Rather than post this as a "status" on fb, I thought I'd write it here. Reasoning, that it's quasi-permanent, and worthy of returning to.
"No matter how plain a woman may be, if truth and loyalty are stamped on her face all will be attracted to her." --Eleanor Roosevelt
I have a certain affection for the First Lady, niece of Teddy, and fifth cousin, once removed of her husband, FDR. She was stolid, not a 'looker,' per se, but definitely had presence, largely because of her personality, her viewpoint towards human rights, equality, and her goodness. Of course, she was born into loads of dough, but her character spurred her to look and support those who weren't.
This comment struck me as something to which I aspire. Loyalty comes without hesitation, even in the face of adversity and unkindness. I believe in my friends, in my family, and those I love and have loved. Unwavering.
The truth part is an element that I recently diminished and now must rebuild and reestablish. This isn't as easy as my words indicate. No mortar and brick, no boards and nails. It's a time-tested lifestyle and belief that can be pummeled and toppled into a crumbled pile and scaffolded together with the twigs and branches of consistency, hope, love, and belief.
"In the long run, we shape our lives and we shape ourselves. The process never ends until we die. And the choices we make are ultimately our own responsibility." -ER
I've seen and experienced deception, lies, the whole smoke-and-mirrors aspect has emerged on many fronts, not just from me but from those around me and, of course in society as a whole. Boy oh boy is it ever ugly, worth retching over -- painful on the inside and out. It, this or these character flaws are hideous on anyone, including me. They leave and/or create a mottled, potholed trail of bruises, defeat, misunderstandings, doubt, and sadness where once joy, awareness, appreciation, love, and openness thrived and blushed.
It's my job to demonstrate, yes, my loyalty, and my commitment to the restructuring process, to the love that created the sincerity in the first place and, over each day, each hour, create a muddy, albeit slightly stronger sense of truth, forgiveness, and honesty that will, ideally, become a bridge a reconnection, an embrace on one level or another. At some point, mud and straw will give way to a stronger bond.
I am not the most attractive person in the world, but in my simplicity, my plainness, my love for others, I strive for Ms. Roosevelt's statement: truth and loyalty.
"The giving of love is an education in itself." - ER
Tuesday, April 19, 2011
Saturday, April 16, 2011
Finality
When the choice is made, the papers are signed, and the check endorsed, the final step is to turn it all in and get it verified.
By mail. Via FedEx. Through e-mail. In person.
A couple months ago, I made the decision to run a half marathon. I'd thought about this for a while, a bunch of years, actually, but never took the proverbial steps beyond picking up a brochure. An opportunity arose, I slipped a brochure in my pocket, then later received a company-wide announcement. A second reinforcement. I thought about it, not having trained before and, with only a month prior to this event, not feeling ready.
However, I decided I had nothing to lose. So what, if I had to walk it? So what, if I finished in 4 hours after the street cleaners have passed by? So what, if I ran part and walked part? It was the end result, the committment to the next step, the accomplishment, or, rather, to the turned page: done. I filled out the papers, signed my name, wrote the check, then, at last, mailed it. That final step sealed the deal.
Yea, I finished the half, not by the time I'd hoped for, rather 13 minutes slower, but hey, that's okay.
Recently, I took the steps towards another paper-signing venture. Downloaded everything from the internet, read it through, consulted with someone, read more, consulted again, then, after a bit of urging, I filled them out. Yes, them. Multiple pages.
This took about three hours -- disturbed my sleep that night and for nights to follow until I could take the next steps: copying and filing.
It's a weird process all of this. Making a decision then following through with it, then following through with it on an entirely objective level. It's a committment of a different kind: committing to a major turn in life, a drastic change, a road untraveled and, yea, a bit bumpy.
I took the multiple pages to one place then was told to take them elsewhere, miles from where I stood. Place number one no longer accepted them even though the website says otherwise. Aaargh. A major hurdle in my efforts to trepidatiously take this step.
When I arrived at Place #2, I had less than 15 minutes until closing and there was a short line before me. I rationalized that I'd have to return the following week, not enough time, a pause beyond my control settled in. A clock slowly ticked, the minute hand swung upward to the top of the hour with a slow thud. I could hear every sound, each footstep on the shiny floor, each whining door that opened and closed with an echo. The conversation between the security folks behind me regarding days off and whose day today was his 'Friday.'
