The number of dead in Myanmar has reached 100,000... and I fear it won't stop there, especially given the difficulty aid organizations are having getting into the country, the lack of available food and clean water, and the number of survivors left without shelter.
Of course, this is not the only devastating event going on in the world. It just happens to be where our national attention is pointed at the moment. I often wonder what it would be like to have access to more information about the good and bad going on in the world.
Would it provide an even more balanced perspective? Would it reinforce the theory that power is in larger part recognition... that we give strength to things by noticing them, naming them, spending time and energy on them? Or would it overwhelm us? Leave us feeling powerless and impotent in the wake of so much sorrow?
I think it's useful, at times, to remember how amazingly beautiful and generous people are capable of being. To notice and take in the many acts of kindness taking place each day, to feel gratitude for instances of honesty, dignity, and care. I suppose, to me, it provides a bit of balance and helps me stay positive, rather than getting pulled down into despair. (Despair, for me, equals paralysis... which ultimately does very little to help anyone.)
One such tiny story was reported today. It involves a very expensive violin, a very panicked musician, and a very honest cab driver. You can read all the details from multiple news sources, but here is the quick version:
A famous violinist left a $4M violin (on loan from someone else) in a cab. The cab driver, Mohamed Khalil, returned it, and the musician played a free concert for a bunch of cab drivers in the parking lot of an airport in way of saying thank you, which seemed to be a big hit with the cabbies. Khalil also received a medal from the Mayor, a cash reward from the musician, and free concert tickets to Carnegie Hall for himself and his family.
I've read some comments online from people who feel it's a silly thing to make such a big deal about... that it's a waste of time to honor someone for doing what he or she should do in the first place.
I lean toward feeling maybe it's something we should do more of in our lives. Why not celebrate acts of kindness? Why not recognize people for being truthful? Why should we hesitate to show gratitude toward those who show the very best of themselves and, in so doing, show us the very best of what is possible in all of us?
Wednesday, May 7, 2008
Tuesday, May 6, 2008
Update:JOY/Update:SORROW
Today merits two updates... one a joy, one a sorrow. One personal, one global.
JOY
Update number one has to do with my surgery... I saw the surgeon today, and he said there is no retinal fold, rather the dark area I am seeing is the gas bubble, which should decrease in size over time. He said all looks good, and he expects everything to heal pretty well over the next 3-4 weeks. I see him again at the end of May and, assuming no more work is needed on the right eye, we'll schedule an appointment for the left eye, which he thinks can probably be done in the office. All very good news.
As I told my loved ones, I won't feel 100% relaxed until it's all over and done with, because I have heard from many people that multiple surgeries are often necessary. But it was quite relieving to hear all looks good and that he expects the recovery process to go well.
SORROW
Perhaps you've been following the story already, but the death toll in Myanmar is now up to at least 22,000, with over 40,000 people still missing. This is the greatest impact a natural disaster has had in Southeast Asia since the tsunami in 2004.
In an effort to be proactive (and to tilt at some windmills - see yesterday's post), here is information for providing aid to the region, should you feel so inclined:
http://www.google.com/myanmarcyclone/
JOY
Update number one has to do with my surgery... I saw the surgeon today, and he said there is no retinal fold, rather the dark area I am seeing is the gas bubble, which should decrease in size over time. He said all looks good, and he expects everything to heal pretty well over the next 3-4 weeks. I see him again at the end of May and, assuming no more work is needed on the right eye, we'll schedule an appointment for the left eye, which he thinks can probably be done in the office. All very good news.
As I told my loved ones, I won't feel 100% relaxed until it's all over and done with, because I have heard from many people that multiple surgeries are often necessary. But it was quite relieving to hear all looks good and that he expects the recovery process to go well.
SORROW
Perhaps you've been following the story already, but the death toll in Myanmar is now up to at least 22,000, with over 40,000 people still missing. This is the greatest impact a natural disaster has had in Southeast Asia since the tsunami in 2004.
In an effort to be proactive (and to tilt at some windmills - see yesterday's post), here is information for providing aid to the region, should you feel so inclined:
http://www.google.com/myanmarcyclone/
Monday, May 5, 2008
Impossibility
The story that caught my ear this morning on NPR was about the cyclone that hit Myanmar on Saturday. The death toll is expected to reach at least 10,000, and there are thousands of people with no homes, no place to go, and in danger of getting sick (or worse) due to contaminated drinking water.
