Poetry and Prose by Writers’ Workshop (2017)

Over fifty people have attended the Writers’ Workshop since its inception in 1992. The workshop provides a safe place for people to develop their own voice through poetry, fiction, and non-fiction prose.

The Workshop meets seven or eight times a year from January through May, and September through December. Monday evening meetings scheduled for this spring 2017 are on February 15, March 21, April 18 and May 16th.

All are welcome to participate, gathering in the Board Room or Rainbow Room at 5:30 pm. This new meeting time allows people to come directly from work. Express your interest to Kathryn Klingebiel, facilitator.

These group members displayed the following examples of poetry and prose as part of Faith & Arts Sunday (February 7, 2016): Willow Chang, Donald K. Johnson, Jean-Paul Klingebiel, Kathryn Klingebliel, Robert Tellander, and Rebecca Woodland.

aleppo on the edge of april

hypergamy and the sojourn of sighs

mont saint michel

a petition to Fujin

i left you praha

Rapping Up Christmas

(A devotion for my son Mark’s Advent Booklet.)

I Peter 4:10-11
Each of you has been blessed with one of God’s many wonderful gifts to be used in the service of others. So use your gift well. If you have the gift of speaking, preach God’s message. If you have the gift of helping others, do it with the strength that God supplies. Everything should be done in a way that will bring honor to God because of Jesus Christ, who is glorious and powerful forever. Amen. (Contemporary English Version)

Quite a few summers ago I stood shoulder deep in a public swimming pool with my bushy white beard and puffy pink cheeks helping a grandson learn to swim. A little girl, struggling with her dogpaddle, tried to stay close. For the longest time she just bobbed and stared. Finally with profound awe she asked, “Are you Santa Claus?”

Years later I am still delighted to carry that label for I enjoy sharing my wealth giving gifts. In fact this year with a deep rumbling “Ho, Ho.” I am assembling a red suit with imitation white fur for Halloween. Later, I will wear it for a children’s devotion time on the day we have set aside to remember a potent God-gift wrapped in straw and moonlight.

Wonderful, we can use God’s Christmas gift in service to others as we put colorful ribbons around our thoughtfulness. The Christ Child, snuggling safely in your heart, makes a splendid difference in your Santa Claus moments. Then bake, make, or buy is not nearly as important as including the story of God’s love-gift woven into your offering. Treasure the gift of God’s love in your heart and this season when you wind your gifts with color, be thrilled when the infant Jesus goes along with them.

Prayer: God of tenements, and homeless tents, thank you for your stable love. This season sprinkle us with your joy so that we can wrap your loving mystery with ribbons and send it to sparkle in some dark and dreary heart.

Donald K. Johnson

SEND THEM THE TRUTH

Advice sent to the Windward Artists Guild newsletter by Don Johnson, president. View the PDF.

An Australian Beastiary

Poetry and Photos of Australian Wildlife by Jean-Paul Klingebiel
recording a day trip to Featherdale Wildlife Park in the Blue Mountains, west of Sydney on September 6, 2016.

Ode to the Cassowaries

JPK_Poem152-20170114-Cassowaries

Ode to Koalas

JPK_Poem-148-09112016-Koalas

Ode to Wallabies

JPK_Poem149-10-11-2016-Wallabies

Ode to Dingoes

JPK_Poem150-20161111-Dingoes

Ode to Wombats

JPK_Poem151-20161211-Wombats

for Irmgard

Kathryn Klingebiel

organo oceano

Kathryn Klingebiel

After hearing:
Franz Liszt: Fantasia e fuga “Ad nos ad Salutarem Undam”
Francesco Filidei, organist
Concerto d’organo (Organ Concert)
Chiesa Santa Maria dei’Ricci, Firenze
9 giugno 1999 (21:15)

up to the sky with bells

Kathryn Klingebiel
2016-10-10

TUNIS 2008: Two examples of non-violent protest in Tunis

Celebrating our 40th wedding anniversary we decided to travel to Sicily and having discovered that the Phoenicians, Samaritans and Carthaginians were different names for the same Semitic ethnic group that dominated the Western Mediterranean as traders we extended our trip to Tunis to see the ruins of Carthage and the birth of Arab Spring.

From our perspective, seated at a sidewalk cafe sipping mint tea in the shade of the tree-lined Habib Bourghiba Boulevard across the street from the Police Headquarters, Arab Spring seemed pleasant enough. The economy was in shambles, tourist jobs had been converted into begging from foreign visitors. Many questions remained unresolved, but all were allowed to express their opinions.

