Contemplate Freedom...

... before it slips away... ------->>
... before it's only a memory.

Happy Father's Day

My story may wander and seem to make no sense at times, but I assure you, it will all make some sort of sense in the end.

The first thing I would like to share with you is The Chair. I was in therapy after getting into recovery from alcohol and drug abuse. I was doing pretty well considering the wreckage of my past. But the years of drinking and bad attitudes about life in general had made me into a cynical mess.

The biggest issues I had concerned being abused as a child. Every person I came in contact with told me that forgiveness was the only answer. But it never seemed as though anyone had an instruction sheet or a map as to how to get from Point A to Point B... Point A being where I was, and Point B being forgiveness. I was assured, however, that until I reached a point of forgiveness, most, if not all, of my work would be in vain. That left me seemingly on a precarious cliff and I really didn't know if I would jump or not.

My counselor, Wayne, had an exercise he would lead me through occasionally. He very simply called it The Chair. I had another name for it that I won't share here due to its vulgarity. I hated the chair. I hated it with a passion I hadn't known in some time. But each and every exercise revealed things about me, about people and about situations that, once revealed, seemed almost magical to me. So very grudgingly I would indulge in the chair exercise.

It wasn't pretty most times. I hemmed and hawed, but always seemed to be able to get through it. And I never knew when he would pull out the chair. It made me uneasy going to sessions with him just for that reason. But go I did because I hated how I felt more than I hated the chair. If I was going to recover (and I was promised I could), then I wasn't going to give it a half-hearted attempt. I was going to give it my all because I felt that if I ever drank or used drugs again, I would never again find recovery, and that scared me to death.

The concept of the chair was simple. Let's say I was having a problem with Person 1. My chair and THE chair would be positioned to face each other. I would sit in my chair and present my argument to the person I was having a problem with. I would then get up and sit in THE other chair and respond how I thought they might respond. And then back to my chair to keep the conversation going until an acceptable resolution was made.

In theory I could see how that could be helpful. In practice though, I sucked. Most times it wasn't other people who were the problem. It was my thinking and my inability to provide options for myself that was the real problem.

You know that saying that goes like this? If you always do what you've always done, you will always get what you've always got. That made sense to me. And that is exactly what I did most of my life. I didn't have healthy role models. So I couldn't just conjure up a healthy resolution to a problem. It wasn't in my reference material.

But what I noticed in doing the chair exercise was that I was beginning to become creative in my thinking. I would let go of the old thinking (even if it was for a few seconds) and try to come up with something new. And due to that, a new me began to emerge. And with the new me came a new confidence and boldness. Although falteringly and awkward, I was taking care of recent business in my life. I could resolve current issues and that made me feel like I was on top of the world. They weren't stacking up like the old days. Once faced, they were dissolving and I was growing by leaps and bounds I was told. There were even times when I could actually see the growth myself. I was happier than I had been in years.

But when it came to family issues, I turned into the five-year-old again, helpless and hopeless. I just couldn't see how I would ever get over all that. It was too much. It was too hard. I really thought it was impossible.

It was October 1988. The family issues had reared their ugly heads once again. It seemed more than I could bear. My father was a drunk and an abuser. His drinking had lost him more jobs than he could count. My mother finally left him after years of abuse. He lived alone with no friends and no one to talk to. When he wasn't there he could be found in any number of local watering holes. He wasn't liked there either.

My question to my counselor was, "How can I ever forgive all that?" His suggestion was to go and talk to him. Before I left home, I never dared to say anything. After that every encounter with my father was an argument of some sort ending in more hard feelings. How could I expect to have a civil conversation with him?

Enter The Chair.

My counselor suggested that instead of making this a confrontational meeting that perhaps I should start thinking about making amends to my father. Well, I knew Wayne had finally gone off the deep end then. ME, make amends? He was the offender, not me.

But Wayne had a way of helping me see my part in things. I had perpetuated the rift and the heartache by hating him and fighting with him. Certainly no forgiveness could occur if I didn't own up to my part in it. But stubborn and bull-headed, I was having none of that! It was HIM, ALL him!

