To see the land of my childhood through the eyes of my children
To experience the sights and smells and tastes of my dreams via the senses of my kids
To relive the language and experiences of my growing up with the voice and being of my daughter
To visit long-hidden memories through the actions of my son
Sweet Surreality
Showing posts with label My Writings. Show all posts
Showing posts with label My Writings. Show all posts
Saturday, January 31, 2015
Saturday, January 24, 2009
Abandoned
I've abandoned my blog the last month. Well, I've physically abandoned it as I haven't written...mentally, however, I've had many things I've wanted to write and deal with and note. Time to play catch up!
Talk to you soon....
Talk to you soon....
Friday, January 4, 2008
Short Story: An Allegory
A Perfect Family Portrait
Down on a little street just off the center square of town is a portrait studio. This is the studio for every family – rich or poor – to come and have their family portraits taken.
One day, a family came to the studio.
Father entered first, wearing a dark gray, elegantly cut suit with a perfectly knotted, deep-red silk tie gracing his chest. Behind him came Mother attired in a deep-red dress with dark gray trim – the perfect complement to her husband’s outfit. Next to Father walked a young, blonde-haired woman, evidentially their daughter. She wore black with deep-red accents, setting off the colors of her parent’s outfits yet different enough to stand out on her own.
Shortly after these three individuals arrived, another couple entered. This younger couple wore coordinating, simple outfits in dark-green colors. As soon as Father, Mother and Daughter saw them, Daughter scowled, Father looked disapproving, and Mother quickly withdrew to a shadow so the expression on her face could not be read. Father walked over to the Son and his Wife and handed Son a bag containing clothes.
In a deep, magnanimous voice, Father said, “Here. I have purchased clothes for you to fit in with the rest of us. Go change so you will harmonize well with us.”
Wife looked disappointed at not being able to wear the attractive outfits she and Son had worked so hard to coordinate with each other; however, she and Son merely looked at each other and shrugged, apparently deciding it was not worth a fight. They went to change and returned, looking uncomfortable in the highly-starched, glamorously expensive outfits presented to them by Father. Son’s outfit was an exact replica of Father’s while Wife’s was identical to Mother’s.
Father smiled expansively at their appearance. Mother withdrew from the shadows – a relieved smile on her face. Daughter looked contemptuously at their replicated outfits and smiled smugly in a mirror reflecting her own perfectly coordinated yet distinguished look.
The family lined up for the portraits with Father carefully posing everyone. He sat on a chair, indicating the middle point. Daughter went and stood at his right-hand side. Mother sat in a slightly lower seat to his left, leaning on him a little. Son was placed to the left of Mother, and Wife was placed on Son’s far left.
The camera shutter whirred as it recorded the pose. The picture was immediately displayed for the family to evaluate. Father was critical. “Son, you are too stiff. You must relax. Wife of Son, why do you stand so far away from the rest of us?”
“You placed me there,” replied Wife in surprise.
“Well, you must do your best to look like you belong more.”
At this moment, another couple entered the studio. Grandparents. Father welcomed them with open arms and said, “We will be ready for you soon.” He turned his back on them and returned to his family and began to grill Son again. “Why do you look so awkward? Don’t you know this portrait is a gift for us and Daughter? It must look perfect. You must relax. I choose to do so, and so must you. And you must make Wife fit better with the family. Make her pose correctly by your side.”
Son replied, “I am uncomfortable in this suit. It does not fit me. I would look more comfortable in my own clothes as would Wife in hers. Besides, the portrait is off-center. Can we not move everyone to balance out the picture? That would look less awkward.”
Father raised his eyebrows and looked stern. “You cannot wear your own outfits; they do not fit with what we wear. And it is not off-center – you just need to appear to belong with us more.” He glanced over at Grandparents, noticed them watching the conversation unfold, and turned back to Son saying, “You must do as I say. I am the head of the house and see more clearly than you.”
Son sighed and said, “We will try.” The family shuffled back together and the picture was taken again. The result was nearly identical. Father’s scowl returned, and he turned to his son and said, “I am disappointed in you.”
Daughter spoke up at this point. “I have someone who would help the picture.”
A handsome man entered the room in an outfit that perfectly coordinated with Daughter. Two beautiful children followed them dressed in outfits identical to what Daughter and the man wore. Daughter’s Husband and Children.
Father smiled. “Yes, this is perfect.” Husband and Children were placed by Daughter. Son looked relieved that the balance was better. All posed and the picture was taken again.
But the result was not acceptable to Father or Daughter. Daughter spoke to Father and said, “Make Son and Wife pose better; they spoil the look.”
Father nodded in agreement and turned to Son and Wife. “You do not care about us. You are stubborn and selfish to refuse to look comfortable in what we have provided for you. You must stop this ridiculous, childish behavior.”
Son looked at Wife and Wife looked at Son. Wearily, they shrugged, and Son opened his mouth to say, “We will try.” But then he stopped and questioned Father’s disapproval. “Why can’t we wear our own outfits? They fit us, and we carefully chose colors that will complement everyone else’s clothing.”
Father simply sighed deeply at this questioning and said patiently, as if to a child, “You cannot look like that. It is not how we see what this picture should be. You must simply choose to relax and conform to what we have given you.”
Son shrugged, and yet again he and Wife took up their pose. At this moment, another family came into the room. The children in the family were giggling and being silly, making ridiculous faces in the mirrors and being – occasionally rowdy – children.
Daughter scowled as one of her own Children wiggled in his uncomfortable position. She scolded saying, “You must not wiggle. You must think about what that will do to the picture for the rest of the family. Those children are not behaving appropriately. They are not acting as adults, and I will not allow you to behave as they do.” Her Children attempted to freeze, but being children, they were still restless. Daughter would reprimand them at every wiggle, reminding them they must behave and must consider the consequences of their actions.
The next attempt was made for a perfect picture, and once again, Son and Wife’s uncomfortable poses were the focus of criticism. “You just don’t try,” admonished Father. “You don’t care enough about us. See how well Husband of Daughter fits in with us; you should learn from him.”
Son moved away from Father, took Wife’s hand, and said, “If our clothes do not fit with yours perfectly, we are sorry. But we cannot continue to be uncomfortable in your clothes, and since our posing is unacceptable to you despite our efforts, we will change into what is more natural for us.” He and Wife walked away to change.
While they were gone, the Family rearranged and posed again, snapping picture after picture. The exclamations of delight at their perfectly posed portraits were clearly audible. Son and Wife returned and watched as Grandparents were invited over for a portrait. After a brief discussion over Grandparent’s outfits which clearly clashed with the rest of the family, a picture was taken. While the colors and outfits did clash horribly, Father simply grimaced and said, “It will have to do. Now please allow us to continue with our portraits.”
He looked over at Son and Wife, then, and said to Son, “You are a stubborn, insecure boy. You cannot have a portrait with us until you change into the acceptable clothing we have provided for you.”
Son replied and said, “We are not comfortable in your clothes. Is not the portrait of our family more important than the harmonizing of your outfits?”
Father turned his back on Son and spoke to Mother and Daughter, saying, “Son does not love us in the proper manner. He will not do as we have asked. He has no reason for this; he is simply being childish. When he understands his own folly, he may return and we will kindly forgive him. But he is wrong, so do not deal with him until he behaves better.”
Son and Wife cried as they heard his words. Mother looked over at them and then turned her back. Daughter simply ignored them and began to repose for the portrait. Wife asked Son if they should go change, but Son said, “No. We cannot have our portrait taken as we should be if we are restricted by their clothes and poses. We have tried, and it is not natural for us. So we will have to make our own portrait.”
They moved to a new spot in the studio, wiped away each other’s tears, and holding hands, smiled for their portrait. To their surprise, when the picture was shown to them, they were surrounded by people – Grandparents, other family, friends on all sides. No one matched perfectly, indeed some outfits clashed horribly, but they were together. And Son and Wife were pleased at this picture.
They said to Father and his family, “Will you come and take a picture with us?”
Father said, “No. You must come to us and match with us.”
So, Son and Wife sighed and went back to creating new portraits with many different people. They knew they did not want to be in a portrait where others’ fallible views of perfection were forced upon them. They also knew they, themselves, were not perfect. But they had a responsibility for creating a different portrait, one that accepted imperfections and coordinated clashing people. In the end, their portrait would be complete, regardless of who was or who wasn’t in it, as long as they were faithful to the image to which God had called them.
