For Rawlings, clarity and epiphanies arrive like bolts of lightening; as he responds to his circumstances and describes what he has ventured out and found through self-discovery and reflection, he leads the way for others to do the same. As he takes a witty, whimsical look at love and relationships, he tackles the often hilarious differences between men and women, questioning why his date orders a salad for lunch and then eats half of his cheese fries. Rawlings shows a more serious, introspective side when he reminds us of good that comes from the sacrifices of others, challenges us to strengthen our character before it is too late, and teaches us to become more adaptable and open our heart to forgiveness.
My Waffle Dreams presents a compelling collection of essays that encourages others to look at life in an entirely new way.
For Rawlings, clarity and epiphanies arrive like bolts of lightening; as he responds to his circumstances and describes what he has ventured out and found through self-discovery and reflection, he leads the way for others to do the same. As he takes a witty, whimsical look at love and relationships, he tackles the often hilarious differences between men and women, questioning why his date orders a salad for lunch and then eats half of his cheese fries. Rawlings shows a more serious, introspective side when he reminds us of good that comes from the sacrifices of others, challenges us to strengthen our character before it is too late, and teaches us to become more adaptable and open our heart to forgiveness.
My Waffle Dreams presents a compelling collection of essays that encourages others to look at life in an entirely new way.
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Overview
For Rawlings, clarity and epiphanies arrive like bolts of lightening; as he responds to his circumstances and describes what he has ventured out and found through self-discovery and reflection, he leads the way for others to do the same. As he takes a witty, whimsical look at love and relationships, he tackles the often hilarious differences between men and women, questioning why his date orders a salad for lunch and then eats half of his cheese fries. Rawlings shows a more serious, introspective side when he reminds us of good that comes from the sacrifices of others, challenges us to strengthen our character before it is too late, and teaches us to become more adaptable and open our heart to forgiveness.
My Waffle Dreams presents a compelling collection of essays that encourages others to look at life in an entirely new way.
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781450299107 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | iUniverse, Incorporated |
| Publication date: | 03/08/2011 |
| Sold by: | Barnes & Noble |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 88 |
| File size: | 365 KB |
About the Author
Read an Excerpt
My Waffle Dreams
By norman rawlings
iUniverse, Inc.
Copyright © 2011 Norman RawlingsAll right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4502-9909-1
Chapter One
Three Months
On Memorial Day in 1991, a young mother gives birth to a little girl. It's a bright and clear morning in Tacoma, Washington and as she looks outside her thoughts are not comforted by the brilliance of the dawning sun. She is not relieved over the ordeal of childbirth or breathless over the miracle of childbirth. Her thoughts were trapped inside the confines of two simple words: "Three Months". The young woman had just given birth to a child a full three months premature who dusted the scales at a feeble two pounds and was dangerously close to death.
The delivery was the undesired climax of three frantic weeks by the medical staff at Tacoma General Hospital to prevent the birth from taking place. Understandably, three months is nowhere near enough time for a child to become fully developed in her mother's womb. Any infant delivered during this precarious stage in a pregnancy is bound to be fraught by dangerous medical conditions. As it is with most premature babies, the inability for oxygenation on their own was first and foremost in the minds of the professionals at Tacoma General. However, her tiny, undeveloped lungs were only precursors facing the doctors. The child's low birth weight spawned many other health risks (collapsed lungs, hemorrhaging of the brain due to lack of oxygen, intestinal disease spawned from the death of undeveloped tissue, etc.) that — at any given hour — could mean the difference between life and death.
Each singular moment in the baby's life was either a stress relieving milestone (albeit it a brief one) or a heart wrenching setback that sent her mother reeling from stress and exhaustion. There was no "in between" episodes in those first few weeks. Every few hours were visited by medical emergencies that threatened the young child's life. Her frail, seemingly transparent body was warmed only by a light and a small plastic cloth. The tubes feeding her and keeping her alive long enough for her own strength to supersede that of technology gave her the appearance of a medical experiment rather than a human being.
