I was thinking the other night while cooking up some stir-fry General Tso’s Chicken. The box said it would feed two people. What are they talking about? The General Tso’s Chicken I get from a Chinese takeout will feed two. Those orders are freakin’ huge! But this home version of my favorite Asian dinner? There might have been enough there to feed two, but this box would only feed one. Sure, I would have shared it with someone if there would have been someone to share it with. But it was only me and my pets, and I ain’t sharing that with them.
What was I thinking about? What was I not thinking about? I think it was the concept of cooking a meal made for two that only one person was going to eat that caused the thoughts that hurt my head and watered my eyes. I don’t normally cook for myself. At least not a full meal. I don’t see the need for it when my kids aren’t here. When they are, it’s a full course meal…meats, veggies, starches, maybe even dessert. When they aren’t…well, its grilled cheese with tomato soup or something else as easy to make. I guess I just feel that I’m not worth the effort. Even that Chinese meal I was making was not a full-course meal…a few minutes on the stove and it was ready for me to devour.
The thoughts. They suck. You’d think I’d learn by now there’s never an easy way. Never an easy way to let go; never an easy way to be free of pain; never an easy way to start all over. It is said that time heals all wounds. I suppose that is true, but who keeps track of the time? Is there a mystical being in some ethereal place surrounded by timepieces…sundials, wall clocks, wristwatches…watching them push time into the past, counting down the time to the seconds to where the pain just goes away? If this being would just reach over to the clock that is tied to my soul and push the hands forward a little…I would be eternally grateful.
There are people that come into your life that leave indelible marks upon you that you will never forget. My daughter is feeling down tonight. She doesn’t want to play with the neighbor boy, which in itself is an indication of something being wrong. I asked her what was wrong. She says she misses her friends from school, namely a boy named Brian. My little girl is missing a boy? Oh boy. I was reminded the other night (not that I need any reminding…I see it happening) that my little girl is not really a little girl anymore. I think the words used were “young lady”. I don’t want a young lady. Not yet. Now school has only been out for two weeks, certainly not long enough to develop deep rooted feelings of missing someone. But it may be long enough. I know that I miss people. I miss lots of people. I keep these little compartments in my heart that hold memories of each and every one of them and don’t think for one moment that I will run out of room in there for those from my past and for those yet to come. Renovation is occurring constantly. More rooms are built for housing the ones I have loved, do love, and will come to love.
I’ve got someone else that I am close to that is going away. Not too far away, but far enough that a short trip across town won’t suffice when I want to hang out. I want to say, “You say that it isn’t that far away, only a few hours. But you know how much I see you now…a whole lot less than I wish for. Just imagine when miles and time are between us.” If you are reading this at all, just know this: I miss you already. I will miss you when you go. Your room is already adorned with monkeys, music, and stories of adventure. Waiting for you to move on in…not you physically, but you know what I mean. And know that I do love you.
It isn’t the being alone that I don’t like. I can be alone. It might not be a good thing, but I do a lot of my thinking and planning while alone. I don’t like being lonely. I don’t feel lonely all the time. No, it is just something, a feeling that comes over me every once in a while, but it always seems to come when I am feeling down, when I am at my most vulnerable, when there is no one here to talk to, to ask how my day went, to tell me how theirs went. And it is always when I am doing something to remind me that I am alone, like when cooking a meal made for two to be eaten by only one.
I just learned of a book by Anneli Rufus called Party of One. In it she talks about the subculture of humans who have one thing in common. They are loners. Loners are often picked upon by the non-loners, the “Joiners, schmoozers, teamworkers, congregants and all those who play well with others”, calling them “Crazy. Cold. Stuck-up. Standoffish. Selfish. Sad. Bad. Secretive”. Throughout history, loners have not only survived, but have actually changed the world; not just saved civilizations, but had a big hand in creating them. I wouldn’t call myself a “non-loner” and I certainly am not a “loner”. I might be somewhere in between I suppose.
Not all aspects of being by myself are bad. Household commodities, like toilet paper seem to last longer (especially when the kids are away…nothing like a whole roll in the toilet to try and flush down); a bottle of laundry detergent seems bottomless; a gallon of milk lasts for what seems like weeks…wait, that’s not a good thing.
There are times when it isn’t easy to be alone. Times when I feel like there isn’t anyone out there listening, because when I call out, there’s no reply at all. Times when I feel like there’s never an easy way to get over the next hill, much less get to the top of the hill I am on at the time. Never an easy way to shake the sensation of a needle in a haystack, the distant star seen on a sunny day, the last man on the planet syndrome, the speck of life on a dandelion being held by a gentle elephant. Never an easy way…
I think I slip the net,
But I cut myself free,
I'm not losing yet,
So don't forget me.
I'll say it, replay it, and try tomorrow
I'll say it, replay it, and live with sorrow.
You'd think I learn by now,
There's never an easy way,
I get through somehow,
I'm on my knees to pray,
You'd think I learn by now,
There's never an easy way,
I get through somehow,
I'm on my knees.
I'll admit I'm wrong,
But I'm getting on track,
I've been here too long,
I'm under attack.
I place it, replace it, and try to change,
I place it, replace it, and rearrange.
You'd think I learn by now,
There's never an easy way,
I get through somehow,
I'm on my knees to pray.
You'd think I learn by now,
There's never an easy way,
I get through somehow.
I'm on my knees to pray.
On my knees to pray.
I think I slip the net,
But I cut myself free,
I'm not losing yet,
So don't forget me.
I'll say it, replay it, and try tomorrow,
I'll say it, replay it, and live with sorrow.
You'd think I learn by now,
There's never an easy way,
I get through somehow,
I'm on my knees to pray.
You'd think I learn by now,
There's never an easy way,
I get through somehow,
I'm on my knees to pray,
I'm on my knees to pray,
On my knees to pray.
On my knees to pray.
Never an Easy Way by Morcheeba
Never an easy way. But I’ll get through somehow…
Sunday, June 7, 2009
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
Opening Doors and Closing Thoughts
Jingle, jingle, jingle. The keys at my hip loudly announce my arrival. They hang from a retractable keychain, the same kind stereotypically worn by all maintenance men. All the keys on this keychain open some sort of door. I have the master key that opens all the outer doors, the master key the opens all the inner doors, a key that opens all closet doors, the key to the Youth Center, and a little key that opens the toilet paper and hand towel holders. There’s a key to the shop and a key to my locker; a key to certain doors on certain floors. They make a lot of noise as I walk around the church where I work. I always know when a co-worker is near because of the tell-tale music of keys swinging from the hip. Jingle, jingle, jingle. Remember Schneider from the TV show, One Day at a Time? Minus the pack of smokes rolled up in the sleeve of a plain, white tee-shirt, the smacking of gum, and the vest…that’s me. Almost.
I open the door to get in the building. I open the door to the room with the time clock drop my time card in and start my day. Every day it is something different. Today I might be setting up the fellowship hall for a dinner; tomorrow I might be cleaning floors on the 10-story building attached to the church. The next day I might be moving furniture from a prayer room to the library or painting hand rails outside the church. I love my job. No major hassles, laid back atmosphere, and the coolest boss ever. Not that I make a whole lot of money. But I would rather be making the money I do here and love it than to make more and hate what I do. I’m not the best at what I do. I do make mistakes. But I hope to learn from those mistakes just like the mistakes made outside of the work arena. And there have been and I’m sure there will be more mistakes made.
Jingle, jingle, jingle. The keys in the ignition of my VW camper sing as they hang from the key chain in the ignition. Bumps in the road and quick turns make them sway and swing, the VW emblem hanging lowest on the chain acting as a pendulum of a clock. The keys on this keychain have different uses. Some open the doors to my buses; others are used to turn the ignition to drive the buses. Some keys open doors to my house, while others unlock padlocks to my utility and camping trailers.
I’ve had to drive my camper to work and using it to take my kids to school a lot lately. I haven’t used it as a main vehicle for many years. It had been staying in a garage (up until the latter part of last year) or in the driveway, waiting its turn for service to carry myself alone or with kids to a campsite somewhere. But while my other bus was out of service, the camper acted as my daily driver, mostly without complaint. It is a good bus. Many, many memories are attached to this bus. Both of my kids went camping in it when they were merely months old. It has taken me and my family to places far and near, and served as a home away from home for those times of getting away from it all.
