The sun had found that place just right, between the limbs and leaves of one tree and the next, guaranteeing I would bake in its glory. Sweat wasn't what I came here for. I looked over to my right, and in the nice cool shade there was another bench swing, inviting me to abandon its sister for it's more welcoming embrace. I took an easy, deep draw on my Ghurka, gathered myself up and trundled the 30 feet to my new venue in the shade. I had missed this one as I drove into the park, looking for a quiet place to sit, think, and enjoy my cigar in solitude.
Its front edge was chipped, weathered and broken, and it sagged under me, but she settled and I found a nice quiet rhythm. A sigh, and a puff, and soon I was returned to my hypnotic revelry, watching the people go by, listening to the soft modern jazz from down the lake where a group of young people were coming together for a barbeque. The late afternoon was waning into evening, the hawks circling over the water seeking their evening's meal, and people from all sorts of places walking the asphalt path that wound around the Little Bonita Lake. I watched them, the older woman who wasn't a Mennonite, but dressed like one with hair tight in a bun, meeting up with her husband by the big boulder, he in shirtleeves, buttoned to the neck, suspenders and belt, with her bottle of water, not quite the walking kind. She sipped, they chatted, she returned to the path and he to his picnic table. The group of young, genorously proportioned black women walking together, the nature of their animated banter lost as they talked over one another, one louder than the next to make their point. A group of beautiful machines, rumbling beneath their riders passed in single file behind me, six or seven, shiny, well kept classics. I puffed, rocked, and watched. I looked for a young couple, he the tall athletic sort, she a smaller probably-had-been-athletic-but-had-let-that-go-some-time-ago, alternating walking, jogging, until she finally sat on a bench, far on the other side of the lake. I could see them as small things, he jogging back to where she had sought respite. A middle aged man in black shorts passed into my view from left to right, t-shirt in hand, glistening in sweat as he walked his cool down. I had not seen him until he was passing, having gotten caught up in watching the young couple across the lake. Two young women with their McDonald's in hand, one clearly a salad, the other clearly not, took up residence at a picnic table off to my right beneath the trees. This stage, this ever evolving diorama, was distracting me from the thoughts that occupied my mind these days. I wonder what drama their lives are unfolding? Surely it was unlike my own. And that fascinates me.
I am lucky. So very lucky. I am here, on this park swing, smoking a good cigar, belly full of local barbeque ribs and mighty fine beans washed down with sweet southern tea, taking a break from a job my good friend gave me some 4 years ago now, just to make some extra money to add to my already fairly extraordinary salary from my regular work. Nevermind I was leaving that regular job for a new one, and that had seen some stresses, I am one very lucky man, at this crossroad. I have a wife who, while she thinks she loves me really is just used to me, but that's okay, I'm pretty used to her too, and the love we share is its own thing, no less attached to itself. Its what love becomes as it grows old. A couple of teenaged kids who were turning out to be two pretty nice people. My life has been filled with extraordinary, ordinary, and strange people, all who in their way gave my life its palette. There were the good ones, but also the petty ones, whose life drama played into mine and cast me into a turbulent sea, each time to be pulled out by true Samaritans, who set me to rights, and from there my life proceeded even better than before. Every single time... My life has been enchanted. That has been my greatest fortune. With each turn of the screw, each seemingly tragic end, has come some new, wonderful beginning. Not because I am gifted in my own right, but because I am gifted by the people who care about me, some who actually knew me, others who did not but were good people in their own lives. I am who I am today, a decent ordinary man making his way through his extraordinary life, because of what I have learned from each of them, the good, the bad, and how I have added them to my being. I am where and who I am today because I have made good choices, but mostly because those choices were there for me to choose from, brought by those pople who shaped me. I have lived all around the world, seen things no one has seen, things others only dream about. I am healthy, wealthy, and with each passing day, I am wiser. But more than that, I have the wonderful gift of people in my life, friends, enemies, strangers, seen and unseen, who have sculpted me.
