Seattle Yogini

Dear Governor Palin...Sincerely, A Veteran

Dear Governor Palin,

Yesterday I read with increasing gall your reproach to fans whom you mistook for protesters at a recent rally in Virginia.  You took the opportunity to, yet again, pull your "I support U.S. troops/veterans" card, saying:

"I hope those protesters have the courage and honor to give veterans thanks for their right to protest."

Well, I am here - a veteran myself - to tell you that it is getting old.  I am tired of being a tool for politicians to cull more votes.  I am tired of people pretending the U.S. military is something it is not.  I am tired or people with a microphone insinuating that the military has provided for our right to protest what they have to say...as a means of one-upping the protesters.

I was an officer in the U.S. Air Force for four years, during which time I served in two war zones (one of which was a combat zone).  As such, I feel the need to point out an important misconception that you, and many others, seem to hold regarding the military's role as it relates to American's right to protest.  Let us begin by reviewing the oath of office, which all military officers take upon commissioning (there is also an oath of office for enlisted personnel, but here I focus on my own experience).  The oath states that we swear to "...support and defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies, foreign and domestic..." not to support the president, the country, or even the government itself...but the document which, ostensibly, makes our nation what it is.

In the Constitution we are guaranteed many rights, but since you brought it up I will focus on the First Amendment, ratified in 1791, which states:

"Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof; or abridging the freedom of speech, or of the press; or the right of the people peaceably to assemble, and to petition the Government for a redress of grievances."

So, here we're offered "free speech" as well as the right to gather in a peaceful manner.  If those rights are curtailed we are guaranteed the opportunity to bring our complaint up with the government.  I am neither a U.S. History nor a Military History scholar, so I can't speak to the events leading up to the creation of this Amendment.  I can, however, offer some observations about my experience in the military, vis-a-vis protesters.

I was never called on to ensure that a group of protesters were guaranteed their right to gather.  I never had to do anything to protect someone's free speech, nor any other right guaranteed by the First Amendment.  My own rights were (voluntarily) curtailed during my tenure in the service, but that was more-or-less understood before signing up.  My service, from 2000 to 2004, had very little to do with what my oath entailed, and everything to do with spreading America's interest/involvement into other parts of the world and calling it a "War on Terror".

The military as I knew it was (and, in my opinion, continues to be) an offensive force, rather than a force supporting and defending the U.S. Constitution.  Our Constitutional rights were not in danger when President Bush made the call to invade Iraq in 2002.  That decision, many would argue, was instead made many years earlier.  Sadly, it seems that many of our Constitutional rights seem to have been put in danger more from the current administration than from any outside source...and yet so far the military has not been called to change that trend.  When I took my oath I (perhaps naively) believed that my vow to offer my life in protection of my country would be handled with the utmost care.  I trusted my government to put my skills and force to use only in dire situations.  I believed in the Constitution and in the oath of office.  I thought that my years in the service would uphold that oath, rather than being redirected toward the machinations of "spreading democracy".

Let me be very clear:  my service did not ensure anyone's right to protest.  Those fans/protesters do not have the right to protest because people like me had or have the "courage and honor" to serve in the military.  They have that right because leaders of a bygone era had the foresight to create a Bill of Rights particularly to cover things that were not laid out in the Constitution.  We all have the right to protest not because military members have guaranteed it, but because the Constitution does.  Theoretically, military members guarantee the protection of the Constitution, but so far that is not a task to which our military has been assigned.

Please, Madam Governor, I implore you:

• If you truly support America's troops, find a way to bring them home safely and stop putting them in danger just to spread American influence (nobody likes a bully, any school kid could tell you that).
• If you truly support America's veterans, improve funding to the Department of Veterans Affairs (among other organizations) and improve the opportunities for care to those of us who need it.
• Last but not least, stop using the troops/veterans card to entice people to vote for you, it's a cheap tactic that insults the intelligence of American voters.

