Most of my life I have looked for someone who is tolerant of other people’s points of view, has a great knowledge of human nature and intuitively knows how to use and cultivate the strengths of the people around him. He is someone who is truly mature, very patient and has the ability to really listen and then understand what someone is trying to say. He is a person who feels deeply, but is able to be calm and relaxed when dealing with most situations.
To me this is the quintessential partner, the most beloved of leaders. He is the hero in the stories I like to write, the one I day dream about helping and being with.
I think most people have a desire to meet people like this. Even loners like me want to belong to something and a good leader makes it possible for all people to feel they are an integral part of something important.
The danger is the ability of charismatic and con men to appeal to people in the same way. All good charlatans are able to pull people in for a while, but a great leader pulls them in from several places at once. He is able to see their strengths and use it for the greatest good, not just his own.
A beloved leader is like a candle on a cold dark night. Each one of his followers believes he is there to keep them warm and show them the way, and each one believes it is his, or her wings that keep his flame from going out.
Sunday, February 28, 2010
Non Sequiturs
I am a bit of a Taoist. Not that it is my religion, just that it is a way of living that works best for me most of the time.
I realized a long time ago that most of the big decisions were out of my hands, and many of the others too, if I was honest. For years I fought against that tooth and nail, but it never really changed anything.
The things I was so adamant about back then are irrelevant now and there are new things that are completely beyond my control. The old ones were emotionally painful. The new ones physically painful. Given a choice I don’t know which I would prefer, but fortunately I don’t have a choice, so it doesn’t matter.
Understanding it doesn’t matter it a real step in the right direction, because I don’t have to sit around agonizing over any of it, or feeling sorry for myself. It would be a waste of time.
That frees up an awful lot of time to do other things, which reminds me of one more thing I learned quite a while ago. I can deal with almost anything in this one moment. There are a lot of moments in life and once I started looking at them one by one, it was amazing how many of them are pretty good.
I think I am a lucky person. It’s what makes me a decent nine ball player. Of course I almost never play pool anymore. I don’t play Bridge anymore either, but I miss pool sometimes. I still have my cue, just in case. In the case! I remember when I had to buy my own case for my own cue, that was a traumatic moment for me. Now I’m glad it happened.
Like I said, most of the big decisions in my life are out of my hands and it seems to work better than I expected it to!
I realized a long time ago that most of the big decisions were out of my hands, and many of the others too, if I was honest. For years I fought against that tooth and nail, but it never really changed anything.
The things I was so adamant about back then are irrelevant now and there are new things that are completely beyond my control. The old ones were emotionally painful. The new ones physically painful. Given a choice I don’t know which I would prefer, but fortunately I don’t have a choice, so it doesn’t matter.
Understanding it doesn’t matter it a real step in the right direction, because I don’t have to sit around agonizing over any of it, or feeling sorry for myself. It would be a waste of time.
That frees up an awful lot of time to do other things, which reminds me of one more thing I learned quite a while ago. I can deal with almost anything in this one moment. There are a lot of moments in life and once I started looking at them one by one, it was amazing how many of them are pretty good.
I think I am a lucky person. It’s what makes me a decent nine ball player. Of course I almost never play pool anymore. I don’t play Bridge anymore either, but I miss pool sometimes. I still have my cue, just in case. In the case! I remember when I had to buy my own case for my own cue, that was a traumatic moment for me. Now I’m glad it happened.
Like I said, most of the big decisions in my life are out of my hands and it seems to work better than I expected it to!
Saturday, February 27, 2010
Trembling
The world is a much smaller place today than it was when I was young. The earthquake in Chili and the resulting tsunami that is expected reaches several areas where I have friends and my concern for them is quite real.
I have only experienced the earth moving twice in my entire life. Once, when I was eighteen, there was a tremor that made our house tremble briefly. My sister and I were in our bedroom on the second floor and we thought the furnace was exploding. It was a big house and the thought of it moving like that was almost unimaginable to us. Then a few years ago, before I moved to North Carolina, I was awakened in the middle of the night and lay there watching my big heavy bed shaking like something out of “Bedknobs And Broomsticks.” It was a very minor quake compared to this one.
The home I live in now was built just before 1900, but it is made out of concrete and tucked snugly into the side of a mountain. I cannot imagine it moving. In fact, much of my security rests in the strength of the mountain below me.
The Smokeys are ancient mountains, worn almost smooth by eons of wind and weather, but our earth is alive and well. Like all living things she twists and turns, moaning and groaning with growing pains and occasionally erupting in expressions that match her vast size. In the long range of her existence, this is only an inconsequential thing, like a pimple on an adolescent’s face, but for us? We are like tiny parasites whose fragile world’s can be swept away with only a flick of her eyelashes.
Human beings like to think we are capable of controlling everything, but events like this remind me that our connection to the world we call home, is both closer and more tenuous than I might want to believe.
I have only experienced the earth moving twice in my entire life. Once, when I was eighteen, there was a tremor that made our house tremble briefly. My sister and I were in our bedroom on the second floor and we thought the furnace was exploding. It was a big house and the thought of it moving like that was almost unimaginable to us. Then a few years ago, before I moved to North Carolina, I was awakened in the middle of the night and lay there watching my big heavy bed shaking like something out of “Bedknobs And Broomsticks.” It was a very minor quake compared to this one.
The home I live in now was built just before 1900, but it is made out of concrete and tucked snugly into the side of a mountain. I cannot imagine it moving. In fact, much of my security rests in the strength of the mountain below me.
The Smokeys are ancient mountains, worn almost smooth by eons of wind and weather, but our earth is alive and well. Like all living things she twists and turns, moaning and groaning with growing pains and occasionally erupting in expressions that match her vast size. In the long range of her existence, this is only an inconsequential thing, like a pimple on an adolescent’s face, but for us? We are like tiny parasites whose fragile world’s can be swept away with only a flick of her eyelashes.
Human beings like to think we are capable of controlling everything, but events like this remind me that our connection to the world we call home, is both closer and more tenuous than I might want to believe.
Friday, February 26, 2010
Expectations
I just realized that today was the eleventh anniversary of my first thot! I have written one thought every day since then with a few exceptions and even though on a few days I did not write one, on others I wrote two. Imagine that.
Expectations
(My first Thot. Written February 25, 1999 at 00:20:34 via juno!)
Expectations are unusual creatures. Coming in times of sorrow they can be the breath of spirit that carries us through, or the anchor that weighs us down. The rest of the time they carry our hopes and dreams from sunrise to sunrise, a never ending stream of beliefs that define us as the beings we both are and hope to be.
When our expectations are not met, we have options. Options can make the difference between swimming upstream and drowning when the current is running against us. Sometimes the options are clinging onto a moldy old life preserver or wallowing in the murky mud that waits in the depths.
But sometimes... if we keep practicing.... our options can be as wonder-full as walking barefoot on the soft tickles of the new spring grass and smelling the sweet mustiness of the earth...or........allowing our mind to soar among the clouds on a warm sunny day filled with the promises of things to come.
Expectations
(My first Thot. Written February 25, 1999 at 00:20:34 via juno!)
Expectations are unusual creatures. Coming in times of sorrow they can be the breath of spirit that carries us through, or the anchor that weighs us down. The rest of the time they carry our hopes and dreams from sunrise to sunrise, a never ending stream of beliefs that define us as the beings we both are and hope to be.
When our expectations are not met, we have options. Options can make the difference between swimming upstream and drowning when the current is running against us. Sometimes the options are clinging onto a moldy old life preserver or wallowing in the murky mud that waits in the depths.
But sometimes... if we keep practicing.... our options can be as wonder-full as walking barefoot on the soft tickles of the new spring grass and smelling the sweet mustiness of the earth...or........allowing our mind to soar among the clouds on a warm sunny day filled with the promises of things to come.
Thursday, February 25, 2010
Tilikum
What if we called the Orlando killer whale Spartacus instead of Tilikum? Would it put things into a perspective more people might understand?
Or, perhaps we could look at it this way. Someone swoops down and grabs you while you are outside one day. They take you away and place you in a lovely enclosed acre with a nice house and some other people they nabbed in other places. You have a pool, a gym, a park like area to walk in. They feed you chicken and okra and stuffing with hot rolls almost every day and treat you with bits of lobster dipped in butter when you learn to do flips for them, or dance for the sight seers who come to look at you. They do not ask if you like okra, or if you miss sweets. They do not even know if you are a vegetarian, or if you hate lobster. They assume they know what is best for you. If you are sick they give you exquisite care. Sometimes they make you come over to the edge of your acre where they rub your back, or make you submit to the touch of strangers in order to show how tame you are. They allow you to breed with the other people in your acre and in general treat you like much beloved pets who are still dangerous and must be controlled.
You are the same person you are today. How would you feel?
Or, perhaps we could look at it this way. Someone swoops down and grabs you while you are outside one day. They take you away and place you in a lovely enclosed acre with a nice house and some other people they nabbed in other places. You have a pool, a gym, a park like area to walk in. They feed you chicken and okra and stuffing with hot rolls almost every day and treat you with bits of lobster dipped in butter when you learn to do flips for them, or dance for the sight seers who come to look at you. They do not ask if you like okra, or if you miss sweets. They do not even know if you are a vegetarian, or if you hate lobster. They assume they know what is best for you. If you are sick they give you exquisite care. Sometimes they make you come over to the edge of your acre where they rub your back, or make you submit to the touch of strangers in order to show how tame you are. They allow you to breed with the other people in your acre and in general treat you like much beloved pets who are still dangerous and must be controlled.
You are the same person you are today. How would you feel?
Till Death We Do Part
I think the time has come and gone for legal marriages. It is obvious that many people mouth the words and pay no attention to their meaning. Perhaps this is a good thing, because in some cultures “until death we do part” can be arranged in most unpleasant ways. Divorce exists in our culture.