We come into this life a block of fine quality stone. From the day of our birth we are sculpted by those around us. Some hammer away big chunks, others chisel away fine curves, and sometimes a mistake is made and a large craggy piece of us falls to the ground to shatter, forever changing us. Some of those lost peices we love and cherish, others we could do without, some is just baggage, others tthought to be essential in our minds to our shape. Some come to polish and shine us, some to judge us as beautiful or ugly from their own point of view. We are what we are, beauty and truth are in the eye of the beholder, this surely is true. When we die, we are what we are, made by the lives that have shaped us, good, not so good, some very bad. And in this life we have sculpted others, polished, shined, judged, and shattered... This is our life: life imitating art making life.
Another puff, and I see I have smoked the Ghurka down as low as I would like. I rub it into the dirt, one last look around as the sun sets, toss it into the brown steel trash can by the road, and I walk over to my car, my very nice car. Lucky, lucky me. I have no doubt that I owe everything I have to all of those I have known throughout my life, those who have scultped me, and I smile. I wonder how many people might say the same about me? But more than anything else, I am excited about the years to come, the people I will meet, come to know, those who will remain strnagers or passers through, and wonder at the enchantment we will share. Life is good. We are good. Its all good in the end.
Or I am just one helluva lucky guy...
Saturday, May 26, 2012
Friday, May 25, 2012
I am and I am not
I miss who I am
having become a shadow of who I once was.
It is with some sadness that I find
that hiding myself from others,
living in fear of my vulnerability,
is safer than seeking comfort and friendship.
Trust is a fragile and uncertain thing
and I have never held it in its true form.
I have always been judged harshly by others
who did not want to keep up.
I am not ashamed of being me. I am afraid of being me.
Not because who, or what I am is not good,
but because I am good, and I expect it of others,
not as a judgement, but as a norm.
I live in fear of judgment by others
not trusting they have my best interests in mind,
only their own.
For some that I am good is overwhelming.
By making me hide, they shine in the absence of my light,
and bring the bar down
so they need not rise to it.
I would rather they chose to turn the heat up in themselves
and shine brighter themselves
than dim me down, and darken me.
I am not alone down here.
Many have been snuffed out by the threatened vengeful.
Life is full of those better at dimming the shine of others,
as those who shine are vulnerable
for often the soul of that shine
is an open giving
seen as a probe into the fears and weaknesses
of the shallow and self possessed.
The irony lives in the lies we tell.
"We are all special."
But some of us are not.
"You are not special."
But some of us are.
And we may or may not know it.
But we feel it, and do not want others to know us
for what we fear we are.
Our history is replete with tales
of bullies in every place,
weak and frail humans
who prey on others to keep their own failings undiscovered,
those who feel they are not special
eat the souls of those who might be.
Like pigs after truffles, they root and root
until they pull the truffle from the ground
and devour it.
And in reading this the thought is
"how arrogant..."
for to even offer that I am, indeed, special,
is seen as arrogant and self possessed.
We are not allowed to be special,
only to be told by others that we are or are not.
And therein lies the oxymoron
that illuminates our deceit.
We acknowledge that others are special
so that we too may be seen as special
whether or not we or they are,
and cannot truly allow it in others
for the possibility that it makes it clear
we are not, and for no other reason.
And so, I sit here
dimmed by others,
hiding for myself
that I might not have my soul eaten
anymore than it already has been.
Not wanting to join the fight
for having had the specialness I had
beaten from me.
It is telling
that I will never share this tale
because I am not as special
as I think I am
and they will make sure I know it.
having become a shadow of who I once was.
It is with some sadness that I find
that hiding myself from others,
living in fear of my vulnerability,
is safer than seeking comfort and friendship.
Trust is a fragile and uncertain thing
and I have never held it in its true form.
I have always been judged harshly by others
who did not want to keep up.
I am not ashamed of being me. I am afraid of being me.
Not because who, or what I am is not good,
but because I am good, and I expect it of others,
not as a judgement, but as a norm.
