On Fear

When I was young I made the Powers-That-Be turn on the lights inside the Haunted Mansion.

I know.  Cool, right?

Except it was my terror that made them do it.  Memory is faulty, and I was very, very, very young, so I don't remember much about it.  Here is what I can recall:

Sitting on someone's shoulders (my mind says my Grandpa's?  But that seems crazy....So maybe an uncle?) as we walked from the elevator to the Doom Buggies, clutching at his forehead in horror as I sobbed, "Turn on the lights!  Make them turn on the lights!" over and over and over again until suddenly the lights flickered on.  I remember my Grandpa saying, "Looks like you're in luck."  And I remember the relief.  That's it. I don't know if we all left the Haunted Mansion or if it was just a parent and me.

Just terror, searching for something to ground me to reality (in this case the feel of skin beneath my fingertips), and then relief.

A few years later I made them stop Star Tours mid-ride.  It was the same sort of thing, although this time just my mom and I left the ride, and I definitely recall that walk back to meet up with the rest of the family.

We've all been there, guys.  Don't deny it  (Love you, Mama!) 

I'm not bragging at the power I apparently hold over Disney ride operators.  (Not much, I mean.)  No, my point is this:  My fear is big, and loud, and demands to be heard.

Now, I have mixed feelings about fear.  I mean, if you look over the history of our species, fear has been a good thing.  Fear keeps you from stepping too close to the edge of a high cliff.  Fear redirects your steps when you hear a roar from out in the darkness, assuredly saving you from ending up in the belly of some great beast.

Or, if you're a small girl with a vivid imagination...

And impeccable fashion sense, clearly.

...Who has against her better judgement entered a Haunted Mansion, been herded into a secret elevator and then told - essentially - the only way out is to follow the choice of a hanging skeleton...

...Been plunged into a darkness filled by screaming people...

...And then suddenly finds herself in a dark hallway with pictures that only prove the house is, indeed, haunted...

It's waaaaay scarier with the lights out, folks.

Well...Fear steps up to the plate.  Fear reminds you there are GHOSTS INSIDE.

Fear is there to warn you when something may hurt you.

There are many who will tell you that fear is a liar.  I disagree.  I just think fear is really good at its job.  Seriously, Employee of the Month, time after time after time.  And let's be very real here - fear is good at its job because there is no way to be a human being and not be hurt.

One of my favorite quotes from Welcome to Night Vale

Fear has had a lot of practice.  Fear has been hardwired into our DNA as surely as joy, sorrow, delight, or anger have.  Fear may go even deeper, existing on the same level as thirst, hunger, the need to breathe.  Personally, I believe those who say they have no fear are either lying or foolish - or both.


Fear is not the voice to be shut up and ignored!  Fear is that friend who has your best interests at heart but just never quite hits the mark.  You know the one.  Maybe the Christmas gift is never right, but is given with a good spirit.

Maybe words are awkwardly phrased and the hug too tight/loose/long/whatever - but you can tell the intention is there.

Fear isn't out to get us, it's out to help us.  So instead of ignoring its voice, we instead need to turn and face it and say, "I hear you, fear, and you're not in charge here."

Boom.

That's it.  It is as simple and as difficult as that.

So whether I'm walking the sinister hallway toward the Doom Buggies and am feeling that familiar lick of terror along my spine (every time, guys), or I'm finally telling people that yeah, my agent has put the pitch out to a few editors and some have asked to read the complete manuscript - fear doesn't get to keep me from doing something I know is good.

Remember that time I said guilt could hand me the roadmap but didn't get to come along for the ride?  (No?  Let's change that.  Check it out here.)   It's kind of like that, except that fear has a seat in the car.  The backseat...and fear is an avid backseat driver.

Ideally fear will be passed out, though...just sleeping the drive away.

I just don't have to follow its direction.

Another winner from WTNV

My Quilt Square

I visited my grandma today.

It was a spur of the moment decision; I happened to be in the neighborhood and had a few extra minutes, so I stopped by.  Because it was a last minute thing I didn't follow my normal routine of visiting her.  Usually I stop by Starbucks and pick up some coffee - decaf, because it's always so late in the day.  But today, sadly sans coffee, I followed the now familiar turns and lowered the volume of my radio out of respect for anyone else who happened to be around.  I parked in my usual spot and walked the short distance, wondering, as always, why I even bothered to lock my car. After all, it's not as though my little, red Bug would be out of my sight.

