Rice Krispies

This is a portrait piece for my workshop writing class...we were asked to pick someone who has made an impact in our life and "flow write" on them for thirty minutes. It turned into a memoir/tribute/therapy session/something way more personal than I expected. Interesting how we discover who we are when we write about ourselves. *Names have been changed*

She poured out the puffed rice, each grain clinking against the sides of the glass measuring cup as it filled to overflowing, like rain on a tin roof. She leveled it off to a perfectly smooth top with one hand. Must be meticulous in the measurements; the OCD demanded aggravatingly precise standards. The extra rice, the loose drifters of the overflow, must be kept in a separate container entirely. Everything must be kept perfectly in its place. No matter how many extra dishes it created. She handed over the cups and the rest of the rice for me to finish. What was I doing? Melting the marshmallows. There were four different kinds: plain white, rainbow, chocolate, and jumbo. Which bag? Which one? Too many choices. Panic. Close eyes, pick one at random and empty the contents into the pot on the stove top. Ok. Breathe.

Funny how her face reflects peace, I thought, funny how the act of creating something new gives her light. Was she remembering Christmases past? A bigger kitchen maybe, elbow to elbow with her sisters and her mother, before the accident. Before the misunderstandings began. Always the endless misunderstandings. Was that an actual smile? I tried to think the last time I’d seen genuine interest and joy for anything in her expression. I was grasping at straws. No such moment existed in my memory.

What is she doing? She just dumped the extra rice back into the bag? And look at her scoop the rest of the cereal without measuring it first. I saw anxiety etched in her frown, but we both remained silent. Keep stirring. Keep measuring. A pool of pastel cream frothed inside the pot, like a multicolored ocean. I got out two potholders, one checkered sunset orange and the other cornflower blue, and took the handles of the pot. I poured the melted mess over the rice while she stirred, and both of us watched the dry cereal crackle with heat and form bigger and bigger clumps, the marshmallow goo sealing the gaps in between. Head bent over the bowl, she concentrated on the task at hand. Make it even, make it perfect. I took the dishes lying at random around the kitchen and bathed them in suds in the sink, washing quickly and quietly to prepare for the next batch of krispies.

A hard ceramic bowl suddenly slipped from my fingers to splash into the muddied dishwater below, making a loud “thud!” as it hit the bottom of the sink. Who’s there? Like a dreamer rudely awoken, Sheri’s eyes snapped to mine, all tranquility and peace scattering across the floor and fleeing through the open window. It was as if she had forgotten my presence in the room, or in her very life, and I had now very unconsciously reminded her of it. I felt every bit the trespasser. As if I had dropped the bowl on the floor and it had shattered instead. I wished I had. Ceramic could be swept up into neat piles and carried to the dustbin and forgotten. Hearts were different. I couldn’t begin to find her pieces, let alone organize them into little piles. And there wasn’t a dustbin big enough to fit them.

That night, I realize now, I didn’t really know Sheri. Had it really been a month ago that my cell phone had lit up with the words “she tried to hurt herself again. Glass everywhere. What do I do?” The frenzied phone calls, the panic that I was too late. The endless talking and praying for guidance (on my end). The silence (on hers). Question. Pause. Reply. Pause. It was not the first time it had happened, nor would it be the last. But I did not know that then.

When she was fourteen years old, tragedy struck Sheri’s family. The lives of her sister in law and two nephews vanished in a matter of seconds, smothered by the impact of cars grinding, metal twisting, and windows bursting on the highway. A funeral service was held, a period of mourning begun and ended some weeks later, and the family moved on. Racing, always racing. Work, school, appointments. Why didn’t they slow down? Life drove away from the accident like a hit-and-run, and Sheri was left standing on that highway road, waiting for closure. Representing the lost. For whatever reason, she was the most affected by what happened. But in a family of twelve it was difficult to be heard, difficult to demand recognition for her pain. So Sheri allowed herself to be swallowed up instead.

In a matter of a few months, she lost her only friend at school, a girl too startled by the changes she saw in Sheri and too frustrated with her inability to communicate that she too drove away. Another casualty of the drive-by friendship. To all outside appearance Sheri was a normal, if somewhat quiet and subdued, teenage student. But there was intense emotion bubbling under the calm surface. None of her teachers gave her comfort. No counselor offered an ear. And so she faded. She graduated Jr. High and then High School, got a part-time job, and devoted hours of her time to books and fantasy and online gaming. She created an imaginary world where she could stand out, and pretend to be something bigger than herself. Most notably, the world she belonged to substituted dragons and horses for automobiles. There are no highways in World of Warcraft. No crosses on the side of the road marking another life lost.

