Chrysallization Part 2

The Bridge of No Return

Chrysallization, Part 2

...Once we were all aboard and everyone was settled and quiet, the Major barked out our itinerary, informing us that we would make a short stop on the way up to the DMZ at an overlook which had a memorial and historical marker and also provided an overlook to the “Bridge of No Return,” a famous piece of Korean history.

Located in the Joint Security Area, the so-called "Bridge of No Return,” also known as the Freedom Bridge, crosses the Military Demarcation Line between North Korea and South Korea. It was used for prisoner exchanges at the end of the Korean War in 1953. The name originates from the fact that prisoners were given the choice to remain in the country of their captivity or cross over to the other country. If they chose to cross the bridge, they would never be allowed to return. In 1983, it was also the single road connecting the two halves of Korea, and was closely monitored by military personnel.

Still traumatized by the bullet holes in our bus window, I had a hard time relaxing on the drive. The bus had no air conditioning, but we had all of the bus windows wide open, allowing for hot, dusty waves of air to pummel their way through the aisles. My throat was parched, so I reached into my tote bag for the bottle of water I always carried.

As the countryside rolled by outside my window, I rested my head against the seat back and thought about my family. I wondered what my mother would think if she knew what we were doing right at this moment. She would probably faint with fear. I was glad that she wouldn’t know until after we were safely home again.
After about 30 minutes, we pulled off into an innocuous looking parking lot, seated beside a park-like area. “Ok, everyone out here. We’ll have about 30 minutes here to take a look. Be sure to read the historical marker and look at the model. It’s very interesting stuff.” The Major directed before he hopped off the bus.

Rich and I gathered our things and filed out of the bus with our friends. Once on the ground, I stopped and looked around. It was actually quite a peaceful spot. There were flowering trees, and grass, and benches, and pebble-covered paths. One could almost forget that we were in a military zone.

We walked to the overlook to gaze down on the Bridge of No Return. From this height, it seemed just a country bridge, quite unimposing or spectacular. I thought about the history we had learned, about how the Koreans had to choose which side of the border they wanted to be on when they were finally closed at the end of the war. How could one choose? What if you had family on both sides of the line? What if your family were on one side, but your political convictions drew you to the other? It was all so complicated. I was happy that I had not had to make such a choice.

I snapped a number of photos with my 35mm camera (no digital cameras in 1983!), wandering around and taking in the atmosphere. We had been instructed that we could not take pictures from the bus while we were in motion, but that we could take all we wanted at this spot. I was taking advantage of the opportunity. I was in a very thoughtful mood.

Suddenly, there was a shout from the overlook. The Sergeant who had accompanied us was pointing excitedly down at the bridge and yelling at the Major. The Major took one look down the hill, and turned to start barking orders at us.

“NOW. Back on the bus. Hurry!”

We looked around amazed for a moment. Was this the same man who told us there was nothing to worry about a few hours earlier? I couldn’t tell what the problem was.

“I said NOW, PEOPLE! Let’s move!” He barked again.

Startled out of my thoughts, I started hustling towards the bus. Once aboard and back in my seat, I hunched down, trying to stay below the window line. I didn’t want to make myself a target. I whispered a fervent prayer that we would be able to escape whatever threat was out there, and be returned safely to our families back home. I thought about my mother and father, who had put me on the plane with tears in their eyes, and my brother, who had cheerfully slapped me on the shoulder and said “have fun!” I screwed my eyes shut and hoped that I would see them again.

Our group threw themselves aboard the bus in record time, and the driver had the door closed and was tearing off down the road even before everyone was in their seat. The Major seemed to relax once we were far enough down the road to be out of sight of the Bridge beneath us. He sighed, and turned to face the group, bellowing at us.

“Sorry for the scare there, folks. It was probably nothing at all, but my Sergeant spotted an unidentified vehicle coming down the Freedom Bridge from the Northern side at a high rate of speed. We can’t take any chances with civilians, you understand.”

I just looked at Rich, and grabbed his hand tightly. I wondered if the Major was telling us the truth, or if there had actually been any danger for us. I was starting to wonder if I should have stayed behind.

As the bus moved further from the Bridge of No Return, I forced my breathing to return to normal. Watching the landscape as it slid past the open bus window, I let my mind roam. I thought about the whole concept of war and its consequences for society. I wondered if war was ever worth it in the end.

About thirty minutes later, Rich poked me in the ribs to get my attention. “Hey, Chris. Are you sleeping? I think we’re almost there. Look!” He said, pointing out the front window of the bus. Ahead, I saw military gates, fencing, and the tip of a tall stone monument with a key hole opening in it.

The Major stood up and addressed the group. “If I could have your attention, please, folks. We are approaching the DMZ and Panmunjom. We will have about an hour here, but please stay with the Sergeant and me. We need to be sure that you stay in the authorized areas within the DMZ. No wandering off.”

The group murmured a little in response, I’m sure wondering the same thing I was – what threats might be lurking here, especially after our scare at the Freedom Bridge. As the bus pulled up to the gates, we began to gather our belongings and move towards the front of the bus.

Stepping down onto the concrete, I stopped and looked around. It was obviously a military installation, with gates, fencing, and lots and lots of concrete. And there was an eerie sensation in the air, one that I could not quite identify, that made the hair on the back of my neck stand on end. I took a deep breath and grabbed Rich’s hand for support, wishing my family were here instead.

“This way, folks,” the Sergeant directed, leading us through a set of barricades and a guard house and into the installation itself. As we walked, he explained where we were. He lectured, “Panmunjom is actually an abandoned village on the de facto border between North and South Korea. In 1953, the Armistice Agreement was signed in Panmunjom. The building where the armistice was signed still stands, on the north side of the Military Demarcation Line, and the North Koreans have since renamed the building the Peace Museum.”

“Although the village itself was abandoned and disappeared, the name is now used to refer to the Joint Security Area, where discussions between North and South still are held in the blue buildings that straddle the Military Demarcation Line. You can see the line of buildings off to your left, over there,” he said, pointing ahead of us.

“The actual building in which the armistice was signed was constructed by both sides over a 48-hour period. North Korea provided labor and some supplies, while the United Nations Command provided supplies, generators, and lighting to allow the work to continue overnight.” As the Sergeant droned on about the history of the place, the group was struggling to keep up with his brisk pace. Those at the rear, I’m sure, were unable to hear his commentary.

He continued, “In September 1953, after the Armistice Agreement was signed, construction began on a new site located approximately one kilometer east of the village; this is the Joint Security Area we told you about earlier, and all meetings between North Korea and the United Nations Command or South Korea have taken place here since its completion. People now use the name Panmunjom to refer to the JSA.”
“There are 24 buildings in the 800- meter diameter area, where representatives of the United Nations and North Korea meet to confer about a variety of contentious issues,” he continued, pointing around him at the surrounding structures.

“We are currently only about 25 miles from Seoul, the capital of South Korea. That means that it is only a 60 second flight by jet. There’s a map up here that shows you exactly where we are in relation to Seoul, and shows you just how close we are to North Korean territory. Again, I must caution you not to stray from the group as we move about the JSA.”

Rich and I exchanged a nervous glance, and I grasped his hand tighter as we moved forward. This was the closest I had ever been to a military conflict. It was not a comfortable feeling.