I gave lip service to the chair that day. I argued when I promised myself I wouldn't. I think I was having a juvenile moment because in my heart I knew Wayne might be right, and so I acted out like the perfect teenager.

The following week was a long one. I hated my father, I hated all that he had done, I hated how I felt about it and I hated that in the end I would have to be the adult in the situation. I went back to Wayne's office the following week, whipped and defeated. I told him, "Just tell me what to do and I will do it. I can't live like this any more."

And of course, he pulled out the chair. During my conversation with my father that day I found a humility inside. That was different. I actually put myself in his shoes and knew, being a drunk myself, that many times I had said and done things that I now wished I could do over. Would I want to be judged in sobriety for something I had done during my drinking days? I think not. It was then I found a new beginning for myself and my issues.

After several more exercises with the chair I felt I was strong enough to actually go visit my father and try to put all this behind me. By late November I had found the courage inside to make the journey. All I had to remember was that I didn't have to participate in every war I was invited to. Other than that, I needed to speak from my heart, not my head.

The trip was the longest 350 miles I had ever traveled in my life. I was doing the whole chair routine all the way home. I could do this, I told myself. I could conquer my fear and face the facts, ALL the facts, and I could make a difference in my own life, and maybe his too. I had written to him to let him know I was coming. He had no phone. I just hoped no explosions would erupt. No! I wasn't going to allow that to happen. Wayne told me I could do this... And dammit, I could!

I arrived about 10 a.m. He wasn't home. I knew what that meant. So I went to get a room at one of the hotels, freshened up and went out to search for him. I knew his old haunts. It shouldn't take long. And it didn't. I found him at the first place I went.

I hadn't seen the inside of a bar in four years. The first thing I noticed was the smell of alcohol. Funny, I had never noticed that before in all the days of drinking. It really stunk. I was dressed really nice and heads turned when I walked in. I knew it wouldn't be long before one or the other would get ideas. I hadn't thought about that. Oh well, I'd cross that bridge when I got to it.

He was sitting alone at the far end of the bar, head down, probably half asleep or in a stupor. There was nothing new under the sun in his life. Looking at him like that I felt something I had never felt before when it came to him... pity. That surprised me. With senses heightened, I approached him and asked if I could sit down. "Sure," he muttered, not knowing who I was. "Hey, give this lady a drink. Anything she wants," he commanded to the bartender. Oh my God! He really didn't know who I was!

I could hear the whispers in the air, wondering who I was and why I was sitting next to him of all people. We just sat there silent as the bartender brought me my Coke in a suspiciously "clean" glass, and never looked at each other. I could see activity out of the corner of my eye and knew it wouldn't be long before someone would be sent over to spy on us. Still he said nothing to me. I thanked him for the soda and he just nodded my way a tad.

I felt so nervous being in a bar. The odor sickened me and a flood of memories were beginning to compete for attention. I shooed them away. That isn't what I was here for.

"So, how ya been?" I asked.

"Every day is the same," he managed to squeak out. I saw he had given up on lying these days.

"Can we talk?" I asked.

"You talk, I'll listen," he said, still having no clue who I was.

"Dad, it's me, Sally," I said to him, almost crying. I could see the vultures beginning to circle.

He turned on his bar stool to look at me. "M'Girl!!!" he almost shouted, as I saw the recognition wash over his face. He never addressed me with my name, not ever. I was always M'Girl.

Forty five to fifty years of drinking had taken their toll on him. Previously a stocky man, he was now skin and bones. He had no teeth and probably hadn't seen a bath in 10 years. His eyes were vacant and whatever light he may have had was gone now. He tried to stand but his legs were having a hard time supporting him. And so he leaned into me and hugged me. As he did this the vultures stepped away.

