Life is about words, one after another, written from a imagineer’s workshop – a place where gerunds, infinitives, modifiers, and many other grammarian tools hang at the ready. An author’s toy box of elfin ideas. This place of unlimited beginnings, caressing story arcs, and heartfelt closures, stays silent to the outside, but is always vibrant in an eager writer’s mind. It is ever open to new, friendly faces tapping at the sides, wanting to play along, anxious to join the matrix of merriment that is this inner world of a writer’s silent joy.
As one of many solitary minds playing with words in such a literary toy box, day after day, I am fascinated by imagined ideas coming into reality within the lives of the living. When fantasized wonders become real in poems, short stories, long reads or letters – simply one word after another – eyes see loves redder, ears hear “I love you” more often, touch is goose-pimplier, and one white rose smells as heavenly as a dozen red. The charm of inexhaustible possibilities, woven into word tapestries, cordially blanket the reader’s time with endless preoccupation.
I never knew this to be so. A free flow of ideas inside one’s mind for the purposes of enlightenment, fulfillment, engagement, and whimsy? Notions such as these never inhabited the younger mind of this writer. Immediately purged were thoughts of gentlemanly handshakes between peaceful words and hope for better tomorrows as I navigated my way through confusing earlier times. Harmful words, contaminated missiles not always a direct hit but leaving craters on my soul, I would later understand to be out-of -context and grossly inappropriate. “Consider the source” and “Understand the why of the other” common themes among those considered great council at the time when I, a lost wanderer, sought a welcoming hand. An open gesture never to be offered at the time. Opportunities and words dying. Year after year.
That was the holding pattern leading up to graying templed-head, split-screened eyeglass “now” years as I embrace my potential last third … if actuary tables hold true. Words reappearing, now, in understanding the why of me after intense inner-study, introspection, talk therapy, and writing … lots and lots of writing. A much, much better place to offer my own hand to hold.
At present, I capture each moment with passionate words just like my younger self; However, the tears are soaked with joy and the words go forth to you … not to leave craters on your souls, but to build mountains of hope for your tomorrows.
Past experiences took time. Bad and good ones developed into memories … into words, one after another, written from a imagineer’s workshop. I’ve only just begun to rebuild after tearing down what was once a place of limits and harmful words. Please visit my ever expanding toy box of elfin ideas – this place of unlimited beginnings where words fly free among all that dream .
I’m not a writer who assumes anything. I thought, at 3 a.m. I’d still be dreaming about a lovely blue and white middle-eastern vase in the process of being sold, but stolen by dice-yielding thieves. This was my dream story fifteen minutes ago before being rudely interrupted by a full bladder. I cannot assume anything … not a complete 6-8 hours sleep or solving the mystery of “who” absconded with the vase.
…And I won’t assume any faith life of a reader by posting the following:
The Bible says in John 19:30, “When he had received the drink, Jesus said, “It is finished.” With that, he bowed his head and gave up his spirit.”
I cite the above for three simple words in a quite elegant phrase, “It is finished”. Most times I like to show, not tell, when writing. In that sentence, alone, I broke one of the cardinal rules of good writing, I suspect: Show, don’t tell. But, hey, I never claimed to breathe the same air as any of the greats. I’m just a thumb pusher – sometimes finger clacker – who enjoys blogging and sharing my world with you. Today, January 27th, one day after, asks for less flowery words. I will answer so.
Yesterday. January 26th. International Holocaust Remembrance Day. The 75th anniversary of the liberation of Auschwitz. This paragraph, alone, needing no more words.
Today’s post, as well, requiring fewer words than normal out of respect for well over 10 million heartbeats never given a chance.
Yesterday. January 26th. I opened my mailbox to find a small package from the U.K. . It came from special friends, Anna and Ian. They have been working closely with me, virtually hand-in-hand … (tirelessly through emails and check-ins)… to complete a large WW2 set of cards. The package yesterday was special. Four cards inside completed this set. It is finished* (I’ll explain the asterisk in a minute…)
Here are the numbers, boring as they may be: 2,544 cards. I started in 1977 through a subscription service when they arrived in packs of 24 one/week. Realizing only lately I was missing a few random cards and, unfortunately, a couple whole packs, the search was on…
… and ended yesterday. I’m short one or two extra items(*), but the base set of cards is done. Finished – with so much patience, care, and professionalism from my good friends in the U.K..
