I Will Not Take These Things For Granted

I'm sure my neighbor, Shane the Urbane, thinks I'm a total nutter (he's English...or Irish, something like that) because I play the same record over and over again. It's not because I am obsessed with the record and must always hear it, as though it were the soundtrack to my life (that distinction right now actully belongs to Travis, and their record, 12 Memories, which, when I'm not playing it via the discman, still rings through my head in a very disturbing way, but anyway). It's actually because the discplayer to the stereo I am using has gone haywire and only plays the radio or tapes. And since I hate hate HATE the radio right now and have very few tapes (when I once had scores of them) my commercial-free music selection is limited.

So, the record I constantly play when I am home is Fear, by Toad the Wet Sprocket. I've been a Toad fan since I was a freshman in High School. I was sad when they broke up. There is a song on it that eloquently expresses a feeling I had this morning as I was laying on my bed reading a book, after having voluntarily shuttered myself indoors for the course of the weekend. It's called "I Will Not Take These Things for Granted."

At one point, I glanced over at my left hand which, though large (I have man-hands, thanks Dad), is actually perfectly formed. I was born with perfectly formed hands, as most - but not all - of us usually are. I looked at the skin stretching pink over my knuckle and I had the sense that it was actually beautiful. Thinking that anything about myself is beautiful is a relatively unknown experience for me. It made me uncomfortable and I resumed reading.

But I kept thinking back to my hands and I thought, "I am very fortunate to have admittedly large, yet perfectly formed hands. I also have perfectly formed legs, and to test them out, I started moving them at will, curious how my brain was interpreting the command "Move my legs," as "like a robot," so I could actually feel how they moved and consequently prove that my innate dorkiness is not a learned behavior, but something deep-seeded in my brain.

Additionally, I thought, I can see (barely) and hear and read and write. I have grown up privileged according to many standards, though we never had much money. But I got an education and then went to a private college where I met lifelong friends and graduated with a healthy B+ average. I have a degree.

I live in one of the greatest cities in the world. I have a job. I have good friends here. More lifelong friends. And friends through them.

My parents are still alive and relatively healthy. My siblings are smart, hard-working, and I love them. Even the youngest one, who tries my patience to the nth degree.

These are all the things I have. So for my brain to say to me "You have nothing. You are nothing. And at this rate, you will always be and have nothing," is a seriously selfish, demeaning, vicious, mean-spirited thing to say. For my brain to know what it knows and to reside in such a body as mine, with no real physical impediments; for it to say these things, it must truly be broken. For it to overlook my fortunate circumstances and take its blessings for granted, it must really be one beat down dog.

Therefore, the only logical thing to do is to use my perfectly formed, fully functioning, strong, able hands, limbs, and senses, (with the help of my carefully woven network of friends and family) and the knowledge that resides in my brain, to reform and reshape the definition of who I am while hopefully uncovering the strength and soul and humor that once carried me...and putting it back where it belongs.