N = NO

The word NO is defined by Webster’s New World College Dictionary as follows: 1. it is not so; nay  2. it cannot be so: used to express surprise, disbelief, dismay, etc.  3. emphatically not: refusal or denial.

Two year olds are notoriously known for their discovery of the word “no.”  They are asked a question, any question, and the response is, “NO!”  Older siblings, parents, amused adults will ask question after question to receive the response of “no” and then ask the smug child, proud of its new word, “Would you like some ice cream?”  Now the power of the word no is gone.  Because yes, they do want some ice cream but…  and everyone has a good laugh at the trap the toddler placed themselves in through asserting “no” and now having to say yes to get the ice cream.  Ahhh, we are mean.  But we will justify this action on the unsuspecting child by saying we are teaching her/him that not every answer can be “no.”  Have we really taught the toddler anything?  Or are we mirroring our own acquiescence in a world where NO is more often than not an inappropriate and unacceptable response?

Classes are taught in assertiveness to instruct people in the value of saying NO to allow them to not be overburdened, to take care of themselves.  Isn’t it strange that when we first said no as a child, to assert ourselves, by the way, it was quickly squelched and ridiculed that we had found this new and powerful word?  That we were shown the futility of saying no?  And then years later had to be taught and trained to say it once more, but this time for self-preservation?  The human race is weird, folks.

We live in such monumental paradoxes daily.  A woman is raped, brutally and aggressively.   A trial takes place to convict the rapist.  The defense attorney asks the victim pointedly, “Did you say no to the alleged rapist?”  Hmmmmm… good question!  Because if you didn’t say “NO”, you were actually consenting to being raped.  Everyone knows that!  No matter there was a knife to your throat or a gun to your head.  You were duty bound to say NO!  Yep, that is clear as mud.  And of course, the assumption would have to be that had the victim said NO, the perpetrator would have stopped immediately upon hearing that word.  Just like if someone accosts someone else and tries to rob them, no should be said in order to immediately stop the crime.  You figure it out.

Try this one on.  Johnny comes home from school with a bloody nose.  You ask what happened as the concerned parent.  It turns out Jimmy  tried to steal his backpack and he fought for it and Jimmy offered to let him keep it if he could win a fist fight.  You, as the concerned and caring parent say, “Why didn’t you just say NO?”  duh  Johnny knows if he doesn’t fight for it, he will lose it and if he does fight for it, he may still lose it.  Why say NO?  What good would it have done?  Jimmy really doesn’t want an answer— yes or no.  Jimmy wants to be a bully and beat the crap out of Johnny.  The word no is immaterial and may even anger Jimmy further and the fight could escalate even more.  Come on parent!  Would you have said NO as you faced Jimmy’s irate parent who challenged you to a fight?

There are times, though, when NO can be a powerful word and when it should definitely be said and said forcefully.  You see someone abusing an animal or child or another human and are disregarded as a bystander.  THEN, you say, “NO!  Stop it!  You cannot do this!”  OR You are asked if it is all right to slander others because of race or religion.  Say NO!  OR You are asked to join in laughter at slanderous remarks about a person who is of different sexual orientation.  Refuse!  Say NO!  See how NO can be a true asset?

Again, we teach children not to say no until we realize we have done such a good job that they cannot tell a molester no, they cannot tell a bully no, they cannot tell anyone no because it has become “bad to say no.”  They grow up and the boss says for certain favors, a promotion, a raise can be had.  A teen is miserable at home and another teen offers an escape into whatever seems to feel good at the moment.  A college student is offered a copy of the upcoming exam that he/she really has to pass.  None of the above are capable of saying NO to the offers/demands being made because it is not right to say no.  And if asked why they did NOT say NO, they don’t even know.  They are hard-wired to acquiesce and nod, say yes, and move on.

Realistically, truthfully, people have died for saying NO.  We call them martyrs.  We call them heroes and heroines.  We call them people of greatness.  We admire those who will stand and say no to injustice, wrongs, cruelty, etc.  Sadly, it is usually after they have died because when they are alive, we are saying they are crazy lunatics to buck the status quo, to defy the bullies, to stand up to the boss.  Just go with the flow is what we tell the non-sheep.  They are dangerous.  They are radicals.  They upset the balance.  But when they die with “no” on their lips, we extol their greatness.  Yes, we are weird.

In summary, the next time a toddler answers every question with NO, think about it before you trick her/him.  Are you setting them up to be hurt, led by those stronger, give up to pressure and what they want to believe is moral and right?  If you don’t think so, then go ahead.  Show that child the futility of NO.  If you worry you are condemning them to quiet submission, then you can help them see where no needs to be used wisely, but still used.

