A Coffee Intermission

Mug contents unknown. Known, however, is the holder of this hot beverage vessel. She is a friend who allowed my use of her picture. I saw it on FB and asked permission … as is protocol when I come across one I’d like to share that is undeniably unique.

I don’t believe Katie expected a blog post when snapping this photo during a relaxing time recently – and, I didn’t anticipate writing about a mug filled with (possibly) a hot beverage I won’t drink … coffee. I write “possibly” because the contents of her mug have not been confirmed at this time. That aside, I’m a huge fan of black vs. blue pictures, … thus the photo.

Ah, the photo. Reflective, relaxing. All the adjectives one would use to chronicle a blanketed porch time overlooking a field stretched out to that wooded horizon. I especially like that innocent little intermission centered in the middle of the two larger acts stage left and right. Clouds above give us a perfectly hanging, never closing, curtain over this theater of tranquility.

Alas, however, I must address the “aside” issue. I don’t drink coffee. Assuming this was in her mug, I can’t connect with the liquidy, beany delight millions enjoy multiple times each day. Just. Can’t. Of all the wonderful, musical, game-loving, life-affirming, joking around, silly mannerisms I inherited from my dear mother … her deep-brewing love of the roasted java didn’t make it into MY particular mug.

I sat around a breakfast table the other morning as friends recounted their first experience drinking coffee. The place. The time. Possibly the company with whom they kept? I had nothing to contribute except a few iced tea laden exhales of nothingness.

Coffee culture does captivate me.

Daily, the drivethru lines outside our local Starbucks are fascinating. Squigling around the building, they are seemingly endless … anxious automatic caffeine caravans – awaiting their luscious Lattes and frothing Frappes.

We entertain multiple little specialty coffee shops around these parts and one large traveling Concession trailer (who also has multiple brick and mortar locations as well). One cafe I frequent a lot offers a buck-a-cup option for all eatery patrons on the honor system. You pump alternative brews from carafes into your favorite mug while enjoying limited menu items. Notice the “you” pronoun there … definitely not, “me”.

Coffee seems to be the great uniter. I see this happen in a small way as I sweeten my tea surrounded by coffee consumers. They become unconcious, competent conversationalists as liquid (de)caffeine rhythmically crosses their lips. It’s a ballet of words in between sips and warm-ups (otherwise known as top-me-offs) … swallowing can be timed and self-affirming as well. Even the finest of wine connoisseurs may not even sniff their way around stemware with such elegance … let alone partake of the Bordeaux.

It’s a conundrum to me. This whole coffee thing. To those who love it, I say, “fantastic” .. and truly mean the compliment. I had one small taste many ages ago. Many decades, to be accurate. Friends suggest this wasn’t enough to develop a taste. Well, I had one small chocolate chip cookie, a pizza, and pretzels for the first time a long time ago and fell in love with all of them soooooo, THAT theory is kinda bunk…

The picture is really quite beautiful. I love the mystery of NOT knowing what is in her mug. Hot, green tea? Yeah, that’s it. Indeed, if it IS coffee, I don’t need to know. Let’s assume whatever filled the mug, filled her spirit at the time.

I am entirely satisfied looking at – and beyond – the horizon. Blue and black framing the intermission where all of us can just take a big breath. Our curtain will not end the show, nor will what is going on now – good or bad – last forever.

Let’s all sit where we are, hold on to whatever is in our life’s mug, and enjoy the scenery.

Even if it does include a cup delicious, uhm, coffee …

Why Such a Tiny Signum

Latin is not loaded on my language baked potato. Smooth, melancholy melty music, yes. A dash of algebraic indulgence? Absolutely! Perhaps some salty, humerous sarcasm at times. All of these enhance a fluffy tuber of spoken word experiences during my daily go-abouts. I can hear music, figure out simple quadratic equations, or consider an edgy joke, or two, … all the while speaking words. To be clear, I do not give thought of this as a gift. Most could do the same, to be sure. Rub belly, pat head.

