The Separation of Death From Life….Let There Be Whiskey!

And the story begins this way:

When I was a girl I visited a place called Dixon Mounds. It was an Indian burial site. Enclosed in a metal like shed with just a bridge that spanned the divide, the skeletal remains of hundreds of Indians lay where they took their last breath. It was this singular moment, along with my dads love of history , that began my interest in what was before me, before you, before us.

Now, those people are covered. Legal battles ensued and the argument was that the people should be left at rest and not displayed. It was disrespectful. I can see both sides. Were it my Grandpa,  I would be upset that his last resting place was unearthed and displayed like some trophy. On the other hand I am filled with thankfulness that I saw this, as it ignited a flame inside of me to ask questions about the past in order to pursue a future. As they say, those who learn nothing from the past are doomed to repeat it.

In modern culture and American culture specifically, we are very separated from death. Death is not a part of life but a separation from it. A person dies, they are taken away to some cold place that looks much like a basement and the next thing we know, we are looking at them laying out in a box. They look plastic. The reality has been stripped from us and packaged. In olden days, days of yore, or whatever you wish to call them, we had rituals. No embalming, no three days wait. You dealt with it then and there. You prepared the person for their final journey, wherever that may be. You faced death. You gave over your loved back to the earth.

I think, speaking for me, the separation from death sparks the curiosity about it. I do not deny I love the morbid. I love the skeletons, I love the “dark”, I love the ancient practices. As I said earlier, death is packaged and sold to us in a neat box. We are taught that death is hands off . So when we have chance to peek into that most curious room, we are eager to do so, no matter how disgusting or frightful it may be. This is no justification, this is personal admission.

This is why I take a que from the latin culture ( I love the latin culture), celebrate the person, Celebrate their life. Take joy in who they were and what you learned from them. Talk about them often with your loved ones. Do not let their lives become a whisper.

My Grandma Seibert said that she felt after my Grandpa died that people were afraid to speak with her about him. She said it was as if his life became a whisper. Don’t let people become a whisper. Celebrate.

I have often quoted Frida Khalo, and I will paraphrase here, “When I die, I hope they burn this Judas of a body.” I do not want to be packaged and sold. Burn me,let me become the dust from which I came. And yes that sounds romantic and oh so dramatic ( and yes I may have drank too much red wine). But celebrate me and the life I lived. Laugh about the things that were ridiculous about me, reflect on good times and struggles overcome. Do not display me, but let there be beer and wine and especially whisky.

Yes, Yes!! Let there be whiskey!

I Read Less.

I fear I lack all the necessary reading that a writer must have. I haven’t read much of the classics and I freely admit my love for books turned BBC mini series such as ‘Bleak House” by Charles Dickens.

I know they say that all good writers must read, read, read and read some more. I do read but I simply haven’t the time to sit and read for more than about 15-20 minutes. I would love more time but with family, school, work and my own general interests such as this blog, I find little time to sit and enjoy the great invention called books.

Books on tape have been my savior and I am lucky to actually, physically read books twice, but closer to once a year. I often end up skimming them as closely as can be done, sacrilege I am sure. I take what I can get.

I have, however, been brushing up on my children’s literature due to my homeschooling ways. What my daughter reads, I read. I have also been very lucky to read along in historical works with her and some fun stuff such as Greek Myths and Viking tales.

So though my reading is less than what I’d like it to be, I suppose for now, it will work.

Music I am Listening To Tonight

 

 

RIP Ralph Stanely-Best voice  ever.

 

Always wanted to choreograph a dance to this,may still. It’s been years since I have done any classical Ballet. Sometimes I miss it, especially when i stumble upon songs such as this.

 

For my sister Kelli, who loves this song as much as I do.

 

 

Gillian Welch is a big inspiration fro me musically.

 

Bill Malone is by far my favorite man ever (aside from my hubby). He is an amazing lyricist and musician and he inspires me musically  andin written word. “Sometimes you can’t please everyone,sometimes you can’t please anyone at all.”

