Black Hawk College
"Change. It seemed too simple to be the cure for depression;
nevertheless, a cure it was. "
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Black Hawk College
When fall classes began at college and I found myself on the inside
looking out, time was once again a rare gem. Balancing a full load of
study in one hand and what had evolved into a hateful job in the other,
I soon found myself nervous beyond all levels of acceptability.
Some people thrived on activity, and the more deadlines they had to
meet the better they performed. I did not. For me, school in itself
expended plenty of effort, and with the added pressure of my job,
wherein I now had to work at a newly installed, central cashier island,
I watched helplessly as my sanity wore away. The new system was
chaotic and inefficient; two cashiers had to meet the demands of
patrons who congregated on all four sides of the island. There were no
numbers or lines to assure that customers were served at their proper
time, and special sales from the surrounding departments were never
clarified to any reasonable extent, leaving us to distinguish
"bargains" through catalogued stock numbers and tips from the customer.
Under such slow procedures, anger and pandemonium were the routine
terrors of employment. My desire to please was a virtual
impossibility. To the public, "I was the store" and any disagreeable
feature of the store or its policies were doused on me while the upper
echelon stood beaming at a safe distance. "You'll get used to it," one
particularly brash fellow would comment as I propped myself up on the
counter after a long and grueling siege. Then he would spin around and
walk leisurely to the escalator while I gritted my teeth in silence. I
am sure he was responsible for many "bitten" tongues through the years.
When I was relieved of cashier duty my nerves were as taut as a
bow-string, and to dissipate my energy, I would zing about the
department like an arrow to its target. I hung clothes and arranged
the stock with such speed that an onlooker might have thought I was
competing in a marathon.
Once home, I still could not relax. Homework, if any, demanded my
thorough attention after work, so I would routinely plug in the coffee
maker and brew twelve cups of caffeine. With a warm mug in one hand, I
was able to perceive with intelligence the content of books and write
themes which otherwise might have dissolved altogether through the
debilitating numbness of fatigue. When I had completed my studies to
my satisfaction I allowed myself the liberty to prepare for sleep.
"Going to get your four hours?" Norm would tease. Actually, it was
more like six hours. I am sure my body would have preferred eight.
However, the caffeine had the ability to bluff my body's requirements
and I happened to need all of the waking hours I could reasonably
obtain. Thus, six hours of sleep plus twelve cups of coffee equaled
one day of maximum level performance.
Unfortunately I failed to acknowledge the existence of hidden parts of
the equation which, in reality, were the most important regarding its
successful outcome. One could not give 100 percent of himself toward
all areas of demand; there would be nothing left. Before realizing
this concept, I fell into the hole that I had been so intent upon
digging; having depleted myself, I stood alone at the bottom of the
pit. My confidence was no longer a staff, for it had crumbled on my
way down.
Thereafter, little I did was worth any merit; it should have been
better. Self-satisfaction was almost an impossibility, so I tried not
to direct notice. Even when I appraised myself in the mirror, I saw
only pounds that needed not thrive on my body.
Sept. 14, 1980... Work 12-4. Not a bad day. Pizza for supper. I gotta
lose more weight.
I was very depressed, yet so busy that my depression had taken on
emotional nuances of its own before I took the time to utilize
objectivity and see my problem. Meanwhile I had erected many of the
building blocks of an anorexic; though I wished no attention, I felt
emotionally "small" and naturally turned to dieting as a means of
attaining physical smallness.
What had begun with scrutinizing my body before a mirror and weighing
myself at least twice a day blossomed into an obsession. I became an
expert on the subject of calories, reading every article and scanning
every chart to ascertain that my daily intake of food never exceeded
my minimum requirement. If I ate too much, I turned to exercise as a
partner to dieting. Indulging in a late night snack would make it
necessary to burn the calories before bedtime, and I would do 45
minutes of leg-kicks and lifts to alleviate the guilt of eating. I
even encouraged a nervous state within myself to burn more calories at
work. I began to view diet pop and coffee as alternatives to eating
without feeling physically deprived. The caffeine helped me to retain
energy without having ingested a bulk of calories. I also lied to
avoid eating. If Mom told me to take some meat, I would say I was not
hungry and would eat it later. Later, of course, never came. I
stopped accompanying my parents to restaurants to better adhere to my
diet plan, not trusting myself when faced with a tempting menu; my
supper would then consist of a bowl of lettuce and one half of a glass
of milk.