That’s my truth.  And I own that I am weird. NO—not crazy—weird.

M for Moxie

Webster’s New World College Dictionary defines “moxie” as:[slang] courage, pluck, perseverance, etc.; guts.

I have a friend named Mary who is fighting stage 4 cancer.  It has been controlled in some areas, ravaged organs in other areas.  She, and I, read incessantly on new procedures, new “cures” and medicines.  We see each other when she is well enough and compare our findings.  Yes, Mary is just one of hundreds of thousands who face the big C.  She seems to console herself with this fact—she isn’t alone out there with an alien and unknown disease.  If this makes her feel better about her situation, I say go for it!

Mary and I met a long time ago.  I cannot tell you exactly how long ago—first because I am super bad at time.  Secondly, because both she and I in our friendship, refuse to acknowledge TIME.  We celebrate the here and now.  Because you see, Mary has MOXIE!

We talk on the phone, over a cup of coffee at Starbucks, in each other’s homes.  I always say, “How are you doing today, dear one?”  She always—ALWAYS— responds with “I’m okay.  How about you?”  Then we look at each other, reading each others’ faces, the eyes, the way we posture ourselves.  And it is usually myself who says, “COOL!  Now—how are you really doing?”  Her head will duck so I cannot see her face and her voice lowers and I hear, “I’m hanging in there.”  I know then that it has been rough—but her moxie has carried her through again.

We discuss doctors appointments, tests, results and speculations of test results by the learned doctors.  We pull them down from their pedestals as keepers of life and death and laugh because regardless of what they claim to know, they do not know my friend Mary.  They do not know the drive, the perseverance, the MOXIE Mary carries within her that will not die nor go away.

Mary is a slight woman physically, dark haired, pale complexion, unsteady gait.  She is modest in her use of make-up, and always well-groomed.  When she approaches, I know how she feels before she reaches me.  I see the tiredness, the pulling in of her arms to protect her body, the mouth forcing a smile as her eyes spot me, waiting.  And unbeknownst to her, I too, force my mouth into a smile as the tears and scream of pain at seeing her pain stick in my throat.

You see, Mary and I play this “game” repeatedly to bolster each other, to avoid what seems to be a relentless truth of being out of control of emotions and body with this thing called “stage 4 cancer.”  Truth?  I don’t have the moxie Mary has.  Were it not for her wonderful MOXIE, I would crumble and not be able to support her, make her laugh, love her with all my heart and more.  No.  I would run and selfishly hide to protect myself from her pain, the knowledge we share that there are days ahead when I will sit at Starbucks alone, missing her.  But not dear Mary—she has MOXIE!

We talk about kids, hers, ours.  We talk about issues around us.  We talk about a trip to the beach that she can no longer make without rearranging doctor appointments and lab tests.  We talk about grandkids.  We gripe about politics, how the homeless are criminalized, how so many are marginalized today.  We talk about the hypocrisy of the “church” and the Christians who avoid her and judge her illness as a result of her doing something “bad” that God is punishing her for.  We laugh.  We get angry.  We get loud!  And we hold hands and share love between our spirits and souls and none of the outside world matters anymore—only what we share heart to heart.

Mary also uses her moxie to discuss things with us that she says she worries about.  Her grandson that she wants to see grow and loves with all her heart.  Her brother who wants to know if she has made out a will to designate who gets what and always asks, “Is the funeral paid off yet?”  Her hubby who gets angry when the treatments and the cancer take over and she cannot do the bills or cook or do laundry because he refuses to acknowledge he is powerless against the cancer and losing her and he rages.  He rages not only against the illness but against her.  Ironically, when she is doing fairly well, he dotes on her like he is trying to milk every happy moment he can out of her feeling well to return to rage when her body becomes tired again and he walks away.  Mary cries when we talk about these things.  And I listen.  My heart breaks for her and I feel the urge to gather her loved ones around her and scream in their faces—“Stop protecting yourselves and protect and love HER!  I KNOW your pain, but she is the one dealing with it daily!  Nightly!  NOT YOU!  Ease her pain with your LOVE!”  But instead, I listen, nod, hold her hand literally, and then say something inane that makes her smile, then hopefully laugh.  The hour we had each set aside to meet and be with each other becomes, two hours, three, sometimes four as we share.