Jingle, jingle, jingle. I walk down the hallway to the elevator. First stop is the break room on the eighth floor to place my lunch in the fridge. And while I’m there, I make a cup of coffee before starting my work. Dark roast with Splenda and Hazelnut creamer…a tasty cup of joy to start the work day. Next stop I make is the basement where the shop is located. No particular reason…I’m just checking in to see if my boss is there to get my orders for the day. He usually isn’t there. I just go there anyway. I stop by the desk in the main lobby and look at the calendar of events. There’s a funeral today. That means hanging around in the kitchen to clean up any spills that might happen while the mourners are gathered together in the fellowship hall, drinking coffee and water while remembering the life of the loved one who has passed. Then, after the last person has left the hall, I take all the coffee and water back to the kitchen, and prepare the room for the next event. Usually that involves setting up many tables and even more chairs for a dinner. With something going on in that church nearly every day, the need to set up the room is only job security. People die. People get married. People gather together. That room is going to be used for all of those reasons and I make sure it is ready for each occasion.
Jingle, jingle, jingle. Driving to work today (just like about every day) I have about 45 minutes of being behind the wheel…and think about things. I usually think about things while behind the wheel. Today I’m driving and suddenly the thought crossed my mind… “I don’t love her any more”. No, that’s not right either. I will always love her, but the love is different. It isn’t the love that was there when we first got together. It isn’t the love that existed when time had gone by and situations changed. It is a love that is just there, a love that will always be there to remember all the good times and even the bad times. I don’t have any regrets. I have heard to never regret what once made you smile. And there have been lots of smiles in our time together. I will never regret the time we had together. I’m sure that I will regret the loss of her; and I’m sure that one day I will notice that the regret is not as strong.
Jingle, jingle, jingle. The day I got laid off from my former job, I was mad as hell. Here I was, giving this company my time and skill to make a product that was worth thousands of dollars, doing my best to make sure that I put out a quality product and quality craftsmanship. I was doing it to make sure that I had a place to live, my kids had clothes and food, and we all were able to live comfortably. I was doing all of that and then got the notice from my boss. They didn’t need me anymore. Hell, they didn’t need me or the other 14 people they laid off on that same day. I was pissed. I felt cheated and like they were throwing me away, not caring that I had two children to take care of. But now, after collecting unemployment and then landing what I consider to be the best job I’ve ever had (well, besides staying home with my kids, that is), I am actually glad they laid me off. I still feel that things happen for a reason, and maybe the reason I got laid off from that job was so that I could get this one. Why? I still don’t know. But just like all the other doors that have closed behind me and opened others in front of me, I’m sure I’ll find out the answer to that question one day.
Jingle, jingle, jingle. It is hard to let go. But I know that I have to. Things that are a part of my old life are all around me and I keep some of them just to remind me of that life. That may not be a good thing, but I have said before that I don’t ever want to forget it, lest I relive it. But some are too great, holding too many memories and representing a great part of that former life. Those I need to let go of. And I shall do just that.
Sweetpea…I’m going to miss you.
I open the door to get in the building. I open the door to the room with the time clock drop my time card in and start my day. Every day it is something different. Today I might be setting up the fellowship hall for a dinner; tomorrow I might be cleaning floors on the 10-story building attached to the church. The next day I might be moving furniture from a prayer room to the library or painting hand rails outside the church. I love my job. No major hassles, laid back atmosphere, and the coolest boss ever. Not that I make a whole lot of money. But I would rather be making the money I do here and love it than to make more and hate what I do. I’m not the best at what I do. I do make mistakes. But I hope to learn from those mistakes just like the mistakes made outside of the work arena. And there have been and I’m sure there will be more mistakes made.
Jingle, jingle, jingle. The keys in the ignition of my VW camper sing as they hang from the key chain in the ignition. Bumps in the road and quick turns make them sway and swing, the VW emblem hanging lowest on the chain acting as a pendulum of a clock. The keys on this keychain have different uses. Some open the doors to my buses; others are used to turn the ignition to drive the buses. Some keys open doors to my house, while others unlock padlocks to my utility and camping trailers.
I’ve had to drive my camper to work and using it to take my kids to school a lot lately. I haven’t used it as a main vehicle for many years. It had been staying in a garage (up until the latter part of last year) or in the driveway, waiting its turn for service to carry myself alone or with kids to a campsite somewhere. But while my other bus was out of service, the camper acted as my daily driver, mostly without complaint. It is a good bus. Many, many memories are attached to this bus. Both of my kids went camping in it when they were merely months old. It has taken me and my family to places far and near, and served as a home away from home for those times of getting away from it all.
Jingle, jingle, jingle. I walk down the hallway to the elevator. First stop is the break room on the eighth floor to place my lunch in the fridge. And while I’m there, I make a cup of coffee before starting my work. Dark roast with Splenda and Hazelnut creamer…a tasty cup of joy to start the work day. Next stop I make is the basement where the shop is located. No particular reason…I’m just checking in to see if my boss is there to get my orders for the day. He usually isn’t there. I just go there anyway. I stop by the desk in the main lobby and look at the calendar of events. There’s a funeral today. That means hanging around in the kitchen to clean up any spills that might happen while the mourners are gathered together in the fellowship hall, drinking coffee and water while remembering the life of the loved one who has passed. Then, after the last person has left the hall, I take all the coffee and water back to the kitchen, and prepare the room for the next event. Usually that involves setting up many tables and even more chairs for a dinner. With something going on in that church nearly every day, the need to set up the room is only job security. People die. People get married. People gather together. That room is going to be used for all of those reasons and I make sure it is ready for each occasion.
Jingle, jingle, jingle. Driving to work today (just like about every day) I have about 45 minutes of being behind the wheel…and think about things. I usually think about things while behind the wheel. Today I’m driving and suddenly the thought crossed my mind… “I don’t love her any more”. No, that’s not right either. I will always love her, but the love is different. It isn’t the love that was there when we first got together. It isn’t the love that existed when time had gone by and situations changed. It is a love that is just there, a love that will always be there to remember all the good times and even the bad times. I don’t have any regrets. I have heard to never regret what once made you smile. And there have been lots of smiles in our time together. I will never regret the time we had together. I’m sure that I will regret the loss of her; and I’m sure that one day I will notice that the regret is not as strong.
Jingle, jingle, jingle. The day I got laid off from my former job, I was mad as hell. Here I was, giving this company my time and skill to make a product that was worth thousands of dollars, doing my best to make sure that I put out a quality product and quality craftsmanship. I was doing it to make sure that I had a place to live, my kids had clothes and food, and we all were able to live comfortably. I was doing all of that and then got the notice from my boss. They didn’t need me anymore. Hell, they didn’t need me or the other 14 people they laid off on that same day. I was pissed. I felt cheated and like they were throwing me away, not caring that I had two children to take care of. But now, after collecting unemployment and then landing what I consider to be the best job I’ve ever had (well, besides staying home with my kids, that is), I am actually glad they laid me off. I still feel that things happen for a reason, and maybe the reason I got laid off from that job was so that I could get this one. Why? I still don’t know. But just like all the other doors that have closed behind me and opened others in front of me, I’m sure I’ll find out the answer to that question one day.
Jingle, jingle, jingle. It is hard to let go. But I know that I have to. Things that are a part of my old life are all around me and I keep some of them just to remind me of that life. That may not be a good thing, but I have said before that I don’t ever want to forget it, lest I relive it. But some are too great, holding too many memories and representing a great part of that former life. Those I need to let go of. And I shall do just that.
Sweetpea…I’m going to miss you.
Wednesday, May 13, 2009
Nothing
I haven't been in the writing mood lately. That doesn't mean that nothing has been happening in my life. Things sure have. I don't know why I haven't posted anything since March. Damn. Its been that long? Anyway, there are things on my mind I am going to share. Its coming. Something is brewing, whether its a storm or a cup of coffee...I'll find out and share.
Monday, March 2, 2009
Composting
I got to get a trash man. Not for me, of course, but for my garbage. Up until I moved to my new place, I had garbage service. But I haven’t hired a new one for over here. I hadn’t really needed to. At my last job, I would just take my garbage there and put it into the giant dumpster just like most of the other employees would. I would do it and not feel bad about it either. But I haven’t been at that job for nearly two months now and my garbage cans are full. It isn’t a nasty situation…I try to keep food out of the garbage and there shouldn’t be anything in there that is recyclable, but after two months of not taking the bags away, there just isn’t much more room for more. I guess I could load it up and take it to the dump myself, but, nah. Let me help the local economy by hiring someone to do it for me.