Sometimes you'll hear people remark that things could always be worse... that there are always people who are worse off than you are - the logic being that you should therefore count your blessings and stop your grousing about your own discomfort or sorrow.
I prefer to reframe it a bit: There are always people out there who could use some prayers (blessings, good thoughts, good energy) as much or more than you can. There are always people in need of help, compassion, love, and good will - whatever spirit you are able to give them.
There really is so much suffering in the world, it is sometimes staggering to take in. And when a disaster like this occurs, it's overwhelming to realize how many individual lives will be forever changed by one crisis.
I see "elimination of all suffering" as an impossible task. Which does not mean is should not be attempted - quite the opposite. I think it's very important. Important to ruminate and meditate upon, important to discuss with one another and make part of a larger social discussion and collective consciousness, important to attempt throughout our lives in whatever way we can.
Sometimes impossible tasks are necessary. Cervantes called it tilting at windmills, the Buddhists call it enlightenment, and UUs have woven it into their seven principles, seeing it as inherently connected to broader human goals serving as a promise to all people.
To me, faith, belief, hope, and love are all tied to impossibility. They are all celebrations of finding possibility where none seemed to exist... particularly in the midst of suffering.
Sometimes you'll hear people remark that things could always be worse... that there are always people who are worse off than you are - the logic being that you should therefore count your blessings and stop your grousing about your own discomfort or sorrow.
I prefer to reframe it a bit: There are always people out there who could use some prayers (blessings, good thoughts, good energy) as much or more than you can. There are always people in need of help, compassion, love, and good will - whatever spirit you are able to give them.
There really is so much suffering in the world, it is sometimes staggering to take in. And when a disaster like this occurs, it's overwhelming to realize how many individual lives will be forever changed by one crisis.
I see "elimination of all suffering" as an impossible task. Which does not mean is should not be attempted - quite the opposite. I think it's very important. Important to ruminate and meditate upon, important to discuss with one another and make part of a larger social discussion and collective consciousness, important to attempt throughout our lives in whatever way we can.
Sometimes impossible tasks are necessary. Cervantes called it tilting at windmills, the Buddhists call it enlightenment, and UUs have woven it into their seven principles, seeing it as inherently connected to broader human goals serving as a promise to all people.
To me, faith, belief, hope, and love are all tied to impossibility. They are all celebrations of finding possibility where none seemed to exist... particularly in the midst of suffering.
Sunday, May 4, 2008
Totally random idea I had today for what to write on my eye patch, should I end up needing one:
Beauty is in the eye of the beholder.
Saturday, May 3, 2008
Reframing the Unfortunate
I read Andy's post from yesterday, which made me tear up because it was so beautifully written and perfect, and sounded just like him. He's amazing.
To catch everyone up post-surgery (and muddle through some resulting ruminations):
I am home today, having spent the night at Becky's parents' house, and having had a follow-up visit with my eye doctor at the Marion Eye Center. A few facts for anyone who likes to have them:
I'm not yet sure what this means with regard to my summer classes, my ASCA conference trip, my hope to help the Neo-Futurists with Coyote Ugly choreography, or other random summery-type vacation plans.
Here's what I do know: I've spent a lot of time thinking about what I would rather lose: my sight or my hearing. I always went with hearing. For a number of reasons. I'm an observer... sight is how I take in my world and make sense of it. It's how I process and the main means through which I gather information. If I lost my hearing, I figured I'd miss music and talking and sounds, etc. - but I could still interact with my world. I could learn ASL and work with hearing impaired clients or work in a school for non-hearing students. Loss of eyesight kind of means loss of the ability to be a counselor, to my mind, because you lose the ability to take in one of the fundamental pieces of information you need when working with clients: nonverbals. It's what we're noticing when we look for incongruencies or want to see the physical impact of a certain topic. I don't know how I would do the job without sight.
Also... to be totally honest... I am prideful about my eyes. Not in an overtly "sinful" way (if you go for such terminology... which I don't... I guess I see it more as ego or attachment), but it's the one part of my body I've always liked... been proud of and really considered special. So, the irony of all this is not lost on me.