 

Over the rhine, one of my first influences for soulful voices.

 

And another

One of my earliest memories of music.

 

The Universe Unfolds As It Should.

I was recently interviewed by the local paper here. The interview (found here )leaned heavily on the fact that I was “covered” in tattoos. I do not think of myself as heavily tattooed though I suppose to the average four or fiver joe, that I am.

Now there are always haters. They are everywhere. I recognize we all have different ways of perceiving life and what’s right,normal and fair. So I was not shocked that a couple of people commented rather negatively about me on the online version of the article. What did make me step back a bit, was what they had assumed about me based ONLY on the fact that I was tattooed. Their comments are below.

LAwoman: Just wondering why a writer would need to have their life exyperiences inked on their body when they can put them down on paper? I’m a bit old-fashioned and would firmly object if any of my three daughters got a tatoo. I guess I’m old enough to think of tatoos as something drunken sailors got on shore leave.

JDwilson: The ways in which people want to desecrate their own bodies is a private issue, as long as they can cover it financially. Just hope this gal isn’t like so many that are willing to spend their monies on tatoos, piercings, and other non-essentials, but ‘need’ tax-payer provided assistance like free school lunches, health care, housing, and the like.Kellet likes to think of herself as an ‘independent thinker’. I just hope she provides for her children ‘independently.’

(I did not correct their grammar. Just couldn’t bring myself to.)

Ladies, I think you left out the part where I’m a whore, raging alcoholic and pedophile.

For the record incase any of you are wondering, I am married to a tattoo artist (married 13 years), I have been on medical assistance before when I truly needed it but am not presently, and the only money I have shelled out to get tattooed was 100 bucks. I know, shameful. Seriously, I should be paying a lot more to be this tattooed! Haha!

How quickly we jump to conclusions and make snap decisions based on limited information. I was a bit angry for their judgments of me and the type of person they thought I was based solely on my tattoos. Yet, even I was judging them. As soon as I read what they had to say, a picture of who they were based solely on their comments began to form. JDwilson was some prize wife who had never struggled once in her life not knowing the sinking feeling of HAVING to live off of government help. She probably drives a brand new Mercedes and has blonde, teased hair. LAwoman was just old and bitter at life for the most part. She may have been a desk clerk somewhere, pretty sure she’s Baptist.

So even I judged them, I’m not better. My husband said this morning as we read over the comments, “Maggie, there is no use hating on another man, because you are only hating on yourself.” Sometimes my husband is so level headed and wise I want to punch him.

We will always judge by appearance ( as I pointed out in the interview), it’s natural to do so. I see a woman dressed like Barbara Bush with a scowl on her face, I immediately think she will be narrow-minded. I see a man in a business suit with grey hair and I immediately think to myself that he’s some kind of big shot money bags with lots of opinion but no ass to back it up. These are snap judgements made with no ground to stand on. I am no better than they.

When I feel unfairly judged, though I try not to notice, I remember a line from Harold and Kumar Go to White Castle,

“Look at me. I’m fat, black, can’t dance, and I have two gay fathers. People have been messing with me my whole life. I learned a long time ago there’s no sense getting all riled up every time a bunch of idiots give you a hard time. In the end, the universe tends to unfold as it should.”

So next time you feel unfairly judged, remember the universe tends to unfold as it should. You can read that however you wish. For me, it gives me a free pass to not care or give thought to the negative.

Live life and get on with it.

 

Do Right.

We all have a moral code that we live by, whether it is one we knowingly strive for or one that we fall to by default. I strive to pass onto my children those things I believe to be right in the hopes that they too will try to the best of their ability to live by them, not for the sake of being good but to act as a compass when everything around them seems futile.

Sometimes, our teachings bite us in the ass.

Dilemmas arise where you have to make a decision whether to listen to what you have said or do an equally right thing. My daughter was faced today with one such predicament. Parenthood is full of surprises.

