Considering my age, you'd think I'd be hardened by now. Yet the more one sees or reads about - at least in my case - the more sensitive one becomes.
What am I talking about? Animal cruelty, child abuse, elderly abuse. Any form of abuse given to those that cannot fight back.
Anyone that knows me knows that I am a big animal lover and advocate. It's imprinted in my DNA. My father had a way with animals and I grew up in a home that always had more than it's fair share. There was not one aggressive animal that would show aggression towards my father. He would put his hand out to them while speaking to them gently and before you know it, they'd be licking his hand and wagging their tails. He was a whisperer of animals, plain and simple, and it was amazing to witness. And this love of four-footed friends got handed down in spades to myself and two of my sisters. My other siblings tend to be more "normal" in this respect and view animals as animals and not "people with furry coats" as my daughter likes to call them.
I no longer have dogs because when I had to put down my last one the pain was unbearable. I cried for months. I told my husband I couldn't go through that again and instead ended up acquiring three cats. As if attaching myself to cats would be emotionally different, but now you know how twisted my thinking can sometimes be. Now this furry brood rule my world, and believe me when I tell you they rule. I would love to get a dog now - years later - but bringing a puppy into this feline mix is asking for trouble. They'd make mincemeat out of it and the poor puppy would be traumatized. So as it stands I get my puppy fix with my daughter's dogs.
But I digressed. Back to animal cruelty. And so this morning I'm reading a solicitation for money from the ASPCA and of course they have the most horrific animal cruelty story with accompanying pic and why, oh why, did I read this? Next thing you know I'm crying. WTF? *sigh* Being this emotionally invested in animals can take its toll and sometimes be too much. I sometimes wish to be a little more "normal" and "desensitized" so that way I could lead a semblance of a normal life. But no, my brain is not wired as such and thus, I suffer. I cry, I curse, I sometimes have to look away and do an ostrich move and stick my head in the ground to stop the images.
I just don't get why and how people can be so cruel to helpless animals. I know they hate their lives and they hate themselves so obviously how are they going to show any form of compassion towards an animal. Research has shown that those abused as children are the ones that keep the circle going and become abusers as adults. You'd think that they would want to end that circle of violence instead. And so animals, elderly and children then become the target of their frustrations, anger and pain. They have to lash out at something and often lash out at those that can't defend themselves. Ask me if I feel bad for them. No. I think they're heartless and their actions are horrific and there has to come a point in your life when you know right from wrong, right? But they're desensitized to emotional pain. Emotionally, they're as good as dead, unfeeling. Right. And so the helpless suffer.
And so after years of watching documentaries and reading up on animal cruelty, I find I can no longer do this. Simply, I can no longer handle the images. And so what I do instead is make the world better for those around me that have no voice and cannot fight back. I feed the unwanted ferals that come to my yard daily for some food, water and a little love; I take care of my fat, little dumplings at home and tell them each day how blessed they are; I care for my daughter's dogs that are as much a part of this family as any person can be and look after them like a pair of spoiled, grandpuppies; I try to educate others that are not so compassionate with animals and make them see what I do and hopefully make a difference. That's what I do, that's all I can do right now. But every now and again, I wish it so that I would be strong of heart to volunteer my time at a shelter but find that this is an impossibility on my part. Undoubtedly, I would eventually come home with a dog or cat that's about to be euthanized and pretty soon I'd be collecting animals. Or, most assuredly come home crying as I did as a teenager whenever I volunteered at a geriatric home and couldn't bear to see the elderly in pain and suffering and sometimes alone. Yeah, that didn't work out too well for me and it was my husband - my then boyfriend - who suggested that perhaps there were other ways I could help the world because this was certainly not the way. The emotions were taking a toll and I cried every day. And so I know me. I know what I can emotionally handle. I am and never have been strong of heart. And so to keep some form of stable life, I sometimes have to say no to certain things my heart wishes to do. And this makes me sad. Because I want to do more, I want to make a difference, but to open my heart even more to the pain and suffering I will most likely witness I find I just don't have the strength to do. And so what I do instead, is spoil my three little dumplings at home and give them the best life possible. I feed the ferals that come my way and make their lives easier. I educate those that are still too blind to see. This may not be enough and God forgive me, but it is all I can do.
Thursday, January 5, 2012
Monday, January 2, 2012
January 1
For the new year, I've resurrected an oldie but goodie.....
This is the year of the new me! I am psyched! I am pumped! I AM READY! This is the year of the oh-la-la!
Exercise: I joined a gym. Today was my first day. The aerobics instructor is awesome! She is gorgeous and really fit and really really nice! She told me she was going to help me achieve all of my goals. Wow! How nice is she? I like this place. Nice people in this place.
I have to confess that I had a bit of a hard time coordinating the exercise to the music though. Those girls can really move! Wow! I approached the instructor after class and suggested that maybe next time she could play some slower music for less vibrant folks like me. She laughed. Whatever. I’m still pumped. I’m psyched! I’m ready!
Diet: I had a bowl of fruits for breakfast with some yogurt. I had a salad for lunch and grilled chicken for dinner. Excellent!
January 2:
Pumped!