The Sergeant then explained that the roads upon we had travelled from Seoul were named the Unification Road and the Freedom Road. Freedom Road ultimately connected with the Freedom Bridge, or Bridge of No Return, that we had seen from the overlook. He explained that the “Freedom Bridge,” would immediately be destroyed in the event of military aggression by North Korea. That bit of information made me think about the truck we saw on the bridge not long before. How likely would Northern aggression be?
“Let’s stop here for a minute,” he said, stopping in front of a large, two-story white building with a pagoda in front of it. “This is “Freedom House,” and you will have a few minutes here to take photos, if you wish. We will move on in 10 minutes. Please do not wander.”

I thought it was ironic how the word “freedom” seemed to be bandied about in this region. I figured it was a ploy by the United Nations forces to demonstrate their victory over the villainous Northern Forces – a gentle slap in the face of the Communists, if you will.
From this observation platform we could see across the line that divides North and South Korea. As I gazed across, I saw a North Korean observation tower, a North Korean visitor center, and “Conference Row,” which are the blue buildings where UN and North Korean officials meet to administer and enforce the armistice agreement of 1953. I also spotted a number of US and South Korean military personnel, lining the walk outside one of the conference buildings.

And as I surveyed the area, picking out landmarks and snapping some photographs, I also spotted a number of North Korean guards, positioned on their side of the JSA. I pointed them out to Rich. “Do you see them? Those are NORTH Koreans over there, Rich,” I whispered nervously, as if they might hear me if I spoke too loudly.

“Yeah, they are. But they’re on THEIR side of the line, so we’re good,” he joked.

Rich’s jokes weren’t making me any less nervous. I looked around at all of the military personnel I could see on both sides of the Demarcation Line, and I realized that they were all fully armed. I swallowed hard again, thinking back to our adventure at the Bridge of No Return, and prayed fervently that we would have no such encounter here.

Chrysallization, Part 1

Panmunjom, Demilitarized Zone, Korean Peninsula.

When I was 16, I traveled to the Far East for 5 weeks, visiting China, Japan, Taiwan, Hong Kong, and South Korea. The following short story recounts the experience we had when we had the opportunity to visit the Demilitarized Zone. I will break the story up into several successive posts here on the blog.

Chrysallization, Part 1

I remember the day I truly became an adult.

No, it’s not what you’re thinking. I didn’t lose my virginity, or take my first drink, or move out on my own: those events actually all seem trivial in comparison to the transformation that occurred that day.

It was 1983, and I was only sixteen. It was a bright, hot, July day, with temperatures in the high eighties and even higher humidity, so I was dressed in a brightly colored sundress and a light white sweater. And we were about to enter the Demilitarized Zone on
the Korean Peninsula.

Our group of 57 high school singers and 6 chaperones was lively as we entered the auditorium where we were to have our next orientation session. Already in the third week of touring the Far East, travelling through Japan, China, Hong Kong, Taiwan, and now South Korea, we were pros at being “oriented.” There was laughter and boisterous conversation as we casually took our seats, anxious for the program to be over so we could be on our way to the “real stuff.” We had arrived at the UN Security Forces forward base named Camp Bonifas.

The room darkened, as the slide projector warmed up in the background. Two U.S. military personnel appeared in the beam of light at the front of the room, commanding our attention and ushering us into silence without a single word. The first, a U.S. Army Major, stepped forward and said “Welcome to the DMZ. I’m Major Willis, and this is Sergeant Carter. Before we board the bus and actually take you up to the zone itself, we have some information to share with you, and there are waivers that will need to be signed by each of you.”

“Waivers?” I thought. “hmmm. Wonder what that’s all about?” I shrugged my shoulders and leaned back in my chair, feeling tired and clammy in the air conditioned darkness after the hot humid air outside.

I looked around at our group, and noticed that most of my companions were also exhibiting this same mild curiosity about the Major’s words.

Soon, images began to flash on the screen. The presentation began with a brief history of the Korean Conflict, fought between 1950 and 1953, which ended essentially in a stalemate. The Korean War was the first test of the new United Nations, created at the end of World War II, and it would also be the first armed conflict of the Cold War era. The battle between communism and capitalism, the free and slave worlds, was about to commence, and would rage for over forty years across the globe, fought in political, economic, social, and ideological arenas.

Most of this was not news to me. I had taken a particularly good history course that year, and covered the 20th century well. I loved history. The rest of the group was restless, however, exhibiting signs of disinterest in this history lesson, events that seemed like ancient happenings to the group of teenagers. A low murmur spread through the room as side conversations began.

“Can we focus, please?” our group leader and director, Dr. Morris Hayes demanded, spreading an evil eye over the room. “Settle down and listen up!” Properly chastened, the choir members were silenced once again, and attention returned to the Major and his slide show.

Major Willis then continued his presentation, explaining that the American participation was crucial to the Korean conflict, and ultimately, the U.S., UN, and South Korean forces would remain a steady, peacekeeping force in the neutral boundary that was established along the de facto border between the two warring nations of North and South Korea. Somewhat incongruously named the “Demilitarized Zone,” it is one of the world’s most highly defended borders.

The zone is 160 miles long, and approximately 2.5 miles wide, and runs along the 38th parallel, cutting the Korean peninsula roughly in half, crossing the 38th parallel at an angle, with the west end of the DMZ lying south of the parallel and the east end lying to its north. It was established by the Korean Armistice Agreement signed in 1953 in Panmunjom by North Korea, the People’s Republic of China, and the United Nations Command. This neutral zone was named the “Demilitarized Zone,” and it sat on either side of the dividing line between the two states. According to the Armistice, each side agreed to move their troops back 2,200 yards from the front line. The Military Demarcation Line goes down the center of the DMZ and indicates exactly where the front was when the agreement was signed.
I noticed that my companions seemed to be paying more attention to the Major’s presentation now. He had captured their interest.
With the next slide, Major Willis explained that as a result of the genuine hostility between the North and South, despite the theoretical peace that was signed at Panmunjom, large numbers of troops are still stationed along both sides of the line, each side guarding against potential aggression from the other side. In 1983, the United States still had 40,000 troops stationed in South Korea.
The armistice agreement explains exactly how many military personnel and what kind of weapons are allowed in the DMZ. Soldiers from both sides may patrol inside the DMZ, but they may not cross the MDL. Between 1953 and 1999, sporadic outbreaks of violence due to North Korean hostilities killed over 500 South Korean soldiers and 50 U.S. soldiers along the DMZ.

Although the Korean Conflict officially ended in 1953, to this day neither side has granted diplomatic recognition of the other, and tensions have remained high. In the 1980s, as the Cold War was sputtering its last gasps in Europe, tensions were even higher in the Pacific. Our merry little band of singers was about to enter into one of the most contentious arenas in the world, and we had no idea.

As the Major clicked through his slide presentation, filling our heads with statistics, images, and details about the history of the region, I stole a glance around the room. The whispers and snickers had disappeared, and in their wake I saw intense concentration appearing on the faces of my companions.

“What the heck are we doing here?” I wondered. “Is this even SAFE?”

Major Willis wrapped up his history lesson, and clicked on one final slide, which was an image of a waiver form. “You will each find a copy of a waiver on the desk in front of you. Please read it carefully, and then sign and date it at the bottom.” At this point, Sergeant Carter moved forward as well.

“A waiver? A waiver for what?” I mused.