When the subject of dieting became my favorite topic of discussion, I
realized I was not simply trying to lose weight; my compulsive behavior
did not originate from the thought that I was over-weight, but rather
something far greater that I had chosen to ignore. I studied my
obsession and grew fascinated by it. Never before had I given such
power to an emotionally derived fixation (except perhaps picking my
nails into virtual oblivion; that, however, was a habit, not an
obsession, and had no authority over my common sense).
After its discovery, I looked upon my fanatic dieting as a "willful
distortion of reality," for I knew what I was doing. As if toying with
or testing myself, I allowed my emotions to "feel fat"; since I was
aware of the irrational view of myself, I perceived that it would not
rule me and I was in no danger. Something within me made it impossible
to lose control. I was fortunate; I was able to understand, indeed,
feel the terror of an addiction without personally submitting to its
reign.
I was curious to find the strength of this radical self-perception and
how long my rationality would tolerate its existence, as it certainly
affected my life on a daily basis. It happened that I allowed my diet
to carry on until I weighed 115 pounds, at which point my parents, Norm
and several friends were truly worried about my thinness. Crazy though
it was, I continued, emotionally speaking, to view myself as
overweight; rationally, however, I knew I was too thin, and not
desiring to be a source of concern for my loved ones, decided the diet
had proceeded long enough.
Yes, the diet would come to a halt. However, there would need to be
additional changes in my lifestyle to combat the underlying problem.
Because I had allotted ample time for self-observation, I pin-pointed
my problem as having stemmed from physical and mental exhaustion. Also
to blame, but initially less apparent, was an evasive need for freedom
and personal time. . . which had always eluded my control. I was
trapped between asserting a nasty declaration of independence and
submitting entirely to those who would rule my time; total conqueror or
total prisoner seemed my only alternatives, and disliking both, ignored
the issue.
Returning to the more obvious realm of change as dictated by
exhaustion, my first act of healing was to quit my job.
The results were marvelous. Even before I was actually through working
at the store, I found the strain had been lifted from my mind. I was
flooded with relief and realized that, for months, I had not emanated
such happiness. Previously, I reflected, happiness only came in the
form of doing something for someone else. Thinking about myself
brought a sense of disgust and the need to deny myself of life's
pleasures. The greatest compliment I could have been given at that
time was, "You're so skinny!" If I heard comments in just suggesting
that I was in any way overweight, I would still take them seriously;
Norm caught on to my twisted thinking and quickly began calling me
"Hair-on-a-stick." It was a name I loved. . . and one that aged with
me, although I never again turned to such destructive means of abating
depression.
Ode To The Furnace
A groan,
A rumble,
Click!
Sputter!...
Then...pop!
The furnace turned on,
But my heart nearly stopped!
Lauren Isaacson
January 1981
Prey
The flight
Of the owl...
Vise-like talons
Stifle life...
The ceasing
of breath.
Lauren Isaacson
January 1981
The Endless Vigil
Step carefully, now,
For a house never sleeps;
Beware of the hallway...
The second plank creaks!
The stairs to the basement
Will yawn in dismay
At the touch of a stranger
Tiptoeing away.
Hush!...not a word
Near the southern most vent...
(On revealing one's presence
This house is bent!)
For an echoing message
Will rumble and shout;
"Someone is here,
Of this there's no doubt!"
Step carefully, now,
For a house never sleeps...
Quietly whispering,
A vigil it keeps.
Lauren Isaacson
January 27, 1981
Change. It seemed too simple to be the cure for depression;
nevertheless, a cure it was. Not all changes would be as easy as
quitting a job or dropping a class; I would not allow myself to be
fooled by my relative success regarding the cessation of dieting. Some
changes, I realized, would hurt myself and others, and these were the
ones that would deal with my freedom. . . my time; they would be the
most important changes of my life, and to forever avoid these would
lock me in an unhappy state of being. One day I knew they would be
faced, for to deprive myself of happiness would be a deprivation of
growth, and life without growth would be worse than death. Thus, before
growth's stagnation, change.
Mar. 15, 1981... I can live, love and laugh because I have known my
emotions; I have experienced ecstasy as well as depression. Serenity,
though, lies midway between the high and the low.
I was staring thoughtfully through the windshield. "I think maybe the
reason I can't make decisions is because I lack confidence, I guess."
Norm glanced over at me from the driver's seat, his eyebrows
punctuating a look of disbelief. "Man," he said, "That's great!"
enjoying the moment to its fullest.