Today, this morning, I will meet with Mary again for coffee.  I make no plans for the rest of the day.  I cannot, truly cannot, tell her I have to leave and “get busy” or go somewhere else.  No.  We don’t lie to each other.  We play the game, yes, but we DO NOT LIE to each other.  As I have already stated, I will see her, evaluate her health status, and then we will discuss matters of the heart and soul.  And it will be good.  It will be rich and full.  I will take a tiny bit of Mary away with me, and her moxie, and I hope I will be able to give her something she can take away with her from our meeting until we come together again.

MOXIE: courage, guts, pluck.  Perseverance.

My friend Mary.  My Truth.

Knock knock. He's heeere.....

L for Laughter

Laughter is defined as follows according to Webster’s New World College Dictionary: n. 1.the action of laughing or the sound resulting  2. an indication of amusement. That is Webster’s definition—in particular, " an indication of amusement."

No one enjoys a good bout of laughter more than my friend, Jeff.  He believes that laughter can cure the world’s ills.  He is notorious for telling stale, really stale, jokes from knock-knock jokes to groaning puns.  If he forgets a punch line, he makes one up.  And I will give him credit, some of his punchlines are definitely funnier than the original one he forgot!

Jeff claims if you can make people laugh, you can temporarily erase anger, stress, and even hate.  He works at this.  He works hard to create laughter in other people…and in himself.  I have watched this creativity on his part repeatedly and have to admit, for the most part, it works.  I can be ready to tear someone’s head off out of anger, and Jeff will make a comment, totally absurd mind you, that will at minimum make me chuckle, even as I glare at him for doing so, and my anger will at least be lessened if not dissipate entirely.

After knowing him, calling him crazy, weird, dumb and demented, I asked him to tell me, honestly, why he so worked at getting people to laugh and why it was so important to him as his whole life seemed to be focused on it.  His reply almost broke my heart.  Here I will share it with you.

“I laugh and make other people laugh because there is too much hurt in the world.  Everybody aches inside, outside, for one reason or another.  I’m tired of the hurt I see when I look at people’s eyes, the slump of their shoulders.  Ever noticed that when people laugh they kind of bend and then stand up straight?  Ever notice how their eyes kinda clear when they’re laughing?  Ever see how the blank face now has a smile on it?  If I made them laugh, their eyes become clear if only for a moment, the faces smile… then I done good,” Jeff said.

But I pushed him even farther.  I asked him why this seemed to be his particular mission in life.  And Jeff, not smiling said, “When I see other people smile, hear them laugh, I can smile and laugh.  ‘Cause if I don’t laugh, I’m gonna cry and if I give up smiling and laughing and start crying, I am scared I will drown in my own tears and die.  You can turn to books and writing, our other friends do other things to feel better.  Me?  I gotta find something funny, something to laugh at so the dark and the problems don’t swallow me.  You get it?  It’s me surviving and helping other people survive.  When I can’t laugh…well, it ain’t gonna be worth it anymore.  It’s sorta like I’m the crazy leprechaun at the end of the rainbow throwing out my jokes like pieces of gold to make them smile.  It don’t cost me anything and keeps me going and I hope them, too.  Besides, I’ve seen what mean laughter and bullying laughter can do.  It most nearly killed me, so mine is good.  I don’t laugh at how people look, what they say, how they act.  I find something that’s funny like a dog chasing its tail, or the way a car is parked all honker jawed in the parking lot and wonder what made someone park like that and by the time we get through laughing about it, no one suffers from it and we all feel better.  I laugh when we eat PBJ sandwiches and pretend they are steak rather than cry because they are not.  See?  Laugh with love.  That’s all.  Shared laughter.  Then we’re all together, no different from each other, all together laughing and sharing.  If you don’t get it, I’ll try to find a knock knock joke for you to help you out, and that will make you laugh!”

He knows I detest his knock knock jokes so I smiled, threatened him with tape over his mouth, then said, “So you were made fun of, Jeff?”  And he smiled and said, “All the time—but I won.”  I asked seriously, “How?”

His grin spread across the whole of his face and he laughed, then said, “Because I can be happy, enjoy myself at no one’s expense, and they are miserable with their own mean selves.  I laugh now, they cry.  That’s how it works when you laugh AT others instead of with them.  When you’re mean. So.  Are you ready?  I got another really great joke for you!”

I begged off, but I was ever so glad Jeff was my friend and the irritating jokester. He was right.  Laughter is good.  It does temporarily relieve pain, stress, anger, etc., and allows us all enough time to step back, breathe deep to award him that deep belly laugh, and he goes on and so do we who were fortunate enough to have him share it with us.