Sincerely,

Kelly Pretlow

Yogini, Veteran

The first time I taught Yoga

I remember the first time I taught yoga.  I was deployed to Prince Sultan Air Base, Kingdom of Saudi Arabia.  It was December of 2002 and I'd been there for a couple of weeks.  I'd finally plucked up the courage to take my yoga mat and my copy of David Swenson's Ashtanga Yoga:  The Practice Manual to the gym so that I could practice.  I had informally practiced Ashtanga for a little while (using this book, a couple of classes, and a DVD), and brought the book along so that I could practice the Primary Series whilst deployed.  At the time I wasn't sure if the book would get confiscated upon entering the Kingdom, due to the near-nakedness of Mr. Swenson in the photos (he wears the traditional "Iyengar undies" - sorry I can't find a link, but they basically look like a cotton diaper cover, with elastic legs and waist).  So I snuck the book in.  :-p

Anyway, I'd been spotted practicing in the gym and was asked if I would teach a class.  Apparently there had been a lot of interest shown in having a yoga class, but there was no one to teach.  I hadn't had any teacher training, so when asked if I would be the teacher I promptly and decisively said "No."  I was reluctantly swayed, however, after we reached an agreement that participants in the class would be told that I was "leading them through a pratice, not teaching them yoga."  I felt very strongly about that, because while I knew that I could play Yoga Simon Says with whomever showed up, I knew that I lacked the skills to safely and appropriately teach to each individual's ability and needs.  That concept is one of my guiding principals, and I'm thankful that even back then I recognized the important difference between going through some yoga moves with a yoga-bot at the front of the class and being taught the art and science of yoga by a trained, professional teacher.

Classes went well - twice a week - until the war got under way and my work schedule made it impossible for me to teach.  That experience underscored for me the importance of having adequate teacher training - not just having experience practicing yoga - before truly becoming a teacher.  Also, I may be the only yoga teacher who can honestly say that her first classes were taught while she was at war, and mean it figuratively as well as literally.

Missy

I remember the fist time I heard Missy Elliott's "Get Your Freak On".  I'd just arrived at Osan Air Base, Republic of South Korea.  I had shiny butter bars on my uniform, a freshly-minted 2Lt.  My sponsor , J., was driving me around the base for passes, etc., and this song was on the radio.

It was new to me, and I hadn't heard anything quite like it.  I liked a wide variety of music (and still do) but hadn't had much exposure to hip hop.  I was familiar with Missy from having watched the first MTV "Real World", waaaaaay back in the day...but I had no idea that she had become famous.  I thought that the song was interesting, but I felt uncomfortable with it blaring out the Jeep's open windows.  Looking back, I smile at my young self's naivete as I admit to you that I was uncomfortable because I felt that the song was incongruous with what I believed to be the dignity of my new career/situation.

I heard this song on the radio today, and my oh my how things have changed.  Now, I appreciate Missy's artistry and courage.  She did something pretty new and presented a new version of the female performer.  She isn't on my ipod, but after this afternoon's fun I may just have to change that.

How bad is Bad? or: Am I a "Vet" or a "Combat Vet"?

Last Friday I had the pleasure of speaking on the radio for the first time.  I was invited as a guest on "The Ron and Don Show" (AM710 in the Seattle area).  They wanted me to talk about my work with yoga for veterans and my upcoming workshop, "Finding Peace in the Chaos".  It was a great opportunity to get the word out in my community, and I had a good time.  If you'd like to hear it (without commercials!) follow this link.  It was the Friday, June 13 show, 4:00 - 5:00 hour.

It was also a very thought-provoking experience.  Right off the bat they asked a question that some can answer with a simple "yes" or "no" but that I feel compelled to explain - or rather, to put in context.  They wanted to know if I am a "combat vet".  I find this a challenging question because it really depends upon the questioner's definition of the term.  There is the official definition of the U.S. Department of Veterans Affairs, and then there is the general perception of the U.S. population and/or whatever the media is currently saying.