Exercise: Today the instructor had me do some weight training. It was hard but I did it! I couldn't believe how that skinny little thing was able to lift those heavy, heavy weights! Wow! She is so amazing! I love her! I want to look just like her. I did some upper body exercises and after that she made me go in the sauna to detox as well. I got a little dizzy being in there but I guess when your body is filled with so much toxin - I confess I do love to sip me some happy juice now and again - it’s to be expected. Well, call me stark naked mad cause next thing you know I am being gently shaken awake from the sauna floor by none other than one of the male instructors. You know, one of the ones that look like Adonis, all pectoral-like? Well, I got even more hot and bothered. Well, he covered my oops-y naked body with the towel that had come off and lifted me up in his big strong arms and took me out of that very hot place. I don’t think I’m going in that sauna ever again. It's a very dangerous place that sauna. Very dangerous. But anyways I think I managed to get rid of all the toxins today thank you very much. On the upside my Adonis, eh, I mean the gym's very professional instructor man, stayed with me until I felt better because I kept blushing and he thought I was still not feeling well. Well come to think of it maybe it was because I told him I didn't? Oops! Hehe!
Diet: I picked up a big cannoli for lunch. I hummed my way through the entire meal because when I'm happy I hum. This exercise thing is making me really hungry! But this is not cheating and it's okay cause I'm sweating it off. Boy am I sweating it off!
January 3:
I had a really hard time getting up today. I couldn’t move and lift my body off the bed. I had chest pains and was sure I was having a heart attack and so I called 911. They came and examined me and told me it wasn't a heart attack. They told me my chest muscles were sore from lifting the weights and advised me to learn to distinguish between the two and to never call 911 again for this type of nonsense. They told me 911 was for real emergencies or something like that. I thought that was very rude of them. Whatever.
Knowing that I wasn't dying, I made it to the gym anyways determined to stay on track. New year, new rules, new me! The instructor was waiting for me at the door. She's really starting to annoy me cause I think she’s taking this whole I’m gonna help you get there thing too far. Today she had me do aerobics and leg lifts on the weight machines! I felt I couldn't do it but did it anyways because to stand there and argue with her would take more energy than I actually had and I felt really weak and hurt and not to mention I'm hungry all the time, but she doesn't wanna hear it. She couldn't give two beans. That's what she said to me. I didn't think that was very nice but whatever. She didn't let me leave the gym until two hours later and when I left, those energetic, exercise weirdos in their super tight little costumes were still there shaking their butts and I don't care what anybody tells me, they're on something. Normal people can't go for that long.
Diet: I was too tired to cook and so I stopped by McDonald’s. I got a Supersize Meal. I needed it.
January 4:
I think I’m sick. I don’t feel well. Everything hurts. I’m afraid to call 911 again because I’m afraid to get yelled at again. I slid off the bed and crawled into the bathroom where I slid into the tub. I turned the water on but because I was too weak to turn the knob quickly enough it scalded my chest. Now I have a burn that looks really, really red and hurts really, really bad but I won’t call 911. I don't think it’s an emergency but what do I know anymore?
Driving to work was very unpleasant. Everyone was honking at me and flipping me the finger because I was going so slow. My body, my mind, everything seemed to be on slo-mo today. *sigh* Wait till I feel better though, I'm not letting these rude, rude people get away with it. I can flip too! Yeah, my middle finger works just fine! Just not today. My hands hurt too much.
I called the instructor and told her I wasn't showing up today because I didn't feel well. She screamed at me and called me a loser and told me she expected to see my "lazy ass" in the gym. Can she talk to people like that? That's abusive.
I went to the gym anyway just to tell her off but I lost my nerve and instead told her to go easy on me because I wasn't feeling well but that I was there and that life is all about showing up, right? She told me to stuff my Hallmark sayings up the you-know-what and get my you-know-what on the treadmill. I officially hate that f*cking, skinny bitch. Great, now she's making me cuss. I never cuss. I'm a lady and look what she's making me say. I can’t wait to feel better because the first thing I’m gonna do once I can move my arms is beat the crap out of her. Gosh, I'm becoming violent too. I don't think exercise is supposed to be doing this.
Diet: Does crapola count? Crapola tastes good. I ate everything I shouldn’t have today but I don’t care because to deny my aching body of the things it craves right now is downright inhumane and it's all that bitch's fault.
January 5:
It’s official. I’m dying. I called work to say goodbye to my boss and coworkers. They told me to delay dying for now because they were very busy and didn't have time to go to my funeral. It felt nice to know somebody cared. They would actually go to my funeral. They're such nice people.
I then called that skinny mental patient and told her to go f*ck herself. I thanked her for trying to kill me and told her I wasn't coming in...ever. She yelled at me and called me all sorts of names but I didn't care. They’re just words. Blah, blah, blah. Ohhh, I’m soooo scared!
That demented bitch showed up at my house. I can't escape her. I called the cops.
They listened to my story. They listened to hers.
She won.
I got arrested for “f*cking around with the law too much” or something like that and then she put up bail and drove me to the gym.
Tonight I’m setting that f*cking building on fire.
With her in it.
Yeah.
Monday, December 12, 2011
A Fairytale Dark
He lit his tenth cigarette since standing to wait in the dark, unlit entrance of a graffiti-written building that had seen better days. Three hours hence and he was still in the same position he assumed when he arrived with only his arm moving the addictive tobacco to his mouth to be inhaled and exhaled in glorious welcome. For many, waiting endless hours with only your thoughts to keep you company was agony, but for him, it felt natural, not forced. In this age of instantaneous results and rampant attention deficit disorders that afflicted the masses, the benefits of silent hours where one learned of oneself, was now a thing of the past and that could only be purchased in the forms of self-help books or meditative classes or yoga. He smirked at the idiocy of it all. A thing that was free and yours alone - your inner thoughts, your mind - now could only be accessed through the help of another.
