I really am. When I think about the diseases, the illnesses, the strife and struggles of so many people in my circle, I'm amazed at how much they have survived. They are pillars of strength. Beacons of their family. Some have faced death straight on, and by the grace of God, their family, and all they had in them, beat odds and walked away. Has life been easy for them after? No. (Why should it have been?) But they go on. They inspire.
They amaze me.
Does anyone have any concept of how impossible it is to be surrounded by such people? And, yet, at the same time, impossible to walk away? To not want to be in their midst? But to know you are simply too small to be there?
By comparison, it seems like what is enough to just make me throw up my hands and scream, "Uncle!" is so ridiculously miniscule compared to what these incredible people have gone through. What kind of a shallow, discontented monster am I to be ready to throw the towel in over something so inconsequential in comparison!
I'm a selfish rube.
I'm told to appreciate what I have. But how can you appreciate what you have when it's not what brings you joy? It's like giving chocolate to a drowning man. Yes, chocolate is incredible. And most people would be ecstatic to be handed a box of chocolate. But the man is drowning. What the hell is he going to do with chocolate? No matter how high the quality?
There are days, like today, when I am clearly not worthy to be in the presence of these people. I am completely undeserving. I'm a stupid, pratty peon.
I wish there were a way I could transfer what they see as valuable to them. They'll appreciate it far more than I ever will.
Thursday, December 31, 2009
What 2009 taught me...
- Just because you are related by blood, you are not family. In fact, good reason to sever any and all ties.
- Trust no one. Least of all your feet.
- When your gut tells you it's safe, it's not.
- Go back to 1992. Do not leave. Whatever you do.
Tuesday, December 15, 2009
18 is supposed to be for life...
18 years ago, right now, give or take a minute, a bottle of Western Loganberry Clearly Canadian sparkling water fell out of my hands and onto the Commons floor. 18 years ago, right now, I was wearing a cranberry sweater, white turtleneck, favorite pair of jeans, my "shit-kicker" army boots, my black trenchcoat, a black backback, a burgundy hand-tooled leather purse, hair pulled back and still damp, but I felt naked and raw surrounded by a room full of people staring at me, watching my every move. Making sure I was breathing. For a moment, I wasn't. For a moment, my heart stopped.
18 years ago was the last time I could sing "Silent Night" without crying.
18 years ago was the last time Christmas carols were beautiful to me.
18 years and 1 day ago, I had my last conversation with him. And the last words that escaped my mouth were said in anger, but felt with love.
18 years ago, I had to tell my closest friends, aside from him, that he was gone. I'd become a verbal pall bearer.
18 years ago was a day that was supposed to be the highlight of high school for me. It was supposed to be the biggest event of my senior year - bigger, to me, than prom or graduation.
18 years ago was the last day that I thought snow was beautiful.
18... 18... 18... this doesn't add up. 18 is supposed to be for life.
18 years ago was the last time I could sing "Silent Night" without crying.
18 years ago was the last time Christmas carols were beautiful to me.
18 years and 1 day ago, I had my last conversation with him. And the last words that escaped my mouth were said in anger, but felt with love.
18 years ago, I had to tell my closest friends, aside from him, that he was gone. I'd become a verbal pall bearer.
18 years ago was a day that was supposed to be the highlight of high school for me. It was supposed to be the biggest event of my senior year - bigger, to me, than prom or graduation.
18 years ago was the last day that I thought snow was beautiful.
18... 18... 18... this doesn't add up. 18 is supposed to be for life.
Monday, December 7, 2009
Encouraged or Discouraged
On my other blog, ricalivestrong.blogspot.com, I'm chronicling my efforts as a LIVESTRONG Leader and LIVESTRONG Challenge particpant aiming for the Ride For The Roses. (What is the "Ride For the Roses"? From the LIVESTRONG website: What is Ride for the Roses Weekend?