In conclusion, Jeff’s laughter fits the literal definition though the laughter he was subjected to was not amusement but ridicule.  He redefined laughter by his attitude and kindness towards others because he knew the pain they had and tried to use laughter to heal.  And his truth about laughter?  Well, it has become mine.  I will use it as I can for the relief of others as well as myself.  So—Want to hear a knock knock joke?

just look around...

K for Kaleidoscope

The definition of “kaleidoscope” is: n. 1.a tubular instrument containing loose bits of colored glass, plastic, etc. reflected by mirrors so that various symmetrical patterns appear when the tube is held to the eye and rotated  2. anything that constantly changes, as in color and pattern;  according to Webster’s New World College Dictionary.

I spent many happy and entertaining hours peering into a kaleidoscope with the colored end tipped to face the sun.  It made the colors brilliant and as I turned it, I was always amazed at how quickly the same shapes could be arranged in such a different manner.  I absolutely could spend a hour or more just squinting into the small eyehole and twisting the tube, fast or slow at my whim.  And should it break or become damaged, it was replaced as quickly as I could gather enough coins to replace it with a new and always better one.  Well, at least different colors or shapes inside.

My uncle saw my fascination with it since I carried it everywhere I went, and attempted to teach me about geometric shapes.  He would look into it, then ever so carefully hand it to me and ask what shapes I saw.  Sadly, I cared not about the shapes but rather about the patterns and colors and how I could manipulate them.  But he was a kind man and would chuckle and say, “Maybe later,” leaving me to twist the tube and say my “wow” endlessly.

As with all the toys I had, one time I sat on it, bending the tube, and that time there was no extra money to be earned to replace it.  I picked it up in hopes of repairing it, put it in my drawer, and there it stayed, broken and useless.  Yes, I worked on it faithfully when I could, but it was never the same.  Still, I couldn’t let it go, so it stayed in my drawer until my mother got tired of shifting it around to put in the clothes she’d cleaned for me and finally threw it away.  I cried.  But at age seven, each toy I had was precious to me, and the kaleidoscope was no exception.

As a parent and adult, I in turn bought my children kaleidoscopes, anticipating their fascination with this toy I had so treasured.  A couple of twists of the barrel, a “yeah, it’s okay I guess,” and it was abandoned quickly for the television or stereo.  Knowing you can’t force someone to like what you like, I would simply pick it up, put it on my dresser, and hope maybe the next kid would like it—and then spend half an hour looking through it myself and loving it.

So why am I telling you this now?  Because the kaleidoscope is gone, the kids are gone, but the tube has been replaced by a new form of a kaleidoscope.  Now, after being less busy and not caring for kids, a home, working at a demanding job, I have realized I now have time to make my life and all I see a kaleidoscope.

After all the rain we had, we had sunshine the past week or so.  I had to travel to the edge of town and to the rural outskirts  of Bakersfield.  Wow!  Talk about vivid colors!  Wildflowers, flowers around houses, brilliant green hills and lawns—I only had to turn my eyes—no tube twisting needed!  And shapes!  Some flowers were triangular, some round, some layer after layer of petals!  Green stems and leaves, also different shapes and colors!  All were there for me to look around and take in—as well as a deep breath of amazement at the awesome spectacle surrounding me!

Then I began to notice the bird nests, the baby animals that seemed to have appeared from nowhere.  Trees were laden with blossoms and birds filled their branches around the blossoms.  Bees were busy with the little clover flowers in the grass, the blossoming flowers, buzzing and busy gathering nectar and sharing it from one tree or plant to another.  They were kaleidoscopes of color, too.  Their yellow and black against the white of a blossom or the opening rose was so energizing and peaceful at the same time.

The most beautiful of all, though, was my little Sara lying on the green grass, her white body and little brown ears, twitching as she basked as only a dog can, in the sunlight’s warmth.  I stood mesmerized watching her, much as I had when facing the sun I had twisted the long ago held kaleidoscope.  Her ears slightly moving, her occasional stretching of her legs to expose as much of her body as possible to the sun.  Little eyes became slits and her breathing slowed down as she became one with the grass.  

I felt I was seeing a pattern of nature rather than illuminated plastic or glass shards.  Everything was in harmony and a part of each other.  Birds, flowers, bees, my little Sara, the green grass, the azure sky with wisps of clouds, warm sun, air gently moving around all.  This was my wonderful kaleidoscope.  Patterns shifting, as we all became the pieces that fit and moved together.  My truth.  My kaleidoscope.

are you an I or an i?

I is i

Age 3: “I  found a bug!  Look!  Look!  I  found a bug!”