Just that Latin never was – nor shall be – on the plate. Given a choice between any difficult language, I’d pick Mandarin Chinese before divitis-diviti-divitem into Latin. My research has provided me some solace, however. “A dead language”, is how Latin is currently chronicled by popular search engines. With that information in hand, I feel somewhat Latinally requievit.

For the purpose at hand, er on finger … I have to only know one word: signum. It’s a “sign”. Specifically, used to denote a family crest imprinted in hot wax to seal important documents. Worn by emperors, popes, and various other hi-dee-hoy-dedees, signet rings were high society thingys, apparently. I did not know this.

Imagine learning of this majesty soon after finding a small ring back in a drawer earlier today. Now, I seriously doubt there was a pope in my lineage. If papal blood is coursing through my inner springs, I gots lots of splainin’ to do. Emperors? Hmm. There’s a notion. Possibly an inch closer to reality than pope, but still unlikely. Had a dog named Queeny when I was just a lad. Does that count?

The ring is tiny. Like, really small. Ten-K gold scribbled on the envelope enclosing the memories all these years. A name identifying my long-remembered relative is also penned. I knew of him, but never set eyes on him. What makes no sense is the sizing. I fear it would be easier for a camel in a needle than this ring to slip-slide down a man’s finger. The thing’s diameter barely exceeds my tolerance of the self-check-out voice lady nagging me over and over with bagging instructions THAT I ALREADY KNOW HOW TO DO AFTER DOING IT ONE-THOUSAND TIMES BEFORE!!!!!

But I digress.

I’m in possession of a family hot-press waxing signet ring. It has value, I guess. Never met my relative, although I do know him some-what. He was my grandfather. A remarkable man in his own right. Hard worker in the mills over in Pittsburgh when those hot chambers actually meant something to the world. Steel, iron, coal … backbone industries at the time. This ring was, truly, a symbol – form over function; although his life was markedly function over form. I see the signet as a weight to counter-balance his life.

He died before his time. A shorter than expected lifetime. A disease-ravaged body from what I understand. The story is he died close to the year – if not THE year – I was born … after surviving a birth late in the previous century. Efforts to pull up his obituary to confirm details have been tough, though.

I wish he was across the table now – albeit in his third century – to answer my nagging query: “Why such a tiny signum?”…

(Granted, pre-defining terms must be done with exigentia due to the apparent nature of the question. A slap in the face may be immediately forthcoming if this is not done. Nobody wants their undefined signum challenged – especially if appearing tiny).

My grandfather isn’t here, I don’t appreciate Latin, and this ring, quite possibly, is smaller than my appreciation of the Oompa Loompas playing water polo.

With that, it’ll go back into the really worn, pencil sketched envelope I found it in and heretofore will remain. Until someone with pencil-diameter sized fingers shows up – who, quite frankly claims to be part of our family AND has some emperor dude/dude-ess blood in ’em, this ring is staying put.

A Little Sweetness

Some call me sweetly sentimental. Some may agree with sweet – perhaps some only sentimental. Those close enough to be great friends drop all the niceties and stick with a simply sarcastic, “You’re kinda weird”. I concur as I am aware it is only meant as the nicest gesture possible … and with that I reply, “Thank you” and go on with my day.

It’s a group of morning guys as diverse as the jokes I tell. They’re not always the best (the humerous pleasantries, that is). I get it; however, I can’t simply sit there morning over morning, month over month, with such fertile conversational fabric being tossed around and not make a beautiful tapestry of merriment.

Golf, politics, food, relationships, various work related issues, … all of it bantered about from guy to guy. And yet, I’m expected to sit there and NOT throw in a silly pun, related joke, or twisted tale? Me thinks not.

Merciful and kind criticism comes from the likes of business owners, retired financiers, educators, county workers, city employees, and occassional contractors. All of whom I consider good friends. I time my wittisisms carefully, although not always timely – if that makes any sense at all. One must accept the occassional failure in my line of a.m. amateur whimsical folly.

During a rare few moments one morning – when the subjects at hand provided no juicy bait on the humerous hook – I glanced down at the simple sugar packet holder … to fill the apparent void in my brain. These funny little pink, white, blue, and yellow guys suddenly became exceptionally interesting. How different they look, maybe? Do they? Same shape, same basic function: sweetness? Just different color outside and kinda different chemistry inside, … but looks the same inside.

