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

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.

The Writers

Nancy, Liz, Susan, Susie

A Week of Epiphanies

I am participating in a two-year masters in spiritual psychology program through the University of Santa Monica (USM); we are heading into the final stretch. As has always been true to a greater or lesser degree, I’ve spent the last few months beating myself up regarding how much more I could have/should have done during the last two years. I could be so much further along in my life, in my growth as a person, as a writer, as an actor, as a human being. Then, a week ago, my niece ran a 5K race for her college. For almost all of the 16+ minutes of the race, Ari was toward the back of the pack, but in the last two or three laps, she began to pull ahead, and in the end she streaked past the stunned leader and won by a second – long in race time.

Ari – you are my metaphor.

I had another defining moment solidifying my intention to move to the front of the pack (my own pack – consisting of only me – let everyone else run their own race). I experienced that when I look out at the world, I see only myself. When I see peace and loving, it is because I am living in peace and loving, and when I see judgment and annoyance, it is because I am experiencing judgment and annoyance – against myself.

I am not much for jewelry or other adornments, but I tried on a USM class ring. It was a magical experience – Harry Potter finding his rightful wand. This ring was at home on my finger – my wedding ring finger, but I decided it was an unnecessary expenditure of money and walked away from the table. For the next 10 minutes or so all I saw around me were people ignoring me, people looking at me funny, and I started to feel insecure and drop back into my loner self. Then it hit me, I had ignored myself, I had ignored this ‘uncommon’ desire to own something. I realized I had to purchase the ring and at the next possible time did so. Later that day, I won a raffle for an evening valued at $1,000 dollars.

I honored myself.

Last night I went to bed weary to the Soul; I could barely stand up. It didn’t feel like I was physically exhausted though it was manifesting that way. It was, as I have come to realize, spiritual exhaustion. I woke up remembering a dream – a bad one – I never remember my dreams. My meditation was an exercise in negative thinking – lots of dark thoughts – as a matter of fact, there have been a plethora of negative thoughts since I got off the plane yesterday, and then it hit me. I had, once again, ignored myself and my Self was getting exhausted from me not listening.

The morning had been great – I got on the plane – getting to the gate just as my group was getting on. I got my perfect seat in the back by a window, and later a nice gentleman sat on the aisle. Then the plane started to fill up and at the end, there was an African American family – mom, dad, and two young boys – who were all going to middle seats. In a rush, business men and women rearranged themselves to sit in middle seats so that this family could sit together. My seat mate, another frequent flying business man, moved to the center so that the dad could be on the aisle just one row behind his family. I was touched and started to tear up. I was moved by the kindness of strangers – in Orange County; white folks inconveniencing themselves to be kind to black folks. I was moved and called to write about it right then. It was so present in me, but it was inconvenient. I didn’t have the paper and didn’t want to dive into my backpack for it; I figured I’d remember it and write about it later. At one point during the trip the baby seated right behind me started to scream. She screamed and screamed and when I could no longer block it out, I looked over my seat and made unfriendly eye contact with mother and aunt. I wanted to strangle the kid. The rest of the day was uneventful but never felt quite right, the class I had flown from Orange County to Oakland to attend that night did not have the juice it normally did for me. The evening back at home with sister, brother-in-law, and boyfriend-in-law was empty and exhausting and I needed to go to bed. I woke up still tired and cranky.

I made myself get out of bed; I made breakfast for my brother-in-law and myself, and then sat down to e-mails and other things and the realization that once again, I had not listened to myself. It seemed so simple, and went by so innocuously, I didn’t write when called to write. And so I looked at everything else and realized there was an e-mail that I had to write to a few people I had done a process with at USM last weekend, and I had to write this experience down, and I had to commit to following my intuition and do what it tells me when it tells me or I would be going against myself and not pulling up as I said I wanted to for those last two winning laps. My dreams, or one of them, is to follow my intuition, to follow ‘my truth,’ to listen to myself and obey it – obey myself – not someone else telling me what to do, but me telling myself what I really, truly want. The affirmation I have been using this year is: With loving discipline, I am following and honoring the truth of my heart, embracing my dreams, and living them fully and playfully with enthusiasm and authentic self-expression.

Not sometimes, not even most of the time. It is time to win this race by listening and following all of the time (or at least as all of the time as my humanness will allow).