Written on September 11, 2009, and originally posted to my Facebook profile.
It was a mid-September morning and the sun was shining brightly as I left my apartment for the short drive to the train station. I could tell it was going to be a warm day, but it was still getting there. It was one of those late summer days I dearly wished I could spend outside hiking in the mountains instead of behind my desk at work. The day was starting out just like any other Tuesday, and I was already looking forward to the weekend.
I settled into my usual seat on the train for the forty minute train ride to Boston where I worked, took out a book, and immersed myself in the latest Clive Cussler adventure with his titular heroes Dirk Pitt and Al Giordino--escapism at its best. When we pulled into North Station in Boston, I joined the seething throng of commuters from several other trains, heading to the tunnels for the subway rides that would take us to our final destinations. That morning, none of us were aware of events that were, at that very moment, unfolding within our own city just a couple of miles away--events that would culminate in a singular series of catastrophes that would forever change the world as we knew it. For now, my fellow commuters and I were just looking forward to another Tuesday at the office.
At about the very moment I was crowding myself into a car on the Orange Line, Mohamed Atta was settling into his seat on American Airlines Flight 11 from Boston to Los Angeles, along with four other acquaintances. He and one of his partners had rushed through security at Boston airport having just arrived on a commuter flight that morning from Portland, Maine to make the flight to Los Angeles. They had an appointment to keep, and they could not be late.
As I arrived at the office at around 8:00 am, I chatted up the electricians down the hall who were completing final touches on some re-modeling that was being done in the building. At 8:15 am, I settled in at my desk and began my morning ritual of checking and responding to e-mail and lining up recording studio schedules. It was shaping up to be just another day at the office. Morning rituals completed, I surfed the news sites quickly to see what was going on in the world. Nothing much happening in the world, so far. Then my thought drifted towards the projects I wanted to complete that day, and I began to work through some paperwork at my desk.
At 7:59 am, American Airlines Flight 11 departed Boston Logan International Airport for Los Angeles, California after a delay of 14 minutes. The flight carried 81 passengers and 11 crew members. Among those passengers were the five men who had no intention whatsoever of visiting Los Angeles. At 8:14 am, according to 9/11 Commission estimates, somewhere over Central Massachusetts, Flight 11 was hijacked. It stopped responding to Boston Air Traffic Control, and turned abruptly south.
About half an hour later, probably around 8:45 am, I wandered down the hall to a storage room where we kept a jumble of production supplies and music CDs we used in our production work. I had decided to take it upon myself to organize this jumbled mess once and for all. Just another mundane task I had made for myself to occupy an uneventful day; time to get it done.
At 8:46 am, Mohamed Atta and his compatriots crashed Flight 11 into the North Tower (Tower 1) of the World Trade Center in New York City. The plane impacted the tower at a speed of 466 MPH between the 93rd and 99th floors. The impact stranded over 1,000 people in the floors above--dooming them to a slow and terrifying death, and instantly killed the 92 people on board the plane.
At the office, I set about my work on the CD library and storage room. Shortly after I settled in on my task, one of the electricians I had talked to earlier, who was working in an adjacent room, came up to me and asked if I'd heard something about a plane hitting one of the World Trade Towers in New York. I said that I thought he had to be kidding me, but he said that one of the other guys he was working with called him on the phone and told him about it. He didn't seem to know much more. I thought it must have been a hoax or some sort of weird accident. I remembered stories of small planes hitting buildings in Manhattan by accident in the past. I figured that's what it had to be--an accident. At that point, neither of us were worried; we were just curious to see if this strange rumor was true or not.
I went down the hall to my office and punched in "cnn.com" on my computer. No response from the website. I tried a couple of other news sites. No response. Now, I knew something was up. I went to another office down the hall and turned on the TV. Greeting me on CNN was the unmistakable image of smoke billowing out of the North Tower of the World Trade Center. Others who were working on our floor streamed in to watch. It was true, an airplane had crashed into the tower, but at that point we all concluded that it must have been an accident. Human nature did not let us believe it could be something else. Until that is, as we watched on the live feed, a second plane--United Airlines Flight 175, which had also departed from Boston, hit the South Tower at 9:03 am. This was now no accident. This was an unbelievably deliberate attack. And, it was not over yet.
We watched in horrified amazement as first the South Tower collapsed at 9:59 am, followed a half hour later by the North Tower at 10:28 am. We watched the aftermath of the crash of American Airlines Flight 77 into the Pentagon, followed by the crash of United Airlines Flight 93 into a field in rural Pennsylvania. Later investigations determined that Flight 93 was likely destined for either the U.S. Capitol Building or the White House; but passengers and crew, knowing what had happened already in New York bravely overpowered the hijackers. The news feeds also told of orders to shoot down any airliners over U.S. airspace. Before our very eyes, two seemingly unmovable icons disappeared into rubble, and the world as we knew it was changed forever.
