Saturday, June 30, 2012

Worthy to live?



     On my Facebook page, I have posted numerous links regarding animal cruelty which is rampant and to find such cruelty within a block of my home only makes the awareness of decisions local officials have made to destroy innocent creatures more horrific. (The intent, unless I'm already too late, is to exterminate beautiful geese so they are not in the flight pattern of the local airport.) It brings to mind an image of the Holocaust of WWII when people were exterminated because they didn't fit in and even that statement is a severe simplification of the dreadful dynamics in play at the time. Relocate them. Make them live in squalor. Don't give them what they need. Humiliate their very dignity. Create a raging hell for them. Keep them off guard. They're targets, but they don't need to know it.

What made such okay? 
Who says it's okay? 
Well, it's NOT okay. 

     Such takes me to Ted, my pup of whom many of you are aware. He is still paralyzed from the waist down and I still have to express his bladder so he can urinate. Yes, he has his struggles and so will I as I care for him, but I don't count him part of our throw away society. He isn't a creature of convenience or a toy that can be found on a recall list; he is a dignified, incredible little guy, a creature who brings light, laughter, joy and unconditional love to my life and the lives of others. People tell me he is spoiled. You better believe he is, and that is exactly how he will stay! Spoiled rotten. His quality of life is my priority.



     "This doesn't work, so pitch it, and get another." "This is not in fashion, so pitch it and buy the latest." We used to have things repaired, or mended; socks were darned; shoes were half soled and polished; cars were okay as long as they got us where we were going; leftovers weren't a choice - they were the next meal and usually tasted better the next day anyway.

     Momma wore the same "winter coat" for forty years; it was her best and it kept the chill off, even it was out of style with it's big oatmeal cookie sized buttons, three-quarter sleeves, beige cashmere fabric with a copper colored, shiny inner lining, all topped off with a white fur collar - smack dab out of 1955. It was the coat that meant things were good in our family's world; it's the coat I snuggled up to as a kid so I could be close to her, smelling her perfume and feeling the luxury of cashmere. Lucille Ball would have been proud to wear it.  

     If we're going to be fully human, it does take sacrifice and putting other people and creatures first. "ME" has become the supreme idol I fear; convenience and wealth are primary goals, and by the way, I want "IT" now, damn it. No waiting please; I'll stand in line for hours and when the next version of whatever it is comes out, I want that too because if I have it, then I ........well, I don't know what that makes a person have or be. And whatever it makes us, how long will that last? A day? Week? Month? Year? Minutes?

     A lady used to sing in my choir. Entering her kitchen one day, there was an old, well worn and somewhat beaten up white kettle on the stove. It was white enamel with bits of paint missing. "This is where I make tea," she said. How many years did she make tea in that kettle? What kind of tea? Did the kettle have an aroma of Earl Gray or Jasmine or the local store's generic black tea? How many memories were attached, reminding her of friends who had shared tea with her from a mug or a china cup along with her incredible home made shortbread? That kettle was a constant. It looked old and loved and used and worse for wear. It was endearing like an old friend, one that couldn't speak in words, but in memory. Sweet. It wasn't perfect, gleaming stainless or oddly shaped to be trendy. It was real - used, tough, substantial, appreciated and had worth, regardless how it looked or how old it was.

     As I said only yesterday to a dear friend in regard to smart phones and the like - sure, they're cool and technology has its place. But, when I bought my first phone in 1982, I bought a desk phone, black with rotary dial. I insisted on it to the lady at South Central Bell, before phones were purchased just anywhere. I can still recall the sales lady really pushing a slim line, push button phone -  how sleek; it's the latest, blah, blah, blah. The black desk phone to me was a classic; it was enough for $25.00 at the time, added dollar by dollar to my $20 monthly bill. It did the job and certainly kept boundaries in place for me, so people could not find me anywhere at anytime like they can today on my Go Phone (no contract please).

     What makes a person, an animal, an object have worth? When and who decides and by what permission does that someone decide such worth is now worth-less? Worth has been deleted, denied, diminished or destroyed. Being fully human and in relation with the earth and its amazing creatures, deeming worth, being worthy. Worth thinking about.

     Thanks for reading.
     Timothy


Wednesday, June 27, 2012

There's toilet paper on your shoe.

We all know the image.

     Someone comes out of a public restroom, a length of toilet paper in tow, stuck to his or her shoe. Just recently relieved, this dear soul isn't aware of the unexpected accessory following in step like some devoted white, fluffy puppy. Bring this companion to his or her attention, what is the response? :)

"Do you know you have a trail of toilet paper on your shoe?"  OR
"Do you know you have a small seedling of spinach between your teeth?" OR
"Do you know your zipper is down? Love the boxers with the little yellow ducks."

