A Man Named Birdie

I keep my thoughts to myself about ideas, questions and answers I feel I have discovered through my curiosity.  I discover new things when I question my understanding of myself and the world around me.  I know I don't have a full understanding of myself and the world around me, so I/we seek to know more.  My questions challenge some people's beliefs about the world and as history has shown, it is very dangerous to challenge what someone believes in.  Challenge someone's belief in religion or politics and they will defend their beliefs.  It's similar to an instinct.  It can be as simple as an argument over who is at fault in any given situation where two or more people believe it is the fault of the other.  The argument is a basic instinct derived from self preservation.

My silence on things I have discovered in my search was directed only toward the masses (until now).  These thoughts were only shared with a few people like myself.  Those broad minded individuals like yourself, Cuddlebug, who dared to hear something which challenged what the believed.  The following analysis was discovered by two teenagers sitting in a park, looking up at the moon.

Evening turned to night.  The wind blew the leaves from the season of fall.  A familiar face passed mumbling and staggering.  The familiar presence didn't surprise us.  We understood we were in his home.  He didn't have a residential house or apartment, but he did have a home.  Why do we call people who live in parks and back alleys homeless people?  Those types of questions we ask each other for the sake of understanding.  A topic like that leads to a philosophical dialog that tests the limits of  understanding.  I attempt to question the question and we both ask why.  Why is the familiar face we know as Birdie considered a homeless man when he has lived in the same place for 20 years?  Isn't the park his home?  Birdie's presence in that park is as much a fixture as a bench, table, or swing.  All seasons Birdie is there.  He told us at the time, "There is no experience better than living.  Living holds all your experiences."  Birdie always spewed out random statements like that.  He didn't speak much in front of strangers and sometimes he only spoke in question.

The man known as Birdie lived in our community park and was accepted by all his neighbors.  People would go out of their way to make sure he was okay.  Old clothes, left over food, whatever he needed because he never accepted more.  His camp would be broken down and hidden from view before sunrise.  He seemed to open up the park every with the ritual of breaking down his camp.  That's the way we saw it.  He opened up his home to us everyday.  He wasn't a victim of circumstance cast away by our great society because he lacked the necessary revenue to survive.  He was someone who'd grown up only a few miles away from the park.  His brilliant mind took him to the heights of scientific education, he studied physics.  One day he walked out of school, jumped on a plane and came to this park.  He called all of us aliens.

We/I used to think he was just a crazy old man spewing random nonsense until he explained his theory.  His theory is as intricate and complicated as life itself, but it is very possible he could be right.  I know it sounds crazy and like he did to us, I am going to leave you with this outrageous statement:  We Are Aliens.  I want you to listen to how absurd that sounds, "We are aliens."  Even those who are open to consideration have a difficult time trying to grasp that statement as a possibility.  I did.

This is a thought I hadn't shared with many.  Not many want to understand or hear a statement so absurd.  I ask you this:  If that statement were true, what would that do to your beliefs?  Has this statement engaged our instinctual self preservation button?  It's absurd why?  It is absurd because it's not something required to learn in school.  In my next post I will share a piece of Birdie's explanation.  I am going to explain a theory to you that made a brilliant student walk away from all he'd been taught to learn to live in a park so he could watch people be outside.  I love you Cuddlebug.  Slowly the truth of your diary will be revealed.  I know you didn't want everyone to know how these questions blurred the fine line between the world's reality and yours.  Miss you.  See you soon.

Secrets & Confessions

What is a secret?  Is a secret as simple as something hidden from others?  Are secrets the same as deception?  I have kept secrets.  I have kept secrets to protect myself and I have kept secrets to protect others.  I wonder if there are people who have never had to keep a secret.  I have wished to live the life of a person who’s never had to keep a secret.  What a joyous wonder it must be to have a conscious which holds no secrets.  To be open and honest with everyone about everything; to not worry about hurting someone or divulging a something about yourself that you don’t want the world to know,  It must be an amazing existence not to have the secret.  Are there people like that in our society?  Are there still people in this country who don’t have anything to hide from anyone?  If there is anyone who lives like that, please share your secret with the rest of us (no pun intended).  A world with no secrets holds no lies.  The secret and the lie are husband and wife.  People lie to protect their secrets.  Secrets & lies spawn mistrust and deception.

