"In faith there is enough light for those who want to believe and enough shadows to blind those who don't." -Blaise Pascal
I heard the voice before I saw the face. The middle landing of the stairs leading up to the lobby seemed like a good place to decide whether to continue up or hightail it back down. The retreat would avoid the eye-rolling annoyance that continuing on up might bring; continuing on would surely make the retreat seem like the better option. It's not like I don't like the guy; it's just that annoyance avoidance, whenever possible, tends to be the best policy. But, I remembered that I'm an adult. I moved on and up.
There he was, BeeGee, in the standard uniform of pleated back fishing shirt, khaki shorts, and sockless feet in brown Dockers that demanded the re-opening of Texas Roadhouse. I walked across the lobby floor on my way to the shop. He was immersed in conversation with our receptionist, so avoidance wasn't as dire as previously thought. A few steps away from being in the clear, I was stopped by our guard for a minute. He wanted to show me something on his phone, so I obliged. While we were talking, a woman (let's call her "Marsha") came into the lobby.
BeeGee: "Hello, Marsha. Glad to be back to work?"
Marsha: "Yes, it's good to be here."
BG: "When are you going to bring your kids to (undisclosed location where kids go for a week in summer). Y'all ready to get back out?"
M: "I'm not comfortable having them around large groups of kids just yet."
BG: "Aww, c'mon Marsha, where's your faith?"
M: "C'mon, B... really?"
I had already lost interest in what the guard was showing me and my attention was on said conversation. Did he really just question her faith in her God? I think he did. There might have been a joking undertone, but I think Marsha's retort expressed an unappreciative vibe which I latched onto. I think I even asked that question out loud, under my breath, to myself as I walked away. It was something I thought about off and on through the rest of my work day.
Later that evening, I did something that I've never done before. Normally, I can make it but a few minutes...I just get queasy and unwell beyond that...but I listened to President Trump from start to finish; from intro to dramatic exit. I saw the protesters cleared from the streets with a mighty show of force. I saw the walk to the steps of the church. I saw the Bible held aloft as a talisman to ward off evil; as a trophy on display. And I thought out loud... "I don't believe that man knows what's in that book." I wondered if it was a trick of light and shadow when, I swear, I thought I saw tendrils of smoke...
It hit me. I had done exactly what I had been irritated with BG for doing. I questioned this man's faith; I showed a seed of doubt. I talked the talk, but I stumbled on my walk. How in the world could I know this man's heart? I can't. A lot of what you believe is in what you can see, and I was basing my doubt on that very same thing. I may not like the man, but I should respect the position. I may not like what I see, but I should not judge.
"Doubt is a pain too lonely to know that faith is his twin brother." -Khalil Gibran
Doubt has broken more hearts and turned more worlds upside down than faith ever has or ever will. I'm not talking about organized religion. I'm talking about faith and doubt on a personal level. I'm talking about faith and doubt in your life, your love, your relationships with family, friends, and lovers. It's the latter that's tearing me apart right now. My doubt has not only killed a relationship with someone I care deeply for, it's broken more than one heart and turned two worlds upside down.
I was raised a Christian. I was taught wrong from right. I may not go to church every week (or every month...or year), but I still have those core beliefs that was taught to me as a child. I will never tell you that you're doing your faith wrong, finger in your face while thumping a Bible. That's not me. I know that nobody is perfect (if you think you are, think again). I know you don't aim to hurt those you love. I know that you are to treat others as you would treat yourself. Those are not solely Christian ideals, in my opinion. They ought to be merely human ones. Your faith in yourself and the condition of your soul can be, and often are, wrought with doubts.
In my doubt, I hurt someone. In doing so, I hurt myself. If you get what you think you want; what you think is going to be better in the long run; what you have faith in to eventually bring you happiness...doesn't mean it's not going to hurt.
BG? President Trump? The one I hurt? None of you will ever see this, and I say this with tears and brokenness, but I'm sorry. So very sorry.
I don't doubt that wounds heal, in fact they have from past hurts, and that fact gives me faith that this one will too...even when it's my fault. And knowing that it is solely my fault, that I caused someone else pain...that's what really hurts.
Monday, June 8, 2020
Saturday, November 2, 2019
Little Prints
"Sometimes you get discouraged
Because I am so small
And always leave my fingerprints
On furniture and walls.
But every day I'm growing - I'll be grown some day
And all those tiny hand prints
Will surely fade away.
So here's a little hand print
Just so you can recall
Exactly how my fingers looked
When I was very small."
It's not fun, this replacing of the subfloor in my living room and kitchen. It's more tedious than I thought. I'm about halfway done with the laying of the 23/32" thick 4X8 sheets of plywood that, until I can afford the flooring, will be my redneck hardwood, and I realize two things: It's taking longer than I thought it would, and it's more than simply ripping up the old and putting down the new. There's always something else, like the discovery of water damage under the living room windows; the destruction/removal of paneling to address said water damage; the bracing up the floor joists with 2X6 boards.
It was the latter that had me looking for leftover 2X6 boards. I knew I had some stored in my shed, boards from previous projects that I knew I'd use someday. I grabbed them. I took them up to my porch, where I knew there were more. As soon as I saw the two that I found on the porch, I knew I couldn't use one of them. Not because it was rotten or warped; no, because of something else.
I don't remember the year, but if I had to guess, I'd say it was '01 or '02. I was living in another time, in another life. It was another house with its own renovation needs. So, because of these needs, I built two sets of saw horses out of 2X4 and 2X6 pieces of wood and plastic saw horse kits. They got a lot of use and made it with me to my new life in this time. But time and weather rotted out the legs, so I updated the old saw horses with new wood. That's what these two 2X6 pieces were from; the old sawhorses.
When I built them, I built them to use. They held pieces of wood to cut for home projects. They held larger parts from my Volkswagen buses. They held doors that were getting painted white. They did what they were built to do. They were tools in themselves that were meant to take the abuse from use. They may have gotten cut from a circular saw. They may have gotten oil on them from car parts. They may have gotten paint on them...and that's why I couldn't use the wood from one of them for my current project.
My daughter was one or two years old when I built these saw horses. It was during the time we were painting our new French doors when this paint got on the 2X6 work surface of a saw horse. It wasn't accidental, but done on purpose. Talia had somehow put her hand in the white paint and put her hand print on my saw horse. It was a perfect representation of what her looked like at the time. I believe I laughed about it, but I also think I was upset with her for "messing up" my brand new saw horse.
It was stupid of me to have been upset. It's something that was going to get messed up anyway. It wasn't one of my Volkswagens. It wasn't something of any great importance. It was a saw horse, for crying out loud. It was a stupid inanimate object...and she was my precious daughter. So you see, I can't use that piece of wood to put under my house. Not ever.
I saw that hand print, faded by the years and the effects from being left outside. I saw that print and it took me back to where I was ashamed of myself and proud of her. It reminded me to try to not put unimportant things over the important things. It reminded me that time is as long as it needs to be and is as short as it seems. It is a memory of that different time; that different life. It's a guide to point me in the right direction in this current life.
Just recently, I found a piece of plywood with her hand print on it. It was a wall hanging made at her daycare when she was little. Along with the print was the poem at the beginning of this writing. That part about the little hand prints facing away? That right there is so true. It happens for sure and it happens so fast. The print on the saw horse did. But this wall hanging? I'm going to do my best to let it not fade away.
Because I am so small
And always leave my fingerprints
On furniture and walls.
But every day I'm growing - I'll be grown some day
And all those tiny hand prints
Will surely fade away.
So here's a little hand print
Just so you can recall
Exactly how my fingers looked
When I was very small."
