Not gotten my copy back yet, so it's not officially official (though perhaps for most basic purposes); was sworn in during a 'mandatory' orientation with a notarized document in the past few days.
What is official is formally offering sincere thanks and gratitude for your continued support and confidence in my abilities to represent the children, your community, and your school.
It was as important that as many as possible participated in the first ever national online election. I know it's hard to imagine, though I was as happy for any participation, even if I wasn't the one you voted for. You were part of history if you did.
I'm a very reluctant 'politician' and was steered in the direction of your district because of open seats. Honesty cannot always be best in politics, sometimes for good reason (such as timing, or the 'Santa Claus' debate, from someone who's found out or observed the hard way); what I strive for is to use as much honesty as possible in representing our children and communities for the highest and best of all concerned.
There's sometimes truth in the saying that "No good deed goes unpunished". Through trial and error and many 'hard knocks', with the help of a few seasoned 'veterans' I've gotten to know along the way so far on this journey, it is a continuing objective to keep the 'punishment' to a minimum. My 'BS meter' is pretty strong, and there's a learning curve to 'playing the game'. One thing I cannot or will not lose sight of is why we go through what we do. We cannot diminish ourselves by shortchanging the next generation, as we have witnessed a good deal of already.
Turning a tide is not a popular position to be in sometimes, as many are deeply invested in keeping things the way they are. If this were satisfactory for all concerned, I would not have allowed myself to be on the other side of the regular 'consensus'.
To have children seeing an 'older person' as their best friend years from now, that they learned the connection between what those who cared for them helped make what they have ahead of them possible, and much easier instead of harder will have been a life well lived and purpose fulfilled. One day at a time.
Our young people arrived to be able to develop the capacity not to respect those older than they are because they're told to (positively speaking). To have the knowledge and skills to discover both themselves, and the freedom it takes to accomplish that is part of our purpose as a community. It is in reaching that place that they can also see whom among the older in their spheres merit the future investment of precious time, to know beyond a doubt as to why, and maybe not because it's 'popular'.
If a child wishes to fill your shoes because of the example and legacy that was your life, we have all succeeded, as it is our environments that shape us, and the sum total of 'everyday' experiences children encounter with and without us makes us who we are.
There is no such thing as a 'little thing', and no such person as 'just a child'. Any one of us who was ever taught that in one of those unforgettable moments others made light of or lost sight of either recognizes this, or it shows or surfaces eventually. It is a wish that every possible moment in our children's developing lives offers opportunity, promise, and nurtures who they truly are. It is part of our collective purpose as self-identified conscious community members that the next generation has what it needs to do just that.
It goes beyond the thought of senility, where we are placed in the hands of these individuals when it's too late to wonder if what we did will insure the quality of care they are delegated to serve us, if some 'little thing' will extend our lives, or 'otherwise'. It is being proud in knowing that what we left will carry on not only through them, that it carried after them as well, as their legacy, from ours.
Not least of all, thanks to cherished staff and a few special others who continued to gently 'arm twist' and encourage until the process was 'finished', for now. You are all deeply appreciated for what we have in common that's all about kids, our purest and best teachers: part of why they're here.
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
Friday, May 29, 2009
LEGACY
'Early' for the month in honor of my son's great-grandmother: my grandmother, who is being laid to rest as this is posted...
For Mabel Black (5/29/09)
Legacy:
Mabel Black was no saint; she’d be the first to tell you. Others would disagree. Not totally embracing the concept of ‘sainthood’ for anyone, it could be said she was above and beyond any ‘ordinary’ human. One would not have had the honor of knowing this perhaps, had they not known her well, or been her grandchild.
She was not a matriarch in the traditional sense, though some may disagree there also. She certainly wouldn’t have called herself that either. Just being who she was was special in and of itself. She was not ashamed or afraid and was entirely self-possessed: a true role model.
If only today young women could claim themselves as early as Mabel Black did; she was a woman who in many ways was scores of years ahead of her time, who lived to exemplify what she stood for. If girls today (or other humans, for that matter), found and claimed themselves or their respective purposes in the way my grandmother did, the world would have been a better place much sooner, though her legacy was infinitely meaningful, nonetheless.
At a time when other parents were pressured by society to join in marriage when an unexpected child was on the way, Mabel had already done something somewhat radical for her time, though she wasn’t the first. #1: she got a divorce, and #2: she had re-married before her first grandchild was born. Details aside, she had chosen in perhaps a less tolerant time that life was too short not to move on to a situation that suited her better: a lesson for us all. She was blessed to recognize the option, and seize her opportunities.
By the time I was born, with her parents, my grandfather’s and her respective re-marriages, and maternal grandparents all around, with no basis for comparison, I didn’t know it wasn’t ‘normal’ to have four sets of grandparents. Not only that, she seemed to effortlessly juggle caring for her aging parents (Carrie & ‘Larry’), me, & my sister (& ‘Mr. Black’) while my parents worked, as if there was nothing else she would rather do.
It didn’t occur to me then, of course, that she could have made other choices, or that the quality of care she skillfully administered to her parents and me were far superior to the highest caliber of any home care professional nurse or caregiver of a child, all at the same time, as the routine of the day. And it was all done usually without any hitches amidst jokes, smiles, and fun.
It cannot be left out that she had been a popular, confident, and happy child all through school and made others smile in spite of themselves just by being herself, without an objective to be accepted. She was also exceptionally beautiful. Both she and her brother (who passed earlier), had ‘movie-star’ good looks. I remember her telling me what life was like with her parents when her father ran a diner and what their days were like. They were well cared for and enjoyed what they had. Either she or her brother could have simply relied on their looks to get by. Mabel and French were made of different stuff, the substantive kind, learned from their environments and upbringing.
Firsthand, I can only say that this is the quality Mabel successfully passed on as her legacy to her own and this generation, as what has become a part of us down to our DNA on an unconscious level has come through as recently as her great-grandson, Emmett’s writing for 3rd grade. He could choose any topic; his subjects were about a girl being empowered and encouraged to be able to do what’s more recognized as what boys do, and the special bond between a boy, his family, and community, where teamwork and cooperation accomplish more and offer hope where otherwise none may have existed, where smiles quickly replace tears, and there is freedom and energy to help make more happiness for others.
This can be traced directly back to Mabel Black: no nonsense, in the moment, always taking care of what needed to be done with no complaints, and with smiles. Always there when no one else was: loving, strong, and with full knowledge of who she was from an uncommon existence that becomes exemplified in every generation in not enough measure for others to know and become inspired by, because she did what was right with no time for the world to be on notice of her unsung heroism. In this she was not alone, though she succeeded in her purpose: recognizing an option to choose and taking action with no looking back and no regrets. Having a purpose was a conscious choice: the one gift most all of us have in common. She now shares her space with the heroes of all time, not unknown to any of them, laughing and dancing.
