Who Am I?

Who am I to think I can help people?

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I have lived a fairly sheltered life safely swaddled in my privileged middle class bubble. What I know of this complex world is derived innocently from books, movies, and secondhand stories. I don’t have life experiences that allow me to speak to the very real and significant struggles that many, if not most, people go through. 

I have been widely loved and supported throughout my life. People have encouraged, valued, and believed in me. I have been consistently lifted up, respected, and handed opportunities. The only person to ever doubt my worth or skills has been me. I am the only one who has ever kept me from anything.

In my life, I have always been afforded the luxury of choice. I could go anywhere or do anything. I have been able to choose to stay back or move on. I could be or do anything I wanted. My only real difficulties emerged from this overwhelming sense of obligation to select my own path.

Without completely invalidating my own difficulties in this world, I think it’s fair to say that I’ve been incredibly lucky. No external source has ever pushed me down, blocked my path, or made me feel defeated. I have never had to overcome a source seemingly more powerful than myself. Thus far I have avoided trauma, loss, and oppression. I have not experienced the crippling effects of poverty, or the fear and isolation that results from a lack of trust in those around me.

What do I know about any of that? How does that knowledge enable me to improve a lifestyle I don’t understand? Who am I to think I can help these people?

Questions (Part 1)

***The following is an excerpt from Raina's Story **** 

So this is what dying feels like, Raina thought.  It’s kind of peaceful.

It had all happened so quickly.  Instead of crashing into it, her mind made believe that the tree trunk had somehow opened by an invisible garage door-like apparatus.  Then she simply lost consciousness.  Her body felt increasingly lighter as a warm corporal sensation lifted her up.  The familiarity of it was comforting, and somehow reminiscent of fading memories of her father. Through her eyelids, she absorbed the light shining down from the heavens.  She felt her body rising slowly between those paternal arms.  In no time at all, she was placed gently on a bed of clouds.  In the distance, she could hear birds chirping the most beautiful song.  The sun set in an instant and Raina drifted off once more.

In her slumber, Raina saw Tam, dressed as he was the day she left him.  He was in the school yard, swinging by himself.  With eyes closed and a serene expression, he pumped his legs back and forth.  His little body climbed higher into the air than seemed possible, and he appeared to relish in the feeling of the wind on his face.  As she watched, Raina heard the tones of their song. When the intro shifted to the lyrics, Tam opened his eyes.

Little one, arise

There you are Tam Tam. Raina’s face pulled into a smile.

The sun has come.

His swing fell backwards, and Tam’s lips drew up in a mischievous smirk.  Be careful!  Raina cautioned, but bunked in the clouds, her voice was not audible on earth.  His swing pushed forward.  He let go, and launched himself into the air.

We take to the skies

“TAM!” Raina bolted upright.  Disoriented, she looked around.  She hadn’t been adrift on a bed of clouds after all.  She had been laid to rest on a trundle filled with down pillows, and covered in a blanket of moss.  She appeared to be inside a room in a wooded cabin.  In her confusion, Raina struck a frozen posture as she surveyed her surroundings.  Once she had determined that she was alone, Raina slipped out from under her cover.  She lightly pressed her bare feet onto the wooded floor, and tip-toed to the adjacent window.

Her brow furrowed as she peered out the circular frame.  Raina was looking directly into a sylvan canopy.  Straight ahead was an abundance of green foliage.  Looking up, Raina could see patches of blue and sunlight peaking through intertwined branches.  Below, she saw an incredible height of grooved and knotted tree bark.  Raina was in a tree.

She turned her back on the forested scene, and slid down the wall.  She landed on the soft woody floor, and dipped her head into her hands. The harshness of her uncertainty told her that this couldn’t be the heaven she once thought it might be.  She felt her cold fingers wring through her auburn hair and knew she wasn’t dreaming.  The only logical explanation left was that Raina was losing her mind.

With this realization, Raina began to cry.  She pulled her knees to her chest, and rested her head on her arms as she whimpered helplessly.

Through her quiet sobs Raina heard a door open.  Heavy footsteps trotted into the room.

“Rise and shine Love,” came the male voice from before.

She looked up, and her eyes found the short and pudgy bald man who called himself Bartle.  He was holding a tray of food, and wore a dopey expression of excitement.  For a moment, he seemed surprised to see an empty bed.  Then he turned to see her small cradled form on the floor.

“Oh dear,” his eyes switched to concern as he approached her.  Bartle placed the tray on the floor, and crouched down beside her. “What’s wrong?”