My statement had rolled from my lips with unflinching honesty. It was
a gut analysis, a spontaneous reaction that could not be retracted once
spun into words. I shook my head. "It's pretty pathetic, isn't it?" I
laughed. It became the joke of the month between us, made more
humorous by the fact that it was true.
For the most part I was able to enjoy life after quitting my job. My
anorexic tendencies slowly disappeared and I turned my attention away
from food. School was my only real obligation, and though I applied
more pressure to various assignments than perhaps was necessary, I was
satisfied with the final results because I knew I had done my best. I
found that certain subjects made me come alive with interest, and while
self-confidence remained low, confidence in my school work increased
rapidly. Occasionally I dueled with guilty qualms when I was indulging
in recreational activities because I wondered if I had studied enough.
Rhetorically speaking, however, by what measure and under whose
authority is "enough" determined? Norm, more than anyone, helped me to
see the necessity of "letting go". . . of saying, "enough!" and turning
my back. He felt little obligation which allowed him to do as he
wished; when his emotional well-being was at stake, few people could
alter his stance. He spent time as, and with whom, he desired. If he
chose to be alone, he made sure no one interfered with his intention.
At times Norm's reactions unintentionally hurt the feelings of others,
yet his sanity remained intact; he knew his limits, and made certain
they were never reached.
I, on the other hand, would plow headlong into a doubtful situation at
the expense of my emotional well-being, to avoid hurting another
individual's feelings. I would endure intolerable people and ready
myself for the asylum, while the person rattled on and thought well of
me. After his or her departure, Norm would be responsible for finding
a putty knife and scraping me off the ceiling.
It was no secret between me and myself that I despised a fight. I
controlled anger with a fervor, frightened that I could not defend my
position if the recipient of my vehemence chose to see red. Quite
removed from anger, though, I could not even wage a modest war against
the persuasive tactics of those who would pirate my wish for solitude
or guarantee myself "equal" time in a conversation; if I was not
blessed with a fair companion, my desire to spend time alone was rarely
respected and my views were seldom heard. How was it possible to say
"no" without being hounded until my response was "yes"?. . .or claim my
share of the conversation without rudely interrupting with,
"shut up!"?...
I hated to hurt people; I once had a hard time hanging up on a prank
phone call. Nevertheless, I knew I was still slightly depressed, and
until I was able to defeat my lack of aggression, I would continue to
be haunted by the weakness and resent those who dexterously wielded the
power of persuasion over my head.
During a sociology course based on the family, students were given
various choices for extended study beyond those areas covered in the
classroom discussions and book reading. Because I loved to write, I
decided to keep a journal of my personal views on relationships. As I
had previously discovered, writing helped me to clarify my emotions in
a logical and systematic fashion; knowing this, I looked upon the
assignment quite favorably. It had been some time since I had last
spilled the contents of my mind onto paper, and an assignment dictating
that I do so granted me the time I needed to pursue my beliefs in depth
and reflect on personal experiences and observations. This assignment
would be no waste of time.
I rarely ventured anywhere without a note pad and pen. When I was
enlightened by relevant thoughts or glimpsed feelings that pertained to
my journal entries, the note pad would suddenly appear and I would
scrawl viciously until I had captured the idea in permanent ink. Soon
I possessed a hoard of ideas and encapsulated thoughts which would
serve to fuel the concepts expressed in the journal itself.
PAGE 181
Essay:
Views on Choice
". . . one's self can be either his best friend or in selfishness,
his worst enemy."
VIEWS ON CHOICE
The normal human mind is to be used; primarily it allows man to
survive. It then allows an immense capacity for growth, and a
definition of values toward compatible co-existence. A child grows to
adulthood, and similarly, his brain and thoughts are able to mature;
he can choose between instinctual selfishness or attempt to view life
with a broader scope, thereby improving the world he touches by
improving himself. The more the mind grows, the more humble its
"master" becomes, for he realizes that knowledge is infinity and
infinity cannot be encapsulated in the human brain.
It is not enough to say simply "we are what we are," for although there
are certain aspects of one's personality which, I feel, are
unchangeable, I must also believe that man has a certain amount of
liberty over his actions; yet possessing that mental freedom, man also
is capable of perverting both instinctual behavior and societal
standards of conduct.
The ideas of right and wrong are generally clarified for each person by
his elders when he is yet quite young. Even those with learning
disabilities and those who are not severely mentally retarded have the
ability to distinguish between socially defined "good" and "bad"
behavior. When children grow into adulthood, it is difficult to view
wrongdoing as simply "bad behavior," much less "acceptable"; one has
been taught to think, and then to act.
