September 1, 2008
Has anyone ever wondered why there is not a Federal holiday in the U.S. to honor a woman?
I have. Been wondering that quite often, actually.
I was doing research to create a 2009 Women's Planner with at least one notable woman's birthdate on each day of the year. I found over 4000 notable women's names and birthdates. Yet we here in the United States do not celebrate or commemorate the birthdate of one single woman.
I hate to say it, but we are not alone in that. No other country celebrates a woman's birthdate either. Or the accomplishments of a woman or any group of women. In my research, I came across the fact that August 26 is Women's Equality Day. Not a federal holiday; not even a cause for celebration. Not even a mention on the 6:00 newscasts or worthy of publishing in a local newspaper.
So I have proposed a petition to make August 26 a Federal holiday honoring women.
What's so special about August 26? It is the anniversary date of the ratification of the 19th Amendment guaranteeing voting rights to all U.S. citizens regardless of sex. It took a great number of women 42 years to realize that accomplishment. And it was almost 90 years ago - in the year 1920 - that it happened. I feel it is an accomplishment worthy of celebration. After all, women were the last group of U.S. citizens to get the right to vote. And I feel very strongly that 42 years' worth of that type of dedication and work should be celebrated.
It doesn't matter how you feel about the voting process. Many people feel their vote doesn't count, especially in light of the last two elections. But I vote to honor those women: Susan B. Anthony, Elizabeth Cady Stanton, Alice Paul ... the list goes on. They all worked hard so that we women here in the year 2008 would have the right to vote.
I intend to work equally as hard to make this date - August 26 - not only the first Federal holiday to honor women in the United States, but to also stand as an example to other countries to honor women as well.
Join me won't you?
www.petitiononline.com/August26.
Signatures are not visible to the public
Later
Pen
September 2, 2008
Moving the rock
When you find yourself between a rock and a hard place, move the rock.
As with everything, this is easier said than done.
The first thing you need to do is take an objective look at the situation you’re in. What decisions and events led you to this place? What exactly is the rock that binds you in your current circumstances? Have you been here before? Is this a pattern that repeats itself in your life? Most importantly, what will it take to move that rock?
Sometimes the answers to those questions may not be what you want to hear. It forces a woman to take inventory of her life and herself. But it takes a woman to honestly assess her life choices and then honestly recognize and admit to herself that those life choices may not always have been for the best. In other words, oops!, I made a mistake.
But mistakes are how we learn. Provided we pay attention and are willing to admit to those mistakes. Admitting to mistakes is one of the most difficult things we as humans must face. As women, we tend to allow it to add to our insecurities and feelings of inferiority.
So the second thing you need to do is chuck all that. Accept that you make mistakes and admit your mistakes with your head held high. You’re not the first, you absolutely won’t be the last.
Recognize the mistake. Acknowledge the mistake. Admit the mistake. Then let it go.
When you find yourself beating yourself up with that mistake, make a conscious effort to stop. It’s almost as though it’s hard-wired into a woman’s system to relive our mistakes over and over again like a bad tape. But, with effort, we can change the tape.
Focus on what you are capable of. Focus on the good decisions you have made and the resulting good from them.
Once you’ve taken an objective look at your particular rock and hard place and chucked the bad tape in your head, do some really intensive self-analyzation. This works best as a written exercise. Whether you do this with a pen and legal pad, on a computer or other electronic device makes no difference, so long as you conduct the exercise manually.
Make a list of all circumstances and decisions which placed you between that proverbial rock and hard place.
Are you working a job you hate just to pay the bills? Do you find yourself in similar situations in different jobs - in the midst of office politics or at the mercy of your employer? Do you find yourself struggling between paychecks? Did you quit a job to start a business that hadn’t gained a foothold yet? Are you dating the same person over and over again even though he/she has different names and looks? Is your living situation unpleasant? Do any of these things repeat themselves?
Whatever your rock and hard place is . . . you put yourself there. Try and blame it on outside forces if you must, but the hardcore, bottom-line truth is you are responsible for your own decisions. Especially if those decisions repeatedly place you between that rock and hard place.
Once you accept this truth, you can begin moving the rock.
This does not happen overnight. It may take weeks, months or even years. But, once you’ve moved that rock, you may never find yourself behind it again.
Again, as a written exercise, make a list of everything you can do to move your rock. And I mean EVERYTHING — regardless of how small or insignificant it may seem — every action you can take to remove yourself from your circumstances. It is your ambition, your priority, your passion, your very LIFE to remove that rock.
Rather than dwell in a hole of despair over your situation, focus your energy on improving it. Making your own life better is a definitive act of self-love.
If it’s an intolerable job situation, discover what it is you truly wish to do. Do you enjoy helping people? Do you like working with numbers or words? Do you enjoy medicine? Science? The arts?
Think you’re not interested in anything? Think again. Every person enjoys something passionately, and many of those things are something you can make a living at (something a little more constructive than playing video games or watching television). What are you passionate about? What is your dream? Do you want to go into business for yourself? If you enjoy working for others, what type of people, company or corporation are you interested in working for?
Investigate the answers to these and other questions about yourself. You may make surprising discoveries. Look into going back to school (it’s NEVER too late to learn!). Call those companies you’re interested in and find out what type of employees they need. If you get a negative answer, try something else, but don’t give up. Sometimes looking at something from a different angle presents opportunities and answers you weren’t aware of.
The same process applies to a living situation and a relationship. What is it about these situations you don’t like? Can the situation itself be changed? Or do you need to make a change? If you keep dating losers, what is it about those losers that attracts you? Always remember you cannot change another person.
Look at your circumstances from every possible angle. There are always choices and decisions to be made to move that rock out of the way. Don’t make those choices and decisions haphazardly. Make your decisions with a conscious effort. Consider the long-term consequences of these decisions. Are they similar to decisions you have made in the past? Will this decision result in your being between another rock and hard place?
Be patient. After all, it’s probably a pretty big rock that has you hammered into that hard place, so it’s going to take some real effort and time to move it. But consider this: if it takes you five years (or even longer) to move that rock, if you don’t make any efforts at all to move it, you’ll always be between that rock and hard place. By taking steps to move it, you are creating a positive force in your life.
Once you have moved that rock, you may never find yourself in that position again. As long as you are conscious and aware of the decisions you make and the end results.
And if you find yourself between another rock and hard place, do the process all over again.Going through this process means you will know yourself better. And that’s always a good thing.
After all, no one wants to spend her life between a rock and a hard place. After awhile, it really chafes.
Later
Pen
September 3. 2008
Journalling the journey
A friend of mine recently asked me for advice. She has dreams and ambitions, but feels she has reached a place of stagnation. She feels she spins her wheels, but she is stuck in a rut she cannot break free from. Being in this position has her discouraged and depressed and she’s not certain what to do. She asked me if I had any suggestions.
“Journalling,” was the first word I uttered.
Journalling isn’t the only answer. It isn’t the ultimate answer. But it is a powerful tool any woman can carry throughout her journey. It is a safe space through which to vent anger and disappointment; express joy, triumph and sadness; plan, implement and celebrate accomplishments.
I, like most women, have faced numerous difficult situations in my life. Each time, keeping a journal has helped see me through those times. It has helped me to gain insight into myself and the things that I need and the things that I want — and to understand the difference between the two.
On the first page of my journal is a title: Letters to a Benevolent God. This is exactly how I use my journal. I write a letter to a kind, loving, forgiving God. I espouse everything from my wonder at being alive and aware to my aggravation with my job; my dreams and goals and the steps I must take to achieve them; even my disappointments in the people in my life. Then I leave it up to the authority of this Higher Power to show me what I must do and to help me in dealing with life’s challenges.
I suppose it’s a lot like praying except I put it down on paper.
You don’t have to give your journal a title. That is my own unique idiosyncrasy. Feel free to implement your own unique idiosyncrasy in the process.
As you journal, don’t hold anything back. Don’t be afraid to be angry, to vent your frustration, indignation or aggravation. Don’t be ashamed to cry. Don’t feel guilty about bragging. This journal is yours. This journal is YOU.
After you have journalled for awhile, go back and read what you have written. You may be surprised to find you have taken a great many steps since your initial entry. You may be disappointed to find you have taken a few steps back. However you feel and whatever you find, it is up to you to interpret it and then discover what it is you need to do with this knowledge.