The differentness and sameness. Quirky. One could open one of each color, pour out the contents into separate mixed piles, and be challenged to match each white pile with its original packaging. With no pasty-finger testing allowed, I doubt it could be done. Four simple little piles of white “sugar” … looking the same. Four very different colored packets. Simple in the packets. Complicated when removed. Yet, when I’ve put a pink and white over ice before my tea hundreds of times in the past, this never earned my consideration.

This could be doctoral candidate thesis stuff here! I’m thinking a possible Nobel prize nod… and I have a slow news day at the breakfast table to thank.

Well, if I was to make that trip to Sweden one day for my medal, my sugar packet theory would have developed into a lesson in friendship. For my friends who tolerate me come in different colors, shapes, and sizes; however, they’re pretty much the same inside.

Quirky, different, and same. They hang together with me for a purpose: to support and nurture a friendship – regardless of how bad or good things are going. All of us, in a sense, add a certain sweetness to each other’s lives in a different colored way. Our packets – experiences and personalities – support and frame the care and concern we bring “to the table” for everyone else.

So, that’s it in a sugar packet nutshell. I didn’t HAVE to be quiet, but it was forced upon me by the gods of inadequate interlocutors. Nobody, but nobody, had a tidbit – a morsel – of compelling comedic conversation going on. Thus, a reflection on the deeper meaning of sugar packets (like they had a superficial meaning to begin with?)…

Oh, well. I’ll await my invite from the Nobel committee. Until then, all of you continue YOUR sweetness, ok?

Calling Earth to Saturn

Two hours and forty-nine minutes. I was still for nearly three hours last night. Sleep is one activity requiring this length of time. Very few other life push-throughs keep my attention for that span. Maybe getting records together for taxes every year? Let’s carve out all the ugly stuff like that and focus on merriment.

As long as that was, consider a fictitious two-year space vessel stretch in deep space: from earth to a black hole near Saturn. In reality, over three years. Ah, a big “no” here. A curvy, claustrophobic, gravity thrown trip around Mars and Jupiter … incuding only marginal, periodic screen contact with loved ones. To “possibly” save earthlings by finding another habitable planet on the other side of a worm hole would not be worth having a panic attack every 5 minutes.

Yes, for nearly three hours, I watched. “Interstellar’s” main character, Cooper, do what I never, ever would have done. (Not that any piano-playing, hot dawg salesman’s invite would come from NASA anytime soon)… Along with Dr. Brand, Romilly and Doyle, he boarded “Endurance” – taking on the Atlasonian task of finding that elusive alternative earth.

The four explorers back stories are launched minimaly except for Cooper, as Matthew McConaughey’s role as a single father to daugher Murph is strained a bit. Anne Hathaway, Dr. Brand, is Professor Brand’s (Michael Caine) daughter. She’s got some kind of planetary love connection with a particle physicist who shot off into space ten years prior. Romilly is an anxious physicist and, to round out the quirky quartet, Doyle takes his geography expertise with them just in case … for what? I’m not sure. Alright? Alright … Aaalll-right.

The seemingly long trip from earth to Saturn lasts one minute in the movie. Hyperbolic, water filled chambers keep the humans happily hydrated …

They make choices after moving through the worm hole. Some good, some bad. Gravity – especially Einstein’s way of poking his mop head into conversation every ten minutes – warps ages and time. Romilly ages 23 years while Dr. Brand and Cooper waste precious minutes wading through a tsunami. It’s all relative, I suppose.

Through a series of events, Matt Damon dies. Yes, he’s not a nice man in the flick.

Cooper finds himself reconnecting with his daugher Murph who has aged on earth, but he’s a quasi-ghost in the 5th dimension. Floating behind the very bookcase Murph saw weird things happen in dust earlier, he breaks a binary code and, in turn, helps save humanity … I think?

Kinda lost it when a kid hits a baseball through a curved-earth window two minutes before a scene where Cooper watches his very old daughter die.