Even when the environmental aspects through one's youth are considered,
certainly the expectations of behavior and conduct are taught in the
school; the child cannot say he was not aware of the societal rules,
despite any lack of respect for those rules in the home. Each
individual possesses a mind of his own; he is free to act upon or
disregard negative pressure.
Saying evil occurred due to environmental pressures is, perhaps,
today's way of avoiding the issue of bad and good behavior, blaming
life's circumstances for immorality, instead of facing the fact that
the person made a wrong decision of his own accord. Those who
continually blame other people and circumstances for their personality
disturbances gain little respect, for one can choose with whom and in
what manner he desires to spend his time. Exceptions shall always
exist, yet often a grand problem can be reduced by making select
changes in one's life; changes such as a transferal from a tough job
situation, or the decision to stop interactions with a "friend" who
truly is not a friend. People must be responsible for their own
actions, although it is always easier to blame, to utilize a scapegoat.
It is virtual music to the ears to hear someone in this age admit that
he has made a mistake or has done a grave disservice to humankind.
The environment argument robs each person of his individuality, for if
one cannot be punished for wrongdoing then he cannot be applauded for
decent behavior. It would be as if one was a robot, devoid of
character, and stripped of choice. Furthermore, the fact that two
children from the same environment, indeed, the same home, can grow to
be complete opposites in character, subtracts environmental importance
regarding one's disposition and life choices. It is not so much the
environment as the manner in which one reacts to it that forms one's
personality.
There are countless choices in life; whether to lie, or tell the truth,
to cheat or be fair; whether to be unresponsive or kind, to give or,
like a child, demand constant nurturing. Then, of course, there are
degrees of tolerance regarding the enactment of distasteful traits and
illegal practices. While a minor may snatch a bottle of liquor and
proceed to intoxicate himself in the woods behind his house, an adult
can legally indulge, yet will then climb into his car and drive
haphazardly to his next destination; an under-aged drinker, and a drunk
driver...both are illegal, but for me there is no contest as to which
is the worse offender since the "adult" drunk is jeopardizing lives
with each block he passes.
When other crimes are committed, such as mass slayings and violent
attacks upon innocent victims, insanity is often utilized as a way to
avoid severe punishment. While certain individuals may well be apart
from reality, surely not all of those who claim insanity are, for they
knew exactly what they did, as well as the implications and seriousness
of the crime.
When an apparently mentally intact adult commits such a brutal
violation of the societal code of conduct, it is difficult to
rationalize his behavior as acceptable by way of insanity; certainly he
exercised a choice, worsened by the fact that he was an adult. He did
not use self-control; though he felt murderous, he did not have to act
upon his impulse.
If an individual was bound inextricably to a fore-fated disposition by
(God) then his actions would prove nothing as to the man's character...
that is, his inherent ability to choose right over wrong. If God
undertook the creation of a perfectly "good man," in so much that he,
the man, was incapable of doing evil, the man could not receive
applause for his acts of good will because he essentially had no other
choice.
In conversations with my father, he often offered an inquiry for
discussion as to which man is essentially the "better" of the
following: a non-drinker who, without the slightest twinge of anxiety,
refuses a drink, or the alcoholic who, fighting desperately, also
refuses a drink as sweat forms upon his brow. My father could always
come to the conclusion that the non-drinker was, in essence, the weaker
of the two described since he felt no temptation in the first place and
could not be congratulated for a decision which created no mental
turmoil.
The above analogy could be substituted in many arenas of human
weakness. Though the degree of temptation toward wrong-doing varies
among its subjects, I believe the most courage and fortitude of
character is demonstrated by those who are able to rule their impulses
and seek the road of a clear conscience. A battle won with oneself
against injustice will always remain a noble endeavor; one's self can
be either his best friend or in selfishness, his worst enemy. There
are times in everyone's life when two or more choices present
themselves for inspection; and it is not always easy to choose the
ethical course of action, yet for those who are mentally aware of
themselves and the people who share their world, there should ideally
exist only one choice, the benevolent choice.
It will never be possible for one human to completely judge another's
character, and likewise carry out justice on earth. Even if the
committers of crimes are punished, justice will not come to the victim
who suffered the loss or trauma. The victim's pain can recede, but it
cannot be washed away. My mother told me once that when she was a
little girl, she thought God would strike down evil people, and they
would one day fall over, dead and benign. It did not take long for her
young eyes to see that life was not that way. However, one can,
perhaps, derive a small amount of satisfaction from hope vested in
"ultimate justice" and the idea that a being far greater than the
greatest human is able to detect one's truthfulness and the depth of
his knowledge of right and wrong.