There is always a discovery about oneself to be made. Sometimes, that discover can be life-altering, or eye-opening. Some discoveries can help you see your way clear of something. Some can put you into utter turmoil, but, most often, it is turmoil that must be faced and processed before one can move forward.
In a discussion of journalling with another friend of mine, she expressed concern over someone reading her journal once she is gone. It is a legitimate concern. After all, most of us do not wish to hurt people with our words, whether we are there to defend ourselves or not. I presented her with a solution to this dilemma. Entrust the location of your journal to at least one person whom you trust implicitly. Instruct this person to acquire and destroy your journal in the event anything should happen to you.
In all truth and honesty, though, I wouldn’t suggest having your journals destroyed. Who knows the value your journals may have for future generations? I’m not speaking in terms of financial value, but rather the intrinsic value of what a woman’s life was like at the turn of this century. Your individual insight may prove very poignant to future generations. Your unique journey may be inspirational to someone else.
Think of the correspondence between Susan B. Anthony and Elizabeth Cady Stanton. The world may never have known how industrious or passionate these two women were about women’s rights to vote had that correspondence been destroyed.
Archeology is forever finding written communications which enlighten the rest of the world about what has come before us.
This is not to say your journal will make history. This is just to say that one never knows what actions you make today may make an impact a hundred years from now.
Now, please excuse me, I have a Letter to write.
Later
Pen
September 4, 2008
Adventures in Birdsitting
A couple I know does bird rescue. They take in birds with damaged wings and care for them. They have something like 12 or 13 birds in their little house. They’re all in individual cages, otherwise there would be utter mayhem with the birds attacking each other. Most of them have damaged wings and can’t fly, but just because they can’t fly, doesn’t mean they can’t attack. They even added a little bird sanctuary onto the house and placed about half the birds in there to have more space in their own living quarters. It’s a small room with a door and windows.
When this couple goes out of town, I get to birdsit. These birds don’t need a lot of maintenance. Feed and water them in the morning. Check on them once (sometimes a few times) throughout the day and make sure they have fresh water in the evening. I truly enjoy birdsitting. Sometimes, I’ll sit on the sofa in the living room and listen to their birdcalls for awhile.
You’d think it would be easy, right? Take the food and water bowls out of the cages (wihtout getting pecked), put fresh water and fresh food into the bowls and then replace them (without getting pecked). On occasion, however, it can be something of a challenge.
Early one Saturday morning, I grabbed myself a cup of coffee and headed off to the “birdhouse.” My intention was to feed the birds, then relax on the wraparound porch of the house because it faces the lake. I was going to watch the sun come up on the lake, enjoy my coffee, maybe do a little writing or contemplation.
Ah, the best laid plans.
I carried with me a pair of very thick leather gloves. One bird in particular, an umbrella cockatoo (beautiful bird, but very aggressive), would love nothing more than to break one of my fingers (and he would, too, if he could get one). So I wore the gloves when I reached his cage to fed and water him. In the meantime, I left the gloves on the kitchen counter because the pecking of the smaller birds, thus far, wasn't really that bad.
So I began feeding and watering the birds. I usually talk to them and sometimes I whistle at them (some whistle back). And everything was going well until I got to the cage of “Mocker” the mockingbird.
I retrieved the food and water bowls, replenished the water and food. I opened the cage door, placed in the food and, as I was placing the water bowl on the bottom of the cage, that’s when it happened. Mr. Mocker flitted around the cage for a second, then proceeded to do a bellyflop right onto the floor!
I had been birdsitting for them for quite some time now, but this was the first time I had ever had an escapee!
The little bird got to its feet and began hopping around the living room.
My first instinct was to follow him around, hands outstretched, cajoling, “come here, little bird, come here little bird.” I chided myself because this wasn’t a cat or a dog; it wasn’t going to come to me when I call its name!
What to do, what to do? Ah! The gloves! The kitchen is connected to the living room and it took me all of two seconds — three, max — to get the gloves, put them on my hands and return to the living room.
Mocker was gone! Vanished! He was nowhere to be seen.
Panic hit.
OH MY GOD OH MY GOD OH MY GOD I’VE LOST ONE OF THEIR BIRDS OH MY GOD!
I searched the living room, bathroom, bedroom. No sign of the little bird.
OH MY GOD THEY’RE GOING TO KILL ME I’VE LOST THEIR BIRD!
Could he have gotten out through some space I wasn’t aware of? Was he hiding behind some piece of furniture? Was he outside right now fending off predators the best he could?
I went into the bird sanctuary. He had hopped his little happy butt into the sanctuary and was hopping along beneath the other birds’ cages.
That was fine with me. I closed the door so he didn’t have access to the remainder of the house. First, finish feeding and watering everyone else, as long as I knew where little Mocker was, I would get to him.
I finished the feeding and watering as quickly as I could. Then I faced the sanctuary door. Mind you, I still wore the gloves. I’ve never picked up a live bird barehanded; especially one who was happy to be out of his cage.
I looked through the glass door. Sure enough, there was little Mocker underneath one of the cages. I slipped into the sanctuary and closed the door. I bent down and began walking towards Mocker. Of course, he just hopped his way down the line of bird cages. I followed. He turned and hopped away in the other direction. I turned and followed and, again, he turned and hopped away in the other direction.
We did this quite a few times, back and forth, back and forth. Until I noticed that Mocker wasn’t hopping beneath the cages.
OH MY GOD WHERE IS HE NOW?
At this point, I literally got down on the floor and looked beneath all the cages. Sure enough, there was the little bugger beneath the cage in the far corner opposite the line of cages where we were playing tag. So I crawled along the floor until I reached the cage and stretched for all I was worth to try and reach Mocker. He tried for all he was worth to peck my hand but his beak couldn't penetrate the thick leather glove.
Then, in one swift move, he eluded me and hopped beneath another cage.
So, there I was, crawling around on the floor, achieving contortionist’s positions I never dreamed possible for my large frame, chasing a bird barely large enough to spit at. Meanwhile, the birds in all their cages were having hissy fits over the escaped bird and the insane human on the floor.
From shear exhaustion, I finally stopped and laid there for a few minutes. Surely there must be another way to entrap this little fella and get him back into his cage.
There was an empty box on the porch. Maybe that would help.
I quickly retrieved the box and took it into the sanctuary. Mocker was still doing his little back and forth hopping feat beneath the bird cages. While he was at one end of the sanctuary, I placed the box on its side in between two of the cages. I was hoping he would just hop his happy little self right into the box.
Of course, the bird was smarter than I. He just hopped right around the box. So much for that brilliant idea.
I replaced the box onto the porch. By this time, I’ve worked up a pretty good sweat but I’m determined that Mocker be back in his cage before I go anywhere else. Some of those birds could get to him through the bottoms of their cages and I shuddered to think what might happen if they do.
I returned to the sanctuary, a little on the tired side. Obviously, Mocker was a little tired too. He had hopped up onto the bottom bar of one of those cages. I don’t know if he was ready to get back into his cage, was too tired to try to evade me any longer or wasn’t aware that I had returned because he sat there long enough for me to reach down and scoop him up in my gloved hands. I held him close to me as I opened the door and made a beeline for his cage. I gently placed him into the cage and quickly closed the cage door with a great sigh of relief.
Little Mocker was shaking all over and, quite frankly, so was I. But little Mocker recovered very quickly upon discovering the fresh food in his bowl.
I was still shaking as he began eating, I was covered in sweat and my coffee was cold. It had taken a good hour to get the little fella back in his cage.
But none of that mattered. I sat on the porch, drinking my cup of cold coffee, watching the sun come up, utterly relieved that I had gotten the little bird safely into his cage and that no one had gotten hurt. My pride might have been hurt a little, but I’m used to that. Thank goodness there were no witnesses who could tell the tale! (except me, of course).
I’ve had a couple of escapees since then. But I learned my lesson. Now I wear those gloves all the time.
And in my next life, I'M coming back as a bird!
The Quilting Frame
They stand. At barely 2 and a half feet tall, they stand. Not on ceremony, but on the firm ground of history.
