In the Dark about Hoodies and Race Relations

I am going to start this rant by stating that I believe that George Zimmerman should have been convicted of manslaughter in the death of Trayvon Martin.   However, I also believe that the prosecution did not prove their case “beyond a reasonable doubt.”  Our justice system depends upon that reasonable doubt to try to keep innocent people out of prison – or from receiving death sentences.  It does not always work, but I would rather a guilty man go free with reasonable doubt in play than an innocent man be executed because we no longer consider reasonable doubt.   

This being said, I would like to vent my 2 cents worth on the Hoodie Marches for Trayvon Martin  that are going on across the country this weekend.  Somehow it seems that many people have gotten the idea that it was Trayvon’s hoodie that made Zimmerman nervous.  It was the hoodie that made Martin seem “suspicious” or “sinister.”  Many people are going to don their hoodie’s this weekend and march in protest of the sterotyping that they believe drove Zimmerman to confront Trayvon and ultimately led to his death. 

I am not going to get into the interactions between Zimmerman and Martin on the day in question because I was not there.  Zimmerman has told his story, but Martin is not available to tell his.  At this point, the actions and reactions that led up to the ultimate conclusion are no longer relevant. 

But in response to these marches I have to say that if people think that hoodies are the catalyst for suspicious minds, perhaps they should complain to those who hide behind their hoodies in an attempt to get away with their crimes.  No, that is not a stereotypical statement. 

Just two weeks ago, in Columbia, SC, two teenagers entered a bakery, hoodies pulled over their faces to hide them from the surveillance cameras, guns drawn as they came in the door, and shot the baker five times, killing her, because there was no money on the premises.  Their look-out – a younger teen – stood just outside the back door, the only thing picked up on the camera being his hat.  These young men knew there was a surveillance camera and they deliberately concealed their identities because they knew they were committing a crime.  Thirty-three year old Kelly Hunnewell was the single mother of four children, ages 6 through 13.  She worked hard to provide for her children and spent all of her spare time with them, loving them and caring for them.  The bakery was an off-site location where she prepared the baked goods for a local restaurant.  There was never any money on the premises. 

I have a hard time trying to reconcile these two incidents when I look at that one object – the hoodie.  Many see it as an object that created a stereotypical image in the mind of George Zimmerman while others will certainly view it as a method of concealment for these young men who so callously took the life of a young mother.  How can both be correct?   

For those of you who believe that every situation is stoically black-and-white (no pun intended), I request that you open your minds and realize that life is full of a broad spectrum of shades of gray.  As I say this I realize that I have to make the next leap that has already been made in many minds.  Is this a race issue?  They are both race issues . . . if the individual interpreting the facts views it through values that hinge upon race.  Otherwise, neither are race issues.   

Zimmerman was a man in perceived authority who was determined that the young man, Trayvon Martin, was going to do as he requested.  Zimmerman was determined that Martin was going to respect that authority.  The situation escalated into a physical altercation where, I believe, they both felt threatened.  At that point, fight-or-flight kicked in for both and their fight ended in death. 

Hunnewell was thinking about nothing but her baking and her children in the early morning hours of July 1.  These young men who attempted to rob her were thinking about nothing but the money they hoped to find in the store.  So why did they enter with guns drawn?  Why did they immediately point their weapons at Hunnewell?  And why did they shoot her five times when she told them there was no money in the store?  It was not about race, but rather about anger in not getting what they wanted and the desire to keep Hunnewell from identifying them at a later date. 

When will we – as a society – stop reducing our problems down to race or hoodies or other such identifiers instead of looking closer to find the true cause of the problems?  It is hard to answer that question, but as long as we allow this simplistic approach to prevail, we cannot hope for any better than the dog-eat-dog society in which we live.

Is the Cure worth the Treatment?

Every Friday for eight weeks I will receive a massive dose of chemicals that will make me feel worse than the disease I am fighting. I will hurt - literally to my bones - for the next four days. I will feel a little better the next and almost normal the next. Then it will be time to start the process all over again. For what?

Once the treatments are complete, the doctors still have not found the cause of the problem, so we will be back to more tests until we find the source. I have no idea what it will take to treat the source of the problem since I do not know what it is.

Eight weeks; two months. Pain that keeps me awake. Pain through which I smile and pretend nothing is wrong so that no one knows there is a problem.

At this point, only after week one, I am not sure that the treatment is worth the "cure"...

Family Minefields

Have you ever felt as if your family lives in a minefield? Perhaps it looks peaceful and cohesive from the outside, but if others knew the dynamics of its inner workings, they would be shocked. It would almost be better if there were rows of barbed wire in clear sight and if the minefields had signs at every border warning, "Danger! Explosives Ahead!" But we are seldom that lucky.

