compounded by Post Traumatic Stress Disorder from his childhood. It has been detected and traitor! we know your name! My brother can learn about the differences in his behavioral and thought processes which cause him to stand out from average folks. No longer must he agonize over what is wrong with him and wonder why he does the crazy things he does. He won't need to rely upon street drugs or alcohol to self-medicate. And, all on his own, by his lonesome, even with a relationship with Christ, he could not simply will his way through the complex chemical processes which are active and present in his physiological being any more than he could have willed away a brain tumor.
Whether or not modern-day healing takes place, which I believe it does, it is ignorant to hold the mentally ill responsible for an illness they did not choose, when they have not the knowledge or treatment to corral it and correct it, just as it would be ignorant to put blame on a person born with cerebral palsy or an individual who contracts a serious illness later in life. This is an imperfect and fallen world. Biblically, the Lord did not state that the sick need healing but the mentally ill can pray away their dementia or throw memorized verses at it and receive deliverance. I think a case can be made for differences between mental illness and demonic possession if there are those who wish to take that stand. Infirm is infirm. All who suffer and bear the weight deserve our empathy and our understanding. If one is not in the know, either get in the know or hold your tongue lest it inflict permanent or long-lasting damage. And, think as to whether you would desert your spouse or child or good friend in the midst of a protracted battle with a physical affliction. As tough as it can be to hang with them in the down moments, should we then cut our emotionally ill loved ones from our lives? I, for one, say no, we should not.
Monday, September 21, 2009
Do YOU Enjoy Being A Woman?
Each time I step into my shower, I'm told to enjoy being a woman. No, it's not some odd well-wish by my husband. And, no, I don't own a parrot. Nor do I self-administer a pep-talk before taking up my body puff. What does come into play here is my habit of reading labels. Specifically, the back of the 'SUMMER'S EVE Feminine Wash' bottle. Right there, printed in navy blue letters against a strip of pale green are the very words 'Enjoy Being A Woman' accompanied by the website address for the product. Invariably, I ponder this directive, unsure as to how the use of this hypoallergenic gelatinous goo can induce me to celebrate my femininity.
Well, today I finally surrendered to my curiosity. I visited www.summerseve.com in the hopes of illumination on the subject. I might as well have clicked on ESQUIRE magazine dot com for all I got out of it; at least at ESQUIRE, the glossy photo-spreads are pretty clear on certain well-recognized womanly attributes which are happily delivering joy to inboxes and P.O. boxes all around the world! Still, here's what the C.B. Fleet company has to say at their URL about the enjoyment of womanhood. Point by point.
First, their mission is to help me enjoy being a woman. That's a bold mission statement so rife with expectation that they are sure to disappoint right out of the gate. I don't recall filling out a questionnaire or answering a series of queries by phone solicitation. There was no representative at Wal-Mart in the personal hygiene aisle to chat me up as to my likes and dislikes, wants and hopes, problems and issues. Already, I sense false advertising.
Well, today I finally surrendered to my curiosity. I visited www.summerseve.com in the hopes of illumination on the subject. I might as well have clicked on ESQUIRE magazine dot com for all I got out of it; at least at ESQUIRE, the glossy photo-spreads are pretty clear on certain well-recognized womanly attributes which are happily delivering joy to inboxes and P.O. boxes all around the world! Still, here's what the C.B. Fleet company has to say at their URL about the enjoyment of womanhood. Point by point.
First, their mission is to help me enjoy being a woman. That's a bold mission statement so rife with expectation that they are sure to disappoint right out of the gate. I don't recall filling out a questionnaire or answering a series of queries by phone solicitation. There was no representative at Wal-Mart in the personal hygiene aisle to chat me up as to my likes and dislikes, wants and hopes, problems and issues. Already, I sense false advertising.