The movie ends with Cooper leather-slipping into a ship … headed to a planet where Dr. Brand is, apparently, awaiting his landing. She is anticipating his arrival at Edmund’s planet … a strange, but expected, love twist.

Yes, two hours and forty-nine minutes. The way I figure it, entertainment has a cost. This was worth the time invested. Fiction, to be sure.

In as much as I didn’t understand some of the scientific ding-dong dialog, the tense moments and suspense kept my interest and feet firmly planted on the ground – where I’d rather be.

Let’s hope the truth of our situation here on earth never gets to the crisis situation presented in “Interstellar”. I h’aint getting in no damn spaceship.

Calling It a Nice Day

Today was a really nice day. Compared to most days recently, the outdoor human experience sunned itself favorably. A mere 55+ degrees fell happily upon most of us who delighted in a walking a few steps around town.

During my walk time this afternoon, a mid-day thought dawned on me. I haven’t written any kind considerations lately.

Lately? Heck, it’s been well over 5 months.

I miss this. Pointing out the obvious busy darts landing on my life’s dart board calendar doesn’t make for a good excuse here. I’ve been busier in the past and managed to land a few textual missiles. Idleness? Nope. Laziness is a noun I do not understand.

So, somewhere lurking around being too busy and never sitting still, I neglected doing something enjoyable – writing entries in a small blog.

It’s not like there hasn’t been anything to write. Time is early in the Lenten season for local Christian churches. To go completely 180-degrees, binging the Jack Reacher t.v. series, both seasons 1 & 2, was explosively exceptional. Personal triumph and another close friendship lost to cancer- interwoven among daily ups and downs – all of us could attach words to. There’s always words.

Making, i.e. finding, time to share these marvelous expressions more frequently than once a year should be a priority.

The sun today bleached out a small confession today. I had a moment to think. Sometimes we need to admit to ourselves we have neglected something enjoyable. Whatever the reason(s), that one hobby/activity dart headed for the diversion bullseye on our secondary “entertainment” dartboard never got picked up … let alone thrown. This happens a little at a time – and then months pass by. Ugh.

I’m calling this a nice day. Busy darts be damned. The sun shone while I walked. Maybe it’s Lent, the fear of a very large wandering ex-military behemoth, or a simple self-confession that got me back to this space?

My guess would be the latter. Mainly because Jack Reacher would be way out of place in downtown Hollidaysburg and I’ve got plenty of Lent to go yet behind the organ.

Do your happy place now. Don’t neglect it.

It’s Been Some Time

Yes, some time – and this will be a short entry.

Tomorrow evening, I’ll be performing a benefit concert to raise money for UPMC Hospice. The programs are printed, flowers arranged to be delivered, clothing finely draped over my chair ready to be worn, and a piano awaiting my arrival at 6:30.

I can’t wait, but I must. This is something I truly enjoy. The pieces have been selected as musical bridges to memories I must share with loved ones and friends. Beethoven, Mozart, and Brahms – to highlight a few – will be on this one-hour, fifteen-minutes journey with all of us. Personal, yet public it will be. Marvelous.

Wonderful. Just the sharing of music.

That’s all. Simply, music.

Funerals and the Living

I’m at a funeral this morning. Another casket, one more service behind the organ. More hymns than normal for my friend who died. She requested my “organized pianistic” presence at her pre-final rest service here. I’m honored to be a part.

A part, here, with the living. Old and young, big and tall. We’re here celebrating a life. This life of a Pastor well lived .. and given back through an eleven year vessel lined with stage four ovarian cancer.

Yet, we are still here.

I, in some small part, provide the music. An “Alleluia” prelude at the keyboard followed by six hymns and two liturgical snippets. For Pastor Denise, these are. For the congregants and Pastors all in attendance who are here paying respects to their friend and colleague, I play.

This is not the first, nor last, funeral I will play. I’ve had three grandparents, a mom, and countless others. A dad will follow along if I live a normal span of years and this church will require my end of lives’ services in the future as well.