For me, this simple question holds within it many more questions which function as an equation, of sorts:

Was I in a combat zone?                                            yes
Was I shot at?                                                           no
Was I afraid for my life?                                              yes
Was I afraid for the life of "my men"?                           yes
Did I fire my sidearm?                                                no, I wasn't issued one
Did I have to wear my flak vest, helmet, gas mask?     yes, sometimes
Did I see anyone die?                                               not in person (it's complicated)

What do these answers add up to?  A simple yes, or a simple no?  As a vet, and considering the Big Conversations this question provoked for my husband and me (we both served in the air campaign part of the war - not the on-going occupation) I think it really depends upon whom you ask. I've heard stories about young vets almost getting chased out of the VFW by Vietnam vets, if they're true then I've no doubt that there are vets from other conflicts that might argue that I hardly even qualify as a vet.  Others would tell you that anyone who served during a conflict - no matter where they were of if they were actually "in combat" - is a vet, combat or not.  Of course, there are also any number of answers in between.

I do not want to misrepresent myself.  I answered yes, because I feel that I am, in fact, a combat vet.  We could argue the finer points, though I have no desire to argue.  I felt the burden of keeping my pilots out of harm's way.  I saw the footage of their bombs making contact, I felt the relief each time a jet landed safely back on our airstrip.  We suffered no casualties.  We were not bombed.  We had no idea what to expect, which was very frightening.  We rode to work in a bus with tinted windows...which weren't for sun protection, if you know what I mean.  Men drove by us shaking their machine guns at us.

I feel that questions such as this are covering up a different, more probing question:  "How bad was 'bad'"?  As if being a veteran of war weren't a "bad" enough experience, many inquisitive people want detail.  Over the last five years, I've been asked a number of odd questions surrounding my military experience, and always I am left wondering:

-  Is the question actually a way to titillate one's own imagination (much in the way that some people want the gory details of sensational news stories)?
-  Do people want to differentiate between combat and "simply" vet in order to better understand me and my comrades?
-  Do people want to really know, or do they want a Coppola-esque tale woven for them?

I answered "yes" and proceeded with the interview non-plussed.  I am thankful for the chance to come to terms with this issue, which I didn't even realize I needed to clarify.  As I said, I do not wish to misrepresent myself, and while overall I feel comfortable with my answer I am not sure that I could answer so simply in the future.

Added to Edit:  When I say "bad" here, I am not referring to people being "bad", but rather to a bad situation/experience.  Just wanted to clarify that.

Fit for Society

I planned on writing a "welcome home to me" post, since we just got back from vacation last night, but right now this is much more important:

This link will take you to a news video covering "Fit for Society", a performance by the Veterans Center for Performing Arts in LA.  If you are at all interested in what veterans themselves have to say about their experiences, and in supporting not only veterans but the arts as well, then please watch the short clip.  Then write a comment/review about it.  The more folks watch and write, the more interest is expressed and the more likely it will be that this wonderful venture will grow!

This is the show for which my brother interviewed me.  In fact, when I was in LA for the Trust Birth Conference I got to spend a lot of time with Brian.  He introduced me to Stephan (the founding director) as well as the woman who played me when they first did the show.

I'll write about our week in England as I recuperate from the jet lag.  Cheers!

Because Patience is a Virtue....

You may recall that back in August I began knitting Rob's never-ending sweater.  Admittedly, it feels never-ending because I work on multiple projects at a time, but once it reached a point wherein it was no longer easily portable, it became my "main squeeze" for evening & movie knitting.  Still, due to its size it's taking a long while to knit.

Last week I worked in all the ends except for the neck (which I have to re-do for the second time, but more on that later) and picked up stitches for sleeve one.  I had three balls of yarn left, from the bag of twelve we'd received in July.  One ball made it 5 inches.  Five inches!  The sleeves, together, will be a bit over 40 inches long.  My sharp-as-a-tack math skills told me that, um, three balls was nowhere near enough. 

Drat!

I started calling around, looking for a dyelot match.  Now, we ordered the yarn in early summer, and picked it up in July.  Since it's luscious yarn, I feared our chances of finding a match locally were slim.  As luck would have it, though, on my third call I hit the jackpot.  A local shop had three balls left.  That would give me three balls per sleeve, which ought to do it since the sleeves will become narrower as I go....right?

