She looked out of place standing alone among the men in their suits or black leather jackets. Everyone was introducing themselves and shaking hands. There were a few other women but they had come with someone. This woman was elderly, alone and looked a little bit lost. She timidly asked the woman tending the sign-in table if this was the correct meeting. Yes, it was, she was in the right place. Yet, her eyes were wide with a kind of innocent fear. Her clothes were mismatched; blue sweat pants, black flats and several sweaters layered over one another. Her red-colored hair frayed about her head in all directions. I was curious about her. Why was she here? How did she feel? We were all waiting for the facilitator of the meeting to arrive. We milled about the lobby exchanging small talk and making introductions. But the little red-haired woman seemed to know no one. When the facilitator arrived he began saying his formal hellos and shaking hands as he made his way across the room. I stood in the back observing. He was larger than life, dynamic and almost always with an entourage of people wanting to speak to him or ask him a question. He wore a steel gray suit and had the air of someone used to being in public, used to the naked eye of world upon him. I expected him to ignore the little old woman, to pass by the unimportant on his way to the podium, the soap box upon which he would occupy. But he did not pass her by. He turned when he saw her and strode across the room to shake her hand. The scene in front of me was unlike any I had previously witnessed. There he was, his six foot frame bent to meet the old woman at eye level. He rested a sturdy hand upon her shoulder.

“Is that an angel pin on your sweater?” he asked.

“Why yes it is,” she said proudly.

“I like it.” He was sincere.

The room was still buzzing with chatter, but for me, the big man in the gray suit and the little old lady were the only two people in the room.

“I think your angel is upside down. Can I fix it for you?” he queried.

“Of course.” She smiled at him and puffed her chest out a bit so he could adjust the tiny silver angel into its upright position. I watched him carefully turn the angel’s wings and once it was righted he  patted her shoulder tenderly.

“There,” he said still bent eagerly toward her. “Much better. I am so glad you could make it tonight.”

He walked away from the little woman with nary a thought of his actions. I realized suddenly that I was weeping when a tear rolled off my face and onto my folded arm.  There was nothing that man could say or do that would have impressed itself into my being greater than what he had already done. I found me a seat and listened to the two hour presentation. His booming voice and energetic words were stimulating and the meeting was productive. But the lesson he taught me with his actions, in those few moments when no one was looking, was a gift greater by far than any word coming out his mouth, or any idea imparted from the intelligence of his mind. It was a small thing made large by the gentle recognition of one human soul to another.

I saw love when I entered the funeral home. It was arrayed in red roses and ferns, it was dressed up in a mini tuxedo. I saw love when it packed the pews and spilled out into the lobby. I saw love in the beautiful music coming from the grand piano and the voices over the microphone. I saw love in the arms that wrapped around the grieving mother and in the hands that patted the child’s father on the shoulder. There was love in the hushed tones that expressed condolences and in the tender glances of care. Love drove miles and stopped in a cemetery; a great field of many bones. There it gathered into hundreds of individual faces looking at the deep hole that would hold the tiny box for eternity. Love stood silent with the wind blowing skirts and tousling hair. Love carried the little white coffin to its final resting place. Love said good-bye. Love let the little boy go to his home in heaven on his mother’s tears. Love lives while all else dies.

I was abused as a child: physically, sexually, emotionally, psychologically and spiritually. I knew even as a child that some of the things happening to me and my siblings were wrong. What I didn’t know was how to draw a line between corporal punishment and abuse. As an adult I came to understand the scope of the abuse, the trauma and scarring that resulted from repeated beating, belittling, humiliation, starvation and neglect. These are the more common aspects of abuse but what is often overlooked and is one of the most desperately painful types of abuse is witnessing the abuse of another and feeling helpless to prevent or stop it. Being forced to witness abuse has haunted my life in ways that no other experience has or could. There is also the abuse against the self. I perpetrated acts of violence against myself including induced loss of consciousness, self mutilation and violent or suicidal fantasies. But what stands above them all were the many acts of self betrayal. I did not defend or protect myself from my abuser and in many cases participated by submission and obedience to my own abuse. Paralyzed by fear I accepted the contempt, hatred and scorn as my lot in life. I succumbed to the self loathing and inner judgement that proclaimed me a curse on the earth. I fell prey to the utter dehumanization and deprivation of my soul. I had withered, suffocated and was dying on the inside. Time alone could not heal these wounds. Only when I began to forgive myself for these acts of self betrayal and sins of omission did my heart begin to mend. Ultimately it is not what others do to us that has the greatest destructive power but what we do to ourselves. When I stopped abusing myself, I would not, could not allow others to abuse me.

