Urge to Purge

Up for consideration is the great American urge to purge. The greatest past-time activity of adults with a few extra minutes and specific, idealistic thoughts about how things should be. Is this a new thing? Or, can we just define “new” as the latest iteration of already existing behaviors and notions? Maybe “Nothing new under the sun” is the answer, idiomatically accredited to the book of Ecclesiastes.

As assumed, it isn’t every one. Some sit in their boats with thankful hands free in the air. “Whatever is, is, and there’s no reason to fret about it”, according to reasoning in their boats not-a-rockin’. Others, anticipating purge-atory word-wobbling, white knuckle the sides of the very boats in which they sit … spouting thesis and assumptions. Two very different ways. Should be easier to live the former, in my opinion, but I’m seeing the latter more and more.

The urge to purge. Spouting about things by creating mountainous geysers of presuppositions upon molehills of misinformation. This is what is being done. Over and over ….. and over. I see it in Facebook strings, other social media sites, national media, print, local chatter, and online articles. Some responsible journalism sprinkled in, to be sure, but much ado about nothing otherwise.

Today’s purge wasn’t going to be such, however. Stepping aside and allowing the words of should be to pass me by, I planned a different kind for myself – one requiring physical effort and mental memory cleansing:

A STORAGE UNIT / GARAGE / HOUSE / SHED Clean-Out !!

Two ladies came quickly at the precise time scheduled, 15-foot cargo trailer in tow. First stop? A two car storage garage where years of not-so-stackable, leaning cardboard boxes of all shapes bend into corners and crevasses. The near final resting place of my grandparents’ china patterns, old records, tools, rusty advertising signs, and Tupperware bins full of cards, comics, and collectibles. Three adults in a garage, moving stuff – not seen in years – into a trailer … along with little memories, one at a time. Necessary purging. Absolutely awesome.

Contractually, the two nice ladies helping me aren’t finished. We are about 50% done with the project (the house stuff remains and storage has some items yet to be removed). They are organizers who sell clean-out inventory and split proceeds 50/50 with their clients. I love the plan, mainly because the idea of yard-saleing all the porcelain, pipes, perfume, pottery, pillows, pens, and packrattery defies everything I believe about what to do with my spare time.

One emotional hang-up still to be resolved is my mom’s jewelry box. It sits silently on a table and will remain there until I decide something … a something as of yet undefined. This is one of the stuffs unpurgable…and they are the should be’s in life: memories so deep and meaningful never to be purged. We have them collecting tiny, tucked-away particles in our brains, attics, closets, and storage garages.

This simple box was not to be my unpurgable today, but it ended up being so. I knew it was there among the leaning. I understood the risks inherent among the inherited boxes saved and stored. It opened my memories when I gently peeked the padded cream colored top and saw her faux beads, rings, earrings, necklaces, key ring full of keys, and all the shiny, glittery glam inside that really wasn’t her … but knowing her hands graced the very top of that box was enough memory for me. She was there with me. All the memories of my life with her before she died, in that moment. This moment I never need to have purged from my life as I stood in the midst of obsolete objects.

Old grills, tables, and vases melted moments into hours as we pushed forward. Their tow along creaked as bigger, heavier picture frames and boxes were pushed into place toward the back end, behind buckets and bins filled with trinkets, toys, and tawdry towels. In the top spaces where only skinny folks dare go, we swifted thin paper goods – posters, pretty pictures, pastelled prints – to lessen the burden of tomorrow’s haul.

Tomorrow will arrive with expectations just as today did. I hope to have this project done by the day’s end when my friends pull away – towing a trailer full of purged non-words away. Stuff taken for the enjoyment of others. I may see a financial return from the sales, well… I most likely will due to the area where I live. It’ll be nice to have some money in return, however, walking out of a garage today … and by extension tomorrow… knowing I had the urge to purge, is the better feel good feeling.

I’ll take tonight to think about mom’s jewelry box. Maybe jump over to Facebook and check out some opinions about this-and-thats. So many have purging to do these days. Taking into consideration all they have to say, I still contend my purge today is the better way to go.

Good Deeds, Indeed

Not about me at all. Three circles in a very familiar logo.

Again, today isn’t about me. Let’s consider three different meanings for the circles:

ACCEPTANCE: Being open to do any kind act at any time.
MORALITY: Doing the right thing when called upon by a moment.
GRATEFULNESS: Accepting an outcome, but expecting none.