What woman today ever really expects to be divorced for not obeying her husband? How do you measure someone‘s ability to “love, honor and cherish?” Divorces are emotional things, but measuring emotions is hard, so we look for negative actions and end up destroying the image of one, or both people for what really amounts to what is now a broken business deal. They each want their share, or maybe more, of houses, bank accounts, and children and the children lose all the way around. They end up in broken homes with damaged views of the people who are the only security they have in this world.
What we could have is a contract that spells out up front what legal rights both partners have and will have should they have children, become ill, or decide to separate. It is a business deal, probably the most important one many of us ever make and it should be done with a clear head and with concise terms. It is already done by many people. This would simply make it a necessity for all people, including those who aren’t thinking clearly, or aren’t educated enough to consider it on their own.
Marriage, the way we think of it now, could still be through the churches or institutions that do them already. All the religious vows, fervent hopes and moral questions would be dealt with on this level, but the legal contracts, the government’s only part in them, would come first and separately.
Mediator’s would move from the tail end of these legal contracts to the front end, so that people entering into relationships are aware of what will happen if and when they are broken.
Instead of framing a generic license, how about framing our rules for living and loving?
What woman today ever really expects to be divorced for not obeying her husband? How do you measure someone‘s ability to “love, honor and cherish?” Divorces are emotional things, but measuring emotions is hard, so we look for negative actions and end up destroying the image of one, or both people for what really amounts to what is now a broken business deal. They each want their share, or maybe more, of houses, bank accounts, and children and the children lose all the way around. They end up in broken homes with damaged views of the people who are the only security they have in this world.
What we could have is a contract that spells out up front what legal rights both partners have and will have should they have children, become ill, or decide to separate. It is a business deal, probably the most important one many of us ever make and it should be done with a clear head and with concise terms. It is already done by many people. This would simply make it a necessity for all people, including those who aren’t thinking clearly, or aren’t educated enough to consider it on their own.
Marriage, the way we think of it now, could still be through the churches or institutions that do them already. All the religious vows, fervent hopes and moral questions would be dealt with on this level, but the legal contracts, the government’s only part in them, would come first and separately.
Mediator’s would move from the tail end of these legal contracts to the front end, so that people entering into relationships are aware of what will happen if and when they are broken.
Instead of framing a generic license, how about framing our rules for living and loving?
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
Counting On Forgiveness
I often write about Lennon’s good points. After all it is his strengths that I want to encourage, but strength comes in many forms. Including taking calculated risks.
Playing in the bathroom lavatory is one of the things he loves to do, running the water, “washing” the four marble eggs that are in an abalone shell by the window, floating a large green turtle over, under and around the eggs.
Yesterday I heard him call out, “I need something to wash the eggs with. Something to spin the water around.” It seemed like a pretty innocent request, yet something about it set off warning bells and, instead of just calling out go ahead, I ducked in to see what he was doing.
There he stood, an egg in each hand, smiling like a little angel. “Can I use your toothbrush?”
That was it! Spinning must have been the word that triggered my defensive action. I’m picky about my toothbrush and I certainly do not want someone “washing” dusty marble eggs with it, or scrubbing the sink, or cleaning the mirror, or any of several other things I could imagine him doing once it was within his grasp. I called out, “No,” and he immediately replied, “Okay.”
He is such a good little guy, but I had another one of those little twinges as I spun around to leave the bathroom, so I continued that twirl a full 360 and swooped in to grab my toothbrush and place it on top of the bathroom mirror.
Any doubts I had about the necessity for this died when I saw his face drop and heard his little resigned, “ohhhhhh, darn.”
The imp was going to use it anyway. I know he was!
Playing in the bathroom lavatory is one of the things he loves to do, running the water, “washing” the four marble eggs that are in an abalone shell by the window, floating a large green turtle over, under and around the eggs.
Yesterday I heard him call out, “I need something to wash the eggs with. Something to spin the water around.” It seemed like a pretty innocent request, yet something about it set off warning bells and, instead of just calling out go ahead, I ducked in to see what he was doing.
There he stood, an egg in each hand, smiling like a little angel. “Can I use your toothbrush?”
That was it! Spinning must have been the word that triggered my defensive action. I’m picky about my toothbrush and I certainly do not want someone “washing” dusty marble eggs with it, or scrubbing the sink, or cleaning the mirror, or any of several other things I could imagine him doing once it was within his grasp. I called out, “No,” and he immediately replied, “Okay.”
He is such a good little guy, but I had another one of those little twinges as I spun around to leave the bathroom, so I continued that twirl a full 360 and swooped in to grab my toothbrush and place it on top of the bathroom mirror.
Any doubts I had about the necessity for this died when I saw his face drop and heard his little resigned, “ohhhhhh, darn.”
The imp was going to use it anyway. I know he was!
Lennon’s Day
Today was a Lennon day. He and his daddy invited me out to lunch at MacDonald’s. The older woman who is their table washer asked him his name and I noticed he began signing, L, E, N... He is not supposed to talk to strangers and this was his way of putting her off while he looked at us out of the corner of his eye for help.
We went to the store next. I pushed the cart and followed them down the first aisle as both father and son leaped from black triangle to black triangle with slightly less grace than Baryshnikov and all the glee of two four year olds. I might have been embarrassed, but every single soul looking at them smiled so warmly I realized how uptight I can be. Their joy was infectious.
Later, looking at the curly haired little moppet draped over the front of my cart, I thought how absolutely exquisite he is. He is well behaved, totally uninhibited and at this point in his life cannot imagine a world not based on love, logic and imagination. He is still a beautiful free spirit.
As we left the store an elderly man came up and reached for him, saying, “Can I just take you home?” Lennon immediately backed up and shouted, “No!” My first impulse was to correct him and tell him to be polite, but my son jumped right in and as we continued across the parking lot, said, “Good job, Lennon. Now what would you have done if he had picked you up and tried to walk away?”
Lennon didn’t bat an eye. “I would have shouted you’re not my daddy and poked his eyes out!” It’s a whole new world. (Poking his eyes out was Lennon’s idea.)
Later, after Daddy went to work, Lennon and I went hunting for old flower pots and repotted my spider plant so he can have one in his room. By the time Spidey was tucked snuggly into a new pot, we had dirt from one end of my kitchen to the other and I sent Lennon into the bathroom to wash his hands and play in the water while I cleaned it up.
A few moments later I heard him singing along with our musical frog and it brought tears to my eyes. He is beginning to find his voice. I could hear a sweet high soprano voice singing “What A Wonderful World” along with Louis Armstrong.
Afterwards he cut out three circles all by himself, glued them to orange paper, his favorite, and made a snowman! A great way to strengthen his small muscle skills and the end of a perfect day! Just as we finished, Mommy came home from work and carried Lennon and Spidey and the picture upstairs until tomorrow.
We went to the store next. I pushed the cart and followed them down the first aisle as both father and son leaped from black triangle to black triangle with slightly less grace than Baryshnikov and all the glee of two four year olds. I might have been embarrassed, but every single soul looking at them smiled so warmly I realized how uptight I can be. Their joy was infectious.
Later, looking at the curly haired little moppet draped over the front of my cart, I thought how absolutely exquisite he is. He is well behaved, totally uninhibited and at this point in his life cannot imagine a world not based on love, logic and imagination. He is still a beautiful free spirit.
As we left the store an elderly man came up and reached for him, saying, “Can I just take you home?” Lennon immediately backed up and shouted, “No!” My first impulse was to correct him and tell him to be polite, but my son jumped right in and as we continued across the parking lot, said, “Good job, Lennon. Now what would you have done if he had picked you up and tried to walk away?”
Lennon didn’t bat an eye. “I would have shouted you’re not my daddy and poked his eyes out!” It’s a whole new world. (Poking his eyes out was Lennon’s idea.)
Later, after Daddy went to work, Lennon and I went hunting for old flower pots and repotted my spider plant so he can have one in his room. By the time Spidey was tucked snuggly into a new pot, we had dirt from one end of my kitchen to the other and I sent Lennon into the bathroom to wash his hands and play in the water while I cleaned it up.
A few moments later I heard him singing along with our musical frog and it brought tears to my eyes. He is beginning to find his voice. I could hear a sweet high soprano voice singing “What A Wonderful World” along with Louis Armstrong.
Afterwards he cut out three circles all by himself, glued them to orange paper, his favorite, and made a snowman! A great way to strengthen his small muscle skills and the end of a perfect day! Just as we finished, Mommy came home from work and carried Lennon and Spidey and the picture upstairs until tomorrow.
Monday, February 22, 2010
Roz
The link below is about the mother of one of my dearest friends.
The last time I met her, a few years ago, she continued to be a lively and witty companion to spend time with. She still played her piano well enough to bring tears to my eyes and she managed to beat me at Scrabble, which I modestly tell you is not easy!
Tonight her children honored her by having one of her musical pieces performed in the city where they grew up. I could not attend, but I can imagine how sweet this night must have been.
Not only was she honored for her gifted creations, but she was also surrounded by her children and grandchildren who are equally gifted. Her grand daughter, a professional performer in her own right, was the soloist. Her sons, one a retired classical tuba player, the other a great chess teacher who was the inspiration for “Knights of the South Bronx,” and her daughter, who is a published novelist, were all there with her. This is a woman who obviously succeeded on many fronts and during a time when it was very difficult for a woman to do this.
Her daughter is writing a memoir about herself, her mother and the piece they played tonight. I look forward to reading it. Just the stories I have heard about this woman and the things she did while she was growing up, or while rearing her children have often left me laughing, or in awe. Yet, I know it was not easy either.
Like I said the other night, we need our heroes to be real and that goes for our heroines too.
(Copy and paste this link to read the article.)
http://jacksonville.com/news/metro/2010-02-20/story/a_musical_master_returns_to_jacksonville
The last time I met her, a few years ago, she continued to be a lively and witty companion to spend time with. She still played her piano well enough to bring tears to my eyes and she managed to beat me at Scrabble, which I modestly tell you is not easy!
