A few months back, I went with my roomie to the doctor's office. While she was in her appointment, I killed time on her iPod touch. It took forever to type, but here's what I left with:
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As I sit here in this pale green and grey waiting room, I'm wondering how much longer it will be. Not how much longer until my friend comes out, although I'd be lying if I said I wasn't wondering that too. No, I'm wondering how long until I'm one of them. I glance around the room and see the employees all dressed in their brightly colored scrubs. In such light clothing, how can they keep warm in this prison of dated wallpaper and frigid air conditioning?
"Is it five yet?" one of the employees asks the other "I have errands to run and cleaning to do yet tonight." Work, errands, and chores--such is life.
But, is that it? Is that all there is to my life? Why go to college only to meet so dull and typical a fate?
I look up from my friend's iPod. An elderly lady is walking in, using a cane to support her. "How is your MS treating you these days?" one of the employees asks with a half sincere smile. Finally, a brief ray of warmth in this stone cold confine.
Over the sound of my stomach rumbling, I hear her reply: "oh, I'm not as I used to be, but I'm getting by." I glance at my watch. It's nearly dinner time now. I've been waiting for nearly an hour. One hour of this cold, negative existence, with this electronic device as my only friend.
"Ten minutes left." the employee tells her coworker. Slipping through the center of the hour glass--that's how these jobs call one to live life.
An employee dials a number on her cell phone. "Hi hon I'll be there to pick you up in about fifteen minutes so be ready. Mm hm"
Ugh. More obligations an living by the clock. I feel like barfing.
"Ok just be by the door this time." she continued, "I love you. Bye"
There. That's it! She said it!
I glance up to see the lady with MS greeted by an elderly man and a little girl. "grandma!" the little girl ran into her grandma's arms with obvious excitement and love in her eagerness. "Careful now," the grandpa warned "your grandma's muscles aren't as strong as they used to be."
"oh come now" the frail elderly lady smiled as she engulfed her bouncy granddaughter in a hug.
There it is again! That's why!
Like the woman on the phone said to her child--love. That's why they spend their days in this cold greyness. This doctors waiting room may feel like a prison, but if it is, it is a prison of love, and staying here is one of the freest choices these employees have ever made. These people love.
Wednesday, June 23, 2010
Sunday, June 20, 2010
Doggerel.
Dancing with Eternity to a Rhythm of Monotony
These highways of hollow
These roads of regret
Paved with ponderings
Dreams of memories
Of a past never lived
To the left lies infinity
To the right, a knife
Along the road we dance
Without rhythm
We entertain death
Emptiness--our constant companion
A dried up fount of nothing
A comforting reminder
That after this lorn path
There lies peace
These highways of hollow
These roads of regret
Paved with ponderings
Dreams of memories
Of a past never lived
To the left lies infinity
To the right, a knife
Along the road we dance
Without rhythm
We entertain death
Emptiness--our constant companion
A dried up fount of nothing
A comforting reminder
That after this lorn path
There lies peace
Wednesday, June 16, 2010
what is it about the sound of voices?
"Since Fr. Ubald doesn't speak very audible English, he will be speaking in French with a translator to translate his words into English."
"Oh no," I groaned internally. If there was one thing I was hoping sitting there at St. Tom's that Wednesday evening, it was was that Father Ubald wouldn't have an accent. This translator situation seemed even worse! "It would be better if he had an accent, get me out of here sooner." I thought to myself, "How much time is this going to add onto his talk?" Yes, I wanted to listen to this Rwandan priest's talk, but only if it was audible and entertaining. Heaven forbid that I may be inconvenienced by the telling of this man's experience of genocide, the slaughter of his family, and the healing ministry he has encouraged!
But... as Fr. Ubald began to speak, previous annoyances seemed to melt away. His body-language and face told of emotion that could not be shown through words alone. The nature and tone of how he talked, his mannerisms and emotions spoke more than any words he said through that translator. His French words left a story unheard, but his emotions relayed the unimaginable despair felt by those involved in the genocide and the beautiful healing that had gone on not only in the hearts of the victims' families, but in the killers themselves.
I guess my point is that what I thought was going to be a huge inconvenience ended up quite the opposite. Funny how that happens.
"Oh no," I groaned internally. If there was one thing I was hoping sitting there at St. Tom's that Wednesday evening, it was was that Father Ubald wouldn't have an accent. This translator situation seemed even worse! "It would be better if he had an accent, get me out of here sooner." I thought to myself, "How much time is this going to add onto his talk?" Yes, I wanted to listen to this Rwandan priest's talk, but only if it was audible and entertaining. Heaven forbid that I may be inconvenienced by the telling of this man's experience of genocide, the slaughter of his family, and the healing ministry he has encouraged!
But... as Fr. Ubald began to speak, previous annoyances seemed to melt away. His body-language and face told of emotion that could not be shown through words alone. The nature and tone of how he talked, his mannerisms and emotions spoke more than any words he said through that translator. His French words left a story unheard, but his emotions relayed the unimaginable despair felt by those involved in the genocide and the beautiful healing that had gone on not only in the hearts of the victims' families, but in the killers themselves.
