Starstruck

I am not a huge fan of Winter. I don't like Arctic blasts, dreary blah rain for days on end, dry and cracked skin, ISIS trained polar bears with ebola...and speaking of ISIS and ebola, with mid-term elections over, where are they now? But I digress...I don't like much about the cold season, but I would never rain (or, more aptly, snow) on anyone's parade who loves it. To each their freaking own, I say.

Not everything about Winter makes me want to punch kittens. There's the physical want to keep warm with a campfire, no yard to mow, Princess and the Pea style stack of blankets, A Charlie Brown Christmas, and the pie-in-the-sky chance of a cuddle. Yeah, just one cuddle. There's the holidays of early Winter that bring families together and a special morning that lights up children's eyes as bright as the lights on the adorned evergreen in a corner of the living room. These are winter favorites.

I stepped outside a few hours ago, with the frigid air blowing through my jacket like I was clad in only a fishnet jumpsuit, and looked up at the night sky. The clouds that had been blanketing the lower atmosphere all day had dissipated and the sky was speckled with points of light. To the east, just above the horizon, I could make out the right elbow, left shoulder, and the first two stars that comprise the belt of Orion. I love to see it this way, peeking above and still hiding below the line of sight. You know the shape it is supposed to be, and even though you may not be able to see it, your mind completes the picture. I do love the constellations of late Fall/early Winter; Orion, Canis and Ursa Majors and Minors, Perseus, Cassiopea...but the most recognizable of these is the one I love the most: Orion. Aside from it being one of the ones I can recognize immediately (because I'm astrologically challenged), I like certain stories behind Orion's mythology, especially his trouble with women. That, I can relate to.

"Orion got in trouble repeatedly over women. One time in he fell for Merope, the daughter of King Oenopion. He wooed her without success. Then one day after he had had too much wine, he stumbled off and tried to take the lady by force. For this the king had Orion blinded and banished from his realm. In his blind state Orion sought the aid of Hephaestus, the God of the Forge, and eventually his sight was restored by the healing rays of the rising sun.

In another story Orion fell in love with the Pleiades; some say that it was the mother of the Pleiades whom Orion loved. Her name was Pleione. The story has it that Zeus snatched up the Seven Sisters who are the Pleiades and placed them in the sky where Orion still pursues them.

Myth has it that Orion was killed by the sting of a Scorpion. The Scorpion is identified with the constellation of Scorpius, halfway around the sky from Orion. Some say that the Scorpion was sent by the Gaia the Goddess of the Earth; others say it was Artemis, the Goddess of the Hunt, who sent the Scorpion to kill Orion, because Orion had dared to hunt down all the animals of the earth. Others say that Orion had attempted to force himself on Artemis and that it was because of his unwanted attentions that Artemis sent the Scorpion after him. After being poisoned by the Scorpion, Orion was resurrected by Asclepius the God of Healing, whom we see in the sky as Ophiuchus, the Serpent Wrestler.

There is another very different story of the death of Orion holds that Orion was in fact betrothed to Artemis, but Apollo, the brother of Artemis was opposed to the wedding. Artemis was very proud of her skill as an archer. So one day Apollo challenged Artemis to put an arrow through a small dark object that could be seen far off in the distance bobbing above the waves of the sea. Artemis easily pierced the object with a single shot and was horrified that she had killed her husband-to-be Orion. Filled with grief, she placed him among the stars."

I've always been fascinated by the heavens. As a kid, I wanted to have a constellation named after me. I never had a plan for its shape, only that knowing to be named in the heavens would be paramount to immortality. I remember laying on blankets in the cool evenings that were never really cold in Florida, gazing at the same sky that I see today, the same star patterns and meteorites; the same lovely Luna...only as a kid, the scene stretched on forever and ever, big as the sky beyond what I could actually see. I saw Orion and knew that he was a hunter. He held a club and the pelt of a lion, showing his manly abilities...big as the sky. I imagined what a poet or bard would have looked like, and it paled in comparison to the Hunter. But, oh, to be among the stars! For a mortal to be placed in the sky, is that so farfetched? The 19th-century German classical scholar Erwin Rohde viewed Orion as an example of the Greeks erasing the line between the gods and mankind. That is, if Orion was in the heavens, other mortals could hope to be also.

As an adult, I know that the proper name is "meteorite." But as a child, the phenomenon of a piece of rock or even small particles of dust entering Earth's atmosphere  in a fiery display of destruction is a falling star. Truthfully, erasing all magic and wonder from the notion of a falling star, we'd be burned up; the planet as well as, most likely, our entire solar system if it was truly a star.

As an adult, I know that constellations are not the embodiment of gods, goddesses, heroes, monsters, or mere mortals. They're just stars that remain in position that are seen by humans as what they want to see, like shapes in the clouds or images in the pattern of a piece of wood. But as a child, they were battles fought, loves gained and lost, heroes born and died, all in the heavens above. But, it wasn't children, who long ago, came up with the notion that the stars looked like familiar objects. No, it was surely adults gazing up in the night sky, using the imagination they had as children.

As I look up tonight, I'm sure it's still the same sky. It looks the same. Meteorites still burn up in the same atmosphere. I'm still fascinated by Luna,as she still controls the tides and emotional states as she alternates between being bold and being shy. And I still don't have a constellation named after me. I'm not so sure it's a good idea anyway. Constellations are reserved for those who have done great things; they are set aside for those who have stories or songs written about them; they are reserved for the great ones, the heroes, the lovers, the gods. Not for the fanciful fools. But, as it turns out, the ones who were put in the heavens had apparently died or were put there to be separated from the ones they love. I'm not so sure about that idea much anymore. But to obtain someone who I see as being a heavenly body placed among the patterns of bright lights in the dark night sky? To be able to reach up and grasp that star? That would truly be something.

I once found myself in the presence of a goddess; a heavenly body. She was Venus, the morning and evening star; I was Sirius, the Dog star. As with Luna above, I was and am still fascinated. I'm star struck. I would love to learn about her path through the heavens; her role in the story of her place in the universe. But I'm no astronomer. I can barely tell the difference between a star and a satellite. I'm not a hero. I haven't slain a Hydra or battled the Krakken. I'm not a philosopher. I haven't written tomes about the mysteries of life. But I am a stargazer. I'm a stargazer that wonders, but in that wonderment, recognizes that the position of the stars and planets haven't changed since ancient times, and they won't change anytime soon.

I won't chase after a star, but I can reach for one. Reach up as far as I can into the heavens and see...

Freewill

"You can choose a ready guide in some celestial voice
If you choose not to decide, you still have made a choice
You can choose from phantom fears and kindness that can kill
I will choose a path that's clear
I will choose freewill." -Rush, "Freewill"

What to do, what to do...

Being an adult can really suck sometimes. When I was a kid, the decisions I had to make rarely affected anyone more than just me. Should I be a ghost or Dracula for Halloween? What shirt should I wear today, the one with the dragster belching out flames or the "Beach Bum" shirt? Should I trade this PB&J for that SLT (stripple/lettuce/tomato)? Should I try to "loop-de-loop" on the swings? I wonder what will happen if I say "No" to mom...

It was the school years of 1985-87. These were the formative schooling years at Forest Lake Academy. I was a good kid, never having been in any real trouble. But I do realize one thing: I was easily moved under the influence of the powers of persuasion. Turns out, these two years were the years of bad decisions.

Bad decision #1: I was a hall monitor who thought it was a good idea to harbor stolen property in my room. In exchange for receiving a bitchin' boom box from the perpetrator of the crime, I would store it and it's mates in my room until it was deemed the proper time to sell said property. It was flawless, except for the perpetrator being filmed, followed, and found by the local retail store from which said property was stolen. Mice squeak when caught by the cat, and fellow mice get ratted out in the process. I was lucky enough to only be stripped of my title and responsibilities and to be banned from said retail store, not that being banned from a K-Mart that was not in my home town was such a bad thing. They also took "my" boom box back. And I had worked so hard for it. Humph.

Bad decision #2: The setting was the luscious tropical island of Jamaica. The company was the entire Forest Lake Academy concert band. The decision was some killer Jamaican ganja. I remember we were at Dunn's River Falls in Ochos Rios and my friend and I decided that we were going to try to find some island smoke. Hmm...where were we going to find that in Jamaica? And how hard was it going to be? How long would we have to search? Easy squeezy. After only one question, we found out it wasn't going to be hard and that we didn't have to go anywhere. We were directed to a guy selling artwork by a large tree. We started talking to him like we were buddies and within minutes, asked the question. No problem, mon. He removed a picture that was hanging on the tree and opened up a hinged door built right into the tree. Hanging inside the hollowed out section were numerous buds, of which we had our choice. We picked one out and gave the guy $20, which was a deal, considering it was a foreign country, we were kids, and the fact that he actually followed through with his end of the deal. And we were happy. We tried it out in a port-a-potty. We tried it out in the dormitory room we were staying in, blowing out the window. And we would have gotten away with it too, if I hadn't have given some to a girl I liked who tried it in a stall in the bathroom of the women's dormitory and promptly told where she got it. I was lucky to have been accepted back for the following school year. Perhaps having the pastor of my local church speak on my behalf helped there. In fact, I know it did.

Bad decision #3: How two teenagers got not just wine coolers, but wine coolers in 2-liter bottles, is beyond me. But here we were, two unpracticed alcoholics with solo cups and warm 2-liter bottles of Bartles and Jaymes wine coolers, drinking it like it was Kool Aid (Oh, yeah!). It probably would have been okay if we'd just stayed in one of our rooms and kept quiet. But, no, we had to take our stupidity out into the halls of the dormitory and onto the grounds of the academy, where we ran around like idiots, laughing uncontrollably and yelling out, "I'm so dizzy!" at the top of our lungs and falling down. Drunk, that is. Of course, at my disciplinary hearing, I blamed it all upon being distraught over the break-up between myself and my girlfriend of one week. That didn't matter. I still ended being suspended for the remainder of the first semester of my senior year.

