liberty | Armchair Zen

Treading lightly the path to enlightenment.

Posts tagged ‘liberty’

Land Of The Free

Gunfire all around and

My hands are shaking and my heart is pounding.

He said “Forget about your law and order.

You left that at the American border.”

A silent boat to a floating plane.

One blacked-out treetop flight away.

One blacked-out treetop flight away…

Stars light the river as we trace its courses

Rolls-Royce putting out all its horses.

We climb above the deep, dark sea

Could it be?

Could it really be?

Thirty-eight hundred and we’re really flying.

Everyone on board is crying.

Bullets flying, windows breaking

Our little plane is shaking, shaking.

Shudder-bang. Prayers are spoken.

Hope lies broken, broken.

A subtle peace washes over me

As she augers down into the sea.

Finally free.

Seek peace,

Paz

Category:

Observations from the soft chair

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Courtesies

Liberty is at the core, the very founding of this nation.

We failed, as a species, for many years in this area.

Enslaving humans, treating women as second-class citizens that could not own property or vote.

Segregating children by the color of their skin, not seeing the content of their character, as Dr. King admonished.

Mistreating and abusing people because of their religious affiliation or gender orientation.

Times changed. No more slavery. No more second-class genders. Free to be me.

Somewhere in the fight for “me”, it seems we forgot about “you”.

In our quests to be our best and truest selves, focus turned inward. I can do this, and no one can stop me. I can believe this. I can say that.

Hip-hooray for all this embracing liberty, but can’t we bring civility along?

There was a time when people took pride in their appearance. They didn’t come to work looking like they are ready to go to the rodeo, the gym, or the beach. We dress down, “because I can”. But how about dressing nicely just ’cause it’s…well, nice?

There was a time when people kept their opinions to themselves sometimes. To avoid offense. To show respect. I will be the first in line to defend your right to free speech. But can’t we sometimes exercise our right to be quiet?

There was a time when rudeness was considered rude. When apologies were in vogue. There was a time when an apology was so serious it took on the words “I beg your pardon.“.

There was a time when people could see beyond their own skin. When people realized we are all cut from the same cloth. We are kindred. We are the same inside. We all feel and wish and dream the same. We can all be hurt and insulted. We all wish for happiness and comfort.

“Just because we can, doesn’t mean we should.”

Let the other guy go ahead of you in the checkout or on the on ramp.

Hold the door for someone.

How about “May I have a cheeseburger, please?” instead of “Gimme a cheeseburger and a super-sized Coke.”

How about waiting patiently, like your mother taught you, when the person in line counts change or buys lottery tickets or does whatever else they do while we wait in line behind them?

Suppose young people treated adults with respect? Suppose adults showed the same respect for young people?

Suppose, instead of tolerance, we could teach the generations to come to move beyond that?

Beyond “mainstreaming” and “inclusion”. Beyond mandates that command us to treat one another with respect.

A long time ago, a wise man gave us this entire lesson wrapped in a single sentence.

“So as you do unto these, the least of my brethren, you do unto me.”

So here’s to liberty. Here’s to freedom. Here’s to celebrating your own uniqueness in the world. You celebrate you, and I will celebrate you.

I ask only that you don’t forget about him and her and the other one and me. We’re out here. Outside your skin.

Wouldn’t you love to celebrate being the most courteous person you know? I sure would!

One last thing. There are instructions for this respect and consideration stuff. Write it down if you need to.

“Love one another.”.

Evan Defies Gravity

Seek peace (and manners),

Paz

Category:

Pursuit of identity

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22 Suicides Every Day

As a proud American, this post is dedicated to Veterans’ Day. It is addressed mainly to my fellow Americans, currently enjoying the liberty purchased with the lives of Veterans. We cannot thank them enough. This one, humble and grateful American wishes to thank all those who serve and have served. As a member of The Wounded Warrior Project Advance Guard, I’m doing what I can to support Veterans returning from duty. I hope you’ll sign up, too. If I can get just one person to join me, it will be a small achievement. For our Wounded Warriors, many say their goal is to stop one fellow Veteran from committing suicide. Wounded Warrior Project can help. Please join, give, or visit http://www.woundedwarriorproject.org to read the stories of these Veterans, and how this organization is saving the lives of real heroes. In my book, EVERY VETERAN IS A HERO.

-Paz

US Navy Veteran Jessica Coulter

That’s not a dramatic, sensationalized title of this post. It is a sad fact.

On average, twenty-two United States Veterans commit suicide each day. 22 per day.

All Veterans do not look like “big, strong men”, nor do they all bear physical signs of disability following their service.

This post is about the Wounded Warrior Project. Jessica, above, and 100,000 other Veterans of U.S. Service now benefit from this organization.

Sadly, there are 22 Veterans on any given day that can’t fight “the brave fight” any longer, and feel their only way out is suicide.

US Marines Veteran Eric Delion

Not all Veterans returning from combat have scars or missing limbs. Many suffer from Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, and many suffer from Traumatic Brain Injuries, physical damage to the brain caused by continued exposure to concussive explosions or direct contact with explosive devices. Many Veterans suffer from “survivor’s guilt”. They feel guilty they are still alive, and in many cases physically unharmed, while the brothers and sisters they serve with are killed and injured on a daily basis.

