What Would Captain Kirk Do About Aleppo?

I sat down to write, but felt torn by two completely different topics: the horrible humanitarian crisis in Syria, or the fiftieth anniversary of Star Trek. I realize, the conflict I experience between these two disparate topics makes me sound incredibly shallow.

I’ve been disturbed by the images coming out of Aleppo. The heart-wrenching photos of children, injured and orphaned amid the rubble that was once their home, sicken me. But I feel helpless to do anything about it. My knowledge of the drama playing out in Syria is, I suspect like most Americans, sketchy at best. My ignorance, combined with my inability to render aid, causes me to tuck my concerns about these tiny war refugees, however haunting, into the further recesses of my mind.

Besides, it’s better to write what you know. It’s the fiftieth anniversary of a childhood fav, Star Trek. While I wouldn’t consider myself a full-fledged Trekkie, I love the original episodes in all their geeky glory. The captain and his crew provide a nostalgia that comforts me in lieu of the reality I see on the nightly news. James T. Kirk always manages to outwit any opponent or complicated situation, especially when aided by his logical side-kick, Spock.

Then there’s Gary Johnson, poor guy. He looked like a deer in the headlights when asked about Aleppo; forcing many Americans to Google it. No one wants to look that dumb. But, who among us could pass the geography test on the second largest city in Syria? Still, if you want to be President of the Unites States, you kind of have to be smarter than the average bear. Well, that’s the theory; I guess we’ll see how this election turns out.

If Captain Kirk were asked a similar question, “What should be done about, Remus?” He would know from his Starfleet academy training, not to mention his friendship with a Vulcan, that the planet Remus is occupied by the Romulans – a group who rebelled against their peace-loving Vulcan heritage and fled to the planet Romulus. Once there, they took over the neighboring planet, Remus, and subsequently oppressed the natives. Kirk, backed up by his crew and the United Federation of Planets, would deal with any situation that cropped up on Remus, or Romulus for that matter. The bad guys would be identified and dealt with before the hour was up. Then, we would all sleep better for knowing it.

Meanwhile back on Earth, Aleppo is the definition of FUBAR.

It represents the epicenter of the five-year Syrian civil war. There are many different factions controlling the city’s borders, which have all but been closed to humanitarian aid. These factions include the government controlled forces, led by Bashar al-Assad, President of Syria. He’s the guy who used chemical weapons on his own people. His army is aided by the likes of Russia, Iran, Hezbollah, and Al-Qaida.

Okay. Got it. Bad actors. So the rebels are good guys?

Not exactly, the rebels include ex-Assad soldiers and Syrian citizens who want Assad out. But they are a small group who has welcomed the aid of over one hundred additional groups; each with their own agenda and reasons for wanting to see Assad’s government toppled. The U.S. is offering “aid” to the rebels, even though not all the groups in league with the Free Syrian Army are our friends (ISIS for example).

Wait, we’re helping support the side that includes ISIS?

Not exactly, but the U.S. is doing what it can to aid rebel forces without sending troops. Russia claims their only “aid” to Assad forces is in rooting out ISIS.

If Captain Kirk were here, he’d call “bull crap” on both arguments. He’d point out that each military powerhouse was playing a game of war with secret agendas, while the people of Syria suffer. Then he’d round up everyone with a weapon and transport them to the planet Romulus to let the fighting Vulcans sort it out as punishment for oppressing the people of Remus.

I’m probably getting way over my head here. My knowledge of Star Trek trivia isn’t that much better than my understanding of the complicated issues in Syria. The point is; I dream, however fanciful my imagination may be, of a time when the people of Earth come together to live in peace, where children grow up in safety with equal opportunities to seek out new life and new civilizations and boldly go where no one has gone before. I want all monsters to be identified and forced to wear lizard costumes, and good guys to carry phasers set to stun until the truth can be sorted out in any conflict.  Is that too much to ask?

A Fresh Take on the Empty-Nest

Empty-Nest; the words I’ve been dreading. I’ve been here before. There’s the vicarious thrill of seeing your baby set off on a new adventure mixed with the pain of saying goodbye. My heart physically aches at the thought of my last kid, or even the two before him, heading out the door bound for college.

My experience doesn’t ease the pain of this last baby bird flying the coop. The finality of my last child leaving scares me. My child – yes I know there’s wisdom in Khalil Gibran’s words, “Your children are not your children.” It is a beautiful sentiment, but Gibran didn’t even have children. What the hell did he know? I understand the concept that my children are not mine in the sense that I don’t possess them body and soul. But in coming through me they take a part of me; leaving me feeling less than whole when they’re gone.

