Mozart and Haydn

Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart (1756-1791)
Franz Joseph Haydn (1732-1809)

Mozart lived 35 years.  Haydn lived 77.

Mozart produced 600 pieces across all genres, in half the lifetime of others.  He came from a sort of musical royalty, his father being a well-respected musician who had inroads to the courts throughout Europe.  He started at age 3, started composing at 5, touring at 7, worked night and day and lived a lavish and undisciplined life. 

Haydn, is much less tragic of a figure and would unlikely be the subject of a movie (like Amadeus.)  His beginnings are humbler, with a mother and father who were laborers.  Compared to Mozart, he was a late bloomer, already being 6 when he was apprenticed to be a musician.  He had a steady job all his life and lived within his means.

If Mozart is Jimmy Swaggert, then Haydn is Joel Osteen.  Mozart's Dennis Rodman to Haydn's Michael Jordan; John McEnroe to Michael Chang.

van Gogh without his ear

I've used the two as symbols of the unwritten but understood imagery of the pathos and angst of the creative and artistic.  Why is it that we think of artists as tortured souls like Mozart, Beethovan, van Gogh?  What about the steady, hard-working, successful Haydn, Cezanne?

My limited knowledge of Mozart can't tell me whether his parents raised him well, or not, or if he had a spirit that led him down a slippery path.  I know he was lead around by his father performing for various nobility and royalty.  But then as an adult, he lived a miserable life and died young.  Haydn, not having the ticket to the courts, actually had to work hard to stay fed.  His cook mother nor his wheel maker father could get him the posh positions that Mozart got.  Is it that Haydn had to work for his art while Mozart was coddled?  Is this the classic saga of the silver-spoon vs the boot strap?  Maybe Wolfgang was just a finicky, high-strung baby while Franz Joseph sat docile with fewer fluctuations in pulse rate.

As I transfer my mind wanderings from the abstract to the reality of my little musician, I wonder how I will get him to be a Haydn, not a Mozart.  No worldly success, even for the sake of Art and Creativity, is worth the misery of a pathetic testimony of a life as Mozart.  Must Creativity be miserable? or as we are coming to understand through research, does Creativity come with plain ol' steady work?  "Genius is 1% inspiration and 99% perspiration*," and all that.

The Genius of Greek Poetry

In the days of Greeks and Romans, Genius and Creativity were creatures that lived outside of ourselves and visited mere humans to inspire them to artistry.  It was something outside of the human experience.  Then the Renaissance came, and that gods, the sprites who lived in walls and tapped our shoulders with golden dust, were now inside of us.  Suddenly, we humans were Genius and Creativity.  We had made ourselves gods.

It seems to me, that we sunk ourselves by putting so much pressure on our frail, little human selves.  Might it be better to think of Creativity, well, maybe not as a god like the Greeks did, but from something, somewhere outside of ourselves that we get to express?  Can we separate ourselves from our creativity and see ourselves as valuable outside of our art?

Might I remember to praise my son for his hard work and long practice instead of just his talent?  Might I encourage him that he is more than his talent?  That it is a gift that can be used (or not) for the benefit of himself as well as others?  Then one day, if he breaks his hands or develops a disease, that he'd still be valuable? precious?  talented? hard-working?

Hence, I pray to the God of Creation.

* Thomas Edison

The Music Man

I don't know if it's because he has a disability, or if I'm justifying my pride.

The other week, my son - who you know as Boo - started taking piano lessons.  Well, actually, he started last July, but this beautiful person wasn't actually a trained piano teacher, and it became evident to all of us that Boo needed to move on.  So Boo is in the studio with Mr. Bonafide Piano Teacher.  And I know enough about music, having played for over 10 years, that these were real lessons.

As I heard Mr. Bonafide teach and explain, I knew Boo understood, and I could hear him respond musically.  I could hear his playing change subtly with the instruction.  After 7 months of lessons.

My heart swelled.  It swelled like the former high school ball player who watches his own son on the field.  Like the former beauty queen as her daughter is crowned Homecoming Queen.

I had never felt this way before.  Oh, maybe once when he was in 2nd grade and he told his teacher that he "could do all things through Christ" who strengthens him.  I've been proud of him before, but really for just being NORMAL.  For just getting along with another child, for getting a good grade, for being able to sit still.