The situation was as follows. My daughter is not allowed to chat online. I forbid it. I know some parents see no reason why their child should not speak to other kids online, especially when it’s a well-known place such as Nick.com or Disney. I however, do not. Having been around the world  and  having seen many things, I simply will not trust that it is a 11-year-old girl behind a computer half way across America. So, she is not allowed to chat.

Today she told me that she had been chatting with a “friend” of hers on Nick.com. Through the course of talking with her I found that she chatted because there was a girl being cyber-bullied (ridiculous term no matter how fitting). She wanted to make sure she was okay, having been bullied herself a couple of times. Kids can be the most wicked of creatures and yet sometimes the most generous and surprising.

Though she knew she was not allowed to chat, she wanted to console another girl. So as a parent what does one do? On one hand I was and am angry that she would disregard my instruction, and I don’t mince words with her, she knows my reason for not allowing her to talk online. On the other, I am proud of her for trying to help some one and realizing that it could be a right thing to do.

And here, I can be assured that at least some of what I am trying to pass on to my child is being heard and lived out.

That makes me proud of my daughter.

“Never let your sense of morals prevent you from doing what’s right.”  ~Isaac Asimov

 

Storytime.

A while back  worked on a short little story for a running contest at Lilja’s Library (www.liljas-library.com), an online Stephen King Fan club.I did not win, but I was happy for the challenge in writing as I normally do not ever write anything in the horror genre. I wanted to share it with you since it was doing nothing but hanging out in my computer being useless.The contest was based around a short page of art work by Chad Bourne. Essentially the story had to follow what was  shown in the art.  I do not have the art but you may visit http://www.liljas-library.com/article.php?id=2990 to read the winning story and if you scroll down far enough you may see the artwork. Otherwise,  you’ll have to use your imagination and hopefully I have painted a good enough picture.

 

