Reveal Yourself

“if we want the rewards of being loved, we have to submit to the mortifying ordeal of being known.” 
    ~~Tim Kreider
[Tomorrow: A Place You Cannot See]

Guest Poet: Stephen Crane

This is not your feel-good poem. Just so you know . . . ~~GH

In the Desert

In the desert
I saw a creature, naked, bestial,
Who, squatting upon the ground,
Held his heart in his hands,
And ate of it.
I said: "Is it good, friend?"
"It is bitter -- bitter," he answered;
"But I like it
Because it is bitter,
And because it is my heart."

        ~~Stephen Crane

I would not presume to tell you what meaning to make of a poem.  I wandered around the 'net a bit, read some interpretations of  "In the Desert" and even listened/watched two YouTube video readings of it. As usual, the meaning(s) I derive don't match what I saw. 

I won't try to explain what I think it means, but let me say that I don't see this as a scary or intimidating or shocking or negative poem. If I were to read it aloud, I would not use a threatening tone. 

Don't we all "eat our hearts out" sometimes? 

As Little Children

I wonder what would happen, how it would be if we saw each other as the children we once were (and truly still are, inside)? If instead of the exterior wrapping, we saw the chubby cheeks and big round eyes, the wonder within those eyes, the front-toothless grins – shy but open? If we spontaneously threw open our arms and hugged each other when we perceived sadness, how would that change our world? I wonder.

At my best, I live that way. When I do, I am happiest. I am most creative, I feel Love the deepest. When I trust, fully trust, I don't judge others but connect with their spirits. I want to teach myself to live that way every hour of every day.~~GH

Guest Poet: Shakespeare

This truth has presented itself to me in recent weeks, especially when applied to one's self or one's love. 

Let the wind blow as it may. Close your eyes and feel its caress, never forcing it. Its timing is impeccable.~~GH

Motivation and Judgment and Forgiveness, Oh My

So the way to deal with Doubt is to apply Grace, and Judgment. So far in every instance, the way to carry on and maintain our spirits has been to openly apply Grace. When Trust is broken, Grace covers it. Doubt is raised, Grace applied.

Just as Grace and Rationalization are two sides of one coin, the thought occurs to me that so too are Motivation and Judgment. Bear with me on this.

Motivation is what spurs the action, Judgment is what tempers it. A child wants a cookie but is able to apply its mother's caution “Don't eat any cookies before dinner. It will spoil your appetite. You can have two after you eat.”

Motivation is and is not important. The end result remains in spite of motivation – the car's bumper is smashed, the plate is broken, trust is destroyed. So the damage exists separate from motivation. Amends must be made regardless of motivation. Repairs to the car, replacement of the plate, whatever can be done to acknowledge the disconnect and rebuild the relationship.

But motivation does come into play in some regard. If you accidentally back into another car, your actions are forgiven once restitution is made. If, however, you did a Kathy Bates in “Fried Green Tomatoes” and purposefully smashed into someone's car – that's another story. Dropping a plate is one thing; throwing the plate, another. Then there are various shades of “throwing the plate” and what those mean. It can get endless.

So is Motivation important, or not? How does Judgment fit in? What about – oh no, another concept rears its head – Forgiveness? Will this butterfly chase ever end? I doubt it.~~GHC

The Boy Who Cried 'Wolf' and the People Who Loved Him

A person whose role in my life has been significant for many years was recently exposed as having habitually lied to me. Under numerous circumstances, sometimes seemingly out of no deeper motivation than avoiding a second question.

If you know me, you know I am innately curious and ask lots of questions. I don't interrogate anybody for the sake of judgment; I seek to understand for my own edification. It's really all quite objective. It is extremely rare for me to “get personal.” Think of me as a slightly more mature four year old: “Why? Why? Why?” I imagine I can be annoying. That's why I try not to ask any more often than I feel compelled to know. The world is definitely not ready for my level of curiosity; this I learned the hard way. I am a giant knowledge sponge.