The decisions were made with knowledge of the consequences of being caught. Regardless of the fact that most often times, the decisions were made under the strong power of outside persuasion, the truth is that they were made by me alone. Nobody forced me to do anything. I did it all of my own free will. Despite what happens, for better or for worse, that's the beauty of being a human being alive on this multicolored spinning orb hurtling through space; whether you are allowed to do something or whether it's prohibited by law, morality, even decency; or even despite there being consequences for your choices...you are able to make that decision. Even if your decision making process is impaired, say, by mental illness, and your decisions are not correct or even allowed to come to fruition, you are still free to make choices; the process of free will is humanly inherent.

These decisions I've described from my past are far from completing a life-long list of bad choices. They're merely examples that barely scratch the surface. I've made so much more than I'm going to admit. What I've listed...who have they hurt? I used to think that they only hurt myself. And for the most part, that's true. But what about those who love me; those who I disappointed? More importantly, what about those I love? A central figure that falls right in the middle of those who were possibly affected by my choices is the person who tried to ensure that I made the right ones; my grandmother. She did her best, and she did a fine job, but she will never be the one to blame. She will never be behind the wheel of the high-speed, off-course, runaway train that is my decision making process. The responsibility lies solely and squarely upon my shoulders.

I talked a while back about being upset about something that was given to someone else that I felt should have been given to me. It's been a little while, and I've had time to let it sink in, but even at the time I talked about it, I had accepted it and was processing the moving on of my life. I figured that if it was meant for me, I would have gotten it. Time would only tell if the decision that was made would end up being the right one or not. Well...time, as fickle as he and his partner (that being of beauty called karma) can be, have decided to act quickly, as I see it, but right on time, in their eyes. It seems that what was offered and given to someone else is now being offered to me. I can honestly say that pride kept me from deciding right away. I was upset at being passed over and not being given what I had wanted for a long time. I was mulling over the numerous things that would come into play once I accepted what was being offered to me. I won't know for a while if I'm making a good choice or not. I do know that I will do my best to ensure positive results from making this decision. So many things can go wrong, but, oh, so many things can go right. But I've decided and it's going to happen.

It hasn't been just "me" for a long time now. Decisions I make will most certainly affect people who depend upon me and depend upon choices I make. Never have I been more aware of this. I know this and they are the ones I'm doing this for, in the end. It is for me, but more importantly, for them.

I'm going to do it for her. I'm going to do it for him. I'm going to do it for us.

Keep the Change

I can feel the warmth of the campfire making the soles of my shoes soft. I should probably move them before they start to drip gooey drops of fine German engineered footwear into the fire pit. I should move my feet but I'm so comfortable and I'm sure my shoes won't melt anytime soon. It sounds like many others are still awake and enjoying this crisp and cool Autumn evening. A few short hours ago, this fire pit was burning tall and bright, encircled by old and new friends laughing and mingling and holding cozy koozies. Things were passed around. Things in jars that tasted like cherries, apple pie, peaches, and fire. Things that required fire. Now, it's just me and a few others trading out yawns and holding on to the remaining minutes of the day as the fire burns lower. 

All of this feels like it was yesterday. It should have been yesterday; it should have been this past weekend, because this past weekend I was sad. If it had been yesterday, I wouldn't be writing this today. I was supposed to be somewhere this past weekend, at a VW event I haven't missed in over 15 years. I was supposed to be hanging out with like-minded people; people who have become as close to me as my own family. I was supposed to be sitting around the fire, in danger of melting my shoes.

Why didn't I go? I could blame it all on money. I could afford it. It's less than $40 for myself and my kids to spend the weekend there. Of course there's gas to buy, but it's only a few hours away. There's food and play money too, but that's just a little extra. It would be close, but easily done. I could say that my kids are just not that into VW shows like they used to be. But it's more than the show. It's camping by a river; it's feeling the camaraderie of people that are there for the same reason you are; it's time away from home. That's something they're still into. I could say that I wasn't sure if I was even going to go, that I wasn't ready for it, that work and school hampered my efforts to make plans to be there. I could say all these things and there'd be a tiny bit of truth in it. But it's closer to the truth to blame it on change.

I usually go into everything I have an interest in with a fiery passion. When I first got into the VW scene, I tried to do it all. I would try to hit every campout and show or cruise-in I could. It became more than just a hobby; it was a lifestyle. Not that driving a simple vehicle was too far a step away from my personality. I don't need a fancy car, and a VW Bus is far from fancy. My current car sure isn't fancy. It's the gutless wonder, gas-saving little sibling of the Zoom-Zoom family.

I do still love my Bus. I can't wait for the day when I have him back on the road. I still love going to VW shows and campouts. I will be hitting a few of them up in the next few months. I look forward to them. So what's changed? It doesn't sound like anything has changed. I can't even tell if I've changed without being told. But I think that there's definitely something. It's subtle. It's low-key. It's inner and quiet and almost invisible. I think it is me.

I've been working on me for a long time. Physical aspects are one thing. It's been a life-long battle with keeping my body in the shape I want it to be in. Not the way others think I should be; not the way the biased media thinks I should be; but the way I want me to be. I rarely win this battle, but I'm on the offensive and actually winning for now. Mentally? I don't think I will be where I want, when I want. I think I'm where I should be, but who's to say where that is? I certainly don't know if I'm even supposed to know when I'm where I want to be, but I have a feeling that I will just know. Ya know? Let me tell you, my last real relationship that ended (and the way it ended) really left its mark on my heart and scarred my trust of giving myself, wholly, to anyone. I know your attitudes and feelings should not be dependant upon the actions of others, but it's so hard to not let that happen. Truly, it wasn't just the last failed relationship, it was the culmination of a short string of failed relationships that was the mortar in my wall. I haven't used this wall to keep anyone away (anyone is free to look over and even visit) but I believe it's part of my attempt to work on me; to make sure I know who I am. Honestly, I haven't even so much as gone out on a date in almost a year. Yes, I've met up with some fine women, but they were not bona fide dates. I'm sure that if they're reading this, they'd agree. I hope...

So, on Friday, I was sad. Thoughts of times past and time passed and changes that occur...and knowing I was missing something I didn't want to miss. I knew my friends were already there or on their way. Pictures posted to Facebook were bound to be showing up on my wall throughout the weekend. But the choice to miss out had been made and I planned on getting things done here at the house and do a little fun thing with my kids. The little fun thing ended up being a drive up to Chilhowee and a hike to the waterfalls on Saturday. It was simple, family fun. And that night, I had my own little fire in my fire pit. I kept my shoes far away from this one, though.

Sunday, we tackled a long-overdue job: cleaning out the kids' room and another room with boxes filled with pieces of the past. Things brought from my old house, packed away in haste to be gone through at a later date. I've attempted to do this job numerous times, but you know how rummaging through pieces of your past goes...ADHD takes over. It takes perseverance and a touch of ruthless tenacity to not get distracted by what you find. It's easier with the help of another person. My daughter kept me on track, and we took out a rather large chunk of memories to the donation center and got another step closer to making that room full of memories into her new bedroom.

That's change. Letting go of something that just might be subliminaly holding back the progress you thought you were making. That's exactly what I've been trying to achieve; progress in my life, something more than just the obvious physical changes, something on a deeper level; getting my heart and soul back on a level where I can be free to trust, to live without fear of hurt, to know that even if I fail and fail again, that it will be okay. Because even after what's happened before in my life, I'm still here after all.

And that's change I can keep.

All Apologies

Last Monday, a woman did something to clear up something that I assume had been eating at her for quite some time. She apologized to me for something I had already stored away into the forgotten files.

It was several months ago and I was about to leave work. My son had come to work with me since it was Summer and there was no school. The 10th floor has a television with cable and there's also wi-fi throughout the entire building. I had gone up to get him and we were riding the elevator down. This was just about the time we had installed cameras on every floor and for fun, I thought I'd show him the cameras and wave at each one on our way down. We started at the 10th floor and when we stopped at the 8th floor, three people were waiting to get on. I told them that we were stopping at each floor, which was information overkill, because all the buttons were obviously lit up, and that they were in for a long ride. Two of them acted like it was no big deal, but the third person showed us that our fun was probably keeping her from her important date with the President himself. She kept huffing and puffing, looking at her watch, at me, her companions, the glowing buttons, her phone, the big "L" on my forehead...and I could sense that her friends were a bit uncomfortable with what she was doing. I suggested they could get off on any floor they desired and take the other elevator located right next to the one we were in. They sure would have gotten to the first floor a whole lot quicker. She actually uttered, "There's another elevator?"

These people were in the building long after the other staff had left for the day. Yes, they were church members, but in essence, they were there "after hours." I never would have punched all the call buttons during the confines of the normal work day. And, anyways, being the last employee in the building, part of my job duties could include checking each floor for lights left on. Who's to question that?

When we finally made it to the first floor, along with our reluctant passengers, we went one way and they went the other. As we rounded the corner, my son blurted out, "Well, they're no fun." I laughed...that's my boy.

There's no way anyone can get along with everybody. There's people whose personalities clash to the point of grating bones. There's people with whom I interact with on a daily basis that do just that to me. It's not that they are bad people and I hate them; it's the fact that their personality is so far on the other end of the spectrum from my own that I'd rather not have to subject myself to even be in their presence. It's bad, I know, but it's my right to my own peace that's at stake here. Do me wrong, and I won't hate you, nor will I go out of my way to wrong you back. But you will be shunned; shunned right into the floor.

Then there's those who mesh. There are those who get me. There are those that emit rays of light on even the darkest parts of my soul. They're the ones that I go out of my way to help; to share in their joy; to willfully interact with; to give back to them what they give to me. There's genuine pleasure in it.

