I'm sorry that I am beginning yet another entry about a book...
The above, friends, would qualify as a poor apology, or at least, such is my interpretation of Nick Smith's argument. See, it's a conditional apology in which my sincerity is in question.
I'm more than a third into I Was Wrong: The Meanings of Apologies, to which I can say this: I'm enthralled. I've until today inexplictably anticipated reading this book since March, when I listened to an author radio interview. What about apologies has got me so wrapped up?
I think, in part, it's got to do with how Smith has chosen to approach apologies, which is not solely how we define apologies, instead, he discusses the meanings of apologies. Beyond their utility - what purposes do they serve - what do apologies mean to apologizers - to victims - and what do we, as a society, make of collective apologies?
I found the dig after an entire day of reading. Three parts.
First, I'm narrowing my legal interests. I've had a long-standing interest in ethics and the law. Smith is a philosophy of law scholar who examines ethical questions as well. I am geniunely excited about ethics around legal issues and relatedly (in a way), arbitration.
On a more personal level, I realized that I'm waiting for a significant apology of my own. Sometimes, I fantasize in which form it will take and how I would feel once given. My intuition is that this awaited apology is necessary to a year-long healing process, a path which is near complete. I need to grapple with this more to understand why it seems necessary, and which role, if any, it'll play in my closure. I'm sure there'll be plenty furture comments.
When you can receive apologies, you also can impart a few of your own. There's a particular wrong which I did not reconcile well last spring. I have realized how incomplete my apology was, and need to reflect more about how to make it complete, if appropriate.
In a similar way, my absence has signified a moral failing in a couple instances. One with my grandparents. I told my dad today that I'll make an effort to see his parents before law school. I was never very close to these grandparents, was deeply offended by a homophobic statement my grandmother made to me a few years ago, and have struggled to make sense of their physical ailing's impact on my father. I should see them.
I'm also still remorseful about a middle school friend I have who was diagnosed with cancer after she moved to Arizona. Our relationship was complicated, but I should have been more present, if not supportive. I may have to let that incident go.
If you're interested in what Smith has to say about the "categorical apology," let me know.
For my small blogging audience (of friends), please do tell me if you believe I should offer you an apology. Among other things, things are becoming clearer.
See ya,
R.
Monday, May 26, 2008
Saturday, May 24, 2008
What You Least Expect
After a brief hiatus, but it's nice to return to the blogosphere.
What a weird, yet satisfying week. This time, a week ago, I was in Norfolk with two close friends, wandering around historic Ghent in 70-degree weather. During the intervening time between Ghent and now, I've traveled to Waverly, Virginia, to visit my friend, Terrell; drove four hours to Lynchburg for VOP's three-day intern training and statewide canvass setup; problem-solved all-day Thursday, our first canvassing day; and occupied Friday and today, getting my personal and domestic life together. A lot hectic, little stressful, though.
Most of all, I was pleasantly surprised throughout the week. Small things which eventually acculumated, catching my attention.
Like last Sunday, while visiting Terrell (located at Sussex One State Prison on deathrow), another visitor was unable to buy vending machine snacks for her "brother" because the prison's change machine was broken. We learned about this after I had retrieved a five dollar bill from my car for her (since she only had a $20) and no one else in the waiting room was willing to be generous with their change. At the time I went into the "Contact Room" to buy Terrell full lunch, an extremely kind soul randomly offered me several dollars in change. I explained to her that I had more than enough, but suggested we offer the change to the particular visitor I previously mentioned. So she was able to give her "brother" a hot meal (she later flashed her visitor, hence the quotations :)
Among four interns for whom I'm supervising this summer, there was a specific intern from wealthy McLean area, I assumed I wouldn't have liked. She's turned out to have a bright, open personality which I enjoy.
Another W&M intern with whom I had interacted a few times was happy to see me and catch-up. Later learned that she was queer-identified.