A few hands tentatively rose in the air around the room. The major pointed to Rudy, an outgoing senior, seated in the front row. “Yes? You have a question?” Major Willis asked.

Rudy boomed out, “Excuse me, Major, but could you please explain why we need to sign a waiver?”

The Major cleared his throat, swiped a gaze around the room, sighed, and explained. “Because this is technically a military installation, and there are active military personnel on duty, and since the region has been the site of violence in the past, we need you to sign this waiver, saying that the U.S. government, the Korean government, and the United Nations may not be held accountable for any injuries that might befall you on your trip to the DMZ. It’s merely a formality.”

“A formality?” Rudy interrupted. “Then why must we sign? Is there a real danger to any of us?”

“We haven’t had any active conflict here for years, only a skirmish or two. You will be fine,” Major Willis assured us, nodding his head encouragingly. The Sergeant next to him matched his bob with his own.

The mood in the room had turned somber: no more giggling or carrying on. Now the Major had everyone’s full attention.

“And what if we don’t sign,” Rudy persisted.

“Then you will have to wait here while the rest of the group tours the DMZ.” Major Willis explained. “It’s that simple. Sign or stay here.”

We all looked to our chaperones for guidance, searching their faces for some inkling of what we should do. The six of them exchanged looks, then picked up their pens and signed their own forms with a flourish, signaling that we should all do the same.

I took a deep breath, re-read the form in front of me, and picked up my pen. I read:

During the period from October 1966 to 28 August 1967, 160 hostile acts were committed south of the Military Demarcation Line by the North Koreans. In addition to direct attacks against UNC military positions, these acts of violence included mining of roads, destruction of sleeping quarters, and blowing up of civilian passenger trains. One of the most vicious attacks was the machine gunning of the Military Armistice Commission Advance Camp on 28 August 1967. During this attack, three were killed and twenty-six were wounded including three Korean civilians. Your requested visit to the conference site at Panmunjom, located in the Joint Security Area (JSA) entails travel over the same route where this attack occurred. As recently as 18 August 1976, an overwhelming force of club and ax wielding North Korean guards assaulted UNC Security personnel in the JSA while they monitored a civilian tree trimming work party. In this attack, two UNC officers were beaten to death, the first to have occurred in this ‘neutral’ area. As a result of the incident, the Military Demarcation Line (MDL) has been drawn through the JSA diving it into two distinct areas.

I exhaled loudly. “Wow. This doesn’t sound good…” I continued reading.

Under mutual agreement with the Korean People’s Army/Chinese People’s Volunteers (KPA/CPV Communist Side), no military personnel are permitted entry to the side of the JSA controlled by the other side. Therefore, UNC guards cannot provide security to visitors in the JSA that are not on the UNC side of the MDL. In addition, though travel restrictions for United States citizens were lifted in April 1977, the JSA is not an authorized crossing point to enter North Korea.

At no time have any mines been detected or used in the road you must travel from Freedom Bridge to Panmunjom. It must be pointed out, however, that you will be travelling into and through a hostile area; and, although no hostile acts or incidents are anticipated, the possibility of their occurrence must be recognized.

With this in mind, the following certificate must be read and signed….

Now I felt sweat dripping down the small of my back, and my palms felt clammy. “Possibility of hostile attacks? Mines on the road? What the HECK were we doing here?”

Taking a deep breath, I continued reading the waiver itself.

I recognize that my impending visit to the Joint Security Area at Panmunjom entails entry into a hostile area and that I am subjecting myself (and my family) to the possibility of injury or death as a direct result of enemy action. I understand that the Joins Security Area is a neutral but DIVIDED area guarded by UNC military personnel on the one side (South), and Korean People’s Army personnel on the other (NORTH). I understand, therefore, that I am NOT permitted to cross the Military Demarcation Line into the area of the Joint Security Area under control of the (NORTH) Korean People’s Army. Although incidents are not anticipated, the United Nations’ Command, the United States of America, and the Republic of Korea cannot guarantee my (our) personal safety and may not be held accountable in the event of a hostile enemy act.

I gasped audibly, looking around the room. “Wait a minute – possibility of injury or DEATH?” I started trembling; telling myself it was from the air conditioning on my sweaty skin.

Silently, one of our chaperones, Miss Hartzell, slid into the chair beside me. “Are you ok, Chris?” she asked gently.

“Are you sure this is safe? Do you really think we should be doing this?” I whispered.

“This is just a formality, really. If there is any chance of danger, our military guides will not let us go any further. We will be perfectly safe. You can sign.” She responded, nodding her head.

With one last deep breath, I grasped the pen tightly in my right hand and managed to scrawl my signature at the bottom. I thrust the signed page at Miss Hartzell, anxious to put evidence of our potential threat out of my sight.

Major Willis and Sergeant Carter moved through the auditorium, collecting the completed waiver forms. The room was unusually quiet. Everyone seemed a bit shell-shocked by the experience. The lights came on, and I could finally see my companions clearly once again. I met my friend Rich’s eyes from across the room, silently telegraphing a question through the air. “Are we ok?” He nodded slowly, but also shrugged his shoulders slightly, raising his hands questioningly.
“We will now have to break the group in half, so that you will fit on our busses. Please form two equal groups in the lobby. The chaperones, too, should divide themselves, with half of you accompanying each group.” The Major directed.

As we filed into the lobby, I skipped ahead to stand next to Rich. I definitely wanted to be with him for this experience. “Let’s try to get on Miss Hartzell’s bus,” I prompted. Miss Hartzell was my home choir director, so I felt quite close to her.
Twenty minutes later, my half of the choir group was following the Major across the parking lot to an old school bus painted in camouflage green, which was to be our transportation to the DMZ. Apparently, our two busses would be staggering their departure times, so we would not all be at the same place at the same time.

“Watch your step, everyone, as we board the bus. Sorry about the lack of luxury, but it’s the best we have for you!” The Major warned as we approached.

When I was about two feet from the bus, I stopped abruptly. I stared at the door of the bus, which still stood closed, waiting for the driver to open it and welcome us aboard. There were three bullet holes in the glass panes of the door.
“Bullet holes… in the door….” I whispered under my breath, unable to move forward. “I thought this was safe….”
Rich noticed me stop, and turned back to see what was wrong. “Chris? Why did you stop? Come on, so we can get good seats on the bus.” He grabbed my hand and tried to pull me forward, but I was frozen in place with fear.
“Rich, look at the door of the bus.”

“What are you talking about, Chris? Come on…” Rich trailed off as he turned back to the bus and finally noticed the bullet holes. “Oh, wow. Are those what I think they are?”

“Um, Major? Excuse me, Major?” I managed to blurt out, hoping to catch our leader’s attention.
The Major turned around with a quizzical glance. “Yes, what is it? We’re on a tight schedule here. Come on…”

“Major, I’m sorry, but are those BULLET HOLES on the bus?”

The Major gave a short laugh. “Oh, those. Yeah, don’t mind those. We often have used vehicles up here that have seen action. Don’t let it bother you….” He turned, gave a wave to the driver, and waited for the door to pop open. Then he hopped aboard the bus with a flourish, waving his hand for us to follow.

I looked Rich in the eye and grabbed his hand for security. “I’m glad you’re with me, Rich. I hope nothing happens.” I swallowed hard and followed Rich onto the bus, plopping down two seats behind the Major. I swung around to scan the bus behind me. I saw Miss Hartzell seated several rows back, chatting casually with Miss Knudsen, one of our other chaperones. She seemed unconcerned. I sighed and tried to relax.