Welcome Home Marv

By:Magdalene Kellett
“It’s colder than a witches tit.”, Marvin thought . He flicked his cigarette, tipped the brim of his hat down and pulled his coat tighter around himself. The moon, larger than normal on this night, glowed with a honey hue and made him feel smaller and even more lonesome than normal. The shortened winter days brought about a depression in him that all the masturbation or porn in the world couldn’t cure.
Marvin was a guy. A plain, normal, boring guy. Nothing stood out about him and nothing outstanding had ever happened to him. He wasn’t overly good looking. He didn’t have groups of women breaking down his door to jump in the sack with him and he was too backwards and afraid to ask anyone out. His seclusion had made him lonely, though he chose not to think about it. Tonight however, his loneliness occupied his mind as he opened the doors of the old stone library.
He had been hired as Security at the public library after a small group of High-school students had broke in and decided to hold a party.They smashed some windows, left beer cans laying around and graffiti-ed a couple of walls. Their quotes read out, “If you can read this, well no shit! You’re in a Library!” and “ Suck my Dick-ens, Charles that is!”. Marvin liked the latter, and laughed a bit whenever he thought about it. Keeping watch was easy enough work, he was basically getting paid to read.
Another perk, and his favorite part of work was his daily observations of young, tight sweater-ed college girls reading in the library. He liked a good look, he wasn’t dead after all. He knew the girls thought that he was a dirty old man. “Hell”, he chuckled, “I probably am!” There would be no girls tonight, however. To Marvin’s dismay, winter break had taken all the tightly clad ladies away for the holidays and the library grew silent earlier than normal. The quiet couldn’t come soon enough, he looked forward to his nights alone with the books.
Tonight though, he felt restless and found himself constantly glancing at the clock, as if he were expecting someone . If that wasn’t enough, the tick-ticking of the clock sounded louder with every second. “Seriously?” Was the clock on the fritz? Walking over to it, he examined the face. He then took it off the wall, turned it over and replaced it. Thinking, he placed the tip of his fore finger in his ear and gave it a good wagging. The ticking was quieted again. “Huh, gettin’ old sucks”, sighing at this thought, he walked over to the book shelves to grab a book.
Marvin had just placed his hand on the binding of a ‘whodunit’, when something from behind the stack caught his attention. It was another book, “Surprise, surprise! ” The kids were always putting books back where they didn’t go.
He picked it up, turned it over and examined the worn corners and the well read pages. He noticed the bright red sticker on its spine that the library used to mark their books that belonged in the Horror section. With all the money their parents spent on colleges and universities, you would think college students would know how to put something away properly. Marvin bet in his mind that he spent 6 of the 12 hours he worked devoted to taking misplaced books to their correct spot.
He was about to return the book when he caught a glimpse of the author’s name, Stephen King. He had never actually read anything by him . He looked at all horror genre novels as the same, poorly written trash. However, just as he had reasoned that his daily porn appetite was healthy and neccessery to keep him from being a careless sex fiend, he had also allowed himself peeks at T.v. shows like ‘The Twilight Zone and Tales From the Darkside’. His guilty pleasure being Creepshow, is what made him examine the book more closely. Almost in a trance, he barely noticed the thing squiggling around on the book shelf and dropping to the ground.
He licked his lips, suddenly greedy to open the cover.
The clocks tick-ticking again become louder and louder. It echoed around him, no, it sounded inside him, like a heartbeat. Marvin could feel it’s reverberations inside, it excited him. His fingers and hands were greedy and wet with persperation as he read. He drew in a breath as his excitement mixed and mingled with terror.
Each word he read was as satisfying as any food or woman could have been. So engrossed was he, that Marvin once again didn’t notice the maggot-like creatures, this time both growing and dropping out of the pages and onto the ground. He didn’t see or feel them dig their way into his shoes and then plant them selves on his feet. They crawled up his neck, they wriggled down behind his collar. It was a slight twitch in his neck that made him impulsively scratch . But there, where his itch should have been, was the creature, implanted on his skin. Marvin dropped his hand quickly and looked up from his book, his eyes widened first in confusion as his brain tried to make sense of the scene .around him and on him. Then his eyes widened in horror. The creatures were everywhere. At first they had been small, now they had grown in length so that they stretched out like worms. Their movement was more like tenticles as they felt their way into any open part of Marvin. He opened his mouth to yell but found it otherwise occupied with one of the arms. His ears itched with the digging that the creatures were doing inside. His body twisted and turned and convulsed. Each thriving and pulsing was not Marvins movement but rather the creatures . It, they, whatever the creature was, had now completely taken over his body.
Marvin’s thoughts raced, some with fear, some with wonder but all with excitement. He had no control of his body, which felt strangely exhilarating and free. He was being thrown and manipulated as the creatures embedded themselves deeper and deeper into his body. He could hear himself crying. And with the wailing came another voice. “You fucking pussy! Wah, wah, wah! Cry your eyes out Marv! Yell for help! Ha ha ha ha!”
Where was it coming from ? Meanwhile, his body continued to spasm around and down the hall. He was thrown, against the door to the men’s bathroom, hitting a stall, he crumpled to the ground. Finally, his body stopped moving.
Marvin lay there, his breathing heavy and raspy. He started to moan. Again he could hear the strange voice speaking to him,
“No wonder you can’t talk to any of them tight shirted beauties in the library, look at you! Your nothing but a waste of good clean air. Your a pussy who ain’t gettin’ no pussy! Ha ha ha!!! “
The voice sounded like his own but it was stronger, deeper and very raspy. He crawled on the ground and over to the sinks. His body felt battered and every move hurt and burned deeply. Putting his hands on the edge of the porcelain sink,he pulled him self to a half standing position. The voice again started to speak,
“Hey Marve, what are you gonna do?? You come here every day, looking at the pretty girls because it brings you excitement. You’re afraid to talk to them. Whats the matter Marve?? You afraid of a little challenge?”
It began to laugh again. Marvin looked around him, searching for a source from where the voice was coming. He ran to the stalls and opened them up, nothing. From the direction of the sink he heard it again. “Maaaaarv………Maaaaarrrrv….Psst…over here. It’s not just women is it? You are afraid to try anything or just be who you are deep inside. You know, the guy you are when you turn out the lights, when no one is watching. It’s me Marv. Let me out Marv…….”
Marvin grasped the side of the sink and shook it as hard as he could. It was true. Fear had been his best friend and his worst enemy. Looking up, he caught a glance of himself in the mirror and took a step back. The face in the mirror was his, but it wasn’t. His face had changed. Where smooth rubbery skin had been, now his face was nothing but burned tissue and bone with receding lips. He knew the sudden wailing he heard was coming from him but the face in the mirror, his face, only opened it’s mouth and laughed. He could hear it mix with the wails. The voice called out to him again, “Marv, Maaaarrrrv…I am you. Let me out Marv! “ Marvin’s wailing died and the laughter grew stronger, the same laughter that had taunted him minutes before. It was true, he was the voice. He was Marv. It felt good to finally be him and not be the scared and pathetic man that years of denial and fear had turned him into. He was enjoying himself and now the whole world was opened up. The library, with it’s wealth of knowledge was his. He was the master and keeper of it. He felt liberated. It felt good. After years of not feeling at home in his own skin, he looked in the mirror and saw himself for who he was.
Marv grinned, “You’ve been missed Marv. Welcome Home!”

