Tomorrow evening, I’ll be performing a benefit concert to raise money for UPMC Hospice. The programs are printed, flowers arranged to be delivered, clothing finely draped over my chair ready to be worn, and a piano awaiting my arrival at 6:30.
I can’t wait, but I must. This is something I truly enjoy. The pieces have been selected as musical bridges to memories I must share with loved ones and friends. Beethoven, Mozart, and Brahms – to highlight a few – will be on this one-hour, fifteen-minutes journey with all of us. Personal, yet public it will be. Marvelous.
I’m at a funeral this morning. Another casket, one more service behind the organ. More hymns than normal for my friend who died. She requested my “organized pianistic” presence at her pre-final rest service here. I’m honored to be a part.
A part, here, with the living. Old and young, big and tall. We’re here celebrating a life. This life of a Pastor well lived .. and given back through an eleven year vessel lined with stage four ovarian cancer.
Yet, we are still here.
I, in some small part, provide the music. An “Alleluia” prelude at the keyboard followed by six hymns and two liturgical snippets. For Pastor Denise, these are. For the congregants and Pastors all in attendance who are here paying respects to their friend and colleague, I play.
This is not the first, nor last, funeral I will play. I’ve had three grandparents, a mom, and countless others. A dad will follow along if I live a normal span of years and this church will require my end of lives’ services in the future as well.
“Funerals and the Living”, always brushes across my mind when passing by parlor doors open to a closed casket. In this same spot, I held my mom’s clasped hands eleven years ago hours before her viewing. Thinking a variation of the same thought, “I am living at your funeral … what is this?” … it was, truly, an odd, dichotomous feeling. Death and life two feet apart, but love unchanged. Cold, yet warm. Energy still present. Holding hands … a connection I feel to this day.
Mom and I are pianists. This is quite possibly the bridge between her funeral and my living existence today. Holding keyboard hearts and hands – over 4,000 sunsets after her passing. I think of her each time my fingers begin funeral Preludes. It is what is right and necessary to allow a mom’s mourning sunrise to reach those who need a connection with their lost soul.
“Funerals and the Living”. The funeral viewing and service – a small arc of the circle that is a death process the living must go through. It is sad and possibly necessary if wanted by the family and deceased. The circle … a burial or spreading of ashes to follow, perhaps. The circle … therapy for the living if needed. The circle … estate issues, etc …
Maybe the circle never ends. I don’t know. My “mom circle” never closed.
As it stands now – one hour and fifteen minutes since this writing started and the service for Pastor Denise began as well – I was able to express my thoughts here between six hymns, a smattering of liturgical responses, a sermon, scripture readings, and a eulogy.
Mom has been with me all along. She always is. Every funeral. Always. Funerals help me live. They help mom stay alive as well …
I’m at a funeral this morning. So glad I am not alone.
You are not alone either when arriving at a loved one’s funeral. Yes, the living are by your side in the pew as eulogies are spoken and hymns sung. Visitors offer hugs in the midst of drowning tears.
In the quiet chambers of your heart, the one who passed through this life still occupies memories. Remarkable memories unique to you – and only you – serve as reminders of times when life was lived to its fullest … with them by your side.
Funerals reflect life back to us. Pastor Denise reminds me, today in her death, I am not alone.
In death, Mom and Pastor Denise live this day. As always.
It was steak tips and fries – for the second time in three days. Yes, they are delicious. The salad bar and Pepsi Zero adding to their sizzle, these platter meat and starch necessities have been a Wednesday and occasional Saturday staple. Friends meeting for casual conversation … and the same, predictable waitress we ask for each time. Expected.
Looking down as usual. Meat and a potato variety. Salad bar. Never more than a horizontal stare across the very familiar round table. I, the youngest of six sitting around, was engaged in conversations stretching from the Pittsburgh Pirates to “how it was” prior to my open-eyed arrival in the early 60’s. Easy to understand as one of my friends is a nonagenarian farmer – contrasted with this piano-playing hotdog salesman.
As they say, an eclectic group of people folk. The other four … along for the dinner ride almost every week at this steak house. Crab cakes for one, meatloaf for two and three, a burger on the plate for number four, call up shrimp or chicken fingers for five, and for me? … some part of a cow is always up for grabs.