Tonight her children honored her by having one of her musical pieces performed in the city where they grew up. I could not attend, but I can imagine how sweet this night must have been.
Not only was she honored for her gifted creations, but she was also surrounded by her children and grandchildren who are equally gifted. Her grand daughter, a professional performer in her own right, was the soloist. Her sons, one a retired classical tuba player, the other a great chess teacher who was the inspiration for “Knights of the South Bronx,” and her daughter, who is a published novelist, were all there with her. This is a woman who obviously succeeded on many fronts and during a time when it was very difficult for a woman to do this.
Her daughter is writing a memoir about herself, her mother and the piece they played tonight. I look forward to reading it. Just the stories I have heard about this woman and the things she did while she was growing up, or while rearing her children have often left me laughing, or in awe. Yet, I know it was not easy either.
Like I said the other night, we need our heroes to be real and that goes for our heroines too.
(Copy and paste this link to read the article.)
http://jacksonville.com/news/metro/2010-02-20/story/a_musical_master_returns_to_jacksonville
Sunday, February 21, 2010
Sing For Me
I honestly believe that should I become lost within myself it would be possible to find me with music. No matter whether that event is caused by trauma, progressive illness, or even some sort of mental withdrawal.
Healing music is a very old concept, not necessarily magic, but that is not the point here.
It would not have to be “good” music by world standards. I have heard some of the most off key singing and bungled playing that still managed to touch my heart awake. I can only imagine it would touch me even more deeply if I were trapped inside a body that had become a prison.
I am thinking that if someone came to me and played his flute, or guitar, or piano, or sang to me, the simple act itself would be one of incredible love. The mere presence of loved ones might not be noticed, but music penetrates closed eyes and sleeping ears. It is even possible that the heartfelt poems of a soul who simply spoke would become music to my ears.
I am a romantic soul who is constantly listening, always loving. Gestures are seldom lost on me.
So, if ever I am like that, come to me, close the doors if you like, lock the windows, pull the drapes, do whatever it is that makes you feel at ease and serenade me with the love we share as fellow human beings walking in a world that can sometimes be very dark.
Healing music is a very old concept, not necessarily magic, but that is not the point here.
It would not have to be “good” music by world standards. I have heard some of the most off key singing and bungled playing that still managed to touch my heart awake. I can only imagine it would touch me even more deeply if I were trapped inside a body that had become a prison.
I am thinking that if someone came to me and played his flute, or guitar, or piano, or sang to me, the simple act itself would be one of incredible love. The mere presence of loved ones might not be noticed, but music penetrates closed eyes and sleeping ears. It is even possible that the heartfelt poems of a soul who simply spoke would become music to my ears.
I am a romantic soul who is constantly listening, always loving. Gestures are seldom lost on me.
So, if ever I am like that, come to me, close the doors if you like, lock the windows, pull the drapes, do whatever it is that makes you feel at ease and serenade me with the love we share as fellow human beings walking in a world that can sometimes be very dark.
Saturday, February 20, 2010
Sunrise To Sunrise
The earliest form of entertainment was most likely looking at what was going on around us. Depending upon our focus and range of thought, it was probably anything from a sunrise to the sand shifting under our feet.
Once stirred, the kaleidoscope of feelings lying latent just under our surface, surely rose to the top and we began to imagine better case scenarios than simply surviving. Stories were born!
I imagine it was only a hop, skip and jump to a cavalcade of stories after that. Along came pictures and traveling story tellers and books, and eventually the movies! Entertainment officially moved from the occasional diversion to something that carved its own place in time.
It is a never ending attempt to stimulate the senses and tickle the fancies of a creature, both willing and eager to grow into whatever is offered. Someday we will look back upon these antique entertainments and see them as either an artist’s attempt to carve out his dream in a three dimensional form so others understand it, or simply an attempt to manipulate another’s senses in some way for fun and profit.
Now. Imagine entertainment minus the finite boundaries of fundamental comprehension. Entertainment that has totally evolved to the status of creation, as incomprehensible as television would have been to the Neanderthal.
A three dimensional presentation that carries each one into the fifth dimension that is both uniquely ours and universal, a bonding of sorts that is comprehensible to everyone on their own personal level.
Think about that for a while…
Once stirred, the kaleidoscope of feelings lying latent just under our surface, surely rose to the top and we began to imagine better case scenarios than simply surviving. Stories were born!
I imagine it was only a hop, skip and jump to a cavalcade of stories after that. Along came pictures and traveling story tellers and books, and eventually the movies! Entertainment officially moved from the occasional diversion to something that carved its own place in time.
It is a never ending attempt to stimulate the senses and tickle the fancies of a creature, both willing and eager to grow into whatever is offered. Someday we will look back upon these antique entertainments and see them as either an artist’s attempt to carve out his dream in a three dimensional form so others understand it, or simply an attempt to manipulate another’s senses in some way for fun and profit.
Now. Imagine entertainment minus the finite boundaries of fundamental comprehension. Entertainment that has totally evolved to the status of creation, as incomprehensible as television would have been to the Neanderthal.
A three dimensional presentation that carries each one into the fifth dimension that is both uniquely ours and universal, a bonding of sorts that is comprehensible to everyone on their own personal level.
Think about that for a while…
Making Sense Of It All
I often seem to have nightmares about being lost on foot in a city and running into stray dogs, which must be one of my great fears, although I wouldn’t know why. I have often gone to a strange city and wandered around alone, on foot, for hours and hours and hours. Some as large as San Francisco and others just whistle stops off the BART or the bus lines of other areas and I’ve really only had a few truly scary situations come up.
One of those was in the city I lived in for nearly thirty years and it was my own fault for being careless. I was looking for one of my children in a not so good part of town in the dark and a drunk threw himself on top of me, knocking me down and knocking the wind out of me. I don’t know what might have happened if a car load of noisy teenagers had not pulled into the parking lot almost immediately. As it was, they frightened him off and I was left very shaken, but really just fine.
Another time was when I was trying to get to a concert in a park in Berkley. The part that concerned me was walking through the park after the concert, because it would be dark and late and I would have to catch a bus back to the BART station. That part turned out to be easy. The hard part was getting there when I took a bus in the opposite direction by accident and ended up in a part of town where the people didn’t even smell like me and the bus driver refused to speak to me. She did eventually eject me from the bus and point to one going the other way, which I understood was a real gift at that point!
Most of the time I have just meandered my way through, stopping at coffee shops to rest, or read, or chat with someone I met. I have sat in unique little parks all over the country writing and watching the people around me and felt completely at ease. Once I had a small picnic with a man wearing a funny oversized hat high above Lake Tahoe. We sat on the edge of a bridge above a little waterfall, ate our sandwiches, and talked about the bear he’d just seen, a little higher up the mountain, but that was not in the city.
I’m more comfortable downtown alone for a million reasons. Bears are one of them. I am afraid of bears and dogs that I don‘t know, and I don‘t know any bears personally. They feel just like two versions of the same wooly toothy creature when I am alone and of course they sense my fear.
Fear is like a welcome mat for grumpy animals. It seems to annoy them and something about me always draws animals. If you want to see the local fauna, take me with you. I’m good for almost anything you’d like to see. Ask my children.
None of this explains my dreams. I don’t dream of bears, except as a sort of spirit animal and then I always feel safe. I just dream of being lost and alone and at the mercy of urban “wolves.”
One of those was in the city I lived in for nearly thirty years and it was my own fault for being careless. I was looking for one of my children in a not so good part of town in the dark and a drunk threw himself on top of me, knocking me down and knocking the wind out of me. I don’t know what might have happened if a car load of noisy teenagers had not pulled into the parking lot almost immediately. As it was, they frightened him off and I was left very shaken, but really just fine.
Another time was when I was trying to get to a concert in a park in Berkley. The part that concerned me was walking through the park after the concert, because it would be dark and late and I would have to catch a bus back to the BART station. That part turned out to be easy. The hard part was getting there when I took a bus in the opposite direction by accident and ended up in a part of town where the people didn’t even smell like me and the bus driver refused to speak to me. She did eventually eject me from the bus and point to one going the other way, which I understood was a real gift at that point!
Most of the time I have just meandered my way through, stopping at coffee shops to rest, or read, or chat with someone I met. I have sat in unique little parks all over the country writing and watching the people around me and felt completely at ease. Once I had a small picnic with a man wearing a funny oversized hat high above Lake Tahoe. We sat on the edge of a bridge above a little waterfall, ate our sandwiches, and talked about the bear he’d just seen, a little higher up the mountain, but that was not in the city.
I’m more comfortable downtown alone for a million reasons. Bears are one of them. I am afraid of bears and dogs that I don‘t know, and I don‘t know any bears personally. They feel just like two versions of the same wooly toothy creature when I am alone and of course they sense my fear.
Fear is like a welcome mat for grumpy animals. It seems to annoy them and something about me always draws animals. If you want to see the local fauna, take me with you. I’m good for almost anything you’d like to see. Ask my children.
None of this explains my dreams. I don’t dream of bears, except as a sort of spirit animal and then I always feel safe. I just dream of being lost and alone and at the mercy of urban “wolves.”
Friday, February 19, 2010
Psychic Editing
I’m not sure what the job description is for a Gramma, but I doubt if it includes living room soccer. I am too old for this! Still it was crazy and fun and I found myself both exhausted and laughing like a four year old when I finally fell into the recliner! With a little luck, my dreams tonight will be pointlessly silly.
I’ve been thinking about dreams a lot lately, since I’ve been having almost back to back nightmarish ones for the past week or so. I admit that I am easily influenced by things. A video game where the phoenix bursts into flames can be transformed into a nightmare of extraordinary terror. A simple story about alligators not eating the people they kill is turned into personal adventures with a twist.
