A Red Rose For Me ...

Today was a strange, surreal day of introspection, coming to self-terms, and finding comfort ... on a very deep and profound level.  
  
I, a teacher (music, holistic, and humane education), realize that life places me in a position to always be teaching, even when doing so is the farthest thing from my mind.  Maybe we all are teachers; certainly we all are students ... of Life.  

This morning I went to the chiropractic clinic that has taken on the task of mending my body’s neurological system and some of its joints.  I expected there would be more people than usual at the clinic due to the media clamor about the imminent, colossal snow storm.  Yes, there were throngs of people ... adults and some little children too.  The place, usually serene with inspiring music playing, was full of human voices.  I knew I had to make the best of the situation and I took my place in the long line.  After a while, I really looked at some of the individuals.  I noticed that some of them were looking too.  I was overtaken by a feeling of community with these people ... all of whom were unknown to me.  Each one is there to be comforted, to find a few minutes of peace, to feel hope .  I realized that each one there has his or her own situation and health concern.  I was seeing through eyes that realized we are all creatures hoping for pain relief, a friendly word, and freedom from the grip of illness. 

There was a woman there with three little girls.  The children were very talkative and, surprisingly, not irritating as young kids can be in confined, crowded situations.  One of the children kept pointing at items people had or wore and would exclaim “phone”, “hat”, and then as she looked at my hands, “nail paint”.  As the line moved along, the lady with the girls moved too and they were one space behind me.  So when my table became available, they were next. I heard the mom say “Go to that one (table), next to the Girl”.  The Girl?  Yes, that’s what she called me.  I lifted my head up and said to her “I need to thank you for calling me a ‘girl’ at my age of ...”. She smiled and said “well, she is at a stage where she identifies everybody as a boy or girl"; the child spoke up and said “And I like her nice ponytail”.  

I’m relating all of this to, somehow, create a backdrop for some health info I received yesterday that relates to the ways cumulative heavy-duty stress can find ways to manifest into illnesses that have names -- names that can shake up the status quo, can re-shuffle the deck, can validate those Google searches for symptoms.   When I took the test and was alerted about the probability of diabetes, I thought about  the humor, profundity, implications, irony, beauty of life ... all these things and more.  As I left the chiropractic clinic today, I told the pleasant, helpful woman at the front desk what I had learned yesterday and she said “would it be OK if I say a prayer for your well-being”?  I nodded my assent and she clasped my hands in hers and said aloud a brief, sincere petition on my behalf.  How nice that was. 

I will continue my life-style of exercise and veggie-ism and meditation.  And I will do something more ... I will remember to love myself as a spiritual being.  I bought myself a beautiful Valentine that has a red rose on its cover and a loving message inside. 

Addendum:  6/15/14

I had learned that a high glucose reading could be related to other factors, as the first test was done during the very initial phase of what turned out to be a heavy asthma bout ... so the reading number, itself, was not definitive. More recently I was re-tested and am now on a diabetes med.  I have renewed respect for some advice given to me a couple of years ago by a wise person who said "cherish each day". Amen.  Yes, an attitude of gratitude!  

Our Earth, Our Home, Our Future–

Our earth’s human population is now at more than six and a half billion and multiplying exponentially every day. No country talks about it. Even Al Gore, in his excellent book "An Inconvenient Truth", only ever-so-lightly touches on the topic. Politically, it would be a "mine field". In my mind, the burgeoning human population is a topic that is critical to issues relating not only to environment, climate change, and dwindling animal habitat, but also to our crime rate, economics, food production, and human dignity ... in the U.S. and throughout the world. So I’ve often pondered the situation. The act of procreation takes only a fleeting moment, is such a natural thing and, so often, just "happens", even when birth control is accessible. I asked my minister for her thoughts about the human population dilemma. She thought on it for a while and then said: "Suppose people would consider adoption as a first – rather than a last – resort, thus providing a loving family for a homeless or orphaned child and doing this wonderful thing for our world"! This was a stroke of loving genius and I wish I could say that I came up with the concept! Considering adoption – as a first resort! If people and countries begin to talk about population, this simple concept would be a logical and compassionate place to start.

