Emotions

Emotions

By John W. Vander Velden

 

Just because you can’t place them in a brown bag, lock them in a box, or seal them in a jar doesn’t mean that emotions aren’t real.

 

Why is it we categorize things.  Without thought we decide what we feel is real and what exists in some sort of imaginary existence. We cannot hold pain in our hand yet none would deny it as a real thing.  Yet when we consider emotions, we label them as some sort of vapor-like concept, something each has but well, really not…sorta.  Yet each of us deal with fear, joy, loss, love, sadness, and the countless other emotions that find their way into our everyday.  These are the things that shape our lives just as surely the door to the bathroom that gets stuck when the humidity rises.  We exist in a universe of solid and unsolid things that are in truth very real.

Who can say that love is not a real thing when our heart skips a beat at the mention of someone’s name?  Who dares to tell us that fear is unreal when on a cold dark stormy night creepy sounds send our breathing into hyper drive?  That joy is not real, the first instant we hold our newborn.  That these things and the countless others are merely stimuli that cause biologic changes or propel our mind to imagine implausible truths or circumstances.  Baaaa!

Our existence is filled with so many things, and each of them are real to us.  The faucet that drips and prevent our slumber may not matter to our neighbor, unless he becomes troubled by our illuminated rooms at all hours.  The drip is to us a real thing, a real annoyance, to him out of earshot insignificant.  Just because you friend is not allergic to cheese does not make your allergy less…or unreal.  We live in this mixed bag of things and feelings that form who we are, and all of them are really real.  Emotions shape how we see the world and how we deal with it.  Emotions give meaning to living.  Emotions can protect us, but sometimes they stand in the way of living.  Emotions add color to our day, blues and golds, as well as the entire gamut of the rainbow.  Emotions can lift us to the stratosphere, or drag us to the ocean’s bottom.  Emotions are like the air we breathe, invisible but very real!

(404 Words)                                       9-8-2015

Twenty-seven

Twenty-Seven…

By John W. Vander Velden

 

There are numbers that stand out, and there are numbers that seem to blend invisibly into the row of integers.   Twenty-seven is one of those kinda’ insignificant numbers that carry little weight on its own, just not quite halfway between twenty-five and thirty.  But when I consider the journey of my life I find each day carries value, so why not twenty-seven years.

I look back…too often I will admit, and looking back I recognize a “sheer point” in my life.  Each of us has those moments, when everything changes.  I think it is important to dwell on those moments in the past that changed our lives.  I believe it helps us understand the place we find ourselves…at this moment.  But in any case, I think about a snowy Saturday afternoon when I stood at the front of a packed church and waited…not long, but I waited for my beloved to join me there. 

But that joining was more than two people standing side by side.  It was more than some spatial approximation, a closeness that could be measured by a ruler.  It was the joining of two lives, the binding of people promising each other a closeness unmeasurable.  The term cleave come to mind, the welding two individuals into one life.  Those that have not found themselves in that type of relationship cannot understand the depth and strength of that weld nor do they comprehend the freedom each part of that alloy receives from the joining.  But those, the fortunate, the ones that gain so much by surrendering just a mite of themselves, find themselves in calm agreement.

Twenty-seven years.  Years of challenges, years of striving, in the face of misunderstandings and hurt feelings, years of achievements, years of growth, years of support, and years of supporting.  Easy…not always…but easier than trudging on alone.  Time has made us as converging lines, coming ever closer together as the years pass.  The binding only began twenty-seven years ago.  The binding grows stronger each day with the knowing, the lessons life teaches, the time shared…the laughter as well as the tears.

I am not the same man I was twenty-seven years ago.  My beloved is not the same woman.  While I stood and waited, filled with fears and self-doubts, I could never have imagined the adventures we have shared since that day.  On that day one man and one woman became more than a couple, we became something bold, something new.  One plus one is so much more than two!

Some might say that twenty-seven years is a long time, but I, even when I look back, would not.  Time rushes on and my life will continue to change.  I know that this segment of my life’s journey has had its effect on me…it has made me a better man in so many ways.  I thank Jackie for that as well.  I thank her for the nine thousand eight hundred and sixty-two days…each and every one of them…we have shared.  But most of all I thank her for the love she has so freely poured on this undeserving man.

So happy anniversary my dear, perhaps twenty-seven years is no longer the beginning…but it is nowhere near the end!

 

May God...

 

 

 

 

May God...

 

Words on the Wall

Words on the Wall                   

By John W. Vander Velden

 

I took a moment to look at a needlepoint my mother had done years ago.  I didn’t study the delicate tiny x’s that, linked together, formed the image she had created.  I looked at the words on the wall. 