But here's what else I know: This seems to be a gift... an opportunity of sorts, because I realized a few things during the several hours between finding out I was in danger of going blind in one eye to finding out I was in danger of going blind in both.
I have always been able-bodied. My whole life, I've been pretty disease-free and relatively healthy. I had no knowledge of what it was like to have a disability, often felt I didn't know what to say or how to act when I met people who did (which is not very helpful as a counselor, btw), and had no idea what it was like to walk into a room and have everyone staring-but-not-trying-to-stare-too-hard because you have a huge patch with tons of tape over your eye with your glasses smooshed over everything and precariously resting on your nose.
It's an incredible opportunity to broaden my understanding of and empathy for one of the many ways our human experiences can vary. If I do get better and can work in a school setting, I will be even more ready and able to help special needs students or children, even parents, with disabilities. I'll have a better sense of what they or their family members are going through, and I'll feel more comfortable talking about it because it no longer feels completely foreign to me.
If I do lose my sight in one or both eyes, or end up severely visually impaired (which, I'm obviously hoping I do not, but the realist in me does not want to be caught totally off guard by bad news), then I can go back and earn my Ph.D. or use my skills to write books geared toward school counselors to use as bibliotherapy, or pursue the ministry, or a whole host of other things. And maybe some of those paths will not ultimately be open to me, and maybe others I've not even thought of will.
For whatever reason, my whole family (e.g., mother, fathers, brother, sister, cousins, etc.) all believe that nothing happens without a reason and everything has purpose. All those folks might give the power behind such things a different name, or label, but the overriding idea is that God (be it the you-God, an other-God, or something that is simply more powerful and more knowing than the "little-I" you) does not give you anything you cannot handle. Nor do things come without a greater lesson, opportunity, or purpose. I do believe that.
So, despite still feeling pretty scared right now, and somewhat disoriented both mentally and physically, I also feel there is a reason. Though I might not see it right now, I will in time. Perhaps more metaphorically than literally... but we shall see. (Ha! There's another one. Hard to get away from that pun potential!) Despite this sorrow, I look for - and believe in - the possibility of joy.
To catch everyone up post-surgery (and muddle through some resulting ruminations):
I am home today, having spent the night at Becky's parents' house, and having had a follow-up visit with my eye doctor at the Marion Eye Center. A few facts for anyone who likes to have them:
- Apparently having a detached retina is a pretty darn serious condition. If they don't catch it in time, it can lead to blindness. And, as with any surgery, there's no guarantee they can fix the problem and make it like new again.
- I went into the surgery with very little information as to the procedure itself, possible risks involved, or what to expect upon waking.
- I left Marion Eye Center to come home around 4:30, got into the car with Becky to head to St. Joseph Hospital in Kirkwood, MO a bit after 5pm, and got prepped for surgery around 7pm. Then we waited. Becky has a lovely picture of me with my eyes taped shut and the word "YES" written above my right eye. If we can figure out how to get it from her phone to this blog, I'll eventually share it with you.
- I entered the actual surgery around 9:30, finished around midnight, and left the hospital to go back to the Tadlock's (where I stayed the night) around a 12:45am.
I'm not yet sure what this means with regard to my summer classes, my ASCA conference trip, my hope to help the Neo-Futurists with Coyote Ugly choreography, or other random summery-type vacation plans.
Here's what I do know: I've spent a lot of time thinking about what I would rather lose: my sight or my hearing. I always went with hearing. For a number of reasons. I'm an observer... sight is how I take in my world and make sense of it. It's how I process and the main means through which I gather information. If I lost my hearing, I figured I'd miss music and talking and sounds, etc. - but I could still interact with my world. I could learn ASL and work with hearing impaired clients or work in a school for non-hearing students. Loss of eyesight kind of means loss of the ability to be a counselor, to my mind, because you lose the ability to take in one of the fundamental pieces of information you need when working with clients: nonverbals. It's what we're noticing when we look for incongruencies or want to see the physical impact of a certain topic. I don't know how I would do the job without sight.
Also... to be totally honest... I am prideful about my eyes. Not in an overtly "sinful" way (if you go for such terminology... which I don't... I guess I see it more as ego or attachment), but it's the one part of my body I've always liked... been proud of and really considered special. So, the irony of all this is not lost on me.