I just wanted him to be able to get by in this world.  To have a friend or two.  To get through high school without being arrested for inappropriate behavior.  Maybe.  Maybe, even go to college.  But Lord, that he might be able to get and keep a job.

Do I think too little of him?  No.  At least, I hope not.  I knew he had many talents and so much to give.  But would the world see that?  Would he keep annoying everyone by singing, anywhere?  anytime?  Would he be seen as freaky because he always had a smile on his face?  Would someone punch him in the face when he laughs at an inappropriate time?

Am I just proud and want to shout it from the mountaintop because I'm being prideful?  Or am I so damn glad that he might have some measurable skill?

Measurable.

New Year's Eve, our little family went to a little party.  We met a man there, a little ragged looking, in t-shirt and faded jeans.  Someone you might see at the neighborhood bar.  In fact, the host knew this John from the bar around the corner.  Boo sat munching on a plate of food and drawing, like he always does, everywhere he goes.  I hear Boo and John chit chat.  Boo telling 10-year old boy type jokes, John laughing and really enjoying him.

This ragged, t-shirted John, as it turned out, is a very gifted musician, who accompanies dance troupes with his improvisational  piano, and plays background for art videos with his own compositions.  He has synesthesia - where different senses relate to each other - like people who see certain colors when they hear certain sounds.  He will tell you he is not a dancer, but he associates certain movements with certain sounds.  We started talking about random things and he talks about Einstein, whose IQ is purported to be 160-180.  You know, that's high, but not as high as you'd think for a man like him.  John's point being that some intelligences are not measurable.

Measurable.

This boy.  This boy, who is like iPod shuffle of imagery and sounds.  He remembers so many things from so many places, from so long ago and they come out in combinations at unusual times.  He sounds out portions of The Messiah on the piano, adds accompaniment, then segues into some nursery rhyme song.

Might this turn into something that will pay him a salary?  healthcare?

Please Lord, let him be my Music Man.

Youth

I don't like to think of myself as nostalgic.  I think of the New Year as having only slightly more significance than its being 1 minute after midnight of any given December 31st.  A human created, artificial constructe.  Why not Summer Solstice or Winter Solstice as the New Year?

But here it is.  This construct.  We're all wishing each other a good new year.  Recalling the past year.  And I can't help but think back, not just to the previous year, but way back.  I receive New Year's wishes from not just new, but old, way old.  Friends from my youth...

So this song isn't great poetry, but maybe because it isn't, because of its simplicity...its naivete, it reminds me of my youth. Every time I hear it, a soft enveloping pain gathers in my chest, like a misty cloud of regrets.

ABBA or Colin Firth, take your pick.





I can still recall
Our last summer
I still see it all
Walks along the Seine
Laughing in the rain
Our last summer
Memories that remain

We made our way along the river
And we sat down in the grass by the Eiffel tower
I was so happy we had met
It was the age of no regret
Oh, yes

Those crazy years
That was the time of the flower-power
But underneath
We had a fear of flying
Of growing old
A fear of slowly dying
We took our chance
Like we were dancing our last dance

I can still recall
Our last summer
I still see it all
In the tourist jam
Round the Notre Dame
Our last summer
Walking hand in hand

Paris restaurants
Our last summer
Morning croissants
Living for the day
Worries far away
Our last summer

We could laugh and play

And now you're working in a bank
A family man, a football fan
And your name is Harry
How dull it seems
Are the hero of my dreams ?

Walks along the Seine
Laughing in the rain
Our last summer
Memories that remain

I can still recall
Our last summer
I still see it all
Walks along the Seine
Laughing in the rain
Our last summer
Memories that remain

We made our way along the river
And we sat down in the grass by the Eiffel tower
I was so happy we had met
It was the age of no regret
Oh, yes

Those crazy years
That was the time of the flower-power
But underneath
We had a fear of flying
Of growing old
A fear of slowly dying
We took our chance
Like we were dancing our last dance

I can still recall
Our last summer
I still see it all
In the tourist jam
Round the Notre Dame
Our last summer
Walking hand in hand

Paris restaurants
Our last summer
Morning croissants
Living for the day
Worries far away
Our last summer
We could laugh and play

And now you're working in a bank
A family man, a football fan
And your name is Harry
How dull it seems
Are the hero of my dreams ?

