Shoes, Shoes, Shoes…

There were shoes. A lot of them strewn across the oak wooden entryway floor ten feet ahead from my vantage point sitting behind the slightly out of tune piano. I only began noticing the mass of footwear well into my second half-hour of jazzy Christmas tunes ringing through the expansive room filled with a beautiful tree to my left and an early evening sunset through the bay window to my right.

There were guests. A lot of them standing around the marble island fifteen feet extending beyond my sight line over middle-C. All angles of human form – very pleasant and engaging as evidenced by their holiday smiles and lean-in body languages. Pretty dresses. Handsome shirts. Prosciutto, olives of different colors, turkey, decorative china, delectable delicacies of all shapes, wafting aromas mixing the air, and spirits stirring in the clear glass vessels of elixirs only began the feast of festivities.

There was sincere Joy. A lot of it. Beautifying the entryway were big welcoming doors where guests entered over a threshold of unending grace, joy, and wonder. This, of course, was a provider of merriment. A host of hugs. He was there, bowing to their admittance, and welcoming their special arrival.

There were words. A lot of them. Mumbles, appellations of happiness, blurbs, yipes, yips, teehees, kindnesses, woohoos, full sentences, hey-you’s, buddies, waz-ups, and tons more. The echos in the jovial, quite lusty atmosphere didn’t allow me to pick up on specific words, so pardon my lack of detail in this matter. Besides, matters of a pianistic nature occupied my time.

There were notes. A lot of them with me at the piano among the mass of shoes.

I have to figure some of the little buggers got out, though. After all, I wasn’t there to practice. Notes everywhere. I do know some of them ended up on the floor. C-sharps that should have been C-naturals, whacked keys, missed chords … all the notey-notey, cutesy stuff the universe drops in on us piano performers. Oh, and the occasional “music falling off the music rack stunt” … priceless, especially when the music does the slinky routine off the keyboard on the way down to the floor. So as those notes settled in for the night?… I hope you slept well, my pretties!…the duster probably got you the next morning!

So what about the other notes? The joyful ones, from my feelers, bouncing off the shoes, touching the words, through the guests, riding on the wings of wonder?

I have to image they had a purpose on that night. The survivors rose above to live a dream. Imagine coming to life as a note on that night. A sound never before until that moment.

From the vibration of a wire, a b-flat came alive to rebound off an gold angel ornament. The birth of an F immediately resulted in the prosciutto feeling a breeze of freshness over it’s face. A subtle turn of a head toward her partner was the destiny of a newly born trinity of crotchets as a revered combination of three notes passed through the lover’s closely shared space. Many notes, many dreams.

As I sat airing my grateful life ten fingers at a time, I realized the night belonged to the shoes after all. They were the stars of the night. Quietly assuming their role as deliverers of guests, these soles of the people rested until called upon, once again, to reprise a very personal responsibility: guide the steps, maintain safe the way, and hold true the stable gait of the trusting guest.

Shoes have the ability to give of themselves. Peeling off the leather heels liberated the guest from all daily pressures built up through grinding gravity. I could see relief eminate on faces as each shoe found its way to the pile. Each pair gave what it had to get to that moment …. and now it rested.

My time soon coming to a close, the party was nowhere near that end. Thousands of notes born, many guests, unending joy, and plenty of kind words about my piano playing. I observed many things. Chief among them, the shoes. Exiting with a lot of music in hand, I crossed over the threshold – passing by many styles, shapes, and sizes of fabulous footwear… wondering if I changed inside just a little.

For isn’t it true people of all kinds, shapes, and sizes carry us through all our paths and help lighten our steps along the way?

I played notes which I’ve done for years. I saw guests arrive and have extreme joy. I experienced an overwhelmingly gracious host. I heard some very kind words. All came together as movements of a shoe symphony I am so glad to have experienced.

My gratitude and thanks to shoes eveywhere.

Good Golly, “Molly’s Game”

Jessica Chastain. She is an actress who masterfully portrays Molly Brown in the 2017 gambling movie, “Molly’s Game”, which I queued up to record last night. I use “masterfully” as a term of my own choosing based on my own bias. Do I rank it among the “Godfather” Pacino performances? No. Certainly not; However, her ability to pull me through a lazy Sunday morning with grace, energy, and talent when I initially expected inelegance, lethargy, and clumsiness was nothing short of masterful.