     If you are familiar with the Johari window, then you are aware of the idea that we are not fully aware of who we are entirely, whether it is a behavior, a gesture, a preference or a characteristic or...

     Years ago, my students informed me that every time I made a point in class, I adjusted my tie. Surely not. I paid attention, and I did indeed punctuate my points with a tie adjustment! So, does awareness demand change? I could continue to happily adjust my tie, stop the behavior (if I remembered to), stop wearing a tie, stop making points in class altogether or punctuate points with some other behavior, like clearing my throat or snapping my fingers.  

     To become more fully aware, a catharsis, an epiphany, a wake up call or a jump start are helpful. Such moments of seeing beyond, behind or through the veil of unawareness, ignorance or blessed innocence may be yet other catharses.

     (Yes, "catharses" is the plural of "catharsis"; I looked it up so I would be aware. Now I am. I wasn't aware of its plural form a few minutes ago, so writing this blog became a catharsis, making me aware that I did not know the plural of catharsis, so I chose to become aware because I also realized that if someone reads this, and I misspell the plural form, I might lose credibility, and that would be uncomfortable, so now I'm aware of my insecurity about losing credibility which makes me wonder why that is important in the first place. Will this never end? Probably not. So there.)

     So, can I create a catharsis? I suspect I can if I choose to try something new, read, write down my words as they flow in my stream of concscientiousness. What might new awareness bring about?

     "I had no idea I liked anchovies right out of the can!"
"Imagine that, all of this time I thought I was an extrovert. No wonder being around people actually wears me out."

     My roommate in college was from another country, a country in which wearing deodorant was considered quite unmanly. Without question, with the resulting, almost solidified funk, a person could find our room easily, even blindfolded, in the dark, and walking through the haze of a pizza delivery. We guys in the dorm, suffering his notable "fragrance" felt it best to inform (make him aware) that in this culture, it is okay to not stink, especially if he wanted to actually get some dates, which he did desperately. Yep, awareness brought some real relief: we could breathe and he could date.

     Some would suggest  awareness brings wisdom, positivity and safety; others suggest awareness brings dissappointment, negativity and insecurity. I have experienced both paths, yet I am confident many other paths exist in the light of awareness.

     Finally, I suggest that awareness also finds its way to us in subtle ways. We may never know or know fully why a feeling, belief, habit or any of life's intricacies are made manifest, not that we need to know, but I am intrigued with the idea that the unknown can be unknown, and then present itself, and quite possibly as a gift when least expected. 

Monday, June 18, 2012

Honesty


Honesty - lately, I've been slammed with it. I know it is supposed to be a "good" thing, yet honesty seems like a paper cut, one that slices in an instant right across breath and soul and time; it comes out of nowhere and from people who spout such (honesty I mean) with absolute, pure and innocent abandon. How dare they? How unbecoming. Why, it just isn't done.
 
Coming from deep roots of Southern culture - roots thick and ripe like ropes -protocol and expectation, honesty is indeed admired for its surface appeal, shiny like a pool of water on a lazy afternoon, sun reflecting on it, gentle goldfish submerged, blowing kiss bubbles to the surface, just as they're savaged by razored shark teeth, so quickly devoured as to go unnoticed. Why, not even enough to break a sweat - "fiddle dee dee". Such is the shadow behind much honesty.
 
search for tenderness
it isn't hard to find.
You can have the love you need to live.
But if you look for truthfulness
You might just as well be blind.
It always seems to be so hard to give.

Honesty is such a lonely word.
Everyone is so untrue.
Honesty is hardly ever heard.
And mostly what I need from you.

I can always find someone
to say they sympathize.
If I wear my heart out on my sleeve.
But I don't want some pretty face
to tell me pretty lies.
All I want is someone to believe.

Honesty is such a lonely word.
Everyone is so untrue.
Honesty is hardly ever heard.
And mostly what I need from you.

honesty early 14c., "splendor, honor; elegance," later "honorable position; propriety of behavior, good manners; virginity, chastity" (late 14c.), from O.Fr. honesté (Mod.Fr. honnêteté), from L. honestatem (nom. honestas) "honor received from others; reputation, character;" figuratively "uprightness, probity, integrity, virtue," from honestus (see honest). Meaning "moral purity, uprightness, virtue, justness" is from c.1400; in English, the word originally had more to do with honor than honest.



probity early 15c., from M.Fr. probité, from L. probitatem (nom. probitas) "uprightness, honesty," from probus "worthy, good"...
 
http://www.lyrics007.com/Billy%20Joel%20Lyrics/Honesty%20Lyrics.html
 

How much wait is enough?