Question from adult: “Is it alive?  Is it dead?  Get it out of the house, NOW!”

  I hide my treasure, alive, in my tiny fist, and put it under my pillow.  I  will take care of you, little bug, and play with you later.  I  have learned to “sneak.”

Age 5:  “I  can write my name!  I  can count to 100 and say all the letters!”

Adult:  “Of course.  Why do you think you go to school?  Just wait.  It gets harder.”

I hope my teacher is still proud of me.

Age 6:  “I  am afraid.  There’s a monster under my bed that I saw on TV -- it is under my bed!  Don't turn off the light, PLEASE!  I  am scared!”

Adult:  “Don’t be ridiculous!  There are no monsters.  Go to bed.  NOW!  Quit being such a baby!”

I learn baby  is ridiculous.  I am ridiculous.  I lie awake, fearful, and say no more, ever, about being afraid.  The words hide inside, below the surface where no one else will know—but I will.

Age 9:  “I  got the baby to quit crying for you, Mama, so did I do okay?”

Adult:  “Just leave me alone.  You don’t begin to understand how hard it is to be a parent.  And keep the noise down so he will stay asleep.”

I learn best efforts don’t necessarily a happy Mother make.  I do them only to avoid repercussions now for not seeing they need to be done.

Age 16:  “ What kind of career do I want?  I  want to be a medical doctor and missionary to India and change the world!  I want to spread the love!”

Adult school counselor:  “Be practical.  You’re a girl.  Teach.  Be a nurse.  Be a secretary.  Marry well and have kids.  So what do I put down for your college and career choice?”

Me:  “Okay.  I will be a ballerina.”

Adult School Counselor:  “All right.  Go back to class.  Next.”

I learn it doesn’t matter what I want.  Dreams are for others.  I learn they don’t hear.  Ballerina?  Unless ballerinas can dance in the tops of trees they climb—whatever.

Age 19: “I will not lose anymore friends to a senseless war in Vietnam that they get drafted into to foster a stupid ass political agenda!”

Establishment:  “Put your damn sign down, quit protesting, and go home you stupid hippies and flower children!  This is real life!  War is war.  Keep it up and you will be arrested!  You don’t know what you’re talking about!  Get out of here!”

I learn in a group, I can create change, answers.  I learn my voice can be heard as one among many.  I learn one less former classmate will die in Nam and government needs to “grow up” and be FOR THE PEOPLE.  And inside I  feel good. 

Age 21-35: “I am a mother!  I will defend my children!  I will not let narrow minded people make my children feel insignificant or less than due to bigoted, misogynistic cultural ‘norms.’  Every human has rights!  Every human has worth!  Every human, animal, tree on this planet should be respected, but more, loved and cared for!”

Society: “Will you just shut up and accept that this is the way life is.  Are you crazy enough to think you can change the world?  What the hell is wrong with you?  Nothing will ever change.  You are poor, a single mother.  You have no future.  And love will not change a damn thing.  So shut up!”

I refuse to shut up and go away to make them more comfortable in accepting the status quo.  Material things are necessary to exist with food in stomachs, shelter from the elements, clothes to wear. Poor? yes, monetarily--but  Nike’s will not kiss a scraped knee, soothe a broken heart from the first rejection of a crush, console a small heart over the death of a beloved animal.  LOVE will change things!  The Jordache jeans, Air Jordan tennis shoes, riding around in a Porsche are nice, but it is the LOVE that feeds the spirit.  No, I won’t shut up and I will love.

Age 36-55:  “Why do injustices go on?  Why am I feeling so lost and confused?  Why do I  wind up the bad guy, the black sheep?  What have I done wrong?  Why has integrity become a take it or leave it item?  Why am I hurting so for others to the point of crying when I see abuse, hear hateful words, see children walking with heads down, having already given up at such a tender age?”

Society:  “Accept it.  When you can’t deal with it, walk away.  It’s the other person’s problem, not yours.  Be rational.  Quit being so sensitive.  Just get over it.  Hunger?  Poverty?  Abuse?  Destruction of our planet?  Animals abused and killed?  Homeless youth and elderly?  LGBTQ?  Sickness?  LET IT GO!  Just WALK AWAY AND LET IT GO!”

I  see.  I hear.  I feel.  And I know—I has always equaled i. Still I hurt.

Age 67:  i am tired.  And that is not a typo.  It is intentionally a lower case i.  I used to fight.  I was smart enough to maintain in the household I grew up in to survive.  I left and hit the streets in protest against  war sucking up friends and sending them back in body bags.  It worked to protest.  I was empathetic and pragmatic at the same time.  Find the source of the problem and knock it out of the park so peace and love could prevail.  But the “why” questions never stop.