Whatever little thing grabs hold of my attention is often replayed with great operatic fanfare in my dreams. Drama is my middle name when it comes to imagination. The odd exception is that I seldom have long lovely dreams about being with people I love, or care deeply about. It’s almost as if my psyche refuses to allow me that kind of connection because it knows that it would be deeply addicting. I might never wake up.
After all, life seldom reaches the standards of my imagination, or dreams. It has on a few occasions and those are times that set the standards for the rest of my life. I will never forget them, but to live that way forever? Maybe it wouldn’t be as lovely as I imagine, but I sure wouldn’t mind trying and I would settle for dreams if I can’t have the reality.
In the meantime, perhaps I will dream I am the next Pele, playing for a team of very short people, kicking an orange soccer ball that floats through the air, and landing a goal that sets the crowds to roaring!
I’ve been thinking about dreams a lot lately, since I’ve been having almost back to back nightmarish ones for the past week or so. I admit that I am easily influenced by things. A video game where the phoenix bursts into flames can be transformed into a nightmare of extraordinary terror. A simple story about alligators not eating the people they kill is turned into personal adventures with a twist.
Whatever little thing grabs hold of my attention is often replayed with great operatic fanfare in my dreams. Drama is my middle name when it comes to imagination. The odd exception is that I seldom have long lovely dreams about being with people I love, or care deeply about. It’s almost as if my psyche refuses to allow me that kind of connection because it knows that it would be deeply addicting. I might never wake up.
After all, life seldom reaches the standards of my imagination, or dreams. It has on a few occasions and those are times that set the standards for the rest of my life. I will never forget them, but to live that way forever? Maybe it wouldn’t be as lovely as I imagine, but I sure wouldn’t mind trying and I would settle for dreams if I can’t have the reality.
In the meantime, perhaps I will dream I am the next Pele, playing for a team of very short people, kicking an orange soccer ball that floats through the air, and landing a goal that sets the crowds to roaring!
Thursday, February 18, 2010
I Had A Dream
Dreaming is often as real for me as being awake. My dreams are vivid and distinct and the feelings that come afterwards often last hours, sometimes days.
I have always been an active dreamer. Even as a very young child my dreams were very real and sometimes would materialize in 3D, so I joined a Jungian Dream Group as an adult and kept journals for over ten years.
After a nightmare I wake up trembling and soaked in sweat and sometimes so relieved, but sometimes almost traumatized.
Last night I had a terrible dream and finally wrote it down and shared it with a kind friend who allows me to do these things, then I went back to sleep and had another! Imagine having this dream and waking up feeling like that is actually how you spent the night!
My daughter has disappeared and a friend offers to help me find her. She says she thinks she knows where she is. We get in her little blue Renault. It is an old car, but still very shiny bright blue, almost a royal blue and I am afraid we will be too easily seen. We drive along narrow country roads where the shrubbery comes right up to the edges until we see a Thai Temple ahead of us on the right.
She parks the car and we go up the steps. We can hear Catholic priests performing mass inside and know we have to make it through the church in order to get in and find my daughter. I am terrified, but we almost make it completely through before they see us. Now we are running and dodging through corridors made of thick concrete walls with lots of little niches.
Finally I notice that there is a hole in the floor in one of these and we slip down some square columns into the basement. I think my daughter may be down here, but first we have to hide. I don’t think they know where we are yet, so we pick a sort of daybed over in the far corner and throw ourselves under it. Thoughts of spiders and bugs and even snakes that could possibly be here cross my mind, but I force them out because I have no choice. It is hide, or be killed.
My friend now becomes my daughter and she keeps moving around. I whisper roughly to stop moving and I try to keep the blankets pulled down all around us so we won’t be seen, but eventually one of the other young women there notice us. They can’t understand why we are so worried. They tell me the priests are okay as long as you follow their rules, but when I hear them coming, I hide in the back of a huge walk in closet. After the men leave, the girl opens the door and asks if I am in there and what am I doing?
I come out of the closet and discover my daughter and my sons, who are still little boys have gone upstairs. I go up and spend the rest of the dream trying to find my children in the mobs of them climbing the bars and racing around this vast area that is a sort of a dark children’s island. Many of the children carry jagged black scythes and I take these away when I can, only older children are the ones in charge and they don’t understand why I would do that.
Finally I am so tired I lie down by the roadside and fall asleep until a carload of teenagers stop and back up. They seem friendly, but I am afraid and wake up.
I have always been an active dreamer. Even as a very young child my dreams were very real and sometimes would materialize in 3D, so I joined a Jungian Dream Group as an adult and kept journals for over ten years.
After a nightmare I wake up trembling and soaked in sweat and sometimes so relieved, but sometimes almost traumatized.
Last night I had a terrible dream and finally wrote it down and shared it with a kind friend who allows me to do these things, then I went back to sleep and had another! Imagine having this dream and waking up feeling like that is actually how you spent the night!
My daughter has disappeared and a friend offers to help me find her. She says she thinks she knows where she is. We get in her little blue Renault. It is an old car, but still very shiny bright blue, almost a royal blue and I am afraid we will be too easily seen. We drive along narrow country roads where the shrubbery comes right up to the edges until we see a Thai Temple ahead of us on the right.
She parks the car and we go up the steps. We can hear Catholic priests performing mass inside and know we have to make it through the church in order to get in and find my daughter. I am terrified, but we almost make it completely through before they see us. Now we are running and dodging through corridors made of thick concrete walls with lots of little niches.
Finally I notice that there is a hole in the floor in one of these and we slip down some square columns into the basement. I think my daughter may be down here, but first we have to hide. I don’t think they know where we are yet, so we pick a sort of daybed over in the far corner and throw ourselves under it. Thoughts of spiders and bugs and even snakes that could possibly be here cross my mind, but I force them out because I have no choice. It is hide, or be killed.
My friend now becomes my daughter and she keeps moving around. I whisper roughly to stop moving and I try to keep the blankets pulled down all around us so we won’t be seen, but eventually one of the other young women there notice us. They can’t understand why we are so worried. They tell me the priests are okay as long as you follow their rules, but when I hear them coming, I hide in the back of a huge walk in closet. After the men leave, the girl opens the door and asks if I am in there and what am I doing?
I come out of the closet and discover my daughter and my sons, who are still little boys have gone upstairs. I go up and spend the rest of the dream trying to find my children in the mobs of them climbing the bars and racing around this vast area that is a sort of a dark children’s island. Many of the children carry jagged black scythes and I take these away when I can, only older children are the ones in charge and they don’t understand why I would do that.
Finally I am so tired I lie down by the roadside and fall asleep until a carload of teenagers stop and back up. They seem friendly, but I am afraid and wake up.
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
The Responsibility Of Truth
I have a responsibility to be honest with people. And fair.
Many of the problems in this world stem from people having idealistic expectations, because of what they are taught as children, told by other people and read, or see in magazines, on television, or the computer.
Human beings have a relatively long childhood because we have so much to learn and we are programmed to learn from other humans.
I grew up with almost no sense of how I really feel. In our family it was considered weak and wrong to let anything stop us, or get us down. One of my mother’s favorite phrases was, “No one ever really feels good, you just get up and go anyway.” My grandmother used to say, “If someone asks how you feel, say fine and smile. No one really cares anyway.” They meant well.
Consequently, though, I am never really sure if I am sick enough to go to bed, or get help. I honestly don’t know. One time I was sure and that was the night before I agreed to a hysterectomy. I knew that nothing could hurt more than I did in that moment, even if they operated on me awake! That’s pretty extreme.
Hiding behind pretend feelings in order to look good never really works in the long run anyway. Eventually there are repercussions that could probably have been avoided, or at least dealt with much more productively in the beginning.
Sharing true thoughts and feelings is not for the faint hearted, nor should it be done without any thought for the consequences. It is kind of like when the dog lies down at my feet, belly up. He’s counting on me not stomping on his tummy. Be sure you know whose feet you are lying in front of.
How I express myself is much more important than what I am thinking. Learning to express thoughts and feelings honestly, rationally and with care and to act on them sensibly and humanely is very important. I want to show those I care about that it is right to know my own true feelings and not wrong to feel them, but I am responsible for the way I respond to them.
Many of the problems in this world stem from people having idealistic expectations, because of what they are taught as children, told by other people and read, or see in magazines, on television, or the computer.
Human beings have a relatively long childhood because we have so much to learn and we are programmed to learn from other humans.
I grew up with almost no sense of how I really feel. In our family it was considered weak and wrong to let anything stop us, or get us down. One of my mother’s favorite phrases was, “No one ever really feels good, you just get up and go anyway.” My grandmother used to say, “If someone asks how you feel, say fine and smile. No one really cares anyway.” They meant well.
Consequently, though, I am never really sure if I am sick enough to go to bed, or get help. I honestly don’t know. One time I was sure and that was the night before I agreed to a hysterectomy. I knew that nothing could hurt more than I did in that moment, even if they operated on me awake! That’s pretty extreme.
Hiding behind pretend feelings in order to look good never really works in the long run anyway. Eventually there are repercussions that could probably have been avoided, or at least dealt with much more productively in the beginning.
Sharing true thoughts and feelings is not for the faint hearted, nor should it be done without any thought for the consequences. It is kind of like when the dog lies down at my feet, belly up. He’s counting on me not stomping on his tummy. Be sure you know whose feet you are lying in front of.
How I express myself is much more important than what I am thinking. Learning to express thoughts and feelings honestly, rationally and with care and to act on them sensibly and humanely is very important. I want to show those I care about that it is right to know my own true feelings and not wrong to feel them, but I am responsible for the way I respond to them.
Tuesday, February 16, 2010
Pulling Strings
I’m trying too hard.
I feel like a wooden puppet with a big smile painted on its face. Stretching from ear to ear, it really has nothing to do with happiness, or mirth at all. Still, it isn’t an option.
Without this smile, the puppet is worthless. No one wants a puppet with tired eyes and vacant expression, unless it can somehow be turned into a comical thing and comedy is hard to write. Everything is too hard to write right now.
