Yada-yada-ya

Man spends his life in reasoning on the past, in complaining of the present, in fearing future. ~Antoine Rivarol

I probably shouldn't be writing in bed like this, lying on my stomach, propped up on pillows, tablet against the headboard. It probably isn't the best position for an aching back, for sure. I probably shouldn't be writing at midnight, with the tumbling dryer just outside my bedroom door providing enough white noise with an occasional squeak to lure me to dream while the loud ticking of the wind-up alarm clock on the nightstand provides a tick-by-tock reminder of how many hours until I have until cock's crow. I can't hear any crowing of nearby roosters from my bed, but there's an app for that. There's a rooster crowing in my tablet every morning. And this one has a snooze button.

I probably shouldn't be writing, but here I am. It really doesn't matter that it is this late. I don't have to make the rooster snooze in the morning. I'm pretty sure that the kids, mainly my son, will do enough crowing in the morning. And that crowing has no snooze button.

No, I probably shouldn't be writing, but tomorrow's Christmas, my son turned off all the lights and the television at 8:15, saying that he had been tired all day. I think he's trying to pull the old time-travel trick of making the next day come quicker by going to sleep earlier. "Daaaaaad!" is what I got when I jokingly called him out on it. There aren't a lot of presents under the tree, but there is one that I know he can't wait to open. Since he caused an early blackout at this house, I decided to write and watch movies in bed. THAT didn't happen. Falling asleep and waking up at dumb hours did.

It's now almost 4:00am and is that thunder I hear? It sure is...

I probably shouldn't be complaining about anything, especially the weather, which isn't, never has, and never will be under my control. I am under a roof and a lot of people aren't. I shouldn't be complaining about being up at this odd hour, but here I am, wanting to finish this and wanting to go back to sleep at the same time. I shouldn't complain about there being only six gifts under the tree for my kids when so many kids have none. I probably shouldn't be complaining about a simple life when simplicity is all I want...

"I left (my husband) today." "I'm living at my brother's, divorce is imminent. She's crazy." "My best friend lost her son tonight." "We're getting divorced and I'm looking for a place to stay." "Yeah, we're splitting up too."

I've heard all of this within the past week or so. Sometimes what you've already been through is what someone is going through right now. I am not saying that because I've experienced some of these things in the past that I'm the one you should talk to about it with, but I can lend an ear and give my take on it. This is my first Christmas without my grandmother being there to answer the phone when I call in the morning. And I'm sure lots of you have experience with that.

I will not complain about the past by trying to reason with it. It was what it was. I will try to not complain about the present being what it is, because, well, it is what it is. And I won't complain about the future by fearing it. It will be what it will be.

No; no complaints today. Not even when I see the underlying disappointment hidden under excitement in my kids' eyes as they open their few gifts. I see pictures of gifts piled high and with a pang of jealousy, I quickly ask for grace and gratitude for how much I am blessed. I don't go around throwing that word up in the air or in your face. People use "blessed" for anything from "My cat finally pooped in her box today. I'm so blessed" to "My abusive boyfriend only broke my arm in three places. He could have put me in a coma. I'm so blessed."

No, I'm blessed to have the love of friends and family. I'm blessed to work where I'm actually happy to go in every day. I'm blessed by those two sleeping just down the hall from this insomniac's bed. I'm blessed by just life, ya know?

I'm gonna cut this short. I know I'll be woken in just a few hours. That's OK. I'm also blessed with some pretty strong coffee.

Merry Christmas to you, all my love to all my loves.

Love and Rheum rhaponticum

"Though we can't always see it at the time, if we look upon events with some perspective, we see things always happen for our best interests. We are always being guided in a way better than we know ourselves." -Swami Satchidananda

There's something astir. I feel it and can't figure out if it should scare me or relax me in a crazy mix of tumultuous waves and cumulative emotions. That feeling...

Love is giving when you have nothing to give. On my dresser mirror, tucked into the lower left corner, are several $2 bills. The bills have a special meaning to me. Growing up, we didn't have a lot of money. Not that we knew it, because we never missed meals or went without necessities, but there were not many restaurant outings or extended vacations. I don't know when it started, but on birthdays, I would receive a card from my grandmother with a $2 bill stuck inside. It wasn't much, but because I didn't expect anything and I knew she didn't have much, it might as well have been $200 tucked inside those cards. I knew she did it out of love. She carried this over to my kids as well. I don't know what happened to most of those bills; I'm sure most of them were spent in a pinch, but those displayed on my mirror aren't going anywhere. It wasn't until recently that I discovered that she had lots of $2 bills set aside for grandchildren and great-grandchildren. In the selfless act of giving when there was nothing really to give, she showed love, and that was as biggest gift she could ever give.

Synchronicity is having things come into your life when you need them most. We were camping on the banks of the Little Pigeon River, surrounded by like-minded people enjoying a like-minded weekend. There were people I knew and loved there, and people I didn't know too. People would flit from campsite to campsite, so the chance of making new friends was only a gifted beer away. One of the unknown folks pointed at the lights reflected on the water.

"Ripple in still water, when there is no pebble tossed, nor wind to blow."

