joyful!

 JULY

 

Triptych of Joy

by

Laura Lynn Gatzow

 

 

 

Petting Zoos

I learned midlife that I just can’t grasp joy. She knows me as a child, who used to pull the wings off flies and watch daddy long legs wobble on the one or two limbs I might have left attached. For decades I would rend and atomize happiness with my own hands in the same grim ebullience and wind up unsated and bored. Then I watched a hummingbird hover in front of a tiger lily outside my kitchen window. She drank her fill then flitted off, and I realized joy moves in much the same way—my part is to remain open and still. If I flinch, she will scoot to a branch just out of reach, or, worse yet, vanish. Now I rarely ignore serendipity.

That’s why, several summers ago, when my husband and I went to a strip mall, looking to find stress relief in a few hours of frivolous spending, I kept my eye wide open. I knew shopping was one of those knock-off activities that only created an illusion of joy. At the moment we happened to arrive, two men were fencing off an area in the parking lot and unloading a trailer carrying llamas, sheep, a donkey, chickens, goats, and a goose. Petting zoo!

Since we are consummate animal lovers, my husband and I couldn’t resist the urge to play with the farm critters. This mini zoo had two llamas with very bad teeth, like tobacco chewers in need of some serious orthodontics. Their long bottom incisors flashed when they snickered for feed. I felt a little unnerved, holding out my pink padded hand, full of pellets, to these two beasts, but they were actually quite gentle, using those tea-colored teeth to gingerly scoop the food from my palm. I laughed—I hadn’t realized llamas don’t have top incisors, so I could feel their fuzzy muzzles wiggle to work the pellets into their mouths.

My husband and I tried tempting the sheep to come take a treat, but they could not be cajoled to the fence under any circumstance. We tried whistling, sweet-talking, even cupping our hands around our mouths and baahing like demented fools. They looked at us warily, as if to say, who are these lunatics? But they basically ignored us and contentedly munched on a fresh bail of hay. The chickens and goose were equally unenthralled with our presence. The chickens strutted around the fenced-in area, bobbing their heads and making their wattles wobble like little pendulums, keeping time to their high-stepping gait. The goose honked, flapped his wings, and thrust out his feathered chest at our overtures, then waddled off like a petulant three-year old. The goats, however, were insatiable. They stuck their noses and necks through the fence, trying to nibble the pellets right out of the machine before I could even get my hand filled, and nudged each other rudely as they vied for the two sappy mitts that seemed to have an endless supply of quarters.

The donkey was my favorite. I happen to like donkeys. I know one. His name is Corky, and I pass him as I drive on my back-country-road commute to school. I actually don’t know Corky’s real name, or if he’s male or female. I just thought he needed a name, despite my lack of ownership, since I see him in his corral every time I drive by. Just last week, Corky stood out in the fenced pasture, munching on grass and no doubt intellectualizing about the validity of Kierkegaard’s views on the existential nature of life. Of course, being a donkey may just spare him from the yo-yoing angst, unjust adversity, and psychological pain we humans must bear in this, at times, seemingly purposeless world, so much so that grass munching and rolling in the dirt derive for him as much pleasure as a high-tech exec’s six-figure salary.

We could learn a lot about joy from a donkey by observing his contented nosing in verdant blades of Kentucky blue, lolling under the sun with half-closed dreamy eyes, or scratching a swayed back on the dusty earth. I believe this Zen-like calm with which the donkey engages the world is founded upon his healthy self-image. For example, Corky’s pasturemates are three lithe-legged Arabians, who seem to shun his company. He takes this in stride, albeit a short stride. His low-slung body, corpulent beer belly, nappy coat, and rabbit-like ears belie any relation to his cover girl cousins. Corky may be the Al Bundy of the equid family, but what he lacks in social and physical grace, he makes up for in levelheaded self-acceptance. He doesn’t rue over his body’s comicality by trying to be something he’s not. Rather, Corky embraces his donkeyness as a God-given commission, one only he alone can fulfill.