Underneath the trees we could see the other side of the boulevard beyond the median promenade and observe the pedestrians and cars parked across the way. One lucky driver in a small Fiat found an empty space directly across from us and parked his car. The young man stepped out and walked jauntily down the sidewalk carrying something that looked like a remote TV control in his hand.

Twenty or so yards down the road he evidently pushed a button. Suddenly a deafening blast of heavy metal filled the street. People came running to see the source of the noise. The police scampered like ants behind their barricades of barbed wire and searched from the upper floor windows for clues. Crowds now filled the streets and the sidewalks.

If it were Syria, Libya or Egypt we could have been killed by a real car bomb. Instead the sound of music reminded all that times had changed. Tunisians tolerated diversity. Liberation would not bring another oppressive regime in the future-but it could.

We finished our tea and walked through the crowds towards the Cathedral. There we encountered another unusual event — a “read-in” sprawled across the wide sidewalks, doorway and interior of one of Tunis major bookstores. Students dressed in white sat on the ground, not shouting but reading a book. There were thirty or more creating a major distraction.

The unvoiced message vividly explained that which others had repressed no longer applied. Anyone who could read could grow. Non-violent protest, thus, had more meaning than the willful creation of chaos. Seated and silent they told the message that there were many diverse and better options.

Robert Tellander

When politics descends to emotional responses only—
what Plato abhorred about “democracy”—
the institutions of government are driven by myths.

Trump used social conflict theory to scatter his diversity of opinions so that his impulsive, conflicting assertions could not be accommodated, aggregated and contained. Consequently, he created fear and confusion, rather than facts and insights. The media augmented and amplified them. They raised the level of fear sufficiently to provoke enough “cognitive dissonance” that 49% of the eligible electorate refrained from voting as a consequence. Conflict resolution, in contrast, seeks to simplify the issues down so that they can be focused upon, evaluated and resolved to everyone’s satisfaction. The reverse leaves all issues unresolved and fears unassuaged.

Because of the Electoral College (We do not directly elect our President.) we select electors by criteria that vary in each state; the electors, in turn, select the President. Instead of having the electors represent the total votes cast for each presidential candidate in the state election, some states require all electors to vote for the majority/plurality winning candidate in their state’s “winner takes all” contest. Other states select electors to proportionally represent the winning candidate within “geopolitical clusters” within the state that favor traditional (i.e., rural) constituencies. Both skew the Electoral College outcomes away from mirroring the popular vote. Hillary Clinton and Al Gore both won the popular vote. Ironically, the Electoral College was created by James Madison and Alexander Hamilton to prevent a “demagogue” from becoming President. Until we reform the U.S. Constitution to delete the Electoral College (Unlikely because it requires the positive vote of both houses of Congress and the ratification of two-thirds of the States to pass.) we are stuck with the “loser” being the “winner” in any emotionally contested, numerically close presidential election.

As a consequence, the acceptance of the system-qua-system, the Republican Party has majority control of the Legislative, the Executive, and next the filling of empty seats in the Judicial Branches of the Federal Government. Thus, they must be held responsible for all actions taken by the Federal Government over the next two years. The minorities—Democrats, ethnic minorities and Liberals—can only challenge in Congress any act that subverts the Common Good. Challenges can occur at the state and local levels of government, as well as the federal level. Thus, politics in the USA will become more diverse and relevant to all the people, but less at the federal level.

The Republican coup is a triumph of the lingering notion of nationalism as an ethos—not an ethical system under law. For example, we dichotomize our relationships when we stereotype “others” in terms of race and ethnicity. Similarly, we divide our security into the right to bare arms at home and mobilize weapons of mass destruction to intimidate all “others” abroad. In accepting the structure of an earlier status quo, the winning Party makes the unthinking, the unimaginative, and the mythical the operational “norms” for legitimate power. Federal policy decisions will become formulaic. The big “losers” in this election are the economic and political elites. They will have to lobby the Republicans so broadly and specifically, that it will cut into corporate profits and invite corruption. Party elites have exhausted all their equity; others have replaced them. President Trump can still act against their interests and veto successful challenges.