Waiting...for the water to boil, dinner to be cooked, the mail to arrive, money to show up in my account, someone to read this blog, the nurse to call my name so I can wait for the doctor to come in the room; wait for the day to be over or start.

Days keep coming though and life seems to get in the way of living.

When will I know I have waited long enough and for what or for whom? If I wait too long, I'll miss something, or if I don't wait long enough, I may miss something. 


If I wait long enough, someone will show up, right? Picture a little boy in a play pen, leaning over the wooden side, a red plastic railing supported by wooden posts, the little guy's cow-licked head resting on his open palms. If he waits long enough, someone is bound to stop and notice, right? Someone has got to stop, smile, kiss his head, hug him and be unable to resist his little arms outstretched to be lifted from his confined, soft floored, open-air hut.


Just waiting. Hear it: tap, tap, tap of a pencil or a shoe or the smack-clack of gum, a deep sigh and a breath.

How much longer?

Are we there yet? Such angst from kids - excitement filled with the need, no - the want to be there now - why?

You just wait 'til.......'til what? "your father gets home" - why is that? Mom could switch the back of my legs quite well herself even if I did have to go out and get the switch myself, thinking the skinny switches were the better; they didn't hurt as much, don't you know, kind of like a little kid can't throw much of a punch like a big kid can.

Would you believe that "switch" bush is still alive! It has been over forty years since I harvested my last leg-striping, tiny knobbed switch from it, yet I have driven past the house where I grew up and the thick wad of brown and green thrives, unyielding its clutch of the earth next to the chain link fence, right next to the screen door of the kitchen, an easy harvest for Mom's switches.

At least I didn't have to wait when Mom just went on ahead, not waiting for Daddy, and gave me my lashes, the lashes that made me hold my hands across my bottom, fingers interlaced, my butt cheeks clenched with all the power of a vice grip, knowing with childlike belief that such a gluteal contraction would make any switch just bounce off my behind, wielding no power, having no impact, no pain, no sting. 

Not so. Oh, not so. Not so. Ohhhh, not so.

I'll wait as long as it takes. What are you waiting for?

The wait is worth it... worth what? And is it really worth it? What is it?
Just you wait. I'll show you. Show me what?    

Hurry up and wait........Can you do that?

Your wait time until the next representative is available is - how many minutes? You've got to be kidding.

I think I've put on a little wait.

Tuesday, June 5, 2012

Pax

I have a "Manual of Prayers" from which I read almost daily. One of the prayers has to do with becoming aware of the very simple messages and clues that come our way daily, clues that are so simple and obvious that I miss them: my stomach in knots, general malaise for no apparent reason, indifference, apathy, validation from others or the withdrawal of validation, or a sense of determined and resolute intention to make things different. 

What would those events be if articulated as words" "Get off your can and do something else. What is it with you? Is your heart blind? Is your soul asleep? Notice what is around you; just what do you think the messages are?"

Of late, I have been dealing with job issues. Lo and behold, my friend Jane's blog today was a reflection on peace, and that maybe creating peace or being peace could be our job. Then, I proceeded to the idea of a peaceful job; I do believe that such is out there, as I have experienced it. Usually I phrase such as "I'm in my element" or "This is where I belong". No, it may not fit another person's idea of a job, occupation nor have the same goals. How could this be my job? It's too easy! Well, could someone else do my job with such ease? 

It appears from the fatted parking lots I see as I drive past stores where many of us shop not only to sustain ourselves and acquire basic needs (food, toilet paper?), but to gather all possible. I often say under my breath as I pass these consumption centers, "When will we have enough?" I'm no different. For years, I have collected stuff; I had to have "it" and now all of the "its" sit on shelves, rarely noticed. As I've gotten older, the stuff has begun to be suffocating. 

I knew a gentleman years ago who had an Estate Sale. An Estate Sale in my book of connotations means that someone died, and now that person's family is ridding themselves of all the stuff they don't want. But, this gentleman was fully alive, just ridding himself of years and years of collected things. Ironically and humorously, he sat in the backyard of his home, sipping tea or wine (don't remember) and had someone else run the sale. There he sat, knowing that many people, all unknown to him, were rummaging through his things, but how refreshing that others found new value in those things, just as he found new value in being rid of them. Who knew he was the owner? Who knew he wasn't dead? 

How liberating to dismiss things so that just maybe peace can become my goal, redefining myself not by things, but by myself alone. (It's time for a yard sale - I've been saying that for over a year. I should pretend I'm dead maybe.) I'll end this missive on a more reflective note. 

Lord, make me an instrument of thy peace.
Where there is hatred, let me sow love;
where there is injury, pardon;
where there is doubt, faith;
where there is despair; hope; 
where there is darkness, light;
and where there is sadness, let me sow joy.

St. Francis