But not for him. He was patient and needed the silence, so much so that he did not own any media units - no television, no radio, no computer, no phone, no ipads, nothing - that would distract him from his thoughts. He lived a monastic life with only books to keep his mind engaged. But he was also a successful chameleon, easily assimilating himself into the environments of his assignments. He could talk their talk and act as if he too lived by the material, by the instantaneous now and could lower himself to their intellectual levels - this being the most challenging part of his job - all in the name of capturing the most elusive.
He was the agent of choice for the most sensitive of undercover assignments. In reality, he was nothing less than a professional criminal and executioner who could close whatever despicable assignment given; his colleagues could never match his cunning, intellectual and amoral superiority and thus, once given an assignment, the job was as good as done. No, he was not bragging. The answer was simple, really. He was never encumbered with morality or guilt or heart simply because he was not one of them. He was not human - not fully, anyway. He was a hybrid, born of human mother and un-human questionable father and early in life he learned he possessed skills that no other human possessed. It was a gift but, at the same time, it was a curse.
He heard the hinges of the door across the street creak and saw her exit. He flicked the unfinished cigarette at one of the rats at the curb that was busy gnawing away at something indefinable and followed after her. Even the rotting odor of garbage could not hide her smell. Yes, she smelled like him. And he had finally found her. The one who afflicted his dreams and whose face he had been unable to discern in each slumbered spell was finally within his reach. His heart raced with excitement of finally meeting one of his own, the one whose hidden face had captured his heart and soul. The only one he would die for.
She suddenly smelled him and came to an abrupt stop. He smelled her fear mount in controlled panic. She turned to face him and he gasped; she was even more beautiful than he could have ever imagined, her face sending unwilling electrical currents into his. If only she knew that she need not fear him. If only she knew how much he loved her - he, the one incapable of emotion - loved her and would die for her. But she had smelled the evil that resided within him. She couldn't - wouldn't - smell the love, for her fear denied her so. Yet he was not evil, not in his eyes anyway. Everything he had done was because of professional assignments or because his DNA begged release.
She began to retreat slowly, her breathing becoming more shallow as each second passed.
He reached out his hand to her, "Please, don't be afraid..." But the second he touched her, she vanished into the air, leaving her scent of lilac behind. "No!" It had taken years to find her and now she would hide herself from him again. She had the power to vanish without trace; a power he did not possess, and thus finding her had never been easy.
He closed his hands into fists clawing his nails into his palms making them bleed. He tried to control the anger that was bubbling to the surface, tried hard to contain the essence of who he was but to no avail. He quickly snatched a rat from its feast, snapped its neck and ate its head. Panting in anger and agony, he tried to sate that which was surfacing, that which led him to kill again and again.
*****
One from the archives reworked for Sunday Scribblings.
But not for him. He was patient and needed the silence, so much so that he did not own any media units - no television, no radio, no computer, no phone, no ipads, nothing - that would distract him from his thoughts. He lived a monastic life with only books to keep his mind engaged. But he was also a successful chameleon, easily assimilating himself into the environments of his assignments. He could talk their talk and act as if he too lived by the material, by the instantaneous now and could lower himself to their intellectual levels - this being the most challenging part of his job - all in the name of capturing the most elusive.
He was the agent of choice for the most sensitive of undercover assignments. In reality, he was nothing less than a professional criminal and executioner who could close whatever despicable assignment given; his colleagues could never match his cunning, intellectual and amoral superiority and thus, once given an assignment, the job was as good as done. No, he was not bragging. The answer was simple, really. He was never encumbered with morality or guilt or heart simply because he was not one of them. He was not human - not fully, anyway. He was a hybrid, born of human mother and un-human questionable father and early in life he learned he possessed skills that no other human possessed. It was a gift but, at the same time, it was a curse.
He heard the hinges of the door across the street creak and saw her exit. He flicked the unfinished cigarette at one of the rats at the curb that was busy gnawing away at something indefinable and followed after her. Even the rotting odor of garbage could not hide her smell. Yes, she smelled like him. And he had finally found her. The one who afflicted his dreams and whose face he had been unable to discern in each slumbered spell was finally within his reach. His heart raced with excitement of finally meeting one of his own, the one whose hidden face had captured his heart and soul. The only one he would die for.
She suddenly smelled him and came to an abrupt stop. He smelled her fear mount in controlled panic. She turned to face him and he gasped; she was even more beautiful than he could have ever imagined, her face sending unwilling electrical currents into his. If only she knew that she need not fear him. If only she knew how much he loved her - he, the one incapable of emotion - loved her and would die for her. But she had smelled the evil that resided within him. She couldn't - wouldn't - smell the love, for her fear denied her so. Yet he was not evil, not in his eyes anyway. Everything he had done was because of professional assignments or because his DNA begged release.
She began to retreat slowly, her breathing becoming more shallow as each second passed.
He reached out his hand to her, "Please, don't be afraid..." But the second he touched her, she vanished into the air, leaving her scent of lilac behind. "No!" It had taken years to find her and now she would hide herself from him again. She had the power to vanish without trace; a power he did not possess, and thus finding her had never been easy.
He closed his hands into fists clawing his nails into his palms making them bleed. He tried to control the anger that was bubbling to the surface, tried hard to contain the essence of who he was but to no avail. He quickly snatched a rat from its feast, snapped its neck and ate its head. Panting in anger and agony, he tried to sate that which was surfacing, that which led him to kill again and again.
*****
One from the archives reworked for Sunday Scribblings.