What about the interests of the rest of the world? In opposition, the Common Good becomes global. All must rethink their operating practices and goals; our relationships with each other. Ethical alternatives and policies crafted in the USA or elsewhere can become useful to those who cannot restructure their own political options but could use other’s as alternative models that do not require top-down approval. Independence now equates with actions of mutual interest that support local alternatives independently of national governments. (Undertaken non-violently, they can’t call you “terrorists,” but will try nonetheless.) Alternatively, nationalism creates the need for new independent states by ethnic and linguistic minorities forced by a dominant majority which demands that their standards alone define the Common Good. However, if we define Common Good globally, we threaten no nation-state, but we free ourselves to create viable alternatives that we can share among ourselves—like AirBnB which owns no hotels, but has become the world’s largest hotelier by enabling others to share housing and to benefit from rent by welcoming strangers into their homes. Thus, we can avoid the violent conflicts of the past that we promoted when we were “Great.”

In short, we have lost an election to emotional manipulation, but not our options to do better. Reduce Trump to a twit, create thoughtful alternatives that supply more and move us forward. Let his “greatness” be the discovery that a myth merely blankets reality and hides our real potential. Rather, undertake a renaissance of open inquiry that enlightens our youth and brightens us all in a new light and reveals what we can achieve in harmony with each other: Merry Christmas & a Happy New Year!

Robert Tellander

A FALL IN SAIGON

It was a dark and stormy night…

The class was officially over. I hung around for a few minutes afterward to consult with a student about how to circumvent Facebook blockers and access my account (Vietnamese government apparently distrusted Facebook) before gathering my things. I tucked my new MacBook safely under my arm, grabbed my purse in one hand and an umbrella in the other, and exited the building together with the remaining handful of students and my husband, their professor. The lights reflected the dancing rain drops that bounced off the polished granite stairs, twinkling like stars in the night sky.

I stepped cautiously onto the stairs, readjusting my computer to hold it close to my heart and protect it from the rain.

In a split second I found myself sprawled at the bottom of the stairs, legs and ankles twisted in opposite directions. Silly me. I was wearing slippers. Flip-flops. No tread. Definitely a poor choice for a dark, wet night.

I remember bouncing down the stairs. Fortunately, there were only six or eight stairs so I didn’t have too far to tumble. I dared not attempt to break the fall with my hands. Not that I could have—the fall happened so suddenly. I heard gasps from those around me. My computer survived intact, still held tightly to my chest. That’s all that mattered. I insisted I was fine, got back on my feet (with help), and walked to the nearest restaurant. Sometimes hunger trumps pain. It was almost 10:00 p.m. and we had not yet eaten dinner.

As we entered the restaurant, pain struck. I lifted my right pant-leg to check on my ankle. What I saw horrified me. A softball-size “goose-egg” had formed beneath the skin of my calf. I felt like Elephant Man. We sat at a table and the wait staff rushed to my assistance with ice packs, towels, and extra chairs so I could elevate and ice both ankles and my enormous calf while I ate dinner.

The ice melted. The staff brought fresh ice packs. They melted. We took a taxi back to the guest house. Upon arrival, the night watchman/security guard observed my condition and assured us, in Vietnamese, that he knew a healer who could help me.

Needle-sharp pain on both feet kept me awake most of the night. Even the feather-light touch of the sheet brushing the tops of my feet caused extreme discomfort. I could walk, but something was very wrong.

Before heading off to the healer, we had a scheduled gathering at the home of extended family (former in-laws) on the edge of the city. All surviving family would be there. It was important that I be there too, for many reasons. I put on my happy face and tried to hide the pain. The gracious hospitality and kindness shown by all the family made it bearable. My husband cherished this opportunity to reconnect with his other family, in their language. They had several decades of catching up to do. Tears were shed. Stories were told. Reminiscing was rampant. Of the entire clan, only one or two spoke English.

An hour or two passed. It was time to visit the healer. We said our goodbyes to family with hugs and tears and laughter. Three of the women insisted on coming with us to the healer. Sort of like having a companion for support when you visit the doctor, or so I thought. But I believe it was more out of curiosity…

Back at the guest house, we all piled into a different SUV that would take us to this mysterious, magical healer. Our driver knew exactly where we needed to go, as he also had been healed by this man. We drove through motorbike-choked mid-day traffic and soon arrived at our destination. Imagine my surprise and skepticism when the SUV stopped along a major street in front of a narrow, door-less, hole-in-the-wall “clinic.” I don’t know what I expected, but it certainly wasn’t this!

We were greeted by an elderly man. His most notable physical feature was a mole on the right side of his chin, from which grew a single six-inch long dark hair. (This is considered a sign of virility in many cultures…). My husband briefly explained what had happened and why we were here. The Healer took one look at me and stated, quite matter-of-factly, that it’s no wonder I fell. My body is asymmetrical which puts me out of alignment and off-balance. Then he directed us all to sit on tiny white plastic chairs, the kind that might furnish a kindergarten classroom. He sat on the same type of chair, directly across from me.