In more contemporary terms, Mabel Black was not a ‘diva’, nor a saint, nor a matriarch. Throughout her lifetime, she was likely called many things. Any that were less than complimentary were simple envy for her gifts or the inability or lack to find in themselves what Mabel found in herself, and taught in her own way to every life lucky enough to understand the light inside, as she did, as she helped us find in ourselves.
What Mabel was she would also not call herself. It wasn’t a word in her vocabulary. She identified according to who she was to her family without diminishing her own self-worth: an accomplishment we can all aspire to and learn from.
Mabel Pearl Black was and is an Icon, a Woman of Valor who was successful in being the creator of a legacy. Mabel is now free to not only watch her legacy unfold. She can dance, laugh, and continue making jokes at the same time. Thanks Grandma, for the gift that was you in this human existence that will be with us always, forever, and until next time...
With Love,
Your Infinite Family (with a little help from one of your students: a granddaughter)
For Mabel Black (5/29/09)
Legacy:
Mabel Black was no saint; she’d be the first to tell you. Others would disagree. Not totally embracing the concept of ‘sainthood’ for anyone, it could be said she was above and beyond any ‘ordinary’ human. One would not have had the honor of knowing this perhaps, had they not known her well, or been her grandchild.
She was not a matriarch in the traditional sense, though some may disagree there also. She certainly wouldn’t have called herself that either. Just being who she was was special in and of itself. She was not ashamed or afraid and was entirely self-possessed: a true role model.
If only today young women could claim themselves as early as Mabel Black did; she was a woman who in many ways was scores of years ahead of her time, who lived to exemplify what she stood for. If girls today (or other humans, for that matter), found and claimed themselves or their respective purposes in the way my grandmother did, the world would have been a better place much sooner, though her legacy was infinitely meaningful, nonetheless.
At a time when other parents were pressured by society to join in marriage when an unexpected child was on the way, Mabel had already done something somewhat radical for her time, though she wasn’t the first. #1: she got a divorce, and #2: she had re-married before her first grandchild was born. Details aside, she had chosen in perhaps a less tolerant time that life was too short not to move on to a situation that suited her better: a lesson for us all. She was blessed to recognize the option, and seize her opportunities.
By the time I was born, with her parents, my grandfather’s and her respective re-marriages, and maternal grandparents all around, with no basis for comparison, I didn’t know it wasn’t ‘normal’ to have four sets of grandparents. Not only that, she seemed to effortlessly juggle caring for her aging parents (Carrie & ‘Larry’), me, & my sister (& ‘Mr. Black’) while my parents worked, as if there was nothing else she would rather do.
It didn’t occur to me then, of course, that she could have made other choices, or that the quality of care she skillfully administered to her parents and me were far superior to the highest caliber of any home care professional nurse or caregiver of a child, all at the same time, as the routine of the day. And it was all done usually without any hitches amidst jokes, smiles, and fun.
It cannot be left out that she had been a popular, confident, and happy child all through school and made others smile in spite of themselves just by being herself, without an objective to be accepted. She was also exceptionally beautiful. Both she and her brother (who passed earlier), had ‘movie-star’ good looks. I remember her telling me what life was like with her parents when her father ran a diner and what their days were like. They were well cared for and enjoyed what they had. Either she or her brother could have simply relied on their looks to get by. Mabel and French were made of different stuff, the substantive kind, learned from their environments and upbringing.
Firsthand, I can only say that this is the quality Mabel successfully passed on as her legacy to her own and this generation, as what has become a part of us down to our DNA on an unconscious level has come through as recently as her great-grandson, Emmett’s writing for 3rd grade. He could choose any topic; his subjects were about a girl being empowered and encouraged to be able to do what’s more recognized as what boys do, and the special bond between a boy, his family, and community, where teamwork and cooperation accomplish more and offer hope where otherwise none may have existed, where smiles quickly replace tears, and there is freedom and energy to help make more happiness for others.
This can be traced directly back to Mabel Black: no nonsense, in the moment, always taking care of what needed to be done with no complaints, and with smiles. Always there when no one else was: loving, strong, and with full knowledge of who she was from an uncommon existence that becomes exemplified in every generation in not enough measure for others to know and become inspired by, because she did what was right with no time for the world to be on notice of her unsung heroism. In this she was not alone, though she succeeded in her purpose: recognizing an option to choose and taking action with no looking back and no regrets. Having a purpose was a conscious choice: the one gift most all of us have in common. She now shares her space with the heroes of all time, not unknown to any of them, laughing and dancing.
In more contemporary terms, Mabel Black was not a ‘diva’, nor a saint, nor a matriarch. Throughout her lifetime, she was likely called many things. Any that were less than complimentary were simple envy for her gifts or the inability or lack to find in themselves what Mabel found in herself, and taught in her own way to every life lucky enough to understand the light inside, as she did, as she helped us find in ourselves.
What Mabel was she would also not call herself. It wasn’t a word in her vocabulary. She identified according to who she was to her family without diminishing her own self-worth: an accomplishment we can all aspire to and learn from.
Mabel Pearl Black was and is an Icon, a Woman of Valor who was successful in being the creator of a legacy. Mabel is now free to not only watch her legacy unfold. She can dance, laugh, and continue making jokes at the same time. Thanks Grandma, for the gift that was you in this human existence that will be with us always, forever, and until next time...
With Love,
Your Infinite Family (with a little help from one of your students: a granddaughter)
Thursday, April 30, 2009
"My Mom"
He wouldn't let me go, on a day when I had a meeting to get to and he was being picked up from school by someone else. I stayed as long as I could; it had been so long since I'd helped him with his homework on a day like this. We sat in the corner together between the classrooms where his schoolmates were being tended to by the after-school staff; the other children were having to do their homework on their own or with just one person in the room. When homework was finished, each child went from one room to the other across the hall. We were in the middle.
It was as pleasant as when we did homework together on weekends, and when he first started school. We'd begun the habit of starting homework as soon as possible after school as a fun thing, with work done earlier in the school day fresh in mind.
He breezed through his math, only needing validation as he solved each problem; I only provided options and questions for answering each until the page was complete. Next was writing: a summary of a story with the assignment of adding setting, personalities, dialogue, and scenery. I asked questions or made potential statements about the scene and tone he already had in mind so that he could make choices himself to complete the picture in his own narrative. I was so proud of his natural talent and told him so as he ended the story perfectly in time (before I had to leave and when the rest of the children were packing in their homework for the next activity) and by himself once the critical moment in his story was done and he concluded it as if tying it up with a colored ribbon.