I can pull poetry out of love, sarcasm out of anger, even parody out of desperation, but I cannot pull comedy out of depression. Necessity pulls the strings that keep me moving and that smile makes everyone think all is well.
All really is well, I just can’t see it in this moment.
I find myself preaching the old sermons, beating the same nail on the head over and over again, but that nail does not process the words, so I might as well be hitting myself on the head. I try to tell myself to let it go, that this particular nail is already performing way beyond what I ever dreamed possible, so I should just be happy.
But I’m not. I want so much more for it. That wanting jeopardizes everyone’s happiness, but if I don’t try, what will happen to this nail when it becomes old and bent and rusty? I won’t be around then. Who will take care of it when it cannot take care of itself?
What was that old expression my father used to use? “Allah takes care of orphans, widows and fools?” I wish I believed that. I’ve seen a lot of evidence to the contrary. So I guess I just keep saying the old things over and over and maybe, somewhere along the line, some of the wisdom will soak in where it’s needed. It has in the past.
I don’t know what else to do.
I feel like a wooden puppet with a big smile painted on its face. Stretching from ear to ear, it really has nothing to do with happiness, or mirth at all. Still, it isn’t an option.
Without this smile, the puppet is worthless. No one wants a puppet with tired eyes and vacant expression, unless it can somehow be turned into a comical thing and comedy is hard to write. Everything is too hard to write right now.
I can pull poetry out of love, sarcasm out of anger, even parody out of desperation, but I cannot pull comedy out of depression. Necessity pulls the strings that keep me moving and that smile makes everyone think all is well.
All really is well, I just can’t see it in this moment.
I find myself preaching the old sermons, beating the same nail on the head over and over again, but that nail does not process the words, so I might as well be hitting myself on the head. I try to tell myself to let it go, that this particular nail is already performing way beyond what I ever dreamed possible, so I should just be happy.
But I’m not. I want so much more for it. That wanting jeopardizes everyone’s happiness, but if I don’t try, what will happen to this nail when it becomes old and bent and rusty? I won’t be around then. Who will take care of it when it cannot take care of itself?
What was that old expression my father used to use? “Allah takes care of orphans, widows and fools?” I wish I believed that. I’ve seen a lot of evidence to the contrary. So I guess I just keep saying the old things over and over and maybe, somewhere along the line, some of the wisdom will soak in where it’s needed. It has in the past.
I don’t know what else to do.
Sunday, February 14, 2010
Swan Lake
Attending three junior high schools and two high schools is not easy for anyone, but it was my musical ability that made it bearable for me. All schools have bands, some have orchestras and only one of the ones I attended had another oboe. It was my way to belong.
My first really big solo came when I had the opportunity to play Swan Lake my junior year. I was so frightened I threw up twice back stage before we started. I love that music. It has always seemed like the quintessential place for an oboist to perform.
Still I was always a bit ambivalent about the ballet itself. Until tonight.
Swan Lake is a love story, a sweet story and Tchaikovsky intended it to be that way, but tonight I saw a version by Matthew Bourne that seems to have grasped its very essence. His is the story of a young prince who seeks only love and cannot find it in his home where his mother is present, but not outwardly loving. When the woman he is supposed to love dies, he meets the swan he once dreamed of and they fall in love. A man and a swan, a union neither family will accept.
It is magnificent, but sad. The other swans kill his Swan and the Prince dies. In the finale his mother comes in and hugs him, but it is too late. He is gone. It would be bleak beyond bearing if not for the ending.
As the curtains close, I see the swan standing above the bed holding the Prince in his arms and I have to admit, I cried.
My first really big solo came when I had the opportunity to play Swan Lake my junior year. I was so frightened I threw up twice back stage before we started. I love that music. It has always seemed like the quintessential place for an oboist to perform.
Still I was always a bit ambivalent about the ballet itself. Until tonight.
Swan Lake is a love story, a sweet story and Tchaikovsky intended it to be that way, but tonight I saw a version by Matthew Bourne that seems to have grasped its very essence. His is the story of a young prince who seeks only love and cannot find it in his home where his mother is present, but not outwardly loving. When the woman he is supposed to love dies, he meets the swan he once dreamed of and they fall in love. A man and a swan, a union neither family will accept.
It is magnificent, but sad. The other swans kill his Swan and the Prince dies. In the finale his mother comes in and hugs him, but it is too late. He is gone. It would be bleak beyond bearing if not for the ending.
As the curtains close, I see the swan standing above the bed holding the Prince in his arms and I have to admit, I cried.
Saturday, February 13, 2010
I Love You
When I was young it was inconceivable that the world did not revolve around love. I remember watching movies where the hero and heroine barely knew each other and I could not imagine how each ended up going their separate ways in spite of the fact that they were madly in love.
Once I even thought that there could only be one possible love for each one of us. A soul mate, whose split apart, or twin, would forever try to reunite in spite of star crossed paths. I thought love was forever and could endure all things if it chose to.
I love those ideas. They are so romantic. That is truly what they are, romantic. It doesn’t mean they don’t occur. It only means I realize that love is so much larger than that.
Love is such an unimaginably large concept that I can never really describe it. I can only speak of some of its properties.
It makes it possible for me to speak to one person in terms of the whole universe. When I say the stars shine just for me, I mean the twinkle in your eyes sets my dreams on fire.
It is impossible for me not to say I love you, because that small part of you will always be mine and in the instant I remember it, it fills my whole heart.
It drips over the edges of that infinitesimal defined love that is framed in my heart and head and words and includes a million other people and things who seem to have no connection at all. But they are connected. We are all connected.
Far from being reserved for one face, or one moment, love lives, becoming larger and more potent as it expands. It is the light and the wind, the rain and the passion. It is you and I am you.
Once I even thought that there could only be one possible love for each one of us. A soul mate, whose split apart, or twin, would forever try to reunite in spite of star crossed paths. I thought love was forever and could endure all things if it chose to.
I love those ideas. They are so romantic. That is truly what they are, romantic. It doesn’t mean they don’t occur. It only means I realize that love is so much larger than that.
Love is such an unimaginably large concept that I can never really describe it. I can only speak of some of its properties.
It makes it possible for me to speak to one person in terms of the whole universe. When I say the stars shine just for me, I mean the twinkle in your eyes sets my dreams on fire.
It is impossible for me not to say I love you, because that small part of you will always be mine and in the instant I remember it, it fills my whole heart.
It drips over the edges of that infinitesimal defined love that is framed in my heart and head and words and includes a million other people and things who seem to have no connection at all. But they are connected. We are all connected.
Far from being reserved for one face, or one moment, love lives, becoming larger and more potent as it expands. It is the light and the wind, the rain and the passion. It is you and I am you.
Decency
We all grow up with our own sense of decency. What feels right, what we believe is right, what we believe is not a choice for us. Some of it is cultural, some familial, some defensive, and some because we think it should be that way.
Of course most of the time things are not quite so neatly sorted out by either ourselves, or the world around us.
I have seen people who have an inflated sense of these things because they feel inferior in some way. And, I have seen people who appear to believe they are absolved from all but a rudimentary show of any decency due to their elevated position in, well, in their mind most of all.
The truth lies not in what people want them to be, or say they believe. It is in the way they live.
A truly decent person treats everyone with dignity and does what they can to see the world does too.
Of course most of the time things are not quite so neatly sorted out by either ourselves, or the world around us.
I have seen people who have an inflated sense of these things because they feel inferior in some way. And, I have seen people who appear to believe they are absolved from all but a rudimentary show of any decency due to their elevated position in, well, in their mind most of all.
The truth lies not in what people want them to be, or say they believe. It is in the way they live.
A truly decent person treats everyone with dignity and does what they can to see the world does too.
Just Me
I just posted a new snapshot of me on line and I think it’s one of the best in a long time. Funny thing is, it wasn’t planned. Not at all.
One night this week I was actually feeling pretty good for a change and I finally learned how to use the timer on my camera, so I was playing around with that, trying to see how much time I really had, etc. I think I gave away my tripod. Go figure. I just didn’t think I’d ever use it again, like a lot of things that are gone. (Like my rolling pin. Had to use a jar of Parmesan cheese to roll out some biscuit’s the other day!)
I hadn’t felt so good that morning, so I wasn’t wearing any make-up. I hadn’t washed my hair, or really even combed it and I had on my oldest and most favorite sweatshirt in the world. I remember eyeing that shirt hanging up in a shop for weeks before I decided to spring for the $55 it took to buy it. Now, 26 years later it is tattered and torn, mended and patched and still my all time favorite. What a buy that was!
Anyway, the picture is just me, the way I look most of the time, unadorned, and plain and it is okay. I like it. I mean, it’s not me ten years ago, or twenty years ago, and it is not touched up, or professional, but then I’m not any of those things either.
It feels good to think I can be happy with that now.
One night this week I was actually feeling pretty good for a change and I finally learned how to use the timer on my camera, so I was playing around with that, trying to see how much time I really had, etc. I think I gave away my tripod. Go figure. I just didn’t think I’d ever use it again, like a lot of things that are gone. (Like my rolling pin. Had to use a jar of Parmesan cheese to roll out some biscuit’s the other day!)
I hadn’t felt so good that morning, so I wasn’t wearing any make-up. I hadn’t washed my hair, or really even combed it and I had on my oldest and most favorite sweatshirt in the world. I remember eyeing that shirt hanging up in a shop for weeks before I decided to spring for the $55 it took to buy it. Now, 26 years later it is tattered and torn, mended and patched and still my all time favorite. What a buy that was!
Anyway, the picture is just me, the way I look most of the time, unadorned, and plain and it is okay. I like it. I mean, it’s not me ten years ago, or twenty years ago, and it is not touched up, or professional, but then I’m not any of those things either.
It feels good to think I can be happy with that now.
