Propagating Waves of Light

     I, like a lot of people, have always avoided the phenomenon of a propagating wave of light being thrown back from a surface. Lovers see the beauty in the other while the beholder always sees their faults when they see their reflection in a mirror. The indissoluble core of any reflection is a wave of light (or sound) thrown back from a surface. The interpretation of that wave cannot take place until it bounces back. Which leads my little brain to ponder, as the sun prepares to go to bed, not my reflection, but the surface against which the wave of light boomerangs.
     My mother thought if she made me read Amy Vanderbilt’s Book of Etiquette that somehow I would absorb the gene of refinement that was missing in my DNA. A voracious reader and student, surely this would be the medium which would reach me. Alas, that level of refinement was not me. It was a book of rules. It was the wrong surface. More Teflon than iron skillet, it simply did not stick.
     Thursday and Friday I was in a lock down with the finance department – corporate and my division. I work with numbers ten to eleven hours a day. The reality is every cell in my body recoils from numbers and math. I never cared what time the train would arrive, I was taking a sail boat or writing about the moon. Numbers are simply finance’s granite surface from which I peck away until I find the story reflected in the block of cold stone. I chip and sometimes blast away until I understand the why, the how and the impact upon the people. I tell stories. I sculpt the surface of squiggled and straight lined numbers to reflect the faces of people and obstacles vanquished or fortified. For sixteen hours our very different surfaces clashed with brandished shields trying to find the real reflection.
     At some point during day two, trying to suppress the desire to physically destroy every clicking ball point pen in the world, I thought of Wednesday’s walks through the plant. I wandered in and out of racks containing hundreds of thousands of square feet of glass. For some reason, I stopped in front of a rack and saw my reflection. I could see my reflection but I could also see through my reflection. It was faithfully sending the light wave back while simultaneously allowing my light to go through and bounce off what was beyond the original reflecting surface. A different surface created multiple reflections from the same light. Reflection squared.
     The interpretation of that reflection is, I confess, still a journey, and sometimes my steps may not be so sure. Sometimes it feels like running downhill upon an uneven, rocky path that threatens to twist your ankles or send you sprawling forward until you land face down in the dirt. Other times that interpretation is the phone booth from which I, like Clark Kent, emerge like superman. I can leap tall buildings with my red cape flapping like butterfly wings around and behind me. But that reflection is, quintessentially a propagating wave of light being thrown back from a surface. Choose a different surface and the waves that crash back for me to interpret gifts so many more alternatives. 
     The sun went to bed last night. It has now awakened with intense rays of light like lasers between the curtains. I squint as I try to read what was written the night before. I put my headphones on intentionally selecting the music I wish to hear. I choose my surface.

Fragrance of Life

The breeze at dawn has secrets to tell you. Don't go back to sleep. You must ask for what you really want. Don't go back to sleep. People are going back and forth across the doorsill where the two worlds touch. The door is round and open. Don't go back to sleep. ~~Rumi

     I have only smelled a rose once in my lifetime, briefly. I have never smelled the rain in the air. I have never smelled fresh cut grass or spring flowers. I have never smelled homemade bread. I have never smelled the salt water of my precious Gulf. I have never smelled the pine trees on my grandparent’s land nor the Red Woods as I stood diminished in my awe. I have never smelled the clean air of the Rockies nor the Smokies. I have never smelled perfume, after shave, incense nor candles. Quite simply, I have never been lost in an aroma or fragrance.
    My nose has never worked – it captures neither fragrances nor the air I breathe. It has one function – to hold my glasses on my face so I can see. If you have ever had a serious cold where you could not breathe through your nose, food tasted bland and you could not smell anything, then you have experienced my everyday world. I do not inhale life. I have learned to taste life. Salt and sugar are the primary tastes that I experience. One seasons and preserves the other sweetens and comforts.
    Breath enters my body exclusively through my mouth. Cover my mouth, and my voice is not only silenced but I cannot breathe. Cover my mouth, or have a dentist put their hand in my mouth and I feel as if I am suffocating. To breathe is the same as tasting life. I taste life because the fragrances and odors that help to define its color and texture are my very breath. To breathe, to be alive, for me, is to taste life’s seasonings and sweetness that preserve and comfort.
    Not being able to inhale the fragrances of life has its advantages, for example, skunks. Although you’ll just have to trust me, as bad as skunks may smell, their taste is horrible. Not being able to inhale the fragrances of life has yet another very serious disadvantage. For example, there was the time I did not realize my apartment will filling up with natural gas. I could not smell the gas. I did, however, think my parakeet was acting odd. If friends had not dropped by and opened the door and windows, I’m not sure I would be here today.
    As with much of life, everything has its good and bad, its advantages and disadvantages and its limitations and endless possibilities. And though I am extremely grateful for the ability to taste life, I am limited to salt and chocolate. I know there must be more in between. There are days, like today, when I recall fondly a brief moment when I smelled a rose and wonder would I appreciate that fragrance as much as I do if it were part of my everyday life? I do not know.
    As I pause on the path I journey, I inhale and taste what is and exhale the breath of what might be. I recall a partial line from one of Rumi’s poems, “… until my soul takes on his fragrance.” A slow smile breaks across my face. I know that fragrance. It is the fragrance of hope, acceptance, love, laughter, roses and thorns, storms and rainbows, unmasked and vulnerable. I take a deep breath, remember a rose and inhale life.