By Het Consert Deslevens,

Krygt Niemans EEn Program 

The words are in mom’s first language, Dutch.  I will confess I cannot read “Hollanse”.  I should, but I can’t.  I can pick out a word now and again…but it’s Greek to me.  But no worries, mom included the translation on this small work of her art. 

From Life’s Concert,

No One Gets A Program. 

Some might think the translation is clumsy…maybe.  But the meaning is clear enough. 

I think we are cheated.  The books we have read, the movies we see have seen, seem to indicate that there is a set sequence of events that make up life.  A program.  And we, as we stumble along, feel embittered when our life deviates from paths we are taught as normal.  We build our lives around imaginary scenarios of what should happen and when.  We stress when goals go uncompleted on schedule.  I had a whole list of things that I would achieve by twenty-five.  You how that went.  But since that time I felt I was always running “catchup”…you know get with the “program”. 

Mom was with dad when he passed in the living room of their home.  My younger brother was there.  I was there as well.  He was alive one moment…and then he was not.  At least not in the way it takes a pulse to measure.  You see faith tells me different.  But it was a very dramatic moment…the moving on.  A cold hard…harsh…unbelievable moment, we had witnessed.

Many times for the remainder of my mother’s life she would say, “He didn’t say good bye.”  The way he departed really bothered her.  She had been “hoodwinked”.  She had been led to believe that opportunity must have existed and was ignored.  She needed to remember the words on the wall…and what they mean.  Life doesn’t follow a program, and all those touching stories are nothing more than STORIES…not impossible but not necessarily real.

My father did not know the moment would arrive that morning…but he understood mortality very well.  The years he had trudged with his illness reminded him daily of the lessons that a lifetime of livestock farming had taught him.  The years we shared with him during that struggle should have told us.  Told us with words not formed out of letters or syllables. Told us that the end of that battle had but one outcome.  Dad tried to tell us good bye, maybe we weren’t listening.  Maybe we did not want to see it, tried to keep it beyond our thoughts, lock it away for someday.  But someday came, and we were not prepared.  It did not fit the “program”.  The event should have…well it should.  But it didn’t and we should never have believed it would.  Because like that needle point states…life doesn’t give us a program.  It is a difficult lesson to learn…I can’t say I have passed that test. 

I read the words and look back and see the truth.  And if the patterns in my wake show the disarray of hopes and accomplishments, then should I be surprised by future’s life “swerves”.  No!  Plan…yes.  Expect…maybe. Surprise…no doubt!!!  It is the very adventure to life.  There is no going to the last page to see how the story plays out.  Tomorrow and all the tomorrows we will be allotted are blank pages of possibilities.  They contain disappointments as well.  But that day ends with the promise of…no…there is no promise…no program…is there.  So use the day…wring out all that it offers…do the good thing you need to do…today…now.  Make your own pattern.  Don’t expect thing to follow even your expectations…let alone anyone else’s.  Times, life is just a dirty mess.  Times, we feel certain the whole world is unraveling.  Believe in yourself…believe in the day…believe in love…and believe GOD is still in charge, no matter what!  These are the thing that needle point makes me consider.  This is a truth I often overlook. 

So, I find that though my parents have moved from this dimension to the next, they still speak to me.  I see their faces and hear their voices, and sometimes see their words on the wall!

(771 Words)    2-13-2016

 

Fathers

Fathers

By John W. Vander Velden

 

How we feel about people is shaped by our experiences.   As we, through time, interact with others part of our understandings comes from actions we observe, but also our interpretations of those actions. Feelings are emotions…those quasi real things that make up so much of our lives.  So should we be surprised that our “feelings” about another person are shaped by impressions as well as deeds.  Or simply…how we feel about someone depends upon, how we feel about someone.  There‘s no logic in that statement…but often there is no logic in emotions to begin with.

A story.  There was a time when all the young men of a community were rounded up by forces of an occupying country.  Labor was needed and so, six sons of a man had been gathered and held in a large room with other boys and men.  The oldest of the six received permission to take the youngest to the restroom.  There, since the child was smaller, he helped the boy escape.  A remarkable story don’t you think.  But it is only half told.  For the youngest son ran home and told his father of the ordeal.  The father went to the place his sons were held, faced the authorities, and convinced them to release the remaining sons.  You see the family raised food, potatoes, cucumbers, and lettuce.  He told how he needed the labor in order to produce the food people needed…including the “fatherland”.  For the authorities confiscated large portions of every farmer’s production.