We all were stunned; we couldn't believe what was happening. I felt as if I was living a surreal dream, and I was sure I would wake up soon and it would all be just that--a dream. Our manager released us to go home early so we could be in the comfort of our homes and with our families and begin to process what we had witnessed that morning. I went to my desk and called my parents to assure them that I was OK, and we talked and comforted each other over the 3,000 mile distance that separated me from their home in British Columbia.
Under the warmth of the mid-afternoon sun, I walked across the wide plaza near where I worked towards the subway station. Others were out there, all with the same dazed look on their faces as I knew I had. At that moment, we all shared the same emotions: shock, disbelief, anger, and deep sorrow. Within each of us, it all combined into a mix of emotion that none of us felt fully equipped to deal with. The day had started out as just another Tuesday, but now it was ending up quite differently.
Everywhere, as I walked through the mall and into the subway station, people wore their emotions close to the surface. There was an eerie silence, where normally there would have been a loud cacophony of voices. Few said anything. Mainly, it was just the sound of shuffling feet and muffled voices that met my ears everywhere I went. Sometimes I exchanged glances with strangers, and in those moments we did not have to say anything. We each knew how the other felt; we shared the emotion together in silence. It was an odd, somewhat morbid bond that seemed to be the only comfort any of us could find at that moment. We had all witnessed a carnage unparalleled in our experience, and we realized that this was to be defining day not only for each of us; but for the nation, and for the world. On that September day, we each shared an emotional bond, and a need to make sense of it all. Most of all, we just hoped we would make it safely home.
While I do not personally know anyone who lost their lives on September 11, 2001, some of my co-workers and friends did. Radio technicians who were working on the top of one of the towers at the time of the attacks were acquaintances of one of the technicians in my department.
September 11th and the days following are a time that is indelibly imprinted on my memory, even as the time grows more distant. Boston became a city on edge in the following days. I vividly recall the time a day or so after the attacks when I was out on the plaza during my lunch hour. I heard sirens screaming from all directions and literally dozens of police cars and motorcycles sped down Huntington Avenue. The police were setting up a perimeter around a nearby hotel suspected of having lodged one or more of the hijackers. There was also the eerie absence of aircraft and their accompanying noise from the skies above. And, there was still that raw, shared emotion of shock and sadness that I continued to share, often just with a glance, with my fellow Bostonians.
This the story of my experience on September 11, 2001 as I remember it. The references to the time line of Flight 11, and references to other flights and 9/11 Commission findings come from Wikipedia. As I finish writing this, I hear sirens outside. For a moment, I wonder what is happening. Eight years later, September 11th still brings up emotions that, while becoming more distant, never quite disappear. Nearly 3,000 women, men, sons, daughters, brothers, sisters, mothers, fathers, wives, and husbands from more than 90 countries departed this world on that day in an act of senseless violence perpetrated by heartless religious zealots in the name of what they called Allah or God. I have heard that some preliminary identifications of who was lost in the attacks in New York City were made by the discovery of their unclaimed cars in commuter rail and park and ride parking lots throughout the Metro New York area.
May they never be forgotten.
Wednesday, December 16, 2009
Life and Fishing
Written on November 28, 2009 and originally posted to my Facebook profile.
The mornings started early. By early, I mean before 6:00 am, which is early on a Saturday when you're a school kid and Saturday is your day to "goof off". We'd load up our day's provisions and fishing rods into the car and set out from home for a destination, while only about a two or three hour drive away, was in a universe entirely different from my childhood home in the suburbs of Vancouver, British Columbia.
I don't remember how old I was when Dad and I took our first fishing trip to Cheakamus Lake, a jewel of a lake enmeshed in the Coast Mountains in Garabaldi Provincial Park near Whistler, British Columbia. I think I was probably around seven or eight years of age at the most. I always looked forward to these trips with the greatest anticipation.
While fishing seemed, on the surface, to be the main purpose of these trips, as I look back on them, I realize now that they were much more than just a quest for something different to eat. I recall many a trip where we returned with no fish, but still satisfied with the day's efforts. No, these trips were as much about the journey there and back, and the time spent in the wilderness, learning to love and appreciate the beauty of nature, as they were about any quest for fish. These were times that I spent alone with Dad. The long drive north on Highway 99 was a time when I'd hear stories about his youth and the times he spent with his father on the farm they lived on in Alberta. Other times, it was a cultural lesson about the Middle East, where Dad worked for a brief time. Mostly, I just remember the time we spent together. It was special. And yes, I learned a thing or two along the way.
At the end of the drive, we had a two mile hike to the lake, which for a scrawny little pint-size such as myself was often daunting. Gamely, I would push through, and Dad would patiently wait for me. Sometimes he would humor me and let me walk a little bit ahead of him, just so I'd think I was able to hike faster than he could.