My fifth intern is somewhere in Latin America (and is no longer my intern)...
After numerous setbacks on Thursday, my intern team was prepared to complete their first canvass. But alas, before leaving my parking lot, Lauren's SUV had a complete flat tire. I was able to use my AAA membership to fix it. (We documented the event on Facebook.)
My hairdresser? A lesbian. Imagine the look on my face when she told me that she and another hairdresser (who is obviously gay -- black hairdresser stereotype) were going to Pride this weekend. She whispered in my ear, "Not trying to get into your business, but are you a lesbian?" "Oh, yeah!" I had a hard time hearing her over the gospel music in the background. Apparently she puts the "D" in "Dyke." Who the hell knew?
Finally, I received a very unexpected letter from GW explaining that there's no room for me in their fall class. I'm happily attending American. The most perplexing part of the news is the misinformation that I had received from a phone psychic I consulted a couple times. I'll share the important lesson from this in a moment.
None of these surprises, however, had me miss a beat. I found myself amused as my expectations--about what was and what ought to be--were quickly deflated. Life's a funny thing.
I was admittedly a little distressed about the wrong prediction made about the law school I'd attend. I considered several possibilities: the prediction could have been wrong, the psychic I consulted could have had lesser abilities, her prediction could have been right at the time, but circumstances changed, etc.
I don't think any of this much matters, though.
This question about law school is the only direct knowledge I had ever sought from a spiritual advisor. And now, I know that I was wrong to do it. The universe is complex, and more significantly, it's fragile. Every decision you make, intention you have, action you execute, changes its order. Because of this seeming disappointment and because of this week, I'm appreciating the thematic lesson here, that what you least expect, can happen. It's all the more reason to be mindful of your future, yet be willing to truly embrace the present.
I'm swimming with the current. Feels great.
See ya,
R.
What a weird, yet satisfying week. This time, a week ago, I was in Norfolk with two close friends, wandering around historic Ghent in 70-degree weather. During the intervening time between Ghent and now, I've traveled to Waverly, Virginia, to visit my friend, Terrell; drove four hours to Lynchburg for VOP's three-day intern training and statewide canvass setup; problem-solved all-day Thursday, our first canvassing day; and occupied Friday and today, getting my personal and domestic life together. A lot hectic, little stressful, though.
Most of all, I was pleasantly surprised throughout the week. Small things which eventually acculumated, catching my attention.
Like last Sunday, while visiting Terrell (located at Sussex One State Prison on deathrow), another visitor was unable to buy vending machine snacks for her "brother" because the prison's change machine was broken. We learned about this after I had retrieved a five dollar bill from my car for her (since she only had a $20) and no one else in the waiting room was willing to be generous with their change. At the time I went into the "Contact Room" to buy Terrell full lunch, an extremely kind soul randomly offered me several dollars in change. I explained to her that I had more than enough, but suggested we offer the change to the particular visitor I previously mentioned. So she was able to give her "brother" a hot meal (she later flashed her visitor, hence the quotations :)
Among four interns for whom I'm supervising this summer, there was a specific intern from wealthy McLean area, I assumed I wouldn't have liked. She's turned out to have a bright, open personality which I enjoy.
Another W&M intern with whom I had interacted a few times was happy to see me and catch-up. Later learned that she was queer-identified.
My fifth intern is somewhere in Latin America (and is no longer my intern)...
After numerous setbacks on Thursday, my intern team was prepared to complete their first canvass. But alas, before leaving my parking lot, Lauren's SUV had a complete flat tire. I was able to use my AAA membership to fix it. (We documented the event on Facebook.)
My hairdresser? A lesbian. Imagine the look on my face when she told me that she and another hairdresser (who is obviously gay -- black hairdresser stereotype) were going to Pride this weekend. She whispered in my ear, "Not trying to get into your business, but are you a lesbian?" "Oh, yeah!" I had a hard time hearing her over the gospel music in the background. Apparently she puts the "D" in "Dyke." Who the hell knew?
