Seventy-two human adult male steps. Approximately two thousand, five-hundred, ninety-two inches, or, seventy-two yards. This is the distance I measured from where I stood taking this picture to the end of the parking lot. Did I have something else to think about this morning? Yes. Well, no. Not really. Kinda. I did the measuring when I exited my car an hour-or-so earlier in the morning and thought it an interesting experiment.

You see, I was late. Traffic lights and stupid people driving caused my temper to be a bit off upon arriving, so I needed a distraction. I pondered, “What can I do so I don’t enter the school in a a foul mood?”…”I know, I’ll count the number of steps I take from the car to the door!”…”I’ve done this driving and parking thing for seven years now – the same last space in the lot to the same door and NEVER have I EVER done it!”… “Yes…BRILLIANT!!”

For the record, your honor, I DID enter the school relaxed. Success achieved. Now to be honest, I do know additional relaxation techniques I employed prior to arriving such as: 1. creative yelling at people who stopped at green lights, 2. quick, effective hand motions at drivers who didn’t move (and should have) at four-way stop signs, 3. vocal screams toward accelerator-deprived people who apparently didn’t know there WAS a mechanism at their disposal that WILL make their car go over 5 mph, and 4. head-butting my steering wheel in such a dramatic fashion so the driver next to me KNEW he cut me off two minutes prior. I arrived almost happy.

“Almost” being the key word. Aaaand, I recognized it. Kudos to me. Last thing anyone needs is an upset Doug – even slightly so.

Let the count begin. First step out of the car, I felt a small twinge in my left knee. Oh, THAT’S nice, right. I am at the end of, supposed, middle third of my life (if all goes as planned) and most would say a “twinge” is normal … so press on. Two, three, four…

Five. A slight breeze and I feel a drift influencing my gait enough that I brush up against the dirty bumper of a co-workers SUV. Now, I’m not one to complain, but seriously….Ya think a little bit of courtesy could be extended here? My cargo pants are not Balmain Ribbed Leather, I know, but I’d like them to stay nice. A little bumper-dirt maintenance now and then? (Obviously, I’m kidding…or am I?)

Six through thirty uneventful….feeling pretty good. And then around thirty-one.

Stones suck. They really do. Whoever invented stones should be stoned. Wait. How would that work?

“We hereby decree ye shall be stoned”
“But, Why?”
“For ye created stones”
“So, Thee shall weapon me to death by thy stones which I have created?”
“Yea”
“Rock on…”

Anyway, casting aside the really bad script above, step thirty-one presented a small, but annoying pebble in my shoe. How, pray tell, does this happen? Shoes, are by definition, the covering of a foot. Protection of a foot. A sturdy boundary between the elements of danger outside and the gentle flesh inside.

What happens between steps thirty-one and seventy-two is real simple. I had a boulder in my shoe the size of Mount Olympus. Pretty remarkable since my shoe size is 10 1/2 and the space between my ankle and the edge of my shoe is about 1/8″. You tell ME how this happens because I don’t know. Good thing I was in a good mood by then. Breathe in – breathe out. 10-9-8-7-6-5….

I was at the door. Seventy-two steps. Goal. Relaxed. All good. Yes, I knew there was this issue of the boulder in my shoe. Yes, I had tasks ahead such as opening the door, signing in, reading the (bad) joke another teacher usually has written on her white board inside the hallway, seeing all my favorite teachers with smiles on their faces, picking up an instrument, opening up the musical world for a student, and starting another day.

All in all, not bad. So many steps in any given day … in any lifetime, I guess. Today, those seventy-two from my car to the door were such a small fraction of the ones I’ve taken, or the ones yet to come. Almost always never noticed. Today, I took notice.

Kinda nice to give them the recognition so well deserved. Here’s to seventy-two in your life when you need them.

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.

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.

• 

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.

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.

• 

Following the recent posts here on “2.3 billion+1”, you would have read my Army G.I. reflection. If not, go back. In the event you don’t want to, I’ll give you a brief overview: The Army toy was in a music store window. Done.

I walked by the same window just the other day – as I always do (repeating myself, I know)… This little drum spoke words of wisdom to me on that day (revelation to follow). Now, the Army guy was still there, minding his own, staring into the same wall, thinking the same thoughts, … wishing upon wishing his head could turn. He can’t see this little drum, but I can … and that’s the point of this blog post.