I continued on sleeve one, having gone through a whole ball of yarn, when it occurred to me yesterday that I should have Rob try it on.  The sleeves seemed rather wide, and upon closer inspection we agreed that they were ridiculously large - even on his "big guns".  :-)  I set about threading my needle back through a row at the beginning of the sleeve, and frogged the seven inches I'd knit.

Unsure exactly of how to proceed, I considered just winging it, doing two decreases every sixth row (my pattern called for a single decrease at that interval), but thought "Hey, this is where those much-talked-about "basic" math comes in handy."  So I set about figuring out the circumference of the sleeve at the shoulder, its desired circumference at the wrist, how long we want the sleeves to end up, and the number of rows in which I have to reach that smaller circumference (based upon my row gauge).  That part was easy, simply a matter of gathering measurements and gauge of information.

Then I was stumped.  How does one calculate the interval of decrease rows?  That is to say, if I needed to decrease 24 stitches within 80 rows (for the desired circumference at elbow length), and I planned to decrease two stitches per decrease row, then every X row would be a decrease row.  How to find X?  I asked Rob.  He's completed some very scary college-level math.  We made a graph.  My brain hurt.  I think we figured it out.  Wanna see?

Now, in my defense I would like to say that I attended (at last count) twelve different schools in twelve years of schooling, Kindergarten through high school graduation.  Such is the schooling of a military brat.  All that moving around makes for a lot of holes in one's education.  My math skills probably suffered the most from it.  I made it through high school Algebra II by the skin of my teeth (didn't even bother attempting Calculus), and figured out a way to avoid college-level math all together.  I'm great at basic arithmetic, enjoy it even, but when letters and numbers mix it up in a single "sentence", my brain turns to scrambled eggs.  So, figuring out X, when we're talking about stitches and rows, was starting to make me feel nauseous.

Kind of like when, in the sixth grade, I had to go to the board to do an algebra problem.  After standing there staring at that mind-numbing tangle of letters and numbers until well after the other kids had finished, the teacher exclaimed, "I really don't know why you're having so much trouble with this." - and not in a "here, let me show you" kind of tone.  Thanks, Mr. H., for teaching me how NOT to get through to kids.

Right, back to the sweater.  So now that we've figured out a better rate of decrease, given his measurements and my gauge, I'll be back to work on sleeve one.  I had hoped to finish it in time for Rob's birthday next week, but unless sleeve one version 2.0 works out more to his liking, and I magically find more time to knit, I don't see that happening.  New goal:  finish the sweater in time for him to wear it on our Christmas trip to my parents' house.  Don't worry, I'll keep you posted!

Just let me know if you want to see more math.  Ha ha ha ha ha.

 

Look!  I can't even fit the whole sweater in the camera's view finder!

Veteran Voices

Awhile back I wrote about some conversations my brother and I had regarding my military service.  He is involved in Veteran Voices, a non-profit organization based in L.A. that is working (among other things) to create a sounding board, if you will, for veterans' stories through stage productions.  My brother, an actor and writer, was hoping to bring my voice to the public...a request that I found both touching and humbling.

In my experience, and based upon conversations with other veterans, one of the common things we feel is isolation.  No two people experience war in the same way, not even if they served side-by-side.  It is challenging to convey the vast spectrum of feelings that go along with military service during war, or the challenges of re-integrating oneself into "regular, everyday life" after such an experience with people who have similar experiences.  Now imagine the difficulty in explaining what it was like to folks who have no frame of reference other than what the evening news shows...daunting, comes to mind.  And this daunting nature keeps many of us from ever discussing our experiences until we absolutely must (I'm sure you can imagine the various reasons that may lead to "must").  Veteran Voices serves as a medium for conveying our stories...showing us that there are, in fact, people who want to better understand where we're coming from.

Sharing some of my stories with my brother was interesting and ended up being a very healing experience.  When I read the rough draft he'd written, intended to be performed as a monologue, it brought me to tears.  Tears of frustration, anger, sadness, and then...finally...of relief.  I read those lines and felt every ounce of pent-up rage that inspired them.  I remembered the hollow feeling of my loneliness, and the ache of not knowing when I would be able to come home.  I felt again the wariness that was my companion for five months, and the fatigue borne of constant vigilance.  Then, to my surprise, I realized that those feelings felt stale, dried-up and outdated.  They were still in me, but needn't remain part of me.  They are part of what molded me into the woman I am today, and so were valuable tools in my own making.  That, I believe, is a very important distinction:  those experiences, like all others, are tools that forge one's character...they do not comprise the character itself.