This donkey at the petting zoo was no different. He loved to be petted, and I suddenly realized I had never touched a donkey before. The coat was shaggy and coarse and dusty, like a deep-napped welcome mat. His velvety nose, with its prickly long whiskers, tickled my palm when I fed him, making me giggle with delight like any awe-struck child experiencing her many firsts. His ears surprised me. Although as long as a rabbit’s, his ears were much wider and sturdier. I was rapt with his brown eyes, which I fell through like an oubliette, forgetting all my worries and the outer world for the moment.

When I finally snapped out of my reverie, I noticed a middle-aged man taking our picture.  I think he thought we looked silly amongst the other three- and four-year olds and parents who had a legitimate reason to be there. Personally, I fail to see why an overweight woman and a balding man feeding goats and petting donkeys would make an incongruous picture. Two women in clown attire walked by and mocked us. “Okay, kids. Are we having fun?” I just smiled and plugged more quarters into the feed machine.

There’s something to be said about believing oh, to hell with what other people think. I’m having fun. There’s something therapeutic about petting zoos. They should prescribe them for the clinically depressed and mandate them for corporate execs so that the first is buoyed in spirit and the latter is humbled in bearing. It’s just my take, but I think it would make the world a better place. Perhaps the man with the camera saw this too. Perhaps he merely saw joy, naked but unashamed, reflected on the lens of his soul . . .

 Seeing Humor in Senectitude

Working with the elderly as a CNA at an assisted living facility is not all hard work. There are moments of sheer hilarity. Take last Thursday, for instance. I punched in at 10:52 PM, traipsed upstairs, plunked down my book bag loaded with the night’s homework (one of the perks of working the wee hours of the morning), and plodded into the nurse’s office to get report from Char. She filled me in on the highlights of her evening, and then mentioned she could smell something like burnt toast down in the garden level, but couldn’t figure out where it came from.

I started my rounds down on the garden level, and as soon as I got off the elevator, my nose was indeed greeted by a distinct burnt toast odor. I skipped looking in Anna’s apartment, as I couldn’t imagine her causing a big stink. I focused on the next apartment, Ernie’s. He has a history with us that was growing, grounding my suspicion in a proven track record. As soon as I opened his door, the stench became more intense. I scanned the almost non-existent counter. No toaster. But from the hall light, I could see a faint outline of something dark in the microwave. “Aha!” I murmured, thinking I’d find an overdone dinner or burnt popcorn when I opened the small nine by fourteen door. But no. I discovered a dishcloth and a navy nylon sock, of all things, placed, quite innocently, on the glass cooking tray. Upon further inspection of the remains, I observed that the dishcloth was basically char-broiled, and the sock, well . . . the toe looked like a pool of blue lava, at one point cooked to al dente, but now a hardened circle of melted nylon fibers.
Ernie was awake, so I asked him why he put the dishcloth and the doomed sock in the microwave.

“I was trying to separate the two.”

“What do you mean, Ernie?”

“There are rodents in my apartment. Six mice in my bed. I caught one between my finger and thumb. They’re tricky little devils.”

“Now, Ernie, I know they seem real, but you know they’re a hallucination. You know your medication for your Parkinson’s has this side effect. Right?”

“Ya, ya. They sure seem real though.”

“I know, Ernie. Why did you put your sock in the microwave? You could start a fire doing that.”

“W—w—well . . . I only put it in there for ten minutes.”

“Oh my goodness. Is that all.”

“Ya, ya. Ten minutes.”

“Okay, Ernie. But don’t do that again.”

“No, no, I won’t.”

I bagged the charred and crispy remains of Ernie’s dishcloth and sock, and placed them with an explanatory note in my manager’s office. When I bumped into her on the elevator in the morning, I informed Donna a present waited for her on her desk. As I passed her later in the morning, I teased, “Did you like your gift? Bet you’ve never seen a cooked sock before.” She laughed. I filled her in on Ernie’s vivid hallucinations, and suggested in a more serious tone that it was probably time to remove his microwave from the apartment. Although I’m well aware of the potential seriousness of the event, I can’t help but remember “the sock incident” with a smile.

A couple months ago, when I worked the day shift, I was pouring a second round of coffee for lunch in the dining room. The cook had made apple pie for dessert. One of our residents, Emma, who complains about anything and everything, picked apart her pie, dissecting the pastry crust with the tines of her fork. Emma will, if given the slightest opportunity, offer up her negative opinion without the least hint of remorse, and in fact, does so as if it is her duty in old age—a destiny she has been denied all her life, and from now on, one she must fulfill. She must, she must, she must, unless she bust. As I walked past her table, I overheard Emma say, in her best Edith Bunker voice, “There are too many apples in this pie.”