Hand-hewn by my great-grandfather were the quilting frames. They are of simple, but sturdy, construction. They were made out of necessity, used by my great -grandmother to make hand-made quilts to keep her family warm on a cold winter’s night.
There is no way to know just how many quilts have been sewn stretched across the two by four frames. My paternal great-grandmother passed these frames down to my grandmother. She, in turn, passed them down to my mother. Now, they rest with me.
As a child on many an autumn day, I found myself lying on the floor looking at a multitude of colors stretched taut above me. I watched as the sinewy fingers of my mother and my grandmother danced their needles and thread in rhythmic motion across the quilt, connecting fabric and cotton, transforming those humble materials into a treasured practical heirloom of beauty.
The voices of the seamstresses swirled in rhythm with their sewing as they talked about ancestors I would never meet, discussed how my brother and I were doing in school, told stories of my father’s childhood. Their words whirled around the quilt and fell as softly and lightly onto my ears as the quilt beneath which I lay.
Many was the time my brother and I conducted adventures beneath those quilts on those quilting frames. We huddled beneath it as in a cave from a storm. It was our hiding place from masked marauders, our transport to the wildest jungles of Africa, the exotic cities of Europe, a tee-pee or a bark hut to celebrate our Native American heritage.
Those times when our play became too boisterous and we shook the quilting frames or bumped our heads on th quilt above us causing the seamstresses to prick their fingers with their needles — those times were met with a sneaky little prick to the gluteus maximus of the guilty party. My grandmother’s cackle at getting the better of us still echoes in my ears like the well-worn lyrics of a familiar song.
And the dreams I dreamed beneath that quilting frame, safely snug with my mother on one side of the frame and my paternal grandmother on the other side — oh, those were the dreams of all good children, woven securely into the tapestry: a blanketed protection from the most cruel subjections that life had to offer.
And when the tapestry was done and graced the bed for the one it was intended, each carefully stitched piece of cloth whispered its individual memories — part of a baby’s gown here, a dress worn in first grade there, an old hand-me-down apron too ragged for further usefulness except for a patch in a quilt over there. Those memories intermingled with dreams to form their own unique, wondrous and beautiful concerto to lull a wistful little girl to sleep.
Because beneath those quilts made upon those quilting frames is where my dreams formed and where all my dreams could be realized. Those quilts were tangible proof that nothing truly loses its usefulness; that all things are interwoven into this singular and extraordinary tapestry of life.
It is this creation of beauty which lent me the inspiration to follow my own desire to create beauty in my own way. Each word is akin to a piece of cloth which, when sewn together, forms a creation to touch, inspire, motivate or simply to cause others to think.
They stand. A little used. A little weatherbeaten. But they stand proudly. They are still capable of weaving dreams.
Just like the dreams I dreamed as I lay beneath a quilt made upon the quilting frames.
September 9, 2008
Holding memories
It’s a thermos. It holds hot and cold liquids. It’s probably considered an antique by now, having been manufactured by a company called Alladin and distributed by a company called Stanley. Stanley Home Products was big back in the sixties. They sold good, solid home products, most of which were capable of lasting forever. The seal on the bottom of this particular thermos claims “It will not break.” And it won’t.
A tall number, it’s a little scratched and rusted on the outside, but the inside is what counts. The inside is shiny stainless steel and makes the thermos fully functional.
Daddy loved getting up at three or four in the morning, even on weekends. He loved even more awakening his bleary-eyed family at this same ungodly hour on impulse - usually on a Sunday - to take us all up through the north Georgia mountains during the fall to get a couple bushels of mountain apples. Or to south Georgia in the summer to gather a couple bushels of peaches.
The last thing that had to be done before going out the door on these little excursions was to fill Daddy’s thermos with hot, fresh-brewed coffee. God help us all if we forgot that thermos.
We left well before the sun came up. My brother snoring in the back seat and my mother dozing in the front marked we were on our way.
I rarely slept on these trips. For one thing, I didn’t want to miss anything. I wanted to see the mist lying low to the ground around the creeks and streams we passed. I didn’t want to miss the sun peeking at us from just above the trees, the pre-dawn hues of rose, orange and lilac painting the ribbons of clouds. Rainbows danced in the mists rising to greet the morning sun.
In those days, it seemed we were the only ones on the road. The isolation was punctuated by the fact that my father and I were the only two awake in the car. The bond of silence between us was an unspoken understanding: just you and me, kid.
Daddy would sometimes stretch his arm over the back seat, holding an empty coffee cup in his hand. Even the first time he ever did that, I knew what it meant and what to do. Mama was asleep in the front seat and Daddy needed a coffee refill.
The thermos lay between the front seats. It was heavy with its caffeine burden, but I somehow managed to refill the cup without spilling a drop.
Apple orchards abound in the north Georgia mountains. And there is nothing better in this world than to pick one right off the tree and bite into the sweet-sour tangy fruit right there in the sunshine. We always stopped at one of the roadside orchard houses. Daddy was an amiable fellow to strangers and rarely failed to get some deal or other on a bushel basket or two of apples. Mama always gave the back of Daddy’s head a nasty look: she knew who would be peeling, slicing, cooking, freezing and canning those apples. And it wasn’t Daddy.
Without fail, Daddy bought two gallons of apple cider. One gallon was for us to crack open right in the car and fill plastic cups Mama had brought with this nectar of the Gods. The second gallon remained untouched until we got home and it could sit in the refrigerator for a few hours. Ice cold apple cider, right from the orchard. Nothing was as sweet.
We always stopped around noon for lunch on top of one of the mountains with a brilliant carpet of colors provided by nature. Mama had packed sandwiches, deviled eggs, potato chips and sometimes a Little Debbie desert snack, along with Coca-Colas for us kids. Coca-cola used to be a treat for us which was another reason we always looked forward to these adventures.
Daddy washed his sandwich down with more coffee from the thermos. We ate our lunches in silence, moreso from the overwhelming beauty of those rolling mountains than from the fact we rarely had much to say to one another. Daddy teased us about stealing one of our Little Debbie’s, but Mama always packed extra. She knew him so well.
Daddy would then drain the coffee from his thermos. It was the moment we dreaded: an empty thermos meant it was time to go home.
The thermos held a place of honor beside the coffee pot for as long as I can remember. Rarely a day went by it didn’t hold excess coffee, usually drained by the end of the day.
Mama passed the thermos along to me when Daddy died.
It’s just a thermos. It only holds hot and cold liquids.
September 10, 2008
A Work of Art by Nature
The park where I used to take my daily walk had a paved walking trail with a small hill or two for a challenging workout.
I usually parked my car in a particular parking space and walked the trail the same way each day. But one particular day, my parking spot was taken and I parked someplace else. In doing so, it brought to my attention a tree. One I had probably walked by before but never bothered to notice.
It was a pretty tree. In winter it was easy to see where new leaves and blooms would grow in the spring. But that wasn’t what made the tree unique. It was the shape in which the tree had grown that caught my attention.
A short tree it had begun rightly enough. The trunk of the tree was firmly planted in the ground but nature had taken over and the trunk curved to the right. In the midst of growing, the trunk further “dipped” into something of a curly-q; like the right side of the cursive letter ‘y’. It “dipped” upward and continued growing.
I studied that tree for some length of time before getting out of my car. I was amazed. Nature had done this. Nature made this tree unique and different from its surrounding neighbors, but had allowed the tree to grow all the same. Nature determined how that tree would grow. The tree merely followed the design set upon it by nature.
As I admired the tree for its stamina and fortitude to grow and survive and admired Nature for allowing it to do so, I realized it was similar with people.
Nature predetermines much about each person she gives us: skin, eye and hair color, bone structure, height, disposition, sexuality. Nature has already determined so many aspects of this person. People then grow this child, shape this child. Oftentimes, people try to change this child in direct conflict with Nature’s design.
For example, when a child displays left-handedness, people often attempt to force the child to use his or her right hand. Why? Because we live in a ‘right-handed’ world. Rather than change the status quo, people attempt to change the child — in direct conflict with nature’s design for that child.
I wonder, if this were not so, how that child would grow? Would that child turn out as unique and enthralling as the tree at which I was gazing? Would the person they become be able to co-exist with their surrounding “trees”? Would their surrounding “trees” be able to accept them?