Last Friday, I was in camping mode. I had packed my car the night before, hooked up and loaded down my little pull-behind trailer with camping gear, and made sure everything was in order before leaving for work, because I wasn't going back home before going to the campsite. There were a lot of things to do at work before I could go, though. One of things was setting up tables for the Flower Ministry. The people in this group rearrange the display flowers from the day's services into small vases to deliver to the sick or those otherwise unable to attend church. I already had the tables ready for the woman who heads up the arranging before she arrived. This woman is a joy to be around. She brings me bananas at least once a week. She consistently thanks me for the work I do and for the help I give her each week. She's genuine. On this day, she came up to thank me yet again, but she was also holding out her hand in a way to conceal something...a $20 bill. This isn't the first time she's palmed a $20 bill to me. I don't feel right taking her money, but I also know that it was needed and she won't allow me to refuse. And far be it from me to deny someone of something that they want to do. I recognized a correlation between her actions and the actions of the "apologetic woman" and felt the need to relate to her my experience and ended up the conversation with heartfelt gratitude and a friendly, thankful hug.

It is true that people can feed off the attitude of those around them. If you surround yourself with negative people, you take on their negativity. If you keep the company of kind and loving people, you yourself will emit loving kindness. Our attitudes are like giant sponges; absorbing what touches them, yet also able to wring out what was taken in with ease, if we so desire. And, it's kind of like the phenomenon of mass hysteria/hallucination. Someone thinks they see an image of the Virgin Mary in a molded rust stain on the side of a discarded refrigerator and suddenly hordes of people see the same thing and soon they're selling tickets, burning candles, falling out, offering up petitions of food, and praying to what is essentially a natural imperfection as a result of oxidized metal and spores. There's no magic in imperfections; but people see what they want to see and hear what they want to hear and if enough people see and hear, it spreads just like the growth of rust and mold.

I was in the church's kitchen cutting up tomatoes for a salad to be served at a luncheon when the woman who had gotten upset came in. She came to ask a question about another table for the luncheon or something, I don't really remember, but ended up offering an apology for her actions on the elevator that day. She said that it doesn't excuse what she did, but she had received a distressing phone call about a family member before getting on the elevator and was in a mood. She said that she hoped the actions of a grumpy old woman didn't have an effect upon the fun that my son and I were having that day. Since I was preparing food, I was wearing latex gloves, and being careful not to stain her clothes, I told her to just stop, come here, and I gave her a hug. All was good.

Sometimes we don't receive the apology we need to overcome a hurt. Lord knows there's some I never got. Some are close, like when I was told "Sorry about the way things went down." It was a partial apology. But there was no admittance to wrongdoing or even a hint of being sorry for what they did. But I've learned to live with what it is. Accepting it doesn't make it okay, but it does alleviate most of the hurt, and that's close to the same thing.

It's people like that woman with her apology, and the flower lady that make dealing with the polar opposites in my life and workplace all worth the effort. It encourages me to continue being who I am; to be kind and to receive kind in return. I want to live so that I don't have to apologize for anything.

The Supplicant Oracle

I went out on my porch a bit ago to feed my cats and sit on my porch swing. The wind was blowing gently, but I could hear it picking up in the rustling of the leaves in the tops of nearby trees. A series of storms had blown through and rain was still dripping from the eaves of the roof. Night insects were making their respective night noises and the porch light was drawing in the moths and the beetles and the nameless flying insects to its yellow glow. Near the porch light, the blue-white tube of light from the bug zapper lured even more insects to "go towards the light." I could see that a spider had built her web in the space between the two lights. Smart move.

As I sat on my swing, the noise of the wind got louder, and mixed with it, the sound of increasing drops of rain. The bug zapper was swaying on its hook, making the spider's web catch rays of light on the shiny surfaces of each strand. It was beautiful. As I watched the web, movement on the porch rail below the lights caught my eye. I focused in and there was one of the biggest specimen of praying mantis I've ever seen. I'm not a good judge of size (three inches, six inches, twelve...), but it had to be at least 5-6 inches long. The movement that caught my eye was the praying mantis' circular swaying as it stood beneath the lights. I got up for a closer look...and it turned its head and looked right at me.

I don't believe in aliens. That's not to say they don't exist. Just because you don't believe something, doesn't make it not true. But if there are aliens biding their time to enslave these soft creatures of various colors who, in the words of Radiohead Thom Yorke, "lock up their spirits, drill holes in themselves, and live for their secrets," I can imagine them looking just like praying mantises. Big eyes, long antennae, grabby-pokey forehands, long spindly legs, skinny tube-like bodies, and retractable wings. Shudder.

The electrical cord from the bug zapper hangs down and it is close to the railing. The praying mantis swayed in place for a few seconds, then reached across the span and grabbed on to the cord. It started climbing. Now, even though they remind me of potential aliens, I didn't wish this creature to climb into the zapper and die in a buzzing, smoking dance of death. At the same time, I was curious to see if it was drawn to the light like the lesser, dumber creatures, or if it was using the light as a lure for a late-night snack. So I waited and watched. It slowly made its way up the cord, using its powerful forearms and thin legs to pull itself upward. Every time I made a movement, it would stop and turn its head towards me. So I did my best to not move. When it got to the same level as the bottom of the zapper, I was on the ready to pull the plug. But it made no attempt to climb onto it. It kept climbing the cord until it reached the top of the zapper, then climbed onto the rafter above. I never saw it catch anything, but I believe it was taking advantage of the light's allure to catch a meal.

I think the praying mantis might be my favorite insect. Did you know that "mantis" is the Greek word for "prophet" or "seer?" Those eyes, though...and as far as my favorite insect, it's a close race between it and a writing spider. Now, they are cool. I've sat and watched one build her web, tying off the supporting strands, then making the spiraling network of strands that make up the body of the web. And when she called it complete, she waited with patience in the middle for her catch of the day. But the mantis has no web; just those lightning-fast grabbing claws. And where I've been calling the mantis an "it," just going by the size of this particular mantis, I should be saying, "her" or "she." Those same claws she uses to catch her meals, those claws which hold tight as she munches away at her meal; those are the same claws the hold her mate as she bites his head off.

It is common for her to bite her mate during mating, and it is widely believed that it is the only way the male mantis can release sperm to fertilize her eggs. It is true that if he is attacked during mating, it will increase the "action down below", which results in an increased chance of fertilization. Science has more or less disproved the former statement:

"The reason for sexual cannibalism has been debated, with some considering submissive males to be achieving a selective advantage in their ability to produce offspring. This theory is supported by a quantifiable increase in the duration of copulation among males who are cannibalized, in some cases doubling both the duration and the chance of fertilization. This is contrasted by a study where males were seen to approach hungry females with more caution, and were shown to remain mounted on hungry females for a longer time, indicating that males actively avoiding cannibalism may mate with multiple females. The same study also found that hungry females generally attracted fewer males than those who were well fed. The act of dismounting is one of the most dangerous times for males during copulation, for it is at this time that females most frequently cannibalize their mates. This increase in mounting duration was thought to indicate that males are more prone to wait for an opportune time to dismount from a hungry female rather than from a satiated female that would be less likely to cannibalize her mate. Some consider this to be an indication that male submissiveness does not inherently increase male reproductive success, rather that more fit males are likely to approach a female with caution and escape."

So it isn't always a death sentence for the male. Sometimes he is lucky enough to live and find another mate, thus starting the deadly ritual all over again. But, man, those males have it rough. They are merely doing what generations of male mantises have done before: getting what they want by giving generations of female mantises what they want. And in return, they get their heads chewed off.

Their heads chewed off...

But that doesn't stop successive males from continuing to procreate; to woo the members of the opposite sex, who more often than not, can hand them their heads on a platter. Literally.

So there is hope after all. :-)

Quoted sources:

1) Maxwell, Michael R.; Gallego, Kevin M.; Barry, Katherine L. (2010). "Effects of female feeding regime in a sexually cannibalistic mantid: Fecundity, cannibalism, and male response in Stagmomantis limbata (Mantodea)". Ecological Entomology 35 (6)
2) Lelito, Jonathan P.; Brown, William D. (2006). "Complicity or Conflict over Sexual Cannibalism? Male Risk Taking in the Praying Mantis Tenodera aridifolia sinensis". The American Naturalist 168 (2): 263

When I Was 15

Once upon a long time ago, in a time that seems like whole life away, I was 15. There were none of these worries of the world on my shoulders; none of these scars I bear, visible and hidden. There were only wide open eyes to what the world had to show. I was in between the wonder of wishes and the knowledge of realism. I was right smack in the middle the joys of being a child and the yearnings of adulthood. If I had known just how hard life as an adult would be, I would have tried to stay right where I was.

When I was 15, it was 1983. In my sheltered world, a world that I knew well, life was good. There was no need to know that life outside of my bubble was both terrifying and beautiful, but I knew it was anyway. I knew that there was more to life than just living on a mini farm and attending a 2-room schoolhouse. Things were happening...

Mt. Kilauea began slowly erupting in Hawaii, and its lava is still flowing to this day.
Apple Inc. released the Apple Lisa personal computer.
The final episode of M*A*S*H aired, setting a new world record for the most watched television broadcast in U. S. history.
Michael Jackson first performed the "moonwalk" at Motown 25 and his video for "Thriller" was broadcast for the first time.
Sally Ride became the first woman in space aboard the Space Shuttle Challenger.
Vanessa Williams became the first African American to be crowned Miss America.
Microsoft Word was first released.
President Ronald Reagan made the proposal to develop technology to intercept enemy missles, which was dubbed "Star Wars" by the media.
McDonalds introduced the McNugget.
"Flashdance" and "Return of the Jedi" were box office hits.
Chrysler started production on the first minivans, the Dodge Caravan and the Plymouth Voyager.
Carrie Underwood was born.
Karen Carpenter died.

