A Compassion Project

Something has been bothering me. Last Monday a couple came into Beets and gave one of my coworkers a card about compassion. They have a site, www.AvatarResults.com, the purpose of which is to “increase the amount of compassion in the world” through “compassion exercises.” Now Nicki, my previously mentioned coworker, is one of the most understanding, caring, and compassionate people I know. So, when I said, “that’s something I need,” in reference to the card, it through me off when she responded in a matter of fact way with “yeah, you do.” Of course I meant what I said, and I still mean it—we could all stand to be a little more compassionate; so I shouldn’t have been surprised by her reaction. But I was, and my surprise made me realize something. I go around spouting a philosophy of compassion: Go Vegan! Sweatshop Free’s the Way to Be! Buy local, volunteer, give homeless people your extra food… but does that make me a compassionate person? Do I try to be understanding? Am I really aware when the people around me need help, and do I really help whenever I can? How can I be this amazing, compassionate person when an even more amazing, compassionate person can’t recognize me as such?
As I went about the next few days trying to be compassionate I happened upon this video: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=u20vVbhpM50. In it Srikumar Rao talks about a “me-centered universe” in which each individual thinks about their lives by asking, “How does this affect me? Will it lead to my personal happiness?” The best way to achieve this happiness we all seem to seek, according to Rao, is to align ourselves with doing something for the greater good rather than just the greatest good for the individual.
I couldn’t agree more, and as I thought about how I got stuck in this uni-verse of mine, something became very clear. It wasn’t my fault. I didn’t get stuck here I was put here, condition to be this way. Society preaches the idea that you have to help yourself before you can help anyone else. It’s funny to think about everyone who has told me that, particularly on my last road trip with Kiley.
When we would tell people our story, that we dropped our lives to drive around the country trying to make an intimate (don’t misread that word) connection with people on a one-on-one level; so many people would say that what we were doing was admirable then, inevitably, put us down. “You don’t have money saved up? You don’t have jobs? You have a dog with you? How can you pay for gas, feed yourselves, feed the dog? You can’t help anyone, you can’t even help yourselves.” That was the sentiment everyone put out, but who did these people think they were, darnit? Aside from a few very successful, yet irrefutably selfish people in our lives (I want to take a second to point out that I am not referring to my incredibly generous and ever encouraging aunt, thank you for everything… ever, Aunt Sharon), the bulk of these nay-sayers were the even more successful, uber-me-centered and consequently very wealthy people of Scottsdale, Arizona. With the exception of our time with the amazing Foster family who took us under their wing, we were starving and homeless in Phoenix and yet somehow we always seemed to interact with individuals who were far from it. Very few of those individuals helped us, and while the ones that did went above and beyond; looking back now begs the question: at what point has one helped herself enough to be able to help others?
Don’t get me wrong, we weren’t looking for handouts we were looking to connect with people and, if we could, help them in whatever way they needed it most. The thought of others not even offering us words of encouragement, let alone food or shelter, didn’t bother me until I started writing this blog.
Perhaps I’m being too hard on them, though, perhaps I’m just trying to distract from my own inadequacies when it comes to compassion. What I do know without speculation, however, I want to reiterate: we can all stand to be a little more compassionate. We need to begin to open our eyes and notice when we need one another. And the best help we can give is to show how much we care. I don’t mean how much in terms of how much money we donate, how many things we can give; I mean how much of ourselves we can give. A human connection, knowing that someone else cares and thinks you matter; that’s what people need.
I guess I can’t be mad at Nicki for pointing out that I don’t try as hard as I could to be compassionate, I can only be grateful for what she made me realize. On a similar note I encourage everyone to check out http://charterforcompassion.org. Watch the video, read other peoples stories of compassion and share you own.

The Trip-- Austin (2)

2
Betty’s heart beat slow, breath stalling, rain pelted the windows signaling a life at stake she’d never known before. Four months ago this wouldn’t have happened and for months since she’s moved onto shredding up white cloth in her free time—never hiding her mutilated addiction and affection for another woman.
The girls fought a lot, unhappy with this infected situation in which Alice had placed them. Lonely and looking not out for each other they closed the door and left Betty behind.
Mother Egan had no problem accepting them into her home with open arms—an outpouring of warmth and love they had never known.
As behind Betty was left listening to blood boiling over the edge of her new neighbor’s tub. A murder/ suicide? While the culprit rides off in the middle of the night; stalking, engine revving lust for busty blonde overwhelming. Senses deaden as he licks his dripping lips thick with the stench of worn iron. She has not learned what love is, but it is coming for her.

Coffee Shops, Computer Chargers, and New Homes...Oh My!