I remember years later, sometime when I was in my 20's, and Dad was reminiscing about these trips at a family gathering, he talked of another fishing spot we stopped at on the way to Cheakamus. Getting to this spot required a descent along a steep scree slope. He talked of how I just fearlessly clambered down the rocks as if I was just running around in the backyard. As I remember that particular trip, I remember that I always knew that if Dad was there, nothing could hurt me. He was always there with a hand if I needed it, but like him, I was often stubbornly independent and usually resisted help until faced with a rock that was much bigger than my childish ego. Although I didn't know it at the time, when I was clambering down those rocks, Dad was feeling quite afraid for my safety. Such was my innocence that I thought Dad had the magic ability to protect me simply by being there.
I don't know when or why we stopped with these trips. It was probably around the time I was approaching my teen years; a time when fishing with Dad was no longer "cool". Perhaps it was because Dad was working in another city, and the time for these trips just wasn't available anymore. Whatever the reason, they just faded out of our routine altogether. But, the memories and lessons learned never did.
Besides learning how to tie a lure onto the end of a line, and how to properly cast, there were bigger lessons that I learned on those trips that I have only realized later in life. For instance, I learned that patience brings the best reward, which on a fishing trip is fresh trout for breakfast. I also learned that it is called "fishing" for a reason: if it were all about just catching fish, it would be called "catching"--it's about the experience more than it ever is about actually catching anything. Such as it is when you're fishing, I have come to realize in life it is often the journey that is more important than the actual destination. I also learned that there are beautiful places in this world that are worth preserving so that other fathers may take their sons and daughters there and teach them valuable lessons about life...and fishing.
The mornings started early. By early, I mean before 6:00 am, which is early on a Saturday when you're a school kid and Saturday is your day to "goof off". We'd load up our day's provisions and fishing rods into the car and set out from home for a destination, while only about a two or three hour drive away, was in a universe entirely different from my childhood home in the suburbs of Vancouver, British Columbia.
I don't remember how old I was when Dad and I took our first fishing trip to Cheakamus Lake, a jewel of a lake enmeshed in the Coast Mountains in Garabaldi Provincial Park near Whistler, British Columbia. I think I was probably around seven or eight years of age at the most. I always looked forward to these trips with the greatest anticipation.
While fishing seemed, on the surface, to be the main purpose of these trips, as I look back on them, I realize now that they were much more than just a quest for something different to eat. I recall many a trip where we returned with no fish, but still satisfied with the day's efforts. No, these trips were as much about the journey there and back, and the time spent in the wilderness, learning to love and appreciate the beauty of nature, as they were about any quest for fish. These were times that I spent alone with Dad. The long drive north on Highway 99 was a time when I'd hear stories about his youth and the times he spent with his father on the farm they lived on in Alberta. Other times, it was a cultural lesson about the Middle East, where Dad worked for a brief time. Mostly, I just remember the time we spent together. It was special. And yes, I learned a thing or two along the way.
At the end of the drive, we had a two mile hike to the lake, which for a scrawny little pint-size such as myself was often daunting. Gamely, I would push through, and Dad would patiently wait for me. Sometimes he would humor me and let me walk a little bit ahead of him, just so I'd think I was able to hike faster than he could.
I remember years later, sometime when I was in my 20's, and Dad was reminiscing about these trips at a family gathering, he talked of another fishing spot we stopped at on the way to Cheakamus. Getting to this spot required a descent along a steep scree slope. He talked of how I just fearlessly clambered down the rocks as if I was just running around in the backyard. As I remember that particular trip, I remember that I always knew that if Dad was there, nothing could hurt me. He was always there with a hand if I needed it, but like him, I was often stubbornly independent and usually resisted help until faced with a rock that was much bigger than my childish ego. Although I didn't know it at the time, when I was clambering down those rocks, Dad was feeling quite afraid for my safety. Such was my innocence that I thought Dad had the magic ability to protect me simply by being there.
I don't know when or why we stopped with these trips. It was probably around the time I was approaching my teen years; a time when fishing with Dad was no longer "cool". Perhaps it was because Dad was working in another city, and the time for these trips just wasn't available anymore. Whatever the reason, they just faded out of our routine altogether. But, the memories and lessons learned never did.
Besides learning how to tie a lure onto the end of a line, and how to properly cast, there were bigger lessons that I learned on those trips that I have only realized later in life. For instance, I learned that patience brings the best reward, which on a fishing trip is fresh trout for breakfast. I also learned that it is called "fishing" for a reason: if it were all about just catching fish, it would be called "catching"--it's about the experience more than it ever is about actually catching anything. Such as it is when you're fishing, I have come to realize in life it is often the journey that is more important than the actual destination. I also learned that there are beautiful places in this world that are worth preserving so that other fathers may take their sons and daughters there and teach them valuable lessons about life...and fishing.