He said this as if all should know what he was talking about. I had no clue what he was referring to. In fact, one of my friends was irritated by this unknown dude and wrote him off, perhaps a bit rudely. I wasn't irritated, but I was clueless. I had skipped Grateful Dead and was deep into Phish at the time. I didn't know it was The Dead, I just knew that it was a quote, but didn't know that it would mean something to me years later. It was a low time of my life and, in the weird way that fate works, the same friend who was irritated by that dude that night told me to listen to this song. I listened, and the words jumped out at me. They jumped out and spoke, no...screamed and whispered at the same time.

We all do the same thing. We all take what is going on in our lives and apply something we see as relevant to what situation we may be in at the time. I took this song and applied what I felt it was saying to my then-current situation. There were words pointing to a higher power than myself, and yet pointing to myself at the same time. Anything can be taken the same way. Anything. A chance meeting of someone so freaking incredible that surely it couldn't be mere coincidence, right? Things that keep occurring that sync with each other so that to ignore or dismiss them as something other than signs from the Universe would be folly and total ignorance of what you know and feel to be truth. Anything.

Love is helping others without expecting anything in return. I can't count how many times I've given people bottles of water; those people standing on the side of the road needing help, holding up signs with whatever story they have to tell. I don't care if they're professional beggars making more money than I make working an honest job. They're human with human needs and if I'm not going to give them money, and I most likely won't, I will fill a need at the most basic level. And role reversal: I've been on the needing side and have had friends and family come to my aid with help bigger than a 16.9 oz. bottle of water.

Synchronicity is a word of encouragement just when you need it most. Last week, I got an email from a guy who, as a kid, lived next door to me. He said I had to be the "coolest person on my friends list...and I don't even know you...I think you have some awesome ways of looking at life and you are hilarious with your posts and replies...I just thought you should know...and maybe you needed to hear that...your posts really brighten my day." That in itself is a boost to the ego; a real confidence asseveration; a head sweller. But there's more. This writing has taken longer than usual. Time and thoughts just haven't been jiving in a productive manner, so, I was writing on this when I got the email. I was in a place where I was thinking that nobody listened or paid attention to not just what I had to say, but what other entities or forces were trying to subtly or bluntly tell them. I let him know that he partially proved me wrong. The synchronicity of receiving his email when I needed it went along with these words flowing from me; it proved what I already believed as truth, and his attentiveness to what I had to say proved that people do pay attention and listen.

Hot Tub Time Machine. Just the title alone is a clue to the Oscar-worthy performances of the cast. I sort of kid you/kid you not. A group of friends go back to 1986 in a malfunctioning hot tub and have to relive the night they had at a ski resort, the same ski resort they traveled from in 2010. The movie is asinine, crude, juvenile, almost pointless, but I love it. And it is full of some good ideas and memorable quotes. One of my favorite quotes in the entire movie is not a funny one or words of brilliance, but it gives me a good, good feeling every time I hear it. Adam, played by John Cusack, meets April, played by the lovely Lizzy Caplan. She is a music journalist, and is there for the Poison concert at the resort. Of course, they are interested in each other, and spend the night together, but April has to move on to the next venue, while Adam had to stay and replay that evening in order to get back to the future. As she's getting on the media bus, she asks Adam to come with her and he just can't. They give each other a hug and she whispers in his ear my favorite line in the whole movie: "Maybe the Universe will bring us together again..." I absolutely love it.

Timing and synchronicity. If you've seen the movie, you know how they mesh together and how things end up. But it's a movie, and in a movie, things usually work out for the best, but not always, because screenwriting's that way. In life, it can be the same, but usually not. It's a crazy production, where the screenwriting is done on the fly in the first-person perspective, and the directing is done by life itself. Sometimes the Universe throws beautiful people into your life, people meant to be there, and there's a connection that is honest and true, people who give you the feeling as if you've known each other for years. I don't know why we're brought together; maybe as lovers, maybe as lifelong friends, maybe for someone who is THERE for the rest of your lives. When it happens, you wonder why you hadn't met them earlier. Someone who, if the Universe would allow, you'd jump into a wacked-out hot tub and go back to meet them earlier so you can love them longer.

Love is knowing what love is. I had someone exclaim that they always fall in love with the wrong person. I had to tell them that I didn't believe that for one damn minute. You never fall in love with the wrong person. You fall in love with the right person for that time, for that purpose, for that lesson. You don't choose who to fall in love with. You do choose who you allow into your life enough to love them; the falling is not up to you. You may think you have control over this greatest gift the Universe has to offer, but it isn't up to you. And if the falling doesn't last, then that season is past. The sooner we realize that, well...the better our life of love will be.

I pulled into the parking lot at work and there she was; sleek, sexy, and a rare jewel. She was sitting right in front of my boss' truck, and man, was she beautiful. I'd never seen anything like her. I didn't even know a Mazda 6 Station Wagon existed. I was bound to find out who owned her, but there were many people there and I didn't have time for a stakeout. I had a feeling that I'd find out anyway. In my course of work, I had to replace some fluorescent bulbs in the stairwell, and the stairwell had a perfect view of that beauty. Perfect. As I put the last bulb in on the 2nd floor landing, I glanced out the window and saw the shadow of someone I couldn't see yet, but I could see that it was headed in the right direction. I was down the stairs and out the door in seconds. I waved the guy down.

"Is that your wagon? "
"Yes. And before you go any further, just the fact you're asking about my car says you're a good person."