The hug wasn't a long one. He couldn't let anyone think he was a wimp or anything. After about five minutes of idle chatter I asked if we could go somewhere, that I had something to talk with him about and that I didn't think this place was appropriate. He said he didn't eat much when I suggested a restaurant. I knew he felt embarrassed about how he looked so I asked him where we could go. He said the Riverwalk was a place he liked. It was a mild day, so I told him we could go there.

He plopped himself into my car and off we went to the Riverwalk. We found a bench near the water. He loved that having been an avid fisherman his whole life.

"So whatcha wanna know?" he asked. I wasn't even sure how to start. But inside of 30 seconds the tears were pouring down my cheeks as I 'confessed' how awful I was and that I wanted his forgiveness for keeping the hate alive.

"No, no," he insisted. "It was ME. I was the creep. You never deserved all those beatings and all that other stuff. why do you think I drink so much?"

It's like the lights came on in a dark room.

"We weren't supposed to have kids. That's why we adopted you. And then your brother came along and then your sister. And we had no money and I didn't know what to do. I always loved you, you know. My own kids, my own flesh and blood... they can't talk to me. I've done them wrong too. But you, YOU, you were the first and the best. And here we are. You're the one that's here, not them."

I felt the burden of years being lifted from me. It didn't mean I condoned his abuse. It just meant I no longer had to carry it around like it was some badge of honor (or dishonor).

He was shaking. I'm not sure if it was the cold or if he needed a drink. But I told him I needed to go. He wouldn't have understood, but I needed to process what just happened. I wanted to bring him home, but he insisted that I bring him back to the bar. I shuddered at him driving after a few more. He couldn't even stand up straight now. But that was his life and I had no control over it. He was adamant though, that I come to his house the following day. And so I agreed. I would stop there on my way out of town to go back home.

I got to the hotel and slept for 10 solid hours. I awoke feeling lighter and happier than I had been in a very long time. How I wished it were so for him.

He came practically running out to my car when I pulled in the driveway. "Come on in," he said, all happy that I was there. He lived in the house I had grown up in. The five-room and one bathroom house had been reduced to one room that he could get into. The place was unlivable. It was the worst thing I have ever seen in my life.

The smell of urine and feces was so bad and the Lysol he had used to try to clean up the place only made it worse. There was no running water or electricity. He used a Coleman lantern for light, but did say he rarely used it because he made sure to be asleep before dark so he wouldn't have to. The place was very cold so I think there was no heat either. I didn't see any heat source.

There were empty cans everywhere stacked up. He would eat out of the cans and then just lay them down. Some other larger cans were filled with urine and feces because the bathroom had caved in, he said. A single bed in the corner had bugs running over the blankets and I'm sure there must have been a multitude of mice.

I guess it was then I realized what guilt and shame and hatred can do to a person. A once vibrant, albeit mean and miserable, man had reduced his own life to this... a hovel that was dangerous to live in because he couldn't live with the memory of his own actions. Once more I knew that the outside mirrors the inside and his insides had hurt him to this level of inhumanity. I felt a sadness that is hard to describe.

I tried to not looked shocked at what I was witnessing, but the image still burns in my brain to this day. He offered me a beer, but I declined. And then he brought out a small box that he had wrapped with a brown paper bag and duct tape. I told him, "You shouldn't have." And his eyes finally had a little glow in them. "I don't want the other ones to have this. It belonged to your grandmother."

It was something I remember seeing every time I went to her house. It stood on the hutch near the dining room table. It was a stand alone crucifix, gold toned. I could see how much it meant to him and how he hated to part with it. I told him, "Oh, Dad, I can't accept this. You keep it, but thank you." But he wouldn't take no for an answer. I stayed for a few minutes longer but then told him the trip was long and I had to get back. I tried leaving the crucifix, but he caught me and carried it out to the car himself.

This time his legs were seaworthy and he hugged me like a bear. And again he told me that he loved me... the best. I left his driveway knowing I had discovered what all those people had told me. I had finally found the ability to forgive. I couldn't wait to tell Wayne.