It's not fun, this replacing of the subfloor in my living room and kitchen. It's more tedious than I thought. I'm about halfway done with the laying of the 23/32" thick 4X8 sheets of plywood that, until I can afford the flooring, will be my redneck hardwood, and I realize two things: It's taking longer than I thought it would, and it's more than simply ripping up the old and putting down the new. There's always something else, like the discovery of water damage under the living room windows; the destruction/removal of paneling to address said water damage; the bracing up the floor joists with 2X6 boards.
It was the latter that had me looking for leftover 2X6 boards. I knew I had some stored in my shed, boards from previous projects that I knew I'd use someday. I grabbed them. I took them up to my porch, where I knew there were more. As soon as I saw the two that I found on the porch, I knew I couldn't use one of them. Not because it was rotten or warped; no, because of something else.
I don't remember the year, but if I had to guess, I'd say it was '01 or '02. I was living in another time, in another life. It was another house with its own renovation needs. So, because of these needs, I built two sets of saw horses out of 2X4 and 2X6 pieces of wood and plastic saw horse kits. They got a lot of use and made it with me to my new life in this time. But time and weather rotted out the legs, so I updated the old saw horses with new wood. That's what these two 2X6 pieces were from; the old sawhorses.
When I built them, I built them to use. They held pieces of wood to cut for home projects. They held larger parts from my Volkswagen buses. They held doors that were getting painted white. They did what they were built to do. They were tools in themselves that were meant to take the abuse from use. They may have gotten cut from a circular saw. They may have gotten oil on them from car parts. They may have gotten paint on them...and that's why I couldn't use the wood from one of them for my current project.
My daughter was one or two years old when I built these saw horses. It was during the time we were painting our new French doors when this paint got on the 2X6 work surface of a saw horse. It wasn't accidental, but done on purpose. Talia had somehow put her hand in the white paint and put her hand print on my saw horse. It was a perfect representation of what her looked like at the time. I believe I laughed about it, but I also think I was upset with her for "messing up" my brand new saw horse.
It was stupid of me to have been upset. It's something that was going to get messed up anyway. It wasn't one of my Volkswagens. It wasn't something of any great importance. It was a saw horse, for crying out loud. It was a stupid inanimate object...and she was my precious daughter. So you see, I can't use that piece of wood to put under my house. Not ever.
I saw that hand print, faded by the years and the effects from being left outside. I saw that print and it took me back to where I was ashamed of myself and proud of her. It reminded me to try to not put unimportant things over the important things. It reminded me that time is as long as it needs to be and is as short as it seems. It is a memory of that different time; that different life. It's a guide to point me in the right direction in this current life.
Just recently, I found a piece of plywood with her hand print on it. It was a wall hanging made at her daycare when she was little. Along with the print was the poem at the beginning of this writing. That part about the little hand prints facing away? That right there is so true. It happens for sure and it happens so fast. The print on the saw horse did. But this wall hanging? I'm going to do my best to let it not fade away.
Saturday, May 26, 2018
A Dozen Reasons Why
I was weed-eating after work this past Wednesday evening. I had already trimmed around the house, around the driveway art installation consisting of my 1978 Volkswagen Bus, a 1974 Sears Allstate enclosed utility trailer, a 5X8 utility trailer, and had just done a short distance down the fence line when I noticed my dogs interested in something out on the road beyond my driveway. I looked up and saw one of my neighbors stopped outside my gate. I shut the trimmer off and wiped the sweat off of my brow before it stung my eyes. I could see his impressive handlebar moustache and he was sporting his grey Stetson hat he's had on every time I've seen him. He looked at me through his rolled down window and asked if I had a riding mower. I pointed to the blue tarp in the undeniable shape of a Bolens 42" rider sitting beside my house. "I can't get it to start."
"I've got a rider if you want to borrow it." He nodded his head in the direction of his place, a house just across the field on the other side of the creek. It's the house with a barn and horses across the same field that floods during heavy rains when that same creek overflows its banks. He nodded toward his house again. "Just come up and get it."
Honestly, my only goal was to do the trimming. I told him that with what daylight was left, I probably wouldn't have time to mow the whole yard. "I bet you do have the time. 60" cut, zero-turn...you got time."
So, I walked up there, and he brought the mower up to the front of the house, and proceeded to tell me how to operate it. But his lesson involved more emphasis on showing and less on speaking. Before shutting it off, he moved the throttle from turtle to rabbit and back again. He used the foot-activated deck height pedal. He pushed the button that engages the blade and pulled it up again. He pulled the two steering/drive arms apart and engaged the parking brake. He showed me that the engine would stop if I tried to pull those arms back up into drive position with the handbrake on. His advice then, as he turned to go inside, was to "Take it slow."
I did take it slow. Even so, I mowed my yard in record time. A 60" cut while riding beats a 22" cut walking any day. I took it slow, not only because it was a borrowed mower; a mower I was unfamiliar with; a mower that probably costs as much as a beater used car from Terd Ferguson's Used Car Lot on a slow sales day...I mainly took it slow because the mower scared the crap out of me. Shoot, there's places I didn't mow because the tires kept spinning out on the incline and I did not want to be rolling over on somebody else's mower. I probably wouldn't have mowed those steep places with my own riding mower. The last time I drove a zero-turn lawnmower, I was a pimply teenager working for East Pasco Medical Center (now a part of Florida Hospital) and I wasn't even a member of the grounds maintenance department. I worked in the cafeteria. I just knew the grounds keeper.
When I finished, I had to get my headlamp to see to drive the mower back to my neighbor's house. I saw that his storm door was open, so I walked up and announced my arrival. A Western was playing on the living room television, and an old dog whose eyes reflected the light of my headlamp sat on the couch, but there was no old dude to put the mower back from where he got it. So I started the rather loud mower up and put it under the four poles with a roof where I'd seen him get it. I went back to the front door to give him the keys and he still wasn't there, nor was he answering me. I decided to hang the keys on the inner handle of his storm door and come on home.
I don't know why he asked me if I wanted to borrow his mower. Our relationship as neighbors is levels below my relationship with my other neighbors. I know them better. I see them more often. We wave when we see each other. We jokingly wipe the sweat off our brows when we see each other working in the yard in the summer heat. We determine the need to mow our lawns by the condition of each other's lawns. We all have our fences, and like good neighbors, we stay over there, just behind sections of chain link and lockable gates. There's no communal picnics or yard sales, and hardly any of the leaning on the fence with drink in hand conversation.
But there are Christmas cards exchanged every year. In fact, this past Christmas was the first time I'd given the old dude a Christmas card. In fact, it was the first time I'd given ALL of my neighbors Christmas cards. With my closest neighbors, we keep an eye out for nefarious activities when one of us is gone from home for an extended period of time. We borrow ladders and light bulbs and cliché cups of sugar, but I've never asked to borrow a lawnmower from any of them. I just walk behind my self-propelled push mower, cutting a swath in a back and forth motion, 22" at a time.
I'm glad he stopped by to offer use of his mower. I don't know why he did, but I'm glad he did. I wonder if he thought I was mowing the lawn with a weed eater. I don't know. But I do know that I now coveteth my neighbor's Dixie Chopper.
Jump to the next morning and I'm already running later than I wanted due to misuse of several snooze buttons and general exhaustion due to the inability to make myself to go bed at a proper hour. I was taking my work stuff and lunch box to my car, and there he was, standing next to my car.
"I knocked on your door. I went up there," he said, pointing toward my porch. "I didn't want to get bit, so I came back out here."
It was The Hole Man. Wayne is his name. I was made aware of The Hole People when I moved in. He's the one who lives down in the hollow (er, I mean "holler) with, I assume, Mrs. Hole Man. I've never seen her, but I was told "they" live there, so there's that. "I think he smokes weed," one neighbor told me years ago. I feigned shock. "He shoots dogs," said another. Feigned shock got real. I've yet to confirm either claim.