The tree — this little crooked tree — held an invaluable lesson for humanity. It successfully co-existed with surrounding trees. In no way was its own beauty, or the beauty of its neighboring trees, diminished by its being different. The uniqueness of this particular tree, its individuality, set it apart by design and its design enhanced the beauty of the surrounding trees. No one of them was any more — nor any less — beautiful or necessary than the other. Hence, nature became the artist.
As it is with people. Each person is unique in his or her own way. Nature has determined it. The uniqueness and individuality of one person should not be diminished by that of another person. The beauty of an individual is not diminished by the difference of the individual. And the beauty of the individual is capable of enhancing the beauty of surrounding individuals.
Yet people and society feel that that which nature has constructed has an obligation to conform. Why must we try to change what nature has constructed? Nature, in its infinite wisdom and influenced by the hand of God, knows what it is doing. What makes society think it knows better than nature?
By putting labels on people, standing in judgment of people and ostracizing people on the basis of their differences, and forcing individuals to conform, society oppresses the beauty which Nature implanted. By asking individuals to conform to to society’s status quo, nature’s design is suppressed. As a result of this, the tree may grow straight and tall, but it comes nowhere near reaching its full potential.
We should appreciate what nature gives us — from the trees she provides for aesthetic reasons to the people she provides as invaluable resources. We should open our eyes to the uniqueness and individuality of each person, regardless of their differences. Our differences are what make each and every one of us a work of art by nature.
September 11, 2008
A Glimpse in a Rearview Mirror
One bright sunny morning on my way to work, I pulled up behind a car at a red light. I didn’t pay much attention to anything except the car ahead of me.
In the back window of the car was a piece of paper which appeared to be suspended inside the car from the back window. On this piece of paper were circles and curly-q’s in various shades of crayon.
My first thought was, “what kind of sunshade is this?” Then the piece of paper moved out of the window. I got a glimpse of a man in the driver’s seat looking into the rearview mirror. The piece of paper reappeared in the window with the reverse side towards me. This side, too, was covered with drawings.
There was a child in the back seat. A small child since I was unable to see the top of a head in the window. The child was showing daddy a drawing he or she made.
I wondered what circumstances prompted this particular situation. My imagination conjured up a myriad of scenarios, although I could not see daddy’s face or the child.
I envisioned daddy coming home late from the office. He tiptoed into a bedroom and softly kissed the cheek of a sleeping child. Maybe the family had overslept this morning and there was no time during the chaos of preparing for the day to show the drawing.
Maybe mommy and daddy had argued and a frightened child was too afraid to show daddy the drawings.
Maybe daddy was a single parent doing the best he could and this was the only time the child could procure his attention.
Maybe daddy wanted to sit down with his child and really discuss the budding artist’s work. Why was one color chosen instead of another? What did all the circles and curly-q’s represent? Maybe daddy wanted to, but circumstances and timing did not permit.
I thought of brighter scenarios.
Maybe daddy got home around 6:00 as usual. The family sat down to a pleasant evening meal. Daddy made faces and did funny voices to perk everyone up after a tough day.
Once the meal was finished, daddy and child went outside to have a catch. Or maybe daddy was teaching the child how to dribble a basketball or score a soccer goal. In the excitement of play, the drawing was forgotten. Afterwards, mommy, daddy and child popped popcorn and watched a movie. The child fell asleep, safe and secure, in daddy’s arms. Daddy carried the little bundle upstairs, the small head resting peacefully against the strong shoulder, and tucked him or her in.
Maybe the drawing wasn’t done the day before. Maybe the child did the drawing while mommy and daddy were getting ready for their respective jobs. Maybe daddy had the honor of being the first to view this masterpiece, if only in the rearview mirror.
Whatever the circumstances leading up to the scenario before me, it was a touching moment — a moment shared between father and child. Moments such as these are too far and few between. For most children, there is no such thing as too much time with Daddy. For some daddies, there are never enough hours in the day to spend with their children.
This daddy did more than some daddies. I could only hope this daddy is careful. Sometimes when you look into the rearview mirror you see a road paved with regret. It may not be the road you intended to take, but it was the road you ended up on. How you travel that road determines the extent of your regret. Did you travel that road looking back over your shoulder, examining and analyzing every choice? Did you learn from your mistakes? Did you look ahead to the future without considering the consequences of your actions? Did you tread lightly upon that road so that others who wish may follow in your footsteps? Or did you sprint headlong down that road never looking in the rearview mirror and paying little attention to what was outside the windshield?
Did you make an effort to get to know your children?
Did you say ‘I love you’ often enough, with actions as well as words?
When you look into that rearview mirror of your child’s life, what will you see there? Missed opportunities? Or will that rearview mirror be choked with wonderful, character-building memories, for yourself as well as for your child?
As the light turned green and we went our separate ways, I hoped for daddy’s sake that when he looks into the rearview mirror to see the road he has traveled with his child, he does not see regret.
September 15, 2008
I switched the flashlight on as I crossed the five lane highway on the WALK signal. I could feel the eyes of drivers on me as I crossed. Some loathed the very idea that they had to stop to allow me to cross. I could see it when I looked at some of the anonymous faces watching me. On the faces of others, I saw bewilderment: what is a woman doing walking alone alongside a busy highway after dark? Especially on such a cold night as this?
Just as I didn’t know where these drivers came from or where they were going, they didn’t know the same of me: where I had been or where I was headed. They had no way of knowing that I had three miles ahead of me. Three miles before reaching the safety and sanctity of my own home. They had no way of knowing how I got myself into the predicament of walking home in the dark in the first place.
No streetlights or sidewalks lined this section of busy highway until I walked further down the road. I picked my way carefully along front yards and through landscaping merely a few feet away from fast-moving vehicles. I hoped and prayed my flashlight served as a beacon to alert oncoming drivers of the presence of a pedestrian alongside the road.
Once I reached a sidewalk safely, I switched on my tape player. It was a tape player I could listen to without the benefit of headphones. I chose to use headphones, turning up the music just loud enough to shut out the chaos of passing traffic, but not so loud that I could not hear over them.
Celine Dion sang about faith, trust and love moving mountains. “Touched By An Angel - The Album” accompanied me on many a long night since I purchased the tape in November for my birthday. I re-recorded songs in a specific sequence to accompany me on my walks.
Although the song Celine sang referred to placing trust and faith in God, it led me to think about the trust and faith I had placed into a human being. And how that trust and faith led to disappointment.
A friend and I formed a business partnership. A production company. We were going to produce audio and video documentaries and maybe feature films eventually. I was the writer. My business partner was the salesman. He assured me he could sell a drowning man a glass of water. He encouraged me to send my car back to the dealer when it broke down and I could not pay to have it fixed, assuring me we would make enough money for me to purchase a better car.
As it turned out, my partner couldn’t sell a drowning man a life preserver. After two short months, my business partner walked away. No explanation, no goodbye. He left me penniless and carless. One day we were working on a project, the next day he was gone.
I spent many an hour kicking myself for trusting him instead of putting my trust and faith where it belonged. But it was a partnership, which meant part of the blame rested on my partner. I do blame him for not discussing with me the dissolution of “our” company.
Why had I trusted this person? And would I ever be able to trust anyone again?
He had talked a good game. I didn’t recognize him as a con artist because his talk was believable. He was overtly committed to the partnership while inwardly it was simply something for him to do until something better came along.
I accepted my share of the responsibility. My lack of foresight was my own fault. He had yet to acknowledge his responsibility for abusing my trust. He had yet to accept his share of the responsibility for the failure of “our” company.
I stopped at the red light of the first intersection I encountered on my journey through this suburban town where I grew up. I thought of my journey in legs and I had completed the first leg safely and without incident. I crossed on the WALK signal, forcing a driver making a right hand turn to stop to allow me to pass. An occupant of the vehicle yelled something at me.
When I realized there would be no production company, I also realized there were bills to pay from the venture. And there were my own bills to be paid.
I indulged in self-pity and anguish for a day or two. Once those emotions were processed, my main objective was survival. I was rehired at a local movie theater where I worked once before. It was a steady paycheck that paid those waiting bills, even if a little at a time. It was hardly enough to purchase a car right away.
