There’s only so much attention that one can put on the bleak and depressing realities of this rapidly deteriorating world. One evening not too long ago I was in need of have a few laughs so I went into in a local college club that was having a student improvisation comedy show. I sat at the bar near the door not because I wanted to drink but just so I could check things out and leave inconspicuously if it didn’t turn out to be very entertaining.
The waitress, I’m going to call her Hope because even though it’s not her name it certainly could be, also doubled as a bartender and she was busy carding a young guy near me who just made it age wise to legally get a drink.
After she served him his beer I said, “I’d order one too but I left my ID at home.” Without missing a beat she replied, “I think I can let it slide…this time.” Her response was rather disarming, an icebreaker that put me at ease, especially since I don’t drink and it’s a much younger college crowd. Spending as much time as I do in relative solitude, I treasure opportunities to engage and exchange views with a broad spectrum of people of different ages, races, cultures, etc.
I was about to see if the comedy group was entertaining but then, as Hope was cleaning the top of the bar near me, I noticed that there was a word tattooed on the inner part of her wrist that I couldn’t quite make out. Catching my curiosity she lifted her arm and turned her wrist towards me. “Enough”, that was the single word. At first I thought that it was probably an expression of youthful defiance, a warning and a command to anyone who would try to impose their views or limitations on her. But before I could even ask she corrected my unspoken assumption. To my great delight, Hope was already very clear that she was…enough. One of the most destructive core beliefs carried by so many people had not taken any root in her. Quite to the contrary; and this was as I would learn, no case of overblown, unfoundedly positive self-esteem.
There was also a serpentine Mayan tattoo on her upper arm; to me it was surprisingly tasteful and interesting. She told me that a friend of hers has essentially the same tattoo but done with the colors reversed; a rather deliberate and caring acknowledgement of their close friendship that only they would probably be aware of. Hope then showed me a photograph on her phone of a large tattoo of the OM symbol within a rose, which is otherwise concealed by her clothes. Also not visible is a tattoo on her side displaying this insight, “Our brothers and sisters are there with us from the dawn of our personal stories to the inevitable dusk”. Though lacking familiarity with the denizens of drinking establishments and those who serve them, I suspected that I hadn’t met an exactly stereotypical representative of that culture.
It occurred to me that when I was first trying to start the body art fad, in 1963, Hope’s parents were probably only about five years old. And here she was now amply tattooed and also sporting a few of what are usually for me the most shiver producing adornments…piercings. I can understand the tattoo thing, it’s been around for thousands of years and while people can argue that so have piercings, I still have a problem with what I think is basically a form of self-mutilation being considered as highly aesthetic in the supposedly civilized world. Why is walking around looking like a display in a hardware story considered anything other than unpleasantly bizarre? But there was something incongruous and yet so disarmingly casual about the way Hope discussed her piercings, the nose ring and removable things that created large holes in her earlobes, that completely diffused my aversion.
Whatever the comedy group was doing hadn’t grabbed my attention; I was so curious about this young person. That she didn’t drink, let alone do any drugs, also surprised me. Based on her appearance I had initially assumed a number of things about her, all of which were dispelled, one after another, by her matter of fact comments and responses to my questions. No offense was intended and she took none. Clear-headed, responsible and putting herself through school, it made me wonder if I’d missed other enlightening exchanges because I’d initially regarded other young, similarly adorned people as merely contemporary conformists. Certainly the rebellious in each generation think they are being unique while adopting the gear, markings and mannerisms that solidify their conformity. I couldn’t have been happier that Hope was giving me some unexpected and unintended lessons; she was certainly far less cynical than I was discovering myself to be.
