Mountains, Hills and Charity

There it was. A white-sloped mountain that I had been staring at for what seemed to be forever. Each time I had taken steps towards it recently, an aura of deep-seated fear had overcome me. And the farther away I was from it, the larger it became.

You see I had come to understand its makeup over the years. Flecked with green notions and unbelievable promises of happiness on the exterior, the black heated cauldrons of evil lay within. Even reaching one's hand toward it, sore fingers begin to tremble with unintelligent remorse. The interesting dilemma was the anticipation of uncovering what actually had to be dealt with versus the colorful flutterings of meaningless and annoying trivia.

Oddly enough, I was absolutely in control of just how high and menacing the mountain grew. I knew this and had tried over time to arrest it. It was really quite simple - it boiled down to self-discipline. The method called for addressing the debris on its way in, each and every day. The problem with this particular approach was that at the end of the period, the small hill that slumped against itself was almost entirely black. It was, indeed, much more menacing than its predecessors. Not as high, but ultimately denser. It would allow no unfocused climbing; rather its intensity called for blatant demands without the soft wafting of ancillary interruptions.

So what was worse? A high colorful mountain or a stolid black hill. The former, the former, the former.

With these thoughts in mind, I packed my quills and ink, my vellum, stamps, and labels and approached. I spread out my campsite and drew quarters to organize the fruits of what was destined to be an archeological finding event.

One for the "nice to see I still have it" group, one for the "discard quickly or it belongs to others" group. Another for the "I want to revel in your pages and not buy" group. One for the "Pick one charity to give to" group, and lastly the "Oh god that's due and I have to pay it" group.

Ok so now you have my drift.

On this particular occasion, I'm going to vent about the one group that troubled me the most. "Pick one charity to give to". The pile was huge and was predominantly made up of fat promises of living better in the afterlife if one participated. Two of the notable requestors had included one silver coin that was inserted in an exterior window on the front of the envelope. Why? I mused. I just did not understand the concept of a charitable organization giving away money to promote giving. Who would do such a thing? Were they not asking for contributions? I mean, to me the message they sent was .. we have too much so therefore, we're going to give some to you.


And then, on the same theme, you have multiple organizations sending you your own personal address labels - thick wads. Why? I mused. Again, why in their wildest dreams would charitable entities think that by spending countless money on self-stick labels in a country that is optimizing paperless billing .. where ecards are now coming into their own, and where someone, somewhere, is trying to figure out the next generation of home-delivered mail. What a waste!

Enough. I must away .. back to the mountain. Until the next time, I will remain, planning my next attack! Merliz

RIP My Noble Warrior

Pride divested itself into a white and grey coat draped over the now slender figure of a noble warrior. This was a legend who was about to pass over to rule in another place. A legend who had kept the peace in a land where strange visitors always moved in.

In the beginning, he was discarded into captivity being the 'one too many' within his own family unit. Caged, but not forlorn, he was the only one of his type in the holding pen. I can only imagine the thoughts that ran through his young mind as the sounds of those that surrounded him constantly reminded him that he was not of their kind.

A typical dealing had occurred as I sought to provide him with freedom. A dealing fraught with disgust. But I had a need to provide comfort to one of my own and as such, I walked away intentionally allowing the Dealer to believe that he had once again presided over yet another fool; that his oozing masculinity and slight of tongue had facilitated the outrageous profit he had made. What he wasn't aware of is the fact that even back then I chose my battles.  What I saw in my purchase was quite beyond value. As I reflect now it was, perhaps, the perfect risk.

And so I opened the doors and let the youngling out. Greeted he was by a curiously well-intentioned mother figure who willingly presented the largest nipples he had ever seen. As it had been only days since he had fought and lost, the battle for food, this must have been euphoria. And rather than shrinking back for fear of the unknown, he instantly bonded with his new provider even though although large, no liquid came out of her pendulous mammaries.

In the early years, there was only a slight interruption of his masculinity. It came early and had no effect on his subsequent demeanor as a protector. The domain over which he presided was harsh and urban. It didn't care about how you got there; it didn't care about who you were.  It cared about whether you were challenging in your demeanor, whether you were willing to lie down, or whether you pose a threat to the perfectly aligned order of prominence. And posed a threat my warrior did .. even in those formative years.

Battle scars and mice appeared regularly through the door. Nights when I would lay awake listening to the howls of challenges until he was ready to go forth. And no uninvited guests made their way up over the walls of his domain. And he arrested the ferocity of that intent to douse his prowess by sheer agility and stance. It was like he never understood that compromise was an option, regardless of the size or nature of the oppressor. In his mind, it appeared as if he intuitively had within him no fear.

The introduction of another 'invited' intruder of his own kind was to be quickly dealt with. "If you are to be within this house, you will yield". And yield the dear intruder did and ultimately became his closest companion, but not one that could ever live up to him. Kind he was, the young lord. Kind to this less meaningful being. Friends they were, until the end.

These were the early years when he laid with me and his mother-like figure and my own.  All together and safe.