Walks along the Seine
Laughing in the rain
Our last summer
Memories that remain

Happy New Year.  Artificial construct and all.

2012 Photo Review

Even photos can't adequately describe how full and blessed our life has been...is.  And it would take more space than I have, and more patience than you have, to tell you all that we've lived this year.  It has had it's struggles, of course.  I'm not one for reviewing things by the year, per se, but I can look back and see how God has made hard things, even bad things, Good for us.  On this earth, we should not be asking "why is there suffering?" but rather, "why is there so much beauty, joy, hope, love?"  I can only say that it is my faith in a God that causes Ultimate Good for His kingdom, which allows me to believe that only a loving God can overcome all the selfishness, violence & hatred that reeks all of our hearts.

I have had many thoughts swirling in my head, but almost too much to put into readable bits on this blog.  I don't make New Years' resolutions, nor resolutions at all.  But I do hope that I can keep working on my writing and share again, some of my thoughts with you.

So, here's our 2012 in photos.  It's a small way to share my life with you.

JANUARY

The boy is showing a musical inclination and starts teaching himself on his 3/4 size Yamaha, not just "air guitar" on a toy, like when he was little. 

 

The boy loves snow. At the first forecast, he's ready and waiting. Even if it's 7 in the morning

 

FEBRUARY

Not sure how this happened, but it was my birthday, but he got a new bike!

More treasured time with our host student from Korea, who counts oboe as one of her many talents.  Here, at District Orchestra.  In the 4 years, she's become our daughter and Boo's big sister. 

MARCH

 ... the returning hope of Spring

Chess club continues into Spring, and he ranks 2nd.

APRIL

Grandma comes to visit!

April flowers...

 

MAY

Science Fair project on Penguins!  Can you guess which is the real penguin?

...and an epic milestone college reunion! 

And we even went on a date!

 JUNE

Showing his Hopper-ish work (top.)  And the end (for now) of his 5-years at this Christian school.

 

...and the boy turns 10:

JULY

A month of camps!

Bible Camp with friends:
 

Hideaway Day Camp - the awesomest outdoor day camp around!

 

Environment Camp!

 

And a great story about his counselors, C&M:

C&M's grandparents were good friends with J's grandparents while at Penn State and were in the same field.  Then C&M's dad, and J's dad meet at a conference in their common field, and go on to become great friends.  C&M have known J since he was a baby, just arrived from Korea.  So in 2012, C&M were J's counselors!  They don't seem destined to enter the same field - C&M being interested in politics and J interested in architecture.  But maybe J could design them a house?

 

In between, an unusual but welcomed visit from Uncle Paul & fam from Lanna, Jo-jah!

Our beautiful gardens courtesy of HH, and Boo!

AUGUST

Many hours at the pool!  This year, with the encouragement of a friend, he tested to be allowed in the deep end, which meant hours and hours jumping off the diving board!

SEPTEMBER

Lots of excitement!

What has become our tradition - time on Cape Cod - this year during Labor Day week.

Through the years at Mashpee Commons:

 

Stand-up Paddle Boarding ("Supping")

 

(yes, that is my leg - just to prove I was there, too!)

AND the biggest changes of all:  HOME SCHOOLING!

PE at our home school co-op:

OCTOBER

 October may be the beginning of Autumn to you, but to Boo, it only means one thing: 

Fire Prevention Month!

NOVEMBER

For even Boo, November still means Thanksgiving:

but the best part isn't turkey, but being with grandma:

DECEMBER

2013

Hoping for elaborate, generous, abundant grace & peace.

A Little Bit

When scientists, the government, companies, advertisers say something - anything - is "safe," this is what they really mean:

The amount of ingredient "x" used (as directed,) would not cause you permanent damage, or at least not for a long time.  Because there's only a little bit in the toxic item, which deems it "safe."  Really.  That's the scientific definition of something being considered safe or at least doesn't cause cancer.  You know, like TV & video game violence don't cause crimes.  And some things, there's such a little bit of it, and everybody puts that little bit in, that the government doesn't make them disclose it on the ingredients list.  Like lead in your red lipstick.  Or anti-freeze in your ice cream.

