A soul's plea

Anybody who's been in a controlling relationship or has been victimized by injustice or discrimination knows that freedom is built into our souls; that the form of any oppression upon us, the manipulation of heart, mind and/or liberty, is a grave offense and that that violation resonates to our very core.

--February 4, 2009

Tuned in

For not being much of a TV-watcher, I sometimes get made fun of for ordering two (count 'em, two!) premium channels: TV5Monde (French) and RaiItalia (Italian). But tonight I was reminded of why I keep them in my package. Not only do they help me maintain language skills, but they also consistently have beautiful, artistic films I would never find through Netflix or iTunes; and vegging out is still somewhat intellectually engaging when I turn to one of these channels instead of the reality TV alternatives.

Tonight I happened to catch the last two-thirds of a WWII movie called 'Zone Libre' (Free Zone). I won't go into too much detail but the movie focuses on one part of a family that is split up and hiding with a French peasant who is protecting them from Nazi sympathizers. The quality of the acting and the cinematic storytelling were top-notch. I noticed aspects of the experience I had never thought of from previous exposure to other WWII movies and books. In one scene, the peasant Monsieur Maury stops to check on three of the women he is protecting -- two sisters and their mother -- at the isolated farmhouse and he brings them a bouquet of lilacs. Their expressions of delight and gratitude spurred me to think of the profound nature and impact this seemingly tiny gesture offers.

***

To anybody else it's just a bouquet.
But to us - we who are stuck in the shadows of a hostile world,
denied the luxury of 'normalcies' and faced instead with
yellow stars, boxcars, family losses and death camps -
these flowers remind us of the beauty that can still grow
in a world as crazy as ours,
where men engineer systems of annihilation
and lose sight of humanity.

These flowers show us the kindness
that can survive despite the bleak times,
of the humanity and goodness in some
that rise to outdo the evil of the day.

These remind us that we can choose who we become,
even in the worst-case scenario
we can mimic or defy our captors
in the adopted attitudes and values we display.

These blooms may be the only sweet-smelling fragrance
we encounter while hiding out on this farm,
here with the smells of sweat and sh*t and animals.

They may be our only visible sign of hope
and they sustain our will to live
when we think of the beauty this world can offer,
the goodness of those around us,
and we take a sensual escape from our imprisonment.

But to anybody else, it's just a bouquet.

Snapshots of humanity

"All that mankind has done, thought, gained or been -- it is lying as in magic preservation in the pages of books." -Thomas Carlyle 

As far back as I can remember, I've had a book in my hand. Growing up it was my joy and the way that I felt set free. Not much can coax me to put reading and writing on hold, but a certain project that took top-priority these last few months did. That being said, as soon as I'd finished I took a running leap into my pile of books and savored the wisdom and humanity I found in their pages.

First came Eat Pray Love. Elizabeth Gilbert's storytelling of her yearlong search for pleasure, devotion and love (in that order) sparkles with intelligence, wit, and personality. Her sense of adventure, courageous vulnerability and the insights she draws from philosophy and major world religions allows the reader to participate in her travels and growth, to empathize and celebrate in her struggles and triumphs, and carry away at the end of the book a sense of friendship with her. I rarely say I feel that personal connection, but few authors have the audacity to share so generously of themselves, to include both virtues and flaws in democratic detail and to react to both with such love.

Favorite excerpts/lessons from this book (ironically both come during her time in India where she studies at a temple and meets fellow student Richard, a larger-than-life character from Texas):

• [On being aware of our thoughts] He said, 'You need to learn how to select your thoughts just the same way you select what clothes you're gonna wear every day. This is a power you can cultivate.' ...  On first glance, this seems a nearly impossible task. Control your thoughts? Instead of the other way around? But imagine if you could? ... So I've started being vigilant about watching my thoughts all day, and monitoring them. I repeat this vow about 700 times a day: "I will not harbor unhealthy thoughts anymore." Every time a diminishing thought arises, I repeat the vow.
• [On the subject of soul mates] "I seriously believed David was my soul mate." Richard: "He probably was. Your problem is you don't understand what that word means. People think a soul mate is your perfect fit, and that's what everyone wants. But a true soul mate is a mirror, the person who shows you everything that's holding you back, the person who brings you to your own attention so you can change your life. A true soul mate is probably the most important person you'll ever meet, because they tear down your walls and smack you awake. But to live with a soul mate forever? Nah. Too painful. Soul mates, they come into your life just to reveal another layer of yourself to you, and then they leave."