So this significant person established a decades-long relationship on a foundation of lies. I only recently came to understand this reality. Now I am dealing with the fallout. And in my objective, scientific-ish way of handling relationships, I weighed the impact of this break in trust. Naturally, I find it difficult to trust this individual, but it goes far deeper and further than that. I hear whispers of doubt when dealing with others, as well.

Doubt is a bastard. But like a sherpa on a trek up Kilimanjaro, a necessary bastard. We all need a little doubt to stay alive. If we blithely walked everywhere without questioning, we'd soon end up dead. But too much doubt undermines one's ability to lead a fulfilling life. Too much doubt causes one to question others' motivations when maybe it really doesn't matter. When what the others do really doesn't have a thing to do with US. When we hold up the yardstick of our existence and force-measure someone else against our standard. That's a negative result of doubt.

Another negative result of doubt is questioning ones self. What was wrong with me that I believed those lies for so long? Is there something functionally wrong with me that I cannot see through deception? Is this new person lying to me now? Will the next person I run into, say at the post office, lie to me too? Does everybody lie? Studies tend to suggest everybody does. What does that even mean?

These are the truly evil consequences of his lying. Not even the situations that were hidden and lied about, but the fallout, the loss of trust, the doubt, the residual lessening of ME and my spirit, my life, the revealing of my weakness, my reluctance to trust. 

In my spiritual Universal way of thinking (my personal spiritual path that remains unlabeled yet is fairly defined), the lesson here is that I must trust more fully, more deeply, more willingly. His lies exposed my doubt. They laid open a wound that had never fully healed, an ugly wound at that.

Two sides of the coin: Trust, and doubt.

So how does one deal with Trust and Doubt? I'd say with Grace and Judgment. More on that tomorrow. ~~GHC

Our Day Will Come

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dgxDHSlvlwA&feature=fvst Blogpost refuses to embed this video, so you'll just have to click on the link if you want to listen.

How does one go about rediscovering herself? Or maybe just discovering herself for the first time? Is there a shortcut, a cheat for a practically-55-year-old woman to catch up and fall in step with who she actually is? I am acutely aware of what I am NOT. Not screams fairly loudly, or jangles with its poor fit like Aunt Bid's old shoes when I was a young woman. Yes, we both wore size 9s but her feet were 4-A with a 6-A heel; mine, not so much. I forced into the expensive hand-me-downs like Cinderella's stepsisters and limped around at church with a fake smile pasted on my face, grateful for the gift. Comfort was not a priority; practicality was paramount.

I've spent my entire life being practical.

There is much to be said for practicality, but it is no longer my god. I am tired of always choosing the cheapest cut of meat, the lowest costing cookies, the plain purse because the one I prefer costs more and I can't find it within me to justify the extra $5 because we might need to buy something important with that $5 in the near future. I'm tired of putting myself last, always.

I haven't resented taking a back seat, thankfully. I feel no anger or ill will, or sorrow (she says as tears run down her cheeks) because of my choices. I did the right thing. I always do the right thing. I'm a good girl, a good woman. And I'm glad I am. I think I'm weeping now because I feel a sense of overwhelming...relief at the prospects that my time has finally arrived. It's been a long journey and I hadn't realized how tired I'd become.

I had become quite fatigued.

But just because I know what doesn't fit, doesn't mean I know what DOES fit. In class today, someone mentioned a woman was writing her dissertation on one-night stands. I laughed and made an off-hand comment to the effect that most people my age had completed that field work years ago. Just because I know I don't want a one-night stand doesn't mean I know the precise definition of what I DO want. Ultimately, I want The One Who Will Be With Me Forever, the one who will be The Guardian of My Heart. How to travel from Here to There is another story.

I have to trust.

All I know is I have to keep my heart open, as well as my eyes and arms. I want to embrace what Life has in store for me. I want to feel its heart beat against my chest. I want to feel its breath on my neck, its arms around me. I want to fulfill my promise.

