Fear, Faith, Fact, and Friction

Is faith truly the opposite of fear? If we know all the facts about what we are indeed afraid of, should that knowledge resolve the friction between fantasy and reality and quell the fear? I accept that 'part' of my humanness is existing and surviving in a universe of many more unknowns than knowns. Fear reminds me that I don't like it; however, acceptance does not rely on my approval or understanding--in part or in whole.Being a child has its advantages, and one of the disadvantages (more so seen through the eyes of an adult)is the naivety that accompanies youth. Being a parent has taught me more about myself and the world around me, than any other life experience.I have always been aware of the burden and powerless-feeling part of fear. Fear is not only what it is, but more so what I make it out to be or turn it into--facts or not withstanding. As a child, I was not as concerned with the rational behind a fear--much less behind anything else for that matter. I have always been petrified of bees. The first time I was stung was as an older adult, so that was not part of the factual basis for the origin of the fear. Bees had an immediate and deeper connection to me that I couldn't explain to any one else. It was the: big eyes, dangling and skinny legs,insidiously-quick movement, and my instinctive-belief that these creatures displayed an attitude of brilliant-entitlement. They were 'the boss of me'. I remember during the age of 3, watching over the summer a wasp's nest form outside my top bedroom window. It got so huge that it began to spread open into the top crack of the inside part of the frame. Eventually, the wasps made the inside of the window almost as much a part of home as the outside. As often as I pointed this out to my parents, they'd just as often reply
with the same response: " If you don't bother them, they won't bother you." During the day I would curiously and cautiously watch them from the doorway of my tiny room, which both my younger brother and I shared. (Very little ever seemed to phase him)I was glad that the bees slept too, yet I learned to sleep with one eye open My father eventually sprayed the 'little demons' to death, and the room was off limits for the day. After years of the same insanity, I began to take matters into my own hands. My actions mostly consisted of running away, but soon I got the hang of using the can of Raid, as well the longest, stiffest weapon I could find and wrap my little hands around. In the ensuing years, I : jumped off roofs, swerved my car into on-coming traffic, halted outdoor performances, knocked over good friends to the ground, and frightened anyone in my presence to death when they were unfortunately in my company, when a bee flew onto the scene. Other than getting stung a few times since, nothing has changed. As for fear being the opposite of faith, all I can say is that I know that: "There is a God and I'm not Him, and hope that bees are not-as well.

Worth and/or Value

Every once in a while, I assign a creative-writing, warm-up task to my students: How can a quarter have more worth and/or value than a dollar? From K-12, the faces all look the same--puzzled. I realized a while ago that not all young people have the analytical and inquisitively-existential mind I did and still do--well....with what's left! Isn't that what a more affective teacher tries to do? Stimulate, motivate, inspire, model..etc...; however, the truth is that I do these types of things to keep from going insane and complacent in my own learning--maintaining a zest for life.

Even the most 'financially-challenged' of us have been able to (one way or another) relate to money, and the 'what's' and 'how's' of its usage and power. Before I discuss the students answers, I lead-in with a few examples from my youth about what one could purchase with just one penny. ( Not to mention all the coins over the years smart-ass students threw at me while I was only a substitute, of which I would always pick up around them--in my usual didactic manner)So, when I found a penny, or any change for that matter, it was a special moment. Growing -up poor in a well-to-do area was difficult and often embarrassing. However, I lived and learned how to value what was available, and assigned my own sense of worth to things. Not much came to us, we had to go out in search by ourselves--more often in a group of the neighborhood friends. Money mistakenly left in vending machines and telephone booths was one of our first sources of 'income'--not an allowance. I remember the first time my siblings and I pooled our money together to get a 'Hamburger Platter' at the local Milk Shed. We always walked by this downtown place(which we had no business being there at such young ages). We had years of experience just admiring and savoring just the smells of foods that we had little or no access. One of our bus stops was at the Pizza Mia, and the smell of the food was worth the bumpy bus ride home. Back then, bread was left in front of the store before opening, and my friends would help themselves--not to eat , but to toss the round pita around like a Frisbee. If they weren't looking I would eat a piece, and it still tasted wonderful. Finding and returning soda bottles was another 'found-treasure' in those days. Around a mile away, I would love to visit 'The Dump'. Man, the things we would find; however, bringing the stuff home would make my proud parents upset. Their excuse was that the stuff was dirty and diseased, but their cigarettes and scotch were fine. At least our stuff was free! We could buy so much for so little back then. This was a post-war time when money was backed with gold and silver, and people still had a conscience about producing products of quality. The stories change somewhat over the generations (prior and since), but in proportion they mean much the same. A quarter in the 50's was worth more than a dollar in the 90's-even considering things like: the GNP, inflation, minimum-wage, and cost-of-living. A quarter at the dollar store has a distinct possibility of being worth more than what a dollar gets at a mall shop. Our discussions always reveal a new angel of thought--and that is worth a great deal to me, and I value the experiences much the same as my childhood memories relating to much the same resourcefulness, adventures, and relationships. I still treasure a hamburger platter the most, because it is usually the best value, more so because its taste always reminds me that 'worth and value' don't necessarily equate to just matters of money; however, I still count my change.