The people in front of me stepped forward, presented their documents then tsked when the receiver asked for supplementary information. The male paper-hander justified his presence there and why he didn't have further information; the woman beside him shuffled papers in a thick, plasticine folder and tsked again.
"Next."
I stepped forward and stated my reason for being here in front of her, Diana. I handed her my packet of papers which she sorted through like a disordered deck of cards. No casino bow tie, though, she wore a flower patterned t-shirt and jeans. Her black hair hung unremarkably around her ears to her shoulders. She tucked the right strand behind her ear as she looked at me, then back down at the papers.
"Do you have the ...?"
'No,' I said, 'I wasn't sure if I needed that. I thought it had to do with...' She sighed, explained to me its purpose, then sighed again. She glanced at the clock on the wall to her left. We both spied it was five minutes until the hour.
'Can you duplicate it? I mean, don't you have a copy of that here? Or do I have to come back another time and do all this?'
She said nothing in response. Instead, she typed away at her computer keyboard, scribbled something on one of my papers, then stepped away. When she returned, she picked up a massive stamper, not unlike the type a librarian uses, or, in the old days, that a grocer might use to punch purple-inked prices onto cans of soup or jars of pickles.
She flipped it over,slid the cage down, stared at her computer monitor, spun some dials on the stamper, checked the monitor again, looked at the stamper's reverse image, then released the shiny metal cage. She gave it a practice stamp on a blank notepad, checked the notation, then slid my papers over.
Ker-chunk, ker-chunk, ker-chunk, heavy, ancient processing that verified my presence, that demonstrated the seriousness of this bundle of papers. Ker-chunk, ker-chunk. Page after page, corner after corner was emblazoned in a square of purple block print and a number.
At last, she finished stamping. Put device aside on her counter where purple markings from unintended stamping occured. The area looked like a dried up grape lake. She picked up a yellow highlighter, squeaked it across certain areas, then spun these sheets around to me. "Fill out here, here, here, and here. Sign here." Her finger jabbed at each yellow spot. This was the forgotten sheet.
I did so and spun it back to her. My hand was shaking as I tucked my pen back into my pocket. I was slipping into that zone of final-stepness.
"The fee is... dollars."
'Okay. Can I use my debit card?'
She reached her hand out and took my card with only a nod, no comment, and stepped away from her counter, my papers in hand.
The clock ticked upward. Behind me, I heard the security gentlemen's heavy gait as they secured with a bang the glass doors. It was 30 seconds until closing. I sighed.
Diana returned and handed me my card. She stapled my receipt to the top left corner, reached again for her tool, ker-chunk, ker-chunk: an original and a copy. Her cuticles were unintended purple half moons. She snapped a black paper clip around the originals, half-tossed them into a box marked, "To File, Room 151, April 6, 2011 then slid the copies across the sheened countertop towards me.
It was finalized.
'Do I need to mail these or ...?'
"You'll need to use ... or if you want, at the US Post Office you'll need to pay for Certified Delivery. That's cheaper." She gave me a broken smile.
'Thank you.'
As I walked out, I looked down at the packet. The purple ink fluttered in the bay's wind, unhelped by my shaky hands. A weird hole formed within me. As I crammed the papers into my bag, it felt just the opposite: rather than tucking something in, I was letting something go.
It's an interesting process, decision making. Well-thought out, the end result should be positive, or so we hope. Right now, smack in the middle of the post-decision process, it's difficlt to sense the end-of-tunnel light. However, these steps would not have been taken if some aspect of betterment, some tiny essence that there will be something positive was not thought to be on the road ahead.
A fork in the road and neither turn leads to a Dead End. However taking one route over the other is Final. Taking the alternative is Not an Option. There's no turning back.
By mail. Via FedEx. Through e-mail. In person.
A couple months ago, I made the decision to run a half marathon. I'd thought about this for a while, a bunch of years, actually, but never took the proverbial steps beyond picking up a brochure. An opportunity arose, I slipped a brochure in my pocket, then later received a company-wide announcement. A second reinforcement. I thought about it, not having trained before and, with only a month prior to this event, not feeling ready.
However, I decided I had nothing to lose. So what, if I had to walk it? So what, if I finished in 4 hours after the street cleaners have passed by? So what, if I ran part and walked part? It was the end result, the committment to the next step, the accomplishment, or, rather, to the turned page: done. I filled out the papers, signed my name, wrote the check, then, at last, mailed it. That final step sealed the deal.