************************************
John 14:1-3, 23
“Do not let your hearts be troubled. Trust in God; trust also in me. In my Father’s house are many rooms; if it were not so, I would have told you. I am going there to prepare a place for you. And if I go there to prepare a place for you, I will come back and take you to be with me that you may also be where I am…If anyone loves me, He will obey my teaching. My Father will love him and we will come to him and make our home with him.”
Philippians 1:9-11
“…being confident of this, that he who began a good work in you will carry it on to completion until the day of Christ Jesus…And this is my prayer: that your love may abound more and more in knowledge and depth of insight, so that you may be able to discern what is best and may be pure and blameless until the day of Christ, filled with the fruit of righteousness that comes through Jesus Christ—to the glory and praise of God.”
Down on a little street just off the center square of town is a portrait studio. This is the studio for every family – rich or poor – to come and have their family portraits taken.
One day, a family came to the studio.
Father entered first, wearing a dark gray, elegantly cut suit with a perfectly knotted, deep-red silk tie gracing his chest. Behind him came Mother attired in a deep-red dress with dark gray trim – the perfect complement to her husband’s outfit. Next to Father walked a young, blonde-haired woman, evidentially their daughter. She wore black with deep-red accents, setting off the colors of her parent’s outfits yet different enough to stand out on her own.
Shortly after these three individuals arrived, another couple entered. This younger couple wore coordinating, simple outfits in dark-green colors. As soon as Father, Mother and Daughter saw them, Daughter scowled, Father looked disapproving, and Mother quickly withdrew to a shadow so the expression on her face could not be read. Father walked over to the Son and his Wife and handed Son a bag containing clothes.
In a deep, magnanimous voice, Father said, “Here. I have purchased clothes for you to fit in with the rest of us. Go change so you will harmonize well with us.”
Wife looked disappointed at not being able to wear the attractive outfits she and Son had worked so hard to coordinate with each other; however, she and Son merely looked at each other and shrugged, apparently deciding it was not worth a fight. They went to change and returned, looking uncomfortable in the highly-starched, glamorously expensive outfits presented to them by Father. Son’s outfit was an exact replica of Father’s while Wife’s was identical to Mother’s.
Father smiled expansively at their appearance. Mother withdrew from the shadows – a relieved smile on her face. Daughter looked contemptuously at their replicated outfits and smiled smugly in a mirror reflecting her own perfectly coordinated yet distinguished look.
The family lined up for the portraits with Father carefully posing everyone. He sat on a chair, indicating the middle point. Daughter went and stood at his right-hand side. Mother sat in a slightly lower seat to his left, leaning on him a little. Son was placed to the left of Mother, and Wife was placed on Son’s far left.
The camera shutter whirred as it recorded the pose. The picture was immediately displayed for the family to evaluate. Father was critical. “Son, you are too stiff. You must relax. Wife of Son, why do you stand so far away from the rest of us?”
“You placed me there,” replied Wife in surprise.
“Well, you must do your best to look like you belong more.”
At this moment, another couple entered the studio. Grandparents. Father welcomed them with open arms and said, “We will be ready for you soon.” He turned his back on them and returned to his family and began to grill Son again. “Why do you look so awkward? Don’t you know this portrait is a gift for us and Daughter? It must look perfect. You must relax. I choose to do so, and so must you. And you must make Wife fit better with the family. Make her pose correctly by your side.”
Son replied, “I am uncomfortable in this suit. It does not fit me. I would look more comfortable in my own clothes as would Wife in hers. Besides, the portrait is off-center. Can we not move everyone to balance out the picture? That would look less awkward.”
Father raised his eyebrows and looked stern. “You cannot wear your own outfits; they do not fit with what we wear. And it is not off-center – you just need to appear to belong with us more.” He glanced over at Grandparents, noticed them watching the conversation unfold, and turned back to Son saying, “You must do as I say. I am the head of the house and see more clearly than you.”
Son sighed and said, “We will try.” The family shuffled back together and the picture was taken again. The result was nearly identical. Father’s scowl returned, and he turned to his son and said, “I am disappointed in you.”
Daughter spoke up at this point. “I have someone who would help the picture.”
A handsome man entered the room in an outfit that perfectly coordinated with Daughter. Two beautiful children followed them dressed in outfits identical to what Daughter and the man wore. Daughter’s Husband and Children.
Father smiled. “Yes, this is perfect.” Husband and Children were placed by Daughter. Son looked relieved that the balance was better. All posed and the picture was taken again.
But the result was not acceptable to Father or Daughter. Daughter spoke to Father and said, “Make Son and Wife pose better; they spoil the look.”
Father nodded in agreement and turned to Son and Wife. “You do not care about us. You are stubborn and selfish to refuse to look comfortable in what we have provided for you. You must stop this ridiculous, childish behavior.”
Son looked at Wife and Wife looked at Son. Wearily, they shrugged, and Son opened his mouth to say, “We will try.” But then he stopped and questioned Father’s disapproval. “Why can’t we wear our own outfits? They fit us, and we carefully chose colors that will complement everyone else’s clothing.”
Father simply sighed deeply at this questioning and said patiently, as if to a child, “You cannot look like that. It is not how we see what this picture should be. You must simply choose to relax and conform to what we have given you.”
Son shrugged, and yet again he and Wife took up their pose. At this moment, another family came into the room. The children in the family were giggling and being silly, making ridiculous faces in the mirrors and being – occasionally rowdy – children.
Daughter scowled as one of her own Children wiggled in his uncomfortable position. She scolded saying, “You must not wiggle. You must think about what that will do to the picture for the rest of the family. Those children are not behaving appropriately. They are not acting as adults, and I will not allow you to behave as they do.” Her Children attempted to freeze, but being children, they were still restless. Daughter would reprimand them at every wiggle, reminding them they must behave and must consider the consequences of their actions.
The next attempt was made for a perfect picture, and once again, Son and Wife’s uncomfortable poses were the focus of criticism. “You just don’t try,” admonished Father. “You don’t care enough about us. See how well Husband of Daughter fits in with us; you should learn from him.”
Son moved away from Father, took Wife’s hand, and said, “If our clothes do not fit with yours perfectly, we are sorry. But we cannot continue to be uncomfortable in your clothes, and since our posing is unacceptable to you despite our efforts, we will change into what is more natural for us.” He and Wife walked away to change.
While they were gone, the Family rearranged and posed again, snapping picture after picture. The exclamations of delight at their perfectly posed portraits were clearly audible. Son and Wife returned and watched as Grandparents were invited over for a portrait. After a brief discussion over Grandparent’s outfits which clearly clashed with the rest of the family, a picture was taken. While the colors and outfits did clash horribly, Father simply grimaced and said, “It will have to do. Now please allow us to continue with our portraits.”
He looked over at Son and Wife, then, and said to Son, “You are a stubborn, insecure boy. You cannot have a portrait with us until you change into the acceptable clothing we have provided for you.”
Son replied and said, “We are not comfortable in your clothes. Is not the portrait of our family more important than the harmonizing of your outfits?”
Father turned his back on Son and spoke to Mother and Daughter, saying, “Son does not love us in the proper manner. He will not do as we have asked. He has no reason for this; he is simply being childish. When he understands his own folly, he may return and we will kindly forgive him. But he is wrong, so do not deal with him until he behaves better.”
Son and Wife cried as they heard his words. Mother looked over at them and then turned her back. Daughter simply ignored them and began to repose for the portrait. Wife asked Son if they should go change, but Son said, “No. We cannot have our portrait taken as we should be if we are restricted by their clothes and poses. We have tried, and it is not natural for us. So we will have to make our own portrait.”
They moved to a new spot in the studio, wiped away each other’s tears, and holding hands, smiled for their portrait. To their surprise, when the picture was shown to them, they were surrounded by people – Grandparents, other family, friends on all sides. No one matched perfectly, indeed some outfits clashed horribly, but they were together. And Son and Wife were pleased at this picture.
They said to Father and his family, “Will you come and take a picture with us?”
Father said, “No. You must come to us and match with us.”
So, Son and Wife sighed and went back to creating new portraits with many different people. They knew they did not want to be in a portrait where others’ fallible views of perfection were forced upon them. They also knew they, themselves, were not perfect. But they had a responsibility for creating a different portrait, one that accepted imperfections and coordinated clashing people. In the end, their portrait would be complete, regardless of who was or who wasn’t in it, as long as they were faithful to the image to which God had called them.
************************************
John 14:1-3, 23
“Do not let your hearts be troubled. Trust in God; trust also in me. In my Father’s house are many rooms; if it were not so, I would have told you. I am going there to prepare a place for you. And if I go there to prepare a place for you, I will come back and take you to be with me that you may also be where I am…If anyone loves me, He will obey my teaching. My Father will love him and we will come to him and make our home with him.”