I guess my point is that what I thought was going to be a huge inconvenience ended up quite the opposite. Funny how that happens.
Tuesday, June 15, 2010
Grandpa.
"Oh yeah," came the comforting sound of Grandpa's voice, rolling across the furniture in the room and resonating off the walls before his words settled peacefully not only in my ears, but in the very center of my soul as well. Despite the fact that age has allowed his voice to waver a little, it still has its depth. Not only deep vocally, when Grandpa talks, his words mean something.
"On the day your grandma and I were to be married," Grandpa continued, "my army unit was called out on the field. My commanding officer woke me up in advance and told me to get out of there! I had a wedding to get to. So I showed up at your grandma's door six hours before we were to be married!"
I leaned in to hear better as his voice invoked a sense of something so far away, yet so close to his heart.
Ya know, when Grandpa tells stories, you're not just listening to a story: you are transported back into the place where the stories happened. To put it into more philosophical terms, the listener escapes the rusty chains chronos into the ever-present kairos. Simply calling this experience "story-telling" is far too much an understatement. His words aren't merely words. The sound of his voice alone is greater than music.
From my grandparents first year and a half spent traveling throughout Europe while my grandpa was in the army, to the frigid yet beautiful Upper Peninsula winters: this isn't just his life he's talking about, this is part of mine. My heart grew out of this old, wrinkly man. I don't know what I would do without him.
Hmm... These are the times I never want to forget.
"On the day your grandma and I were to be married," Grandpa continued, "my army unit was called out on the field. My commanding officer woke me up in advance and told me to get out of there! I had a wedding to get to. So I showed up at your grandma's door six hours before we were to be married!"
I leaned in to hear better as his voice invoked a sense of something so far away, yet so close to his heart.
Ya know, when Grandpa tells stories, you're not just listening to a story: you are transported back into the place where the stories happened. To put it into more philosophical terms, the listener escapes the rusty chains chronos into the ever-present kairos. Simply calling this experience "story-telling" is far too much an understatement. His words aren't merely words. The sound of his voice alone is greater than music.
From my grandparents first year and a half spent traveling throughout Europe while my grandpa was in the army, to the frigid yet beautiful Upper Peninsula winters: this isn't just his life he's talking about, this is part of mine. My heart grew out of this old, wrinkly man. I don't know what I would do without him.
Hmm... These are the times I never want to forget.
Monday, June 14, 2010
on bikes and books
Awhile back, something happened when I was biking home from work. I suppose from the outside it may not have looked that interesting, but it was one of those moments that hangs over you for days to come, constantly encouraging you to revisit the encounter and question it.
I was on my routine bike ride home from work when, up ahead, I noticed a bike pulled off to the side of the road. As I grew closer, I began to see a boy whom I pegged to be about a sophomore in high-school. Why he was out biking at 1 pm on a school day, I do not know. He was simply sitting there, reading a book and seemingly enjoying the day. I was staring at him, studying his face and wondering what brought him to where he was. He looked up suddenly, noticing me looking intently at him. Our eyes met. "Hi." I said as I drove past. "Hello" came his response. I nearly stopped to ask him what he was reading, but, anxious to get home, I continued on my way. That was our only interaction at that time. As I continued to bike, I could not stop wondering who he was and why this kid was out, sitting on a bike trail and reading during school hours. I spent the rest of the ride home wishing I had stopped to say something more to him.
As I was nearing the end of the bike trail, I hoped that he would pull up behind me so I could figure out who he was. Of course, he wasn't there. But then, just as I was turning onto the main road, I sensed someone behind me. I turned to look back, and there he was. Already down the main street, I didn't want to go out of my way and turn around. Besides, he was getting ready to head in the opposite direction. "See ya around." I called out to him. "Bye." came his response.
Such a small encounter, but my mind will not allow me to forget about it. Who was he? Why would this 15-16 year old looking kid be sitting on a bike trail reading a book during school hours? Simply sitting outdoors and reading at all is uncommon for kids his age. I guess I'll have to be content to let this one remain a mystery. I've never seen him again.
I was on my routine bike ride home from work when, up ahead, I noticed a bike pulled off to the side of the road. As I grew closer, I began to see a boy whom I pegged to be about a sophomore in high-school. Why he was out biking at 1 pm on a school day, I do not know. He was simply sitting there, reading a book and seemingly enjoying the day. I was staring at him, studying his face and wondering what brought him to where he was. He looked up suddenly, noticing me looking intently at him. Our eyes met. "Hi." I said as I drove past. "Hello" came his response. I nearly stopped to ask him what he was reading, but, anxious to get home, I continued on my way. That was our only interaction at that time. As I continued to bike, I could not stop wondering who he was and why this kid was out, sitting on a bike trail and reading during school hours. I spent the rest of the ride home wishing I had stopped to say something more to him.