He may have been a complete stranger who had labeled her with an alarming nickname, but Raina was somewhat comforted by the familiarity of his presence.  She turned her tear-stained cheeks toward him and took in a deep breath broken up with a staccato rhythm dictated by her spasming diaphragm.  Between gulps for air Raina explained, “I don’t understand what’s happening to me.”

“You’re crying,” said Bartle.

Slightly amused by the response, Raina sniffed a brief laugh.  “I know that,” she went on.  “But what is all this?”  She gestured around the room. “Who are you? What’s going on? Where am I? How did we get here? Why is this happening?” She spouted off rapid-fire.

Puzzled, Bartle replied with a question of his own.  “You mean you don’t know?”

“Should I?”  Raina shook her head.  Her suspicions of insanity confirmed, she fell back into sobs.

“There, there,” Bartle wrapped his arms around her.  “It’s not all bad.  I’ve brought maple fudge bars, and honeysuckle tea for you.  Try some, and I’ll see if I can give you some answers.”

Raina obliged, and was glad she did.  One sip of tea spread a warm feeling throughout her core. She relaxed as she listened to Bartle’s answers.  He needed prodding however, as he clearly didn’t understand that she had no idea what was happening.

“Well, I’m Bartle,” he started.  “This is where I live.  I picked you up when you fell asleep on that yellow vehicle, and brought you here in my mother’s coach.”

“But where is ‘here?’” Raina asked.

“The Royal Cypress,” He stated matter-of-factly.

“Soo…California?”

After a brief chortle, Bartle smiled at her.  “Ah, I understand your question now, but I’m afraid I don’t have an answer for you.  This place no longer has a name.  Over the years it has been called Guardian Forest, Spritely Woods, The Land of Celestial Beings, Spirit’s Passing, and countless other names. Frankly, keeping track of it all has been rather confusing for me.  I prefer just to call it Home.”

Her question still unaddressed, she spoke slowly, “is your home close to mine?”

“The distance between two worlds cannot be measured, but it does not take long to travel it.”

“I’m sorry, the distance between what?”  Raina inquired, taken aback by this piece of information.

Bartle cocked his head in surprise, “two worlds.”

To be continued... 

The Advice That Never Stuck

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The first joke I remember telling happened when I was very young. I couldn't have been older than five. I vaguely recall hearing it on my favorite show, but I don't even know what character said it. I honestly can't remember which of my felt friends shared this comedic gem with me, but I do remember thinking that it was amusing enough to share.

Not long after that, I was strapped up in the back seat of PeeWee, our family mini van. My dad drove while I yammered on about each and every thought that crossed my mind. Knowing me, I probably shared everything I observed from peering out my window, asked a few questions about the nature of the world (seriously), and described the dramatically complex life of my invisible friend Little Min (I'm telling you that girl should have had her own blog). After ignoring my father's sarcastic comments (likely intended to teach me the conversational art of filtering) and only partially absorbing his developmentally advanced scientific answers to my queires, I finally saw my chance.

"Hey Dad," I called out.
"You don't have to say that every time," he responded. "I'm right here."
"Why did the chicken cross the playground?" I asked, unfazed by his remark.
"Why?"
"To get to the other slide!"

*Rimshot.*

*Pause for raucous laughter*

No, but seriously now... I obviously didn't split anyone's sides with this witty and inventive play on words. However, I did make my dad smirk, and I'll never forget his response.

"That's pretty good Min," he commended me. "Where did you learn that?"

"Sesame St," I replied honestly.

"That's great, but next time someone asks you that, tell them you made it up yourself."

My precocious little brain was completely bewildered by this advice. I know I understood the point, because I remember thinking that it would be more impressive if I had made it up myself. Nevertheless, I couldn't reconcile that thought with my need to tell the truth. In fact, the very next time I told this joke, I voluntarily admitted everything.

"My dad says I should tell you I made that up," I explained. "But I really just heard it on Sesame St."

I just couldn't do it. I could not take credit for another person's work. It felt wrong. Still does. To this day, whenever I tell that joke (and you'd be surprised how often that is), I follow it up with this back story. Although, despite the contradictory logic, I somehow think I got the right message. What do you think?

Laundering Life

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Part of my old job involved doing laundry for the classroom. I, like most typically raised and healthy people, looked at this as an annoying errand to be avoided. However, the kids I worked with were so starved for positive quality time with an adult, that they leapt at the chance to help out. If they saw us walking out the door with a basket, they generally asked to join us.