I remember living in a trailer (oh, so much worse than this one…this one is great!) when I was in college. I lived with my future brother-in-law, my sister, and another friend. The closet in my room had a hole in the floor where my cats would enter and exit the building at their own leisure. The electrical panel would sometimes make a crackling noise and emit a sulfur-like smell complete with smoke. How the trailer never burnt down is a wonder to me. Needless to say, overall cleanliness was not top of our list. We didn’t have a garbage man there either. I think we were just too cheap to pay for it. Once a month, someone would load it up and take it to the dump. In the meantime, we would place the full bags on the back porch. Now the porch had a door, but there were some holes in the floor back there too. Every now and then, wild woodland critters would come in to make themselves at home to the leftovers slowly rotting in easy-to-claw-open bags. My daughter thinks possums are cute. I suppose they can be. I tend to think that they are just R.O.U.S.’s (Rodents of Unusual Size). They aren’t so cute when you step out on the back porch in the middle of a dark night to one virtually in your face, on top of a bag of garbage and hissing at you like a pissed-off cobra. You ever hear one hiss? I just about jumped into the next life hearing that noise after shutting the back door behind me in the darkness of that porch…
Those creatures were after the food we had left in the bags; food that had started to rot and smell rather tasty to some furry critter. I have started doing something lately in preparation for spring. I want a garden. I have plenty of land to make one on (just figuring out where to put it is the problem) and with the success of gardens in the past, I want to do it again. I love fresh veggies, and to know that I grew those veggies makes them taste even better. So, I have started a compost bin. Well, not a bin just yet, but a large can with a lid for the time being. I just scrape leftover foods (not meats…those go to the cat or dog) into this can so it can rot. Banana peels, plate scrapings, used coffee grounds; old leftovers stinking up the fridge…all go into the can. When I get the bin ready, I will add the food to the rotting leaves, mulch, and grass. I realize that I should have started in the fall of last year, so this stuff may not be ready for when I need it, but what I hope to achieve is to make some rich, loamy soil to mix into the soil from the tilled area for the garden. It is supposed to rich in nutrients that the plants need to thrive. It is just nature’s way. Rot leads to richness. Sickness leads to health. Death leads to life.
I heard something about composting tonight that was the catalyst to the brainstorming that led to this writing. I was watching something on PBS on family crafting. At the end of the show, the host showed us a large can (hey, like mine!) where she was adding food to let it rot to add to her compost bin. She made a face when she opened the lid and said that it stank. She then said that composting could be compared to life. Sometimes, life stinks. When it does, it is full of bad times that rot your outlook on life, make you wonder why things are the way they are, and make it impossible to see what is ahead. But if you take all the bad, rotten times and add them to the whole scheme of life, i.e. the compost bin, eventually the result is a life full of richness that smells of the good life and full of potential. The end result is a mixture that provides nutrients that make the seeds that you plant grow bigger and healthier (new life), is the perfect base for them to take root (mental and physical strength), and fights of disease better than any chemical you can buy (the ability to face the bad times when they come).
I couldn’t have said it better. When the show was over, it was all I could think about. I thought it was a coincidence that I had started one and was thinking along the same lines when I did…and then I see this. Strange. And then I had to ruin the happy feeling by switching the channel to one that was showing The Sixth Sense. And of course it was just about to the end where Bruce Willis’ character discovers that he is a ghost, talks to his wife in her sleep, and is finally able to go to his “better place”. I guess I am just a sappy sad sack, but when his wife asked him in her sleep why he had left her all alone, I felt my eyes tightening and getting wet. I couldn’t help it. What I saw was a love that would last forever, even when one person was gone…the love would always be there but they would not be able to touch skin or hear words or have one more taste. What a waste.
What a pile of compost…
I remember living in a trailer (oh, so much worse than this one…this one is great!) when I was in college. I lived with my future brother-in-law, my sister, and another friend. The closet in my room had a hole in the floor where my cats would enter and exit the building at their own leisure. The electrical panel would sometimes make a crackling noise and emit a sulfur-like smell complete with smoke. How the trailer never burnt down is a wonder to me. Needless to say, overall cleanliness was not top of our list. We didn’t have a garbage man there either. I think we were just too cheap to pay for it. Once a month, someone would load it up and take it to the dump. In the meantime, we would place the full bags on the back porch. Now the porch had a door, but there were some holes in the floor back there too. Every now and then, wild woodland critters would come in to make themselves at home to the leftovers slowly rotting in easy-to-claw-open bags. My daughter thinks possums are cute. I suppose they can be. I tend to think that they are just R.O.U.S.’s (Rodents of Unusual Size). They aren’t so cute when you step out on the back porch in the middle of a dark night to one virtually in your face, on top of a bag of garbage and hissing at you like a pissed-off cobra. You ever hear one hiss? I just about jumped into the next life hearing that noise after shutting the back door behind me in the darkness of that porch…
Those creatures were after the food we had left in the bags; food that had started to rot and smell rather tasty to some furry critter. I have started doing something lately in preparation for spring. I want a garden. I have plenty of land to make one on (just figuring out where to put it is the problem) and with the success of gardens in the past, I want to do it again. I love fresh veggies, and to know that I grew those veggies makes them taste even better. So, I have started a compost bin. Well, not a bin just yet, but a large can with a lid for the time being. I just scrape leftover foods (not meats…those go to the cat or dog) into this can so it can rot. Banana peels, plate scrapings, used coffee grounds; old leftovers stinking up the fridge…all go into the can. When I get the bin ready, I will add the food to the rotting leaves, mulch, and grass. I realize that I should have started in the fall of last year, so this stuff may not be ready for when I need it, but what I hope to achieve is to make some rich, loamy soil to mix into the soil from the tilled area for the garden. It is supposed to rich in nutrients that the plants need to thrive. It is just nature’s way. Rot leads to richness. Sickness leads to health. Death leads to life.
I heard something about composting tonight that was the catalyst to the brainstorming that led to this writing. I was watching something on PBS on family crafting. At the end of the show, the host showed us a large can (hey, like mine!) where she was adding food to let it rot to add to her compost bin. She made a face when she opened the lid and said that it stank. She then said that composting could be compared to life. Sometimes, life stinks. When it does, it is full of bad times that rot your outlook on life, make you wonder why things are the way they are, and make it impossible to see what is ahead. But if you take all the bad, rotten times and add them to the whole scheme of life, i.e. the compost bin, eventually the result is a life full of richness that smells of the good life and full of potential. The end result is a mixture that provides nutrients that make the seeds that you plant grow bigger and healthier (new life), is the perfect base for them to take root (mental and physical strength), and fights of disease better than any chemical you can buy (the ability to face the bad times when they come).
I couldn’t have said it better. When the show was over, it was all I could think about. I thought it was a coincidence that I had started one and was thinking along the same lines when I did…and then I see this. Strange. And then I had to ruin the happy feeling by switching the channel to one that was showing The Sixth Sense. And of course it was just about to the end where Bruce Willis’ character discovers that he is a ghost, talks to his wife in her sleep, and is finally able to go to his “better place”. I guess I am just a sappy sad sack, but when his wife asked him in her sleep why he had left her all alone, I felt my eyes tightening and getting wet. I couldn’t help it. What I saw was a love that would last forever, even when one person was gone…the love would always be there but they would not be able to touch skin or hear words or have one more taste. What a waste.
What a pile of compost…
Sunday, February 15, 2009
Feed the Flame
The cleansing tongues of fire wiped away the tangible fragments of memories that had accumulated over they years. Old bank statements; receipts from paid utility bills; defunct insurance policies; all put into the 55-gallon drum and set afire. I don’t need this stuff filling up the spaces of my filing cabinet no more than I need it filling up the empty spaces of my mind.I meant to clean up this stuff months ago to make room for the receipts and statements that are new. No need to keep old stuff like that anyway. All it does is take up room and keep a memory alive that needs to die. I don’t think it will ever die, not really. But with the concrete remains of those old memories burned and gone, there is now room for the new things to push the memories of before to a place where they won’t be accessible, at least not easily.
I have always been fascinated with fire. I’ve said that before. I can remember taking matches from my grandmother’s old metal matchbox that hung on the wall in her kitchen and sneaking like a little arsonist outside to see what I could burn. I would pile dead grass on top of ant nests and watch them scurry to save what they could, just like anyone would do if their house was on fire. I would light the ends of hollow reeds and smoke on them like I was smoking a cigarette…not the wisest of things to do, but to a kid, it was oh, so cool. I would take my little plastic army men and watch them melt into little piles of green goo, victims of my own version of napalm. It was harmless fun. The back yard was a pyrotechnic playground. I was always careful. I never let any of the fires get away from my control.