Routine. A Wednesday staple – sometimes Saturday. A routine where -and when – we find ourselves never looking up. So habitual, in fact, that before even starting the 12 minutes drive I hear an exhausted, ” … again?” gracing my right ear in the car. Frankly, I can’t argue the point. Responding with a half-hearted, sighing, “yeah …” we pull away anticipating the same rights, lefts, signal lights, and – yes – parking spaces at Hoss’s Steak House at the other end of town.
It’s not a “rut”. That’s a negative version of routine. You can’t get ANY pleasure out of a rut. This is why Scooby’s favorite saying is what it is. We have no expectation of pulling a mask off our favorite waitress to divulge a sinister plot. Yes, my steak was not the best two weeks ago, however, I don’t feel she concocted a plan to “rut-roh” my evening. Shaggy and fatty as it was, I still go back. Mistakes were made.
It was routine. Look ahead routine. So many times. Week after week.
One more time this past Saturday – routine … and then I walked out.
Framed between two light poles was magnificent deep orange and brilliant yellow. Purples, blues, and blacks hugged the sky as well. My sight line was … up. Not down. Not horizontal. Up. What I saw was in front of me. Not behind or beside.
“Perspective” is what jumped out of the clouds immediately into my mind.
Definitely not a routine sighting, right? I don’t understand atmospheric conditions despite earning an “A” in my college intro to meteorology class. (Memory rinse and repeat gets one to earn such a grade … before you reach a conclusion that I can do much more than identify the difference between stratus, cumulous, and cirrus clouds).
Reflect, refract? Prism crystals, or light bending through water vapor? You tell me. Frankly, I don’t care to know. Surely our stately sun was involved as it went to its evening rest around a global tilt. This would be the extent of my knowledge.
I stood for a few seconds as I am sure some in the local area did. Looking up. It was a beautiful sky. Certainly put perspective in my life … for a little time, anyway.
Routine disappeared … as this artistry was certainly out of routine. As if to say, “I got this …”, these colors radiated down a sense of calm – an overarching, blanketing feeling over the community. A reminder – as it were – to look up out of our routines and take a breath.
The “I” to which I refer has no identity. No assignment given here. It is open to all colors, shapes and sizes of beliefs.
As an artist of the music kind, looking up I saw a pallete of dancing colors that could easily be transcribed into little dots on a musical staff. Gustav Holst imagined The Planets in his fantastic work of the same title. Looking up has created musical magic and I can only imagine continues to inspire composers.
All this to say “look up” once in a while. Yeah, it’s an over-used, well-cooked into life’s pie cliché. Take a well-earned breath. Please keep all things in perspective. Your job and issues that can stress your essence have a shelf life. Give them attention, however, no more than they deserve. Continue to live a healthy routine, of course …but stay out of a rut. Every once in a while, there may be stunning colors you NEED to see. Reminder: life’s moments are worth having around even if your steak isn’t the best sometimes.
This remarkable image is courtesy of Kimberly Calderwood … and Lancaster County in Southern Pennsylvania near the Susquehanna River. The former is a dear friend who captured this gorgeous picture. The latter a beautiful part of our state I don’t travel through ever … shame on me.
Shame on me for not taking the time to get out of western PA more often to experience life on a different plane. I’m not going to head down my local expressway during a sunset and witness the escape of a hot air balloon off dusty horse-laden lands. Most likely, a local McDonald’s and pharmacy would confine my vision and I’d be assaulted by unjustified horn-beeping from nearby lanes. There’d be no peace in the wind.
A different world down east from here -Pennsylvania Dutch Country – where tranquil Amish don’t beep and blather their way around those encountering daily life one moment at a time.
Kim hugged peace in the wind through her lense. This very calm breeze lifted that balloon into stillness, stayed the mighty beasts of the field, and held a majestic sun over all its domain. As all wanted to move forward within the orange hue, a setting glow set aspirations aside and paused life … for a moment. Reflected back memories it did. Directed time to the immediate. Any future, as of this moment, did not exist.