Ride for the Roses Weekend is a celebration of LIVESTRONG's most enthusiastic supporters. Team LIVESTRONG participants who raise a minimum fundraising level of $10,000 by October 1 at 9 a.m. CST are invited participate in Ride for the Roses Weekend (held in conjunction with LIVESTRONG Challenge Austin) October 22-24, 2010) Why am I shooting for the Ride For the Roses? Two very good reasons. First, I want to raise as much money as possible for a charity I believe in. But, secondly, it's the only way that I can afford to attend. I can't afford the airfare, nor can I afford the hotel.
To make things even more "interesting," my son has decided to join me. Which means that he, too, would need to qualify in order for us to afford the practicality of participating in the Austin Challenge.
Through an AMAZING turn of events, a fellow (and far more established blogger, Eldon "Fat Cyclist" Nelson), wrote a humorous letter to Johan Bruyneel, the Team Director for Lance's new Team RadioShack, requesting consideration as a new team member. Johan responded, with what seemed to be a near impossible feat - to raise $25,000 for LIVESTRONG and $25,000 for the World Bicycle Relief in less than a week. Fat Cyclist did it in less than 3 days. $50,000+ raised in less than 3 days.
Don't get me wrong - I am NOT begrudging him his victory. Not one bit.
But, my goodness. How amazing would it be for me to be able to do that? To be able to tell my son (and daughter, who'd be coming with my comp-guest pass (she's not riding, therefore, she wouldn't need to earn her own Ride for the Roses incentive), that we could take it easy for the rest of the year?
Ride for the Roses Weekend is a celebration of LIVESTRONG's most enthusiastic supporters. Team LIVESTRONG participants who raise a minimum fundraising level of $10,000 by October 1 at 9 a.m. CST are invited participate in Ride for the Roses Weekend (held in conjunction with LIVESTRONG Challenge Austin) October 22-24, 2010) Why am I shooting for the Ride For the Roses? Two very good reasons. First, I want to raise as much money as possible for a charity I believe in. But, secondly, it's the only way that I can afford to attend. I can't afford the airfare, nor can I afford the hotel.
To make things even more "interesting," my son has decided to join me. Which means that he, too, would need to qualify in order for us to afford the practicality of participating in the Austin Challenge.
Through an AMAZING turn of events, a fellow (and far more established blogger, Eldon "Fat Cyclist" Nelson), wrote a humorous letter to Johan Bruyneel, the Team Director for Lance's new Team RadioShack, requesting consideration as a new team member. Johan responded, with what seemed to be a near impossible feat - to raise $25,000 for LIVESTRONG and $25,000 for the World Bicycle Relief in less than a week. Fat Cyclist did it in less than 3 days. $50,000+ raised in less than 3 days.
Don't get me wrong - I am NOT begrudging him his victory. Not one bit.
But, my goodness. How amazing would it be for me to be able to do that? To be able to tell my son (and daughter, who'd be coming with my comp-guest pass (she's not riding, therefore, she wouldn't need to earn her own Ride for the Roses incentive), that we could take it easy for the rest of the year?
Monday, November 23, 2009
Epiphany
For years, I've wondered about the notion of "only the good die young". In my life, I've known amazingly good people who have died too young. (One of whom, I'll be remembering very soon on December 15.)
Why is it that the "bad" outlast the good? And how do we know if there is a hell?
I think I figured it out.
The "good" die young to leave the "bad" behind. And hell is having to live out life without their presence. Hell isn't fire and brimstone and demons and pointy tails. It's the constant questions of "why them and not me?" It's "what's wrong with me, that they never stay?" "If I'm so great, so amazing, so strong, why am I always the one left behind? What did I do wrong and how can I fix it?"
The fact that those answers are never given is hell. You will die never having those answers.
That's the definition of hell.
Who knew that one of my favorite blonde jokes would, indeed, be my greatest undoing...
"How do you keep a blonde in suspense?"
Why is it that the "bad" outlast the good? And how do we know if there is a hell?
I think I figured it out.