My shift was from noon until six p.m. I walked three miles at ten in the morning, with plenty of time to get there, rest and get dressed before beginning my shift. I sometimes got a ride home, but walking three miles back was not a problem. Once Daylight Savings Time was implemented, darkness closed in by six o’clock. My remedy was keeping a heavy-duty flashlight handy.
I settled into the routine of walking. It was good exercise, a wonderful opportunity to listen to my favorite music, an even better opportunity to do some thinking and soul searching. I told myself this when co-workers made themselves scarce when time came to go home; I told myself this when co-workers who drove directly past the road where I live refused to offer me a ride. I told myself this while I walked through pouring rain or in total darkness.
I could not fault my co-workers. Some of them had other jobs to go to after working at the theater. Some of them had other plans, families waiting at home. Some of them simply did not wish to become involved with people with whom they worked. I could not fault my co-workers. But I wondered about them.
I wondered where compassion was as I reached another leg of my journey safely. I had reached the main intersection of my hometown. From this point, for a long stretch of roadway, there was a well-constructed sidewalk, operating WALK and DON’T WALK signals, streetlights and well-lit businesses. Part of it even passed in front of the local police department. This was the longest leg of my journey, but it felt the safest.
As I walked along the sidewalk, I heard the traffic above my headphones. I heard someone yell something out. I turned in the direction of the yell. Maybe it was someone who recognized me and would offer me a lift home. All I saw was a group of teenagers in a car, laughing at me. I resumed walking while Bob Dylan sang about dignity.
My thoughts turned to home, only a couple of miles away now. My mother would be relived once I walked safely through that door. My nephews would both give me hugs. The only thing missing was my cat.
Peaches. About six years ago, she was a stray loitering outside the apartment where I lived. No matter what I did, she wouldn’t leave. I finally decided if she picked me, then so be it. We adopted each other. She was light gray with tan markings so light they were almost peach.
This little cat, one of God’s creatures, kept me company on many a long and lonely night. She moved with me from Georgia to Asheville, North Carolina and home to Georgia. She adjusted to life with two other cats, two small boys and a Pomeranian.
I, in turn, kept her well fed and warm, gave her a good, safe home and gave her companionship and love.
She did not suffer except for her last night on earth. I had no way to take her to a veterinarian nor could I get anything to ease her pain at the time of her death. All I could do was be with her. And to thank her for giving me six years of wonderful joy and companionship. I asked her to forgive me for my human shortcomings. Had I not taken this little cat in, she would have died alone in the woods instead of knowing the love my family and I gave her.
But why did she have to die so near Christmas?
I pulled my coat closer about me. Thinking of Peaches and her death made the atmosphere colder, darker somehow. I felt alone and empty inside. First a failed business, the betrayal of a friend, the loss of a car and now the loss of my beloved Peaches. Was my life worth anything at this point?
Depression had a way of creeping in along those three miles. The well-lit businesses, the fast food restaurants with their enticing aromas of fried chicken, grilled hamburgers and promises of hunger staved, the car lot with the sodium-arc lights gleaming off polished cars - these things could not dispel the loneliness I felt.
All the colors of the rainbow, all the voices of the wind
Every dream that reaches out, reaches out to find where love begins
Every word of every story, every star in every sky
Every corner of creation, lives to testify
For as long as I shall live, I will testify to love
Be a witness in the silences when words are not enough
With every breath I take, I will give thanks to God above
For as long as I shall live, I will testify to love
Wynnona Judd’s “Testify to Love” offered comfort. The song was featured in the 100th episode of “Touched By An Angel.” Wynnona portrayed a mother whose young son was dying. The angels taught this woman to love and appreciate the precious time her son was given to her, regardless of how short that time was. Because of the time her son was given to her, this woman could now testify that she had known love - the unconditional love we humans receive from children and from pets: the unconditional love which God grants us through these means.
“God Loves You” is the ultimate message of each and every episode of “Touched By An Angel.” It is a message I cannot hear too often. What I would give to have an angel appear before me on that long walk home to deliver that message.
I stopped beneath the last streetlight to adjust my tape. The first song on the opposite side was my favorite. I liked to listen to it best as I walked the final leg of my journey.
My flashlight was now the only light to guide me. Even the moon with its lustrous glow behind me offered little light. One final business to pass and darkness enveloped me like a cocoon. No more sidewalks. Just my flashlight and a prayer.
The streetlight behind the business illuminated the parking lot. I walked across the parking lot and onto the tarmac on the other side. From that point on, I had only the right turn lane to walk in. Businesses along this route were set well back from the road so the lights from them served me little purpose. There were wooded lots on the other side of this business.
It was only a quarter-mile stretch from that last streetlight to the road where I lived.
It felt like the longest leg of my journey.
I took a deep breath and steeled myself against the darkness.
From the corner of my eye, I saw movement within one of those wooded lots. Without the benefit of streetlights, it appeared to be moving shadows. A hand grabbed my arm and spun me around. In the darkness, I could not see who or what it was.
Confronted by my worst fear, a thousand thoughts ran through my head in the span of a few seconds. Rape. Murder. I was about to become another story on the eleven o’clock news. Another number, another statistic. What would my mother do? How would she feel when I didn’t walk through that door tonight?
Options were considered and dismissed. the police station was well behind me now. Would my flashlight do the job of knocking this person out? Even if I hit them, I couldn’t outrun them. I had already walked three miles to work, spent six hours on my feet in concession and had walked over two miles home. There were no houses close enough to reach to ask for help; no open businesses within shouting distance.
Red lights released traffic in both directions and it sped toward us but who could tell what was happening beside the road when all I had was a flashlight? And would any one of those drivers stop if I screamed for help or tried to flag them down? This person could have me dragged into the woods long before any driver spotted us in his or her headlights.
A thought more dark and sinister occurred to me. This person was waiting for me there in the shadows of the trees. This person was expecting me. Which meant this person had been watching me, knew I would walk this way one dark, cold night.
Dear God, how long would it take authorities to find my body?
With no hope of escape, I could only hope for a miracle.
My heartbeat hammered in my ears. I gasped a breath and held it. that’s when I realized I couldn’t hear the song through my headphones.
When I was grabbed and spun around, my hand caught in the wires of my headphones. The headphone jack was jerked from the tape player.
The silky rich voice of Della Reese and The Verity All Stars wafted above the drone of the traffic and the heartbeat in my ears:
When you walk down the road
Heavy burden, heavy load
I will rise, and I will walk with you
When you walk through the night
And you feel like you wanna just give, up, give up, give up on the fight
I will come, and I will walk with you
Walk with you, until the sun don’t even shine
Walk with you, I’ll be there all the time
I tell you I’ll walk with you
See you through
I slowly turned my flashlight upon this would-be assailant. The broad-shouldered body towered four to six inches above my five foot three inch frame. Judging from the height and breadth of the body and the grip on my arm, I assumed the person was male. A long black coat reached below his knees. He wore dark pants and dark shoes. A black ski-mask exposed only his Caucasian mouth, nose and green eyes. At first glimpse into those green eyes, I saw hate, anguish, disgust. Whether these emotions were directed at me personally, women in general, or society as a whole, I cannot say.
When you walk from this place
And you gotta go to meet Him, it’s time to meet Him face to face
Take my hand, and I will walk with you
Walk with you
'til the clouds fade away
I’ll walk with you each and every day
I’ll walk with you
The grip on my arm loosened. The expression in the eyes changed. Out of the hatred and anguish, I saw a look of fear. I thought surely it was a reflection of the fear in my own eyes. As I watched, the expression in those eyes changed again, from fear to remorse.
When nobody cares
I’ll be right there by your side
When all your hope is lost
I’m the one who’s gonna help you see the light
Just look into my eyes
Please know you’re not alone
I’m here, I’m here, I’m here by your side
With that refrain, my potential antagonist let go of my arm, turned and was gone, back into the shadows from whence he had come.
I exhaled the breath I was holding. I felt the flashlight tremble in my hands, felt my legs turn to chunks of ice. I couldn’t move. What had just happened? What had almost happened?
Had I been dreaming or imagining things? Not possible. My arm throbbed where it had been gripped and bruises were there the next day. My headphone wire dangled around my hands.