I guess we each have our own criteria for what a good person is. My criterion is patience, kindness, empathy, a good heart full of love, and a visible soul where all good qualities can't help but be exposed. His was an affinity to station wagons. Go figure. During the conversation, I found out it was a 2006 model with 206,000 miles, and only about 6,000 were imported to America. I also discovered that this guy and I had the love of station wagons and Volkswagens in common. I also learned that he had only been at the church for an hour in a meeting with the head pastor. It took me about an hour to start at the 10th floor and go through both stairwells replacing blown out bulbs and end up between the 1st and 2nd floors with a perfect view of my desire.

Synchronicity. Fate. Karma. Destiny. Blessing. Miracle. Whatever word you use, it all is really the same. They all work the same, together with you and all those you love. It really does have your best interest in mind.

And just like love, I love that.

The Fall

There once was a tree who fell for the wind.

He fell for her touch that sent a rustle through each and every leaf. He fell for her voice, quiet as a whisper; loud as the laughter contained in her breeze. He fell for her stories she told of places she'd been, from as far as across the sea or as near as the next little town. He fell for the taste of her scent; salty, sweet, floral, earthy, feminine, strong.

"Come with me, " she said in Spring as life in his new covering of leaves was emerging anew. But he could not move.

"Come with me," she said in Summer when his foliage was full and he was covered with emerging fruit. But he could not move.

"Come with me," she said in Autumn as his fruit was fully ripe and color brightening from greens to hues of red, yellow, and orange. But he still could not move.

"Come with me," she said when Winter's chill had settled in and his branches were bare. And even yet, he could not move.

She would come to him for years on end. She would whip around his bark; bark weathered by the repetition of endless seasons. His desire to fly with her was strong, but his roots were deep and held him tight.

"Stay with me," he thought. He dared not make this request out loud. He knew he could no more ask this of her than he could uproot himself and fly away with her. She was free; she was the ethereal spirit to his solidity. To try to keep her as his alone was futile and imprisoning.

All he could do was dance in her midst. When she softly whispered, he leaned and swayed. When she blew in with a fury, he would twist his limbs to match. It was all he could do.

And dance, he did, and dance he would do, until the day his roots weaken and wither, his limbs bear no more leaves, his fruit goes bare, and he would fall for her one last time. And carried by her unseen wings, finally fly.

My Cry

She fell not with a crash nor crescendo; without fanfare or particular notice, not with a roar, but with a whisper. There was no dimming aura, no rush of wind or a fluttering of curtains or sheets from feathered wings. She simply slipped away. She fell; and as she fell, memories arose.

There was once a girl, a girl with dreams that all girls have. Girls grow into young ladies; young ladies into women. The dreams of this one girl grown to woman are unknown to me. I can only assume, because of the culture of the time, this young girl had aspirations of eventually being a mother, to share her huge heart full of love with ones who could not help but to love her in return. This I can only assume, because by the time I was able to recognize this woman as who she was, I merely knew her as Grandmother.

It was 1971 and the picture of a family crashed to the floor, shattering like the broken glass incased in the wood frame. Ripped apart by recklessness and by sheer accident, one left this world, leaving the others behind to wonder, wish, and wander alone. She didn't want to leave; she never meant to leave. This particular fate was hers, and another fate beheld the ones who remained. A father, one who lost the love of his life and was thrust into a new role of both mother and father; and three children left to wonder why mommy wasn't coming home. Of the three, I was the youngest.

Adults cope with death as adults do. They either face the reality of it or look for an escape from it or answers to it. I think a child might do the same. I don't know how I coped with the death of my mother. I was only a toddler with a scarred face from broken glass, a broken leg, and a broken heart. The most important woman in my life was gone, and as the thinking of a toddler might go, there were no answers given to satisfaction. I surely cried. I might have found comfort in a favorite toy or stuffed animal. I probably found comfort in the company of my brother and sister. Aunts, grandmothers, and female friends and relatives stepped into temporary maternal roles, but the one who eventually stepped in to raise not only me, but my brother and sister and two other cousins as well, was my grandmother. My mother's mother, who became known to me as Mom. She was my mom.

When I sat down to write about her, my mind started out with thoughts of eloquence. Flowery, thoughtful words that sounded grand, but still fell short of who she was. No amount of eloquence can match the truth. She was a saint. She was a hard worker. She was a teacher, a nurturing caregiver, a symbol of strength. I knew her for almost forty years and that's long enough to know who she was. I would elaborate so much more on memories of my childhood, but I've forgotten more about that time than I could ever remember.

I received a call from my cousin while at work on Thursday, May 21st. I knew that mom had been in the hospital since the week before. She had woken up from a nap and she hurt too much to get out of bed. My brother, unable to assist her, called my uncle to come help. When he helped her out of bed, he realized her pain was too great and called for an ambulance. I was told that she had pain in her hips and legs. I didn't know that things were worse than that. In conversation with my cousin on that Thursday, she said she was being moved from the hospital to a hospice facility. She was in the final stages of kidney failure. I was blown away.

While mom was in the hospital, I had called her. Our conversation was short, due to health care workers needing to do things that took her attention. She sounded weak, but still was able to talk to me. I didn't know then what I learned from the phone call a few days later. If I had known, I would have made more of our conversation than what I did.

Two days later, on Saturday, I was eating what perhaps was the best chicken biscuit I've ever eaten with a new friend when I got a text message. "She's going downhill." I was suddenly emotional. The reality had set in. My friend could see the change in my mood.