Finally, I received a very unexpected letter from GW explaining that there's no room for me in their fall class. I'm happily attending American. The most perplexing part of the news is the misinformation that I had received from a phone psychic I consulted a couple times. I'll share the important lesson from this in a moment.
None of these surprises, however, had me miss a beat. I found myself amused as my expectations--about what was and what ought to be--were quickly deflated. Life's a funny thing.
I was admittedly a little distressed about the wrong prediction made about the law school I'd attend. I considered several possibilities: the prediction could have been wrong, the psychic I consulted could have had lesser abilities, her prediction could have been right at the time, but circumstances changed, etc.
I don't think any of this much matters, though.
This question about law school is the only direct knowledge I had ever sought from a spiritual advisor. And now, I know that I was wrong to do it. The universe is complex, and more significantly, it's fragile. Every decision you make, intention you have, action you execute, changes its order. Because of this seeming disappointment and because of this week, I'm appreciating the thematic lesson here, that what you least expect, can happen. It's all the more reason to be mindful of your future, yet be willing to truly embrace the present.
I'm swimming with the current. Feels great.
See ya,
R.
Sunday, May 11, 2008
It's About Race
I am finally ready to talk about the myriad of feelings inspired by the latest chapter in the Democratic nominee contest. A slightly longer post. I'm not an artist, but I'm still sensitive about my shit. (Adapting from Ms. Erykah Badu.)
This is what I've witnessed pertaining to Obama's candidacy:
pollsters' surprise upon learning that he did not have wholesale claim to black voters, attributing the tentative embrace to his lack of "blackness;"
an older, white politician make a disguised compliment about his articulateness, as if it weren't a quality expected in a (black) presidential nominee;
charges by establishment figures that he may not experienced enough, despite possessing a policy-laden and exceptionally versatile leadership record (I almost wish that "boy" be slipped in at the end of such a sentence, but oops, that happened, too);
accusations that he is not substantial = implying that his inclination toward a passionate politics is inherently shallow = rather, he lacks a propensity to get cerebral, = he is unable to approach a level of intelligence often lacking with affirmative-action Harvard Law Review editors;
campaign surrogates intentionally downplaying or patently ignoring over two centuries of negative racial attitudes toward blacks or equally old and ugly stereotypes about black men to chalk up success to his maleness; (Not to mention out-right lies by surrogates to his ties to Islam, in which our country's religious chauvism has prevailed.)
coded and clumpsy racial messages by a once revered white leader on the heels of an important black-driven primary;
explicit racist remarks by a so-called feminist party icon who sounds eerily similar to white Republicans about the mythical luxury of being black in America;
Clinton's shameless exploitation of the fabricated Reverend White controversy in a thinly-veiled attempt to extort fearful white votes;
clueless pundit speculation that black votes are less valuable in a general election because they are Democratically-loyal or worse yet, have no where else to turn, after blacks trend 9:1 for Barack;
and finally, Senator Clinton's desperate and astonishingly candid argument to Democrats that Obama may alienate its racist party elements, otherwise, known as "lunch-bucket whites", also known as most white baby-boomers.
Over the months, I've seen competitive election season between two unique, history-making candidates morph into high-level, Democrat race-baiting. To be sure, we've seen a sexist undercurrent that should make any attentive, justice-loving person uncomfortable, but make no mistake--now, race has become a deliberately-shaped weapon used by Clinton to win this nomination.
I am not stupid. I am hurt. And I see the writing on the wall.
What this means for me:
I was already on my way out before the contest took its worst turns after much careful consideration. But today, I've proudly left the Democratic Party. I'm not angry because that is after all, beside the point. Instead, disappointment fills my recent memories of this nation's alternative to the White Establishment Party (Grand Ol' Party). It's funny. As much academic research that I've completed on affirmative action, I knew that white Democrats harbored resentment about black progress. This is certainly not news, yet I've always followed instructions to just tolerate it.
