College – Are We There Yet?

The World History class was required for my degree. I have no particular interest in World History.

The professor, a bespectacled, soft-spoken man; dumpy, mousy, and pastey.

Within a week, unheeded, I was bringing a Bible to class. As he methodically dissected human history from it’s very beginnings, he hearkened back to that holiest of texts, debunking fiction after fiction until the leather-bound volume in my back-pack became akin to an early incarnation of Aesop’s fables.

And he never raised his voice, or spoke in tongues, or gestured wildly, or challenged, or questioned. He stated facts, eloquently, quietly, and intelligently.

I aced the class. He changed my life.

I remember, as a child, following my mink enshrouded mother into the sanctuary and becoming aware of countless pairs of feminine eyes taking her measure. Inside my child’s brain, the experience felt incongruous.

I remember sitting and listening to my ancient Sunday School teacher recite, by rote, long passages of contradictory verse, and as I sat, looking at the faces around me for some sign that I wasn’t the only one who suspected we were all part of some kind of wild mind-bending experiment.

I saw lots of things…

I saw rapt eyes over gaped mouthes.

I saw girls whispering, posturing, and primping, and boys, doodling or dexteriously fashioning paper footballs whose mitered edges never really resembled a football, at all.

I saw lots of yawns.

But, I never saw real doubt.

I didn’t dare to interrupt Dr. Dick’s diatribe. I sat, obediently, until creativity, in the form of a more adventurous friend, suggested we skip Sunday School. A local shopping plaza absorbed the time, until our parents came to collect us, none the wiser.

Later, as an adult, I began what has been suggested to be a genetically inclined quest for knowledge. My father, you see, while seldom attending church, has spent his life in study of various relgions and spiritual dictates.

I began to read and study religions of all types.

I read the Book of Mormon from cover to cover, finding some solace in it’s words, but more interest in it’s story.

I have read several different versions of the Bible, ranging from King James to New World, as the highlighted pages of my current, more traditional, volume will attest.

I read, with interest, L. Ron Hubbard’s, “Dianetics”.

I have studed Daoism, Buddhism, and currently own two translations of the Tao Ching; one stays at home, the other travels with me. This poetic text has served me well in times of unrest and insecurity…

After over 40 years of research, and soul-searching, and education, and experience, I have reached a place of comfort.

As I sit on my patio, early morning light dances between green needles in the towering pines that surround my landscape. And birds, whose very existence attests to a power greater than that enjoyed by any man, dart to and fro in my periphery. As I breathe the soft, clean air of daybreak, I know, deep in my soul, a loving power. A higher power. A wiser power. A driving energy that exists within every living thing.

And this knowledge imbues in me a respect for all creation; from the smallest insect to the largest mammal.

And it soothes me, with the surety that deep within each us is a voice, full of reason, full of love, and flush with wisdom.

Our impetus is to listen; to listen and to hear, to allow this rich wisdom to permeate our consciousness and guide us, without restrictions imposed by those who would control behavior in an effort to create a monochromatic society, without traditions imposed by those soothed by sameness, without dictates that would keep us from recognizing our true potential as fellow holy spirits.

I would be remiss if I didn’t share another story concerning my calves.
As high school ended and “real life” began, I embarked upon my father’s dream for me of attending nursing school. For a person who, despite making good grades, had never cracked a book, a career involving the sciences might not have been the best choice. But, I digress.
With the help of several older women who were “finding” themselves and 1 dear, gay man who provided comic relief, I made it through my first year of college. Year 2 would bring formal nursing educaiton and THE UNIFORM. On my commuter college campus, the nursing uniform was the equivalent of a letter jacket. I remember watching in awe as ethereal visions swathed in varying shades of blue and white moved from one class to another. Wearing a folded peice of cardboard proudly perched atop my head, I would now glide just a little above the sidewalk as I moved about the campus. Ah, bliss!
My first clinical assignment was to a medical ward wherein most of the patients were either elderly, chonically ill, or both. These people had assimilated the hospital experience and actually enjoyed the social mileau provided by the staff. Nursing students were particularly engaging.
I spent the morning attempting to arrange the stiff polyester upon my body. To call the dress shapeless is really too kind. Pale blue, with an enormous white placard down the front, held down by large, cheap, clear buttons, my costume did not provide the angelic feeling I had expected. I shopped for days for the large white shoes that would complete my ensemble. As we received our assignments, I struggled to pay attention as I studied the other girls and wondered if I looked as shapeless as they. I cursed my size 8 feet.
Clipboard in hand, I plowed down the hall toward my charges. With feigned confidence I grabbed the cold metal latch of my first patient’s door and pushed it open. A forced smile hid my discomfort as sweat trickled down my spine and “Don’t let me spill the urine.” played like a mantra in my head. The large African-American woman sat up eagerly in the bed as I entered. “Well, ain’t you got some pretty, big legs!” she bellowed.

Tag: College

A Fork in the Road

Concerning calves