Friday, December 2, 2011
What is Your Want?
"Twenty years from now you will be more disappointed by the things you didn't do than by the things you did." - Mark Twain
I saw this quote the other day and found it to be very powerful. Powerful because I'm no longer in my twenties feeling immortal and feeling as if my days are not numbered but are infinite instead. Powerful because I am in my early fifties and my mortality looms and the things I have done and have not done weigh heavy.
There are a few things I'd like to accomplish before my expiration date but either fear or ennui has somehow prevented. The Beloved and I had a very interesting conversation the other night where he opined that I am prone to believe certain labels that the medical community places on me. "It is their opinion after all and only that. An opinion," he said.
"But it's more than that," I countered. "It's their professional assessment."
"And that's where you and I differ. You are quick to believe in those assessments whereas I don't. They can, in their professional opinion, tell me I can't do this and that because of that and this, but in the end, only I truly know what I can or cannot do. I don't live my life based on their assessments."
And it hit me then how much like my father he was. My father was also of the same thinking, defying the medical community's assessment of his health and pooh-poohing it to the end and in the end, all of their prognostications turned out to be untruths. He did not die of any of the things forecasted but instead of old age. Is this a male thing I wonder? Is it because in men weakness of any form is like kryptonite was to Superman? Do they see themselves as supermen that to think themselves as otherwise is a thing unfathomable?
But then, my mother was also of the same thinking. So, it begs, where the Hell did I come from? Why do I so quickly believe in the labels placed on me when my DNA screams otherwise? Fear? Fear of death and debilitation and pain and so I do everything to postpone the eventual inevitable? But this fear is nothing but a not-so-tight noose that is slowly depleting me of life. I understood my husband's words then and I stayed quiet and pensive because he had hit on something. He had hit on a truth. That night's conversation was a turning point for me and I realized how I had become a prisoner in a cell of my own making. The following day I came upon Mark Twain's quote, ""Twenty years from now you will be more disappointed by the things you didn't do than by the things you did," and saw it as a sign that reaffirmed the previous night's conversation.
I then thought of those things that mean so much to me and that I have for one unexplained reason or another (well, I suppose if I really thought about it and psychoanalyzed myself I could come up with many legitimate reasons, i.e., sorry ass excuses to hide a fear) been unable to get under control or succeed in:
~ health: foremost because it is the area where I have most struggled. Given certain "assessments," I took stock of them and analyzed them from an outsider's view taking personal emotion out of it. I then noted the things that I had to do to get to a point of good health and so hopeful and newly energized did the very thing I needed to do and made a vow. It is do or die at this point and I am five minutes from Armageddon health-wise.
~ my writing: despite constant positive feedback and many telling me to finally write a book, I think I will finally take that venture on. There has always been a reason - a reason that only I can eradicate - that has held me back from doing this and still does. This will be harder to overcome but this is the one thing that means the most to me. I am born writer, writing since the day I learned to put words together. Writing calms this sometimes disquieted soul; writing opens the door to my cobwebbed unconscious revealing those things I sometimes would/could not see; writing is simply nourishment to my being. But yet, to wear my heart on my sleeve for daws to peck at is frightening.
But then again, twenty years from now I do not want to be on my death bed regretting those very things I did not do and find that my life was but a creative and challenging waste.
I saw this quote the other day and found it to be very powerful. Powerful because I'm no longer in my twenties feeling immortal and feeling as if my days are not numbered but are infinite instead. Powerful because I am in my early fifties and my mortality looms and the things I have done and have not done weigh heavy.
There are a few things I'd like to accomplish before my expiration date but either fear or ennui has somehow prevented. The Beloved and I had a very interesting conversation the other night where he opined that I am prone to believe certain labels that the medical community places on me. "It is their opinion after all and only that. An opinion," he said.
"But it's more than that," I countered. "It's their professional assessment."
"And that's where you and I differ. You are quick to believe in those assessments whereas I don't. They can, in their professional opinion, tell me I can't do this and that because of that and this, but in the end, only I truly know what I can or cannot do. I don't live my life based on their assessments."
And it hit me then how much like my father he was. My father was also of the same thinking, defying the medical community's assessment of his health and pooh-poohing it to the end and in the end, all of their prognostications turned out to be untruths. He did not die of any of the things forecasted but instead of old age. Is this a male thing I wonder? Is it because in men weakness of any form is like kryptonite was to Superman? Do they see themselves as supermen that to think themselves as otherwise is a thing unfathomable?
But then, my mother was also of the same thinking. So, it begs, where the Hell did I come from? Why do I so quickly believe in the labels placed on me when my DNA screams otherwise? Fear? Fear of death and debilitation and pain and so I do everything to postpone the eventual inevitable? But this fear is nothing but a not-so-tight noose that is slowly depleting me of life. I understood my husband's words then and I stayed quiet and pensive because he had hit on something. He had hit on a truth. That night's conversation was a turning point for me and I realized how I had become a prisoner in a cell of my own making. The following day I came upon Mark Twain's quote, ""Twenty years from now you will be more disappointed by the things you didn't do than by the things you did," and saw it as a sign that reaffirmed the previous night's conversation.
I then thought of those things that mean so much to me and that I have for one unexplained reason or another (well, I suppose if I really thought about it and psychoanalyzed myself I could come up with many legitimate reasons, i.e., sorry ass excuses to hide a fear) been unable to get under control or succeed in:
~ health: foremost because it is the area where I have most struggled. Given certain "assessments," I took stock of them and analyzed them from an outsider's view taking personal emotion out of it. I then noted the things that I had to do to get to a point of good health and so hopeful and newly energized did the very thing I needed to do and made a vow. It is do or die at this point and I am five minutes from Armageddon health-wise.