A few days ago while sitting paitently at a red light at a very busy highway intersection my fuel pump decided to give up the ghost. It was 5:00 pm and rush hour traffic was in full swing. I wasn’t sure what had happened except the whole vehicle shuddered and then became silent. After making a few phone calls there was a tow truck on its way but meanwhile I was clogging up traffic in a busy section of the city. Cars were zipping around me and a few honked in annoyance. I just sat there with three or four lanes of traffic on both sides of me and there was not much I could do. Suddenly I saw a man approaching my vehicle in my rearview mirror, about ten cars behind me. He asked me if he could push me across the intersection and over to the curb. I was stunned at this man’s kindness. Of course I said yes, thank you. I drive a full size SUV and when the light turned green he started pushing my vehicle. Cars were zooming by and we were moving at a snail’s pace. We didn’t make it very far before the light turned red and the kind man stood panting at the back of my vehicle. To my right I noticed two more cars at the curb with their flashers on. Two businessmen, probably on their way home from work, crossed the busy intersection and over to my vehicle. The three of them coordinated to get my vehicle across three lanes of traffic and to the curb. I thanked them all and they went back about their business. I couldn’t help but wonder at the willingness of strangers to act on behalf of others. Others in this case being me. It inspired me, touched me and reminded me that we are all on this planet together and that kindness is one of the most powerful tools of transformation we can use to create change in ourselves, in others and in the world. My heartfelt thanks goes to the three strangers who took the time to help another person. I hope that I have the opportunity to pass that kindness forward, bettering myself, others and the world.

Contained within the atom is a power and force unknown to humankind until modern times. And yet atoms are the basic building blocks of matter. An individual atom is so small that it can only be seen through a special instrument. And yet, the power of an individual atom can destroy matter. That which we cannot see we often believe has little or no power. Hidden within the atom is an incredible power; power to create or destroy depending on how it is used. Hidden within each human being is a great power; a power to create or destroy depending on how it is used.

Two examples from history: Adolf Hitler was a small diminutive man, a failed artist and veteran from WWI. That single individual brought the German nation out of the oppression of the Treaty of Versailles and economic disaster, created a massive army, an impeccable air force and navy, created the Nazi Party and had ambitions to unify an Aryan race that he believed would carry humanity forward. He had designs for the extinction of Jews and carried out the murder of millions. He died at age 56. He built an empire of domination and fear. He left a legacy of pain and ruin. One man. One atom.

Mother Teresa was a small diminutive woman. She left her home in Albania at age 18 feeling the call of the religious life. She devoted herself to the poor, the crippled and the sick, opening hundreds of orphanages, hospices and sanctuaries for lepers and other diseased people. She started soup houses, family counseling programs and schools. She traveled the world, rescuing the dying, homeless and the forgotten from despair. She brought one of the poorest places in the world, Calcutta India, onto the international scene. She too built an empire, one of service and love. She left a legacy of hope and healing. One woman. One atom.

We are surrounded by billions of atoms and we are surrounded by billions of people. The powers within the individual lie dormant and many of us go through life without ever touching this wellspring within ourselves. We are shocked and awed when we witness someone who excercises this power, just as we were shocked and awed at the devastation of Hiroshima and Nagasaki. I  believe that a single person can make a difference and does make a difference. I believe that a single individual can change the world. I can only imagine what many could do.

There are a few experiences in life that are so powerful and life altering that it becomes impossible to conceive of the path that might have been taken without them. I had one of those experiences when I was eight years old. The first one of a few direct experiences with God that have been purposefully placed throughout my life like road markers guiding me down the path. Jesus appeared to me in a dream. We were together on a high mountain peak looking down at the treacherous gorge below. He took both of my hands in his and held them tight and gazed into my eyes and said these two words-”trust me.” He did not say trust your parents, trust your religion or trust your leaders; he directed me to trust him. I felt his love for me, an incredible love and acceptance that poured into my being and filled every bone and penetrated every cell of my body. I understood that I didn’t have to be worthy of this love, deserving it by performing or behaving in a certain way but that this love was unconditional and absolute. I also recognized that it would have been impossible for him to be anything less than this all encompassing love. I awoke the next day transformed by my experience. I could no longer accept that God was a withholding or demanding being that rewarded the good and punished the bad. It was this experience that anchored me to a higher truth than anything I was taught by man. And above all of that was the knowledge of the existence of God, of life beyond the body, beyond the bounds of time and space. The most powerful and life affirming experiences I have had are intangible, often indescribable and impossible to prove. Thus is the paradox of life, that hidden in the simplest and most insignificant moments, is the transforming power of God.

Memoir

I wanted to write my story. It was that simple. I felt driven by this desire for a very long time. It wasn’t until I was twenty eight that I bought me a computer and a typing tutorial and began the task of putting my words to paper. (Journals don’t count.)This turned out to be much more difficult than I realized when the notion of a book struck my mind. Aside from learning to type and taking a few online grammar courses I took up reading memoirs. I read waiting to be inspired; to read a book that was similar to the one I needed to tell, but I ended up disappointed. Don’t get me wrong, I read some fantastic memoirs along the way, including Angela’s Ashes, Blackbird and Finding Fish but I was left wanting. Ultimately it was another person’s story and I was no closer to my own than before.

