Never-ending

I had gone to bed very early and was asleep by 9 pm.  Yes, it was New Year’s Eve, but that didn’t matter when I was scheduled to work at 6 the next morning.  I only slept for about three hours when I was awakened around midnight by the sound of fireworks going off all around me.  New Years—2017, I thought as I continued to lie in my bed.  I didn’t want to get up.  Besides, there was no one in the house to celebrate with except the dogs.  And they weren’t a whole lot of fun as they cowered and whimpered and yelped as the loud booming raged on outside the house.

I didn’t mind being alone that night.  I didn’t mind not celebrating.  New Year’s Day isn’t a holiday I observe anyway.  Just putting a shared “Happy New Year” post on Facebook is basically as much acknowledgement as I give the occasion.  I don’t write blogs about it (hhmmm…guess that’s kind of a lie now!).  I don’t sip champagne.  I don’t sit in front of the television watching the ball drop in New York City.  And I don’t kiss or embrace anyone at midnight.

I lay awake for a few minutes as I thought about what makes up a year.  Scientifically, a year is just the number of days it takes the earth to move around the sun.  But isn’t life about the journey, not the destination?  So, what difference does it make when the sun arrives back at its origin?  And where did it actually start anyway?  How do we know exactly where the expedition began?  All right, so maybe I was giving this moment more existential thought than it really deserved.  But some people rejoice with dancing and drinking; I rejoice with reflection and deep thoughts.  Both celebrations, I guess, are ways of moving forward into new experiences.  And I think many people were ready to move on.

2016 was difficult for a lot of people.  It will probably be remembered as a time of death, loss, violence, and hardship.  But is that going to stop just because the clock struck midnight on December 31st?  Why do we think we can lock adversity into a Pandora’s Box marked 2016 and pray it will not be opened again.  We always tend to use years, or months, or days as a way to compartmentalize and contain life situations.

But that’s just an illusion; life doesn’t happen in sections because time actually doesn’t exist.  Time is just a manmade tool that allows us to track our days and put life into some controllable perspective.  Time is just a mechanism that helps us organize our days, like knowing I have to be at work at six in the morning.

But there is no such thing as time and space in heaven.  And if there are no limitations and no boundaries, how can death even be real?  Death is not even a concept because life is continuous.  The human concepts of space, time, and death don’t exist.  I remind myself of this because there are so many things I still want to accomplish.  But in order to reach all of my goals, to complete my life purpose, I cannot let myself be bound by the number of my days on earth or the physical walls that close in around me.  I have to believe I can do anything at any time that I please.  I have to believe I can be anywhere that I choose to be.  I have to shake off my shackles of time and space and fears, especially of death.

Now, as I write this, we have completed the first week of what we consider 2017 and already my life has changed.  I finished writing a new short story; I’m starting a new job; I‘ve have new opportunities to teach at Kansas City Community College, and I will be participating in some upcoming seminars.  Do I owe my sudden good fortune to 2017?  Do I thank the earth for starting a new journey around the sun?  No, I just thank God for all of the many blessings I have received continually in life.

So now, I smile and know that life goes on and that all those things I thought we all lost in 2016 still remain.  Nothing is ever lost in a life with no limits and no boundaries.  Nothing is ever a challenge in a life with no concept of time or space.

And now, I sit here in front of my computer and wonder how in the world I am going to end this essay.  I paced around for a while, took a shower, made a cup of tea…

And then, I smile as I realize…

…There is no end.  Nothing ever really ends….

Definitely to be continued…

 

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Tolerance and Hope

For a quiet moment, I stared anxiously at the beautiful black and white photo that was printed on the small plastic white card I held reverently in my right hand.  I couldn’t stop staring at the face of 13-year-old Helen “Potyo” Katz.  I couldn’t seem to turn away from the haunted look in her large dark eyes.

“Bring your card over here,” I suddenly heard the young museum docent say to me.  “If you place the card into one of the computers, you’ll get a print out about your child.”

I smiled and followed the young woman over to one of the computers that was lined up against the far wall.  I placed the card into the slot on the front of the computer.  A few second later, I picked up the single sheet of paper that had seeped out of a nearby printer.