Originally, I could not understand their perspective. I hated doing laundry. I thought it was obnoxious, and, if I could, I would avoid it at all costs. Then, one particular trip changed all that.

I invited a child who had been working through something by shunning me and ignoring my attempts to spend time with him. I expected him to say no, but it didn't stop me from trying. Upon his refusal, a second child jumped up, lego jalopy in hand, and excitedly requested to join me. On our way out the door, the first child, slightly red in the face, abruptly changed his mind. Surprised, I obliged, and the three of us headed down the hallway, along with their feline driven lego vehicles.

The first child predictably ignored me throughout the walk. He didn't want to hold the basket, and he wasn't going to answer any of my questions. The second child, a curious comedian, chattered away between revving engines and an interjecting kitty pilot. He asked numerous questions about his favorite fictional characters and our existence in this world. Unaware of his own intent, the child began to pick at some startlingly deep philosophical subjects. Three steps ahead, the first child pretended to ignore us, but I made mental note of his slowing steps and sideways glances in our direction.

At the dryer, I stood back as the two boys divvied up the task of folding towels and filling the basket. I offered to help, but the burgeoning gentlemen denied my request. When they finished, the basket weighed more than each of them individually. With their lego contraptions in hand, it seemed difficult to believe they could manage it. I asked if they would like assistance, but they explained that they could do it together. So, they each grabbed a side with their tiny hands, and we set off back down the hall at a snail's pace. The basket began to list, and I offered to help once more. But, these boys were proud to be of use, and they understandably wanted to sustain that feeling.

As we neared the classroom, one of the lego kitties steered their car chaotically, and the basket careened out of control. Not wanting to hurt the boys' pride, but knowing one error could translate to complete failure in their minds, I casually slipped a finger under the back ridge and stabilized the load.

The second child sighed audibly and smiled at me.

"You make me feel happy," he said.

The first child slowed, looked the other direction, and muttered under his breath,

"Me too."

To these kids laundry was not a menial burden. It was an opportunity. This beautifully monotonous task provided them with the chance to demonstrate a skill, test out trust, and prove their worth. For a few brief moments, they got to walk alone with an adult outside of their chaotic environment. They could use the time to inquire about their deepest concerns or simply to experience the solace of safe companionship. They could experiment with showing appreciation under the guise of completing a required errand, and they were able to experience reciprocity.

When I looked at it through their eyes, this irritating obligation became something so monumental. It became an opportunity for people to spend time together, build a bond, and remind one another that they care.

Some Assembly Required

Throughout my childhood, whenever my family obtained something that required assembly the task was given to my father. He would don a self-impressed grin and sarcastically declare "this is a job for someone with a penis!"

That may seem rather chauvinistic, but I never took him at his words. It was clear that he was mocking conventional gender roles and his intended message was that a penis was not necessary. Er... um... perhaps a more eloquent explanation is that I always understood the graphic humor to be his way of saying that I could do anything I wanted.

My interpretation was evidenced by my routine tendency to follow him into whatever room the shiny new thing was placed, and assist in its construction. My job was usually to sit by, watch as he grunted out "man sounds" (think Tim "The Toolman" Taylor), and hand him the pieces as needed.

Inevitably, I'd revert to my faithful standby behavior of incessantly asking questions. Maybe I'd find a piece I couldn't recognize. I might have wondered how things fit together. Regardless of my reasons, I was typically always curious what the next step was, and what happened when we were done. These curiosities often left me waiting for my seemingly omnipotent father to provide me with the answers. Which he often did, in his own special way.

When he didn't know, or he was running out of patience, he'd finally declare:

"RTFM."
"What's that mean?" I'd ask innocently.
He'd smile and explain, "read the manual."

You'd think, with the number of times this happened in my life, I would have figured it out without needing to ask each time, but you'd be wrong. This came up every time we worked on a project together, and I was frequently left confused, wondering what the F stood for. On some level I must have known, because I never asked him. I faithfully accepted that he would have included it if it was important.

All of those years spent pondering the F out of it resulted in two very apparent lifelong instincts:

The first (and most trivial) is that now, whenever I see the letter F in an acronym, I assume it's an expletive. Then I giggle like that 8 year old girl watching her goofy father run wires along the back of a new computer desk.

More importantly, I come back to this advice often. I think of it when I don't know how to fix a problem, when I'm not sure what to do, and when I can't determine how to go on. When I find myself stuck and incapable of determining my next move, I see my dad behind a cabinet, or under a table, encouraging me to use my eyes and find the answers that have been provided for me.