It’s not even the physical departure that hurts. I know from experience they never really leave. They visit often. They share their successes; even seek advice with their failures. These moments, however, become fewer and farther in between. But it’s a slow progression; less painful than the abrupt rip of my heart that I brace for. I know, like the jab of a needle, the anticipation is worse than the actual experience. But no matter how hard I try, I can’t help but flinch at the thought of it.

I think the heartbreak comes from reaching the milestone rather than the actual flying away. The first steps, the first lost tooth, the first day of school, first date, driver’s license; these are all steps in the natural progression of events toward the day they leave. As a parent you spend decades dedicating your life, your love – your being, to the health and welfare of your child. Then, poof, your job is over. No wonder parents feel depleted once it’s all said and done.

I propose a paradigm shift for the empty-nest syndrome.

First, we need to ditch that label. There’s nothing empty about our lives. Our homes and hearts may feel temporarily vacated, but this is not a terminal condition. If anything, the extra space we now possess is filled with possibilities. We’re not empty, we’re free. We’re free from the challenges our beloved offspring present on a regular basis.

We’ll always be parents, but now we’re kid-free parents (KFPs).

Maybe KFPs need a commencement ceremony to solidify their new status. Just like our graduates, we deserve a new outfit for the event or at least a new pair of shoes. We should throw a party. Maybe have friends and family bring gifts to help launch us into this next phase of life.

This is after all, a beginning, not an end.

Our kids are sent with new linens and decorations for their dorm rooms. We should at least get a new set of sheets (the really nice ones with Egyptian cotton and a high thread count). Perhaps we too should expand our education. We could take cooking lessons or a pottery class, maybe learn to speak Italian. The point is, as a new KFP, we’ve got to place ourselves in situations that allow us to try new things and meet new people.

Let’s start a national initiative to encourage the dreams of these newly awakened individuals who, after taking time out to help procreate the human race, still have a future ahead of them. I challenge my fellow KFPs to pull out a picture of yourself before kids. Forgive yourself for the overly permed hair and padded shoulders and look deep into the eyes of the person you once were. What passions have you set aside in order to take on the all-important role of parent? Are they still there or do you have new ones? Now go forth with the same enthusiasm and determination you’ve managed to foster in your children and reclaim your own hopes and dreams.

By all means, love your kids, miss your kids, but don’t do it at the expense of losing yourself. You deserve a reward for raising an awesome human being. Now it’s time to get out there and raise the person you were meant to be. At least until they call to say you’re going to be a grandparent, then all bets are off.

Support Humanity!

I realize the title of this post paired with the image seems a like a stretch, but bear with me.

I needed a new sports bra and popped into Dillard’s to pick up a new one. When I entered the lingerie department, I realized I had forgotten to check the size and brand of the tired one I was wearing. This meant I would have to go into the dressing room and try one on, or at least take off the one I was wearing to check the label. A woman asked if I needed help and promptly insinuated herself into the process.

She asked my size and when I threw out my best guess, she eyeballed me and said, “I think you need a fitting.”

I really didn’t want a fitting, but she followed me into the dressing room and before I knew it she was making me take my bra off. If you’ve never experienced a real bra fitting, let me say, you probably should because it really does make a considerable difference to have a properly fitting bra. But, I should warn you that it’s not for the faint of heart.

I once went bra shopping with my daughter who was still young enough that she didn’t yet need one. When the lady came into the dressing room with us and proceeded to relieve me of my bra and show me the proper way to “place my girls” into the cups to ensure a good fit, my daughter was mortified. As we left she said, “Remind me to NEVER ask for help in the bra department.”

I thought of this story as I held my hands over my breasts to provide a modicum of privacy as she told me to slip my arms underneath the straps, then she fastened the back clasp for me. She did all this so quickly that I didn’t have time to be embarrassed about the fact that my current bra was so old, the size information on the label had long since worn off, or wonder when I had last waxed my underarms.

After trying on several bras of various styles and sizes I settled on a few favorites. As I admired my new silhouette with my old T-shirt over a new bra, the woman said, “You see, you should listen to Latifah, when she tells you that you need a fitting.”

I’d been so focused on the task at hand that I hadn’t realized the woman had a rather thick, Middle Eastern accent. I looked at her name tag, barely visible through her long, bleached blonde, wavy hair, which cascaded over her chest, to confirm she was referring to herself. I said, “Latifah, that’s a pretty name. Where are you from originally?”