Philippians 1:9-11
“…being confident of this, that he who began a good work in you will carry it on to completion until the day of Christ Jesus…And this is my prayer: that your love may abound more and more in knowledge and depth of insight, so that you may be able to discern what is best and may be pure and blameless until the day of Christ, filled with the fruit of righteousness that comes through Jesus Christ—to the glory and praise of God.”
Sunday, August 26, 2007
Essay: Lifeless Dwelling of a Living God
As I walk through the narrow, cobblestone lanes, following a pilgrim’s path through Canterbury, the air is chill yet vibrant, waking up every cell in my body with its brisk massage. The cobblestone under my feet feels smooth yet bumpy. To my right and left are tight rows of houses and stores, all jammed on top of one another, joggling for elbowroom. The antiquity of the buildings is evident, even to an uncultured eye, making one wonder at the history of this place. Before me, tips soaring above the rooftops, lies a glimpse of the Canterbury Cathedral. Leaning down from an arched entranceway to the Cathedral, a metal, forbidding statue seems to glare upon all individuals passing under its guard. A look at my guidebook informs me that this is a statue of Jesus Christ. The wind seems to blow colder, and I shiver in response to this revelation – this forbidding image, my gracious Lord? I pass underneath his watchful gaze and head for the heart of the huge structure.
The building’s outer structure is intricately engraved with the images of saints and bishops, worshipers and pilgrims. The whitish stone walls seem to rise higher and higher ending in spires that look like the fingers of a giant clawing at the sky. Archways line the sides of the building protecting stained-glass windows that lie hidden in their depths. While awe inspiring, the building is no more than another cathedral, many of which I have visited, admired, photographed, and left. Later, I have shown the pictures and talked about the beauty of the building, but never have I encountered a cathedral with a soul – with the presence of God residing tangibly within its walls.
I enter the building at the far side, noticing a hush fall over all who enter with me. Immediately, I feel like an insignificant thorn on a rosebush. Taking a few steps forward, I turn and face the far reaches of the massive edifice. Above me, the ceiling rises so high I have to strain to admire its intricate design. To my right and left are two rows of seemingly endless columns that climb to the ceiling and reach out to one another, forming an archway beneath which to walk. At the far end of the columns, I can barely perceive a screen of stone which I assume leads into the inner sanctuary. Taking a breath, I step confidently to one side of the church and walk along the rows of columns. To my left, covering the wall of the cathedral, are tombs and plaques of those who have died. I could easily take days reading all the inscriptions and tributes found within the plaques. My guidebook provides a succinct recounting of the lives of the numerous archbishops who are buried inside many of the tombs. Looking at the ornately decorated tombs, I wonder if the archbishop’s lives were really as simple as the book portrays. Military officers and soldier’s memorials also line the walls in great profusion. “In Memory of…having faithfully served his country…World War I, World War II, India, South Africa, America…leaving behind his wife and children.” The inscriptions are endless and yet ever similar in idea. The cathedral seems a place of death and burial.
While there appear to be miles of never ending tombs and plaques, I do eventually reach the outer wall of the inner-sanctuary. My mind tells me that the beautiful stone statues of the archbishops standing over this wall are amazing. My heart remains untouched. I walk into the sanctuary and look at the wooden pews built for the upper class of society. Many of the seats have names on them: important people, religious people, people beyond my social standing. A note informs me that last week the 104th Archbishop was just enthroned here. Moving farther on, past the pews, I see encased in glass a Bible that is used only when an Archbishop is enthroned. Ahead of me are the altar and a set of stairs leading up to the Archbishop’s chair. Dating from the Thirteenth century, it is an impressive throne cut from cold stone. Seeing a throne for humans in a Cathedral that is supposed to be God’s strikes me as odd. I walk forward to take a closer look at the altar and throne, and it is then that I observe him.
A middle-age man is standing motionless before the altar. As I move around to the side, I examine his face. He seems to stare unseeing at the altar, body upright, hands loose at his side, no emotion in evidence. Just then a voice comes over the intercom system asking all to please find a seat or stay where they are and join in a moment of prayer. I move to one of the pews and sit down. As the voice prays for the nation, for leaders, for the world, the man reaches out pleadingly towards the altar, and a look of utter heartbreak spreads across his face. Falling unheeded to the floor, tears begin to roll down his cheeks. Oblivious to any around him, he is silently crying out to the Lord like a hurting child.
I bow my head in awe and feel the exhilarating presence of life flowing through my veins, even as tears form in my eyes. I have felt the warm presence of a living God in this cold sanctuary of prayer.
Essay: Obliteration
In one afternoon, my perspective of the man changed completely. This man was ---------, my ballet teacher of eight years in the Southeast Asian country of Thailand. His students called him Ajarn, the Thai word giving importance to one who has a university degree. Although American-born, I had lived my entire life in Thailand with my missionary parents resulting in my studying ballet with this man.
I had always viewed Ajarn -------- as an edgy man, having a square shaped face with deep-set, slightly slanted Asian eyes; a square, if slightly flattened nose; a square neck leading to a squarely shaped body with two long rectangular legs set underneath. His feet, however, were prime examples of the curvaceous arches that mark a great dancer.
Ajarn’s beliefs were also very squarely set in his life. In Thailand, where to be Thai is to be Buddhist, he was the most devout Buddhist I had ever met. His faith in his religion was sincere and unshakable. Many times a year he would take his students to meditations and Buddhism training. Being a Christian, I never participated in those trips; however, I would often arrive for my ballet class and find a number of students sitting around him in a silent circle on the floor while he lectured them in Thai on how they should behave and live as good Buddhists. He was ever leading them in the pursuit of peace within their lives. Roughly translated, he would promote ideas such as, “Peace is the goal of your life. To maintain a peaceful existence, you must remember who you are in comparison with the other creatures of the world. Be wary of pride. You are no greater than others; be careful of harming any other being.” Ajarn was like a father to all of us. Indeed, in that Asian culture, when a teacher takes a student under his wing to train, he essentially becomes that student’s father. Even the legitimate parents of a student would acquiesce to such a teacher’s demands.
He did seem like a peaceful man to my eyes. Always neatly dressed in a simple style that blended with his personality, Ajarn spoke gently and softly. When, as a class, we were being lazy or not working as hard on perfecting our training as he felt we should, he would literally lecture us for hours on how to perform better. He was forever challenging us to stretch ourselves farther and farther into our art. “As dancers, your goal is not to perform for yourself but for your audience. If you are so focused on techniques that you fail to grasp the message of your story, your audience will never be touched. You must show discipline in your lessons; being lazy will simply hinder your future opportunities not only in dance, but also in every area of your lives.” Despite all his lectures, Ajarn would rarely raise his voice. The intensity of his speech was all that was necessary to focus our attention on him as he would sit cross-legged on the floor in the pose of meditation, lecturing us on our talent, our art, our lives.
In contrast to his gentle voice, Ajarn had strength of iron when he walked amongst us correcting our technique while we were dancing. If we were not pushing ourselves hard enough to lift our legs that extra half-inch, Ajarn would wrap his manacle-like hand around the errant leg and push it up higher until we would wonder if our backs were going to snap in half. Then, he would release his hand, and, in that gentle voice of his, he would command us to hold it there – use our muscles. And we would.
I loved him. Ballet was my world, and his commands and directions were the axis of that world. Despite his strength and determination to push us to our boundaries and then beyond, I never feared him. Well, I never feared him until that day.
I will never forget that steamy, tropical afternoon. As I sat stretching my muscles out on the smooth wood floor of the studio, a fellow student, Ayra, sat beside me. I noticed she was quiet, but that was not unusual. All of a sudden, Ajarn stormed into the room, focused only on his prey, oblivious to any others. He grabbed Ayra’s hair-bun, forcing her to the floor where he proceeded to scream in her face for the next hour in a voice unlike any I had ever heard come from him. To this day, I do not know what caused the onslaught against her; my abilities in the Asian language were not strong enough to follow the tirade that came so quickly after Ajarn’s entrance to the room. Later, I never had the courage to ask her what had happened. During the tempest, I sat curled up, half-hidden under the bars. I was too stunned to move, too wary of the monster in front of me to act.
Where had that gentle nature gone? The peace he was always admonishing us to seek was no longer evident. Ajarn was a changed man, a cruel fiend, a tyrant. His strength was no longer for teaching but for punishing. Neat clothing array, hair flamed out over his head in no set fashion, soft-spoken ways dissipated - he was a nightmare.