My Incredible Mother, the Lady Jane.

My mother and me.

My mother has always inspired me. She has always been there for us, always been our champions, a quiet but forceful supporter who taught me to fight for my place in the sun. She taught us well, and loved us even better, and showed me that the world is a beautiful place, despite its flaws. A brave survivor of lung cancer, she has endured much, and I just wanted to embrace her and let the world know how special she is to me.

So, Happy Mother's Day, Mom. This one's for you.


To My Mother, the Lady Jane
5-9-14


You told us stories when we were young,
To keep us attending.
We listened to buds pop,
As you sat pretending.
We created chains
Out of dandelion stems,
If I only knew now
What I didn’t know then.
There were always the books
To broaden our minds
And if we forgot,
You were there to remind.
So patient and true,
You nurtured us well
And taught us ourselves
To never undersell.
As the days flew by,
You gave us your knowledge,
And always assumed
That we’d go to college.
As we flew from the nest
Venturing out on our own,
You hoped that the seeds
Of true living were sown.
As we ventured out
To stand all on our own,
You softly shed tears
For your children, now grown.
But the roots that you laid
Those years long ago
Always lead back
To you, doncha know.

Lost in Translation
5-8-14

Tattered and torn,
My soul beats ceaseless against
The rocks of the universe.
Bleeding and broken,
It weeps tears tangled with the
Tongues of tribes unknown.

Traveling through time,
Taken and tormented
By those who came before
And those who are yet to be,
It trips tauntingly through
The tangled tendrils there.

Soft souls speak,
Shouting soundlessly from the shadows,
Slithering stealthily
In silver silhouettes across the
Stained, sandalwood surface
Of my study floor.

Lost, lingering,
Lurking longingly in the laughter
Of the lovely lunatics that lather
Blathering in some long-forgotten tongue
Bellowing below the buxom moon
Hanging low in the lavender sky.

Time and space hang meaningless,
Mangled and commingled,
Moving in multiple dimensions
All at the same moment,
Dragging me deeper into the mire
That is my soul’s prison.

Starving for social sustenance,
Subsumed by sudden starts of sensation,
My soul surrenders to the sounds of something
Snatching, shaking, and stealing it away.
In that moment, my soul is transformed,
While my body steadfastly remains.

Experimentation By Design

I have been experimenting with poetry lately, playing with variations on rhyme and meter. I was chatting with a friend today, and something in the chat - just a random phrase - made me say, "There's a poem in that!" So, here's the poem, experimenting with bold misuse of rhyme and meter. I don't know if it's a success or not, but it was interesting to work with it. And the poem is not about me, so don't fret! Although I wrote it in a strict meter, it should not be read in one....


Kaleidoscope Feelings


It took whiskey last night
To banish my fright.
As demons descended,
My visions amended,
And scrambled perceptions
Became my deceptions,
Distorted reflections
In a carnival mirror.

Reality bending,
Down paths ever wending
Condemned to be spending
In time never ending
The moments I cherish
While hoping I perish
Kaleidoscope feelings
Projecting my furor.

Awakening in me
a need no one can see
Incoherently seeking
The control that is leaking
Right out of my fingers
Their senses still linger
And no one can stop it
Or catch as it flitters.

My energy’s waning
But I’m not complaining
I’m seeking to find here
Some concrete reminder
That behind that silk curtain
are things that are certain.
I only want closure
Avoiding an error.

In Search Of Self

I have been struggling for quite some time now to find myself, or to re-find myself, perhaps. Since I left academia three years ago, I have been floating, in limbo, trying to determine what it is I need to do with myself.

I've been having an identity crisis, I suppose, but it goes far deeper than that.

I've been struggling on a very basic level to understand my soul. Since I was 4 years old, my entire path was clearly laid out for me, with no questions about where I would end up. And yet, if you had asked me where I saw myself in five years, there is no possible scenario I can envision in which I would have said "here."

So, here I am.

No longer a "teacher" by trade. I am, I suppose, a "writer", though even that title seems awkward, and misleading. I have not been living my true self; I have only been going through the motions, ignorant of who I really am. The beauteous joy of finding my soul's passion has been withheld from me, and I have seen only pain and absence in its wake.

It is in these depths of questioning, searching, and wandering that the poem below emerged. I am not anywhere near suicidal, so please don't call the hotline about me, but I am lost.

I am empty.

I am waiting to find the fire that will set my soul alight once more. Perhaps restarting this blog will help me find my way. Until then, I am a lonely wanderer, staggering down the paths of life without a map or a light to guide me.



Quicksand
5-4-14

Powerful forces pummel me,
Sucking my soul into the depths,
Pulling and dragging,
Deeper into the mire,
Like Quicksand.
I feel the energy sapped out of me.
Each step forward I take,
Is negated many-fold,
As I sink deeper into the pit of despair.
Jungle vines taunt me from above,
Swinging desperately just out of reach
Providing no release from my torture.
Isolated, helpless,
I struggle against the mire
Hearing only the rush of the sand and water
Pounding in my eardrums.
Alone in my struggles,
The temptation to give in is palatable.
It would be so easy to surrender now,
To let the soundless rush enfold me,
Taking away the pain and sorrow
And leaving only peaceful nothingness.

A Symbolic Step

Yesterday I sent off five poems and a personal essay to a writing competition.

It is the first professional competition that I have entered, and I see it as a major step for me. I've been writing, in some form or another, all of my life, but I have never really shared it publicly or touted myself as a Writer with a capital W. I've also been leading a weekly Writing Group for over a year, spending boundless energy encouraging others to release their creative juices and produce pieces of powerful prose. And though I told them, over and over, "I have written prose and poetry, fiction and non-fiction, for years," I never said the words "I am a writer."

It's ironic how life has a way of nudging us along.

Several months ago, while looking for steady employment, I was offered a gig doing some freelance writing for a local online publisher. The writing started as a handful of news articles each week for a Health IT magazine, and now has grown to include Business IT, Retail, Grocery and C-Stores, and Restaurant/Hospitality News, writing dozens of pieces a week. It has been a tremendous learning experience for me, since my field of training is History. I do, however, know how to research and write, so the only real challenge was mastering the content and sources for this new writing, and I was golden.

As I have increased my writing assignments for them, though, it has made me crave my personal writing time. The professional writing, with its strict guidelines and prescripted subject matter, has made me long for the deepest creative expression I can unleash. I have found myself stealing moments away to do my own writing - something that simply did not happen on a regular basis when I had ample time to do so.

And I have, in these last few weeks, finally come home to my new identity as Professional Writer. The occupation on my Google+ page boasts "freelance writer, editor, and educator." As I embrace this new definition of myself, I also am moving to open myself up to more public spaces.

And thus, the entries in the Writing Competition. I don't really expect to win any prizes. It's a competition that is sure to draw thousands of entries. But in the act of hitting the "submit now" button on the entry form, I symbolized the transition in my own head. I am an author. I am actually a published author, of academic works and some scattered poetry. And now, I have authored scores of news articles online. My name has been scattered to the winds of the internet, and as I googled myself out of boredom the other day, I was fascinated to see just how far my name has been shared via the miracle of the world wide web.

