Sometimes our souls demand that we act........

When I think of courage, I think of Rosa Parks.

In December, August, 1955, Rosa Parks refused the bus driver's order to give up her seat and to go and sit in the ''coloured'' section of the bus. This act of defiance by Rosa Parks, together with the Montgomery Bus Boycott, became important symbols for the Civil Rights Movement in the USA.

(This is a rendition in graphite that I did from a photo I found in photo book.)

In my view, she was a very courageous woman, especially as in those days ''uppity niggers'' (sorry, but that was a common colloquial term in those days and NOT my opinion) often ended up hanging like strange fruit from the poplar trees. 

Some years ago I found myself sitting on the Montgomery Courthouse (Alabama, USA) steps, barely able to breathe due to a suffocating heat that seemed hell bent of squeezing every last drop of fluid from my body.

It seemed oddly still for being in the middle of the day, but I guess the Montgomery towns people were much smarter than me,...they stayed out of the midday sun. Across the courthouse stood a row of magnificent flowering Magnolia trees, the sky was sparkling blue, the courthouse brilliant white, and as I struggled to breathe, I watched waves of heat off the black, melting, asphalt slowly slithering their way toward heaven.

Echoes of events from days gone by were buzzing in my head like flies on an old hamburger wrapper.

I thought of Rosa Parks, of her indomitable courage and tenacity, of her sitting alone on the bus while surrounded by anger, hostility, racism, and people who viewed her as barely human.

I wondered if I possessed even a scintilla of her courage to stand up for my convictions and beliefs.

Some say that: ''Courage is not the absence of fear, but rather the assessment that something else is more important than fear.''  (Franklin D. Roosevelt)

To conclude that something is that important that one is willing to face one's fears associated with that, I guess necessitates knowing what that 'that' is.

How many of us really know what we are willing to fight for, so much so that we are willing to put up with the consequences that may come from doing so?

And, are we willing to do so not only for ourselves and those that are important to us, but also for others?

Most of us will fight for fairness, because we know that fairness is important for social cohesion and collaboration. (Even a four year old child has a concept of fairness and will very quickly point out to us if we are being unfair, but,.... how, and who decides what is fair and what is not?)

Is fair the same as equal? When we get what we think/believe we deserve, is that fairness?

The expectations we have of what we believe we deserve, can they be trusted?

Most of us probably have an idea of what we think our human rights are, but just in case, let me refresh:

''Human rights are inherent to all human beings, regardless of race, sex, nationality, ethnicity, language, religion, or any other status. Human rights include the right to life and liberty, freedom from slavery and torture, freedom of opinion and expression, the right to work and education, and many more. Everyone is entitled to these rights without discrimination.''

Some say that we get what we deserve, but is it really so?

Did the baby born with Spina bifida, congenital heart disorder, leukemia, or any other horrid disease deserve its illness?

Did the many people born with genetically inherited mental health issues deserve their illnesses?

Did the many children born into poverty and starvation deserve it?

For those of us fortunate enough to have been around for awhile, most of us would probably agree that life is not fair, nor do we always get what we expect or believe that we deserve, and with 1% of us having more of everything than the rest of the 99%, neither is it equal......question is.... do we want to play with our phones or do we want to get up, stand up, stand up for all humans rights?

''The rights of every man [human being] is diminished when the rights of one man[human being] are threatened.''

(John F. Kennedy)

Is it easier to be angry than to be loving?.......

Anne Frank wrote a diary while she was hiding from certain death, unaware that her words would become immortalized in a book that many of us would come to read.

She was just a young girl writing down her thoughts and experiences as she dealt with the many trials and tribulations she endured, but due to someone having the insight to realize that her words had much to offer, we are today able to partake in her insights.

With the constant threat of being discovered and shipped off to an extermination camp, how was she able to remain so optimistic and hopeful? How was she able to choose an attitude of love rather than

 anger??

Choose? you may ask.....is anger not a primal response to a perceived threat and or danger, so an instinct, not a choice? (Anger gets our 'juices' flowing, increase our heart rate, pumps us full of hormones, and often feels like a power surge rushing through our bodies. In other words, preparing us for defending ourselves from a possible attack.) Some say that anger is a secondary emotion, and with that they mean that it is expressed on the back of other emotions such as fear and sadness, which are deemed as prime emotions. If this is the case, does that mean that since anger is a secondary emotion, we do have a choice as to how we will respond to it? 