Yesterday. January 26th. A package arrived giving me closure – on a day our world remembered the worst crime against humanity. A package, ironically, having four cards allowing me to remember that very war where unspeakable evil was visited upon millions of undeserving, unknown friends.
My completed set isn’t valuable to anyone except me. Certainly it pales in comparison to the value of those precious lives long since extinguished in the service of degenerate, vile Nazi recreation.
I must assume, actually insist, we never allow this to happen again to a single person. EVER. AGAIN. No more additional Remembrance Days happening the same time I go to my post office box. No more hate. Let’s, together, lock arms across all races, nationalities, and genders … and speak aloud in a unified voice, “It is finished”.
Ever so grateful for the opportunity to share today, January 27th, with you.
CNN posted, back on September 17th, 2019, an article featuring James Anderson, a plumber in the British town of Burnley. Originally found on Facebook, the story gained momentum once folks found out James provided free plumbing services to a 91 yr old lady fighting leukemia. As the article, written by Dominic Rech, continued:
“The bill, initially shared on Facebook by the woman’s daughter, ChristineRowlands, was accompanied by the message: ‘No charge for this lady under anycircumstances. We will be available 24 hours to help her and keep her as comfortable as possible.’
Anderson insists that she will have “free plumbing for life.”
But this isn’t a first act of kindness for Anderson. Since turning his plumbing business into a community project for vulnerable people, he says he’s helped andassisted thousands of people.
That’s 2,389 people since March 2017 to be precise, he told CNN.”
“It got me thinking about other elderly and vulnerable people — we need to do something more to help the people who need it most,” Anderson said in a phone interview.
I would like to tip more than one hat to Mr. Anderson for his humanity in the midst of others’ likely struggle against time, disease, and isolation. Without ChristineRowlands, the world may never have known of the benevolent Mr. Anderson. I have a feeling this would have been ok with him. That’s how humble rolls….
…and how humility blossoms into a flower of benevolence as I walk along my path of ideas.
My usual posts flow from larger rivers of experiences. Some branch off into forests lush with words of humor or irony. Others calmly glide into reflecting ponds … allowing readers to sit quietly beside still waters following their memories in the ripples. Somewhere in the middle I find myself as the one wanting to skip stones in the pond, but also laugh with a Koala bear in the eucalyptus tree at the same time. A certain impossibility as one cannot occupy two spaces at the same time. So, I travel an imaginary trail almost daily – between these two wonderful worlds I have created for myself. Worlds that help me survive a challenging three dimensional reality at times devoid of benevolent gains.
The path is well worn between the two destinations, and the distance I must travel remains a constant companion – a partner with me in the exploration of ideas. Guides, of course, not necessary for I am ever so familiar with all the stops for souls and pauses for praises along the, sometimes, muddy and rocky way.
Terrain under my worn soles? Predictable. Time of travel? Not so much. Low hanging branches of unpredictable life events often slowing down the journey of my daily, expectant stride. Quicksand, disguised as necessary to-do lists, stealing precious time away from free thinking. Aging – something life requires as an alternative to death – relaxing my walk with aches unfamiliar in my youth. All of these part of a touch with tranquility as I walk. At times, though, I do find a log or two under large trees providing pause. Upon these felled friends I find respite, shade, and words…
…allowing me moments to sit on certain found mossy, aged pieces of timber … to look down and take notice, this time, of a small flower in bloom – a flower of benevolence.
Small blue-purple petals, reaching to me through the crumbly dirt on the path yet to be trodden down, catch my eye as they bend their way upward. Sun setting on my backdrop provides the perfect glimpse into the pistil soul of this Prunella vulgaris, otherwise known as the self-heal plant. I recognize the outer beauty presented to me by the warmth of the sun. It’s shade, extending twice the distance back, exposes the depth to which grace and mercy runs deep down it’s core. Virgin, nutrient rich soil pays homage to this quiet dignity it has fostered among slightly decaying leaves strewn atop dew seldom gone.
Benevolence in the eyes of me, sitting between two dazzling imaginary places born from reflection and irony, exploring the warmth, humanism, compassion and grace of one man. One man, in a make-believe world, representing all of us in my visionary court of excellent endeavors. A man elected to inhabit a small blue-purple plant at the feet of us.