Add on the party's unwillingness to denounce (or in some cases, promote) xenophobia, nativism, homo-and-transphobia, my reasons for staying in such an abusive relationship were tepid. A choice to "reform" from within is not only depleting, it makes little sense as it is increasingly clear that on a fundamental level, we do not share the same values. I'm learning more and more that integrity goes a long way. I chose, instead, to pave my own path (which may be toward the Green Party), which is essentially a choice not merely exist in opposition. I'm able to positively define my politics, policies, values, and myself no longer claiming association with an entity that no longer represents me. So be it.
I appreciate that America cannot convalesce through "the race problem" because it still refuses to acknowledge that it exists. Validating my suspicions and indicative of the work that is yet to come.
As for Clinton supporters, I look to you to denounce her campaign and party's race-mongering. You must understand that this is not a sexism-racism tit-for-tat anymore. Clinton has intentionally twisted the proverbial knife into black America--moving us from the back of the bus to beneath it--to further her political ambitions. You can support her policies, judgment, knowledge, experience, and tenacity, but it is her candidacy, the way she has pursued the race, which has put race relations in the Democratic party in peril, not Barack Obama's. Simply, I cannot understand nor feel that any anti-racist can witness what I have and still support her campaign.
God-damn it all :)
R.
This is what I've witnessed pertaining to Obama's candidacy:
pollsters' surprise upon learning that he did not have wholesale claim to black voters, attributing the tentative embrace to his lack of "blackness;"
an older, white politician make a disguised compliment about his articulateness, as if it weren't a quality expected in a (black) presidential nominee;
charges by establishment figures that he may not experienced enough, despite possessing a policy-laden and exceptionally versatile leadership record (I almost wish that "boy" be slipped in at the end of such a sentence, but oops, that happened, too);
accusations that he is not substantial = implying that his inclination toward a passionate politics is inherently shallow = rather, he lacks a propensity to get cerebral, = he is unable to approach a level of intelligence often lacking with affirmative-action Harvard Law Review editors;
campaign surrogates intentionally downplaying or patently ignoring over two centuries of negative racial attitudes toward blacks or equally old and ugly stereotypes about black men to chalk up success to his maleness; (Not to mention out-right lies by surrogates to his ties to Islam, in which our country's religious chauvism has prevailed.)
coded and clumpsy racial messages by a once revered white leader on the heels of an important black-driven primary;
explicit racist remarks by a so-called feminist party icon who sounds eerily similar to white Republicans about the mythical luxury of being black in America;
Clinton's shameless exploitation of the fabricated Reverend White controversy in a thinly-veiled attempt to extort fearful white votes;
clueless pundit speculation that black votes are less valuable in a general election because they are Democratically-loyal or worse yet, have no where else to turn, after blacks trend 9:1 for Barack;
and finally, Senator Clinton's desperate and astonishingly candid argument to Democrats that Obama may alienate its racist party elements, otherwise, known as "lunch-bucket whites", also known as most white baby-boomers.
Over the months, I've seen competitive election season between two unique, history-making candidates morph into high-level, Democrat race-baiting. To be sure, we've seen a sexist undercurrent that should make any attentive, justice-loving person uncomfortable, but make no mistake--now, race has become a deliberately-shaped weapon used by Clinton to win this nomination.
I am not stupid. I am hurt. And I see the writing on the wall.
What this means for me:
I was already on my way out before the contest took its worst turns after much careful consideration. But today, I've proudly left the Democratic Party. I'm not angry because that is after all, beside the point. Instead, disappointment fills my recent memories of this nation's alternative to the White Establishment Party (Grand Ol' Party). It's funny. As much academic research that I've completed on affirmative action, I knew that white Democrats harbored resentment about black progress. This is certainly not news, yet I've always followed instructions to just tolerate it.