Second, to accomplish this goal, they provide solutions which will keep me free from worry. They even offer multiple options so I can pick what's best for me. As I have yet to emerge from the shower worry-free during my long-standing acquaintance with SUMMER'S EVE, I thought perhaps the Internet site harbored the stress-reducing options not found in the bottle. I searched and searched for 'how-to-dumb-proof-my-kids' or 'healthy-dinner-menus-for-a-year-so-your-husband-won't-ask-WFD-by-text-every-cotton-pickin'-day' or 'take-care-of-my-mother-and-mother-in-law-for-the-rest-of-their-lives' or even a 'world-peace/secret-to-looking-like-Linda-Hamilton-in-TERMINATOR 2' combo. Nowhere. What DO they offer, you might wonder? The assertion that feeling fresh and clean in either sensitive skin formula, Berry Bliss or Morning Paradise will do the trick. Balance the PH levels in your nether regions and life will roll along in a most relaxed and joyous state.
Third, they know that men and women have different standards of freshness. Therefore, it is to my exacting and specific requirements that their line-up has been created. What is it, do you suppose, that I desire in personal cleanliness which differs so dramatically from the wants of a man? (Other than I have no special wish to be told that I smell like an 'Irish Spring' or exude eau d' 'Red Zone.') Odor-free and squeaky clean, jelly bean, will do just fine by me. Is THIS how I enjoy being a woman? If so, then do guys strut around not caring whether they stink and grow layers of grime in their special places and in this reciprocal way enjoy being men?
Finally, harsh ingredients are avoided in their formulations to ensure safety and avoid irritating reactions. Hmmph. Safety they say? In my entire bathing career, aligned with SUMMER'S EVE as I have asserted all along, I managed to get pregnant THREE TIMES. Maybe I didn't rinse thoroughly enough? Oh, and I've slipped on the floor more than once or twice. As for irritating reactions, my husband would vouch for a myriad moments of perplexed snarlings and baffling attitudes emanating from my person, both before and after showers. Perhaps I used more than the recommended 'small amount poured onto hand or washcloth?'
I notice now, examining more closely the fine print on my gynecologist-tested intimate cleanser, that it specifies FOR EXTERNAL USE ONLY. Well, smack my forehead and pass me a V-8! My visual acuity must be dimming with age or perhaps my memory slipped on the wet floor, too. The answer WAS on the bottle. That's the reason I'm yet overwhelmed with worries, feeling unsafe and irritated, and unable to be the ultimate girly-girl. I've been slamming shooters of feminine wash! Heck, I'll shove those shot glasses to the back of the cabinet, immediately. There's still hope for me to enjoy being a woman after every thorough cleansing.
I'm off . . . to shower the right way. Thanks, SUMMER'S EVE, for the encouragement. Feel free to use my testimonial on your website if you want.
Sunday, September 20, 2009
From My PURSE-sonal Collections
"Some days I'm ready for weird, some days I'm not."
-Val, on 4/11/08 at the now defunct coffee shop out in the boonies
"Every damn thing is your own fault if you're any good."
-Ernest Hemingway, GREEN HILLS OF AFRICA
"I'm talking, and I'm ticked!"
-my Sarah, on 11/7/07 after a particularly trying evening
"One can never consent to creep when one feels the impulse to soar."
-Helen Keller, from THE CONFESSION Part One (opening quote)
"You're a thinker . . . thinkin' and submittin' to the Old Ways don't mix."
-author Beverly Lewis, THE SHUNNING pg. 192
"Might would be . . ."
-Gayla, said 6/10/08, but just one of numerous times
"I don't like to have my thighs encased!"
-Gloria, me, on 7/2/08, informing Melissa C.
"Kids have a unique ability to figure out how to make things their fault."
-Dr. Phil, to Oprah on 9/16/09, concerning painful events in a child's life
"The words are too small for what you feel inside."
-Mother on EXTREME HOME MAKEOVER per gratitude over her new home
"You boys go out in the street and blow 'em!"
-Aunt Donna, 4th of July 2009, to all boys with firecrackers
"A teeny tart: a tartini."
-Musing of Miss Melba on 8/8/07
"Remember those who are in prison as though in prison with them."
-Hebrews 13:3, ESV New Testament
"People that aren't convicts are intimidating."
-Brother Gary in letter dated 12/26/06
"It was the best frickin' fried chicken I'd ever had!"