My eyes have bared witness to things which I cannot discuss or share with anyone.  I guard my tongue with my life.  I hold secrets from co-workers.  I hold secrets from friends.  I hold secrets from my children.  I hold secrets from strangers…like you.  I hold secrets from my wife.  My spirit holds precious cargo.  Those of you who have read my previous posts know what kind of secrets I have held or been forced to hold.  Those of you who know the torturous burden of carrying a secret such as that, understand what a secret can do to a person’s spirit: stain which covers you.  Holding secrets doesn’t protect you from yourself.  You know the truth.  The people you conceal your secrets from live a blissful ignorance while you agonize over holding in the truth.

If we do things we don’t want other people to know, should we be doing those things?  Let’s make this question more precise:  Are you hiding something you enjoy doing from someone?  If society doesn’t condone the things you like to do then why don’t you stop doing them? Are we afraid to live our lives in the open?  Why are things private and personal?  If we all do the same thing then why do we seek to be private?

No society is going to collectively agree that everything someone does is perfect.  Is there a perfect person among us?  Is there at least a person we all agree does everything right?  Here we are allowing a society to define us but we as a society can’t get the perfect definition.  So what about our lives we can’t share with each other?  Why do we have secrets about our lives we can’t share with each other?  If nobody is perfect can’t we understand our imperfections?  If nobody’s perfect and nobody live the ideal life then why aren’t we able to be honest about who we are?  Are we all doing things we know we shouldn’t be doing?  Is that the reason for all the secrets?

I have found the opposite of a secret to be very rewarding.  I have found secrets’ opposite removes stains like a soothing bath.  Secrets’ opposite is a confession and confession cleanses the spirit.  This type of cleansing you can’t pass up Cuddlebug.  You may get in trouble for your secret, but at least it won’t be a secret anymore.  You have to remove these stains from your spirit or else the filth of them all will make you unrecognizable.  The burden of a secret eats away at your spirit.  I love you Cuddlebug.  I haven’t forgotten.  I miss you.

You Called My Name

I'm staring at a picture of you Sarah. I have wanted to post a picture ever since day one. In the beginning, there were pictures of you everywhere. Then, slowly the pictures went away. When we published your story, I wanted the world to see your face again. I wanted the world to see how beautiful you are, but for the sake of your own safety we decided against it. I am so scared for you.

I have received your message. I don't understand it. I went into the coffee shop like you said, on the computer. I've been waiting to hear something from you for so long. After reading your diary Sarah, I have been in a daze. I can't believe it. I have read this diary over and over again trying to figure it out. I have read this diary over and over again trying to understand it. Every time I turn to a new page, I hope and pray it brings me closer to you. I started this blog hoping it would give me a way to find you. After the first contact, I was extremely excited. My joy and sense of accomplishment climaxed when I received your message. I waited at the coffee shop for hours upon hours thinking how great it was going to be to see you again. I watched every person come and go until there were no more people left to watch. The coffee shop closed and my heart crushed underneath the weight of its doors. Since that heartbreak, I have sat in front of this computer waiting on a message from you and finally yesterday it came. I don't understand it.

Sarah, I know it's you because the name you called me in your message. No one knows me by that name. No one has ever called me by that name other than you. You are the one who gave me that name. I knew it was you the first time. That's why I waited at the coffee shop for so long. At that time I wondered if you had seen me. Now I know you did. Yesterday you told me to go the coffee shop and grab my favorite coffee. You told me it was your treat. I didn't know what that meant at the time. I went to the coffee shop a little early trying to catch you or see if you were there. You left a specific time for me to be there and you must have known I'd be there early because you were nowhere to be found. I went to the counter to see if there was an order placed for me. The cashier told me 'no.' My heart sank. I walked away dejected. On the verge of tears I exited the coffee shop. I walked almost to the sidewalk when I remembered and ran back in. The same cashier stood at the counter looking at me a little concerned. I walked into the cashier and said the name you gave me. The cashier turned to me and said, "yes" we have your order right here. It was my favorite order of coffee, a muffin, and a note. I asked the cashier 'who paid for this order?' She told me a gentleman paid for the order and left. I stood there for a moment wanting to ask a question but no question came to mind, so I took my order and walked away. It wasn't until I got home that I was able to read the message you left with the order. I still don't understand it. It read, "You will find me where the sunsets and the birds fly free."

Sara, I don't understand the message. I don't understand what you mean. Do you not want me to find you or are you in trouble? I know no one knows me by that name other than you. So who was that man? Who was the man who paid for my order? How can you watch me and not come talk to me? Sarah, if I find a way to the place where the sunsets and the birds fly free, I will make it to that place to find you. I'm not going to abandon you. I will be here for you. If you are hurt or afraid of the people you're with, I will be here for you whenever you come to me. Now that I know you are reading this, I will continue to write. I love you Cuddlebug. I miss you. Write more later.