The other day I found a packet of insurance papers / registration cards resting comfortably on the sidewalk outside a local restaurant. It was immediately obvious this fell out of a car previously parked in the space I just – not so graciously – nudged a fresh set of tire marks on the curb. No harm done. I must humbly say if there existed annual awards for parallel parking, I’d have many dinners in my honor. That day, however, was a beautiful, sunny, seasonably-off, distractable-weatherish confundery, so I can be excused for not paying as much attention as necessary. Skid marks and a few mph’s extra aside, the cutting in and angle was only a degree or two off, anyway, and the back tire of my inexhaustable Honda spend only mere seconds atop an already cracked curb. So, again, no harm done … except to maybe my ego.

The packet I saw almost immediately, face up, slightly soiled, as if to say, “I’ve been through something, but not here”. Names, address, policy number, … all the pertinent information I’m quite sure the owner didn’t want to be in the hands of a stranger – who I was at the time. Fortunately, the sticker – with three circles in a very familiar logo – had above them a name. An agency owner. A friend. A wonderful coincidence.

A chance for the owners to take a deep breath they didn’t know they could take at the time – IF they even knew this packet was missing. I knew it was, but couldn’t really do anything about it at the time being a weekend with my friend’s agency closed at the time. My purpose for being in town, anyway, wasn’t to claim a lost insurance packet runaway. I wanted a three-egg veggie omelet and iced-tea from the black-and-white awning cafe on the corner 1/2 block down … where folks were already gathered around heavy black iron tables enjoying the unseasonably warm weather. Umbrellas up, kids laughing, brunch plates full, piled high with fruit, toasts-a-plenty, veggies and bacon club sandwiches as I made my way down the sidewalk.

Passing through those enjoying the company of their soon to be full friends, I settled into one of the back smaller tables for two, by myself, under a flat screen t.v. infrequently watched. This cafe, one seldom visited for common everyday, mundane news, finds itself a home for those less interested in national chatter. Personal stories and local heart warming trends trump all the international intrigue caught in the net of vanilla noise. It was the perfect place to sit, order a healthy omelet with only two out of three yokes, and slightly pat the packet I slipped in my left breast checkered sport coat pocket. “What to do until Monday?” I whispered under my breath as the couple very near at the table to my right quizzing looked over. “Oh,”, I leaned over, “I have a small decision to make … I have plenty to DO. I wasn’t trying to figure out my time until Monday.”. They had no response. Thinking back, that may have been twenty-three more words than necessary. My answer back to myself, eventually was … nothing. Do nothing.

And that’s what I did.

Today I stopped in to my friend’s agency and turned over the packet. This was after taking a few minutes yesterday searching through Facebook for the folks. Thinking maybe I could find them – address being only a few towns over – and then send the packet in the mail? Or, call them. Pretty much all the options were on the table, except the obvious one I already agreed upon with myself previously, alone, in a wonderful cafe. Relaxed and in control.

That’s the story. Nothing different from yours, perhaps. Except, maybe the tire marks. Well, c’mon now. Different time and place, but I KNOW you have done it, so fess up.

It is all the little stories like this, throughout our lives, that make a difference. Thankful, in a way, Mr and Mrs Anonymous parked in that space and left just in time for me to find it. I’m forever indebted to the invisible hands that lifted a slightly soiled packet out of their car and placed it comfortably on the sidewalk. Pleased I found, kept, and returned it.

Maybe still a stranger to my new friends a few towns away, but never to Acceptance, Morality, and Gratefulness. The three circles in a vary familiar logo that is our life. I saw them last week and had time to hold them in my hand for a few days.

Reminded that we should be open for moments to do the right thing, expecting nothing in return. Except it is never nothing. We always do get something back. I walked out of my friend’s agency feeling good. There was never a second thought of mis-using the information I had in my hands. That’s not how I roll. When her secretary told me they’d take care of it, a sense of completeness and “You did a good thing, my man” took over my day and will remain in the bucket of hours until the midnight of the clock spills into another day.

Again, today isn’t about me. It’s about three circles. Yes, small things. Feel goods. Good deeds, indeed, for all of us when we can.

Fair Game

Life lesson #1 If STAYING AHEAD OF THE GAME is the object, you need to first ask yourself: “What game will I be playing?”. When headed to the park expecting to play checkers, it’s really cool being prepared with two different colored circle pieces and an 8×8 board. It isn’t cool finding out you actually needed hip streamers, an oblong inflated ball, an old college Greek t-shirt, and smelly sneakers to play flag football in the park. When you show up with a little bag of checker chips, SPF-100, an inflatable bench seat, and picnic basket, you’ll soon be bored. Sitting beside a checkered board on the sidelines, your mildly irritated friends consider the formerly innocent moves of “king me” and “double jump” as a possible forms of punishment. You begin to see the memo you missed – clearly written in the dust left behind from the wind storm of your regret.