This was all happening in the doorway and on the sidewalk fronting his “clinic”. I understand no Vietnamese, yet his directives and declarations were perfectly clear to me. Demeanor is everything.

The man with the mole grabbed both my feet by the ankles, studied them for a moment, then let one foot drop. With no warning, he abruptly jerked and manipulated my right ankle. My initial reaction was to yelp and scream, but that would have been too embarrassing in front of newly-acquainted relatives and curious passers-by on the street. I swallowed my screams. The pain briefly subsided. Apparently I had dislocated my ankle, and he put it back in its proper place.

After the chair torture, he directed me inside his tiny “clinic” ~ about ten feet wide and twelve feet long, if that ~ and onto a bamboo mat that covered most of the floor. Lie flat on your back, legs up in the air. He grabbed both feet by the ankles. It almost seemed like a version of Thai massage. He manipulated something. Bend your knees. Keep your feet flat on the mat. Raise your arms toward me. Grabbing both hands, he ordered me to rise. This was not a suggestion or request. It was a command. As a dyed-in-the-wool control freak, I told him this was totally impossible. I had never in my life been able to pull myself up from this position, and of course I couldn’t do it now! He insisted. He had both my hands securely in his grasp; I wasn’t going anywhere until I obeyed his command. I had to at least try, even though I knew it would be an impossible feat.

I arose! In one smooth motion I was standing upright, with proper posture. I was shocked at my accomplishment. He was not. For a moment, I felt like the man in the Bible who had been crippled for decades. Jesus tells him to “take up his bedroll, and walk.” He does, but not without some initial skepticism.

The healer presented me with a small glass bottle filled with clear brown liquid, which reminded me of some sort of magic potion. Directions: apply as needed to painful area, several times a day. I asked what was inside, and he said it was a secret. Just follow directions. I was grateful to have my husband along as my very own personal interpreter.

Upon departure, we both thanked the man and asked about payment for his services and the medicine. He replied, “God has given me this gift. I cannot charge you. It is God’s gift to me and my gift to you.”

Rebecca Woodland
Saigon, 2010

THE RITUAL

Our taxi crawled through narrow, bustling streets as Viviana documented La Paz’s Indian Quarter on video from the safety of the passenger-side window. The taxi stopped abruptly when a police officer stepped directly in front of it, blocking traffic and confusing the driver. Alto! He screamed at us. There was no accident or other reason for this demand, as far as we could tell. The officer glowered at the driver and Viviana as his voice rose. He spoke with conviction, speed, and increasing volume.

We were three middle-aged women: a Cuban-born Hungarian Jew from Miami, a German-born Protestant who had immigrated to Mexico, and a Canadian-American Greek Orthodox resident of Hawaii. Tres Amigas, two redheads and a blonde, an unlikely trio of travel-mates. The locals assumed that none of us understood or spoke Spanish. We didn’t look the part. At times this worked to our advantage…this would be one of them. It was impossible not to eavesdrop on the verbal exchange between officer and driver.

Que pasa? According to the police officer, no one was allowed to videotape this street. Of course there were no signs, and this was likely a random rule created on the spot by a bored officer who wanted to check out the three gringa passengers. But we all were at his mercy. The officer threatened to impound the car and take the camera. The driver, worried and embarrassed, turned to us.

As usual, Viviana took matters into her own hands. She dropped the video camera onto her lap and addressed the officer with an air of authority. What will it take for you to change your mind and drop your demands? She negotiated with the officer. He agreed that for $6 in US funds, we would be free to go and the car would not be impounded. Knowing that six dollars was far beyond the budget of the driver, each of us gladly pitched in two dollars, paid off the officer, and he stepped out of our way. Relieved, the driver thanked us and drove us back to our hotel.

The following morning we avoided taxis and walked everywhere, marveling at the crystalline skies and full moon still visible. Viviana clung to her video camera. We rounded a corner. This street looked eerily familiar. It was the same street where yesterday’s taxi incident occurred. We had stumbled on Calle de las Brujas, (Witches’ Street), just in time for a pagan ritual. It was obvious that we did not belong here.

Should we turn around? A distinguished-looking gentleman dressed in a suit and tie approached us before we had a chance to slip away unnoticed. Were we in trouble again?

Apparently not. He smiled.