A substantial man, James Anderson, whose shadow extends far beyond the collective mossy logs we sit upon looking down, at times, upon flowers like him. Recognizing a giving of himself, whereas, we may have prejudged.
That moment we realize he broke the benevolence barrier we failed to see in ourselves and others in the past. Granted we are not plumbers, perhaps, but we are human beings capable of helping anyone in need within our area of expertise, neighborhood, or means. Humility in action, not pride inaction.
Once understanding our own ability to reach out to others, we can begin to inhale the fresh air filtered through knowledge, once not known, on our different journeys. Infinite passages almost guarantee we shall never cross unless our inspirations align. That’s ok. Knowing our way, together but apart, is the mystery of a two-dimensional space in a confusing three-dimensional world.
Know low branches, quicksand, and age will greet you along the way. As you travel between your dazzling imaginary places, find your benevolence in a small flower at your feet. Be it a person needing a smile, a hand, or a friend …. be that grace sitting on a mossy log admiring what could be.
Be a James Anderson for someone…. walk up to a 91 year old lady, lean over her frail frame, hand her a pretty blue-purple flower and whisper, “Don’t worry, I’ve got this …” Once done, rivers of benevolence will flow from you … carrying friends in crafts of imagined kindness to heartache in need of a flower.
When life is over, it is finished. All the hoping and stressing ceases to be. Time remains constant, however, for those we loved left behind. They remain to despair or rejoice over our absence. Before life was for us, all desires and tensions belonged to those alive. They were joyous in their blessed accounts or despondent among gatherings of friends. In between is us – our lifetimes. These are overlapping spans of years blended on the corners of an artist’s imagination by passing experiences. All the real dreams and disappointments mixed so tightly together we cannot escape the gallery of each other’s pains and pleasures. Surprisingly beautiful are the dreadful times. Wonderfully elegant the magnificent moments. In the trio of time – past, present, and future, – never forgotten are the colors of love. This is time best represented. Since time is all you have, love yourself as no one can. For this is a palette of colors representing self-compassion in your failures, tolerance of choices, and faith forward in dreams. Take the empty canvas leaning on self-acceptance and begin to create a masterpiece that is your life on this day. Some walking by will casually glance at your paint soaked hands and move on not understanding what they see. Those who do stop to consider your story and wonder about what inspires you are part of your world. They are there. Truly seeing the colors. One with you at that moment. Give them an experience. Hand them a brush, perhaps, and let them mix in a few colors with you so they may be a now and a hope with you. That small time with you is their time as well. It is their present for you. Love is the meaning in this time together… in all time, too. Passing through today is more for others, not us. When today is finished, all the wishing and worrying ceases to be. Time remains constant when our brushes are cleaned for another day. Time, ever so steadfast, urges forward for those we colored. They will despair or rejoice over our absence. Have it be they rejoice, not despair. Love the colors. Love the painting they painted on their hearts while in your presence. In them, then, you’ll see the love you have for yourself … something that is timeless. Just like love itself.
Feel like writing about music today. Maybe it’s the ROLLING STONES fault. Drove into my neighborhood a few moments ago while “(I Can’t Get No) Satisfaction” played at a subtle, but understandable, volume inside my salty gray, tired Honda. (As an aside here, I should consider a mid-winter wash of the exterior just to ease the expected rust expansion come spring). Inside I sat listening, feeling satisfied about some things: the year is off to a new start, nobody won the Powerball the other night – so I have a chance again Saturday, and I learned how to do a load of “delicates” last night. In these things, I can be pleased.
To be clear, I am – at the same time – content in other details of my life … and, of course, dissatisfied with some. Trying to balance out all the bads and goods is so hard.
A small part of my dirty laundry was managed last night, so, I won’t hang a shirt-load of it out for you to look upon and admire my lack of smack in facing it head on. I will not take this time to write a laundry list of praises I think I deserve. Time is a cradle, today, to gently hold music’s “naissance de satisfaction” as it was for a performer years ago who melted into the moments …
Late 1980’s. “One” with a grand instrument – a young man exercised his right to tame the demons and call out the angels. Nothing came alive until a key was struck, graced, or summoned into submission. As so many before and since, I felt honored to perform on the very stage where virtuosi and amateurs brought to life their interpretations of the great Masters’ music. This did not need to be the great Carnegie Hall or Lincoln Center. It was a stage, piano, and me … a triangle of satisfaction.
