my first big change

my change came in on soft footsteps,

surprising my classic Lancaster County blond hair

with a stirring blast of tropical wind. 

it was a warm Vietnamese war wind, but little did i know

how hot it would become,

or i might have worn several hats.

as it was, the hat i came in with was

white skinned and speaking plain English

with a working class accent.

and it was a fine hat and i used to feel comfortable

wearing it while riding my bike to a

little league ball game on a Saturday afternoon and

everyone i knew wore a similar hat,

even without playing ball.  they had their games, too.

and everyone i knew spoke alike and, yes, almost looked alike,

playing by acknowledged rules on our simple public streets,

or telling simple secrets on simple bedroom sheets.

the only changes i noticed among my friends and their

parents and local shopkeepers and the milk delivery man

were when a new puppy or kitten were shown off or when it was Sunday morning

and someone wore a fine new suit or a newer dress, with the hem line

customarily long even if the shoes were polished and short.

i remember it was easy to float from day to day; it was never difficult to

tell a tall tale or listen to a silly joke about a bathing suit that tore

at a certain seam during a summer co-ed swim.

the seasons changed-not much else, it seemed.

my change was not subtle, no, hammering at me harder and more

directly then a book about carpentry might have.

the change was abrupt, as though my caterpillar shell was torn apart

before i became a skittish butterfly.  

I had traveled from relatively sheltered living to distress and loss and

aloneness with the assistance of an overnight military flight.

to where, i wondered?  for what purpose, i wondered?

why me, i wondered?  who was i, i wondered?

i was naive.  i didn't know about wisdom.  i had not known real love.

i had not felt grief.  i had not experienced anguish or true loss; you know, the kind

of loss that digs deeply and refuses to unclamp your heart

from its' terrible grip.

the songs of the 60's didn't change me.

the books by Vonnegut, Asimov, Tolstoi, Dostoevsky and others,

didn't change me.  

i was drowning without a genuine self-respect but wondered dimly where would i find any in an ocean

of organized cruelty?

i looked around more closely, moving with all senses aware.

i was somewhere, that much was certain.  but where?  on the path of life, where?

i felt singular in an alien world of unfamiliar faces and unexpected

demands; believed i was unrecognized as a unique person; was ignored for

any characteristic other than the performance of a special skill which total strangers 

wanted me to perform for their benefit.  or for the benefit of someone else somewhere else!

i remember being unable to see the meaning of who i was.

i remember being unable to remember much of anything.

i remember touching a white flower to see if it was real.

i remember looking around at a torn countryside and seeing the pointlessness of life.

i remember feeling there was no point.

and then, suddenly, as though inside a spring rain, I remember I remembered what it is to be ME.

i was a flower, too!

and that is always the point:

remembering what it is to be ME.

and that was my first big change.