Helen “Potyo” Katz

The same black and whiter photo of the young girl with the large dark eyes stared up at me from the page.  I quickly read through the text that was printed on the pure white paper.  I suddenly found myself choking back tears as I read the last two paragraphs.

“Potyo and her mother were immediately separated from her brother and sisters, and they were murdered.  Potyo was 13-years-old.”

“Potyo was one of 1.5 million Jewish children murdered by the Germans and their collaborators during the Holocaust.”

I took a deep breath and looked at the three tall card dispensers that were stationed at the front of the room. Each dispenser held stacks of white plastic cards.  Each card presented a picture and name of a child murdered during the Holocaust…

1.5 million children…

Looking at the stacks of cards I still couldn’t seem to wrap my head or my heart around that number.  I was still contemplating this fact when my friend, Allison, walked up beside me and asked if I wanted to go downstairs and attend the presentation by the guest speaker. Affirmatively shaking my head, I quickly followed Allison to the elevators and we rode in silence down to the lower level.

Allison and I had decided to tour the Museum of Tolerance in Los Angeles, California, because we both have a huge interest in the Holocaust, World War II and the events of the 1940s.  The exhibits at this museum were beautifully and respectfully designed to honor the people of the Holocaust.  I was pleased to see though that the museum also paid tribute to all people who were targets of hate crimes. All minorities that have suffered violence and discrimination are respectfully honored at the Museum of Tolerance.  Looking at the displays was a sobering and profound experience.

Allison and I took our seats in the large back room on the second floor that had been set aside for presentations.  As I sat comfortably in the plastic seat on the end of the third aisle and waited patiently for the presentation to begin, I glanced anxiously around the room.  I was pleased to see that the audience contained many young people.  A large majority of them were with a school group.  Others were sitting next to their parents.

A few minutes later, a short, slender man with dark hair walked up to the front of the room.  He introduced himself as Michael though he was known to his family as Miki.  For the next hour, I sat riveted to the presentation as Miki spoke of his experiences in the Auschwitz concentration camp during the Holocaust.  I found myself swept away as he talked about the separation of his family, the condition of the concentration camps, and the brutality he witnessed on a daily basis.  Listening to Miki’s words, I couldn’t keep the tears from flowing down my face.  I wanted to scream.  I wanted to cry out loud at the details of Miki’s horrific life story.  I had to continually turn my head to the open space on my left and forcibly breathe out to keep myself from screeching.

I was not alone in this grief.  Miki’s story was so intensely horrific that the audience reacted in shock and despair.  I looked around the room and saw many people in tears.  I struggled to hold in my sobs as I noticed a young blond boy gripping his mother’s hand and patting her arm as tears ran down both their faces.

When his hour was over, Miki still had not completed his entire story.  As terrifying as the story was, I didn’t want Miki to stop talking.  This moment was so incredibly enriching to my soul, I didn’t want it to be over.  I have read many books about the Holocaust, but hearing a first-hand account made the events more personal and realistic.  I wanted to remain connected to the people in that room, who were joined together to honor the tragedy and awesome courage of another person’s life.

When Miki had to end his presentation, Allison and I stood in the line of people walking to the front of the room to thank Miki for telling his story.  Allison and I patiently stood by as we watched audience members move up to Miki one at a time.  Now, I didn’t fight back my tears as I watched the young blond boy and his mother approach Miki.  Miki asked the boy how old he was to which the boy responded “Thirteen.”

“Thirteen!” Miki repeated.  “Aaahhh…that’s the age I was when I was sent to the Auschwitz concentration camp.”

Now the boy and the man stood staring at each other for a moment of profound silence.  Then, the boy suddenly threw his arms around Miki and held him in a long embrace.  I watched as the two generations held onto each other, trying to find some peace and understanding in life’s atrocities.  When the two separated again, I watched in awe as other young kids—13-, 15-, 17-year-olds—each took a turn to shake hands or hug Miki while thanking him for sharing his story.  I watched as one young girl with long dark hair offered her hand to Miki.  Her chin quivered violently as she tried to hold back the tears that were swimming in her eyes.  Miki took her hand looked into her eyes and said, “It’s okay to cry.”  He paused and then added, “And it’s okay to laugh.  We are all just human.”  The young girl’s tears now spilled down her cheeks as she embraced Miki quickly and then ran from the room.