The answers to the whats and whys were, thankfully, beyond me. With the adrenaline rush of fear and relief pounding through my veins, I double-timed the last quarter-mile.
What were the intentions of my potential attacker? Thank God I will never have to know.
Did the song have a special significance for him?
That, too, I will never know. If that song had the power to deter that man from causing me harm, I pray there is hope for him.
And, if there is hope for him, maybe there is hope for me. I can forgive that ex-business partner. I can accept the attitudes of my co-workers. The pain of loss will heal and my capacity to love will be greater than before. I can forgive the world its apparent lack of compassion, but I do not have to sacrifice my own compassion in the process.
God walked with me that night. Maybe the man recognized that. Maybe he saw God where I thought I was alone.
Or, maybe, just maybe, the man was an angel, sent to tell me, in his own unique roundabout way, that my life is worth something and that God loves me, too.
September 16, 2008
Woman: Definition
Definition: woman: an adult female human being.
Definition: womanhood: the condition of being a woman.
Webster’s Dictionary, my friends, has it completely wrong.
Being a woman is not a “condition.” It almost sounds like something contagious, doesn’t it? Like a delicate sickness or disease that manifests itself overnight or when you’re not looking. And “an adult female human being” is a rather scientific explanation, isn’t it?
At best, these are poor definitions sorely lacking in explanation of what it truly means to be a woman.
At what point does a female human being become a woman? Society has instigated many milestones that signify a young girl’s passage into womanhood: the first menstrual cycle, losing one’s virginity, graduation from high school or college, a first job, marriage and other events, I’m sure, this well-meaning world pinpoints as symbols of womanhood.
Truth is, there is no one significant act or age or point in time that magically transforms a girl into a woman. A woman is defined by a succession of single acts, a bevy of decisions, a lifetime of experiences and every single age, each of which contribute to her character and sense of self.
A woman is a work in progress: a lifelong process guided, not by textbooks or manuals or standards set forth by a misogynistic society, but by intuition and instinct. A woman can redefine herself, reinvent herself or rediscover her authentic self time and again and will hardly make the same discovery twice in the process.
A woman is defined by her sense of responsibility, her depth of integrity, her acceptance of her own self-worth and self love: defined by her capabilities, her desire for new discoveries, her ability for flexibility, and her loving embrace of change along with her stoic determination to stand for what she believes in and her refusal to fall for the shallow platitudes this world would thrust upon her.
A woman at the age of fifty can still giggle outrageously at silly jokes or bad puns. She can still slide down the slide or swing on the swingset on a playground and not, in the least, once compromise her sensuality, her sexuality or her sexiness. She can marvel at a flock of geese, a sunset; delight in surprises or cry over disappointments. And the mark of a truly wonderful woman — a woman who has come a long way, a woman in her own right — is how she handles those disappointments, rather than allow those disappointments to handle her.
A woman doesn’t need a man — or anyone else — to define who she is. She doesn’t need a companion to rock her world because a great woman can rock her own world, honey!
A woman can walk long strides or take baby steps, but a woman who never takes her eyes off her goals will eventually reach that place where she’s headed — that place of inner peace and serenity and the life that was meant for her. And she will have earned every single moment of her serenity and prosperity.
A woman’s spirit can run, fly, and sing with the courage of her convictions! She will never run out of breath, ideas, emotions, courage, laughter or tears, because it is a woman’s purpose that she is capable of offering these things to this life. It is the gift bestowed upon her by the great Celestial Creator and it is her gift she bestows upon this world that she is here and has so much to offer.
Yet a woman is humble, knowing how precious life is and using the one she has to make the lives of others better. And in her humility is a beauty indefinable with words.
The definition of a woman? Don’t bother looking in the dictionary.
Look.
In the mirror.
© 2004 Penny White
September 17, 2008
I would like to share a couple of short poems today. "I AM" is my pride and joy, one of the most empowering works I feel I have ever written. The lady in red is a perfect compliment to these words. And that's why I am so proud to have her on just about everything. She makes me feel good about myself. Because I am an awesome woman. And so are you.
"Windswept" hasn't been coupled with any artwork yet, but I'm working on it.
Both works are copyrighted. Any unauthorized use is subject to prosecution.
Make it a great day.
I AM
I am an awesome woman!!
I stand tall because
I refuse to sell myself short.
I look ahead because
I want to leave something behind.
I am the sole owner of my dreams
because my soul is not for sale.
I am worthy of love and appreciation.
I am creative. I am beautiful.
I am compassionate.
I am talented. I am smart. I am funny.
I am capable and competent.
I am a woman of integrity.
I can do whatever I put my mind to.
I am. . .
. . .because I was meant to be.
©1990 Penny White
Windswept
I know that look -
the tossled hair,
eyes still misty from sleep;
A look that never fails to fascinate me,
Never fails to stimulate me.
That look - that charming,
that unbearably unforgettable look -
of having been swept in and delivered
by the Santa Ana Wind.
©1987 Penny White
September 18, 2008
Acts of Kindness:
are in short supply worldwide;
cost nothing to the giver or the recipient - in fact the return is far greater than the investment;
could very well make a difference in someone’s life;
transcend ALL aspects of the HUMAN race;
are the most unselfish acts one human being can make toward another;
require no special education, degree or experience;
can occur at any given time of the day or night;
enhance your character;
amplify your beauty;
spur your imagination;
stir your compassion;
boost your morale, and the morale of another person;
never go out of style;
can be done at any time of the year and should be;
can be as simple as a sincere greeting of “hello”;
multiply at an alarming rate when passed on to more than one person;
cannot be taxed by the government;
contain absolutely no calories or monosodium glutemate;
differentiate us from lower species;
can make someone smile or laugh;
can help make the world a better place.
If acts of kindness can do all this, why don’t more people do them more often?
©2004 Penny White
September 19, 2008
Just a Woman
She’s just as beautiful in a ponytail and blue jeans as she is dressed to do the town.
She can stand on the brink of self-discovery, and she can pull herself back from the edge of self-destruction.
She is a survivor.
She is a child. She delights in rainbows and butterflies; horses and puppies; bubbles, balloons and snowflakes; the flight of a tern as it takes wing over the water of a still morning lake.
She can spend hours dreaming of the things she would like to do and be, but not one minute wishing away for a life that might have been.
She is strong. She is soft. Within her strength lies her tenderness and her softness harbors her determination.
She is a demon when something touches that spark within that ignites the flame of her sense of anger and injustice.
She is wild. She is untamed. She is infectious.
She can even be addictive.
It doesn’t matter how worldly or how knowledgeable she seems, in her innermost heart there lies the purity of innocence and her faith and belief in the basic good of other people. And that heart beats fiercely and passionately, driven by desire.
She is willful. She is stubborn. She is tender. She is shy.
Her dreams fly upon gossamer wings, knowing full well that dreams can be broken, but knowing just as well the beauty of the birth of new dreams.
She grieves for the state of the world, yet finds wonder in the world that surrounds her.
To look upon her face, to have those eyes turn, gazing in wonder and astonishment at the world around her, to look at you with that gaze; doesn’t that touch something within you in a place so deep that there is no name for it, no map that can charter it?
For all the praise that could be lavished upon her, she won’t be placed upon a pedestal. To be lovingly admired just isn’t her style. To be appreciated, yes. Spoiled, even. But she wants to know that she is real. Not a fragile, porcelain doll. More like Raggedy Ann; a doll made for holding and cuddling, made to withstand the rugged handling that love so richly bestows along with the tenderness that accompanies the handling.
And doesn’t it illicit a desire within you to touch her? To claim her? To reach her in a way and in a place where she’s never been reached before? That nameless place hidden somewhere within the very soul of her that she may not even be aware of its existence.
She expects respect and expects to earn it. Likewise, it is not something she gives freely.
Walk with her. Talk with her. Hold her hand. Touch her cheek. She is incredibly human.
Her love for life is astonishing in its simplicity.
Her love for you is even more astonishing in its complexity.
She is compelling. She is complicated.
But she prefers the term “multi-faceted.”
She is majestic. She is humble.
She makes no pretense to perfection. To expect perfection in an imperfect world is folly, but she strives to be the best she can be and expects no less from those she meets.