I looked up from my phone. "I wish I had met you last week. Or even next week. I have to go to Florida. My grandmother is dying." In the wisest of ways, my new friend put things into perspective with, "Or maybe we were supposed to meet when we did." I instantly agreed.

A few short hours later, I was on my way. The original time frame was for me to leave on Monday, which was Memorial Day. The consensus from the professionals at the hospice facility was that we had maybe a week. But with that text at breakfast, I knew that time was short. I wanted to have one conversation with her while I could. To tell her things that I should have told her long before; to tell her that she was the best thing that had influenced my life; to tell her that she had done a great job and that the reason I am who I am today, a person with a kind heart, an empath and lover, was all because of her.

I arrived early in the morning, and after waking my brother and getting settled in, I crawled into bed at 4:30am. Sleep evaded me, and thankfully, so did dreams. I awoke to my brother telling me that he was getting a ride to see her and to come on over when I finally woke up. As tired as I was, I didn't want to waste time with something as trivial as sleep. Coffee, shower, dress, drive. I parked in the lot of the facility and prepped myself to enter. I didn't know what I'd see, but I was ready. I found her room and found her asleep. She was doing a lot of that, I was told, due to the comforting drugs they had her on. I knew the reason she was there. The workers were not there to prevent her death, but to alleviate her pain and to make the transition as smooth as possible.

I had seen her at Christmas. She was mobile, but each step seemed steeped in pain. Now,as she lay there in bed, immobile, I knew that her pain was over. She seemed ages older. Her hair was thinner, and so was her face. She was snoring, and it was a sound I had never heard from her. I wanted my conversation with her, so I got to it.

"Mom? Hi. It's Travis. I love you." She didn't respond. I repeated myself, louder.
"Mom? Hi."
Quiet, yet clear..."Hi."
"It's Travis."
"Travis..."
"I love you."
"Love you..."

That was it. That was our conversation. A short series of words spoken by me, repeated by her, and as short as it was, it said it all. All the words meant to be said and words meant to be heard were both said and heard in the final confession of "I love you."

Less than 24 hours later, she took a final breath in, then out, then none. I was at her feet. I was intently watching her, looking for any sign of the soul leaving the body. I keenly observed with an open heart and open mind and open eyes and closed mouth. Stories of whispers and winds and fluttering and the soft exhale of breath floating towards the heavens stopped short of the reality of being there. There was nothing. Nothing at all. She simply was, then wasn't. That's all.

My sister and mother are buried in a cemetery close to my mom's house. After we all left the hospice, I stopped by for a moment, wishing for a wet wipe or cloth to wipe off the haze of aged dust and algae from the weathered pictures. I did what moms do when they spy a smoodge there on the edge of your mouth. I licked my finger and wiped them off. I stood there, in the presence of the earthly memorials that denote the absence of these important women in my life. I passed glances between both gravestones, mulling over the thought of yet another woman who left. They've all left, they all leave, in the end, but the difference between them and the others who have left is this: these three didn't want to leave. This I know. I muttered as I turned to go, "She will be with you."

It isn't hard to realize simple facts. If you want something, do what you can to get it. If you have something, do what you can to keep it. If something leaves, grieve, accept, and move on. Realizing these facts, as I said, are simple. Action? That's another thing. Sometimes the hardest thing to do is apply all you've learned; it's sometimes difficult to understand there's liberation in listening to your own advice and acting upon it

It's been over a week now and I still haven't had my cry. I mean, I have cried. I had a few tears at her bedside and cried a little in my car after leaving the facility. This was done by myself, of course, not in front of anybody, by no means...I try not to do that. Just like sending up a prayer, crying isn't meant for others, it isn't meant to be a public spectacle. I cried, yes, but I haven't had MY CRY. A body-wracking, eye-reddening, nasal-blocking, throat-constricting CRY.

I do miss her. The reality of her not answering the phone when I call or being there when I go to visit is setting in, but still, no CRY.

There's lots to deal with, emotionally with the missing and the physical with the estate. Before I left her home, I spent the night in her room. Family photographs and hand drawn pictures we drew for her as kids hung on the wall, holding memories held for many years. I saw them for all that they were and still no CRY.

I left my brother and other family and made the nine hour trip back home. I had lots of time to think and reminisce and create worry, all of which I did, but still no CRY.

Forty-five years ago, this small boy coped with the death of his mother with a heart-wrenching CRY. This man still yet has to cope with the death of his mom. He still has yet to CRY.

Sara Mae Richardson
02/27/1922 - 05/25/2015

At First Sight

I was standing on my side porch (technically, they're both side porches, I was on the little one) when I heard the sound of a truck driving up and out of the driveway belonging to the neighbors we around here refer to as the "Hole People." We call them that because they live in a hollow, a low piece of land. I've never learned their names. Not because I didn't want to; it's just how it is. They're a rough looking bunch, them hole people...

The driver of the truck was a visitor of theirs, and as he drove by my house, he waved. Of course, I waved back. His truck was beat down, red in color, at least most of it was. The rest was rust. It was a loud truck, for its small size. As he drove on, I walked into my house, hearing the roar of the little red truck grow more distant as it drove down the road and away. I made it to my kitchen when I heard that roar again, growing louder and then go silent just as it got to what I guessed to be my driveway.

"Beep-beep!" Feeling that the truck was sitting in my driveway, I made my way back outside, and sure enough, there it was, sitting there, with the biggest, hairiest man I've seen standing half in, half out of the truck. He was an older man, and when I said hairy, I meant hairy. I mean, he had tufts of hair coming out of his ears, man!