As time went on our homestead was up routed and we moved to a different place. The once small members of our pack were growing and the mother began to expand. Alien beings were introduced and in each case, he had to bring them to an understanding of respect. Regardless of ferocity and size he stood his ground and corrected inappropriate behavior. This was bought on by a belief that although smaller there was a line, a specific line, that he would never tolerate being crossed. Challenged he was, consistently, and without fear, he stood that ground never yielding. Keeping the peace.

And then a young arch-lord from the neighboring Court began to intrude upon our domain. A dark lord. A strong misguided presence who overtly appeared. All of us that surrounded our hero were protective and did not like the intrusion of this presence. When the opportunity presented itself, as a unit, we pushed forward the message "You are not welcome". But deep into the night, he would continue to come forward to claim our territory. Many battles ensued. My warrior's black companion although much larger in stature did nothing. Why? Because he did not have a heart and so it was left in his hands. And fight he did.

Time after time ripped and bloodied he appeared with his oppressor looking on unscathed. Face battered, I soothed his wounds. He would recoup and then go back.  And then .. about a month ago ...

As I ran my hand over his back I felt backbone.  How had I missed the change? This was my warrior. Understandably he was getting older. I remember sitting in my sanctum, rain pounding down outside when I heard his call.  The daunting sound of a low menacing growl. On it went. On and on. And then it occurred to me that it had gone on for too long. So reluctantly I went out into the storm. There he was standing tall but drenched by the elements. His oppressor, puffed but dry underneath the safety of cover. I knew then that he would not yield, but my sense was that he knew that if he did he would lose this battle.  Not because he lacked courage, but because his body could not withhold against the challenging youth. I scooped him up and bought him in. Shivering, but tense, he allowed me to squeeze the water from him. "No fuss, let me go" was what he said.

This was just over a week ago .. and then I noticed he had not eaten. And then he ceased drinking. And then it was time to deliver him to the experts. An alien environment where they put forth the attitude of righteous knowledge. A kind opinion of maintaining life, regardless. No, no. They could not understand his path or how he arrived here. They could not understand that what they suggested defied the very way he had lived. There would be no tubes or forced continuance of life for my benefit. He deserved to die as he had lived, with dignity.

(Have strength Merliz, as you preside over the passing of a friend.)

And so I prepared the path that he deserved. I conjured up the sight of the bridge. I called upon those who has passed before to come forward as I needed them to be there. And then they brought him to me .. the white and grey coat draped over the now slender figure of my noble warrior. A legend who had kept the peace in my world and one who I would deliver across the bridge. And I held him in a way that only a true friend can.  I acknowledged his strength, asked for his forgiveness, and then as I always do, I asked him to be there for me when I make the crossing.

Until the next time, I am mourning the loss of a friend. Merliz

Rest Sweet Parade and A Reason for Skin

White snow to ice followed by a slow melt. Water appears in the fountain and a few early brown birds return to drink. Mud and sparse grass yield to booted feet on their way to collect windswept empty plastic bins. It was time to put them to sleep for another year.

Sit first and conduct an unemotional scan around the contenders. Adopt the discipline and do not look into the eyes of the broken figures who would not be making it. Concentrate on what you like regardless of how they found their way into the Holiday parade.

Now begin ...

Five tubs, three tree bundles, and two trash bags later the job was done. The glitz was gone, and the rooms gave off a tired air. Dust abounded. The spaces between and behind the twinkles were now exposed. And then exhaustion set in. It was too much to fix in one day. Energy and creativity were drained.

Tea and a quiet hour before I readied for the next adventure.

It had been a few days before when I had been surprised by an invitation from a lovely friend of mine. A visit to the Franklin Institute to see "Body Works". I did not have the slightest idea what this was and imagined soft sculptures drifting effortlessly from pose to pose. And then thinking a little more I began to recall an earlier discussion from a few weeks back.

Snippets of the conversation came forward. Words like medical study, muscles, and brain tissue. Cloudy sentences like, "It's about how the body works." Tendons. Blood vessels. Oh, oh, oh. Let me just check we are not talking about the same thing. Because I do remember quietly pulling back from this chat having said discreetly - "Not really my thing". Actually, I think I said it more forcefully than that. I probably said something more like - "Sounds really interesting, but you know me. I'm more of a creative "I like enchanted nature and dream-like visions of how humans can be" sort of person." I believe in folding gentle wings around the harsh reality of the life we live in. I don't do horror films, because there's just so much around in real life. I shy away from the overt relative to the human body, preferring to ponder what might be under the kilt or below the waste of a man, rather than the blatant display of what is. Maybe my response was more in the latter. However, now in the present, I began to wonder how I had perhaps not been so "overt" in my own response.

Of course, going into the City is always an enticement and the complement of the invitation vastly outweighed my particular views on the subject matter. Given this, I began to work on putting myself in the right frame of mind. However, researching the exhibition online only heightened my reservations and I was left with no option but to seek additional support.

And then it came to me - there had been another friend present during the early conversations on the topic. Someone who, unlike me, was salivating with interest over the very prospect of being able to see such a thing. And so, not one, but two moral supporters later - I had enhanced my ability to withstand the visuals.

