company of strangers

I attended two very different events tonight.

The first event was planned and was based on an interview read yesterday. "The Luck of the Draw and Other Tales of Unnatural Selection" starred 7-fingered Liz Gibson. She is a very inspirational young woman, making lemonade from her birth to two drug-addicted parents. As a direct result of their addictions, she was born with only a thumb and single finger on her right hand. Now, she has a master's degree and four characters to help others learn how to appreciate "defects" through her deformance art.
For the deformance this evening at the small gallery, she had chosen her teenaged persona, Ben Wa Betty, to catch and hold our attention. And that she did, from the green-fur-covered chair with its red "flowers" before her appearance to the very last words of her song encouraging us to "pick the full-petaled flowers". Although the focus was on her current actions to inform and educate the world, I don't believe she is truly aware of what a difference she has already made simply by existing out in the open. She was educated in public schools, so every child and every adult that ever was in her presence was affected in some way.
Hopefully, those people touched by her existence are more open to acceptance of others' physical differences. Maybe, just maybe, they are also more accepting of the less-obvious, internal differences which all people have.
She told four stories, from her own life, of the trials of teenaged girls with physical defects. There was the olderly asian woman who wanted to touch her malformed hand "for good luck". There was the football hero who asked her out, then was appalled on the date when he saw her hand (which had been in her jacket pocket) and couldn't wait for the date to end. There was the man who wanted to date her simply because she had a deformity. There was the bank teller, with her own malformed hand, who was so relieved to meet another pretty girl who had grown up with a defect.
Except for the nature of the defect, her stories could have been those of any teenager. In those sensitive years, any difference from others is perceived to be an insurmountable hurdle. Wrong color of eyes or hair or skin, wrong religion, wrong economic level, wrong grades...with wrong being defined as "different than desired".
Like I said, I did enjoy the talk very much and was glad I was there and not sitting at home in front of a one-eyed monster. (Admittedly, though, without this modern Cyclops I could not post this.)
With that salley forth successful, I decided to go see a movie. So, just a little later, I was off to see "Baggage Claim" at the Spotlight, courtesy of Groupon. At first, I noticed some folks at the back of the cinema and was concerned that they might chatter throughout the movie. No worries! When they heard me laughing, they moved up closer and turned out to be two friendly ladies glad to see someone openly enjoying the story. Enjoy it I did, too. It was a very fun movie, eliciting lots of much-needed laughter, and it was nice to have the companionship of strangers.
Odd, but sometimes I need that.
These past three months have taken a toll on my mirth level.
Strangers allow me a respite from hard times.

anticipation

Last Saturday, January 2nd, I did something I've been intending to do for some few years now. I always managed to find something else to occupy my time, but this year, well, this year I PROMISED myself I would attend. I am so glad I did!
The church I frequent has an annual Anticipation Celebration and Bowl Burning Ceremony. It's a very spiritual affair, meant to start oneself out on the right foot in the new year, by literally lighting a flame to habits and ideas one wishes to shed. Narrow strips of paper, a pen, a fire, and a safe repository for the ashes are all that one needs for the Bowl Burning - well, those are the only physical requirements. I was given one slip on which to write, one slip to be cast aside, one slip to contain those things from which I wished to be freed. Amazing how much that narrow slip could hold! And what a sense of satisfaction to watch as it burned, the flame devouring the inscriptions, melting them into thin air. Even more amazing was the feeling that a load had, indeed, been removed from my shoulders and my mind - a piece of baggage I no longer carried.
The second part of the ritual was much more involved. Again, the only physical items were paper, a pen, and ... a self-addressed, stamped envelope. For the Anticipation Ceremony, I was tasked with writing a letter to myself, a letter which would be put away safely until post-Thanksgiving when it would be arriving in my mailbox. In the letter, I was to congratulate myself for the changes I had made in my life in some respect. What? Sure, I write to/for myself all the time, but to do so as an "Atta Girl!" missive for things I had not yet, and might not ever, accomplish? How to even begin such a thing without being totally self-conscious? And why did I have so many sheets of paper before me?
The leader of this exercise, talking softly and almost in a hypnotic monotone, began giving us a list of ideas and suggestions on how we might flesh them out, what points to include... and a thought took hold and I began, not really listening anymore, much as I am when I am at my beach here, much as I am at this moment. Actually, the same phenomenon occurs when I read books or watch movies. I fall into the story, taking it in as quickly as it will allow. When I am writing, I fall into the words, my fingers scarce keeping pace with my thoughts, forcing me to slow down, to stay coherent. So it was as I wrote my anticipatory letter of congratulation. Before I knew it, I was well into the second page and the leader was saying we needed to wrap things up, bring our letters to a close... and I just happened to be at that very point. How did she know?? I closed, placed the script into the envelope and sealed it shut.
I wonder if the echoes of my words will ring in my ears as the year progresses or will those words fade? Will the new me remember what the old me wrote? Rest assuredly that the me which receives the letter will not quite be the me which wrote it, and cannot be. I have already planted the seeds of change in my life and now I will water them with time and nurture the growth of those new bits springing to life. A new habit takes thirty days to become fixed, just as an old habit takes thirty days to cease, regardless of whether the habit in question is life-affirming or life-destroying. Hopefully, I can stay with good habits for the needed passage of time... that fire in which I burn.