And then, with a quick glance to Grandma's neighbors, I lowered myself to the ground.  "Sorry I don't have any coffee for you," I said, and I touched a hand to her headstone.

This is usually the point when I say (out loud, because I think she would get a kick out of it), "Pour one out for my homegirl," and tip the coffee cup upside down.  We share that coffee as I talk about what's going on in my life.  I alternate between taking sips and pouring some beside her name, and I always feel a gentle swell of pleasure in the knowledge that my love of coffee is something that came from her and Grandpa.  It is not groundbreaking or earth shattering.  It will never save a life or change the world, but it is a part of the legacy I have inherited from her.

I've been thinking about that word a lot lately.  Legacy.  I'll spare you the sordid details, but "legacy" has been something of a hot topic in some recent drama.  Truthfully, "drama" doesn't at all capture the reality of the pain caused, but that's not currently my story to tell.

Legacy, though, that is mine, though I share it with many.  Legacy is like a blanket - a quilt - which lays over many, offering warmth and comfort, and unique in each individual space.  I've been inspecting my quilt square, trying to see clearly which pieces of each of my grandparents have made it into my little portion.

Mama Bear from The Berenstain Bears and Mama's New Job.  LOVE those quilts!

So today I sat at my grandma's graveside and I thought.

I thought about the moment my grandpa mentioned Grandma's great love of Christmas, when my brother leaned over to me and whispered, "That's where we get it."

I thought about jumping excitedly onto the couch when Granddaddy was GOING TO TELL HIS MICKEY MOUSE STORIES!!!!  And then laughing years later when kids I babysat asked me to please tell a Mickey Mouse story? 

I thought about Mimi and her sense of humor - the moment during our Easter service when she just could. not. handle. the way someone was chanting.  She and I covered our mouths with our hands and laughed and laughed and laughed as silently as possible.  Even now I get a flash of that memory when I notice something ridiculous.

I thought about Grandpa's great love of family, the way you can tell he is soaking up the chaos around him when we're all together, and I remembered moments at family events when I just looked around, in awe of and grateful for all these crazy people around me.

Webster's dictionary describes "legacy" in the following way:

I am going to ignore the first definition, because my family has taught me that while money is nice and helpful and certainly not evil, it is by no means the most important thing in life.  So let's move on to the second definition:

Something transmitted by or received from an ancestor or predecessor or from the past.

This.  Yes.

This resonates with me.  Because when I think of my legacy, I don't think of property or money - unless we're joking about how our inheritance was used to buy Beanie Babies.  

Wait!  This is actually my legacy! ;)

No.  Money, properties, or things are not a part of the quilt laid over me.  My legacy is a strong sense of justice, loyalty, and family.  It is a goofy and silly sense of humor, and a sardonic delight in the ridiculous.  It is standing in front of people and feeling comfortable speaking to them.  It is yelling at other drivers.  It is whistling - a lot.  It is a tendency to assume that I know exactly what's best, even when I have no idea what's actually going on.  It is caring about my appearance.  It is wanting to know who is in church this morning - not to judge...just to know.   It is taking everything so hard.  It is being incredibly self-critical.  It is my storytelling.  It is the sound of my exhale when dismissing something.  It is the shape of my mouth and the slope of my nose.  It is the sound of my laugh.

My quilt square is not perfect, but it keeps me warm.  

And I love it dearly.

Photo credit: Aunt Judy Braun

Remembering

There is a lot of chaos in my environment right now.  I am sitting in a Starbucks - no surprise there, really - with my headphones in.  Despite the gentle Christmas music I am listening to from my own computer I can hear the piped in music of the coffee shop, as well as the strangely loud conversations of the people around me and the yelling of the barristas to each other. 

Christmas music.  Why Christmas music? 

Aside from the fact that I love Christmas music and listen to it whenever the feeling strikes me, I need Christmas today because I need comfort.  I can't just let the tenth anniversary of September 11 pass by without attempting to make sense of my thoughts.  And my thoughts, in a personal mimicry of the environment around me, are filled with chaos. 

