Runaway

It was a normal, joyful night. We went to see a movie... A very good movie. We were happy. We were laughing. 

I had forgotten. The deep, aching pain had retreated so far into the distance that I didn't feel it anymore. I thought it was gone for good. 

I had announced recovery to my friends, had started seeing again. Not just viewing the world through the smoky red haze of pain, but really seeing. Colors has returned to my vision. Food tasted of itself rather than of ash. I could smile again.

And people had noticed. Friends told me I was happier. They liked my new, joyful outlook.

And that night I wasn't even thinking about it. I had removed the bandage and only a light scar remained, easily dismissed and forgotten.

But then, like a knife twisted into the wound which had just healed, there he was. 

My conversation was cut short. My countenance turned to panic.

I ran.

On swift heels I ran out to the parking lot, trying to look fine, healthy, happy, beautiful. But all the while my heart was in panic, fleeing faster than my feet could carry me. 

 I am a runaway.

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This morning I sit in a shady spot and meditate. Two men come and sit near me, but one of them absentmindedly lays his arm in a spot of bird droppings. He spills his water.

"I don't know what's worse," he says angrily. "The bird shit, or that." He shakes water from his pants.

He walks away and the ice begins to melt. He ran away. 

Minutes pass. Slowly sparrows and starlings approach. And the water left become a pond for the birds. First they sip gingerly. Then they drink deeply, unaware of the drama that ensued. Unaware that their own filth, left on the arm of a chair, indirectly provided the blessing of this water.

I can only hope that the spilt water of my broken heart becomes a refreshing fountain for those who come after.

I keep fear in my pocket,
and past hurts on my sleeve.
I tie my hands and feet with distance
to keep me enslaved
by the lies that I believe.

The brief swish of a skirt.


The stomp of a sturdy shoe.

The flick of a wrist.

And the searing pain of a stiletto heel landing firmly on the instep of my foot.

These are the sensations of the dance.

When I dance, the world falls away. Dance, for me, is very much like one of those word problems we used to do in Math. You have to sift the numbers out of the story in order to get the right information so that you can solve the problem.

And when my feet and my body are moving to the rhythm of the music, my brain sifts. The issues of the day lose their contextual fluff and become clear. I see things simpler within the scheme of the dance.

I barely hear the music. It is about the people. The movement. The writhing, pulsating crowd.

These are strangers.

These are brothers.

On the uneven wooden floor, we are one.

All members of our ever-growing, ever-shrinking tribe, we pound out through our feet the rhythms of life.

With our hands and shoulders we parody our interpersonal relationships.

Although our levels of skill vary,

Although our styles are different,

We are all equal-

subject to the music,

trying our best to keep up with the rhythm

Now and then,

time slows down for a brief second

and I catch someone’s eye across the room

and smile,

before it is gone again.

We strangers, so alien to the world which we endeavor to navigate, find purpose and passion in the dance.

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My dearest friend and salsa buddy Deanne has also posted her awesome experience dancing. You can read it by clicking here.

Science and Faith

I'm a scientist. And I'm devoutly religious. My faith in God is deep and defining. I can't help but see it in everything I do.

But since I have devoted a great portion of my life to science and I see the world in a rational, empirical manner, I cannot go long without someone asking me how I balance my faith and my rational mind.

I try to explain this, but nothing I've said has been as succinct and honest as the answer given by a young Muslim man on the show "Bones".

How do you balance an archaic religious belief with a life devoted to science?


"There's no conflict between Allah and science. Allah created the mystery of the world and science struggles, and mostly fails, to explain it. But the search for truth is honorable, and I honor Allah through the search for truth."

This is beautiful and it's true. If God created the world, the universe, then we do Him an honor by learning about it, just like we would give an artist honor by lingering and pondering over his work, rather than giving it a cursory glance and then moving on to then next item.

To devote one's life to science is to commit to lingering, to pondering God's details, and to constantly be astounded by what we find.

Invictus

by William Ernest Henley

Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.

In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.

Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds and shall find me unafraid.

It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll,
I am the master of my fate:
I am the captain of my soul.

For the past couple of weeks, I've been quite devotedly watching past seasons of the miraculously witty show "Psych". The show is centered around a man who is a freakishly observant goofball.