The Deceiver ( A writing experiment of sorts )

It rained and stormed all night and into the morning. As cliche and over-written as it sounds, her mood did indeed match the rain as it drizzled and dropped outside on her balcony.

Her expectations had been dashed and through her eyes, she had been put aside in favor of a better time. In her heart she knew that they thought nothing of it. It wasn’t that her friends were unkind people, they were just people, ordinary people, living life the way they thought it should be lived. And she, the one who thought she lived by the credo of letting people be and live the way they should see fit, was now holding people hostage by her own moralistic code. It had made her bitter and angry.

When did she become such a selfish and hateful bitch? Her life had been easy in comparison to others. Maybe not as easy as richy-rich but pleasant enough. When did she let go of her free thinking and embrace the black tide of a cynical mind? Perhaps she never was that free in thought after all.

The lightbulb as it’s said, beamed. She was idealistic not genuine. She liked to think herself a poet, a lover of all and most of all a person who did not press her own theology or ideas of right living on others. But when it came down to brass tacks, she was as judgemental as a TV preacher. She gave people liberties in word only, in her mind she kept things tightly bound. She made snap judgements and allowed her emotions on the subject dictate to her how she should see things. If it made her angry, she decided that it wasn’t good and she was right. She never stepped back to see WHY it had made her upset.

And now, she was asking why. Now, she was beginning to understand herself.  It made her feel heavy and sad. That is a simple thing to say but it is the closest to how she felt. Maybe it should have made her feel very sad or horrible but instead it made her  just plain sad.

She had been deceived. And the deceiver came not as Lucifer, Jesus, Allah or any other religious figure-head that often takes blame for such things, it came robed in her skin. The deceiver was none other than herself.

 

 

“I myself am made entirely of flaws, stitched together with good intentions.”
– Augusten Burroughs

A regular boring post about regular boring stuff.

Yeah, I know what you are thinking, “How exciting! What a catchy title! I bet this is going to be an amazing post!”. Let me start by saying, Simmer down. Whoa, one at a time please.

Regular life is real life and today my real life consisted of a bum hip and a bad knee. Which stinks sweaty socks and jock straps. I have never had many problems with my knees but my hips have given me problems for years, starting around 16. You could say my hips are the Rice Krispies of body parts. About 6 years ago I went to a Nurse Practitioner and found out I indeed had arthritis in my hips. Oh Joy.

It’s not that bad really but it’s frustrating on days when you hurt your hip at work and now it’s just being a bum and paying no rent while you chase you crazy toddler about. Ah-well, life’s too short and the day’s to precious to focus on it.

And really that’s all I have tonight folks. Now, don’t nominate me for some crazy awesome blogger award. I mean, I know my work is amazing and all, but I’ll take the humble high road.

But I do accept dark chocolate.