The following September I received a call that my father had passed away. About that same time the song, The Living Years by Mike and the Mechanics was popular. To this day I cannot hear that song without thinking of my Dad and crying. For indeed... "It's too late, when we die, to admit we don't see eye to eye." I am glad I had the chance to resolve our differences before it was too late.

I still can get caught up in the abuse issues. But I try to always remember that one good memory. It softens the edges of a very hard life and it helps me to move forward keeping the past as a measuring tool so I can see how far I have traveled.

These days The Chair still plays an important part in my life. I now call her Grace. For indeed The Chair has graced me with wonderful insights. I go to the chair when I feel lost or lonely. I go to the the chair when I need to focus. I go to the chair when I need answers and to help myself find options. And sometimes... I go to the chair because I have have found it is (and always will be) my safe place. Wayne would be proud. Hell, I'm proud!

To all you fathers out there... remember... Anyone can be a Father, but it takes someone really special to be a Daddy.

Happy Father's Day to all of you, near or far. May you be blessed.

A Grand Old Flag

Dear Mr. President:

What is it exactly that disgusts you so much about America? As the leader of the greatest country in the free world it would seem to me that you would exhibit some pride and respect when it comes to our national symbol, The Flag. But then perhaps I expect too much.

I come from a generation of flag wavers. I could recite the Pledge of Allegiance by the time I was three years old. And although I couldn't walk due to physical ailments, I still sat proud and saluted the flag in the only way a child can - fervently, perhaps sloppily, but all with a huge smile on my face.

When I finally went to school I stood proud each morning and put my hand over my heart and chimed in with the rest of the class as we said the Pledge. There was no concern over whether we 'should' or 'should not.' Oh my God, that wasn't even an option! There was no one to 'offend' and people were not only proud to live here, they were glad as well.

I understand if you feel awkward about actually saluting the flag. That would require prior military service to do it properly and you really shouldn't embarrass yourself if you don't know how. But I think most Americans would forgive a wrong gesture if it was done with pure intentions.

Folded hands hanging pathetically in front of you as you gaze off into space does not constitute a "Pledge" of any kind as far as I'm concerned. You could have at least acknowledged the Flag.

I have discovered, however, that you do acknowledge other flags. Finding this coming from your White House was not exactly what I was looking for, but it wasn't surprising either. It should serve as a dire warning to all freedom lovers. It's those double standards that I have always had such a hard time with. How can it be appropriate to recognize flags from other countries yet deny your own? Don't answer me. Answer yourself.

Your administration has done more to harm the American fabric of patriotism than any other. Liberties are being maliciously stripped away in a systematic move toward a society with no rights. I, for one, will not stand for it.

And so on this day, Flag Day, June 14, 2010, being unsure that you will step up to the plate and honor our beloved flag, Mr. President, I will once again assume the role of flag waver and ask anyone who wishes to join me to recite the Pledge of Allegiance - Out Loud and Proud! Because she was formed by the Grace of God and stands as a symbol of freedom and a beacon of hope to those who wish to be free from tyranny.

Stand tall, either salute or put your hand over your heart, stare directly at those star and stripes and always remember the price that was paid in her defense. She is A Grand Old Flag - deserving of respect and honor.

　

I Pledge Allegiance to the flag of the United States of America and
to the Republic for which it stands, one Nation under God, indivisible, with liberty and justice for all.

The History and Evolution of Dance

'Life is not learning to weather the storms,

but rather learning to dance in the rain.'

Consulting many sites over the last three days, I discovered there is no precise way to document the history or evolution of dance. It's all speculation at best because it isn't like finding ancient tools or pottery and piecing together what is found.

It is unlikely that any human society (at any rate until the invention of puritanism) has denied itself the excitement and pleasure of dancing. Like cave painting, the first purpose of dance was probably ritual - appeasing a nature spirit or accompanying a rite of passage. But losing oneself in rhythmic movement with other people was an easy form of intoxication. Pleasure can never have been far away.