I live in fear of judgment by others
not trusting they have my best interests in mind,
only their own.
For some that I am good is overwhelming.
By making me hide, they shine in the absence of my light,
and bring the bar down
so they need not rise to it.
I would rather they chose to turn the heat up in themselves
and shine brighter themselves
than dim me down, and darken me.
I am not alone down here.
Many have been snuffed out by the threatened vengeful.
Life is full of those better at dimming the shine of others,
as those who shine are vulnerable
for often the soul of that shine
is an open giving
seen as a probe into the fears and weaknesses
of the shallow and self possessed.
The irony lives in the lies we tell.
"We are all special."
But some of us are not.
"You are not special."
But some of us are.
And we may or may not know it.
But we feel it, and do not want others to know us
for what we fear we are.
Our history is replete with tales
of bullies in every place,
weak and frail humans
who prey on others to keep their own failings undiscovered,
those who feel they are not special
eat the souls of those who might be.
Like pigs after truffles, they root and root
until they pull the truffle from the ground
and devour it.
And in reading this the thought is
"how arrogant..."
for to even offer that I am, indeed, special,
is seen as arrogant and self possessed.
We are not allowed to be special,
only to be told by others that we are or are not.
And therein lies the oxymoron
that illuminates our deceit.
We acknowledge that others are special
so that we too may be seen as special
whether or not we or they are,
and cannot truly allow it in others
for the possibility that it makes it clear
we are not, and for no other reason.
And so, I sit here
dimmed by others,
hiding for myself
that I might not have my soul eaten
anymore than it already has been.
Not wanting to join the fight
for having had the specialness I had
beaten from me.
It is telling
that I will never share this tale
because I am not as special
as I think I am
and they will make sure I know it.
Saturday, May 12, 2012
The Hanging of Honest Men
Darkness filled the air, held back along with the winter's cold by the warm orange glow flickering out of the brick lined fireplace that occupied a fair portion of the west wall of the great room, aided by the scattered candles lit by the maids as evening came. The paintings of long and near gone family, and one turbulent image of a ship about to be lost at sea in a terrible storm lurked upon the walls of the antebellum home. They seemed possessed with the ghosts that surely haunted the old house, dancing back and forth in time with the flames. Her father and mother looked down from the largest painting, brooding over the mantle for no other reason than that they belonged there.
The young woman in a sleeping gown and robe drank her tea from a fine porcelain cup with gold edging, seated in one of two deep winged chairs set before the fireplace, digging her toes into the thick carpet. She stared through the flames, lost in thought. It had been a long day. Between following shipments, dealing with warehouses and banks, holding off amorous ship's captains, and the daily toil that made up the life of one of the city's finest tea merchants. She set her teacup and saucer on the flawlessly carved Chippendale table, and nearly lost both for being startled by the finely tailored young man now in the other chair, where he was not a moment before.
"Damn it, William, you scared me near to death!"
William smiled, pouring himself a cup of tea from the covered pot set on the table, adding sugar but no milk. "Georgette, darling, forgive me," he drawled softly.
"Oh, William, you must be more specific. There are many things for which you should seek my forgiveness," she said, smiling warmly at her brother as he sat back in his chair. The maid slipped in and replaced the teapot with a fresh one. William smiled his thanks to her. Cup and saucer in one hand, he brushed his lap with the other as he crossed his legs, setting a starched lace napkin across it, and settled with his tea, sipping silently. He moved with a grace that belied his gender. He pulled the cuff of his shirt down from under the sleeve of his jacket with a snap, its lace as fine as that of his napkin.
"Pray tell, Georgette..."
She laughed,"You simply must stop insulting my friends, William, lest I find myself without any."
"Ah..." he replied, "my plan to have you all to myself is working. Whom have I 'offended' such that they would see that as grounds for dismissing your loveliness from their otherwise shallow, colorless lives?" His wordiness and sarcastic emphasis on the word "offended" did not escape her, but she ignored it.