Fear and sadness can often be experienced as emotions that diminishes us, as in we feel weakened and powerless, whereas anger with its mixture of 'juices' can often be experienced as making us feel more able, strong, and powerful.

A child wanders off in a crowd, the parents panic while searching for the child, ..... often these are the first words the child will hear from the parents when they find him/her: ''How many times have we told you to not wander off!!! Do you realize just how worried you made us????''

(Mea culpa (my guilt also), and many times...only to feel terribly guilty and remorseful immediately after.)  Less common is: ''We are so glad we found you, because you are so loved, and so precious to us, that when we couldn't find you we felt really scared, but thankfully, you are here now.''

Pondering this, lead me to wonder: ''Is it easier to be angry than loving?''

('Easier', in the sense that anger somehow feels empowering whereas expressing feelings of love (or sadness and fear) opens us up to possible rejection and so feels more risky.)

A few different scenarios spring to mind:

Is it easier to tell the homeless person to 'get a job' than to say a few kind words?

Is it easier to to tell the broody teenager to 'snap out of it' than to tell him/her a few encouraging words?

Is it easier to tell a person who says he/she feels really sad to: 'look at the bright side and pull your socks up' than to tell him/her: 'you seem a bit down, is there something I can do to help?'

Is it easier to tell the person who is anxious about many things to: 'don't worry about everything all the time' than to say him/her: 'I can see that you are worried, what exactly worries you, perhaps I can help?'

Is it easier to tell a person who struggles with illness and pain what they should do to fix it than to ask him/her what they need?

Is it easier to deny our own feelings of sadness and fear behind a veil of indignation and anger than to

find a measure of love and kindness for ourselves? 

Do we at times veil our authentic emotions in order to protect ourselves, as in,

do we have 'default' reactions/responses to different emotions in order to protect ourselves?

''Sad people make me feel sad, I don't like feeling sad so instead I will ignore those feelings and people.''

''Angry people make me feel scared, I don't like feeling scared so instead I will ignore those feelings and people.''

''Anxious people makes my feel anxious, I don't like feeling anxious so instead I will ignore those feelings and people.''

(These words (italics) is a recollection of a conversation I had with someone. This someone's choice for a default response (according to herself)was: I will only care for those whom I deem worthy.)

Most of the time, what we feel, is about us.....our egos. Other people do not make us feel things, our feelings belong to us, they are our responsibility. I understand that it often feels as if so and so made us angry, but unless someone is able to actually go into our brains and manipulate our synoptic impulses, we alone are responsible for our feelings. (Although there may be extenuating circumstances in which expressing 'negative' emotions may be part of a healing process, aka. rape, abuse, and or some kind of violent crimes.)

''No one can make you feel inferior without your consent.'' (Eleanor Roosevelt)

The ego want protection from, love wants to open up to,

the ego wants to hold grudges, love wants to forgive,

the ego wants to be right, love wants to understand,

the ego wants to be respected, love wants to be connected,

the ego is fragile, love is strong.

''Everyone inside of him[her], has a piece of good news.

The good news is that you don't know how great you can be! How much you can love!

How much you can accomplish! And what your potential is!''

''In spite of everything, I still believe that people are really good at heart.''

(Anne Frank)

Whether it is easier to be angry than to be loving, we must all decide for ourselves.

ps. Not long before the II World war ended in 1945, Anne Frank died in the Bergen-Belsen camp, barely 16 years old.

The man with the blue eyes......philosophy in a laundromat

The tumble dryer beeped, signaling that my first load of washing was dry. 

I got up and emptied the load into my basket. Two more loads to go. I had just sat down and carried on reading my book when the door to the laundromat opened. 

Carrying a duffel bag, a man in a tattered over-coat, wearing a well-worn woolen beanie and boots without shoelaces, entered the laundromat.

When he saw me he took off his beanie, looked me straight in the eyes and said: ''Evening'', then proceeded to put the contents of his duffel bag into one of the washing machines.

When he was finished, he sat down on a chair next to me.

I didn't know what to do, should I put down my book and begin a conversation with him or should I continue reading? Did he sit down next to me for a reason or was it just a coincident?

I looked at my watch, 8:30 pm, still another hour and half until all my washing would be done.

Truth be told, I felt uncomfortable. With all the empty chairs in the laundromat, why did he choose to sit down next to me? I decided to keep on reading.

A few minutes passed, then suddenly a voice: ''What is your take on time, does it exist or is it a mere human construct?''