Silent Conversation
Written on November 17, 2009 and originally posted to my Facebook profile.
We walked along the Esplanade
As the sun set over the cityscape.
The wind, it blew cold;
But the warmth in our hearts,
Kept the chill away.
The silence we shared,
Was never awkward.
We said much,
Without ever saying a word;
Our shared moment said it all.
I will always cherish--
Our silent conversations.
We walked along the Esplanade
As the sun set over the cityscape.
The wind, it blew cold;
But the warmth in our hearts,
Kept the chill away.
The silence we shared,
Was never awkward.
We said much,
Without ever saying a word;
Our shared moment said it all.
I will always cherish--
Our silent conversations.
The Invisible Man
Written on September 25, 2009 and originally posted to my Facebook profile.
The Audis, Jaguars, BMWs, and other manner of meticulously polished vehicles plied their way up and down the tony shopping street. Along the red brick sidewalk, the Beautiful People dressed in the latest designer wares walked through the dappled sunshine, hoping to be caught in the best light. Some were shopping. Most, however, were there just to be there, and to be seen. Their social status, or in most cases social ambitions, demanded it.
A man dressed in a silk suit rushed down the sidewalk, phone attached to his ear, no doubt putting the finishing touches on yet another "deal of the century". At the last minute, he swerved to avoid tripping over an obstacle he almost did not see. It was an obstacle most of the Beautiful People did not, or chose not to notice.
Invisible Man sat at his corner like poor Lazarus at the gate of the rich man's house. He was also there to be seen. His motivation, however, was entirely different from that of the Beautiful People. Unlike the Beautiful People who wanted to be seen, Invisible Man needed to be seen.
Sitting at his corner, Invisible Man hoped that just a few crumbs might fall from the Beautiful People's table, that he may eat. If he was not noticed by the Beautiful People, a chilly evening sorting through the dumpsters behind the restaurants for the few scraps that did fall from the tables was in store.
Nobody knew, or for that matter even cared who Invisible Man was or how he even got to be where he was. Perhaps he was an addict, or he had some psychological problems. Maybe he just didn't know any better. Or maybe, just maybe, he had once been one of them--a Beautiful Person. Whatever his story, Invisible Man was a reality the Beautiful People sought to avoid.
I watched as the Beautiful People walked past Invisible Man without even as much as a momentary glance. To them, he blended into the streetscape like a brick in the sidewalk. Could I help Invisible Man? Should I give him money? These thoughts raced across my mind. A lifetime spent living in the city had conditioned me to normally look past all of the invisible people that populate the streets. Why, all of a sudden, did Invisible Man stand out to me? I think it was because Invisible Man demanded my attention.
He made me look into my own soul, and hold the mirror up to myself and consider what I saw. Was I just another person walking along Newbury Street on a sunny Friday afternoon, or was I someone who would see the Invisible Man and the need he represents? Today, I was reminded that I have a choice to make. I have much in my life for which I can be grateful. I can either share what I can of what I have, or I can hoard it as did the rich man.
I did not put money in Invisible Man's cup. I knew that would really not do him any good. Money alone will do nothing to solve Invisible Man's problems, and will likely make them worse. What I can do, is put money in the cup of a local organization that helps many of the invisible people of Boston. A co-worker of mine also told me that they also need help serving meals. Sounds like a good way to spend an evening or two. Perhaps some of the other Beautiful People will too.
The Audis, Jaguars, BMWs, and other manner of meticulously polished vehicles plied their way up and down the tony shopping street. Along the red brick sidewalk, the Beautiful People dressed in the latest designer wares walked through the dappled sunshine, hoping to be caught in the best light. Some were shopping. Most, however, were there just to be there, and to be seen. Their social status, or in most cases social ambitions, demanded it.
A man dressed in a silk suit rushed down the sidewalk, phone attached to his ear, no doubt putting the finishing touches on yet another "deal of the century". At the last minute, he swerved to avoid tripping over an obstacle he almost did not see. It was an obstacle most of the Beautiful People did not, or chose not to notice.
Invisible Man sat at his corner like poor Lazarus at the gate of the rich man's house. He was also there to be seen. His motivation, however, was entirely different from that of the Beautiful People. Unlike the Beautiful People who wanted to be seen, Invisible Man needed to be seen.
Sitting at his corner, Invisible Man hoped that just a few crumbs might fall from the Beautiful People's table, that he may eat. If he was not noticed by the Beautiful People, a chilly evening sorting through the dumpsters behind the restaurants for the few scraps that did fall from the tables was in store.
Nobody knew, or for that matter even cared who Invisible Man was or how he even got to be where he was. Perhaps he was an addict, or he had some psychological problems. Maybe he just didn't know any better. Or maybe, just maybe, he had once been one of them--a Beautiful Person. Whatever his story, Invisible Man was a reality the Beautiful People sought to avoid.
