July 6, 2013

Hello World!

Doing the fancy pigeon strut. Say what? Allow me to explain. I have suffered through the west coast heat wave with outside temperatures near or at 110'. Inside my 8-man pod designed for four, the temperature exceeded 90'. It is energy sucking; [I] lie on my bunk in boxers and a wet t-shirt and pant. Did I mention humidity at 60% - oppressive. It was all I could do to work in the prison's sweat shop laundry and then return to my pod wilted.

I am not the young an I used to be. Although 52 is not exceptionally old, I was feeling the accumulative years. In other words, the heat and humidity sucked the spunk out of me. Then something happened last night worthy of Fourth Of July fireworks. Tentatively, unnoticed at first, like a sneak thief, an offshore low edged in to bring relief from the heat. If I had known it was coming, I would have heralded it with trumpets, banged the drums, clashed the cymbals, while unfurling banners to welcome a conquering hero.

Even though I am not a dainty damsel, I was in distress and it rescued me. I inhaled and for the first time in 10+ days, my lungs did not burn. On the walk to morning chow, I noticed the wind socks that are used to direct the shooting of tear gas canisters at unruly inmates. They were gently waving. The breeze was the breath of angels.

Forgive the melodramatic language, but prison is a pressure cooker by itself. I do not need a mal-violent weather system to turn up the dial. So - back to the fancy pigeon strut. I woke up surprised that I was not soaked in perspiration. I breathed fresh air on my walk to chow. My appetite had returned so I could devour the corn meal mush and toast. The energy that had drained from me rushed in to invigorate my being. Then as I waited on my bunk for work call, I saw him - a fancy pigeon.
He landed outside my window. He was the first pigeon I had seen since my arrival here at Valley State Prison in December. He was not your ordinary, run-of-the-mill park pigeon - those gray-blue rat birds that beg for crumbs and disrespect noble statues with their droppings. No, this was a pure white bird. Its chest was puffed up and would have won any body building competition. Its long tail feathers were splayed, pointing up and out as proud as a peacock. And boy-oh-boy, did he strut with his head and beak jutting forward in unrivaled confidence.

Why had he landed in "No Man's Land"? There were no other pigeons about. He was not looking for tidbits to eat. He simply strutted in circles, proud of being who he was. Although, if I may add my personal sentiment, he was celebrating the end of - and having survived - the heat wave. I smiled in gratitude while pondering - was the strutter a divine sign? It wasn't a Biblical flood that I had survived and the bird was not a dove. However, I believe God delivers us from all oppression. He then signs his name with something out of the ordinary. It is always there if we pay attention.

So today I am doing the fancy pigeon strut, not because I did anything special, but because I was delivered.

Stay cool, World. Thanks for checking in on me.
Cordially,
Gregory Barnes Watson
D-67547 VSP B3-15-2U
PO Box 92
Chowchilla, CA 93610

Novel: A Thundering Wind
Journal: A Year In A Life Sentence (Amazon.com)