I put down my book, turned toward the voice and found myself looking into the bluest eyes I had ever seen. I was lost for words for a minute or two before I answered: ''Actually, I am not sure, it depends on how the word time is defined perhaps?'' I answered.

''Well,'' the man with the blue eyes responded, ''How do you define the word 'time' then?''

''Well, if I am sitting in a dentist chair and having a tooth pulled, then time seems to pass very slowly, but if I am doing something I really enjoy, then time seems to fly, so I guess how one experiences time has a lot to do with not only hours, minutes and seconds, but also what one is experiencing during those hours, minutes and seconds,'' I answered.

The man with the blue eyes looked at me and smiled, ''You have given this some thought then I gather?''

''Yes, I have, and still do, and so far my hypothesis is that there is 'clock time' and then there is 'experienced time', I answered. As on cue, the timer on my tumble dryer, and the man with the blue eyes' washing machine, both started to beep at the same time.

''Alas, regardless of how we define time, it does tend to pass, wouldn't you agree?'' the man with the blue eyes said as he got up off his chair to unload his washing machine.

As I was putting in my last load in the tumble dryer, I quickly glanced over at the man with the blue eyes.

There was something odd about him that I couldn't put my finger on. He was dressed as if he lived on the streets, his whole demeanor quite disheveled, yet at the same time there was an 'air' about him that I couldn't quite pinpoint. As I stood at one of the tables folding my washing, I realized just how biased and judgmental my thinking was. I gave myself an internal slap on the wrist and vowed to myself to snap out of it and to remember that the measure of a human being does not hinge on clothing or appearance, rather, it hinges on a person's inner qualities.

I loaded the last bit of washing into the dryer and then sat down on my chair again.

A few minutes later the man with the blue eyes sat down next to me.

I was just about to ask the man with the blue eyes where he was from when the door to the laundromat flung open and two very drunk women entered.

''Jules, look at this will ya, men doing washing... what? Haven't yous got women to do it for ya? No one wanted yous, is that it? Or are you fags?'' said one of the women as she plonked herself in one of the chairs. The other woman pulled out a crumpled cigarette from her handbag, lit it, then laughed and said: ''Too right Sheila, look at them, miserable bums.''

I opened my mouth to respond, but before I got the chance to say anything, the man with the blue eyes spoke.

''Evening Ladies, I take it that you are in good spirits tonight, so please allow me to answer your questions, however I will speak only for myself since until only a few hours ago the two of us were total strangers. Three years ago, my wife and son were killed in a car accident on the way to pick me up from the airport. One year later our home burned to the ground while I was overseas doing my second tour of Afghanistan. In the space of two years I lost everything that I held dear, but these circumstances were instrumental in bringing about a big change in my outlook on life.

I now view every moment of life that I am given as a precious gift, and as none of us know how many moments any of us are given, I personally do not want to waste any time on concerning myself with pursuing anything that is not life or love-affirming.''

''Jeez, Sheila, what a nutcase, let's get out of here, I need another drink after all that philosophizing.''

''Me too Jules, and you, what's wrong wif ya, why don't you say anything, cat's got your tongue or what?'' The cat did have my tongue, I was lost for words.

The two women laughed, flung the door open and left, leaving behind a pungent smell of cigarettes and cheap alcohol.

''I think your dryer just stopped'' said the man with the blue eyes.

I folded the last of my washing, put it into my laundry bag, then slung the bag on my shoulder.

With his back to me, the man with the blue eyes was loading his washing into one of the dryers.

I felt that I needed to say something before leaving the laundromat, so I dropped my bag on the floor, tapped the man with the blue eyes on the shoulder and said: ''I am so sorry for all the pain and suffering you have had to endure, but I am grateful for having had the opportunity to spend some time with you.''

The man with the blue eyes smiled, put a hand on my shoulder and then said: ''A person who dares to waste one hour of time has not discovered the value of life.'' 

Parents hurt too........sometimes

With trembling fingers she disconnects the call. 

Her head feels as if it is about to explode, her heart as if it's about to pixelate, and her mind as if it is about to disintegrate altogether.

''Keep it together, keep it together'', she tells herself as she paces back and forth in her tiny apartment.

''Car keys, I need to find my car keys, where are they?'' Feverishly she starts to hunt for her keys while her stomach is doing somersaults threatening to violently expel its content.

''Come on mind, remember!!!'' she tells herself as she turns her bag upside down emptying all the contents on the floor.  She looks under the sofa cushions, under the dinner table, and then suddenly remembers that she had left her car keys in her jacket pocket after she came back from the shops. 

''Finally!!'' 