And despite the cliffs of emotional fatigue she clung to, the young mother found within herself the ability to pray for strength outside of her own control. She discovered an unfamiliar faith through the release of her pain and uncertainty of what was to come. There was an inner submission to the understanding of what was secretly promised to her child. She felt a more comforting peace that was secured by nothing more than a love and connection to people she did not know but came to trust with the life of her daughter. She had no words for what was being done to her baby. She couldn't comprehend why all of it was happening to her. All she had was a daughter fighting for her life and the helpless realization that her struggle was no longer hers but that of her child's.
Hours became days. Days turned into weeks. The baby's color began to slowly improve. Droplets of precious oxygen within her own life giving blood started to replenish the areas of her body that desperately needed them the most. The tireless efforts of doctors and nurses began to pay lifesaving dividends. Her tiny seizures subsided. She began taking her own breaths. She was on her way.
On May 30th, 1991 at 7:13 a.m. in the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit of Tacoma General hospital a tiny child was born. She weighed a mere two pounds and was only 13.5 inches long. Her mother named her Arianna Chantelle. She bears a proud and miraculous name. Greek and French origins translated to "Holy One" and "Song". While it is true that the history of Memorial Day is based in large part on remembering those that have fought and died for our freedoms as American citizens, we would be remiss in not celebrating the bravery of the internal spirit of life that runs through all of us. It is the same spirit that motivates our men and women in the military and law enforcement to stand up and fight to protect those that can't stand up and protect themselves. It is a remembrance of the moral measurement and testimony of faith we have in each other and that of — at times — complete strangers. Yes, it is a day to commemorate that others fight and tragically die so we may have the finest that life has to offer. But even more than all of this, it is a day to remember the unflinching truth that we need each other in order to give life back to ourselves and to those that we love.
And if this miraculous child who came to know the world a full three months early (who is now celebrating 19 years in her mother's warm embrace) has taught us anything, it is the simple reminder of how good we all have it because of the sacrifice of others we don't know. For some of us, it is a memory steeped in faith that came one painful breath at a time. "... and a little child shall lead them."
A little child indeed. Happy Memorial Day.
Directions
Isn't it funny that the further down the road we get the more convinced that we're not going in the right direction? Even worse is that we are blissfully unaware of where the hell we are going in the first place. And ladies ... before you pop off with one of your "it's just you guys not willing to ask for directions" spiel, let me just tell you that we don't have a problem asking which way to go. It's just that our desire to defile our manhood in such a besmirching manner depends wholly on the destination. For instance, if we are on our way to a wine and cheese tasting party sponsored by one of your co-workers in order to raise money for the gay, unborn, sea leopard pups then we'll never ask for directions in the fervent hope that we end up in Botswana infested with malaria and within inches of our own death. On the other hand, if we're on our way to some monumental event like our kid's wedding, the Superbowl, or wet t-shirt and jello shot night at Hef's then we'll ask for directions. Hell ... we'll even spend a thousand dollars on state of the art GPS for our Ford Taurus and stop at every 7-11 and ask Abu for block by block instructions.
What I'm talking about is how we adapt to every different situation along the road and then interpret it as some grand scheme we thought we came up with on our own. Marriage comes to mind in this regard. I would highly doubt that any of us that have been down this idyllic — albeit pothole stricken - path have gone into it expecting that it will lead to being completely lost along the way. Unfortunately, that happens to 56 percent of us and sometimes more than once. Does that mean we are destined to fail on our journey, we didn't have the right instructions before we started, or that we suck at following these instructions in the first place? My answer is ... regrettably ... yes. We're going to fail at times along the way. Many of us don't have the game plan all figured out before we take the leap. Even more shockingly to some even if we had the right plan we somehow find a way to botch up the entire operation before "till death do us part." And while I'm a part of that 56th percentile, I would advise anyone to journey down the path again and expect failure. This time, however, you'll know where those potholes are located. You'll see that the language of their mind and the actions of their heart don't always mesh and sometimes ... that's ok. You'll be able to find out if the dance outside of your cave is real or they're just trying to get you out into the open so they don't feel so alone.