As I was nearing the end of the bike trail, I hoped that he would pull up behind me so I could figure out who he was. Of course, he wasn't there. But then, just as I was turning onto the main road, I sensed someone behind me. I turned to look back, and there he was. Already down the main street, I didn't want to go out of my way and turn around. Besides, he was getting ready to head in the opposite direction. "See ya around." I called out to him. "Bye." came his response.
Such a small encounter, but my mind will not allow me to forget about it. Who was he? Why would this 15-16 year old looking kid be sitting on a bike trail reading a book during school hours? Simply sitting outdoors and reading at all is uncommon for kids his age. I guess I'll have to be content to let this one remain a mystery. I've never seen him again.
Sunday, June 13, 2010
Free falling
Sometimes I wish I could jump off a cliff just for the beauty I would see while falling.
No, I'm not really considering jumping off a cliff; I do quite enjoy living with two feet on the ground. But imagine! The exhilaration of the wind flowing through one's hair, the feeling of zero gravity, the sites one would see as the world slowly grew closer and closer, and the realization that these wonders are consuming the last moments of one's life. Beautiful.
I suppose that's kinda like life for some. They live in the moment, enjoying every second regardless of morality and consequences. So maybe they end up in a ditch somewhere, shattered into a thousand pieces, but at least they devoted themselves to their fall. At least they lived their drop. I suppose brokenness is better than living safely on solid ground, too afraid too risk the fall.
No, I'm not really considering jumping off a cliff; I do quite enjoy living with two feet on the ground. But imagine! The exhilaration of the wind flowing through one's hair, the feeling of zero gravity, the sites one would see as the world slowly grew closer and closer, and the realization that these wonders are consuming the last moments of one's life. Beautiful.
I suppose that's kinda like life for some. They live in the moment, enjoying every second regardless of morality and consequences. So maybe they end up in a ditch somewhere, shattered into a thousand pieces, but at least they devoted themselves to their fall. At least they lived their drop. I suppose brokenness is better than living safely on solid ground, too afraid too risk the fall.
riveting introductory post
I have wanted to start a blog for awhile now, but I have yet to actually get around to it. This could be partially due to my laziness, lack of time, or my tendency to waste what little time I do spend on the inter-webs on much more productive sites. (E.g. facebook.) Also, I am hesitant to put my thoughts out there for others to read. For onesies, there's not much there worth reading, and for twosies, even if they are worth reading, who has time? Live is lived by the clock. Go go go go go. (Too bad so few stop to listen to old grandfather clock, who is telling us to slow down and breathe before breaths can no longer be inhaled.)
But, ya know what? The more I think about it, (and I only just starting thinking about this as I started writing this post,) I realize that the primary reason for putting blogging on the back burner is that I do not know what to write for my first blog entry. I feel as if I should have some sort of introduction. E.g."Hi, I'm me this is my blog this is what I'll be blogging about." However, you, the reader, are likely not going to get much out of the blog as it is. I'd rather not make that worse by boring you about my interests, passions, and aspirations for this blog. If you are insane enough to actually want to know where this is headed, you are free to "follow" me. Just click the button on your left.
Hmm... in the rare occasions that I do freely write, I tend write about my thoughts and feelings. So I suppose if I were to tell you what I will blog about, it would simply say "Hi, I'm Molly, and I will write about my thoughts and feelings."
But isn't that a given? What else would someone write about besides either something that they had put some thought into or something that they were feeling? Even if I were to make that lame introductory post, I would have put thought into it. I have no doubt that it would have ended up being quite boring--not unlike the entry you are reading at this very moment.
So rather than put you asleep with that, I am devoting my first blog entry to telling you why I am not making a lame introductory first post... by making a lame introductory post. Irony.
I am going to go read. If you would like to test your endurance of poorly written blog entries, you are more than welcome to drop by again sometime soon.
Goodbye.
But, ya know what? The more I think about it, (and I only just starting thinking about this as I started writing this post,) I realize that the primary reason for putting blogging on the back burner is that I do not know what to write for my first blog entry. I feel as if I should have some sort of introduction. E.g."Hi, I'm me this is my blog this is what I'll be blogging about." However, you, the reader, are likely not going to get much out of the blog as it is. I'd rather not make that worse by boring you about my interests, passions, and aspirations for this blog. If you are insane enough to actually want to know where this is headed, you are free to "follow" me. Just click the button on your left.
Hmm... in the rare occasions that I do freely write, I tend write about my thoughts and feelings. So I suppose if I were to tell you what I will blog about, it would simply say "Hi, I'm Molly, and I will write about my thoughts and feelings."
But isn't that a given? What else would someone write about besides either something that they had put some thought into or something that they were feeling? Even if I were to make that lame introductory post, I would have put thought into it. I have no doubt that it would have ended up being quite boring--not unlike the entry you are reading at this very moment.
So rather than put you asleep with that, I am devoting my first blog entry to telling you why I am not making a lame introductory first post... by making a lame introductory post. Irony.
I am going to go read. If you would like to test your endurance of poorly written blog entries, you are more than welcome to drop by again sometime soon.
Goodbye.