~ my writing: despite constant positive feedback and many telling me to finally write a book, I think I will finally take that venture on. There has always been a reason - a reason that only I can eradicate - that has held me back from doing this and still does. This will be harder to overcome but this is the one thing that means the most to me. I am born writer, writing since the day I learned to put words together. Writing calms this sometimes disquieted soul; writing opens the door to my cobwebbed unconscious revealing those things I sometimes would/could not see; writing is simply nourishment to my being. But yet, to wear my heart on my sleeve for daws to peck at is frightening.
But then again, twenty years from now I do not want to be on my death bed regretting those very things I did not do and find that my life was but a creative and challenging waste.
Friday, November 18, 2011
Nama-f*kin-ste
"You'll love her. Within the first two minutes you will see just how awesome she is."
This, being said to me by my chiro on the yoga teacher that was about to teach the introductory yoga class. We were speaking about how I've tried yoga many times - three times in fact - and all three quite unsuccessfully. The first time was about 20 years ago with hubby who had enrolled both of us as an alternative to him committing murder because I was driving him crazy. My inability to still myself or my mind was throwing his very much needed tranquil world into chaos. And so I went. Reluctantly might I add. And of course the teacher was like 90 years old and so flexible and in good shape that it did nothing to inspire me but instead made me throw in the towel because I realized that my 30s were more like her 90s and her 90s more like my 30s. We had switched lives and yet did not even know each other. Amazing. I couldn't bend or do simple poses because my body had calcified to the point of no return and when the class was over I was exhausted! Hubby couldn't understand, wouldn't understand, refused to understand and so forced me to continue for the remaining three classes. I hated him and I couldn't kill him because the consequence of that act was not too appealing and I really wasn't into being anyone's bitch.
Fast forward second attempt years later. This time with my bestest and we tracked down the 90 year old who was now 150 and teaching out of her home. I told my BFF how amazing she was. She was still amazing but she was now taking care of an ailing husband and all she wanted to do was chat. We took one class and called it a day. I loved my yogini but she was seriously depressing me.
Fast forward third attempt some more years later. I enrolled with a coworker in a continuing ed yoga class being offered through the college for six weeks. I toughed it out all the while attempting unnatural poses that pressed on nerves that screamed of pain and for six weeks I drove home after each session in a state of shock that left me nonverbal and in a disabled physical state for a few days. My husband loved it because finally I was quiet and his wish had come true.
Fast forward to this week. This time I brought my daughter with me. And the session began. And yes the instructor was wonderful and great and awesome, but once again not a half hour in and I felt like I had been hit my a mac truck. This renewed interest failed to give the necessary impetus to a body that still had no interest in moving. This body was obviously made for lounging and I was ready to coddle it and support its wish and lie on my mat - which I did at one point - but my daughter then shot me an evil look and so I mustered what little reserved energy I had left to humor the fucking kid and finished my session. No solace whatsoever from the clone. Again, on my way home - and thank God she was driving - I was nonverbal and in a state of shock. It appears whenever I'm exhausted my vocal chords refuse to emanate sound and that's just dandy with me. And everyone else for that matter.
But then I hear, "Get over it. We're seeing this through." *sigh* You'd think as my creation she'd be a little more sympathetic toward the one that gave her life, but no.... at the moment, she sounded just like her father. And if I could have slapped her, I would've but I couldn't get my arm to move. It hurt too much. It's alright, one day I will die in a middle of a pose and I will finally be vindicated.
Another eight weeks of Hell. I could be wrong but I don't think this is how one is supposed to feel after yoga.
Yeah.
Nama-fucking- ste....
This, being said to me by my chiro on the yoga teacher that was about to teach the introductory yoga class. We were speaking about how I've tried yoga many times - three times in fact - and all three quite unsuccessfully. The first time was about 20 years ago with hubby who had enrolled both of us as an alternative to him committing murder because I was driving him crazy. My inability to still myself or my mind was throwing his very much needed tranquil world into chaos. And so I went. Reluctantly might I add. And of course the teacher was like 90 years old and so flexible and in good shape that it did nothing to inspire me but instead made me throw in the towel because I realized that my 30s were more like her 90s and her 90s more like my 30s. We had switched lives and yet did not even know each other. Amazing. I couldn't bend or do simple poses because my body had calcified to the point of no return and when the class was over I was exhausted! Hubby couldn't understand, wouldn't understand, refused to understand and so forced me to continue for the remaining three classes. I hated him and I couldn't kill him because the consequence of that act was not too appealing and I really wasn't into being anyone's bitch.
Fast forward second attempt years later. This time with my bestest and we tracked down the 90 year old who was now 150 and teaching out of her home. I told my BFF how amazing she was. She was still amazing but she was now taking care of an ailing husband and all she wanted to do was chat. We took one class and called it a day. I loved my yogini but she was seriously depressing me.
Fast forward third attempt some more years later. I enrolled with a coworker in a continuing ed yoga class being offered through the college for six weeks. I toughed it out all the while attempting unnatural poses that pressed on nerves that screamed of pain and for six weeks I drove home after each session in a state of shock that left me nonverbal and in a disabled physical state for a few days. My husband loved it because finally I was quiet and his wish had come true.