So, as I told the students in my weekly Writing Group, the point of submitting entries to the writing competition is not to win, but rather to actualize the identification process and validate our identities as authors. If, come October, I can not announce that I have won the competition, I will be able to say, with confidence, that I have won something far greater: my own self-identification and personal growth as a writer.

A Musing

Christine Kern

5-1-14



Wind-spun, unravelling tapestries of gold

beyond my window pane

Promising wonders and splendors all untold

shall dry up all the rain.

In the careless wisps of cotton clouds I see

Figures of things to be

What I am, I was, and always dreamed to be

Float aimlessly and free.

I sit transfixed, and silently watch the show

Rainbows dance on the walls

The deepest thoughts of ages are here for me to know

they keep me enthralled.

My breath it comes in whispers, shallow and soft,

There is no sound at all,

hidden forest outlets, holding sky aloft,

reflecting on the wall.

Who knows what ancient myst’ries can be noted

In nature’s new-born call

I have the mystic’s knowledge here uncoded

Upon my study wall.

I Write Because I Must....

I write because I must. It is a natural function of my body, just as breathing or blinking or sensing are. And, much like these other natural functions of the body, when forced, they do not work as they should. When I let go, when I let the words form as they wish - as they need to do -- in my mind before I put pen to paper or words on the page, the results are a beautiful affirmation of life. Yet when i do not do this, when I try to coerce the creation, like trying to hold back my breath, stop blinking, or stop feeling, the process rebels. It is awkward, painful, ugly.

I love the geography of writing. Gentle waterfalls of words, rushing over stones of punctuation, sometimes temporarily dammed by them, plunge on in cascades of rhythm, images, and sounds. Each new line is like a new road to be explored, to find which path should be traveled, which hidden glens might be revealed. When I let myself go, without forcing the process, my mind takes me to unimagined sites, tripping and turning, skipping and prancing, til finally I can collapse in contented exhaustion. This is why I write. It reflects the majesty of life. It tells the story of humanity -- of my humanity -- as it demands to be told. There are stories that lie within me, images that must be sketched out, verbal catharses that must be reached.

Most often, I write in my head, long before I begin to put anything down in ink on the page. I often spend hours - or days - letting it percolate in the recesses of my conscious mind, rolling off the edges of my senses like dewdrops from the morning leaves. When the sense of the piece has come together, I finally release the gates and let the words come rushing out, eager to be heard, desperate to be recorded for all - or no on e- to see.

Writing for me is who I am. I have been writing since I can remember, dabbling in different genres, styles, and voices, but always returning to the place of most comfort for me - the place of poetry. In poetry, I find beauty and ugliness, simplicity and complexity, hope and despair. It is in poetry that I find the truest expression of the human experience, in all its various modes and phases. And though I often dream of publishing some great work of literature that the world will admire, in truth I write for myself, and myself alone, to help guide me through this tempestuous and complicated reality called life.

A Homecoming of Sorts


I have been away from this blog for far too long. I have just come home to my writing again lately, so I thought I would re-launch the blog with this piece I wrote recently. I am going to redirect the blog away from the spiritual/psychic phenomena and towards more of my own writings of all genres. I hope no one minds!

This poem haunted me for days before I finally put it down on paper. It is a poem about the mausoleum at the camp of Maidanek.

Haunted Maidanek
4-15-14


Mountains of ash,

Commingled,

Anonymous,

Piled together

Beneath

The cold, white dome.

Identities stolen,

Disassembled,

Corrupted,

To lie forever

So far

Away from home.

Elemental poetry

I have returned to my swim routine lately, and have been reunited with my elemental needs, as I mentioned in my last post. As I swam today, letting the water envelop me and rejuvenate me, I called to mind a couple of poems I had written about the elements, and thought it was an appropriate time to post them here.

Elemental Life Forces
1-22-06

Earth, water, wind, and fire
All come together to fuel desire
Each in turn empowers me
To be the goddess I shall be.

Wind, water, fire, and earth,
Together produce a sense of mirth.
A union of our sacred souls
Joined as one become a whole.

Fire, earth, wind, and water,
Come together to form my daughter,
Creative forces bring her forth
So that I may prove my worth.

Water, earth, fire, and wind,
Touches all beneath my skin.
These forces are what make me whole
They breathe life into my soul.

Life force
1-16-06

The pool enfolds me,
Cloaking me,
Its watery depths
Caressing,
Massaging,
Cleansing,
As my body glides,
Embracing the liquid life force
That fills the pool.

The world recedes,
As life’s base rhythms emerge,
Breath roars in my ears,
The rush of water
Entombs my senses
Shutting out all else
And stoking the fires within.

Burning, churning,
Energy courses.
A lava flow,
Roiling up from the depths,
Waiting, ready,
To spew forth its power
In awesome majesty.

Elemental Needs, redux

I have been uncharacteristically silent here on my blog for some time now, as I have been struggling to make sense of the recent events and developments in my life. I must admit, I have been battling some depression in the last several months, making it difficult to focus on much beyond basic survival. So much of my process has escaped description in words, so even as I opened the blog to write, I simply sat mute, staring at the blank page.

I still find myself at a loss to explain the directions my life has gone lately, but I also know that my mind is hard at work, delving deeply for resolution. This is most clearly revealed in the intensity and symbolism of my recent dreams.

The symbolism is vivid, powerful, and evocative.

For example, the other night I dreamt that we were hosting a party, but the finished basement kept flooding, and with the water emerged flows of black beetles, all of which made me very angry as I tried to focus on our guests and keep the flooding under control (and out of sight of the guests).

Upon examination, this dream is not very difficult to interpret. The basement represents the deepest layers of my mind - the subconscious - which is being overcome by emotions (the water) that are out of control. The beetles represent forces at work against me, perhaps representing what I perceive to be deceit or trickery around me. All the while, I am desperately striving to maintain an appearance of outward calm and normalcy, as the hostess of the party. In all, not surprising, as I struggling daily to reconcile my life.

As the final term of my current employment marches ever closer to its end, I also am trying to deal with the health issues confronting me. Presently, I am in a waiting game, ticking off time until we check to see if the abnormal cells have returned.

I have never been patient, and I never deal well with uncertainty, so this three months of "wait and see" have created much anxiety, adding to my already full plate of discomfort.

In a couple of weeks, I have the test repeated and then wait for results.

In the depths of my angst, trying to keep afloat as the waves of anxiety wash over me, I have people reassuring me that things will all work out for the best. Ironically, it reminds me of the story of Voltaire's Candide, where he argues that, at each moment, "this is the best of all possible worlds." It's hard to understand how these seemingly negative situations could possibly be for the best.

And yet, I get these moments of great clarity and affirmation, in the midst of all of this junk.

Last weekend, I was blessed with a visit from my closest friend, Ellen, and her two children. We spent hours talking and sharing, hugging, and engaging in deep, make-your-belly-hurt laughter. It was an incredibly cathartic experience. My deepest angst took a much needed break and allowed me to reassess the blessings that surround me. It felt good, especially as Saturday was the "largest" full moon of the calendar year.

Ellen and my moon recharged me, giving me the energy to continue.

This week, I have returned to swimming. Even after a LONG hiatus, due mainly to my health, I was able to complete my regular routine without too much difficulty. Ironically, this return to swimming was not as soothing as I had anticipated, and I believe it is because I spent too much time away.