Allison and I were the last in line and now we stood in front of Miki.  As Allison talked to him, I addressed the short, dark haired, elderly woman standing beside him.  Miki’s wife and I stared at each other for a second before embracing.  As we held onto each other, words just slipped out of my mouth.  I whispered to her, “You are beautiful.”

The woman pulled away and stared at me for a minute.  “Oh, no, not me,” she now said with a gentle laugh as a sweet blush eased across her cheeks.  Her suddenly rosy face and shy smile gripped my heart.  “Of course, you are,” I answered as the woman embraced me again.

I turned then to Miki and choked on my words as I said to him, “It was an absolute privilege to hear your story.”  Miki and I shared a gentle hug.

As I pulled away and turned towards Allison, I suddenly heard Miki’s wife excitedly say to him, “Did you hear what she said to me?  Did you hear what she said?!”

I turned back around to find the woman beaming joyfully at me as she stood next to her husband.  She seemed to be waiting anxiously for me to repeat the words.  “I told her she was beautiful,” I said even though my tears caused me to choke on the last word as the woman’s smile suddenly radiated out around the room.  I wanted to run back to her, take off the big white sunglasses she was wearing, stare into her eyes and ask, “Hasn’t anyone ever said that to you before?”  The woman seemed so pleased to be addressed in such a manner.  I suddenly realized that it was not ego that made her want my words repeated, but a deep aching need that we all have to be acknowledged and humanized.

I turned around then and followed Allison out the door and down the hallway to the bathroom.  I stepped into one of the stalls, leaned my head against the wall, and cried.  I don’t think I’ve wept that hard in a long time.  After a few minutes, I stepped out of my stall at the same time Allison came out of hers.  For a moment, we stood staring at each other as we noted our tears…

And then suddenly we smiled…

And then we started to laugh.

Because it really is okay to cry…

And it is okay to laugh.

Allison and I walked out of the bathroom and back into the main hallway.  We looked at a few more exhibits until the museum closed at 5 pm.  I didn’t want to leave.  I loved being at the Museum of Tolerance.  I certainly wouldn’t say it is the place that make me the happiest.  I certainly wouldn’t say it is the place that makes me feel the most alive.

The Museum of Tolerance, instead, is the place that makes me feel the most human…

I was always concerned that in years to come people would forget about the Holocaust, that it would simply over time just fade away into the pages of dusty old history books.  I think about the evil that people continue to do to each other.  I worry about the disrespect we, including myself, demonstrate to each other on a daily basis…

….but then I think about all of those young people who cried, and laughed, and honored a Holocaust survivor…

And I know there’s hope for the next generation.  Oh, yes, there is tremendous hope for the generations to come.

Hummingbird

One night, I was leaving work around 10 pm.  Though I was exhausted, I didn’t want to go right home.  There was one place I wanted to go before I drove back to my apartment complex.  Though in my head, I knew that my plan wasn’t a great idea, my heart kept telling me that I needed to go.

I had been living in Antioch, Tennessee, a suburb of Nashville, for about two years.  I loved to listen to the radio every morning as I drove to work.  It was rather strange though to hear beautiful music mixed in with the horrible crimes that  were described in the morning news reports.  I was surprised by all the violent stories that were reported on the radio as I drove to work every morning.  Throughout the day, I would contemplate the stories I had heard.  Sometimes, I would have to fight back tears.  I just couldn’t understand how people could be so vicious to each other.  I cried when I heard about the young pregnant woman who was walking down the street and was almost run over by a truck.  The driver was afraid the young woman would report the incident so he shot her to death.  Another story focused on a young man who had moved to Nashville to pursue a music career.  While showing his visiting family around the city one day, he was shot to death in front of his mother and aunt when he had stopped to ask for directions.  Every morning, while driving to work, I would hear stories of more brutality and deaths.  I continually felt overwhelmed and distressed by the violence in an otherwise amazing city like Nashville, Tennessee.