PAGE 183
Essay:
Views on Awareness
"An individual who is not one with his inner core cannot hope to give
of himself fully, for his mind encompasses only his life, and not life
itself. "
VIEWS ON AWARENESS
The inevitable passage of time, varying levels of maturity, and our
life experiences are all elements which, in part, have the power to
change our outlook on life and alter our personality; it is yet the
mind, however, which fully determines our reaction. To illustrate this
point, allow me to create the following scenario; two women, both of
whom enjoy a life of queenly leisure, are one day forced to face their
husbands' untimely death, thereby obliterating a prime factor in their
story book existence. One woman, quite distressed, solemnly prepares
for her husband's funeral arrangements. After the initial shock of his
sudden departure from the earth, she is able to settle into her daily
routine once again.
The other woman, however, is completely unable to accept the solid
truth that her husband is dead. She pines remorsefully through each
day and wearies her friends with her incessant lamentations. So
obsessed with the mourning of her late husband is she, that she
eventually falls into deep depression and seeks the aid of a
psychiatrist.
Thus we have seen two instances which have had numerous circumstances
in common, yet the manner in which the women reacted to their
misfortune was markedly different. This leads me to believe that an
individual is essentially who he will ever be at birth, excluding, of
course, those accidental occurrences which mar and sometimes obliterate
certain abilities of both mind and body.
Despite my belief that a person will be essentially unchanged from his
mental and behavioral patterns as determined at birth, there is within
each individual a certain ability to change; however, the potential
must be there. One cannot become someone or something for which he
lacks all foundation.
That which allows an individual to overcome the reins of selfishness
and base behavior, and to grow toward the best image of himself is
awareness. It is the key to change and self-improvement, and through
these qualities I believe it also sets one free.
Awareness is not easily given to definition, having so many variables
which shroud its very essence in obscurity. It is more than one's
perception of the world; it is also the ability of an individual to
view himself with objectivity and in turn, understand the way in which
he is visualized by others; it is seeing the world through an eagle's
eyes, and conducting oneself in such a manner as to avoid injuring
humankind; it is demonstrating respect to one's neighbors and
associates in a way which is conducive to nature's intent and societal
congeniality. It is the ability to know when the time is right to
voice one's opinions and when, also, to remain silent; it is
restraining habits in the presence of others which are discourteous or
distracting; it is conducting oneself in a manner respectful of himself
and the whole of society, for without the benefit of the unselfish, the
world could not exist.
Unlike other aspects of ability, awareness is not a factor which is
easily determined. This is so because there is no scale by which to
calculate awareness as there is in dealing with educational acuteness.
Moreover, awareness does not necessarily reflect intelligence; one can
be extremely intelligent yet possess no sensitivity regarding his
conduct. To further add to the confusion, everyone feels himself to be
aware of his actions; while some undoubtedly control every aspect of
their personality in public situations, others feel as if they are
perceptive, but conduct themselves rather distastefully in the midst of
others. Once alerted to their actions, they are able to alter their
behavior. Still others continue to demonstrate highly irregular
behavioral patterns even after candid instruction, for they feel their
actions are in no way peculiar, and are not hesitant to say there is no
reason for them to change. Then, of course, the true victims of
insanity are not responsible for their actions, for reality has become
distorted and vague; the same is true of mentally retarded individuals.
Just as every human being has mental and physical potentials, so, I
believe, do we have an "awareness potential." In all things there are
degrees of performance and capabilities which are instilled within us
long before birth; these seeds can sometimes lay dormant until,
perhaps, the need arises for their use or they are, in effect, stumbled
upon by their master. Though we may well attain our potential in a
certain area, whether it be consciousness toward societal behavior or
an inexplicable hatred for the mathematical language, there are other
mental and physical arenas which are seemingly boundless in regard to
one's capabilities; I tend to think of these as one's "natural gifts"
which apparently grow with little effort on the part of the individual
thus endowed. We are not created equal in the mental, emotional, or
physical sense; we do, however, excel in various facets of each. Thus,
while its presence alone determines if one can change, the amount of
one's awareness is the controlling factor of how much one can change.