Here's the thing, though.

There's only a little bit of surfactants in soaps and shampoos, fragrances, stain-resistant and water-shedding coatings, parabens (preservatives in cosmetics and pharmaceuticals,) fluoride, lead (in your red lipstick,) pesticides on your fruits and vegetables, hormones, bleach, bisphenal-A so that they won't harm you.

Did anyone test what happens to us and our kids who are in aggregate ingesting
a little bit of hormone in our beef, pork, chicken, eggs and milk,
a little bit of mercury in the approximately 14 vaccines that our babies get,
a little bit of lead in your red lipstick,
a little bit of preservative in our soaps, lotions, cosmetics (which they find lodged in breast tissue,)
a little bit of the petroleum-based estrogenic fragrances in our air fresheners, soaps, candles, shampoos, make up, fragranced markers,
a little bit of bleach on our cut carrots and diapers and tampons,
a little bit of plastic off-gassing from our new car seats, carpet, coats, shoes, pajamas, nail polish
a little bit of plastic leeching out of the pellets they put in farming soil,
a little bit of plastic leeching from our canned goods, paper plate coating, toys.

But don't worry; it's SAFE.

I Saw You Standing There

I saw you standing there, putting on your helmet.  A silver BMW. 650 cc.  I approached you.  I was bold like that, even then.  I asked if it was yours, the motorcycle.  You blushed.  Why, yes! Yes it is.  The blush was not for me, the bold young woman, but for your lie.

The bike was your dad's, a man who lied easily, without even the blush.  The one who lied to your mother business trip after trip, denying the significance of late night dinners with young women.  You didn't lie as easily.  Your pale skin flushed each time, punctuating your blue eyes, dimples, while your blond hair swept over your forehead.

The blush, I thought, was your True Inner Self, that you were really Good, but corrupted by Nurture.  I would reveal this True Inner Self.  Because I would really understand him.  And rescue him.  He was truly a kind man.  He had a sweet nature.  It was unfortunate that he was divorced from a wife.  They married too young.  They were so different.  She had their two children and was with her parents.  Bad things happen to good people.

He was sweet. And kind.  And patient.  And I wasn't going to marry him, after all.  It didn't matter that he didn't have the same foundational beliefs about life and death as I did.

So I prayed for him, that he would become a Christian.  Doesn't that seem like the right thing for a Christian girl to do?  No, you see, I prayed so that my desire would be justified in His sight.  Because deep down inside, I knew it was not a good place to be.  Should we do something that we know isn't right and then ask for forgiveness?  That's manipulative, isn't it? Abusing someone's love?  Whether your earthly father or your Heavenly one, should you deliberately get into a bad situation knowing you can get him to fix it?  "Look, I want this (him,) and I want you to make it right."  God the Vending Machine.

The first time I went to his duplex, which he shared with a roommate, I saw a woman's things about.  At my questioning stare, he blushed.  Yes, they're her things.  Well, we're not divorced yet.  Well, we're living apart.  Well, I haven't called a lawyer yet.  No, we're not technically separated.  But she knows, she knows.  That blush.

"It is when a person walks at night that they stumble, for they have no light."

In the dark of night, my fingers coiled around the phone, I paused.  I asked, "Are you alone??" This time, I could almost hear him blush.  I saw more than heard the rustle of sheets.

Of course, his wife didn't know.  This woman didn't, either.

But I did know.  As the dawn approached, exhausted from crying, I stumbled into The Other Woman: me.  Me, the unblushing liar.  I could see myself  standing there, having been a part of all the lies.  But most painful of all, the denial of everything I Believed, and lying to myself.

Why I Decided to Home School

(I'm sorry there are some misleading advertising links.  I actually have some links.)

Last night, I went out with the moms from the home schooling coop.  I had so much fun.  It was silly and serious, insightful, resourceful and we stayed way too late.  It confirmed for me, though, how different each one of us, and our families are.  You can't assume the reasons for why people home school.  They are almost limitless.  Since I've had so many people ask me why I decided to home school, I thought I'd write a post.  Lord knows I need to write something or close shop.