But here's what else I know: This seems to be a gift... an opportunity of sorts, because I realized a few things during the several hours between finding out I was in danger of going blind in one eye to finding out I was in danger of going blind in both.
I have always been able-bodied. My whole life, I've been pretty disease-free and relatively healthy. I had no knowledge of what it was like to have a disability, often felt I didn't know what to say or how to act when I met people who did (which is not very helpful as a counselor, btw), and had no idea what it was like to walk into a room and have everyone staring-but-not-trying-to-stare-too-hard because you have a huge patch with tons of tape over your eye with your glasses smooshed over everything and precariously resting on your nose.
It's an incredible opportunity to broaden my understanding of and empathy for one of the many ways our human experiences can vary. If I do get better and can work in a school setting, I will be even more ready and able to help special needs students or children, even parents, with disabilities. I'll have a better sense of what they or their family members are going through, and I'll feel more comfortable talking about it because it no longer feels completely foreign to me.
If I do lose my sight in one or both eyes, or end up severely visually impaired (which, I'm obviously hoping I do not, but the realist in me does not want to be caught totally off guard by bad news), then I can go back and earn my Ph.D. or use my skills to write books geared toward school counselors to use as bibliotherapy, or pursue the ministry, or a whole host of other things. And maybe some of those paths will not ultimately be open to me, and maybe others I've not even thought of will.
For whatever reason, my whole family (e.g., mother, fathers, brother, sister, cousins, etc.) all believe that nothing happens without a reason and everything has purpose. All those folks might give the power behind such things a different name, or label, but the overriding idea is that God (be it the you-God, an other-God, or something that is simply more powerful and more knowing than the "little-I" you) does not give you anything you cannot handle. Nor do things come without a greater lesson, opportunity, or purpose. I do believe that.
So, despite still feeling pretty scared right now, and somewhat disoriented both mentally and physically, I also feel there is a reason. Though I might not see it right now, I will in time. Perhaps more metaphorically than literally... but we shall see. (Ha! There's another one. Hard to get away from that pun potential!) Despite this sorrow, I look for - and believe in - the possibility of joy.
Friday, May 2, 2008
Outside Eye
Hello all. This is Andy, Genevra's husband. She asked me to write her blog entry tonight as she's currently sitting in a hospital bed in St. Louis awaiting emergency surgery on her eye.
It's been a day.
The first alarm was rung this morning when Genevra called me frantically from downstairs. When you have children, this happens often, but it always feels like you're running in quicksand to get to the emergency. Today's first emergency: Ariana's ear. It was swollen, red and pointing almost sideways. There she was, naked in the bath, smiling carelessly, her mop of a hairdo finally wet and revealing her giganimous ear. "Look at it," Genevra remarked, sproinging it down gently. "Is it broken? Can ears break?"
After a lengthy game of charades during which we tried to ascertain what happened to Ari, we're pretty sure she told us that something bit her. I'm thinking spider, maybe? Genevra's thinking brown recluse. This is motherhood.
We called the doctor and not long after I saw Genevra off to work this morning Ari was in his office being examined. He's not sure what happened but an insect bite isn't out of the question. He prescribed a topical and oral antibiotic and Ari and I then ran off and had a great day together tooling around the mall, playing on 75-cent mall rides and eating lunch at the food court. (She was thrilled to be drinking a non-watered down bottle of orange juice and was so very careful with it--as if to prove she was a big enough girl to handle it and would love to do it again sometime.)
The middle of the day went like most do. I put Ari down for her nap and got to work on my writing.
Genevra called at 3-something from her eye doctor appointment. She had been seeing some ghosting that troubled her, I think on Wednesday. After she discovered that her contacts were not the cause of the problem on Thursday, she made an appointment for today.
Come to find out she has a detached retina. This is serious and if left unchecked can lead to blindness in a matter of days (and we're already at three days and counting,) so her eye doctor recommended surgery at once in order to "save the eye." The nearest chap who fixes up eyes is in St. Louis, which is 2 1/2 hours away.
I'm at home because someone needed to put Ari to sleep, because I'm a father now and I have to make decisions like this, and because Genevra's friend Becky (the kind of friend who shows up on moving day) was able to put down everything and drive her to the hospital.
The procedure she's having is called a scleral buckling.