I watched as the Beautiful People walked past Invisible Man without even as much as a momentary glance. To them, he blended into the streetscape like a brick in the sidewalk. Could I help Invisible Man? Should I give him money? These thoughts raced across my mind. A lifetime spent living in the city had conditioned me to normally look past all of the invisible people that populate the streets. Why, all of a sudden, did Invisible Man stand out to me? I think it was because Invisible Man demanded my attention.
He made me look into my own soul, and hold the mirror up to myself and consider what I saw. Was I just another person walking along Newbury Street on a sunny Friday afternoon, or was I someone who would see the Invisible Man and the need he represents? Today, I was reminded that I have a choice to make. I have much in my life for which I can be grateful. I can either share what I can of what I have, or I can hoard it as did the rich man.
I did not put money in Invisible Man's cup. I knew that would really not do him any good. Money alone will do nothing to solve Invisible Man's problems, and will likely make them worse. What I can do, is put money in the cup of a local organization that helps many of the invisible people of Boston. A co-worker of mine also told me that they also need help serving meals. Sounds like a good way to spend an evening or two. Perhaps some of the other Beautiful People will too.
Berkshire Therapy (Handwritten on September 6, 2009--transcribed to computer on September 8, 2009)
Written on September 6, 2009 and originally posted to my Facebook profile.
This has been what I call my "Henry David Thoreau" weekend. A sudden change in my original plans for Labor Day weekend has caused me to end up with a long weekend completely to myself. Not wanting to waste moments, I've been on a bit of a voyage of self-discovery of sorts in the Berkshires of Western Massachusetts--as good a place as any to get away, experience some breathtaking beauty, and also to reflect and re-assess life.
I've been doing much of this from the saddle of my mountain bike and hiking up various of the "mountains" around here (as I grew up out West, beautiful as they are, these are hills to me). It's been a weekend devoid of obligations, schedules, and technology (no phone, no computer). In fact, I'm writing this the "old fashioned" way--longhand, by lantern-light, as I enjoy the crackle of my last night in the Berkshires campfire.
A lot has been on my mind lately, and much of what seems to get to me boils down to an old lesson I have been "taught" again and again: from a human, material standpoint, one is never really satisfied. What I mean by this is that no matter how much material "stuff" you have, you always want more. This is what fuels greed; and greed is what has gotten us all into the recession we're currently in, after all.
For example, on the surface, it would seem that I have a reasonably good life. I am soon to be starting a new job that was virtually designed with me and my skills and aspirations in mind. I have a fairly nice car, and a relatively decent place to live. I live in a beautiful and interesting part of the world too. At a moment's notice, I can be on my way for a day trip to New York City, a weekend in Washington, DC, or a long weekend by the lake in Maine. But, I often seem to find myself lamenting over things I don't have, or ruminating over the things that could be better in my life. I think about how, at 42 years of age, I haven't managed to "settle down" with that someone special; or how I haven't been to Africa, Australia, or continental Europe yet. Many is the time I've seen guys about my age hanging out with their kids and wondered what it must be like, what a joy it must be to be a father.
Well, it's time to quit dwelling on the "have not" and focus on being more appreciative of the incredible good I DO have in my life. To paraphrase an author I respect greatly, "when we are grateful for the good already received, we will be fitted to receive more..." (Mary Baker Eddy).
I have seen a lot of amazing beauty and scenery this weekend, and had the chance to meet and talk to some really interesting people--some locals, and some tourists such as myself. I've also pushed myself physically harder on some challenging rides than I have since I was in my 20's, and I feel great! Not sore as one might expect (a bit tired, maybe), but just great!
Age is just a human measurement by which we limit ourselves. It's time to live an unlimited life!
[Footnote added on September 8th]--This is pretty much as I wrote it in a notebook at my campsite a few days ago. All I really did was clean up some punctuation and grammar here and there, so it would "sound" better. The quote I paraphrased is stated as I remembered it that night. The actual quote goes like this: "Are we really grateful for the good already received? Then we shall avail ourselves of the blessings we have, and thus be fitted to receive more." (Science and Health with Key to the Scriptures by Mary Baker Eddy, p. 3)
This has been what I call my "Henry David Thoreau" weekend. A sudden change in my original plans for Labor Day weekend has caused me to end up with a long weekend completely to myself. Not wanting to waste moments, I've been on a bit of a voyage of self-discovery of sorts in the Berkshires of Western Massachusetts--as good a place as any to get away, experience some breathtaking beauty, and also to reflect and re-assess life.