One morning,  as I drove to work, I listened to the news reporter tell the story of a young 18-year-old girl who was raped and strangled to death in the bathroom of a local Laundromat.  The story sent chills through me for several different reasons.  It was so sad that the woman was so incredibly young and died so terribly.  However, I was also disturbed that the Laundromat was located just a block away from where I lived.  The Laundromat was just on the corner of my street.  I thought about the situation throughout the day.  Finally, I decided that on my way home from work that night I would stop by the Laundromat.  I didn’t mean to be morbid.  I didn’t want to go inside.  I didn’t want to see the actual setting of the young woman’s death.  I just wanted to sit for a moment in my car in the Laundromat parking lot and offer up a prayer, a blessing, to the young woman who had lost her life so tragically and so close to home.  I just didn’t want the young woman to feel so alone in her tragedy.

I left work that night and drove to the Laundromat in quiet contemplation.  I had been to this Laundromat before.  I knew it well.  The bathroom where the crime occurred was directly across from the entrance.  A wall of dryers lined both sides of the bathroom door.  Three rows of washers sat in the center of the large room.  Folding tables were along the front by the big plate glass windows.  Though the Laundromat was opened 24-hours, I didn’t expect anyone else to be around that night.

I turned off the highway and drove down the street to the Laundromat.  I took a deep breath and pulled into the parking lot.  I parked in a space up front…and caught my breath.

Oh, my gosh…I was surprised to see that there were a lot of people in the Laundromat.  They weren’t there to investigate or to morbidly view the crime scene.  The people were actually doing their laundry.  I sat in my car and watched through the large front window as three women chatted and laughed as they busily folded their underwear and linens at the front tables.  Two young men were in the back pulling clothes out of the dryers.  Several other people were leaning up against washing machines quietly sipping out of Starbuck’s cups.  The only evidence of the young girl’s passing was yellow crime scene tape that was plastered over the bathroom door in the back of the room.  I stared at the people and felt the urge to scream out at them.  “Don’t you know a young woman just lost her life here?”  I had to consider that maybe they didn’t know.  Maybe they didn’t listen to the news or pay attention to current events.  Maybe these people, who were busily folding their sheets and sipping their coffee, just didn’t care.  Maybe having clean underwear was more important than the death of a beautiful young girl.  Maybe…but I just didn’t understand how clean clothes could be so incredibly important at that moment.  Yeah, a young woman died…but life goes on…and we all need clean underwear.

I said my prayer for the safe passage of the young woman and then started my car.  I drove home in awkward silence even though I was the only one in the car.  My exhausted mind was twisting with confusion as I pulled into the lot, parked my vehicle, and went inside my apartment.  I walked into my living room and turned on the news.  A picture of a young woman suddenly appeared on the screen.  She has spiky red hair.  Green inky tattoos graced her bare arms.  I stared at her face as the reporter announced that the young woman who had died at the Laundromat had been identified.  I don’t remember her name.  I just remember her beautiful wide green eyes staring up at me from the television screen.  I went to bed that night and cried myself to sleep.

That incident happened about 10 years ago, and yet I have been thinking a lot about it over the last few weeks for some reason.  I think, as I age another year, I become more aware of the preciousness of life and how fragile all of us are.  Life is too short…It goes too fast…and I don’t think I want to spend my final years worrying about doing laundry or chores or anything that doesn’t provide me with bliss and joy.  I’ve become selfish with my time.

Several months ago, I asked a friend if he wanted to go out to lunch with me.  He responded, “I can’t.  I have a lot of laundry to do.”  I told him the laundry would still be there when he got home.  He still, however, refused.  I took myself out to lunch.

I know that on my deathbed I will have lots of regrets.  But I guarantee, I will not be lying there thinking, “Damn, I should have done more laundry.”

Life does go on…we just need to determine how we are going to spend the precious time we are given.  We just have to determine when life itself becomes more important than our mundane existence.

I don’t have all the answers.  I struggle, too, with procrastination, indecision, anxiety…

But I do know this…as I am writing now about the death of this beautiful young woman I noticed something fluttering to the right side of my face.  I turned and glanced out my window…and looking right into my eyes was a tiny sweet humming bird.  It is the first one I have seen this season and I’m surprised that it came right up to my window.  The small bird stared at me for a while through the thick glass before doing a quick spin and then flying away….