Life lesson #2 If KEEPING YOUR HEAD IN THE GAME is the object, you need to first ask yourself: “Am I paying attention to the players around me?” Let’s assume you are forgiven and invited to participate. Big assumption, but we’ll go with it. The very friends you had fruity cocktails and vodka shots with the night before, now take every opportunity to surround your hesitant soul with with one goal in mind: Embarass the over-lathered lotioned checker chip bagger. Some friends call this forgiveness at all costs and you wear a multi-colored target on your back as the chosen one. Chosen to participate in a game not of your choosing.

Life lesson #3 If IT’S ALL FUN AND GAMES UNTIL SOMEONE GETS HURT, you need to first ask yourself, “Is this worth it?” Is the grass crunching under everyone’s feet and stale air whistling past your ears worth the jeers, fears, tears, and time with your peers? Certainly must be because you are still in the game, right?. Play’ahs smile and wink ever so slightly when they whisk by you … still consumed by your checkered past. The same counter belly-rubbers who bent over a smokey bar table the prior evening and said, “Let’s meet tomorrow and play a game!”. They who should have wiped the glasses of conversation a bit clearer when describing the game. A game they, themselves, are certain to be flagged – more than you – for their pregame ambiguity and in-game dust ups. On the field of play, hurts happens – it is an until, not an if. So you’re really in a defensive position at the mercy of well-mean(ing) compatriots who knew better, but chose to play by a different cruel book. Sometimes it’s not the game, it’s the players.

Life lesson #4 If AT THIS STAGE OF THE GAME, you need to first ask yourself, “Is this where I want to be right now?”, either the game or the players need a second look – possibly a third. Running through the options in your head is the best option coming out of the huddle-puddle these mud ruckers put you in. What looks like an innocent game of flag pulling has become the biggest contest of run-around with you at the center of it all. As the non- ball bearing appeaser – an uncompensated, unrecruited position to boot – you will spend valuable time defending the indefensible friends living on their narrow field who will never see your extraordinary field of vision.

Life lesson #5 If AT THE END OF THE GAME, you need to first ask yourself, “Was it worth it?”, and the answer is “no”, return to the sidelines. Pick up your wonderful bag of checker-chips, head back to the bar from where it all began, and sit beside players of life who recognize your vision of an inflatable bench seat for two or more … where real friends sit together…

…. on the sidelines watching the game of life play out while engaging each other in a fair, respectable game of checkers. One expecting and knowing the game of the other. All conscious of one another. No one getting hurt.

Flag football people, life lessons #1-4 … the unfortunate expectations we place on friends who aren’t genuine friends; Co-workers who aren’t real co-workers. Family members who aren’t honest family members. They are, but aren’t in the truest sense. In their minds, it is Fair Game to play with us … our minds and emotions. We allow the game assuming our best interests are in play, but they aren’t. This is why we show up on the sidelines unprepared, … and play anyway. Trust.

There is hope as mentioned. Belly up to a latte, deal yourself in a card game, spin a stick in almost dry dirt …. whatever. Someone will nudge up beside you with an open arm and become a teammate for life. Find them. You need them to help carry your extra large bag of checker chips when a crowd of extra-special friends meet at the park to celebrate your extraordinary field of vision.

Precious Space

**We can’t see her eyes. though our eyes are drawn in to the magic of this moment. Two best friends. Protectors and inventors of each other’s imaginations. One becoming the other – in the shadow of a tree – overlooking the black and white of a barn in the distance. Inside that building, friends go about their day tending to their animals. Feeding, grooming, caring.

We can’t see their eyes, either. That’s ok. Maybe, off in the distance, they are getting a glimpse of this gentile girl and her dog sitting under the sun … pausing for the beauty of this moment as well.

I don’t think any of this matters to these angels. One big, soft and furry, the other yellow bow-tied, curly blond, and sweet. The precious space they share is theirs. And theirs alone. We are just observers of the magic. It is theirs to experience and ours to see and believe. They are asking us to believe in the moment.

Her little right hand is calming the earth, saying, “It’s going to be ok.” Smiles in return from her friend as reassurance. Knowing and believing in each other. Trust. Love. Comfort. Innocence.

What conversations they must have? What simple words they use, and understand?

If any of us tried to understand the magic, we’d be disappointed in the outcome. Our logic and reason would tamp down the enchantment. Our angels are not asking us, in this moment, to understand … just believe. Simply, come into their world without any adult explanations or “excuses for”….not for a lifetime … only for a short time. They know we need our time-outs from the adulting we find ourselves in all the time. That is what they see in our eyes.