On her twenty-first birthday, someone coaxed Sheri away from the light of her computer monitor and into the black-lights of a local bar. Excitement. Panic. It was there she had her first kiss, and with courage she didn’t know she had (probably helped by the alcohol) she exchanged numbers with a young man she barely knew. Two years later, they got married. I didn’t go to the wedding (I had midterms) but I heard it was beautiful. The flowers were cornflower blue and sunset orange, and the fall day was warm and bright. “It was the sunniest day of my life,” she later told me. I believe her.

But within two months there was trouble. Sheri still rarely communicated, and eventually this drove a gap between herself and her husband. They spoke rarely, laughed even less, and clouds of doubt and divorce began to hover. No way out. There’s no way out. Too much silence. That was the first time she became self-destructive. Her husband painted frightening images of bottles strewn across the floor, Sheri in the bathroom throwing up beer and pain killers. That was also the first time those of us at work could tell how much sleep her husband got by counting the dark rings under his eyes. Two hours last night. Another bad one. I knew him first, and it wasn’t until halfway through the summer before I actually met and began to befriend Sheri, when they were still engaged.

I still don’t know why she chose me. Why I was able to succeed in getting her to open up where countless others failed is a mystery. But sooner than I could have believed possible I became her Dr. Phil, attempting to make sense of her failing marriage, her family’s apathy, past pain, and lack of confidence in herself and her worth. Perhaps it was because I represented stability—a fairly normal family life, faith in God, friends and relationships unfettered by silence. Not so stable now. Perhaps because I didn’t ask anything of her, but only listened. Perhaps it was just because I could make rice krispies. None of us anticipated the changes it would create.

Come Thanksgiving my prayers to God had not been heard. Sheri where are you? Where are you bleeding? Drink some more water. Breathe. She was not getting better. So many questions and images from that night, but chief among them are mirror shards littering the bathroom floor and bouncing light reflections on the walls. Panic. Not perfect. I have to sit down. So tired. I need more sleep. Breathe in. Glass on the floor. Glass is dangerous. Must pick up the pieces. Put them in their place. It struck me that Sheri had not been trying to break the mirror, she had been trying to break what she saw when she looked into it. And in a way, she succeeded.

I remember the moment it hit me, while reading Pat Barker’s WW I novel in my dorm room. I am Dr. Rivers. In the book, Rivers develops shell-shock and Post Traumatic Stress Disorder from the soldiers he treats, and although he never steps foot on the battlefield he begins to have nightmares just as acutely as any of the veterans. I was developing the very symptoms that I was trying to prevent in Sheri: insomnia, repressed emotion, panic attacks. It got to the point where I was no longer shocked to receive a call at one in the morning—and my trained response simply to grab my coat and keys and go. Her husband and family members were torn; grateful for a person that she could rely on, but worried about the changes they saw in me. Don’t worry. I’m okay. Just let me think. Just let me breathe. Yes I’m getting enough sleep, don’t worry about it.

There was a collective sigh of relief when I went to college, but the physical support I wasn’t able to provide any longer carried over into continuous e-mails back and forth. Sheri and I relied on each other. We were becoming each other. Here, take my hope. Here, take my fears. I didn’t sleep again last night. Me either. Does it ever get better? Gradually her writing grew more positive and rang with hope and promise. I looked in the mirror one day and decided I wasn’t sure who was looking back. I loaded up my textbooks and my new college friends and stepped on the gas, accelerating slowly away from Sheri, but gaining speed the more I was convinced that she was okay. I didn’t see it as a hit and run, but she did. One more person to enter her life too late and exit too soon.

After that night she was placed under a licensed counselor and given constant supervision by family and friends. She still has occasional moments of self-destruction, ripples in a tidal pool of otherwise emotionless living, but they have become fewer and farther in between. Little by little she is finding reasons to talk, reaching for a person that she remembers she was and wishes to be again. Little by little she finds more reasons to smile. For the first time in months, it looks like there might be peace again. The girl in the mirror is not so bad. Not so bad. I can see me again. But that week, peace was not a part of our vocabulary.