Despite our best efforts to do exactly as we are asked and assist in exactly the way requested, we often find ourselves the scapegoat in difficult situations. We agree; we voice our agreement; and then we find the knife - or the spear, as the case may be - plunged deep into our chest. Often we are brutally impaled and left to writhe upon that sharply pointed stick for all to watch as we die a slow and painful death.

No matter how many times it happens, we are actually surprised each time that it does! How can we allow ourselves to fall for the same ruse over and over again? Do we never learn? Are we gluttons for punishment or do we simply crave that familial acceptance so badly that we trick ourselves into believing again and again? We blame other family members for their bad behavior and their conniving ways, but we are the ones who are truly to blame, for we refuse to learn our lessons.

Dark Memories

Memories surface, unbidden, at the most inopportune times. Most often we are not even attempting to remember, but a smell, an image, a voice, will bring on a memory as if a flood gate has been opened. We cannot stop it. It rolls over us, sweeping us up into the emotion of an event that may have happened years ago. Yet here we are – older and wiser – succumbing to its influence.

Two nights ago, it was a dream that brought back unbidden memories that I wish had stayed buried. The dream was simple – I was being restrained by someone I could not see. My arms were being held down by my side and this person’s heavy, strong arms were around my waist, holding me fast, unable to move. I could not see the face; I could only see the arm that wrapped around the front of me and feel the pressure around my rib cage. The inability to move my arms, to free myself, caused a rise of uncontrollable panic.

I know – it was only a dream. But the images were so vivid that I was struggling in my sleep to release myself from this hold. I woke myself up, struggling to break free of the bonds of sleep, trying to call out to someone to help me. My garbled, muted voice woke me to a darkened room where I was free to move without restraint and peace washed over me with blessed relief.

Immediately my mind asked: where have you experienced this before? The answers rolled through my mind, images from the past, the ugliest rising to the surface like motor oil, slimy and blue/green, rising to the surface of the road as it begins to rain. Life is like that road, taking us to our destination - sometimes smoothly, sometimes not - and always there are those oily segments that aim to distract us, yank us, from our journey with their ugliness. We can continue forward, or we can stop – too long – to examine their depths and drown in them.

By putting these thoughts to paper, I hope to purge them from my soul and bury this dream where it belongs – in the past.

Penance

The “official” definition states:

Penance
Etymology: Middle English, from Anglo-French, from Medieval Latin, poenitentia
Date: 14th century

1: An act of self-abasement, mortification, or devotion performed to show sorrow or repentance for sin;
2: A sacramental rite that is practiced in Roman, Eastern, and some Anglican churches and that consists of private confession, absolution, and a penance directed by the confessor;
3: Something (as a hardship or penalty) resembling an act of penance (as in compensating for an offense).

Personally, I do not believe that penance can or should be inflicted by one person upon another. As stated above, penance is either SELF imposed or a plan of action entered into by the “sinner” and a member of the church (i.e., a priest) for the absolution of sins.

Penance is about confession and absolution. Relationships are about forgiveness. “Making amends” is a method of atonement available to individuals in relationships who hurt and forgive one another.

Penance is about sins that can be deemed to be “marks” against a person’s soul, standing in the church, or standing in society. Between individuals, unless the “crime” is one punishable by law, “making amends” is again, something that should be originated by the person who has hurt/harmed another, not imposed upon someone by another.

I know individuals in relationships who believe they have the right to demand penance from another. I have to wonder how they would react if someone attempted to demand penance from them. How can one demand repentance, penance or forgiveness? Each must be freely given in order to have any true meaning.

The Choice of Dying

If I asked how many of you had ever considered initiaing your own death, most of you would deny it. However, the facts are that most of do contemplate the choice between living and dying at some point in our lives. We may not call it "thoughts of suicide", but we do at least consider what life would be like for our loved ones if we were no longer living and/or we consider the pain and problems with which we would no longer have to deal.

I would venture to say that contemplating the choice between life and death is actually a sign of sanity. Those who have not considered the possibilities are either not grounded in reality, thus never getting depressed or frustrated by the trials of life, or are gluttons for punishment. Life, for the most part, is good. Corny, I know - but true nonetheless. But it has its moments of despair that many think will not end or that they will not survive. The strong persist, but is it becuase they are strong or is it because they are afraid?

Depression, which can lead to suicidal thoughts, is a treatable disease. Knwoing that should be the hope that pushes that person forward into life - but often that hope is not strong enough to perservere or the person refuses the treatment that could change their lives. Terminal diseases, on the other hand, offer little hope but for a downward spiral into pain and difficulty. Yet, as a society, we feel pity and sorrow for those who commit suicide and declare those who choose euthanasia (or assist it) as criminals. Twisted logic, in my way of thinking.

The issue of choice between life and death will continue to exist for as long as people are of different minds. Who truly has the right to say which is "right"?

Is Death Darkness?