This was the now. Kim took me there.
When I saw her picture, a quote often attributed to Shakespeare came to mind: “There are three people in yourself: Who people think you are, who you think you are, and who you really are.”
I have a past, present, and future. None of those time frames mattered at that moment. Also, what others may (or, may not) think of me melted away. I saw my 6-foot frame, initially, standing in that tiny balloon without a brooding bother in my brain. Transfixed by the warmth surrounding my soul, I became enraptured by the peace in the wind I could feel simply by holding a phone held in my hand.
Remarkable how art – yes, this picture is art in raw, beautiful form – moves us into places we don’t expect. Places we NEED to arrive when we are unaware this must be our destination.
See, this Peace in the Wind dropped into my life during a tornado of stress. Did it end the path of torn up relational earth life handed me over the previous days? No. Normal stuff happens. You and I know this. High levels of anxiety happen. Life is, well, life. Can’t avoid situational stress as life ticks forward.
It did remove, distract, and relocate me.
… so nice to unexpectedly arrive at a field in Southern Pennsylvania.
Sit with me a few minutes. Enjoy this moment. Stand with those majestic horses .. talk to them. Take a walk, gently, along a dusty rut where generations of Amish workers have lovingly blazed a trail for you. Glance upward at a motionless balloon to consider where you’d go with an evening off – totally free from any obligations.
Best of all, close your eyes and be thankful for the warm, peaceful breeze you can feel only in your imagination… this time, but not the last time.
Kim’s remarkable image gives us permission to always be aware – always be on the lookout for wonderful snapshots like this. Moments to stop. Stop worrying. Stop being anxious about the troubles of the day. Stop looking ahead at what may – or may not – be guaranteed.
I am still in that balloon. For now, it’s a great view. Like I said, sit with me a while.
I’m sitting behind a hot grill. The sun’s heat – on this 90-degree day – makes the still air surrounding me feel like I’m slow-cooking. Perhaps an invisible large crock envelops this hot dawg cart outside WalMart as busy shoppers scoot by toward their sun-baked automobiles.
The sign by me, “Row 12”, guides my thoughts. No customers guide my sales today. It’s been, well, slow.
I begin to realize almost 12 months have gone by since my last post here on Doug Hugs. Geesh. Priorities switch lanes.
I don’t write here for fame and/or fortune … obviously. I have neither in my life and am quite content working every day at endeavors inviting both joy and income on my life’s doorstep.
This will most likely never stop.
The joy comes from serving. Music, especially. Music is to be shared – from the performer to the listener. Yes, there will always be emotional connections between the composer and performer; however, a performer is simply the bridge between. This is my “happy space”.
I am at peace on that bridge.
Sharing a connection at my cart is also a nice, enjoyable off ramp from occasional pesky potholes along this life. Good food and a smile can help folks get through a tough day, week, or situation.
Row 12 happens to represent my happy place – the 12 black and white keys spanning an octave on the piano from C to B .. all in a row.
… and a pleasant reminder to all of us we need to use our gifts to be a bridge for others.
Smile when you can. Serve when called upon. Look for teachable moments and don’t ever put off writing down your thoughts.
Especially if this means being reminded of such while sitting on a metal chair, behind a grill, in the middle of a scorcher, picking melted skin off your forehead.
We are in the middle of a major renovation. Our sanctuary no longer has carpet, pews, or an alter gracing its space on the corner of Union and Allegheny. Wooden sub-floors, a tightly sealed organ, and chandeliers will greet you if visiting in your future. Bare it is – as it should be. Our planning/renovation committee is hard at work making sure this stripped down space is, once again, colorfully clothed again shortly after Easter. We hope.
Yes, we hope. Up to this point, there have been some snags in the planning carpet. Nothing major, of course … anyone would expect some nicks and snickers. We worship, now, in our fellowship hall anticipating all goals meet a spiritual bulls-eye center a few months from now. We plan as if it is up to us, however, meditate because it is up to a greater force to decide how and when we will sit in that beautiful space once again.