-Librarian at Linebaugh on 2/13/07, relaying personal food story to me and the kids
"Do ya'll sinners have your Bibles?"
-Ashley, my eldest, on 2/17/07 to her friends, Mallory and Patrick
"I notice cooks on TV whose upper lips raise to one side when they talk. Paula Deen, Giada DiLaurentis, Rachel Ray. Jimmy teases me about my lip. Perhaps it is the sign of a good cook!"
-Me, self-musing 1/21/07
"Having resentment is like taking poison and hoping the other guy dies."
-Susan St. James, 12/3/04, on the sorrow of losing her 14-year old son in plane crash
". . . anytime I've stepped in my own footprints again, I haven't felt renewed."
-UNDER THE TUSCAN SUN pg. 15, read on 9/7/02
" 'You think too much,' said Paul simply. . . 'Talk a lot too . . . ' "
-FIVE QUARTERS OF THE ORANGE pg. 303, read in 2002
"Time flaps on the mast."
-Virginia Woolf, MRS. DALLOWAY pg. 37, read 1/22/03
"Yes! Thank you, Lord."
-My husband, on 7/24/08 as he pointed up above in victory, after hearing the news about a house for Gary
"My life is shitty."
-scribbled on a public restroom wall painted the color of Pepto-Bismal, read 8/23/03, Colorado
"NOTICE! Communicating or attempting to communicate with inmates is prohibited.
C.R.S. 18-9-117 P.C.S.O."
-sign on railing in Lamar Courtroom, 8:30AM on 11/29/04, court hearing for Sister Rebekah
"I'm in the froze."
-Ashley, my oldest child, defining her physical chill back in 2002'ish
"You have this freak flag. You just don't fly it."
-THE FAMILY STONE, brother character to SJP's character, at theater 6/2/06
"Focus this month on BACON! We lost over 1,000 pieces last month!"
-bulletin board at Church St. Mickey D's, summer of 2006, seen while cruising the drive-thru
"There's more to you than there is of you."
-from the movie THE PRODUCERS
"I threw a ball and hit a baby."
-Tim Baker, preaching at CP on 9/3/06, after tossing out a foam ball to the congregation
"Lost in thought. Send a search party."
-a t-shirt slogan seen on 9/11/06
"That scared me bad! . . . I've lost visual of the road."
-Melissa C. on 9/16/09, maneuvering a winding, narrow, 2-lane road with four passengers
"Shake it off, big boy! Get out there and knock him down!"
-Grandpa-fan to hurt lineman-boy during Zachary's football game, 10-12 year-olds, 10/23/06
"I do because I'm a worm keeper."
-Little Izzy, our one-time neighbor girl, on a Sunday morning, 8/21/05
"I got pretty fingers."
-Brother John, said 6/19/05, upon the successful cessation of his habitual nail-biting
And, finally:
"If there's an author of my life, I wish they'd [he'd] get to the feel-good part."
-Brother Gary, quote from letter dated 4/24/07
-Val, on 4/11/08 at the now defunct coffee shop out in the boonies
"Every damn thing is your own fault if you're any good."
-Ernest Hemingway, GREEN HILLS OF AFRICA
"I'm talking, and I'm ticked!"
-my Sarah, on 11/7/07 after a particularly trying evening
"One can never consent to creep when one feels the impulse to soar."
-Helen Keller, from THE CONFESSION Part One (opening quote)
"You're a thinker . . . thinkin' and submittin' to the Old Ways don't mix."
-author Beverly Lewis, THE SHUNNING pg. 192
"Might would be . . ."
-Gayla, said 6/10/08, but just one of numerous times
"I don't like to have my thighs encased!"
-Gloria, me, on 7/2/08, informing Melissa C.
"Kids have a unique ability to figure out how to make things their fault."
-Dr. Phil, to Oprah on 9/16/09, concerning painful events in a child's life
"The words are too small for what you feel inside."
-Mother on EXTREME HOME MAKEOVER per gratitude over her new home
"You boys go out in the street and blow 'em!"
-Aunt Donna, 4th of July 2009, to all boys with firecrackers
"A teeny tart: a tartini."