The theme remains death. Recently an aunt passed away. She has been "ill" for as long as I can remember - poor circulation in the legs that led to pain and eventually to an almost crippling state of being. Strokes. Progressive physical deterioration. A little over 2 years ago, her doctors told her family that she has 12-14 months to live. She lived double that time. I smile because doctors often believe they know everything and this just proves that they know relatively little in the whole scheme of life and death.

The quality of life, however, in those last years was very poor. I say that because while the body was weak and failing, the mind appeared to be strong. During the last few months, she could little communicate due to the failing body. But the light remained strong in her eyes. What is this quality of life? I imagine a certain amount of fear connected to an alert mind trapped in a body that is betraying one's very existence. To be unable to communicate with those around - about little things, about important things, about nothing - is frightening.

In such a case, is death darkness - or is it amazingly beautiful light? Is living the darkness of the tunnel and death the light at the end? I cannot say. Quality of life is truly up to the individual; however, when the individual can no longer communicate, how can we know whether the quality is sufficient for them? How can we tell when the fear of dying succumbs to the fear of living?

It is a fine line that we walk. Each day we begin anew, never suspecting the moment that could be our last. Is it harder to live or it is harder to die?

Both Sides of Death

Death is unavoidable. From the time we enter this world, we progress towards death.

For some, death holds fear and uncertainty. For others, it is a new beginning. For some, it symbolizes agony; for others, blessed peace.

In my experiences, I have always found the death of others to be painful. I have felt the pain of my own loss, the pain at the process of their dying and their concern of what lies beyond this life, and I have felt the loss of those who loved them.

Today I lost a friend. That is not completely true. While we were not related by blood, she was my family. Twelve years ago I met the neighbors two doors down through their tiny granddaughter. That small child brought us all together in a way that grew to a love for each other and the ability to trust each other as family. It has been a wonderful journey and I cherish these relationships.

However, a little over a year ago, the grandmother was diagnosed with a brain tumor. There was surgery, chemo, radiation...and then another mass was found in the abdomen...then one in the chest. Chemo and radiation waged war against the cancer, but it also attacked her immune system, her mind, the healthy parts of her body. She fought so very hard.

Almost two months ago, the doctors told her there was nothing more that they could do. Her family brought her home to care of her. I have never seen such love. Her daugher moved home to be with her mother while her father was at work. Her husband would come home from work at night and carefully, gently, rub her arms and face with lotion...the gentlest facial massage I had ever witnessed. The love and care that they showered upon her was amazing, touching, heart-warming.

Her decline was rapid and it was only three days ago that she was moved into a hospice center. This afternoon, she died. Her family - her husband, daughter, granddaughter, sisters - had all been with her, laughing and talking, trying to keep an air of normalcy to the family love that filled the room. She was unable to respond. It was not 15 minutes after they left that she passed from this life. Her daughter says that she was simply waiting for them to leave, enjoying her last moments with them.

I entered her room only a few moments after she was gone and sat with her until her husband could return. When I close my eyes, I can see her face as it used to be - full, white smile, sparkling eyes, glowing skin, full of personality instead of pain. I know that she is at peace and I also feel that she is filled with joy.

The next days will be painful because we all will grieve her loss and the pain of each of us will overflow, drenching us all in not only our grief, but that of the rest. Through this pain, we will all heal. For the first time, my pain is not tied to the pain of the deceased. I continue to see her smiling face and know that she is well.

Homeless at the Laundromat

Recently I began doing my laundry at the local laundromat because of a problem with the pipes in my house. I must admit that the public laundromat is a learning experience. There is a wide variety of people who use the Laundromat for a wide variety of reasons. This statement was never truer than this past Saturday morning.

My daughter and I got to the laundromat early in order to beat the crowd. Our clothes were 2/3 of the way through the wash cycle when a homeless man in a wheelchair wheeled himself through the doors. He had a small bag of clothes in his lap. Being the only people in the laundromat, he approached us and asked to borrow enough laundry detergent to do one load of clothes. He had an empty Pepsi bottle in his hand and I poured it half full, to which he quickly and happily told me he would be able to do his laundry several times with this amount.

He wheeled himself to a corner and began talking to himself. I paid little attention until I caught two sentences: “I am wearing the only clothes I own. I am going to wash everything I own.” He wheeled himself to the bathroom and I glanced at my daughter. She confirmed that she had heard the same thing.

In about five minutes, he exited the bathroom, using the wheelchair as a walker, all of his clothing in a pile on the seat. He was “dressed” in a red, sheer, rain poncho and the wheelchair was strategically placed in front of his body. He continued to talk to himself: “Be careful how you move. Watch how you sit. Watch how you turn. Don’t want to show anyone anything.” He loaded his clothes into the washer with the chair at his side to block him from the view of others. Once his clothes were in the washer, he sat on one of the chair with his legs crossed and his arms crossed over his lap, his wheelchair in front of him.