Dan Rice’s circus (1830s–1860s) was first described by an Arkansas paper as the “greatest show on earth“, according to Wikipedia. It became the tagline of Ringling Bros. and Barnum & Bailey Circus, as we know. Most recently in the spotlight because of the movie (which, by the way, has a most fabulous soundtrack … of which I’ve been playing a piano arrangement that is equally challenging and marvelously scored … but I digress).

That tagline caught my attention: “The Greatest Show On Earth” … I spent most of the of the day thinking about it. The words. Always the words. Dissecting, thinking, analyzing, OCD-ing, “what-does-it-mean-ing?”. Tripping over past, present, and future tenses … Was it always the greatest and is not now? Did he believe it to be the greatest and “sell” it that way? Will it ever be the greatest again?… Was there anything else on earth at the time anyone thought was greater than this circus? Did Barnum ever give credit to Dan Rice or the Arkansas paper?

Well, after careful consideration and plenty of expended brain energy, I came to one solid, unbeatable, non-debatable conclusion that day … words of wisdom I shall never forget…ready!…here it is: ______________ and ________ followed by the most incredible__________, _______ , ______ , though ________!

Yep. That’s it. On that day. Zip. Nada.

That was then, as they say, and this is now.

Today this little drum has a new meaning. The drum beats on in silence just like my heart – dutifully for years. Yours as well. Both our hearts and the drum continue unnoticed unless paid attention to. That day I noticed; however, I chose the wrong path forward. Too much noise, not enough silence. Silence -the very message this little drum tried to speak to me. In the silence, I needed to hear: “I am the greatest show on earth. To me, for me, to be who I need to be.”

It is most certainly about others. Self-serving behavior and attitudes to an unhealthy degree serve no one except the selfish one. To be the greatest “show” on earth for the benefit of only self is a fool’s game. I’m writing about a healthy sense of self. A belief, an “ism”, a way of life, an extension of your soul where people around you see the love inside of you and are better because of it. A moment when you are great and those around you are greater because of it.

You and I are the greatest at being us. On our very “badest” of bad days, we are still better at being us than anyone else on earth – even on their “bestest” of best days of being them.

I have always believed in a show. The older I get, however, it is harder. Maybe reality sets in … I don’t know. Once, a sales manager casually gave the advice: “An insincere smile is better than a sincere frown”… Yeah, ok. Maybe this worked giving a sales pitch in my 20’s, but real life issues? … probably not. Life is too difficult. The happiness pill is too hard to swallow 24/7. Gotta be real and genuine. That’s what really counts in life.

You can’t beat the realities in life. There is no drum big enough to shut out the noise from the ups and downs. Life is, truly, a circus. Don’t overthink it. Take the easier path forward. Pick up your little drum, listen to your silent heartbeats, and be the greatest show on earth for you. It’s the least selfish thing you can do.

• 

Colder than it has been, today is a blah day. “Blah” has reasons for being in my life … Simply because it’s Monday? My lack of quality sleep over the past few weeks is finally taking its toll? Diet continues to be, well, …. under performing. Stress? Hey, welcome to a positive blog!! Thanks for coming.

Every story has a beginning. That was it. Life isn’t easy most of the time. We’ve problems …. right here in River City, my friends. Not big ones, hopefully. Little ones, over time, that add up …. day after day…. until our bucket runs overeth.

Staying uber-busy isn’t the solution. I’ve tried that. Not doing a thing doesn’t work either. So, where’s the relief from the “blahs” in life?

For today, anyway, I found a solution. Soup, a large spoon, twenty minutes, and silence.

In as much as I don’t know the ingredients in the soup I found, I don’t know the reasons why I’m “blah”. Neither matter. One compliments the other. One makes the other digest better.

Life is probably one ingredient at a time. Maybe we try to do too much all at once – exhausting ourselves in the process? One day at a time. One ingredient at a time. That way, our lives can be the most delicious soup we can taste during a bleak, blah Monday when we need it the most.

…a lesson I needed to write, and taste, for myself.

• 

This is about 2/3 of a gallon. Neapolitan: strawberry, chocolate, and vanilla.