She had some help to tilt my bias. The subject matter – Texas Hold’em – is in my wheelhouse. I love the game. Also, to quote one of the most famous holiday tunes, “Oh, the weather outside is…” (you know the rest..). I am currently in a lone, solitary state with no interruptions. Not wanting to do anything else, but needing to do other pressing matters, I must not do anything BUT watch a movie (or two, or three). It’s still a holiday weekend. On and on…. Oh, and did I mention Jessica is kinda good looking? That helps, too.

Press play. (pause)

This is where writing a blog about a movie gets a bit tricky. I don’t want to be a plot problem in reverse. How do I, a non-professional movie non-reviewer/blogger, discuss my feelings about a movie without disclosing any specific, juicy details? There is a certain irony in just asking last question based on a main platform in the defense Molly, herself, unshakably retains. Her honor is her name. Neither my honor is at stake, nor life is over as we know it if a sub-plot is ruined via an innocent blog, but I wouldn’t want it to happen, regardless. That said, a tightrope walk begins. It is a gambling movie, however, and risks must be endeavored.

Let me begin with a film synopsis. Credit here given to http://www.imdb.com: “The true story of Molly Bloom, a beautiful, young, Olympic-class skier who ran the world’s most exclusive high-stakes poker game for a decade before being arrested in the middle of the night by 17 FBI agents wielding automatic weapons. Her players included Hollywood royalty, sports stars, business titans and finally, unbeknownst to her, the Russian mob. Her only ally was her criminal defense lawyer Charlie Jaffey, who learned there was much more to Molly than the tabloids led people to believe.”

This is, pretty much, the summary I read when deciding to record. Two words, “beautiful” and “poker”, instantly led me to push record…similar to addictive smells of cinnamon rolls and chocolate lead me to being ten pounds overweight. The allure – I am so proud to say – I satisfied without any apologies to possible plot spoilages.

Molly wears a lot of sexy dresses in the film. Sparkley, spaghetti-strap, red, blue, black laced barely covering, classy one piece attractively worn numbers designed to lure the wealthiest of players. That’s part of her inside game….(and also one of the longest sentences I’ve written in a blog.) She works on the game inside the game, does it remarkably well, and is rewarded with increasing financial results. Molly vs. Smarts, vs. Instinct, vs. Knowledge, vs. Bad Luck, vs. Family are the fight cards she draws consistently but survives. “Problem = Opportunity” seems to be her mantra. She’s a fighter.

Greed is the left hook she never saw coming and, had she even the good fortune to see it, her life had no defense against it. No sexy dress or connection to power could save her. After years of eluding fate’s inevitable, concluding punch to the gut, Molly reached the final bell. All the cards were on the table. With options all used up, she’s arrested by the FBI… and so began her story as I eagerly shushed comfortably backward on the sofa under the lonely, warm, brown throw.

I was “pot committed” as she began her quest into the belly of the poker whale. What is the path for a highly competitive, world class skier to a poker game-runner? The highly avoidable pun here is … I guess it was unavoidably all downhill for her, right? The answer lay ahead in the movie. Thus, the hook. I had to know. Highly attractive woman, poker, allure, inevitable failure, … wheelhouse.

OK. So here’s what I can say without giving too much of the movie “stuff” away.

She starts out as a secretary and soon finds out there are bigger financial rewards setting up poker games. The sticky wicket is her overbearing boss, Dean Keith, who needs his teeth kicked in by an unruly three-year old who’s having a really bad day. I figure, if Mr. Keith was just a tad bit nicer to Molly, we’d have no movie (but, I digress). Moving forward, Molly finds herself a “crowd favorite” among the regular players who tip her with increasingly larger bills because of her kind demeanor and professionalism. All the while, she is observing the game, learning, studying…

Enter player X (Michael Cera). Let’s be glad Malcom X or Mr. T were not in the movie, otherwise, we’d have an alphabet nightmare afoot. Player X provides a level 2 safety net for Molly from not-so-nice-guy Dean when she jumps from the platform of abuse. Player X decides he wants to advance to Y and Z later in the movie which puts Molly at a crossroads once again, so she ups her game. The high level Russians get involved, chips fly, rakes begin (poker term – bad, bad, idea if you host a game … means the host is taking a % of the pot. No can do… very, very, bad), drugs, sleep/wake cycle non-existent. Worlds in disarray.

Seventeen FBI agents at the ready. And there’s the back story. Conclusion? Obviously, not for me to say. If you read my blog frequently, there’s always a game-within-the-game. If there isn’t something to be gleaned from a life experience, it is moments wasted.