Those who underestimate her find themselves awestruck by her unexpectedness. Those who take her for granted are left behind in the dust of her victories.
Somewhere, somewhere between her childlike wonder, her innocence and her adult reasoning, there is a woman waiting to be discovered.
And there’s something there that is worth taking a lifetime to discover. To love a small part of her or only one aspect of her, is to deny the euphoria of knowing the woman as a whole in all of her unique diversities, in all of her triumphs and foibles, wisdoms, depths and knowledge.
All of these diverse qualities do not belong to just one woman. They are a part of all women. They are the strands of a cobweb; they are what make each woman unique and individual and beautiful and yet these strands are strong enough to bind us together as sisters.
So, when you ask her who she is, and she responds, “I’m just a woman,” what she is really saying is, “I am so much more.”
September 22, 2008
Woman's Spirit
“Women are stronger in spirit. Men are stronger physically.”
These words were spoken to me by my nine year old nephew, a little wise beyond his years at times.
I have never considered this possibility. I’m sure it has occurred to other people and there have probably been studies conducted to the effect (if not, there should be), but this simple observation never occurred to me. Simple, but obvious. Sometimes we overlook the obvious.
The act of nurturing requires a strength of spirit. Ego and self-concern become secondary when responsible for the caring of and nurturing of others. The care of and nurturing of others is not limited to shelter, food and clothing; it also encompasses teaching, discipline, affection; the nurturing of emotional, mental and spiritual aspects of another person. It is the daily, day in and day out task of seeing to the well-being of others, mostly without thought of one’s own sense of well-being.
Society, as a whole sees the male as the primary breadwinner. Even in two income households, it is generally the man who earns more. But even in two income households, the responsibility of nurturing falls upon the shoulders of the female. It is usually the female — the mother, the wife, the sister — from whom others seek to replenish their strength; from whom others seek guidance; and from whom others seek comfort and solace.
This is not to say that the male of the species is incapable of nurturing. Nor does this infer or imply that males have no sense of spirit. Societal structure, with its stereotypes, its lack of vision, its expectations and its demand for conformity, discourages the male from fully developing that side which nurtures. A man’s instinctive spirit sways more toward being the provider, namely of shelter, food and clothing. Imagine, then, the frustration experienced by the male by the prohibition of this nurturing side.
It is expected of woman to be a nurturer, a caregiver. Whether this is imposed by society or whether it is a biological characteristic is unclear. Surely, part of it is biological. What woman, after carrying a being in her womb for nine months is not compelled to nurture that being once outside the womb? It takes a great deal of spirit in the first place to carry then give birth to another being. There are, of course, exceptions, but overall, the female nurtures her young.
It is generally woman who cares for the sick child or elderly parent; the responsibility of their well-being falls upon her shoulders. Statistics from The National Family Caregivers Association states that 80% of all family caregivers in the United States are women. There are 18-25 million family caregivers in the United States alone. You do the math.
Ironically, woman’s strength of spirit lies in her ability to nurture. Historically, woman’s basic instincts indicated that woman’s own survival depended upon the survival of the “tribe” — the family unit, in today’s society. Therefore, it was in woman’s own best interests to nurture and care for the growing children and the elderly parents. In turn, her own children would care for her as she grew older and so on.
Evidence of woman’s strength of spirit is visible. In history, women overcame barriers and obstacles to become rulers, doctors, lawyers, politicians; to fly planes during World War II; to leave her legacy in science, medicine and the arts. And still found time to make dinner, clean house and have children.
This strength of spirit is also evident in the children we grow, the jobs we do, the elderly parents we care for, the million tiny things that we do for others in our daily lives. Man depends upon woman to propagate the species; to bear sons to carry on his name, so to speak. Once she has borne them, she is then expected to nurture them, with or without male assistance.
Perhaps studies into the spirit vs. physical strength aspect cannot be conducted. The human spirit defies definition and refuses to be subjected to a microscope. Medicine and science combined cannot measure, distillate, bottle and sell the intangible determination, stamina, courage fortitude, persistence and perseverance that are but some of the traits of the human spirit. No chart or graph can display it. No artist can render it; only the outward appearance of it. Yet it is the driving force of humanity. And a survival technique for woman.
Maybe we don’t need studies conducted about something we already know to be true. Maybe all we need do is ask a nine year old.
September 23, 2008
The Shape of a Woman
Whoever said women have hourglass figures wasn’t paying attention. An hourglass is much too sharp an image to compare to the shape of a woman.
The shape of a woman is more that of a hand-crafted guitar ~ curves lovingly rounded, the surface smooth to the touch, polished to a fine shine.
The interior only appears hollow. Within this hollow lies the very heart of the instrument. It serves to amplify the emotions, the feelings, the very heartbeat which throbs within its frame. From within this instrument comes forth some of the most beautiful music known to man — sounds created by the careful orchestration of experienced and expert hands.
A vibrational response to a sensitive touch begins the refrain. A tender rhythm strikes a familiar chord throughout the beloved melody, accompanying the harmony of the chorus.
A trembling note, suspended in anticipation of the oncoming crescendo, hanging in the balance of perfectly metered time: in this moment, player and guitar are as one.
A finely tuned, hand-hewn, quality instrument is no mistake. It is the result of a Creator thoroughly knowledgeable of the purpose played by the instrument being created.
The instrument itself may become well-worn with time and use, but its inherent beauty only becomes more apparent ~ the music it creates becomes more lustrous, more rich with sound, more meaningful in purpose. The more time-worn the instrument, the more proof of all it has given and all it is capable of yet giving.
There is no character contained in an hourglass.
Just sand.
September 24, 2008
An Act of Forgiveness
I stepped out of the Five Points Marta station in Atlanta early one Sunday morning. The event in downtown was over. People had descended upon the city like vultures to a carcass then abandoned it en masse and left it bare-boned in the sun.
The vultures left their mark behind. Debris littered the streets, the likes of which I had only seen in New York City when I once visited there. New York City is accustomed to filth and grime making it part of the scenery. Atlanta, with her genteel upbringing, is offended by such monstrosity. She likes her streets clean, her recycling and garbage in their proper containers. I was appalled by the lack of consideration of others in repaying the city’s hospitality by littering in such a manner.
As I walked, unutterable dark thoughts crossed my mind. Until I heard something that gave me pause. A voice, lifted in song, drifting to me in the cool of the quiet early morning.
Just ahead of me, across the street, was an elderly African-American man projecting a song. Projecting is the proper word for the resonation of his voice and the conviction of his words more than made up for his lack of tonality. His white hair sat atop his head like snow atop a mountain. He wore grungy jeans and shirt, and carried a garbage bag, procured from the container at the opposite end of his sidewalk. He filled it with the garbage even as he sang. His pace was leisurely: he enjoyed his task. He was not wearing an orange vest as I had seen city workers wear. The task he undertook was of his own choosing and he joyfully went about his work.
He was singing, “Swing Low, Sweet Chariot,” an old gospel song. I watched and listened, mesmerized by this man’s voice rising with the early morning dawn, lifting on the wings of a pigeon, reverberating off the concrete sidewalks, the street, the buildings. That voice came from deep within him and it shook me to my very soul.
For a moment, I thought of the man as a preacher, singing his gospel. His congregation was the pigeons and concrete and buildings. He spoke his sermon with each act of picking up trash and placing it into his garbage bag.
I turned to enter my building, then stopped. What better things had I to do? There was time to get breakfast, time for coffee and reading the paper. There was time to build my psyche and steel my nerves for the job ahead. There is always time. But there are so few moments. And this was a moment. A moment which would pass this way but once, and would not pass this way again. Not for all the time in the world.
This man found it within himself to forgive the inconsideration of others. Instead of harboring ill thoughts or feelings, he chose to practice the act of forgiveness in the words of his song and the rustle of his bag as he carried it along the sidewalk.
I crossed the street and procured one of the bags from the unmarked cart. As the gentleman reached the refrain of “Swing Low” I joined him in the song, my voice all the more off-key than his own, and began picking up garbage from my end of the block.
He looked up, surprised, but he smiled at me, never breaking the song or his stride. I tried to match the resonance and conviction in his voice.
For forty-five minutes, we worked together, making our way towards the middle of the block. Passersby noticed. Some stared. None offered assistance.
