So, I'm finding it even harder than usual to entertain the theory that there is a higher power. Many of us have been searching our hearts and minds over the last few days and coming up with nothing--nothing that makes sense; nothing that quiets the grief.
In the days since a very ill individual ripped away the lives of so many children in Newtown, Connecticut, many of us have been looking for answers to questions that even if answered would not satisfy the hole left behind by this tragedy. And many of us have been arguing over solutions and ways to prevent killings like this one from happening again.
No detailed manifesto or note that Adam Lanza could have written for us would make the pain of this event any less, and knowing why doesn't help. No matter "why" he did this horrible, horrible thing, we can never unknow the horror he left us with. Having the answer to "why" doesn't keep me from being in my car and thinking about what has happened and openly weeping. And for those of us so indirectly affected by this killing field, fathoming the grief of these families and their community is impossible. We barely have a right to be as grief-stricken as many of us are.
I want a child. My husband and I have spent the better part of a year trying to have one. Many of my friends either have young children, or have children on the way. Events like this make you pause. How can anyone in good conscious bring a child into a world where there are people who could do something so horrible?
I have a very strong opinion when it comes to the debate about gun control, but I understand that if someone is so troubled that they want to commit this kind of act, they are going to find a way to do it, no matter what laws are in place.
I don't know what the answers are, but I do know that most of us are starting to feel that we live in a world gone mad, and by mad, I mean angry and filled with hurt.
A couple of my good friends talked about this on their Facebook pages. They talked about how mean spirited we have become as a society, and how media perpetuate this spirit. And with social networking sites like Facebook and Twitter, we all participate in that media now more than ever, no matter how much we might also complain about it.
People have been argumentative and mean for as long as people have been walking the face of the earth. It's at least part of our nature. But before we all had the kind of access we do now, if you wanted to be argumentative with someone, or mean to them, you had to do it in a more personal way--you had to say it to them directly. It's just not that way anymore.
Social media emboldens all of us to say things to and about each other that we otherwise would never say. And I think feeling so emboldened in that way almost makes us feel more emboldened in our everyday lives too. Sometimes, when I think of things people have said to or about me or others, I am just stunned.
It's amazing how a snide remark when you're already having a hard time can quickly knock you down even further. When you're doing the best you can in life, and someone reminds you that it's not enough, it can be hard to feel like trying harder.
I was picked on throughout my childhood. Elementary and junior high school were the worst. I wasn't a popular kid, and my parents didn't see the importance of keeping me in trendy clothes. I was kind of studious. I wasn't an ugly kid, but I was probably more than a little awkward at times. I grew up in an abusive household. It was a tough time.
Sure, I never snapped and lashed out in violence, but I hurt a lot, and often. I can't begin to imagine how much that hurt would have been multiplied if I had grown up in this era of Facebook, YouTube and Twitter. Someone like me would have been a target for sure.
The kind of mean-spirited behavior perpetrated these days is disheartening. Kids who already feel like outcasts become the targets of social media attacks that drive them to take their own lives. Bullies little realize or care how their victims feel, and only when something terrible happens does anyone face accountability for their actions.
Some people might say that making it through tough times should help you develop a thicker skin or character. And for some people, that may actually work. But for others, constantly being attacked with little stabs and pokes is like being torn down every time they try to build themselves up. If it happens often enough, they eventually give up trying.
But for those individuals who are deeply troubled--mentally ill, the meanness of everyone around them who pokes at them and reminds them of their failure to fit in, that hurt is a ticking time bomb. It's waiting for that moment when all the light goes out, and darkness is all that is left.
I'm going to say something horrible, now. I don't care how much Adam Lanza was hurting, or even why right now. So whatever people did or said to him as his mental illness evolved doesn't even matter to me now. I think it would be very hard to find many people who could muster sympathy or understanding after what he has done. But, I do care about how easy it is for us all to be the sharp sticks that poke at these sleeping monsters, contributing to their awakening.