"Mrs. Dubois..."
He rolled his eyes and set his cup clattering in its saucer, never letting go of either, interrupting her. "Is a tiresome old harpy who carries on in tears at anyone whom she feels has caused her to choose to be offended. She seems eager to choose to be offended, as it makes her relevant, and she claims it often when it concerns me."
"She doesn't choose to be offended, William, she is sensitive to slights, as you should be to her frail nature."
"What? Why?"
"You need to be gentler, William, that's all I am saying."
"Darling, I am a dandy, I could not be gentler."
"And as such you might be expected to show more discretion. For God's sake, William, speaking your mind when you should hold your tongue is not your gentler nature," she offered with some annoyance. She had turned to stare into the fire again, but William could see she was upset.
"Love, I have always been an honest man, and I dare say it is my strength. That I choose not to lie when given an opportunity to express my opinion should not be seen as a character flaw, surely. Anyone who would choose to be offended perhaps should be encouraged to be more careful proposing an idea, so as to avoid slight. We digress, what have I done to annoy your friend?"
"You came to church."
"Seriously?" He was surprised. He always came to church.
"She exclaimed to anyone who would listen that a sodomite had no business sitting in God's house, and that you should be prohibited, forcibly if necessary, from doing so," she replied.
They sat quietly, he sipping his tea, she adjusting the blanket across her knees.
"I am shocked speechless," he squeaked with a giggle, trying not to laugh outright, the sarcasm thick upon it.
"William, honestly..."
"She is a devout Christian woman, its her nature to judge, I understand that..."
Irritated she snapped back, "You understand nothing!"
Sensing her ire, he answered sincerely,"I see you are upset, certainly not about me, perhaps with Mrs. Dubois and her sanctimony, but what truly bothers you, my dear?"
She looked at her hands, realizing she had clasped them tightly in her lap. "Charleston is our home, William, we have to live with these people, as sanctimonious as some may be. Surely you can see that your open expression of your opinions, particulalry against slavery, causes offense to some of our more sensitve friends?"
"My dear Georgette, one cannot cause offense, one can only take it. It is a choice one makes. Most are annoyed, really, not offended, but offended sounds more odious and compelling. They fail to understand that ideas do not cause reason for the taking of offense. Ideas cause nothing, people wielding them do. Ideas should be discussed, it is their reason d'etre, they are meaningless without discussion." He sipped, then continued softly and casually as was his way. "That weaker minds chose to remain unthinking and discourage reason by claiming offense is itself an offense against the human mind. Unthinking acceptance of dogma cowed reason and brought the Dark Ages, where the church and fear ruled. The return of thought and the discussion of ideas, challenging dogma, brought the Enlightment. That there are those who chose to remain in the dark rather than the light is their choice, and I need not abide it. They need that dark, it supports their sense of order and control, no matter how thin and contradictory its source. They seem to feel that their ideas deserve protection, are somehow sacred and special. Ideas are never sacred, Georgette, that would be dangerous. They are malleable notions, but ephemeral and capable by themselves of nothing. Wielded by a thoughtful person, that person can change the world with an idea. Attaching an idea to one's ego is inviting ruin, for many ideas fail scrutiny. If they chose to be offended when their ideas are hammered, they should first not enter the fray, or present better ideas, rather than cry foul. If they choose to declare their ideas unchallengeable, well then, they are no ideas at all, only dogma. And dogma, its ironic I know, are notions that demand challenge by their very nature."
She had turned back to the light that filled his eyes as he spoke, and continued to study him for a few moments after he had fallen silent. She loved her brother, admired his intellect, and recognized why the college valued him so highly as a professor, but she feared for his trusting nature, and his inability to see the world for what it was.
"William, what has the church always done with thinkers, especially the brightest and most out spoken ones?"
"Why they hang them, dear sister, burn them, and when in a more benign mood, lock them in their houses until they come to their senses and deny reason."
"My point is made, William, that even the sharpest tongue cannot cut the rope with which the likes of Mrs. Dubois would hang you."
