Thanksgiving in Botswana

This time last year, I was traveling with my sister in the amazing country of Botswana. As we prepare our dinner table for a day of thanks, I must admit that part of my heart remains in southern Africa. I am thankful for memories and look forward to my next visit. Meanwhile, as I attempt to stay grounded amongst the commercialization of the American holidays, I refer to this photograph of the simple life of two baboons in the Chobe National Park. It reminds me forever to remain curious, and never to take life too seriously.

Grief

I find grief to be like an old acquaintance that shows up at the most unexpected times. You know, one of those characters from a movie – the old college roommate that never quite grew up – a disheveled vagabond that travels the world, living off others’ generosities. The guy you rarely hear from that suddenly knocks on your door, unannounced, in the middle of night, disrupting the entire household.

You let him. You always do. Not because you enjoy his company or because there is any obligation to do so. No, you let him in because you don’t know how not to – and because, no matter how much he may irritate you, there is something familiar and comfortable about him.

He settles in. You never know for how long – an hour, a few days, or for an extended visit. He turns your world upside down – messes up your house, turns your day into night and night into day, interferes with your relationships, and, in his all consuming need for attention, completely drains you of your energy. He entices you with his tells of dark adventure; and for a while, you find yourselves strange bedfellows.

Then, as quickly, and as unannounced, as he came, he leaves. One morning, you sleep late and awaken to find him gone. You pull yourself out of the funk, take a shower, straighten up your house, and begin to reach out to those you have ignored. The air feels lighter, the energy more vibrant, and there is space to breathe once again. In your newly obtained freedom, you possess a stronger appreciation for the subtle joys of your day and a new awareness of the abundance that surrounds you. You return to the sync of life…

…until his next visit.

Boredom

I am bored. Not because I have nothing to do, but because I am not excited about what I am doing, or about doing something else, or about something someone else is doing.

I reference my favorite source – the dictionary on my computer. Bored – “feeling weary because one is unoccupied or lacks interest in one's current activity.” Hmmm. Weary? Again, I reference my favorite source. Weary – “feeling or showing tiredness, especially as a result of excessive exertion or lack of sleep.” Hmmm. Could it be that the term BORED is an oxymoron – a contradiction within itself? So, while I arose this morning after a good nine hours of sleep, and spent my day sitting at my desk typing (certainly, not what I would call an overly exerting activity), I am indeed tired.

Meanwhile, down the road, my father completes six weeks of radiation and poisonous chemicals pummeling his body. The doctors are pleased with their assault on the spot of my father’s brain. The growth is smaller and the inflammation reduced. Yet, today my father finds it difficult to remain awake for longer than a few minutes, much less the exertion to walk from his lazy chair to the bathroom. For almost two months, my father remains fully occupied with his healing process. And, while certainly not bored, he is indeed tired.

My father is given a month reprieve from treatment. I pray that his energy will return soon, as the doctors predict, so that he may enjoy a few days on the beach. And I take a few minutes to find the humor in my own contradictions and practice gratitude for a little boredom.

The Personal Spirit

I had coffee with an old friend yesterday.

In doing so, I was reminded of the remarkable connection that we as humans have with one another. It is this bond that allows two people to continue a conversation from many years ago as easily as one from this morning, to skip over the niceties of small talk and speak right to the spirit, and to support each other's dreams no matter how extraordinary. I also was reminded the importance of personal contact.

Sure, we communicate via e-mails, phone calls, and video chats, share our daily activities on Facebook, and keep up on our career transitions via LinkedIn. We use the modern technology to remain “in touch” across many geographic and social distances. We conduct business at any hour, instantly share our most recent vacation photos with hundreds of our closest “friends,” and divulge some of our most intimate thoughts with people we have never met.

Our contemporary society provides so many opportunities to become connected in ways that never existed. So, why, when we are so connected, do we concurrently feel so removed?

The answer is that there simply is no replacement for direct human contact. No matter how much we may IM throughout the day, or how many text messages we exchange, it is when we sit in each other’s physical presence that we truly connect. Call it the soul, life-force, inner self, chi – whatever is that energy that creates and surrounds us – it is most prevalent in person.

Over the past year, I take to spending more time at my computer – to work on my photography, research, write, e-mail, video chat, and stay in touch with my loved ones that are spread out across the globe. I am grateful for these conveniences. I also am grateful for the opportunity to sit across the table from an old friend and reconnect over a cup of coffee.

The Litigator

My father has a brain tumor. More specifically, he has a grade IV astrocytom called a glioblastoma multiforme, a star-shaped malignancy that, according to the doctors, is eating away at his brain cells. The tumor is located in the cerebrum region of the brain that controls communication. Due to the necrosis that has occurred, again according to the doctors, he sometimes finds challenges choosing the correct words to convey his thoughts.

My father is a litigator, a civil trial specialist, only one of a select group in the country of such distinction. His entire adult life, he has made a living with his communication skills. The curious thing is that for the first time in his life, my father is communicating, truly communicating, with his loved ones.

I inherited the gift of words from my father. I love the way words roll off the tongue, the irony of oxymoron, and the play of double entendres. Like my father, I chose a profession that utilizes this skill. I, like the litigator, use the verbal language to argue, to advocate, and to influence. Yet, in the personal arena, where my father has struggled, I have excelled. One always in touch with my feelings, as well as others, I have never failed to articulate them. Yet, as I process this journey with my father, I find words inadequate to express the experience.

My father says he manifested this tumor himself – to relieve his spirit from a lifetime of pressures, to allow a healing from what he terms “the illusion of conflict,” and to experience the true joys of this world. As I watch my father, in this moment of physical fragility, embrace his human experience with such honesty and strength, I realize miracles indeed come in strange packages.