Contrary to the title, I thought I'd start by telling you the reasons that were NOT a factor in my decision:

1. It is NOT because I'm a Christian.  In fact, my religion has almost nothing to do with it.  I do not believe the Biblical mandate to care for my child includes keeping them at home and doing everything myself.  No.  I don't grow the food we eat, I don't weave the cloth for clothes and I personally don't have to stand over a text book.
2. It is NOT because I want to make him into my brand of Christian.  Except that of course, I do.  What parent doesn't want their children to think like they do? to have their philosophy that has been honed for 30-40 years?  But it's not because I want to shield him from other religions.
3. It is NOT because I am the only one who knows what's best for my child.  Sometimes the perspective of an outsider gives needed insight.
4. It's NOT because there's a conspiracy to brainwash my child.
5. It's NOT because I think the world will end in 2015 and I want him home when that happens.

The bottom line for why I'm homeschooling my son is that I RAN OUT OF OPTIONS.

Crazy as that sounds in the US of A, I really felt there was nothing out there quite right for him.  I was willing to do anything, everything to get him to the right place, educationally speaking.

Initially, my public school was just too big for my little guy.  Later, they lied to me about him.  Deliberately hid his learning disability in the testing summary.  I used to be a huge proponent of the public school system.  Now I'm for Vouchers.

You may or may not know that our son has Asperger's Syndrome (please don't say he has Autism.)  Along with that turf comes Sensory Integration Disorder, Tourettes and a Language deficit.  There are plenty of schools for Dysgraphia and Dyscalculia and Dyslexia.  Or Autism.  Children who can't make it in a "regular" school setting.  But not for my very high-functioning, happy but weird Aspie.

I even looked at a private school for special kids an hour away at $36K a pop.  Never mind how we'd have paid the $36K.  Yes, they served special kids, but not Asperger kids.
Out of options.  In this country.  (shakes head.)

So, what drove me to this craziness of home schooling?  Because it is kinda crazy.  What pushed me over the edge was a)  Bully Alpha Boy, and the school's inability to properly handle the situation.  And there were other reason:

b) Classmates

c) Asperger's and Sensory Overload

d) Developing His Gifts

a) The Bully Alpha Boy:

In 2nd grade, a new boy entered my son's small class.  An Alpha.  Chris was a big, athletic, dynamic boy.  From the very first day, Chris told my son in recess that he couldn't play.  All the other boys, boys tending to be the pack herding type, went along.  See, the priority of boys (and men, I'm afraid to say)  is playing the game, not caring about the heart of one goofy boy.  I talked to one boy's mom once about all this.  She was satisfied that her son wasn't one that was actually taunting my son, but just went along with it.  I wanted to bring up the quote about people who watch and allow evil to be done, but I held my tongue.  Proud of me?  No, I'm not sure either.

And the girls?  Well, they're busy creating their own social order.  They became aware of gender differences and would not play with him.  Or any other boy.  These are important, formative times for children. 

On the first day of 3rd grade, Chris told J he couldn't play.  The other boys went along.

On the first day of 4th grade, Chris told J he couldn't play.  The other boys went along.

But that year, a new boy entered the class and the dynamic seemed to change and Chris no longer targeted my son.  He targeted the new boy.


And you're wondering, "Why didn't you do anything about it?"  I did.  I tried.  I went with their suggestions.  But after 2-1/2 years, of going it their way, I was at the end of my rope.

Wait.  It gets better.

This new boy said to my son...they're both 10 years old, remember.  TEN, okay?  He said to my precious son, "I'm going home to my room, lock the door, read until I'm bored, then kill myself."  Completes it all by making a hanging motion with his neck and hand.  TEN.  I had long emails and talks with his mom.  Tears.  She was sorry and all, and they talked to their son, but,  in the end, does not feel there is a problem. When I alerted the school, the Superintendent emailed me stating basically that it's not uncommon for children to express wishes to die and in fact his son did too at that age and oh he's fine dontcha know.