Molly knew what she didn’t know and built towers of knowledge on the foundations of that premise. There was never a moment when I felt she was pretending. If she didn’t know, she didn’t know. Period.

Molly was exceptionally honest with herself. Knowledge, as stated above, is one dimension. Emotionally, I found her to be open and true to herself as well. For what she knew about herself most of the way though the movie, it was as real to me as if I was reading my own autobiography.

Molly’s morals and ethics could – and I emphasize “could” – be unchallenged. Honesty and knowledge aside, there are moments – especially later – when her ethics come into play (why else would the FBI be arresting her, right?). Who among us, correct?…. Degrees of severity. Not giving Molly a pass at all. I knew, based on the premise of the movie, something had to unravel.

Plots within plots. Character development. Poker games and really cool camera angles. Russians, gambling addicts, moral lessons and a well cast attorney, (Idris Elba) Charlie Jaffey, in addition to Michael Cera and Kevin Costner (who makes an awkward re-appearance later in the movie -with three questions that “should” tie up a father/daughter issue – but seems out-of-place). I won’t spoil this with the three questions. You can google if you want … they pertain to the “family” matter back story between an over-reaching/coach-father and athlete-daughter. I find those retros to be mundane and pedantic. Just me? Well, knock my chips over and call me late for supper!….

Lessons learned? Never give up. Always be learning. Know what you don’t know. Be honest with yourself. Stay moral and ethical as best you can.

“Molly’s Game” is a great movie beginning to end. Stay with it if you start it. The last five minutes are pleasurable. All the minutes previous are just as enjoyable. I was easily pulled through a lazy Sunday morning with ease by beautiful dresses, wonderful acting, a great story, a poker bias, intrigue, fascination, a partially eaten bag of pretzels, and a warm, brown throw.

All in all, not a bad few hours. Thanks, Jessica. Hopefully we can shuffle up and deal a few hands together sometime. I’d like that.

“Abby Thanksgiving, Everyone”

We always do our human perspective. It’s easy to do. Human to human existence is our livelihood . Carved into our existence are the use of words. Words in verbal form, hand-written or typed, or signed for hard of hearing all express our needs, wants, joys, sadness, openness, solitude, and celebrations. Certainly, one can add many more nouns to this list. That’s the beauty of words.

For today, however, the sheer wonder of all words stands, as one in the shadow of two: gratitude and thanks.

“Thanks and Gratitude”. Through the eyes of Abby.

Abby is a dog. Pretty sure my elementary school teachers would be proud of my observation. Her noun classification is only one letter off my name … take the “u” out of DOUG, and “dog” appears – almost like magic! … Now, this isn’t anything too specific regarding Abby. Scooby Doo and I have this in common, too. Just a fun fact.

I see Abby once a week when I visit her family on a “business matter”. She is (understatement immediately forthcoming) really, really excited to see me. Steaming up the glass storm door with anticipatory breath, she can be seen banging her tail rhythmically against the hard ceramic floor. Once I gently open the door, she darts forward past my feet … happily so as if I’m NOT there,… although I am the only one she wants to see. Invisible to her elation, realizing her error, she immediately turns in my direction to enter the house before I have a chance to close the door. All this in ten seconds clicks of a clock. Paws skating across the glossy entryway floor, her gait propels her around corners so quickly I barely have a chance to catch my own breath before seeing her appear, once again in my sight. In a flash, the Abby white tornado whirls from the kitchen in blinding fashion, brakes suddenly at my feet, looks up, … and, well, ….. the ritual begins.

Abby is sweet. Five minutes into my visit, she settles out of the routine: pet the belly, pet the head, scratch the back, look away at a random noise (her, not me), try to jump up but be denied (multiple times), whimper and pout… The routine finishes with her gracing up a few stairs, plumping down on step, and poking her head through a rail with such a face of resignation as shown above.

I don’t believe it is just me on this given day. I think it is anyone, at any time, for any purpose, carrying anything, wearing anything, … you see my point. I’d “like” to believe I am someone special to her. I am not.

Or, am I?

Abby can’t use words. Her ability to speak isn’t in her DNA. I feel special when I see Abby, however. She doesn’t need to use words. I may be special to Abby the moment she sees me in the driveway … she just “feels” it somehow but can’t say it. This is that human-animal, non-verbal connection we should always be thankful for and cherish.

This is gratitude and thanks dogified – non-judgmental and always accepting of our flaws and problems. We can talk our words to them. They will listen and not understand in the way “we” think. Somehow, though, they will show grace and thanks to us not by words. Maybe we can extend this same idea to our human connections?