Seriously, where are all the good coffee shops in Austin? I have come across nothing but sub-par joints with bad coffee, bartistas who are rude and don’t ever give you what you ask for, and sad people who are trying too hard to be un-Texan. Fair Bean buzzes with negative energy and suffocates me every time I walk in, Bouldin is dirty and filled with chatty people who sit around and do nothing but complain, which quit honestly rubs off on me; I’ve been to some others but they’re obviously not memorable. The only place I actually like is Coffee Bean and they’re a chain. At least they don’t burn their coffee. Perhaps I just miss the coffee shops of yor. Henry’s, Aimee’s, La Prima Tazza… but those are from times long gone, and though I loved them all dearly—except Aimee’s, I know they’re not where I belong.
So, where do I belong? If I’m counting down the days until I’ve been here a year, why even stay that long? Why not just move on now? As I contemplated staying or going the sun finally came out here in Austin. It was a gorgeous, bright day and I couldn’t have been more grateful. Much like today, before I made my way to Fair Bean…Anyway, all of the sun seemed bring life to me.
Unfortunately what was lacking in life was my computer charger, it went all some-lucky-girl-got-the-guy-who-was-shooting-blanks on me. I suppose these things weren’t made to last longer than their warranty. Needless to say I made my way to Best Buy to best-buy a new one. I did not get the best-deal, and I wondered what kind of profit HP turns on a simple computer charger. Of course, Best Buy also has to turn a profit and in turn my profit drops $87 in the red. It just didn’t seem right that I was paying so much for something so little. Does HP really need to charge that much for a charger? Apparently PC companies don’t really make a huge profit compared to other technologies, but somebody’s gotta’ sacrifice their lives so I can check my email and write a blog. And boy, what a sacrifice that is. It seems HP’s president, Mark Hurd, reportedly made a dismal $25.4 million last year. The Silicon Beat reports, “a $1.45 million salary and $23.9 million in bonus money.” Now, I don’t mean to imply the Markster doesn’t deserve every penny he gets. In fact, while HP’s profits had dropped significantly in the past few years, in the first quarter of 2009, shortly after he was hired, they were apparently up. According to money.cnn.com this is, in part, due to Hurd’s great leadership skills in his first act as company president: cut 10% of jobs. Brilliant. Guess that’s why he gets paid the big bucks, he’s clearly an innovative thinker. But really, with leaders profiting so much personally, where do they expect HP’s company profit to go? And all the while someone in China or Mexico makes a whole thirty-five cents an hour, no wonder my new computer charger is working just as well as my old one...
Anyway, all week I couldn’t put my finger on what exactly it was that was bothering me so much about Austin. It’s a great city with great people. I mean, sure they try a little too hard to not be Texas (but who can blame them) while still trying to profit any way they can on “liberal” “progressive” things that are “green” or “eco-friendly” ;at least they’re trying to do some good in the process. I like it here, I do. I like my friends, I like my job, and I like my gym with all its really hot trainers. So, what the hell is wrong with me?
It took a new friend to help me realize: it’s not home and I haven’t been able to make it my home. First it was the boy’s home filled with his books, his movies, his pillows. I just had a suitcase. And when it wasn’t his home anymore I was just a stranger wondering around in a strange land, the Land of Oz. (Keep up folks, read my excerpts from the 6th and Oz project I’m working on.)
So, here I am, a Dorothy lost in someone else’s Oz, looking for my way back home. For almost two months now I’ve been trying to bring myself to give the boy back his books and his movies and his pillow. Yesterday I finally did. Well, Sasha did. I was going to do it, but I couldn’t. I don’t know if it was just too hard or if I’ve already moved on, I’m ready for something else, someone else and I didn’t want anything getting in the way of that. I’m not sad about anything that happened. Actually, I’m grateful. I couldn’t have moved to Austin without him. But I CAN live in Austin without him. It’s my home too now. I don’t miss him, but at times I do wish what could have been would have gotten the opportunity to be. I didn’t move here for him, he just happened to give me the fastest and easiest way out of Kansas. I’ve been operating under the assumption that he was the scarecrow, the tin man, and the cowardly lion helping this Dorothy find her way back home; but now I think they’re still to come; waiting for me on the horizon, beckoning me with every storm cloud that rolls by, every rainy day. Or maybe, and this is the way I really like to think of it, maybe I’m all of them--Dorothy and the whole crew--and I can find my way home on my own; the boy was just the tornado that swept through the prairie and carried me somewhere over the rainbow. I was already displaced from my home; maybe the tornado brought me a little bit closer to finding it again.
Oh, and one good thing about Fair Bean: Very attractive owner.
**If you like what I have to say you can read more at www.meganwhitney.org.

6

Houses are being built up high, blocking Dorothy’s view of the Emerald City. Will she ever get there, find home?
The sun seemed to have trouble rising this morning, but she did not. Eight o’clock and the boy was still up, whiskied-out. She could not help and even if she could he would still walk away. For now she’ll have to do with raw smiles on the faces of balloon men at lunchtime.
~~
Attraction, that’s what Dorothy needed. To attract something or someone; to shake her insecurities, emotional wreckage built over time and rainbows… but then again wasn’t that why she ventured out in the first place?
She thought of bumpy hills, rockied mountains, roads that snaked along never ending; never finding happiness. In her mind her journey was one of self-undiscovery. And so, as she thought, she got. Unhappiness overwhelmed. No thank you again and again. She had a choice.
Calling the wicked witch unto her, she let evil torment, infest her thoughts, flourish in its new found home—her closing mind. Where was Christopher’s mythical mushroom god when she needed him? Please. But to no avail.
What she saw on summer nights, sticky flesh sapping mosquitoes in their wake of nourishing bliss-hiving stems slender and bone, what she saw in her mind became in her hand. Palms outstretched, extending from arms bowing under pressure, lashing out in pain—was struggle, suffering she could not whelm-in. The flesh of the Earth she had planted the seed and with one small thought it began to grow wild, relentless; life in a deadening state.
Paralleled with magnetism only to Dorothy’s mind, the wicked witch had manifested herself to life, overwhelming goodness and love.