A few days ago, I was almost home when I rounded a corner to see the road almost blocked by several fire trucks and policemen. To my left, I could see a haze of smoke and blackened earth and in some spots, flickers of flame. As fascinated as I was, I couldn’t help but wonder if my house was in danger. I was at a point where I couldn’t see my place and between me and there…there were more fire trucks. They waved me on through. I stopped long enough to ask if it was a controlled burn. A fireman told me no, that it wasn’t. Someone must have started it. Nearly 40 acres had burned. Among the vast expanse of blackened earth, I could see little evergreen trees standing. The way they stood there reminded me of a national cemetery. All those crosses in straight lines…
In The Stand, a book by one of my favorite authors, Stephen King, there was a man who loved fire. He had been teased by peers as a kid and took his frustrations out with the healing and cleansing power of fire. After a virus killed off most of the U.S. population, and left fuel storage tanks literally unattended, Trashcan Man, as he was called, was on a quest to randomly roam the county, setting fires as he went. He nearly burned himself up when he set some gasoline storage tanks on fire to watch them explode. Ultimately, his love for the flame ended his life as well most of those in Las Vegas, and unknowingly thwarted the evil plans of The Dark Man, the leader of one of the two factions that formed in the aftermath of the epidemic. I liked the part of Trashcan Man…he got that name from setting fires in trash cans (one which killed someone, from what I remember). Just talking about this book makes me want to read it all over again.
I have talked about fire before. About how it removes all the dead growth and leaves in its wake a swath of new ground where life can begin anew. Fire is all cleansing. It is indiscriminate. It can be a good thing as well as a catastrophic event. Burning things that remind me of my old life when two were one is no different than the forest fire burning away deadfalls and underbrush. It works just the same to me. While the flames erased the past, I could feel the heat on my clothes. The barrel was emanating a lot of heat; the weather was chilly, not too cold, but I couldn’t tell. I was warm. My jeans were getting hotter than I realized, for when I moved and they touched my legs, it was almost too hot. The smoke would get thick when the fire wasn’t raging. So there were side effects of the fire…smoke and heat. The smoke was swirling around and filling the air and my clothes with its smell. I smelled that smoke on me until disrobing and showering, and even after that, I swear I smelled it in the house. The heat…made me feel good, but if I stayed too close for too long, it was a bit much. I could even have gotten burned if I had gotten closer. I suppose the memories that were burning into ashes could linger too, just like the smoke…and they could burn me too if I lingered too long on them…just like the heat.
I say that I have not let any fires get out of my control. There have been close calls, but they have never gotten out of hand. I saw one get so far out of control, though, that the fire department had to come out and put it out. I used to live in a roughshod trailer in Ooltewah (I live in a trailer now, but nowhere near as bad at this one was). The landlady’s son was, how shall I say it…not very bright. He started a fire one day that got out of his control. I saw it. I watched it. I wrote about it…
Burning Light
Sitting on my back porch I see the gentle spark.
Starting small, it gains new height and intensity,
becoming a burning light.
It quickly grows, sometimes fast,
sometimes slow, but always moving.
Its path is made behind;
black,
burned,
and lifeless.
Fear escapes my conscious mind
and quickly radiates outward,
I look to my right and the field
is a sea of color:
green,
red,
then black.
Blocking the sun is a billowing haze of blue.
Sounds of emergency, sounds of anxiousness,
the silent scream of a dying field.
A quick spray and the flames are gone.
Excitement dies, sounds disappear
and I soon return to my chair
relaxing and thinking about
fire,
death,
and rebirth.
Being burned doesn’t feel too good. I have been burned many times and the pain is enormous. Never anything that left substantial scars. A touch of my leg to a motorcycle muffler, a hot piece of metal on the fingers, a coal from a campfire popping and landing on me…just small burns. I couldn’t imagine being burned so bad like burn victims in hospitals. I have heard that the pain for those people is so intense that it feels like it goes to the bones. Being burned alive is a great fear of mine. Strange, coming from someone who likes fire. But I know what it can do, so great care is taken when I burn anything.
Fire is destructive, whether you are using it for heat like from a campfire or stove, or whether you are burning up old sticks and debris. But it could also be a thing of beauty, metaphorically speaking, as what exists between two souls in love with each other. The fire already exists in each one of us; it only needs the fuel and constant tending that being in love gives it…
Hearts on Fire
Love inspires
the heart’s desires
for the never ending search
of the ancient fire
that burns within each soul.
Combustion starts
whenever two hearts
are pulled by strings,
tied together
till the rhythmic beat is one.
As time goes by
the flames grow high
to warm the heart and free the tongue
to release the words
that pour out like steam into your ear.
The fire will burn
and the heart will not yearn
for the cold, hard stone
it had been.
Instead, in it’s place
is a flame with your face
as the source of fuel to keep
our love alive.
I like fire for so many reasons. But I think I like the representation of it bringing forth new life and the metaphor of being in love the most. I feel the desire to tend to the flame, to keep adding fuel to it to keep it alive, to watch the flickering inferno do its job. To stand close and feel the warmth bring comfort to my body, my heart, my soul.
I just don’t want to be burned.
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
The Morton Principle
Written right there on the side of the box of salt are words that sum up what I am feeling right now. There she is, a little girl, walking in the rain, under an umbrella, with salt pouring from the box in her hand. The words read, “When it rains, it pours”. The slogan comes from an old proverb that reads, “It never rains, but it pours”. Something doesn’t happen for a long time, and then when it does, it seems to come all at once. How true that is.
It just seems that everything happens at once. It can’t be just a little sprinkle of strife and sadness. No, it has to pour down like a deluge upon us. Upon me. I’m not talking about the rip in my heart from my divorce. No, that dead horse has been flogged enough. I’m talking about life in general. There is never enough money, cars break down, and hearts get shattered. Just when everything seems to be going right, things seem to be looking up, the sun is shining and things are grand, that’s when the storm seems to race in and drop pain and misery in a cascade upon my life. It’s not enough for me to not be able to get through; it just makes it look like it is.
Bills, bills, bills and more bills. They seem to add up faster than I can send them on their way. It is even worse now that no money is coming in. Money is coming in soon, though. It never fails that the government will slow things down. If you want something that you worked for and is owed to you, be assured that if the government has to put their hands in it first, it will take forever to get to you. My unemployment checks might as well be taped to the back of a turtle that is set free on the outskirts of Memphis and told to take it to Cleveland and to “be quick about it”. I have two collection agencies on my back, several medical bills, and leftover utility bills from my previous place of residence. Of course, I take the blame in not getting my payments to the original debtors in time to keep them from going to collections, but the money was just not there at the time and I had used up all my mulligans with them. They kept saying, “You know this will negatively affect your credit.” My reply to that was to remind them of what I have gone through…bankruptcy, foreclosure, unemployment…it didn’t matter. The money was just not there.
Not having the money hits me in another area as well. My vehicles. I have been without my main mode of transportation for several months now. My ’78 bus, Oscar by name, has had his engine out because of an oil plug that blew out and causing all of the oil to pour out…more than he usually leaked, which is a big problem. I have to do some work to get the engine back in, and in the meantime, I am driving my ’79 camper. I don’t like driving her all the time. She is meant for special occasions like going camping, going to shows (and camping), Sunday drives (and camping!), and parades (but mostly camping). As much as I hate it, I might have to let her go. The money I would get from selling her would really go a long way in getting Oscar back on the road. I have owned her since ’98 and letting her go would be a huge sentimental blow to my heart. I can do it, but it is a vicious circle…I can’t sell the camper before getting Oscar fixed…I can’t get Oscar fixed without the money from the sale of Sweetpea. I’m sure to find a way, but it would be a whole lot easier if Sweetpea was gone and money lined my pockets. I am getting relief in the form of government programs that my tax dollars have been paying into for all these years. It is only temporary, but needed and appreciated all the same. That is one thing I can thank my Uncle Sam for…
And, in the immortal words of the J. Geils Band…love stinks. Well…sometimes it does. I mean, I love “love”, but nothing hurts worse than losing it. “It is better to have loved and lost than to never have loved at all”. Bunk. Without having loved, you don’t know what you have missed and you don’t have to duct tape your heart back together, all in the hopes that the next love doesn’t pull the tape away and the pieces fall apart, causing you to start all over again with the taping, and the healing, and the hurting and…and…*sigh*. I’m tired of putting my heart into someone only to have it drop kicked to the curb…or even just handed back to me with slight bruising. They both hurt the same.
