Life

I see you.

This Zulu greeting is offered when meeting another human soul.  Friend, kin or stranger, it is a nod to basic existence.  Sawubona.  I see you.

There is a second part to this interchange, a response.  Ngikhona.  I am here.

Implicit in this shared proclamation is the belief that we people are inextricably linked.  Part of what makes us human is our tie to others.  We are essentially brought into existence by recognition from other living beings.  This Zulu folk saying captures it: a person is a person because of other people.

In the dark safe place at the dawn of Forever that connects us all – there, voices rise from the Well of Beginning.  They dance in matched step ascending from deep waters to connect in a spark of life.

 “I see you.”                                                                                         

“I am here.”

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Death

As surely as a word can bring another soul into existence, silence can kill.

A pastor I know once called this a form of “murderous spirit.”

You see, the commandment against killing is not a black-and-white proposition.  Most of us have never really considered taking another human life, but plenty of us have wished someone away.  We sin in the gray space of this law.

According to this pastor, the prohibition against murder is intended for all of us.  Further, he says we defy the decree each and every day.

On a single trip to the grocery store I might pretend I don’t see my pesky neighbors as I pass them on the road.  My blindness extends to the suntanned homeless woman who stands at my turn off the interstate.  Eye contact averted; comfort maintained.  Don’t forget that competitive drive for parking real estate.  After all, I saw it first.  Ignore the ringing phone on the way home, and now I’m cooking.  My murderous spirit boils.

By the time I return from Kroger I have earned 15 to life for a variety of homicides in varying degrees.

I am a serial killer.

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Dark

I am not naturally morbid.  It’s just that the sting of invisibility is personal these days.

Recently I was rubbed out.  In a half-sincere, wholly transparent euphemism, I was “moved on.”  Someone took old-school eraser to tablet and deleted every memory of me, blowing the black remnants off the page and onto the cold tile floor.  I was never there.

“It’s just business,” they said.  “It happens every day.”

Details aside, my disappearance has been an interesting ride.

A disruption in any system is necessarily complex.  No organizational bump is about one person or incident, as appealing as simple answers may seem.  In every case there is a cast of characters and a unique plot that build tension to the point of fracture.  No person is ever “the problem” in a system.

Trust me, there is a finger, or three, I would love to point with accusations of hubris and self dealing.  There are others who are complicit, some who could help but didn’t, and any number of others scared into shells of self-protection.  Never underestimate the relative ease of slipping into revisionist history under the retaliatory power of a weak ego or two.

Some people in any conflict will eventually forget the facts in favor of the court of public opinion.  Some take advantage for their own promotion or new-found popularity.  Denial, groupthink and scapegoats reign.  It’s really nothing unique or new; it is all as old as sin.

Fair to say there have been several noteworthy disappointments.  Being a mentor was never so isolating.

The strangest input I received is a comment I am still trying to reconcile.  “We have been in a quandary about how to tell you we love and support you.”  A few months down the road from this awkward note, my best guess is the words just came out wrong.

The greatest rub in being rubbed out can be summed up in a quote my friend Maria shared.  I asked God to protect me from my enemies, and that’s when I started losing friends.

Sometime later, a book offered another nugget that certainly applies.  Most people love you more for what you do for them than for who you are.  And how.

“Early retirement” offers a good opportunity to review do the every-so-often life inventories.  Who is really with you when it rains?  Who uses your generosity of spirit, time and money to her own advantage?  Who loves you solely for who you are instead of your gifts of comfort, wisdom and support?

Some “humanity.”  You find out who your friends are.

That’s the worst.

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Light

My orientation is toward the best.  Even in the darkest spaces there are unexpected gifts.  In any situation there is room for hope and faith – and even love for your enemies.

They say if you die with a few loyal friends you are truly blessed.  My disappearance cast a spotlight on several gems.  They now shine more brightly, and their position in my life is forever set.

I would not trade a bucket of hollow smiles and shallow words or even a lifetime of popularity for the few True souls who have stood witness.  Like any good sauce, reduction of your “friend” list makes for a more powerful broth.

In large and small ways, I am extraordinarily blessed.

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The universal

Sometimes the point of suffering is simply that.  In this life we are each at some time meant to dip a toe into the universal well of human suffering.  Suffering is.  And it happens to all of us.

When we are wronged, when people have either adopted the party line or forgotten us for the sake of their own comfort, we truly are left with just ourselves in the presence of the divine.  When all else leaves us, there is nothing to fill our silence but our hearts and God.