I'm not at all sure where I'm headed, but I'm reasonably certain it's the right place. These woods are dark and thick, but every step brings me closer to the light. It's incumbent upon me to keep walking.

Thank goodness my shoes fit now.~~GHC

Fishing With Carl Fleshman

Was discussing with a friend how folks tend to tell me things. It reminded me of this story. It's a little longer than my usual blog posts, but I think it's a quick read.~GHC WARNING: PTSD/WAR TRIGGERS One thing you could say about Carl was, he had a lot of forgetting to do. He started each day with a half gallon of Popov vodka and chased it with a case of beer to keep the ghosts away. Once he told me that in the morning he drank to remember friends whose faces never aged and at night he drank to forget the charred and broken bodies of those he had killed. But no matter how much he drank, he never forgot or forgave himself.       2340 words

Fishing with Carl Fleshman - by Ginger Hamilton Caudill One thing you could say about Carl was, he had a lot of forgetting to do. He started each day with a half gallon of Popov vodka and chased it with a case of beer to keep the ghosts away. Once he told me that in the morning he drank to remember friends whose faces never aged and at night he drank to forget the charred and broken bodies of those he had killed. But no matter how much he drank, he never forgot or forgave himself.  Despite a trimmed russet beard and dark brown hair, shirt always tucked in, pants pressed with a precision crease from waist to toe, Carl’s weathered face and haunted eyes revealed the firestorm that raged within. His hazel eyes long ago ceased to sparkle. Like many of his generation, he unwillingly hosted an entourage of specters. Carl and I were neighbors for about five years in the early 1980s. He lived in the apartment directly below mine. The busybody lady next door told me he was a shell-shocked Vietnam vet. He kept to himself, only communicating in slight nods and mumbled hellos when happenstance brought the two of us together at the mailbox or in the laundry room.  A friend gave me a kitten. Carl was at the mailboxes as I entered the lobby, trying to hold onto her as she yowled in fear and scrambled up the front of me. He asked me what I’d named her. “Babycakes.”  Creases formed at the corners of his eyes as he smiled. That faint glimpse of God revealed itself for a split second then retreated as if under fire.  “Nice name,” he mumbled as he disappeared inside his apartment and closed the door. After he smiled, I was determined to get to know him. I figured there was a human being trapped inside the zombie of a man who shambled to the mailbox and scurried out of the laundry room whenever I showed up.  The next time we met at the mailbox, I gathered my courage and introduced myself. “Hi, I’m Jessie. I live upstairs from you.” “Yes ma’am.” I saw that his face was covered in angry red blemishes. “What’s your name?” “Carl, Carl Fleshman.” His voice croaked, as if he hadn’t used it in a long time. “Hi, Carl. Nice to meet you.” “Nice to meet you, too,” and he lumbered back inside the safety of his apartment.  I’d noticed that he loaded a johnboat onto his van and disappeared every Friday. He returned Sunday evening with a tackle box and fishing gear, but never any fish. I decided fishing would be a conversation starter and I was determined to make friends with him. I was sitting out front in a lawn chair when he got home the following Sunday evening. “Been fishing, Carl?” “Hi Jessie. Yep, been fishing.” He tried to walk past me but I pressed him.  “I used to love to go fishing but I haven’t been in years. You go often?” Carl stopped. He seemed torn between heading into the building for the relative safety of his lair and honoring some faint memory of social norms that he’d learned in a life that ended in Southeast Asia. “Yeah, I go every week. It’s what keeps me alive.” I don’t know why but I said, “I’m glad you’re alive.” He stared at me with those dull hazel eyes for a moment then escaped inside the building. After that awkward conversation, Carl allowed me to get to know him a little better. In some ways it was like gaining a wild animal’s trust. Our dicey relationship couldn’t be rushed – if I pushed too hard, Carl would avoid me for several weeks. Eventually, he taught me his limits and I tried to respect them. One time I invited him to my apartment for some spaghetti. “I don’t eat food.” “You don’t eat food? What do you mean?” “I don’t eat food. I take vitamins instead. I get everything I need to stay alive with the vitamins. I drink a half gallon of vodka, about a case of beer, and a fistful of vitamins. Keeps me going.”  