The lessons of this week have to do with being true to ourselves and to each other.

I have pledged to continue swimming. I have even committed it to my planner, making it harder to make excuses for not getting there. I have also pledged myself to feeding my other elemental needs as well.

Fire, Water, Air, and Earth. Together these are the elements which must be balanced for us to reach a sense of equilibrium.

My weekend with Ellen reawakened my awareness of these elemental needs.

We sat for hours beside a gorgeous fire, watching the dancing flames and embracing its glowing warmth. We saw the full moon and felt its energy charging the air. I felt the hard earth beneath my chilled feet, supporting me. And I returned to the waters that embrace my very being and give motion to my soul.

So, this week, even as we face more difficulties and sorrow around us, I remain committed to these elemental forces and recognizing their role in helping me cope. The universe is not always calm, but it is always readjusting itself to remain in balance.

Here's to maintaining balance.

"What now?"

As I wrote about in my last post, I have been experiencing some health issues of late, culminating in a surgical procedure before Christmas. I had to wait an agonizing three weeks to get the pathology results back. The fact that they did not simply call and say “everything is fine,” made me quite anxious about the findings.

Yesterday, I went to the doctor to review the results. They were not positive.

It turns out that I have Stage Zero Cervical Cancer. Now we play a waiting game, but most likely it will mean a hysterectomy, most likely some time this summer.

The good news (ha!) is that it has not yet spread, and they appear to have gotten the infected cells with the procedure. Now we wait, and in three months, I get retested to see if the cells have returned. If they have, the next step is the hysterectomy. Statistically, the odds are very high that the cells will return.

I admit, my first response was “Why me?”

I came home, told my husband the news, and proceeded to wallow in self-pity for the rest of the night. I enjoyed a huge crying spree, and I spent the evening in bed with our pets. I thought about the finality of this diagnosis in terms of my ability to have a child. I worried that I would be left all alone. I let myself be despondent.

This morning, though, I woke and tried to look at it from another perspective.

I have always believed that things happen for a reason in our lives. There is a greater purpose at work, challenging us and driving us to do particular things during our time here. And, I recognized, that greater purpose is not always immediate clear to us. Sometimes, it is never clear. But it is always there.

So, I started to think about this recent set of events, and asked not “Why me?” but “What now?”

As cancers go, cervical cancer is one of the most treatable cancers. We have caught it early. It is treatable and I can expect a very high survival rate after the surgery. This is good news.

This diagnosis does come at a rather difficult time in my life, as I am transitioning out of my old career and trying to find a new path to follow. I reflected this morning that perhaps this set of events has come to give me greater insight regarding my new opportunities.

I have always had issues with control over my life, never liking uncertainty, and I have needed to know exactly what was going to happen next. This past year, both the loss of my job and this new diagnosis, are challenging that need. I could fret and stew and worry over what exactly tomorrow, or next week, or next month will bring, or I can live for each day and be grateful for the boundless joys that surround me.

Things have always had a way of working out. Sometimes, they didn’t work out the way I anticipated, but they always took me forward, made me stronger, made me a better person.

My current position is what brought me to Erie, an event that led me to my husband Dave. For that I am eternally grateful.

Now it is time for me to move on, with Dave by my side of course, and find my next purpose in life. The current diagnosis and my prognosis suggest to me that perhaps I need to be looking in new directions for the future. As I head into the next several months, my new mantra will be “what now?”

“What new opportunities can I see around me?”
“What will this new day bring me?”
“What can I do now to overcome the challenges that lie before me?”
“Why me” has been relegated to 2010. “What now” is the motto for 2011.

Will you join me?

Remember what is important.

(Jude, the stuffed santa hamster my husband Dave bought me at the hospital gift shop last night)

Yesterday, I went into the hospital for what they term a "minor procedure." It was scheduled as an outpatient surgery, and they said it was no big deal. The risks, overall, were minor, and the surgeon has done thousands, I'm sure. And as I prepared for the "procedure," I was a bit nervous but not terribly upset about what I was having done. I was, however, concerned about how I would react to the anesthesia.

Turns out, my premonition was dead on.

When they brought me out after the short procedure, the first thing I did was throw up. That was unpleasant enough, and I did it twice. This was still in the OR. Then they wheeled me into post-op recovery, where they removed the oxygen and tried to get me coherent. At this point, I could not move my limbs and could not control my muscles to draw a breath. I was not getting air. Most frightening, however, was that I could not tell them what was going on, as I had no bodily control. It took them a moment to realize what was occurring.

In those few moments, so many thoughts were racing through my head. For one of the few times in my life, I was actually contemplating the reality of death head on.

You know how they say your whole life flashes in front of your eyes when you face "the end?" That's not quite true, at least not in my case.

My first, and most important thought, was of my wonderful husband Dave. He consumed my thoughts at that moment. In fact, I can't remember thinking about anything else.

They had me flat on the bed, and had to reintubate me with oxygen. Slowly, they were able to reverse the effects of relaxation drugs in my system, and after about 20 minutes I guess (time is vague), they took my off oxygen. Once the panic was gone, my mind was clearer, but it still focused on Dave.

It has been a tense and stressful year for me this year, with much to think about and much uncertainty.

The one constant, however, is and always has been My Dave. And for that, I am truly, truly grateful. With Dave (and our pets) in my life, the rest are all minor speed bumps to be negotiated along the way.

Love, family, friends. This is what is truly important. And what better time to be reminded of the basic important things in life than now, in the midst of all of the holiday frenzy.

I made a vow, last night, to take a moment (or 20) every day not only to recognize what is truly important in my life, but to let them know it as well.

Oh, and "Jude," the santa hamster, is named for a reason. Jude, of course, is from a Beatles song, but also is the patron saint of children. And are we not, all, children at heart?

So Jude now has a position of prominence on my desk, and is watching as I write this.

Here's to what is truly important, and may I continue to be blessed with the love and caring that surround me at this moment.

Carpe Diem.

Dancing through the Depths of my Mind

Last night I had several souls dancing their way through my brain.

This is not a unique experience, per se. I often, especially as the moon approaches its full phase, open up psychically and seem to invite visitors into my mind.

Usually, however, they appear one at a time, and make their presence known before they start knocking around in the cabinets of my cerebellum. You know, they ring the doorbell before barging in, just in case they might be catching me in my birthday suit.

I must have been wide open last night, for I had not one, but several visitors clunking around in my sacred space. It took me a while to sort them out and identify the individual forces at work there.

One was a familiar visitor, an old friend who periodically appears and likes to camp out in the place I call my "junk pile" - this is the home of my short term memory, where he pulls out random ideas, images and symbols to admire and evaluate.

"Red velvet. France. Chinese food. Turquoise."

This is how a typical encounter with Jack might sound, a one-sided litany as he dug through the rubble he discovered.

"Yes, Jack," I would answer, "But you're in the trash heap again. It's all just junk."

For Jack, however, this rubbish heap was a comfortable - and safe -place to rest.

So Jack was curled up in the trash pile last night, while two other entities poked and prodded in other - more significant areas of my brain.

Though I never identified either clearly, it became obvious that the first was a soul searching for guidance and stability. He sat towards the back of my head, just behind my right ear, scratching at me in much the same way that my poodle, Monte, does when he is desperate for attention. His need was deep - achingly so - and it fatigued me greatly as he attempted to draw from my strength to find his way.