Heroes Do Die
Heroes do die; however, the substance that maintains the legacy of their meaning and purpose ‘lives-on’ through: the prosperity and freedoms we enjoy, as well the sacrifices and efforts put forth—to respectfully ensure and protect such liberties.


James Harmon McQuilkin II C 2009

Link to Photos

http://www.jpgmag.com/people/JamesHarmonHarmon/

Home

Home

Though you may not feel ‘safe-at-home’,

there ‘will be’ a time designed to ‘leave-the-nest’.

The curved-path before you ‘will be’ long and narrow,

and there ‘will be’ obstacles along the way.

Do not let the ‘snakes’, ‘monsters’, and ‘demons’

lure you off the path of your ‘body’s’ destination.

When you come to a point that feels like ‘the end’,

there’ll be an ‘ocean-of-opportunities’ for your ‘New Beginning’.

Point your direction, set your sights, and use your instincts.

It matters not what ship you sail; however,

respect the power within the ‘Sea-of-Life’.

Be cautious of where you ‘land’ and ‘sow your seeds’.

Find your ‘piers’: ‘Dock’, rest, and then stay awhile.

Learn to work and play in balance,

and soon you’ll realize (that where ever you are),

that you are home.

You ‘are’ your home.

Inherit this responsibility and command respect,

so that when your children ‘leave the nest’,

they realize that:

The ‘body’ is freedom—yet, this ‘home’ is not free.

This ‘brief independence’ trickles down to the sea.

When enough time has passed,

and they are what they’ll be,

they’ll return home with spirit--

and know in their heart,

that we’re ‘all’ family.


By: James Harmon McQuilkin II C 2009 ‘Bussy Boo Productions and Distributions’ All Rights Reserved

Sick..Sicker...Sickest

After about a week's worth of bedrest and assorted medicines, I'm winding down from my forced and unplanned vacation in 'Swineville'. Tranistioning back to reality after surviving this type of malady, for me, can be best described as 'Jet-lag' to the tenth power. I don't do 'sick' well. If the 'act of sleeping' could be compared to a succcessful manufacturing-company needlessly holding-back production each day of its best line of chocolate products, then for me 'being sick' could best be described as having that same company maintain production at all times; yet, stockpile their delicious product in the 90-degree sun--for an indefinate period of time. (Remember, I'm still a bit delirious..and a little hungry.)
All-in-all: I don't appreciate anything that gets in the way of my 'productivity'. Multi-tasking has been a way-of-life for me since I was a young boy, and it has always been accompanied by an overwhelming sense of responcibility and dedication to a slew of underlining and un-defined 'spiritual' duties. Like the Blues Brothers would say, "We're on a mission from God'. However, moments of rest can be be quite revealing--in an uninvited-guest sort-of-way. When the busyness is forced to slow down, or even stop, I become reaquainted with the anger and fears that are masqued by it all.

More Memories

As far back as I can remember, I had the sensation that I was living life on the outside looking in. It were as if I was watching my own life's experiences above from which where they were happening--at the same time. Dare I say it: It was like I having had a seat next to my 'Higher Power', realizing the: privilege, awesomeness, and peace at the same time. I could say 'the sensation' has changed over the years; however, I more want to convey that it has matured. Maybe it all comes down to finding a safe place away from the sorrows and pain--then and now.
Even then, I felt guided and more protected than others; however, that awareness didn't seem to quell all the fears. The best times were in exploration. Venturing out into the woods, the neighbors yards, and the closest paved and/or unpaved street--stretching the boundries on each adventure. (Sometimes with my brother, most times on my own) One time my brother and I ventured down to the main road, some three-hundred yards around the circle driveway, and desided to play chicken with the oncoming cars. We raced back and forth as many times as we could, before the car would hit us. I lost! Going the extra lap (I thought) would make me the hero not just the winner, and besides, I felt as though I was protected beyond everyones else's mortal boundries and limitations. A car came to a screeching halt, stopping in time to just hit and cut my knee. Of course, I ran to the house screaming bloody murder--blaming the driver. In speaking with my mother, the poor guy was a bundle of humbled-nerves. I too was knocked down a peg, and realized at a very young age that such recklessness and arrogant behavior was not going to tolerated--even from the 'Watchers".
I never felt much like a child--except at Christmas. Life was serious and scary, but at the same time it was a mystery I longed to solve. At 4 years old and the oldest of 4 (15 years later to be 5), I felt such an overwhelming responsibility to watch over my siblings--even beyond that of making-up for our lacking parents. What made it more difficult was that they did not always want my help. My 2 sisters were in diapers, and one morning I remember my mother screaming at my father. I was standing at the bottom of the stairs (one with a long banister that we loved to slide down at the speed of sound), and I listened to them argue while they were in my sisters' room. My mother screamed at my father, " The babies' diapers are frozen!" Immediately I became freightened and concerned for my neglected siblings. Not long afterwards feeling anger and distain for both my parents--mostly my dad. He admitted closing their door in the middle of the night, because they were crying too much. It was the middle of winter,in 1959, and heat was purposly scarce. All I could imagine was that the 2 girls were nothing more than frozen dolls. I was never so glad to hear them cry; however, the joy and relief were short-lived.