She looks at her watch, 4:30 am, 30 minutes had passed since the surgeon from hospital had phoned.

She tries her son's mobile again....no answer.

With her hand on the front door door handle, she realizes that she is still in her pajamas, so she quickly runs upstairs and throws on some jeans, a t-shirt, and a pair of sneakers. The town house complex is dark and quiet so when she starts the car she holds her breath and hopes that the sound her car makes does not wake anybody.

Not a stir. A few minutes later she is on the motorway and on her way to the hospital.

She tries to remember what the surgeon had said to her, but it's blurry except for a few words: ''your son needs emergency surgery right away, but to do so, we need your signature of consent''....

The steady hum of the engine and the stillness of the deserted motorway allows her to try to reel in her emotions and thoughts. ''How badly is he hurt, is this the end, what happened, how do I deal with this emergency, will I ever again be able to sleep through a night without him calling drunk, stoned,  distraught, or one of his girlfriends or friends phoning me to tell me to come and deal with him?''

Her grip on the steering wheel tightens as she tries to keep her anxiety at bay. ''Think calm thoughts and concentrate on the driving,'' she tells herself as she stares at the road ahead, trying to slow down her shallow and fast breathing. As the kilometers pass and her little green car nudges its way toward the hospital, the day breaks and somehow the sight of the sunlight breaking through the darkened sky lightens her troubled mind. 

''Almost there, next turn off, soon I will be able to find out how bad it is, so right now I need to focus on gaining control of my feelings so that I will be able to deal with whatever may come. So far I have been able to deal with all the crazy and scary stuff that he has gotten into, so I will again,'' she tells herself as she turns into the hospital car park. She quickly parks the car at the first available empty space she sees, locks the car and then begin to run toward the emergency ward.

Running up and down the hospital corridors, she finally finds the emergency ward,

''Excuse me, someone from the hospital phoned me an hour ago and told me that my son has had an accident and that he needs an operation but in order to do so I need to sign something. Am I at the right place?'' The nurse lifts her head and with much patience she says: ''Your son is so drunk that we have to wait until he sobers up before we can operate. Please take a seat in the waiting room and we will let you know when it is all over.'' 

Slowly she walks up to one of the plastic chairs and sit down. Tears begin to well up behind her eyelids and no will power can hold them back. Turning her face away from the nurse's station and staring out the window, tears quietly and slowly slither their way down her worried face.

''What has happened to my happy, loving little boy? Why is he so unhappy all the time? What have I done wrong for him to be so unhappy?''

As hours pass, more and more people join her in the waiting room. Finally, after waiting for over four hours, a nurse taps her on the shoulder and tells her to sign the consent form as the surgeon is now ready to perform the operation. She signs the form but before she can ask exactly what the issue is, the nurse has already vanished down the corridor. Two more hours pass.

Suddenly the nurse appears again and says: ''You can see your son now, he is in room 10 B, it's the second door on the left. The operation went well so you can take your son home in an hour when the anesthetic has worn off,'' and with that she walks back to the nurse's station.

Slowly and with fear and trepidation, she walks to room 10 B.

There, in the bed with his arm all bandaged up, scratches all over his face and looking terrible, lays her most beloved. Her heart sinks as she looks at him, and then with whatever little strength she still can muster, she says: ''When you are ready I will take you home, or would you like to come home with me?''  Her son looks at her with bloodshot eyes and a tone of disdain in his voice and says: ''I don't know what the big deal is, just take me to my place, all I did was fall out a window and hurt my arm.''

Walking to the car neither of them says a word. When they arrive at his place she helps him up the front steps to his house. He walks in to his bedroom, lays down on the bed and then tells her that she can leave.

''Call me if you need anything'' she tells him as she walks out of the room.

''I'm okay, don't worry so much all the time'' he responds.

She feels numb as she starts the car, she feels numb as she hits the motorway, she feels numb as she goes through the events of the last 24 hours in her mind, she feels numb when she arrives home and parks the car. While still in the car, suddenly a thunderstorm with rapid fire lightning strikes strike all around her. Usually thunderstorms would unnerve her, but not this time, this time, under the cover of the roaring storm and crashing lightning strikes she opens her mouth and just screams, and she keeps screaming until there is no voice left.

One of the toughest jobs I have ever encountered is that of being a parent. 

 I love my child, but eventually, he will not really need me,

I love my child, but eventually, his very own he has to be.

Just know this my son, my very beloved,

right here in my heart, 

'tis where you'll always be.