Crunch. Crunch. The frozen snow underfoot reminded me of broken glass as I walked to my car, carrying a few squares of rice krispies folded neatly in a paper towel. It’s not glass. It’s snow. Keep walking. It’s ok. Breathe. I shivered and cranked the heat up when the car rumbled to life, glancing back at the porch steps of Sheri’s apartment. The street light above flickered, electricity humming inside. Tires screeched somewhere. But inside, the apartment was silent. I was embarrassed for the tears that had found their way down my face when I hugged her good-bye, herself paralyzed by the sudden emotion and uncertain how to act. It will be okay. Don’t cry. She hugged me harder, and for a brief bizarre moment I recognized that it was her strength holding me up, and our roles reversed for an instant. Am I myself? Or am I you? Who am I?

And then the instant passed.

When Love Is a Battlefield

"To be in love is to see yourself as someone else sees you, it is to be in love with the falsified and exalted image of yourself. In love we are incapable of honour--the courageous act is no more than playing a part to an audience of two. Perhaps I was no longer in love but I remembered." --Graham Greene, the Quiet American

There is a pine tree next to the drive outside our brick house on Tiffany. Its branches dip down to create a little shelter on the inside, and there is a bough conveniently low enough and sturdy enough to support the weight of anyone who wishes to perch, dry and unseen from the world. In the days before the tree was trimmed of its shielding skirt there was a girl of nine or ten who took refuge on that bough, the cracked and peeling bark coming away underneath her sneakers like shingles on an aging rooftop, a book in her lap which would later have to be shaken free of dust and thin brown needles. Like the bird that shared her name, the girl found certain peace and solid strength in the tree, and if she closed her eyes long enough she could pretend she was in a forest somewhere far away and soon she would hear the urgent clattering of hooves as her prince arrived to carry her away from this fortress of solitude. But there was the buzz of lawn mowers and engines instead of horses. Shouts of neighborhood children and dogs barking woke her from her day dream and sliced its way back into reality, where there was still elementary school and homework and boys oozing cooties.

It was from this tree that I saw my first kiss take place, when my sister and her boyfriend parked their car directly below my perch unknowingly. I watched each of my siblings go through the stages of love and heartbreak, relationships and loss, and always wished I could know what they knew. What was this secret world that took them away from home so often, and took up so much room in their heads and so many tears from their eyes? I imagined that love must be a soft thing; like an embrace or snow falling gently. But it also had a cruel side. It caused tension and aching and sorrow, sometimes for weeks at a time, before another relationship started and the snow fell gently again.

I spent most of my high school life concentrating on another concept that escaped my understanding: my future. Judging from the title of my blog page, you can probably guess that this is still the case. But at least now I have the wisdom to know that this is how it should be. Our future is what we make it, every day, every hour, and if a time machine could be made I am of the opinion that it wouldn't be able to move a single millisecond forward, because that second is not yet created. During high school I focused on that second constantly, always pulling and stretching at that thin transparent space dividing me from my dreams, and wishing to rip it open and let the new, confident future me fall out, shake her wobbly legs, and walk. I wanted to grow up so fast. I wanted to take the world that I saw around me and shake it by the shirt collar, forcing it to see me and know that I existed.

But, like most young flames, when faced with separation from the things that gave me life and fed my resolve, I flickered and went out. College was a big smudged question mark the Riddler had smeared across the sky to taunt Batman with. It was the castle that you never actually knew whether it contained the Princess or not, but to hell with it you just wanted to procrastinate that Senior Thesis with more Mario time. I had been away from home before, but never for so long and never so little prepared.

On top of this, there was a sudden panic to remember all of the things I wished I had done before responsibility came to actually mean something more than the word that came right before "you're grounded." I mourned the time I would never get with friends, the effort I never put in to some of my classes, and the crazy stunts every high schooler has to have before they graduate. Where was my dyed hair? Where were my tattoos? Where were the pranks where we let loose a herd of cattle into the school or saran-wrapped the principle's car or something equally bizarre? Where was that first kiss and that dance were my date was actually more than just a good friend and saw me as more than just "one of the guys?"

The college girl cries out: "Where is your gratitude? Where are your plans for more time with people you love? What is your hurry? Slow down...slow down" But I didn't slow down. I ran faster, in the opposite direction.