He did poorly in school, dropped out of college, worked a variety of jobs for which he quickly lost interest, lived in several countries, and finally found his calling in pretending to be a psychic to assist the police in solving crimes.

The entire premise of the show is that the guy is a brilliant loser. It's that the life he led in his youth was a waste. And that the settling down into a career is to be desired.

But to me, that life of adventure, of moving about with no commitments, seemed less like a cautionary tale and more of... well... a dream come true.

Twirling

"I have a brother with autism."

I uttered those words to a stranger for the first time today. It was a qualifying statement. It made me part of a club.

I was outside the store where I work running the demo of the new product we're offering. A woman approached with her son, no older than four, curious if the product would be good for him, since normal video games require a frustrating amount of manual dexterity that many children with autism simply cannot generate.

I heard her say something to her sister nearby about autism and I had to pipe in. As I spoke, it became clear to me that I was just a salesperson to her. Just someone trying to hawk a product. And so I said the words. The magic words.

I have a brother with autism.

Instantly she began smiling and nodding. And as I talked with her about common issues, I saw that familiar relief flood her eyes. Finally, someone who understands! her expression seemed to say. And as I made references to behavioral quirks, she exclaimed, "Yes!" as if she was just discovering that she was not, in fact, insane.

I looked at the little boy, with his unkempt hair, his bouncy smile, and the filthy stuffed rabbit that he clutched, probably so dirty because he wouldn't even allow her to take it away from him long enough to wash it. I recognized the look in his eyes. Happy, curious, and a little bit frightened. A little overwhelmed. As if he knew that there was so much to learn and was trying to learn it all at once. I watched him jumping around rhythmically to the music as I danced and I said a silent prayer for him and for his mother.

---
I'm reading a book right now about a woman who has a severely autistic sister. Her entire life is defined by the word Autism. It is a tactile word for her, with a distinct look and smell. It is a word full of repetitive occurrences and a constant, dreadful anxiety that something is going to go wrong. Any minute now....

And as I read the book I wonder if this is going to be my life. Am I going to be defined by this? Will my family's identity become Autism? There is so much more to us than that.

My brother is amazing. He recalls words he's read better than anyone I've ever met before. He loves animals. He understands them. He loves dry, witty jokes and tells them with such disinterest that they become even funnier. He tells joke after joke as if he's reading from a page, but he's not. He has memorized the book.

He internalizes frustration with such a staunch perfectionism that it makes my own pale in comparison. He will never admit that something is difficult or challenging. Instead, he'll mumble, I hate this. I'm too stupid for it. I might as well not do it because I'm going to fail anyway. And as much as we try to encourage and edify him out of his defeatist pessimism, he doesn't budge and eventually we give him a cheap answer. "Just do it. It's your responsibility. We all have our part to play."
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In the book I'm reading, the author compares the autistic tendency to twirl things to a desperate desire to navigate the roads of life.
Heidi was for twirling... The book was a steering wheel beneath her quick hands... She didn't have to look down to keep herself on course, steering through a confusing world of other people and noise and language.

As I read this, a light went off in my head. I'm learning about our needs for control. We all have our quirky habits, and many of them return to a root of being in control. So many events happen in our daily lives that seem random and chaotic and are totally outside of our ability to influence. So we create ways to control the little things. My desk may look messy, but it's meticulously organized and all my classes are color-coded. I can control that much.

My brother creates virtual aliens and orchestrates their evolution in a video game.

Some people throw tantrums.

Some play sports.

Some create art.

Some collect items.

Some cook.

Some exercise.

Some fix things.

Some monopolize conversations.

Some buy shoes.

And all of this is a way of dealing with a world over which we have no control. Beautiful results arise sometimes, it's true.

I'm very proud of the two paintings I created this year during my spring break. I like that I could do them. But if I'm honest with myself I can't help but admit that making those paintings, with their straight lines and defined colors, was just a way of trying to exercise a small bit of control over a world that was falling apart around me. And so they hang in that bathroom, a testament to my own despair at the time.

That doesn't make them not be art. In fact, I think that the idea that they were created from some strong emotion makes them more art than if I had simply been trying to copy a style for the sake of decoration.

That beautiful things sometimes result from such broken and insipid motivations is one of the greatest testaments to God's eternal control. And where HE controls (see: everywhere) we don't have to.