Yea, I finished the half, not by the time I'd hoped for, rather 13 minutes slower, but hey, that's okay.
Recently, I took the steps towards another paper-signing venture. Downloaded everything from the internet, read it through, consulted with someone, read more, consulted again, then, after a bit of urging, I filled them out. Yes, them. Multiple pages.
This took about three hours -- disturbed my sleep that night and for nights to follow until I could take the next steps: copying and filing.
It's a weird process all of this. Making a decision then following through with it, then following through with it on an entirely objective level. It's a committment of a different kind: committing to a major turn in life, a drastic change, a road untraveled and, yea, a bit bumpy.
I took the multiple pages to one place then was told to take them elsewhere, miles from where I stood. Place number one no longer accepted them even though the website says otherwise. Aaargh. A major hurdle in my efforts to trepidatiously take this step.
When I arrived at Place #2, I had less than 15 minutes until closing and there was a short line before me. I rationalized that I'd have to return the following week, not enough time, a pause beyond my control settled in. A clock slowly ticked, the minute hand swung upward to the top of the hour with a slow thud. I could hear every sound, each footstep on the shiny floor, each whining door that opened and closed with an echo. The conversation between the security folks behind me regarding days off and whose day today was his 'Friday.'
The people in front of me stepped forward, presented their documents then tsked when the receiver asked for supplementary information. The male paper-hander justified his presence there and why he didn't have further information; the woman beside him shuffled papers in a thick, plasticine folder and tsked again.
"Next."
I stepped forward and stated my reason for being here in front of her, Diana. I handed her my packet of papers which she sorted through like a disordered deck of cards. No casino bow tie, though, she wore a flower patterned t-shirt and jeans. Her black hair hung unremarkably around her ears to her shoulders. She tucked the right strand behind her ear as she looked at me, then back down at the papers.
"Do you have the ...?"
'No,' I said, 'I wasn't sure if I needed that. I thought it had to do with...' She sighed, explained to me its purpose, then sighed again. She glanced at the clock on the wall to her left. We both spied it was five minutes until the hour.
'Can you duplicate it? I mean, don't you have a copy of that here? Or do I have to come back another time and do all this?'
She said nothing in response. Instead, she typed away at her computer keyboard, scribbled something on one of my papers, then stepped away. When she returned, she picked up a massive stamper, not unlike the type a librarian uses, or, in the old days, that a grocer might use to punch purple-inked prices onto cans of soup or jars of pickles.
She flipped it over,slid the cage down, stared at her computer monitor, spun some dials on the stamper, checked the monitor again, looked at the stamper's reverse image, then released the shiny metal cage. She gave it a practice stamp on a blank notepad, checked the notation, then slid my papers over.
Ker-chunk, ker-chunk, ker-chunk, heavy, ancient processing that verified my presence, that demonstrated the seriousness of this bundle of papers. Ker-chunk, ker-chunk. Page after page, corner after corner was emblazoned in a square of purple block print and a number.
At last, she finished stamping. Put device aside on her counter where purple markings from unintended stamping occured. The area looked like a dried up grape lake. She picked up a yellow highlighter, squeaked it across certain areas, then spun these sheets around to me. "Fill out here, here, here, and here. Sign here." Her finger jabbed at each yellow spot. This was the forgotten sheet.
I did so and spun it back to her. My hand was shaking as I tucked my pen back into my pocket. I was slipping into that zone of final-stepness.
"The fee is... dollars."
'Okay. Can I use my debit card?'
She reached her hand out and took my card with only a nod, no comment, and stepped away from her counter, my papers in hand.
The clock ticked upward. Behind me, I heard the security gentlemen's heavy gait as they secured with a bang the glass doors. It was 30 seconds until closing. I sighed.
Diana returned and handed me my card. She stapled my receipt to the top left corner, reached again for her tool, ker-chunk, ker-chunk: an original and a copy. Her cuticles were unintended purple half moons. She snapped a black paper clip around the originals, half-tossed them into a box marked, "To File, Room 151, April 6, 2011 then slid the copies across the sheened countertop towards me.
It was finalized.
'Do I need to mail these or ...?'
"You'll need to use ... or if you want, at the US Post Office you'll need to pay for Certified Delivery. That's cheaper." She gave me a broken smile.