Dang. Where’s my umbrella? I’m getting wet. You know what? Screw it…I’m going to go for a walk. Just because it is pouring down doesn’t mean that I’m not going out in it. I want to. I have to. What’s that other saying? That it “rains upon the just and the unjust”? It doesn’t matter. It is going to rain anyway. Might as well take it in stride, just like basking in the warm sunlight. As much as it might seem to, rain doesn’t last forever. In fact, I think I can see a bit of sunlight peeking through the darkest part of the cloud cover. Sun coming in the form of a new job that can bring financial stability, a chance to get my life back in order, a way to get my vehicle back to taking me to where I want to go, and possibly even new love to warm my heart up.
I’m looking forward to that last bit of sunshine the most.
It just seems that everything happens at once. It can’t be just a little sprinkle of strife and sadness. No, it has to pour down like a deluge upon us. Upon me. I’m not talking about the rip in my heart from my divorce. No, that dead horse has been flogged enough. I’m talking about life in general. There is never enough money, cars break down, and hearts get shattered. Just when everything seems to be going right, things seem to be looking up, the sun is shining and things are grand, that’s when the storm seems to race in and drop pain and misery in a cascade upon my life. It’s not enough for me to not be able to get through; it just makes it look like it is.
Bills, bills, bills and more bills. They seem to add up faster than I can send them on their way. It is even worse now that no money is coming in. Money is coming in soon, though. It never fails that the government will slow things down. If you want something that you worked for and is owed to you, be assured that if the government has to put their hands in it first, it will take forever to get to you. My unemployment checks might as well be taped to the back of a turtle that is set free on the outskirts of Memphis and told to take it to Cleveland and to “be quick about it”. I have two collection agencies on my back, several medical bills, and leftover utility bills from my previous place of residence. Of course, I take the blame in not getting my payments to the original debtors in time to keep them from going to collections, but the money was just not there at the time and I had used up all my mulligans with them. They kept saying, “You know this will negatively affect your credit.” My reply to that was to remind them of what I have gone through…bankruptcy, foreclosure, unemployment…it didn’t matter. The money was just not there.
Not having the money hits me in another area as well. My vehicles. I have been without my main mode of transportation for several months now. My ’78 bus, Oscar by name, has had his engine out because of an oil plug that blew out and causing all of the oil to pour out…more than he usually leaked, which is a big problem. I have to do some work to get the engine back in, and in the meantime, I am driving my ’79 camper. I don’t like driving her all the time. She is meant for special occasions like going camping, going to shows (and camping), Sunday drives (and camping!), and parades (but mostly camping). As much as I hate it, I might have to let her go. The money I would get from selling her would really go a long way in getting Oscar back on the road. I have owned her since ’98 and letting her go would be a huge sentimental blow to my heart. I can do it, but it is a vicious circle…I can’t sell the camper before getting Oscar fixed…I can’t get Oscar fixed without the money from the sale of Sweetpea. I’m sure to find a way, but it would be a whole lot easier if Sweetpea was gone and money lined my pockets. I am getting relief in the form of government programs that my tax dollars have been paying into for all these years. It is only temporary, but needed and appreciated all the same. That is one thing I can thank my Uncle Sam for…
And, in the immortal words of the J. Geils Band…love stinks. Well…sometimes it does. I mean, I love “love”, but nothing hurts worse than losing it. “It is better to have loved and lost than to never have loved at all”. Bunk. Without having loved, you don’t know what you have missed and you don’t have to duct tape your heart back together, all in the hopes that the next love doesn’t pull the tape away and the pieces fall apart, causing you to start all over again with the taping, and the healing, and the hurting and…and…*sigh*. I’m tired of putting my heart into someone only to have it drop kicked to the curb…or even just handed back to me with slight bruising. They both hurt the same.
Dang. Where’s my umbrella? I’m getting wet. You know what? Screw it…I’m going to go for a walk. Just because it is pouring down doesn’t mean that I’m not going out in it. I want to. I have to. What’s that other saying? That it “rains upon the just and the unjust”? It doesn’t matter. It is going to rain anyway. Might as well take it in stride, just like basking in the warm sunlight. As much as it might seem to, rain doesn’t last forever. In fact, I think I can see a bit of sunlight peeking through the darkest part of the cloud cover. Sun coming in the form of a new job that can bring financial stability, a chance to get my life back in order, a way to get my vehicle back to taking me to where I want to go, and possibly even new love to warm my heart up.
I’m looking forward to that last bit of sunshine the most.
Thursday, January 8, 2009
Hands All Over
I am a shy person. Really, I am. I can talk so much better with my hands than with my mouth. When talking with my hands, there are none of those palm-sweaty eyes-meeting heart-pounding vibes that tie my tongue in knots and make the words that are supposed to come out stumble and fall back to the back of my throat. My hands only have these fingers that do what my brain tells them to do, to speak in such a way that has no sound but can yell with anger, cry in sadness, laugh in love and whisper in curiosity. But there is something lost when communicating through the written word; facial features that tell what a person is really thinking when talking, inflections that give clues to those who know what to search for, such as discovering a liar or receiving a profession of love from someone. So when writing, I try to make myself as clear as possible, but still use symbolism and analogy to make a point when I want to be subtle. My hands can do that. They can do lots of things; they can do whatever I tell them to do. Someone used to tell me that I had beautiful hands. I didn’t think so, but maybe they are. Maybe they are beautiful because they are mine and I can use them to convey a message my tongue is too afraid to deliver.
This glowing box in front of me is my window to the great big outside world beyond my geographical area. It holds many methods of communication. Indirectly via the worldwide web, time delayed with email, and almost instantly with the many types of instant messaging. With a camera, you can even see the person you are talking to. The keyboard attached to this glowing box is what my hands use to talk. I don’t even have to have someone to talk to. I can talk to myself with my hands through this medium. Although most of the words I say to myself I end up saying to the whole world anyway.
There is another small glowing box in my living room that hasn’t had much use in the past 6 months or so. I haven’t really missed it. It doesn’t call to me, taunting me with its endless entertainment possibilities…not that there is much of a varied choice of entertainment. Four or five choices are all it has to offer. Some things entice me, such as seeing parts of the world that I will never get the chance to actually visit, putting myself in the shoes of a person who I will never be, or filling my belly with laughter from really funny cartoon versions of families that I can relate to. I really used to like this box, but not so much anymore. Many nights have found me plopped down in front of it, remote control cradled in my hand, huddled there like a bundled up hobo, rubbing his hands over the fire, hoping to catch warmth on a chilly winter night.
Before I moved to my new place, an electrical surge fried my giant version of this box. 42 inches of entertainment with over 100 channels to choose from were gone with a loud noise and a small wisp of smoke. It also fried my stereo that supplied sound for this giant box. So when a friend of mine said he had a little television that he was giving away, I willingly accepted it. I still had the 100 plus channels to choose from, but they were condensed in size. It was a disappointing change of pace, but I still had my box of distractions. I soon discovered that the ability to have so many channels but still only watch a select handful of them was just not worth the money I had to pay to do so. At the dismay of my kids, I cancelled my cable subscription and joined the group of people who got their entertainment the old fashioned way…over the airwaves. But I didn’t do it right away. In fact, for a while, the only thing we watched were movies on DVD or VHS. Even when I moved to where there wasn’t even an option for cable (ok, there is satellite, but I still haven’t decided to start that subscription) I still didn’t hook up an antenna for the longest time. But now I have and the limited choices still don’t reel me in for a night of vegetative slouching.
Although I have run across some PBS specials that I enjoy. One that I enjoy is GlobeTrekker. The host goes to destinations around the world and documents the stay and the focal points of interest in each place. Pretty neat. There are other shows on there that are interesting, but most are, shall I say…boring. But, PBS is the only channel that usually comes in crystal clear. And when it does, the other channels are not so clear. Remember the days of dad moving the antenna and mom yelling “CLEAR!”? I’m living them all over again…except there is no one to move the antenna while I check for clarity. I have to use my hands to move the antenna, get up on a stool and look through the kitchen window and check for myself, get down, move the antenna, get back on the stool, and check and on and on till it is right. Anyway…I was actually watching something the other night that I never used to be into. Nighttime dramas like CSI, Cold Case, Bones, etc. This one I watched was an episode of Cold Case. This team investigates years old mysteries and solves them in less than an hour. Amazing. I don’t know if they do this at the end of every show, but after everyone was happy ever after and the mystery was solved, a song played while they did a little video wrap up. This song that was playing pulled at me. I’ve heard it before and I do love it. It is called “Hands” by Jewel.