Fast forward to this week. This time I brought my daughter with me. And the session began. And yes the instructor was wonderful and great and awesome, but once again not a half hour in and I felt like I had been hit my a mac truck. This renewed interest failed to give the necessary impetus to a body that still had no interest in moving. This body was obviously made for lounging and I was ready to coddle it and support its wish and lie on my mat - which I did at one point - but my daughter then shot me an evil look and so I mustered what little reserved energy I had left to humor the fucking kid and finished my session. No solace whatsoever from the clone. Again, on my way home - and thank God she was driving - I was nonverbal and in a state of shock. It appears whenever I'm exhausted my vocal chords refuse to emanate sound and that's just dandy with me. And everyone else for that matter.
But then I hear, "Get over it. We're seeing this through." *sigh* You'd think as my creation she'd be a little more sympathetic toward the one that gave her life, but no.... at the moment, she sounded just like her father. And if I could have slapped her, I would've but I couldn't get my arm to move. It hurt too much. It's alright, one day I will die in a middle of a pose and I will finally be vindicated.
Another eight weeks of Hell. I could be wrong but I don't think this is how one is supposed to feel after yoga.
Yeah.
Nama-fucking- ste....
Sunday, September 11, 2011
In Memory of 911
On September 11, 2001, the landscape of this place we call home changed forever. The persevering hatred of one man and his loyal followers and their wish to inflict injury on a country to which their abhorrence knew no bounds, finally alit on our soil and planted the seeds of destruction that only hate can birth: mistrust, misunderstanding, anger, suffering, pain, and the very emotion that was the catalyst to our devastation, hate. The airliners that flew into the Twin Towers on that beautiful, clear, crisp September morning served as pawns and opening move to a political and religious game that would now have no end. Countless victims were lost and injured on that day and today, on its 10th year anniversary, we once again honor them and stand in unity against the most heinous act ever committed on U.S. soil. Today, we honor and remember those who on that day kissed their loved ones goodbye and never got to see their families again. Today, we acknowledge and pray for each of those left behind that must, every day, find a way to find peace in a heart filled with so much memory and pain. Today, we recognize and give our most sincere thanks and appreciation to all those that selflessly worked Ground Zero on that day and in months to come helping find loved ones and bringing order to the sudden chaos ensued; acts of human generosity to which many have been paid with subsequent years of physical and emotional pain, sometimes death. I remember that day vividly from the very first news report at 8:45 a.m. that a plane had hit one of the towers. I never imagined it to be a commercial airliner and never would've imagined the many turns that day would take and how it would ultimately end. From the first frantic call to loved ones who worked in Building 7 - the third building to go down that day - to assure of their safety, to the bombardment of images being televised of the blinding, enveloping smoke and flames and people jumping out of windows in manic desperation to their deaths, to the subsequent attacks in Washington, to the downing of a jet fueled by the selfless acts of passengers who refused to be pawns in a deadly game against their own, and finally to the imploding finality of the two towers that would no longer stand sentry -- all of this, all of this in the course of of one day, overwhelmed and put us all in a state of shock. Day after day, images of people and cars covered with the ash of death, the daily rise of victims lost, the grateful acts of those found alive, the selfless acts of police, firefighters, iron workers, medical personnel, volunteers and the countless organizations that were there to help suddenly became our norm. We were suddenly thrust into a world of chaos, in a blink of an eye, without knowing the reason why. Yet, in the midst of this tragedy, something wonderful happened: we no longer saw each other as a people of different color or race. We all became one, standing together, united, in support of one another against something that was so much bigger than us. We all became a family and as is the case in all families, when tragedy strikes, all is forgiven and we stand united to grief and remind each other that in times like these, our humanity always trumps our beliefs. And that is something our enemy did not count on, that is something that is inherent in us as human beings.
And finding myself days later, exhausted from the images and unable to fully express in words what I felt, I did what I usually do at times when words fail, I sit and write and let the unconscious filter through and speak its truth to free me from the powerlessness that I feel. I sat and at the moment my finger hit the first key, all came out, unfiltered, uncensored, without fear. I needed to hear what my silence wanted to scream and I was afraid to hear. And in the dawning of a new day, I sat and wrote these words:
I WILL NOT BE COWED BY FEAR NOR PARALYZED BY ANGER
I am no longer fearful.
On Tuesday, September 11, 2001, whatever internal fears I'd kept company with disintegrated in the dust of mortar that malevolently covered a people caught off guard. My being shattered into tiny pieces along with the destruction of thousands of lives slain and victimized by another's ideology. The portals of Hell opened and victims whose screams of anguish we'll hear and remember in perpetuity, revealed to us that day that our lives, in a blink of an eye, could be so easily and unexpectedly extinguished.
Though we are all well aware that accidents and tragedies can and will happen, we nonetheless live our lives in a state of illusion - a deceptive self-preservation mechanism that leads us to believe we are in control. But on that fateful day, the message was loud and clear: we have no control over our lives and how foolish and egotistical of us to believe otherwise. We plan our futures with the belief that our stay here will be long and fruitful because that is the way we are wired, to hope and dream and believe that fortune will always follow us wherever we go. However, on September 11, thousands of innocent people never got to see those hopes and dreams come to fruition, they never got to see another tomorrow.
The people in America right now are experiencing an overall sense of malaise. We have not yet begun to assimilate that which is incomprehensible. Anger and depression are holding center court. Some are angered by the secretive enchroachment of a group that assimilated themselves into our society feigning a false sense of love for our country while meticulously preparing for the day of our destruction. Others are blaming our naivete, yet it has always been the policy of our nation to extend a helping and welcoming hand to all who enter. But collectively we are all now aware of the consequences to come. In God we trust; in people we trust? It is a sad day because the lesson has been learned.