-Musing of Miss Melba on 8/8/07
"Remember those who are in prison as though in prison with them."
-Hebrews 13:3, ESV New Testament
"People that aren't convicts are intimidating."
-Brother Gary in letter dated 12/26/06
"It was the best frickin' fried chicken I'd ever had!"
-Librarian at Linebaugh on 2/13/07, relaying personal food story to me and the kids
"Do ya'll sinners have your Bibles?"
-Ashley, my eldest, on 2/17/07 to her friends, Mallory and Patrick
"I notice cooks on TV whose upper lips raise to one side when they talk. Paula Deen, Giada DiLaurentis, Rachel Ray. Jimmy teases me about my lip. Perhaps it is the sign of a good cook!"
-Me, self-musing 1/21/07
"Having resentment is like taking poison and hoping the other guy dies."
-Susan St. James, 12/3/04, on the sorrow of losing her 14-year old son in plane crash
". . . anytime I've stepped in my own footprints again, I haven't felt renewed."
-UNDER THE TUSCAN SUN pg. 15, read on 9/7/02
" 'You think too much,' said Paul simply. . . 'Talk a lot too . . . ' "
-FIVE QUARTERS OF THE ORANGE pg. 303, read in 2002
"Time flaps on the mast."
-Virginia Woolf, MRS. DALLOWAY pg. 37, read 1/22/03
"Yes! Thank you, Lord."
-My husband, on 7/24/08 as he pointed up above in victory, after hearing the news about a house for Gary
"My life is shitty."
-scribbled on a public restroom wall painted the color of Pepto-Bismal, read 8/23/03, Colorado
"NOTICE! Communicating or attempting to communicate with inmates is prohibited.
C.R.S. 18-9-117 P.C.S.O."
-sign on railing in Lamar Courtroom, 8:30AM on 11/29/04, court hearing for Sister Rebekah
"I'm in the froze."
-Ashley, my oldest child, defining her physical chill back in 2002'ish
"You have this freak flag. You just don't fly it."
-THE FAMILY STONE, brother character to SJP's character, at theater 6/2/06
"Focus this month on BACON! We lost over 1,000 pieces last month!"
-bulletin board at Church St. Mickey D's, summer of 2006, seen while cruising the drive-thru
"There's more to you than there is of you."
-from the movie THE PRODUCERS
"I threw a ball and hit a baby."
-Tim Baker, preaching at CP on 9/3/06, after tossing out a foam ball to the congregation
"Lost in thought. Send a search party."
-a t-shirt slogan seen on 9/11/06
"That scared me bad! . . . I've lost visual of the road."
-Melissa C. on 9/16/09, maneuvering a winding, narrow, 2-lane road with four passengers
"Shake it off, big boy! Get out there and knock him down!"
-Grandpa-fan to hurt lineman-boy during Zachary's football game, 10-12 year-olds, 10/23/06
"I do because I'm a worm keeper."
-Little Izzy, our one-time neighbor girl, on a Sunday morning, 8/21/05
"I got pretty fingers."
-Brother John, said 6/19/05, upon the successful cessation of his habitual nail-biting
And, finally:
"If there's an author of my life, I wish they'd [he'd] get to the feel-good part."
-Brother Gary, quote from letter dated 4/24/07
Wednesday, September 16, 2009
When I Walk
Things happen when I walk.
Last month, as I made a left turn onto Jamison Place Road from my corner of Marilyn Court, a man on his bicycle rolled on by. This, in and of itself, is not unusual. Rather commonplace, really. However, the fact that he wore a safety helmet, rode without using his hands, and and casually balanced a ceramic mug of steaming coffee in the process -- I swear a wee cloud of vapor was visible -- all the while appearing as comfortable and serene as he would at his breakfast table with newspaper and same aforementioned mug, was exceptionally unusual.
I needed that. It lasted me the entire week. I still smile when I recall the amusing spectacle he afforded my eyes. I wonder what he did when he reached the busy intersection just two blocks down. I didn't look back.