Buenos dias, senoras. Bienvenidos! I invite you to observe our ceremony, if you wish. You may photograph or videotape anything you like. We are preparing a New Year’s offering to Pachamama, Mother Goddess of the Universe. We pray to Pachamama, asking her blessings for the coming year. If you wish, you may purchase some incense from the shop so you have something to offer her as well.

We did.

Several pallets lined the edge of the street, each covered with colorful trinkets, candies, and a variety of offerings. An elderly woman in an apron sat on the sidewalk overlooking this display, a single coca leaf stuck to the center of her craggy forehead like a third eye. The gentleman was joined by two other well-dressed businessmen. They donned crimson serapes over their suit coats. Each lit a cigarette, took a long drag, and passed it around. The gentleman whispered to us their reason for smoking and drinking during the ceremony. Pachamama likes to party! So we party with her.

The old woman with the coca leaf third eye never moved, except to take a swig of hard liquor and hand the bottle over to one of the men. He took a hefty swig and passed it along to the other participants.

One of the items on the pallet grabbed my attention. A petrified creature stood upright in the corner. About 15 inches tall, this dried alpaca fetus wore fancy doll clothes and a shiny pointy purple dunce cap. Honestly, it looked like a Barbie doll gone awry. We added our newly-purchased incense to the pallet that was about to become an altar of sacrifice.

About a dozen people gathered in a semi-circle around the altar. We cautiously and curiously observed from the fringes, careful to take photographs and videos from a respectful distance. The gentleman approached us again and asked our names and where we were from.

One of the men lit a match to the kindling under the pallets. As a slow, steady flame devoured the offerings, the heady fragrance of incense wafted through the air. The gentleman chanted prayers to Pachamama. Except for the chanting and the crackle of flames, silence prevailed.

We listened.

I heard my name intoned in the rhythmic chanting. It jarred me. As I listened more carefully I heard each of our names. As best as we could tell, the man invoked Pachamama’s blessings for each of us and our loved ones. The chanting stretched out until all the offerings and the pallets had turned to ash.

Witnessing this ancient ritual, I recognized familiar elements of our Jewish, Protestant, and Greek Orthodox ceremonies. Communion, sacrifice, altar, incense, clergy attire, prayer and chanting have always been part of our own religious traditions. Yet to an outsider, these traditions often seem odd, puzzling, meaningless or macabre. I pondered this as the ashes turned to dust.

The men removed their serapes, grabbed their briefcases, and headed back to work. The old woman, coca leaf still firmly centered on her forehead, remained motionless as she guarded the sacrificial remains.

Humbled, we stood in silent awe. This primitive ritual had opened our eyes, our hearts, and our minds. In that moment we knew that we were all one family, Children of the same Mother Universe.

Rebecca Woodland
La Paz, Bolivia
June 1997

Esperar (Spanish for “to wait” or “to hope”)

(True story. Cancun airport, mid-1990’s)

The bride nervously clutched a bouquet of white roses and stephanotis in her left hand and adjusted her train with the other. She took a couple of tentative “practice” steps in her five-inch stiletto heels before deciding on a comfortable position.

A rhinestone tiara crowned her elaborately coiffed ebony tresses, exuding an aura of royalty. A few loose tendrils peeked out from the lace-trimmed veil that brushed her cheek and caressed her brown shoulders. In spite of shellac-like hairspray and countless hairpins, her ‘do was beginning to wilt in the relentless tropical humidity.

She waited.

********

I squirmed to find a comfortable position in a not-so-comfortable seat at the airport. Crossing my legs, a worn rubber slipper dangled lazily from the foot whose imprint it bore, revealing well-defined slipper-tan lines. I took a swig of water from a plastic bottle and closed the dog-eared paperback I had been reading.

I needed to save a few chapters for the flight, since it was the only reading material I could find in a language I could comprehend.

I had been waiting quite a while, long enough to read almost half the book.

My travel companion offered to watch my scuba gear and other bags so I could walk around and stretch my legs before the long flight. Final stop: The ladies’ room. The mirror reflected a woman I barely recognized ~ a sun-bleached nest of hair juxtaposed against a copper face punctuated by icy-blue eyes. I blinked and looked again. In just a week my appearance had drastically changed, due to an overdose of sunshine and seawater. Heat, humidity, and perspiration precluded any possibility of wearing make-up. Closing my naked eyes, I leaned over the sink and splashed my face with cool tap water, letting the droplets trickle down my thirsty skin. Running damp hands through my hair, I opened my eyes as I exited the restroom towards my waiting luggage.