He looked like he's always looked to me; age-worn blue jeans, a loose-fitting T-shirt, and a wide-brimmed leather hat. He pointed toward my dogs and said, "I've been bit before and I know how it feels." I assured him those dogs couldn't get out of their pen and all was cool. No biting today.
"Um, I was wondering if you could take me to get some gas. I ran out of gas." His eyes kept glancing at my dogs, who were barking. "It's for my truck. I need to drive my truck." The closest gas station was only a few miles away, and even though I was running later than I wanted, I wasn't running late.
I agreed to take him to get gas. As he walked back up to his driveway to get his gas can, I went back inside to get the rest of my stuff. I hadn't packed a lunch yet and there wouldn't be time to make the salad I'd planned on making. So I had no lunch, but no worries. After all, that's why God created Subway®. Back outside, Wayne was already back with his gas can and was standing by my car again, ready to go. So, we did.
There wasn't much conversation on the drive, just normal banter about how people are so like one another. We all run out of gas. We all have to ask for help. Hope it doesn't rain this weekend. Wow, the price of gas sure has gone up. Stuff like that. The awkward in me recognized the awkward in him. I could tell he didn't talk much either. Like the other neighbor. Kinda like me...
While he paid for and pumped the gas he needed, I texted my boss and let him know what I was doing, just in case I ended up being late. Wayne had pumped his gas and put the almost empty can in the car, then got back in the front seat. He said that $2 doesn't buy much gas, but it was enough to get him back to the store to fill up. I agreed, and I proceeded to take him back home. He told me I could drop him off by his driveway, so I did.
"Thanks, neighbor." He said this as he opened his door. He said it again before the door was shut. He said it after he opened up the back car door to get his gas can. He said it before closing that door. He said the emphasized word "neighbor" at least five times. As he was walking onto his driveway, I put down my window and said, "Neighbor? You're Wayne and I'm Travis." He smiled a smile that was missing a few pearly whites and waved as he walked down his driveway.
I said I didn't know why the neighbor from yesterday helped me like he did. I really didn't, but I think I've discovered something while running a jackhammer at work. Yes, I did some thinking while wielding a 70-lb. electric implement of concrete destruction. I thought about it being the 3rd year anniversary of my grandmother's passing on Memorial Day, 2015. I thought about the lessons she sternly, but lovingly instilled into my head and heart (and sometimes across the back of my legs with a leather strop). Over the repetitive clacking of the hammer's own metal-on-metal mechanisms and the equally repetitive noise of a metal chisel busting up concrete, and underneath the pair of ear muffs that deadened those sounds and protected my hearing, I believe I discovered that I do, in fact, know why. It was for that morning. For Wayne and a trip to a gas station. It was for me and for making me think about others. For running late but not being late. For using actions instead of merely words. For doing without expecting. It was for that whole "Do unto others" bit. For an impromptu learning experience. For love. And since it cost me nothing, it was for free.
And I think those are some pretty darn good reasons.
"I've got a rider if you want to borrow it." He nodded his head in the direction of his place, a house just across the field on the other side of the creek. It's the house with a barn and horses across the same field that floods during heavy rains when that same creek overflows its banks. He nodded toward his house again. "Just come up and get it."
Honestly, my only goal was to do the trimming. I told him that with what daylight was left, I probably wouldn't have time to mow the whole yard. "I bet you do have the time. 60" cut, zero-turn...you got time."
So, I walked up there, and he brought the mower up to the front of the house, and proceeded to tell me how to operate it. But his lesson involved more emphasis on showing and less on speaking. Before shutting it off, he moved the throttle from turtle to rabbit and back again. He used the foot-activated deck height pedal. He pushed the button that engages the blade and pulled it up again. He pulled the two steering/drive arms apart and engaged the parking brake. He showed me that the engine would stop if I tried to pull those arms back up into drive position with the handbrake on. His advice then, as he turned to go inside, was to "Take it slow."
I did take it slow. Even so, I mowed my yard in record time. A 60" cut while riding beats a 22" cut walking any day. I took it slow, not only because it was a borrowed mower; a mower I was unfamiliar with; a mower that probably costs as much as a beater used car from Terd Ferguson's Used Car Lot on a slow sales day...I mainly took it slow because the mower scared the crap out of me. Shoot, there's places I didn't mow because the tires kept spinning out on the incline and I did not want to be rolling over on somebody else's mower. I probably wouldn't have mowed those steep places with my own riding mower. The last time I drove a zero-turn lawnmower, I was a pimply teenager working for East Pasco Medical Center (now a part of Florida Hospital) and I wasn't even a member of the grounds maintenance department. I worked in the cafeteria. I just knew the grounds keeper.
When I finished, I had to get my headlamp to see to drive the mower back to my neighbor's house. I saw that his storm door was open, so I walked up and announced my arrival. A Western was playing on the living room television, and an old dog whose eyes reflected the light of my headlamp sat on the couch, but there was no old dude to put the mower back from where he got it. So I started the rather loud mower up and put it under the four poles with a roof where I'd seen him get it. I went back to the front door to give him the keys and he still wasn't there, nor was he answering me. I decided to hang the keys on the inner handle of his storm door and come on home.
I don't know why he asked me if I wanted to borrow his mower. Our relationship as neighbors is levels below my relationship with my other neighbors. I know them better. I see them more often. We wave when we see each other. We jokingly wipe the sweat off our brows when we see each other working in the yard in the summer heat. We determine the need to mow our lawns by the condition of each other's lawns. We all have our fences, and like good neighbors, we stay over there, just behind sections of chain link and lockable gates. There's no communal picnics or yard sales, and hardly any of the leaning on the fence with drink in hand conversation.
But there are Christmas cards exchanged every year. In fact, this past Christmas was the first time I'd given the old dude a Christmas card. In fact, it was the first time I'd given ALL of my neighbors Christmas cards. With my closest neighbors, we keep an eye out for nefarious activities when one of us is gone from home for an extended period of time. We borrow ladders and light bulbs and cliché cups of sugar, but I've never asked to borrow a lawnmower from any of them. I just walk behind my self-propelled push mower, cutting a swath in a back and forth motion, 22" at a time.
I'm glad he stopped by to offer use of his mower. I don't know why he did, but I'm glad he did. I wonder if he thought I was mowing the lawn with a weed eater. I don't know. But I do know that I now coveteth my neighbor's Dixie Chopper.
Jump to the next morning and I'm already running later than I wanted due to misuse of several snooze buttons and general exhaustion due to the inability to make myself to go bed at a proper hour. I was taking my work stuff and lunch box to my car, and there he was, standing next to my car.
"I knocked on your door. I went up there," he said, pointing toward my porch. "I didn't want to get bit, so I came back out here."
It was The Hole Man. Wayne is his name. I was made aware of The Hole People when I moved in. He's the one who lives down in the hollow (er, I mean "holler) with, I assume, Mrs. Hole Man. I've never seen her, but I was told "they" live there, so there's that. "I think he smokes weed," one neighbor told me years ago. I feigned shock. "He shoots dogs," said another. Feigned shock got real. I've yet to confirm either claim.
He looked like he's always looked to me; age-worn blue jeans, a loose-fitting T-shirt, and a wide-brimmed leather hat. He pointed toward my dogs and said, "I've been bit before and I know how it feels." I assured him those dogs couldn't get out of their pen and all was cool. No biting today.
"Um, I was wondering if you could take me to get some gas. I ran out of gas." His eyes kept glancing at my dogs, who were barking. "It's for my truck. I need to drive my truck." The closest gas station was only a few miles away, and even though I was running later than I wanted, I wasn't running late.