The current show will be up through October.  I was invited to come see it, and host a post-production "talk back" question and answer time, but unfortunately my schedule did not allow for such a trip this month.  I hope that future production dates will coincide with some travel weekends for me so that I can be part of this interactive healing project.  Please, if you live in the Los Angeles area, take the time to go and hear some Veteran Voices.

Jasmine

A neighbor of ours has a lovely little jasmine bush.  I don't know what kind it is, specifically, all I know is that the smell is so familiar and happy-making for me that it's one of my favorite stop-to-smell-the-flowers spots along our street.

When I was serving in the Air Force during OPERATION IRAQI FREEDOM (winter 2003), I was stationed at Prince Sultan Air Base, Kingdom of Saudi Arabia.  Basically, we were plopped down in the middle of the desert.  Americans, Brits, and French service members all lived in a guarded, fenced-in area called Coalition Compound.  It was sort of like a state penitentiary, but the barbed wire was intended to keep people out, not to keep us in.  The desert - at least what I experienced of it - does not offer a great deal of variety in its views, flora or fauna.  There was the occasional dust storm, a force to be reckoned with, for certain.  There were some palm trees that had clearly been placed there by humans (the irrigation system was a dead giveaway!) and ginormous bugs that you wouldn't believe.  But basically I could look in any direction and see the same thing:  miles and miles of hot sand.  So, at least where I lived and worked, there wasn't a lot of interest for the senses.

Except for one thing:  a couple of months into my deployment, after the war had begun and I had resigned myself to the fact that I was going to be in the desert until Uncle Sam was good and ready to let me go home, I noticed that a small bush had blossomed teeny white flowers.  I hadn't seen any desert flowers, and I noticed that this scruffy bush's blooms were particularly fragrant at dusk.  I remembered flowers like this from when I lived in southern Spain:  jasmine!  I started to make a habit of walking by the bush every evening on my way to the chow hall for dinner, just so that I could crouch down and sniff these beautiful little white flowers.  They smelled so good they could transport me, if only for a moment, to a place other than where I was.  They smelled like beauty itself, like peace and happiness and home.

I looked forward to smelling those flowers all day and was so pleased when one clump of flowers became ten or twenty, and I could smell the bush from a couple of feet away.  Those blossoms came just in time for me as I was struggling to fend off depression, anger, and many other difficult feelings surrounding my situation.  Smelling something so lovely from nature was a powerful reminder of the good things in life, and that I would not - in fact - be stuck in the desert forever.

The paths I walk now are quite different:  filled with children and pets and friendly neighbors.  There are many wonderful things to see, hear and smell along my walks.  Still, I always stop to smell the flowers, to remind myself that we have within our grasp wonderful reminders of good things...it is up to us to take the time to enjoy them.

Color Me Beautiful

Yesterday I wore a brown tank top.  It wasn't new, but it had been a couple of years since I wore it.  I found it in the bottom of a drawer and thought I'd give it one last chance before deciding whether or not it was time to pass it on to a new wearer.  Wearing a brown shirt may seem unremarkable to you, but for me it was out of place enough that my husband commented on it not being very "me".  He was right, and I'd noticed a drabness (though it is a lovely chocolate brown) surrounding me that I couldn't shake.  I changed to a pale pink tank top and we both smiled at the improvement.  As a yoga student and teacher, I take careful consideration of everything I put into or onto my body, including the colors of my clothes.  It wasn't always so conscious, though, and I thought I'd share the evolution of my wardrobe, and, in a way, myself.