When you see someone hurting or struggling, no matter how ridiculous they might seem to you, think of the last time you were hurting and struggling and how much better or worse the actions of others made that situation. Is it so much to ask that we try to reach out to each other with compassion? Is it so much to ask that we try to understand each other and help each other, even if only in small ways?
We have choices everyday. We can be small people committing layer upon layer of small terrorist attacks on each others' hearts, or we can be giant people committing tiny acts of heroism to heal each others' hurts. It may not prevent the kind of heinous acts that people like Adam Lanza commit, but it's surprising how little it can take to "save a life."
If God Will Send His Angels--U2
Sunday, December 16, 2012
Saturday, December 1, 2012
Objects Are Cooler Than They Appear, December 1, 2012
So, there was one night in Dublin when Jeph and I ended up having an argument. It's not really that unusual that a couple would have a disagreement during a vacation, but on this particular evening, our argument was about spending a night out on the town, and living it up. Silly, right? Who wouldn't be up for spending a night out, eating fancy food and drinking up all the city has to offer in the "hippest" part of town?
Well, the truth of the matter is, kind of me. I had dressed to the nines, strappy heels and all. We'd had an elegant dinner at the Tea Room in our hotel, and the night was young. We stepped out into the night, and the cobbled streets of Temple Bar to people watch and see what the craic was. For my non-Irish affiliated, the craic is an Irish term for "what's happening."
On this particular Saturday night, like most, the Bar was chockablock. Most of the crowd was comprised of twenty-somethings, or maybe even a few thirty-somethings. I looked good. Jeph looked good. That said, my footwear didn't exactly leave me as nimble and agile as I wanted to be. I'm sure it's just that I don't wear heels everyday, but it was annoying to me that I was having so much trouble and that half of the women around me were tromping around the Bar like freaking gazelles in similar footwear and worse. It hurt my pride.
We stopped and watched a couple of guys who were playing some blues outside a restaurant. Jeph was stoked. I'm not personally a blues girl, so we watched for a bit and moved on. We thought we'd duck into another bar in the district, and we followed some fairly cool looking people into a club that sounded to be hopping. As soon as we walked in, we quickly realized we didn't belong there--not to mention the fact that there was a fairly foul odor I don't think I could describe.
I didn't want to give up, so we pressed on. Every step I took was more precarious than the last, and I knew that I was sacrificing my feet for style. I felt like a fool.
When we finally decided to give up the fight, we still had to make it back all the way to the hotel--through the throngs of people, and the same distance of cobbled road my pride had made us traverse in the first place. We tried to hug the sides of the cobbles and stick to the sidewalks to spare my already blistered toes any little bit of skin they had left. Unfortunately, these sidewalks were jam-packed with people, and most of them were waiting outside of clubs or bars. We tried to walk around these crowds, and politely excuse our way through. At one point, a lippy young woman mouthed off to me, and surprisingly I was the one who felt mortified.
In that moment, I felt so out of place, and so old, I just wanted to rip my pretty shoes off and race back to our room.
When we did get back to the room, Jeph was bummed about coming back early, and frustrated with me for what I'd done to my feet in the process. He was sad to think that this was the last night we'd have in Dublin that wouldn't be followed by a day of travel, and I'd squandered it.
As we discussed the situation, the one thing that we could agree on was that we weren't young hipsters, up for spending the night out partying and hanging out anymore. Truth be told, we probably never were quite like that, but now we really weren't (aren't) full stop.
It led us to think about our age--something we've done a lot of this year. When forty rolled around at the end of last year, I didn't give it any weight. So what? For the first time in years, I wear what I want. I do my hair however I like. I feel like I reflect more of what's inside than I have since I was much younger. I don't care that some people still give me a sideways glance since I colored my hair. I don't care that some people don't like tattoos. I am who I am. Being forty didn't seem to matter. I didn't think about the number putting any kind of limit on me. I know that Jeph had approached this year in much the same way. For him, it started with growing some sideburns, scoring his first pair of Doc Martens and a handful of pearl snap shirts.