I agreed to take him to get gas. As he walked back up to his driveway to get his gas can, I went back inside to get the rest of my stuff. I hadn't packed a lunch yet and there wouldn't be time to make the salad I'd planned on making. So I had no lunch, but no worries. After all, that's why God created Subway®. Back outside, Wayne was already back with his gas can and was standing by my car again, ready to go. So, we did.
There wasn't much conversation on the drive, just normal banter about how people are so like one another. We all run out of gas. We all have to ask for help. Hope it doesn't rain this weekend. Wow, the price of gas sure has gone up. Stuff like that. The awkward in me recognized the awkward in him. I could tell he didn't talk much either. Like the other neighbor. Kinda like me...
While he paid for and pumped the gas he needed, I texted my boss and let him know what I was doing, just in case I ended up being late. Wayne had pumped his gas and put the almost empty can in the car, then got back in the front seat. He said that $2 doesn't buy much gas, but it was enough to get him back to the store to fill up. I agreed, and I proceeded to take him back home. He told me I could drop him off by his driveway, so I did.
"Thanks, neighbor." He said this as he opened his door. He said it again before the door was shut. He said it after he opened up the back car door to get his gas can. He said it before closing that door. He said the emphasized word "neighbor" at least five times. As he was walking onto his driveway, I put down my window and said, "Neighbor? You're Wayne and I'm Travis." He smiled a smile that was missing a few pearly whites and waved as he walked down his driveway.
I said I didn't know why the neighbor from yesterday helped me like he did. I really didn't, but I think I've discovered something while running a jackhammer at work. Yes, I did some thinking while wielding a 70-lb. electric implement of concrete destruction. I thought about it being the 3rd year anniversary of my grandmother's passing on Memorial Day, 2015. I thought about the lessons she sternly, but lovingly instilled into my head and heart (and sometimes across the back of my legs with a leather strop). Over the repetitive clacking of the hammer's own metal-on-metal mechanisms and the equally repetitive noise of a metal chisel busting up concrete, and underneath the pair of ear muffs that deadened those sounds and protected my hearing, I believe I discovered that I do, in fact, know why. It was for that morning. For Wayne and a trip to a gas station. It was for me and for making me think about others. For running late but not being late. For using actions instead of merely words. For doing without expecting. It was for that whole "Do unto others" bit. For an impromptu learning experience. For love. And since it cost me nothing, it was for free.
And I think those are some pretty darn good reasons.
Thursday, December 21, 2017
He Ain't Heavy
December 21, 2016. That's the prominent date on the oversized, zig-zag folded, state issued, legal document that I held in my hand. It had, up until now, been in its folded state, residing in an overstuffed manila envelope along with other important letters and forms and personal effects, that only see the light of day upon demand or whimsy. The only reason I held it today is because of demand. Proof of my brother's death was needed, and this document is proof.
I hadn't looked at a copy of his death certificate in a while. It isn't something I want to do. But closing utility services warrants it. Cancelling bank accounts warrants it. Dealing with an insurance company warrants it. In this case, dealing with the insurance company has warranted looking at several other death certificates as well. The beneficiaries listed on his policy, my grandmother and my sister, had passed on before him and I had to provide proof of their deaths too. Just as a reminder, I would suggest you make sure your life insurance policy is up to date. Just saying.
Holding those pieces of paper was a heavy thing. Each one represented a loved one that's gone. Each one held information designating a beginning and an end; a who, a when, a where, a how. But what it didn't hold is an answer to the question, "Why?" That answer won't be found on those certificates or any other folded piece of paper in a place of storage, whether it's the envelope busting at the seams or one of these boxes of his stuff I sorted through not too long ago.
So many boxes...
Memories contained in glossy images; highly defined in brilliant black and white, or the grainy color of a kid's cheap 110 camera, carefully stored between paper and cellophane in stained and outdated photo albums or packed away in this scattering of boxes, snug in their paper packages that they came home from the developers in...compete with those stored in my head...and that's all that's left. That's it. The ones printed on paper are more clear and more abundant than the still frames imprinted in my fuzzy memory. That's really not surprising. There's been a lot of living going on; too much living to remember every single vivid detail, much less the details that are barely visible through a thin veil of fog.
My fingers feel like they've got several year's worth of dust on them and I'm surprised that I'm not sneezing. These boxes, which are filled with memories; memories of mine; memories belonging to people I know; memories belonging to others as obscure as the relatives I've never met pictured in these memories, actually do have years of dust built up. I've never put dusting high on the list of importance when it comes to housekeeping. I just might rethink that stance.
What wasn't wanted or needed was put aside for disposal of some sort. If an item could be useful to someone, it became destined for donation. If it was less desired, it became destined for the trash can or the burn barrel. Everything else went into plastic totes. Twenty plastic totes. Twenty plastic totes that I had to carry with me the whole 540-mile trip from Florida to my home in Tennessee. The whole trip home with twenty plastic totes, some stuffed into every available space in my Mazda 2, the rest in the undersized 1974 Sears Allstate clamshell utility trailer faithfully in tow behind me. All that and two bookshelves strapped to the top of the trailer's clamshell top. On that trip home, my little car could tell that it was weighed down. Those memories in boxes were heavy.
If you knew my brother, you knew he was a simple man with simple pleasures. It didn't take a whole lot to make him happy. He had his Zippo lighter collection, complete with customer catalogs displaying what lighters were available that year, and collector's catalogs showing styles made and how much they were worth. You knew he liked camels. And if it was a Camel© Zippo, well, stand back. John Deere memorabilia, Hot Wheels and Matchbox scale model cars (most of them Volkswagens, because he knew I liked them), and little wind-up tin trinkets filled several boxes. Movies on VHS and DVD filled a bookshelf and stacks of LPs took up the floorspace under a window. So many things told me sides of him that I both knew and did not know. The things that showed me who he was weighed heavy on my mind. I should have known more of this stuff about him than I did.
It came to me that we spent more time apart than together. The greatest barrier was distance. I was the one who went away to college. I was the one who stayed away after that continued education ship had sailed into the horizon. I was the one who fell in love and started a family, an even stronger reason for the continuance of distance. I was the one who found the times being able to bridge that distance become fewer and with more time passing between the gaps. I'm the one who fell into complacency; the one who actually had the resources to make that distance feel closer and still, I was complacent.
People told me he thought the world of me. They would say that he would brag on any of my achievements, no matter how small I viewed them. To him they were big. And I suppose they were, and I didn't realize it.
If you knew him, you knew he was a big ol' boy. Always had been, at least after his adolescent years. I've had my own bouts with my weight. Up and down, slim and round. It's never ending. Ironically, he used to call me "Fat Boy" when he was at any given time, at least twice my weight. He seemed to keep whatever weight he put on. I'm just gonna go ahead and say it. He was obese. Officially obese. "Morbid Obesity" is listed as a contributing factor to his health on this death certificate. Right down there in the "Notes" section, forever as an aside to the real person that he was.
I am the worst at getting distracted while trying to sort through stuff. The allure of looking at every picture in the numerous packs of developed pictures totally trumps deciding what to keep and what to let go. There's so many pictures, some with me in them, but the majority of them were just snippets of his daily life. Pictures of blooming cacti, magnolia trees, and rose bushes. Photos of things he liked while on his numerous trips to Wal Mart; photos of probably every single VW his eye would spy. Sorting through the pictures was like a timeline that was out of order. And what I finally realized was that it was a timeline that showed me more of who he was during my time "away." Even if I didn't have the actual memory, I had his collective memory in hundreds of glossy photos and everything else in those twenty plastic totes. And man, that's heavy.
March 6, 1970. That's the date on my mother's headstone. The same car wreck that took her life damaged those who were left behind. With a broken leg and severe cuts to my face by broken glass, I was probably the one with the least amount of long-term effects. My broken leg mended and the glass that had embedded under the surface of my skin eventually worked its way out. The cuts on my face healed, but the scars last to this very day. Two of my earliest childhood memories are the card I got on my 5th birthday, and the day the glass under my skin on the back of my head was discovered and removed. There's a nice little spot back there where no hair grows.