Of course he took time to get up and sharpen pencils as I kept checking the time, showing me how he was learning to write in longhand or cursive his favorite letter so far, and making another attempt to delay me by hiding my cell phone. In between math and writing, he asked an interesting question: "Mom, what was the most violent thing you've ever done?" A little taken aback, I responded with the first thing that popped into my head: "Defending myself," I answered, hoping he wouldn't ask for any more details. He didn't. Instead he said, " No. That wasn't it; it was in my dream."
"Oh?", I replied, wondering with some concern exactly what was next, if he would even tell me. "So what was the dream?" I held my breath a little, waiting until he chose to finish without hesitating.
"I was in an alley next to the school, and a guy followed me and pulled out a gun to shoot me. You came in behind him in an SUV, got on the top of the hood, then jumped on top of him. The gun went off in another direction and I didn't get hit. I called the police on the [cell] phone while you held the guy until the cops came. You saved my life." I didn't ask when or where, though I'm fairly sure this dream occurred on a night he had not slept at our home.
I smiled, so touched and filled with peace if only for a moment. To my child I'm a superhero, even now. Every day is Mother's Day, whenever I'm with him, as written before in a poem, and this is why. The spontaneous things that cannot be planned or predicted, the unexpected charging hugs from across the room when I don't see him coming that now nearly knock me down, holding onto my hand against his face and not letting go, trying to keep me from going anywhere else. Hearing his voice call "Mom!" from a distance, and more hugs that come out of nowhere unexpectedly when I don't know he's so nearby.
A lady who stays in the playground during recess told me of a moment she caught him in quiet contemplation in a corner of the playground soon after he'd gotten his glasses and how precious he looked. "These are the moments I get to see that you miss", she said, meaning me and other parents in general. She smiled, and continued toward the other children for the next round of classes, not meaning any harm. It was simply matter-of-fact. She had no idea the impact of her words. Fortunately, on that day, I didn't cry. I was simply happy to be in the same place, with him knowing I was there.
It was as pleasant as when we did homework together on weekends, and when he first started school. We'd begun the habit of starting homework as soon as possible after school as a fun thing, with work done earlier in the school day fresh in mind.
He breezed through his math, only needing validation as he solved each problem; I only provided options and questions for answering each until the page was complete. Next was writing: a summary of a story with the assignment of adding setting, personalities, dialogue, and scenery. I asked questions or made potential statements about the scene and tone he already had in mind so that he could make choices himself to complete the picture in his own narrative. I was so proud of his natural talent and told him so as he ended the story perfectly in time (before I had to leave and when the rest of the children were packing in their homework for the next activity) and by himself once the critical moment in his story was done and he concluded it as if tying it up with a colored ribbon.
Of course he took time to get up and sharpen pencils as I kept checking the time, showing me how he was learning to write in longhand or cursive his favorite letter so far, and making another attempt to delay me by hiding my cell phone. In between math and writing, he asked an interesting question: "Mom, what was the most violent thing you've ever done?" A little taken aback, I responded with the first thing that popped into my head: "Defending myself," I answered, hoping he wouldn't ask for any more details. He didn't. Instead he said, " No. That wasn't it; it was in my dream."
"Oh?", I replied, wondering with some concern exactly what was next, if he would even tell me. "So what was the dream?" I held my breath a little, waiting until he chose to finish without hesitating.
"I was in an alley next to the school, and a guy followed me and pulled out a gun to shoot me. You came in behind him in an SUV, got on the top of the hood, then jumped on top of him. The gun went off in another direction and I didn't get hit. I called the police on the [cell] phone while you held the guy until the cops came. You saved my life." I didn't ask when or where, though I'm fairly sure this dream occurred on a night he had not slept at our home.
I smiled, so touched and filled with peace if only for a moment. To my child I'm a superhero, even now. Every day is Mother's Day, whenever I'm with him, as written before in a poem, and this is why. The spontaneous things that cannot be planned or predicted, the unexpected charging hugs from across the room when I don't see him coming that now nearly knock me down, holding onto my hand against his face and not letting go, trying to keep me from going anywhere else. Hearing his voice call "Mom!" from a distance, and more hugs that come out of nowhere unexpectedly when I don't know he's so nearby.
A lady who stays in the playground during recess told me of a moment she caught him in quiet contemplation in a corner of the playground soon after he'd gotten his glasses and how precious he looked. "These are the moments I get to see that you miss", she said, meaning me and other parents in general. She smiled, and continued toward the other children for the next round of classes, not meaning any harm. It was simply matter-of-fact. She had no idea the impact of her words. Fortunately, on that day, I didn't cry. I was simply happy to be in the same place, with him knowing I was there.
Tuesday, March 31, 2009
Regrets, To the Little Girl on the Staten Island Ferry
One resolved, only to acquire another. The intention here is to maintain the most optimistic attitude possible; I am a 'glass half-full' person in the worst of times. Thus, I hope the little girl seen at 2:00 a.m. on the Staten Island Ferry was sad and in tears for anything but what it looked like: another child with an abuser, perhaps a sexual abuser. The person she was with offered a tissue, though I know this type of person very well: trying to look civil in a public setting. His face showed no compassion and avoided eye contact, knowing I was watching.
Because I couldn't get close enough to hear the conversation, I stood up two rows away and watched directly. She looked at me with burning eyes, clearly not wanting to be where she was and at times looking almost as if she wanted to die, to be anywhere but where she was.
There were 'officers' in the back of the boat. It was a twenty-five minute trip. I was sleep-deprived from a long day and could barely put two sentences together, let alone find the right words to express myself effectively, or so I thought. It was a Friday night, and this was perhaps his visitation, or this was a night someone else was unavailable and he was the only one who could 'take care of her'.
Whatever was going on, it didn't look like it was the first time. Either she had just come from somewhere that kept her crying silently during the whole trip, or she was about to experience something that she was helpless to prevent. I pray it was the former; either way, I feel as though I should have acted, though past experience had me frozen. All I could do in those twenty-five minutes was stand during the whole trip and stare at them, looking for a clearer sign to go to the police, who happened to be visible at the back of the boat.
There was an employee a friend knew who worked on the boat in the ladies room, who had disclosed to her that she was regularly beaten by her boyfriend. I was disturbed enough by this to go to an officer the next time I saw her working there and tell them what I knew. His response was that unless the woman went to him herself there was nothing he could do, that 'what if they took action on everyone who made such a report'? I was disappointed and discouraged, thought not surprized.