Thursday, February 11, 2010
Growing Pains
It happens. Young couples go through periods of distressingly terrible times, maybe more so now than it used to be, and one of them walks out.
It happened to me. I suddenly found myself with a three small children, no job, a house and a lawn invaded by grub worms. One thing at time, I thought, so I put the children at the table eating macaroni and cheese while I went out to battle the worms.
In a normal situation, even a tipped over glass would have been the cause for twenty trips to the door to inform me, but only one small voice called out the door, “there’s water in the basement.” I ignored it because I was getting no water pressure outside and the toxic chemicals I was spraying on the lawn really concerned me.
The reason I had no water pressure was a broken pipe in the basement that was gushing water over carpeting, furniture, and finished walls by the gallons, but my children wanted to help so they took all the towels down there to help mop up. By the time I came in, my basement had eight inches of water with large terry cloth towels floating around all over it. Luckily none of the children had been electrocuted by it all. Of course everything down there mildewed and I spent nights afraid some critter was going to climb in through those open, screen less windows.
We eventually worked it out, but it was terrible. The only thing that might have made it worse would have been him taking my children with him. I don’t know how I would have coped.
Tonight a young woman has packed up her baby daughter and left the child’s father. Not because he is a bad man, but because she is tired of the poverty and helpless to really do anything about it, has turned her anger and hostility on the father who is working two part time jobs and doing any other work he can find. Tonight he not only goes to bed hungry, which is normal, but he goes alone in a cold and empty apartment, not knowing when he will hold his daughter in his arms again.
I don’t know if I could have survived that.
It happened to me. I suddenly found myself with a three small children, no job, a house and a lawn invaded by grub worms. One thing at time, I thought, so I put the children at the table eating macaroni and cheese while I went out to battle the worms.
In a normal situation, even a tipped over glass would have been the cause for twenty trips to the door to inform me, but only one small voice called out the door, “there’s water in the basement.” I ignored it because I was getting no water pressure outside and the toxic chemicals I was spraying on the lawn really concerned me.
The reason I had no water pressure was a broken pipe in the basement that was gushing water over carpeting, furniture, and finished walls by the gallons, but my children wanted to help so they took all the towels down there to help mop up. By the time I came in, my basement had eight inches of water with large terry cloth towels floating around all over it. Luckily none of the children had been electrocuted by it all. Of course everything down there mildewed and I spent nights afraid some critter was going to climb in through those open, screen less windows.
We eventually worked it out, but it was terrible. The only thing that might have made it worse would have been him taking my children with him. I don’t know how I would have coped.
Tonight a young woman has packed up her baby daughter and left the child’s father. Not because he is a bad man, but because she is tired of the poverty and helpless to really do anything about it, has turned her anger and hostility on the father who is working two part time jobs and doing any other work he can find. Tonight he not only goes to bed hungry, which is normal, but he goes alone in a cold and empty apartment, not knowing when he will hold his daughter in his arms again.
I don’t know if I could have survived that.
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
How Do You Feel?
I found myself walking from room to room
Dusting here, flicking there
Until soon I was shoving things out of the way
Bumping into chairs and bruising my shins
I need to clean this house, I thought
And as my tantrum reached full bloom
A sudden thought burst into my head
Like a bumble bee delivering pollen
From the lotus a million miles away.
A sunbeam fell upon my hand, pale and cold
Breath caught in my throat somewhere
A tear fell slipping down upon my nose to lay
In tiny rainbows shimmering there
And thoughts began to sift through them
Falling gently….quietly ….but still quite bold
Upon an idea whose birth was near
Borne by a light too ephemeral to hold
Saying …. you are not feeling well today.
Such simple thoughts, such plain words
And yet the comfort that they brought
To know that I was not a bad person
Only a person feeling bad today.
And I felt a little better
Right away!
Dusting here, flicking there
Until soon I was shoving things out of the way
Bumping into chairs and bruising my shins
I need to clean this house, I thought
And as my tantrum reached full bloom
A sudden thought burst into my head
Like a bumble bee delivering pollen
From the lotus a million miles away.
A sunbeam fell upon my hand, pale and cold
Breath caught in my throat somewhere
A tear fell slipping down upon my nose to lay
In tiny rainbows shimmering there
And thoughts began to sift through them
Falling gently….quietly ….but still quite bold
Upon an idea whose birth was near
Borne by a light too ephemeral to hold
Saying …. you are not feeling well today.
Such simple thoughts, such plain words
And yet the comfort that they brought
To know that I was not a bad person
Only a person feeling bad today.
And I felt a little better
Right away!
Get Out The Glue
People expect me to be kind and sweet and compassionate, but what if they expected me to be something else? I can’t imagine what it would feel like if they expected me to a thief, or lazy, or dishonest. For me, expectations are usually good things. For others, sometimes not so much.
I can be angry, or what I perceive as justifiably irate, then I usually don’t care if you like me or not. I can be curious, or downright nosey and sometimes I can even be mean. Although I am old enough to know better than that.
The point is, your expectations of me do matter, but they don’t make me who I am. If I can’t be me, my image is not sustainable, it will falter and fizzle out like the hologram it is. I think a lot of friendships and marriages fail because people try to be who they think someone wants them to be. No matter how willing I am to change, or morph into something one of us believes is more desirable, it is never going to work.
As scary as it is, being who I am is the only pitcher that’s going to hold water in the long run and it doesn’t matter if I am a beautiful Irish Crystal pitcher, or a sturdy folk art one, I am perfect and beautiful exactly as I am. If I want to hone a few rough places off, or wash and shine it up, that’s fine, but I can’t run around trying to be something else. I’ll only end up being dropped and broken into a million little pieces.
I can be angry, or what I perceive as justifiably irate, then I usually don’t care if you like me or not. I can be curious, or downright nosey and sometimes I can even be mean. Although I am old enough to know better than that.
The point is, your expectations of me do matter, but they don’t make me who I am. If I can’t be me, my image is not sustainable, it will falter and fizzle out like the hologram it is. I think a lot of friendships and marriages fail because people try to be who they think someone wants them to be. No matter how willing I am to change, or morph into something one of us believes is more desirable, it is never going to work.
As scary as it is, being who I am is the only pitcher that’s going to hold water in the long run and it doesn’t matter if I am a beautiful Irish Crystal pitcher, or a sturdy folk art one, I am perfect and beautiful exactly as I am. If I want to hone a few rough places off, or wash and shine it up, that’s fine, but I can’t run around trying to be something else. I’ll only end up being dropped and broken into a million little pieces.
Monday, February 8, 2010
Bad Business
If it isn’t one thing, it’s another. My son left for work and later his wife called asking where he was. They usually cross paths at work and he wasn’t there.
It turns out he had a flat tire a block from the house and was at a gas station trying to get the flat tire off and the donut on. Sounds simple enough, but it wasn’t happening. The flat tire would not budge. A man finally stopped to help him. He had some heavy duty tools and was very knowledgeable about tires. They got the tire off and he said it was the wrong size tire and flat because it was rubbing against something.
That is bad news. I received a gift of a free oil change from my son last October at a major tire chain. While there they did do some iffy things, like try to sell me break fluid and pads, belts, two wipers and power steering fluid along with three tires. I knew I’d just had my brakes redone by a very reliable shop that I know and trust, but I could see the tires were completely worn out and the price seemed right, so I bought the three tires and had them align them. The rest he back peddled on when I asked if he thought my new brake job was not done right.
Now one of those tires is flat, supposedly the wrong size and the donut is flat too! And, to top things off, I live twenty miles plus from the tire place I bought them at. Not that I’d trust them to put air in a balloon anymore, so the kids lost several hours worth of work already and in the morning my son will take his wife to work.
I will watch Lennon who will not be up yet while my son takes the flat tires to my local man to fix, fill, or replace and find out if the tires I bought really are the wrong size. If they are, then the fun begins. Have I ever mentioned how much I really detest confrontational exchanges?
Thank god for my daughter-in-law, who thrives on them. For once in my life I will not have to charge into a battle I’d be dreading.
It turns out he had a flat tire a block from the house and was at a gas station trying to get the flat tire off and the donut on. Sounds simple enough, but it wasn’t happening. The flat tire would not budge. A man finally stopped to help him. He had some heavy duty tools and was very knowledgeable about tires. They got the tire off and he said it was the wrong size tire and flat because it was rubbing against something.
That is bad news. I received a gift of a free oil change from my son last October at a major tire chain. While there they did do some iffy things, like try to sell me break fluid and pads, belts, two wipers and power steering fluid along with three tires. I knew I’d just had my brakes redone by a very reliable shop that I know and trust, but I could see the tires were completely worn out and the price seemed right, so I bought the three tires and had them align them. The rest he back peddled on when I asked if he thought my new brake job was not done right.
Now one of those tires is flat, supposedly the wrong size and the donut is flat too! And, to top things off, I live twenty miles plus from the tire place I bought them at. Not that I’d trust them to put air in a balloon anymore, so the kids lost several hours worth of work already and in the morning my son will take his wife to work.
I will watch Lennon who will not be up yet while my son takes the flat tires to my local man to fix, fill, or replace and find out if the tires I bought really are the wrong size. If they are, then the fun begins. Have I ever mentioned how much I really detest confrontational exchanges?
Thank god for my daughter-in-law, who thrives on them. For once in my life I will not have to charge into a battle I’d be dreading.
Sunday, February 7, 2010
Good Stock
I live in the Appalachians and for all the joking about mountain hillbillies and moon shiners and fundamentalists you hear here, there is also an incredible amount of history still alive.
I may be one of the very last generations to ever really experience that. Television, movies, and an intense desire to be one of the up and coming hip are quickly taking away whatever is left after nearly three hundred years. There are still people playing music here that harkens back to Gloucester, Ireland before the 1730’s.