She seemed a bit shy, which was ridiculous since I had just spent the last twenty minutes half-naked in front of her. She said, “Well, Persia originally, but I have lived in many countries before this one.”

I surprised myself with my forward question asking, “Oh, did you leave Iran after the revolution?” I tried to guess her age and jog my memory of when Persia became the Islamic Republic of Iran. I had interviewed a man who had escaped Iran during the revolution and wondered if she had a similarly harrowing story.

Latifah, dismissing her Iranian background said, “I was quite young when we left and then we went to Pakistan and then to Afghanistan. Then we had to leave there. Oh, so many places and so many languages to learn. It was hard you know?”

I tried to show her that I did know by giving her a quick rundown on the Iranian I knew and how frightening his escape from Iran had been. His family had been persecuted for their non-Muslim beliefs. They had to sneak into Pakistan or face prison leaving everything they owned in the place they had called home for generations.

Latifah shook her head and said, “I know. So many people all over the Middle East, they just want to live and be happy, no matter what their religion.”

“Yes.” I said earnestly, “Of course.”

“Did you see that picture of the little boy on the beach?” Latifah’s accent seemed to grow thicker as she spoke, her “th”s sounding more like “d”s.

I knew the photo she was talking about. The corpse of a little three-year-old boy had become the image of Syrian refugee plight. I wondered what her Syrian connection was.

She shook her head said, “I went back there you know?”

I was getting lost in her accent and rapid manner of speech. Before I could figure out if she was talking about Syria or Iran or Pakistan she clarified that the home she fondly remembered; the one where several family members still lived, was Afghanistan. She told me that the mountains there were similar to Colorado, “Very cold with many places for snipers to hide.”

This was such an incongruous image for me to wrap my head around standing in the safety of a department store dressing room; surrounded by dozens of discarded bras; each with a price that could probably feed someone for a month.

Latifah replaced several bras back on hangers as she chatted conversationally about the atrocities of war, “The people there, they are just trying to survive and they are so shocked after many years of bombs, and rockets, and guns. They have seen so much and their homes and the buildings and the roads are destroyed. They don’t know who to trust, the leaders are all so bad and there’s so much greed.” She emphasized the fact by rubbing her two fingers and thumb together. “Last time I visited, this little boy, no more than four or five, tried to come up and wash my car for to earn some money. He couldn’t even speak, he just looked at me and held up a rag as if to wash.” She pantomimed the boy making a washing movement, but had to stop to compose herself before continuing. “I gave him some money even though my family tell me not to. I have to you know? How could you not help this child? My cousin told me about the soldiers there. They are all such babies and they all cry for their mothers when they are scared.”

I wondered if she was referring to American soldiers occupying Afghanistan or Afghani soldiers or the Taliban. Who were we fighting there? I was embarrassed to admit even to myself that I didn’t have a firm grasp on what really went on in Afghanistan, other than to think it was all over. Right?

Latifah asked, “Why do they send such babies to fight?”

I shook my head, dumbly replying, “I don’t know.” I concluded that it didn’t matter which soldiers Latifah was referring to, children are children. I tried to shake the image I had of my own eighteen-year-old son, still in high school, technically old enough to join the armed services, but still a child in my eyes. The thought made tears well up. I glanced around looking for my original undergarments.

Then Latifah told me another story she had heard during her visit back to Afghanistan. It was one of a family trying to flee a war-ravaged area. They had to hike through mountainous terrain, fording rivers, doing their best to keep their tiny son out of the water by lifting him overhead as they waded through the water, only to realize that the exposure to elements had been too much for his little body to take. He died on the way. From where? To where? I wasn’t sure, the devastation was the same. Latifah’s tears were getting harder to hide now, as were mine. No wonder that the image of the Syrian boy had affected her so.

It was so strange to cry with a complete stranger.  It’s one thing to do it in the darkness of a movie theater during an emotional scene, but here I was exposed, literally.  I tried to imagine a graceful exit, but couldn’t come up with much of a plan since I still needed to put my old bra back on.