Though I offered him every meal I knew how to cook, he never took me up on any of them and insisted he only took vitamins.  We met at the mailbox one afternoon and he invited me to visit with him in his apartment. Naturally curious, I agreed. The structure of his apartment was a carbon copy of my own. There, the similarity ended. A floor-to-ceiling bookcase packed with leather-bound volumes stood guard on one side the gas fireplace. On the other side was a large palm thriving in a brilliant red Chinese pot. A pair of forest green wingback chairs and a matching sofa with Queen Anne legs filled most of the remainder of the room. A magnificent ten-point buck’s head towered above the fireplace, keeping watch over the room.  “Wow, that was a big buck.” Carl looked out the window at something I couldn’t see. “Yeah, I got that years ago, hunting with my dad. I don’t hunt any more.” He invited me to sit and asked me the last question I ever expected from him -- if I’d like some tea.  “No, thank you, I don’t drink tea.” “Me either but my parents stop by sometimes. I keep it for them. Do you mind if I have a beer? I don’t want to be rude.” I assured him I didn’t think he was rude. He walked to the kitchen and returned with two beers. Before I could politely decline, he grinned wryly and said, “Can’t let the first soldier get lonely.” As we got to know each other, I learned that his father was the real estate agent who managed our apartment building. After some small talk and getting acquainted, I asked him about his time in Vietnam. He started with random memories of sights and smells, new experiences. He reminisced about mosquitoes, the relentless heat and humidity. He kept going to the kitchen for fresh beers, and eventually came back with a twelve pack that he finished by the time I left.  He said they had a Vietnamese cook who’d serve their rice with a shot of seasoning called nuck malm. “Nuck malm is fermented herring sauce. It’s real salty and it tastes great but it smelled worse than anything else in Vietnam, and that’s saying something. The way they make Nuck Malm is they layer salt and herrings until it fills a silo. Then they leave it in the sun until black juice drips out the bottom. They collect the juice and bottle it, and that’s nuck malm. They say that buzzards that flew over the factory where they made it would drop dead from the smell.” I found out Carl had been at Khe Sahn in April of 1967. His unit was decimated in a heavy fog-laden battle. They’d gotten pinned down and took heavy casualties.  He said the Vietcong had U-shaped bunkers. They started throwing grenades and heavy small arms fire at the Marines. They’d pop up out of the bunker, throw a grenade, and duck back down. Carl said while his men concentrated on the one bunker where the grenade originated from that another gook would pop up behind them and throw another grenade.  “I’ll bet you were scared to death.” “We were terrified. Hell, every one of us pissed in our pants but it was raining so hard you couldn’t tell it.” He spoke of carrying the dead and wounded on stretchers as the rain beat down so hard they couldn’t see, of slipping and sliding in the slimy duck pond-smelling mud, struggling up hills with the stretchers as the dead or injured rolled off and down the inclines. He spoke quietly and for the most part without emotion, as if he were describing an ungodly film that endlessly played in his head and he knew every frame of it by heart -- about retrieving his friends’ bodies, about thirsting and having no water because it had all been given to the wounded, of being nineteen and so far from home, of feeling hopeless.  He spoke of but did not describe horrific injuries except to say that at one point he’d asked his buddy Steve, who was holding up the other end of the stretcher they bore, a question. When he received no answer he looked back over his shoulder to see Steve frozen, suspended for a moment in a ghastly standing stance, just before he toppled over, his head blown away. His spoke of flash burns, of being pinned down, caught in a murderous crossfire, with mortar rounds falling all around he and his men. The VC had a machine gun – at the time Carl’s unit didn’t know what caliber it was, but it was a pretty heavy. It chewed up trees, anything that was in front of them. The helicopters tried to land numerous times but were driven back by a barrage of gunfire. Eventually support arrived and they were evacuated. He went to a field hospital first, then to the Naval hospital in De Nang.  “Were you injured?” “Yeah. It would’ve been better had I died.”  I never asked about his injuries, and he never told me what they were. Carl told me about killing people, “gooks” he called then.  “When we came across a village, it was us or the gooks. You didn’t know if they were VC or not; you just had to kill them – all of them.” “Even the women?” “All of them.” “God, that must’ve been so hard for you to do.” He didn’t say anything then, just sucked down the rest of his beer. I waited for a few moments to see if he’d speak again. He didn’t. “Carl, I’m so sorry you had to go through all that.” He continued to stare, watching that movie from hell. I doubted it would ever end – just keep playing in an endless loop of carnage and pain. “Carl?” He blinked several times then sighed twice, big, deep staccato sighs. Then he looked at me. There was no expression on his face. We sat for an awkward time, Carl facing me with those haunted, unseeing eyes and me not knowing what to say or do.  I thought it best if I just left. Any words I could say would be like a band-aid on a sucking chest wound. I knew he had bared his soul to me and, due to my immaturity -- or it’s possible that no one could be mature enough to adequately respond -- I felt humbled and ashamed.  “Thank you for sharing your experiences with me. I’m gonna head up the stairs. Is there anything I can do?” It sounded so lame but it was all I could think to say. “No, I’m good.” It was dusk by the time I left. * * * After that afternoon whenever I’d arrive home, he’d open the door a crack, stick his head out and shyly ask if I had time for a visit. I made sure I had the time. Once he invited me to go fishing with him. I knew it was a huge step on his part, going out on a limb so to speak and risking rejection. I didn’t relish being holed up in the woods for two days with a man who on occasion ran into the parking lot with a rifle screaming “They’re coming through the wire!” I didn’t believe Carl would harm me, but I didn’t feel safe alone with him for two days out in the woods. But how could I shut him off after he’d opened up to me? I told him I’d go. I agonized all week long. At night I’d awaken, damp with perspiration, from dreams where something happened and Carl snapped while we were camping. I discussed the pending trip with my friends who all thought I’d lost my mind to even consider going away with this time bomb of a man I’d told them about.  On Thursday, I met Carl at the mailbox.  “Wanna come inside and talk?” he asked. “Sure.” I felt like I was breaking up with him when I told him I couldn’t go. “Carl, I’m sorry, but I don’t think it’s a good idea for me to go away with you this weekend. Can we keep our friendship on this level? I like you a lot, but I just don’t feel good about the trip.” He studied his moccasins as if he’d been expecting this very conversation. After a minute, Carl sighed and said, “You’re probably right.” He shrank in the chair and suddenly looked twenty years older. “Hey, how about you coming up to my place and I’ll show you my fish tank?” I’d never asked him into my apartment before, but I’d been telling him how excited I was to get an aquarium. Carl followed me up the stairs. I had a moment of panic – I don’t know why – as we reached my landing. I felt trapped and afraid. My hand trembled as I unlocked the door. He’d never been inside my apartment before.  Once inside, I pointed to the aquarium.  “Be right back. You enjoy the fish.” I excused myself and went to the bathroom to try and settle my nerves. Carl didn’t notice me when I returned. He was squatted in front of the tank with his back toward me. I saw his face reflected in the aquarium glass. Instead of the weather-beaten hurting unit of a man I’d come to know, I saw the reflection of a bright-eyed young boy with an unselfconscious grin on his face.  I stood silently, loathe to intrude. It was as if Carl’s soul had somehow slipped out of its painful prison. Before long, Carl’s demon jailor would discover the escape and reclaim his soul, but for a few minutes Carl Fleshman tasted freedom.