The next day, everything was back to normal. As I cautiously entered the studio, Ajarn
was sitting cross-legged on the floor lecturing on peace. In the following days, weeks, months, years, he acted as he always had before his eruption. Yet he was changed in my eyes. He no longer was representative of peace and honor; he was a volcano full of hidden power and cruelty. My love and regard for Ajarn had been indelibly altered in that single hour.
Sunday, July 29, 2007
Short Story: Popcorn
Popcorn
When will this day be over!! One more class, one more class…I can do this.
Samantha walked over to the open door and smiled at the parents bringing their little three-year olds to dance class.
“Hi Morgan,” she said, “you ready to do some dancing?” I don’t feel like being Miss Happy-Teacher. “Why don’t you grab a mat to put your bag on and you can help me start our dancing row.”
Ten minutes later, she was facing six little three-year old girls. Each one was dressed in pink tights and a little pink leotard. On their feet were slippery black tap-shoes. “All right, zip those hands on your waists and squeeze your feet together. You ready to do some dancing?”
“Yes,” came the yells of the little ones. Oh, my head. It’s amazing how much vocal power they have at that age.
“All right, it’s time to wake up Mr. Music. On the count of three let’s see if we can yell and wake him up. One, two, three…”
“WAKE UP MR. MUSIC.”
The little girls jumped and wiggled in their glee.
Samantha walked over to the CD-player saying, “Are you awake Mr. Music?”
A deep man’s voice replied, “Of course I am. I’ve been working here just as long as you have today? What, did you think I could take a nap in the middle of all this racket?”
Samantha jumped and turned quickly. There was no one in the room but her and the kids. She shook her head. I must be more tired today than I even realized. I’m hearing things!
She reached out toward the CD-player and hit play.
“Here we go again, playing the same old music over and over. Why don’t you spend a little money and buy something new. Don’t you know how sick I am of this CD?” The voice was low and gravelly – definitely a man’s voice.
“Who said that,” Samantha whispered.
“I did, ding bat.”
“Who are you, and where are you?”
“You just pressed play on me, dear, and told the little brats over there to wake me up.” said the speaker. Samantha just stared at the player. Cautiously she touched it. Still hard…metal…
Just then Alyssa came over and pulled on her black dance skirt. “Teacher, Mr. Music is awake, I want to do some shuffle-steps.”
Samantha shook her head to get the man’s voice out of her brain. “All right Sweetie, I’m coming.” She left the music playing and walked over to the kids. No more voice was talking. I’m imagining things – must get more sleep tonight.
The kids were actually working hard today. They did shuffle steps, and jumped in a box, and did some taps with their heels and toes. Samantha walked over to the CD-player and turned the music off. For a moment she thought she heard a man yawn, but she quickly put that thought out of her head and walked back to the kids.
“I think we better do some popcorn jumps,” said Samantha.
Big grins popped out on their chubby faces – they loved popcorn jumps.
“All right,” Samantha said, squatting down low to the floor with the kids all mimicking her action, “let’s sizzle.” They all made sizzling noises and then jumped us as high as they could (for a three year, two inches is a huge jump). “POP, POP, POP” came the shouts of the children.
Samantha blinked. She could have sworn Morgan’s white leotard had been pink when she came in. Get a grip on it, Sam. “One more time!”
“Sizzle, sizzle, POP, POP, POP”
This time, there was no mistaking it. Savanna hadn’t had white hair when she came in the room. Samantha looked around the room again – it was just them. Then, she looked at the kids…all of them, their hair and leotards looked white…. “All right,” she whispered, “um, everybody do a beautiful tap bow. Go change your shoes to ballet shoes.”
As the kids walked back to the mats, she eyed them closely. They all had on pink tights, pink leotards and slipper black tap-shoes. Savanna had black hair; just like she had always had black hair.
Samantha sighed and turned to put on her own ballet shoes. Twenty minutes, I can do this. Don’t loose it Sam…
“Miss. Samantha, I need some help tying my ballet shoes.” Samantha walked to the kids and spent the next five minutes tying ribbons and helping them make a straight row. Finally, she walked in front of them and turned to face them.
“Ok, ladies. We better stick some glue on our hands to make sure they stick tight on our waists while we do our ballet steps,” she said as she held up her imaginary bottle of glue.
The next few seconds were filled with the sounds of “shhh, sssss,” as the little ballerinas squeezed their imaginary glue on their hands.
“All right, zip them on your waists! Are they stuck on there?”
“Miss Samantha, my hands are stuck, they won’t come off my waist,” said Morgan.
“Good, Morgan.”
“No,” Morgan whispered, “they’re stuck. They won’t come off.” Her eyes began to fill with tears and her lower lip trembled.
“It’s just pretend,” said Samantha. “See, my hands can come unstuck.” With that she pulled her hands away from her waist, where they had been “glued” on. Well, she attempted to pull her hands away from her waist. They wouldn’t come off. They were stuck. Seeing Miss Samantha’s hands wouldn’t come off her waist either, Morgan began to wail.
“Shhhh, shhh, Morgan. Is everyone’s hands stuck?”
All the little girls nodded and Samantha could see five other lips begin to tremble. Don’t panic, don’t panic. That’s all I need is six hysterical children and no hands to deal with them. Do something, anything!
“Everybody sit down.”
They all flopped on to the floor. Amazing how hard that is with no hands to use.
“All right, I don’t know what’s happening, but I think it must be something special. Maybe it’s magic” What am I saying, magic? Whatever…they’ve shut up. Think, think, think…
“Maybe if we made a wish the magic would fix our hands? Do you think that would work?”
At the word magic, most of the girls had stopped crying and looked up interested.
“Like Harry Parter,” asked Alyssa?
“Yes, just like Harry Potter.” Thank you J. K. Rowling. “Do you think making a wish would work?"
Most of them nodded their heads, so she continued. “All right, at the count of three everybody wish as hard as you can. One…two…three…” They all wished then…little noses screwed up in concentration…nothing happened. Morgan began to cry again. Samantha sighed. Just then Savanna popped up and yelled, “I unglued, I unglued.” Everybody’s hands popped loose and the little girls got up and began jumping up and down and yelling in excitement.
“Good job everybody,” Samantha said. Well, she had to say something, didn’t she! She glanced at the clock. Thank goodness, it’s time to go. I can’t handle any more weird things.
“Everybody give me a beautiful curtsy and let’s go home.” Everyone bobbed a little curtsy and then ran and got their bags. That had to be the fastest day ever that they had cleared out of that room.
Alone, Samantha changed her shoes and collected her record-book and music – cautiously taking the CD out of the player. As she stepped out of the door she looked around. Everything looked normal; everything looked peaceful. She gave a little shiver, sighed, and walked away. Time to go home and take a bath.
When will this day be over!! One more class, one more class…I can do this.
Samantha walked over to the open door and smiled at the parents bringing their little three-year olds to dance class.
“Hi Morgan,” she said, “you ready to do some dancing?” I don’t feel like being Miss Happy-Teacher. “Why don’t you grab a mat to put your bag on and you can help me start our dancing row.”
Ten minutes later, she was facing six little three-year old girls. Each one was dressed in pink tights and a little pink leotard. On their feet were slippery black tap-shoes. “All right, zip those hands on your waists and squeeze your feet together. You ready to do some dancing?”
“Yes,” came the yells of the little ones. Oh, my head. It’s amazing how much vocal power they have at that age.
“All right, it’s time to wake up Mr. Music. On the count of three let’s see if we can yell and wake him up. One, two, three…”
“WAKE UP MR. MUSIC.”
The little girls jumped and wiggled in their glee.
Samantha walked over to the CD-player saying, “Are you awake Mr. Music?”
A deep man’s voice replied, “Of course I am. I’ve been working here just as long as you have today? What, did you think I could take a nap in the middle of all this racket?”
Samantha jumped and turned quickly. There was no one in the room but her and the kids. She shook her head. I must be more tired today than I even realized. I’m hearing things!
She reached out toward the CD-player and hit play.
“Here we go again, playing the same old music over and over. Why don’t you spend a little money and buy something new. Don’t you know how sick I am of this CD?” The voice was low and gravelly – definitely a man’s voice.
“Who said that,” Samantha whispered.
“I did, ding bat.”
“Who are you, and where are you?”