Definition of “I”: ninth letter of the alphabet; ego; self.

My truth:  We all start out with a capital I—finding ourselves.  As children we are not flaunting our “I” but rather trying to express ourselves and grow into our world.  “I found a bug!”  Super great discovery that in the world of a 3 year old has never happened before and is astounding!  And so it progresses.  WE, society, the great disparity in the economy, war, politics, schools—all of it—will systematically whittle down the I until it becomes the i.  So my truth is if i want my i to be seen and heard, I will write.  I will share my truth, my discoveries, my hopes, my love and empathy.  Some will have a voice in painting, some in music, some in politics and rallies, some as healers, some as leaders, and some—in writing.  I am older.  I hope wiser.  I have fought, I have acquiesced when forced to, and I reflect on Vietnam and know things can change.  I want my “i” to become an “I” again.  Integrity starts with an i—my truth is I have to count and SO DO YOU!

H for Hope -- the hardest blog to write so far!

H for HOPE

Here we go—the definition of hope is: n. a feeling that what is wanted is likely to happen; desire accompanied by expectation.   v. to want very much.  This is the definition according to Webster’s New World College Dictionary.  And now, we are going to throw in another definition from the Bible, Proverbs 13:12:  “Hope deferred makes the heart sick, but a longing fulfilled is a tree of life.”  Hmmmm.  Provocative, isn’t it?

We often say, “ Oh, I hope … happens!”  Or, “ I just hope everything turns out all right!”  And, “ We can only hope and pray!”  Ever made those comments?  Heard others speak them?  Of course you have unless you have totally isolated yourself from the world, in which case you would not be reading this right now!  And then there is a phrase that one of my English professors railed against repeatedly—“HOPEFULLY…”  He maintained hopefully was not even a legitimate word!  He hated it with a passion, stating it was a generalized say-nothing word, right up there with the word nice, which also says nothing. (Funny what you remember, huh?)  As a result, I try to avoid the words hopefully and nice when I write.  I truly do see the vacuum they leave people with and they are pretty empty words for the most part.  They can cover a lot of territory with very little commitment on the part of the one throwing the words out there.  But the word HOPE, by itself, speaks volumes.

I have mentioned before that I volunteer and feed the homeless.  You would think it would become routine, much as other things you repeatedly do.  But it never becomes routine.  Each time my friends and I leave, having distributed food for both the homeless and their fur babies, I am in awe of the hope they hold onto that they will be out of this situation and with any luck, sooner rather than later.  I look at their make-shift shelters, everything they own in a trash bag or backpack, their worn out shoes, no socks, gaunt faces, and I wonder—what do you have to hope for?  I am in awe that they will make comments such as, “God is good to me!  Others are a lot worse off.  See? I have socks and you brought me a lunch!”  And they will smile a genuine smile of thankfulness.  They survive because they never lose hope!  They also encourage others, reminding them that hope is not gone or lost because they are still alive and surviving.

HOPE.  Desire accompanied by expectation.  Fulfilled hope a tree of life.  We experience severe heat and drought, like last summer, and hope for rain and cooler temperatures.  We pass a car accident and see the ambulance there and hope everyone will be all right.  We see people acting cruelly toward another, bullying them, and at the least hope they can be stopped and receive just consequences for their actions, if we cannot actively stop it.  We Hope for peace—around the world, in our country, in our communities, homes, in ourselves.  We try to make it happen, usually starting with ourselves, and try to extend it as far as we can to the outside world.

But our question, something that burns in us, deep down, is what happens if hope dies?  What if people quit hoping for the things we want to make right?  The things we want to leave our children, grandchildren that will better their lives?  What if that hope slowly ebbs from us?  We lose it?  Give up?  What then?

“Hope deferred makes the heart sick…”   No more writing.  Why write if you lose hope that you will make a difference, touch someone, inspire someone?  No more music written or created.  Why bother when no one will sing your words, hum your innovative creation of notes strung together and be moved by it?  No more outrage against injustice.  Hey, what happens happens, right?  What can one do when there is no hope to change the wrong?  When one cares and no one else does?  When families divide and care not what happens to their members?  When animals are killed thoughtlessly?  Cruelty goes on towards human life, animal life, our earth?  Sick hearts without hope will do nothing and simply wait to die because what is there if there is no hope?