Latifah continued, “All we can do is help where we can you know? Even here, I try to help anyone I see. If I see a homeless man, I always roll down my window and give them money. My friends say I am stupid; that they will just use the money for drugs or something, but I have to try to help anyway. We are all here living under one God so it doesn’t matter where we come from or what religion we believe in. We could all do so much you know? I see people come in here and they bring their little dogs with them in a little purse and spoil them like a child. I think of that little boy on the beach and wonder why can’t we help those children when we have so much; so much that we can pamper little dogs as if they are human. Working here I end up with so many clothes; one time I gathered up a bunch of my clothes and put them in my car. I drove down to where I had seen this woman and asked her if she wanted some clean, like new clothes and she was so grateful.”

I had, by this time, given up all hope that I could hold back my tears. This woman’s generous spirit was a thing to behold. There was a reason this woman had crossed my path. I didn’t know exactly what that reason was yet, but I was glad she did. If nothing else than to reassure me that no matter what the heartless, political rhetoric indicated about the fate of our country, I could still be optimistic about our future with citizens like Latifah. I was grateful to have met Latifah, her support for her fellow human beings, not just in the bra department at Dillard’s, but everywhere she saw a need was an inspiration.

My Favorite Axe-Murderer

I had the opportunity to speak with an interesting man in my pursuit to learn about faith. His spiritual practice was Buddhism and he was particularly passionate about meditation and contemplation. As he described these cornerstones of his faith, I became increasingly uncomfortable. My discomfort came at the thought of spending time in quiet thought and reflection. What was I afraid of? Was my interior such a frightening place to dwell?

I thought it might have something to do with my lifelong friendship with a fellow I call Jack. He showed up one day, crazed look in his eyes, sweat dripping off his forehead, axe firmly planted in both hands. He even wore a T-shirt that had the word KILLER boldly emblazoned across his chest. Anybody in their right mind would keep their door tightly bolted, when he came to call. But I, naïve or stupid, I’m not sure, welcomed him. We developed relationship of sorts, and now when he pays a visit, I eagerly greet him and say, “Come on in. What hopes and dreams would you like to kill today?”

You see, Jack is the axe-murderer that lives in my head.

I first met Jack sometime around my teenage years. He would pop in occasionally to offer helpful fashion tips like, “Everybody wears these jeans. If you can’t fit your big butt into them, there’s something innately wrong with you. Buy them anyway and every time you wear them, I’ll be there to remind you how bad you look in them.”

He encouraged me to always look my best by saying, “Do not go out of the house unless you have make-up on. You are way too ugly to be seen in public without doing what you can to make yourself more presentable.”

I realize Jack sounds a little mean-spirited, but he always had my best interest at heart. If I tried to do something stupid like make new friends, he’d hold me back and say, “Whoa, you can’t talk to those people. You’re not ready to sit at the cool kids table.”

Jack wasn’t around all the time, just on occasion. He especially liked to surprise me whenever I was trying something new. He’d point out the ridiculousness of my pursuits and how I was destined to fail. Sometimes I would heed his advice and give up before I even started. But there were times when I became so invigorated by the thrill of stepping outside my comfort zone, that I found it hard to hear his voice.

As I got older, I discovered that I could hear Jack most clearly when I was especially tired, hungry or lonely. This worked out particularly well, because Jack was full of dieting tips, which almost always left me ravenous and eager to hear more words of discouragement.

Somehow or another, I got so busy with my life, career, marriage, and children, that I almost forgot my old friend Jack. But lately, he’s been coming around more and more. I guess it’s because I finally have enough time to think about new ideas and try new things. Jack is understandably concerned about the folly of my new pursuits. He says, “You can’t do that. Are you crazy? That is the dumbest idea I’ve ever heard. It’s destined for failure.”

It’s hard to imagine my life without Jack; he’s become such a staple in my life, but I’m beginning to think our relationship isn’t a healthy one. Jack has become a little too cozy with me of late. He doesn’t even bother to knock anymore. He just comes right in, greeting me first thing in the morning before I’ve even gotten out of bed.

When I tell him I’ve had enough, and that we have to stop seeing each other, he grows desperate, dramatically insinuating that he can’t live without me. When I tell him to leave, he obeys, but he waits patiently in the shadows for a moment of weakness that we both know will come.

It’s hard to say goodbye to a lifelong companion. We can go for long stretches without seeing each other, then he’ll show up unannounced and it’s just like old times. There’s something about him that makes me believe we belong together. I mean who knows, the places I might have gone without his stabilizing force to keep both my feet planted on the ground? There’s some comfort in that it think; comfort in the familiarity of his voice. How does the phrase go? “Better to deal with the devil you know than the devil you don’t.”