His careful attempts to avoid displaying himself and his daunting chatter continued throughout the process of washing his clothes. Once he had added his laundry detergent into the machine, he returned to the bathroom to “take a bath. Wish I had a private bath to use, but this will do.”

In the meantime, other people had entered the laundromat and while they were aware of the situation, they tried their best to ignore it. One young father came in with his very young son. When he realized what was going on, he volunteered to stay with the laundry and sent his wife and son back home.

When I told a good friend about the incident, she wanted to know why I had not called the police. A better question would be, “Why would I?” The man was obviously not in his right mind and was definitely more than a little down on his luck. All he wanted was clean clothes, and he had no other way to obtain them. He was very careful not to expose himself and was very conscious of the repercussions of such exposure. He left everyone alone and – while his actions were definitely inappropriate – he caused as little disturbance as possible. The truth is, the man needed medical/mental attention, not the police. The only thing the police would have done would be take him to jail. That would have solved nothing. Instead, we all gave him the only things we could – a little laundry detergent, a look in the opposite direction, and the refusal to humiliate him further.

I have to admit that I was not comfortable with the situation. I wasn’t. In fact, I am not sure I would have stayed to dry my laundry if other patrons had not begun to fill the laundromat. The old axiom, “Safety in numbers”, eased my mind a bit.

What filled me most, however, was sadness. We are one of the richest nations in the world and yet we have people who live in the “land of opportunity” who sleep in their wheelchairs in an alley or out-of-the-way doorway in the middle of winter and have to get naked in a laundromat in order to have clean clothes. There has to be something more we can do to right these wrongs.

Balance of Motherhood

Both of my daughters were home for Christmas and I cannot begin to tell you how much happiness flooded my heart while there were here. The oldest lives 600 miles away and the youngest attends college approximately 200 miles away. I have not seen the oldest since her sister’s high school graduation this past June and I was longing to see her face and hold her close.

As it turned out, my oldest brought a surprise along with her in the form of a fiancée. She is very excited about this new phase of her life and she seems to be very happy. They are planning on getting married in October 2009. I am happy for her and I would like to be ecstatically happy for her; however, there is a part of me, deep within my heart, that remembers some of the losers that have made their way into her life in the past. If they didn’t hurt her physically, they damaged her spirit and her self-confidence. There was more than one to whom I wished great evil! There is nothing about this new man that makes me think he is the same way. But I have only spent two days with him and we all know that the true nature of a person cannot be revealed in such a short time span. They live so far away that the possibility of me spending any extended amount of time with them before the wedding is slim. So I have to trust that she will tell me if she is unhappy or if there is a problem. I pray that she will know that she can trust me with such intimate thoughts.

My youngest is working on her college degree and has no time for matters of love. Or so she says. I have known for over a year now that she is “in love” with a young man that she calls a friend and for whom she quickly denies any other feelings. Yet the mention of his name makes her smile and she loves it when he holds her hand. She has been denying him a kiss for some time now and he is a very patient young man when it comes to my youngest. Tenacious, too. He finally won out this past weekend when she was home from college and got his kiss. Just admitting to the kiss made her blush! He says that he is going to make the trip to see her at college on her birthday and the excitement in her voice is genuine. I do believe that my sweet girl is going to have to admit that she, too, has emotions.

It is hard on a mother to watch her children from a distance as they explore life. Part of being a mother is about protecting your children – and as they grow older, they either do not need or do not want our protection. Our hearts remain vulnerable to their pain and yet there is no longer anything we can do to stop it from happening. All we can do is hold them in our arms and help them to learn from their mistakes when the pain comes.

There is a bright spot to this, also!! We, as their mothers, also get to experience, albeit vicariously, the joy of their explorations of life, the exhilaration of new “finds”, and the adventure of new experiences. I am blessed because my daughters do share their lives with me – the good and the bad – and we are able to laugh and cry as appropriate together. My heart soars over their new achievements and their new discoveries. This is the reward for the pain. This is the triumph for the sacrifice.

I am so happy to be a mother. I am truly blessed with two wonderful young women with whom I can share this amazing life!

Darkness of Senseless Death

Nothing good ever comes from the phone ringing after midnight.

The week before Christmas, our phone rang and dread filled my veins. The near hysterical voice on the other end of the line informed me that a friend’s son had been killed in a motorcycle accident. To make matters worse, this was her only son, her only child, with whom she was very close. We are also friends with other members of the family and their suffering has been very difficult. I have struggled with feelings of helplessness as I watch and can do nothing to ease their pain. Additionally, his best friend killed in the accident.

Could it get worse than this? Never ask that question.

It seems there were quite a few witnesses to the accident, since the two were riding with a group. The investigation into the accident is not complete; however, it looks as if it may not have been quite so much an accident as poor judgment made with malicious intent. Apparently there was a verbal altercation which ended in a high speed chase and the decision to put a very large obstacle in the path of these two young men, making it impossible for them to stop in time to avoid the collision.