"You need that tree cut down?" He pointed to a tree that had fallen in my yard. It hadn't fallen like you'd expect a tree to fall, with a Timber! and a loud crash. Rather, it had slowly started leaning toward the bottom half of my yard, taking its time in threatening the integrity of my fence as it loomed toward it, inch by creeping inch. It is a huge tree, definitely able to crush the fence and if it was 15 feet to the left, my little shed as well. But, before it could do any of that damage (eventually), it nestled its top limbs into the "V" of a double trunked tree on the creek bank. And there it has been sitting around, waiting for time and decomposition to take its toll so it could sock it to the fence.

"I've been visiting my friend and noticed that tree. It's been that way for a long time. I can cut it down for you. My name's Leeroy. L-e-e-r-o-y." And without a hitch, he went on. "I see you have a lot of bicycles and a few lawnmowers. I also haul off scrap metal. You wanna get rid of that stuff?"

The wheels in my brain started turning, slowly at first, having seized up from non-use, but eventually it saw where 2+2 did actually equal 4. I had been needing to get that stuff hauled off; been needing to have that tree cut down; and here was a guy who could do both. My only problem was having the money to have the tree cut. Several people had quoted about $400 to cut and remove the tree.

"Wanna trade all that junk for me cutting up that tree? You don't mind if I leave the cut wood in your yard? I wouldn't be able to haul that off myself." He said all of this with his huge chest puffed out, and even though he was a rather large man, he was older, and I believed him about his limitations.

"Yes. Yes I want the tree cut. Yes, I want that scrap hauled off. Yes, you can leave the cut wood in my yard." I couldn't believe that all those things I needed to do, but for financial or timing issues couldn't seem to ever get to, were about to be done. Today. Not in another 6 months. Not even in another week. Today.

I must say that Leeroy didn't look like someone who was out to be helpful. His looks were very deceiving. A big burly man in a beat down old pickup truck, with tobacco stains in the thick hairs of his mustache and beard, making his living cutting down trees and hauling off people's junk didn't fit my picture perfect idea of a Good Samaritan. But in the silence between the roaring of the chainsaw, we talked. He was one of 62 grandchildren who were not unfamiliar with possum or raccoon on the dinner table. He said he was raised by a "fine Christian woman who taught fine Christian values." He said things like "The engine is strong, but needs a rest now and then" as he referred to his own body. He kept naming off names of local people and streets as if I had lived here all my life as well. He even showed me how to unhook and lay my chain-link fence down so that it wouldn't be crushed when the tree fell down. I didn't even think twice when he asked for something to eat because of his low blood sugar. I didn't have to.

Sometimes people are not as they seem. Appearances don't mean much when you look beyond the exterior shell and see who they really are; when you put aside your prejudices and pre-conceived notions. I'm not saying that everybody hides who they truly are behind a veil of intentional or unintentional deceit, nor am I saying that this man was a saint. But who I initially saw and who I eventually saw were two different people. He had the same rough exterior of course, but his heart was in the right place. In his own words: "I'm not saying I'm perfect nor have I always been a good man, but I try to do good, and that's close enough."

As he pulled out of my driveway with the bed of his truck piled high with a teetering stack of bicycles and the promise to come back at a later date with help to get the lawnmowers, looking ever the part of a redneck Fred Sanford, I realized that it wasn't me who got the better part of the deal. I did get things done that needed to be done for a long time. He even hauled off that carcass of a refrigerator that has been sitting outside for months. Doing what we did sure wasn't what I had planned on doing for several hours on a Sunday. In fact, I was in the middle of doing dishes, laundry, and housecleaning when he first came by. But I sense that he got what he wanted in the way he knew how; by doing something for someone else. For me, he was a blessing in a perfect disguise.

And I learned something else too. Wayne. The hole man's name is Wayne.

Reflektor

"Don't tell me the moon is shining; show me the glint of light on broken glass." -Anton Chekhov

It was the night of the last full Moon, we were driving home and as we were merging onto I-75 north at East Brainerd, my daughter said, "Moon." And there she was, just visible above the horizon, ruddy tinged and huge. She kept her eye on me as I drove north, sometimes hiding parts of herself behind a rise in the land, but by the time I exited at VW Drive, she had risen above what I could see, all huge, veiled ever so slightly by a thin layer of high, wispy clouds and intermittently striped by contrails. I could feel her presence. I stopped to get cat and dog food from Tractor Supply, and when I came out, she was partially visible above a part of the Bauxite Mountain range, half above, half below, and I could see where trees met the ground. It was very much a postcard moment and I stopped to take it all in.

"The moon is radioactive," said my son from the back seat as we made our way towards home. "It's glowing." A haze of clouds made the Moon appear to be encircled by fuzzy rays of energy. He went on. "My teacher showed us today what would happen if the Sun exploded. The force was so great that the Earth was pushed all the way to Neptune's orbit." Can the Sun just explode? I told him that it was highly unlikely that the Sun would just explode. I explained that I had read that before that happened, the Sun would have already expanded and engulfed the inner planets and burned Earth to a crispy, black ash, like a marshmallow left too long over the campfire.