The actual extent of my siblings' injuries were unknown to me. But I have long been told that Tod suffered head trauma that affected him his whole life. And, as he was the oldest sibling, he carried the memory our mother. The head trauma, coupled with what I suspect to be untreated mental issues that came with dealing with grief at such a young age, kept him behind in mental development. He was not stupid. He was smart enough to finish high school, hold a job while he was still able to work, and make sure bills were paid from month to month. He may have driven a car at some point, but he never had a license. He could talk for hours about something he was passionate about, but would be easily frustrated by the smallest thing and either clam up or lose his cool and then clam up. He could be social, but I honestly believe he wouldn't have been able to live on his own without periodic prompting and assistance. You know, up until a few years ago, I was unaware of the indicators of someone on the autism spectrum. But thanks to someone special, who has a son who is autistic, I know a little more. Still not enough, but enough to make me wonder if my brother was "unofficially" autistic. And deep down, I know I loved him, I surely did. And, oh my...he was far from a family secret, but there's a chance I stayed away because I couldn't or didn't want to carry that weight. Heavy, man.
I'll probably never know the answers.
Another box came back home with me. It sat on the back bench seat of my car the entire trip. When it was given to me, it was surprisingly heavy. I had never held someone's ashes before. I assume they're sort of like volcanic ash; dense and heavy. I also assume that the total weight of the cremated ashes are only a fraction of the weight of the person cremated. I'll have to Google that sh...stuff.
It's heavy, this sense of missing and the should haves, could haves, and would haves; the realizations that came too late; the knowledge of now knowing what was once unknown; the fact that my scant memories are all that I have, aside from the twenty plastic totes filled with his memories. It will never be enough. I think of the desperation that he surely felt as he died with only medical professionals there fighting to keep him with us. There was nothing any of his loved ones could have done, so I'll nip this right in the bud. But just that one thought...man, it's heavy.
I carried that sealed box from my car and slid it under my bed. I'll do something special with its contents one day. What I do, I don't know, but I'll do it someday when things aren't so heavy...like that box is.
But that box is my brother, and he ain't heavy, he's my...well, you know the rest.
I hadn't looked at a copy of his death certificate in a while. It isn't something I want to do. But closing utility services warrants it. Cancelling bank accounts warrants it. Dealing with an insurance company warrants it. In this case, dealing with the insurance company has warranted looking at several other death certificates as well. The beneficiaries listed on his policy, my grandmother and my sister, had passed on before him and I had to provide proof of their deaths too. Just as a reminder, I would suggest you make sure your life insurance policy is up to date. Just saying.
Holding those pieces of paper was a heavy thing. Each one represented a loved one that's gone. Each one held information designating a beginning and an end; a who, a when, a where, a how. But what it didn't hold is an answer to the question, "Why?" That answer won't be found on those certificates or any other folded piece of paper in a place of storage, whether it's the envelope busting at the seams or one of these boxes of his stuff I sorted through not too long ago.
So many boxes...
Memories contained in glossy images; highly defined in brilliant black and white, or the grainy color of a kid's cheap 110 camera, carefully stored between paper and cellophane in stained and outdated photo albums or packed away in this scattering of boxes, snug in their paper packages that they came home from the developers in...compete with those stored in my head...and that's all that's left. That's it. The ones printed on paper are more clear and more abundant than the still frames imprinted in my fuzzy memory. That's really not surprising. There's been a lot of living going on; too much living to remember every single vivid detail, much less the details that are barely visible through a thin veil of fog.
My fingers feel like they've got several year's worth of dust on them and I'm surprised that I'm not sneezing. These boxes, which are filled with memories; memories of mine; memories belonging to people I know; memories belonging to others as obscure as the relatives I've never met pictured in these memories, actually do have years of dust built up. I've never put dusting high on the list of importance when it comes to housekeeping. I just might rethink that stance.
What wasn't wanted or needed was put aside for disposal of some sort. If an item could be useful to someone, it became destined for donation. If it was less desired, it became destined for the trash can or the burn barrel. Everything else went into plastic totes. Twenty plastic totes. Twenty plastic totes that I had to carry with me the whole 540-mile trip from Florida to my home in Tennessee. The whole trip home with twenty plastic totes, some stuffed into every available space in my Mazda 2, the rest in the undersized 1974 Sears Allstate clamshell utility trailer faithfully in tow behind me. All that and two bookshelves strapped to the top of the trailer's clamshell top. On that trip home, my little car could tell that it was weighed down. Those memories in boxes were heavy.
If you knew my brother, you knew he was a simple man with simple pleasures. It didn't take a whole lot to make him happy. He had his Zippo lighter collection, complete with customer catalogs displaying what lighters were available that year, and collector's catalogs showing styles made and how much they were worth. You knew he liked camels. And if it was a Camel© Zippo, well, stand back. John Deere memorabilia, Hot Wheels and Matchbox scale model cars (most of them Volkswagens, because he knew I liked them), and little wind-up tin trinkets filled several boxes. Movies on VHS and DVD filled a bookshelf and stacks of LPs took up the floorspace under a window. So many things told me sides of him that I both knew and did not know. The things that showed me who he was weighed heavy on my mind. I should have known more of this stuff about him than I did.
It came to me that we spent more time apart than together. The greatest barrier was distance. I was the one who went away to college. I was the one who stayed away after that continued education ship had sailed into the horizon. I was the one who fell in love and started a family, an even stronger reason for the continuance of distance. I was the one who found the times being able to bridge that distance become fewer and with more time passing between the gaps. I'm the one who fell into complacency; the one who actually had the resources to make that distance feel closer and still, I was complacent.
People told me he thought the world of me. They would say that he would brag on any of my achievements, no matter how small I viewed them. To him they were big. And I suppose they were, and I didn't realize it.
If you knew him, you knew he was a big ol' boy. Always had been, at least after his adolescent years. I've had my own bouts with my weight. Up and down, slim and round. It's never ending. Ironically, he used to call me "Fat Boy" when he was at any given time, at least twice my weight. He seemed to keep whatever weight he put on. I'm just gonna go ahead and say it. He was obese. Officially obese. "Morbid Obesity" is listed as a contributing factor to his health on this death certificate. Right down there in the "Notes" section, forever as an aside to the real person that he was.
I am the worst at getting distracted while trying to sort through stuff. The allure of looking at every picture in the numerous packs of developed pictures totally trumps deciding what to keep and what to let go. There's so many pictures, some with me in them, but the majority of them were just snippets of his daily life. Pictures of blooming cacti, magnolia trees, and rose bushes. Photos of things he liked while on his numerous trips to Wal Mart; photos of probably every single VW his eye would spy. Sorting through the pictures was like a timeline that was out of order. And what I finally realized was that it was a timeline that showed me more of who he was during my time "away." Even if I didn't have the actual memory, I had his collective memory in hundreds of glossy photos and everything else in those twenty plastic totes. And man, that's heavy.
March 6, 1970. That's the date on my mother's headstone. The same car wreck that took her life damaged those who were left behind. With a broken leg and severe cuts to my face by broken glass, I was probably the one with the least amount of long-term effects. My broken leg mended and the glass that had embedded under the surface of my skin eventually worked its way out. The cuts on my face healed, but the scars last to this very day. Two of my earliest childhood memories are the card I got on my 5th birthday, and the day the glass under my skin on the back of my head was discovered and removed. There's a nice little spot back there where no hair grows.