Straw.

b) Classmates

Yeah, you need those to have a school.  I get that.  Contrary to popular notion, children are NOT silly, and they do NOT have a sense of humor. Conformity is the rule of the day, here, not fun and joy and creativity.  There's one non conformist in the class.  But it's a girl.  She's definitely a contender for "wife."  In 15 years.  My son's not perfect, but he is fun, sees joy in everything and so creative I have to tell him to stop.

Listen, I'm not the "world is a terrible place full of conformists" kind of person.  I'm pretty conventional myself.  But my son's energy, enthusiasm and creativity?  I'm not having a bunch of sourpuss 10-year olds squash that out of my son.

I know I can't protect him forever.  But I went into home schooling saying to him, "Let's take a break."  Let's spend a year not being taunted, stared at, made fun of, ostracized, ignored.  Let's spend one year where Arianna doesn't scream in your face, "SHUT UP!"  Let's spend one year when you aren't called a liar when you say you can't help your tics.  Let's take a break from Dylan having DAILY meltdowns.  Let's take a break from classmates saying, "Ewww!" about your lunch, while they're chomping on  Fluffwiches.

c) Sensory Overload

Having Asperger's means that everyone knows another language that he doesn't know.  If you've been around bilinguals, you'll understand.  You understand them while they're speaking English, but when they break out into Spanish, you're lost, right?  Same thing for my son.  Except that it's every day.  He gets most of the sentences, except if it has an unknown figure of speech, or sarcasm, or a subtle facial expression.  He heard the words, but he doesn't get the rest of what makes up communication.  It's a foreign language that he'll never be fluent in.

My son has a sensory imbalance.  He sees/hears/feels too much of some things, while he sees/hears/feels too little of others.  He bumps into you, steps on your toes and doesn't realize.  But he can hear every car horn, vacuum, siren and squeak for literally miles around.  Hard to concentrate that way.  And he is neurologically unable to block it out.

Seven hours of  a) b) and c) is too much for even this energetic boy.


d) Development of His Gifts

By 4:30 PM, my son was wrung out and done.  DONE, I tell you.  I'm not sure he could spell his name by then.  I knew school wouldn't get easier, but harder.  More homework.  More independent thinking and analysis.  I wasn't even sure he'd make it at this rate, forget music, art or soccer.

His strength is in music and art.  Once a week of each, squeezed between this holiday and that holiday and the teacher being out sick and jockeying with the other kids in the supply cabinet wasn't going to give him what I wanted.   It's not the school; it's the US.

This kid has perfect pitch.  He hums a note and says, "Hey mom, that was an A."  Not typical kid conversation.  He loves sounding out any song on the keyboard. Or piano. Or trombone.  Or guitar.  He "Yeehawed!" the first time he heard Beethovan's 8th Symphony and often hear him blasting Handel's Messiah.  He imitates Dinosaur Train, and he imitates Dave Matthews.

At 6-1/2 years old, he started drawing buildings in perspective.  (This usually happens around 10.)  He still can't draw a person, but he can draw you a floor plan with matching elevations and a perspective view in a couple of hours.  As you can well imagine, some adults can't do this.

So when this kid is completely wiped out by 4:30, how will he get homework done, AND go to his piano lesson?  Nope.  Can't be done.

Hence, The Kraybill Home School.

Where I am Superintendent, Principal, teacher, bus drive and lunch lady.

And mom.

To Live

When I was going through my Gong Li and Chinese cinema stage, I watched a movie called To Live.  It is the story of a family which loses everything.
Yet they persist.
Exert.
Grind.
Labor.
Strive, toil, work.
Live.

Theirs is a common story during the upheavals of China's recent history.  But there are many others - the Irish, Russians, Jews, Koreans and so much in Africa.  Natural disasters.  Natural consequences of Man's actions.  And the deliberate, incomprehensible cruelty of Human upon Human.

When life can be so hard, when we can be so hateful to each other, why do we persist in living?

Years ago, I was at a client site with a co-worker.  She was following me in the exit stairwell, when she tripped on her pant cuff and fell head first onto the concrete landing.  As she lay there, a black pool of blood growing around her head, I thought I saw Death floating by.  This tenacious, determined woman lay in a heap, her fashionable clothes unable to define her, actually having betrayed her.  She recovered.  But there, in the fluorescent rays of the fire stairs, I saw the gauzy film of life torn, waving in a breeze.