The flip of my tuxedo tails off the back edge of the black polished performance bench always added a touch of elegance. The automatic head tilt upwards, as if to say “I have arrived”, while doing so was always a moment of pride at the end of a grueling few months of preparation. Stretching nine feet ahead, a twisted, organized harp of strings and hammers awaited instructions as small beads of sweat ran down behind my well-pressed ruffled shirt. With one well-polished shoe (on the damper) at the end of a slightly nervous right leg, and another comfortably under the bench waiting to employ the una corda, I was almost ready for Mozart.
The time was near. House lights so dark. I sat alone on stage, but among so many who reclined in darkness with eyes upon me. Silence ruled the moment as seconds demanded attention.
These seconds were the eternal pillars through which I’d pass into the magnificent concert hall of echoing satisfaction. Placing my hands on the keys in silence at the very beginning of this, or any, concert was the most magical gesture for me. The audience was anticipating. I was complete. Everything necessary in order to please the piano gods was at the ivory altar awaiting their nod. Approval given, I began.
Mozart, Beethoven, Rachmaninoff, Chopin … all friends by my side for the next hour and forty minutes enjoying, as I was, every uplifting phrasal draft coming up from the keys. Save the occasional applause pause, each moment a respite from the rigors beating on the drums of everyday college-life stress: The anxieties and pressures of a GPA bearing down on future resumes causing fissures in my already fragile mind, unease tilting the scales of personal relationships, and the hunger for acceptance in a starved wilderness of blind self-ambition to name a few.
Shirt sufficiently soaked. I finished. A final bow as the house manager slowly brought attention to the audience I forgot was in attendance. With a quick glance to the light wooden stage near my feet, one would notice (with a bit of imagination) a few wrong notes left there in Beethoven’s Sonata #23, “Appassionata”, Allegro ma non troppo – Presto movement. I’m confident the janitor would have swept them up in a pile – along with some other mistakes I made – that evening.
All said, there was no greater satisfaction in my life. The request for a picture came minutes later after I shed my tux tails coat and tie. No cummerbund did I wear. I struck a pose, froze, and the picture became one of lore to be framed among others and hung, innocently, in a hallway I pass by everyday. Satisfied, on that day, I gave music what it deserved:
“A place among the magical, invisible places where we can go, as fallible, hopeful beings .. to live, briefly, when we want, satisfied in ourselves, and eternally thankful for the gift of being there.” – THIS is my essence and grace when I place my hands on the keys. My triangle of satisfaction.
How uncomfortable to be writing a blog about myself. Just typing in those very words makes my heart go pitter-patter in a nervous, sweaty, not-so-good way. “Pitter-Patter” implies a teenager, acne prone, squeaky voice, whiny, pre-adult love of self pretense that is, most assuredly, not intended. “Nervous, sweaty, not-so-good-way” words? … YES, absolutely intended, spot-on, and necessary for purposes of today.
It’s one of the most interesting whatits about writing a, sort-of, every day entry into the vast, heavily jammed space of the blog-o-sphere; My observations, narrowed into categories; Categories sifted through appropriateness; Suitability filtered across friendly imaginations; My dear readers’ eyes as I type and edit my observations in many, or few, words? … all of this comes together, somehow, in a few hours time and not always in the most logical, grammatical, rhythmical way. Imagination, however, in the most intimate of a reader’s sole light, shows the passage toward understanding.
If there exists a humility clasp, I would use it to close the loop today. Self-promotion is not an arrow I use frequently out of a quiver I do not carry, anyway – if at all – to use in the battle of life’s greatest choices. Given a choice, deference to others – sometimes at a cost to me – is a greater cause. I am confident, as I write, there are others holding my hand here … understanding the shadow in which I find myself at times. We can be in this together. It’s not a solemn place where we stand side by side. Quite honorable to be so with you, if I must say.
Parts and pieces make up who we are. We have biological, emotional, spiritual, and mental parts and pieces. Probably, by extension, familial and friendship ones as well. With those parts and pieces co-mingled with mine in the shadows of the bright light of others, may I have permission to explore, briefly, the steps of consideration outlined above? If so, I will inhale and begin … with the understanding I am using the picture above solely for demonstration purposes only. Should GQ, Men’s Vogue, or Esquire call for references, please be advised that my schedule is full at this time.