About this time someone recommended a book by Margaret Atwood titled A Handmaid’s Tale. Before I finished this book, (a piece of compelling fiction by the way) I began writing my own book, the first sheepish attempt. It was fiction that freed me to write my story. Novels were so bold, taking risks and telling stories that demanded the reader to sit up straight and pay attention. While memoirs were bogged down with the passage of time, one event unfolding after another in linear fashion. I could almost hear the clock ticking in the background as I read to reach the finish line. The only exception was Angela’s Ashes by Frank McCourt. He performed some magic that I could not discover by mere reading, therefore a magic I could not duplicate.

When writing my memoir I asked myself continuously, what is the truth? I don’t believe I ever discovered that answer wholly but the book itself became the journey to uncover truth that was inside of me; truths that I had hidden from myself. The events in the book all indeed happened. I wouldn’t fictionalize an event to portray a truth but the truth must be in the event. I needed a theme, something that would corral my memories and force them to be sorted and arranged.

Throughout my book the concept of running away presents itself in many forms most obviously in the preface and in the epilogue. Why do we run from pain? What are different ways in which people run away? Does running away ever produce the desired result? Sometimes we run toward something and other times we are running away from something. All these questions were asked and never answered, for who wants the answer when the question is enough?

I did not know in advance which stories would surface, I didn’t know how I was going to end it or what climactic experience would emerge from the dusty pages of the past, I only knew that it would. I was surprised at every turn. I was delighted with the humor that arose out of the pain; humor that I didn’t know was there until I began the excavation. I laughed spontaneously and cried unexpectedly at the smallest provocation. I hoped the reader would also be surprised and laugh or cry when it was least expected.

The book was written in the present tense. I wanted to convey a sense of immediacy and timelessness. The passage of time contained within the moment, so that the moments unfolded in the here and now. I hoped the reader would grow up right along with the little girl making their own unique discoveries along the way and the child separated from others by a pane of glass would finally know she was not alone.

When the book was completed it had been six long years. My story was written. Except it wasn’t and never would be. Memories cannot truly be known, written or documented but only hinted at, viewed through the fuzzy lens of time. But I had told a story and I could continue telling stories tilled from the soil of my past and my experiences and all of them sprinkled with equal amounts of truth and fiction. And perhaps somehow someway my story is known through all the words that have been written and all the words that will be written.

Perhaps not.

Denial of the truth is one of the fundamental  human skills of survival because knowledge is pain. Knowing that your child is being abused and feeling helpless to protect them is painful. Knowing your father is an alcholic is painful. Accepting the death of a loved one is painful. As human beings we are skilled, and rightfully so, at avoiding pain. Knowledge is like spicy food. We eat it,  but in too large of quantities it becomes overwhelming and no longer useful or enjoyable. Healing is the process of accepting, recognizing and honoring truth but only one step at time. The adage that time heals all wounds is true in part because it takes time to strengthen one’s threshold for pain. It takes adjustments, processing and gentle awareness to manage the emotional pain that healing requires. Knowledge is also power, but you must be comfortable with pain in order to use it wisely.

I have been thinking about my life, reflecting on the passing year and curious about the upcoming one. I am not one for New Years resolutions. They become a set up for failure and self loathing, all chains and bondage. Instead, I am opting for a theme, a sense of where I am going and the ideas and values that are currently influencing my life. My theme is not based on what I ought to be and do but rather the process that has already begun shaping my thoughts and actions. Therefore, my theme for 2009 is kindness. Compassionate kindness, an attitude of love toward all creatures great and small. Compassion literally means “to suffer together” or in my own words to feel for others and hold a space for their differences without judgment. But I recognized recently the necessity of taking this concept a little further-acts of kindness, acts of empathy,sharing, vulnerability and wisdom. This is the year to follow my hearts call to recognize all persons as myself; to act in a manner that honors others as myself. An act of love always transcends right and wrong, division and separation and all the necessary components of conflict. This is my focus. What is yours?

“No man is an island, entire of itself, anyone’s death diminishes me because I am involved in mankind. Therefore, never send to know for whom the bell tolls, it tolls for thee.” John Donne

I went back to the old house where I grew up. Some one else lives there now but I walked up to the front gate, remembering, honoring and most importantly, letting go. I took the necklace I was wearing, a pretty silver chain with a single crystal orb and placed it in the mailbox. A gift to the past. This was the last time I would visit the house and as I turned to leave I reached out and touched the railing that led to the front door. As I did so, I was flooded with memories, not just mine but the memory of every hand that touched it, all the feelings and years and stories of life gone by. The stairs were crumbles of rock and concrete, the corroded ruins of the forgotten on an inevitable journey toward extinction. I witnessed the past in a brilliant light of clarity. The past as debris like so many decayed like leaves in the gutter, long gone from the tree. Only in my mind is it untouched by the inexorable hand of time. In that one flash, like a bolt of lightning, the vision I held in my mind was revealed as long dead thing begging for release. I cried a few tears there with my hand still gripping the railing, tears that no longer held any bitterness or pain but tears of freedom-my freedom from the dying. I turned away from the house and faced the sunlight of midday.