Who came up with that ridiculous advice? Jack probably. He’s full of these little idioms. But if I listen very carefully, I can hear a new voice. It’s very soft and I’m not sure where it’s coming from. I can barely make out the words as they whisper. . . “Jack, go f**k yourself!”

These words couldn’t have come from me because thanks to Jack’s tutelage – and my mother’s, I know that ladies don’t speak that way. But there it is again; a little louder this time, “JACK, please GO F**K YOURSELF! (and louder still) F**K YOU JACK! GO! BE GONE! YOU’RE NO LONGER WELCOME!  Sayōnara!” – I’m not sure why I added this last bit. I don’t think Jack speaks Japanese – either do I. It just felt good rolling off the tongue; cleansing my palette of the more crass verbiage.

And then he left. He’s gone, at least for now. If he returns, I’m pretty sure I can recall the words that sent him away. If I forget, I might have to consider a tattoo with a subtle reminder. Can you imagine me trying to explain why I have the words, “F**k You, Jack!” permanently etched into my skin?  Jack would hate that. But, it would make for an interesting conversation starter.

I don’t feel sorry for Jack; he has so many friends. If you see him, tell him I said, “Hello.”  But better yet, let him pass by without acknowledgement. There’s no need for you to be counted among his friends, or you too might be considering some novel idea about how to remember your own lost words.

Lose Yourself

I’ve heard it said that in the moments when you really lose yourself in something; allowing your spirit to take over, that’s when you are closest to God. This notion got me thinking about how many times I allow myself to become lost in anything. It sounds romantic, like something that might happen during sex – really good sex, or a concert, or even a great movie. I imagine artists, deep in their work, find themselves so fixated on the task at hand that they lose themselves; hardly noticing the miracle of their own creation.

I tried to remember the last time I let my spirit carry me away to some magical place. Was I becoming one of those uptight people unable to let their guard down, or feel spontaneous joy? Why don’t I let go more often? Fear of doing something stupid I guess. I decided I would pay attention to when and if I allow myself to be carried away from the constant chatter in my head.

I’m certain it’s happened before, even though I couldn’t think of any specific examples. The only thing that came to mind was a time when things went horribly wrong and I had no choice but to lay down my burdens and say, “I give. God, if you can hear me, I could really use some help.”

You know that song Jesus Take the Wheel? I love the lyrics because it reminds me of those fleeting moments when I really do “let go and let God.” I wish I could say every time I let go, I did it with complete faith, believing there was really someone or something to catch me. But in truth, the experience is usually born out of desperation; when pushed so far to the edge that there’s nothing to do but leap. Once I relax and take what comes, something – or someone always does. It’s been my experience that during this “letting go” moment, I learn that I am, in fact, not alone and it is such an incredible feeling to have my doubts and faithless notions swept away with the certainty that God showed up and caught me just in the nick of time.

What if, I could get that feeling during the better parts of my life, not just the crappy times. I’m assuming it happens more than I realize. Maybe I just need to pay attention.

I caught myself getting lost

I went to yoga, still thinking about the concept of losing myself, when it happened. I was a little tired, muscles kind of shaky, when a good song came on breaking through the normal spa-like tones of the instructor’s playlist. I had my eyes closed and when I opened them I saw my teacher smiling at me. She had caught me unconsciously swaying to the music. I was a little embarrassed but elated at the idea that I found a least one moment during the day when I really let go. I was dancing as if no one was watching – just like the poster!

When I got home I asked my eighteen-year-old son, “Do you ever catch yourself doing something without knowing it?”

He looked at me skeptically.

I added, “You know, when you get so lost in the moment that you forget there are other people around, maybe when you’re making something, or exercising.”

Blank stare.

“You’ve never . . . I don’t know . . . caught yourself dancing or singing out loud without realizing someone might be watching you?’

He turned a little pink, smiling and said, “All the time.”

I knew it! As a kid, you don’t care if someone watches you while you play; that’s your natural state. It’s only as you get older that you master self-restraint. No wonder people get grumpier as they mature. In doing so, do we close the door on guidance from the Heavens?

I think the love and guidance is always there whether I’m aware of it or not. But I might feel a little better if I got regular reminders. That means I’m going to have to practice allowing my spirit to take control during regular intervals and not just calling in the big dogs when things are going to Hell.

So if you happen to catch me deep in thought with my tongue sticking out, or singing out loud, or heaven forbid, dancing like I’m by myself, just know that I’m practicing the fine art of losing myself.