When we met in the middle, bags full and the job done, we put our arms around each other’s waists and sang together one final refrain.
We walked down the sidewalk and placed our full bags into the trash can.
“Thank you, ma’am,” said the gentleman as I grasped his hand and shook it.
“No, sir,” I said, “thank you.”
I watched as he pushed the cart down to the next block, singing as he went. What a beautiful way to start a Sunday morning, cleaning the streets of the city that I call home, alongside a total stranger who is my fellow man. What more profound gospel to sing than the words of a song whose refrain reminds us our time here is borrowed and the moments so precious few.
What better forgiveness?
September 25, 2008
Memory Lane is a dirt road
There is still a dirt road in Gwinnett County, Georgia.
I won’t tell you the exact location, except to say that it is on Memory Lane somewhere in the back of my mind.
I have known of the existence of this road for many years. I even found myself thinking about this road only a few weeks ago. But I hadn’t ventured out to see if the road was still there until just recently.
It was while working on a freelance writing assignment for a small local publication, driving around, searching for the town of Grayson. On my way home from that assignment, I traveled a road that I used to travel frequently many years ago and I wondered if the dirt road was still there.
It is a road that I recall fondly. At the time that it was brought to my attention, I had just graduated high school. I was working at a fast food restaurant in town where I befriended a woman who happened to mention one day that she owned some horse stables.
You must understand that I love horses. I would like to own some one day. But I wouldn’t own them for riding or for breeding. I’m not sure that I would even want one that is tame. I just like to sit and watch them. To be around them. They are such strong and majestic animals. Just to watch them run is a certain kind of freedom within itself.
This woman was a very kind and tolerant woman. She invited me to visit the stables any time that I liked. And I took her up on it. When I wasn’t working at the restaurant or working on some new writing idea, I was there. I’m certain that I must have gotten on this lady’s nerves with my being there so much, but, as I said, she was kind and tolerant.
The stables themselves were on a dirt road. I recall many a summer morning, driving my lemon yellow Mazda down that dirt road to get there, rocks kicking up beneath the frame of my car and a trail of dust behind me. I was young and life stretched before me, a mysterious and delightful journey of discovery. I remember walking through horse-filled fields, cleaning the tackroom and the hallway between the stalls, all for the simple pleasure of being around those horses.
But that road is paved now. Probably has been for some time. But the dirt road that I was searching for is still there. It isn’t very far from the stables to the dirt road. The dirt road was a kind of shortcut from the stables to the house of my friend and I have probably traveled this dirt road a thousand times.
There are stables along this road as well, but I had forgotten about them until I was driving along them that warm Saturday afternoon. Until I heard the whinny of a horse. I stopped right there and a flood of memories almost choked me. I just sat there for awhile, remembering the many other warm days driving down this road to get from my friend’s house to my friend’s stables. The road is a winding and curvy one and that makes it kind of fun to drive. But it was much more enjoyable back then when I was traveling it to get from one place to another.
It is a quaint dirt road. One that you would think you would find further out in the “plains country” of Georgia, not in such a growing and cosmopolitan place as Gwinnett County. But there it is, my dirt road with my horses and all my memories intact.
I have matured considerably since those days. As I am sure most adults discover, the journey of life isn’t quite the adventure we think it is when we are young. Simple pleasures - like being around horses - must take a back seat to the task of survival.
I’m not sure why, but my friend and I lost touch. I cannot remember whether she returned to the northern part of the United States where she and her husband were from or if it was when I moved to Los Angeles. But, wherever she is, I’m sure she owns at least one horse.
There is still a dirt road in Gwinnett County, Georgia.
Please don’t tell the D.O.T.
September 26, 2008
Change begins with us
Commercials for reruns of Sex and the City pose some interesting questions.
For example, one of the characters poses the question, “Why do women get stuck with “old maid” and “spinster” and guys get “bachelor” and “playboy”?”
I think one of the reasons is because women settle for those terms.
No, really. Hear me out.
As independent as we have become, as outspoken as we may be at times, women are still not as assertive as the male of the species.
A man, for as long as he remains unmarried, will be a bachelor. Even if that is for life.
It would stand to reason that an unmarried woman would be a bachelorette.
But because we don’t speak up or speak out or voice our displeasure over these labels, they continue to be used liberally and in a derogatory manner.
You see, what women fail to grasp - really grasp - is that if we expect things to change for us, we must make those changes ourselves.
Women have changed history, even if it is not taught in classrooms; even if society does not make a big deal out of those changes.
Investigate the history of the women’s suffrage movement, beginning with a little movie entitled, “Iron-Jawed Angels.”
Look up the history of the Women Airforce Service Pilots of World War II (www.wasp-wwii.org).
Look into the women’s equality movement of the sixties.
Look at us now.
We still have a long way to go.
No better time to start than now.
September 29, 2008
Getting into the Groove of Riddles
Does Christmas Day and New Year’s Day come in the same year?
When I was a kid, my dad had me spinning around in circles with the answer to that one.
The initial reaction of most people is to say, “No.” I’m sure it has something to do with the way the question is presented. After all, Christmas Day and New Year’s Day are only two weeks apart. When the question is posed with Christmas Day preceding New Year’s Day, people naturally associate Christmas of one year with New Year’s Day of the following year and they answer, “No.”
However, upon further pondering of the question, especially if doubt about the initial answer is voiced, most people will automatically answer, “Yes” without even realizing why. Further voiced doubt will lead a person to answer, “No” again.
It isn’t until it is explained that New Year’s Day (January 1, 1999) and Christmas Day (December 25, 1999) do indeed come in the same year that most people realize the only answer to the question is, “Yes.”
It’s a riddle along the same lines of the age-old queries, “Who’s buried in Grant’s tomb?” or “What was Napoleon’s first name?” I actually had a Social Studies teacher who gave that latter question as a bonus question on a test in high school once.
And, of course, there is that time-old, time-worn riddle of “Which came first, the chicken or the egg?” for which I honestly believe no one has an answer.
I think my all-time favorite riddle of my father’s was when he asked me how many grooves does a three-minute 45 rpm record have? (Anybody out there remember what a 45 rpm record is?)
I must have spent hours dividing 3 into 45, multiplying 45 by 3, and I think I even threw the pie symbol in there somewhere, trying to put my high school Algebra to some good use. To no avail. No matter what answer I presented him with, my father just smiled and informed me that it was a riddle. I knew there had to be a trick to it, I just couldn’t figure out what it was.
But it was dad’s way of keeping a person’s head out of the clouds and their feet on the ground. It was his style and sense of humor.
Dad loved little zingers like this. He got a big kick out of watching somebody spin around in circles over riddles. It wasn’t so much an issue of his laughing at someone else, but rather that it enabled people to laugh at themselves.
It also taught a few people that they didn’t have all the answers. Including myself.
It was a lesson, well-earned and well-learned, in humility. A lesson that many people that I know could use and one that I am eternally grateful to my father for having taught me.
And, just in case you’re wondering, there are the same number of grooves in a three-minute rpm record that there are in just about any other record regardless of time length or size.
One.
September 30, 2008
Commercials for reruns of Sex and the City pose some interesting questions
For example, one of the characters poses the question, “Why do women get stuck with “old maid” and “spinster” and guys get “bachelor” and “playboy”?”
I think one of the reasons is because women settle for those terms.
No, really. Hear me out.
As independent as we have become, as outspoken as we may be at times, women are still not as assertive as the male of the species.
A man, for as long as he remains unmarried, will be a bachelor. Even if that is for life.
It would stand to reason that an unmarried woman would be a bachelorette.
But because we don’t speak up or speak out or voice our displeasure over these labels, they continue to be used liberally and in a derogatory manner.
You see, what women fail to grasp - really grasp - is that if we expect things to change for us, we must make those changes ourselves.
Women have changed history, even if it is not taught in classrooms; even if society does not make a big deal out of those changes.
Investigate the history of the women’s suffrage movement, beginning with a little movie entitled, “Iron-Jawed Angels.”
Look up the history of the Women Airforce Service Pilots of World War II (www.wasp-wwii.org).
Look into the women’s equality movement of the sixties.
Look at us now.
We still have a long way to go.
No better time to start than now.