I was 15 and had already visited another country. I was selected as the junior representative for our local Pathfinder club (for all you heathens out there, think Boy Scouts meet Girl Scouts with room for Jesus in between) to attend the 1st Inter-American Division Pathfinder Camporee held in Oaxtepec, Mexico. It was my first time on an airplane (I've only flown one other time since then) and my first time out of the States. Talk about a culture shock. The biggest city I had ever visited was Tampa and here I was in the middle of Mexico City with only a handful of people I barely knew, embarking on a several hour bus ride to a place in the country large enough to accommodate several thousand kids and chaperones from North, Central, and South America. We visited Aztec pyramids, historical sites, and a museum of history. It was there that I learned the value of a peso and the art of bargaining for trinkets. It was there that I learned you could get lost in a big city and find yourself there too. I also learned you could find almost anything you wanted if you asked the right person. It was my first experience outside of my comfort zone and I will never forget it.

I was 15 and I had already tried pot and discovered I liked it. I think I won't expand on this subject right now more than just saying that the 90's were yet to come...

I was 15 and I was developing who I was. Country music (which was grandmother approved) was being replaced with Rock and Roll (which wasn't). My cousin introduced me to Pink Floyd and it was the first time music touched my soul and changed my life. I had been "husky" for as long as I could remember and still battle with that problem to this day. My friends were Converse, I was "bobo" shoes (you know, no-name brand). I was poor, but unlike today, I didn't realize it. I was 15, so it didn't matter.

I'm no longer 15, but today, my daughter is. I hope that she hasn't experienced some things that I had at her age, and hope that she can experience others. She has already been to our nation's capital, and this year, there's a possibility of her visiting larger cities such as New York and Chicago. She harbors a love for animals and she has wicked artistic talents. She's eligible for her learner's permit. She is in (gulp) high school. She is becoming a beautiful young lady and is noticing boys. She is developing her own persona, but still is an off-hand carbon copy of me. She's 15 and she's my little girl.

I feel blessed to have her and my son both in my life. Sure, life in a broken home...no, not broken, just life in two separate homes...is not easy, but we've gotten used to it. I feel blessed that they both have their good health. It could be a lot different.

I heard yesterday of a little girl who probably will lose her battle today with her undisclosed-to-me sickness. I can only assume that cancer is to blame. My heart goes out to everyone close to this little girl. I can't imagine the grief; the guilt of being helpless to fight this cruel thief of such a young life. I heard about this and all I wanted to do was go to my kids at their mom's house and hug them and tell them just how much I love them. But I didn't. I merely came home to my myriads of cats and dogs and fish and birds and put my fingers to talking.

I was 15 and had the future ahead. She is 15 and her future is rapidly approaching. She is 15 and shouldn't have to worry about adult things like jobs and bills and loss of love. All that will come in time. All that can wait until later. And God willing, I will be there when her future becomes our present.

Happy birthday, sweet child of mine.

You are 15.

Poke

Poke.

It's just a little thing, maybe no bigger than a gnat, perhaps a mosquito, but often times ends up being as big as an elephant. It annoys. It irritates. It eats away at the delicate lining of your soul. It can be everything to you and nothing to others. It is what jabs its finger into your side; just a little poke. But poke after poke after poke after poke and that spot on your ribs starts to really hurt.

Poke.

Usually the fingers that do the jabbing are someone else's. But sometimes you look down and realize the finger that jabs is at the end of your own hand. The incessant poking may have been started by someone other than yourself, but without even thinking about it, you take up where they left off. Self-inflicted wounds are the ones that go mostly unnoticed by both outsiders and the one doing the poking.

Poke.

I heard my son yell, "Nooo!" I had just come in from being outside and the thought of what to fix for supper was on my mind. I stepped into the living room to find him pointing at the television. A familiar face was on the screen; a face of one I'd grown up with; one that had once been an alien, an old lady, an adventurer stuck in a board game, a wise-cracking genie, a symbol of Neverending boyish youth, a spinach munching sailor, a mentally disturbed homeless man...so many faces. I saw the words at the bottom of the screen. I heard the newsman saying what I didn't want to comprehend. This familiar face was no more. We stood there in silence for a moment, taking time to let it sink in.

Poke.

I don't know the first thing about clinical depression. I know about being sad. I know about being depressed over something. I couldn't imagine it being a constant part of my life. As far as I know, I don't know anyone who is being treated for depression. But I bet there is someone. People are more adept to hiding things than to sharing things. Why? Maybe because it's easier to keep it inside; maybe because it's easier to keep it hidden from the world, than it is to let it out. And when you're good at hiding things, it's hard for others to see what kind of pain you're enduring.

Poke.

I, and a lot of my friends, lost someone we loved several years ago. I had known this friend for a while. Not as long as most of our friends, but long enough to still care for him and call him my friend. I don't know what he was going through or why he decided to remove himself from the reality of his suffering. And as real as it was, I didn't see it. I didn't see the worry, the hurt, the obstacle he couldn't get over. I never saw signs pointing to his ultimate decision.

Poke.

I can say that I've had some pretty rough times and still crack a smile. My problems seem to be short-sighted. Of course, I have ongoing problems, but their effect doesn't seem to last long, and they definitely don't last forever like I think they will. Good times will come back, and when they do, it's the bad times that define just what the good times are. I've always said that I love myself too much to hurt myself. And it's so true. Even in what I define as the lowest part of my life, I still loved myself. Now, I may not like myself at times, but I don't have to like myself to love myself.

Poke.

My daughter came out of her bedroom and asked what was going on. We pointed towards the television. It was real. We had just been talking about him the morning before on our way to her bus stop at my son's school. I believe his name came up while trying to think of another actor, but we talked about him too. My daughter looked at the television, and then came to me in the kitchen and put her arms around me, put her head on my shoulder, and we both just stood there, not saying anything. He wasn't someone who we knew personally. He wasn't a friend or family member. He wasn't in our lives. But yet, he was. He impacted us with infectious laughter; my kids for as long as they could recognize him; me for what seems my whole life.

Poke.

It was just a few weeks ago that something was poking me. The poke was hitting me about midway down the front of my left ribcage. Someone had gotten an honor that I felt should have been bestowed upon me. Something that had been mentioned to me years ago. Something that would have improved finances, albeit, not by much. It's not so much the point that it wasn't offered to me. It's not that it was offered to someone else. It is the fact that there was so much secrecy involved. That hurt. There was no reason that I could see to keep it hidden from me. That was the jab on my left side, a little to the side of my center of my chest. But the poke continued even after I had gotten over the situation. Poke, poke, poke. But I realized that it wasn't an outside force doing the poking. The poke now came from within. I knew it was unhealthy. I knew it had to stop. The only way that it would stop would be for me to accept what was done, forgive those involved, and continue loving myself. And that's just what I did.

Poke.

It's easy for me to say, "Get over it. It's not that bad." It's easy because it's not my life; it's not my pain and suffering; it's not me living with a feeling of low self-worth, or enduring an unknown source of the poking that becomes too much to bear. It's not me that feels like things would be better if I just removed myself from being someone else's source of misery. It isn't me.

And, by God, if it's you, please let someone you love know; let someone who loves you know.

The Passing Storm

"There's a sound of distant thunder and I'm glad it's not a war I'm fighting. I have too many of my own battles to contend with." -Me

I'm wide awake. It's 1:30am and I hear thunder from distant storms. I read earlier that severe weather had damaged at least 10 homes here in eastern Tennessee tonight. At that time, there had not been any reports of deaths or injuries, to which I was relieved to hear. But the news continues to be covered even when I'm not reading about it on the Internet, hearing it on the radio, or watching it on TV. It might be a different story in the morning.

Right here, right now, the night insects are still calling out for mates and the rolling of thunder still sounds distant. There isn't any wind nor is there rain falling on the roof. Every now and then, the AC unit kicks on, drowning out all sounds of the outside world for just a few minutes; and when it cycles down, the night sounds resume. But the incessant sound of inner thoughts can't be muffled by the insects nor thunder nor the window unit in my room.

There's a place not too far from here, perhaps only an hour away, that popped into my mind tonight. I haven't been there in many years, but I can hear the water trickling over the rocks and her laughter echoing through them still. A hot summer day, two people with no one else in sight, and a sense of bravery over inhibitions created an unforgettable experience with nature and natural beauty. There was no rain, no thunder then; no battles being fought. Just love...

There is wind now. I can hear it blowing through the trees in my yard and through the trusses of the faux roof above this place. I believe rain is not far off.

It's long gone now, but another place on the side of a mountain, where behind the confines of a locked door, a whirlpool tub overflowed with round shimmering pockets of rainbow color. Perhaps we shouldn't have put bubble bath liquid in a whirlpool tub, but it wasn't a forethought, rather one made in hindsight as we laughed about the sticky situation. Once again, just love...

There's the rain. I hear it hitting the windows as it gets blown by the increasing wind and I hear it hitting the ground as it runs off the roof. That thunder is a lot closer now, too.

The waves of the Atlantic Ocean came crashing in with crests of glowing white and the stars eerily reflected off its rolling surface and the crashing sound was too loud and the sand was too thick and my brain couldn't comprehend and I couldn't take it anymore. My feet started moving and my voice quit working  and the motel room got further away the closer we got to it. Blackness was creeping and my thoughts were thinking that what I thought was in those capsules was not what was in those capsules at all. No, not at all. But she started the tub and the water poured over my hair and her hand petted my head and soothing words came out of her mouth and the fear and the loathing flowed down; it circled round and found the drain. There was no rain, but there was thunder from a battle being fought that night, not between the two, but within the one; within myself.

There's still thunder. There's still rain. Intermittent thunder; constant rain. And I'm still awake.

All that stuff from the past? It's gone as a real thing. But just as this passing storm, it's reality. The storms will pass. They might leave behind evidence of their passing. They might just pass on through without a trace, with only the memory of the thunder and the watering of a thirsty landscape left as a reminder. That's the good stuff a storm leaves behind. It does the things that it's supposed to do; water the earth, clean the air, cool the temperatures. It does what it is intended to do, then it moves on. But you know it's been there.