Faces of Love

Every year in this country hundreds, thousands of people go missing. Each one of these missing persons has a story. Each one of these missing persons has a family. The family's and stories are not numbers or statistics. These are real people in a terrible predicament. The death of a person is tragic and it can sometimes be very sudden and unexpected, but closure comes with death. Accepting the passing of a person we care for may not come easy and it may take some longer than others to reach this acceptance, but how do you come to accept a missing loved one? How do you come to the understanding that someone you love is missing and you have no idea where they are? Imagine your mother, your sister, your father, your brother, or your child is missing. This is a horror that many people must face every day and unlike the acceptance of death it doesn't get easier with time. This is an open wound which does not heal without answers. This is what the family of missing loved ones must endure: a pain which seeks closure. It's a horror no one should endure.

Before my friend went missing I used to be like most people. I'd see a missing persons picture and think it was sad or be indifferent and mentally disregard it. I wouldn't commit it to memory. Those same faces could have walked past me on the street and I wouldn't have noticed. Those lost loved ones, who so desperately needed to be found, would have walked right past me. I'm not like that anymore. I may not be able to remember every name and every face, but those I do remember will be saved if they can ever cross my path. I can promise you that.

Those of you who read this today, please, please think about this message the next time you see one of their faces. You don't have to commit every face to memory, just be aware of the faces you do see. If we all participate like this we may be able to help those families suffering with this horrible open wound, receive some closure. Please help. Please don't disregard those faces. They are important members of people's families. We miss you Cuddlebug. TTYL.

April 2nd

I lost a dear friend at work today. I knew it was coming. I worked at a hospital. I work in a place where the cycle of life is constant. Life and death circle around me constantly. Babies are born; life begins to breathe air in this place I work. People die; life ends. Life takes its last breath in this place work. A vortex of human energy in constant cycle. My job is caretaker of human life. I am a nurse.

I do my best not to become too attached to the people who become patients at my job. I do my job. I take care of them and do my best to make sure their healthcare needs are met, but I don't get too attached. I learned early on that becoming attached to my patients can make my job hard. I learned early on that you can't hold onto life no matter how hard you try. When it's time for life to come or go, it is time. The children are always the hardest.

A young boy came into my job two days ago. He was the victim of a gunshot wound to his head. I've seen cases like this before. I work in a major metropolitan area where gunshot violence is prevalent. Young men and young women are shot (not always killed) every single day. I'm not used to it. I'm used to death but not used to seeing these kids. It's always shocking to see. I've become numb to the shock. It hits me and I absorb it. I absorb being shocked and quickly stabilize and proceed. I don't know what was so different about yesterday. At work, it always seems to be the same day over and over again. I enter and leave the same way, but when the young boy arrived my heart melted. I became overwhelmed with emotion. It was as if I'd known this little boy all my life. His little body lay motionless on the gurney. His energy surrounded by commotion: paramedics, nurses, respiratory specialist, doctors, police, firemen, and his mother. I'm used to the commotion which comes with the attempt to save the breath of life. This little boy was different. I wanted to know what happened to him. Why was this life so close to being gone? I wanted to ask but it wasn't my place. Still, this one was different somehow. I had to know. I asked one of the paramedics. He told me it was a gunshot wound to the head inflicted by a family member. He wasn't sure who. I couldn't be numb. Shock waves erupted throughout my body. Why? How? I heard his mom crying to the Cop taking her statement.

Her two little boys were playing video games. The younger one who lay motionless on the gurney was 10-years-old. Her other son was thirteen. Somehow the 13-year-old got a hold of a gun. He pointed it at his little brother playfully trying to scare him in an April Fool's joke and the gun went off. It wasn't her gun and she doesn't know where he got it from. All I could think was how in the world or why in the world does a 13-year-old boy had a gun? What has the world become? Children feel the need to have a gun or defend themselves with a gun? Children feel the need for protection from other children with guns? What kind of world do we live in?

I worked a double shift overnight and I constantly checked on this little boy whom I felt I'd known all his life. At some point I felt I'd seen him move but I knew he didn't. At some point, I felt light he'd make it through, but I knew he wouldn't. Early this morning before my shift ended he took his last breath. I kept my composure all the way to the car and then set in it and cried. A long drawn out cry that seemed to cleanse me back to my numbness.

This world is trouble. Why? Why did we say and do nothing? We blame and blame. It's time for me to do more cuddlebug. This blog I created for you may help someone someday. I'm deeply troubled. Tiffany made me some breakfast. I'm going to try and get some rest. I love you Cuddlebug. I miss you.