I couldn’t believe what I saw. Like an ice sculpture, a statuesque young woman appeared frozen in place near an agent-less check-in counter. All alone, she stood motionless in full wedding regalia, unaccompanied by her groom, bridesmaids, or family. Solo. No entourage. No luggage. Not even a carry-on or handbag. Just a bouquet of white roses and stephanotis. The hem of her gown showed signs of being dragged in the dust.

Her haunting eyes darted around the airport like a frightened animal. Was she looking for someone or something? Or was she escaping? She remained in the same position as if paralyzed ~ not typical behavior of someone on the run. She spoke to no one. No smile crossed her quivering lips. Fear and uncertainty permeated the air around her. Something was amiss.

My imagination ran wild. This woman may be a real-life run-away bride! Did she bolt from her own wedding, possibly just before walking down the aisle? Was she afraid of being followed by the would-be groom, their families, or the entire bridal party? Aside from rapid eye movement and her trembling lower lip, the woman remained motionless. Curiosity was killing me. I tried not to stare. She waited, silent and on the alert, for what felt like an eternity. It was at least a half hour…

The doors slid open and a young man slipped inside the terminal. Wearing shorts, a faded T-shirt and rubber slippers, his only luggage was a well-worn daypack slung over one shoulder. Wind-swept sun-streaked hair and tanned skin hinted that he spent a lot of time outdoors. In fact, he looked like a shorter, slightly scruffy version of the stereotypical “surfer dude.” He paused for a few seconds in the doorway, scanning the entire area. The doors remained open, as if inviting the searing heat to come in and cool off. Suddenly he dashed towards the ticket counter, running as fast as he could navigate through the crowds of would-be passengers. He was a man on a mission. A rescue mission.

The ice sculpture sprang to life, then melted in his arms. Well, not exactly. A passionate embrace would have to wait until later. There was no time for romance or even conversation. Synchronized sighs of relief burst into giddy smiles as the bride removed her shoes and grabbed her skirt. Her gown swept the floor as they excitedly scurried out of the airport, hand in hand. Watching discreetly as they silently disappeared into the distance, I half-expected to see a white horse waiting for them. After all, he was her “knight in shining armor,” wasn’t he?

*******

So many unanswerable questions raced through my mind. Was the young man unacceptable to her family? Did her family even know about him? Perhaps he didn’t fit their preferred ethnic, cultural, religious, social, or economic profile. Did his family know about her? Come to think of it, she probably didn’t fit their idea of the perfect bride for their son, but his family had little influence over his choices. If they did, he would be wearing a suit and working in an air-conditioned office in California instead of running off with someone else’s bride in a foreign country.

So where did the couple go? How long had they been planning this rendezvous and escape? Were they happy? Did they ever marry? (After all, she already had the gown, veil, and shoes…).

I’ll never know the ending, but I do know this:

They defied convention, took a huge risk, and gave up everything for love.

I hope they lived happily ever after.

Rebecca Woodland

WOMAN WITH A CANE

Ever so cautiously, in baby steps, she inched her way across the cool morning sand at Ala Moana Beach. This elderly Korean woman walked with determination, and a cane.

She paused at the shore and let the chilly water lick her toes. Now she was ready.

She marched into the sea, cane still in hand until the water reached her waist. Then she tossed the cane aside. Now she was free!

Buoyed by the salt-water and temporarily liberated from her physical limitations which necessitated used of a cane, she joyously played in the ocean. For now, she was just like everyone else – swimming, chatting with friends, enjoying the refreshing sun-kissed sea. The cane floated several yards away. She knew she would need it again, but for now she was thriving in zero-gravity and physical freedom. She had no disability so long as she was in the water.

*****

Sometimes in life I am afraid to “jump into the water.” I have all sorts of seemingly legitimate excuses, cleverly disguised as reasons, usually including physical and situational limitations. My fears, both real and imagined, often prevent me from “taking the plunge” into something new, different, unknown or challenging. What if I sink?”

Forget the excuses. Face the waters. Take the plunge. Relinquish fears. Don’t try to do it the other way around. Take the plunge first. The physical act of commitment (taking the plunge) will do more to erase my fears than prolonged worrying or waiting or psychotherapy. Okay, so it may not seem that way when the water is rising, or when I am in mid-air during the dive, but whatever fears I had will be concentrated into a brief moment and quickly dissipate. Then I can relax, toss my cane, and experience buoyant freedom.

Note to self: You will be surprised at the amazing things that can happen when you let go and make the decision to enter a total new and different situation or environment. Just remember: You can’t swim hanging on to a cane!

Rebecca Woodland