… and a beautiful space it is. Eleven windows, with the sun’s daylight help, dance colors across wood floor sub-panels, paint fumes, and scaffolding. The unfolding of the gospel story, one stained glass panel at a time, is beautifully told through multiple vivid and dramatic pieces … meticulously placed for generational reflection.
They stand in watch awaiting our return.
We will go back within a few months recognizing the artistry that has been there all along. Steady and unchanging – these will be stalwart around new pews, carpet, and a paint hue not too far from what was already on the walls. These windows haven’t changed. They have a new border color, however, as a black onyx trim hugs each.
I’ve paused a few times … standing among disassembled scaffolding and turpentine odors late in the afternoon. Three large walls and eleven windows. Windows and walls, I’ve seen close to six decades now, speak quiet words across a very empty, large space every time I visit. I’ve heard these windows speak a message. The essence is one of eternal beauty in the midst of renewal.
These windows are us.
We are beautiful. We are, at our core, eleven unchanging, colorful, vibrant windows. Our sanctuary, this body shell we use to house our windows, is always changing, renovating.
Our windows are compassion and love for others, self-acceptance, creativity, honesty, generosity, humility in the service of others, optimism, patience, and sympathy & empathy when appropriate. All of these shine through our sanctuary that changes and bends through problems faced and solved days, weeks, months at a time.
We are those eleven windows inside. They are us. There for generations, I finally saw them inside myself after seeing them outside for close to these six decades of life.
We should always work on our sanctuaries – keep renovating, changing. The beautiful, vibrant windows always allowing the light out, and in, for the benefit of others, and perhaps ourselves, will always be here to remind us we should never lose hope.
Compassion and love for others, self-acceptance, creativity, honesty, generosity, humility in the service of others, optimism, patience, and sympathy & empathy.
Eleven windows for a post-Easter celebration at Zion. Better yet, … anytime, anywhere, for any reason.
It’s Christmas Eve. 5:24, to be exact. I am sitting on my little red chair beside the organ at Zion Lutheran Church. A break in the service as a sermon is about to begin.
No worries. I have two more services tonight to catch up with the Pastor’s message. Already, I have almost missed the third verse of our Hymn of the Day. This is my first service back after a week of miserable covid isolation and stress. To have been nearly absent-minded over a few lyrics is, I feel, a passable offense … considering.
It’s almost Christmas, after all.
The church is full. For once this year, our pews are relatively packed. Normally on a Saturday service, Santa and his reindeer could comfortably slide to rest in between any two people. Families I’ve never seen are happily filling in the spaces between beautiful stained glass windows. I cannot see empty diagonal lines from front to back.
It’s almost Christmas, after all.
I don’t know what our Pastor is talking about right now. If his message has anything to do with the gospel lesson, John is involved. There’s an ocean of red pedals in my line of sight, but no magnificent colors being painted by the sun through those wonderful stained glass windows. They are dark. The sun sets early these days.
It’s almost Christmas, after all.
Bitter cold embraces everyone’s outside breath. A cold spell came through yesterday which I thought would have dampened attendance this evening. The once-a-year faithful still crunched their way in, however, to see the decorated altar … and, possibly, to be seen by their peers. I recognize so very few from my perch up front. This is not to cast judgement upon anyone. Perhaps if I wasn’t providing a needed musical service, I would be the same on a very cold, bitter Saturday evening … 5 hours before this most celebrated Christian holiday of the year.
It’s almost Christmas, after all.
Of all the candles lit, only one solitary taper can be seen from my corner settlement. It’s a view so familiar to many a generation of organists who have graced this ornamented chair upon which I sit.
The Pastor’s message is leaning into a lonely shepherd. I am listening now – the second service of three this evening. I see one candle, yet there are many I know on the altar I cannot see, but are there. I see less friends here than before, but I know other friends are, possibly, holding their candles brightly at other places of worship. They are being shepherded in different ways.
It’s almost Christmas, after all.
It’s not just this moment. Many times I’ve heard, “… the presents are wrapped and trees are glistening with bulbs and tapestries of all shapes and colors.” Joy and merriment, as expected, has been seen in the eyes of children. Adults have been about meeting at coffee shops and restaurants – exchanging holiday smiles and hugs – discussing family plans and holiday hams. Packages have arrived from around the globe. Air tubes carrying passengers have flown millions of miles to destinations where anxious travelers finally embrace loved ones in crowded airports.