A simple picture and a simple message: Don’t lose the precious spaces offered in your life when little angels offer them.

—————–

**I know the family from where this picture came. They were so gracious to give me permission for its use. Today wasn’t going to be a long post. I assumed this when I saw the picture because it is such a simple message. She is a wonderful little girl and is part of a special family. Thanks to K and B C !!

Two Days from Love

February 16th, today, is two days from love. The consequences of vased floral arrangements are partially, if not fully, in bloom. Deep red, sweet chocolate strawberries, once nestled in the finest paper linens, have been kissed and consumed. Cards done. Exchanged, as inside words – from the hands of lovers – caressed plans for wonderful futures and reflected on one magical moment of first sight when all of time and space stopped ….

February 16th, today, is two days from love. The consequences of not receiving any acts or gifts of love or kindness are in full bloom. Chance meetings never happened. ‘Right place, right time” paradigm absent as some among us shuffle through their lives realizing it hasn’t been. Some by choice, others hoping a connection – a love – someday would write “I love you” in a glittered, $1.99 drug store find and slide it under their door. No chocolate strawberries or flowers necessary. Just that.

Two very different ways to look at today. We either want more, or desire less, depending upon our perspective. Seems a bit redundant to write it that way, but here’s what I mean:

Today is an after-effect of the love day. I’m allowing yesterday as a honeymoon/hangover period. All the wine and food needed a day to graciously find its way to the exit door, figuratively speaking😉. The “I love you” moments, hopefully, have continued, but maybe not with the intensity as before, or the “just another day-in-the life” ticks push forward into vanilla skies with no chocolate drizzle for those less fortunate. Both similar deep-breaths from that day 48 hours ago…

…When juices flowed, mixing with artificial stimuli creating magical scenarios rivaling only the greatest dime store romance novel covers. Engagement ring bells tolled, restaurant menus were filled to capacity with dilated eyes staring across wine goblets and rose-filled vases, while variations of “The Story of Our Love” were shared all across social media platforms. This was a wonderful day to be sharing love, indeed.

Until the realization that life has to be normal again. An after-effect of the love day.

“That day, nobody came to the door singing a valentine’s day song. The mail arrived early, so at least some of those bills could be paid and ready to go by Saturday morning’s pick up. Probably NetFlix was steaming a favorite t.v. show – watchable in 22 minute blocks; So, it’s likely a whole season’s worth of shows could be watched by the time eyelids become bricks around 11:00. It gets tiresome. Being alone. Especially on these romantic holidays. Year over year, desires wane and expectations lessen with each knock that isn’t heard on my door and every date not accepted”.

These words are living in all of our communities today. Some wonderful people are living wonderful lives, perfectly happy being alone, while others don’t want to be, but are. There could reasons, known or not, why a suitable partner hasn’t appeared in that AHA moment for them. We know as much about love-connections – and genetics behind match-making – as we do about socks disappearing in the laundry. To give up, or not give up? Refine the search, or settle with available? Wear two sock that aren’t really compatible because who really looks, anyway? Simply, push through another all-red holiday of mushy-mush and kissy-kiss, find some friends who will belly up to a bar for a few martinis or brews, and go back home to check the e-mail, facebook, and snapchat thing.

And realize that life has to be normal again tomorrow. An after-effect of the love day.

I’m not down at all on the February 14th day celebration. May sound like it, but no. If you’ve managed to get this far without clicking out of what seems to be a depressing post, congratulations! Your rewards check is(n’t) in the mail. The older, and higher, my age number goes, I get a bit more cynical in my opinion of these holidays. Love is a real thing. So is the “Wow, the big day’s over, now what?” let down.

I guess the whole point of all this is: Don’t lose sight of what’s normal, predictable, and steady. These special celebratory days are nice for the moment – and for those who are fortunate enough to be in a situation to celebrate them. Normal and steady can also mean being alone – happy or not – and this is also a reality for a lot of our neighbors.

This post is one day shy of President’s day, 2020. Another day to celebrate and THREE days from love. There will be no attempt from this writer to tie in Valentine’s Day with President’s Day. Nobody I know loves politics these days.

With that, my sincerely hopes that love found you hopeful in some form this weekend.

Doug

She Reads, Still

“Sitting outside, gazing down at the same page year after year, she is silent in her moments. Her right index finger always expecting to reveal the magic of the next page, but at no time given that opportunity. Not once will the casual breeze across her bangs unsettle those finely placed. Locks of gentle hair, solidly cast in youthful pose, will rest upon the head of this child forever. A child who will be ever so content reading, day and night, the greatest words she will ever see.”