Presence from absence – it is a powerful irony.

Another irony is this: it might seem that to be seen – sawubona – is The Single Unifying and Life-Giving Force.  Damn the devil if it isn’t also true that being unseen, being erased, is a necessity for each of us in our spiritual growth.  Disappearing to the world is another important and unifying experience in this life.

Wipe me out and you reconnect me to the ancient Well of Beginning.  In trying to kill my spirit, you instead reinforce my life.

Ngikhona.  I am here.

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Corrective vision

Here’s the thing – this is not about me.

My recent experience matters only because it gives me personal insight. My darkness, however, is only a fleeting moment.  In fact, you  might call it a luxury, a chance to reflect.  For untold (and unseen) others there is a lifetime of undeserved, unrelenting human suffering.  Most of the “majority world” will never have a chance to pause to reflect before trudging forward.  The treadmill never stops.

I lost a job to an ambitious bully, a too-eager puppet and a long-forming tidal wave that was not about me at all.

Many other people whose only ‘mistake’ is the place into which they were born can only dream of my life in its current form.  Plenty of people would gladly accept my lot – and thank God for it.  I have a safe home, a good education, a loving family, three loyal dogs and more than my fair share of True friends of all stages and stations in life willing to help if I but ask.

I have a community and a safety net, and that makes me extraordinarily, undeservedly blessed.

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Just down the road the suntanned woman near the interstate at Guess Road stands stoic.  She wears military cutoffs, T-shirt, hat and the standard-issue reflective vest required by the city.

Hundreds of cars pass for each driver who dares to meet her gaze.  Very few offer help.  What is most difficult is the majority of people who pass pretend she does not exist.

I do not see you.  You are not here.

Just like that, our anxiety is averted.  Thank goodness.

Our invisible sister has a name, Bobbi.  Like all other humans Bobbi has a mother, and a story.  She was raised just down the road from me.  We share some things in common.  And before – and especially since – my dive into the well of universal suffering, we have talked.

If you ever wondered, Bobbi says the hardest thing about living without a home is not the discomfort or the unknowing of living hand to mouth.  It isn’t wondering about the next meal or even the weather.

It is the number of people who wish you dead simply to ease their own guilt or discomfort.

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In focus

There is literally a whole world of undeserved human suffering to which most of us, myself included, choose to be blind.

Rather than sharing dehumanizing (murderous) data and statistics, I will tell you one brief story.

There is a child with the deepest brown eyes.  Her birth was a miracle to parents who believed it was not possible.  Their blessing arrived during a time of civil war.  The new parents, with all the hope in the world and fearing for their lives, fled to a crowded, dirty migrant camp.  Food became scarce.  Their newborn miracle grew sick.  With no medical care, they could only pray, and they did.  They took turns keeping watch through the night.  Just this morning as the sun rose, their miracle, God’s favorite kid with the longest brown lashes, closed her beautiful eyes.  She will not awake.

This happened 16,000 times today.

It will happen another 16,000 time tomorrow, the next day and the next.  And it will only get worse.

Now I could have said 16,000 children die from hunger and hunger-related disease each day.  It just doesn’t have the same impact as a story of a real child, a long-awaited miracle and gift from God.

Numbers allow us to lose touch with humanity.  They cause the people, our sisters and brothers and our distant children, to disappear.

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Closer to home, the next Einstein was born today in East Durham.

I talk about this kid often.  I’m pretty sure he is a quiet soul with a keen sense of wonder.

The only problem is the world may never know his genius.  Will he make it?  Will one intuitive, overworked teacher see his potential?  Will he slip through the cracks, the so-called opportunity gap?  Bill Gates would say he lost the ovarian lottery.  He was born to the wrong zip code.  Will anyone recognize his giftedness?  Will he?  Or will he read the gulf between his hopes and his reality to assume that he deserves what he gets?

Whether down the road or across the globe, the incalculable God-given potential lost to the disparity of random opportunity is this world’s great tragedy.  It is also our greatest corporate sin.  No one is innocent.  We are all complicit.

What we can each direct is the intervention that makes all the difference.

To the kid who holds the key to the next great scientific discovery, I see you.  Sawubona.

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Invisibility, it seems is everywhere.