It’s almost Christmas, after all.
… and does any of this really matter?
I have no presents wrapped. No trees are decorated. Very few, if any, relatives are around anymore. The few I have here – daily – struggle with life in their own way. Distances, not measured by miles, separate us. Life is, well, life.
… and does this matter? YES! It’s almost Christmas, after all, and to what extent this holiday presents itself to any of us … it STILL matters.
It’s a reason to recognize what we DO have. Maybe not necessarily what we want or need, but simply what we have. Seems simple enough.
Strip away all the glitter and wrapping of the season. And yes, I dare say the “Reason for the Season”, platitudes so evident all over digital media these days. All the sappy gospel songs need to be shelved for a small period of time to sit and think. Reflect. Admire all we have. If it’s only a breath to get from one moment to another – that’s a thing.
Life seems more real this way … at least for now: an almost Christmas, 2022.
I have a third service to play. Tomorrow is, yes, Christmas. I will go out to eat with some friends and family. That’ll be a thing to celebrate.
There are always nuggets like these to have in our pockets. Memories to gather. Experiences to share with friends and family. Wrapping paper fades and trees are stored 11 months out of the year. “Wham!” will, of course, continue to torture us with, “Last Christmas”, until our collective ears bleed … this is unavoidable. What shouldn’t be missed are all the little, fun, memorable times we can tuck away to remember all year ’round.
So, tonight IS a time to remember, reflect, and recall all the special moments we have in our lives.
It’s almost Christmas, after all. Let’s unwrap tomorrow with all it’s present magic.
For now, Pastor Dave just started his third version of that same sermon. I am here, again, for one last time. Ornaments, the Christmas tree, … I’m finally listening to the whole message. The ugly tree ornaments. The shepherds, marginalized, were like those ugly ornaments hidden on the back of the Christmas tree. The gospel writer Luke, however, writes positively about shepherds. They are lifted up. Hope among the lowly, as it were. This is the message for this Christmas eve.
Thank you for being here. Today and tomorrow matter. Always. Christmas or not, days are special, after all.
Because every moment matters, look for the unseen candles in your life.
When the news came, I was shocked – just as you most likely were. He was a legend in Western Pennsylvania. Still is. His unexpected death has not changed anyone’s opinion of this man’s accomplishments on, and off, fields of play and business. He is Franco … the only black and gold #32 most of us ever knew. The one we will never carve out of our childhood memories, or forget meeting during a chance encounter.
I never met him. Since his passing, though, I have become aware some of my friends met him in the past. Pictures of happy embraces grace my feed. In some instances, proud autographs are displayed. Just through those secondary seconds in time, I can imagine wonderful conversations. He must have been a gentleman.
There may be no other way for me to hug the moment – that is, to eulogize a man I only knew through little pieces of 2-dimensional cardboard – than to say: He must have been a gentle man.
This. From a musician far removed from any gridiron grit … who spent his time watching the sport mainly through colorful picture cards with posing players who never opposed anyone while in their inanimate state. This was my Franco, Terry, Lynn, and Rocky experience. Nolan, Roberto, and Mr. Yount became frequent visitors to my afternoon bungalows as time whisked away in imaginary playfields with my sister … and possibly a few friends who happened to stop by.
The real magic happened if a sickness (especially on a school day) happened to march into my sinus dugout. Up to bat came Mom to pinch hit with fresh wax packs of marvelous cards to open. Yah, know – to assist me in the “healing process” … I’m not sure if this was ever Dr. approved, but Mom always knew how to lift my spirits. Of course she did. Mom’s know. She was a gentle lady.
Yes, she was.
This Christmas will be the 10th without her. This is a hard holiday. Hard – not because she’s not in the kitchen baking cookies, or we’re not playing piano duets. Hard – not because the pinochle deck isn’t spread out all over the table beside a few unfinished puzzles of hers. Hard – not because we can’t talk and be goofy together.