I pass this statue almost every day. She is tucked into a little alcove over, in, and around a few small trees, knee walls, sidewalks, and parking lots. Don’t mean to say she’s hidden from view. Not at all. She’s there for the viewing. I am one-hand wrestling with car key rings attached to body parts – while circus juggling supplies, personal hoists, and cell phones with my other – shuffling by blindly … day after day. This is what I, and others, do to satisfy the busy minutes tick-tacking away under our feet. Yet she reads, still.

What does she think of us? Never looking up, she must begin to see us only through words spoken in passing. Dialogues we have with ourselves, perhaps, when a bad day is appeased by overtly self-proclaiming, “What the (bleep) just happened ?!”; Or, when we take solace in another’s equally miserable, temporary, hollowed-out-like-a-charred-marshmallow, mud-rack of an existence. In either case, she hears all of it. She must.

She partakes, also, in the auditory joys of our happy quotational exchanges as well such as the Friday heading-out for the weekend “Yeahs!”, accompanied by the almost always, “I hope you have a wonderful weekend … because Monday will be here before we know it.” I’m positive both warrant a reaction: her hard shell will not, but her soft heart will provide a response. Warmer months providing a recess from inside activities, kids find her to be a vessel of their happy words of play as they scamper about playing four-square and other make-up games in their fancy imaginations.

This girl about us, of happy and sad beginning words, sits. This girl is about us. What does she truly think of us? We can know the answer based on what we know about ourselves. The words inside her forever future are the rusty nails and gold crowns passed through her ears. These treasures and toils of our own doing sit with her still. She will, by the very nature of her existence, keep them in harbor to never set them free upon the seas of our audible, moving world. So we must look at ourselves, through her, to know what she thinks of us.

She may think we are too busy to care about her. Our words of “this to do”and “that is more important” are heard as “I don’t want time with you now” as her head remains steadfastly down. We don’t see little angel tears start to drizzle over sad cheeks framed around a disappointed smile. She wants this moment for her play while we want multiples upon multiples for our more adult work-stuff … and insist on walking by. Still.

She may think our things are more important than our thoughts. Flowery out louds, disguising our intended “I must have”s and “I need more than you”s, rush to her for a refined discernment – that which she, in her innocence, is narrowly capable of doing. For she only knows what is truly hers: an open book, stool, and passers-by who are in search of the next best instead of seeing the best in their midst.

She may think we are living in the future fuss, not the present pleasant she senses all around every day. The “I’m not sure where I’m to be tomorrow”, or “When was that? I forgot .. Too much to do lately” pitter-patter of adulting language so much in the uncertain wind surrounding her. She listens to the words. They are as unsteady as the source from where they came, but must come to rest on her bare shoulders … soon to fall into her heart and remain still.

By contrast, she may think we are the most wonderful of creatures by our acts of love. We talk of “Going home to see someone we love” and “Caring for one another”. Our words travel upon arrows of kindness to targets of need while we walk by her with bags full for food banks. The young chatter of children, stepping up into a bus – yards away – headed out to visit local nursing homes, saturates the air with words any future would welcome. She remains still and blessed.

She may think we are loved ourselves. The moments of unknowns between two, sitting on the small wall nestled in behind her. “I’m here if you need me”, “Yes, I know”. Could be two adults speaking words necessary after a tremendous loss. Possibly two children, unspoken, in a gentle embrace during recess. She is there as a silent witness to the magic. Still. There.

All of these words she must, by design, keep silent. These treasures and toils of our own doing sit with her. Thousands of words. Every passing fancy we believe to be only ours is never just that when passing such a gentile soul.

In her we see how we treat others … and ourselves. This little, innocent girl is about us. We see people we are too busy to care about. We let thinking about things get in the way of thinking about the moments. Our futures have become our nows. However, we are capable of so much love – for ourselves and others. We have magic in our words.

She reads. The words in her still book always true for her. She could be anyone you pass by, anytime, anywhere. Don’t be too busy to say, “hi”. You could give that soul an opportunity to turn over a new page … opening up their treasure chest of rusty nails and gold crowns they’ve been silently sitting on for years.

If you need someone to talk to, she’ll … still … be here to talk to. I hear she’s a pretty good listener.

Five Words

“Today…”, meaning yesterday, “started out real weird”.

It was barely 2:00 in the afternoon when my most wonderful friend, Mike, squeaked open the door to my favorite hotel cafe. My moments were few and a bowl of turkey noodle soup just arrived. Any lengthy conversation – a usual fare with him – wasn’t going to happen as I needed to be elsewhere at 2:45. So, a short visit. Politics, the weather, and food. These are the facts. Dry, rather uninteresting, tidbits of information.