Why I thought about this stuff tonight is beyond me. It's been years since major storms have passed in my life, but evidence of their passing still linger as an etching of professed love lingers in the bark of an ever-growing tree. The bark may cover over most of the scar, but if the etched memory was made deep enough, it will always be there.

I think about other places around the world, places I've never been to and probably never will visit, that the sound of thunder might not indicate a weather related storm, but instead a storm of war; flashes of lightning that are fired missles; the sound of thunder that are exploding bombs; raindrops are a hail of bullets. I think of these things and I think, "I'm glad that's not my storm."

I think I'm in a pretty good place now. I'm not concerned with much. I have my kids, my job, my decreasing waistline, and my increasing health and happiness. I'm a patient man. I don't mind waiting through storms for what's right. As I was folding clothes earlier tonight, I saw a t-shirt of my daughter's. On it, there was a T-Rex, an asteroid, and the words, "Good things come to those who wait...sometimes." As insightful and thoughtful as it is, I laughed. She has my humor.

It's 3:30am now. The storm has passed. The rain has tapered off and the thunder is distant once again. My wandering mind? It too had tapered off to a distant thunder. It is almost quiet.

And it waits.

From Wishes to Weeds

Long, spindly stalks topped with spheres of fuzzy white
With breath from pursed lips, wanted wishes take flight.
Spiraling, spinning, scattering seeds,
Float and then land, turning wishes to weeds.
-Me

"Be careful what you wish for. You just might get it all. And then some you don't want." -Chris Daughtry

"A dream is a wish your heart makes." -Cinderella

Where have all the dandelions gone? Those yellow flowers turned wish-granters have all but disappeared from my yard. Not that it's a bad thing, with them being hard-to-kill weeds and all, but I wonder where they went? My yard is far from manicured. I mow it. I don't water it and I certainly don't fertilize it. It's lucky if I even take the time to rake the leaves off of it in Autumn. Dandelions used to spot my yard with their towering stalks gone to seed, but now there's only handfuls scattered here and there amongst the other weeds.

This weed is superstitiously charming. Children are most susceptible to its charms. What childlike mind wouldn't be? I know I was. Nobody was there to tell me that to blow on them was to plant them; I was told to make a wish and that wishes made wouldn't come true if I didn't get every parachute off with the power from one breath. I made sure to blow as hard as I could every time, because even then, I knew that wishes ungranted are wishes wasted. With my own kids, I didn't restrain them from blowing on dandelion stalks, even though I knew that it was spreading that innocuous weed all over. They believed in the magic of wish-making and a little part of me did too. I wanted to believe.

Wishes don't come true just because you want them to. I know that. There's nothing magical, truly, about wishes made, nor wishes granted. They're just dreams put into words to generate hope. There's no power in a dandelion seed. There's no genie in a bottle; no leprechaun's pot of gold. We make wishes over flamed candles on birthday cakes. We throw away money on wishes in wells, ponds, and fountains. We pull apart a dried bone from the main course from Thanksgiving dinner in hopes of dreams come true. We wish upon a small dot in the night sky, a dot that has most likely burned out long ago. Wasted; all of these wishes are for naught.

I've wished for many things that I never got. I wished to not get hurt. I wished to never hurt anyone. I wished for things to go the way I wanted. I wished for peace and understanding in unknown situations. I've wished for things that last like they're supposed to. I suppose the most likely wishes that come true are the ones that you make come true; ones where you take action upon getting what you want. You want that job? Apply for it. Like that person? Ask 'em out. Things don't normally just fall into your lap. Just like my current improvement in my health and my weight loss; I did wish I could lose weight, but it wasn't going to just happen all by itself. I had to take action, and I'm sure glad I did.

I still wish. I don't make wishes, I just wish. I wish for good in the lives of myself and others. I wish positively. I wish with love and compassion. But above all else, and perhaps the most damaging, I wish retrospectively. The past dredges up all sort of wishes; one for each bad decision; one for each mistake made; and a never ending supply for never ending failures. Most of my wishes pertain to holding on to things that I should let go of; things that are over and done with; things that would rather hurt than heal. I should not want those things. It seems that I am drawn to the broken. I wish I wasn't.

I spent this past weekend at a beautiful place with beautiful people. It's a place that holds beautiful memories; memories that I will cherish forever. It's a place where, even if I was there all alone, I'd feel surrounded by the ones I've spent time with there before. In another life, my kids were innocent babies enjoying this place. One of my favorite pictures is of my son, naked to the world, sitting on a high-backed chair, his little cheeks visible through the space between seat and back with the river as a background. It was there that my daughter met her fishing buddy, a friend of mine who took the time to show a 4-year old girl secrets to catching "the big one." I've been there with companions of the opposite sex, making memories that I will never forget, each being special in their own time and place in my life. The time spent there is time away from this humdrum life; and each time the moment comes to leave, I wish I could just stay. But eventually, even that beautiful place grows weeds.

This weekend won't match last weekend, and being what it is, it shouldn't anyway. It will be special in its own right. Saturday, there's a good chance that I will be making a wish over a frosted confection. I'll try to not to spread germs as I summon the power of the mighty candle wish.

I'm not supposed to reveal a wish, but I can reveal my hopes in the form of a wish. I wish for my family, and especially my children, to know how much I love them. I wish for my friends to know the same thing. I wish for happiness for those whom I loved/love who are no longer a part of my life. I wish for wisdom in making life's decisions. And while I'm at it, I might as well wish for $1,000,000. You never know. The busy wish granters might oblige me for a change.

It's never ending, this wanting; this hoping; this wishing. I don't know if it's a selfish thing, by wanting something for yourself, or generous, by wanting for others. But I do know one thing: There's too many wishes to make, and if my yard is any indication, not enough dandelions.

Ready or Not?

I'm sitting here at the kitchen table between my daughter, who is creating a world of Harry Potter/Homestuck role play on her tablet (my own little dungeon master!) and my son, who's in game 5 of the World Series on his iPod. And I'm writing. She's asking me how to spell words and using me for references to Harry Potter. He's twitching and making video game faces while play-by-play calling and home-run celebrating. And I'm smiling.

We're sitting together, doing separate things together; what they are doing respectively doesn't interest them. I'm the tying factor. He doesn't care about her role playing; she cares nothing about his baseball game. I care about what each of them are doing, and they have no clue what I'm doing.

The TV is blaring out the background music from the menu of "The Lion King." We've watched it several times over the weekend. Once yesterday before our trip to the Chattanooga Library, once this morning after my son watched "Thor: The Dark World," and just finished it again not 30 minutes ago. It was one of 3 movies we rented on our way home from the library. The others were "12 Years a Slave," and "The Hobbit: The Desolation of Smaug." They were all good, but "12 Years a Slave" was the best, so much better than the other rentals. Well, better than "Thor," at least. My son said it was sad. My daughter said it made her ashamed of America during that time period. I was still reeling enough from the fact that my kids had just seen boobs and butts to form an opinion...

The only time we've been apart this weekend was today when I went grocery shopping. Talia didn't want to go, so I took Trey with me. Part of the reason she stayed and he went was because she wanted to watch "Pan's Labyrinth." The main reason he went with me was because he didn't. I've seen this movie several times and absolutely love it. I explained to her that it was a brutal, yet beautiful story. She has seen movies that I consider worse than this one. Scary movies; ghost stories; supernatural sagas. It wasn't to my surprise that she loved it, Spanish language with English subtitles and all.

She's a young lady, caught somewhere between "The Lion King" and "The Conjuring." She resides in that place between not wanting me to be in her business and telling me everything about what she's thinking. She's 14 years old, no longer a little girl, not yet a woman, but I see the woman in her pushing her way from the future and into the present. She's graduating from the 8th grade tomorrow night. She's growing up too fast, right in front of my eyes...and it hurts.

They both think I'm being silly when I'm sentimental. I sat in front of my computer the other night, looking for pictures to send to her teacher for a slide show during tomorrow night's ceremony. I found some pictures from her kindergarten year that I wanted to use, but not before being distracted by videos and pictures from both of their toddler years. I sat there far longer than I should have, remembering, reminiscing, and wiping my eyes.

I know that growing older is inevitable. I've done it, you've done it, we are all in the process of doing it. Brief seconds turn into momentous minutes. Those minutes turn into hours; into days; into months, weeks, and years. It's no shock to discover that there's not a thing anyone can do to prevent it. I think that's why it hurts. I'm a fixer. I see something that needs fixing and I try to fix it. But truly, I can't fix anything.

I see my grandmother getting older. I was visiting her last month and it's hard to admit that, even though she's going strong, in my mind, every trip to the hospital is a major reason to be concerned that I might not see her again. I see myself getting older. It isn't something that I see in the mirror as a daily progression, but it's more something that's seen in one clear moment. I may still feel like the kid in the husky jeans with adolescent dreams, but in reality, I'm the guy in the size 36 boot-cuts with a few unrealized dreams. I see my kids getting older. Now that's something I notice more frequently. Every time they return from the week at their mom's is a fast-forward in time. It's a shoe size larger here, a wittier and more mature remark there, and an all-around development to wrap it all up in.

It's easier to see the growing up occur in someone else more than myself, especially in my kids. That's because I'm constantly looking outward. That's what your eyes were made to do. You don't look with your eyes inwardly. That's better left up to the duo of Heart and Brain, who can also take on the dual task of looking outward as well. But it's a one-way outgoing street for the eyes.

They've gone to bed long ago and I've retired to the bed to finish this. I know that it's late, but I have to get this written down. I know that if next week will be here before I know it, 5:30am is going to be here much, much sooner. And now tomorrow has become today, which means that her graduation is no longer tomorrow, but tonight. I know it's going to hit me. I can guarantee some tears will be shared. Not solely because of the inability to stop time and keep my kids from growing up before my very eyes, but because they are here to pass that time with. As much as I want to tell them to slow down; that adulthood is not all that; that their growth means my aging...I also want to tell them to enjoy the fullness of that childhood-to-adult trip at their own pace, keeping in mind that time isn't going to stop, much less slow down; not for them; not for me; not for anyone.