OBSERVATIONS
A writer has to be observant. Under that umbrella are all the senses, of course. I have a mosquito flying into, or out of, my right ear, for example. I did not know that when I took the selfie. Now, the mosquito, apparently, isn’t one of the smarter ones because of my not knowing he, or she, wasn’t there at all. In addition to the lack of hearing any insect-ual sounds so close to my aural cavity, there is no residual effect of a little bump causing incessant scratching by my right index finger since the incident happened. After investigating further, …oh,yeah, it’s the ceiling fan. Mosquitoes are still stupid. No apologies. Observation #1.
I am old. At what point did “crow’s feet” crop up on my face? I’m observing these expanding, “branching wrinkles” (credit to google for such a descriptor) as they are, but don’t need to say, “it is what it is”, eer….”they are what they are”. I see them as little crevasses which aid my “go screw yourself” tears as they avoid the inevitable direct path down over my cheeks. My only recourse is to lobby the powers of the universe to rename such as, “Oyster Shells”. Ah, the beauty. “What’s in a name?”, sayeth Shakespeare. Look at the shape – sideways on my face … just imagine! Draw, in your mind’s eye, a line around the edge. A perfect shell! Do you, my dear reader, want a black, dirty “crow’s feet” beast on your face … or, the holder of a fine, priceless pearl? I ask you…DO you? Observation #2.
Look into my eyes. Really look into my eyes. I can’t. Eyes are, supposedly (boy, I hate saying that word – could there be a more annoying word to say?..I still say a “b” instead of a “d”), the window to one’s soul. Really?. These eyes are half open, tired, worn, and reddened from a long couple of years. Years of “fake it until you make it”, “conceive, believe, achieve”, “powers of positive thinking”, “this is your new normal”, etc… Life is hard. What we see in anyone isn’t always – hardly ever – what’s really going on. Facebook, …Instagram,… Snap-chat,… pick a social media platform and all you’ll see is the 10% up-side of a 90% down-side. Maybe a slight exaggeration, but I would argue I’m not too far off. Observation #3
The unseen. Follow-up. This selfie is the last of five taken. It was a response to a series of texts between three good friends and I. The string was headed into silliness and needed to end, so I simply posted up that selfie with the caption, “…My holiday wish is that you, my good friends, all become as handsome as I…”. It worked! To understand the effectiveness of that, you need to understand my friends, my humility, and the backstories of all of us. With little time, and respect for privacy, this is not possible, of course. What’s possible, though, is sifting all the observations through categories and seeing what comes through the other side…
CATEGORIES
When in school, especially higher grades, I dreamed of loftier goals. Specifics unimportant. What is important, though, is the fact I wasn’t paying too much attention in class – especially English or Creative Writing. Equally irritating to my teachers? My dad was an English teacher in the very school I attended. It is with this in mind – and awareness in the accessibility and ease, once again, of google – I base the explanation of “categories”.
Apparently there are four ways (categories) to explain what I need to say: expository, persuasive, narrative, and descriptive. I did not know these previous. Simply stated, I can inform, persuade, narrate, or describe. I don’t need to explain myself, so option #1 is out. (laughing out loud here because I really should explain myself to many, many people),,, Should I try to influence you? …hmm. This option #2?.. Nah. Option #3 is telling a story, fact or fiction. Probably a no-go here. I think “a type of expository writing that uses the five senses to paint a picture for the reader…this writing incorporates imagery and specific details” is quite the perfect category. (credit to: freeology.com) Option #4 it is!
I fall best into this category of the five senses. I am sensitive. I have to observe and then write about sensitive things. Missing my mom, relationships, music, emotions, and the “whys” in life chief among them.
To explain myself fully in a blog, or debate to persuade you, means I am uncomfortable. Possible narrative is edgy, sweet, and blog worthy at times, but not steady-reliable.
This category #4 decision, in light of the above picture, was easy now knowing the “official” English class category as “descriptive”, I can say: spectacular specs, rosy-red cheeks, half-way hair-spray hair, inner-flannel flare fashion, and a sincere smile. All of which are so appropriate for a guy who still can’t believe he’s writing a blog about himself.