Oh, yes, sweetheart, I got your message….you can rest in peace.

True Justice

Sometimes, it can be hard to teach a basic reading class to college students who don’t like to read.  Most of the young students I have in my class are more interested in their cell phones and social media.  They prefer to play video games than to finish the assigned readings from their textbooks.  It’s nothing my students are actually doing wrong.  It’s just the way things are today.  Very few people enjoy opening up a book.

So before the start of the new term, I read through all of the stories in the basic reading textbook and choose the ones that I think the students would find the most interesting.  Most of the students are in the Criminal Justice program, so I concentrate on the stories that reflect their field of study.  I assigned several of the true crime and short story murder mysteries for the students to read.  This strategy worked very well.  The students were reading the stories and coming into every class ready to discuss the information.  I really love it when students are excited to discuss the readings because it provides me with tremendous insight and amazing observations about the work and the students themselves.

So, last Monday, when the students were settled into their seats, we began to discuss the reading assignment for that day.  The essay focused on the true story of Eric Clark, a teenager who is imprisoned for shooting and killing a police officer.  Many people, including Eric’s mother, claim that Eric is schizophrenic.  Eric believed that the city is full of aliens and the only way to stop them is with bullets.  The essay considers if Eric is really troubled or if he is a cold blooded killer.

I was pleased that the students had a lot of different opinions about this situation and the discussion became very exciting as students continued to debate if Eric was mentally ill or guilty of his actions.  This is what really brings me alive as an instructor.  I love and encourage my students to give their opinions.  Many of them are highly intelligent, some of them are hysterically funny, and others…well, just need to go back and read the assignment again.  But as an instructor, I love it when students feel free and safe to share their independent thoughts and opinions.

After discussing Eric Clark for a while, the students began to discuss other cases that had been in the news.  Jody Arias, George Zimmerman, Amanda Knox, even OJ Simpson all came up in the discussion.  The students became very excited about who they thought was guilty or innocent.  The students discussed who they thought should have gotten life or the death penalty and why.

Other than every now and then guiding the discussion and throwing in the few points of law I knew, I refrained from sharing my personal opinion.  I wanted the students to think for themselves without being influenced by their instructor.  Many students believed in the death penalty.  I refrained from telling my thoughts on this.  I don’t agree with the death penalty.  Why not?  Because I think it is too easy.  I think that when people commit a crime, they should live out the rest of their days contemplating the evil act that they did.  I remember hearing about one judge who ordered a convicted killer to write out and send a sympathy card to the family every year on the anniversary of his victim’s death.  The judge believed it was a way to remind the convict of what he did.  I agree.  Instead of the death penalty, criminals who commit crimes should have some reminder every day of the crime that they committed and the people that they hurt.

I was influenced in my thinking by the book The First Man In Rome by Colleen McCullough.  I love this book which details the start of the Roman Senate.  The book stressed the punishments for criminals in ancient Rome.  Instead of going to jail or being put to death, criminals were made outcast in society.  The criminals were shunned.  They lived in society but could not be a part of it.  They could not get married, vote, own any property, hold jobs, have children.  Criminals could not be talked to or acknowledged by the rest of society.  The ancient Romans believed that this was the worst punishment that a citizen could endure.  The enforced isolation caused the criminals to more away from the town or commit suicide.

I was thinking about this situation when one of my students suddenly exclaimed, “Casey Anthony was at the Palm Desert mall a few weeks ago.  Yeah, the woman who got away with killing her kid, she was here in town and she was shopping at the mall.”

Several of the students turned to look at the woman who had spoken and asked her for details.  “How do you know?  Were you there?”

“No,” the first student answered, “but my sister works there.  She suddenly saw this huge crowd of people in front of Charlotte Russe and was wondering what was going on.  She walked over and found that people were circling around Casey Anthony.”

“Well, what happened?” Students all suddenly started talking at once.  “God, what did they do?  Man, she is so evil.  Did your sister talk to her?”