Hard because of that gentleman, Franco Harris. Hard because I can’t ever give Mom anything back in return for what she gave me: love, respect, kindness, compassion, caring, and humor.
You see, the card above is the very last present I opened from Mom. It was randomly inserted in a pack of cards she bought, unopened, from a local hobby shop. She knew I love sports cards. Of course, she knew.
She was so sick. With only a few months to live, this was her gift. This pack – containing no guarantee of anything – was purchased and wrapped. Weeks later, opened by a very grateful son.
Decades earlier, I was sick. Fast forward. There I was feeling equally grateful to receive a pack of cards from my Mom – now, she was sick. Difference being, I would get better in a few days.
She died a few months later.
I’ve looked at this card every Christmas. The weird thing about all this is the serial number:
“It’s a Christmas miracle, Mom”, I whisper to myself every time this card appears before my teared up eyes. #12/25 could not have happened without the love and respect Mom and I had for each other throughout our lives.
Things like that happen because they have to. The piano connection was, almost, too easy. She needed a more clever way to stay in touch with me.
Yesterday was a Franco, Mom, and me day for sure.
Sunday will be a day to remember Mom, again, as her Christmas absence will be felt. That 2011 Certified Fabric of the Game relic card sits in a special place to be pulled out and cherished for a few minutes as usual. This year, I will pause an extra minute or so to honor Franco Harris as well.
He is the man I never met, but feel I’ve known my whole life. Through it all … he’s been with me in 2-dimensional form, however, has made a 3-dimensional difference in my life thanks to Mom.
She is hard to miss now, but was easy to love.
Merry Christmas, once again, Mom. Franco sends his best your way.
I don’t know most of their stories. Every day, for a few minutes, I stood on warm concrete slabs as individual flags folded into summer breezes. Quiet imaginations filled my head while honoring local heroes. They made an impression on a digital camera phone and a daily memory for me.
Their names etched in black on a pole placard… and each individual story supported by a family member who reached out to the Rotary Club.
For one of the thirty-one days, each hero earned a place of recognition on my Facebook page. It was, truly, my honor to do so.
As a tribute to those who served and are currently active, here are the thirty-one who gave me pause:
Alex H. Drummond – Air Force, John Paul Dibert – US Army, Robert S. Cramer – Sergeant First Class US Army Reserve 1957-1995 , Richard Gildea US Navy Radarman 2/C WW2, Adolph Goldstein – US Army WW2, Samuel Calvin McLanahan – US Navy 1863-1869, Robert D. Williams – Trooper PA State Police, Andrew C. Williams RN, BSN Clinical Supervisor Cardiology Services, Valentine Ranck – Lancaster Militia Revolutionary War, Colonel Terry Wagner – US Army, Gerald Grubb US Army Air Corp KIA 3/30/43, Cloyd P. Grubb US Army Infantry Purple Heart Recipient, Dennis E. McCready – US Army Korea, JW Straesser – US Army Air Corp WW2.
Colonel Paul Roscher – Decorated Pilot POW WW2, Louis J. Lusk USAF “Halo” Senior Master Sergeant Special Warfare, Thomas Tidd – US Navy WW2 Pacific Theatre, Colonel Craig L. Carlson – US Army, Dr. Bridget O. Corey – Blair Foot & Ankle podiatric medicine, Mike J. Corey US Army , Elle W. McConnell – Nurse Practitioner Blair Foot & Ankle, Carl C. Werner – Staff Sergeant E-6, Allegheny Lutheran Social Services Healthcare, Residents of the Lutheran Home of Hollidaysburg who served our Nation, William R. Collins Jr. – US Army, Gary A. Davis – US Marine Corps, Richard Burnett – US Army, John S. Sigrist – US Army Reserve, Tony Drummond – US Army Healthcare worker, Desmond T. Lutz – Air Force Staff Sergeant, and Edward Kopanski – Vietnam veteran.
Quite the list. Revolutionary War through present day. I knew Colonel Wagner and am personally familiar with a few others; however, I am still fascinated by the stories those flags told.
They are no longer there.