Last week, a woman and her senior yellow Labrador dog were slowly ambling around a wide corner. The owner displayed affectionate patience with her charge, who was exhibiting the belly girth, tottering gait and gray mantle typical of older house-bound canines. Curious, I offered a cheery hello and wondered after the age of this matronly mutt. "She's thirteen years old. I take her out when I can. She still loves to get outside though she can barely make it home." I commented on her sweetness of spirit and went on my merry way. My Husky-mix dog is thirteen years old, too, with no extra fat around the middle, and though she has mild arthritis in both hips, she can jauntily trot a mile in hot weather and two miles when temperatures cool down. In conditions both moderate and extreme, dry and wet, I've walked her almost every day for over twelve years. I experienced a moment of pride in realizing I had done good by my Panda-girl despite my many worrisome thoughts that I didn't spend the kind of time with her that I did with my other dogs back in my childhood.
I needed that. I've kept both of us healthy and active and with shiny coats, er, hair, to boot! We love our daily meanderings though I don't necessarily enjoy sniffing urine stains and scat with the same enthusiasm as does she: her morning newspaper, I call it. That IS time I spend, and spent, well with woman's-best-friend.
This week, my friend and neighbor, Betsy, shot me an e-mail, wondering if I wanted to pound the pavement with her. Overcast skies threatened; rain had continually entered and exited all morning. "Let's go!" I typed back. We grabbed our shoes and our leashes -- for our mutual furry friends, not one another -- and ventured forth. Our first mile was dry; we dropped off our pets and headed back out as a fine drizzle began to descend. Within a quarter of a mile, we were soaked as showers increased and decreased in intensity. For the next two miles, we wandered a wide circuit which pulled us along familiar streets and past recognizable homes, but everything felt different. Fresh, alive and alert. Our conversations, those intense back-and-forth exchanges which momentarily disassemble and reconfigure the problems of our worlds and a few in the outlying solar systems - you know the ones - were punctuated by outbursts from commiserating clouds which cried down over us, soaking our fronts and dampening our behinds. Upon reaching our respective driveways, the sun scattered the heavenly waters and daylight broke the spell. We returned to our domestic duties, exhilarated and thankful.
I needed that. Moments before Betsy's request, my goal involved beating the rain to the punch or opting for a recorded exercise DVD. How very dreary and isolating that would have been. Much better to have connected beneath the benediction of raindrops and revelations with a lovely woman as much in need of companionship that morning as was I.
Tomorrow, I will pull on my Nike sports shorts and a matching top, perhaps the plum or the pink. Don't know yet. I shall rub foot cream on my tootsies before donning socks that will, yes, complement the rest of my ensemble. In my ears, tiny stud earrings will sparkle because I can't venture out with empty lobes. Goodness, no! And, they too, will be of a shade in keeping with the overall appearance. My already-worn, two-and-a-half-month-old, pink and silver Mizuno running shoes will be affixed to my size 9 1/2 feet, ready for yet another domestic adventure measured in sidewalk cracks, favorite yards and stretch stops. On my face, I will slather 55+ SPF sunscreen; my eyes will be shielded behind huge Jackie-O's (as the girls fondly refer to my sunglasses). I may or may not have the I-POD with audio book egging me on. Perhaps I'll partner up with Maggie this time. I might go a tad extra with Panda. I should go a might longer for me. And, I'll be ready for whatever comes my way.
Things happen when I walk.
Last month, as I made a left turn onto Jamison Place Road from my corner of Marilyn Court, a man on his bicycle rolled on by. This, in and of itself, is not unusual. Rather commonplace, really. However, the fact that he wore a safety helmet, rode without using his hands, and and casually balanced a ceramic mug of steaming coffee in the process -- I swear a wee cloud of vapor was visible -- all the while appearing as comfortable and serene as he would at his breakfast table with newspaper and same aforementioned mug, was exceptionally unusual.
I needed that. It lasted me the entire week. I still smile when I recall the amusing spectacle he afforded my eyes. I wonder what he did when he reached the busy intersection just two blocks down. I didn't look back.