That experience and my fatigue kept me from going to the back of the boat that night, expecting the same response. This time it was a child, this time who she was with would lie if asked if there was something the child was upset about; he would likely not permit anyone to talk to her directly. She was property, too afraid to speak with who she was with that she couldn't get away from, who spoke in a very low voice with no emotion or expression of compassion as her tears flowed that she wiped herself, refusing the tissue he offered.
I watched helplessly as they got up when the boat got closer to its destination, the little girl, no more than eight, the same age as my son, walked ahead of her captor and faced forward to not have to look at him. I stood as close as I could to her side on the other side of the rope. She glanced at me a time or two, looking terrified, or enraged, or both, maybe at me for not doing anything, maybe because that's what she's always gotten: no one helping or caring, or even knowing that whenever she's with this person, something happens that she can't stop, and can't tell anyone.
By the time I was ready to go to someone they were still in the back of the boat, chatting as they had the whole time, watching no one, untrained, uncaring for any sort of subtle dynamics as these, inaccessible. I was angry that they were not now in the front of the boat, as they should have been.
Still helplessly watching, the seemingly heartless person the child was with took her hand again, as he had when I first spotted them about to get on. They walked together briskly toward the buses and disappeared into the crowd; there was nothing I could have done by then even if I'd been able to keep up with them. An eight year old if sad over anything other than coming from a death of a loved one does not continue to cry in such a way for such a time period unless something is out of the ordinary.
Two days later when I was able to see another cop on another boat I asked what was the procedure when those kinds of things happen. What are they trained to spot or do when nothing is happening though it appears clear that something may be about to happen, something that's happened before and may happen again, sometimes ongoing for years in a child's life with no one knowing. He said different officers are different, though they're not trained to spot such things for the most part, and that I should have gone to them...
I hope you were sad over anything but what it looked like; if I ever see you again or him I will not forget what you or he looked like. I will never forget your face. If I ever see the two of you together again with the same thing going on I promise I'll get help; I'm sorry I may have failed you. I hope you can forgive me. It's sometimes all I can do to protect one child, as I sometimes have to watch helplessly while another goes through what they don't deserve. Please be well, and safe.
Because I couldn't get close enough to hear the conversation, I stood up two rows away and watched directly. She looked at me with burning eyes, clearly not wanting to be where she was and at times looking almost as if she wanted to die, to be anywhere but where she was.
There were 'officers' in the back of the boat. It was a twenty-five minute trip. I was sleep-deprived from a long day and could barely put two sentences together, let alone find the right words to express myself effectively, or so I thought. It was a Friday night, and this was perhaps his visitation, or this was a night someone else was unavailable and he was the only one who could 'take care of her'.
Whatever was going on, it didn't look like it was the first time. Either she had just come from somewhere that kept her crying silently during the whole trip, or she was about to experience something that she was helpless to prevent. I pray it was the former; either way, I feel as though I should have acted, though past experience had me frozen. All I could do in those twenty-five minutes was stand during the whole trip and stare at them, looking for a clearer sign to go to the police, who happened to be visible at the back of the boat.
There was an employee a friend knew who worked on the boat in the ladies room, who had disclosed to her that she was regularly beaten by her boyfriend. I was disturbed enough by this to go to an officer the next time I saw her working there and tell them what I knew. His response was that unless the woman went to him herself there was nothing he could do, that 'what if they took action on everyone who made such a report'? I was disappointed and discouraged, thought not surprized.
That experience and my fatigue kept me from going to the back of the boat that night, expecting the same response. This time it was a child, this time who she was with would lie if asked if there was something the child was upset about; he would likely not permit anyone to talk to her directly. She was property, too afraid to speak with who she was with that she couldn't get away from, who spoke in a very low voice with no emotion or expression of compassion as her tears flowed that she wiped herself, refusing the tissue he offered.
I watched helplessly as they got up when the boat got closer to its destination, the little girl, no more than eight, the same age as my son, walked ahead of her captor and faced forward to not have to look at him. I stood as close as I could to her side on the other side of the rope. She glanced at me a time or two, looking terrified, or enraged, or both, maybe at me for not doing anything, maybe because that's what she's always gotten: no one helping or caring, or even knowing that whenever she's with this person, something happens that she can't stop, and can't tell anyone.
By the time I was ready to go to someone they were still in the back of the boat, chatting as they had the whole time, watching no one, untrained, uncaring for any sort of subtle dynamics as these, inaccessible. I was angry that they were not now in the front of the boat, as they should have been.
Still helplessly watching, the seemingly heartless person the child was with took her hand again, as he had when I first spotted them about to get on. They walked together briskly toward the buses and disappeared into the crowd; there was nothing I could have done by then even if I'd been able to keep up with them. An eight year old if sad over anything other than coming from a death of a loved one does not continue to cry in such a way for such a time period unless something is out of the ordinary.
Two days later when I was able to see another cop on another boat I asked what was the procedure when those kinds of things happen. What are they trained to spot or do when nothing is happening though it appears clear that something may be about to happen, something that's happened before and may happen again, sometimes ongoing for years in a child's life with no one knowing. He said different officers are different, though they're not trained to spot such things for the most part, and that I should have gone to them...
I hope you were sad over anything but what it looked like; if I ever see you again or him I will not forget what you or he looked like. I will never forget your face. If I ever see the two of you together again with the same thing going on I promise I'll get help; I'm sorry I may have failed you. I hope you can forgive me. It's sometimes all I can do to protect one child, as I sometimes have to watch helplessly while another goes through what they don't deserve. Please be well, and safe.
Saturday, February 28, 2009
The Next Step
One cannot go without the other, a throwback to years ago, or the moment when the story became one of significance, one that others would want to know about, and that in knowing would offer hope and even help to make others stronger. It's time to cross over, still in small steps, one breath at a time.
The process happened by degrees, almost imperceptible; not being in the middle of it or understanding what was happening would provide a different perspective or opinion. I know the child the same as when first seeing them: what every movement meant, every expression, every utterance, every little noise, every pause.
It was as if I had gone back for the first time to having been where they were, feeling it all over again, reminded of what had been all but completely forgotten, buried in years of existence, what I had thought was a life, until the child appeared, then life and love had new definitions. Whatever the previous ones were could not ever be considered or entertained again. All was in the past, and all that mattered was looking to me, understanding my every glance, touch, and feeling, crying when my presence couldn't be felt in the dark, going quickly back to sleep knowing I was there (while I laid awake for hours wondering what had caused such urgency so suddenly).
I would find out, eventually. Parts of the puzzle came together almost as suddenly: a rising tide that once the flood subsided could not ever be the same again either. Only later would I learn the full scope and truth of a chain of events that faded against the tunnel-vision of fear and flight. A hundred books would be read with the child either elsewhere or sleeping softly in the wee hours before it was time to go out. A little hand would reach out to hold mine, content that there was finally some peace. A tear would be wiped by a blanket, words expressing from the place we had found how lucky I was not to have to go to where they didn't want to.