**To read more of this story, or check out more of my works please check out meganwhitney.org

The Trip-- Austin

Austin

1
The girls went out that night, having nowhere else to go. They never had anywhere to go. Stuck in place, begging to get out of their mobile home; Betty was left behind. 6th St walkers blow in breezy night air off the river. Searching, scanning bars for that one man who could take them home, take them in for just this night, and wash them in acid. They found him rolling on cots from side to side; his scent a coppered drum beating in the room while Indigenous peoples of Mexico circled road, crying out in pain. The agony a turn on for the night, he solicited the use.
Afterwards the trail built up sticky, filth lined the walls, jettisoned out Scarbrough’s Truths: Betty was left behind.

About Last Night

This is the beginnings of a short story I'm working on. The second section mixes tenses a little. I think it flows well, but I'm not sure it comes across in my head the same way it reads. Please let me know what you think!
XOXO
--Megan

That morning Jenny awoke unaware.
1
Her skin dulled under the poor light in the bathroom. Reminiscent of Jaundice; still she, needing less makeup, applied more mascara. One final glance of gaunt face, a spritz on the wrist from a golden bottle over powered the room with strong floral scents. Inhaling, her chest quivered in release, as did her hand placing perfume on sink’s edge. She needed a cigarette. She needed to eat. She needed a cup of coffee. She needed validation. Validation from a little boy, underage perhaps, but she didn’t care. Though he wasn’t and they both knew. Validation from the things he gave her, and they were many. Things he didn’t want, didn’t need, never used. Things shared between them on hot summer nights with air thick and stale. A ring here, a bracelet there, every now and then they’d venture out for dinner or drinks. She never ate and he drank too much. Things reserved for a wife, places reserved for a wife, feelings he never reserved for his wife; and not even this girl. Underage, perhaps, but he didn’t care. Though she wasn’t and they both knew.
2
When John got home that night he kissed his wife. She smiled. She had been reading a book in bed, waiting up for him. John’s wife was named Barbara, but everyone called her Barb. She was five seven with blonde hair, blue eyes, and a curvy body that curved even more now that she’d had two kids. They’d met when John’s parents dragged him to see his cousin in a beauty pageant, Ms. Sunflower State. He doesn’t remember how his cousin did in the pageant, or even how Barb did for that matter. What he does remember is his one night stand turning into, “John, I’m pregnant.” They’ve been married for eleven years now, give or take a few, who can remember these things? When John kissed his wife she smelled flowers. “Honey, have you seen the earrings you bought me last Christmas?” “No, sorry. Maybe Ellie was playing dress up again.” John new his daughter didn’t take them; instead he had given them to his girlfriend, the one who smelled like flowers.
3 John’s other girlfriend didn’t smell like flowers. In fact, John didn’t know how she smelled because she wasn’t his girlfriend. She was just the girl who made his coffee in the mornings. He never learned her name, still he loved her. He loved her more than he loved his wife and more than he loved his girlfriend. His wife never made him coffee, just dinner; the same crappy dinner every night of the week. Sunday chicken, Monday roast beef, Tuesday hamburgers, Wednesday they ate something and Thursday they ate something and on the weekends they ate too, he just didn’t remember what. It never involved coffee though, not even with breakfast. That’s why he went to the coffee shop. His girlfriend never made him anything either, at least not coffee. She didn’t like cream in her coffee—
4
That morning Jenny awoke unaware of the life shattering events that occurred just hours before. When, as that morning broke abounding new and fresh life, Someone was being suffocated with a pillow as she slept. Did Someone awake in panic, flail about with limbs waiving in vain attempt for survival? Jenny will never know. She was sleeping at the time and only awoke that morning, unaware. … “How are you today?” John nodded in response, a gruff sound came from his throat. His response was unconscious and surprising. “Fine.” Too gruff, a billy goat or she was a troll. Shorter than Barb. Petite, beautiful. “The usual?” Again he nodded, held back second gruff creeping up throat. He watched her turn, walk away to get coffee. Skirt swayed left, right, left, right, left, right, left right, left right, left right, left right, leftright, leftright… “Will that be all? Sir?” He had been staring off at nothing. The memory of a brief glance. John refocused his eyes on the girls face. Trying to look concerned, he could tell she was more annoyed. Seeing the cardboard cup his coffee was in he blurted, “here.” "Would you like me to put it in a mug?” Shaking his head, he pushed some cash on the counter, grabbed the recycled cardbored, and walked to an empty table far away from her. Sat. Thought. About last night.

To read more of this story, or check out more of my works please check out meganwhitney.org