The third force had a more sinister sense, and settled deeply into the subconscious portion of my mind, as if it were a spy, digging for forbidden information. This third force snuck in on the heels of the second, stealthily, and was much more tentative in its probing. It eventually retreated, with resignation, without finding whatever it had hoped to discover.

These visitors, each in their own spot, have an interesting effect upon my head. The first sensation is a sort of heaviness in my head, a slight pressure, in the place they enter. As they begin to explore, my head begins to buzz with energy, and it feels as if there are fairies or small animals trodding on my brain. It feels a bit like a series of goosebumps across the inside of my head. The longer the entities remain, the higher the energy levels rise. And once these forces enter my mind, it is often difficult to force them out until they are ready to go. Last night, Jack was the last to leave, snuggling in for many hours before finally letting go and slipping away into the night.

Ultimately, the biggest effect of these visits is that they sap my energy and steal my sleep. Today, I feel like the walking dead. I have often theorized that this is precisely why they come.

In times of high energy, I broadcast to others with psychic abilities, and they rush to take advantage of the available energy. Jack used to tell me that when my energy is at its peak, I transmit like a beacon, to all those who can read it. I imagine my brain as a sort of psychic gas station. Last night, I had three eager "customers" pull in to top off. While they were there, they danced through my head, poked and prodded, and left no corners unexamined.

And as I finish writing this post, in has crept Jack once again, to hang out in the junk pile of my mind, curling up in the corner just like the family dog snuggling in front of the hearth.

Now, I need a nap!

Several Holocaust Poems.

(The Ghetto Wall in Krakow, Poland)

I had another episode last night and today, where I felt overtaken by spirits who wanted to be heard. Out if this experience, came several new poems, which I have included in this blog. I will let them speak for themselves.

The (Un)natural Law of Race
10-11-10

The genetic tree
Has twisted roots
Driven deeply into the past.
Social Darwinists
Dig out the rot
They believe have effects that last.

Eugenic science –
Imposter beliefs –
Guide the policies of the state
Cleansing of the blood,
Curing the ailments of her people.
In hopes that it is not too late.

Misguided in thought,
Manipulated,
The Germans complied,
And after these thoughts
Were carried out,
Millions had died.

The slippery slope
Eugenics led
Had great long-term effects.
It had at its core
The lofty goal of
Eliminating all defects.

Purity of blood,
Racially pure,
This was Hitler’s call
And then in the end,
Policies led
To Germany’s fall.


(the former killing center of Belzec, in Poland)

ABCs of Death
10-11-10

Auschwitz and Appell
Belzec
Chelmno
Dachau and Dehumanization
Einsatzgruppen and Experimentation
Fear.
Ghettos
Hitler, Himmler, and Heydrich
Ideology
Jews
Kapos
Lagers and Lebensraum
Mengele and Monsters
National Socialism
Ordnungdienst
Piles of corpses.
Queues of prisoners
Rations of Bread
Schutzstaffeln and Selections
Transports
Unterwertige, the Undesirables
Vaterland
Weltanschauung
“X”ecutions
Yiddish prayer
Zyklon B



(the Memorial at Dachau, outside of Munich, Germany)


Life Unworthy of Life
10-11-10

Hadamar, Hartheim, Sonnestein,
Places of horrors past,
Those whose images last,
Now mingling and blending through time.

Here the victims took final breath
Never to rest in peace,
Whose suff’ring never cease,
Immortal pain, even in death.

Euthanasia was the label,
Justifying killing,
Victims went unwilling
To their deaths upon the table.

Injection, pill, or starvation,
Perhaps a whiff of gas,
Is how their deaths would pass,
All to further Hitler’s nation.

“I’m not guilty,” all would argue,
Another bears the blame,
For this genetic game,
"For Hitler’ Reich these deeds I do."

So if the perpetrator’s role
Eliminates their guilt,
Their argument was built
Upon their victims’ loss of soul.

If not the doctors, then, I ask,
Who therefore bears the blame
In Master Race’s name,
To carry out this evil task?

Perhaps we all should share the weight,
For euthanasia’s cast
For generations past,
Whose crimes of hate will not abate.

For who decides the worth of man
And who is better dead,
When valued life is led,
Or whose whole future we should ban?

When mortals play the role of god,
And choose the path of fate,
An evil incarnate
Over the human streets shall trod.


(Shoes taken from concentration camp inmates)

The Dreamweaver's subtle language of the self

(Altar of the Church of the Nativity in Erie)

I have been suffering from a series of disturbing and related dreams for weeks now, so I thought it was time to write a post about dream symbolism and their messages.

Sunday, we enjoyed the Dinner in Old Russia at the Russian Church of the Nativity here in Erie. After the meal, we went into the church itself, and I spent quite a long time admiring the chapel and taking photographs. The stained glass windows in particular struck me, and reminded me that I need to be a bit more reflective myself.


(Stained glass window at the Church of the Nativity)

Perhaps it was the vivid blue of the glass, or the simplicity of the designs in the windows, but whatever it was drew my attention immediately, and kept me fixated on those windows, even as I struggled to move away and take in the splendor of the iconography that adorns every available space in the chapel.

I even stopped and lit a candle, a ritual that I do not often complete, but which I felt compelled to perform on that rainy Sunday afternoon.


(Prayer Candles at Church of the Nativity)

The three of us (me, my husband, and my father-in-law) were the only ones in the chapel at the time. My father-in-law discovered the alms box, where donations are accepted for the candles. He stated flatly, "I'm going to light a candle." And, in that moment, I knew I needed to do the same.

So I lit a candle. And I lit it for all the suffering in the world, especially those who have been the object of tormenting and teasing in their years of development and adolescence. I thought about the recent victims of bullying who have given their lives senselessly, both those whose names made the nightly news and the many, many more whose names did not see the public eye.

And the action, the lighting of the candle, also turned my attention inward, to my own experiences, and my dreams of late.

Though the subject matter of the dreams varies, there are common elements. First is the ever present element of water. Water represents emotion, and in my case the sense of being overwhelmed by emotion and not knowing what direction to turn. As the dreams have progessed, so has the size and power of the water in them. Most recently, I was swimming in (and against) the ocean, in order to reach the bathhouse, which was located offshore and only accessible through the water. What a clear message that sent me! I need to resolve my emotions, but I can only do so by pushing THROUGH the emotions themselves. Quite a spot, I'm sure.

Another common element has been the presence of a young girl, often in distress. In one dream, I watched a young girl walk into a lake and drown herself, while I and others stood by pondering her intent and wondering if we should stop her until it was too late. In another dream, I was in charge of a young girl, trying to comfort her, but instead my actions made her more distressed. In a third, the young girl was the daughter of my best friend, who was very upset and concerned that she could not dry off (she was freezing cold) and I was trying, unsuccessfully, to help her warm up. These images all seem to point to my need to nurture, but the feeling that I was not doing a very good job of it after all. It reflects my sense of insecurity and lack of confidence that I am, in fact, making a difference in the lives of those I touch, both figuratively and literally.

And underlying all the images and the messages, is the most subtle and also the most subversive of them all: the idea that I am not worthy, that I am inferior, that I do not deserve to be happy or successful.

And these feelings have very deep roots, going back to my childhood, to a childhood much like that of those for whom I lit that candle in the Church of the Nativity. But in my case, it was not just in the school yard that I experienced denigration of my self, but in the bosom of my family, at the hand of my paternal grandmother.