You really can't tell from reading all of Genevra's posts that her life has been difficult lately. The sorrow that I'm sharing with you today isn't just about Genevra's brush with blindness, it's that this brush with blindness has punctuated several months of stressful work, school, family and health problems that have left us shaking our heads and wondering which god she's offended.
Please, if you believe in such things, if you're inclined to do such things, put her in your thoughts, prayers, blessings. She believes in the power of prayer. And I guess when I'm really honest with myself, so do I. I just don't like to admit it.
Genevra, honey, I love you. I'm with you.
It's been a day.
The first alarm was rung this morning when Genevra called me frantically from downstairs. When you have children, this happens often, but it always feels like you're running in quicksand to get to the emergency. Today's first emergency: Ariana's ear. It was swollen, red and pointing almost sideways. There she was, naked in the bath, smiling carelessly, her mop of a hairdo finally wet and revealing her giganimous ear. "Look at it," Genevra remarked, sproinging it down gently. "Is it broken? Can ears break?"
After a lengthy game of charades during which we tried to ascertain what happened to Ari, we're pretty sure she told us that something bit her. I'm thinking spider, maybe? Genevra's thinking brown recluse. This is motherhood.
We called the doctor and not long after I saw Genevra off to work this morning Ari was in his office being examined. He's not sure what happened but an insect bite isn't out of the question. He prescribed a topical and oral antibiotic and Ari and I then ran off and had a great day together tooling around the mall, playing on 75-cent mall rides and eating lunch at the food court. (She was thrilled to be drinking a non-watered down bottle of orange juice and was so very careful with it--as if to prove she was a big enough girl to handle it and would love to do it again sometime.)
The middle of the day went like most do. I put Ari down for her nap and got to work on my writing.
Genevra called at 3-something from her eye doctor appointment. She had been seeing some ghosting that troubled her, I think on Wednesday. After she discovered that her contacts were not the cause of the problem on Thursday, she made an appointment for today.
Come to find out she has a detached retina. This is serious and if left unchecked can lead to blindness in a matter of days (and we're already at three days and counting,) so her eye doctor recommended surgery at once in order to "save the eye." The nearest chap who fixes up eyes is in St. Louis, which is 2 1/2 hours away.
I'm at home because someone needed to put Ari to sleep, because I'm a father now and I have to make decisions like this, and because Genevra's friend Becky (the kind of friend who shows up on moving day) was able to put down everything and drive her to the hospital.
The procedure she's having is called a scleral buckling.
You really can't tell from reading all of Genevra's posts that her life has been difficult lately. The sorrow that I'm sharing with you today isn't just about Genevra's brush with blindness, it's that this brush with blindness has punctuated several months of stressful work, school, family and health problems that have left us shaking our heads and wondering which god she's offended.
Please, if you believe in such things, if you're inclined to do such things, put her in your thoughts, prayers, blessings. She believes in the power of prayer. And I guess when I'm really honest with myself, so do I. I just don't like to admit it.
Genevra, honey, I love you. I'm with you.
Thursday, May 1, 2008
Poem for May
The air feels heavy...
slightly dewey; and
the sky is puffy-faced -
white, sticky and sickly
like an overstuffed,
sugar-laden child.
Where is my sunshine?
My solid, reassuring
warm air scented with
sweet flowers? Where
is my answer, my sureness,
my salvation?
Expectation is always
dangerous; sort of like
a squatting imp with fat
cheeks and hairy legs,
waiting to yank the floor
away so you fall, hitting hard.
You were supposed to
rescue me, May: A soft landing
and new promise, gently drifting
like festival music across
my face, whispering triumph.
The imp smirks,
gets ready to pull...
slightly dewey; and
the sky is puffy-faced -
white, sticky and sickly
like an overstuffed,
sugar-laden child.
Where is my sunshine?
My solid, reassuring
warm air scented with
sweet flowers? Where
is my answer, my sureness,
my salvation?
Expectation is always
dangerous; sort of like
a squatting imp with fat
cheeks and hairy legs,
waiting to yank the floor
away so you fall, hitting hard.
You were supposed to
rescue me, May: A soft landing
and new promise, gently drifting
like festival music across
my face, whispering triumph.
The imp smirks,
gets ready to pull...
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)