I cannot imagine the pain that our friends feel. I have children and when I think of losing either of them, my heart leaps with panic. I push the thoughts swiftly from my mind in order to avoid a deeper, consuming fear. To deal with those emotions in reality – the loss, the pain, the raw emptiness – I can only imagine would be unbearable.

Yet, every one of them gets up each morning and pushes on. The mother has managed to push through each day since her loss with dignity. Her heart continues to break, I am sure, yet she has not given up. She understands how much her son loved life and to give up would be an insult to his memory. I admire her strength and her tenacity. I pray that she has a strong support system for the times when she feels weak and wishes to withdraw. I hope that she has close relationships with those who will be willing to smile with her and even laugh when others might find it “inappropriate.” My heart goes out to her with a wish that she be able to find peace of mind, joy in the celebration of her son’s life, and the ability to recover the beauty of her own existence.

And the Gears come to a Grinding Halt...

As much as I have complained about gas prices and gas availability lately, I guess I finally got what I deserved. My sweet little car came to a grinding halt last night as the transmission left us on the side of the road. Actually, it left my daughter, home from college for Fall Break, on the side of the road. It was 12:30 am when I finally got someone to take a look at it and help me get it home. It would crank, it would shift, but it would not move! Just my luck.

So we towed it home behind his SUV with three feet of chain between my front bumper and his rear bumper. It was one of the wildest rides of my life and I hope never to do it again. I really thought he would take it easy on me, but the hour being late and he just getting off work, I guess time was of the essence. Three feet is not a lot of space between two moving vehicles, one with little control over brakes or steering. While I knew he could not hear me, I had a mantra of how terrified I was going non-stop the entire ride home. When we got into my yard, he wanted to know if I had a rough ride. So funny!

So now it sits on the driveway, waiting its sentencing. Will I fix it or will I send it to the junk yard? Considering that it is a 1994 model, the cost of replacing the transmission is more expensive than the car is worth. I hate to admit it, but it is probably junk yard bound. It has been a good little car. But all good things come to an end.

Mass Transit, here I come.

Darkness has Descended

Darkness has descended here in the Southern U.S. For whatever reason touted at the moment (or whichever one you believe), we are having a gas shortage. Most gas stations only have regular gas and the prices range from $3.74 - $4.29 per gallon. Frequently gas stations have no gas at all, which means that consumers are lined up when the pumps are working. Planning ahead is a good habit, but in this age of convenience, many of us have taken availability for granted and are getting frustrated with the wait. Just a few days ago, I watched as individuals waiting in line screamed at each other, attempted to block people who were trying to leave the station (because they thought they were trying to cut in line!) and even witnessed a few threatening gestures. By now we should all know that if we need to stop for gas, we need to leave the house a little earlier. But for some reason, we seem to think that the world will stop for us. Certain gas stations I will simply not frequent any more because I am sure that violence is eventually going to break out on their premises.

Additionally, a cool front, bringing thick, dark clouds and lots of rain has also moved in. It is expected to be here for a few days and it has created a natural darkness in the area, too.

But neither of these situations is necessarily bad IF people will learn how to use them to their advantage. I am driving back and forth to work, planning my grocery shopping to coincide with those trips, and basically, staying at home. We are a land of people who are used to doing what we want, when we want. If we forgot some small something at the grocery store, we think nothing of jumping into the car and running to get it – even if we could do without it. Right now, if I forgot it, we do without it. There are other alternatives. I have found that by staying at home I have extra time to clean the house, work on taming my kitties, tutor the little girl next door in algebra, read a few books for pleasure in addition to studying, and even catch up on a few movies I have wanted to see for a long time. As for the disappearing sun, well, this semi-darkness is soothing for a time. I love the feel of the misty air on my face when I take my walks. Fall is one of my favorite times of the year because of the cooler weather, so I don’t begrudge this cool front for bringing it in early. I am enjoying my coffee on the back porch both mornings and evenings. And I pulled out one of my soft, lap blankets to snuggle into as I watch television or read in the evenings. It is a taste of a promise of what is to come – and I am enjoying.

I know that these clouds will lift – both the cloud over the pumps and the physical clouds over the Southeast. But until they do, I think that I will enjoy the change and the forced confinement by reclaiming some activities that I had abandoned in my search for “convenience.”

Finding Balance

Past, present and future. Time is a mystery, often seemingly looping back – or forward – upon itself. Some say that time is a continuum; some believe that past, present and future exist within the same plane. Still others believe there are alternate realities with varying impressions of time. All I know is that time – at least the time we have – is too short to waste one precious moment.

Déjà vu; past lives; regression therapy; retrieved memories. Have we forgotten how to live in the moment? Why do we need to “reclaim the past”? Tarot card, fortune tellers, palm reading and second sight. Why do we need to “predict the future”?

We spend so much time in the past and future that we waste what we have right here – in the here and now.

