Dear freedom,
I've heard about you a ton. But I am not sure if you and I have ever met. Have we? If we did, it must have been when I was little. Like, BABY little. Before I was molded into being the 'person' I am today. Before I was conditioned, educated and indoctrinated. Before I grew up to have - what we ironically call - a 'mind of my own.' Freedom, dear, I have yearned for you for years. As a vague poetic sentiment. As an unachievable dream. As an abstract concept. And no matter how much I'll feel your presence, I also always feel your absence. I hear people talk about you, preach about you, protest for you. They blurt out your name with so much confidence! As if you are an old friend they deeply know. As if you are an idea everyone would agree on. But no one has ever described well to me exactly WHAT you are? According to good ole' google, you are: 1: The power or right to act, speak, or think as one wants without hindrance or restraint. 2: Absence of subjection to foreign domination or despotic government. 3. The state of not being imprisoned or enslaved. 4. The state of being physically unrestricted and able to move easily. 5. The state of not being subject to or affected by a particular undesirable thing. 6. The power of self-determination attributed to the will; the quality of being independent of fate or necessity. 7. Unrestricted use of something. From these descriptions, I am getting the feeling that you, dear freedom, are a very fleeting state. One that comes and goes. Probably shows up too fast for anyone to notice and truly appreciate, and mostly felt when you are taken away. You, freedom, as other vague notions like you, are most felt in your absence. The physical notion of you, is a little bit easier for me to grasp. But what about your more... subtle formation? In...say...the 'freedom of thought?' Let's zoom in on that for a second, shall we, freedom? So, thoughts. Considering our thoughts are a mish-mash of; memories that are mostly imagined and not likely to be most accurate; biases that connect a pattern of thought that seems logical to us; random blurbs that mostly try to frighten us into submission; ego driven judgments and criticism that only help to separate us from others; other random comments on life; and here and there some rare, but brilliant, ideas. Knowing all that, and that we are constantly lead to thoughts by the environment around us, in the sneakiest ways possible, (Hey, the advertisement industry is based on that principle, and don't even get me started on politics. ouch), knowing all that.... shouldn't 'freedom of thought' be in the absence of thought all together? ? I honestly have no idea why I am asking YOU that, freedom. You are doing your thing: being free somewhere, teasing us humans with your existence. Hey, as you know, you are FREE to do what you will. And I'll hang out nearby, wondering what you REALLY are: If you do indeed exist, or rather you are just another story us humans have created while playing the game of life. If you do exist, in all your glory, way beyond those google descriptions, SHOW UP will you?
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What is change?
Where does it come from? And why? How do we nurture our adaptability for change? Why do us humans resist change with every particle of our body? If change is constant and always occurring, is anything NOT change? Is STABILITY the opposite of change? Or is it STAGNATION? Why, as we age, we seem to have a harder time dealing with change? And why, for others, changing is as natural as the changing tides? Why do we randomly call a handful of coins 'change?' Why do I wonder all this? And where do I fit in in the wide spectrum of change? Today, I only have questions. I got no answers yet, and I probably never will. Today the world,
Seemed prettier from the inside of my home. Seemed quieter from the pages of my book. Seemed caring from the taste of my homemade lunch. Today the world, Smiled at me for a moment. Reminded me of its beauty. And its tolerance. And its peace. Today the world, Laughed with me at a moment of silliness. Cuddled with me when I was lazy in bed. Danced with me to a song I love. Today the world showed me its beauty. And then I went outside, and met its ugliness. There are people among us, walking among us in the streets, driving past us on the highway, standing in the next line to us at the store, who are heroes.
No, they aren't wearing capes or waving wands. They aren't featured in comic books or in the pages of a magazine. They don't have 'followers' on their Insta page. Some of them don't even have a page at all, let alone any followers. They look like everyone else, anyone else. Average, ordinary, 'invisible' people. They may not stand out in a room, or be the types to dominate conversations. They may be perfectly okay being a bit hidden from public view. They may not feel special at all, or would ever consider themselves heroic. But they're heroes because of the hardship they have endured, or still endure. The suffering they meet every day and yet still show up to walk the streets, drive the highways, stand in lines at stores. Don't get me wrong - They're heroes not just because they've been through stuff. Hey - we all go through stuff and I wouldn't say we are ALL heroic beings... They're heroes because every day, they surpass the notion that their suffering is anything special. They know deeply, that they are not. They help others, in their community, be it in their family of two, or in their town of ten thousand, they display empathy for their fellow humans because they know they're ones of the same. They see themselves in the other, and the other in themselves. Too many among us walk with their heads high, with a sense of entitlement, of importance, of 'specialness.' Our "free" modern world and the religion of individualism, and the importance of self-esteem, has brought along with it, a more-than-healthy dose of narcissism and entitlement. We often praise those types, highlight them, think they're special. We makes them our 'idols', our 'heroes', our, ahem, 'presidents.' But what do we gain from making them our heroes? And more importantly, what is lost when we overlook the unsung heroes among us? This song has been background music to my life since I was a teen. (And yes.. I know I'm not the only one who could probably say that.)
