Seaside currents of fresh air
splash on my face
like the water does the earth.
I look out
and am lifted by the very depths of the sea.
I am flying, soaring
though sitting still...
naturally stoned
on a sandy beach.
More Sunday Scribblings.
Here are two of my poems for this week's Sunday Scribblings prompt :time travel.
The time is gone
it isn't there any more.
The place it stays
different than before.
******
That song
brings back the time and the place...
a simpler time,
though I'm bound to say
the same of this.
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South Florida streets are known for their danger. Just check our auto insurance rates! But this time of year, it gets especially nerve-wracking as the normal chaos is exasperated by people rushing to get holiday shopping done.
Looking at all the cars weaving in and out of lanes, I could've just as easily been on the local speedway. You'd think someone had called out "gentlemen, start your engines". Driving becomes a competition sport.
Take last night. I was driving on a surface street on the
way home from a bite to eat. In a flash, a car zoomed up behind me, then veered into the lane beside me. The driver...let's call him Mr. Crazy...sped up. I knew he was going to cut back in front of me. What happened next nearly stopped my heart. The truck that was in front of Mr. Crazy started to brake for a turn. Mr. Crazy was busy looking back at me to see when he could cut back in without clipping me. Well, you can't look backward and forward at the same time so Mr. Crazy missed noticing that the truck was slowing down. Mr. Crazy's initial calculation for the space he had changed and he didn't know it. If I tell you his car cleared the truck by inches, I wouldn't be exaggerating. It could've gotten real ugly...for him...and even for me. Certainly, the result would've been more than a fender bender...and more than a dent.
I got home and immediately upon exiting my car, "kissed the earth". No, I sure don't miss commuting to and from Miami every day!
when I'm walking
and noticing the small things
I often think of you
and how I know
if you were here with me
you'd see them too -
knowing all the while
they really weren't small at all.
Prompted by Sunday Scribblings.
The fact of the matter is, I want no part of bags and purses. They make me feel confined somehow...not to mention the toll they take on my shoulder and/or back. And then, there's the keeping up with it. No, I prefer to travel lightly. I carry what can fit into my pockets: some cash, a credit card, and my keys...no big key rings for me....and maybe also a tissue. If I didn't get it in my pocket, I did without it. It holds true even to this day.
But lately I've found I'm gaining weight...I mean aside from the actual extra weight I've put on over the past few years - thank you menopause. Now I'm finding myself having to reassess this lifelong practice.
For starters, I now need my reading glasses for just about everything. As noted in a previous post, I've tried dealing with this reality in a number of ways - all of them unsatisfactory. Add to this a cell phone which, even though I hardly use, I now want to have with me. It fits in my pocket, so I carry it, but there are a lot of drops and unasked for pictures. And then add to that the new desire to have at least a pocket camera available. There's been too many times I've missed good grab shots when walking casually.
Yes...it's all becoming a bit much. I'm either without something or losing something or breaking something. I'm going to have to come to terms with the fact that I need to carry a bag of some sort. But what sort? I've tried out different ones, and so far nothing suits me. They're either too big for my comfort or too small for my needs.
I actually think it's mostly that I don't know how to use one. I hear you laughing. As ridiculous as it may sound, I'm so unpracticed at using one that it feels like a foreign object...a forced companion with which I must now establish a relationship.
Suggestions of a style, the way to best carry one...even a specific recommendation are welcomed.
For more Sunday Scribblings on what people carry, click here.
When Dorothy first meets Scarecrow, she's reached an intersection on the yellow brick road. She laments out loud about not knowing which way to go to get to Oz:
Dorothy:
Now which way do we go?
At which point, Scarecrow pops to life and says:
Scarecrow:[pointing left]
Pardon me, this way is a very nice way.
and then...
Scarecrow:
[pointing right] It's pleasant down that way, too.
and then...
Scarecrow:
[pointing both ways] Of course, some people do go both ways.
It's all very confusing.
In the end Scarecrow comes off his pole, dances around with Dorothy this way and that...all in prelude to heading down the road. But which road? The left? The right? They turned themselves around so much that it could've been either, and it's quite by chance that they finally commit. Then, off they go on their journey to Oz.
So did they go left or did they go right? We never know which...because you see... it's not which road you travel that matters. What matters is that you make the journey.
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By definition, hospitals are not places we want to frequent. Thankfully, most of the times I've been in them has been as a visitor...and even those times have been relatively few.
A few years ago though, while at work in Miami, I did have an occasion to be a hospital patient. And that's the PERFECT word for it...because you have to be so doggone patient!
Here's what I mean:
While talking with my supervisor in a morning meeting, I began to feel a sharp and stabbing pain in my chest. I wasn't sure what to make of it, but my supervisor decided it could be a heart attack. I was driven to the nearest hospital. In hindsight, I'm not sure why she didn't call Fire Rescue, but I sure wish she had. It would have expedited things at least a little. 
As it was, we sat and sat and sat in the ER waiting room. No one seemed to care that I MIGHT have needed urgent care. I'm thinking it would be nice to at least get some vitals checked out! I guess, though, as long as I wasn't emulating Fred Sanford, I was at the back of the line.
Finally...some hours later...my name was called. At last! But wait, I only got as far as a triage room. Well, I figured...first things first. But it was soon apparent that there was a problem. The woman attending to me couldn't speak English. Oh my. She opted to use visual aids...like personally lifting my shirt and bra up... in order to listen to my heart? I'm still not sure what happened there. She took my pulse, took my temperature and wrote up a chart. Then, back I went to the ER waiting room.
More waiting.
Eventually, I made it back to the actual ER. I was put in a little cubby and some initial work was done to get me settled. Then...you guessed it...
More waiting.