“You just pressed play on me, dear, and told the little brats over there to wake me up.” said the speaker. Samantha just stared at the player. Cautiously she touched it. Still hard…metal…
Just then Alyssa came over and pulled on her black dance skirt. “Teacher, Mr. Music is awake, I want to do some shuffle-steps.”
Samantha shook her head to get the man’s voice out of her brain. “All right Sweetie, I’m coming.” She left the music playing and walked over to the kids. No more voice was talking. I’m imagining things – must get more sleep tonight.
The kids were actually working hard today. They did shuffle steps, and jumped in a box, and did some taps with their heels and toes. Samantha walked over to the CD-player and turned the music off. For a moment she thought she heard a man yawn, but she quickly put that thought out of her head and walked back to the kids.
“I think we better do some popcorn jumps,” said Samantha.
Big grins popped out on their chubby faces – they loved popcorn jumps.
“All right,” Samantha said, squatting down low to the floor with the kids all mimicking her action, “let’s sizzle.” They all made sizzling noises and then jumped us as high as they could (for a three year, two inches is a huge jump). “POP, POP, POP” came the shouts of the children.
Samantha blinked. She could have sworn Morgan’s white leotard had been pink when she came in. Get a grip on it, Sam. “One more time!”
“Sizzle, sizzle, POP, POP, POP”
This time, there was no mistaking it. Savanna hadn’t had white hair when she came in the room. Samantha looked around the room again – it was just them. Then, she looked at the kids…all of them, their hair and leotards looked white…. “All right,” she whispered, “um, everybody do a beautiful tap bow. Go change your shoes to ballet shoes.”
As the kids walked back to the mats, she eyed them closely. They all had on pink tights, pink leotards and slipper black tap-shoes. Savanna had black hair; just like she had always had black hair.
Samantha sighed and turned to put on her own ballet shoes. Twenty minutes, I can do this. Don’t loose it Sam…
“Miss. Samantha, I need some help tying my ballet shoes.” Samantha walked to the kids and spent the next five minutes tying ribbons and helping them make a straight row. Finally, she walked in front of them and turned to face them.
“Ok, ladies. We better stick some glue on our hands to make sure they stick tight on our waists while we do our ballet steps,” she said as she held up her imaginary bottle of glue.
The next few seconds were filled with the sounds of “shhh, sssss,” as the little ballerinas squeezed their imaginary glue on their hands.
“All right, zip them on your waists! Are they stuck on there?”
“Miss Samantha, my hands are stuck, they won’t come off my waist,” said Morgan.
“Good, Morgan.”
“No,” Morgan whispered, “they’re stuck. They won’t come off.” Her eyes began to fill with tears and her lower lip trembled.
“It’s just pretend,” said Samantha. “See, my hands can come unstuck.” With that she pulled her hands away from her waist, where they had been “glued” on. Well, she attempted to pull her hands away from her waist. They wouldn’t come off. They were stuck. Seeing Miss Samantha’s hands wouldn’t come off her waist either, Morgan began to wail.
“Shhhh, shhh, Morgan. Is everyone’s hands stuck?”
All the little girls nodded and Samantha could see five other lips begin to tremble. Don’t panic, don’t panic. That’s all I need is six hysterical children and no hands to deal with them. Do something, anything!
“Everybody sit down.”
They all flopped on to the floor. Amazing how hard that is with no hands to use.
“All right, I don’t know what’s happening, but I think it must be something special. Maybe it’s magic” What am I saying, magic? Whatever…they’ve shut up. Think, think, think…
“Maybe if we made a wish the magic would fix our hands? Do you think that would work?”
At the word magic, most of the girls had stopped crying and looked up interested.
“Like Harry Parter,” asked Alyssa?
“Yes, just like Harry Potter.” Thank you J. K. Rowling. “Do you think making a wish would work?"
Most of them nodded their heads, so she continued. “All right, at the count of three everybody wish as hard as you can. One…two…three…” They all wished then…little noses screwed up in concentration…nothing happened. Morgan began to cry again. Samantha sighed. Just then Savanna popped up and yelled, “I unglued, I unglued.” Everybody’s hands popped loose and the little girls got up and began jumping up and down and yelling in excitement.
“Good job everybody,” Samantha said. Well, she had to say something, didn’t she! She glanced at the clock. Thank goodness, it’s time to go. I can’t handle any more weird things.
“Everybody give me a beautiful curtsy and let’s go home.” Everyone bobbed a little curtsy and then ran and got their bags. That had to be the fastest day ever that they had cleared out of that room.
Alone, Samantha changed her shoes and collected her record-book and music – cautiously taking the CD out of the player. As she stepped out of the door she looked around. Everything looked normal; everything looked peaceful. She gave a little shiver, sighed, and walked away. Time to go home and take a bath.
Short Story: Old Friends and Coffee-Shops
Old Friends and Coffee Shops
Misha sat on the bar stool at the high little table in the corner of the coffee shop. She watched as a car drove past; someone taking their drivers test. She had seen a lot of those around here, with the DMV right across the street. The shop door opened and she turned to see if Opal had come yet. It was just some bald-headed businessman with a black suit and hideously colored tie. He was closely followed by what appeared to be a man left over from the 70s. He stank of hemp and other things she couldn’t quite identify. Misha shrank away from the smell in disgust. She didn’t think such a mixed variety of people would be found in a place like this – but there you had it. Businessmen conducted agreements at the tables, druggies and hippies buried themselves in the corners talking, and there was always at least 2 or three college students chatting about this class and theory or that professor. Even the churches in town were constantly asking the shop to cater for this or that event. I wonder if they even know the owner is gay. Probably not, they just like the food.
The door opened again. Hopefully, Misha looked up at the newcomer. A very tall, skinny lady was approaching the counter. She looked about 30 years old, and had to be over six feet tall, not counting the three-inch heels she wore. Her face looked embattled, like she was trying too hard to make it attractive, and the vertically striped sweater she wore just accentuated her height.
With a sigh Misha slumped in her chair and looked at her watch again. Quarter-past. I’ll wait another 15 minutes and then order something to eat. At least if she doesn’t show, I can still get some lunch.
She let her mind drift. They had always met here for lunch in the past, she and Opal. It was their shop. Even the owners knew it. As soon as school let out they would run down here and grab a fat-free smoothie to plug the holes in their stomachs before they would head to the studio. Class always started at 4:30 and they wouldn’t get to eat again until eight or nine o’clock that night.
They were both dancers. They had started ballet class together at the tender age of three and had stuck together all the way through high school. In their first recital they had been mice at Cinderella’s castle. They stole the show of course, at least that's what their moms had said. They had helped one another sew on the ribbons for their first pair of Pointe shoes. (They had been so excited neither one had noticed they had forgotten to the cut the ribbon first and had to unstitch the whole thing.) Hours had been spent on solos and duets for recitals and competitions. They had always had each other’s bags to rummage through to look for Band-Aids, hairpins, and even leotards. Opal was always forgetting her leotard. Just like she always forgot everything. Most importantly, their friendship provided a shoulder to lean on when one or the other didn’t place as well as they had wished. Like the one recital Opal had strained her knee and fell, halfway through her solo. She had tried to do the correct thing and get up and keep dancing, but she fell again in pain. It wasn’t until they had gone out at 2:00 in the morning and splurged on milk shakes that she had finally been able to laugh about it all.
Misha sighed again and glanced at her watch. 12:22.
It had been a year since she had last seen Opal. All their lives they had wanted to dance together professionally - they had planned it all out. Then came their senior year of high school. It was a week before the university audition. Misha had waited at the studio for over an hour for Opal to come so they could practice their solos for the audition. She had gone over her solo three times and had finally settled on the floor to stretch when she heard the door to the room open. Opal stood there, her long hair loose around her shoulders, dressed in jeans and her blue dance sweater which read, “Shut up and Dance.” Her suspiciously red eyes and the crumpled tissue in her hand gave silent testimony that she had been crying.
“Opal. What’s wrong? Why are you so late?”
“Sorry. I was talking to someone. I…I…,” she stopped and took a deep breath. “I can’t dance, Misha.” Her voice was strained.
“What? What do you mean, ‘can’t?’”
“You heard me, damn it!!! I CAN’T DANCE. How many times do you want me to say it? I can’t dance, I can’t dance, I can’t dance!!!!” With that she crumpled into a ball on the floor and began to sob.