'Thank you.'
As I walked out, I looked down at the packet. The purple ink fluttered in the bay's wind, unhelped by my shaky hands. A weird hole formed within me. As I crammed the papers into my bag, it felt just the opposite: rather than tucking something in, I was letting something go.
It's an interesting process, decision making. Well-thought out, the end result should be positive, or so we hope. Right now, smack in the middle of the post-decision process, it's difficlt to sense the end-of-tunnel light. However, these steps would not have been taken if some aspect of betterment, some tiny essence that there will be something positive was not thought to be on the road ahead.
A fork in the road and neither turn leads to a Dead End. However taking one route over the other is Final. Taking the alternative is Not an Option. There's no turning back.
Wednesday, April 13, 2011
See Through
To look into the eye, straight into the eye, what does one see?
The iris, that multi-hued perimeter that tells us, 'Oh, she's got sky blue eyes!' Or, do we notice the white with the veiny redness that demonstrates dry eye or fatigue or allergies, or, in some cases, a blown vessel? How about those lashes, long like spider legs or short serving a minimal purpose of keeping crud out? Are they dark and mysterious or lighter and accentuating to the brow, mascara'd or plain?
What about the pupil all roundish, black, peppercorn or marble-sized?
Or, do we not notice the physical structure at all and simply go for the metaphysical aspect? For example, the 'I can tell by your eyes you're lying.' Or, 'You look straight into my soul when you look at me.' Or, 'When our eyes meet, I feel loved.'
It's interesting to ponder -- the physical versus the emotional and impalpable sensory.
I've a bit of focus, no pun intended, on this right now. Just got off the phone with my ophthalmologist/surgeon who suggested that I exist nearly a month without my contacts prior to the first, upcoming surgery. This is due, in part, to my contact lenses and how they tend to misshape the eyes. Also, since I'm prone to constant retinal disease -- even post-surgically -- my eyes are constantly altering themselves. Yea, despite two full days of measurements and drops, I get to have one more pleasurable day of dark rooms and funky machinery! Yea for me!!
The irony is profound: I'm rather smart. That is, I know a lot of stuff and can appropriately apply most of the arbitrary information to something, be it Jeopardy!, cocktail party conversation, or just random spewing among friends. However, when I was recently in the situation of wearing my thick, Coke-bottley glasses for a week, people not only treated and looked at me differently, they spoke to me differently. Yes, truly as if I were, say a Special Olympics candidate. Kind of cracked me up, actually, especially after I was given the slow, albeit slightly louder (because when there's one impairment, then deafness MUST also be a factor, too) commentary or offer.
"DO YOU NEED HELP CARRYING THIS OUT TO THE BUS STOP?!!" Yes, in nearly yelling tone, hence the uppercase lettering.
"IT'S NICE THAT YOU HAVE A JOB. WHAT DO THEY LET YOU DO THERE?" Someone actually asked if I help with copying or stuffing envelopes. No lie.
So, as I've said before, I am special. Very special, indeed.
The surg. is fast coming down the pipe. There's a bit of concern by my surgeon because of my severe myopia, but she's confident that, given no complications, a new lens will work out well for me. Again, even today, no promises on the double vision. "Let's just cross one bridge at a time," she said today. Hmmm. Okay.
I have to admit, as I've said before, I have a strange nervousness about this. It's not that eye surgeries aren't done all the time. I know that. And I know that most have no complications. Criminy Sakes, I'm rather healthy so, if you ask me, I'm a good candidate for any sort of procedure. It's just an irrational unease, not quite worry, just ill-at-ease.
Yes, I know the odds are in my favor. Yea yea yea. It's hard to explain and paradoxically, despite all the words in my head, I've very few here on this sensation: Somewhere between a tightrope and an imbalanced stair step. That is, very unsettling and not quite well-footed. Wearing my glasses for a month doesn't help me feel better about any of it either. Don't ask why, it just doesn't.
Trust, I suppose is a major key. When entering such an unknown territory - no matter what it involves (new job, conversation, a date, an exam, a confrontation, a food that many enjoy but looks like vomit) - there's always a bit of dis-ease, uneasiness, an ill-at-ease feeling. To assuage this, there needs to be a release of the guard and a flow of trust. Back to the ole, Breathe and Release. Not unlike Superman, but slightly skewed I beleve we, or I must see through the walls and Trust.