Even the day before it was time, the tears would start, sometimes running after me, sometimes screaming. I knew this child; nothing that was described as expected was normal or okay. The alternatives only added to what I knew had to be solved. There was no available solution that could take away what had been done that was brought to my attention. The child is now not the same.
The process happened by degrees, almost imperceptible; not being in the middle of it or understanding what was happening would provide a different perspective or opinion. I know the child the same as when first seeing them: what every movement meant, every expression, every utterance, every little noise, every pause.
It was as if I had gone back for the first time to having been where they were, feeling it all over again, reminded of what had been all but completely forgotten, buried in years of existence, what I had thought was a life, until the child appeared, then life and love had new definitions. Whatever the previous ones were could not ever be considered or entertained again. All was in the past, and all that mattered was looking to me, understanding my every glance, touch, and feeling, crying when my presence couldn't be felt in the dark, going quickly back to sleep knowing I was there (while I laid awake for hours wondering what had caused such urgency so suddenly).
I would find out, eventually. Parts of the puzzle came together almost as suddenly: a rising tide that once the flood subsided could not ever be the same again either. Only later would I learn the full scope and truth of a chain of events that faded against the tunnel-vision of fear and flight. A hundred books would be read with the child either elsewhere or sleeping softly in the wee hours before it was time to go out. A little hand would reach out to hold mine, content that there was finally some peace. A tear would be wiped by a blanket, words expressing from the place we had found how lucky I was not to have to go to where they didn't want to.
Even the day before it was time, the tears would start, sometimes running after me, sometimes screaming. I knew this child; nothing that was described as expected was normal or okay. The alternatives only added to what I knew had to be solved. There was no available solution that could take away what had been done that was brought to my attention. The child is now not the same.
Saturday, January 31, 2009
Testimony
Testimony for Hearing 1/09:
Today we must mention again that 30% of survivors and families who make it into shelter are able to find housing. It’s another issue as to why they don’t make it and the subsequent deaths that are unverifiable as directly connected remains a serious concern.
Where the remaining 70% go has also been unverified, though it is known that many are faced with the unavoidable choice of returning to abusive households, to either become homeless again, or worse. This is a well known fact in the advocacy community.
What these realities do to mothers and their children is devastating in and of itself, if they are able to escape safely even once, let alone multiple times.
Widely available statistics conclude that 75% of most incidents occur while women and their children are attempting to escape, or thereafter, which either leads to homelessness, loss of support, return to the abuser, or more homicides.
We encourage you to consult on how children and women become legitimately disabled as a result of ongoing domestic turmoil over years of exposure to physical, emotional, and mental abuse, the most ‘minimal’ condition being ‘Complex PTSD’, which often goes undiagnosed or misdiagnosed.
Your research would not be complete without looking to Lundybancroft.com, and Legalabusesyndrome.org, where findings have shown after in-depth research that ‘conditions’ are natural responses to violence and abusive, biased litigation in both women and children that follow them through the rest of their lives, with profound long-term effects impacting the gamut from health factors to functionality and ability to seek or find living standards where a productive and improving quality of life can exist and thrive.
To make things worse, obtaining a ‘diagnosis’ or labels have proved to harm women in litigation for custody of their children, though their states were natural to the traumas they continue to endure. Mr. Bancroft goes on to say that the most expedient remedy for the conditions incurred by mothers and children is simply reunification, so they may heal and be given the opportunity of a life free from abuse by both batterers and the system.
A case last year involved a mother who had been put in a wheelchair by an abuser who went on to use her ‘disability’ against her as a form of unfitness as a parent to their children in a matrimonial custody dispute. These practices and others have been far from uncommon.
With these considerations strongly in mind, we are requesting another or improved, expanded category in housing developments, so that these families, who are most always women and children, may have more opportunities for lives free from abuse and to remain safe.
Today we must mention again that 30% of survivors and families who make it into shelter are able to find housing. It’s another issue as to why they don’t make it and the subsequent deaths that are unverifiable as directly connected remains a serious concern.
Where the remaining 70% go has also been unverified, though it is known that many are faced with the unavoidable choice of returning to abusive households, to either become homeless again, or worse. This is a well known fact in the advocacy community.
What these realities do to mothers and their children is devastating in and of itself, if they are able to escape safely even once, let alone multiple times.
Widely available statistics conclude that 75% of most incidents occur while women and their children are attempting to escape, or thereafter, which either leads to homelessness, loss of support, return to the abuser, or more homicides.
We encourage you to consult on how children and women become legitimately disabled as a result of ongoing domestic turmoil over years of exposure to physical, emotional, and mental abuse, the most ‘minimal’ condition being ‘Complex PTSD’, which often goes undiagnosed or misdiagnosed.
Your research would not be complete without looking to Lundybancroft.com, and Legalabusesyndrome.org, where findings have shown after in-depth research that ‘conditions’ are natural responses to violence and abusive, biased litigation in both women and children that follow them through the rest of their lives, with profound long-term effects impacting the gamut from health factors to functionality and ability to seek or find living standards where a productive and improving quality of life can exist and thrive.
To make things worse, obtaining a ‘diagnosis’ or labels have proved to harm women in litigation for custody of their children, though their states were natural to the traumas they continue to endure. Mr. Bancroft goes on to say that the most expedient remedy for the conditions incurred by mothers and children is simply reunification, so they may heal and be given the opportunity of a life free from abuse by both batterers and the system.
A case last year involved a mother who had been put in a wheelchair by an abuser who went on to use her ‘disability’ against her as a form of unfitness as a parent to their children in a matrimonial custody dispute. These practices and others have been far from uncommon.
With these considerations strongly in mind, we are requesting another or improved, expanded category in housing developments, so that these families, who are most always women and children, may have more opportunities for lives free from abuse and to remain safe.
Wednesday, December 31, 2008
Creation
From this moment forward, the past will be behind you. What will you claim as part of your identity, and what will you choose to leave behind? According to some, it's just that simple. It is, if you choose. So is happiness, a choice that is; reportedly quoted by Abraham Lincoln, among others. If his life were followed, many would understand much better. Never mind that the photograpy available in his day really couldn't capture a smile well. Freezing a smile, even a fake one, for the timeframe to catch a shot was excruciating. His accomplishing the presidency was a feat in and of itself, under the circumstances. If I read more of what is written by or about him, there may be something to learn as to why he wished to become president. Was it a deep sense of purpose, or a momentum, once started, that would have been inappropriate to reverse? Maybe it was something in between; only Abe himself could tell us for sure.