From Rose Colored Glasses to Written Word Vomitting.

My mom often has said that she knows that she views life through rose colored glasses. Meaning, that her take on things is not always the reality of what is actually happening or happened.

I say we all view life this way. We hold our standards and ideas as absolutes and they became the basis by which we judge life, people and circumstance. When I find myself overly angry at someone or about something, often if  step back, I can see that I am upset only because that person or circumstance didn’t live up to my expectations or moralistic ideas. As often as I would point a finger and lecture on not judging others based on your own set of “do’s and don’ts”, I am probably most guilty of this.

Seventy-five percent of getting better is just letting go. I could say some hippy mumbo-jumbo bull shit about closing your eyes and picturing yourself holding a balloon and letting go of the big red orb and watching it float carelessly away………but I think we all know that the road to letting go is not quite as easy as just opening your hand.

However, it doesn’t have to be so hard either .

The truth is we like excuses for why we are having a hard time changing, at least I know I do. There’s always a big reason why emotionally I am not ready, why physically it hurts and why I deserve this big bowl of ice cream complete with hot fudge and a side of vodka. I like, no wait, I love excuses. Yet if someone told me just that, I would argue to the death that I was working hard enough and that they didn’t understand and yada, yada, yada. In fact, I think just recently I defended myself unjustly about such things.

Changing isn’t hard. I know, stay with me. It isn’t as hard once you realize it’s your pride that’s hurt, not your feelings. It’s the acceptance of your failures that is the hardest pill to swallow. Finally, it’s the movement forward that seems backward to a well dug in habit relying person that makes you want to run back to the comforting arms of self loathing. Sometimes it can be the most comfortable place to be, and also the most dangerous for a person looking to let go. But as I said, letting go of that warm place is 75% of changing, the other 25 is just good old elbow grease and will power.

Having read over this blog I am writing right now, I sit here thinking back on my blog. It is somehow been a self-help blog, oh god help me!!! A quote comes to mind by someone of some importance who is so important I seem to have forgotten the name and the exact quote but it went something like this. All writers are damaged and we write to try to figure things out.

I didn’t set out to write about my journey through dark waters on the world wide internet, not that the mention dark waters are that bad ( wow that was dramatic wasn’t it?). But oddly that’s what has come out. And why is it public? Hell, don’t know that either. Maybe it’s wanting to be heard, maybe it’s that I don’t care or maybe it’s that when I was a small child I fell out of a tree and crushed a squirrel and somehow that really damaged my psyche and now I feel the need to throw up these words in a very public way. I simply don’t know.

Whatever it is, I’m glad your listening….or laughing. Hell, I don’t care, just as long as someone is reading this shit.

“Get Busy Living or Get Busy Dying” Stephen King

I have been pulling the pictures from my “past life” and looking at them with a fresh eye and discovering how they have made me who I am today and also how they have been instrumental in helping me at times to heal and other to get rid of common obstacles that will hold us back from living.

I struggled with the fear of death a lot as a young kid. Many people are afraid of death, for many different reasons. I remember watching a documentary on Nostradamus when I was 10. He predicted that the world would end in 1995. I was terrified. After all the man was right about Hitler…..and I had so much i wanted to do.

Now, I’m not comfortable with it, though I don’t think it’s human to be totally at peace, but I don’t lay in bed dreading my day of death. I owe this balance to my continuous exposure to people with AIDS, one of the main reasons I no longer fear death as I did.

The first time I ever met someone with AIDS I was about 10, maybe 11. I was spending the night at a friend’s house and her parents had company. At that point it was the early 90′s and AIDS was still very much a whisper, the only thing that seemed to be communicated about it was the fear and many times that fear was ignorant. So as my friend and I did dishes, she told me that the man who ate dinner with us that night had AIDS. I remember being fearful, knowing that is was a deadly disease.

When I was 13 we moved to New Orleans. After our move there, AIDS played a prominent part in my youth. From our neighbors to people I met through volunteer work, I met so many people who opened my eyes to life and to the tragedy of death.