Bound

Man, it feels good to be in pajama pants and laying in my bed. Not that they're going to stay on when it's bedtime. I cannot stand things that constrict while sleeping. Shirts bundle up and I can feel every crease, seam, and wrinkle as if I was lying on sticks and stones. Socks? No way. They make my feet way too hot and besides, they make them itch too. And these pajama pants, even though they're not blue jeans held up with a belt that has had three extra holes punched in them to even hold said jeans up, they're too much to wear sleeping. Underwear? Like I said, I don't like things that constrict while sleeping. I'd rather feel skin on cool sheets (or better yet, skin on warm skin on cool sheets) under a few blankets than wear pajamas.

My kids came home last Wednesday from their bi-monthly week-long stay at their mom's. That meant it was time to start cooking again. I usually don't cook much when they're gone. I don't see the point of it. I can satisfy any hunger I have with a bowl of cereal or tomato soup/grilled cheese combo without breaking out more than a few cooking utensils and pots and pans, or coming up with creative ways of satisfying my hunger. Not that I mind cooking, it's just not worth the effort to cook for just me.

There's a guy I work with that always brings in his NutriBullet food blender and liquifies various vegetables and fruits. He says that the body easily absorbs the nutrients from food this way without that pesky process of digestion getting in the way. I dismissed it as a nutrition junkies banter. That is, I did until my boss bought one. Then someone else bought one. I suddenly started seeing them all lose weight, have more energy, and increase their overall health. I began to think that maybe it wasn't just health junkie talk after all. I shelled out the $80 for one to call my own.

For the past week and a half, I've been "juicing." I haven't started the regimens that are recommended in the product manual, but I've been mixing up my fresh veggies and fruits into these (surprisingly) tasty smoothies. And, I've begun to notice a difference. Don't get all excited, because it's nothing too drastic. I hit the time of day where a nap would hit the spot...and I'm not so tired. I find myself being less distracted (squirrel!). And there's less of a bulge above the belt (wink). Really, though. The scales don't show much of a loss, maybe a pound or two, but that's only after a short period of time of juicing.

So, when my kids came home, it was the first real home cooked meal I'd had in over a week. I picked at some food at work when I cooked for a dinner on Monday, but it wasn't a meal. For this meal, I made chicken, green beans, small potatoes, salad, rice-n-veggies, and Italian bread. As I was eating, I noticed something: I could barely finish my plate. That only meant there was plenty of leftovers for the next day's lunch for all of us, but that's not the point. I swear my stomach had shrunk. My plate held delicious food that I love, but I felt like I didn't want any of it.

According to the Great Statisticians of America, I'm obese. I don't see it. I do see I'm a bit soft in areas. I have these love handles going to waste (and waist). I'll be the first to admit I have moobs. But obese? I don't think so. But, the scales do tell me that I could stand to lose a pound or twenty. I can do it, if I set my sights on the goal, especially when there's incentive. A few years ago, I was the winner in a weight loss competition at work. The incentive was the Grand prize of $250 and a day off of work. Oh, I can eat a salad and exercise when there's money and time off from work on the line. I was bound and determined to win, and that's just what I did.

So, earlier today, as I thought about losing weight and being healthy, those words came into my head: Bound and Determined. Why do we say that? What does it mean? I know what "determined" means. Your mind is made up and come Hell or high water, you will do what you mean to do. You are resolved. But the word "bound" has several definitions or meanings. What does "bound" mean, especially when applied to that phrase? What do I think it means and, for the sake of finally coming to the point, how can I apply its meaning to my life?

Bound as a verb, noun, adjective...
  - 1. To leap forward or upward; To progress.
  - 2. A limit. 
  - 3. To be confined by bonds. 
  - 4. To be under legal or moral obligation; under contract.
  - 5. To be equipped with a cover or binding, as a book.
  - 6. To be determined (hmm...) or resolved.
  - 7. To be headed; on the way to.
 
I'm pretty sure it isn't the first definition, at least not totally. I don't do much leaping or jumping these days. As a kid, there was quite a bit of jumping, but not so much anymore. Gone are the days of climbing trees and jumping down from great heights. As far as making progress, I think that is something we all try to do every day. Unless you've dropped something or know there is something to learn by going back, there's no point in regression.

I don't think it is referring to setting a limit either. In a lot of games, there are boundaries, hence the phrase, "out of bounds." Volleyballs go out of bounds. In baseball, you must stay in the base line when rounding the bases. The pitcher must throw the ball into the batters box. There are reasons for setting boundaries in more than just games. Laws like "Don't murder" and "Don't steal" are based upon set boundaries. They're areas you don't go into unless you want to pay the price. Moral boundaries exist for the same reasons.

To be confined by bonds? I don't think so. Not just physically tied up...you can be tied up by your job, your habits, your attitude, even your own fears. Apart from some who like to be tied up (ahem), not very many people like to be confined or kept from doing something of their own free will. We've seen the atrocities from slavery and the breaking of the spirit that comes with it. It's just morally and inherently wrong.

That musician that signed up to a record label? Under contract. The crew that's replacing your roof? Under contract. The couple that slid rings on each others' fingers? They're under contract too. And since all of these examples are under the bounds of a contract, whether legal or moral, there are ramifications for breaking said contract. I'm under a contract with my place of employment. I signed a contract where they pay me a specified amount of dollars for a specified amount of work. What happens if I don't live up to my obligation? At the least, my paycheck is smaller. At the worst, I'm seeking other employment.

You know, another obligation I have is with my kids and with my kids' mother. We may not be married anymore, but I am bound to her for the rest of my life through our children. It's a contract; it's an obligation that I'm more than willing to uphold. That's not to say that I'm perfect. I do mess up. I'm no Super Dad. Actually, I'm far from it. But I would never, ever do something intentionally to regress in the working relationship, or contract, that we have. There's absolutely no point in it.

I'm pretty sure "bound" as in a covering or binding that a book would have isn't the meaning either. A binding does keep a book together, otherwise you'd be shuffling papers around, staying out of drafty places, trying to keep up with the stack of papers you just borrowed from the library. Could you imagine that? Although a binding or covering is good for giving you a glimpse of what's inside, we've all heard to not judge books that way. Same thing with people. You shouldn't go on looks alone to determine what kind of soul a person has. Some of the kindest people out there have the most unattractive covers...

The last two definitions go hand in hand with each other as well as with the first definition, and I think it's the perfect combined definition. To be bound is to be determined. To be bound is to be headed in a certain direction. And hopefully that direction is forward, on your way to where you want to be. So, if you are "bound and determined," you are doubly resolved.

And so I am. I'm bound and determined to live healthier and lose 20 pounds. I'm bound and determined to be a better person, whether that's my role as father, friend, brother, or lover. I'm bound and determined to see YOU again. I'm bound and determined to be who I am, surrounded by those who love just who I am. I'm bound and determined to live this life as best as I know how.

I'm also bound and determined to finish this writing, save it, close this tablet, get "unbound," and slip under the covers. Good night, dear reader, and sweet dreams.

Free Fall

"Open up your parachute, something's got to stop the free fall." -The Shins

I can't imagine what it's like to fall from great heights, with gravity's force pulling me down to Earth, impending doom only seconds away and the only thing preventing the "splat" is faith bundled up in a pack strapped to my back. The way I see it, there's absolutely no reason to purposefully put myself into a free fall. When I was young and restless in Florida, there was a jump center close to our house, no more than 5 miles away. It was so neat to see the parachutes floating to earth, mere specks in the sky, growing bigger as they got closer to Earth, ever spiraling as they floated with the graceful maneuvers of magic in a child's eye. At times, the spectacle would last all day. I would always wish to float like that, but never wanted the fall that preceded the float.

Just last summer, I took my kids to Six Flags over Georgia. They have a free fall ride there that my son wanted to ride. So, I told him I'd ride with him. As we were standing in line, the ride rose and fell a number of times, giving us a preview of what to expect. It gave my son enough time to determine that he didn't want to ride it after all. I told him to go on it was fine, but that I was going to ride it. I did. I can tell you now that I probably won't again. My heart; shoot, my entire insides were in my throat. Not fun.

We've all experienced the "falling" dream. You know what I mean. Perhaps you started off with the "flying" dream. I do. My flight usually involves flapping of the arms for liftoff, not like Superman, who just takes off lightning fast. No, I take off with the lumbering grace of Grandpa Joe and Charlie in the Fizzy Lifting Drink room of Wonka's chocolate factory. Flap, flap...whee! But the fall is not so clumsy. It's a scary free fall which stops before impact with an abrupt wakeup. They say if you hit the ground in your dreams, you actually die. How would they know? If you die, you wouldn't be able to say that you were falling in your dream. I surely don't know. I always wake up.

I've fallen many times. I remember landing on a small stump on my back after falling off of a tire swing into an area of our yard that we had just pruned. I remember falling out of the 2nd floor of a barn when I foolishly decided to use myself as the weight to hoist a large wooden cart on a pulley system and landing on said cart. I remember standing in the bed of a truck that abruptly moved forward. I didn't. Monkey bars? Check. Stepladder? Check. Tree? You bet. Surprisingly, in all of these cases, I was left virtually unharmed, but gasping for air with a diaphragm that just didn't want to work. I was left breathless. That feeling of not being able to take a breath is the worst feeling, somewhat like I'd imagine drowning would feel like.