I don't claim to know everything. My knowledge is based upon what I've lived, read, heard, or otherwise absorbed. On rare occasions, I come up with something all by myself. I'm more of a smart ass than a smart head, but eager to learn more with my brain than with that nether region. My kids are smart. Not Albert Einstein smart. Not Stephen Hawking smart. Not even John Nash smart. Not yet, at least. But as we drove, the conversation soon turned into a think fest, with my daughter joining in with thought provoking questions.

A few days before that, I was on my tablet, stumbling around and had clicked on a link. It was link in a series of 'just one more' links that occurred after "This is the last one" was uttered the first time. The picture that pulled me in depicted a rendering of a futuristic event. The image showed edges of our own Milky Way galaxy about to merge with the Andromeda galaxy. I recalled the article and told my kids about how scientists predict that in about, oh, 4 billion years from now, these two galaxies will merge into one galaxy. What I find interesting is that it said that even in this cataclysmic event, the stars are so far apart from each other that the chance of a stellar collision was negligible. Not that humans will be around to witness this event. Remember the sun expansion thing? Yeah, it would not have happened yet, but apparently the process is supposed to have already started and evaporated the oceans and burnt up the oxygen on Earth; you know, stuff humans need to live. This brought on the discussion of light speed and light years and an expanding universe and how little we humans know about anything.

My daughter's interesting observation concerned this limited lack of knowledge as humans. She said, "Not only do we not know what's beyond the reaches of our farthest space probes and strongest telescopes, we barely even know what lies at the bottom of our deepest oceans. We don't know what certain organs in our bodies are for. Why are they even in us? What's that organ everyone seems to have removed?"

"The appendix?" I asked.

"Yeah, that thing," she said. "It can be there for years, then decide it wants to kill us. So we remove it. But what if that organ is what gets you into paradise? What if it isn't in your body at the Pearly Gates and you are refused entrance? What if it is the only thing that will keep the zombies from attacking you in the Zombie Apocalypse?"

"Well, I got mine, just in case," I said.

I'm a child of Luna. I'm a Lunatic. I've always been fascinated by her. Just as her phases affect the tidal patterns, I feel they affect me as well. It's a fact that people get crazy when the Moon is full. ER personnel say that more people are seen on full Moon nights than any other night. Ask a werewolf what he/she thinks about the Moon. Ask a late-night taxi driver or the 24-hour greasy spoon diner waitress about the Moon. Ask me, and I'll tell you differently. I'm quite the opposite. I'm usually happiest when the Moon is full. In fact, I consider the opposite phase, when she is in her New phase, my "time of the month." I'm moody. I'm melancholy. I'm looking up for something that is there, but yet not there. If you pay attention to anything I say, you're probably sick and tired of hearing my lunar rants every four weeks. But that's my life, sometimes big, bright, and in your face; sometimes unseen, dark, and brooding.

I remember when I lived in Florida, my grandmother always kept those staked reflectors on either side of the driveway. You know, those red or blue flashy circles on sticks that said, "This is your driveway." Sometimes one would go missing and my grandma would swear someone was stealing them, one at a time, breaking up an original set, the young whipper snappers. Many times, the reality was that they had fallen over and no longer reflected the headlights of oncoming cars. Their ability to point the way didn't work so well laying on the ground. And they didn't work in daylight or without an external source of light shining on them either. Essentially, they were useless, at night at least, without being shone upon.

The Moon has no brightness on her own. She doesn't emit light; she only reflects light from a source much bigger than herself. This external light source must be present in order for her to be seen. Sometimes, and only when she is at her fullest and brightest, another object will come between her and that source of light, but only for a short period of time. When that happens, her brightness is dimmed; she's made dull and muddled. But even while she's bathed in shadow, she is still visible and darkly beautiful.

I know how she feels. There's times when I believe that I have no brightness on my own; that everything I say or do is merely a reflection of something I've heard, something I've seen, or something that's moved me to think. Being affected by outside influences is a major way many of us learn anyway. Many times I've been told that I don't say much. Well, it's often true. Just like the Wise Guy on the mountain, whose true brilliance is truly questionable, I don't say much unless it means something. I remember an episode of 'The Beverly Hillbillies' where Jethro was caught up in hanging out with a group of beatnicks. There was one guy who said nothing through the entire episode, up until the end. The others told Jethro when he asked about the guy's silence, that he didn't speak unless there was something worth speaking. When he did finally speak, everyone shushed to hear what he had to say.

Observe and Absorb; that's what I do. Take in, process, file and store for future use. Reflect whatever has decided to shine upon me. But, then at other times, I feel that maybe, just maybe, I am the source of light; that I am the one shining upon others. I know of two reflectors that I shine upon. They take in and reflect whatever is illuminated on them. And in the process of reflection, they illuminate what is absorbed. I try so hard to shine nothing on them that would dull their brightness or muddle their shine. I know I'm not the only source of light to shine on them. They are subject to this whole world and everything in it; the dark and the light. I choose to shine brightly, for them, for others, for myself.

Luna; you're still number one in my book, but I choose to shine brightly, as brightly as the star that illuminates every feature of your beautiful, one-sided face.