Unaware of Mike’s future attendance, I assumed a half hour of right index blogging while, simultaneously, left-handedly mastering the art of non-drippy soup tasting. This circus act I’ve done in the past when challenged by time. It is a necessary, arguably life-affirming, skill those of us who can’t settle into one-task-at-a-time groove mastered early in life.

I began … five words with intention: “Today started out real weird.” With two slurps of really good soup, the tap of a napkin to ease slow moving broth escaping down the lower corner of a dry mouth, and a swig of over carbonated Pepsi, my blog for the day was on its way. So I thought. Five words. Then, of course, Mike walked in. Love the guy. No complaints. I’d rather visit with him than write, anyway.

Eighteen hours later, soup well digested and Mike’s conversation with me gone into the clouds of remembrances, I have time to finish. Time to use both hands. It’s 4:00 a.m. No clanging silverware or waitresses bantering about skimming for orders. No Mike. Better moments now, in a way, to look back. A quieter time. Only the hum of the furnace accompanies my words to paint a morning that was … before I opened the glass doors of my favorite cafe yesterday slightly before 2:00.

I’ll look back. Spin the hours. Assume the warp of time-space and finish my thoughts. Five words.

“Today started out real weird. I don’t know why. I know all of us have days like these. If you don’t, there’s a mis-step in your gait somewhere. This is a day to sit. Just sit.

Earlier, I sat … and listened. Well, partially listened. A skill I’m not too fond of doing. Probably better at double souping and texting than lending an ear for my benefit. Having a tendency to be dug-in, aka male trait syndrome, I’m not likely to be wrapped in conversation with someone – over an hour- listening to their advice. Such was the case, however, this morning. It kinda just happened.

These are the unplanned conversations we trip over. Not only trip over, but the top half of our foot gets stuck in the crack of one issue and it takes an hour for us to figure out how to twist our way out. In the process, a good person, standing by our side, isn’t helping the actual problem, but is gently talking us through life. Such is what happens when we don’t watch where we are going. Guys like me …. sometimes. Like today, for example.

I certainly didn’t listen the whole time this morning. There’s a better chance of a powdery Whig party reunion than my complete silence during a conversation. But, I did sit and listen. We talked back and forth. Most certainly an unplanned exchange of ideas, proposals, and hypothesis designed to alter the course of humankind as we know it. Two adults engaged in the highest levels of verbal repartee.

All I know? I was in the process of a one mind-set, mental Lego mansion-building idea of a morning when I stepped on a rogue out-of-the-box block. Initially, it hurt. Not gonna lie. Minutes into the dialogue, pain subsiding, I began to realize happenchances isn’t just a fancy 13 letter word used flippantly to describe mundane events. It is, maybe, a good thing. A great thing. A thing happening by chance bringing joy to life.

Back (mostly) and forth words were exchanged as ideas and thoughts passed through filters of theology, idealism, and reality. Personal histories folded into current events while present ideas projected hope onto screens of future unsurety. Seventy-five minutes of this-and-that. Almost 1-1/2 hours of words causing me to miss an ugly friends 🤣 meet-up breakfast meeting in the very cafe I now sit.

They probably didn’t miss me, my sarcasm, or eloquence. No worries of any retribution either because none of them, fortunately, read this blog. I’ve enjoyed this time. Soup wonderful as always and the company of myself solitarily, texturally complete, I end as I began … All of us have days like these.”

All this to say I’m happy for three reasons. One, the Whig party is no more. Two, unplanned conversations can be a wonderful, inviting experience if we’re open to them … and willing to, uhm, listen. And, three, I’m so glad I have friends. Friends who interrupt texts at 2 pm on a Wednesday …. and friends who take time to talk with me when my day starts out real weird.

Keep those humans in your life if you have them. They’re the weird ones that will always be here for you.

Well, So much For Just Facebook

My “non-blog” thought for the day: Our human to human connections are wonderful … Especially when we suddenly realize something very familiar and remarkably similar in our past was a shared experience. Those “Oh, you too?” moments are so special. I’ve experienced them and am open to many more – should life be so kind – because life can close in so fast with day-to-day annoyances. We may feel alone in the “today” of our trouble, but somewhere there is another who will, someday, say of today, “Oh, you too?”. So, hang in there.