I lied there for hours waiting for a cardiologist to see me and authorize either release or admittance. There wasn't even a TV to pacify me. I just stared at the ceiling tiles and the people passing by until Judy arrived.
At about 8 p.m. (I had arrived sometime around 10 a.m.) I was officially admitted. They wanted to run some tests and up to a room I went.
The room. I'll never forget it. It looked like it hadn't been remodeled or updated since the 1960s. The woman in the next bed sounded like she was dying, and she was watching Spanish language novelas (soap operas) on television. My TV was broken, so I got to listen to them too.
Not having anything else to do, I turned my thoughts to food. I hadn't eaten since breakfast and realized I was plenty hungry. "When's dinner?", I asked. "Already delivered and picked up" was the answer. They gave me a container of milk and some crackers to hold me over until breakfast. Nice.
Soon, sleep came, but throughout the night staff came in to take EKGs. Each time it was a comedy of errors as the nurses or aides (I don't know which) worked on getting me all hooked up. One time, I even had to tell them how to apply the pads. Now that was reassuring!
My wonderland adventure continued the next day. It was test time...many of them...and I got wheeled about from one to the next. The timing was lousy: I was out of the room for the delivery of every meal. When I'd return to the room, I'd find my food sitting there...cold.
By mid-afternoon I was very hungry and I was panicking that I'd have to spend another day in this place. My tests were over, but the cardiologist hadn't come to read/assess them. And it was Friday. If he didn't come today, I thought, he probably wouldn't come until Monday. Oh no!!!!!!!
Judy returned in time to start being a constant presence and advocate. She brought food too. It was close, but the story ends happily. The cardiologist came, the results of all tests were negative (turns out I had had a bad episode of acid reflux), and I was released (eventually).
Bad as my hospital experience was, it pales by comparison to the experiences of others...like a friend of mine who went into a hospital for routine by-pass surgery and ended up with a staph infection that nearly killed her. She still lives with the effects of it...her life forever changed. I got away easy.
And yet, despite all that goes wrong...despite all the frustration with what goes on for reasons known and unknown...I still believe that more good care than bad takes place in hospitals, and I honor the caregivers who try their best to do difficult work under difficult circumstances.
I do have one request...one that I know the nurses out there will hate me for...but do you think we can get nurses back in white uniforms and hats like they used to wear? Casual wear with colors is fun...and I'm sure more comfortable...but there was something reassuring about the sterile looking get-up, don't you think?
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Jobs come in all shapes and sizes. Some pay, some don't. Some are done for others, some are done for ourselves. Some are fun, some aren't. There are even jobs within jobs...a part of your "job description"...that make an otherwise enjoyable job, not. There are jobs we do because we want to, there are jobs we do because we have to. Yes, there are all sort of jobs.
I've had many jobs over the course of my life. In fact, up until age 29, I changed jobs about every three years...mostly in tandem with changing addresses.
The very first job I had was typical for a high school girl: a cashier for the grocery chain "Food Fair". I suppose I should be grateful I got a job at all back then considering how I completed my first job application. I can't recall who the potential employer was, but I do remember that when asked to enter "salary requested" on the application form, I answered "yes". Of course, the answer I got back was "no". Pretty embarrassing to admit, even now.
Other jobs followed this, and then more followed those. Some good, some not so. Cashier, courier, teller, secretary, work measurement analyst, and sales. Ah yes, sales...
This was the nature of the one job in my long list that stands out as being the worst. Shortly after moving to Atlanta in the 70s, I got a job selling a photo development/album package door to door. I must have been desperate or delusional when I took the job.
My target audience? Newlyweds and couples expecting a baby. After all, who more than they would want pictures!? I memorized a long pitch to deliver and went out to make my fortune.
I never, ever had a problem getting in the door. I was non-threatening, and now I think, I was probably pathetic looking too. After going through a few moments of niceties, I started in with my pitch. I'm sure it sounded mechanical, but back then, I thought it went out without a hitch...that is, until I got to the point of closing the deal. Invariably, I would hear the words: "that sounds very nice, but we really can't afford it right now". Of course they couldn't! They either had amassed a mountain of bills from their recent wedding or they were expecting a mountain of them from the birthing of their soon to be child. Duh!!
Here's how I came to know I wasn't cut out for sales: instead of working these people over and convincing them to ignore reason, I would look around their living room and say to myself "your right, you can't afford it and you shouldn't buy it". I almost apologized as I left.
In two months, I never made a single sale, I used up money I didn't have on gasoline, and I was miserable. When I could no longer fill the tank, I quit. I quit and I moved on.
At 29, I finally settled down. I panicked. I was
approaching 30 and had not yet started a "career". Oh, I had seen the
world, all right, but I was beginning to see that the world had roots
and I didn't. I needed some. So I took the unlikeliest of jobs: a
correctional officer in a major city. I took it for the security and
the benefits until something more in line with my degree came my way.
I ended up staying 25 years. But that's a story for another time.
The other day I made reference to "The Wizard Of Oz" theme that we, not someone else, are the wizards of our lives. We often lose sight of this...if we ever realize it at all. If we're lucky, a parent, a teacher, or a friend can help re-mind us. There are times, though, when we just have to get to it on our own.
Sometimes, we get to it through pain.
Years ago, I was in a relationship turned bad. As it deteriorated, I did too. I slipped into someone who felt invisible, dependent, and worthless. It wasn't until I sank to the bottom of my emotional pit...emptying completely out...that I found my way back. When you get to that point, there isn't much to get in the way.
I can't recall my eureka moment, but I evidently had one because the poem below was written to mark it. The power within me had been awakened and I wanted to declare it:
sometimes I feel you think of me
as three day old bread
or a bottle of soda left open;
but I'm not -
I'm alive and I'm kicking
and soft to the touch still.
I know I am,
and that's what feels the best.
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