Fran, one of our less inhibited residents, is fond of bawdy irreverence. One time, when I sat out front, smoking a cigarette, she relaxed in a patio chair, soaking up the sun, along with four other residents. I noticed a bandage peeking out from the cuff of her pants, and asked her if she had hurt her leg. She couldn’t raise the bottom of the pant leg past her calf, so she slipped her pants down in front of everyone to reveal the bandaged leg. Coaxed by everyone’s reaction, she turned around and shook her butt, her flowered underwear shaking with her dimpled bottom. I think it would have been a full moon, had I not intervened and said, “Fran, don’t you dare!” She is incorrigible. Just the other week at supper, when the cook made her way through the dining room with the snack cart, Fran asked for two apples. She proceeded to put them in her bra. She walked up to Jeff, one of the young boys that works busing tables, and said, “What do you think of my new bazooms?” and proceeded to shake her chest like a hoochy girl.

Margie, one of our residents whom I would personally like to adopt as my own grandmother, because she always tells me, “Drive home safe. I love you,” whenever I’m almost done with my shift, sits at table five in our dining room. This spring, the floral centerpiece that adorned each table was markedly absent from hers, because she had complained that the arrangement bothered her sinuses. Whenever I set this table for breakfast, and saw the absent flowers, I smiled. They were silk.

So, you see, CNA work has its perks. I have an insider’s view to the innate humor that shadows each of us wherever we go, making light of life with its feathery brush against cheeks plumped, not with Botox, but smiles and joy . . .

Giving
Our Christmases at my mother-in-law’s condo border on the sacrilegious. At any given moment, off-color jokes are cracked, beer, wine, and cigarettes are consumed, enough food is proffered to outrank a medieval king’s feast, and pranks are played on our unsuspecting nieces and nephews. Our rank materialism is enshrined in mounds of boxes and bags under the tree. Christmas glee is sung in odes like: “Joy to the world, Barney's dead. We barbecued his head! What happened to his body? We flushed it down the potty. And round and round it goes, and round and round it goes . . . !”

This religious anti-establishment air is not devoid of spirituality, of real joy. It is infused with it. While I am party to many of the crimes being committed, I also like to step back and just observe. I become a human Nikon D-80, digitizing memories for the scrapbook of my mind. My favorite time is the unwrapping of the gifts. Not the ones I get, but the ones my husband and I give. I am almost voyeuristic in watching delight take shape in the face of a loved one. It’s a lot like watching a flame pop up on a candle, but in slow motion.

I love watching Miranda, our youngest niece, the best. When “Santa” passed one of our presents to her, Miranda’s face already had the ember of anticipation. She knew her Uncle Randy and Aunt Laura are generous patrons. Miranda inspected the wrapped gift, shook it, trying to guess at its precious cargo. After she fiddled with the tape and found a neat unwrapping impossible, Miranda resigned herself to ripping the pretty package apart. Then her eyes lit up at the jewelry box, her hands trembled with excitement. The sapphire-chipped pierced earrings sparkled under the Christmas tree lights and tinsel, and a smile, stretched from jeweled ear to jeweled ear, beamed from her upturned face. And then Miranda’s arms were around me, and her flamed face warmed my cheek, making the transfer complete: Heat and light, touched to the wick of my soul . . .

. . . It’s in moments like these that joy comes to me, unasked, when my eye is fully dilated, when I feel like I’ve just gotten this big, wet, sloppy, cosmic kiss.

---

Bio: Laura Lynn Gatzow is nearing completion of her English degree at the University of Wisconsin-Whitewater, where she has earned many writing awards. She is currently devoting her time to intensive writing experiences at Gotham Writer’s Workshop.