I've been doing much of this from the saddle of my mountain bike and hiking up various of the "mountains" around here (as I grew up out West, beautiful as they are, these are hills to me). It's been a weekend devoid of obligations, schedules, and technology (no phone, no computer). In fact, I'm writing this the "old fashioned" way--longhand, by lantern-light, as I enjoy the crackle of my last night in the Berkshires campfire.
A lot has been on my mind lately, and much of what seems to get to me boils down to an old lesson I have been "taught" again and again: from a human, material standpoint, one is never really satisfied. What I mean by this is that no matter how much material "stuff" you have, you always want more. This is what fuels greed; and greed is what has gotten us all into the recession we're currently in, after all.
For example, on the surface, it would seem that I have a reasonably good life. I am soon to be starting a new job that was virtually designed with me and my skills and aspirations in mind. I have a fairly nice car, and a relatively decent place to live. I live in a beautiful and interesting part of the world too. At a moment's notice, I can be on my way for a day trip to New York City, a weekend in Washington, DC, or a long weekend by the lake in Maine. But, I often seem to find myself lamenting over things I don't have, or ruminating over the things that could be better in my life. I think about how, at 42 years of age, I haven't managed to "settle down" with that someone special; or how I haven't been to Africa, Australia, or continental Europe yet. Many is the time I've seen guys about my age hanging out with their kids and wondered what it must be like, what a joy it must be to be a father.
Well, it's time to quit dwelling on the "have not" and focus on being more appreciative of the incredible good I DO have in my life. To paraphrase an author I respect greatly, "when we are grateful for the good already received, we will be fitted to receive more..." (Mary Baker Eddy).
I have seen a lot of amazing beauty and scenery this weekend, and had the chance to meet and talk to some really interesting people--some locals, and some tourists such as myself. I've also pushed myself physically harder on some challenging rides than I have since I was in my 20's, and I feel great! Not sore as one might expect (a bit tired, maybe), but just great!
Age is just a human measurement by which we limit ourselves. It's time to live an unlimited life!
[Footnote added on September 8th]--This is pretty much as I wrote it in a notebook at my campsite a few days ago. All I really did was clean up some punctuation and grammar here and there, so it would "sound" better. The quote I paraphrased is stated as I remembered it that night. The actual quote goes like this: "Are we really grateful for the good already received? Then we shall avail ourselves of the blessings we have, and thus be fitted to receive more." (Science and Health with Key to the Scriptures by Mary Baker Eddy, p. 3)
Tuesday, December 15, 2009
Innocence
Written on May 25, 2009 and originally posted to my Facebook profile.
Today, I was at the laundromat for my weekly ritual of cleansing the clothes I wear. Now, that is not momentous in and of itself, everyone has to do laundry; it is my recent interactions with some of the people at the laundromat that have caused me to think about the idea of innocence and how in today's world, that is something that seems to be lost.
In addition to the usual assortment of single professionals such as myself that I see in the laundromat, I often see families there, and at times my heart goes out to these dear people. While as a single person living in an apartment as I have done for the greater part of my adult life, I take it for granted that a weekly trip to the laundromat is just part of the routine. However, I can only imagine what an extra burden it is to drag a family's load of laundry along with kids to a laundromat. When you're of limited means, such as these people are, you simply have to play the hand you're dealt, and do what you have to do.
This note is not, however, about that situation. It is about a small part of one of these families. I'll call her Anna, and I'd say she is probably around two or three years of age. She has dark curly hair and probably comes up a head taller than my knee. I was sitting outside on the stoop reading a magazine and enjoying the warmth of the day while waiting for my clothes to finish their rounds in the dryer when little Anna boldly came up to me, sat down beside me, and pointed to a car and in her just learning to talk way, tried to say "car". It sounded more like "bahh". We spent a few minutes out there learning that the other large things in the parking lot were also "bahhs".
Moments later, her father came out, and in a flurry of Spanish that was spoken too fast for me to fully understand, hurried her back inside where he could keep an eye on her. Later inside, when I was folding my clothes, she still would approach me, wanting to talk. Moments later, her father would apologetically hurry her away.
I did not mind her interruptions. She was such a happy, outgoing child; one of those who could brighten the darkest place just with her happiness and pure innocence. She added color to the dullness of the laundromat. She seemed to be just having fun, right there where she was. I only wish I still had that ability.
As I finished up my chores, I began to find myself wishing that we could live in a world where children such as Anna could let the light of their innocence shine, without having to worry about dire consequences. I wished I did not feel the need to worry for her safety due to her willingness to approach and talk to strangers.
While I happily spent time on the stoop with her, helping her learn the names of the things around us; unfortunately there are others in this world who would take advantage of Anna's innocence in order to cause her harm for their own sick and demented purposes. I found myself worrying for Anna's sake, and hoping and praying that her outgoing nature would never lead her to harm. I felt it a sad testament on humanity that a little girl could ever come to harm just because she wanted to talk to someone.