If I could tell the world just one thing
It would be that we're all OK
And not to worry 'cause worry is wasteful
And useless in times like these
I won't be made useless
I won't be idle with despair
I will gather myself around my faith
For light does the darkness most fear
My hands are small, I know
But they're not yours, they are my own
But they're not yours, they are my own
And I am never broken
Poverty stole your golden shoes
It didn't steal your laughter
And heartache came to visit me
But I knew it wasn't ever after
We'll fight, not out of spite
For someone must stand up for what's right
'Cause where there's a man who has no voice
There ours shall go singing
My hands are small I know
But they're not yours, they are my own
But they're not yours, they are my own
I am never broken
In the end only kindness matters
In the end only kindness matters
I will get down on my knees, and I will pray
I will get down on my knees, and I will pray
I will get down on my knees, and I will pray
My hands are small I know
But they're not yours, they are my own
But they're not yours, they are my own
And I am never broken
My hands are small I know
But they're not yours, they are my own
But they're not yours, they are my own
And I am never broken
We are never broken
We are God's eyes
God's hands
God's mind
We are God's eyes
God's hands
God's heart
We are God's eyes
God's hands
God's eyes
We are God's hands
We are God's hands
I just got laid off from my job. I used my hands there every day. I held onto tubes of titanium as they spun in a belt sander. I moved levers and measuring devices as I prepped those tubes to be made into bicycle frames. I carried bins of tubes to steel racks, felt the smoothness of each tube to ensure their preparedness level, and put on and removed personal protective equipment to protect my hands and eyes. I now am looking for another job to keep my hands busy. I will find one, I am sure. My hands need something to do. Maybe this new direction will give them something to do that they have never done before.
I would rather be doing something else with my hands. They love to pick up and hug my children. They love to run through long, flowing hair or tuck strands of it behind ears. They love to be pressed up against the back of a beautiful woman. They love to prepare food for others. They feel right at home nestled in the hands of a loved one. They love to be wrapped around a steering wheel and hold a camera. They like to push a pencil along a piece of paper to create works of art. They want to be a help to myself and especially a help to others. They will find something to do. But until then, and even ever after, they will continue to convey these thoughts that run through my mind into a readable format. They will be my tongue when my tongue is at rest. They will be a voice for my heart when my heart wants to cry out in joy, sadness or anger. My hands will speak for those parts of me that have no voice.
And you know what? They are mine…and they are beautiful.
This glowing box in front of me is my window to the great big outside world beyond my geographical area. It holds many methods of communication. Indirectly via the worldwide web, time delayed with email, and almost instantly with the many types of instant messaging. With a camera, you can even see the person you are talking to. The keyboard attached to this glowing box is what my hands use to talk. I don’t even have to have someone to talk to. I can talk to myself with my hands through this medium. Although most of the words I say to myself I end up saying to the whole world anyway.
There is another small glowing box in my living room that hasn’t had much use in the past 6 months or so. I haven’t really missed it. It doesn’t call to me, taunting me with its endless entertainment possibilities…not that there is much of a varied choice of entertainment. Four or five choices are all it has to offer. Some things entice me, such as seeing parts of the world that I will never get the chance to actually visit, putting myself in the shoes of a person who I will never be, or filling my belly with laughter from really funny cartoon versions of families that I can relate to. I really used to like this box, but not so much anymore. Many nights have found me plopped down in front of it, remote control cradled in my hand, huddled there like a bundled up hobo, rubbing his hands over the fire, hoping to catch warmth on a chilly winter night.
Before I moved to my new place, an electrical surge fried my giant version of this box. 42 inches of entertainment with over 100 channels to choose from were gone with a loud noise and a small wisp of smoke. It also fried my stereo that supplied sound for this giant box. So when a friend of mine said he had a little television that he was giving away, I willingly accepted it. I still had the 100 plus channels to choose from, but they were condensed in size. It was a disappointing change of pace, but I still had my box of distractions. I soon discovered that the ability to have so many channels but still only watch a select handful of them was just not worth the money I had to pay to do so. At the dismay of my kids, I cancelled my cable subscription and joined the group of people who got their entertainment the old fashioned way…over the airwaves. But I didn’t do it right away. In fact, for a while, the only thing we watched were movies on DVD or VHS. Even when I moved to where there wasn’t even an option for cable (ok, there is satellite, but I still haven’t decided to start that subscription) I still didn’t hook up an antenna for the longest time. But now I have and the limited choices still don’t reel me in for a night of vegetative slouching.
Although I have run across some PBS specials that I enjoy. One that I enjoy is GlobeTrekker. The host goes to destinations around the world and documents the stay and the focal points of interest in each place. Pretty neat. There are other shows on there that are interesting, but most are, shall I say…boring. But, PBS is the only channel that usually comes in crystal clear. And when it does, the other channels are not so clear. Remember the days of dad moving the antenna and mom yelling “CLEAR!”? I’m living them all over again…except there is no one to move the antenna while I check for clarity. I have to use my hands to move the antenna, get up on a stool and look through the kitchen window and check for myself, get down, move the antenna, get back on the stool, and check and on and on till it is right. Anyway…I was actually watching something the other night that I never used to be into. Nighttime dramas like CSI, Cold Case, Bones, etc. This one I watched was an episode of Cold Case. This team investigates years old mysteries and solves them in less than an hour. Amazing. I don’t know if they do this at the end of every show, but after everyone was happy ever after and the mystery was solved, a song played while they did a little video wrap up. This song that was playing pulled at me. I’ve heard it before and I do love it. It is called “Hands” by Jewel.
If I could tell the world just one thing
It would be that we're all OK
And not to worry 'cause worry is wasteful
And useless in times like these
I won't be made useless
I won't be idle with despair
I will gather myself around my faith
For light does the darkness most fear
My hands are small, I know
But they're not yours, they are my own
But they're not yours, they are my own
And I am never broken
Poverty stole your golden shoes
It didn't steal your laughter
And heartache came to visit me
But I knew it wasn't ever after
We'll fight, not out of spite
For someone must stand up for what's right
'Cause where there's a man who has no voice
There ours shall go singing
My hands are small I know
But they're not yours, they are my own
But they're not yours, they are my own
I am never broken
In the end only kindness matters
In the end only kindness matters
I will get down on my knees, and I will pray
I will get down on my knees, and I will pray
I will get down on my knees, and I will pray
My hands are small I know
But they're not yours, they are my own
But they're not yours, they are my own
And I am never broken
My hands are small I know
But they're not yours, they are my own
But they're not yours, they are my own
And I am never broken
We are never broken
We are God's eyes
God's hands
God's mind
We are God's eyes
God's hands
God's heart
We are God's eyes
God's hands
God's eyes
We are God's hands
We are God's hands
I just got laid off from my job. I used my hands there every day. I held onto tubes of titanium as they spun in a belt sander. I moved levers and measuring devices as I prepped those tubes to be made into bicycle frames. I carried bins of tubes to steel racks, felt the smoothness of each tube to ensure their preparedness level, and put on and removed personal protective equipment to protect my hands and eyes. I now am looking for another job to keep my hands busy. I will find one, I am sure. My hands need something to do. Maybe this new direction will give them something to do that they have never done before.
I would rather be doing something else with my hands. They love to pick up and hug my children. They love to run through long, flowing hair or tuck strands of it behind ears. They love to be pressed up against the back of a beautiful woman. They love to prepare food for others. They feel right at home nestled in the hands of a loved one. They love to be wrapped around a steering wheel and hold a camera. They like to push a pencil along a piece of paper to create works of art. They want to be a help to myself and especially a help to others. They will find something to do. But until then, and even ever after, they will continue to convey these thoughts that run through my mind into a readable format. They will be my tongue when my tongue is at rest. They will be a voice for my heart when my heart wants to cry out in joy, sadness or anger. My hands will speak for those parts of me that have no voice.
And you know what? They are mine…and they are beautiful.
