Rebirth

I sat in a narrow hallway.
On a red cushioned bench my sisters and I sat together, staring at our feet and the intricately patterned rug that ran the length of the dimly lit hall. The scent of flowers hung heavily in the building, contained by unopened windows hidden behind thick velvet curtains. Silently, I began to count the doors on either side of the hall. One, two, three, four, five… My gaze rested at the far end where my dad and aunt had just turned the corner and were now walking towards us. With the exception of their somber tread, silence hushed the building like the absoluteness of death that filled every one of those small rooms I had now forgotten to finish counting. My dad stopped in front of us and looked at me expectantly. I stared back at my feet as he turned and entered the room behind us.

Only an hour earlier I had been at home with my mom and sisters. A former neighbor and close friend had been over with her daughter to visit us; we had laughed and played as if nothing in our lives could possibly ever go wrong. Then my mom asked me to go upstairs and change my clothes. “Wear something nice,” she had cautioned, knowing all too well my obsession with baggy jeans and flannel boy shirts. I searched my closet to find a long black skirt and cranberry colored blouse, my “church clothes” hidden somewhere near the back. I cringed at the black tights draped over the end of my bed, but knew better than to suggest an alternative with my mother today. Carefully, I dressed and paused in front of my mom’s bedroom mirror to pull my stringy hair back into the half up, half down style. I examined the finished product with a bit of excitement. My, but I looked grown up! I could almost pass for thirteen, rather than my pathetic eleven years and ten months of age. Standing straight and proud, I floated down the stairs to say goodbye to our friends and leave with my family.

Somehow everything was turned upside down. I had left my house a happy carefree young lady, and now sat a shaking frightened child in this depressing hall. What was wrong with me? I had never felt such an unexplainable surge of emotions and fears overcome me all at once. Just a little over a year ago, I had walked through this same funeral hall with my great-uncle, mom, and sisters. I fearlessly stepped into one of those candlelit rooms and looked at the body of my grandma for the last time. It felt so natural, so peaceful. She looked so beautiful, so very lovely. I understood, but I did not fear. Now I felt as if every nightmare that had disturbed my sleep and every demon that had made me doubtful and weak was about to overcome me at once.

My sisters and I all jumped slightly as the creaky door opened again and my dad came back out. “It’s time to go in now, girls,” he whispered for the second time that evening. I felt my youngest sister let out a little sigh as they both stood and walked inside. How could my younger sisters be so much more comfortable and strong than I am feeling right now? My stomach tied in knots and for a moment I thought I would lose my dinner. No, worse than that, I thought I would faint which was not an uncommon practice for me at the time. My dad stared down at me hard. “You need to go in. Mom needs it.” Bluntly I replied, “I know. I will,” and watched as he walked back down the hall with his parents and sister. I was glad it was dim, so no one could see how pale I was feeling.

I continued to sit in the hall, alone with my thoughts. Suddenly, I heard voices, and a large group of people turned the corner at the other end. I had found funeral parlors to be places of hushed voices and gentle movements, but these people seemed oblivious to this code. Energetically talking in an Asian tongue which was periodically interjected by raucous laughter, they passed by me and into the room two doors down from the one I was silently guarding. I settled back into a confused state of depression. What right have they to be so cheerful? I envisioned the inside of their room, music and laughter filled to overflowing. A shiny golden Buddha altar was standing solemnly in one corner and some sort of disco ball was spinning in another. Food and drink was being passed around, and as the group became even happier and drunker they danced around their dead family member and slapped him on the shoulder every now and then for good luck.

I sat bitter at their happiness, angry that they could treat the death of a loved one like some sort of celebration. No. I argued with myself. They are wrong. Death isn’t supposed to be that way. People aren’t supposed to be that way. What way? What was I trying to rationalize? Maybe the perfume of the flowers was starting to poison my young brain. Or maybe the source of my fear lay with the unknown.