US Army Veteran Bill Geiger

While these are some nice photos of whole people, many Veterans seeking the assistance of The Wounded Warrior Project are not so. Many men and women return from battle with serious injuries. Missing limbs, scars, burns. Some face long recoveries, repeated surgeries, painful recuperations. Some would rather have died on the battlefield. Some wish to die now.

US Air Force AND Army Veteran Keith Sekora

The Wounded Warrior Project is comprised of Veterans that have connected with others that can truly understand what they have experienced and continue to experience after service. Many members are directly involved with outreach, seeking out those that can benefit from WWP’s programs and people. In so many stories, you’ll read how Veterans feel they are alone and adrift until they find fellow Veterans that have gone through much of the same things.

US Army Veteran Josh Sommers-and mom, Lisa Hopkins

It’s not only Veterans, but their families too that are affected by the trauma of battle, injuries and recovery. Spouses, children and parents are caught up in this nearly as much as the Veteran. It can be a very difficult transition back to civilian life, even without serious injuries or handicaps. Many Veterans speak of flashbacks, nightmares, sleep disorders, rage, guilt and depression. The Wounded Warrior Project supports the whole family.

US Veteran Anthony Villareal

This excerpt is from Mr. Villareal’s bio at Wounded Warrior project.org.

On June 20, 2008, in Afghanistan’s Helmand Province, Anthony Villarreal’s life changed in an instant when a roadside bomb blew up the truck he was driving, setting off a secondary explosion from his vehicle’s ammunition.

“More than 30 percent of my body surface was burned. My right hand had to be amputated and my left fingers as well. I had third-degree burns everywhere. I was in a coma for three months, and it was like I was having an out-of-body experience – like watching yourself sleep. I didn’t think I had lived through it. In a way, I didn’t.”

Anthony’s journey back to life started with two grueling years at Brooke Army Medical Center and more than 70 surgeries.

“Before I discovered Wounded Warrior Project, I was shy and timid about my looks and appearance. I withdrew from people and was always cautious about my surroundings, never doing much. Now, it’s like I’m carefree. I’m more outspoken and outgoing than ever before.”

Anthony credits his emotional breakthrough to the self-confidence he’s received from the support of his fellow injured veterans.

“We can relate to each other. We don’t judge each other, and it makes me feel pretty awesome that my experiences can help others deal with their experiences. I understand unbearable human suffering. When you can shoulder that burden for someone else, the good feeling you get is like walking on water.”

However, Anthony is quick to point out that the bad days can still overwhelm the best of warriors.

Please visit http://www.woundedwarriorproject.org to meet many of these heroic people and read their stories in their own words. Join or give if you can.

As the motto of The Wounded Warrior Project says,

The greatest casualty is being forgotten.

On this day, perhaps more than others, seek peace,

Paz

Category:

Pursuit of identity

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They Have Names and Faces

Syrians. Refugees.

What I call healthy democratic debate some call controversy and conflict.

People are polarized and incensed over the nameless, faceless commodity known as refugees.

The faces of “Refugees”

Some people need to look into these faces. I see my wife, my sister, my son, my daughter. These people are somebody, and they are somebody to someone else.

Schoolboys – with names

If you sat on a bench next to them, would you tell them to their faces?

Here I live in the land of liberty and plenty, the richest country in the world. In my big, warm house, driving my big shiny car to the huge supermarket to buy whatever I want.

But you can’t come along. Oh, sure, I know my brother-in-law’s sister’s husband is Iraqi-American. Sworn in as a citizen the year before they married in 1982, when no one knew anything about Iraq. Yes, one of my pals at work was a Greek citizen until the age of five. Now he’s American, same as me.

My grandfather? Well, do you mean the Irish one or the Italian one? Technically two Irishmen and an Italian, since my mother’s dad abandoned the family.

My wife’s family? Yes, we go every year on memorial day to place flowers at the graves of Sina and Olaf and Waldemar. They dropped an “i” and one “l” when they changed their names to “Nelson”. Born in Sweden, Sina Kristina wanted a more Americanized name. Or maybe she didn’t. Maybe the folks at Ellis Island spelled it that way when they wrote it down, and the Neillson family was renamed henceforth.

My son-in-law? They’re mostly of German descent, but who can tell now? My daughter-in-law’s family was all English, but her first marriage brought me a granddaughter with an Italian last name, and Julie is now “honorary Irish” with her married name taken from my son.

My friend Mohammed Zhabzavari, an Iranian, gave me one of the funniest real-life stories about language I retell often. He was a student, and worked with me selling vacuum cleaners door-to-door. The hours were flexible and fit around school, where he studied engineering when he wasn’t home with his wife and kids.

My friend Cecil was from Barbados. We worked together at the fabric mill, and he drove a ’73 Nova I admired. He left his wife and kids behind on the home island to come to America and work. With his smooth island accent he would tell us of the rich life he and his family would have. He just needed to work five years or so to save $10,000, worth ten times that at home.

Mishu Yarkony? How I loved that man, running a hotel in our home town. He reminded me of my grandfather. Everyone in our family worked for his family. I did some electrical and communications work for the hotel. My wife and daughters worked in the bath houses. Sons were bellhops. I loved to listen to his accent. Every now and then his shirt sleeve would pull back as he reached out with his left hand. A lump would form in my throat every time I saw the serial number tattooed on his forearm.