SUITABILITY
This is a weird post today. In thinking about the process, I’m going through the process, observing the process while writing about the process. There have been observations made about the picture above I found unsuitable for press, i.e. type. That is, had to make a decision about appropriateness before arriving at “appropriateness”. Huh? My horse was mounted before I wrote about mounting it, in other words.
We do that as amateur bloggers. Look, I’ve been at this such a short time…months – compared to some lifers in the ‘sphere. I can imagine the struggles and victories some must have gone through, year over year regarding what is good to go vs. what is “over the line”. The arrows in THEIR quivers, used over and over to get where they are today, are vastly superior to any I may ever use . I am aware of one writer, who just had a book published, with a local connection. The missed targets. The hits and misses. The interviews, blogs, articles, drafts, late nights, early flights …. what a reward for her to be there, finally, at a book signing. The “suitablility” of that moment to her dreams. Wow. Just. Wow.
Back to my, ahem, picture. So, what is appropriate about my picture? Well, for one … I have clothes on. THAT’S a huge plus. Dear reader, that’s a plus … TRUST me on this. I’m shoulders up, I get it. But, easy filter. I want to say, “showered and shaved” .. and I can. Give me a little side-ways edge on the shaving thing because I rarely shave. A trim-up now and then. The “showered thing”?. You’ll just need to trust me on that. No way to prove it on a two-dimensional picture without a scratch and sniff option – so there! For a fiftyish older guy, I also have, by my estimate, fiftyish % of my scalp covered in hair. It’s that odd time in life when that happens mathematically. If I’m fortunate enough to reach age 90, the math ain’t gonna be so kind. The kindness, however, isn’t in the aging process of the body iself, but in the mind – where the real magic of imagination resides.
IMAGINATION
As I observe, I see and imagine. Categories and appropriateness automatically fall into place as I’m confident they do for most. My challenge is sarcasm and humor. Herein is my Maginot Line. It can be my false sense of security breached when a thought in my head appears on the screen in type and is immediately assaulted by the forces of common sense. Sometimes.
Other times I am absolutely amazed. Currently, I have drafts in my phone – and in my head – of seemingly unimaginable depth. For example, I haven’t eaten yet today, save a peanut-butter and jelly sandwich three hours ago. THAT amazes me. Oh, and a small box of raisins. An occasional text here and there and an eBay snafu on shipping have been my only distractions. Well, except for the two-thousand-three-hundred-forty-nine times I’ve needed to scroll up to look at my picture in the heading block. Not for reference … just to see my handsome mug (yeah, right)… talk about a wild imagination…
TYING UP THE WHATITS
I does really end up in the arena of imagination, if a blog writer has that in mind for his or her readers at the start. I’ve experienced blogs of an educational nature, debate format, and narrative form. All of them are well written – just not my style. Can’t see a cold, but not bitter, December afternoon hosting a man .. slapping up a humble picture of himself, while skipping necessary caloric intake, for the benefit of his readers without enjoying it fully – which he has. Also, after reading that last sentence, which makes no apparent sense, it is evident the lack of calories is taking its toll on his mind.
With that I will, humbly, close the loop on today’s entry into the log with this:
Imagine, if you will, a life of YOUR imaginings. Take a selfie. Look it over. Carefully. See you as you. Pull the imaginary mosquitoes out of your ears and cherish the oyster shells beside your eyes. They are yours and yours alone. You are in a category all by yourself and suitable to be loved by everyone. Including me. I am so proud to be the writer of your readership in some very small way.
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.
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.
People. Some stop to buy, others walk by. Hundreds the past two days. Thousands this summer. Hundreds of thousands over the years. Many, many people.
Surprises along the way. It’s been almost fifteen years of ups, downs, and in-betweens. Consistency in process, product, and people on my side keep the engine motoring forward.
Without people, though, it would have stopped years ago. Grateful for people. Customers. Year after year.
This is business. Serving customers the right way … and it is exhausting. Especially what I do. I have no pass-through. No delegation of responsibility. I am a one man show “most times” for prep, set-up, shopping, and clean-up. Heavy selling times I do have help, but those aren’t the exhausting times …. it’s everything else: travel, bills, mental energy, planning, coordinating, cart maintenance, SAM’S CLUB changing their hours!!😡, sleep, scheduling, product prep, lifting/pulling the cart, trying to get my new trailer done ….. on and on…
This is on top of a busy life otherwise.