Less than eight months later, I can tell you what a kiss feels like. I can tell you what it's like to go to a party where everyone around you is drunk or drinking but you. I can tell you the precise moment I lost my faith in God, and the precise moment I began to get it back. I can tell you what it's like to want to die. I can tell you how to play a two minute solo in jazz band, give an oral presentation in class without shaking, fall asleep crying, fall asleep laughing, make new friends, lose old ones, buy your own groceries for under twenty bucks, do five loads of laundry with one dryer sheet, scream at a rock concert, and which foods at the caf will make you sick for a week.

I can also tell you what it's like to be in love. It is not quite snow falling gently. It has consequences, and those consequences have the potential to take lives, to ruin marriages, and to cause pain. Mercifully, love has many faces, and the other kinds of love: friendship, empathy, and selflessness...these have the potential to save lives, fix marriages, and heal the deepest wounds.

Whoever said love is a battlefield (I think a cheesy seventies singer) meant every word. It has just taken experience for me to discover that I'm not Joan of Arc saving the troops. I'm not Tosh, Helen Z. Smith's bad-mouthed and fiercely lovable heroine of the ambulance drivers who died in a blaze of glory. I'm no Isi the Goose Girl and I'm certainly not Elizabeth I or Esther or Cosette. In Helen's world I'm most closely related to Smithy, the woman who survives war by refusing to fight it any longer. Or Helen of Howard's End, who only asked for peace. Or Margaret who gave up Peter for the sake of sanity. I'm Eponine, Sarah Lumb, and Jane.

The point I suppose, is that I'm still here.

Perhaps I'm not who you remember I was last year. Perhaps if you knew me and judged me you would not like me. But I still believe in a God who never meant life to be so hard that it could be impossible. I still find humor in the absurd. I still have a respect and love for the people who daily remind me that the next twenty four hours have meaning. And I still hope for the day when I can take my sword and shield and enter the battlefield again, a wiser woman than I ever hoped to be sitting in a tree dreaming of castles and knights.

But not yet. Not yet.

A Cry From the Helpless

I woke up late by any standards, but in one of those restless moods you sometimes get when the air is charged with an almost palpable electricity and you feel that something needs to give. Something needs to change. But you can't quite tell what that something is, and so you start doing a million busy things to feel useful. I cracked open my Spanish textbook, worked for a while, started my laundry and realized I was out of fabric softener, then walked to Albertsons (the only grocery store you feel you can go to in your pajamas) to pick up some Downy.

It was on the return, after I hit the little crosswalk button, and I was thinking about how we all stand at crosswalks waiting for something, when I saw him. A curious individual who I almost didn't recognize, he blended in so well with the pavement. His outfit was various shreds of clothes in different shades of gray or graying, and he had a grizzled beard which hid his mouth. He had a hat pulled down over his eyes, as though to hide himself from the world. Or perhaps to shut the world out. In one hand he was holding a bag to his shoulder, worn from travel and with a couple of tin cans poking out. I couldn't read the labels. In the other hand, he held a pair of sneakers that matched the rest of him: graying, aged, and loaded with years of use. My eyes rested on the only sources of color on his person, which were his feet. I noticed with a start that they were bare. No socks, no sandals; just bare sun-burned feet, the heels hardened and cracked from the journey.

I didn't know this man. At once I felt a little uneasy, knowing that in a few moments our paths would cross. Should I acknowledge him? Offer him money? Look away? Selfish thoughts entered my mind, and though my heart wanted to go out to him my mind still did not understand him. If he had a pair of shoes, why didn't he wear them? Was he making a statement? Was he homeless? If he had no place to sleep, where was he going? What was he looking for?

Two things happened at once. The stoplights changed colors, making the little blinking "cross" figure light up opposite me. As I adjusted my load and prepared to take a step forward, the man looked up from under the shelter of his hat. His eyes pierced directly into mine, and in them there was such power of sorrow and accusation that it made me catch my breath. It was a look full of meaning and full of emotion, as though he were shouting at me: "what right do YOU have to own a place to sleep, and food to eat, and an opportunity for education within these rich walls, and I have nothing? What makes you think you can pity me-YOU-who has no idea where I've been? YOU are nothing."