At roughly 4:10 EST, I posted that reflection on Facebook and intended for it to stay solidly there, and nowhere else, as a reminder of excellent social connections. My intention, however, cleverly disguised itself as a fuzzy puppy patiently swooshing his young tail across the kitchen floor… waiting only so long for the “go” order. A treat of the tie-in “Oh, you too?” moment” balanced on the end of his steady nose. Three hours later, a diversion of coincidence once again found a way into a human connection – becoming blog worthy at that moment. A chance meeting after a rather normal church service during an average first weekend in February.

There’s not much fabric in the lobby of our church. Aside from the padded bench against the wall where we stood talking, most of the material is in the sanctuary. Louder speaking can echo a bit because of the stark nature, so I try to speak softly when mentioning others’ problems, lack of humor, or ugly outfits. It’s a brief gathering of wits after a Saturday service that I must attend to disperse my familiar brand of sarcasm upon the fortunate few. As I am the service pianist/organist, it is my duty … err … pleasure to mix in with the post-worship faithful. It is an assembly of the hardly any on their way forward, this evening, into a Superbowl weekend filled with merriment, hot wings, and beer.

Within the mix tonight was “someone“. A kinda-regular. A person I’ve known a short while, but long enough to say, comfortably, it seems like I’ve known longer than a short while. Got it? We have a musical connection through the black and white 88. Our story could end there, but then there’s the lobby. A place where I found a trinket of information I never knew previously undisclosed in prior encounters with said someone. (Admittedly, that has to be one of the most confusing sentences I’ve ever written. I ain’t changin’ it. You know what I mean!).

The stark, solid space became an expanse where the fabric of connections began to weave a tapestry. Silly words between five people narrowed into two talking for a few extra minutes in an entrance hallway. Words about writing, creating, and blogs. The “go” order of an earlier intention.

We discussed the relevancy of a gender bias “hulk”. Is there a female form for same? I offered up a possible alternative www address for this blog site which was met with expected dubiousness; Yet, at the same time, said skeptics were starting to type, “www.Iamahulk.com” into their search boxes as I proudly declared this to be my blog address.

On the more serious side, our “Oh, You too?” moment extended into continued communication concerning possible self-publishing, etc… There’s a shared interest in blogging as “someone” does as well. As a published author, this person extended the kind hand of experience to me should I ever endeavor to do it (oh, how I’ve waited to use those two words side by side … so poetic and just glide off the tongue!).

I’ll take the untroubled moments for now and enjoy the treat. That treat being a wonderful, unexpected conversation with a connected, interested friend. I don’t need anything much more than that for now. My thanks to “someone” out there who/whom I suspect, being a more educated grammarian than I, knows which one to use.

HOW R U ?

ANOTHER: “How are you?”

ME: “Well, I’m pushing toward the inevitable end of the human race and, quite possibly, the universe. Isn’t this what all of us are doing right now?”

According to my sources, “Living the dream” is no longer an appropriate response to the above query. “Great” is passe, supposedly. “I’m fine, and you?”, too antiquated. Replying with, “Who’s asking?” is apparently sarcastic, and “I guess o.k.” not definitive enough. “Swell” is certainly dated along with “Groovy, man”, “Peachy”, and “Tops, sister!” ….

All those, and many replies frequently used, are out. Good, I say. Certainly glad the stuffed shirts decided to take away my pleasure of using such pedantic retorts. Now I have the highest honor of crafting slightly restive returns. My only challenge is not receiving a physical response from either a larger male fist planted in my cornea or an angry senior citizen spanking a bluggendry cane across my sharp-witted kisser.

… And so began my lunch conversation with a very kind gentleman at the lunch counter today. He asked, I answered with the above. Universe be damned. We’re ultimately doomed to be sucked into the sun. Get over it, folks.

Ed is his name. We cross paths frequently, so he’s very much … very much … aware of my proclivity for using sarcasm as a tool to open locks of human interaction between friends. Most of my acquaintances are aware of this trait, tool, insecurity, goof-off, .. whatever label you wish to use is fine with me. Without a history of strange coincidences or normal happenstances between us, I would say, “G’day, to ya” and tip my hat. Other than that, all bets are off and you get what you get from my always respectful, but non-quotidian brain.

Here’s what I figure: There exists, somewhere, anthologies for almost everything. So, I googled “smart-a** responses” because I figured this would be the closest public phrase describing my query: “How do I answer differently when someone asks me how I am and I don’t want to say ‘I’m fine’ in a nice, normal way?” GOOGLE: About 651,000 results (0.26 seconds). I knew it!! Now, me being me, a self-described non-conformist who wouldn’t stand to salute the words on any another literary flag, I find myself in a familiar position. Create my own little compendium of contemptuous comebacks to the ever-so interrogatory inquiry, “How are you?”….