The actual extent of my siblings' injuries were unknown to me. But I have long been told that Tod suffered head trauma that affected him his whole life. And, as he was the oldest sibling, he carried the memory our mother. The head trauma, coupled with what I suspect to be untreated mental issues that came with dealing with grief at such a young age, kept him behind in mental development. He was not stupid. He was smart enough to finish high school, hold a job while he was still able to work, and make sure bills were paid from month to month. He may have driven a car at some point, but he never had a license. He could talk for hours about something he was passionate about, but would be easily frustrated by the smallest thing and either clam up or lose his cool and then clam up. He could be social, but I honestly believe he wouldn't have been able to live on his own without periodic prompting and assistance. You know, up until a few years ago, I was unaware of the indicators of someone on the autism spectrum. But thanks to someone special, who has a son who is autistic, I know a little more. Still not enough, but enough to make me wonder if my brother was "unofficially" autistic. And deep down, I know I loved him, I surely did. And, oh my...he was far from a family secret, but there's a chance I stayed away because I couldn't or didn't want to carry that weight. Heavy, man.
I'll probably never know the answers.
Another box came back home with me. It sat on the back bench seat of my car the entire trip. When it was given to me, it was surprisingly heavy. I had never held someone's ashes before. I assume they're sort of like volcanic ash; dense and heavy. I also assume that the total weight of the cremated ashes are only a fraction of the weight of the person cremated. I'll have to Google that sh...stuff.
It's heavy, this sense of missing and the should haves, could haves, and would haves; the realizations that came too late; the knowledge of now knowing what was once unknown; the fact that my scant memories are all that I have, aside from the twenty plastic totes filled with his memories. It will never be enough. I think of the desperation that he surely felt as he died with only medical professionals there fighting to keep him with us. There was nothing any of his loved ones could have done, so I'll nip this right in the bud. But just that one thought...man, it's heavy.
I carried that sealed box from my car and slid it under my bed. I'll do something special with its contents one day. What I do, I don't know, but I'll do it someday when things aren't so heavy...like that box is.
But that box is my brother, and he ain't heavy, he's my...well, you know the rest.
Tuesday, December 19, 2017
Do You Hear What I Hear?
I heard the sound after being in Food Lion for only a few minutes. I was in the produce section, picking out the perfect head of Romaine lettuce to go with the carrots, broccoli, tomatoes, radishes, and celery for my boring lunches of boring salad to last all boring work week. The sound was clearly coming from across the other side of the store. It was the sound of a child crying, screaming, pitching a fit.
I had the chance to stop at several grocery stores on my way home. I passed the first one in the pouring rain, thinking that I'd stop at the next one. I passed that one when the rain had halted and the sun was peeking out and a rainbow hung in the sky, its brightly colored end landing in a field just beyond the line of trees along the highway. I went on, thinking I'd stop at the one closest to home. As it was, I pulled into its lot in a downpour. So I waited. After a few songs on the MP3 player had played, the rain let up enough to make a dash for the door.
I got my produce and headed for some salad dressing, all to the tune of the screaming child. I could see other shoppers' reactions range from sighing to eye rolling to mutters of "...shut that kid up..."
I could hear the child, but I couldn't see the child. The people around me could hear the child, but they couldn't see the child either. But I could tell by the sound's movement that they were at the front of the store, perhaps even in the checkout lane. I had all I had come for, so I headed up front as well. And there they were, in lane 5, a woman with two boys; one putting the last of the groceries on the belt, and the younger one lying on the ground yelling about how the little grocery cart, the one for "shoppers in training" was his cart and he wanted it. I could see other shoppers and cashiers and bag boys and even a manager looking and counting the seconds down until this family left.
I got into her lane. There was another person ahead of me, behind the woman and her boys. I saw the woman trying to pay for her order and get her son off of the floor while he was yelling and her trying to put her card in the reader and his movements made her miss the slot several times and the looks and the stares and...and I had had enough.
Sitting in a restaurant, there's the kid over there yelling about carrots and peas touching on his plate. Two aisles over in Wal Mart there's a loud battle being fought over a toy being put back on the shelf. And closer to home, a child is crying about being corrected over the proper use of a word.
I can't say that I've never been annoyed by situations like these. Its hard to not be. It's easy to be the eye roller, the one with the annoyed sighs, the one muttering under your breath. It's hard to be the one trying to understand. It's even harder to be understood.
I put my basket of produce and dressing on the top of one of those end cap drink coolers and walked around to the front of my line. She had managed to get her boy, still on the floor, still crying, closer to the card reader to try to pay. I put my hand on her shoulder, and quietly asked, "May I help you get your groceries to your car?"
She burst into tears.
"What's your name?" I asked the small child, who was slowly inching toward the last whimpers of a good cry.
"Mommy has my hand." He looked at his hand, where his mother had hers clamped around his wrist. The older son spoke up, telling me his little brother's name, a name I can't remember, but he went on to say, "And I'm Luke." He held up a piece of paper with words written in pencil and said, "And this is my mom's shopping list."
"I want my buggy." The little guy still wanted his buggy. Focused, he was.
His mother was done and had picked him up.
"You know what time it is?" I asked the little boy. "It's time to go. No time for the buggy. It needs to rest now." I started pushing the cart behind the woman and her boys, with Luke hanging out, still with his mom, but closer to me. It was still pouring outside, so I waited just outside the door while she went to open up her car and get the youngest safely inside.
"I'm staying with you," Luke said. I told him he should probably go with his mom. I watched him catch up to her and when I saw the hatch rise on her SUV, I ran over with her groceries. As I started unloading her groceries, she came around to help and said, "Another day in the life of having a child with Autism."
"I knew it," I told her. "I recognized it and understood."
The little boy who had, just minutes ago, been dead weight on the dirty floor of a grocery store and screaming about buggies, was now climbing over the back seat to show me a toy.
"My girlfriend has a special little boy too," I said, talking to both the boy and his mother. "His name is Max. And sometimes, he has a bad day too." We were done unloading her groceries, so I said goodbye to the boys and to the mom, who thanked me again. We were both soaked from the rain, so I ran back inside to escape the rain and buy my groceries.
I got back in and discovered my basket was not where I had left it. One of the bag boys got my attention and asked if those were mine. He was pointing to my basket, now sitting on the end of an unused cashier lane. I told him yes, thanked him, picked it up and got back into a lane.
I didn't help the woman to feel better about myself or to get the approval of those around me. I didn't do it to show just how kind I can be. I didn't do it because I was behind on my random acts of kindness for the week. I did it for her. I did it for the older brother. I did it for the little boy having a bad day. I did it because I understood while trying to understand. I did it because I could see while trying to recognize. I did it because I was hearing while trying to listen.
Nothing was said to me as I made my purchase other than rote transaction conversation. I got my bags and left. As I walked out, I saw that she was still in the lot. It was still raining, so I quickly walked to my car and put my bags in, then made my way over to her car. I got to where she could see me, and I could see her. I could see that she was on her phone, so I just put my hand up in the universal symbol for OK. She nodded, so I left, the entire transaction being over and now the job of getting home my next priority.
You can say it was the Providence of a still, small voice or the finely meshed gears of Synchronicity turning, or Karma or rhubarb or whatever you want to call it. I felt that I was supposed to pass up the store where the sun was shining and end up getting soaked to the bone in order to be here, learning and leading and listening.
Understanding and recognizing and acting upon what you know to be right isn't hard. Listening to what you recognize in order to understand isn't hard. It isn't all that easy either. But what is easy, and I mean real easy, is showing compassion. Even if you don't understand; even if you don't recognize enough to listen to what's being said in the tantrum, you can always show kindness and compassion.
My girlfriend (yeah ,you heard me) says Autism Speaks. She's had years of listening to understand. I'm just beginning to hear...