Today is a day of human perspective. By all means, tell everyone “thanks” for everything deserving their praise because human to human interaction is our existence. Be open to receive thanks as well.

Words aren’t necessary, either. Hug someone you love. Open the door for a stranger. Place a flower on the grave of a loved one. Read a book. Be silent. Pet the belly of an Abby in your life. Steam up a glass door and bang on the door when you see someone pull up in the driveway. Run up to them. Put your arms around them.

Whatever it is, … spoken or unspoken, one word or volumes of syllables, poems or novels, … make it special and full of thanks and gratitude today.

Abby Thanksgiving, Everyone!!

11.25.1963

Today is the birthday of one very good friend.

I met Bill in college a long time ago and we remain friends to this day – separated by an hour drive east or west (depending upon who wants to spend the gas money). Regrettably, neither of us do it often. It took the death of his oldest son, and father a month prior, for me to make two trips two years ago. His last trip to see me was seven years ago when my mom died. Death, it seems, was the tie that bound.

Not to say we haven’t talked on the phone. We have. The conversations last hours. Every time I call, his wife answers. She and I converse a few minutes and it ends up with her saying, “So, do you want to talk to Bill now?”. “Yep”, I eagerly reply. “Bill, it’s your friend, Doug”, is always what I hear being loudly proclaimed. Boy, do I feel warm fuzzies hearing that … even after all these years. Validates me. Yes, a fifty-something grown man is allowed to go out and play with a good friend. His wife said so. She knows it is a connection both Bill and I need. Nice.

My mom loved Bill. She respected his choices in life. He and his wife had specific challenges with two of their three children. Hard, hard choices most people would not have faced as bravely and faithfully as they did. They hung in there. Somehow mom nurtured our friendship by supporting him through all of it – as I did. She was that “extra special” in our friendship. At the memorial service for his son, I needed to speak on behalf of my mom’s memory – as well, to Bill and his wife. Those in attendance heard those exact words.

Both of us experienced wrestling coach fathers. We spent more time on the racquetball courts in college than behind desks studying. Roommates that loved pizza drove us nuts by never wanting any until we ordered, paid for, and began eating it …then heard the words, “hey, you gonna eat all that?”… We experienced the same goofy sibling rivalries. Opening packs of baseball cards as adults – acting like children – seemed normal to us. There was nothing we could do to not get the complete support of the other. Nothing.

…and that support lasts throughout the silence of the many months of no contact. I suspect the same is true of friendships that last a lifetime. Chance meetings early in life … moments that change the direction of the friend-ship. Looking back, there were three dorm moves and two chance roommates that led to Bill. Without these random events, there probably would be no Doug-Bill tandem today. No mom-Bill encounters. No chance to have all our lives enriched by heartache, successes, failures, connections, joys, births, deaths, jobs, and relationships.

When my birthday arrives soon, I know I will get a phone call. I ALWAYS do. It’s like clockwork. Bill always, always calls. If I don’t answer, there will be a message … it is never different. “Hey big guy. Thought I’d give you a call. Happy Birthday, big boy. Hope you have a good day.” This has been the message for over thirty years. Admittedly, sometimes I see the call and don’t answer because I want it to go to voicemail JUST to get the message … and then call Bill back. He’s such a good friend.

I am not as reliable. Today, however, I’ll make the call. He deserves it. Life is too short not to.

Look at your Mountain

You are always a survivor of the climb,
whatever gets you through your “one day at a time”.
A believer in yourself, your dreams, a soul-if you will,
the pride of your mountain, destiny to fulfill.

There’s NO ONE like you with a willful intent …
who once said, “I know what I know and meant what I meant.”
When once you faced head-on that turning point day,
Said ‘NO’ to nay-sayers, and then turned away.

So, now there’s a challenge – ascend it you must.
In all heart-of-hearts, it is YOURS you can trust.
Look at your mountain, one step each it’s due.
In each footprint you leave…,
…your mountain says, “I love you”.

It’s not about **

This is a tough one today. Not the usual blog entry.

Seen shuffling along a building today was an elderly man, mid-to-late seventies/possibly eighties, sturdily holding on to each side of a walker, slouched over with his wife gently guiding his guarded steps from behind. The pace was slow – as expected. No hurry. The days of rush-around were gone as his life seemed to be in the final cloud of a lifelong weather pattern. Days of sunshine, thunderstorms, snow, wind, fall, summer, … life.