"I see... yes, your point is made, Georgette," he replied thoughtfully, fooling her not in the least. "I shall work to abide my gentler nature, to think and share only happy thoughts, to allow the insipid to remain unchallenged, and to hide among all the others, hiding who and what they really are, what they think and feel, so that everyone remains happy on the outside, while frightened to death wondering what everyone is really thinking and feeling on the inside, resentful for being silenced. I shall acknowledge only that all is right with the world."
"Good. Then its settled," she smiled, her humor easing her rebuke. She rose, setting the blanket across the chair and said good night. "I am off to bed."
"Hmm..." She kissed his cheek, he waved after her saucer and cup in hand, smiling as the oversized dog moved from the hearth and took her vacated seat.
"Such is life unfettered by reason, limited by faith. All happy in carefully chosen psalm and verse while ever fearful as God plays at dice with their lives, mocking them all the way, begging their abusive Father to kindness," he said softly to the now sleeping dog. He sat thoughtfully, warmed by the fire as it dwindled. He finished his tea, set it aside, gathered his hat, gloves and walking stick, straightened his collar, and made his way home to his rectory.
The young woman in a sleeping gown and robe drank her tea from a fine porcelain cup with gold edging, seated in one of two deep winged chairs set before the fireplace, digging her toes into the thick carpet. She stared through the flames, lost in thought. It had been a long day. Between following shipments, dealing with warehouses and banks, holding off amorous ship's captains, and the daily toil that made up the life of one of the city's finest tea merchants. She set her teacup and saucer on the flawlessly carved Chippendale table, and nearly lost both for being startled by the finely tailored young man now in the other chair, where he was not a moment before.
"Damn it, William, you scared me near to death!"
William smiled, pouring himself a cup of tea from the covered pot set on the table, adding sugar but no milk. "Georgette, darling, forgive me," he drawled softly.
"Oh, William, you must be more specific. There are many things for which you should seek my forgiveness," she said, smiling warmly at her brother as he sat back in his chair. The maid slipped in and replaced the teapot with a fresh one. William smiled his thanks to her. Cup and saucer in one hand, he brushed his lap with the other as he crossed his legs, setting a starched lace napkin across it, and settled with his tea, sipping silently. He moved with a grace that belied his gender. He pulled the cuff of his shirt down from under the sleeve of his jacket with a snap, its lace as fine as that of his napkin.
"Pray tell, Georgette..."
She laughed,"You simply must stop insulting my friends, William, lest I find myself without any."
"Ah..." he replied, "my plan to have you all to myself is working. Whom have I 'offended' such that they would see that as grounds for dismissing your loveliness from their otherwise shallow, colorless lives?" His wordiness and sarcastic emphasis on the word "offended" did not escape her, but she ignored it.
"Mrs. Dubois..."
He rolled his eyes and set his cup clattering in its saucer, never letting go of either, interrupting her. "Is a tiresome old harpy who carries on in tears at anyone whom she feels has caused her to choose to be offended. She seems eager to choose to be offended, as it makes her relevant, and she claims it often when it concerns me."
"She doesn't choose to be offended, William, she is sensitive to slights, as you should be to her frail nature."
"What? Why?"
"You need to be gentler, William, that's all I am saying."
"Darling, I am a dandy, I could not be gentler."
"And as such you might be expected to show more discretion. For God's sake, William, speaking your mind when you should hold your tongue is not your gentler nature," she offered with some annoyance. She had turned to stare into the fire again, but William could see she was upset.
"Love, I have always been an honest man, and I dare say it is my strength. That I choose not to lie when given an opportunity to express my opinion should not be seen as a character flaw, surely. Anyone who would choose to be offended perhaps should be encouraged to be more careful proposing an idea, so as to avoid slight. We digress, what have I done to annoy your friend?"
"You came to church."
"Seriously?" He was surprised. He always came to church.