Thursday, December 25, 2008
Falling in Love with You
I found a quaint little pocket book a while back. I had taken some books in for trade at McKay’s Used Books and had gotten some credit. I took my kids in to get them some books with that credit, and had hoped to find some music for myself. Not having any luck with music, I was standing in line with many books for my kids when I saw on a shelf near the counter a little book titled Falling in Love with You. It was a collection of quotes from well known people about this wonderful subject of falling in love. From the early stages of first love, into the bliss of marriage and the love shared in bed, to the troubles that come with love, all the way to the secrets of lasting love, this little book covered it all. I had to have it.
What is first love worth, except to prepare for the second? What does second love bring? Only regret for the first. – John Hay
Sure, I regret losing my first love. It was something that I never thought would happen. The loss of love, not the regret, that is. The regret of losing love is there. I do regret that we let things get to the point that she lost her love for me. I never lost it for her. It isn’t the same love, though. The love that I have now is almost at the level of a platonic love, like the love that you have for a good friend. And even though I regret losing her love, I don’t regret falling in love. For as the above quote says, first love prepares you for second loves and teaches you what not to do in all other loves.
It is difficult to know at what moment love begins; it is less difficult to know when it has begun. – William W. Longfellow
Butterflies in the stomach; longing to be together with your object of affection; feeling incomplete when apart; the feeling of pure joy when together. I know these feelings. To me, they signify that something special is happening. I “love” love. I love that feeling of being close to someone, so close that you can read them. The closeness is a melding of souls so tightly woven together that you can read them in an instant. You can tell just with a look what kind of mood they are in. You are hurt when they are in pain, feel elation when they are happy, morose when they are sad. It is almost a clairvoyant feeling, this closeness. But it is not so easy to tell if they are as in love with you as you are with them. This can be hidden behind eyes so open and a heart so loving. In that case, it should be obvious, but sometimes it isn’t. I know my feelings, but I like to be told of the love had for me. Everyone should love to be told that someone loves them. It feels so good.
Losing love hurts. It is a pain that is hidden in your heart but is visible in your countenance; it shows on your face, in your actions, shows through your eyes, flowing from your soul. This pain is a great wound upon your soul leaving scars unseen. This hidden pain takes longer to heal than any visible wound. A Persian quote says that “A broken hand works, but not a broken heart”. My heart still hurts. It still hurts from the loss of a true love, but it also hurts from the loss of other relationships that have happened since the great pain was inflicted upon it. I don’t protect my heart very well. I know I said I was going to build a fence around it to protect it from getting hurt, but that fence never got finished. I put too much of my heart into things that I do, relationships included. This is a dangerous thing, because it sets me up for pain when things go wrong. I should know better, but I do it anyway. Do you know why? Because to me, the ultimate joy of falling in love and staying in love is so great, is so desirable, is what I long to do that I look at every new prospect in such a way as to prepare myself for love. Is it going to happen this time? Is this the one? And so with great anticipation comes a great fall…and with that fall comes a time of darkness. In that time of darkness, the search continues for the light, the light that warms the heart and comforts the soul. I heard a quote the other night that shows me a path to that light out of the darkness. I was watching a PBS special about Hanukkah. No, I’m not Jewish, but with a set of rabbit ear antennas (no, not even rabbit ears…more like a rabbit with an ear cut off…just one antenna), PBS was the only channel strong enough to come in with an antenna out here in the sticks (and I hadn’t had TV in so long, I was desperate for some entertainment). A rabbi was saying that our eyes have two parts: a dark and a light part, and the only part that we use to see the light is through the dark part. It hit me right then that the only way to see a way to happiness in love and in life was to look through the dark parts, to get past the hurts of love and the hardships of life by peering through the darkness to where even the dimmest of lights should be the brightest focal point. After all, even the light from a small candle can be seen from afar in complete darkness.
True love is eternal, infinite and always like itself. It is equal and pure, without violent demonstrations. It is seen with white hairs and is always young at heart. – Balzac
True love is meant to last a lifetime and beyond. It is something so great, so soul satisfying, so completing, that time has no hold on it. It is something to be desired and cherished, so much in fact, that all the hurts and disappointments endured in the search for it can’t diminish the ultimate joy and lasting exhilaration that comes when it is finally found and kept. It is worth it. I know true love is out there. It has touched me before, it is part of me; I have felt it, and I do feel it now. I have faith and do believe in everlasting love. I believe that there is such a thing as love at first sight. I believe that with love comes pain and misunderstandings, but also, that love heals all wounds. I believe that love needs daily nourishment to grow and stay strong, whereas hate needs no nourishment; it only needs provoking to show its might. I believe…in love.
How shall I do to love? Believe.
How shall I do to believe? Love. – Robert Leighton
Wednesday, December 24, 2008
To Have and to Hold
December 19, 2008
Rowan,
I did something today that I thought I would never do. I held you. I held you while you slept, little eyes tightly shut, your lips doing a little sucking motion every now and then, fingers curled in tiny fists, sometimes at your mouth, other times just by the sides of your head. A little hiccup or whimper would escape you here and there, the whimpers sounding like squeaks from a mouse, the hiccups barely noticeable. I held you while you were awake, dark blue eyes staring intently at this odd fellow with a face full of fuzzy hair, facial features strangely familiar but still those of a stranger. I held you while holding a bottle of formula in your ever so eager and willing mouth, listening to the sucking sounds you made and to the escaping air bubbling in the bottle. It must have been heaven for you; your eyes starting rolling in your head and eyelids held closed, but open enough that you seemed to be taking a peek at the holder of the bottle of joy. I held you while your mother took a break and went to town to get things needed for you and her. She needs times like this. She loves you so very much, but still…she needs to get away every once in a while.
I never thought I would see you. I knew I would see you in pictures or videos that your momma will certainly fill up album after album and put online for all those who love you to see. I knew that. What I didn’t know was that I would be able to see you face to face, to search for facial features or traits that remind me of me. To hear with my own ears as you cry, giggle, burp, or sneeze. To smell your skin and recognize it as a mix of my own scent mingled with your mother’s. To see you in cute little sleepers festooned with flowers, butterflies, or kitty cats. To watch you eagerly suck down a bottle. To even experience the sweet nastiness of spit-up milk.
But I did. Your mother sent me a message with some words that I had written in another note to the world… “I hope to be able to see her or at least be notified of her birth…” and an invitation to do what I had hoped to do, but didn’t expect to do; to see you in person. I thought for only a moment about how hard it would be for me to do so. It would be a reminder of what I had left behind me and what I was going to miss. I didn’t think too long on it though, because it might be the only time that I could do it and I wasn’t going to pass it up…I didn’t want to pass it up. You are only a month old and you won’t remember seeing me, but I will remember this experience for the rest of my life.
While your momma went to the store, I held you as you slept and told you things. I told you that you were beautiful. I told you that your momma was going to take care of you, and that she was going to do a good job too. I can tell that she is already doing a good job of it. I’ve done it before and she hasn’t, but she was already doing the things she knew to do. Mommas know. They do. It must be ingrained into every females psyche. The ability to know what to do with offspring must surely be in their DNA, passed on down from generation to generation. I told you that even if I wasn’t going to be there physically, I certainly will be there emotionally and spiritually. Through the tears that I desperately tried to hold back, I whispered to you as I kissed your forehead… “I love you.” I told you that you were going to be just fine. Your momma will do a great job with you. You have not only her, but you are going to have so many aunts and uncles to show you how to do the things that they do, the things that make them who they are. I told you all these things.
And I told you I was sorry…
I’m not sorry that you are here. No, I could never be sorry about that. I am sorry that I am not here. I am sorry that your momma is going to go at this alone. Not entirely alone, but momma knows what I mean. Ask her about it while she is changing your diaper, cleaning up your messes, looking at you lovingly, and while tickling your nose and calling you “monkey”. Ask her about it one day while you are chasing cats around the house, watching stained glass creativity, or while pulling numerous books off the shelves.
I spent hours there, but it seemed as mere minutes. As the time came for me to go, I held you once more. I looked at your eyes, dark orbs of blue, unknowing yet full of infantile wisdom. I looked at your little Mohawk of hair on your head. I took several sniffs of your skin and clothes to make my brain remember what you smelled like. Your momma likes good smells. She told me numerous times that I smelled good, and that was even after a long day at work…go figure. I want to remember your smell. I hope I do years from now. I know that I still smelled you and your momma all the way home tonight.