My truth is that there is an innate sense of survival in each of us.  We are born with it.  And as babes, we either hope and thus try to survive, or we are overcome and die.  Hope is in our species as humans, the animal species, and the earth keeps trying and trying to repair and renew itself in spite of what we do to her.  Hope is all around us.  But if we give up, deny that urging in our souls to desire with expectation, our hearts will sicken and die.  I can’t imagine a more horrible death than one where the dying heart has no hope left and slips out into the emptiness it is already a part of.

In the movie, “The Never-Ending Story,” the greatest battle came about with the nothing.  It was a huge black nothingness that swallowed hope, dreams, everything into its blackness and all was naught.  As an adult, watching the movie, my heart pounded, I felt desperate for the boy hero to win over the nothing!  And I had nightmares about being swallowed up into the NOTHING—being left in a black vacuum—totally empty.

I fight for HOPE.  As long as I am fighting, I have hope because I am expecting an outcome and result.  We HAVE TO HOPE !  If we do not—we will become a part of the nothing.  That is my truth and I HOPE  I am right!

G for Germ

Webster’s New World College Dictionary  defines the word “germ” as follows: n. 1. the rudimentary form from which a new organism is developed; seed; bud  2. any microscopic organism, esp. one of the bacteria,that can cause disease  3.that from which something can develop or grow; basis.       Now that is cool!

I absolutely love things that are total opposites, depending on who is referring/defining them.  So GERM can be bad or good.  And therein lies the FUN!

Since most people think a germ is negative, something that causes disease, they will do a number of things to actually KILL germs.  They wash their hands frequently, make sure they eat from relatively germ free dishes and use relatively germ free utensils to eat with.  They launder their clothes, take showers, etc.  We must live as germ free as possible.  But then the medical profession will immunize us with an altered germ to prevent us from getting sick, too.  Weird, huh?  But oh—sooooo interesting!

I remember being taken to the doctor as a child because I had an intense desire to consume dirt.  I ate it dry, as mud pies, and always had dirty hands and fingers which were frequently in my mouth.  My mother was appalled that I didn’t have the plague from eating all that dirt.  The doctor she took me to seemed to feel I had a vitamin deficiency and that was why I ate dirt.  He recommended certain vitamins and iron to supplement my diet.  Well, I have never been big on pills or taking them.  And during my childhood, there was no such thing as gummy chews to get medicine and vitamins down a child’s throat.  My mother believed in pills over dirt, however, and tried to get them into me.  I would choke, gag, sometimes to the point of throwing up, and after over a week of it, she gave up and I went back to my exquisite mudpie/dirt eating.  Yes, I got the measles—from school.  I got chickenpox—from school again.  I got the mumps from a church pot luck.  Then I got the measles again—red measles this time as opposed to German measles—and again from church.  Otherwise, I was healthy as a horse and then about age five, I gave up dirt as a steady diet—when I started school and caught all the prevailing diseases shared so liberally by my classmates and those who faithfully attended church.  

When my children came along, I had two dirt eaters, the other three being more inclined to scraping gum from under benches and tables and popping it in their mouths.  Repulsive, I know.  Filthy, I also know.  However, they were healthy.  And they also used those filthy “binky” pacifiers or sucked their filthy little thumbs.  But I am proud to say, they all survived and were rarely sick.  My kids caught the chickenpox from each other as when the oldest brought the germ home from school, my general practitioner advised having them drink from each other’s glasses, eat off each others’ ice cream cones, etc. to hurry the process of five bouts of chickenpox along.  Every two weeks we would have another victim and the nice part was I could drag the ones now immune to the grocery store, scabs and all, and get a break occasionally.  I was only housebound for a couple of months and it was over.  Measles they had all been immunized against, as well as mumps.  I also found it interesting that my dirt eaters rarely got colds or stomach flu, but god only knows how many viruses my gum scrapers brought to our household.  Germs!  The bane of families with more than one child!

So, yes, as per the definition, germs can bring on disease.  And they are here to stay.  They were here before any of us were alive and will be here long after we are all dead and gone and creating more germs by virtue of our rotting selves.  

And then comes my joyful truth about germs.  Having taught many years,  I have looked at education as the germs of critical thinking that take root, grow, and produce fantastic people!  I had the privilege of implanting a germ of knowledge into a mind that would grow and blossom into a person with a whole new and unique way of thinking, acting, and living.