Last week, a woman and her senior yellow Labrador dog were slowly ambling around a wide corner. The owner displayed affectionate patience with her charge, who was exhibiting the belly girth, tottering gait and gray mantle typical of older house-bound canines. Curious, I offered a cheery hello and wondered after the age of this matronly mutt. "She's thirteen years old. I take her out when I can. She still loves to get outside though she can barely make it home." I commented on her sweetness of spirit and went on my merry way. My Husky-mix dog is thirteen years old, too, with no extra fat around the middle, and though she has mild arthritis in both hips, she can jauntily trot a mile in hot weather and two miles when temperatures cool down. In conditions both moderate and extreme, dry and wet, I've walked her almost every day for over twelve years. I experienced a moment of pride in realizing I had done good by my Panda-girl despite my many worrisome thoughts that I didn't spend the kind of time with her that I did with my other dogs back in my childhood.
I needed that. I've kept both of us healthy and active and with shiny coats, er, hair, to boot! We love our daily meanderings though I don't necessarily enjoy sniffing urine stains and scat with the same enthusiasm as does she: her morning newspaper, I call it. That IS time I spend, and spent, well with woman's-best-friend.
This week, my friend and neighbor, Betsy, shot me an e-mail, wondering if I wanted to pound the pavement with her. Overcast skies threatened; rain had continually entered and exited all morning. "Let's go!" I typed back. We grabbed our shoes and our leashes -- for our mutual furry friends, not one another -- and ventured forth. Our first mile was dry; we dropped off our pets and headed back out as a fine drizzle began to descend. Within a quarter of a mile, we were soaked as showers increased and decreased in intensity. For the next two miles, we wandered a wide circuit which pulled us along familiar streets and past recognizable homes, but everything felt different. Fresh, alive and alert. Our conversations, those intense back-and-forth exchanges which momentarily disassemble and reconfigure the problems of our worlds and a few in the outlying solar systems - you know the ones - were punctuated by outbursts from commiserating clouds which cried down over us, soaking our fronts and dampening our behinds. Upon reaching our respective driveways, the sun scattered the heavenly waters and daylight broke the spell. We returned to our domestic duties, exhilarated and thankful.
I needed that. Moments before Betsy's request, my goal involved beating the rain to the punch or opting for a recorded exercise DVD. How very dreary and isolating that would have been. Much better to have connected beneath the benediction of raindrops and revelations with a lovely woman as much in need of companionship that morning as was I.
Tomorrow, I will pull on my Nike sports shorts and a matching top, perhaps the plum or the pink. Don't know yet. I shall rub foot cream on my tootsies before donning socks that will, yes, complement the rest of my ensemble. In my ears, tiny stud earrings will sparkle because I can't venture out with empty lobes. Goodness, no! And, they too, will be of a shade in keeping with the overall appearance. My already-worn, two-and-a-half-month-old, pink and silver Mizuno running shoes will be affixed to my size 9 1/2 feet, ready for yet another domestic adventure measured in sidewalk cracks, favorite yards and stretch stops. On my face, I will slather 55+ SPF sunscreen; my eyes will be shielded behind huge Jackie-O's (as the girls fondly refer to my sunglasses). I may or may not have the I-POD with audio book egging me on. Perhaps I'll partner up with Maggie this time. I might go a tad extra with Panda. I should go a might longer for me. And, I'll be ready for whatever comes my way.
Things happen when I walk.
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
The Need To Reset
Somewhere along the way, I made a trade. Somewhere along the path of my life, I drifted at an intersection and was not aware enough to correct the route. Somewhere along the journey, I set down my own gear and picked up that which was not meant for me. From this unknown point of origin, I went about filling my needs based on what I thought was mine to need, all the while depriving myself of that which I truly did need. Though it is often a lonely travail, I know I'm not alone in this misguided deception. There are others -- living lives based on what we think we need as opposed to living for what we truly need.