When my grandmother died, I was right there beside her. She died in my living room, in the house I grew up in. I had never seen a dead body before, but watching her go made it normal and safe. The body that lay in the room behind me was different. I had not seen my grandfather in over a year. He had spent the last few months of his life alone in a coma in some hospital. We were not allowed to visit him. We were not allowed to speak to him while he was able. My brain began to fire out all manners of ridiculous thoughts and memories. The doctors had said they would have had to amputate some of his body parts had he not died first. He is a decapitated body. He had been diabetic. Needles hanging out of his large, strong hands; the remaining blood on his fingertips gushing out onto the casket. To my memory he had been dead for a year. A rotting, unrecognizable corpse.

Somewhere deep inside me a fear was building around that unrecognizable corpse. As frightening as that mental image was, it was not simply a physical fear I was dealing with, one that I could talk myself out of by being reasonable. It was the fear of a reality. Of having to look on the body of the man who had unknowingly betrayed his family. Of having to separate two memories: that of the grandpa who spoke soft Ukrainian words, told me the most lovely stories, and snuck me cashews and cheese puffs when mom was not around, and that of the grandpa who was ill, told me twisted lies, and made my mama cry.

The last year of my grandpa’s life, he had become a type of an unrecognizable corpse. His mind had decayed, transforming him into a man none of us knew. The strength of his body was not long to follow in wasting away. The man that I had known as a giant in body, soul, and will had allowed himself to be poisoned by lies and permanently separated from those who cared about him.

There was no way I could make sense of the emotions I was dealing with as I sat in that hallway. Perhaps I never will. Sometimes all you can really do is struggle to subdue the fears that will only bring further corruption and selfishness into a bad situation.

I looked up as the door opened again and my mom came out. I could tell she had been crying. She looked at me with pain, guilt, and love in her eyes, and the haze that had plagued my mind since I entered the funeral parlor finally lifted. I put my hand in hers, and together we entered the room.

Queen of the Cats

What an Artist

I drew a pig tonight. On this highly amusing site.

http://drawapig.desktopcreatures.com/

Because, you know, I only have about a billion other things I should be doing. But that is what the middle of the night exists for, right? Here's my pig, I be very proud of him...

To Speak or Not to Speak

So I was sitting in class today, not really in the mood for any interaction...just people watching. That is really my best hobby anyways; I can watch the same person for months if they are interesting enough before gaining any real desire to actually meet them. Well, someone had the nerve to come into class and sit down in the seat RIGHT next to me. One thing that really annoys me more than almost anything else at school is when there are only about thirty empty seats in the class and someone feels that they just HAVE to sit next to me. Unless it’s a friend, then they are quite welcome to.

I would have let it go this time, since this particular lady seems very kind, cute, and is expecting a baby in a few months. I guess I sort of pitied her, and at the same time found her pretty likable. But today, I was just annoyed. She happens to be the type of person that is completely incapable of keeping her mouth shut for more than five seconds. Maybe it’s the pregnancy. Maybe not. All I know is that I was personally not in the mood to listen to someone babble out their entire life story in the course of three hours. Sometimes I’ve found I can get away with not really listening. Some folks don’t expect you to anyways; I think they like the sound of their own voices. But she is one of those interactive over-talkers. She actually required me to pay attention in order to give feedback which was probably what was irking me the most.

The whole morning made me think back to my old hometown though. I hope to find the time to write out ALL my thoughts and mini-rants on this topic one day as right now they are made up of a billion scrambled egg ideas and emotions, but till then here is one contrast that I have always found interesting.

I grew up in the city. Concrete, asphalt, and tall white corporation buildings is how I best like to describe my hometown. The majority of the folks there are about as cold as the city itself. They cannot really help it I guess; it becomes part of who they are after awhile: thousands of fast-paced, overworked, affected little drones brainwashed into believing they have the ideal American lifestyle. Praise God, my family escaped when we did.

Folks down there are altogether a different breed from where I live now and I must admit it was a bit of a culture shock the first year or two I lived here. Trips to the grocery store of all things were the strangest for me at first. Where I come from everyone lives with a hurried mentality. I think their brains must work something like this all the time, “Hurry-hurry-faster-faster-in-and-out-I’m-late-I’m-late-wasting-time-wasting-money-wasting-gas-wasting-money-wasting-energy-wasting-money-money-MONEY.” At least, that is how I always interpreted those pathetic White Rabbit expressions on their faces, especially as a kid. One of them is likely to rip your head off, or simply just ignore you (if you are lucky) when you try to ask a question or make any kind of friendly small talk in a supermarket.