When I was a kid, I wore whatever my mom bought or made for me.  I don't recall if I had a favorite color (though I've always been particularly fond of blue), but I know that I used clothing to express my individuality.  Junior high was tough, as I still wanted to fit in.  By high school, though, I was confident enough that I lost interest in fashion trends and went out of my way to dress differently than other kids.  It was the early nineties, and I was the first girl to wear combat boots and a kilt.  I didn't want to be labeled, though, so I would alternate a "punky" get-up with a hippie skirt, hand-painted jeans, or a dress I'd sewn myself.  To my credit, I was voted "most individual" my senior year.  That's saying a lot for a girl of that age.

By college, I had eased into black and earth tones.  Still very disinterested in fashion (particularly because I'd spent my teenage years living in Spain, where clothing was approached very differently than in Bloomington, Indiana - and my heart [and sense of style] remained in Europe), I kept bucking trends even as I began to blend more and more into the background.  The colors of my clothing expressed my conflicted nature regarding beauty, womanhood, the value placed upon women's bodies, etc.  On the one hand I wanted to turn heads and be considered beautiful just as much as the next young woman.  On the other, I  understood that there was much more to me than physical appeal, and I didn't think that displaying my breasts for public approval was the same thing as actually being lovely.  To complicate matters, I was on the survivor's side of an abusive relationship that had left my self-esteem almost non-existent, so I was quick to disagree with - and become suspicious of - anyone who told me I was beautiful.  I became accustomed to wearing the kind of colors that blend into the background, whispering "Please, whatever you do don't look my way."

Then, of course, there were the military years.  My daily uniform was camouflage (called BDUs), with the occasional Air Force blue.  As time passed, and Rob & I spent a year on one of the most heavily defended borders in the world (that between North and South Korea) followed by tours in the middle east during OPERATION IRAQI FREEDOM (the air war that preceded the current occupation of Iraq), our off-duty uniform became sweats and the yucky brown t-shirts worn under the BDU top.  One look at us and the least perceptive person could have seen our depression, but we were surviving - and counting the days till we were out of the military.

Easing into civilian life in 2004, my even bigger move was being accepted into the College of Purna Yoga.  Right there, in the student manual, were the instructions not to wear black.  Anyone who's bought women's yoga apparel knows that it can be tough to find pants in any color but black!  I was alarmed, and concerned.  Why no black?  Where would I find non-black?  Could I at least wear brown?  Navy blue?  Something, ya know, dark-ish?!?  Surely they didn't expect me to wrap my rather, um, "shapely" backside into -gasp! - a bright color!  Oh, boy, did I have some work to do.  :-)

It was explained to us, and I now have the privilege of explaining it to my students, that when yoga students wear black it is very difficult for the teacher to see their alignment.  Black, as most women know, is "slimming" precisely because it blurs the lines of the body.  When practicing asana, that means that as the teacher scans the students' bodies to check for proper alignment (a safety concern), the black pants that are oh-so-flattering pull a figurative shade over the teacher's eyes.  Beyond safety concerns, black represents a void of light.  Scientists explain the same principle, stating that on the light spectrum, white is the integration of all the colors (or wavelengths) while black is the absence of light.  In yoga light is used as an analogy for the Divine.  In Purna Yoga specifically, we seek to increase our connection to and embodiment of the Divine.  Dressing in black (especially, but other drab colors as well) perpetuates the disconnection between us and the Divine.  It's like advertising an absence of Light, if you will.

Absence of Light, eh?  Living in the Pacific Northwest, I know a little something about what happens when humans live with an absence of light for days, weeks, or even months at a time.  Clothing ourselves in dark, drab colors is akin to living under cloudy skies day after day.  Choosing brighter colors not only welcomes light into our world, it begins a subtle transformation in how we feel about the world.

Don't believe me?  Try it for yourself:  wear a red, light blue, sage green, pink, purple, orange, or any other color that you see in a flower garden (not in a swamp!) every day for a week.  Notice how you feel during that week.  (Keep in mind that people will notice you more now, and it may take longer than a week to get over the insecurities that arise from that.)  The reactions of other people to you will provide some obvious, and positive, feedback.  Notice how others seem to feel when they are around you.  You'll get comments like "Oh!  You look so springy/summery." and even the occasional "Thanks for looking like such a breath of fresh air."  Colors enliven and embolden us, helping us open more to the joys of life.