My Notes & Mind-Talk; July 27 Tragedy --

The following relates my personal experience on the morning of July 27, 2008, with every facet I saw, heard, thought, and felt (written in the days following the shooting):

"Annie Jr., the Summer Musical Theatre Workshop Production! A musical ... good ... that will re-energize me" and I feel a sense of excitement. I’ve been going through some personal reinvention recently and, you know how sometimes when you have a time of introspection, the process can seem to bog down; also I’d just handled a major mishap when my truck got contaminated gas and needed a huge repair. I usually turn to my own music as my comfort and meditation. I’m thinking: "I need a musical infusion. This will be good for me – this will be good! We have a lot of talent in our church family." I haven’t been to church in three weeks and today it is time.

It is July 27th and I am going to church today. I am wearing, for the first time, the new, green baby-doll style top my daughter gave me a week ago and a pair of carefully coordinated capri pants. I enter through the right side of the sanctuary (there are entry doors on both sides) as I have done every time I’ve ever attended TVUUC. I’m sitting on the very end seat of the first pew (as I always do); this seat gives me an easy exit if I feel claustrophobic or drink an extra cup of tea that morning and need to use the restroom; it guarantees me a hasty retreat, if need be. I’m always thinking of "if need be" in terms of almost anything. I’m working on that but I think it goes back to survival issues of my teens. This morning I again choose this seat. I feel fidgety. Moments later, for some inexplicable reason, I move back one row, to the seat directly behind my first choice. I soon hear the woman in back of me coughing, something I notice immediately as I'm wary about catching a cold. Well, all is well – I identify her cough as allergy-related ... so I don’t return to the front seat. I try to relax and settle in.

The sanctuary has filled completely...every seat appears to be occupied. I get out my writing pad, so I can make notes to send to my UUA-sponsored prison ministry prisoner pen-pal with whom I exchange letters, spiritual energy, and frivolous chit-chat. He’s a musician and he loves to talk about songs.

I always arrive at church and get seated a few minutes before most of the people populate the sanctuary. It gives me time to screw my head on, get on a spiritual plane, and glance around at the church that gives me so much. I’ve been missing minister Chris for months now (as he’s been on sabbatical); I’m sure everybody has been missing him, and I sit here and think about how wonderful it will be when he returns to the pulpit on August 10th. I feel good.

Greg is standing there a few feet away from me – an impressive-looking man, very large and with a friendly demeanor. He’s almost always standing there with his "order of service" church programs in hand, doling them out one by one as people enter his side of the sanctuary (there is another person doing the same thing on the opposite entranceway).

I can’t help but notice Greg’s beautiful shirt. Usually, I recall, he wears a plain, short-sleeved shirt. Today he has a handsome, festive dark green shirt (it looks sort of silky and flowing) with pictures of soda cans and food items on it (probably to be in party mode for the reception scheduled to take place right after the children’s performance.)

The congregation has heard the church announcements and Greg hands me the collection basket; I put my check in it and pass the basket to the next person in my row. The church is full but more people are straggling in now, looking for a place to sit. Greg hands each of them an order of service.

The actual play is about to begin and its introduction includes mention of several examples of the types of 1930s depression-days situations we will be seeing portrayed ... abandoned children, all kinds of extreme circumstances that we, in 2008, wouldn’t expect to occur. "OK, I think -- expect to see stuff about serious issues". I see parents with their cameras.

The actors march in through the door which is immediately to my left, walk past me and continue on to the front of the sanctuary. Their costumes and makeup are magnificent, perfect! This is no small potatoes production ... these kids really look and act professional. The characters of "Annie" begin to come to life! It is enthralling. I’m very glad I came to church this morning.

The kids do their first scene and song ... it is great! Now they’re doing their second song. Their stage presence is awesome. I do find myself wishing that the music sound track volume would be turned down a bit, as portions of the actors’ voices and words get drowned out by the music. Of course, in the sanctuary where the acoustics create a lot of reverb, perception of the sound quality depends on where you are sitting. Anyway, I’m concentrating on hearing the kids’ words and am sitting sort of twisted toward the right in order to get the best view of the performance.