And finally, you'll be able to understand that any notion you may have of your own "failure" has to be replaced with a sense of accomplishment in what you've learned. You haven't failed, folks. You haven't gotten lost. You found a new set of directions that will take you on a new journey. How bad can that be?
When you get there ... ask for me. Hef and I will be six jello shots ahead of you.
Pale Blue Dot
I saw this documentary once on interplanetary violence and space discovery. Just the words "interplanetary violence" probably lost half of my reading audience and the other half whispers, "Oh God. Norm and his drivel again." Bear with me, as it's a pretty cool set of terms mentioned in conjunction with Carl Sagan in his book "Pale Blue Dot: A Vision of the Human Future in Space". Sagan was referencing the "Pale Blue Dot" photograph, a title he gave to a picture taken by the spacecraft Voyager 1 in 1990 as it was leaving our solar system. Voyager 1 was launched in 1977 and 13 years later had reached the edge of the solar system as we know it. It had — up till this point — been pointing its cameras outward into the vast expanse of the universe to look for.... whatever; new planets, new stars, new worlds, new hopes, new places to put a Starbucks, etc. Sagan himself asked NASA that at the point where Voyager 1 was leaving the solar system that the lens be turned around to take a picture of Earth against the boundless backdrop of space. Hence, from 3.7 billion miles away, we see the world we live in as a pale blue dot against a canvas of dark nothingness.
Wow. That's friggin' depressing when it's put that way. Thanks, Carl, you morbid bastard.
I've seen the Pale Blue Dot photograph. Type it into any search engine and you'll see it too. It's one of those kinds of photos / pictures that remind me of my daughter's old "Where's Waldo?" books. You know it's there somewhere. Your face is pressed against the screen or the page and you're going blind trying to discover it. I did the same thing with the Voyager photograph, but damned if it just looks like a black TV screen in a dark room. But then, just when you're about to give up, there it is. And if you're like me you swear under your breath and are overcome by this awesome sense of insignificance as it is juxtaposed against the colossal and infinite field of our existence. Perhaps Sagan was right (and who am I to say he wasn't) when he wrote "When you make the finding yourself ... even if you are the last person on the Earth to see the light ... you'll never forget it."
I like to write down my thoughts and experiences. Sometimes these writings morph into something that I can put on display to see if anyone else feels the same way I do about life's little peccadilloes. But for the most part, my inner struggles have been just that ... internal; very personal and extremely private. These past few months have been a struggle for me. I've been looking for answers and trying to find the reasons behind why the curveballs been coming at me like bullets from a gun. As I'm doing this, I've been trying to remain healthy enough to get up out of the dirt and do it all over again the next day. If the overall disturbance of my own interplanetary violence in the past six months has taught me anything it's that the more you think you're capable of discovering the light on your own the more the universe (and to me, its Creator) teach you that you are not really supposed to.
With all due respect to Mr. Sagan, I'll never see the truth that way. I'll never find the pale blue dot of my life and my role in it by staring at the damn photograph without asking for help. And — at the risk of sounding preachy — I would doubt any of you will either. I've been blessed by an amazing group of friends and family. I've been even further honored by re-discovering some people again after so many years that — in my adolescent and therefore ignorant life — thought I knew but only now discovered how amazingly warm, compassionate, and unique they truly are. I've even been re-introduced to family of friends that have extended warmth and sincerity to me just because they are that way and they knew me "way back when." I've been loved individually and indiscriminately by them as I stand amongst their presence completely contaminated by the pitfalls of the past six months. They didn't give a rip about my state of being in which they discovered or rediscovered me. They only care about the truth and the light and that I couldn't see either of them from where I was standing.