Nearly a year down the road, I know I was wrong, in some respects, to be so half full about everything. Things I want to do physically just aren't as easy as they would have been at another time. And I know Jeph feels the same way. While his pulmonary embolism was definitely not age related, the limitations that go hand in hand with his risk factors make him feel tied and bound--like someone much older.
A common theme in our society is that once you get to be a certain age, there are things you just have to accept. Maturity dictates that you don't throw fits when you want to. Responsibility means that you shun frivolity. Stability means you embrace habit. Maybe you used to be able to touch your toes and you no longer can. Maybe you're afraid to mountain bike on rough trails in case you cut yourself and your blood thinners that save you from dangerous clots, make you bleed like a stuck pig.
We saw the new James Bond movie this afternoon. One of the undercurrents of the plot was the idea that Bond and operatives like him were a thing of the past, easily replaced by the new and the technologically proficient. Anyone who's a Bond fan can surmise that 007 proved the naysayers wrong. His wealth of experience and long term connection was the foundation for a perspective that was much broader than up and coming techie geniuses who mocked his methods. Years of injuries and physical abuse certainly made the job harder for him, but it's who he is that makes him so invaluable.
Now, Jeph and I are certainly not as cool as James Bond--few people are. But, in our hearts, we also aren't forty-something. We're probably not twenty-something either. I think we're some mystical, non-existent age that just isn't fortyish. In our hearts, we're still dreaming and trying to find a way to live the life we want. And maybe it's not about our age. It's about who we are, and where we fit and where we don't. Some days, who we are imprisons us. We're the solid, reliable souls among our peers. We don't always let everyone know that we're in the gutter, because we're trying to remind ourselves not to forget to look at the stars.
Jeph frequently refers to himself as a cog in the machinery. Just a piece within the equipment that other people use to get the job done. I know I often identify with that feeling. And maybe that's what we really are. But maybe it doesn't matter what everybody else thinks. He may be a cog, but when I look at him, he's the cog that isn't covered in the grease and grime of overuse, because he's what tries to make the machinery of dreaming for more work for me.
At the end of the Saturday night, these objects are cooler than they appear--blistered feet, bent dreamscapes, tears shed, and all.
Stay Young, Go Dancing--Death Cab For Cutie
Well, the truth of the matter is, kind of me. I had dressed to the nines, strappy heels and all. We'd had an elegant dinner at the Tea Room in our hotel, and the night was young. We stepped out into the night, and the cobbled streets of Temple Bar to people watch and see what the craic was. For my non-Irish affiliated, the craic is an Irish term for "what's happening."
On this particular Saturday night, like most, the Bar was chockablock. Most of the crowd was comprised of twenty-somethings, or maybe even a few thirty-somethings. I looked good. Jeph looked good. That said, my footwear didn't exactly leave me as nimble and agile as I wanted to be. I'm sure it's just that I don't wear heels everyday, but it was annoying to me that I was having so much trouble and that half of the women around me were tromping around the Bar like freaking gazelles in similar footwear and worse. It hurt my pride.
We stopped and watched a couple of guys who were playing some blues outside a restaurant. Jeph was stoked. I'm not personally a blues girl, so we watched for a bit and moved on. We thought we'd duck into another bar in the district, and we followed some fairly cool looking people into a club that sounded to be hopping. As soon as we walked in, we quickly realized we didn't belong there--not to mention the fact that there was a fairly foul odor I don't think I could describe.
I didn't want to give up, so we pressed on. Every step I took was more precarious than the last, and I knew that I was sacrificing my feet for style. I felt like a fool.
When we finally decided to give up the fight, we still had to make it back all the way to the hotel--through the throngs of people, and the same distance of cobbled road my pride had made us traverse in the first place. We tried to hug the sides of the cobbles and stick to the sidewalks to spare my already blistered toes any little bit of skin they had left. Unfortunately, these sidewalks were jam-packed with people, and most of them were waiting outside of clubs or bars. We tried to walk around these crowds, and politely excuse our way through. At one point, a lippy young woman mouthed off to me, and surprisingly I was the one who felt mortified.