Misha had run over to her and held her until she was calm enough to explain what had happened. All the while Misha was rehearsing scenario after scenario in her mind. What could have happened? Of course Opal could dance. She could always dance. That was what their lives were meant to be…
“My knee has been hurting me again. I didn’t want to tell anybody, but Mom came home one afternoon when I didn’t expect her and caught me crying about it. She insisted we go and get it checked out by the doctor. He took x-rays of it, and I got the results today. My kneecap is shot. He said there’s no way I can ever dance on it again without damaging it so much I would have to have major surgery.”
Even now, Misha could remember the chill which had coursed through her body as Opal told her what had happened. This wasn’t in their plans – it wasn’t supposed to be like that. Surely another opinion, therapy, something…but in her heart she knew it was pointless. They both knew it was pointless. A dancer’s career is based entirely on the fitness of her body. No university, and certainly no company, would ever accept a dancer with such a major defect.
Misha had gone to the audition. Opal had insisted she go. She kept saying that Misha couldn’t give up her chances just because her friend wasn’t able to go.
“Besides,” she had told Misha,” I can always just get my education degree and teach dance. I’ll be fine.”
Misha was so lonely in the car on the way to the audition. That was the first audition Misha had ever attended without her friend. Amongst the midst of strange girls in leotards and tights with numbers pinned on their backs and stomachs, she was even lonelier.
Two weeks later Misha received her acceptance letter from the University. She was in. She was going to do it – live her dream, be a dancer. Her heart had sunk when she thought of calling Opal. Opal had congratulated her and they had talked about options for Opal, but it was all wrong. Their conversations were strained and short, well under the three-hour conversations they used to have that had convinced both their parents to get them a separate line.
Since then, so much had changed. Misha had gone to the university and succeeded in her classes there. Just a few weeks ago a scout from one of the bigger companies on the coast had come to their end-of-year performance to check out the dancers. He had told her to come to the company audition next month; they probably had a place for her. She was in her prime; she was living her dream. But always there was a place in her heart that longed for a black bag with silver stitching on it spelling out Opal, lying next to her bag.
Opal, she thought sadly. Misha looked up and saw her friend standing there.
“Opal!” She got up to give her a hug. It was like hugging a piece of armor.
Opal somberly said, “Hi Misha. How are you?” Opal was dressed in a professional suit carrying a little purse and a black day-planner. She was working as an intern for an insurance company and was taking night classes at the community college to get her degree to accounting.
Misha smiled at Opal, “I’m doing great. Have a seat, join me.”
As Opal turned to set her jacket down, Misha felt something was missing. Then it hit her. Opal’s beautiful long hair, the hair she had prized since she was three, had all been cut short and was now framing her narrow face. I guess there’s no point to her having long hair anymore, no need for buns.25
Opal sat and they looked over the menu like they had never seen it before – even though it had never changed in the 10 years they had eaten there. The food was ordered, and the necessity of talk became apparent. It was all very polite, matter of fact, and shallow. Opal had a new live-in boyfriend, the third in that many months. "Yes, her schooling was going well. She should be done with her degree in a few years."
"Had she gone to see her grandmother recently?"
"No, her job and studies kept her very tied to town, thank you."
After 45 minutes of charred talk they finally got up to leave. Please, Misha wanted to beg, please, say something real, anything. Smile. Tell me you hate me. I don’t care. I just want to know you’re still a person…Where’s my Opal?
Opal extended her hand to shake with Misha. “It was nice of you to look me up. Be sure to call again next time you’re in town.” With that she turned and walked out of the shop.
Misha sat back down on the barstool. The bell rang as the tall lady walked out of the shop. Misha glanced down at the table, finding she had unconsciously shred a napkin into strips. Lying there was Opal’s day-planner. Still forgetful. Well, at least one thing is still the same.
Misha picked up the day-planner and walked through the door, out of the shop. She needed to return this quickly. After all, she had a plane to catch. The door closed firmly behind her.
Misha sat on the bar stool at the high little table in the corner of the coffee shop. She watched as a car drove past; someone taking their drivers test. She had seen a lot of those around here, with the DMV right across the street. The shop door opened and she turned to see if Opal had come yet. It was just some bald-headed businessman with a black suit and hideously colored tie. He was closely followed by what appeared to be a man left over from the 70s. He stank of hemp and other things she couldn’t quite identify. Misha shrank away from the smell in disgust. She didn’t think such a mixed variety of people would be found in a place like this – but there you had it. Businessmen conducted agreements at the tables, druggies and hippies buried themselves in the corners talking, and there was always at least 2 or three college students chatting about this class and theory or that professor. Even the churches in town were constantly asking the shop to cater for this or that event. I wonder if they even know the owner is gay. Probably not, they just like the food.
The door opened again. Hopefully, Misha looked up at the newcomer. A very tall, skinny lady was approaching the counter. She looked about 30 years old, and had to be over six feet tall, not counting the three-inch heels she wore. Her face looked embattled, like she was trying too hard to make it attractive, and the vertically striped sweater she wore just accentuated her height.
With a sigh Misha slumped in her chair and looked at her watch again. Quarter-past. I’ll wait another 15 minutes and then order something to eat. At least if she doesn’t show, I can still get some lunch.
She let her mind drift. They had always met here for lunch in the past, she and Opal. It was their shop. Even the owners knew it. As soon as school let out they would run down here and grab a fat-free smoothie to plug the holes in their stomachs before they would head to the studio. Class always started at 4:30 and they wouldn’t get to eat again until eight or nine o’clock that night.
They were both dancers. They had started ballet class together at the tender age of three and had stuck together all the way through high school. In their first recital they had been mice at Cinderella’s castle. They stole the show of course, at least that's what their moms had said. They had helped one another sew on the ribbons for their first pair of Pointe shoes. (They had been so excited neither one had noticed they had forgotten to the cut the ribbon first and had to unstitch the whole thing.) Hours had been spent on solos and duets for recitals and competitions. They had always had each other’s bags to rummage through to look for Band-Aids, hairpins, and even leotards. Opal was always forgetting her leotard. Just like she always forgot everything. Most importantly, their friendship provided a shoulder to lean on when one or the other didn’t place as well as they had wished. Like the one recital Opal had strained her knee and fell, halfway through her solo. She had tried to do the correct thing and get up and keep dancing, but she fell again in pain. It wasn’t until they had gone out at 2:00 in the morning and splurged on milk shakes that she had finally been able to laugh about it all.
Misha sighed again and glanced at her watch. 12:22.
It had been a year since she had last seen Opal. All their lives they had wanted to dance together professionally - they had planned it all out. Then came their senior year of high school. It was a week before the university audition. Misha had waited at the studio for over an hour for Opal to come so they could practice their solos for the audition. She had gone over her solo three times and had finally settled on the floor to stretch when she heard the door to the room open. Opal stood there, her long hair loose around her shoulders, dressed in jeans and her blue dance sweater which read, “Shut up and Dance.” Her suspiciously red eyes and the crumpled tissue in her hand gave silent testimony that she had been crying.
“Opal. What’s wrong? Why are you so late?”
“Sorry. I was talking to someone. I…I…,” she stopped and took a deep breath. “I can’t dance, Misha.” Her voice was strained.
“What? What do you mean, ‘can’t?’”
“You heard me, damn it!!! I CAN’T DANCE. How many times do you want me to say it? I can’t dance, I can’t dance, I can’t dance!!!!” With that she crumpled into a ball on the floor and began to sob.
Misha had run over to her and held her until she was calm enough to explain what had happened. All the while Misha was rehearsing scenario after scenario in her mind. What could have happened? Of course Opal could dance. She could always dance. That was what their lives were meant to be…
“My knee has been hurting me again. I didn’t want to tell anybody, but Mom came home one afternoon when I didn’t expect her and caught me crying about it. She insisted we go and get it checked out by the doctor. He took x-rays of it, and I got the results today. My kneecap is shot. He said there’s no way I can ever dance on it again without damaging it so much I would have to have major surgery.”
Even now, Misha could remember the chill which had coursed through her body as Opal told her what had happened. This wasn’t in their plans – it wasn’t supposed to be like that. Surely another opinion, therapy, something…but in her heart she knew it was pointless. They both knew it was pointless. A dancer’s career is based entirely on the fitness of her body. No university, and certainly no company, would ever accept a dancer with such a major defect.
Misha had gone to the audition. Opal had insisted she go. She kept saying that Misha couldn’t give up her chances just because her friend wasn’t able to go.
“Besides,” she had told Misha,” I can always just get my education degree and teach dance. I’ll be fine.”
Misha was so lonely in the car on the way to the audition. That was the first audition Misha had ever attended without her friend. Amongst the midst of strange girls in leotards and tights with numbers pinned on their backs and stomachs, she was even lonelier.