Through observation and extensive thought, I have reached the
conclusion that any obsessive self-indulgence or selfishness is merely
a hollow attempt by the individual thus incensed to fill an emotional
void. Self-love is quite separate from self-infatuation, with the
latter lacking all objectivity in thinking because all thought is
mirrored toward oneself. Selfishness is an insatiable hunger which
consumes far too many individuals; as with all obsessive emotions, it
feeds upon the imprisoned mind, destroying the love and replacing it
with malignant desire, resulting in no less than hatred.
No one can read the mind of another, or delve therein for the
truthfulness of his statements or actions. Only the individual knows
whether he is giving his best or if selfishness is the controlling
power behind all deeds. I do feel, however, that one who displays a
knowledge of all restrictions and codes of conduct regarding another's
rightful behavior toward himself is also capable of returning respect
and cordiality, for obviously he is aware of societal expectations.
When a person is aware of his faults but makes no effort to change, he
is a leech upon society which drains others of their rightly earned
freedoms, whether as simple as desiring a yard bereft of dog litter or
the wish for tranquillity, or as significant as the right to security
and peace within the home. He who takes from society without returning
something of himself gains the regard of no one. One determines the
way in which he shall be treated by his self-conduct; respect begets
respect.
The person who indulges in selfishness is a most distressing companion;
he demands rather than asks, and will not take "no" for an answer; he
is opinionated and short-sighted, seeing only the effects a certain
measure will have upon his own welfare; he feels he knows everything,
and will be pleased to fill one in; if he listens, he will misconstrue
the information or turn it around to suit himself. One unwilling to
change himself looks only to his own needs; he is unable to release his
child-like mentality for fear that he shall not receive "his share";
riding abreast of laziness, rebellion, resentment, or another usually
child-like mode of behavior, he locks himself in a prison which he
himself built. Indeed, he would be pitied if he was not so abhorred;
yet it is unfair to expect a share of the harvest if one has not also
planted seed in the field. Thus instead of attempting to discover the
true problem behind his emptiness, the self-centered individual often
ignores his mind's plea for help and tries to fulfill himself through
that which others will give, creating a most devastating hindrance
toward personal growth.
One must develop his mind to the point that he can love and accept
himself, and regard his flaws not as hopeless, but rather, attributes
which, with growth, will be overcome. Only through undiluted awareness
can one develop wholeness of character. An individual who is not one
with his inner core cannot hope to give of himself fully, for his mind
encompasses only his life, and not life itself.
While awareness allows one to discover his faults, honesty clarifies
them. Looking into one's own character can be unpleasant and even
distressing, for there is no one who does not wish to erase certain
mindless inclinations and base emotions from his personality slate.
However, without the initial realization and acceptance of such faults,
no reversal shall take place. It is through these confessions to
oneself that one is able to grow and eventually change into a being
more worthy of his own existence in the realm of nature. I view
honesty as a product of love. Therefore, honesty toward oneself must
be of utmost importance in the development of self-love and the
creation of inner wholeness. In this scope, perhaps it could be said
that irrationality is an attempt to "mask" selfishness, for few who act
toward the benefit of humanity will inflict upon it needless pain. For
the most part, only thoughtlessness proves injurious to the masses.
Just as it is important to nurture one's character, so is it imperative
to see the whole character and weed from it that which desires to choke
and plague its life and surrounding lives.
I believe that each individual desires to be liked by his fellow man
and have a sense of "belonging" . . . (although certain individuals so
desire companionship that they succumb to the notions of others and rob
themselves of a personality). They want to possess a feeling of
individuality, and be accepted for who they are and wish to become.
Far from perfect, I realize that I could use an infinite amount of
improvement within my character, and despite the menacing flaws which I
must face, I feel quite fortunate to be able to acknowledge them, for
without detection, they could not be overcome. I hope that I will grow
in strength and love until I no longer live, for when inner growth
stagnates, one essentially dies.
Soul's Voyage
Alone, I observe
In the eerie glow
The earth-bound voyage
Of falling snow.
The trees are all clad
In angelic white...
Such calm I find
On this midwinter's night!
Framed by the door,
'Twas the picture of peace
And earnestly beckoned
My soul to release
That I might lose myself
In night's deepest confines,
Ne'er to return
To life's dismal design.
My heart would not yearn,
Nor would it pine
For a life that was lost
To one more divine.
Ah, but alas!
And how the night flies
From dawn's icy fingers
And wind's bitter cries!
'Twas naught but a dream:
The night gone by
When moonbeam rays
Kissed snow-drenched skies!
Ah, cruel memory!
Disparaging blow!
For my hopes are consumed
'Neath the deepening snow.
Lauren Isaacson
January 1981
PAGE 187