Lately, this little piece of heaven by The Scorpions, has been echoing in my head louder and louder. With more clarity. With more attention to the lyrics than ever before. Perhaps it's the changing tides in the socio-political state in the United States; Perhaps it's Covid-19 that has brought along so much change with it; Perhaps it's because it's been quite literally windy here in Venice Beach in my first ever 'June Gloom' as a Venetian; Perhaps it's my own personal winds of change knocking me off my feet, challenging my balance, pushing against my fragility; Or perhaps it's just a damn good song and it simply wants to be heard right now. Whatever it may be...I'm grateful. Grateful for the music, the powerful music video accompanying it, and the reminder that we have all been here before. Nothing is new under the sun, and change is always occurring. The world will come through. Things will settle. The wind will calm down and rest. That is...until the next revolution. My newfound hobby of engaging on facebook, much more than I used to, and probably much more than I 'should.' (but hey, desperate times...) has reached a new level today.
While I was peacefully (yes, peacefully and even kindly!) commenting on a video post of a friend, one that proposed some of the same conspiracies in regards to the Corona Virus Pandemic that have been circling for a while, I have encountered a top level TROLL. And by 'top level' I mean he has brought up outlandish claims about the 'Deep State', that I am a 'sheep', a 'Hollywood elitist' and so on.... he even mentioned I should say 'hey' to my 'fellow pedophiles' (Yup. For real. Where's the disgusted Emoji when ya need it!?) Obviously, I saw that as outrageous and disgusting, and it was probably meant to rile me up and get me to engage... so now, as I process the avalanche of name-calling from this conspiracy minded person I have never actually met, DO I engage? Or do I leave the troll alone and go along with my day and do something more beneficial with my time? (Like, writing this daily blog, for instance.) Do I, as my friend put it, 'troll the troll' so he can get 'owned' and I can have a little mark of victory and keep my chin up for a minute, or do I let his last hateful comment stay up on the wild web, vacant of a response, for everyone to see and make their own conclusions? How bad do I really want to cave into the temptation of my ego, the one that makes me want to WIN this debate and be RIGHT, even though I know full well there is no potential for real winning when the person is completely convinced at his outlandish claims? I think of slogans like 'haters gonna hate' and 'don't feed the trolls' and 'when they go low, we go high' and I wonder: If we resign, and not look at the other as one with a potential to change, are we unknowingly contributing to the problem of ignorance and division? Or, if there is a tiny possibility that engagement can lead to some change (for both participants), shouldn't we give the maximum of our ability to debate, to inspire thought, to turn the hater into a lover? Or perhaps we may want to put our time on affecting change in different ways - ways that are within our boundaries of safety than engaging in a public debate with, for lack of better words, A TROLL? I was contemplating all that, and decided NOT to engage with that toxic troll today. Not engaging IS a form of engagement. Saying 'Nah, I'm not gonna do that' has a message of its own. And it's loud . And it's clear. Hope he gets the message. And if not... he'll probably go find another 'sheep 'to feed him. The next book I want to read has to hook me.
It has to be the kind of book that I simply can't put down, for hours. A binge-worthy read. An epic book that I can't stop telling people about afterwords. The kind of book that I go on and on and on, yapping about its greatness. You know, a book that makes you start a book club so you can discuss it with others and have an excuse to read it all over again. Or maybe it would be the kind of book that I wouldn't be able to re-read because reading it would take me on such a ride, filled with suspenseful plot and deep emotional journey, that I wouldn't want the second read to spoil the awesomeness of the first. The next book I want to read has to have the kind of flare or melody that makes me think differently. Language that challenges me. Rhythm that requires me to follow its own beat and shut off my own. A book that makes my critical mind SHUT THE F UP. A book that as I read, I would see every single moment in it, and my imagination would go wild with imagery, and senses. The next book I want to read has to make me want to eat it. bite it. chew it. devour it. And it wouldn't taste like paper, no. It would taste like GOURMET paper. Paper from the tallest most royal lush tree. From Costa Rica, or some other glorious spot. The kind of paper you'd use for a fancy resume with a glossy finish, for a job you really really REALLY want. The next book I want to read, has to inspire me. Inspire me to write, inspire me to read, inspire me to live..... books can do that. Books have the potential to be life changing. And the next book I want to read has to change me in some way. It has, and so... it will. Recommendations, anyone? An old man, about seventy five but who's counting, is in the dog park, looking for something.