I live in the southern Appalachians, where most of the people who came were Scotch Irish, but there were others and I have heard that when the English came, they built churches and the Germans built barns, but the Scotch Irish built stills. They were a rough and ready people who loved music and freedom and wanted mostly to be left alone. They were also intelligent people who realized they made more money from whiskey than the corn it was made from. Unfortunately so did George Washington, so he taxed them and, ultimately, they lost, but the last remnants of their life styles still echo throughout the area.
Many Carolinians are transplants from the rest of the United States anymore, including me, but my ancestors moved from Scotland to Charleston shortly after Culloden, so when I find myself at home here in a land of morning mists and rolling mountains, it is not all that surprising.
I live in a small mill town up in the mountains. A mill created to give mountain people a way to make hard cash, something they couldn’t do after the whiskey and before the mill, but which ultimately took away the self sufficiency which kept them alive for generations. A local minister says these people don’t want to work, they are happy just to have what they have and go on living. In today’s world that sounds lazy and implies something is wrong with them,
I’m not sure I see it that way. Before the world became one big megalopolis united by modern media, it was okay to have enough to eat, clothes to wear, a family to love and a sense of belonging. Now we all want to belong to that mythological family on the screen where everyone appears to live in sophisticated luxury, driving around in fast cars, wearing designer clothes and seldom if ever having to work for what they have in life.
The few locals I know here have hard lives. The men have long scraggly beards they cut off every year at Easter, the women have tired eyes from trying to rear children on 1950’s incomes in 2010’s depressions. But they have a solidity that comes out when I speak with them. They know who they are and where they came from and they seem pretty sure things will be okay in the long run.
Sure they sound funny with their nasally “hillbilly” idiolects, but get past that superficial noise and I have discovered the stock that America springs from. It seems like it was pretty sturdy.
I may be one of the very last generations to ever really experience that. Television, movies, and an intense desire to be one of the up and coming hip are quickly taking away whatever is left after nearly three hundred years. There are still people playing music here that harkens back to Gloucester, Ireland before the 1730’s.
I live in the southern Appalachians, where most of the people who came were Scotch Irish, but there were others and I have heard that when the English came, they built churches and the Germans built barns, but the Scotch Irish built stills. They were a rough and ready people who loved music and freedom and wanted mostly to be left alone. They were also intelligent people who realized they made more money from whiskey than the corn it was made from. Unfortunately so did George Washington, so he taxed them and, ultimately, they lost, but the last remnants of their life styles still echo throughout the area.
Many Carolinians are transplants from the rest of the United States anymore, including me, but my ancestors moved from Scotland to Charleston shortly after Culloden, so when I find myself at home here in a land of morning mists and rolling mountains, it is not all that surprising.
I live in a small mill town up in the mountains. A mill created to give mountain people a way to make hard cash, something they couldn’t do after the whiskey and before the mill, but which ultimately took away the self sufficiency which kept them alive for generations. A local minister says these people don’t want to work, they are happy just to have what they have and go on living. In today’s world that sounds lazy and implies something is wrong with them,
I’m not sure I see it that way. Before the world became one big megalopolis united by modern media, it was okay to have enough to eat, clothes to wear, a family to love and a sense of belonging. Now we all want to belong to that mythological family on the screen where everyone appears to live in sophisticated luxury, driving around in fast cars, wearing designer clothes and seldom if ever having to work for what they have in life.
The few locals I know here have hard lives. The men have long scraggly beards they cut off every year at Easter, the women have tired eyes from trying to rear children on 1950’s incomes in 2010’s depressions. But they have a solidity that comes out when I speak with them. They know who they are and where they came from and they seem pretty sure things will be okay in the long run.
Sure they sound funny with their nasally “hillbilly” idiolects, but get past that superficial noise and I have discovered the stock that America springs from. It seems like it was pretty sturdy.
And then…
Imaginations are amazing things. Mine works day and night. Asleep I dream. Awake I day dream. My thoughts are filled with ideas and I cannot remember a time when they were not present.
It is wish fulfillment in action. Or, it can be nightmare fears trying to step beyond the veil of reality into the present. And sometimes it is just plain fun, but I’m not sure my body knows the difference even when my head does.
Let something happen, or not happen, that breaks a routine and my mind goes into action. By the time I know the truth, I have written and re-written ten different scenarios. I wonder where this ability came from? Surely there must have been a time in evolution when such a trait was useful in some way.
This is not worrying. I don’t find worrying useful at all. In fact, I know it is only my mind trying to trick my body into thinking it is working when it really is not. This is different. I’m not trying to figure out what happened. I am only making up stories about what could have happened.
When I say I am thinking about you, you might be amazed what I am thinking!
It is wish fulfillment in action. Or, it can be nightmare fears trying to step beyond the veil of reality into the present. And sometimes it is just plain fun, but I’m not sure my body knows the difference even when my head does.
Let something happen, or not happen, that breaks a routine and my mind goes into action. By the time I know the truth, I have written and re-written ten different scenarios. I wonder where this ability came from? Surely there must have been a time in evolution when such a trait was useful in some way.
This is not worrying. I don’t find worrying useful at all. In fact, I know it is only my mind trying to trick my body into thinking it is working when it really is not. This is different. I’m not trying to figure out what happened. I am only making up stories about what could have happened.
When I say I am thinking about you, you might be amazed what I am thinking!
Saturday, February 6, 2010
Sinners!
I have very definite ideas about almost everything. That is not always one of my more endearing qualities. I am also very protective of my friends. I find absolutely no value in saying the obvious, or not so obvious when I speak of them.
Almost everyone I love has something about them that someone else might not care for, but it is not their defining feature. Understanding that, I often just bite my tongue when I hear blatantly stupid remarks. I realize that the people making them have no idea what they are talking about. In fact, they are often just parroting what some other ignorant person told them. It makes me so angry that I usually just let it go. Trying to change someone’s mind is almost impossible when it comes to irrational thoughts and fears.
Today I just could not do that, but instead of showing the anger boiling up inside of me, I tried to find common ground. Places where both of us agreed on something and then every now and then, slip in a truth about me, or my friends. Keeping the conversation light and apparently carefree made her much more receptive.
I don’t for a minute think that I changed what she thought in any radical way, but she was listening to me. Her brash generalizations softened just enough to, at least consider what I was saying.
It won’t be today, or tomorrow, but maybe some day down the road, she will be a little more charitable in her judgments on who is good and who is bad and who is lost in sin.
Almost everyone I love has something about them that someone else might not care for, but it is not their defining feature. Understanding that, I often just bite my tongue when I hear blatantly stupid remarks. I realize that the people making them have no idea what they are talking about. In fact, they are often just parroting what some other ignorant person told them. It makes me so angry that I usually just let it go. Trying to change someone’s mind is almost impossible when it comes to irrational thoughts and fears.
Today I just could not do that, but instead of showing the anger boiling up inside of me, I tried to find common ground. Places where both of us agreed on something and then every now and then, slip in a truth about me, or my friends. Keeping the conversation light and apparently carefree made her much more receptive.
I don’t for a minute think that I changed what she thought in any radical way, but she was listening to me. Her brash generalizations softened just enough to, at least consider what I was saying.
It won’t be today, or tomorrow, but maybe some day down the road, she will be a little more charitable in her judgments on who is good and who is bad and who is lost in sin.
Friday, February 5, 2010
Let Me Tell You ‘Bout
Long ago, in the gray mists of early time, I was young. Like all sweet young things of my time, I was looking for a husband and he had to be a certain kind of man, cute, intelligent, witty, serious, adventurous, fun loving, boyish, competent, romantic, macho and extraordinarily sensitive. As you can see, he was doomed from the start.
I actually expected all these attributes not to clash with one another, or me, and for us to live happily ever after in affluent hippy hood with barefoot children running through the sunlit daisies of a forest prime evil.
Dare I tell you it wasn’t quite so simple? For one thing there was the matter of money. One of us had to go out into that crass old world and make it. For another the county we lived in refused to zone our five acres for a trailer to live in until we got the house built. Oh and one last thing, the children did not show up until long after many of these dreams were just wispy memories.
Ours was the story of many seventies’ couples. Caught somewhere between the stodgy ideals of our parents and the flower power of the sixties, we wanted it all. Never realizing that we already had the most valuable and incredibly powerful things, youth and time.
If I could take those two things and combine them with the wisdom and tolerance I have now? The possibilities are endless. I would expect less and take more of everything. I’d still want all the same things, but I’d have a much better idea of how they came together. Perhaps I would add musical ability to that list up there, because in the end it really is all in the timing.
In relationships, life is one long duet and each person has to do their part while leaving room for their partner to do his.
I actually expected all these attributes not to clash with one another, or me, and for us to live happily ever after in affluent hippy hood with barefoot children running through the sunlit daisies of a forest prime evil.
Dare I tell you it wasn’t quite so simple? For one thing there was the matter of money. One of us had to go out into that crass old world and make it. For another the county we lived in refused to zone our five acres for a trailer to live in until we got the house built. Oh and one last thing, the children did not show up until long after many of these dreams were just wispy memories.
Ours was the story of many seventies’ couples. Caught somewhere between the stodgy ideals of our parents and the flower power of the sixties, we wanted it all. Never realizing that we already had the most valuable and incredibly powerful things, youth and time.
If I could take those two things and combine them with the wisdom and tolerance I have now? The possibilities are endless. I would expect less and take more of everything. I’d still want all the same things, but I’d have a much better idea of how they came together. Perhaps I would add musical ability to that list up there, because in the end it really is all in the timing.
In relationships, life is one long duet and each person has to do their part while leaving room for their partner to do his.
Wednesday, February 3, 2010
The Good Side
I have to believe that things touch my heart for a reason.
Some part of me is hardwired to care about certain people, or situations in the same way I am meant to breathe, or my blood is to run through my veins and arteries.
For some people, it is imperative that you be part of their family in order to garner their help. For others, you must be part of some particular kind of group. Some people want to go out and try to reform others, some to baptize them, and some just to see to their needs.