I picture the surface between oil upon vinegar.  Before you stir it up.  Such a clear line of demarcation, and yet there is really no barrier there at all.  That's what I saw that day - how easily one can plunge into the other side.

 Why do we want to live?  

Why do we think living is good, and dying bad?  Or do we?  Do you?  Even Dr. Kavorkian would refuse be be a tour guide to the other side for a healthy patient.

People struggle and suffer, and yet they persist in struggling and suffering, to survive it - not to end it.  Exert.  Grind.  Labor.  Strive, toil, work.  Are they crazy?  Are they stupid? Weak?  Strong? Or are they Hopeful? 

Some people do want to end it. But it's considered an aberration.  The mentally ill get put in "safe" rooms [formerly known as the padded room,] so they won't try to end it for themselves.  Dr. Kavorkian is considered a monster even though his patients clearly wished to die.  Police, fire fighters, social workers all intercede when someone tries to end their OWN life.  Prisoners, even on death row, can get put on Suicide Watch, ironically, to NOT have them die.

My mother struggled for 10 years with a degenerative brain disorder.  Her mind still worked, but her body increasingly did not.  If you've read my blog and read bits about my mother, you'll remember that she was the Original Princess.  She was the favored child of a wealthy family, who loved art and design and looking stylish.  And there she was, only in her mid-50s [not far from my age now,] laying prone, barely able to feed herself.  And yet I never heard her ask to end it.

Were I captured and tortured, I might maintain hope that someone would rescue me, or that I might find a way out.  Or even the absurd notion that the captor might release me.  Even while knowing he might torture and/or kill me.  But I could have hope, couldn't I?

What was the hope my mother had?  What is the hope others have who are stuck in the poorest, filthiest, most pathetic regions of the world?  What is the hope North Koreans have?  Or is merely not being sent to one of their many concentration camps, not being caught, enough?

In the worst, seemingly worst situations, is there always a kernel of hope?  Hope that the disease would be cured? That the dictator will change? That tomorrow will be better?  And if so,

Where does this Hope come from?

Is it evolutionary?  Over millions of years, did this spiritual kernel of hope grow for survival?  But is survival good?  Who, or what, determined that?  Where did this desire to survive come from?  Might there be something programmed into us, our spirit, that undefinable core, that tell us Life is right and Death is wrong?  After all, in the Genesis story, when the Serpent tricked Adam and Eve, what he introduced to Paradise was Death.  And God himself shed blood - an animal sacrifice, a death - to cover their "issue."

Whether you see Genesis as an allegory or truth, it's a great story of the human condition, isn't it?  We dwelt in paradise where there was no death, with complete communion with an eternal Being.  When an enemy enters the garden, he brings with him Death.  The slithering masqueraded one, to bring enmity between The Good and His Creations, was to bring Death.  Death is the Enemy. 

And I think we all, somewhere, somehow, know it.  We are Life.  The Enemy is Death.  It didn't grow in us.  It is a primal, essential part of us.  Those who push it away and voluntarily walk through that film have lost an essential part of their Humanity.

Discussion Closed

Maybe I've had a rough week.  Or two.  Maybe how I'm feeling now is real and it's all the other times when I'm busy with busy-ness that I don't think properly.

I see a day when I won't be allowed to be a Christian.  In my lifetime.  Already, I am not allowed to believe what I believe.  Apparently, I, and my fellow conservative Christians, are prejudiced on the scale of the KKK for believing that marriage is for one man and one woman.  That is what I believe the Holy Bible teaches.  But then also, I see a dismissal of the Bible as some random book that Christians use to justify our hate.  Sure, that's been done in the past, the present and I'm sure will in the future.  For every and any Belief structure.  Ever.  Not just Christian.  But I am starting to see a dismissiveness about the Bible, that frankly I don't see about the Qur'an, the I-Ching, the Tripitaka.

Maybe because in our country, we have a Christian heritage, and there have been so many Christians in our paths that have disappointed or disgusted us.  Because we went to Catechism as children, we think we know what Christianity is about.  Or we see the radio or tv personality that spends a little too much time talking about homosexuals and not enough about the thousands of other topics we could grow in.  And I'm sorry for the spewing they have done.  The public shame and hatred.  So maybe it's the ole "familiarity breeds contempt."