Nowhere will you hear me publicly complain. I live and love what I do. Privately I have my moments. All in business do I’m sure. Few, if any, share. I will …. just this once.
This is the face of business at times – after all the work. Two hard events, back to back, that should have been good… but weren’t …. and a third event packed in to top if off. Prep, set-up, hours worked, tear-down, clean-up, travel…. with little result. All knowing a third, larger event was in the wings -only hours later – requiring an hour drive each way … not knowing how it was going to go. Stress compounded.
This was me exhausted after all of it. Thirty hours work, four hours sleep. Don’t mind sharing. Small business owners know our limits, yet we exhaustively break them hoping to make your lives better in some small way. I do, anyway.
Today, however, I’m done. Tired and completely worn out … thanking the universe for rain which prevented me from setting up at my usual Sunday spot. Money lost, but necessary rest gained. I’ll absolutely miss my regular customers … those special people who don’t just walk by. The “by chance” new customers will have to wait until next year as this would have been my last Sunday for the season.
So grateful for everything. How wonderful life is – unfolding opportunities for those of us willing to work and put forth the effort. Effort that doesn’t always pay off, though … and, like I say, that’s ok.
I’d rather be exhausted doing what I love for others than rested doing something I want for only myself.
Many, many people and one me. Tiring as it may be at times, I’d have it no other way.
I’m a little G.I. not forgotten. In a window display, year after year, thinking I was forgotten … until today.
Nothing has changed, year after year. I sit in my Jet Propelled Supersonic Speed GR 5-4065 facing a blank, colorless wall across a row of trumpets and horns. Nobody winds me up anymore. Nobody. Can’t remember a time when a human hand touched, let alone played, with me. I keep a smile on my face, though.
My time was 1944 – an era stuck between the Great Depression and the boom of the 50’s. For me to survive seventy-five years is quite the miracle considering most of my contemporaries hit the junk pile, or simply rusted out into nothingness. Baseball card pals, Big Little book friends, Erector set siblings, Tiddlywink toddlers …. all gone. I miss them. Here I sit, still, silent. Thinking of them. Year after year.
My last owner, who owns this shop, hasn’t been around in a forever span. I don’t know why. I know he still cares about me and all my friends in this window, so I silently ask, “why?”…and there is never an answer. I can only assume a reason I don’t understand. That has to be good enough. It has to be. Year after year.
I can only sense experiences. Thinking in stillness. I would love to have someone, anyone, move me ever so slightly to see one snow fall, or watch the leaves change. To understand how rain slowly runs down the face of the glass, look out as the parades go by, catch a glimpse of a sunrise and sunset, or spot that one classic car I remember fondly …. would be magnificence in the most holiest of forms. It is not to be. I am this now, now. It is my year after year.
I am Jet Propelled. I am Supersonic Speed. Yet, I am stuck. Ironic. I have a specific identity, yet thousands pass, day by day, without notice of my predicament. I silently speak, yet no one hears. Everyone is in a hurry. It is not their fault, however. My time was seventy-five years ago. My identity is not recognized as much as it would have been back then and my usefulness has long since passed. Even my recognition as an antique/collectible is waning as those who remember me as the mighty G.I. Joe are slowly passing into eternal rest. Year after year.
Today was special, however. Some random guy stopped for a few minutes to say, “Hi”. He said he passes by frequently and looks in because his family used to visit the music store a lot (where I am on display). He’s sad, too. Sad to see a favorite store – with good memories – fall into disrepair over the years. I know, between the two of us, we are thinking the same thing: sometime soon, this store will need to be demolished. The damage from years of neglect is too severe for repairs to make any significant difference. Funny, at that time my view will finally change … and I don’t think it will be a happy ending. Year after year will finally come to an end for me.
Still, today was special for me. I’m a little G.I. not forgotten … at least for today. I have an identity that was recognized. My ego was Supersonic and my happiness Jet Propelled because some random guy took a few minutes to stop, look me in my side-eye through the glass, and talk to me. For anyone walking by, this may have seemed a bit odd. For the two of us, however, it brought back to life the memories of one and wound up the rusty heart of another.
For that, I am grateful….and will be. Year after year.