His hands are in his pockets, he goes through the depth of his Lee's. Those deep pockets have holes in them. Threads are fraying from older holes that his late wife sewed up for him. He is ferociously digging in those pockets but can't seem to find what he is looking for. He turns to look behind him, as if looking to his past. Perhaps he left what he's looking for over there? I wonder. He looks behind him, but doesn't see a thing. He scratches his head in frustration. At this point, I walk towards him - my mother taught me to be kind to the elderly - so I give it a go: "Sir, can I help you with anything?" I ask. He stares at me for a moment, a short moment, a glimpse. Too short for me to notice the hesitancy in that stare. And then he smiles, with his dentures. They're in place, but seem too bulky for his mouth, I think to myself. "I am looking for something, and I'm afraid I can't find it." He says, as he continues scratching his head. I briefly imagine what aging would feel like, and dread that thought. So to quickly distract myself from that horrifying thought, I, being a good samaritan and all, offer my unsolicited advice: "Well, where was the last place you'd seen it?" The man stares once again. This time I notice his stare. I wonder... is that the look of dementia? Then he announces with profound sincerity: "I don't remember." At this point I think I should walk away and leave this man in peace. Not sure how I can help. But I try nonetheless ('cause I'm a stubborn one), and for some reason, I feel for this old man. He seems to be afraid of something. I have a weakness for the fearful ones. So I stay. "Can I help you find it?" I say, with a tender smile. The man laughs unabashedly. "No, young lady, this is something I have to find on my own." I take a moment to brush off my disdain to the box he placed me in... he's old, after all... and respond to him with care: "Oh? Well, what is it that you are looking for?" Suddenly he stands taller. So tall I almost see his youth peeking beneath his white hair and deep wrinkles. "My moral compass. I lost it. I lost it, and I must find it." The man looked for his moral compass the rest of the day in the park. And he continued looking for it on Main Street. And he looked for it at his white fenced house. And he is looking for it STILL. Perhaps he will look forever. I'll stay close by to cheer him on. Linda was a round woman. A plump, full figured woman in her late forties.
She was called 'chubby' when she younger, and even 'fat' a handful of times, by some mean kids, and even meaner adults. She described herself as curvy. "Hi. Curvy Linda, nice to meet ya!" she would say as she met strangers. As she'd held her hand out for a shake. Her handshakes were famous for their warmth. She knew she was a good hand-shaker. She took pride in her hand shaking skills. You could see the pride in her big chocolate brown eyes. Her eyes smiled with her, always. Even if she didn't smile at all. It was their shape, that is all. They were smiling eyes. A curvy woman named Linda, with smiling eyes and a stellar handshake, was standing on a bridge. If you hadn't noticed the smile in those eyes of hers, you'd think she was pondering a jump to the lake below. But Linda wasn't there to swim in the depths of her misery. No, Linda was an optimist, a lover of life. She was there to honor someone. She was there to remember. She was there to send a blessing to the lake below. She was there for Peter. Years before, Peter and Linda had a love affair that belongs to the dirtiest erotica novels, the kind that women read in secret at night, the kind that a curvy woman in her forties dreams about a decade later. Peter was a scrawny fella. Not a shred of curves in him. His back side was flat like plywood. His long arms hung low as if they were too long for his body. He was too tall, he thought. He always felt too tall and yearned to be down under like everyone else. Peter never told Linda he loved her. Instead, he would mouth the words, which made her want to hear them even more. She'd giggle as he mouthed, and sometimes weep and beg for him to say the words, but he wouldn't. See, Peter had the self discipline of a marathon runner at the last fifteen minutes of a twenty four miles run. She thought he was stubborn. And she was right. Linda was often right when it came to issues of the heart. Linda and Peter met online, went on a few dates, nothing special. But on date five, when Peter took Linda to a shooting range, to teach her how to fire a weapon, sparks flew. To clarify, no sparks of guns flew that day, but sparks of the heart. They made love for four hours that night, and cuddled until morning. Peter used to poke Linda's belly. He used to squeeze her flappy love handles. He mouthed "I love them" every night. And she smiled with her eyes and blew a kiss his way. Some love stories have a simple ending. An ending that isn't as eventful as a writer would hope. Some love stories simply end, fade, disappear. And that's what it was like for Linda and Peter. Neither knew why it happened, but it did. The love affair ended, as quickly as it sprung upon. As Linda stood on the bridge, gazing at the lake below, she thought to herself 'What If.' What if their love story never ended. What if they had continued on and build a life together. What if they had children together. What if Peter never would have jumped? She stood there, to honor his memory. Pinching her own love handles, mouthing the words 'I love you' to the lake below. She was a woman of God, a believer, a church goer. So she wondered, why did God send Peter her way? Could she have done anything to stop his suffering? See, Linda wanted to see herself as a savior. She was the one that saves, that helps, that loves. She didn't want to see the simple truth of the matter. She didn't want to think that Peter's death had nothing to do with her. That it simply happened, and that Peter's last moments didn't have anything to do with her. In fact, Peter hadn't thought of Linda in years. No, Linda didn't want to see any of that, she was to remain a savior for the rest of her life. Linda pulled out a cross necklace from her purse, and held it tight. Sending her memory of Peter off with a little prayer, a little blessing, with a smile in her eyes, of course. The sun came out of the clouds. Linda felt its heat on her shoulders. She sighed a deep sigh, and tucked her cross necklace back into her purse. She turned to look one more time at that lake. The sun hitting it in spots made it look so beautiful, she thought. She will remember that image, always, she thought. She walked off, and never thought of Peter again. |
AuthorIn April 2020, while experiencing her first ever global pandemic, Tamar Pelzig pledged to write something every day, even if it's only a word, so she welcomed to the world a daily blog to keep her creative writing wheels rolling. Categories
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Header Art: Daniel Landerman |