I've wasted a small fortune in life's coin over my almost forty-year span on this earth thinking I need to fix myself. Thinking I need to repair my chinks and cracks, and those major fault lines. I've believed all holes need to be sought out and filled before they posed a danger to others. Believed I must tear down and rebuild in an endless cycle of construction, deconstruction and reconstruction, so that I might be more useful and pleasing to myself, God, the humanity within reaching distance of me. I've labored to no end, expecting no end, wishing for an end, in an attempt to be more right than wrong. Labored in vain, deceived by the trade-off, by the drifting from my own road, by the contents of a vessel that were never intended to be carried by me.
But I'm coming 'round. Touching tidbits of an overheard conversation between my Uncle Zan and my Brother Gary, conducted within fifteen confining yet timeless minutes on a jail-phone connection, yanked my attention to front and center. (It was okay to listen in.) The advice proffered, in a nutshell, was this: though God will show us the areas where we need work and then endeavor to assist us in completing the work, it does not mean there are not other areas where His work is completed and acceptable and wholly worthy of attention. Immediately, those words struck my soul and were recognized as truth. Improve but don't neglect to recognize the already improved.
Self-improvement has its place. Yes. And, this is decidedly the era of such. Self-help books abound, multiplying like bunny rabbits in the spring with each and every epiphany to be had by individuals eager to share their personal growth and happen to possess any minuscule bit of talent for taking pen to paper or keyboard to screen. For many, myself included, a faith-based belief system requires a discipline of identifying internal blockages and removing them in order to facilitate a 'closer walk with Thee' -- as the old spiritual lyrics go. To an extent, this internal excavation is all well and good. Beneficial, even, when wielded with guidance and a plan of some sort. And, when not adopted as the only play in the playbook of life, for Pete's sake. No man is a machine. The mind are body are simply not constructed to mechanically search-and-destroy ad nauseam. There must be rest. There must exist a mode by which we step back and absorb the whole as opposed to nitpicking the parts.
Enter self-appreciation: the ability to modestly admire what is good and sound within and without oneself. Ohh, it sounds awkward to me. Painful, even. That's how I know I need it. It is uncomfortable and a tad foreign to entertain this notion, but it is not absurd. It would be absurd to discard it after realizing that the old ways just aren't working as expected.
If I was ever in a position to purchase the old farmhouse of my dreams, I would not then attempt to transform it into a new creation by removing and repairing every blemish and fault it held. It would cease to be the old farmhouse. The sweet little homesteads I have visited charmed me with their character; their character resides in the lines and cracks and chinks. It is the very existence of these aged and wear-altered homes, continuing on despite their imperfections, actually taking on beauty and stately attributes due to time's passage, which stirs appreciation within me. Knowing they have withstood tornado and snow, birth and death, countless footsteps and creaking stairs, bats in the attic and snakes in the basement, arouses my sense of admiration. Never have I wished for them to stand as anything other than what they are. Outside of any obvious hazards which might keep the house from safely enfolding its inhabitants in sheltered comfort, I would add only those things which would accentuate the structure and its personality. I would allow the home to shine and be exactly what it's original builder intended it to be.
To that means to an end, I'm settling. I'm settling for me just as I am. For now. I'm checking myself out from another vantage point. Accepting my construction and foundation. Exploring my basic layout and design. It is similar to looking out over my yard from the window of my son's second-story bedroom and finding that I am enchanted by the view of the trees from above and afar. I'm unable to discern the minutiae and therefore cannot habitually focus in on the Bermuda grass invading the herb bed or the lower branches of the redbud in need of trimming or the empty bird feeder in need of filling. I don't sense work. To my naked eye exists no obvious 'to-do' that might mar the present pleasure. All that I see is a bird's-eye perspective of beauty. An expanse of nature's flora which has been purposely planted and lovingly tended. I reset in that moment where my landscaping duties are concerned. In the same way, I'm hoping to reset in a major moment where my person is concerned.
No more deprivation. No more exchanges of 'who I was made to be' for 'who I think I need to be.' No more parallel journeys on a path not meant for my feet. No more luggage tagged with a name other than Gloria. And, by the way, that would be the Gloria - so designated at birth by her aforementioned uncle - whose very name means Glory-to-God.