An acquaintance recently shared her experience at work.  There is a doctor.  He refuses eye contact to his most talented new team member.  Instead, he directs answers for her questions to other staff and even a part-time assistant.  Apparently an overweight medical professional does not rate being seen.  He refuses to bring her into existence.  The good doctor takes life by declining to acknowledge it.

Standing in line to vote this week, I talked at length with a new friend.  She spent some time in the spotlight this year – the infamous court of public opinion.  At the same time she was widely known, some of her closest friends lost the ability (or willingness) to see her.  She simultaneously stood in the limelight and went missing.  That’s a tough spot to negotiate.  I guess it is no different than any celebrity who feels deeply alone amid the hype.  She chooses to see the bright side, crediting steadfast family, loyal friends and her faith for getting her through.

In the category of “Best for Last” is my friend Henry Wade, who sells the Herald-Sun at Biscuitville down the road.  Henry is a natural salesman, prophet and my substitute dad.  There is a genuine greeting for everyone.  I am his “good friend” because he never remembers my name.  He does, however, remember my heart.  His input on my disappearance was classically Henry.  Love your enemy.  “Love your enemy, my best good friend.  I love you.”  Some time ago the friendly folks at Biscuitville moved Henry off their property to a less lucrative street corner.  Fresh biscuits?  Maybe.  Friendly folks?  Not so much.  I love you, too, Henry, and I sure as hell see you.

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In our sights

Hindsight is 20/20.  (You saw that one coming.)

I have wasted more than 40 years as a serial killer, unaware of my crimes.  It took an unexpected dip into the well of suffering to see the light.

Thankfully, the antidote to the insult of invisibility is remarkably easy.

A simple nod to a passing stranger is all it takes.  A smile is even better!  We can speak as we pass without sharing too much of our personal energy.  Frankly we usually receive more energy in return from these passing sparks than we ever give away.

A note to a friend in pain will mean more than you might imagine.  The language and design of the card don’t matter.  Your intent and sincerity do.  You are not expected to have all the answers – just willingness and a little heart.

A quick call just to say you care is simple.  There is no quandary about whether or how to do it.

Looking at it in reverse, ignoring or not returning a call because it makes you uncomfortable makes a louder statement than you might imagine.

Every choice is exactly that.  It is so much easier to do it right.  Sublimating our guilt and anxiety requires a lot more energy.

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Here is a summary of the lessons gained from my recent vision test.

• Every living being is a beloved child of God.
• We are all equally important and uniquely beautiful.
• To see another human soul – to acknowledge her existence – is the most basic gift.  It is the debt of gratitude we owe for our living, a minimum standard of thankfulness.
• Any complicated story (homelessness, addiction, despair) explained by a simple solution is generally not real.  Get the unique facts of the unique person you meet.  Bring her into existence.
• We never know the challenges or pain of the stranger we meet.  Maybe we judge our friend from church or the neighbor whose yard is less than perfect.  Take a minute to see what’s happening on the inside.
• It is remarkably easy to ignore Dr. King’s “inescapable network of mutuality.”  Denial is a useful tool; resist it.  All of our actions and our inactions matter.  What would you like someone to do for you?
• However difficult our life’s chapters, it could always be worse.  Someone somewhere surely has a harder row to hoe.  She would gladly trade places with you any day.  Thank God for your life and your troubles.  If nothing else they shape us into new and beautiful forms.  Don’t lost sight of daily gratitude.
• Most importantly, we have a daily obligation to soften the blows of life for any fellow traveler whose luck may not be as good.  [Remember, this might be anyone.  You can’t tell from the outside.]  The minimum standard is only a nod or a smile.  It does not cost a thing to share.

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Just last week I drove across town, deep in thought about my own disappearance – and the relevance to larger, more important human issues.

A black Lexus tailed me on the highway.  Not willing to waste psychic energy (or gas), I let him pass.

I was blindsided by the vanity plate decorating the car.  The proud blue letters displayed a universal greeting, a nod to the shared humanity of his fellow travelers.  SAWUBONA.  I see you.

I took a couple of photos and even considered following him as he turned off the road.

Instead, I smiled.  I breathed in the sorrow of the world and breathed out love.  I recalled the people who saw me and those who did not, those who stood with me and those who took advantage of my story for their personal gain.  I thought of Bobbi and Henry, my Uncle Doug, my Aunt Mozelle and a host of other people the world would erase for the sake of its own comfort.

I smiled again and offered an indignant response to the now distant black Lexus.

“I see you, too.”

“And I am here.”

© Mitzi Viola, 5/11/12

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