Saying Yes

    If I say ‘no’ to my dog when it lunges at someone I am considered a responsible pet owner. If a parent says ‘no’ to a child when their tiny hands reach towards the hot flame they are considered teachers and protectors. If I say ‘no’ to what has been asked of me it feels selfish and weakens me. When is ‘no’ responsible and wise?

    Today my soul needed to say ‘no.’ It wasn’t the teenage pouting angst that slams the bedroom door kind of ‘no.’ It was a ‘no’ that could easily have been a ‘yes’ with its invitation of unknown opportunities and possibilities. It was a ‘no’ that parted my road into two paths and imposed a choice. Perchance the problem with ‘no’ is that it shuts a door or draws a line in the sand. I was not saying ‘no.’ I was saying ‘yes’ to a different path. Is that the twisted labyrinth of ‘no’? It is more than semantics or a word game it is a quintessential ‘yes’ that causes you to navigate one way or another.

    I drew my breath in carefully and uttered the feared words. I said ‘Yes. I choose this.’ Honesty mesmerized my heart. Hope has never rung more true. I loosened the moorings and set sail down the chosen path, the ‘no’ that was a ‘yes.’

Camp Fire Songs of Hope

      It was one of those wonderful Minnesota summer evenings with just a hint of coolness in the air begging for a gathering around a fire. The warmth of friends, conversation and the fire taunted even the moon to delay its scheduled path. I stood at my back door watching my dogs and basking in the glow of the neighbor’s fire, muffled conversations and laughter. All was right with the world. As I lay down to sleep that night I vividly saw the fire’s glow only now it was not a beacon of human and nature’s comingled and inspiring light it was a threat. The wind had picked up and all I could think about was whether they made sure the fire was truly out so that the surrounding trees, leaves and grass would not welcome a gypsy spark. Sleep became chaotic vigilance over whether the fire was quenched.
      Tonight it is winter in Minnesota and no such fires are burning. I recall Ayn Rand’s words "Do not let your fire go out, spark by irreplaceable spark, in the hopeless swamps of the approximate, the not-quite, the not-yet, the not-at-all. Do not let the hero in your soul perish, in lonely frustration for the life you deserved, but have never been able to reach. Check your road and the nature of your battle. The world you desired can be won. It exists, it is real, it is possible, it is yours.” I whisper a prayer for me, for all of us that we would be so vigilant with the fires in our souls which know not the seasons and burn only for hope, light and life.

[Ayn Rand "Atlas Shrugged"]

Evening Choice

Today I shall see the world as it is. I shall have the clarity to see what lies before me and see it without judgment and in all its detail. Today I shall speak out of my vision and experience. Today I shall speak boldly for I will choose my words wisely. I shall speak with the clarity I see. Today I shall stand tall. Today I shall stand as one who listens, sees, and hears and as one who cares. Today I shall assume my place at the table and I will dine well. Today is my hot mug of coffee and I shall drink deep and long feeling its warmth move from my lips into my chest. It matters not what today looks like when today, like the sun, sets. The banquet that awaits me and the warmth of the coffee will be gone by then. Their absence does not deny their presence today nor their gift. Today I am not afraid. How can I be afraid of today when it is what I choose and I choose ‘I am.’ I choose this morning. I will choose again tonight.