After a moment I realized I had frozen midstep, and I put my foot down awkwardly. The man, his head bent forward once more, had chosen to cross the road opposite us rather than pass me. As though my very presence offended him too greatly to come within a few inches of each other and breathe the same air. The driver of the car in front of me, who had been waiting for the silly college girl to cross the road and now saw her wide eyed and staring into space, honked his horn impatiently. I snapped to, quickly skipping over the road until I was safe on the lawn in front of the dorms. I looked back and searched for the gray outline of the man, but saw only cars flashing past. He was gone.

What did it mean? Why such anger? Why such sorrow? The day seemed colder suddenly, and I shivered as I turned to go. Later, as I cranked up the heater in my room and looked around me at my bed, my little fridge full of leftovers from good meals in a safe campus, my new purchases on the desk, my laundry to be dried...I could have died. What right did i have to these things? In less than four years time I'd be graduated from here, my time in Caldwell spent. What could I possibly do in that time that would justify this comfort, while the man outside wandered without shoes and ate out of cans?

I'd like to think I do my part for humanity. I've given blood at every drive this year. I deliver meals to families in Nampa and Caldwell for the Food Bank. I slip dollar bills into the Salvation Army tins. When people drive me places, I offer to pay for gas. The tuition isn't cheap here, and I would never be where I am without my scholarships, which I work hard to maintain. Isn't that enough? Doesn't that count for something?

"What makes you think you can pity me-YOU-who has no idea where I've been?"...those words, which I remind myself were never actually uttered aloud, but which nevertheless were communicated, suggest that it's not enough. It counts for something perhaps, but it doesn't change that man's life one way or the other. My blood will not save his life. My meals will not reach his door. My dollar bills mean nothing to him. And my education? What does it matter to a man who will not benefit from my knowledge?

Tonight while on route for Food Bank, two families out of the ten asked to be removed from the program. One because they were doing so well financially they felt they didn't need it anymore, and one because they were doing so poorly and life had become so complicated they didn't want to add one more inconvenience. I've been helping with deliveries for months now, long enough to develop a love and sympathy for those we deliver to, and the two announcements came as blows to an already disappointing day. It was as if the wandering man was laughing at me: "your efforts are wasted...you are nothing..."

Upon reflection I realize that I was not the target of the man's anger. I just happened to represent the many things which he despised; I could stand there and take his silent accusation and not fight back. Along with the shame I feel at having so much while he has so little, there is also the burning desire to prove him wrong. The same desire, I think to some extent, that every college student on campus has. To prove that we are something. To prove that we deserve to be here and can do worthwhile things. Most of all, to prove that we don't forget the "wandering men" around the world.

An Ode to Valentine's Past

Breathe in. Breathe out. Excitement. Did the boy with the brown eyes and the freckles really give ME a paper valentine? Does he *giggle* LIKE like me? Breathe in. Breathe out. Stress. I'm running out of valentines that just imply friendship...should I give this boy a Spongebob or a Captain Planet? Classrooms full of glue, glitter, and construction paper. The agonizing over who gets what and which message to send to whom and guarding fragile third grader feelings. Sugar cookies. Icing. I must wear pink. I HATE pink. Why do I have to wear this? Isn't white or red good enough? *Gasp* that girl wore BLUE. What does that mean? Doesn't she have a Valentine? Breathe in. Breathe out. Disappointment. I didn't get as many valentines this year. But no matter, mom made cupcakes!

Valentine's Day is one of those holidays, like Christmas, Easter, St. Patrick's Day, and that odious day dedicated to a groundhog...which loses enchantment the older one becomes. As a child, there's an almost tangible feeling of magic; of conspiracy and youth--associated with these holidays. (Okay, so there's nothing magical about a groundhog,) but there IS something magical about crayons and creativity, no homework for a day, kid's moms coming in with things that taste better than the cafeteria, stickers on noses and frosting on shoes. For just a day, the entire school is wreathed in smiles and fun and drama easily resolved with a tissue and a new activity. The real purpose of the holiday is lost of course; completely buried in layers of sticky sugar and sequined popsicle sticks. Jesus gains one hundred pounds and rides in a sleigh, or sprouts two ears and deposits eggs in secret places. Ancient celebrated saints and goddesses are reduced to pots of gold, fat winged babies and paper bags.