Abe Lincoln was not a man who skipped much, as in the hopscotch kind, as in having a spring in one's step, unless in private moments with his children. Much of the time in his life had all but the world's weight on his shoulders. How much he felt it or acknowledged it is another question only he could answer. We take on all with either a conscious or unconscious permission, with the exception of being in a bad place at a bad time; there are things that happen that still make us wonder 'why?'.
In our lifetime, is it possible to minimize or get a grip, some sort of control on what happens to other humans (for the highest and best of all concerned)? To accept the collective responsibility we all have toward each other in some capacity? It's a choice. Some have the wherewithal to acknowledge that there even is a choice. Other's must find food or shelter to survive another day. We represent them all. Obviously, it's been possible to participate in destruction, where even apathy or non-action is a form of participation. Yes. So by the same token, there's a way to participate in creation without destroying, without creating humans only to snuff them out before lives have the opportunity to even begin.
We were designed with the capacity to find a way for all to thrive; I heard a trusted mentor mention in a recording that if all of the world's resources in monetary quantity were divided evenly between every child, woman, and man on the planet, no exceptions, each would have the equivalent of approximately 12 million dollars. I believe it. So why the killing, why the greed, why the control and fear, why the need to have others submit? Leadership and power have nothing to do with control over others. The best leaders' stories go unheard or undocumented most of the time, or surface as a legacy, as if it couldn't be repeated. History does repeat itself, if unstudied or respected. The best history can be repeated as well, were we not so in need of making a mark 'like none other'.
The best footprints of our existence occurred when some chose to lead in a way that would make children proud, that would teach them that one person can start something that leaves the world a better place. Others paved the way for that very reason. They did what no one else could do, to make it easier for those that followed, many strangers they would never meet. Their vision included the smiles and laughter of children, who where given the opportunity to be children, instead of slaves in the field or slaves to anything. Many still exist in our world today; we can choose to change that. Not acknowleding our part in the process is participation in the opposite of creation. It's a daily thought.
Do not let the spotlights blind you; tread carefully, speak wisely, for in this present moment in time, you will not pass this way again, and every step you tread on going forward was created by the one before it.
Abe Lincoln was not a man who skipped much, as in the hopscotch kind, as in having a spring in one's step, unless in private moments with his children. Much of the time in his life had all but the world's weight on his shoulders. How much he felt it or acknowledged it is another question only he could answer. We take on all with either a conscious or unconscious permission, with the exception of being in a bad place at a bad time; there are things that happen that still make us wonder 'why?'.
In our lifetime, is it possible to minimize or get a grip, some sort of control on what happens to other humans (for the highest and best of all concerned)? To accept the collective responsibility we all have toward each other in some capacity? It's a choice. Some have the wherewithal to acknowledge that there even is a choice. Other's must find food or shelter to survive another day. We represent them all. Obviously, it's been possible to participate in destruction, where even apathy or non-action is a form of participation. Yes. So by the same token, there's a way to participate in creation without destroying, without creating humans only to snuff them out before lives have the opportunity to even begin.
We were designed with the capacity to find a way for all to thrive; I heard a trusted mentor mention in a recording that if all of the world's resources in monetary quantity were divided evenly between every child, woman, and man on the planet, no exceptions, each would have the equivalent of approximately 12 million dollars. I believe it. So why the killing, why the greed, why the control and fear, why the need to have others submit? Leadership and power have nothing to do with control over others. The best leaders' stories go unheard or undocumented most of the time, or surface as a legacy, as if it couldn't be repeated. History does repeat itself, if unstudied or respected. The best history can be repeated as well, were we not so in need of making a mark 'like none other'.
The best footprints of our existence occurred when some chose to lead in a way that would make children proud, that would teach them that one person can start something that leaves the world a better place. Others paved the way for that very reason. They did what no one else could do, to make it easier for those that followed, many strangers they would never meet. Their vision included the smiles and laughter of children, who where given the opportunity to be children, instead of slaves in the field or slaves to anything. Many still exist in our world today; we can choose to change that. Not acknowleding our part in the process is participation in the opposite of creation. It's a daily thought.
Do not let the spotlights blind you; tread carefully, speak wisely, for in this present moment in time, you will not pass this way again, and every step you tread on going forward was created by the one before it.
Sunday, November 30, 2008
Lovefest
Priceless and precious: lingering after waking, knowing a pint-sized person will soon awake as well and prefer to nestle toes and all under ever-warmer covers quick as a flash. Little nose in the space of your neck; little arm over you: irreplaceable.
Saying 'I love you' out of nowhere, during the day and across the room after being tucked in for the night. Sharing dreams, good and bad, hearing laughter and whimpers at different times once slumber has taken over, staying awake purposely though not consciously just to be together longer.
Finding little treats collected over time: little moments strung together more precious than a beaded necklace, more fragile: passing memories as soon as they happen.
Always singing, always smiling, always sharing funny stories and new jokes: the gift of a happy child. Though always is not really 'always'; a child like this will seek every possible time to renew their own hope and yours. Always trying to capture a smile or a laugh, not forgetting what fear feels like, and not looking for it.
They are here to remind us of 'now', of all there is that matters. Tomorrow is another day; today is what we have. Yesterday is over, always, to a child.
The blanket was sewn again, as many times before, held together by threads on top of each other. It feels soft and solid once more though no less fragile: full of priceless irreplaceable memories, from when its entire size fit completely over a little person that now still holds it fast during the night close to his face. He's now shy to have his forehead kissed with others around though the blanket is always accounted for and never far away: the first to wipe sudden tears and keep close.
The shape of the face is the same, as is the softness of his hair and skin, as when he was so small, still in a stroller, falling asleep, 'checking out' from the noise when it became too much. Peace was looking at his face and touching his hair and skin; comfort was doing the same when bad dreams had him calling out to make sure I was there. I answered by the touch that was unmistakeable, stroking his face and pulling the covers over his shoulders until the whimpering stopped and the pained expression returned to one of rest again; sometimes it seemed like every night, though it wasn't. I never tired of comforting him; my rest was and is his.
He tells me what I cannot help and cannot change, as if he knows; sometimes he's right. I tell him what is not his to worry about, what isn't about him, what cannot hurt him. The last time I said I thought he was 'the greatest' he said 'Think?'. "I know you're the greatest", I said, corrected. Something must be working. He will have what I didn't have; he will know who he is and claim him, because someone was there to tell him he could.
Saying 'I love you' out of nowhere, during the day and across the room after being tucked in for the night. Sharing dreams, good and bad, hearing laughter and whimpers at different times once slumber has taken over, staying awake purposely though not consciously just to be together longer.