“Funerals and the Living”, always brushes across my mind when passing by parlor doors open to a closed casket. In this same spot, I held my mom’s clasped hands eleven years ago hours before her viewing. Thinking a variation of the same thought, “I am living at your funeral … what is this?” … it was, truly, an odd, dichotomous feeling. Death and life two feet apart, but love unchanged. Cold, yet warm. Energy still present. Holding hands … a connection I feel to this day.

Mom and I are pianists. This is quite possibly the bridge between her funeral and my living existence today. Holding keyboard hearts and hands – over 4,000 sunsets after her passing. I think of her each time my fingers begin funeral Preludes. It is what is right and necessary to allow a mom’s mourning sunrise to reach those who need a connection with their lost soul.

“Funerals and the Living”. The funeral viewing and service – a small arc of the circle that is a death process the living must go through. It is sad and possibly necessary if wanted by the family and deceased. The circle … a burial or spreading of ashes to follow, perhaps. The circle … therapy for the living if needed. The circle … estate issues, etc …

Maybe the circle never ends. I don’t know. My “mom circle” never closed.

As it stands now – one hour and fifteen minutes since this writing started and the service for Pastor Denise began as well – I was able to express my thoughts here between six hymns, a smattering of liturgical responses, a sermon, scripture readings, and a eulogy.

Mom has been with me all along. She always is. Every funeral. Always. Funerals help me live. They help mom stay alive as well …

I’m at a funeral this morning. So glad I am not alone.

You are not alone either when arriving at a loved one’s funeral. Yes, the living are by your side in the pew as eulogies are spoken and hymns sung. Visitors offer hugs in the midst of drowning tears.

In the quiet chambers of your heart, the one who passed through this life still occupies memories. Remarkable memories unique to you – and only you – serve as reminders of times when life was lived to its fullest … with them by your side.

Funerals reflect life back to us. Pastor Denise reminds me, today in her death, I am not alone.

In death, Mom and Pastor Denise live this day. As always.

Look Up

It was steak tips and fries – for the second time in three days. Yes, they are delicious. The salad bar and Pepsi Zero adding to their sizzle, these platter meat and starch necessities have been a Wednesday and occasional Saturday staple. Friends meeting for casual conversation … and the same, predictable waitress we ask for each time. Expected.

Looking down as usual. Meat and a potato variety. Salad bar. Never more than a horizontal stare across the very familiar round table. I, the youngest of six sitting around, was engaged in conversations stretching from the Pittsburgh Pirates to “how it was” prior to my open-eyed arrival in the early 60’s. Easy to understand as one of my friends is a nonagenarian farmer – contrasted with this piano-playing hotdog salesman.

As they say, an eclectic group of people folk. The other four … along for the dinner ride almost every week at this steak house. Crab cakes for one, meatloaf for two and three, a burger on the plate for number four, call up shrimp or chicken fingers for five, and for me? … some part of a cow is always up for grabs.

Routine. A Wednesday staple – sometimes Saturday. A routine where -and when – we find ourselves never looking up. So habitual, in fact, that before even starting the 12 minutes drive I hear an exhausted, ” … again?” gracing my right ear in the car. Frankly, I can’t argue the point. Responding with a half-hearted, sighing, “yeah …” we pull away anticipating the same rights, lefts, signal lights, and – yes – parking spaces at Hoss’s Steak House at the other end of town.

It’s not a “rut”. That’s a negative version of routine. You can’t get ANY pleasure out of a rut. This is why Scooby’s favorite saying is what it is. We have no expectation of pulling a mask off our favorite waitress to divulge a sinister plot. Yes, my steak was not the best two weeks ago, however, I don’t feel she concocted a plan to “rut-roh” my evening. Shaggy and fatty as it was, I still go back. Mistakes were made.

It was routine. Look ahead routine. So many times. Week after week.

One more time this past Saturday – routine … and then I walked out.

Framed between two light poles was magnificent deep orange and brilliant yellow. Purples, blues, and blacks hugged the sky as well. My sight line was … up. Not down. Not horizontal. Up. What I saw was in front of me. Not behind or beside.

“Perspective” is what jumped out of the clouds immediately into my mind.