Years pass. Religious meaning becomes known and cherished or discarded. When work and school are no longer canceled for a rodent and his shadow, the less significant holidays' dates are forgotten. Suddenly Valentine's Day becomes something much more sinister. Of course, commercialization has superficially degraded every holiday under the sun, but Valentine's Day seems to take an extra hit from the media. "Prove you love so and so with a diamond necklace...show you care with chocolates!" In other words, "THE AMOUNT OF LOVE YOU HAVE IS DIRECTLY RELATED TO THE SIZE OF YOUR WALLET."

Now wait a second. Step back and think about this! Wasn't it the Beatles who sang "Can't Buy Me Love" and generations sang along? If you're actually IN a relationship, do you really need a day on the calendar to remind you of it? And if you're NOT in a relationship, do you really deserve to have it rubbed into your face for a week, watching parades of flowers and cards and kisses? I've heard that many call it "Single Awareness Day," or S.A.D. rather than it's official name. It might be a good day for the economy, but it's a sad day for the human soul.

Nevertheless, the date marches on. No amount of protest will halt the onslaught. So instead, I offer only some advice as you celebrate this year's "Day of Love," whether you are alone this year or have someone to share the celebration with.

My advice is this: spend TIME, not money, and concentrate on SHARING rather than giving. Yes, there is a difference between the two. You can give without sincerity, but you can't share without wanting to.

The best valentine's I have ever received from the opposite sex came in the smallest, cheapest, and most meaningful packages (I'm NOT talking about condoms). Many of them didn't even come on Valentine's day, but meant more to me than they would have otherwise because the command "DO SOMETHING FOR A GIRL TODAY" was not screaming at them at the time.

I remember a boy in tenth grade who did something extraordinary: he purchased two dozen or so purple carnations, and throughout the day walked up and down the halls looking for girls who looked sad, or lonely, or obviously lacked that "valentine vibe." Then he would hand them a flower, smile, and ask them about their day. It amazed me the reactions of these girls (and yes, I was one of them that year) the way their faces suddenly lit up, and they took the flower with a smile, and were from that moment immune to the gloomy all-consuming "single awareness" feeling. Why should they feel bad that they were single? What did it matter if they received one of the coveted pink delivery notes which announced a few flowers tied with ribbon, or a special card from a loved one, or any number of wonderful things that arrived for the lucky few?

The girls who held purple carnations knew that they were still human after all. Love didn't necessarily mean having a boyfriend to make out with over lunch. Kindness and compassion went on, regardless of the day. A box of lemon heads, a note scribbled on the back of a receipt, a smile, a phone call on my birthday, a courageous text admitting a crush, a burned CD, a letter, a hand to steady weak legs while ice skating, an embrace to strengthen a broken heart after a bad day...THESE. THESE are the most powerful expressions of human emotion that far outshine, at least in my memories, anything bought with money or compliments.

So when you're making arrangements this weekend for the Big Day, consider purple carnations. Close your wallet, put those corny candles and rose petals away, and do something that you won't regret months later when you're still paying off the bills for that night out that you'll never remember. Put some meaning back into the words "I Love You."

Waiting...waiting.....waiting...........

Waiting
By Robyn Argyle

The stars wait for that single explosion
the burst of ecstacy and fire
when they become beautiful and visible
to the naked human eye
before they fizzle out and fade

The sky waits to be painted
violent shades of gold and rose and blue
so that those below will look up
and marvel at the breadth of the universe
before being distracted again

The pedestrians wait on street corners
tapping the posts and the sidewalk cracks
waiting for the light to change
waiting to go somewhere important
waiting to cross the road

The pregnant mother waits
her hands folded on her belly
feeling life, and growth, and mystery
wondering about tiny fingers and toes
waiting for that small first breath

The unemployed shuffle their feet
they put on their finest clothes
and their brightest smiles
and hope that someday, somehow
someone will see potential in them

The student sits at her desk
she mouths the words to the song in her head
she stares out the window
she wonders who she is, what she knows
she wonders where she will go

The heartbroken feels the food turn to ash
hears the music turn to noise
and idle conversation turn to silence
they watch as memories lose their color
and wait to feel whole

The hungry wait to be fed
the injured wait to be healed
the silent wait to be heard
the weak wait to be strong
the small wait to be noticed

The powerful wait for more power
the greedy wait for more greed
the sinful wait to sin again
the tossed out, thrown down, and trampled
wait to find meaning

We all wait for hope to bless us
we all wait for peace to last
we all wait for love to mean something
we all wait for happiness to find us
and most of all

we

all

wait

for

our

lives

to

be

lived

If You Want To Sing Out, Sing Out!