Finding little treats collected over time: little moments strung together more precious than a beaded necklace, more fragile: passing memories as soon as they happen.
Always singing, always smiling, always sharing funny stories and new jokes: the gift of a happy child. Though always is not really 'always'; a child like this will seek every possible time to renew their own hope and yours. Always trying to capture a smile or a laugh, not forgetting what fear feels like, and not looking for it.
They are here to remind us of 'now', of all there is that matters. Tomorrow is another day; today is what we have. Yesterday is over, always, to a child.
The blanket was sewn again, as many times before, held together by threads on top of each other. It feels soft and solid once more though no less fragile: full of priceless irreplaceable memories, from when its entire size fit completely over a little person that now still holds it fast during the night close to his face. He's now shy to have his forehead kissed with others around though the blanket is always accounted for and never far away: the first to wipe sudden tears and keep close.
The shape of the face is the same, as is the softness of his hair and skin, as when he was so small, still in a stroller, falling asleep, 'checking out' from the noise when it became too much. Peace was looking at his face and touching his hair and skin; comfort was doing the same when bad dreams had him calling out to make sure I was there. I answered by the touch that was unmistakeable, stroking his face and pulling the covers over his shoulders until the whimpering stopped and the pained expression returned to one of rest again; sometimes it seemed like every night, though it wasn't. I never tired of comforting him; my rest was and is his.
He tells me what I cannot help and cannot change, as if he knows; sometimes he's right. I tell him what is not his to worry about, what isn't about him, what cannot hurt him. The last time I said I thought he was 'the greatest' he said 'Think?'. "I know you're the greatest", I said, corrected. Something must be working. He will have what I didn't have; he will know who he is and claim him, because someone was there to tell him he could.
Friday, October 31, 2008
Frogs/blog, ghost/writer; perspective: yipes!
Signs and symbols; now you see them, now you don't. Some would say they're always there; others simply don't notice, or insist they see nothing. Both points of view are true, in the 'eye of the beholder'; it's all relative.
I must confess this entry was composed on its designated day, automatically saved as a draft, accessed to post and when the check-box was assigned to publish only two lines 'survived'. No copy of the draft was saved to post the full text, which was lost somewhere in the process. I had been pleased with what had been created, mourned its loss, began again later, joking with one nearby that if it were the worst thing in life at that moment, it was 'okay'. Now to the re-creation, not to be the same:
My favorite mentor re-told a story that included two frogs recently, about others' misinterpreting responses to circumstances as one viewpoint: a particular reaction brings on a different result, depending upon the motivations of those directly affected. The same could be said for many things; the analogy in the story was results being 'rewarded', though not in the way that had been envisioned by one participant. In order to meet someone 'where they are', it can help to know what their 'where' is, to them. Sometimes, this can only be discovered in hindsight.
So what's the lesson? The 'golden rule' has been re-illustrated as what 'others' would want. What makes for challenges is not only do we not know what they want, neither do they, more often than not. It's for all practical purposes simple to treat others as we would wish or expect to be treated; the truth is that 'others' are not us. Sometimes, even the best 'people skills' do not apply. Just like animals, different species have different needs, though it's usually much easier to understand the needs of species other than humans.
So that part's covered, not much like the first time, though we accept with gratitude the 'now'.
As for the latter, there are those that are called 'kindred spirits' for whom we can finish sentences across continents, or lifetimes, where the Golden Rule is predictable, and equally gratifying. We know our efforts have not gone in vain; many would say no effort is lost. We are simply unaware of the results or outcome.
This is not for me; sometimes, as has happened many times in the past, as satisfying as it can be to be 'validated', the real meaning or result is what has occurred through others, because we chose to 'be there', to show they were important, to let them know their strength was unique in guiding others to recognize their own gifts and act on them. Many times the effort was very small; the blessing was the arrangement of place and time to allow for another 'everyday miracle' to occur. The most priceless has been when such moments occur with children, when one moment in time is remembered for a lifetime, shaping purpose and destiny.
The opposite can also be true. We are taught that to appreciate joy we must understand pain, that without contrast there is nothing to compare to. Is this the circle of life? We can still experience 'pain' and 'suffering' without the 'unspeakable', without atrocities, without the destruction of our own. They are all ours. For every tear that's shed, there could have been fewer. Those who survive have been grateful for the experience; others have erased the memory from their consciousness, thought not without consequence. Still others go on only a spirit shadow of what might have been, the candle all but extinguished.
We cannot help what we can't see, or can we? Those who may need us most are not even visible. They live in fear, unable to think beyond getting through the day. Our 'luxury of thought' is for what they cannot entertain beyond hunger and shelter. In contrast, we have unlimited wealth, enough abundance for all. Through communication and collaboration we can construct and extend the ropes to hope and the possibility of freedom, as the latter must be their own thought. It can be facilitated by others, though only claimed by those who choose to, once provided with the tools, as easily passed on as the lighting of one candle to another, undiminished by having done so.
I only remember the ending of what was 'lost' as something like 'the path you walk upon is there from who was before you, for you'.
I must confess this entry was composed on its designated day, automatically saved as a draft, accessed to post and when the check-box was assigned to publish only two lines 'survived'. No copy of the draft was saved to post the full text, which was lost somewhere in the process. I had been pleased with what had been created, mourned its loss, began again later, joking with one nearby that if it were the worst thing in life at that moment, it was 'okay'. Now to the re-creation, not to be the same:
My favorite mentor re-told a story that included two frogs recently, about others' misinterpreting responses to circumstances as one viewpoint: a particular reaction brings on a different result, depending upon the motivations of those directly affected. The same could be said for many things; the analogy in the story was results being 'rewarded', though not in the way that had been envisioned by one participant. In order to meet someone 'where they are', it can help to know what their 'where' is, to them. Sometimes, this can only be discovered in hindsight.
So what's the lesson? The 'golden rule' has been re-illustrated as what 'others' would want. What makes for challenges is not only do we not know what they want, neither do they, more often than not. It's for all practical purposes simple to treat others as we would wish or expect to be treated; the truth is that 'others' are not us. Sometimes, even the best 'people skills' do not apply. Just like animals, different species have different needs, though it's usually much easier to understand the needs of species other than humans.
So that part's covered, not much like the first time, though we accept with gratitude the 'now'.
As for the latter, there are those that are called 'kindred spirits' for whom we can finish sentences across continents, or lifetimes, where the Golden Rule is predictable, and equally gratifying. We know our efforts have not gone in vain; many would say no effort is lost. We are simply unaware of the results or outcome.