The "good" die young to leave the "bad" behind. And hell is having to live out life without their presence. Hell isn't fire and brimstone and demons and pointy tails. It's the constant questions of "why them and not me?" It's "what's wrong with me, that they never stay?" "If I'm so great, so amazing, so strong, why am I always the one left behind? What did I do wrong and how can I fix it?"
The fact that those answers are never given is hell. You will die never having those answers.
That's the definition of hell.
Who knew that one of my favorite blonde jokes would, indeed, be my greatest undoing...
"How do you keep a blonde in suspense?"
Monday, November 9, 2009
Kristallnacht: Night of Broken Glass
There's a story in my family about my grandfather. Memory doesn't serve me on whether or not it, in fact, took place on Kristallnacht, or I always think about it around Kristallnacht because of the imagery. Either way, it's one that I always think of today. But I don't think it's ever been put down. So I'm doing that today.
My grandfather's name was Baruch Wasser. Most people, however, knew him as Bernard Wasser. In all the pictures I've seen of him, he reminds me of Telly Savalas, only with a softer expression in his face. I'm not sure he ever had hair. He had eyebrows, that I can see. He was born in Prussia, and raised in an Orthodox family. He was a talmudic scholar, and part of a very loving family. In his early adolescence, however, the Russian armies were forcibly inducting young boys, Jewish boys, into the army. It was certain death and, despite the implications of what it meant, his father sent him away, knowing it was likely neither would see each other, or speak, again. And, so it was.
My grandfather ended up working on my grandmother's family estate. They were a very wealthy, well-respected, non-Jewish German family. My grandmother was an athlete. She was a horseback rider, and was on the Olympic gymnastics team. She was slated to win gold for Germany, and, knowing her and her determination, she would have, had she not dropped out in protest of Hitler turning that year's Olympic games into a propaganda opportunity.
My grandfather, and grandmother, became part of the resistance. There are many stories about how they, together and independently, worked against the Nazi regime. Let's leave it at the point where my grandfather was being actively sought after by the Gestapo.
He had, eventually, begun a business in the textile industry in Berlin, and had a small apartment. Many of his colleagues and clients, Jewish and non-Jewish were, in fact, assisting him with the resistance. And, unanimously, they all loved my grandfather, as he was an exceptionally kind man.
By this time, my grandfather still had very high regard for the level of observance he was raised with, but he wasn't actively Orthodox. The times weren't conducive to it. It was also a safe presumption that, at this stage in his life, his father had long passed away.
One night, in the middle of the night, my father was awoken by a figure at the foot of his bed. He looked up, and it was his father, shaking him, in yiddish, telling him, "Baruch," to go to shul. "Get up, get your talit and tefillin, and GO TO SHUL."
"But, it's the middle of the night!" Why he was arguing with the ghost of his father in the middle of the night telling him to get up and go to shul, I couldn't tell you, but he resisted, and ultimately listened. He took his talit, his tefillin, and went to the closest synnagogue. Of course, this was breaking curfew, and risking his life to go to a Jewish synnagogue, but, when your dead father comes back to tell you to do something, no matter how resistant you were at the beginning, you do it.
He went, recited the Shacharit service, and went back to his apartment. Well, almost...
As my grandfather approached his apartment building, one of his friends ran out, grabbed him, and pulled him into an alley, embracing him, as though he, himself, had seen a ghost.
"Bernard! Oh, Bernard! Thank goodness! You're alive!!!!"
"Yes... of course, I am. Why wouldn't I be?"
"You mean, you don't know? You didn't run?"
"Run? Run from what?"
"Bernard! The Gestapo just raided your apartment! Get out of here!! RUN!"
And, so he did.
My grandfather's name was Baruch Wasser. Most people, however, knew him as Bernard Wasser. In all the pictures I've seen of him, he reminds me of Telly Savalas, only with a softer expression in his face. I'm not sure he ever had hair. He had eyebrows, that I can see. He was born in Prussia, and raised in an Orthodox family. He was a talmudic scholar, and part of a very loving family. In his early adolescence, however, the Russian armies were forcibly inducting young boys, Jewish boys, into the army. It was certain death and, despite the implications of what it meant, his father sent him away, knowing it was likely neither would see each other, or speak, again. And, so it was.