His buzz cut so recognizable. Suspenders. Bluejeans, as expected, elevated two inches above normal belt height … and two inches of white socks showing above the tops of brown shoes, below the jeans, validating such. Overall sole to hairtop height, probably five feet. One of the nicest men you’d ever meet.

“Fussy Pants”. He never knew this was a nickname given him at one time – briefly. Years ago, an acquaintance attached this moniker to him. Her path crossed his. The experience colored in the lines of her black and white world as it was lived at that moment with him. Yes, he most likely is still very particular about “this and that”… She moved on and the nickname faded into memory.

Today was another day for him. Measured steps wearing down shoes from constant skating along tough, rough pathways. Taking precious minutes of time out of life for a few feet of distance. Nothing for granted.

This, today, was not unfamiliar, however. It was home. This was a connection to familiar. The building he knew well. Life shuffled the deck and dealt him a few good hands. He played the cards well and could certainly enjoy the walk around today – even if by shiny, slow walker. It was a good day.

This is a building where a man supported his family running a successful small business. To this day, businesses thrive at this location. There is a personal connection to this address…and to “fussy pants”.

He is unique. His home – only a block or two away – is immaculate. Small, unassuming, and quaint as you would assume, it meets and exceeds expectations of someone who has high standards for himself.

This has been a tough one. Ending on a positive note. Not the usual blog post. Wishing the best in the years to come for those who shuffle along in life.

The goal today? Observing the obvious today, realizing the inevitabilities, and writing about others’ struggles was the goal.

…and avoid using any first person singular, plural, possessive, or subjective pronouns.

It’s not about **. It’s about you. A life to be lived now. Him. All the other pronouns in life. The writer, for now, will rest in the silence of words unspoken.

Thoughts from my Phone

Some days, the “cut and paste” option is easiest. Today is such a day.

I find myself writing a lot in the middle of the night. Phone in hand, I thumb away gracefully, setting “Samsung Notes” in alignment with my feelings at that moment. A small, bright light gently places thought-shadows on the ceiling amid the silent rhythm of thumb-thumps every second or two. A pleasing sigh once in a while to reassure myself. A nod of self-assurance, one word after another, until the words and I, finally, are at rest.

Here is one of many early morning reflections from my phone. Serving my purpose and, possibly, no other. That’s ok. Opening this up to oceans of possibilities and hoping it may help one other person is enough for me.

Poker Chips and Stacks

Compared to others’ endeavors, my poker chip issue over this past weekend is so insignificant. In my crazy world, however, I’m quite irritated. So much so, it warrants space on my blog today. Granted, had any of my friends been available today, you wouldn’t be reading these words. I’d be buying them lunch instead – while describing the injustice visited upon me yesterday eve. As is stands, you, the reader, are it. Congrats!

Strewn about in the picture are “big boy” chips. The (ahem) friendly game we play progresses to the point where these are the only ones in play. One must be 1.) diligent and somewhat skillful to be at the table this late in the game, and 2.) have a decent number of chips to remain competitive. I don’t always qualify on both counts … that is, even if I make it that far. I really do play to have fun. Really.

I do have one teeny-tiny “thing”. A hang-up. An obsession. A quirk. A “something” I NEVER should have told my friends – one in particular. EVER. A mistake years ago that I so regret to this day. A friend who would NOT be gracing my lunch table at this moment unless an apology would be forthcoming … for knocking over my exquisitely organized stacks of chips.

DON’T EVER KNOCK OVER MY CHIP STACKS.

In case that wasn’t clear, I don’t want my chip stacks touched. Ever. Most don’t mind the occasional bump or nudge. I do. The stacks must have the same number of chips and cannot be friendly with other colors when available. There are few exceptions to this rule. Overall, however, don’t touch my chips and I’ll be pleasant. Accidents happen … cool. Do it intentionally, and we got friendly problems, my friends.

Nothing to start a congressional inquiry over, but we’ll have a discussion. Enter last night.

I had more chips than most. Forty-three to be exact. Ten stacks of four and one stack of three on top. Actually, all ten stacks of four arranged as such: four across the bottom touching side by side, then three on top of them, then two, then one, forming a perfect triangle …. with the remaining three perfectly placed on top of said triangle. Since the required number of chips to play a hand was a multiple of four, my plan was in place.

Into the kitchen for a snack.

Exiting the kitchen, I spied what appeared to be the scattered remains of my masterpiece … amid the quiet murmurs of satisfied tomfoolery. Backs to my sight, I knew shenanigans were afoot … and, as well, the instigator. My friend, John.