"She exclaimed to anyone who would listen that a sodomite had no business sitting in God's house, and that you should be prohibited, forcibly if necessary, from doing so," she replied.
They sat quietly, he sipping his tea, she adjusting the blanket across her knees.
"I am shocked speechless," he squeaked with a giggle, trying not to laugh outright, the sarcasm thick upon it.
"William, honestly..."
"She is a devout Christian woman, its her nature to judge, I understand that..."
Irritated she snapped back, "You understand nothing!"
Sensing her ire, he answered sincerely,"I see you are upset, certainly not about me, perhaps with Mrs. Dubois and her sanctimony, but what truly bothers you, my dear?"
She looked at her hands, realizing she had clasped them tightly in her lap. "Charleston is our home, William, we have to live with these people, as sanctimonious as some may be. Surely you can see that your open expression of your opinions, particulalry against slavery, causes offense to some of our more sensitve friends?"
"My dear Georgette, one cannot cause offense, one can only take it. It is a choice one makes. Most are annoyed, really, not offended, but offended sounds more odious and compelling. They fail to understand that ideas do not cause reason for the taking of offense. Ideas cause nothing, people wielding them do. Ideas should be discussed, it is their reason d'etre, they are meaningless without discussion." He sipped, then continued softly and casually as was his way. "That weaker minds chose to remain unthinking and discourage reason by claiming offense is itself an offense against the human mind. Unthinking acceptance of dogma cowed reason and brought the Dark Ages, where the church and fear ruled. The return of thought and the discussion of ideas, challenging dogma, brought the Enlightment. That there are those who chose to remain in the dark rather than the light is their choice, and I need not abide it. They need that dark, it supports their sense of order and control, no matter how thin and contradictory its source. They seem to feel that their ideas deserve protection, are somehow sacred and special. Ideas are never sacred, Georgette, that would be dangerous. They are malleable notions, but ephemeral and capable by themselves of nothing. Wielded by a thoughtful person, that person can change the world with an idea. Attaching an idea to one's ego is inviting ruin, for many ideas fail scrutiny. If they chose to be offended when their ideas are hammered, they should first not enter the fray, or present better ideas, rather than cry foul. If they choose to declare their ideas unchallengeable, well then, they are no ideas at all, only dogma. And dogma, its ironic I know, are notions that demand challenge by their very nature."
She had turned back to the light that filled his eyes as he spoke, and continued to study him for a few moments after he had fallen silent. She loved her brother, admired his intellect, and recognized why the college valued him so highly as a professor, but she feared for his trusting nature, and his inability to see the world for what it was.
"William, what has the church always done with thinkers, especially the brightest and most out spoken ones?"
"Why they hang them, dear sister, burn them, and when in a more benign mood, lock them in their houses until they come to their senses and deny reason."
"My point is made, William, that even the sharpest tongue cannot cut the rope with which the likes of Mrs. Dubois would hang you."
"I see... yes, your point is made, Georgette," he replied thoughtfully, fooling her not in the least. "I shall work to abide my gentler nature, to think and share only happy thoughts, to allow the insipid to remain unchallenged, and to hide among all the others, hiding who and what they really are, what they think and feel, so that everyone remains happy on the outside, while frightened to death wondering what everyone is really thinking and feeling on the inside, resentful for being silenced. I shall acknowledge only that all is right with the world."
"Good. Then its settled," she smiled, her humor easing her rebuke. She rose, setting the blanket across the chair and said good night. "I am off to bed."
"Hmm..." She kissed his cheek, he waved after her saucer and cup in hand, smiling as the oversized dog moved from the hearth and took her vacated seat.
"Such is life unfettered by reason, limited by faith. All happy in carefully chosen psalm and verse while ever fearful as God plays at dice with their lives, mocking them all the way, begging their abusive Father to kindness," he said softly to the now sleeping dog. He sat thoughtfully, warmed by the fire as it dwindled. He finished his tea, set it aside, gathered his hat, gloves and walking stick, straightened his collar, and made his way home to his rectory.
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