My memories of this time ten years ago are disjointed and filled with emotion.  Grabbing a piece of cheese toast only to be surprised by the phone ringing, followed by the instant shock and fear when I heard my mom say, "WHAT?" sharply, before turning to us and saying, "Dad says to turn on the news.  Right now."

I remember running into the living room and turning on the news, and staring in shock and disbelief at the image of a tower burning and not quite understanding what happened.  Then, as news commentators are discussing the impossibility of the event watching in utter horror as the second plane hit the second tower.

I remember the horror growing as I watched the towers fall - collapse - implode - one after the other.  After being shuffled out the door because, well, we had school that day, I remember the neighbor coming outside and saying, "It's the start of World War 3," and wondering, Is he right? 

I remember the news being on in every class - except Spanish - and the strange, shell-shocked atmosphere of the school, despite being thousands of miles away.  I remember coming home, seeing on TV the devastation that was still, somehow, a shock. 

There are images that have never left; I think about them almost daily:

The people inside the towers who were waving shirts outside the windows, letting rescuers know they were still inside.  As if to say, "Don't forget about us!  We're still stuck!" 

The people who chose to jump, rather than die in the collapse.

The image of the first responders running inside, and then mere moments later being crushed.

The sight of the doctors and nurses who set up the triage stations.

The dust covered people stumbling through the rubble, dazed and shocked.

The Friday after the attacks I remember standing at our high school football game, where the teams ran onto the field together, led by the DP team captain carrying the American flag, and lining up together on the sideline for a moment of silence.  I had never before, or have never since, been in a crowd so large that was able to be so silent.  Even the children were quiet, as if they, too, felt and understood the heaviness of the time.  And during the moment I looked down at the football players, scrambled with each other, creating an accidental red, white, and blue ribbon with their jerseys. 

There are images in my mind that are disturbing.  They make me uncomfortable, sad, angry.  There are some people that say we should just move on.  We shouldn't take time each day to run through our memories.  We need to just go back to normal.  At the risk of sounding harsh, or cruel, I have one thing to say in response:

What an idiotic thing to say.

We can't pretend it never happened - it did.  We can't go back to normal - normal was a time of ignorance, sleepiness, and, going deeper, "normal" killed its Creator.  And if we pretend it never happened, if we take the disturbing images out of our sight, we do a serious disservice to those who died that day ten years ago. 

The people in the towers and surrounding buildings, people who were rushing in because they were running late for work, going to meetings, sitting at desks, emailing, calling...People living their lives just like you and me who left behind grieving family and friends.  We can't pretend they didn't die.  We need to give them the respect, and acknowledgement.

The first responders, those who ran in while everyone else ran out.  Wow.  We need to honor them.  They gave their lives in an act of true love.  Not "love" the noun, "love" the verb.  Not "love" the feeling, but "love" the choice.  No one would blame these men and women for running away.  No one would judge them for not going into a building that would collapse any instant.  But there were people inside who needed saving, and so they went in.  When we try to ignore the fact that this happened we dishonor these brave men and women. 

We can't forget.  We can't push it away. 

Now I believe God was there with the people as they died.  Maybe it's just a way of giving myself some comfort and peace of mind, but I firmly believe the final moment for these people between life and death was, while horrible and unimaginable, also hopeful - God was there with them. 

This doesn't go nearly deep enough.  I could write all day and still not find a way to express everything that I felt then, ten years ago, and that I feel today.  I can't seem to find the right words to express the importance of remembering, and honoring, our fallen brethren and heroes. 

And so, in honor of those who climbed and climbed, only to be brought down, I offer this quote from the poem, "The Final Inspection," a poem about a police officer standing before God.

Step forward now, Officer, you've borne your burdens well.
Come walk a beat on Heaven's Streets. You've done your time in Hell

May God have mercy on the souls of those lost that day, and may their memories truly be eternal.

Double-Decker Sledding Re-discovered

I was going through my pictures on facebook and rediscovered this absolutely, hilariously AMAZING video.  This is what happens when a bunch of kids (read: 2 high schoolers and 3 "adults") from Southern California wind up in the snow.  Amazing-ness happens.

https://www.facebook.com/#!/photo.php?v=1876116660266&set=t.661655290&type=1

Click the link.  I dare you to.  I promise it's worth it.

Oh!  And all video credit goes to Austin Harris :)