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being nessasary

a quirky look into being

Tag Archives: love

Oh fooie!  I’m late! The pipes burst, my cat got out, it snowed ten feet, my car wouldn’t start, and a rodent chewed through my computer’s power cord!!!

Kinda legit, right?

No, I did not follow through with my month long “write in your blog every day, Nessa” pledge. This is not because I didn’t wanna.  I found out Friday evening that one of the greatest friends a gal can have was only a feeble drive away.  After adventuring around the world since she graduated from IU in 2008, she has taken up residence in Maui.  Real unfortunate, right?  A sad story.  I feel really bad for her, having to come home to trump through the foot deep brack basting Indiana’s beheaded corn stalks.

Because her life is so sad and sunless, I decided she needed me to bring some light to her life.  I ventured to the old stomping grounds: Bloomington, Indiana, home of the Hoosiers.  I needed to get there bright and early, just so I could save her tan from fading.

I spent a lovely 24 hours laughing, eating, playing, and dancing with her family and a friend of ours.  The internet and my writing responsibilities could wait – or not even exist – in exchange for precious time with my beloved college companion. December 18, 2010 does not need an excuse.  It is safe to hold onto the handle, but it is much more fun to let go and let the wind take you (Thank You, Story People).  I like fun and laughing until you can’t breathe.  It is all good for your being. 

Too many yesterdays pass like the hummingbirds in your window feeder.  They’re there if you’re paying attention or if you catch their flirty feeding methods out of the corner of your eye, but if they’re closed, its like it never even happened. I really would have hated to miss a hummingbird in an Indiana December because I was too involved with a computer screen.

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My dad is quite the person.  Hardly one to complain, remaining introverted at most times, he’s a man of action.  Born and raised on a farm, Daddy has used his hands to make a living his entire life.  A surgeon and farm implement doctor, Dad typically has insight on most everything.

We both are incredibly nerdy; we love learning to the point where my siblings make fun of us.  Both of us grew up playing musical instruments: him, the saxophone, me, the flute.  I could have been a doctor, too. But, as you can derive, I gave myself to the arts.  Majoring in English may seem silly as I sit, practically jobless, trying to get back on my writing feet after several years of neglect.  All practicalities aside, I am delighted I made the choice I did since my brain surgery resulted in a huge fraction of math smarts to vanish.

Dad supported me through college, my adventures abroad, and that blasted C-word.  He continues to do so.

Point in case: today, he came to rescue The Explorer and I.  He arrived with a tasty chai tea and a hug.  We bundled up and trudged to the garage.  The man with most of the answers, had brought his red wrench set, car jumper, and an extension cord.  He only needed to turn the key in Big Red’s ignition to diagnose her.  Dead battery.  He removed the deceased, and announced we were going to Wal-mart!  YAY!

Turns out, the battery that was powering my beloved vehicle was built for a machine along the lines of a lawnmower or an electric toothbrush. Ohhhh the beauty of used cars.

Dad and I returned home, installed the new battery, and powered up the Explorer.  She has never purred more proudly.

These endeavors with my dad have always made me happy.  When I was younger, it was wrapping a worm around a hook. Now,  it’s things like changing a car battery or finagling a dryer to work with the twist of a pair of pliers.  Sounds silly, but it’s special to us.  I love you Deeds!

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Chicago is being hammered with snow, ice, and its infamous gusts.  I am on my journey home, and am not really thinking about how my bus was delayed because of said weather or the fact that my new UGGs are prematurely aging.  My heart is focused on a wheelchair-bound woman.  She lacked the bottom half of her left leg, but her spirit – that was completely intact.

She initially chatted up my boyfriend as we waited at a bus stop. Finding refuge in a used bookshop’s storefront, we huddled close to hear the lady talk about the weather, and her keen ability to use swears (swears that no one’s daddy can even imagine, she said).  She won me over right then – I knew she was the kind of crazy I relate to.  After all, you have to be a little nuts if you’re disabled, and as I came to find out, sick.  I gathered that she was around seventy years old, having been born and raised on the streets of the Chicago.

We got a good taste of what her life was like.  I could tell she was into her God and the holiday season.  She couldn’t be too poor off considering she was dressed well, didn’t have an odor of any kind, and she lacked that stressed, sad look that some folks have when life has them down (or maybe she was crazier than I perceived).