So, as I fight to achieve stability in my life and figure out my path, my dreams are digging deeply into my past and revealing those (I thought) long-resolved feelings of insecurity and fear, and shining them over the movie screen of my dreams over and over again, coming at me like the proverbial two-by-four to pound me into submission.

And yet, the glimmer of hope remains, as I struggle to translate this twisted language of dreamland, that I will not succumb, as I once might have, to these feelings of inferiority. Because now I have more strength and more love in my life than ever before. And with the help of my loved ones (both human and furred), I will conquer these challenges to my weary brain and move past the images of failure into the brighter ones of success.

Dreamweaver, weave your magic. But tonight, remember, I am no longer interested in wallowing in the past oceans of despair, but would like to soar to the new heights of self-awareness and control. Oh, and while you're at it, you can take the migraines with you, too.


(Ceiling and image of the iconography in the Church of the Nativity)
Here's to happy dreams, and a happy self.

An Affirmation

(the historical map that hangs over my home desk)

Yesterday, I had a totally affirming moment with a student after my last class of the day.

The interchange validated what I do on a daily basis, and it made me feel like I was flying.

Yesterday, we were discussing the Armenian Genocide of 1915 (which did, in fact, take place) and the modernization efforts of Mustafa Kemal in the emerging Republic of Turkey in the post-war years.

After class, one student came up to talk to me. He is from Somalia, originally, and his family fled when he was just a child to avoid the violence there.

His first comment was, "I really am enjoying this class very much. I appreciate that you let us discuss things and voice our opinions and come to our own conclusions. I'm a senior, and I had been avoiding my history requirement, because I dreaded taking it. I thought it was going to be like high school, where you just threw a bunch of facts at us."

And I knew, in that moment, that I am doing what I am supposed to be doing in this life.

I am opening young minds to the possibilities.

I am charging them to become independent thinkers, to use evidence to draw their own conclusions, and to follow through on their thoughts with actions.

He went on to say that he is committed to making the world a safer place, so that things like this can not take place ever again.

He has a police background, and is working to go into full-time law enforcement.

He told me that as they were fleeing from Somalia, he asked his mother why people do such horrible things. He said, "How can this happen?"

She replied, "All that is necessary for evil to occur is for good men to do nothing." (a very famous quotation, by the way, from Eleanor Roosevelt).

And he told me that is why he is determined to go into law enforcement.

I told him we need more people like him in our world.

This thoughtful, intelligent, determined young man is going to leave his mark on our world. I can see that very clearly.

And he let me know, in no uncertain terms yesterday afternoon, that I have left my mark on him.

I feel honored.

And I flew.

Tales of the Tall Ships

(The Bounty)

This weekend the Tall Ships tackled the Erie docks for a spectacular festival showcasing these marvelous sailing vessels.

There were six ships here all weekend: The Bounty, the Niagara, the Lynx, the Roald Admundson, the Unicorn, and the Pride of Baltimore II.

We spent a delightful day on Dobbins Landing, soaking in the history and romance of these impressive ships.

My personal favorite was the Bounty, a ship built as a replica of the original Bounty in 1960 for the Marlon Brando film "Mutiny on the Bounty." This ship has also made appearances in other films, including the recent "Pirates of the Carribean" films.

This ship simply oozed romance, power, and history. Belowdecks, the woodwork gleamed. The red leather in the captain's office glowed. And we got a real glimpse of the life the sailors led as they took these ships into unknown and often dangerous territory.


(the rigging of the Bounty)

The rigging and flags on the Bounty took my breath away.

We also were able to board the Niagara, whose home base is Erie. This is a replica of the ship from the War of 1812, the flagship of Oliver Hazard Perry. It is also an awesome vessel.


(the Flagship Niagara)

Belowdecks, one has to duck in order to move through the cramped quarters. (and if I have to duck, as I stand at only 5'1" tall, you know that the ceilings are indeed low!). Aboard the Niagara, the cook was in the process of preparing lunch for the crew, in the tiny galley, and let me tell you, lunch sure smelled good!


(flag on the rigging of the Niagara)

The third vessel that we had time to tour was the Lynx, a much smaller ship that the Bounty and Niagara. Based out of Newport Beach, CA, the Lynx is an interpretation of a naval schooner, approximating the original Lynx built in 1812, which was among the first ships to defend recently won American freedom by evading the British aval fleet that blockaded U.S. ports.


(the rigging of the Lynx and the Niagara, Lynx in foreground)

The Lynx, though small, was also impressive, as we were informed that she can travel up to 12 knots under sail. A beautiful ship, indeed.


(view through the gunwhale of the Lynx)

We also took the opportunity to go to the top of the Tower on Dobbins Landing, to take advantage of the spectacular panoramic view of the ships from above.


(the view from the tower, Niagara on the left, Unicorn top right and Roald Admundsen lower right).

The weather was a perfect Fall day, with plenty of sunshine, a gentle breeze, and temperatures hovering right around 70 degrees. I could not have asked for a better overall experience, as I let go of everything but the sensation of the sailing ships around me.

And it reminded me, again, of the significance of hands on education, and the importance of seeing "how it really was."

All in all, the Tall Ships Festival in Erie rates a huge FIVE STARS out of FIVE. I hope they repeat the experience many times.


(powder barrel aboard the Bounty)

Ready or Not, Here I Come!

Today was the first day of classes for me.

As many of you know, I was approaching this day with a great deal of trepidation. How would the students respond to me? Would they KNOW I was denied tenure? Would they treat me differently? Mock me? Scorn me?

I was a bundle of nerves. Raw energy. Ready to be labeled a failure before I even began.

And I walked into my classroom at 7:50am this morning to find two thirds of the class already there. Many greeted me with a cheerful "Good morning!" I responded in kind, sounding much more confident and upbeat that I really was.

And I proceeded to the podium to open the computer and get set up for class. Of course, I was having technical difficulties (par for the course at my institution).

As I was working, I glanced around the room, registering faces and scoping the students to gauge the tenor of the class.

And I heard a bright voice ring out "Are you ready for us, Dr. Kern?"

Following the voice, I found a female adult student, smiling with bright eyes, gazing intently at me. "Are you ready, Dr. Kern? Ready for us?" She repeated.

And I smiled back at her, broadly, and responded "yes, I am! Are you ready to be back?"

And in that moment, I knew I was, indeed, ready. I have always been ready. For the classroom is exactly where I belong.

And this morning, in that 8am class, I had one of the best class sessions ever. I felt alive and vital and on top of my game, and the students responded. My passion for history and for teaching shone through all the crap and crud of the past year, and everything fell away except that passion. The students felt it. They grasped it. And I reveled in that moment.

That student, with her casual charge, "Are you ready for us, Dr. Kern?" reignited me.

So, despite the difficulty of facing my colleagues on a daily basis, and the stress of being in a place where SOME of my coworkers don't want me, I will have a good year.

Because it's not about them. It never has been.

It's about the students. It always has been, for me.

The rest of my day went well, too. I had two other good classes (though not as good as that first one), and I had a visit from a student, interested in World War II, who just stopped in to chat about his interests.

All in all, a highly successful first day back.

The first of many, I hope. It's time for my to fly, and teaching gives me my wind.

So watch out, world. Ready or not, here I come!