Add on the party's unwillingness to denounce (or in some cases, promote) xenophobia, nativism, homo-and-transphobia, my reasons for staying in such an abusive relationship were tepid. A choice to "reform" from within is not only depleting, it makes little sense as it is increasingly clear that on a fundamental level, we do not share the same values. I'm learning more and more that integrity goes a long way. I chose, instead, to pave my own path (which may be toward the Green Party), which is essentially a choice not merely exist in opposition. I'm able to positively define my politics, policies, values, and myself no longer claiming association with an entity that no longer represents me. So be it.
I appreciate that America cannot convalesce through "the race problem" because it still refuses to acknowledge that it exists. Validating my suspicions and indicative of the work that is yet to come.
As for Clinton supporters, I look to you to denounce her campaign and party's race-mongering. You must understand that this is not a sexism-racism tit-for-tat anymore. Clinton has intentionally twisted the proverbial knife into black America--moving us from the back of the bus to beneath it--to further her political ambitions. You can support her policies, judgment, knowledge, experience, and tenacity, but it is her candidacy, the way she has pursued the race, which has put race relations in the Democratic party in peril, not Barack Obama's. Simply, I cannot understand nor feel that any anti-racist can witness what I have and still support her campaign.
God-damn it all :)
R.
Wednesday, May 7, 2008
Failure to Launch
Maestro, music please.
It is time--it is time, to ride!
I stand tall, adjust my backpack to a snug fit, and walk onto the patio to retrieve my new bike. "Ahh.." I stumble on sliding door track but I land undeterred outside. It'sok, at least I still look cool. Or, until, I see my helmet hanging from handle.
Wait, wait, pause the music for a moment.
Too embarrassed to struggle with it outside, I grudgingly grab the helmet, rush toward my bathroom mirror--"Hmm, ahh, ouch,"--"click." Sigh of relief.
Now, I'm cool and covered in case I wipe out on the pavement.
I awkwardly pull my bike from my patio, inside, through the heavy metal door, through another heavy metal door, drag it down a flight of stairs, another heavy metal door. I must live in a motel.
Sunshine casts down on my egg-shaped helmet and my Raybans. I'm feeling ready to embark on my first bike ride around Lorton. I hope that drivers have mercy on my soul since it's a little after rush hour.
OK, music!
I kick the stand, hop on, and away...Stop. Stop. I look at the seat cover on the ground. It stubbornly stares at me. Instructions to myself: kick-stand-down, balance bike, pick up seat cover, re-adjust, pull cord tightly, lock in place, right-o.
One more time!
Up goes the stand, up goes me onto the seat, one swift motion, and we're riding.
Oh gawd, I haven't rode a bike in years....and look, here's a yellow curb, whoa!
I'm getting the hang of it again, all of those early childhood lessons are flooding back, and geez, wonder if is a metaphor for me at the moment.
I hear a: "plurck, plurck, plurck." Uh, that's probably not good. Bike, I command you to stop. Ah, maybe I press these handles--I come to an uncomfortable, sudden stop, jerking forward.
No one said biking was elegant.
I poke at my back tire. I press it again. I examine the tire for any obvious problems like small, entrapped animals, parts falling off. I'm no cycling expert.
Well, nothing obvious is wrong. Let me not lose my nerve--so I jump back onto the bike. I manage to dodge pedestrians and other cars to the end of my complex nearing a bike path (and major road). I'm panting with sweat beads already covering my face, it seemed unreasonably hard to push those 100 yards.
My neighbor's infant stares at me as I roll the bike up the incline next to the stairs, battle the glass door, and heave it back up the flight of stairs. I'd resigned in the fact my back tire needs maintenance, hopefully just some air. The combination of noise and feeling I was biking in a pool made me think better of biking on the Route 1 corridor. A good decision.
At this point, the music has died, but I'm feeling pretty alright. It wasn't exactly the trip I'd imagined but it's certainly a start.