My daughter is a high-stress, always-by-the-plan person. Often I talk with her and the sound of her voice is strained and almost painful. She forgets that life is not always about future plans. I recently wrote to my daughter:

“Learn that sometimes we must live in the moment.

The only moment we are guaranteed is the one in which we are currently living. Yesterday is gone. You cannot change anything that happened in that time. Tomorrow is not guaranteed. The best laid plans can be laid to waste on a whim. But today, this instant, is ours. Make the most of it!

When you begin to stress, take a deep breath and claim the moment as yours. And then do something worthwhile with it. Don’t stress over what you haven’t done or what you have left to do. Concentrate on what you can do right now. And don’t forget to smile because it can change a life and that life might be yours!”

If I had to describe a picture for what I was trying to say it would be as follows:

Picture a continuum, a time line. There is a small block in the middle that is bathed in the most beautiful sunlight. To the left, the sunlight fades gradually into complete darkness. To the right, the sunlight fades less gradually into complete darkness. That small block in the middle, bathed in sunlight, is the crux of the balance in life, the balance between light and dark. Live in that moment!

May you find balance and peace.

Why do we Fear the Dark?

Growing up, we used to attempt to scare ourselves silly on ghost stories and scary movies. Invariably, the setting for such tales is often at night or at least in a dark alley, a dark warehouse or some other dark and scary place. I suspect that this is one of the ways that we – as a society – support the notion that darkness is scary. I think of the movie, Darkness Falls, where it was necessary for those who had seen the “Tooth Fairy” to remain in the light or fall victim to her wrath. Our myths of vampires lead us to believe that we are only safe from them during the daylight hours, a time when they are not able to prowl. Werewolves change on the night of a full moon. Demons make deals at the crossroads on the same such nights. Why this predominance of “evil” activity in the dark?

Humans rely heavily on their sight in order to navigate the world. While we learn in infancy that our tactile senses are invaluable in exploring our world, we lose this tool quickly as we are almost constantly instructed “not to touch.” Noise pollution is a strong deterrent to our sense of hearing. Our sense of smell is most often used in the modern world simply for pleasure – the aroma of an excellent meal, the tantalization of the scent of a lover, or the easy pleasure of the smell of fresh-cut grass or rich, dark earth. Taste has been relegated to the simple act of appetite. Where does this leave us? Only with our eyes. Which leads us to our fear of the dark, because for most of us, the dark makes it harder to see.

I never understood this concept until I began to experience a phenomenon called “night blindness” a few years ago. Night blindness predominately refers to the limited vision that many experience when driving at night. The combination of the darkness, the reflective quality of headlight, the harsh overhead light from street lamps and the various others forms of light such as neon signs, etc., clash upon each other and cause a distortion in our vision that creates limited vision and/or problems with depth perception. It is a frightening experience and one that is difficult to overcome. It is even worse if one wears glasses, as all these light sources then reflect off the lenses. For the first time in my life, the darkness was not a friend.

Luckily I found that there is a coating for glasses that will reduce light reflections and I also found that contact lenses decrease the problem significantly! The experience was worthwhile, however, because I began to understand why so many people were “afraid” of the dark. In addition to not “understanding” darkness, they are unable to successfully navigate in the dark, causing stress, anxiety and often fear. However, if we train ourselves to better use our senses, we can overcome such fears and become comfortable night beings.

Sit in the darkness a few nights a week, giving your eyes time to adjust to the dark and re-learn how to pick apart shadow and solid objects, using the shades of light to distinguish your surroundings. Find a quiet place outside to sit and listen – just listen – to all the noises around you. Close your eyes; separate the noises into individual sounds and identify their owners. Crickets, cicadas, various night birds and the gentle !ping! of a bat’s sonar. Even if you must sit indoors, try the same experiment and notice each drop of water from the kitchen faucet, the noise of the icemaker refilling and the gentle whir of the ceiling fan down the hall. Hone those tactile skills! Concentrate on the experience! Notice the texture of the sweater of the next person you hug. When chopping vegetables, feel the differences in weight, texture and density. Learn to identify favorite earrings or your best linen skirt by feel instead of sight. Take notice of the next bite of food you place in your mouth. The acid of tomato, the mellow ripeness of cheese, the firm texture of al dente pasta, the crunch of salad greens – sometimes bitter, always crisp.

Reconnect with all of your senses and learn to enjoy the darkness instead of fearing it.

A Darkness Reunion

I feel like it has been forever since I’ve had time to do any writing just for me. In the past month I took one child off to college and dealt – via phone and text messages – with all her adjustment woes, began a new semester in my job at the local university, and began my own fall course in the road to my own degree. While it has only been five short weeks, it feels as if it has been an eternity. Of course, during that time I also dealt breast cancer scares for a good friend and for my sister, the loss of the air conditioning unit at my home, a strange problem with my car threatening to run hot for no apparent reason, and an odd little pain in my wrist that wakes me up in the middle of the night. I guess that leads to full days that might give the impression that more time has gone by than in actuality.