This is not for me; sometimes, as has happened many times in the past, as satisfying as it can be to be 'validated', the real meaning or result is what has occurred through others, because we chose to 'be there', to show they were important, to let them know their strength was unique in guiding others to recognize their own gifts and act on them. Many times the effort was very small; the blessing was the arrangement of place and time to allow for another 'everyday miracle' to occur. The most priceless has been when such moments occur with children, when one moment in time is remembered for a lifetime, shaping purpose and destiny.
The opposite can also be true. We are taught that to appreciate joy we must understand pain, that without contrast there is nothing to compare to. Is this the circle of life? We can still experience 'pain' and 'suffering' without the 'unspeakable', without atrocities, without the destruction of our own. They are all ours. For every tear that's shed, there could have been fewer. Those who survive have been grateful for the experience; others have erased the memory from their consciousness, thought not without consequence. Still others go on only a spirit shadow of what might have been, the candle all but extinguished.
We cannot help what we can't see, or can we? Those who may need us most are not even visible. They live in fear, unable to think beyond getting through the day. Our 'luxury of thought' is for what they cannot entertain beyond hunger and shelter. In contrast, we have unlimited wealth, enough abundance for all. Through communication and collaboration we can construct and extend the ropes to hope and the possibility of freedom, as the latter must be their own thought. It can be facilitated by others, though only claimed by those who choose to, once provided with the tools, as easily passed on as the lighting of one candle to another, undiminished by having done so.
I only remember the ending of what was 'lost' as something like 'the path you walk upon is there from who was before you, for you'.
Tuesday, September 30, 2008
Gratitude
Uncertainty and change are guaranteed, so what is 'stability'? It's a relative term, according to who you are, your 'world view', and the filters created, consciously or otherwise, by every moment up to this one. The word 'ego' was heard recently defined as 'your past'. Get it? Who is who we see in the mirror (if we have one)? At any moment, we can either decide our past is who we are, or decide otherwise.
The hardest to master is oneself, so we're taught. Words are powerful: a lesson that happens on the journey. Another mentor was overheard during a recorded session taking place in a summer youth camp how we can turn negatives into positives with single words, regardless of how we feel. Say, the 'change of season' immune system resistance factor got the better of us on a particular day. "How are you?" someone says in greeting (taking the time to ask, maybe even caring about the answer). Think for a moment; we can choose the answer. Regardless of the 'outside' forces that can attack our bodies or psyches, the answer is still up to us.
"Wonderful" we say (as has this mentor), quickly followed by a cough or tissue to the runny nose that doesn't seem to want to stop, footsteps labored, as we walk slowly beside our inquiring acquaintance or friend. They look at us a little puzzled, as we don't particularly sound so (to them). The middle-ground of this 'transition' is we are in wonder of the ability on this beautiful day to greet another, to have woken up, gotten dressed, breathed, seen the sun, and felt the breeze on our faces. It's the truth. We are 'full of wonder' observing the miracles that occur daily around us, with us, and for us. "Awesome", we say, as we are 'full of awe' of how we may feel or encounter our daily 'happenings'. As the masters who have prospered by these practices can attest, the solutions come much sooner, through the utterances that bring us ever closer to the joys we seek.
“ There is the lesson of a Cherokee man teaching his grandchildren about life. He says to them, ‘A fight is going on inside me. It’s between two wolves. One wolf is evil. He is fear, anger, envy, sorrow, regret, greed, arrogance, anxiety, self-pity, guilt, resentment, inferiority, lies, competition, and superiority. The other wolf is good. He is joy, peace, love, hope, sharing, serenity, humility, kindness, benevolence, friendship, empathy, generosity, truth, compassion, faith, and laughter. Then he tells his grandchildren that the same fight is going on inside of them, and also inside of every person. The children think about this for a moment, and then one of them asks his grandfather, ‘Which wolf will win?’ The old man then replies, ‘The one that you feed’.”
Many thanks as well to the cherished mentor and friend to have shared more than once the memorable and profound quote provided. The children are here to teach us once again, and forever, as we watch in awe just how rapidly they exercise the mastery they were born with, the low number of their years leaves fresh the innate 'remembrance' that we can choose to laugh directly from tears, their consciousness still close to the surface, unaffected by the layers the larger ones get piled upon them with age. 'Remembering' is not 'going back', it is, or can be taking the next step on the journey.
The hardest to master is oneself, so we're taught. Words are powerful: a lesson that happens on the journey. Another mentor was overheard during a recorded session taking place in a summer youth camp how we can turn negatives into positives with single words, regardless of how we feel. Say, the 'change of season' immune system resistance factor got the better of us on a particular day. "How are you?" someone says in greeting (taking the time to ask, maybe even caring about the answer). Think for a moment; we can choose the answer. Regardless of the 'outside' forces that can attack our bodies or psyches, the answer is still up to us.
"Wonderful" we say (as has this mentor), quickly followed by a cough or tissue to the runny nose that doesn't seem to want to stop, footsteps labored, as we walk slowly beside our inquiring acquaintance or friend. They look at us a little puzzled, as we don't particularly sound so (to them). The middle-ground of this 'transition' is we are in wonder of the ability on this beautiful day to greet another, to have woken up, gotten dressed, breathed, seen the sun, and felt the breeze on our faces. It's the truth. We are 'full of wonder' observing the miracles that occur daily around us, with us, and for us. "Awesome", we say, as we are 'full of awe' of how we may feel or encounter our daily 'happenings'. As the masters who have prospered by these practices can attest, the solutions come much sooner, through the utterances that bring us ever closer to the joys we seek.
“ There is the lesson of a Cherokee man teaching his grandchildren about life. He says to them, ‘A fight is going on inside me. It’s between two wolves. One wolf is evil. He is fear, anger, envy, sorrow, regret, greed, arrogance, anxiety, self-pity, guilt, resentment, inferiority, lies, competition, and superiority. The other wolf is good. He is joy, peace, love, hope, sharing, serenity, humility, kindness, benevolence, friendship, empathy, generosity, truth, compassion, faith, and laughter. Then he tells his grandchildren that the same fight is going on inside of them, and also inside of every person. The children think about this for a moment, and then one of them asks his grandfather, ‘Which wolf will win?’ The old man then replies, ‘The one that you feed’.”
Many thanks as well to the cherished mentor and friend to have shared more than once the memorable and profound quote provided. The children are here to teach us once again, and forever, as we watch in awe just how rapidly they exercise the mastery they were born with, the low number of their years leaves fresh the innate 'remembrance' that we can choose to laugh directly from tears, their consciousness still close to the surface, unaffected by the layers the larger ones get piled upon them with age. 'Remembering' is not 'going back', it is, or can be taking the next step on the journey.
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