“Oh, no,” the student responded. “It was really bad.  People were gathered all around her, totally blocking her on all sides.  They had her completely surrounded.  Of course, some people were taking pictures.  But the majority of the people were dumping their soft drinks on her and throwing food and other stuff at her.  Everybody was swearing at her and, man, people were spitting on her.  It was really gross.  Just really nasty spit.”

“Was Casey upset?” someone asked.

“No, in fact, she actually stood there just laughing at everyone.  It was a really nasty laugh.  But people wouldn’t let her go.  They kept surrounding her and trapping her.  They were right in her face, screaming at her.  Security finally had to be called to get her out of there.”

As I listened to the student’s story, I suddenly felt a chill go through my body.  I suddenly felt myself in Casey Anthony’s place.  For most of my life, I have been bullied and felt like a real outsider.  It used to be a very painful situation.  Fortunately, I like myself now, but I know many young people commit suicide for being bullied and targeted.   I shivered as I thought of Casey Anthony being held up to public humiliation.  What would it feel like to be trapped in a mob of people who surround you, scream at you, ridicule you, spit on you.  Yes, Casey may have laughed, but we are all social creatures.  Some part of Casey, some human part, has to be slowly dying inside.  I suddenly felt like I was going to be sick.  What could be more devastating than to be publicly hated?  I’m not saying Casey Anthony didn’t deserve it.  No, I’m saying, I think the Roman Senate had it right.

The Frog Prince

I usually got off work around 10:30 pm. Most nights, as I walked through the courtyard to my apartment, I would see a big bullfrog sitting out by the pool, soaking up the moonlight. I usually am squeamish around any kind of slimy, hopping, crawling thing. I think the bullfrog was a little wary of me, too. Every time I would approach, he would frantically hop away trying to avoid me. He would take long leaps back into the garden and hide within the foliage. This little game between the two of us went on for a few weeks. It was always the same until March of 2010. In that month, I lost my mother to complications of colon cancer.

The death of my mother left a big void in my life. She had been my confidant, traveling companion, and best friend. I really missed her. The loneliness was intense after she passed. I spent the next couple of days just listlessly going to work and returning home to the lonely apartment my mother and I had shared.

In August of 2009, my mother had moved from Kansas to California to live with me. We spent the time we had together traveling throughout California and the southwest. We were together for just nine months before I lost her. After her death, I didn’t feel like traveling or going anywhere. I spent long days just going to work and coming back home.

A few days after losing my mother, I returned home from another long work day. I got out of my car, walked up the sidewalk from the parking lot, and turned the corner into the courtyard. There again, sitting by the pool, was the bullfrog. I just ignored it at first and started walking towards my apartment. I was positive the frog would move as I approached. But something strange happened this night. Instead of hopping away, the frog actually turned and looked right at me. I stopped for a moment and just stared back. I decided to just keep walking forward. The frog was sure to get nervous and jump away from me. But he didn’t. instead the frog just sat patiently by the pool and waited for me to come nearer. When I walked by the frog, he suddenly turned and started moving in the direction I was walking towards my apartment. He hopped along with every step I took. He stayed right by my side and I had to laugh that he stopped when I stopped and moved when I moved. He stayed with me right to the steps of my second floor apartment. I stepped up the first step and the little frog hopped up beside me. This is as far as he would go, however. He stayed on the first step as I continued on up to the second level. His large black eyes followed me all the way up the stairs. Once I made it to the top, I glanced back down over the balcony railing and watched as the frog turned in my direction. He stared up at me and gently chirped, serenading me with a beautiful natural song.

After a few minutes, I went inside my apartment. However, every time I glanced outside, my frog was still there, still sitting on the first step and staring up at my apartment. And suddenly, I realized I had laughed for the first time since my mother had passed. I went to bed that night feeling hopeful and safe with my frog prince sitting down at the bottom of the steps. I never saw the frog again after that night, but I continued to wonder about the experience. Was this frog a sign from Mom or the angels? Could this frog have been my prince, my knight in shining armor? Should I have kissed him and found out? I don’t know. I didn’t try. I just had the enjoyment of knowing, even after the loss of my mom, that I was safe and protected and loved in God’s great universe.