Hope comes from a family where her parents are, amazingly, still together and happy. Her mother got a grant for a program she created to help young people who had abuse issues and Hope was already pursuing a degree in social work herself. She told me that since going out on her own she has worked primarily as a bartender, which her mother also had done. She’d already had a fair amount of adventure in her young life. In addition to having traveled through Alaska with her family, when she was in the sixth grade Hope took a several week long tour with a group of children she’d never met before, from other schools, through various east coast states that culminated in their attending Obama’s first inauguration. When Hope said she’d raced motocross from age 7 until she “retired” at about 17, I at first didn’t realize that she meant motorbikes, which probably would have been obvious to anyone else. She also has a good relationship with her father; they went skydiving together on her 18th birthday. And yet for all of her adventures, openness and self revealing, Hope describes herself as an introvert because of how she processes and extracts meaning from the experiences in her life.
All hasn’t been cheerful and exciting though, Hope’s brother, who’s a couple of years older than she is, got a bit messed up with drugs and alcohol for a while. He fathered a baby with a slightly older girlfriend and then finally straightened himself out. Hope was there for him while he was going through the rough times, also helping to care for his son, whose birthday’s inscribed within the tattoo of a wolf on her back. I successfully resisted the impulse to lecture Hope on the unhealthy aspects of having metal laden inks embedded into her skin; I was learning far more than I could possibly teach.
Like many other university students here Hope balances the day-to-day challenges of work and school. She’s figuring how out to afford to replace her old car, with 175,000 miles on it, with something more reliable to get to and from her morning and evening jobs, and to her classes in between. It’s a high priority especially with winter approaching up here. She juggles her social life, dating, family visits, etc., in the mix.
I suddenly noticed that the place had grown empty and quiet. The improve group had left, taking their audience along with them. I was concerned that I had monopolized Hope’s time and prevented her from doing her job. But, silly me, of course she’d managed to handle it all quite nicely, cleaning the place up while she tattooed her experiences on the canvas of my curious mind.
Hope’s already packed a lot into her life as she approaches her next birthday; she’s 20 going on 21…or perhaps 210. Because she views half-birthdays as equally important, and depending on how early in life she was able to convey that to her family, she could have already had 39 celebrations joyfully marking her presence on Earth.
Hope should be anticipating a nice…normal life. She will graduate, move out into the world and make her unique contribution to it, have a family, live a long and happy life, etc. Certainly, like many in her generation she’s aware of some of the things that are now, but shouldn’t be considered, normal like climate change, pollution, and pesticides in our foods. But I think about all that has been kept from her – from everyone – about the real and as yet unimaginable magnitude and still unfolding consequences of the environmental destruction, of the BP disaster, Fukushima, and the increasingly ceaseless, mad military marches, all of which are contributing to the fulfillment of the Henoch Prophecies.
Along with the majority of the world, Hope and her generation know nothing of this entire, massive body of information, and the decades long, carefully measured attempt on the part of Billy Meier and the Plejaren extraterrestrial human race to warn humankind and assist us to avoid our otherwise impending self-destruction. Unaware of its existence, let alone of the enormous, so far sinisterly successful suppressive efforts of a dark order, the people (young and old) are targeted, bombarded with endless entertainment, sports, celebrities, trendy techno toys, pointless political charades, and religious delusion, i.e. the plethora of ultimately utterly useless pursuits that keep them distracted from real life and their now almost certain fate as bio-chipped servants of the State (number 40.). The current consensus reality is already almost indistinguishable from the forewarned phantasmagoria (127.)
There is no joy in casting a dark and despairing pale over things. But does it truly serve the innocent, or the willfully ignorant, to not show the contrast between that which we should be nurturing and celebrating in life and that which is lurking like an ominous, largely unseen, suffocating cloud, descending over us all? Those, like Hope, who don’t get numb and blindly succumb to it all are the exceptions. Certainly, such relatively new arrivals, and those yet to come, who are inheriting this mess of a world will still need all the inner strength and real help they can get.
She has chosen to have one final tattoo. It will indelibly express, “Children of light as you go fourth into the world seek to render gentle service to all that lives.” But knowing that this tender thought reflects her conscious awareness of the interconnectedness that is real love made me realize something that must be broadly told and known by us all.
There is still…Hope.