And I am sad but I am not angry. In times of crisis, I am hardly ever angry. In times of crisis I become quiet and introspective and begin to internally deconstruct a situation that has been forced upon me to find its solution. No, I am not angry because anger begets anger and it is not problem-solving. When angry, people make foolish decisions and make grievous mistakes. This is a time where calm, critical thinking should reign. This is a time where we need to still our minds so that we may hear what our silence so sagely wants to advice.
And, I am saddened...
I am saddened because in this great country of ours that stands for Freedom, anger has alit on our land and has deceptively introduced itself to our people, but I am confident that we shall overcome.
I am saddened that we will now see danger and mistrust lurking behind innocent middle-eastern faces who were never a part of our destruction, but I am secure in the fact that in time our eyes will open themselves to the truth.
I am saddened of the retribution our government will take in defense of this senseless act, but sadly understand that we are left no other choice.
I am saddened that our way of life and liberty has now taken on a new face, but realize that it is a necessity if we are to survive.
I am saddened that living in the land of the free, I had taken for granted the blessings of our freedom and forgotten that this is not the way for so many others, and so ask God for his forgiveness for being so righteous and blind.
Yes, I am sad, not angry. I will not allow the very emotion that gave birth to this monstrous act that espoused a distorted sense of belief consume me. My self will not express it. I watch the news and see countries applauding in the face of our ruin. I see children cheering in the aftermath of the destruction. The amoral behaviour is what disturbs me, makes me uneasy, makes me feel threatened, but it does not anger me. It saddens me because I realize there are never any winners in a game of hate and retribution.
And, I am no longer fearful. I am no longer fearful because whatever will happen will happen without my knowledge and contribution and it is outside of my control. I cannot control what our country or another country will do, yet I cannot live in a state of perpetual fear over this, a fear of the unknown.
No, I will not be cowed by fear or be paralyzed by anger. Instead, I will continue to live my life as I always have with optimism and continue to pray for peace, acceptance and understanding because until we choose to achieve these things, history will continue to repeat itself. And I will continue to pray for our humanity because humanity and hate cannot coexist in the same heart and it is in this, in the changing of one person's thoughts, personal views and tenets, that change ultimately comes.
Friday, August 19, 2011
Something Old Is New Again
There are lessons to be learned along life's way every year, month, and day. There are memories that filter in and out of our consciousness every day like water ebbing and flowing, gently and in tranquil form hoping we take notice. Unfortunately, in our filled and busy lifestyles, we seldom take notice.
A few weeks ago I finally tackled something that I had been meaning to do for many years but to say it was procrastination would be inappropriate. It was more indecisiveness.
There is a piece of furniture that was my mother's that I inherited simply because she lived with me. At the time my mother passed away, she had been living with me and so when she passed, I kept her bedroom dresser unable and unwilling to part with it. It was a very old piece of furniture that had been carefully and lovingly kept in excellent shape. It was a dresser with a beautiful mirror; a dresser whose drawers were gigantic and held the look and feel of good craftsmanship.
But many years after she passed, the piece had begun to look shabby and old and so, one rainy day, with the help of my husband, we put the dresser at the curb to be taken away by whoever wanted it and if no one claimed it, then to be gone in that week's trash.
A half hour later my daughter comes home and enters the house with tears in her eyes, "Why are you throwing away Abuelita's (grandma's) dresser?" I did not know she held such a strong emotional attachment to it and seeing this, my husband and I went to the curb to retrieve it and bring it back into the house. By that point, however, someone had already claimed its beautiful mirror.
Though better days had been had, to put it in the garage or basement out of sight's way was just as inconceivable and insensitive considering her attachment to it. And so, it went back into my mother's former bedroom, and the choice of buying new bedroom furniture to replace it was now made. It's not important. If it means that much to her, then here it will stay. There was a part of me that felt bad at not having the same reaction as my daughter but I still had many good pieces of my mother's furniture in the home and so I felt that this one piece, if gone, would not matter much in the scheme of things. How wrong was I to think that. There was another person in the home whom I had not considered and whose memories of her grandmother were birthed by the sight and feel of this piece.
And so, the furniture stayed in my mother's former bedroom, now a guest bedroom. Over the years, it received a few more nicks, scratches and cracks and its lustre began to fade with the passage of time. Years later, during a shabby chic stage, I decided to paint it. To recreate the exact same look I had in a different color I found ironic but shabby chic in light colors was in and not the current dark color it lived in. But then the Beloved came home just as I had started to paint it and vetoed immediately my project. He said I was ruining the piece by doing that but by then I felt it was too late as I had already painted the top. Since I had not yet touched the remainder of the furniture, he opined, "cover the top with some nice fabric, but don't continue painting it, you're gonna ruin it." I heeded his advice and stopped painting and proceeded to, over the next couple of years, to cover the top with beautiful fabrics that would match the decor.
And every time I'd enter the bedroom and look at the piece it brought memories of my mother. I remembered the day she had bought it at a tag sale from the lady across the street who was now moving to a nursing home and how at the time it was bought, it was an old piece already but in excellent, beautiful condition. I remembered how it occupied her bedroom and how I would covet it over the years, gliding my hand over it and admiring its antique look. But it no longer looked like that. It's beautiful era was gone and now it was old, aged and in need of help.