We are all well taught from our youth to "never talk to strangers", and I am certain Anna will get that lecture when she gets home, but that is the first and unfortunately necessary seed of mistrust that is sown in young lives. It only grows from there, to where we mistrust many people for sometimes trivial reasons. Those whom we don't know, we don't trust; and those we don't trust, we also don't love. The loss of child-like innocence, I think, is at the root of many of the world's problems. We don't come into this world hating people who are a different color or faith from us; we learn it.
We live in a world that needs our prayers. This world should be a place where Anna and others like her can live and play without fear or concern; where the only thing a stranger will do is point out that the big thing with four wheels in the parking lot is called a "car".
Today, I was at the laundromat for my weekly ritual of cleansing the clothes I wear. Now, that is not momentous in and of itself, everyone has to do laundry; it is my recent interactions with some of the people at the laundromat that have caused me to think about the idea of innocence and how in today's world, that is something that seems to be lost.
In addition to the usual assortment of single professionals such as myself that I see in the laundromat, I often see families there, and at times my heart goes out to these dear people. While as a single person living in an apartment as I have done for the greater part of my adult life, I take it for granted that a weekly trip to the laundromat is just part of the routine. However, I can only imagine what an extra burden it is to drag a family's load of laundry along with kids to a laundromat. When you're of limited means, such as these people are, you simply have to play the hand you're dealt, and do what you have to do.
This note is not, however, about that situation. It is about a small part of one of these families. I'll call her Anna, and I'd say she is probably around two or three years of age. She has dark curly hair and probably comes up a head taller than my knee. I was sitting outside on the stoop reading a magazine and enjoying the warmth of the day while waiting for my clothes to finish their rounds in the dryer when little Anna boldly came up to me, sat down beside me, and pointed to a car and in her just learning to talk way, tried to say "car". It sounded more like "bahh". We spent a few minutes out there learning that the other large things in the parking lot were also "bahhs".
Moments later, her father came out, and in a flurry of Spanish that was spoken too fast for me to fully understand, hurried her back inside where he could keep an eye on her. Later inside, when I was folding my clothes, she still would approach me, wanting to talk. Moments later, her father would apologetically hurry her away.
I did not mind her interruptions. She was such a happy, outgoing child; one of those who could brighten the darkest place just with her happiness and pure innocence. She added color to the dullness of the laundromat. She seemed to be just having fun, right there where she was. I only wish I still had that ability.
As I finished up my chores, I began to find myself wishing that we could live in a world where children such as Anna could let the light of their innocence shine, without having to worry about dire consequences. I wished I did not feel the need to worry for her safety due to her willingness to approach and talk to strangers.
While I happily spent time on the stoop with her, helping her learn the names of the things around us; unfortunately there are others in this world who would take advantage of Anna's innocence in order to cause her harm for their own sick and demented purposes. I found myself worrying for Anna's sake, and hoping and praying that her outgoing nature would never lead her to harm. I felt it a sad testament on humanity that a little girl could ever come to harm just because she wanted to talk to someone.
We are all well taught from our youth to "never talk to strangers", and I am certain Anna will get that lecture when she gets home, but that is the first and unfortunately necessary seed of mistrust that is sown in young lives. It only grows from there, to where we mistrust many people for sometimes trivial reasons. Those whom we don't know, we don't trust; and those we don't trust, we also don't love. The loss of child-like innocence, I think, is at the root of many of the world's problems. We don't come into this world hating people who are a different color or faith from us; we learn it.
We live in a world that needs our prayers. This world should be a place where Anna and others like her can live and play without fear or concern; where the only thing a stranger will do is point out that the big thing with four wheels in the parking lot is called a "car".
Big Gratitude
Written on November 8, 2008 and originally posted to my Facebook profile.
I've been thinking about things I am grateful for, as the Thanksgiving holiday here in the United States approaches. While there are the usual personal things: a job that I enjoy, a roof over my head, and a nice car to drive, those things are really just trivial material things when I think about some of the bigger things that really mean so much more. Don't get me wrong; especially in these tough economic times, I am very grateful for those personal things I do have, but I want to take a moment here to think about some bigger things.
I want to express my gratitude for some very positive aspects of the country I have chosen to live in: the United States. I am also grateful to have grown up in another country that shares these same traits: Canada. Those of us who live here can and should be grateful for the freedoms we have, and the relative harmony in which we live.
As I've been watching the news lately, something profound has struck me. Here in the United States, there is now beginning a transfer of power from one administration of government to another. By all accounts, it has, and will continue to be, organized and peaceful, despite the differences in ideology between the outgoing and incoming administrations. There seems to be a genuine sense of respect, cooperation, and a desire to put the greater good of the country first. My gratitude for living in a country where this is the expected norm is immeasurable, considering that there are still too many other countries where such a transfer of power, if it even happens, is anything but peaceful. I am also glad that the roster of other countries where peaceful transfers of power have become somewhat normal has increased significantly in my lifetime.