Maybe we paint ourselves as closed-minded because we have a set of beliefs. And we paint ourselves as hypocritical because we can't follow our beliefs.  I know I can't follow what I know.  I can't even follow a diet.  Our worst offense, I think, is that we don't "accept all faiths."  (Although some Christians do.) I'm not even sure what that means.  If you are of a religion that doesn't believe Jesus is the Savior, how can you be accepting of Christianity?  If you're a Jew and you marry a Christian, how can you accept a religion that is waiting for the Messiah and one that already has one?  Unless of course, nobody really believes any of it.  Or.  You're constantly doing the figurative cocktail party version of religious dialogue.  You know,

"How's Ramadan going?"
"Oh fiiiin fine.  And your prayer wheels?"
"Oh great.  Couldn't be better.  Good seeing you!"
"Good seeing you, too."

I see a day coming when this country will join the approximately 40 countries where being Christian is not allowed.  Wait.  Let me be specific.  There are some countries where you are actually not allowed to be Christian or you'll be jailed, tortured and/or killed (Arabia, Iran, Mauritania.)  There are others where you can live there as a Christian, but puts severe restrictions (Algeria, Indonesia.)  You can have a Bible, but not in the native language.  You'd be jailed and/or killed.  And then there are countries where you are technically allowed to be a Christian, worship and talk about it but the persecution ranges from pressur to abandon it to attacks and killings (Nigeria, Laos, Uzbekistan, Turkey, Nepal.)

I don't think I'll ever be jailed or tortured for being a Christian here in the US, but I won't be allowed to maintain my religion without being ridiculed and labeled "hateful."  Oh wait.  That's already happening.

A Good Person

We all want our villains to look mean and nasty and our nice guys to, well, seem nice.

When I was in grad school, our class went for a summer studio in Spain.  One young woman met some American boys and went off to an island for the weekend.  (I think I've told this story before.)  Some of us less adventurous asked her if she wasn't scared?  Her answer, was "They were really nice and they were American!"

Do I have to spend any bloggy real estate to explain why that statement is completely stupid?

I thought not.

It reflects, though, what many of us think, that we can tell if someone is wicked or not.  A Good Person  doesn't do Bad Things.  If they do, they get put in the other column and become a Bad Person.

Except that they do.

A Good Person might snitch some supplies from the office closet.  Or let a friend get involved with someone they knew was mentally ill.  Or forget a friend's birthday.  A Good Person might get themselves in trouble at the investment bank and try to hide the tremendous losses.  And these people might look very much like your dad, your neighbor, even you.

A Good Person might not report a crime.  A big crime.  Over decades.  While simultaneously doing lots of Good Things; working hard, honestly, giving to good causes.  This person is being discussed in two ways, both, I believe erroneous:

A.  He is now a Bad Person and everything he did was Bad.  Nothing he did in his life matters anymore because he did this very Bad Thing.
or
B.  Yes he did a Bad Thing but he did so much Good so let's cool our jets.

The first point of view demands that we paint him only as a villain.  The serpent.  The Joker.  The evil nemesis.  B. wants us to whitewash the Bad, as if his Deeds, his Works atone for the Bad, like a global tally sheet.  The fact of the matter is, Joe Paterno, like all of us, was Good and Bad.  The Bad choices he made do not get a reprieve because of all the Good things he did.  The Bad Thing remains objectively Bad whether committed by Adolph Hitler, The Buddha, or a beloved football coach. 

Most of us live unremarkable lives, doing seemingly unremarkable good - being kind to a neighbor, loving our children, doing an honest day's work.  But if we're honest, we live doing unremarkable bad - yelling our our kid, rolling our eyes about our in-laws, cursing out the other driver.  Were I to see that shower?  I know without a doubt, I would have tackled that guy and pulled the boy out.  No doubt.  But in humility and truth, I can't say I'm a better person than McQueary or Paterno.  At the same time, I have no scruples saying that wickedness won here.

In the end, maybe none of us are Good or Bad, but Human, capable at times of doing Good and too often capable of doing Bad.