With my air conditioner defunct, I have been enjoying the night – and the dark. I have opened all the windows and doors to allow in the evening coolness and the night breezes. The crickets are singing me to sleep at night and my kittens are enjoying lying in the windows sills to get a closer look at the birds and squirrels. I have a few fans running throughout the house and, for the most part, it remains bearable. Thunderstorms have been prominent over the past week, so in the evening, before the sun would normally withdraw its light from my humble abode, the coolness of dark descends. Sometimes I will simply sit in the dark to watch television; sometimes I light a candle and listen to the crickets and birds; sometimes I turn on the smallest of lamps by which to read. I know that the heat generated by a light bulb won’t change the temperature in the house, but the truth is, I enjoy the dark.

Darkness is soothing and peaceful. You know how people instinctively scream when the lights go out? Well, I laugh. For as long as I can remember, I have able to find my way through the darkness as easily as I can navigate in the light of day. I am comfortable with night noises and with night creatures. Several of my kittens are nocturnal and I can understand their joy when night descends and they are ready to play. After a long, hard day at work, darkness relaxes my body and mind. A walk in the dark can be exciting. Quiet footfalls, carefully placed, can allow you to see much that you will never see in the light of day. An owl with his midnight dinner; a raccoon scavenging for food; glow worms on the bank of a quiet river.

Who knew the loss of an air conditioner was going to bring me such communion with the darkness?

Sharing the Beauty of Night

A few years back we found a cockapoo (cocker spaniel/poodle mix) that had been dumped by the river near our home. He had been there for some time, was hungry and scared, and so horribly matted and dirty that we couldn’t tell his true color. He was an amazing little dog and I was disgusted with the people who would abandon them as they had.

We named him Willie because, like Willie Nelson, the poor little animal was down on his luck and bankrupt. Within a week I found out why he had been abandoned. One evening as I sat reading, Willie crept to where I was sitting, lay his head on my shoe and looked up at me with very mournful eyes. I had no sooner asked him what was wrong when he went into a major seizure. I was immediately on the floor with him, cradling his head until it was over. I scooped him into my arms and headed for my car. He had a second seizure in the front seat of my car and a third in the exam room of the emergency animal clinic near my home.

Since he had three seizures is a short period of time, Willie was an immediate candidate for phenobarbitol. He did well on the medication, but it did not completely control his seizures. As is common in animals with seizures, he was very disoriented afterwards and would sometimes bite. This did not deter me from holding him during his seizures, keeping him safe, and insuring that he knew he was well loved.

Since I do not have a fenced in back yard, I had to take Willie for walks when he needed to heed the call of nature. Our yard is a little over an acre in size and has a great many trees and other plant life. It hosts a variety of birds, squirrels, rabbits, and other critters, too. One of Willie’s favorite times to “take a walk” was between midnight and 1am. He would come to my side of the bed and slip his nose underneath my palm to lift is up and drop it on the bed.

I love the night. Summer or winter, there is beauty in the night that is evident at no other time. Willie and I would walk through the trees, stop and listen to the night time animals, watch a bat flit about overhead, and stare in amazement at the stars. The night sky in winter is unbelievably clear and brilliant. We often stayed out even after he had done his business, just to enjoy the essence of night. This is the beauty that so many do not experience because they allow fear to stand in their way. I shared this wonderful beauty with Willie almost every night and in many places – at home, in the mountains of NC, on a nearby lake island, and in the nearby woods at the river. We would listen for owls, gaze in open-mouthed amazement at a carpet of glow worms, and wonder about the creatures splashing in the nearby waters. We were small and insignificant – in a setting that was awesome and very special.

I did not have Willie long, and I hope that he is seizure-free and happily chasing butterflies in his new life. I am grateful for every night that he woke me up to walk with him in the middle of the night and enjoy the beauty that lives there.

Recognizing Darkness

I have come to realize that there are times in our lives when we do not realize that we are walking in the dark. My daughter is going through such a time in her life. I can see the darkness; I can see the pitfalls – but she is as blind as she can be. In fact, she thinks that the sun is shining.

I cannot understand why she has made recent decisions, so I decided to look at my own life to see if I could find any similar patterns. I have, sadly, realized that there was also a time when I was walking in the dark and was totally unaware.

When I was young, life at home was not pleasant. No details, but it was an abusive environment. I left; decided that I didn’t want to go home at the end of my shift one night and…didn’t. I went to a friend’s apartment feeling certain they would allow me to stay. They turned me down. I was shocked. I called someone I worked with and they told me they knew where I could stay. They put me up at a hotel for the night and the next morning they took me to the apartment of a woman who needed someone to baby sit her kids while she was at work. The baby-sitting paid my room and board and I got a part-time job at night for “spending money.” I was in the company of people I barely knew, with no contact with family or long-time friends, and the guy who introduced me to this woman wanted more than friendship. But I didn’t see a problem in the world. Not one. I was happy without knowing why; I enjoyed baby-sitting the kids and I met a lot of new people.