---

 

My Asperger's Syndrome Hurdle - My Travel Successes

by

Roy A. Barnes

(This version first published by Lifeglow and Connected in 2008,  both publications within the same publisher)

London, England, Late April 1998: My first full day in a foreign country.  It was the the first of many Western European countries I’d visit as the result of a group tour I signed up for… 

I ventured out a few blocks from my hotel during the cloudy day that was chased with intermittent periods of rain.  I quickly came upon an Underground (subway) station that could take me virtually anywhere in the metropolitan area.  How I wanted to go to Parliament to watch the House of Commons debate!  I approached the Underground entrance, but then I suddenly froze: the steps that most others would apply in order to get from Point A to Point B were for me synonymous with being confronted with a million things to juggle simultaneously. 

A condition that I live with everyday made it almost impossible for me to satisfy my desire.  It’s a neurobiological disorder called Asperger's Syndrome.  Those who have this condition experience a wide range of symptoms and behaviors, like taking in every little bit of stimuli that their surroundings emanate.  So when an environment isn't familiar, it can be too overwhelming to handle, which is what I was experiencing at that moment.

I want to share my struggles with a couple aspects of my condition and how I have learned to overcome them in order to pursue my passion of trotting the globe. 

I went on that group tour thinking the itinerary itself would adequately fill my time with all the sightseeing and exploring I could ever hope for within the security of traveling with others.  I quickly discovered this wasn't the case.  Free time for exploring on our own was often scheduled for the group  As a result of my condition, I restricted myself to explore only those areas that were within walking distance of my hotel, which made me feel very cheated: London was beckoning to me to relish in it, and here I was clinging to sites around Hyde Park! 

My first trip abroad progressed southward over the next few weeks all the way to Athens, Greece.  My lack of spatial direction, also inherent in my condition, almost got me into dire straits on more than one occasion.  As with London, I was only blocks away from my hotels in the cities of Brussels, Belgium, and Innsbruck, Austria.  Yet I found myself wondering aimlessly through the night in those two cities, asking myself how I would find my way back to the hotels where my tour group was staying.  Only with the help of the police and/or very conspicuous landmarks, did I manage to return to the hotels…eventually.  On rare occasions, I would hang out with one or two people in the tour group during our free time to do some off the beaten path exploring.  I relied on them to get us where we needed to be; and thus, my sense of inadequacy was only heightened.

When I got back to the USA, I knew that something was going to have to change.  I knew deep down that my love for traveling and exploring was stronger than the handicaps of my condition.  For almost a year and a half, the debacles of my first foreign trip would haunt me.  By the autumn of 1999, I felt compelled to go back to London, vowing to travel independently on the subways and buses to all the parts of the great city no matter how scary that seemed, no matter how lost I would get.

I knew that for me to become the independent traveler that I wished in my soul to be, I would have to compensate for my natural shortcomings with two things.  First, I would have to study extra hard the detailed maps provided by tourism departments and the internet before embarking overseas, using positive visualization of finding my way around.  Second, once abroad, I needed to acquire the gumption to go up to complete strangers to ask them if I was on the right path to one of London's icons even if that meant doing so every other block along the way.  This would keep my sense of direction in check.  For many people with Asperger's Syndrome, going up to the locals to interact with is also a challenge, as we are not generally the most sociable folks in the population.  The bottom line was that in order for my aspirations to be realized, I had to take my Asperger's Syndrome by the horns.

My friend from Virginia would accompany me for the first part of the trip.  We'd be together, but I'd act like I was alone while trying to figure out how to get to a certain destination.  He'd only interject if I began to take the wrong turn.  This technique proved to be very effective.  He headed back to the States a few days before me, but I survived being totally alone in the metropolis.  Consequentially, I developed a new confidence in trekking the world independently.

A year later, in October of 2000, it was me who would play tour guide, so to speak, as I took another friend of mine all over London and its surrounding areas.  Sometimes, my sense of direction resulted in some minor inconveniences for us, but I persevered.  The end result was a trip full of sightseeing successes!

Since that first fateful trip abroad in '98, where I let my disability oppress my sense of adventure, I have taken even more trips to Western Europe, China, South Africa, and Panama, mostly on my own.  I've secured hotel reservations, train and bus tickets, etc., all over the world.  I've challenged myself even further via my journeys to Spain, Panama, and Italy.  I had to be even more resourceful while visiting these countries, given that I am not fluent in Spanish or Italian.  I got around fine with the aid of really detailed and user-friendly phrase books.  The locals in those countries appreciated my attempts at using their language to communicate with them.