Another thing I am impressed by, and grateful for, is the fact that people of many faiths can live and co-exist here in the United States in relative peace. While there is occasional racially, ethnically, or religiously motivated violence here, for the most part, everyone is left to be who they want to be and worship as they choose. This is in contrast to many countries where certain religious practices are mandated by law; or even some Western countries where churches are required to register their activities with government authorities, and in some of these same countries, their activities are restricted or even outlawed--even if those practices do not infringe on the safety or well-being of others.
For instance, in the town in which I live, there is an interfaith council that counts as its members Muslim, Jewish and Christian congregations. Until recently, I never realized how much I take this co-existence for granted, and while some might think that is a bad thing, I actually think it reflects well on our society that we are so accustomed to co-existing that many of us don't usually give it a second thought--because we do not have to. My thoughts on this were prompted by a conversation I had recently with a friend of mine who had been entertaining as guests a couple from a Western European country who commented on how harmoniously people of diverse faiths got along here in the United States, and how that circumstance was different from their experience in their own country.
Anyway, these are just a few 'macro' things I am grateful for.
I've been thinking about things I am grateful for, as the Thanksgiving holiday here in the United States approaches. While there are the usual personal things: a job that I enjoy, a roof over my head, and a nice car to drive, those things are really just trivial material things when I think about some of the bigger things that really mean so much more. Don't get me wrong; especially in these tough economic times, I am very grateful for those personal things I do have, but I want to take a moment here to think about some bigger things.
I want to express my gratitude for some very positive aspects of the country I have chosen to live in: the United States. I am also grateful to have grown up in another country that shares these same traits: Canada. Those of us who live here can and should be grateful for the freedoms we have, and the relative harmony in which we live.
As I've been watching the news lately, something profound has struck me. Here in the United States, there is now beginning a transfer of power from one administration of government to another. By all accounts, it has, and will continue to be, organized and peaceful, despite the differences in ideology between the outgoing and incoming administrations. There seems to be a genuine sense of respect, cooperation, and a desire to put the greater good of the country first. My gratitude for living in a country where this is the expected norm is immeasurable, considering that there are still too many other countries where such a transfer of power, if it even happens, is anything but peaceful. I am also glad that the roster of other countries where peaceful transfers of power have become somewhat normal has increased significantly in my lifetime.
Another thing I am impressed by, and grateful for, is the fact that people of many faiths can live and co-exist here in the United States in relative peace. While there is occasional racially, ethnically, or religiously motivated violence here, for the most part, everyone is left to be who they want to be and worship as they choose. This is in contrast to many countries where certain religious practices are mandated by law; or even some Western countries where churches are required to register their activities with government authorities, and in some of these same countries, their activities are restricted or even outlawed--even if those practices do not infringe on the safety or well-being of others.
For instance, in the town in which I live, there is an interfaith council that counts as its members Muslim, Jewish and Christian congregations. Until recently, I never realized how much I take this co-existence for granted, and while some might think that is a bad thing, I actually think it reflects well on our society that we are so accustomed to co-existing that many of us don't usually give it a second thought--because we do not have to. My thoughts on this were prompted by a conversation I had recently with a friend of mine who had been entertaining as guests a couple from a Western European country who commented on how harmoniously people of diverse faiths got along here in the United States, and how that circumstance was different from their experience in their own country.
Anyway, these are just a few 'macro' things I am grateful for.
Welcome to My Blog
If you're reading this, then you've found my blog (yes, I have a talent for stating the obvious). This is my place to share one of my favorite hobbies--writing. I write when inspiration strikes, and it is that inspiration which also directs my choice of topic. So, the topics will be all over the map. This is really an "anything goes" blog.
I might write about personal experiences one day, and a political issue the next. It's sort of like what Forrest Gump said, "life is like a box of chocolates, you never know what you're going to get." I hope you enjoy what you read here as much as I enjoy writing it. If you like something, please let me know. If you don't like something, let me know too, but PLEASE be civil.
My first several postings will be items I have written over the past year or so, and initially posted in my "Notes" section on Facebook. I'll note this at the end of each of those entries. At some point, I'll actually write some things that will be original to this blog.
Thanks for visiting!
~Jeremy
I might write about personal experiences one day, and a political issue the next. It's sort of like what Forrest Gump said, "life is like a box of chocolates, you never know what you're going to get." I hope you enjoy what you read here as much as I enjoy writing it. If you like something, please let me know. If you don't like something, let me know too, but PLEASE be civil.
My first several postings will be items I have written over the past year or so, and initially posted in my "Notes" section on Facebook. I'll note this at the end of each of those entries. At some point, I'll actually write some things that will be original to this blog.
Thanks for visiting!
~Jeremy
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)