Conversation flitted from topic to topic until I saw the bus through the falling frosty air.  She rolled herself onto the sidewalk while I made sure the bus stopped for us (we had attempted to catch an earlier bus, but it blew past us as if we were yellow snowmen).  When it stopped, the personality who had delighted my boyfriend and I with several laughs and smiles, paused.  She could not move herself over the icy mound obscuring the street curb.

I know stubborn.  Yet, with all my health issues these past few years, I have learned when to accept help.  This woman was on that page with me, though I am most certain she got there much sooner than I.  She lived independently, yet knew when to accept my offer to push her forward.  Thankfully, when the tread on my boots didn’t allow me the traction to push her forward without the terror of spilling her into the gutter, I asked my kindly escort to step in.  He pushed her over the threat, and helped her up the bus’ wheelchair ramp.  It was quite the feat considering she asked the crowed bus to give the driver and us nice white folk a round of applause.

The passengers were a bit confused by her merry behavior, but it did not seem to faze her.  We stood behind her as the bus did its business.  I noticed her fidgeting with a long pink ribbon on the handle of her wheelchair.

I’m a nosey cancer survivor.  I ask when I sense another troop.  She smiled up at me and questioned how I knew.  I pointed at the ribbon and smiled while saying, “I’m one too!”  She didn’t do the whole, “Baby you’re to young,” speech.  She grabbed my hand in the most congratulatory manner I have ever felt (forget those two graduations I have gone through) and said, “We are survivors! We are here to prove things can be done!”  If we weren’t on a crowded, slippery bus, I would have hugged the lady.  What a woman.

She continued on to talk about my dimple, and how she wanted one when she was little.  She used to stick her fingers in her cheeks hoping the dent would stay.  When she asked her mother where dimples came from, she replied, “They came from angel kisses.” Like all curious children, there was a second question along the lines of, “Well, then how come you have them and I don’t?”  Her mother playfully answered, “Well, God just must love me more.”  She laughed.

As my boyfriend and I prepared to get off the bus she wished us a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year.  We returned the well wishes.  But after reflecting upon this woman, I demand that she is Happy and Merry.

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It is what comforted us when we were babies.  It is the voiceless support of a pat on the back.  It is what spirituality (any kind) gives one who chooses to have it.  It is the concept of a pair of hands somehow bringing light into a darkness.

Miner Osman Araya reunites with his wife Wednesday after becoming the sixth trapped miner to reach the surface of the San Jose mine, near Copiapo, Chile. (Hugo Infante/Government of Chile/Reuters)

I am watching the Chilean miners (of the San Jose Mine), who have been trapped half a mile underground for the past 69 days following a collapse.  I see the world lifting these 33 men from what could have been a mass grave.  I struggle to find a lovely way of saying how astonished I am none of them turned their stress into a Lord of the Flies type situation.

Los Trienta Tres sang songs, wrote letters, thought of their wives and children,  proposed and prayed.  They lifted each other up by creating a mini community; they were able to maintain order.  Sure, there HAD and

HAS to be drama, but they are all alive – the fresh air that is and will be in their lungs is what matters.

A machine is lifting these men from

the earth. Children will be lifted up by fathers. Wives will be lifted by their lovers.  Arms raise, hearts heighten, hope comes home.

I am no miner, but I have been lifted:

  • by airplanes to far aways
  • words
  • music
  • kids
  • my grandmother’s hands on my head hours before she passed away
  • my family and friends
  • a magical camp in Southern Indiana
  • hope
  • thoughts, prayers, and butterflies

everyone can use a hand from time to time

For me, it is hard to talk about being lifted.  Each bullet has its own story.  I could write books about all of them.  I keep thinking about the song You Lift Me Up.  It has its own following of religious fans, but I think it is appropriate for many different situations.  It is super cheesy, appropriate and the only thing holding me back from breaking out in an operatic fashion is to spare the poor ladies next door.

Watching the footage has lifted my heart and my belief in the ability of man to communicate and work together in beautiful ways.  It is proof to anyone who believes it is impossible – unnecessary – for us to even try to work as a worldly unit for the betterment of the lives of others.

It is nessasary.

What lifts you up?  How do you feel a bout being a world citizen? Do you have an insight on the Chilean Miners’  69 day journey?

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