I've wasted a small fortune in life's coin over my almost forty-year span on this earth thinking I need to fix myself. Thinking I need to repair my chinks and cracks, and those major fault lines. I've believed all holes need to be sought out and filled before they posed a danger to others. Believed I must tear down and rebuild in an endless cycle of construction, deconstruction and reconstruction, so that I might be more useful and pleasing to myself, God, the humanity within reaching distance of me. I've labored to no end, expecting no end, wishing for an end, in an attempt to be more right than wrong. Labored in vain, deceived by the trade-off, by the drifting from my own road, by the contents of a vessel that were never intended to be carried by me.
But I'm coming 'round. Touching tidbits of an overheard conversation between my Uncle Zan and my Brother Gary, conducted within fifteen confining yet timeless minutes on a jail-phone connection, yanked my attention to front and center. (It was okay to listen in.) The advice proffered, in a nutshell, was this: though God will show us the areas where we need work and then endeavor to assist us in completing the work, it does not mean there are not other areas where His work is completed and acceptable and wholly worthy of attention. Immediately, those words struck my soul and were recognized as truth. Improve but don't neglect to recognize the already improved.
Self-improvement has its place. Yes. And, this is decidedly the era of such. Self-help books abound, multiplying like bunny rabbits in the spring with each and every epiphany to be had by individuals eager to share their personal growth and happen to possess any minuscule bit of talent for taking pen to paper or keyboard to screen. For many, myself included, a faith-based belief system requires a discipline of identifying internal blockages and removing them in order to facilitate a 'closer walk with Thee' -- as the old spiritual lyrics go. To an extent, this internal excavation is all well and good. Beneficial, even, when wielded with guidance and a plan of some sort. And, when not adopted as the only play in the playbook of life, for Pete's sake. No man is a machine. The mind are body are simply not constructed to mechanically search-and-destroy ad nauseam. There must be rest. There must exist a mode by which we step back and absorb the whole as opposed to nitpicking the parts.
Enter self-appreciation: the ability to modestly admire what is good and sound within and without oneself. Ohh, it sounds awkward to me. Painful, even. That's how I know I need it. It is uncomfortable and a tad foreign to entertain this notion, but it is not absurd. It would be absurd to discard it after realizing that the old ways just aren't working as expected.
If I was ever in a position to purchase the old farmhouse of my dreams, I would not then attempt to transform it into a new creation by removing and repairing every blemish and fault it held. It would cease to be the old farmhouse. The sweet little homesteads I have visited charmed me with their character; their character resides in the lines and cracks and chinks. It is the very existence of these aged and wear-altered homes, continuing on despite their imperfections, actually taking on beauty and stately attributes due to time's passage, which stirs appreciation within me. Knowing they have withstood tornado and snow, birth and death, countless footsteps and creaking stairs, bats in the attic and snakes in the basement, arouses my sense of admiration. Never have I wished for them to stand as anything other than what they are. Outside of any obvious hazards which might keep the house from safely enfolding its inhabitants in sheltered comfort, I would add only those things which would accentuate the structure and its personality. I would allow the home to shine and be exactly what it's original builder intended it to be.
To that means to an end, I'm settling. I'm settling for me just as I am. For now. I'm checking myself out from another vantage point. Accepting my construction and foundation. Exploring my basic layout and design. It is similar to looking out over my yard from the window of my son's second-story bedroom and finding that I am enchanted by the view of the trees from above and afar. I'm unable to discern the minutiae and therefore cannot habitually focus in on the Bermuda grass invading the herb bed or the lower branches of the redbud in need of trimming or the empty bird feeder in need of filling. I don't sense work. To my naked eye exists no obvious 'to-do' that might mar the present pleasure. All that I see is a bird's-eye perspective of beauty. An expanse of nature's flora which has been purposely planted and lovingly tended. I reset in that moment where my landscaping duties are concerned. In the same way, I'm hoping to reset in a major moment where my person is concerned.
No more deprivation. No more exchanges of 'who I was made to be' for 'who I think I need to be.' No more parallel journeys on a path not meant for my feet. No more luggage tagged with a name other than Gloria. And, by the way, that would be the Gloria - so designated at birth by her aforementioned uncle - whose very name means Glory-to-God.
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