Next, I followed a friend's advice and went for another adventure, this time to Spain and the Sahara Desert, and then to the Soul of the World. Paulo Coelho's The Alchemist is a fable about a young boy pursuing his 'Personal Legend' (what each of us was designed to do -- something that usually you know as a child). Coelho offers piercing insights into the ways we often compromise as adults on our authenticity and dreams. His fable surprises with its depth because it is packaged in simple prose, but it resonates on a personal level with the reader because the universal themes and lack of pretense allow it to be a guide for whomever is wise or lucky enough to peek under its cover. 

From The Alchemist:

"There is one great truth on this planet: whoever you are, or whatever it is that you do, when you really want something, it's because that desire originated in the soul of the universe. It's your mission on earth. ... To realize one's Personal Legend is a person's only real obligation."

Whether it be a woman's heartache and subsequent search to discover herself and the world, or a shepherd boy's quest to realize his potential and remain open to life's lessons along the way, both have changed me. Both accounts I found magically preserved in the pages of books, and both have inspired me to dream of the adventures I have yet to live and the contribution I hope to make one day in guiding fellow travelers in search of their own Personal Legend.

Photograph

Worn clothes hang from her thin frame.
Threadbare, mismatched, brightly colored, 
they are a contrast to the mask of grief on her face.
Furrowed brow. Life's toughest moments etched on her cheeks.
Her black hair, parted just where it has begun to gray,
hangs in braids at her shawl-wrapped shoulders.

I don't know her name
but this woman from Guatemala's Chimaltenango province
is cloaked with a humanity that I can relate to.
Her body bowed with resignation under the weight of her loss.
Eleven relatives washed away by Tropical Storm Agatha
Stomach protruding, she casts an unseeing glance down at the earth that took them.

A scene of destruction frozen in frame:
ravaged land, broken branches
The trees' vibrant shade of green seemingly mocks her despair
A haunting suggestion of the lives that once were there
In this quiet scene of grief, she is wholly removed from the chaos that ripples across the globe.
Right now, her shattered corner of existence is the only one that matters.

More than 1,700 miles away, a stranger grieves with her.

Photography by Ulises Rodriguez/EPA

Orb (a.k.a. Pumpkin)

She came to me in my darkest moments

When I was as broken as my dreams

She cowered under the bed with

the same fear I felt towards people around me --

avoidance I could relate to when it was all I could do

to get through another day with the pain.

She taught me that, in spite of my doubts,

I could still love and express that love.

She coaxed out my nurturing maternal side,

and little by little, as I gained her trust and respected her space,

I learned to hope that there would one day be

someone who showed me the same respect and tenderness.

Gradually, as she came out of her shell

she showed me that life after trauma

can be composed of the small silly moments

that made it worthwhile and so joyful before.

She showed me what it is to play

with the innocence and wonder of a toddler,

even after having been betrayed and abandoned

by the one person you should feel protected by.

Her snuggles brought me out of my pain

out of the loss, the fear and the darkness.

She was in many ways the presence of Christ in my life:

encouraging me to live again, restoring hope beyond the pain,

assuring me I had not been abandoned through it all

and was not alone, now or ever.

According to The Shack, God reveals Himself

in the least intimidating form for us to see.

God packaged His love for me in the form of

a scruffy, scrawny, scared little kitty,

whose two years of life had been defined by instability.

On days when I'm sad and she curls up beside me,

I still feel His love through her.

But I have also been healed to a point where

I can begin to look outside of my "safe" zone and glimpse God

in the everyday details and faces surrounding me in life.