Around here, that mentality seems completely opposite. Everything is in slow motion. Strangers on the street talk to you for no apparent reason at all. Store owners (or most at least) treat you as if you matter, ask you about your life and actually expect and respond to an answer rather than simply taking your money and getting you out the door in as short a time as possible. I’ll never forget the first time I really experienced this weird friendly atmosphere. My family had recently moved and had almost no food in the house, so my dad and I made a market run to get just enough supplies for dinner. In the checkout line in front of us stood a short little man with long white hair and a rough past written all over his face. We had not been standing there for more than three minutes before he had given us a detailed account of his past twenty years. I remember staring in complete disbelief; my jaw must have dropped clear down to the floor. Certainly this kind of behavior was not normal? In the city he probably would have been assumed to be on a freakishly high level of drugs and had the police called on him for talking like that in public to a stranger. It does not phase me anymore though.

I love it here with all my heart. I had never felt such a sense of home and belonging until the first morning I woke up in the desert. I guess a small part of me sometimes continues to live in that hurried and unfriendly mindset however. Perhaps that explains mornings like this one where I just want to do what needs to be done and get on my way again. I really wish that I could learn how to break free from this mentality altogether and truly enjoy every aspect of my amusing little life and the beautiful people in it. I am so much more blessed than I remember sometimes.

Queen of the Cats

Rainbow

I was on my way to school this morning, tired, cold and somewhat late (I'm too obsessive about little things to ever be horribly late even if it means leaving the house in my pajamas). Well I spent almost the whole drive trying to determine what streets would be clearest to drive on, since we had quite a bit of rain yesterday and I did not really want to risk breaking yet another essential part of my poor little car while plowing through sandy washes. The highway wasn't an option simply because I don't like driving through town, having to look at other cars and buildings and such. Plus I just despise busy streets; I'm one of those annoying folks who would willingly take an extra two hours to get anywhere, avoiding freeways and taking surface streets as much as possible.

Well, I finally reached the street I was most trying to avoid, a beautiful but hilly residential area that I drive through every morning. "The scenic route," my dad terms this little stretch. I made the decision that I would give it a chance, as it really happens to be the only part of my drive to school, aside from the blaring country radio, that brings me any great happiness.

As I drove along the winding little road, dodging debris while maintaining a pretty fast speed, I glanced up at the sky and thought I saw something other than clouds. No, nothing there. I set my eyes back ahead of me, just in time to miss some large menacing car parts (not my own, thank goodness). But out of the corner of my eye, I kept thinking that I saw flashes of color in the sky just to my right.

It started driving me crazy. Every time I looked up to my right, I would see only clouds. Every time I looked down at the road, I would get a glimpse of mocking colors. Then I tried something different. I looked straight up ahead of me, rather than to the right or left or at the muddy ground.

No sooner had I tried this than a little rainbow popped into my vision! It was faded, yes, and perhaps not the glorious, brilliant colors that we have all been awed by before, yet it held its place in the sky with such persistence. It seemed to be waiting just long enough for more sunlight to break through from the thick blanket of clouds, in order to become better illuminated. My own vision of it was limited, yet each glance made me want to look longer, to take in more of that simple beauty. It filled me with much joy.

We all try so very hard to find the things that will bring us happiness, don't we? Some believe they deserve all the good at once. They stare at the supposed source of pleasure and find in all too short a time, that it disappears from sight, nothing more than vapor in the air. Some face so much hardship and pain that they believe happiness will never find them again. They focus solely on the rocky path ahead, and block out the "disillusionment" of beauty that haunts them from afar.

It takes a truly wise person to be able to set their eyes on the path directly ahead of them. They avoid swaying onto the attractive but treacherous trails to their right and left. They focus, refusing to allow blindness to shortchange them, even when a break in the clouds is not to be had. In the end, it is not simply a fleeting happiness they receive, but a permanent, even when sometimes faded, pillar of hope and joy.

Father, I pray you would mold me into this person, and help me never lose sight of the rainbow in my life.