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Monday, June 28, 2010

What They Didn't Get

Beads of shattered glass pool by the front door of Gary’s digital photography studio, the door's metal frame still dead-bolted in place. As Gary sits across an empty desk from me clutching the brand new iPad that has become his constant companion, his shoulders slump, and his eyes well up.

“This is the only computer I have left,” he says.

Silent, we both stare at the little iPad. I imagine the thieves smashing the glass and crawling in under the door’s metal cross bar, just like the sheriff’s deputy did a little a while ago. I picture them grabbing the computer on my desk, the one that was only three months old and held all our customer records. I see them turning the corner into Gary’s office and thinking they’d discovered burglar heaven – two professional level computers, two flat panel cinema displays, a backpack open on the floor with two professional digital cameras, multiple lenses and a box full of high priced camera accessories. Upstairs, they snatch the laptop. Mere minutes elapse as they clean out the place, pass the loot out the door, load it up and take off.

Here’s what they didn’t get, though.

They didn’t get the backup drives with all our customer information, customer images and Gary’s own award-winning photographs. And they didn’t get the most expensive camera in the place. It doesn’t look very high tech. They must not have seen the value there.

They also didn’t see the true value of that stolen equipment, what it meant to Gary. They didn’t see the hours he spent learning all the nuances of the cameras and lenses and computers, or even more hours fine-tuning his techniques. They didn’t know about all the times he raced to the beach when the clouds were just right in search of a spectacular Pacific sunset, sometimes only to see the clouds dissipate into a flat gray sky. They didn’t see him come home drenched when he’d been so intent on taking a photo of some rocks and seaweed that he hadn’t seen the wave coming at his back. They didn’t see him smiling anyway, because he’d gotten a great shot.

They didn’t see the solo trips to the desert in snowstorms, chilling wind or biting hail. They didn’t see him wake before dawn to reach a favorite pile of rocks in time to capture the glow of rising sunlight on multi-hued geologic layers. They didn’t see him sink up to his knee in muck as he hiked to a remote outcropping of granite, or slide down a hill just barely holding on to his camera. They didn’t see him at the computer unaware of the time, applying his artist’s eye and technical expertise to raw images, transforming them into works of art.

They didn’t know all that when they took his cameras and computers, his art supplies. And, really, they didn’t care, did they? They were after things and they got what they came for. They didn’t get how not having those tools would turn an artist’s life upside down.

As we sit there, people come by from the other nearby offices. They come in ones or twos, solemn as if going to a funeral, and they stand outside the shattered door looking at the destruction. They all say they’re so sorry. They share their own stories. The man from the dental lab tells about his place being robbed and vandalized six months before. Someone tells about her house being broken into. They stare at the puddle and spatter of glass and shake their heads as if it had happened to them. They hurt for us. And they’re angry.

The woman from the Catholic Charities office two doors down sets her jaw and crosses her arms over her chest, fuming quietly for some time.

“Jerks,” she finally says. “What jerks.” And she walks back to her office.

People we don’t even know become like family in this moment. We all share a sense of having been wounded, and we look to each other for the salve of human decency.

The thieves didn’t get that either.

Copyright 2010 by Liz Zuercher

Thursday, June 10, 2010

The Invitation by Oriah Mountain Dreamer

I didn't write this poem, but I find it very inspirational and thought I'd share it.  My sister's professor read it to her class on the first day of class for summer session this year.


The Invitation by Oriah Mountain Dreamer

It doesn't interest me what you do for a living.
I want to know what you ache for
and if you dare to dream of meeting your heart's longing.

It doesn't interest me how old you are.
I want to know if you will risk looking like a fool
for love
for your dream
for the adventure of being alive.

It doesn't interest me what planets are squaring your moon...
I want to know if you have touched the center of your own sorrow
if you have been opened by life's betrayals
or have become shrivelled and closed
from fear of further pain.

I want to know if you can sit with pain
mine or your own
without moving to hide it
or fade it
or fix it.

I want to know if you can be with joy
mine or your own
if you can dance with wildness
and let the ecstasy fill you to the tips of your fingers and toes
without cautioning us
to be careful
to be realistic
to remember the limitations of being human.

It doesn't interest me if the story you are telling me
is true.
I want to know if you can
disappoint another
to be true to yourself.
If you can hear the accusation of betrayal
and not betray your own soul.
If you can be faithless
and therefore trustworthy.

I want to know if you can see Beauty
even when it is not pretty
every day.
And if  you can source your own life
from its presence.

I want to know if you can live with failture
yours and mine
and still stand at the edge of the lake
and shout to the silver of the full moon,
"Yes!"

It doesn't interest me
to know where you live or how much money you have.
I want to know if you can get up
after the night of grief and despair
weary and bruised to the bone
and do what needs to be done
to feed the children.

It doesn't interest me who you know
or how you came to be here.
I want to know if you will stand 
in the center of the fire
with me
and not shrink back.

It doesn't interest me where or what or with whom
you have studied.
I want to know what sustains you
from the inside
when all else falls away.

I want to know if you can be alone
with yourself
and if you truly like the company you keep
in the empty moments.

Friday, June 4, 2010