My heart aches when I see people working their fingers to the bone and still not able to feed themselves, or their children. That should not happen in today’s world. No matter how I look at it, it is wrong. I know this just as surely as I know it is wrong to take what is not mine.
Today I listened to a young man tell a story that broke my heart and he is among the lucky ones. A friend gave him money and offered to buy his family a few weeks worth of groceries to get him through while he continues job hunting in between the two part time jobs he already works.
I happen to know this friend helps others out too, just depending upon their needs. Many of us are only a step away from that other side, but while we’re still over here on the good side, it’s time to do our part in helping out those less fortunate than us.
Some part of me is hardwired to care about certain people, or situations in the same way I am meant to breathe, or my blood is to run through my veins and arteries.
For some people, it is imperative that you be part of their family in order to garner their help. For others, you must be part of some particular kind of group. Some people want to go out and try to reform others, some to baptize them, and some just to see to their needs.
My heart aches when I see people working their fingers to the bone and still not able to feed themselves, or their children. That should not happen in today’s world. No matter how I look at it, it is wrong. I know this just as surely as I know it is wrong to take what is not mine.
Today I listened to a young man tell a story that broke my heart and he is among the lucky ones. A friend gave him money and offered to buy his family a few weeks worth of groceries to get him through while he continues job hunting in between the two part time jobs he already works.
I happen to know this friend helps others out too, just depending upon their needs. Many of us are only a step away from that other side, but while we’re still over here on the good side, it’s time to do our part in helping out those less fortunate than us.
Jessica
I dreamed I went to church with Jessica. I’ve never actually done that, but Jessica had a radio program that aired at midnight in St. Louis and she was from that old school where when she said, “Bless your heart!” She really meant God bless it. I remember her telling me she kept her suitcase packed and under the bed in case God called her home.
Jessica reminds me a lot of my grandmother, although I think she is closer to the age of my parents. A thin, sprightly woman, tall, vivacious and a lot of fun to talk to and be with. I met her when a friend and I were taking care of another friend. Jessica was one of those hundreds of people who dropped by to help, visit and give us moral support.
She took care of her own daughter when she slowly died at home, then took over the rearing of her granddaughter. Jessica had been around the block a few times. Growing up in the Mississippi of the old south, she was raised, along with her twin brother by grandparents on a farm and came to Chicago as a teenager. She married, divorced and became a counselor for alcoholics, then pulled herself along by the bootstraps trying all sorts of things along the way.
She did stand up comedy for one night, became a veggan and showed me that might be the fountain of youth. She put her granddaughter through college, took her first cruise on a whim a couple years ago and finally moved back down south where I have lost touch with her.
Tonight, though, I dreamed I went to church with Jessica and it was a church as big as an auditorium, filled with little boys in white shirts and ties and women wearing frilly magenta dresses. There was a purple veil hanging from the ceiling over the top back row where I sat and Jessica was on the other side, young, radiant, and smiling at me!
Jessica reminds me a lot of my grandmother, although I think she is closer to the age of my parents. A thin, sprightly woman, tall, vivacious and a lot of fun to talk to and be with. I met her when a friend and I were taking care of another friend. Jessica was one of those hundreds of people who dropped by to help, visit and give us moral support.
She took care of her own daughter when she slowly died at home, then took over the rearing of her granddaughter. Jessica had been around the block a few times. Growing up in the Mississippi of the old south, she was raised, along with her twin brother by grandparents on a farm and came to Chicago as a teenager. She married, divorced and became a counselor for alcoholics, then pulled herself along by the bootstraps trying all sorts of things along the way.
She did stand up comedy for one night, became a veggan and showed me that might be the fountain of youth. She put her granddaughter through college, took her first cruise on a whim a couple years ago and finally moved back down south where I have lost touch with her.
Tonight, though, I dreamed I went to church with Jessica and it was a church as big as an auditorium, filled with little boys in white shirts and ties and women wearing frilly magenta dresses. There was a purple veil hanging from the ceiling over the top back row where I sat and Jessica was on the other side, young, radiant, and smiling at me!
Tuesday, February 2, 2010
Frills
“Don’t take no shortcuts and hurry along as fast as you can.” Virginia Reed from the Donner Party wrote these words at the ripe old age of twelve.
In this age, when we search for quick and easy, with the emphasis on easy, ways of doing things, much of what we do seems irrelevant seconds after it is over. Live in the moment, be present, hurry along as fast as you can. Life is short!
But I think it’s those first four words that are equally important. Shortcuts can remove a lot of life’s more interesting, and sweeter, moments. I can skim a book and gather the gist of it, but it is only when I really get in to it, that I understand the flavor and texture of the story and not just the story line. I can get a day’s worth of food and fiber in a few liquid drinks, but I miss the character and satisfaction of the food it replaces. I can tell you concisely and quickly, I love you, but then you miss the richer side of my thoughts about you. Shortcuts are the no frills way of living.
And I like frills. I like to sigh as I read tales of people doing things I would love to do, but never will. I like to savor the smells and flavors and textures of my favorite foods as I take my time eating them. I want to let you know how your silliness makes me laugh and your creativity can make me cry. I want you to know all the things about you that stir my heart and fill me with an awe no one else has ever managed, how courageous and brave and strong and unique I think you are.
It’s the frills in life that keep me interested, so don’t write any Cliffs Notes about my life. I want those long drawn out descriptions like Faulkner writes. I didn’t want them when I was young and in a hurry, but times have changed and so have I. When I get closer to the end of this road, I’d like to have a basket full of soft sweet details to ponder over….and maybe a few wild, outrageous ones too!
In this age, when we search for quick and easy, with the emphasis on easy, ways of doing things, much of what we do seems irrelevant seconds after it is over. Live in the moment, be present, hurry along as fast as you can. Life is short!
But I think it’s those first four words that are equally important. Shortcuts can remove a lot of life’s more interesting, and sweeter, moments. I can skim a book and gather the gist of it, but it is only when I really get in to it, that I understand the flavor and texture of the story and not just the story line. I can get a day’s worth of food and fiber in a few liquid drinks, but I miss the character and satisfaction of the food it replaces. I can tell you concisely and quickly, I love you, but then you miss the richer side of my thoughts about you. Shortcuts are the no frills way of living.
And I like frills. I like to sigh as I read tales of people doing things I would love to do, but never will. I like to savor the smells and flavors and textures of my favorite foods as I take my time eating them. I want to let you know how your silliness makes me laugh and your creativity can make me cry. I want you to know all the things about you that stir my heart and fill me with an awe no one else has ever managed, how courageous and brave and strong and unique I think you are.
It’s the frills in life that keep me interested, so don’t write any Cliffs Notes about my life. I want those long drawn out descriptions like Faulkner writes. I didn’t want them when I was young and in a hurry, but times have changed and so have I. When I get closer to the end of this road, I’d like to have a basket full of soft sweet details to ponder over….and maybe a few wild, outrageous ones too!
Monday, February 1, 2010
It Happens
It is never easy to discover you are being scammed, especially not when you put your heart into something. But it happens and I guess I would rather lose a few dollars, which is all it really was, than allow someone to starve to death.
I am not easily duped, so when someone approached me for help, after first making friends with me, I really wanted to do the right thing. I wrote letters to all sorts of places trying to verify who they were and received nothing back from any of them. Then I wrote a person who was supposed to be a reliable source and received a slightly strange reply. Still I managed, with the help of friends, to send a very small amount of money. Eleven dollars a piece, which we were thanked for again and again and told it bought enough food to keep three people alive for three weeks and some days. We could do this, even on our meager earnings.
Now, though, the correspondence, which initially had been for friendship and sharing of cultural information became a no ending cry for money. Ostensibly school money in this case. A friend who works with disaster areas over seas and here heard what I was trying to do and said absolutely do not send any money at all! It was hard, but we ceased to send money. Still trying to have faith in my “friend” I counseled him about where to go to get help, but things were fast starting not to add up.
Finally I told him about a person I knew who might be coming to his country and could possibly help him and, whereas I’d only received replies early in the morning, or early evening our time, I got an email back almost immediately. His grandmother had died and he was crying and an orphan and so desperate he might take his life. I wrote back trying to encourage and console for a couple of days then I noticed that all trace of him had disappeared in places where that shouldn’t happen.
That was when I connected with another person I had seen him chatting with online and we compared notes. The death of his “granny” which so devastated him had not even been mentioned to her.
I have been scammed. I only lost $11, but my heart is bruised and, of course, I will be much less inclined to believe anyone else again.
Living and learning can be painful.
I am not easily duped, so when someone approached me for help, after first making friends with me, I really wanted to do the right thing. I wrote letters to all sorts of places trying to verify who they were and received nothing back from any of them. Then I wrote a person who was supposed to be a reliable source and received a slightly strange reply. Still I managed, with the help of friends, to send a very small amount of money. Eleven dollars a piece, which we were thanked for again and again and told it bought enough food to keep three people alive for three weeks and some days. We could do this, even on our meager earnings.
Now, though, the correspondence, which initially had been for friendship and sharing of cultural information became a no ending cry for money. Ostensibly school money in this case. A friend who works with disaster areas over seas and here heard what I was trying to do and said absolutely do not send any money at all! It was hard, but we ceased to send money. Still trying to have faith in my “friend” I counseled him about where to go to get help, but things were fast starting not to add up.
Finally I told him about a person I knew who might be coming to his country and could possibly help him and, whereas I’d only received replies early in the morning, or early evening our time, I got an email back almost immediately. His grandmother had died and he was crying and an orphan and so desperate he might take his life. I wrote back trying to encourage and console for a couple of days then I noticed that all trace of him had disappeared in places where that shouldn’t happen.
That was when I connected with another person I had seen him chatting with online and we compared notes. The death of his “granny” which so devastated him had not even been mentioned to her.
I have been scammed. I only lost $11, but my heart is bruised and, of course, I will be much less inclined to believe anyone else again.
Living and learning can be painful.
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