The After Life

Last Friday night, I had the television tuned to channel 3.2, Antenna TV. It was on mostly for background noise as I paid bills, washed clothes and dishes, and other exciting first night of the weekend frivolity. As I did these things, Fred Sanford went to Elizabeth numerous times, Archie Bunker shared his rare moving moments mixed with frequent tirades of bigotry, and J. J. Evans did his Dyno-mite thing under the googly eyes of a young Janet Jackson. I don't know why, but the mere sound of the WKRP in Cincinnati theme song made me want to call home. It is the home where the impressionable years were spent learning discipline, honest work, and kindness. It's the place where food and bed and love lived. It's the place where the TV lived. I suppose the yearning had something to do with the way things from your childhood are things that stay with you into adulthood; the things you did, the people you loved, the discussions held on the dusty playgrounds and jokes told around lunchboxes, books you read, shows you watched. The theme song was a trigger, a way back trip to way back. For me, in this instance, the time was the early '80's; the place, home at grandma's.

It took 6 1/2 rings for her to answer, and when she did, she answered with a voice holding back pain. It was a voice of one trying to be cheerful when all they want to do is scream. It was a voice of one I knew and loved, yet somehow foreign. A meek voice. A timid voice. A cracked and pained voice. She said she hurt and the prescription painkillers weren't helping. I told her to lie down and try to rest. It had only been a few weeks since I had returned home from the Christmas holiday. She had only been home herself about a month from the rehab facility she had been in for a previous incident. Her steps were slow and deliberate, aided, and yet hampered, by the four legs of her walker. At one point, the pain in her back that shoots down her hip and into her leg overpowered her strong ability to be silent in suffering, that she sat down in a chair and cried. It was then that I almost did too, as I knew there was nothing I could do to make the pain disappear. It also reminded me that I am not ready to face this eventual and emotional loss.

Often times I am unprepared. I mean, I'm not totally unprepared. The bags are packed for the trip, but not put into the car. The clothes are washed and dried, but piled up on my bed, and it's bedtime. The glowing screen is showing funny posts about cats while the clock steadily advances toward the work hour and I'm half dressed, enthralled by the multiple tabs open. If I didn't know myself so well, I would call it being lazy, but I know that's not it. It's more of a stumbling. It's an attention deficiency. It's the butterfly, the squirrel, the shiny object. It's distraction.

It was 6:19am the next day; it was Saturday. I received a text from my brother saying that my grandmother had fallen at her home and had to be taken to the ER by ambulance. Of course, I didn't get that text until the second text was sent at 9:30am; the text that actually woke me up. It was words on a screen that brought to mind the realization of life with its frailties and lack of guarantees. Although the x-ray results were positive and her injuries were mild compared to what they could have been, those results were not guaranteed to be positive. It wasn't a given that she would be okay. Knowing that the opposing thought is just as much a part of the way things equal out; that its role in 'Life as We know It' is just as possible as its counterpart made it more than just something you've placed in a dark part of your mind, only bringing it to surface when situations move you to dig deep. It made it real.

I finally got to talk to her again on the phone this Friday night. She had spent two days in ICU for observation at a hospital in Tampa. She was not in ICU because her injuries warranted it, but because at her age of 92, it was determined that it was for her benefit. She could receive around the clock care and be more closely monitored, and they were more well equipped in case something did go wrong. After that, she spent two more days in a regular room. I had the phone number when she was in ICU. I had called, but was only able to talk to her son, my uncle, during her stay. I never had a number when she was in a regular room. She left the hospital this past Friday morning and by that afternoon, I had the number to her room at the same rehabilitation center she had been in for more than a month leading up to Thanksgiving. When she answered, I heard familiarity. It was not the voice I had heard the previous Friday. It wasn't the pained, foreign voice. It was a voice that knew what she had just gone through and was determined to face the intensive rehabilitation that was to get her back home again. We talked about what had happened and the things that would come after.

I'm unprepared to face this. I'm not ready and don't think I will ever be. I don't even believe that I have to be. I don't have to accept it to know that it is going to happen. I don't have to be okay with it to lessen the pain it will bring. It will happen no matter how much time I think I have to prepare. No amount of preparation will make you ready for your life after.

After what? After anything. I've had many lives in the after. School, marriage, children, divorce, jobs, relationships, choices, even death...through the space between beginning and end and back to a beginning again, there is an after life. Proof that life goes on is not only reflected in the hand-cleared section of bathroom mirror, wet with condensation from a long, hot shower. It's also in the face of a woman, chattering in her winter parka and pumping gas into her car next to me. It's in the voice of the teller behind 2-inch plexiglass at the bank, asking,"How else may I help you, Mr. Barefoot?" It's in the stance of the familiar face double riding to separate floors on the elevator at work. It's not personally universal; it universally personal. Each of us have our own after life, each different and all at once; each separate over our alloted span of time.

She'll be 93 in February.

I used to have someone who said they'd be there for me when that time came. I know that this person will still be there for me, but not with me. The help will come from the same source, but in a totally different way. That's the result of another after life. We're both living proof that life after does go on.

Like I said, she'll be 93 soon. Here's to hoping my after life gets to wait until after that time to begin anew.

As I Lie

My slumber was disrupted by the ringing of the phone on my nightstand. Was it the ring of a text notification or was it the ring of someone stranded on the side of the road needing help? Was it the ring of a family member or dear friend with news to make me bolt out of bed or just news to make me lie back down, heart beating and now longing to drop back into deep sleep? My eyes tried to adjust to the backlit screen in a dark room lit only by the opposing reds in glow; the soft reds of a lava lamp vs. the stark reds of the numbers on two alarm clocks. When your phone rings in the middle of the day, there's usually no cause for alarm like your phone ringing in the middle of the night. I hoped it wasn't news concerning my grandmother who had not too long ago been admitted to a rehabilitation center following a bout with cellulitis. Although she is now home, the chance of it being news about her was quite possible. I hoped it wasn't news about my brother with his numerous health issues. Even though my eyes hadn't clearly seen the screen, my ears finally recognized that this was merely the sound of a text; my eyes cleared up enough to tell me it was a text with a subject that could wait until the morning for a reply.