Rhythm, indispensable in dancing, is also a basic element of music. It is natural to beat out the rhythm of the dance with sticks. It is natural to accompany the movement of the dance with rhythmic chanting. Dance and music most likely began as partners in the service of ritual.

In most ancient civilizations, dancing before the god was an important element in temple ritual. In Egypt the priests and priestesses, accompanied by harps and pipes, performed stately movements which mimed significant events in the story of a god, or imitated cosmic patterns such as the rhythm of night and day.

At Egyptian funerals, women danced to express the grief of the mourners. Greek shrines were inaugurated with dancing by the temple virgins. And Hindu temple priestesses used formalized hand movements with each precise gesture being of subtle significance.

Dance as ecstasy has a double-edged flavor to it. Any sufficiently uninhabited society knows that frantic dancing, in a mood heightened by pounding rhythm and flowing alcohol, will set the pulse racing and induce a mood of frenzied exhilaration.

Ancient Greek villagers, after harvesting the grapes, celebrated the occasion with a drunken orgy in honor of the god of wine. Short of unfortunate extremes such as random acts of murder, all social dances promise the same desirable mood of release and excitement.

The evolution of dance as being entertainment and display has survived to this day. Scantily clad girls, accompanied by seated musicians, cavorted enticingly on the walls of Egyptian tombs. It was believed they would delight the male occupant during his residence in the next world. But dancing girls are for this world too. From princely banquets to back-street strip clubs, they require no explanation.

The closely related theme of display underlies the story of public dance. From the courts of European spectacles, this kind eventually lead to ballet.

And as history goes, this has lead to whatever kinds of dance we now see in all its myriad glory. It still does not, however, explain dance's origin. I believe it to be so very simple.

We think as humans that we are superior to other animal species on this planet. With our ability to reason and the gift of language, we separate ourselves quite nicely from them. We Oo and Ah about the ways animals mimic our gestures, for example, the apes. Some have even learned sign language. We have even incorporated the word 'aped' into our language. And birds are the greatest imitators of language we can find.

But here is my question - Who mimicked who? I therefore submit my 'proof' that we most assuredly mimicked them when it comes to dance. Enjoy yourself as you browse my 'evidence.' And ask yourself this... Now really, haven't you actually seen a person in some of these poses as they danced? Case closed. Have fun! I sure did.

A parting shot... I hate a smart-arse bird that can dance better than me... LOL

I Think I Can Flyyyyyyy...

Oooops! Oh well, no harm, no foul (pardon the pun).

Come On... Dream With Me

Back in the day, when I was young, I had dreams. Oh my God, I had dreams. Today I would like to share one of those dreams with you if I may.

That was back when paisley was popular and peace signs were all the rage. The Beatles had just hit the scene, Elvis was the top dog and our boys were just going off to Vietnam. Music was leaning toward radical and politics were even more outrageous. Women were becoming 'liberated,' (as if - we still bear children don't we?), and the American dream was in full swing.

And then I found cars. It was as if I had died and gone to heaven. All that chrome! All that steel! And that red, OMG! And while people were oo-ing and ah-ing the '57 Chevy, I had my eye on another version that the Great Year '57 offered - the Buick Roadmaster Convertible.

I talked about that car like a man talks about women. "Ain't she pretty? What curves! What lines! Classy, she is!"

"One day," I vowed, "I will have one of those!" That day has not yet arrived. But still I hope... and wish... and plan for the day I do have one. Because I have a date - on the beach - to watch the surf and feel the breeze in my face.

Dreams come and dreams go but this one has lasted and lasted. So here... let me share her with you. She's a beauty, don't you agree? And keep dreaming your dreams. One day you may walk out of your house and you will notice that the dream has been fulfilled. The Universe is funny like that.

Sweet Ride... Nice Headlights

Great Rear-End Suspension

As Pretty on the Outside

As She Is on the Inside

Yes Sir, That's My Baby!!!

Please visit www.MisterW.com to see more wonderful photographs of classic cars. They don't make 'em like this any more!

Happy Dreaming...