Suddenly, a horrific bomb-like blast somewhere near and alongside me on the left blows out my hearing; my head is banging inside and has whistling, ringing sounds in it, then nothing. I lose momentary consciousness. "Ooh, here I am again and I’m staring straight ahead. My God ... Greg is on the floor in front of me. He’s lying too still". I'm scared and immobilized.

The play (or something) still seems to be going on, though I can’t really hear. I look to my right towards the performance area, but don’t see anything. Wait, there is a scuffle in front of the door immediately to my left. This is the door the kids had come through moments earlier. This is the door I always use to come and go. I see a man bending over Greg and touching him, then moving away. My head is ringing. Greg is really there. As a second blast takes place, I see a man with a gun and big streaks, like long orange tongues, shoot out about four or five feet in front of where I'm sitting, sort of semi-slumped in the pew. The noise of the 2nd blast accompanies a hard, concentrated feeling of blunt impact on my mid forehead, an inch or so above my eye (on that rounded part of the forehead bone). My head and ear are now majorly hurting and spinning and ringing. The loudness of the blasts is intensified by mics that are set up for the performance. "Please turn it off". My head and ears ache. This isn’t the play.

"What has become of Bill (my former guitar player who is the church’s sound engineer)? He's usually in what he calls "the cave", the sound room, located on one side of the rear of the sanctuary; that thought momentarily flashes across my mind.

My consciousness weaving, I remain immobilized and deafened, though struggling to focus. Suddenly, a male voice comes through loudly and clearly from somewhere that sounds like it's inside my head, "Get down! Get down!" At that moment, it seems weird to me that I am alive and able to move. There is a strong smell of gun powder. Around the time of the 3rd blast, I crouch behind the pew bench that's in front of me (remember I had moved from the original seat?) and make my way along the length of the sanctuary to that inviting sight – the wide open back door. I expect to feel another shot before I make it to the door. The rest of my pew which was jam-packed moments before, is completely empty ... no one is there. It is so weird and I'm really scared. I fly through the door and take a deep breath of the outdoor air; it is heavy, humid, smoggy, and hot, and I thankfully gulp it in! I climb up the grassy hillside toward the woods. I want to run into the woods and hide, but I see one man standing on the grassy hill and I go to him.

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In retrospect: I spent the next two days in tearful, humble gratitude to those who protected me with their heroism; I’d been in very close proximity to the gunman. It is amazing that I am alive. A number of times, I pinched my arm to reassure myself that I was actually alive. I will be eternally grateful to Greg for giving me and others our initial chance to continue living, to the men of the congregation who subdued the gunman and further enabled me to escape, and to the mysterious male voice that told me to "get down" even when I couldn't hear.

My sincere gratitude, always, to the dear man who held me in his arms after I reached the grassy hill outside of the back door.

The source of my head pain was the middle of my forehead slightly to the left; the doctor said that it looked like pellets, "projectiles" had hit me and penetrated ... I had a red, bruised, diveted bump there and, when I could gingerly wash the area, the odd little markings of blood near my hairline washed off. The hospital staff did not lift the bangs of my hair to look at my forehead and, instead, concentrated on my ear and fragmented emotional state. While waiting in the hospital's treatment room, I overheard an EMT loudly and graphically announce to the nurses at the desk, the details of the victims' injuries that he had seen while transporting the two fatally- wounded people to another hospital. It made me even more upset to hear this and I was eager to get out of that emergency room and go home to heal myself. I did not want to be a victim. I absolutely did not want to be named as a victim. I wanted my wound to go away. Thankfully, my hearing returned within the second week and I was able to play my music. During subsequent months, the pellet fragments migrated to the soft tissue of my right sinus cavity and I had an eye hemorrhage that took a month to clear up. At that point, I had a C-T scan, which documented the reality of what had happened. I took earnest measures to heal myself.

The news of the shootings had been carried around the world and much love and support was shown to the TVUUC and Westside UUC congregations.