Cinnamon Toast

October 8, 2008,

Last week was something else! I had to go to Mi Works every morning to attend these personal growth classes. I wasn’t necessarily jazzed about going. Red tape to get the funding for school right? I had just listened to a sermon last Sunday about grumbling and complaining so I decided to approach it with the “Ok God, I’m listening” frame of mind. Who would of thought I would learn a lesson about my own blindness.

The first class was about potential, how our beliefs are built, and accountability. We watched videos and had group discussion but my favorite part of these things are the group experiments. I find them fascinating. I always go into them thinking I‘ve got some kind of slant on things and I am always humbled. Our instructor handed out these cards with shapes on them. They were odd random shapes. I have no clue what you would even call them. One looked like a sideways hat, a faucet, ect. She asked what we thought the shapes were. We all started saying sideways hats and faucets ect. Then the most remarkable thing happened. She told us it was actually a word and as she said that I was actually able to see the word. The card said FLY. Later she handed out another card with a black and white photo on it. She asked us what we thought it was a picture of. I said dead skin! A guy in the class said it looked like a leaf. A majority said it was definitely a duck. When she told us it was a cow I almost fell out of my chair. I still couldn’t see it. She came around and showed each of us individually and sure enough there was a cow there. After watching a few more videos and more group excersises I’m starting to see how blind I am, and how my blindness affects others.

Check this out. The next card she handed out had a sentence on it. “Finished files are the result of many years of scientific study combined with the experience of many years.” She told us to circle the f’s in the sentence. No problem I said to myself. I’m not blind! I can recognize an f when I see one right? So I promptly blurted out "I count three!” My brilliance is shining so brightly people are putting on their sunglasses. It turns out there are other geniuses in the room as well. The three people to my left agreed with me. Then one of the ladies sitting kitty corner says she counted six. The guy across from me pipes up and says six as well. I look at my card. It’s definitely a full blow conspiracy now. They just want me to look dumb. The guy even had a smug look on his face. Can you believe that? I ask if everyone got the same card. Of course we did. The first sixer lady and I exchange cards. I look at hers and sure enough there are six f’s on that thing. I look at her and do you know what she says? (This is a remarkable example of how we influence each other’s reality.) “There are only three f’s on your card!” I’m shocked because by this time I know the truth. I’ve got her card in my hand! I have to tell her to look again. It took a minute but she was finally able to come back to the truth. I was dumbfounded. I could hardly hear anything the rest of the class. Now I am not only aware of my present blindness but I am also deaf and speechless.

For the rest of the day memories came flooding back and I wondered what the truth is anymore. For the longest time I believed there was nothing good about my childhood. If I tried to look for anything positive I couldn’t see it. This phenomenon is called a scotoma. That’s Greek for blindness, not being able to see what’s clearly in front of you and I suffer from it.

On of my biggest challenges is having a healthy relationship with my daughter. Saturday night we had it out. She’s almost 18. Lately, like the last five years we don’t get along at all. Sometimes in the heat of things I get this surreal feeling. It’s like I’m arguing with myself. Anybody that has ever argued with me knows that they can’t win! So you can imagine how drained I was by the end of the weekend. She wanted to go back to her dad’s early. Normally I wouldn’t let her but I just didn’t have the will to continue with our pattern for the weekend. As I walked out the door for church she was standing outside waiting for her Dad, a picture of my failure to just love her the way she is. I turned to look at her. Her pride shining like a crystal prism. Refracting the truth until the origin is a blur and the shards of light are blinding. Just like me. I’m sad. I see her scotoma. She can’t see anything good right now.

Fighting yet another mental death spiral into the same frame of mind I open the garage door. I see my bike propped against the wall. It’s coated from the ride with my Private Poet the morning before. It reminds me of cinnamon and sugar. I think about the ride and how beautiful Yankee is at sunrise. It inspired me to write poetry. It’s a good memory with good company in this childhood that I get to relive. A warmth rushes over me as I ponder the coating on my bike. It reminds me of something good from my childhood. Cinnamon toast after school. Sometimes half a loaf before I would escape on my bike. It was a comfort in the midst of uncertainty. I never knew what I was walking into. I still don’t. But I have a glimpse of the truth today. I’m being shown through my bike and the people I ride with. You’re like my cinnamon toast. Thank –you.