In that moment, I felt so out of place, and so old, I just wanted to rip my pretty shoes off and race back to our room.
When we did get back to the room, Jeph was bummed about coming back early, and frustrated with me for what I'd done to my feet in the process. He was sad to think that this was the last night we'd have in Dublin that wouldn't be followed by a day of travel, and I'd squandered it.
As we discussed the situation, the one thing that we could agree on was that we weren't young hipsters, up for spending the night out partying and hanging out anymore. Truth be told, we probably never were quite like that, but now we really weren't (aren't) full stop.
It led us to think about our age--something we've done a lot of this year. When forty rolled around at the end of last year, I didn't give it any weight. So what? For the first time in years, I wear what I want. I do my hair however I like. I feel like I reflect more of what's inside than I have since I was much younger. I don't care that some people still give me a sideways glance since I colored my hair. I don't care that some people don't like tattoos. I am who I am. Being forty didn't seem to matter. I didn't think about the number putting any kind of limit on me. I know that Jeph had approached this year in much the same way. For him, it started with growing some sideburns, scoring his first pair of Doc Martens and a handful of pearl snap shirts.
Nearly a year down the road, I know I was wrong, in some respects, to be so half full about everything. Things I want to do physically just aren't as easy as they would have been at another time. And I know Jeph feels the same way. While his pulmonary embolism was definitely not age related, the limitations that go hand in hand with his risk factors make him feel tied and bound--like someone much older.A common theme in our society is that once you get to be a certain age, there are things you just have to accept. Maturity dictates that you don't throw fits when you want to. Responsibility means that you shun frivolity. Stability means you embrace habit. Maybe you used to be able to touch your toes and you no longer can. Maybe you're afraid to mountain bike on rough trails in case you cut yourself and your blood thinners that save you from dangerous clots, make you bleed like a stuck pig.
We saw the new James Bond movie this afternoon. One of the undercurrents of the plot was the idea that Bond and operatives like him were a thing of the past, easily replaced by the new and the technologically proficient. Anyone who's a Bond fan can surmise that 007 proved the naysayers wrong. His wealth of experience and long term connection was the foundation for a perspective that was much broader than up and coming techie geniuses who mocked his methods. Years of injuries and physical abuse certainly made the job harder for him, but it's who he is that makes him so invaluable.
Now, Jeph and I are certainly not as cool as James Bond--few people are. But, in our hearts, we also aren't forty-something. We're probably not twenty-something either. I think we're some mystical, non-existent age that just isn't fortyish. In our hearts, we're still dreaming and trying to find a way to live the life we want. And maybe it's not about our age. It's about who we are, and where we fit and where we don't. Some days, who we are imprisons us. We're the solid, reliable souls among our peers. We don't always let everyone know that we're in the gutter, because we're trying to remind ourselves not to forget to look at the stars.
Jeph frequently refers to himself as a cog in the machinery. Just a piece within the equipment that other people use to get the job done. I know I often identify with that feeling. And maybe that's what we really are. But maybe it doesn't matter what everybody else thinks. He may be a cog, but when I look at him, he's the cog that isn't covered in the grease and grime of overuse, because he's what tries to make the machinery of dreaming for more work for me.
At the end of the Saturday night, these objects are cooler than they appear--blistered feet, bent dreamscapes, tears shed, and all.
Stay Young, Go Dancing--Death Cab For Cutie
Affordable Comfort, December 1, 2012
Light weaves in and out of vision,Interfering, then darting away.
Time wastes itself in the cover of night,
And drowns in a bottle of sand.
Consternation is my nation, my ethnicity
Leaving no mark or color on my skin.
But my mind knows my address,
And my heart sees its landscape.
As miles of time pass, I wonder how,
But fail to choose, to stop.
Enfolded in the lulling warmth,
Fashioned by my own hands,
All from dangerously affordable comfort.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)