The Saturday night visitation line was absolutely endless. Included in this collection of humans (waiting to examine the flesh and bone behind the skin) were the inevitable first-date couples, wads of intellects, and pockets of friends young and old. I just couldn't quite get over the fact that this viewing appeared to be, for all intents and purposes, quite the norm. And in we went.

Whether self-created or not, I felt the harsh pressure of the atmosphere. Was it dead? No, this could not be because I understood that the bodies displayed had "belonged to people who declared during their lifetime that their bodies should be made available after they die for the qualification of physicians and the instruction of laypersons." OK, so there were no disconcerted spirits here because they had wanted this. So continue on I did.

(Read first Merliz and seek to understand the creator.)

And I did and I was acutely interested in the life story of Mr. Gunther von Hagens. Brilliant was he. "...distinguished by early precocity, scholarship, discovery, experimentation, and invention. ... a man shaped by extraordinary events, and marked by defiance and daring." Yes, yes, and yes.

And then I was face to face with the first of many. And all I could do was pull my eyes down over and through the body that was displayed. I tried forcing my mind to embrace the concept. I tried. But you see.

.. the red muscles stretching taught into blatant bone shards and sinews
.. the marbled, lidded eyes, staring proudly out from a skinless face
.. the inner organs exposed by the careful manipulation of surrounding tissues
.. the skull sliced intentionally to reveal the marvelous "plasticized" brain
.. the fetus-bearing woman who had smoked
.. the angel with muscled wings
.. the poses
.. the dead

may have fascinated all in attendance apart from me, but I was beyond sad.

I was disappointed in myself for not being able to appreciate this spectacular exposition of what lies beneath the skin. But what I had said a few weeks back had inevitably come to fruition. I shy away from the overt. And it must be said that never before had I seen such things. Never again did I want to. The lesson in my search to be ultimately tolerant of others .. to agree to disagree .. was being tested.

And we left the City and convened at a local restaurant for dinner. And "they" chatted about just how fascinating it was and then onto football playoff conversations. And then home. And then into my sanctum. And then nothing. And then I realized that, indeed, I was still in shock. Let it go, said the voice of wisdom. It will take time, said the voice of knowledge. There is a reason for skin, said the voice of peace.

Until the next time, I remain wandering! Merliz

If We Make It So ... Maybe The Last One

Well now, 2010 already! What to expect? What to promise? What to believe in? I was almost too enthusiastic on Facebook. The theme of my revelry was "If We Make It So" as I sought to invigorate and entice my virtual Friends. It was a little too much for them and although the prospect ultimately excited me .. I fear I left those who I sought to excite, a tad cold! Ah well.

I have 365 days left to digress and correct into a more subdued and perhaps subtle approach.

The day before the New Year was a testament to my continued ability to change course. So cold, it was, that I had decided to stay close and create around me the home warmth on which I thrive. An early trip to the grocery and libation store was entirely comfortable as I found out, afterward, that my timing for such visits was entirely on point. No lines. Happy Salespersons. Home. Groceries away and then a walk for the girls - in coats as it was cold. Around the bend, we went and as our energy was not spent, we decided to continue to a beloved neighbor who (regardless of our unannounced visit) welcomed us warmly into her home. A Barn Party invitation later, left I did with girls in tow.

On the understanding that I would leave my crimson velvet long frock on its hanger, I would be collected by the designated driver and then into a night of strangers, music, and dance. Would there be pigs, thought I? Undoubtedly. Being raised in the country I could think of nothing better than the warmth and ultimately familiar smell of the farm yard as I welcomed in this New Year.

After collecting other complimentary New Year guests we drove down a familiar road before, all of a sudden, veering off into a small lane. Over a bridge and around a bend before we came upon a red, brightly lit barn. We were among the first to arrive and as the rain began to fall we enjoyed a prime parking spot and then made our way under a canopy and in through the door. In return for verbal in-crowd validation, and $20, we received a stamp and were processed forward.

It was, indeed, a barn. But it was not just any barn. Walking in there were friendly aromas (green and wheatie) - friendly sights (festive and woody) - and friendly sounds (rich and bluesy). How delightful I thought, an atmosphere without attitude and entirely welcoming. And then my cell phone rang .... 

"How do you cook Salmon Mom? Where is the Teriyaki Sauce? Can we use the frozen broccoli?"

And with this interruption came the essence of home - one that had drifted over the familiar road and down the small lane. This essence swirled through the air and came up through my phone, landing gently in my mind. I disconnected. Looked around. Smiled. Redialed. It was time to go home.

And in the wee small hours of the morning, as I looked back over the evening I had no regrets. As I looked forward to the years ahead I knew that there would be plenty of time to attend New Year's Eve parties uninterrupted. Times when my phone would stay silent until the stroke of midnight when the beloved familiar voices would call to acknowledge the turn of the year. They would confirm just how much they missed me and wished we were all together. And I would smile and remember THIS New Year's Eve - the one, maybe the last one when in the twilight of their adulthood, my darlings wanted me home! Until this time next year, I will remain, a Merry Merliz