Now I am awake. I lie here in an oddly warm bed; a bed made warm by the thermal heat that my body creates and emanates. Perhaps it's due to the freshly clean sheets not long from the dryer, but more than that, it's probably due to the fact that I finally gave in to common sense and turned the heat up. I admit it; I'm a cheapskate. It costs so much to run the house heat that I put it off until I can't stand it any longer. And with kids in the house, it's often earlier than that. Tonight is cold. We're supposed to get down below freezing and well, that's reason enough to go ahead and turn up the heat.

As I lie here in this warm bed, thinking about how it could be made warmer with extra body heat (just sayin'), the screen of the phone goes dark and the soft lighting of my room fades to black as I close my eyes. My ears attune to the night sounds; there's a distant baying of dogs, an echo of alternating yips and yaps to sound the midnight alarm. Closer still is the rustle of the remaining leaves that cling in desperation to the Mother Tree, resisting the wind and the eminent end; the last dance as they tumble across the lawn. There's a scritch-scratch of claws extended from paws as a cat or six run across the trailer's metallic roof. And then there's the clock on the wall all the way in the kitchen, the one that steadily falls behind in its time keeping, that's ticking in its loud ticking way, loud enough to be heard in my bedroom, seventy feet away.

As I lie here, the sun is well beyond the halfway point of rising yet again. It's shining on another part of the world, perhaps in a place where slumber is not disrupted by the ringing of a telephone, but by rocket fire or a splintering of wood as a door is kicked in and terror brings more than just bad dreams. I can relax in my one-way mirrored, bubble wrap blanket of relative comfort, safety, and freedom from those atrocities of humankind that are so much greater than mere disruptions. I know that the same sun that set will be the same one that rises in less than six hours. Whether or not I will be alive to see it rise is not something I can guarantee nor do I have the power of control over. I just assume and use the power I do have; the power of hope and personal persuasion to tell myself that I will.

As I lie here, thoughts arise as monoliths jutting up on the horizon of my consciousness. These thoughts arrive like uninvited guests who fail to recognize when they've overextended their ungiven welcome; the ones who rummage through your medicine cabinet and drawers, not necessarily stealing anything, but nevertheless passively intruding upon the sanctity of personal property; the ones who never give, but take, take, take.

Our lives are a series of humbling learning experiences. Sometimes the learning is an easy task; a mindless and elementary lesson of a simplistic nature. Often times though, the lessons learned are blatantly coarse, tough skinned, soul eroding spectres that haunt your dreams and steal your hope. It's this second level of lessons learned; it's these hard ones that I could use less of. But, seeing as the hard lessons are not solitary, stand alone entities, and they must go hand in hand with the easy ones and actually work with each other to teach the complete lesson, there's no chance of having one without the other.

I feel like major change is on the way. I don't want it. I don't like it. But it's a fact that this change is closer to my future than it is to my past. I've suffered the loss of love several times over, and come to think of it, probably even more than I've lost a loved one to death itself. Weird. No one is immune to loss, especially a loss of a loved one. One of my worries is my brother, who, let's be honest, is not in the peak of health. His weight, combined with diabetes and pulmonary issues, pretty much guarantees a life made harder than if he didn't have a weight problem. You know what I remember about my childhood with my older brother? Not much of a damn thing. Sure, I have pictures and I have stories told to me about this happening and that occurring, but it is fuzzy, just about like all my memories of my childhood. I remember what I remember. I'm occasionally asked, "Remember when...?" and my answer is usually, "Nope." And that sucks.

Another of my worries is my grandmother. She will be ninety-three years old in February and the visit I made over Christmas made me realize just how fragile life is. Seeing her in pain merely walking around the house hit me hard. The woman who used to chase me with a strop when I needed discipline is now using a walker. The woman who drove a church van full of kids to school whenever she was called upon can't even get behind the wheel of her own van. And even though I've known her all of my life, and I spent fifteen years under her wing, growing from a timid young boy, through my awkward, yet rebellious teen years, and nearly double those years to the timid, awkward, still rebellious (but against other, more important things) man typing these words, I feel like it hasn't been long enough; that I haven't spent enough time just being there. The irony of the juxtaposition of the one being cared for and the one now needing care is saddening. It literally breaks my heart.

540. That's the number of miles that lie between myself and where her and my brother live. According to Google Maps, it should only take 7 hours and 46 minutes to drive that distance, but I know it takes much longer than that. I've made that trip numerous times, and even though the travel time varies, making it in under 9 hours is a feat in itself. Perhaps if it was just me, and there was no Atlanta between us. It occurs to me that those miles may just as well turn to years when needing to be there becomes the focus...

So, as I lie here in my bed; this warm bed, on this cold night; this night turned into the early hours of the last day of the year, with two of my loved ones asleep in their beds and thoughts of all my other loved ones running through my head, I try to think of something profound to say. It's late, I'm tired, but, thankfully feeling over my bout with the flu. I have nothing.

"Nothing stays. Hold on while you can. Try to remember. And above all, love."