Just Another Vivid Dream…

It’s a remarkable clear blue-sky day. The mountain air is as crisp and refreshing as it gets. I’m still on the trail, but far enough out now that there are very few fellow hikers. At last I’ve arrived at a scenic overlook – one of many this National Park is famous for. From this spot you get a grander sense of the forest – how each element entwines to compose the bigger picture that makes for such great postcards.

There’s a sturdy pipe-rail fence running along this stretch of trail. Just on the other side is a steep fall into a river-filled gorge. It’s late spring and the river is filled with small rapids. The mountain slope on the other side is a thousand different shades of green - each tree as unique as a snowflake. I’m tracking a large bird that’s flown into view. He swoops down to the bottom of the gorge and in one graceful peck has snatched a fish from the water. I’m marveling at the majesty of it all as the bird flies up from the river. This is no ordinary raptor. As it rises up the gorge I see a bald eagle that is perhaps twice or three-times the size it should be. He lands on the top rung of the pipe-rail fence, so close he’s within my reach. A most unusual round yellow and white fish held fast in its beak. This fish seems misplaced from a tropical snorkeling adventure – a Tang gone missing.

The presence of this great bird is far more than its physical being. He looks straight into my eyes and I know that he has brought this peculiar fish for me. He is expressing gratitude towards me! “Thank you, I love you, I’m indebted to you, you are revered, you are a most precious being, I acknowledge your spirit and offer you this special gift.” I drink it all in to my soul. I express back: “Thank you dear one for your magnificence. I accept this gift. It will always be mine.” With that, I immediately know that it is practical for the eagle to actually keep the fish. I express this to my new friend. He gives me a courtly nod and a humble look - an agreement that this is appropriate. He leaps off the fence and disappears from sight.

Do It For the Doughnut
You have to answer the same 100 or so questions on the 8pt type-size form every time you go. There’s no getting around it. And then there is the serious silliness of the nurse looking the other way while you affix the Yes or No sticker on your form. The same cheerfully dressed nurse that has just intentionally hurt your finger. She let’s you know if you may proceed to the next step in the process.

If you’ve done this yourself, you know where this is going. If you haven’t, and you view yourself as a concerned citizen, socially responsible, and/or a loving, healing person, you may want to consider it.

I can’t help but feel a hint of shame just from reading some of the questions on the intake survey. “Have you ever had sex in exchange for drugs or money?” Never. “If you’re female, has your male sexual partner had sex with another man?” Doubtful, but really, how would I know for certain? “Are you here today to be tested for the HIV virus?” No. “Have you taken aspirin in the last 48 hours.” No. I know not to do that. I’ve been taking an iron supplement this past week and increased my intake of red meat. I also drank extra water today. All in preparation for giving the gift of life.

I’ve been participating in this odd dance every few months for several years. The kind people at the blood bank treat me with great respect. They give me t-shirts, coupons for things as varied as a free oil change for my car, a 30-minute massage, fish tacos, and belly dancing lessons. And yes, free doughnuts. But mostly, they give me their sincere thanks for showing up. As a “universal donor” my O- blood type is always in short supply. I’ve been told that one pint of this precious commodity can save the lives of as many as three babies.

It is this easy to be a hero. Only takes about an hour.

There Was An Old Man...
Dignity

I didn’t turn around to look much at the rest of the passengers, but I’m pretty certain that at 24 years of age, I was the youngest person on the flight. A small prop jet flying from San Diego to LAX. I’m very certain that when this plane ride was over, it was the first time in my life that I understood the phrase “I need a drink.”

It all started out well enough. A lovely, sunny day promised a scenic flight up the coast. Bags checked, boarding pass in hand. All set. Back then, the commuter gate wasn’t much more than a fenced area at the end of the main terminal, and the waiting area consisted of a few backless cement benches on the sidewalk out front. (This was before the days of security check-ins and the screening of passengers and their luggage.) I plopped down and leaned back a bit to enjoy the sun. Eyes closed, I got an uncomfortable feeling.

A very skanky old man in a wheelchair had rolled himself directly in front of me. It was down right creepy what he had done – it was impossible for me to stand up, that’s how close he’d parked his chair to my knees. I got the distinct feeling that he intentionally did this to be mean. That he was getting some creepy thrill out of annoying me. This was a seriously dirty old man. His body odor was nauseating. It appeared he’d been wearing the same clothes for several weeks. Crusted beard, matted hair – God it was awful. There were a few battered shopping bags dangling from the back of his wheelchair. Clearly a bum hanging out at the airport waiting for something.

I wanted to get away from him. I slid sideways until my knees were free and then scooted backwards on the bench so I could push myself off and find somewhere else to be. This worked for a while.

The portable staircase was aligned with the hatch and now the plane was ready for boarding. A dozen or so people walked across the tarmac and climbed the steps. Out of the sun and into a metal tube with wings. I got a window seat near the front. The pilot and co-pilot finishing up their pre-flight check, then, gave each other an odd look, and both reluctantly left the plane.

A few minutes later I see the back of the pilot’s head appear through the hatch near the top of the steps. He’s lifting something up from below. It’s not going well. He struggles to turn sideways as the co-pilot steps up next to him. They’re carrying the skanky old man between them. The old guy is cursing, squealing, and kicking worse than a kid having a tantrum. And then the oddest thing happens. His foot becomes detached. It must have been a fake foot that was somehow braced to his knee. The co-pilot instinctively grabs it before it falls to the ground - causing all three to nearly fall down the stairs. I glance toward the back of the plane with the thought that one of the men will come up and help with this mess. Nothing. Then it got worse. The old guys’ pants slide down below his knees. No underwear. A pathetic crusty penis is the only part of him that’s actually boarded the plane. When his pants dropped, the odor must have stunned the men holding him. They froze up. Either that or time stood still as I unbuckled my seat belt, stepped to the door, pulled those pants back up, and helped swing that broken body onto the plane.

I felt that I had no choice but to help save whatever dignity this sad creature might still possess. His shabby pants were actually greasy to the touch. His stench was now on my fingers. I didn’t feel the least bit “good” about helping him. I still don’t. However, I do feel it was the right thing to do.

The dictionary describes dignity as conduct indicative of self-respect and appreciation of the gravity of a situation.

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