And then, a few months ago, in the spurt of focused decisiveness, I went to the paint store, bought a gallon of black paint, new knobs and proceeded to tackle the former shell of a once beautiful piece and give it new life. I tackled the project on a hot day with beads of sweat rolling down my face and back and a smile on my face. I took off its antique knobs (which I saved and plan to use them somewhere else) and proceeded to sand it down. I got my wood filler from the garage and carefully and unhurried stayed in the moment giving life to something that represented another life. It was a day when the Beloved was at work and so I was left alone to my thoughts. Each stroke bringing memories to the front and I felt my mother's presence very strongly with me that day.
By the end of the day it looked like this. What was formerly my mother's, had now become mine.
And not having had its original mirror anymore, I had taken a trip to a thrift
shop in search of a mirror and found a solid, heavy piece for $10 which I painted and mounted. The piece had been transformed beautifully and with tears in my eyes I thanked my daughter for having had the foresight at such a young age to see the importance and meaning of a piece owned by one whom we loved so much. Like my mother, this piece of furniture had been strong and solid and carried whatever I gave it even when it was aging and tired. But now, aged and in need of help, like I had once done with my mother, it was now my turn to do the same with her beloved piece. The facelift given gave it new life and reminded me again of one of life's most sagest of lessons: that even old, tired things still have purpose, can still offer beauty, can still offer support, and still matter. We just have to let it.
A few weeks ago I finally tackled something that I had been meaning to do for many years but to say it was procrastination would be inappropriate. It was more indecisiveness.
There is a piece of furniture that was my mother's that I inherited simply because she lived with me. At the time my mother passed away, she had been living with me and so when she passed, I kept her bedroom dresser unable and unwilling to part with it. It was a very old piece of furniture that had been carefully and lovingly kept in excellent shape. It was a dresser with a beautiful mirror; a dresser whose drawers were gigantic and held the look and feel of good craftsmanship.
But many years after she passed, the piece had begun to look shabby and old and so, one rainy day, with the help of my husband, we put the dresser at the curb to be taken away by whoever wanted it and if no one claimed it, then to be gone in that week's trash.
A half hour later my daughter comes home and enters the house with tears in her eyes, "Why are you throwing away Abuelita's (grandma's) dresser?" I did not know she held such a strong emotional attachment to it and seeing this, my husband and I went to the curb to retrieve it and bring it back into the house. By that point, however, someone had already claimed its beautiful mirror.
Though better days had been had, to put it in the garage or basement out of sight's way was just as inconceivable and insensitive considering her attachment to it. And so, it went back into my mother's former bedroom, and the choice of buying new bedroom furniture to replace it was now made. It's not important. If it means that much to her, then here it will stay. There was a part of me that felt bad at not having the same reaction as my daughter but I still had many good pieces of my mother's furniture in the home and so I felt that this one piece, if gone, would not matter much in the scheme of things. How wrong was I to think that. There was another person in the home whom I had not considered and whose memories of her grandmother were birthed by the sight and feel of this piece.
And so, the furniture stayed in my mother's former bedroom, now a guest bedroom. Over the years, it received a few more nicks, scratches and cracks and its lustre began to fade with the passage of time. Years later, during a shabby chic stage, I decided to paint it. To recreate the exact same look I had in a different color I found ironic but shabby chic in light colors was in and not the current dark color it lived in. But then the Beloved came home just as I had started to paint it and vetoed immediately my project. He said I was ruining the piece by doing that but by then I felt it was too late as I had already painted the top. Since I had not yet touched the remainder of the furniture, he opined, "cover the top with some nice fabric, but don't continue painting it, you're gonna ruin it." I heeded his advice and stopped painting and proceeded to, over the next couple of years, to cover the top with beautiful fabrics that would match the decor.
And every time I'd enter the bedroom and look at the piece it brought memories of my mother. I remembered the day she had bought it at a tag sale from the lady across the street who was now moving to a nursing home and how at the time it was bought, it was an old piece already but in excellent, beautiful condition. I remembered how it occupied her bedroom and how I would covet it over the years, gliding my hand over it and admiring its antique look. But it no longer looked like that. It's beautiful era was gone and now it was old, aged and in need of help.
And then, a few months ago, in the spurt of focused decisiveness, I went to the paint store, bought a gallon of black paint, new knobs and proceeded to tackle the former shell of a once beautiful piece and give it new life. I tackled the project on a hot day with beads of sweat rolling down my face and back and a smile on my face. I took off its antique knobs (which I saved and plan to use them somewhere else) and proceeded to sand it down. I got my wood filler from the garage and carefully and unhurried stayed in the moment giving life to something that represented another life. It was a day when the Beloved was at work and so I was left alone to my thoughts. Each stroke bringing memories to the front and I felt my mother's presence very strongly with me that day.
By the end of the day it looked like this. What was formerly my mother's, had now become mine.
And not having had its original mirror anymore, I had taken a trip to a thrift
shop in search of a mirror and found a solid, heavy piece for $10 which I painted and mounted. The piece had been transformed beautifully and with tears in my eyes I thanked my daughter for having had the foresight at such a young age to see the importance and meaning of a piece owned by one whom we loved so much. Like my mother, this piece of furniture had been strong and solid and carried whatever I gave it even when it was aging and tired. But now, aged and in need of help, like I had once done with my mother, it was now my turn to do the same with her beloved piece. The facelift given gave it new life and reminded me again of one of life's most sagest of lessons: that even old, tired things still have purpose, can still offer beauty, can still offer support, and still matter. We just have to let it.
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