All “good” things come to an end…the guy who wanted more than friendship, was married. The kids were in an abusive situation with their mother. Before I came along, they were terribly neglected, as well. When one of the men she brought home with her attempted to make it with the nine-year old daughter, too, I turned them all in, forfeiting my place to stay. I was scrambling for someplace to call home once again.

Why couldn’t I see this coming? How could I be so stupid as to trust people that I didn’t know? What was I thinking? Yes, I was in my own “bad situation” at home, but I had options other than to put myself out into the world – in the dark – trusting my safety to a whim. Why did this particular option seem the most reasonable? And why couldn’t I see that I was walking in the dark?

Running Blind

Yesterday my oldest daughter informed me that she had moved out-of-state because the past two states in which she had lived were “just not for me.” She has moved, with four individuals whom she barely knows, almost 400 miles away from home. She has no transportation, no job, no money and no phone. She called me on the house owner’s land line to tell me what she had done and to give me a phone number where she could be reached. Along with her, she has moved her two black labs. I reflect on her words and her actions and I must admit that I am puzzled.

I cannot say that I was the perfect daughter. I had my wild streak and I definitely had – and still do – a sense of rebellion that runs deep within me. But when I “ran,” I had a reason for running or a goal I was running towards. My daughter will run “away” because she decides she doesn’t like her locale or because one person has wronged her; she states she will “eventually make her way” to a town where she aspires to attend a well-known cooking school. But she is starting off this journey at the mercy of strangers and without any provisions. This, I cannot understand. This disturbs a mother’s heart…

When she first moved away from home, I gave her a heart-shaped stone – tiger’s eye – and told her that whenever she was lonely she could take it out and know that she carried a piece of my heart with her. Oh, but I wish I had a similar talisman, for it is I that misses her most.

Beauty vs. "Ugliness" in The South

As I have mentioned in earlier posts, I was born and raised in the Southern U.S. To be more specific, I was born and raised in Southeastern U.S., in the land of plantations and iced tea, steeped in a history of slavery and irrational political decisions and stirred vigorously with the sword of religion and the wand of a variety of magical pathways. It is the Deep South – a land of intense beauty and even more intense ugliness. On a daily basis I find myself struggling to find a rational balance between the two. Often I would like to ignore them both and pretend I live where everything makes sense, but I cannot do this. As I struggle to create a balance within my life and the area in which I live, I often find myself in conflict. How can I admire the beauty of the thick-limbed magnolia with its brilliant, heady flowers that cannot stand the touch of one finger, knowing that trees of its kind were used to hang those who committed no transgression other than to be born with the “wrong” color of skin? The words of Billy Holliday echo in my head – that “strange fruit” swinging from the trees. I ache at the injustice that has been committed here – that is still committed here.

Yet there is great beauty here. From the coast to the mountains, the swamps to the plains, there is wondrous beauty all around us. There is more than natural beauty that exists here, for despite the prejudice that often raises it’s ugly, hate-ridden head, there is also the product of those who fight against the hate and often win.

After attending a lecture on black Southern authors at one of the university’s here, I was struggling with the concept of how they were forced to write in order for anyone (any white one) to take their work seriously. As I was tumbling these thoughts around in my head, weighing the pros and cons of writing for an audience rather than writing for self, I pulled up to a stop light and glanced in my rear view mirror. There I saw an old model, red mini-van with a vanity plate of a confederate flag. I changed lanes after pulling way from the light and the driver of the mini-van pulled up beside me. She was a young black woman, dressed in an African print turban and dress. She had a beautiful smile on her face and she waved brightly at me from her window. I waved back and found myself questioning if I had seen the vanity plate on the front of her vehicle correctly. She turned down one block and I turned down the next. Oddly enough, she wound up behind me in traffic a couple of blocks further into town. I had not seen wrong – the vanity plate was definitely that of a confederate flag.

Here was this beautiful, young black woman, dressed in bright African prints, with a wonderful smile, driving a minivan sporting a confederate flag. I could not make any sense of it. Yet she was obviously at peace. Whether she had to borrow the car because she own broke down or she owned the car herself, she had no qualms about driving around with a symbol that is deeply offensive to many on her front bumper. She was living her life, doing what needed to be done, and she refused to allow the ugliness of a particular symbol color her world.

I know nothing about this young woman. However, I do know that if she could reconcile her existence and the claiming of her heritage with a symbol that inspires hatred, anger and social unease, then there is no reason why I cannot find a way to achieve a balance between the beauty and the ugliness of the South. Until then, I will make a point of using my own smile – in remembrance of hers – to make my day, and possibly the day of others, a little easier. Until there is peace…