It was hard, Rowan. It was really hard on me seeing you, knowing that I probably won’t get this chance again. But I am happy that I did it. I thank your momma from the bottom of my heart for giving me this chance, just as much as she thanks me for her gift, probably the best gift she has ever gotten. You. You really are a gift for her to have and to hold for the rest of her life. I am just glad I had you to hold for that one brief moment in time; a moment that I will have and hold forever.
You be a good girl. I know you will.
Love,
CNC
Rowan,
I did something today that I thought I would never do. I held you. I held you while you slept, little eyes tightly shut, your lips doing a little sucking motion every now and then, fingers curled in tiny fists, sometimes at your mouth, other times just by the sides of your head. A little hiccup or whimper would escape you here and there, the whimpers sounding like squeaks from a mouse, the hiccups barely noticeable. I held you while you were awake, dark blue eyes staring intently at this odd fellow with a face full of fuzzy hair, facial features strangely familiar but still those of a stranger. I held you while holding a bottle of formula in your ever so eager and willing mouth, listening to the sucking sounds you made and to the escaping air bubbling in the bottle. It must have been heaven for you; your eyes starting rolling in your head and eyelids held closed, but open enough that you seemed to be taking a peek at the holder of the bottle of joy. I held you while your mother took a break and went to town to get things needed for you and her. She needs times like this. She loves you so very much, but still…she needs to get away every once in a while.
I never thought I would see you. I knew I would see you in pictures or videos that your momma will certainly fill up album after album and put online for all those who love you to see. I knew that. What I didn’t know was that I would be able to see you face to face, to search for facial features or traits that remind me of me. To hear with my own ears as you cry, giggle, burp, or sneeze. To smell your skin and recognize it as a mix of my own scent mingled with your mother’s. To see you in cute little sleepers festooned with flowers, butterflies, or kitty cats. To watch you eagerly suck down a bottle. To even experience the sweet nastiness of spit-up milk.
But I did. Your mother sent me a message with some words that I had written in another note to the world… “I hope to be able to see her or at least be notified of her birth…” and an invitation to do what I had hoped to do, but didn’t expect to do; to see you in person. I thought for only a moment about how hard it would be for me to do so. It would be a reminder of what I had left behind me and what I was going to miss. I didn’t think too long on it though, because it might be the only time that I could do it and I wasn’t going to pass it up…I didn’t want to pass it up. You are only a month old and you won’t remember seeing me, but I will remember this experience for the rest of my life.
While your momma went to the store, I held you as you slept and told you things. I told you that you were beautiful. I told you that your momma was going to take care of you, and that she was going to do a good job too. I can tell that she is already doing a good job of it. I’ve done it before and she hasn’t, but she was already doing the things she knew to do. Mommas know. They do. It must be ingrained into every females psyche. The ability to know what to do with offspring must surely be in their DNA, passed on down from generation to generation. I told you that even if I wasn’t going to be there physically, I certainly will be there emotionally and spiritually. Through the tears that I desperately tried to hold back, I whispered to you as I kissed your forehead… “I love you.” I told you that you were going to be just fine. Your momma will do a great job with you. You have not only her, but you are going to have so many aunts and uncles to show you how to do the things that they do, the things that make them who they are. I told you all these things.
And I told you I was sorry…
I’m not sorry that you are here. No, I could never be sorry about that. I am sorry that I am not here. I am sorry that your momma is going to go at this alone. Not entirely alone, but momma knows what I mean. Ask her about it while she is changing your diaper, cleaning up your messes, looking at you lovingly, and while tickling your nose and calling you “monkey”. Ask her about it one day while you are chasing cats around the house, watching stained glass creativity, or while pulling numerous books off the shelves.
I spent hours there, but it seemed as mere minutes. As the time came for me to go, I held you once more. I looked at your eyes, dark orbs of blue, unknowing yet full of infantile wisdom. I looked at your little Mohawk of hair on your head. I took several sniffs of your skin and clothes to make my brain remember what you smelled like. Your momma likes good smells. She told me numerous times that I smelled good, and that was even after a long day at work…go figure. I want to remember your smell. I hope I do years from now. I know that I still smelled you and your momma all the way home tonight.
It was hard, Rowan. It was really hard on me seeing you, knowing that I probably won’t get this chance again. But I am happy that I did it. I thank your momma from the bottom of my heart for giving me this chance, just as much as she thanks me for her gift, probably the best gift she has ever gotten. You. You really are a gift for her to have and to hold for the rest of her life. I am just glad I had you to hold for that one brief moment in time; a moment that I will have and hold forever.
You be a good girl. I know you will.
Love,
CNC
Tuesday, December 9, 2008
The Beautiful Things
Ok, show of hands…who saw the sunset tonight? C’mon, somebody had to have seen it other than myself. I was driving home just about that time and had to stop at the post office in Apison and just take it in. There were purples and yellows, reds and oranges. There were some clouds that were absorbing the colors wonderfully, looking like a rumpled comforter on an unmade bed. I stood in awe then remembered the camera on my phone. I need to start carrying around my camera, the real one, not this feeble attempt at a camera that I carry in my pocket. Cell phones…they’re not just for calls anymore. The quality isn’t that great in dim lighting, but is pretty ok with good light and no movement.I took several shots, and the above one was the one that was the most clear, but with those danged utility lines in the way. I stood there for a while and took in the piece of art that was changing before me. Before it was all the way gone, I got in my bus and continued my trek home. In my rear view mirror and side mirrors I could see at different times the glow of the sky. I thought it was just beautiful.
By the time I got home, it was dark and only a tint of red remained in the western sky. I was hoping to get closer to home before it got dark in order to possibly get a glimpse of the mountains in the east reflecting the colors of the sunset, but when I got to where I would be able to see them, they were just these dark shapes on the horizon with not a bit of color in them. That’s ok. The sun will set again, I’m sure.
Seeing tonight’s artwork made me think of the beautiful things in life. A sunrise…just as beautiful (although it is early in the morning…) as a sunset. A sea of wildflowers with varied colors inviting you to run through and fall in among them, with bees and other insects that are attracted buzzing above your head. A far-off mountain range as seen from a valley; that valley as seen from the mountain top. A painting hanging in an art gallery. A well written poem. A woman (sure, some maybe more beautiful than others, but any woman is more beautiful than any man, through my eyes). A child’s picture hanging on the refrigerator, crudely drawn with crayon, drawn with innocence and with love. A waterfall. A well-worn path carving its way through a dense forest. The crystal blue waters of a lagoon on a remote island getaway. A song that makes you think and remember. Life itself.
Sometimes life may not seem beautiful. When your finances are stretched to the point of wondering if utilities will be cut off for non-payment or if the food will last till the next shopping trip; when someone you love hurts you, leaves you, cuts your heart to the core; when you hear things that are said about you behind your back, whether it is true or, like most of the time, just lies spread around; when the balances of happiness and sadness grossly tip over into the negative…life can seem to be not so beautiful. I heard today of the senseless death of a young woman, a mother of two young children. A car wreck took her life and left two others without a mother. Such a sad thing to hear. Makes me think of my own childhood…and feel for those children. Sad times ahead. But you know, it is at those times that the beautiful things in life can stop you in your tracks and leave you in awe. Like tonight’s sunset. I had left my old place after doing a little work on my bus. I know that it is inevitable that I will have to get everything out of the garage. Everything is already out of the house. I still have some odds and ends in the garage, along with my tools and my bus with its heart lying out on the floor. Those things were on my mind on my way from there. I was almost in a depressed state when I left the garage and looked to the west. And there it was, hidden mostly behind a line of trees that for years have blocked my view to the whole picture of the sunset. I hurriedly got in my bus and headed to where I knew I would have a view of the whole western sky. So I got there and…well, got to the beginning of this writing.
Life. It really is beautiful.
You can’t quit until you try
You can’t live until you die
You can’t learn to tell the truth
Until you learn to lie
You can’t breathe until you choke
You gotta laugh when you’re the joke
There’s nothing like a funeral to make you feel alive
Just open your eyes
Just open your eyes
And see that life is beautiful.
Will you swear on your life,
That no one will cry at my funeral?
I know some things that you don’t
I’ve done things that you won’t
There’s nothing like a trailer park to find your way back home
I was waiting for my hearse
What came next was so much worse
It took a funeral to make me feel alive
Just open your eyes
Just open your eyes
And see that life is beautiful.
Will you swear on your life,
That no one will cry at my funeral?
“Life is Beautiful” – Sixx Am
It is true. All you have to do in order to see the things of beauty through all the ugly things that stand in the way is to open your eyes and just look. And see.
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