By 2004, I had enough travel experiences to where I felt confident in submitting travel articles to various publications.  I’ve now had many of them published in various magazines and online sites for pay.  Globe-trotting inspired me to confront my Asperger’s Syndrome in a way that I wouldn’t have done so otherwise, and ultimately led me to a new career as a travel writer. 

When I look back at my initial reactions on that 1998 London trip, I am amazed at the changes and the consistencies.  The difficulties remain, but now I know I can deal with them and I now have a backlog of memories and techniques for dealing with my disability.  I may still feel hesitant about putting myself into a situation where I’m unfamiliar with the environment and feeling overwhelmed with the sensory overload, but I also know I can control my reaction and draw on my past experiences to get through the moment in order to fulfill my desires. 

The key to overcoming obstacles is having a desire which is stronger than the reality of the obstacles.  It is that inner quest which will lead one to find ways of overcoming!

---

Bio: Roy A. Barnes writes from the windy plains of southeastern Wyoming.  His travel-related works have been published by Transitions Abroad, Travel Thru History, In Flight USA, Northwest Prime Time, Live Life Travel, C/Oasis, Bootsnall.com, and others.  His works of poetry and prose have been published by such mediums as Poesia, Skatefic.com, Literary Liftoff, The Goblin Reader, Conceit Magazine and others.  

---

JUNE

 

"Shyness" the Disguised Word for "Fear."

by

Nadine Hawthorne

Many are classified as society's introverts. Not first to make a move in negotiations, in making friends or starting conversations. Which is ok. God made some more forward than others. Some are communicators, some are observers, some are intuitive and some have a knack for being the life of a party. Those are not the ideas I seek to argue in this note. For we are all created uniquely and our personalities compliment one another in making this world as diverse and as colorful as it is.

I am more concerned about the way "shyness" has become a way to classify someone who is "fearful " of doing things and taking chances. I was once placed in that category for a long time until I was able to break free from the stigma that that title caused. Many inadvertently classify people as being this way without realizing what accepting this as "ok" can do.

As simple as it may seem, "shy" folks are the ones that don't speak up when they have an idea, they don't share their thoughts and mind with others because of fear of rejection. They don't stand in front of crowds, not because they don't want to, but because something (hint hint* fear) is deterring them from making a move. Shy people only have dreams of doing great things but they never actualize because they've embraced the fact that it could never happen because "I'm shy."

I was used to hearing people even defend my shyness when I was asked to do anything when inside I really wanted to and wished I could, but was actually bound by the spirit of fear. And I played into it and accepted it.

Many times shy folks are some of the most gifted people you can find. So why are those giftings hidden? Were the God-Given talents and giftings given to be  withheld from the world that can be benefited by its effects?

You can be quiet, soft spoken, you can be an introvert and not like attention without being bound by fear. Shyness is the socially acceptable disguise for fear. As Christians we cannot buy into the idea that being shy is ok. The definition of shyness according to dictionary.com is...

1. bashful; retiring
2. easily frightened away; timid.
3. suspicious; distrustful:
4. reluctant; wary.
5. deficient

and the list goes on and on...

Is that the ideal description of a victorious child of God?

As we've seen in the lives of various bible characters and even people that attend our churches, when the Spirit of God is within you, he gives you power to overcome every and any obstacle or task. Even the "shyest" or most reserved of individuals move under the anointing and are fearless to tackle the tasks God has set before them.

My prayer is that our convictions will surpass the labeling that "shyness" has placed on us.

It's human to be nervous from time to time when we're about to do something, because in our frailty as finite beings we understand our limitations. But when we turn down opportunities because of fear, we turn down God's opportunity to do something awesome through us.

Can you say that you're all right where you are? At the place of imploding due to housing unfulfilled dreams and passions?

Calling all "shy" folks everywhere; walk in the path God has called you! Don't allow any inferiority complex to drown out your purpose or capture the time that can be used going after the dreams God has placed within you!

Fear causes anxiety, and distrust and stifles God given desires. Shyness infringes on your rights as a child of God to walk in the authority we've been given thanks to the death of Jesus Christ.

"Shyness" is used as an excuse to escape our responsibility of sharing our gifts with the body of Christ.