Gone are the early morning stops for me. I miss the moments. So much so that a late night pull over this evening – after a tiring food truck event – was necessary. I needed time. Time to pull life over from its busy lane just enough to remember other folks who do much more – give so much more – to allow all of us a life of work and leisure.
At the very end of an invisible 31st flag, the permanent digital display gave me this:
Another flag. Yes, it is always in the rotation between, now, 80+ degree temperature readings and the time. This was no miracle sent from the heavens. For me, simply a final image to capture, to bookend if you will, a marvelous experience.
My story is simple. Five minutes every morning, I was fortunate enough to stand in front of an American flag while honoring an individual who deserved my time.
On July 13th, thirty-one invisible flags – for thirty-one seconds during a quiet, dark evening – were settled into their repose until next year. I stood there, peacefully.
I figure a second for each one of their stories is worth a lifetime for us.
How crazy to think it’s been a while since sitting here at my desk, typing in words, instead of running around making life happen. Hours buzz by. If it wasn’t for a message coming over the Meta-network on my phone, an event would be less meat and cheese tomorrow. I, quite simply, forgot – and it never was entered into my digital calendar. Why? Who knows? This is how May and the first part of June has been.
Except for an occasional meal or entertainment carve out, the huge kraken of lore has come alive to unsettle the calm seas I found myself on at the beginning of 2022. I’ve been losing planks multiples at a time and a once firm grip as the helmsman of my life could be in peril.
Not to be an alarmist, I’ve been here and seen raging seas. Outside challenges have tugged at my personal goals. The needs of others have trumped mine before and surprising tidal waves rocked more than one vessel upon which I’ve found myself. Survival finds a way.
Most of us, I believe, have experienced rough waters. These past weeks aren’t anything new to me, or you. We make our way to calmer shores, right?
I’m not there at present. If the psycho-sextant I currently hold in my clenched hands is accurate, the angle between the horizon and my guiding star shows a position I didn’t intend to be at the moment. Now, either the star is really messed up in its celestial dark matter blanket, the horizon isn’t level, …, or, I truly am taking on too much water.
Damn the kraken of the seas known as “What the hell am I doing?”
Actually, I know. I knew it weeks ago. The different colors on my digital calendar – where “most” of the commitments I’ve made appeared – created a rainbow off in the distance. It appeared as I started a journey. A trek into weeks of scheduling personal, medical, social, musical, and business slaps into my calendar.
As the bow lifted high into the white crests of every 20-foot wave these past few days, that rainbow of over-commitments washed over my memory. This-and-thats for todays and tomorrows. Necessaries and optionals.
This evening, after I realized tomorrow’s event was almost missed … I stopped. It was time. To. Just. Stop.
This is what eventually kills the kraken. Every. Time.
After catching up with a few friends on messenger and texts, I stopped, sat on the edge of the bed and took a deep breath. Nothing was going to interfere with the calm seas I imagined at the moment. It was time to rebuild the ship and get a good grip at the helm. One more thing to do, however – check the status of a Facebook post from a few hours earlier. This proved to be magical.
On my feed was a picture with two words, “Catchin’ Fireflies”. If there was an image I needed to see, it was this:
Courtesy of K. C.
Two joyous lives through a jar held by two smiles. A dear friend and precious daughter who, by all accounts, were brightening up their evening … together. No over-commitments, no busy-ness, no calendar rainbow. Just. Life. Now.
A relation-ship as intended.
I sat for a few more minutes than planned – looking into the calm waters reflecting back images of all the kind, considerate, loving, sincere, genuine, and spectacular close friends who survive the journey with me. The smiles and laughter, especially.
It isn’t all fun, to be sure. You know this. I know it, too. With that said, how difficult would the voyage be without shipmates who care … who are willing to take a plank, or two, on our behalf?
At the beginning of the day, I didn’t know tomorrow was coming as it appears to be. I’ll be unexpectedly busy. This coming week will be challenging on the home front as well.
I’m so glad I stopped today. The kraken is dormant for now.
Rest easy, kraken. I am sure we will battle again. For now, I turn the wheel over to a few small lightening bugs.
In their light, I find the smiles and laughter of my friends who, together with me, guide all our ships forward one day at a time on, hopefully, calm seas.