I had the chance to stop at several grocery stores on my way home. I passed the first one in the pouring rain, thinking that I'd stop at the next one. I passed that one when the rain had halted and the sun was peeking out and a rainbow hung in the sky, its brightly colored end landing in a field just beyond the line of trees along the highway. I went on, thinking I'd stop at the one closest to home. As it was, I pulled into its lot in a downpour. So I waited. After a few songs on the MP3 player had played, the rain let up enough to make a dash for the door.
I got my produce and headed for some salad dressing, all to the tune of the screaming child. I could see other shoppers' reactions range from sighing to eye rolling to mutters of "...shut that kid up..."
I could hear the child, but I couldn't see the child. The people around me could hear the child, but they couldn't see the child either. But I could tell by the sound's movement that they were at the front of the store, perhaps even in the checkout lane. I had all I had come for, so I headed up front as well. And there they were, in lane 5, a woman with two boys; one putting the last of the groceries on the belt, and the younger one lying on the ground yelling about how the little grocery cart, the one for "shoppers in training" was his cart and he wanted it. I could see other shoppers and cashiers and bag boys and even a manager looking and counting the seconds down until this family left.
I got into her lane. There was another person ahead of me, behind the woman and her boys. I saw the woman trying to pay for her order and get her son off of the floor while he was yelling and her trying to put her card in the reader and his movements made her miss the slot several times and the looks and the stares and...and I had had enough.
Sitting in a restaurant, there's the kid over there yelling about carrots and peas touching on his plate. Two aisles over in Wal Mart there's a loud battle being fought over a toy being put back on the shelf. And closer to home, a child is crying about being corrected over the proper use of a word.
I can't say that I've never been annoyed by situations like these. Its hard to not be. It's easy to be the eye roller, the one with the annoyed sighs, the one muttering under your breath. It's hard to be the one trying to understand. It's even harder to be understood.
I put my basket of produce and dressing on the top of one of those end cap drink coolers and walked around to the front of my line. She had managed to get her boy, still on the floor, still crying, closer to the card reader to try to pay. I put my hand on her shoulder, and quietly asked, "May I help you get your groceries to your car?"
She burst into tears.
"What's your name?" I asked the small child, who was slowly inching toward the last whimpers of a good cry.
"Mommy has my hand." He looked at his hand, where his mother had hers clamped around his wrist. The older son spoke up, telling me his little brother's name, a name I can't remember, but he went on to say, "And I'm Luke." He held up a piece of paper with words written in pencil and said, "And this is my mom's shopping list."
"I want my buggy." The little guy still wanted his buggy. Focused, he was.
His mother was done and had picked him up.
"You know what time it is?" I asked the little boy. "It's time to go. No time for the buggy. It needs to rest now." I started pushing the cart behind the woman and her boys, with Luke hanging out, still with his mom, but closer to me. It was still pouring outside, so I waited just outside the door while she went to open up her car and get the youngest safely inside.
"I'm staying with you," Luke said. I told him he should probably go with his mom. I watched him catch up to her and when I saw the hatch rise on her SUV, I ran over with her groceries. As I started unloading her groceries, she came around to help and said, "Another day in the life of having a child with Autism."
"I knew it," I told her. "I recognized it and understood."
The little boy who had, just minutes ago, been dead weight on the dirty floor of a grocery store and screaming about buggies, was now climbing over the back seat to show me a toy.
"My girlfriend has a special little boy too," I said, talking to both the boy and his mother. "His name is Max. And sometimes, he has a bad day too." We were done unloading her groceries, so I said goodbye to the boys and to the mom, who thanked me again. We were both soaked from the rain, so I ran back inside to escape the rain and buy my groceries.
I got back in and discovered my basket was not where I had left it. One of the bag boys got my attention and asked if those were mine. He was pointing to my basket, now sitting on the end of an unused cashier lane. I told him yes, thanked him, picked it up and got back into a lane.
I didn't help the woman to feel better about myself or to get the approval of those around me. I didn't do it to show just how kind I can be. I didn't do it because I was behind on my random acts of kindness for the week. I did it for her. I did it for the older brother. I did it for the little boy having a bad day. I did it because I understood while trying to understand. I did it because I could see while trying to recognize. I did it because I was hearing while trying to listen.
Nothing was said to me as I made my purchase other than rote transaction conversation. I got my bags and left. As I walked out, I saw that she was still in the lot. It was still raining, so I quickly walked to my car and put my bags in, then made my way over to her car. I got to where she could see me, and I could see her. I could see that she was on her phone, so I just put my hand up in the universal symbol for OK. She nodded, so I left, the entire transaction being over and now the job of getting home my next priority.
You can say it was the Providence of a still, small voice or the finely meshed gears of Synchronicity turning, or Karma or rhubarb or whatever you want to call it. I felt that I was supposed to pass up the store where the sun was shining and end up getting soaked to the bone in order to be here, learning and leading and listening.
Understanding and recognizing and acting upon what you know to be right isn't hard. Listening to what you recognize in order to understand isn't hard. It isn't all that easy either. But what is easy, and I mean real easy, is showing compassion. Even if you don't understand; even if you don't recognize enough to listen to what's being said in the tantrum, you can always show kindness and compassion.
My girlfriend (yeah ,you heard me) says Autism Speaks. She's had years of listening to understand. I'm just beginning to hear...
Thursday, September 1, 2016
Misguided Guide
"...And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by..." -John Masefield
I saw a friend a few weeks ago. It had already been a few weeks since I'd seen him, and that's a long time, but not as long as the time before that, or the time before that or the time...sigh. Luckily, it's one of those friendships that, as time goes by with neither of us making contact, picks right back up as if no time has passed at all. Of course, it isn't intentional, this lapse in communication, but it is mutual, and no, it isn't okay, but we see it for what it is and know it isn't a rift.
People change, sometimes unseen, other times the change is as clear as the beard on my face. He had a health scare in recent months. But through surgery and a lifestyle change, he says he hasn't felt this good in quite some time. I was glad to hear that. But as we talked, I heard things that don't normally fall in line with things to be glad about. I heard him ask me for advice. Oh, boy. My experiences create a sordid story of wrong trees and how to bark up them...but, still, I try to understand and explain why the trees are being barked up. It isn't all kittens and lollipops, this blip on the radar of time we possess. Sometimes it's greasepaint and monthly bills. Eww, scary. But without a doubt, life keeps you on your toes as it leads you forward to inevitable change.
Late afternoon turned into early evening. I had to go. As I got into my car to leave, he pointed out the Moon, visible above the trees on the hillside. She was still a few days away from being full, but that took nothing away from her beauty. "Be safe," he said. I replied, pointing at the Moon, "I'll follow her home." I then left him with the same things always said about things we've gone through, things we're going through, and things to come and to not be strangers and making open promises of routine communication. And if we fail at our promises, we both know it isn't something that will end our friendship. We will carry on.
So I followed the nearly full Moon that was hanging above me, surrounded by these beautiful clouds that have been taking up residence in this sky around Chattanooga. Have you seen them? Small clouds that seem to be made with cookie cutter precision, marching across the field of blue, and in the distance, giant versions of those clouds; clouds that beget storms, looming up into the heavens. Beautiful. But soon, I was not surrounded by those friendly clouds. I was headed straight towards some angry ones. These clouds brought strong winds, heavy rain, and a gorgeously dangerous light display. It was this I was driving straight into.
As I was making my way through the weaving lanes of the road to home, the sky just opened up with heavy rain. The highest speed on the windshield wipers could barely keep up with the amount of water coming down. Along the unmowed edges of the road, the tall, windblown gone-to-seed grass seemed to lean out into my lane, reaching for a touch as I drove by. And then the lightning...oh, my. Unseen bolts lit up the angry clouds, and the seen ones were striking closer than I cared for them to be. When there's only a second or two between the crack of lightning and the boom of thunder...that lightning's pretty darn close.