“I want to be glad you asked … but I’m not. I’m always five white balls and one other red ball away from at least 40 million dollars that’s, most assuredly, going to end up in someone else’s wad-wallet.”

“I don’t know. How are YOU? … And if you tell me everything is super in your life, I’m not going to believe it and suggest you re-read ‘How to Get a Real Life Now’ that I loaned you before you started smoking the positive magic grass.”

Wanting to keep going with the list, I find this road of a positive blog post having an exit ahead to another therapy session town, so I’ll leave the list at two. Suffice to say, there are more times than not I really don’t want to answer the question. Thus, the sarcasm. Especially when, “How are you, … really?” invites itself into the party.

Hopefully you’re like me in some ways. In other ways, not. I like brutal truth. “How are you?” is so over used and almost meaningless anymore. If you give a true answer back, there’s almost never time for compassion and sympathy in return. Not always, though. This isn’t absolute, mind you, just hardy ever. I’ve found eye contact is the key – if you have that, stay with it .. there’s hope of a meaningful connection there.

For me, I’m sticking with sarcasm. I love to laugh with my people. This helps me heal. I also like to look at myself and ask, “How are you?” … and be brutally honest with myself – sometimes sarcastic, sometimes not. The answers aren’t always easy, but they’re real. It’s what all of us should be doing right now.

Love lost, Love found

It fell from grace. Odds are pretty good, however, that wasn’t her name. You know, the girl from whom this heart fell. “Is she missing it?” A great question … while also asking myself if it would be appropriate to stop time, just for a few seconds, and capture the moment in my phone’s camera. Truly a heart lost. One of a pair. Definitely worth framing for the cause of love everywhere – if only for a brief moment in time.

A heart left behind. Where is Grace?

She isn’t around. Most likely, I will not meet her. I do have a small part of her life with me now, though. A simple earring. A symbol of who she is – not what she is. Love means something to her .. just enough to once hang two identical silvery, brilliant hearts on her ears. Not expensive, Dior “look at me” ones. Simple, paper-thin, inexpensive symbols of love. The front side shown is brilliant when light reflects, and the backside, in contrast, a matted gray. Both sides showing her willingness to be different depending upon how the wind blows across her face.

With all the inner and outer beauty, love remains alone. I have in hand only one of a pair. Grace possibly staring at another as her tears rhythmically fall on the other in her hand after realizing the loss. She knows nothing of me, yet I know something of her. A little glimpse, granted, but something.

I know she has one heart missing a lover’s soulful song being sung from the chambers of another. Aware of endless vibrations in the breeze going outward upon gentle winds, I appreciate the silence. The only undisclosed affirmation is the destination of these gestures of fate. Will sounds fade into silence, or will Grace hear a ping in her heart as it jumps every so faintly to the air of love?

She knows nothing of me. I write knowing this. Expectations being as they are, there will be no Cinderella story ending here. My hopes do not rest upon a single knee proposal in a fairy tale of endless lifetimes. I found one of a pair resting peacefully on the ground. It was not a priceless glass slipper in the hands of a handsome prince, but an inexpensive heart earring. Yes, still one of a pair. Yes, a story of love, … of a different design.

Isn’t that how love works? A first glimpse into a new world of little, shiny, unexpected “wows” catching our attention leading us forward to unimaginable beauty … helping us with who we are, not what we are. Unforeseen are those small, take your breath away moments changing who you are inside; Unexpectedly bumping into that scent of emotion on a path of overwhelming euphoria leading into clouds of rhapsodic joy and destinations immortal. This is the design of love …

…. And it is designed for us. The silent sound from a single heart, alone, on a sidewalk moves toward grace looking for love. This is the design of love and it is in these times we see grace in us. Grace echoes back. The air returns, placing a small, shiny heart back on dull gray pavement where I questioned if it was appropriate to stop time. Yes, very.

All of these: close friendships, music robustly dancing off any instrument, laughter as I read a texts, memories by my mom’s bedside during her final hours, cold tuna casseroles, finished crossword puzzles, texas hold ’em winning hands, … all of these little shiny heart moments presumably headed toward grace, but echoed back as one glittering reminder. Your innumerable, abundant blessings as well circling back for you to find, unexpectedly, on a path under your feet.

I see a heart in me. You see a loving, kind, generous person reading this. You stood by me as I cautiously bent over to flick up a small, warm, fragile friend lying on the impersonal, compact stones. Together, we lifted her up and gifted this angel with a song to dance on the air for eternity. It is, simply. who we are as one, together, of a pair.

And I ask again, “Where is Grace?” …

She’s been here all along.