Mmmmmm

Three weeks ago it was a full tub. I’m surprised only 1/3 is gone considering the speed at which sweets disappear around here. This tub takes up a lot of room in the freezer. Sorry to say, the healthy fish and veggies have been sacrificed, albeit temporarily, to accommodate this rather large tub of deliciousness.

A few spoonfuls at a time – just a spoonful of sugar – helps the medicine of life go down (right, Julie?)… and the pink, brown, and white together are, simply, perfect.

I didn’t buy this tub. The man that did always buys too much. He means well. He really, really does. I think he either expects everyone to eat a bigger portion of ice cream than they ever did at any point in their life, or, he wasn’t good at math in school. Whatever the case, the intent is sincere – and my ever increasing waist line thanks him, sarcastically, for it…

I’m was chocolate only guy ’cause mom was. She never strayed from that dedication. Very seldom did she make, say, neapolitan cookies, or black-and-white cookies. It was always chocolate chip. Period. Chocolate no bakes. Period. Etc….

She was all-in life. Probably too much so. Neapolitan ice cream – even one spoonful – would not have crossed her lips, though.

I got my “all-in” life personality from her for sure… and it has created some problems … and some wonderful moments, too. Good and bad.

I’m living a neapolitan life for me ….. in way she never wanted to live for herself. This life I have made for myself is probably the best way for me to honor her memory.

…and that’s worth another spoonful of deliciousness.

• 

“The Daju people are a group of seven distinct ethnicities speaking related languages living on both sides of the Chad-Sudan border and in the Nuba Mountains.”

So says Wikipedia.

I did not know this when I was six years old. Christmas that year was magical. I named him, “Orangie” but couldn’t quite pronounce it…so, I said “Daju”. Simple, easy.

This past summer, I found some old 8mm films from my grandfather’s estate. As fate would have it, one small reel flickered frames of me opening the very package when Orangie arrived. Oh, the joy in my eyes that Christmas morning! In color, nonetheless!

Above is my cherished Daju today. My pal throughout everything from toddler, youth, and teen, to life as a reflecting adult.

He’s worn out. Hole in his throat, fur tattered and battered, face rubbed raw, and seams a bit loose. Not sure why I tied the yarn or stitched the patch, though? 🤷🏻‍♂️

I used to say – as I came down the stairs – “Dougie, Daju, dump dump down” (as recalled later by my dear mother) She loved that. I’d love to have her laugh at me one more time. Even at my age, I’d say it again…. for her.

And I guess that’s the meaning of Orangie, Daju, or Life.

Never stop smiling. Tell jokes. Laugh. Have fun.

He never stops smiling. From day one – so many years ago – that smile has not stopped. It is what drew me to him from the start. It was the joy I saw at six years old. Not a surprise at all that it was a present from my mom.

I can be tattered, worn, and battered. So can you.

Keep smiling. Keep the joy. Somehow keep your Daju around.

• 

“I want to open my body, reach in, and hold my heart.
Just one time
Feel the warmth like a campfire on a cool, crisp evening.
Just one time….
….to experience s’more of that inner glow from sparks sitting around with me.
Just one time
To re-ember my happy life and watch the small lights lift into the night sky one by one.
Just one time
Fall into the marsh – mellow out, relax. Melt. Drip into the arms of log I sit upon.
Just one time.

With my heart on my flannel sleeve.”

That was then. A slow burn. Male depression. An unrecognized b-light.
Bleak, bitter cold. Sadness, regret, pain, hurt, tears and unknown … tossed into the campfire. These memories – and everything my held heart felt – kindred kindling for generations to come. Others will visit. Others will see.

It is no longer just one time. I thought it was, but the path was not to take alone.

In the shadows of each flicker was a friend … and, some damn great friends. In their own experiences, bringing joy to light.

Behind each tree was a spirit of hope. I swung on each branch as a child would on a gleeful summer day… massaging the universe for a miracle.

Along the trail was a counselor willing to listen, guide, and teach. From such knowledge comes humility in self.

Waiting in the smoky residue were the hands of my mother – reaching out. I needed her grace.

At the end, just one time was not my fall.

It was the rise of a new Phoenix out of the ashes.

I held my heart.

I reached my campsite, looked into the fire, felt the intense heat, and walked away. That one time.

And I’m glad I did.