Physically falling can inflict great damage upon your body. Break a bone here, suffer a minor concussion there, massive internal injuries and bruising...there's only so much your body can take. Sometimes the fall can be so great, so traumatic, that you don't recover. Kaput. The end. All done.  Metaphorically falling can cause damage not as traumatic, but still enough to hurt. We fall into traps. We fall for tricks. We fall into complacency. We fall for someone's lies. We fall in line. We fall for someone's eyes. We fall from grace. We fall in love...

It's so simple to do, that last bit there.

I fall way too easy. I think it's because I already have a huge capacity to love that it's just a small jump from loving to falling in love. I love loving, but fear it at the same time. That's not to say that I fall for the first doe-eyed beauty that says, "Stop following me." There certainly has to be an attraction; an attraction much more than looks alone to start with. Is it a blessing or a curse to have a heart that loves so much? My personal history has proven to me that the easier it is to love somebody, that greater the pain when that love is lost. To have loss happen every time gets so disheartening and so tiring.

I'm tired of the chase. I'm tired of the fall. I'm tired of the taste of rejection.  For just once, I'd like something good to last forever. I'm 45 years old. The number of women I've either dated or have been in a relationship with still won't take all my fingers to count. There's still two thumbs way, way up before I have to start using my little piggies. Truthfully, I don't want it to get that far. I don't even want to get to the one that goes to market. I know that number is pretty low compared to the norm. I'm a shy guy. I'm a cautious guy. I try to take my time because I want to be sure the pursuit is worth the fall. But being shy and careful takes a back seat once I'm convinced and focused.

I watched a short video yesterday of clips from a friend's recent wedding. I first met him when he was married to someone else. At the time, so was I. We were different couples, living hours apart, but we shared some interests and one other thing: Love for our respective partners. We did things together. We went to VW shows, camped in freezing weather, and even took a week-long trip to the Florida Keys. But like it usually seems to happen, time went by, and we lost touch for the most part. I remember when my marriage was ending, he gave me comfort through words of support. Little did I know that his marriage was in dire straits too. Pretty soon, I learned that his had ended as well.

Second chances are something that most of us don't get. Second chances are something that most of us don't give. Second chances are also something some don't take. If you recognize it for what it is, take it; take it when it's offered to you, because that's a gift from the Universe.

Yesterday, I saw second chance love. I saw two people who had fallen from their own respective broken love brought together by healing love. I saw this love in their eyes. I saw it in their actions; their touch; their embrace; their kiss that sealed the deal. I saw it and with that 12 minute look into their life starting anew, I saw hope. And hope floats.

Maybe second chance will happen. In fact, I'm pretty sure it will. I'll fall once again. I feel it. I know it.

Trigger

I was pushing a shopping cart through the dog food section of Tractor Supply, the right front wheel wobbling as it rolled. The wobbly wheel vibrated the whole cart, wibbly-wobbly with an occasional scratch. It reminded me of a wobbly wheel on a hospital gurney rolling down a darkened hospital hallway full of masked figures in a horror movie I had seen. As I was reaching for the 20 lb. bag of High Protein dog food, I thought to myself, "This is the last place I expected to have a flashback."

It wasn't a loud noise sounding like gunfire to make me duck for cover behind the aisles that had become undergrowth in the jungles of 'Nam kind of flashback. Nor was it a face melting, dragons in the kitchen, hearing colors kind of flashback. It was merely a scent that took me back over 30 years to middle school and the memories associated with that scent.

When I was young, my grandmother had this object that I can only refer to as a sachet. It wasn't a bag or pouch with scented powders or salts, but it was a hard plastic parasol about 6 inches long. It was solid and made to look like the parasol was partially open. Underneath, in the space around the handle, there were holes drilled out for the scent of the salts or crystals to escape. I know it wasn't powder because when I would shake it, it made a sound much like maracas. I thought it smelled like roses. I don't know why I associated that smell with roses, because my grandmother had roses and it didn't at all smell like the ones in her garden did. That smell somehow got stored in my brain, perhaps because of another association...

I was a teenager thinking teenager thoughts and doing teenager things. The school I was attending was a little 2-room schoolhouse with a teacher and a principal who doubled as a second teacher. As a kid, seeing with a kid's eyes, the world was no bigger than what I had seen and where I had been, and that made the world very small indeed. We didn't go anywhere or do anything more than school, church, and the occasional trip to the mall. Through those eyes, we didn't have anything. As I now see it, I truly wasn't aware of just how good I had it. We were not dirt-poor and we were far from rich, but we had what we needed. This school was a private church school with tuition that was mostly paid from someone else's pocket. I didn't know or care to know. I thought cleaning the church every week paid for it. Looking back, I was truly lucky to be there at all. And I'm glad I was able to be there, because teenage thoughts and teenage things included less and less attention to toys and more attention to things that mattered, mainly noticing that girls really weren't that icky after all.

Her name was Tamara. She had an older sister named Tonya that other boys thought was pretty, and she was, but my attention was on Tamara. She had the allure of tan-skin, dark hair, and dark almond eyes. Perhaps I was intrigued by the way she would talk to me like no other girl had. Her father was a sprint car racer and she would tell me about weekends at the dirt track and the thrill of the roaring engines of the cars as they slid around the corners and sprinted down the straightaways. I was into cars at the time and I would buy this magazine called "CARtoons" that we would sometimes look at together in the classroom during lunchtime. I think she was my first real "friend-that-was-a-girl" that I would do stuff with that didn't involve getting cootie shots afterwards.

She smelled like my grandmother's sachet. To borrow a quote from the movie 'Sin City,' "She smelled like angels ought to smell."

I stood there in the dog food section with the scent of memory lingering in the air. Instantly, everything it reminded me of hit me: My grandmother's sachet, a rose-but-not-a-rose aroma, an elementary crush. I was time traveling with a scent that my nose recognized as something my brain had stored in an easily accessible place. Every time I smell that scent; every time...these things always come to mind and to heart.

I looked around me, not knowing which woman was unknowingly transporting me to this other time. It could have been any one of the ladies purchasing horse feed, ugly sweaters for coddled canines, live chicks, or bales of hay. It really didn't matter who it was. I know it was a woman; it was always a woman, because it was a womanly smell. I associate it as such. It is grandma. It is a flower. It is pubescent puppy love.

It's a wondrous thing, this memory machine of ours. These little snippets of times remembered are triggered by the smallest thing; an object, a scent, a song, a certain place. There was a time that I couldn't listen to music I loved because it invoked the memory of someone who introduced me to all sorts of new music. There was a time I couldn't listen to a certain band because of the memory of seeing them live so many times together. There's a little restaurant/bar that I could go the rest of my life and not step foot into again because it reminds me of the beginning of an end. Images of cats and boxes and bookshelves equals overwhelming thoughts of regret and guilt. There's a booth at a restaurant that will forever be the place where I first met someone. There's another booth in another restaurant that still echoes the words spoken in love by a shaky voice from a man down on one knee.

These memories are mostly good ones, but in a melancholy way, for the situations preceding and following them are done. They're over, never to be lived again. I don't begrudge these memories. They are a part of me, just like my deformed toe from a broken bone, the scars hidden under my beard, my well-worn toboggan or the age-old Birkenstock clogs that get repaired instead of replaced. I'd rather have them than not. But new ones are being made every day, for good or bad. And just like the old ones, these new ones will be stored in a place of quick and easy access. It may not be the best place to store them. Some will say to put them deep down, to not think about them.

But you know what?  I put them near the surface because that's where I want them. And perhaps that's the best place of all

Mudman

Most of our fears come not from outside sources, but from within ourselves. When we come to the realization that we've created the things that scare us most, we should be able to conquer those fears with ease. Sometimes, though, that realization comes to us too late to change the results from fearing our own creations. I have fears and I'm scared to death that it's already too late.

Love...no, fear AND love; you are as a hideous golem, made from the ruddy nothingness of my own desires, created with truth in your mouth for a purpose; to serve your creator. This service can exact a great and terrible price. And so, as the golem, when the truth is extracted, you return to dust; and even as you fall apart, you inflict great harm and even scar the one who made you; your creator and destroyer of life.

I've always hated fear. I've always loved love. But right now, in this dark and ocherous moment, you are equally despised. My back is turned. I haven't the desire to speak to either one of you.

Hush

I stood in the falling snow, hearing the hushed roar of innumerable flakes swishing past my ears in their random plummet; their collective crash as they slammed into earth. It's a quiet roar. It's a loud whisper. It's a cacophony of crystalline chaos, beautiful in its silent symphony. As the flakes hit the layer of unraked leaves of Fall, with a pit-pat, pit-pat, browns turned to white. They covered the dormant grasses, asleep until Spring, turning yellows to softening ivory. The song switched as the snow piled layer upon layer on this sleepy land, the tune turning from the tinny clatter of clear crystal to a muffled sound of falling cotton.

I stood in this snowfall beyond my threshold of tolerance. Snow is beautiful, but cold and wet, and yet I remained, through the wind chilling my bones. I remained, through the melting snow that found its way under the collar of my coat and over the rim of my shoes. I shivered as I stood and as I stood, I listened. I shushed my inner battles and listened for inner peace. I quieted myself and listened to the world outside. Aside from its song, I listened for clarity.

I listened for answers to questions unasked.
I listened for voices from faces unmasked.
I heard but a whimper, as the snow turned to slush.
I heard my soul speaking, whispering, "Hush."

"Quiet the world for just a moment in time. Quiet the worries that do nothing but cause grief. Look into silence and hear your reflection."

I stood there. I stood and listened and looked. Snow covered the trees and the road that was recently clear was now blanketed as well. No cars, just building layers of Nature's cold majesty making thoughts of getting to work in the morning just that; merely thoughts. And just like the grey of the sky, nothing was clear. Just lovely white noise...

And even now, in a bed of blankets, I know
Outside, there's still falling snow.
And as I saw before the darkness of my room,
The window showed a brightness in the night's gloom.
The whole of the land is luminous white,
Snow still falling,
Song still calling,
A song that still plays into the night.

And a hush as I turn out the light...