Should I be surprised that when each of those six boys grew to men and had families of their own, they would name a son after their father?  Would the action of that night be so different that the thousands of days they had witnessed in their father’s presence?  No!  Feeling were built upon the actions observed daily and personal interactions that bind one generation to the next.

One of things we all have in common…is we have a father.   Unfortunately some never have a connection to their father.  Unfortunately some men do not deserve the children they have sired.  Only those fortunate, have the kind of father that would march right up to a soldier and demand their child’s release.  Only the fortunate, have a father that is connected…involved…someone that takes the responsibility and the time needed, even though he carries so many other demands.

But sometimes children don’t notice.  Sometimes they remember only the distasteful.  Sometimes they rebel incapable to accept the lessons offered.  Each of us measure the man that was our father, and the tools we use may not be accurate or fair.

Even among my siblings my relationship with my father was unique.  I worked with the man for more than thirty years, long hours side by side.  The sheer volume of time spent changes what you know about someone.  Did we agree on EVERYTHING.  No!  But I came to understand the man better.  And in understanding came to even a greater respect.

So as I think of the man…flawed as he was…on what would have been his ninety-first birthday.  I hope he knew just how much I admired him. That I loved him.  It is my hope that he held some sort of respect for me, his son.  I hope that one day my son might say as much.  For I learned most of what I know about fatherhood from my dad.  There are many fathers in the world…I miss mine…

(586 Words)                3-3-2016

 

Shouting Into the Void

Shouting Into the Void

By John W. Vander Velden

 

In a few days, this blog will reach an anniversary.  Each week for four years I have posted.  That's 208 essays, micro stories, excerpts, and brief bits of our travels.  Four years.

Many times I can't help but wonder if these "Ramblings" really reach anyone.  Days when it feels as if I am standing on a hill in a large pasture at midnight shouting out to the darkness, shouting out to the stars, shouting into the void.

I check my blogs statistics.  I see the number of page views that slowly grow.  I see the names of countries across the globe, the places people live, the places people access my feeble words.  These things should bring me satisfaction.  Reinforce my resolve to continue.  Yet I wonder, often, does my words really mean anything, or are they but mumblings of a fool.

I had selfish goals when I began this experiment on March 1st 2012, to build a following, an audience.  I was told a writer needs an internet presence, and blogging was a way to generate that presence.  I knew nothing of blogging at the time.  I’d only read a few.  But I decided that if I would blog it would require a commitment…six months minimum.  I had twenty posts written before I posted the first…that’s four months’ worth.  Like I said commitment.

The work required has always made me wonder if it was the best way to spend my “writing time”.  And taken on the surface, the hours required for each week’s post would seem to be better spent on other projects.  But with the passing of time my opinion has changed…some.  Though I still hope to generate a following, it is no longer the reason I sweat over these short piece.  It is my hope that I have something to say…don’t we all…but more, to have something to say of relevance.

For those that have these years read this blog, whether weekly or at random intervals, I thank you.  But times I ask the question.  Do my words matter?  Do they mean anything at all?  Or am I simply shouting into the void.

(358 Words)                2-23-2016

In the Box an Excerpt from, My Name is Sam Benton

An excerpt from My Name is Sam Benton, Part 3:  In the Box.

By John W. Vander Velden

 

A bit of background:  Sam Benton is held captive by those that are trying to convince him he is Thomas Weir, the heir of a billionaire.  The prison he finds himself is a concrete box in an abandoned building’s basement.  The tight space offers no real facilities, no running water, no light etc.  This scene follows a moment when he has lost control and shouted at his unknown captors.  In the Box…

 

The fatigue of the morning overtook him.  All the screaming, all the cursing…all the crying, left him exhausted.  The light from the window seemed to indicate the day yet full light when he awoke.  Lunch was waiting on the table, a couple of hamburgers and a large order of fries.  There must be an “Arches” nearby…another piece to the puzzle.  His impulse was to ignore the food…a small act of defiance.  But his gut told him he was hungry…and that starving the wrong battle to wage.  He compromised.  He would eat later…not much later, but later.  He stretched best he was able.  Though the bucket had been emptied the stench still filled the air.  Sam moved to the window, breathing in the soft breeze coming through the upturned corner of flexi-glass, even the smell of the city a preference.

Later, across the room he ate…slowly.  It took determination not to just wolf down the greasy meal, but he would play his pieces carefully.   Sam wondered if he should thank them for the meal.  He knew they could hear.  But would that not be playing into their hand?  Perhaps not.  “I am only getting McDonalds?”  He asked sarcastically.