Cat Stevens is a genius.

New Years has always baffled me at how it manages to make people feel like they need to change. Promises to be thinner, stronger, healthier, smarter, wealthier, and kinder abound as we try to rationalize to ourselves why we are the way we are and what we can do to be different. Last year I swore to do ten situps every day, increasing the amount each month until by December I would be doing one hundred and twenty every morning. I lasted about six days before I started sleeping through my alarm, rationalizing a little give and take here and there, and finally gave up the project entirely. A few months ago when we discussed environmentalism in my philosophy class and talked about the horrible treatment of cows and chickens in some meat plants, I swore to become vegetarian. After some minor guilt I got hungry, went to the caf, saw a sizzling burger calling my name and got over it.

So why do we make these promises? Why do we constantly seek the new and the improved? Who declared that everyone must feel terrible about themselves on December 31st, make impossible promises on January 1st, and feel like failures a week later when the impossible promise is broken? Isn't change a constant, ongoing process? If we aren't satisfied with ourselves now, don't we have the right to change ourselves when and how we choose? Vegetarians aren't made in a day, and neither are bodybuilders, millionaires, or scholars.

Enter Cat Stevens. I've spent many late hours of the night like this: The homework pile grows under the dim light of my computer monitor, my eyes come unfocused, searching for something, ANYTHING, to ease this monotonous drive for deadlines and essays unwritten. Suddenly a hallelejuh chorus breaks forth! My gaze rests on two of my favorite characters in the history of filmography: Harold and Maude. The soundtrack to this 1971 movie is entirely composed of Cat Stevens songs-all strumming guitar and soft bouncing lyrics. Harold, troubled beyond the help of any psychiatrist, finds a new life philosophy in the words of the song "If you want to sing out, sing out" which is sung by Maude and her old player piano.

After countless times of watching Harold's transformation, I am constantly struck by two thoughts. First, I can never quite get over the disturbing scene of Harold and Maude in bed together, in the nude, blowing bubbles into the air. It's not an image that is easily removed from one's memory. Just saying.

The second thought that I have is...why can't we all be like? Why can't we realize that the time we have is short, our relationships precious, and our possibilities limitless?

My New Year's Resolution sung by Mr. Stevens, who could see these things and put them into words better than I:


Well if you want to sing out
Sing out.
And if you want to be free
Be free.
'Cause there's a million things to be.
You know that there are.
And if you want to live high
Live high.
And if you want to live low
Live low.
'Cause there's a million ways to go.
You know that there are.

You can do what you want.
The opportunity's on.
And if you find a new way
You can do it today.
You can make it all true.
And you can make it undo
You see.
Ah ah ah
It's easy.
Ah ah ah
You only need to know.

Well if you want to say yes
Say yes.
And if you want to say no
Say no.
Cause there's a million ways to go.
You know that there are.
And if you want to be me
Be me.
And if you want to be you
Be you.
Cause thee's a million things to do.
You know that there are.

You can do what you want.
The opportunity's on.
And if you find a new way
You can do it today.
You can make it all true.
And you can make it undo
You see.
Ah ah ah
It's easy.
Ah ah ah
You only need to know.

Love Beyond Years (Or Perhaps Despite Years)

There are a few complications in the human mind that we rarely address on purpose, but that throughout our lives we are forced to come to terms with on our own. These include the question of faith and which religion (if any) is best to pursue; the question of life and what our purpose here is; and finally, the question which I am becoming more and more concerned about, the question of love.

It seems like the more you want to understand what love is the more you have to wait to find out. I'm nineteen, and no closer now to figuring out what those emotions really are then I was at the beginning of the year. Usually when you don't understand something you gain your knowledge from those around you. Like children who learn not to put cheerios up their nose because the adults don't do it (but they might put them up their nose just in case anyway)

The examples I turn to are naturally my family and the people around me I see in relationships. And I've learned a little something about love from all of them. But over Christmas Break, I received the longest and possibly most confusing lesson from two people very dear to me: my grandparents.