On a personal note, I think of the “germ” of love my dear Aunt Tommie implanted in my mind and heart.  Christmas had been scant as my dad was working a regular job all day and trying to make a rose farm produce as well.  Money—what was that?  Santa?  Seriously?  (This from a cynical five year old.)  But at the time, there was only myself and one younger sibling.  So we got presents from extended family and from the church that knew our situation better than I did.  We had been in Texas almost a year and had our first Christmas there.  Aunt Tommie gave me a tablet, pencil, and two books for Christmas.  One about dogs and one about baseball.  My sister got a coloring book and crayons and a stuffed animal.  I know we received a toy each, but I don’t remember what mine was.  I can tell you the names of my books, though.  One was entitled, Ugly Joe-A Dog Who Loved Being Loved, and Circus Catch-The Story of a Great Outfielder.  At seven, I was already an avid reader and writer.  I kept the books safe until we were flooded out in a flash flood.  I cried more over the loss of those books than anything else.  But that is not what I meant to tell you.  After Christmas was over, but before New Year’s came, Aunt Tommie came by and said we were going to go through my toy box.  I agreed readily because cleaning out old stuff had never ever been something I enjoyed.  And I could always find an excuse to hang onto what I considered prized possessions. 

As we sat on the floor by the toy box, I saw Aunt Tommie separating the really busted up toys from those not quite so bad and the ones that were actually decent.  I would hand them to her, and she would place them in the category she deemed they belonged in.  I watched, curious.  I had thought they were all going out to the burn barrel so this intrigued me.  Finally, when there was nothing but one of my socks left in the bottom of the toy box, I announced it was empty and that I would get a bag to take the stuff out to be burned.  As I started to get up, I felt Aunt Tommie’s hand on my arm.  I looked at her, wondering what she wanted.  She said, “Sit down, honey.”  I gladly did and she put her arm around me and pulled me close to her side.  “What, Aunt Tommie?  I don’t get it.  What?” I queried.

She looked into my eyes and softly said, “Do you know there are children on my Watkins route that didn’t get anything for Christmas?”  I shook my head, not quite believing her.  “But everybody gets something.  Don’t they?”  I saw her eyes get glassy and then one small tear escaped.  She shook her head and then looked at the toys we had taken out of the toy box.  “They don’t get nothin’ honey.  Not one thing,” she said so softly I had to lean in to hear her.  My voice matched hers as I almost whispered, “How come, Aunt Tommie?  It was Christmas!  Didn’t nobody love them?”

Her two hands gently moved to hold my face and she said, “Honey, they have plenty people that love them, but they only have love.  They can’t buy presents or even the stuff to make presents.  Most times, they will put their money towards a meal that will feed all of them and their families.  And that meal, where everybody gets plumb full and stuffed, is the best Christmas present ever.  You get it, now?”  I thought about our Christmas dinner with turkey, ham, and all the trimmings and how everybody ate at Aunt Tommie’s house and there were burps and grunts and “Gawd I’m stuffed” echoing in the living room and dining room after they could not eat any more.  But a lot of people in my family ate that way, Christmas or not.  I remembered the people on Aunt Tommie’s route.  Little kids running around with only a t-shirt and chewing on a biscuit.  Women with a watery soup on the stove and it looked like only water in the pot.  No, they didn’t often eat until they were stuffed.  I gazed back into Aunt Tommie’s eyes and whispered, “I get it.”

“Well,” she said a little louder, “what I’d like to do is have you get a bag and some of the leftover wrapping paper and bring them here.  Then you and me are going to play Santa Claus on my route.  Whaddya think?”  My response was to smile and ask, “Really?  We get to play Santa Claus?”  And I got a huge smile and a hug in return.  The GERM of kindness and compassion was growing inside me.  Aunt Tommie never preached, lectured, talked on and on like so many other adults in my life seemed wont to do.  She was the example, the role model, that planted the seeds of action that were kind and loving in my heart, soul, and mind.  The germs/seeds grew and grew and were the basis of my development, my essence, my very being.

And one more example of good germs as the basis for growth—Writers of Kern.  Seeds/germs of knowledge are offered repeatedly as guest speakers come and share their knowledge and expertise.  Through WOK I decided to try to take on poetry.  And I love it!  Always a fan of Keats, Yeats, Wordsworth, even Dr. Seuss and Shel Silverstein and other wonderful poets, listening to our own poet laureate speak was inspiring and the germ took hold of my system in a desire to try it as a medium.

I look at the people who planted the germs of hope, compassion, love and those who planted the germs of knowledge and the desire for more knowledge.  The germs of knowing, teaching, opening the world of writing even wider are precious.

Germs can be good or bad.  Constructive or destructive.  And I do so love a paradox!  And that, dear reader is my truth—as an organism that grew from the germs of love and knowledge.