R.
It is time--it is time, to ride!
I stand tall, adjust my backpack to a snug fit, and walk onto the patio to retrieve my new bike. "Ahh.." I stumble on sliding door track but I land undeterred outside. It'sok, at least I still look cool. Or, until, I see my helmet hanging from handle.
Wait, wait, pause the music for a moment.
Too embarrassed to struggle with it outside, I grudgingly grab the helmet, rush toward my bathroom mirror--"Hmm, ahh, ouch,"--"click." Sigh of relief.
Now, I'm cool and covered in case I wipe out on the pavement.
I awkwardly pull my bike from my patio, inside, through the heavy metal door, through another heavy metal door, drag it down a flight of stairs, another heavy metal door. I must live in a motel.
Sunshine casts down on my egg-shaped helmet and my Raybans. I'm feeling ready to embark on my first bike ride around Lorton. I hope that drivers have mercy on my soul since it's a little after rush hour.
OK, music!
I kick the stand, hop on, and away...Stop. Stop. I look at the seat cover on the ground. It stubbornly stares at me. Instructions to myself: kick-stand-down, balance bike, pick up seat cover, re-adjust, pull cord tightly, lock in place, right-o.
One more time!
Up goes the stand, up goes me onto the seat, one swift motion, and we're riding.
Oh gawd, I haven't rode a bike in years....and look, here's a yellow curb, whoa!
I'm getting the hang of it again, all of those early childhood lessons are flooding back, and geez, wonder if is a metaphor for me at the moment.
I hear a: "plurck, plurck, plurck." Uh, that's probably not good. Bike, I command you to stop. Ah, maybe I press these handles--I come to an uncomfortable, sudden stop, jerking forward.
No one said biking was elegant.
I poke at my back tire. I press it again. I examine the tire for any obvious problems like small, entrapped animals, parts falling off. I'm no cycling expert.
Well, nothing obvious is wrong. Let me not lose my nerve--so I jump back onto the bike. I manage to dodge pedestrians and other cars to the end of my complex nearing a bike path (and major road). I'm panting with sweat beads already covering my face, it seemed unreasonably hard to push those 100 yards.
My neighbor's infant stares at me as I roll the bike up the incline next to the stairs, battle the glass door, and heave it back up the flight of stairs. I'd resigned in the fact my back tire needs maintenance, hopefully just some air. The combination of noise and feeling I was biking in a pool made me think better of biking on the Route 1 corridor. A good decision.
At this point, the music has died, but I'm feeling pretty alright. It wasn't exactly the trip I'd imagined but it's certainly a start.
R.
Sunday, May 4, 2008
Reunion and Reconciliation
To reunite is a joy that I wish to experience more, a sweet feeling of abundance this week.
Wednesday was Terrell's (friend on death row whom I write letters) evidentiary hearing. Specifically, in his case, it's a pernicious opportunity for a new trial. Terrell had an obnoxiously arrogant and inflexible former counsel who didn't care much to divulge his life-long violent abuse history, which could have affected sentencing. Less than rigorous defense is a serious understatement. I attended morning proceedings and returned on Thursday afternoon for its closing.
I don't possess the proficiency to describe the abuse he and his two siblings endured. Nor do I have an imagination capable of relating to the violence and terrorism they survived until they left their home. Both his sister and brother testified, recalling in intricate their Hell, at the hands of their father, and later step-father. I was overwhelmed, and too, inspired by their example, exemplifying strength.
I became a part of the hearings in a way I didn't anticipate. His brother, sister, mother, aunt, cousins and Godparents absorbed me in their hope and generosity. Even being new to Terrell's life, I was finally able to relate to his brother's pictures (with son) and proud descriptions of his sister's recent achievements. I met open arms. In this way, meeting his family for the first time, under these intimate circumstances, felt more like a reunion. People and lives and problems and spirits and everything else from our 10-month friendship were finally real. And when you're able to see how your life entangles with others' lives, blowing away artifice where we see our prosperity beginning and ending, it is a reminder of your own humanity. I wrote Terrell today about how easy it was to support him and to share my optimism about the hearing as well.