Two weeks later Misha received her acceptance letter from the University. She was in. She was going to do it – live her dream, be a dancer. Her heart had sunk when she thought of calling Opal. Opal had congratulated her and they had talked about options for Opal, but it was all wrong. Their conversations were strained and short, well under the three-hour conversations they used to have that had convinced both their parents to get them a separate line.
Since then, so much had changed. Misha had gone to the university and succeeded in her classes there. Just a few weeks ago a scout from one of the bigger companies on the coast had come to their end-of-year performance to check out the dancers. He had told her to come to the company audition next month; they probably had a place for her. She was in her prime; she was living her dream. But always there was a place in her heart that longed for a black bag with silver stitching on it spelling out Opal, lying next to her bag.
Opal, she thought sadly. Misha looked up and saw her friend standing there.
“Opal!” She got up to give her a hug. It was like hugging a piece of armor.
Opal somberly said, “Hi Misha. How are you?” Opal was dressed in a professional suit carrying a little purse and a black day-planner. She was working as an intern for an insurance company and was taking night classes at the community college to get her degree to accounting.
Misha smiled at Opal, “I’m doing great. Have a seat, join me.”
As Opal turned to set her jacket down, Misha felt something was missing. Then it hit her. Opal’s beautiful long hair, the hair she had prized since she was three, had all been cut short and was now framing her narrow face. I guess there’s no point to her having long hair anymore, no need for buns.25
Opal sat and they looked over the menu like they had never seen it before – even though it had never changed in the 10 years they had eaten there. The food was ordered, and the necessity of talk became apparent. It was all very polite, matter of fact, and shallow. Opal had a new live-in boyfriend, the third in that many months. "Yes, her schooling was going well. She should be done with her degree in a few years."
"Had she gone to see her grandmother recently?"
"No, her job and studies kept her very tied to town, thank you."
After 45 minutes of charred talk they finally got up to leave. Please, Misha wanted to beg, please, say something real, anything. Smile. Tell me you hate me. I don’t care. I just want to know you’re still a person…Where’s my Opal?
Opal extended her hand to shake with Misha. “It was nice of you to look me up. Be sure to call again next time you’re in town.” With that she turned and walked out of the shop.
Misha sat back down on the barstool. The bell rang as the tall lady walked out of the shop. Misha glanced down at the table, finding she had unconsciously shred a napkin into strips. Lying there was Opal’s day-planner. Still forgetful. Well, at least one thing is still the same.
Misha picked up the day-planner and walked through the door, out of the shop. She needed to return this quickly. After all, she had a plane to catch. The door closed firmly behind her.
Thursday, July 12, 2007
Essay: The First Five Minutes
The clicking of heels is a distinct sound cherished by little girls as the signal of being “grown-up.” The empty hallways ricocheted the crisp, brisk, sound off the highly-polished, tile floor, the red lockers, the bright, industrial lit ceiling, back down and around in a never-ending echo of efficiency. In that empty, big, industrial building, every sound seemed magnified, coming back to haunt its listener in a never-ending reverberation .
The click of the key in the door-lock was like a cymbal crashing. Stepping inside the door to the dark room and fumbling for the light switch resulted in a flood of light like the lightening of the storm that was building outside. Inside the room, the shadows, frightened away by the sudden infusion of light, peered in at the windows that looked out into the courtyard.
I stood for a moment surveying the room – the classroom – with a mixture of pride and sinking terror. The blackboard gleamed cleanly, begging to have words of wisdom scrawled across its face. The little pile of colored chalk (much more interesting to write with than boring, standard, white chalk) lay heaped ready for use. All the books to be handed out stood neatly stacked on the shelf looking large and somewhat daunting with their huge, purple bindings. The syllabi were painstakingly lined up on the table at the front, ready to be passed into the hands of seemingly uninterested teenagers who would no doubt be more concerned with how to earn an easy “A” than as to what magnificent works of literature they were to become masters of in the upcoming months.
The air held the tangy scent of cleaning polish, left over from the scrubbing the rows of desks had received on the previous day. 35 uncomfortable desks, all waiting to be marked up, doodled on, and more than likely otherwise abused by 100 students every day, were uniformly lined in precise rows.
At the back of the room, neatly organized with grade-book, lesson plan book, pens, pencils, tape-dispenser, and stapler, the teacher’s desk sat prominently ensconced in its own corner. The computer hummed a little as if waiting in eager anticipation for the hours of perfectly designed and flawlessly executed lesson plans that would be composed upon its keys. The bookshelf behind the desk was crammed with texts – dog-eared and marked, supposedly holding the keys to a perfectly managed classroom in which every student would succeed, all would behave angelically, and each would respect and trust their teacher – that paragon of wisdom and ability.
The teacher – knowledgeable, calm, humorous, yet able to control her classroom with a mere raise of an eyebrow. Well-loved, liked, a woman to be returned to in later year and thanked profusely by her students for being their guide, their shining-light to further paths of glory and success in the outside world.
At this point, day-dreaming broke off because of a rather sudden and unpleasant queasiness that made itself known and quickly grew to affect every limb and nerve with it’s panic-producing touch. Idealness, while pleasant to cherish, is unfortunately easily shattered and the distinct knowledge that one has chosen the wrong profession and will fail utterly and be disgraced completely is enough to daunt the strongest of personalities.
Failure loomed large: the students would learn nothing, chaos would break lose, and I instinctly knew that I would be run out of the school in two weeks with no job, no future, and bucket-load of nightmarish experiences.
Thus began the first five minutes of my career as a high-school English teacher.
HRLyons
The click of the key in the door-lock was like a cymbal crashing. Stepping inside the door to the dark room and fumbling for the light switch resulted in a flood of light like the lightening of the storm that was building outside. Inside the room, the shadows, frightened away by the sudden infusion of light, peered in at the windows that looked out into the courtyard.
I stood for a moment surveying the room – the classroom – with a mixture of pride and sinking terror. The blackboard gleamed cleanly, begging to have words of wisdom scrawled across its face. The little pile of colored chalk (much more interesting to write with than boring, standard, white chalk) lay heaped ready for use. All the books to be handed out stood neatly stacked on the shelf looking large and somewhat daunting with their huge, purple bindings. The syllabi were painstakingly lined up on the table at the front, ready to be passed into the hands of seemingly uninterested teenagers who would no doubt be more concerned with how to earn an easy “A” than as to what magnificent works of literature they were to become masters of in the upcoming months.
The air held the tangy scent of cleaning polish, left over from the scrubbing the rows of desks had received on the previous day. 35 uncomfortable desks, all waiting to be marked up, doodled on, and more than likely otherwise abused by 100 students every day, were uniformly lined in precise rows.
At the back of the room, neatly organized with grade-book, lesson plan book, pens, pencils, tape-dispenser, and stapler, the teacher’s desk sat prominently ensconced in its own corner. The computer hummed a little as if waiting in eager anticipation for the hours of perfectly designed and flawlessly executed lesson plans that would be composed upon its keys. The bookshelf behind the desk was crammed with texts – dog-eared and marked, supposedly holding the keys to a perfectly managed classroom in which every student would succeed, all would behave angelically, and each would respect and trust their teacher – that paragon of wisdom and ability.
The teacher – knowledgeable, calm, humorous, yet able to control her classroom with a mere raise of an eyebrow. Well-loved, liked, a woman to be returned to in later year and thanked profusely by her students for being their guide, their shining-light to further paths of glory and success in the outside world.
At this point, day-dreaming broke off because of a rather sudden and unpleasant queasiness that made itself known and quickly grew to affect every limb and nerve with it’s panic-producing touch. Idealness, while pleasant to cherish, is unfortunately easily shattered and the distinct knowledge that one has chosen the wrong profession and will fail utterly and be disgraced completely is enough to daunt the strongest of personalities.
Failure loomed large: the students would learn nothing, chaos would break lose, and I instinctly knew that I would be run out of the school in two weeks with no job, no future, and bucket-load of nightmarish experiences.
Thus began the first five minutes of my career as a high-school English teacher.
HRLyons
Poem: Abuse
Can a hug ever hurt? 1
Does it ever seem black like the bruise of abuse?
The danger of losing control –
lashing out in sickly sweet wrath
can bring a life from the highest heaven to the pit of hell. 5
In truth, a hypocrite’s kindness can kill more easily
Than an enemy’s cruelest blow.
Like the friend who draws you near,
then,
suddenly spurns you away; 10
melts the soothing sweetness of love;
turning it bitterly sour.