So, tonight, like every night, I offer up my thanks to God

for the many blessings He has given me --

family, friends, faith, health, a job, the hope of a future --

and folded into that list is a precocious and affectionate cat

who's captured my heart with her zeal for life,

and restored my own with her presence.

--May 2, 2010

Attack Aftermath

I put on our class' t-shirt tonight (the one from high school with both our names on it) not knowing what his fate is -- a clammy, shaky, sinking feeling. At once numb and achy. Totally nauseous.

That death or severe injury is even a possibility for him right now has drained me of every drop of energy that overflowed my cup this morning. The spring in my step has uncoiled with the anxious dread of not knowing.

The silence.

The waiting.

Time does funny things to a person waiting for this type of news. It stretches itself to seem interminable but promises none of the speed that brought one to this stalemate.

I know what you must be thinking: "He's in a war zone; what did you expect?" But it's funny how that works, too, because while you try and prepare for these types of scares as you send them off with a hug, a mental dress rehearsal can't compare with the real thing. It's totally different when the whispered imaginings of "If ..." are replaced with nightmarish details of actual events. Bloodstain outside the T.G.I. Friday's on the boardwalk where many soldiers socialize. Details distilled in the military's slowness to release information and paired with a personal tendency to let my mind wander the "what-if" trail amount to a dance with insanity.

Try sleeping when you don't know whether your friend is in pain, conscious, dead or alive; whether he's alone in a military hospital or just reliving the horror in his bunk as his body and mind wrestle about the need for sleep.

I apologized to him - mentally - as I ate today; that my body seemingly kept ticking forward when for him the world had been interrupted so violently. The fact that my appetite was still there felt like a betrayal from my own body. I was full of dread, worry, fleeting bouts of hatred toward the Taliban, then the subsequent repentant prayers to God. Weren't all these enough to keep my body going?

In the fluctuation between panic and numbness, I got to thinking about war. Nothing in my mind was linear and these thoughts aren't either, so I won't try to string them together in a forced structure. I pondered:

• the wasted potential, the promise of brilliance bled out on battlefields where the gifted individual is hidden behind generic labels like "troop," "soldier," etc. 
• the unquantifiable senselessness of it all; the ugliest layers of Life and humanity exposed; the messes we get ourselves into for unchecked passions, lack of wisdom, and an abundance of pride. 
• the hatred I feel for the terrorists restrained only by my desire not to resemble them in any way; not to become like them by the same fatal flaw; instead, to tap into the potential nobility of a human soul and recognize the power to choose what we allow ourselves to become. 
• frustration for the moments when people reassure me there were "only injuries" reported. I know they're trying to comfort, but it sounds callused and naive to say that. "Only injured" could be a life-altering brain injury, limb or sensory loss. And, without any further information from the military, we have no way of gauging how many are "only" critically wounded, which could translate into the worst-case scenario. 

When we fight wars, we invite Satan -- in all his ugliness and horror -- to reveal his face on Earth in utter clarity. The depths to which humanity and angels alike can fall; the brutality and viciousness unleashed against each other, destroying the very fabric of our existences; reminding us -- as they are lifted from our hands -- what the most precious things in life actually are: family, friendship, love, health and faith.

"And remember, the truth that once was spoken: To love another person is to see the face of God" is a favorite line of mine from the musical "Les Miserables." It reminds me, now, why it is so crucial not to hate and allow evil another stronghold on Earth; but instead, to sacrifice our aching hearts, shattered dreams, and wounded pride on the altar of service to God and fight brutality with beauty, fear with faith.

That being said, abstract principles are little comfort to me as the silence consumes me tonight. All philosophical thought seems absurd when the concrete dangles before me.

Overwhelmed by feelings of powerlessness and exhaustion, I climb into bed.

***

Update 5/25: I heard from my friend this morning and he is safe.

A new favorite ...

I love pretty much everything about this song: the groove, the lyrics, his voice, and the production. Enjoy!