Now I can. And just like in the "Where's Waldo" pictures, I'll never not know where to find that goofy face with that goofy grin. I'll always be able to recognize that however far the eye travels from the image, I'll know that there — in the vastness of space — I can and will find love.
Crazy Little Thing Called....
I've been thinking about women lately. Well, let me clarify that I generally think about women in some fashion or another; emotionally, physically, spiritually, parentally, etc. etc. I am father to one. I was married to one. I've been in love with one. The most powerful expression a man can experience and appreciate is the love and support of a woman. There is nothing else in this life that is more fulfilling and more rewarding.
Disclaimer aside, I'm convinced that the majority of them are crazier than shithouse rats. They are the most mysterious and outrageous creatures ever to grow wild in the jungle. Who else can provide such life giving love and, in the matter of moments, take it away? Who else can take you to the deepest caverns of your own soul and teach you things so completely foreign about yourself and at the same time be totally oblivious to the havoc they can trigger in your mind and in your heart? Who else can act like an angel one minute and a dragon the next and completely pass off this metamorphosis as breezily as a bird changing direction in flight? Who else but an insane person can only order a salad as their main course but then eat half of your garlic cheesy fries and down three Coronas? And finally only some sort of biological freak could wake up 6am, go jogging, head to the gym for yet another workout, put in 10 hours of hard core housekeeping, chauffeuring, cooking, selling, teaching, and wine tasting and then fall asleep in her spot whispering that she doesn't have enough time in her day to ... to ... zzzzzzz.
Let me set the record straight: I'm not bitter towards women. I'm not angry about some version of "love lost" or "love unrealized" or "love unexpected" or "love or something like it." I sincerely want what everyone else wants, however I will not settle when it comes to matters of my own heart. I don't think any of you should either.
So despite the hilarity of their actions, despite the desperately maniacal nature in which they themselves try to find love at any cost and regardless of the wake they sometimes leave in their quest to do so, I'm forever grateful that they, too, want the same thing.
The hook to all of this madness is to be laughing when we find each other and not cry so much when we don't.
One Foggy Day
Humans have a ridiculous way of complicating the hell out of things. We take the most mundane elements and making them mysterious and complex. I'm no exception. I'm guilty of turning the simplest stuff and confusing the shit out of it. Let's take fog, for instance. It has been implemented in movies, books, or scary campfire yarns as this shadowy veil of evil that masks the pending destruction of every stupid teenager who decides to venture away from the strength of the group.
"What was that sound?" says idiot polo shirt yuppie boy named Dexter.
"It is a boat buoy banging against the dock, genius." replies sensible, hippy dressed hot chick named Raven that always seems to survive despite the fact that we get no frontal nudity out of her for the whole picture (damn PG-13 rating).
"No it wasn't." whispers Dexter. "There was a sound that came out of the fog. It came from past the blood soaked chain saw and that mutilated body of Carl by the boat house. It's hard to see it because of the fog. Did I mention there was fog? It sure is foggy out."
THE FOG! Ooooooh.....
John Carpenter had us frozen in 1980 with his movie, "The Fog." There is a legendary scary haunted house and overall macabre attraction facility in Maryland call "Legend of the Fog" and when I went online to Google "scary, deathly, spooky fog" I got 1.3 million results. However, when I Googled "funny, happy, goofy fog" I got a tenth of the results. I guess the internet has a morbid fascination with fog and either wants to see the hippy hot chick naked (who doesn't, let's be honest), Sure-to-die Dexter get diced up all over the dock, or Carpenter make a sequel called "The Fog: This Time It's Personal".
But before we start making funeral arrangements for our friends who have gone off to check on the spooky sounds, let's cut to the chase of what fog really is. I looked it up. The National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration has a much more scientific description of fog: "Fog is when a cloud touches the ground."
(Continues...)
Excerpted from My Waffle Dreams by norman rawlings Copyright © 2011 by Norman Rawlings. Excerpted by permission of iUniverse, Inc.. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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