It was ok. John is a great friend. Most of the chips were his, anyway. I won them earlier. It was masterful, so I understood the temptation to upend my stack. He needed to touch some chips. I had some. He had none.🤣. I re-stacked the chaos, refocused, and with unbridled determination, plowed forward.

We play two shifts. That was shift #1. I won. Shift #2 didn’t work out so well. John may have won.

I exited before knowing who did…but not without guarding my stacks like the precious little piles of organized UNTOUCHABLE chips they were.

I feel better. This has been a good hour for me. My emotional chips are all lined up and in good order now. I’m glad to have shared this table with you. It’s never a gamble showing you my hand because you’ll never tip over my stack. Even if you do, accidentally, it’s no big deal. We’ll shuffle up and deal again.

Here’s hoping your day is all Aces. Stack up love where you can.

“I Grow Very Tall”

It was January of 1976. A new assignment, a new semester in junior high. The above picture handed to me with the instruction below:

Hours later, I earnestly began. Sitting at my small desk at home, my eleven year old thoughts wandered into a forest of cursive, sometime misspelled, reflection. (Word for word with all spaces and punctuation accurately transcribed – except that the original was one entire four page paragraph – from the original as saved by my wonderful mother). …. and so it began:

“I remember the old days chopping, trimming, cutting and the sounds of trucks. I was lucky I didn’t get cut because I was an old no good tree. All of my other friends were dead because they were cut. There I was all alone.

My head reached up to the sky. I was 1,000 ft tall. I know someday I will be cut, too.

I remember when I was a little shrub back in the year 1400 (after Christ). A little boy found me and planted me. The winters were especily cold because I lost all my branches.

I liked when the summer came because it was warm and I grew taller. By 5 years I was as tall as a man and still growing. I liked being alone it was peaceful with the little boy and his family Every day he’d give me water his name was Jaheo (ja-jhe-o). He seemed to be a very nice boy. Some times their would be accidents like a stone hitting me and making me fall.

When jaheo’s father died I was left alone for weeks because his father was away somewhere when he died. I got thirsty pretty quick. I nerly died till these kids found me and said, I wonder how long he’s been without water he looks sick. So they went to get me some water I saved some of it because I would get thirsty later on. When they came back they looked very sad. But Jaheo still gave me water and took care of me. I grew fast in 10 years. I was 50 feet tall.

By that time Jaheo had to go to college and his mother would take care of me. She was very nice to me she talked to me. I really wished I could talk back to her but tree’s are not supose to talk.

One day these men came to jaheos house and said something bad happened to jaheo. His mother couldn’t believe it and slammed the door in their face. I didn’t see him again.

It was worse for me. Who would feed and water me? On July 16th, 1559, he died. I wished I could say goodbye to him. His mother died a couple of years after that.

I was full grown once again I heard those chopping and saw sounds I said my last words to myself because I knew I would get cut. I said, Thanks to Jaheo I lived this long. Farewell.”

____________

So, that’s what was going on in my brain a long time ago. A young boy, sitting in his room, pushing through the awkward preteen years as most do.

The story doesn’t make sense. Or, does it? The original instruction was specific with the word “imagine” … and I have always loved that word. Even at my young age at the time, I was fascinated with the word. Music evoked imagination. Drawing summoned imagination. Creating words generated previously unknown imaginable worlds. Imagining love in all forms warmed cold moments in time.

Within the framework of imagination, this story was a masterpiece in my eleven year old world. Quite possibly, re-visiting it today with a larger desk, life issues beyond a seventh-grade assignment, and aging bark on my tree trunk, I can once again thank Jaheo for pulling me through.

Imaginary as some may be, there is always hope in those who have been there for you.

Grow very tall. Imagine your story.

Head’s Up

At times, there are no words.

A simple walk in the deep jungle, alone, gives rise to whispered silence louder than the loudest loud.

Those who walk among this emotionally forested abyss hear depression, sadness, loneliness, criticism, and fear inside their head.

There are no words of encouragement, or hope, heard from the reaching canopy above.

Path forward – same footprints past. Comfort in dysfunction, distress in change. All in silence.

And then, one day, the path ends.

It doesn’t need to, but it does for some who walk in increasing darkness. Efforts and intentions fail. Alternative pathways to healing and enlightenment go astray. The nature of a human soul binds to habit and won’t let go. The sadness of a reality we must face when a life is gone way too soon.

Be awake to the possibilities of someone close sauntering down the lonely path. It isn’t always obvious. They will not be holding a sign asking for help.