A slice of your soil has been hacked from within you.
The brain has stopped, slowed down in shock.
Like paper constantly recycled 15
you feel old and used.
The child imitates the world around her,
And learns the art of leading others one,
only to pull away and watch as they buckle
under the sudden weight of loneliness 20
pressing upon them.
If only tears could cure the fear of trust and faith.
Like rain, wash away the memories and scars of hate.
All have been taught the reality of the one
who saunters in to break us with his spit of contempt. 25
Have all been taught the reality
that a hug can be cruel and kill us?
HRLyons
Poem: Monster
He felt fear like a child’s closet monster 1
Just out of reach; about to jump from a hidden spot.
He could just see it from the corner of his eye,
Poised for action to attack his weakness.
He felt fear creeping upon him 5
Like the hands that will grab ankles
From under the bed in the night.
Perhaps it would smother him,
Destroy his chance for survival.
He felt fear like a child’s closet monster. 10
HRLyons
Just out of reach; about to jump from a hidden spot.
He could just see it from the corner of his eye,
Poised for action to attack his weakness.
He felt fear creeping upon him 5
Like the hands that will grab ankles
From under the bed in the night.
Perhaps it would smother him,
Destroy his chance for survival.
He felt fear like a child’s closet monster. 10
HRLyons
Poem: 23rd Psalm – Revised
McDonald’s is my restaurant, I shall not want.
It makes me sit down on hard, wood benches.
It leads me through crowded malls.
It replenishes my strength – satiates my appetite.
It guides me in the paths of cholesterol –
so I look like its namesake.
Even though I walk through the valley of shopping,
I will fear no hunger, for you are near me.
Your burgers and fries, they comfort me.
You provide plenty of fats
in the presence of high blood pressure.
You fill my stomach with grease – chocolate milkshake is my delight.
Surely Big Mac’s and Chicken McNugget’s will follow me
all the days of my life.
And I will dwell near your open doors – O McDonald’s –
Forever.
HRLyons
Dedicated to the American Population
It makes me sit down on hard, wood benches.
It leads me through crowded malls.
It replenishes my strength – satiates my appetite.
It guides me in the paths of cholesterol –
so I look like its namesake.
Even though I walk through the valley of shopping,
I will fear no hunger, for you are near me.
Your burgers and fries, they comfort me.
You provide plenty of fats
in the presence of high blood pressure.
You fill my stomach with grease – chocolate milkshake is my delight.
Surely Big Mac’s and Chicken McNugget’s will follow me
all the days of my life.
And I will dwell near your open doors – O McDonald’s –
Forever.
HRLyons
Dedicated to the American Population
Poem: TCK
Like the migrant bird 1
traveling place to place
frequently resting, never stopping
journeying evermore;
no place is permanent; 5
no place is strange.
Like the tree
in shallow soil,
its roots do not go deep,
easily transplanted – reaching ever out, 10
ever striving to find
a good nestling spot.
Like the hybrid in nature,
the collection of specks
partly one, partly another 15
and yet maintaining its own society –
never truly belonging with others –
it stands in a class of its own.
We dwell on the shrunken earth –
Ever Moving, 20
Ever Searching,
Never truly
Belonging.
HRLyons
traveling place to place
frequently resting, never stopping
journeying evermore;
no place is permanent; 5
no place is strange.
Like the tree
in shallow soil,
its roots do not go deep,
easily transplanted – reaching ever out, 10
ever striving to find
a good nestling spot.
Like the hybrid in nature,
the collection of specks
partly one, partly another 15
and yet maintaining its own society –
never truly belonging with others –
it stands in a class of its own.
We dwell on the shrunken earth –
Ever Moving, 20
Ever Searching,
Never truly
Belonging.
HRLyons
Poem: "Locked up"
Locked up – trapped
Fight against the bars –
They are stronger.
They overcome.
World goes by – fleeting
Cry out to be noticed
They turn their heads,
Smile – walk away.
Eyes of hopelessness – brimming
Whisper for a friend
No answer –
No one cares.
Years go by – no change
Buried in a prison
Handmade, self-contained,
But fear keeps trapping you.
HRLyons
Fight against the bars –
They are stronger.
They overcome.
World goes by – fleeting
Cry out to be noticed
They turn their heads,
Smile – walk away.
Eyes of hopelessness – brimming
Whisper for a friend
No answer –
No one cares.
Years go by – no change
Buried in a prison
Handmade, self-contained,
But fear keeps trapping you.
HRLyons
Poem: Charitable Works
We hire the poor ones
to produce an invitation
to our sappy sunflower party
at the villa.
Then we send them out to consign
the invitation to lofty neighbors
who instantly lift their snobby noses
at the messenger.
Coming together we erect pedestals
to our own charitable enterprises;
as the poor worker we hired
trudges home to try and feed
his starving family.
HRLyons
Writing Note: This was written from 10 randomly chosen dictionary words: invitation, sappy, consign, erect, hire, lofty, produce, sunflower, villa, instantly.
Poem: Summer-Wanderings
We were never to cross the road alone
To reach the salted seaside shore.
The wooden, rickety, stilted building,
With lumpy beds and hospital sheets,
Smelly bathroom, cement kitchen, creaky floor,
Was our loved location in the summer days.
Scattered friends brought together at those precious times.
We sat together during evening service,
Tantalized by the fishy sea breezes.
Playing games till midnight, scary stories till three,
Then sneaking out across the road,
To walk in the sand with the sweltering sunrise.
We were never to cross the road alone
To reach the salted seaside shore.
HRLyons
To reach the salted seaside shore.
The wooden, rickety, stilted building,
With lumpy beds and hospital sheets,
Smelly bathroom, cement kitchen, creaky floor,
Was our loved location in the summer days.
Scattered friends brought together at those precious times.
We sat together during evening service,
Tantalized by the fishy sea breezes.
Playing games till midnight, scary stories till three,
Then sneaking out across the road,
To walk in the sand with the sweltering sunrise.
We were never to cross the road alone
To reach the salted seaside shore.
HRLyons
Poetry
Currently I'm reading through a collection of Victorian Poetry. I'll confess, the Romantics and the Victorians are my favorites when it comes to poetry. So, there will probably be quite a few references to these two styles of poetry in this portion of my blog.
Elizabeth Barrett Browning: my absolute favorite love poem of hers is Sonnet 14 from Sonnets from the Portuguese.
"If thou must love me, let it be for nought
Except for love's sake only...
for these things [smiles, looks, ways of thought, behaviors] in themselves, Beloved, may
Change or be changed for thee, and love so wrought
May be unwrought so...
But love me for love's sake, that evermore Thou may'st love on through love's eternity."
Poem: Telephone
The simple ring of a telephone. 1
A message of death across its wire.
The nonchalance in its tone.
Failed understanding, cry of “liar.”
Joy in life, a journey just completed. 5
The world shattered in a minute conversation.
Where did it go?
Why did it flee?
My life is ever publishing the expanded edition,
Life is now a finished book for you. 10
HRLyons
A message of death across its wire.
The nonchalance in its tone.
Failed understanding, cry of “liar.”
Joy in life, a journey just completed. 5
The world shattered in a minute conversation.
Where did it go?
Why did it flee?
My life is ever publishing the expanded edition,
Life is now a finished book for you. 10
HRLyons
Poem: Boxing
You can box up my things:
articles, junk, teddy bears, and music.
You can box away my books and clothes,
my photographs, my toys,
But you can never box away my heart.
You can’t put the memories in four squares,
store them under the bed,
or in a closet.
They won’t sit and get dusty under your care.
You can’t close the lid on my emotions.
You can’t ship away my fears and pains.
You can’t tape down the lid to my life.
You can’t box me up,
trap me in a corner,
and leave my mind to gather cobwebs.
Do as you like with all I possess,
But you will never box me up.
HRLyons
Poem: Dreams
Dreams
Blue midnight – still glass sea. 1
Angels wings bend down – flit away.
Still, simple, solitary tree.
Black, stark against the moonlight.
Desolate, loneliness cries out 5
And is hushed as if frightened
By the sound of its own voice.
Clouds cross over – night grows dim -
An eerie quality sinks in…
Flap of wings – strong and sure 10
A call of hunting shatters the quiet
Echo upon echo resounds over the sea
And dies away in a distant land
Far, far beyond here.
As if awakened from a slumber, 15
The cloud passes on through the sky
Blue midnight – the rippling sea
Laps by the shore of the tree.
And angels wings bend down
Like the mist over the sea 20
And all becomes hazy.
HRLyons
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