If

If

"…the object of the world of ideas as a whole is not the portrayal of reality - this would be an utterly impossible task - but rather to provide us with an instrument for finding our way about more easily in the world." -Hans Vaihinger

I think I overdid it on the sweet tea. When your teeth go into shock with each sip, you might have mixed too much sugar into it. Well, don't blame me. I mean, I did make it, but I'm used to making 5 gallons at a time. I know exactly how much to put into that much in order to satisfy these Southern palates. I  only made 2 gallons and that calls for mathematics and long division and pi...Mmm...pie. Anyway, somebody just said the tea was perfect. So go ahead and blame me.

I'm waiting for these ladies to finish up and go upstairs to their Bible study so I can put away their leftover food, clean up, and go home. I'm sitting here sipping on sickeningly sweet tea, and thinking. Sipping and thinking...

If.

If can be negatively presumptuous. If can be a bearer of hope. If encompasses daydreams and is a harbinger of nightmares. If can create whole new worlds for you to enjoy and explore or entrap you in the comfort of the only one you've ever known. If can keep you wondering, wandering, and pondering.

Ifs abound. If only I'd spent more time showing how much I cared and less on caring for shows. If I'd kept my head more in school books and less in the clouds. If I'd spent as much time on repairing scars as I did repairing cars. If only I'd saved more money and spent more time. If only I'd talked more and assumed less. If money wasn't an object, I wouldn't try to hold on to it so much. If only I'd paid more attention to the health status of the love I had, I wouldn't be stumbling around in this loser suit stitched together with mismatched patches of doomed relationships. If I were a better man...

Those ifs aren't necessarily current ifs. But I have no doubt that they have crossed my mind over these years. And there's no doubt that they will come into my head again, sooner or later. I'm human and humans are prone to imagination; they create scenarios to fulfill needs, wants, even fictitious views of reality, views that fit the way they want things to be.

If I were a swan, I'd be gone.
If I were a train, I'd be late.
And if I were a good man, I'd talk with you more often than I do.
If I were to sleep, I could dream.
If I were afraid, I could hide.
If I go insane, please don't put your wires in my brain.
If I were the moon, I'd be cool.
If I were a rule, I would bend.
If I were a good man, I'd understand the spaces between friends.
If I were alone, I would cry.
And if I were with you, I'd be home and dry.
And if I go insane, will you still let me join in with the game?
If I were a swan, I'd be gone.
If I were a train, I'd be late again.
If I were a good man, I'd talk to you more often than I do.
  -If, Pink Floyd

As if.

More often than not, I find "if" to be full of doubt. In fact, I'm impressed to believe that "if" weighs in more on the negative side of skepticism. Most of my ifs are looking at what might have been; looking backward first, before looking forward. Looking forward is almost always positive. Both visions are creating a fictional scene, but I think only in the forward can you live "as if."

In "Philosophie des Als Ob" (Philosophy of As If) , philosopher Hans Vaihinger argued that human beings can never really know the underlying reality of the world, and that as a result we construct systems of thought and then assume that these match reality: we behave "as if" the world matches our models. In other words, we have no idea what's going to happen, so we believe what will happen and live as if it is already so. There is no guarantee that the sun will rise in the morning, we just assume that it will. We can't be sure the world still be here at sunrise, we merely believe it will be. And it's gonna snow tomorrow because we cleared the stores of milkbread...wait, that isn't a good example.

I don't believe wholeheartedly in the as if. I do believe that positive thinking and positive living are grand things and most certainly would have an impact on how you live your life. It's no guarantee that life will go as you plan in the as if. If you live as if everything you love could be gone in time, especially if sooner than later, you'll live (insert euphemism here) like there's no tomorrow.

"As If" isn't a science. It isn't something that can be proven in a lab. It's just a theoretical look on life. It's a view that life can be better if you live as if it already is. So many times I'm tempted to consume time and energy, most often to the detriment of happiness and well being, of thinking of my ifs. Maybe there's something in living as if; as if I'm already living life to it's fullest; as if success is already attained; as if happiness has and always will be; as if life is love.

Because it is, ya know?

We've Got to Stop Meeting Like This

Quite the crazy last few days, huh?

I'm sitting here eating my microwaved leftovers from Tuesday's supper of Choplets, lima beans, mac-n-cheese, and garlic cheddar rolls. I came into work today even though we are officially closed. People say it's quieter when you're at work on an off day. Don't let 'em fool ya. That heating unit fan above my head in the kitchen is just as loud as it would be any other day. It may be quiet elsewhere in this building, but not right here. Nor in my head.

The stress level is never as high as it is when you're in a situation where you're not completely in control. Tuesday, here at work, we had barely started a staff meeting before we got the call that the schools were closing and to come get your kids. We quickly finished the meeting and I left as soon as I could, which wasn't soon enough. After waiting 45 minutes to get from McCallie Avenue to 3rd. Street to get onto Amnicola Highway, I finally decided to just go down 3rd. Street to Holtzclaw Avenue. There wasn't nearly as much traffic. And as if by miracle, when I turned onto Holtzclaw, I ended up being a few vehicles behind a truck spreading sand. I followed that truck up Wilcox to Chamberlain, onto Glass Street, and eventually all the way to Hwy. 153, where traffic was moving along at 45 mph. Aside from snail's pace traffic at the Lee Highway exit, I made it to my kids' school without any major problems. Time elapsed: 2 hours.

I parked to go in to get my kids. I wasn't about to brave another 2 or more hours in the car without first...umm...visiting the facilities. I did that, gathered my kids, and headed home. Once again, besides the snarl at Vance and Lee Highway intersection, the rest of the trip home was uneventful. That's not to say it wasn't stressful. I'm pretty confident in my driving skills. But when the roads are covered with ice and idiots, the stress levels tend to rise. My kids noticed this. At one point, when my son asked me about something that was said on the radio, I patted his leg and said, "I know the radio is saying stuff, but I'm not hearing it." The road and how to get home preoccupied my mind enough to make me deaf to that noise.

I decided to get on I-75 North at Bonny Oaks and go up to the first Cleveland exit to get home. Honestly, it wasn't that bad. The interstate had snow on it, but there were clear tracks, not unlike a slot track, that I followed all the way to that exit. They even continued all the way down APD40 to Dalton Pike to where I turn off at Johnson Road. Johnson Road was white with snow. I took it easy and drove the final 2 miles to home. The road, in places, looked like someone had been scraping it with a plow. Sure enough, I came upon a tractor with a scrape blade that was making sure the road was clear from the chicken houses that are about 1/2 mile before my house, to the main road. Beyond that, the road looked like it had not even been touched. It was actually beautiful. That last 1/2 mile was the best part of that trip. No slipping, no sliding...just the crunch of snow under my tires and the sight of my house coming into view. I felt the weight of stress leave my body through my now unclenched fists as I put the car into "Park." We were home. Elapsed time since leaving work: 4 hours.

All that was left to do was to enjoy the snow. I like snow like I like green olives, swiss cheese, or moonshine; a little dab'll do me. The snow is pretty, it sounds musical under tires as you drive or your feet as you walk, but once I start getting wet I start getting cold and I start getting done with it. I reached that point in 10 minutes flat. My daughter lasted longer; my son even longer than that. But, man it sure was pretty seen from the kitchen window and over the rim of a hot cuppa joe.

It's taken 729 words to get to the point. I ramble, I know, and this is more than just a boring re-cap of "Blizzard '14, or How I Survived the Drive Home." It isn't even about me. I made it home. I got my kids home. There were so many others who wrecked or were otherwise stranded in places other than their own driveways. We were safe. We were home. We were alive. We were together.

It was a simple scroll down the numerous status updates that fill my Facebook news feed. It was a simple status update that made me stop the scrolling and allow what I was reading to soak in. It took only a few seconds, but those seconds were a slow transition from bewilderment to realization to acceptance. Another family member had passed away. You know, you really are never prepared when a loved one dies. I am sure nobody was expecting this. I surely wasn't. And I know his wife and kids certainly weren't.

I probably wasn't as close to Lewis Scoggins as I could have been. I don't have too many memories to speak of. I do remember that he was most likely the first person I knew that made his own venison jerky. I remember when he and his family lived near the intersection of Wesleyan and Weatherly Switch Roads. I thought, just by looking at the home and property that these were some of the most down to earth earthy people on the Earth. I was somewhat envious. I know even more recently, I was envious of his awesome beard. Weird.

You know what sucks? Funerals. The only good I see in them is perhaps seeing family members that you haven't seen in a while. Funerals are unplanned family reunions where things are supposed to be said from the heart. Whether they're heartfelt or surface sayings, we all make words a part of the pleasantries, inserting them into the grieving process; things are said to make things better. Many things were said at the last funeral I attended. Things that were meant at the time and are still meant. I said them; others said them too. Of course we all meant to follow through on our words with actions. Saying and doing are like red and violet; opposite ends of a spectrum wrought with intent and regret. A rainbow isn't a rainbow without the oranges, yellows, greens, blues, and indigos in the middle. What usually ends up missing are those colors in between the ends. What's missing are the steps between saying and doing.

I'm guilty of not completing the rainbow. I know that saying is not doing. What is it that gets in the way? Perhaps it's life itself that gets in the way. Work demands my attendance. Kids gotta get their homework done. The animals aren't going to feed themselves, ya know. All I wanna do is just get home. There's too much going on in my life to worry about someone else. But you know what? Here's what: none of this is good enough. Nothing is more important than being with loved ones. If life is what gets in the way, life is also the thing that removes these barriers; these excuses that we make. Life is important and we should make good on all the words we say. Fill in the gap between saying and doing with reasons to actually *do*.

We need to make ourselves the reasons. We need to do it before we gather together at another unplanned family reunion. It's said that family is not just a group of people related by blood. Family is a group of people related by love.

Family? I'll see you Sunday. Lewis? I'll see you someday, after we're all done meeting like this...