So the brown shirt, after washing, will be put into the donation bag.  Today, I happily wore a red patterned wrap skirt and a blush-colored tank.  Very girly, very summery, and nowadays...very ME.

A Simple Thanks

We rented two movies on Friday, one of which we watched last night.  The film is entitled "Children of Men", and came very highly recommended.  The premise was interesting, but it was terribly violent - to the point that on two occasions your's truly had to cover her eyes.  We watched it all the way through (more out of sheer stubborness than anything else), then had to sit quietly for an hour and a half before either one of us could go to bed.

Ever since we unplugged from cable TV four or five years ago, Rob and I have gradually but steadily become re-sensitized to violence.  I say "re" sensitized because it is my belief that most modern Americans are very desensitized to violence.  Getting back to a state (physical, emotoinal, psychological, etc.) in which there is an actual uncomfortable response to violent stimulus is a very interesting process, and one that should not be undertaken lightly.  Violence is almost everywhere in our culture, at least if you watch or listen to movies, TV, videos or nightly news coverage.  It can be hard to avoid exposure to it.  Just think of how many restaurants/pubs have televisions in every corner, or how often CNN or FOX news is on at the airport, various waiting rooms, or elsewhere.

The point of avoiding violent shows is not to pretend that violence does not exist, but rather to reconnect with the ability to have an actual reaction to violence (something more heartfelt than "wow, that had to hurt").  Rob and I have definitely reached that point, which makes it pretty difficult for us to rent movies these days.  So, we should have known that this movie would be uncomfortable for us to watch, but we hoped that there would be some kind of positive message at the end - something that would make us think or perhaps urge us into action.  Unfortunately, that invovled watching through to the end (only to be disappointed, I might add).  Again, it was an interesting movie, but when I chose to keep watching - just to satisfy my curiosity about the ending - even after it was clear the whole move would have disturbing imagery,..I chose poorly.

I should clarify here that I enjoy science-fiction, historical fiction and martial arts movies, all of which often portray violent people and circumstances.  The difference, for me at least, is that the movies I watch from those genres generally do not tell realistic stories set in modern (or recent past/near future) times, and the violence is not graphic.  The plots don't seem grabbed from the headlines, so it's much easier to separate reality from fiction.  In "Children of Men", even though it's set twnety years from now, much of the setting looked like current footage out of Baghdad.

We decided to disconnect our cable shortly after returning from our respective stints in the war (Rob in Turkey, me in Saudi Arabia).  We were still in the Air Force, with just under a year of service commitment left.  We'd both served during the air campaign, which involves "breaking things and killing people", as the drill sergeants consistently reminded us during training.  We saw lots of awful stuff - different than what more recently retuned veterans have seen, but awful just the same.  Once home, we were so sick of the awfulness, and sick of seeing it played over and over again on TV, that we decided enough was enough!

This brings me to the point of this posting:  I returned the videos this morning, and the gal who recommended it was working.  She asked what we thought.  I told her that while I thought the story was interesting, it was very violent, much too violent for our tastes.  We chatted a bit about the plot, etc., and about future recommendations.  I told her that we don't have TV, we don't even watch the news, "after coming back from the war, we just couldn't take anymore".  She said "You were in the war?  I didn't know that" and then she looked at me very earnestly and said "Thanks.  And thanks for coming back."  I, teary-eyed, said "You're welcome.  We're glad to be here."

As a veteran who has worked hard to re-assimilate into regular, work-a-day civilian life, my months in the desert no longer come to mind with great frequency.  I have dealt with - and accept that it may be a lifelong "dealing with" - grief, anguish, outrage, feelings of betrayal, depression, sleeplessness and more - resulting from what constitutes a really very short period of my life.  I did not support the war, and I do not support the occupation, (but of course the situation is much more complex than "support/don't support" implies).  I cannot tell you how very much a simple thanks means.  It expresses kind gratitude, without forcing me to re-hash things I'd rather forget (such as "You were in the war?  Wow.  How was that?"  does).  Her simple, heartfelt thanks, devoid of personal curiosity or political innuendo, was an example of the simplest and most touching gift this veteran can receive.  Boy, am I glad to be here!