Definitely not a routine sighting, right? I don’t understand atmospheric conditions despite earning an “A” in my college intro to meteorology class. (Memory rinse and repeat gets one to earn such a grade … before you reach a conclusion that I can do much more than identify the difference between stratus, cumulous, and cirrus clouds).

Reflect, refract? Prism crystals, or light bending through water vapor? You tell me. Frankly, I don’t care to know. Surely our stately sun was involved as it went to its evening rest around a global tilt. This would be the extent of my knowledge.

I stood for a few seconds as I am sure some in the local area did. Looking up. It was a beautiful sky. Certainly put perspective in my life … for a little time, anyway.

Routine disappeared … as this artistry was certainly out of routine. As if to say, “I got this …”, these colors radiated down a sense of calm – an overarching, blanketing feeling over the community. A reminder – as it were – to look up out of our routines and take a breath.

The “I” to which I refer has no identity. No assignment given here. It is open to all colors, shapes and sizes of beliefs.

As an artist of the music kind, looking up I saw a pallete of dancing colors that could easily be transcribed into little dots on a musical staff. Gustav Holst imagined The Planets in his fantastic work of the same title. Looking up has created musical magic and I can only imagine continues to inspire composers.

All this to say “look up” once in a while. Yeah, it’s an over-used, well-cooked into life’s pie cliché. Take a well-earned breath. Please keep all things in perspective. Your job and issues that can stress your essence have a shelf life. Give them attention, however, no more than they deserve. Continue to live a healthy routine, of course …but stay out of a rut. Every once in a while, there may be stunning colors you NEED to see. Reminder: life’s moments are worth having around even if your steak isn’t the best sometimes.

Me and Adolph

I’m working in the lot outside a local pretzel factory today. Twisted, I am not. A bit salty, my attitude always. This local business is a world-wide distributor of “bretzels” … a fine alliteration – if you will – of a sodium laden snack and German baked pastry tied up in a knot. Generations have enjoyed these crunchy delectable treats from Western Pa. It’s still a family owned business proudly run by the progeny of an entrepreneur with a vision back in 1911 … Adolph Benzel.

One-hundred and twelve years later. That a lot of bretzeling. Of course, they’ve expanded the business to include other products, however, the cornerstone has always been a red pouch of Benzel’s Bretzels. Aisle admit, it’d be difficult to meander down any grocery sidecar-snack lane or, for that matter, notice a conveniece store eye-grabbing, impulse-craving shelve crammed with crackling, baked goods … and NOT see that red bag.

The Benzel Bakery is a huge success … no argument here. My business would need an additional ninety-three years to match five score plus twelve years … and these dawg bones don’t have a Guinness Book of World Records time left to live that long. Honestly, I wouldn’t want the headaches passed on through lineage I don’t have, anyway.

As I look over my steaming, post grilled dawgs today – waiting for packers and bakers to arrive – I marvel at the tenacity of generational businesses. How did they make it through all the personality differences, specifically? I have challenges with my own mental ups and downs inside Sam’s Club picking out vegetables. Ask me to look a week ahead in my schedule and I’m liable to blow a piston thinking it through. Granted, I do get my stuff done … and done kinda well. Scale up my life even two notches and there’d neither be a calendar capable of handling the load, nor enough time to squeeze minutes from this already full bag of obligations.

I have no family to shoulder the load going forward … and this is perfectly OK. Which, kinda, answers my question. I talk to the owner of the Bretzel factory frequently. He is engaged with his family. They are engaged with him. Everyone within that familial structure – past and present – has invested sweat equity (to write an overused cliche) into the business. They’ve given their all. Passionate and dedicated they are … and have been.

This commitment never guarantees success, of course. Adolph probably didn’t know the carbs and salt would, eventually, end up in millions of homes and businesses world-wide contributing crackling delight. He was a visionary … and this forward motion remains in the belts pushing through the ovens now. That – along with standing on the shoulders of failures and successes of their ancestors, side by side – propels the bretzel-pretzel pedigree.

All this to say I am glad this little cart of mine is a one man, nineteen years operation.