Also, on Friday I celebrated my 23rd birthday. Birthdays are true reunions for me, a rare occasion when my friends from all side of my life meet and in some cases, manage one another. Earlier in the day, I spent a even rarer morning with my mother. She planted flowers for me.
With every reunion there's some reconciliation or memories that you must confront. Fortunately I don't have any deep impressions from my birthday. Rather, details which emerged about Terrell's early years, reminded me of my own instability growing up. Nothing of comparison to his past, yet my upbringing had its periods of parental absence or distraction. I particularly related to the battle of competing loyalties of a mother has to choose between a destructive man from which she is emotionally and otherwise dependent and her children. Violence takes several shapes. When a damaged stranger enters your home, wrecks havoc, and assumes power over your life, choices, and loved ones, it can take an emotional triage to recover. We all do the best we can. Terrell, his brother and sister were confronting the most haunting demons, though, they no longer hold them captive.
This week marks my chakra re-alignment. I'm investing into an energy-worker's help and have already learned about two reunions I've had--unwittingly--during my lifetime. That is, if you believe in reincarnation :smile:
See ya,
R.
Wednesday was Terrell's (friend on death row whom I write letters) evidentiary hearing. Specifically, in his case, it's a pernicious opportunity for a new trial. Terrell had an obnoxiously arrogant and inflexible former counsel who didn't care much to divulge his life-long violent abuse history, which could have affected sentencing. Less than rigorous defense is a serious understatement. I attended morning proceedings and returned on Thursday afternoon for its closing.
I don't possess the proficiency to describe the abuse he and his two siblings endured. Nor do I have an imagination capable of relating to the violence and terrorism they survived until they left their home. Both his sister and brother testified, recalling in intricate their Hell, at the hands of their father, and later step-father. I was overwhelmed, and too, inspired by their example, exemplifying strength.
I became a part of the hearings in a way I didn't anticipate. His brother, sister, mother, aunt, cousins and Godparents absorbed me in their hope and generosity. Even being new to Terrell's life, I was finally able to relate to his brother's pictures (with son) and proud descriptions of his sister's recent achievements. I met open arms. In this way, meeting his family for the first time, under these intimate circumstances, felt more like a reunion. People and lives and problems and spirits and everything else from our 10-month friendship were finally real. And when you're able to see how your life entangles with others' lives, blowing away artifice where we see our prosperity beginning and ending, it is a reminder of your own humanity. I wrote Terrell today about how easy it was to support him and to share my optimism about the hearing as well.
Also, on Friday I celebrated my 23rd birthday. Birthdays are true reunions for me, a rare occasion when my friends from all side of my life meet and in some cases, manage one another. Earlier in the day, I spent a even rarer morning with my mother. She planted flowers for me.
With every reunion there's some reconciliation or memories that you must confront. Fortunately I don't have any deep impressions from my birthday. Rather, details which emerged about Terrell's early years, reminded me of my own instability growing up. Nothing of comparison to his past, yet my upbringing had its periods of parental absence or distraction. I particularly related to the battle of competing loyalties of a mother has to choose between a destructive man from which she is emotionally and otherwise dependent and her children. Violence takes several shapes. When a damaged stranger enters your home, wrecks havoc, and assumes power over your life, choices, and loved ones, it can take an emotional triage to recover. We all do the best we can. Terrell, his brother and sister were confronting the most haunting demons, though, they no longer hold them captive.
This week marks my chakra re-alignment. I'm investing into an energy-worker's help and have already learned about two reunions I've had--unwittingly--during my lifetime. That is, if you believe in reincarnation :smile:
See ya,
R.
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