My grandfather was diagnosed with Parkinson's Disease a few years ago, and as his health has steadily decreased the family has tried to adjust accordingly. Over Thanksgiving I had the opportunity to see that while his body was breaking, his spirit was definitely not, and I'm happy to say that this was still the case when we visited over Christmas break. He was physically drained, and more frail than at Thanksgiving (I cannot express with words what it does to the emotions to know that you can support the weight of the patriarch of your family with one arm) yet his pride still remained as undamaged as a lion. He found the strength to sit up and greet us, and to follow the conversation as best he could, and then to "walk" us out to the hallway and remain standing, perhaps a little forlornly and a little smaller, as we disappeared from sight. I know because I kept looking back. I always seem to look back.

Everyone tries to find something that is the most important to them, and drives them to keep waking up each morning. For some it's work, for others money or fame, and for some it's enough to just know they have another day to live. For my grandparents money is not a huge issue, and they have done their fair share of hard labor throughout the years. They could sum up their "most precious" thing in one word: family. This is why my Grandma cries each year as we part ways after Thanksgiving dinner, and why photos of us grandchildren almost drown the refrigerator, and why both of them ever attempted to solve the puzzling cases called "Internet" and "email."

So when Grandma heard we were coming down for a visit, she treated us to lunch and smiled from ear to ear the whole time. She told us stories of her wonderful travels with Grandpa, and some of the friends they made along the way. As a child I'd seen the giant world map spread out on the wall downstairs, with pushpins marking out every city and sight they had seen over their lifetimes. But it's one thing to count hundreds of multicolored pins, and quite another to actually imagine each unique destination for yourself. Jerusalem...China...Spain...Russia...they have seen it all. They were welcomed as celebrities in Beijing, where few if any tourists had ever ventured before; they were held at gunpoint in London on a train by a troubled woman who disliked Americans; they had pen pals from around the world and survived wars, depressions, and troubling times together. They had truly lived, and now found themselves at that threshold where the end of one's road can be spotted, and when more and more people that had entered their lives were now quietly exiting.

Yet both of them remain so strong. So solid. Grandma paid the check and refused to let us argue about it. We all drove over to the home where Grandpa was living, and when we entered the room Grandma excused herself for a moment while we greeted Grandpa with hugs and stories. When Grandma returned she was dabbing her mouth with a handkerchief, and I realized that she had been fixing her make-up in front of the large brass mirror in the other room. Like the young lady who nervously fixes her hair before a first date, Grandma still felt the need to "freshen up" and look her best for her husband. It was endearing and adorable, and I smiled to know that their years of marriage hadn't faded that affection.

Grandma has patience beyond that of a thousand women. Parkinson's does things to the memory, and there were more than a few stories of Grandpa asking an attendant who the "beautiful lady" in his room was. When told that it was his wife, he would exclaim "no kidding!" Slightly over-protective, Grandpa lost his telephone privileges calling Grandma at all hours of the day or night to see where she was and what she was doing and whether she was safe. Sometimes you can actually FEEL the exhaustion coming off of her in waves. But she always manages to shake it off and face her husband with kindness even when he becomes irrational and fussy. As Grandma put it, "Parkinson's is not the nicest guest to invite itself over, but we're doing the best we can."

The feel of the home and its staff is not unpleasant, but there is a hint of loneliness and sadness in the corners of the hallways and the shadows of each patients' eyes. A smiling woman poked her head in the room to invite Grandpa to a New Year's Eve party in the commons room, and his face only registered annoyance at the intrusion to his fortress of solitude. "I'm NOT going!" he announced to the room in general, and we nodded and distracted him with other things. When it was time for us to go he refused the offered arms of Grandma and my dad, preferring to stand on his own. When he felt himself falling he quietly asked my brother and I to assist him, his pride a little wounded but less so because he asked our help himself.

As we disappeared around the corner and I took one last glance at them, I saw Grandpa holding resolutely to his walker, leaning slightly on his wife, who supported his weight easily and without comment. Both of them stayed smiling, arm in arm, until the very last moment, when they let a little of the mask slip and the tired perseverance show through.

The whole experience made me think, not of the fragile existence we all share, but of the strength that love gives us. Would I have the strength to go to my husband's side long after he could no longer recognize me? Would I have the patience to endure day after lonely day in a foreign place, living for the moments when my partner would arrive, full of love and caring?

What am I talking about? I already spend day after day in a foreign place. But at least this place has friendly faces, and distracting classes, and a constant whispering of "you can do this...you can GO places." I just hope that someday the kind of eternal, all-enduring love of my grandparents will find me, and that I'll be able to recognize it when it comes.