A van, some coolers, … and a tag-along grill that’s been as much a part of my family as Adolph’s kin has been to him.

I’m dedicated to it. We’ve see each other through snow, wind, horrible rain storms, 105-degree heat with high humidity, busted events, terrific sales days, broken sinks, busted wheels, gas lines needing repair … on and on. Never once has one given up on the other.

I feel as if we are just as big as Benzel’s. It’s a mindset. A family of two. A partnership. A commitment, of sorts.

The final invoice turned in, I’ve done a good days work here. The profit will be counted along with hundreds of other ledger entries over the past 19 years. Add a few hundred more dawgs to the total sold since 2005.

I don’t know if Adolph would be proud of me. I’m not looking for validation from his ancestor who owns the business now, either. Frankly, a check in about a week will suffice.

Small and large businesses alike. This is why I love what I do. Just down the road are the corporate offices of Sheetz – another massively successful local story. Family run. Family dedicated.

My small family of, well, two gives me insight into multi-million dollar ventures that expand the world.

I love it.

Working outside a pretzel factory reminds me of these special connections.

Time to clean up, slip into something comfortable and plunge my hand into a red bag of twisted treats.

Peace In The Wind

This remarkable image is courtesy of Kimberly Calderwood … and Lancaster County in Southern Pennsylvania near the Susquehanna River. The former is a dear friend who captured this gorgeous picture. The latter a beautiful part of our state I don’t travel through ever … shame on me.

Shame on me for not taking the time to get out of western PA more often to experience life on a different plane. I’m not going to head down my local expressway during a sunset and witness the escape of a hot air balloon off dusty horse-laden lands. Most likely, a local McDonald’s and pharmacy would confine my vision and I’d be assaulted by unjustified horn-beeping from nearby lanes. There’d be no peace in the wind.

A different world down east from here -Pennsylvania Dutch Country – where tranquil Amish don’t beep and blather their way around those encountering daily life one moment at a time.

Kim hugged peace in the wind through her lense. This very calm breeze lifted that balloon into stillness, stayed the mighty beasts of the field, and held a majestic sun over all its domain. As all wanted to move forward within the orange hue, a setting glow set aspirations aside and paused life … for a moment. Reflected back memories it did. Directed time to the immediate. Any future, as of this moment, did not exist.

This was the now. Kim took me there.

When I saw her picture, a quote often attributed to Shakespeare came to mind: “There are three people in yourself: Who people think you are, who you think you are, and who you really are.”

I have a past, present, and future. None of those time frames mattered at that moment. Also, what others may (or, may not) think of me melted away. I saw my 6-foot frame, initially, standing in that tiny balloon without a brooding bother in my brain. Transfixed by the warmth surrounding my soul, I became enraptured by the peace in the wind I could feel simply by holding a phone held in my hand.

Remarkable how art – yes, this picture is art in raw, beautiful form – moves us into places we don’t expect. Places we NEED to arrive when we are unaware this must be our destination.

See, this Peace in the Wind dropped into my life during a tornado of stress. Did it end the path of torn up relational earth life handed me over the previous days? No. Normal stuff happens. You and I know this. High levels of anxiety happen. Life is, well, life. Can’t avoid situational stress as life ticks forward.

It did remove, distract, and relocate me.

… so nice to unexpectedly arrive at a field in Southern Pennsylvania.

Sit with me a few minutes. Enjoy this moment. Stand with those majestic horses .. talk to them. Take a walk, gently, along a dusty rut where generations of Amish workers have lovingly blazed a trail for you. Glance upward at a motionless balloon to consider where you’d go with an evening off – totally free from any obligations.

Best of all, close your eyes and be thankful for the warm, peaceful breeze you can feel only in your imagination… this time, but not the last time.

Kim’s remarkable image gives us permission to always be aware – always be on the lookout for wonderful snapshots like this. Moments to stop. Stop worrying. Stop being anxious about the troubles of the day. Stop looking ahead at what may – or may not – be guaranteed.

I am still in that balloon. For now, it’s a great view. Like I said, sit with me a while.