My grandfather ended up working on my grandmother's family estate. They were a very wealthy, well-respected, non-Jewish German family. My grandmother was an athlete. She was a horseback rider, and was on the Olympic gymnastics team. She was slated to win gold for Germany, and, knowing her and her determination, she would have, had she not dropped out in protest of Hitler turning that year's Olympic games into a propaganda opportunity.
My grandfather, and grandmother, became part of the resistance. There are many stories about how they, together and independently, worked against the Nazi regime. Let's leave it at the point where my grandfather was being actively sought after by the Gestapo.
He had, eventually, begun a business in the textile industry in Berlin, and had a small apartment. Many of his colleagues and clients, Jewish and non-Jewish were, in fact, assisting him with the resistance. And, unanimously, they all loved my grandfather, as he was an exceptionally kind man.
By this time, my grandfather still had very high regard for the level of observance he was raised with, but he wasn't actively Orthodox. The times weren't conducive to it. It was also a safe presumption that, at this stage in his life, his father had long passed away.
One night, in the middle of the night, my father was awoken by a figure at the foot of his bed. He looked up, and it was his father, shaking him, in yiddish, telling him, "Baruch," to go to shul. "Get up, get your talit and tefillin, and GO TO SHUL."
"But, it's the middle of the night!" Why he was arguing with the ghost of his father in the middle of the night telling him to get up and go to shul, I couldn't tell you, but he resisted, and ultimately listened. He took his talit, his tefillin, and went to the closest synnagogue. Of course, this was breaking curfew, and risking his life to go to a Jewish synnagogue, but, when your dead father comes back to tell you to do something, no matter how resistant you were at the beginning, you do it.
He went, recited the Shacharit service, and went back to his apartment. Well, almost...
As my grandfather approached his apartment building, one of his friends ran out, grabbed him, and pulled him into an alley, embracing him, as though he, himself, had seen a ghost.
"Bernard! Oh, Bernard! Thank goodness! You're alive!!!!"
"Yes... of course, I am. Why wouldn't I be?"
"You mean, you don't know? You didn't run?"
"Run? Run from what?"
"Bernard! The Gestapo just raided your apartment! Get out of here!! RUN!"
And, so he did.
Wednesday, November 4, 2009
The Web Site Manager/Project Manager's Prayer
Our Webmaster who art in Heaven,
Hallowed by thy URL and Twitter Handle,
Thy cyberspace come,
My will be done,
Online and IRL.
Give us, this day, our coffee intravenously,
And punish all those around us severely for their trespass,
As we will forever curse at them that trespass against us and our processes.
Lead us straight into temptation,
And deliver us from our inherent, yet witty, evil.
For thine is the Kingdom of Bug-free pages, non-existent typos, and glorious user-experience,
Forever and ever.
ISP On High, grant me the serenity,
To accept changes that I have demanded be changed,
Courage not to strangle those that mangle my requirements and copy and all things are must be changed,
And the wisdom to know the difference between competent and incompetent vendors and freelancers.
And let us say, AMEN!
Hallowed by thy URL and Twitter Handle,
Thy cyberspace come,
My will be done,
Online and IRL.
Give us, this day, our coffee intravenously,
And punish all those around us severely for their trespass,
As we will forever curse at them that trespass against us and our processes.
Lead us straight into temptation,
And deliver us from our inherent, yet witty, evil.
For thine is the Kingdom of Bug-free pages, non-existent typos, and glorious user-experience,
Forever and ever.
ISP On High, grant me the serenity,
To accept changes that I have demanded be changed,
Courage not to strangle those that mangle my requirements and copy and all things are must be changed,
And the wisdom to know the difference between competent and incompetent vendors and freelancers.
And let us say, AMEN!
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