My mother and I began volunteering at a place called The Lazarus House. It was hospice care set in a huge, old New Orleans Victorian  home, complete with courtyard. It was meant to be a sanctuary for people with AIDS and HIV. Some of the men and women came there to die and others came to get healthier. Some were teachers, some were regular joes and all were someone’s son or daughter.

During my two-year time there I did a number of things ranging from helping clean to sitting bedside with someone until they passed. Mostly however, we spent time visiting and talking with the residents there. I learned that one man named Daryl, was being proactive with AIDS by going around schools and speaking to the youth but also by volunteering there for after school programs. Then there were people like Lionel whose family had shut him out and treated him as badly as a dog with rabies. His mother had everything covered in plastic, she was so terrified she might contract the disease. Lionel was quiet, a bit socially awkward and a peaceful sort. He was very kind to me.

There were many others, Lynn a fried chicken fiend ( he loved that chicken from Popeye’s!)whose mind had been most affected. He became more and more like a child every week, which had its comical moments but when I think about the first day I met him to the last time I saw him, he had gone from speaking as an adult with life long experiences to relating much like my three-year old does. He was surrounded by people who loved him and supported him until he died. When I think of him, I don’t see him grey and morose but rather smiling and laughing with Popeye’s fried chicken near by.

And then, quite to the contrary, a woman my mother and I sat vigil with as she slowly passed, was utterly alone. She had pictures in her room of family but she was dying by herself. I don’t know why or what her story was but it was so sad that here she was at the end of all things and she had no one to help her. A couple of strangers were her only companions.

Lastly, I met a man named David, whom I ended up working with at a small postal emporium in the French Quarter. We worked together for two years and in that period, he was at death’s door many times but he always managed to bounce back. My husband and I moved and for the last 10 years David continued to pop in and out of my life, by little run ins and short hellos. He died a year and a half ago. And with him, a chapter of my life also.  He was the final tie to my life at The Lazarus House.

Living in New Orleans and volunteering at the hospice there, made me face one of my greatest fears. Death was tangible. Something I could reach out and grab. It lived in the people I met there, biding its time, waiting and slowly destroying the person’s body but I am glad that it didn’t destroy the spirit.

But then, death is in all of us, waiting with his pocket watch and cycle, taking liberties with our body by way of age and inherited health problems and sometimes by our own hand.

When I was 17 I traveled to Thailand. I was doing some more volunteer work at an orphanage in Bangkok for children born of HIV positive prostitutes or the homeless. The kids were also all positive for the deadly disease. They ranged in age from a few years old to a few days old.

I held a newborn. She was very thin and boney and her breathing was raspy and shallow. Meanwhile the other children, mostly toddlers, played at my feet and around the room. They all had big smiles and ran around like any other normal child. Some were obviously more sick than others but they were happy. Some after a few weeks of being in the care of the orphange, miraculously, no longer tested HIV positive. That’s one I can’t explain and I don’t care to try, the people who ran the orphanage said that the positive touch and love from others is what they believed had cured them. There was no scientific explanation.

It remains one of my top 5 experiences of my life. And so does Lazarus House and the people i met there. I find it a bit funny that 2 of my top 5 experiences, revolve around the most feared AIDS and HIV. It is this disease though, that showed me how strong we can be when the odds are so played against us, we can’t move. It showed me the human spirit and how resilient it can be.

Death is just a beggar at the door. He will take us all somehow, someway. Watching how people like David and Daryl and the children in Thailand dealt in grace with the dark subject, convinced me that I have far better things to do than worry about Deaths calendar.

We forget we are even living. Bills, arguments, petty grievances, tv,, all of these things can distract us from living. Life has shown me, it is possible to be living yet dead and as I observed at The Lazarus House, it is also possible to be physically dying but have more life than most of the people sitting at your side while riding the bus.

I would rather walk this world actively alive than to get to the end of it and realize I was actually half dead for most of it.

I don’t have this mastery down yet and perhaps I won’t get it perfected but I will sure as hell try.