Those that are here, on "Shyness Blvd" are not at a place of complete surrender because you are depending on your own strength, or capabilities. There's fear of embarrassment, fear of man's perception over God's desire of wanting to use you.

Why would God tease you, with dreams and passions that are unattainable? In reality, they can come to pass! That's why you have them.

Have you been struggling with fear? God can restore that confidence-lacking deficiency. Ask him. Don't miss out on what God wants to do through you, and in your life. You never know the salvation of someone may be hinged on what you will say or do. By faith, believe that God will be with you as you make strides towards boldness. It's not by might or by power but by the Spirit of God.

A step of faith is paramount to succeeding in your efforts to overcome fear. Who cares what everyone thinks? Let God blow your mind; having you do things greater than you can even fathom. He's ready, are you?

Be Blessed,

~Just a Humble Servant

---

I am currently a graduate student with a love for writing inspirational pieces. I am involved in various ministries at my church where I have the opportunity to express my creativity through the arts, which I enjoy!

###

MAY

(No Non Fiction in April)

The Dime

by

Leona Holman

Pale Green

by

Catherine Zickgraf

Her bridesmaids’ dresses are just gorgeous.  I love that shade of pale green Nusha chose.  It’s like the sky—if the sky were filled with foaming ocean.  And it’s perfect for a spring wedding—when winter’s deadness is dismissed, and the freshness we’ve earned enduring months of thin skies explodes in the grasses.

I should have expected to see you here and that you would preside over the wedding.  Your sermonette about love brushed over the congregation like the still-icy wind through the sanctuary curtains.  Almost a decade ago, do you remember what you said to me the night of the lock-in?  You settled into your office chair, your little mustache sitting on your lips. 

I know who you are  That is what you said. And then: someone in the congregation came to me months ago to tell me you had a baby.  She spoke from a pure heart.  Gossip wasn’t her intent.  She was scared and didn’t know what to do.  So she thought I should know.

I wished I had laughed at your ungodly tongue and strolled out your door—knowing I had given a child life.  But you had my secret.  And I was at your mercy.  So I submitted to the power you had over me, turning away in guilty brokenness.  You were my new church, my new school, my new friends.  My folks changed their lives to start mine over.  And adoption itself means that no one needs to know.  But apparently people did know, a fresh start wasted.  This is the attention I brought on myself, once again betraying my family.

You had already arrived at your conclusion though: my sexuality was dysfunctional, and I needed intensive treatment.  The next day you explained your theory to my parents.  What hope had I of surviving childhood?  AIDS, addiction, and apostasy were surely in my future.

   But there is a Holiness set on producing wholeness in those wise from abuse, corrupt from the world, and blessed nonetheless. 
    There’s a compassion thick as summer and wide as the foaming ocean.

And you with your human rules and judgments are dead to the mercy that floats the undeserving and carries the broken.  A decade later, the man I met on the veranda of a Spanish hotel—he with no need to feel shame—met my Father for the first time and asked him a question.  They sat in the downstairs den, young man to wise man, devoted man to protective man.  And when both men came up to the kitchen, it was clear I had survived my childhood.

After Nusha’s ceremony, our friends filled the tables next to us, but we found a table last.  You, too, were relegated to this table, leaving me plenty of time to decide what I would like to say to you.  But I don’t have to say anything.  Tom sets a filled buffet plate in front of me, un-buttons his suit jacket button, and joins our awkward party.  He looks his blue eyes into your black ones, introduces himself as my husband, and shakes your hand.  You speak quietly, and your wife looks down, her hands mostly tucked into her floral, cotton pockets.  She glances past me when I chat about the bridesmaids’ dresses and the amazing path Nusha’s life has taken, while we all pick through the food.

Tom suggests the slow dance, his hand on my back, my face in his neck.  I am loved and among friends.  When we return to the table, you and your wife have squeezed into the last two seats at a different table.  Then those seats, too, go empty by the time the worldly music explodes through the speakers and the wedding celebration begins.      

###

Bio: Catherine quit law school to be a writer.  Let’s hope it pans out. (author's words)  You can find her blog at myspace.com/czickgraf Her writing has appeared in the Journal of the American Medical Association, Pank, and Bartleby-Snopes.  She also has work forthcoming in GUD Magazine and A cappella Zoo.