So, when I look into my eye, when I look at my contact lens floating around, what do I see? Do I see nervousness or plastic? Do I see four eyes or hope? Is there a window in or a reflection out?
When I look deep or when you look deep - far beyond just the sleepy bags and the allergy soreness, what do you see? What do you want to see? What do we see in and through the lens of our mind's eye or the eye that leads to and from our heart soul?
Clarity? Hope. Trust.
The iris, that multi-hued perimeter that tells us, 'Oh, she's got sky blue eyes!' Or, do we notice the white with the veiny redness that demonstrates dry eye or fatigue or allergies, or, in some cases, a blown vessel? How about those lashes, long like spider legs or short serving a minimal purpose of keeping crud out? Are they dark and mysterious or lighter and accentuating to the brow, mascara'd or plain?
What about the pupil all roundish, black, peppercorn or marble-sized?
Or, do we not notice the physical structure at all and simply go for the metaphysical aspect? For example, the 'I can tell by your eyes you're lying.' Or, 'You look straight into my soul when you look at me.' Or, 'When our eyes meet, I feel loved.'
It's interesting to ponder -- the physical versus the emotional and impalpable sensory.
I've a bit of focus, no pun intended, on this right now. Just got off the phone with my ophthalmologist/surgeon who suggested that I exist nearly a month without my contacts prior to the first, upcoming surgery. This is due, in part, to my contact lenses and how they tend to misshape the eyes. Also, since I'm prone to constant retinal disease -- even post-surgically -- my eyes are constantly altering themselves. Yea, despite two full days of measurements and drops, I get to have one more pleasurable day of dark rooms and funky machinery! Yea for me!!
The irony is profound: I'm rather smart. That is, I know a lot of stuff and can appropriately apply most of the arbitrary information to something, be it Jeopardy!, cocktail party conversation, or just random spewing among friends. However, when I was recently in the situation of wearing my thick, Coke-bottley glasses for a week, people not only treated and looked at me differently, they spoke to me differently. Yes, truly as if I were, say a Special Olympics candidate. Kind of cracked me up, actually, especially after I was given the slow, albeit slightly louder (because when there's one impairment, then deafness MUST also be a factor, too) commentary or offer.
"DO YOU NEED HELP CARRYING THIS OUT TO THE BUS STOP?!!" Yes, in nearly yelling tone, hence the uppercase lettering.
"IT'S NICE THAT YOU HAVE A JOB. WHAT DO THEY LET YOU DO THERE?" Someone actually asked if I help with copying or stuffing envelopes. No lie.
So, as I've said before, I am special. Very special, indeed.
The surg. is fast coming down the pipe. There's a bit of concern by my surgeon because of my severe myopia, but she's confident that, given no complications, a new lens will work out well for me. Again, even today, no promises on the double vision. "Let's just cross one bridge at a time," she said today. Hmmm. Okay.
I have to admit, as I've said before, I have a strange nervousness about this. It's not that eye surgeries aren't done all the time. I know that. And I know that most have no complications. Criminy Sakes, I'm rather healthy so, if you ask me, I'm a good candidate for any sort of procedure. It's just an irrational unease, not quite worry, just ill-at-ease.
Yes, I know the odds are in my favor. Yea yea yea. It's hard to explain and paradoxically, despite all the words in my head, I've very few here on this sensation: Somewhere between a tightrope and an imbalanced stair step. That is, very unsettling and not quite well-footed. Wearing my glasses for a month doesn't help me feel better about any of it either. Don't ask why, it just doesn't.
Trust, I suppose is a major key. When entering such an unknown territory - no matter what it involves (new job, conversation, a date, an exam, a confrontation, a food that many enjoy but looks like vomit) - there's always a bit of dis-ease, uneasiness, an ill-at-ease feeling. To assuage this, there needs to be a release of the guard and a flow of trust. Back to the ole, Breathe and Release. Not unlike Superman, but slightly skewed I beleve we, or I must see through the walls and Trust.
So, when I look into my eye, when I look at my contact lens floating around, what do I see? Do I see nervousness or plastic? Do I see four eyes or hope? Is there a window in or a reflection out?
When I look deep or when you look deep - far beyond just the sleepy bags and the allergy soreness, what do you see? What do you want to see? What do we see in and through the lens of our mind's eye or the eye that leads to and from our heart soul?
Clarity? Hope. Trust.
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