“Why, does not the food please you?”  Came the clam voice…flatter…he was not there…there outside the door.  Somewhere the man watched, somewhere warm and comfortable, Sam was sure.  He in his soft chair spoke into a microphone that connected to a speaker in the hallway.   Why would they not mount a speaker in this room?  Oh, Sam would tear it down.  But he hadn’t torn down the cameras.  Benton felt the threats made real enough he avoided the devices.  Later…soon…he would see if he could determine just how far away his “keepers” remained as they watched him.  Later.

“Oh, the burgers were OK,” he answered slowly, “but I would kinda’ like a steak now and then.”

The chuckle eliminated any doubt to the sound coming from a speaker to the right of the doorway.  “You are so amusing, Tom.  But perhaps later, if you cooperate, something can be arranged.”

“Cooperate?  How?”  Sam considered the choice of words.  Trapped in this concrete box how could he not cooperate.  He had done his best to remain calm…well most of the time anyway.  He had not tried to escape…mostly because escaping was impossible…at the moment.  So he wondered…what did they need?

“Tut, tut, with time, Tom, with time.” 

Sam looked toward the doorway.  He would play along…for now.  “Hey if it gets me out of here I’ll…”  Sam allowed his voice to trail off.

“You will do what, Tom?”  The voices pitch rose slightly.

“Hey, you got me here, this is not such a great place ya know.  I mean there’s no real heat and we won’t even talk about the bathroom.  If you let me out of this box, I might do almost anything.”  Sam hoped he was convincing.

That chuckle again.  “Oh Mr. Weir, you are such a comedian.”  Then the voice changed became softer, deeper.  “You will cooperate, Mr. Weir of that there is no question.  You will do what we tell you, when we tell you.  Or…”

“Or you’ll kill me.”  Sam shouted.

“This ordeal will end as you wish.”  The deepened calm voice went on.  “Something to think about.”  Then silence, only the sound of heater filled Sam’s ears.

Benton had pressed himself against the door, looking out through the grated portal into the dark hallway.  He had seen nothing but this room since he closed his eyes in the Corry Street Mission.  But he had heard a great deal.  Returning to the bed he began to think about what he had heard.  He moved backwards from the sound of the door closing.  Footsteps, Sam had heard the footsteps of three people…men likely…in the hall as they came to this place.  That made sense.  It would have been him with the two guys holding him by the arms.  But not more just three.  But there had to be more.  He remembered the steps, counting the steps remembering the turns.  Sam could visualize the way out.  Out this door, to the left, maybe a hundred feet of hall way…he remembered the echoes…to the right, up six steps a landing, left and left again, six steps, a landing, a yard maybe two, left again and back the way they had come.  That hallway was directly above this one.  That hallway was longer a lot longer maybe twice as long.  A right turn a short distance, the sound different there…an open space a door and then steps. The steps seemed odd.  Three short steps, not that the treads were short.  No, there was very little lift one to the other.  The outside steps were shorter than the stairs with the landings…only half as high.  It seemed to Sam they could have made it just two steps or one for that matter.  In truth, if he could see he likely could have bypassed the steps entirely, just stepped up to the platform at the doorway.

Sam sat back on the bed again.  He thought about those steps.  They were unusual…awkward.  Not likely a way traveled by many.  Perhaps some brick had been stacked for his benefit.  Sam shook his head as he dwelt upon that particular anomaly.

“What are you thinking about, Tom?”  The clam voice asked?

“How the water in the shower was cold again this morning.  Can’t you get the Super to fix that worthless water heater?”

Chuckling again.

“I’m glad you find my situation so funny.  You know it doesn’t feel so funny from in here.”

“And here I thought you were enjoying your stay with us.  You must admit it is better than the streets.”

“Is it?”

“Certainly.  Here you have a bed and food.  Surely that is better than sharing a sidewalk grate with that big black man.”

“At least on the street I knew who my friends were.”  Sam scowled.

“You have no friends, Tom.  You have never had friends.  Your whole life has been a lie.”

“And this,” Sam shouted, “this is the truth.”

“More truth than you realize.”  The calm voice returned.

“And next you are going to tell me you’re my friend.”  Sam huffed.

“I could be.”  The voice smooth.  “Your first real friend.”

“Leave me alone!” Sam shouted.  “I’m tired of your lies.”

Sam refused to hear what the calm voice said next.  Moving nearer the heater he allowed the thrumming to drown out the sickly sweet words…the lies meant to break him.  Sam pushed his face against the window grate allowing the musty scents to fill his nostrils as he blanked out the noise that filled his space.