As my driving slowed to a crawl, with the wipers on overtime, the rain falling sideways, the wind pushing me and the lightning blinding me and the thunder rattling windows, something drew my attention skyward. I spied up in the sky with my little eye, that fat ol' Moon that I had been following, peeking through the clouds. It was amazing to me that even a glimpse of the Moon was to be had. She wanted to be seen. I caught myself wondering if, like it's said about the Sun, the Moon was capable of burning through the clouds. But of course not, silly, she merely reflects, not emits light. But still, I envisioned the clouds fleeing from the burning glare of her glow.
It was something I didn't expect to see, this Moon pushing through the clouds during an intense thunderstorm. But the glow of this half-hidden orb made me think of an uplifting aura of hope. It made me think of the comforting grip of guidance. It reminded me of something spiritual; something mystical; something divine. In spite of the chaos of the storm around me, with forces pushing against me on my journey, the one thing I had chosen to be my guide home, no matter how jokingly I had said it...this one thing seemed to be saying, "Hey, I'm here, being what you asked me to be."
I need guidance from time to time. I need a glimmer of hope every now and then. An experience of a spiritual, magical, and divine nature is something to fully enjoy when it happens. These occurrences aren't rare. They happen all the time, usually when you don't expect it; always when you're deeply distracted by the chaos around you; sometimes when you're asking for it.
I said I needed guidance every now and then. I believe we all do. I'm not a very good follower, but I'm an even worse source of guidance. Flattering as it may be, it amazes me when I'm asked for advice. When you've gone through things that you're being asked advice about, you can take from those experiences, but it surely doesn't mean that you'll have expert advice. But giving from what you do know means a lot, even if your guidance is not given based upon actual experience, but from just giving from yourself, from what you know is right. I don't have all the answers for my friend's questions. I don't even have the answers to my own questions. But I only hope that my advice, misguided as it is, yet given from the heart, is taken to heart.
A few minutes and several miles after seeing the Moon through the storm clouds, the rain lessened, the thunder and lightning tapered off, and by the time I reached home, I could tell that I had gone through the storm; I had pulled ahead of it long enough to make it home, where it wasn't raining; where the storm's light and sound display was lighting the more distant clouds and rolling through other hills, with the Moon hanging in a mostly clear sky to the East. The storm wasn't going away, though. It was still headed my way. I made it inside and waited for it to come. But this time, I knew what was coming. I had experienced it. So when the rain started hitting the windows and the thunder started rolling, I knew what to expect. When the lightning started flashing, even striking so close, close enough to make my lights flicker and a loud crack happen right outside my bedroom window, I wasn't surprised. But when the storm had passed as quickly as it had moved in, I went outside to see that the breaker to my yard light had tripped, leaving my yard in darkness. That's when I saw that the stars were brighter; more obvious. The Moon was peeking through a tree in my yard, obscured, but visible. And there, just above Cassiopeia, was the fuzzy band of the Milky Way.
And I was happy.
Misguidedly happy.
I saw a friend a few weeks ago. It had already been a few weeks since I'd seen him, and that's a long time, but not as long as the time before that, or the time before that or the time...sigh. Luckily, it's one of those friendships that, as time goes by with neither of us making contact, picks right back up as if no time has passed at all. Of course, it isn't intentional, this lapse in communication, but it is mutual, and no, it isn't okay, but we see it for what it is and know it isn't a rift.
People change, sometimes unseen, other times the change is as clear as the beard on my face. He had a health scare in recent months. But through surgery and a lifestyle change, he says he hasn't felt this good in quite some time. I was glad to hear that. But as we talked, I heard things that don't normally fall in line with things to be glad about. I heard him ask me for advice. Oh, boy. My experiences create a sordid story of wrong trees and how to bark up them...but, still, I try to understand and explain why the trees are being barked up. It isn't all kittens and lollipops, this blip on the radar of time we possess. Sometimes it's greasepaint and monthly bills. Eww, scary. But without a doubt, life keeps you on your toes as it leads you forward to inevitable change.
Late afternoon turned into early evening. I had to go. As I got into my car to leave, he pointed out the Moon, visible above the trees on the hillside. She was still a few days away from being full, but that took nothing away from her beauty. "Be safe," he said. I replied, pointing at the Moon, "I'll follow her home." I then left him with the same things always said about things we've gone through, things we're going through, and things to come and to not be strangers and making open promises of routine communication. And if we fail at our promises, we both know it isn't something that will end our friendship. We will carry on.
So I followed the nearly full Moon that was hanging above me, surrounded by these beautiful clouds that have been taking up residence in this sky around Chattanooga. Have you seen them? Small clouds that seem to be made with cookie cutter precision, marching across the field of blue, and in the distance, giant versions of those clouds; clouds that beget storms, looming up into the heavens. Beautiful. But soon, I was not surrounded by those friendly clouds. I was headed straight towards some angry ones. These clouds brought strong winds, heavy rain, and a gorgeously dangerous light display. It was this I was driving straight into.
As I was making my way through the weaving lanes of the road to home, the sky just opened up with heavy rain. The highest speed on the windshield wipers could barely keep up with the amount of water coming down. Along the unmowed edges of the road, the tall, windblown gone-to-seed grass seemed to lean out into my lane, reaching for a touch as I drove by. And then the lightning...oh, my. Unseen bolts lit up the angry clouds, and the seen ones were striking closer than I cared for them to be. When there's only a second or two between the crack of lightning and the boom of thunder...that lightning's pretty darn close.
As my driving slowed to a crawl, with the wipers on overtime, the rain falling sideways, the wind pushing me and the lightning blinding me and the thunder rattling windows, something drew my attention skyward. I spied up in the sky with my little eye, that fat ol' Moon that I had been following, peeking through the clouds. It was amazing to me that even a glimpse of the Moon was to be had. She wanted to be seen. I caught myself wondering if, like it's said about the Sun, the Moon was capable of burning through the clouds. But of course not, silly, she merely reflects, not emits light. But still, I envisioned the clouds fleeing from the burning glare of her glow.
It was something I didn't expect to see, this Moon pushing through the clouds during an intense thunderstorm. But the glow of this half-hidden orb made me think of an uplifting aura of hope. It made me think of the comforting grip of guidance. It reminded me of something spiritual; something mystical; something divine. In spite of the chaos of the storm around me, with forces pushing against me on my journey, the one thing I had chosen to be my guide home, no matter how jokingly I had said it...this one thing seemed to be saying, "Hey, I'm here, being what you asked me to be."
I need guidance from time to time. I need a glimmer of hope every now and then. An experience of a spiritual, magical, and divine nature is something to fully enjoy when it happens. These occurrences aren't rare. They happen all the time, usually when you don't expect it; always when you're deeply distracted by the chaos around you; sometimes when you're asking for it.
I said I needed guidance every now and then. I believe we all do. I'm not a very good follower, but I'm an even worse source of guidance. Flattering as it may be, it amazes me when I'm asked for advice. When you've gone through things that you're being asked advice about, you can take from those experiences, but it surely doesn't mean that you'll have expert advice. But giving from what you do know means a lot, even if your guidance is not given based upon actual experience, but from just giving from yourself, from what you know is right. I don't have all the answers for my friend's questions. I don't even have the answers to my own questions. But I only hope that my advice, misguided as it is, yet given from the heart, is taken to heart.
A few minutes and several miles after seeing the Moon through the storm clouds, the rain lessened, the thunder and lightning tapered off, and by the time I reached home, I could tell that I had gone through the storm; I had pulled ahead of it long enough to make it home, where it wasn't raining; where the storm's light and sound display was lighting the more distant clouds and rolling through other hills, with the Moon hanging in a mostly clear sky to the East. The storm wasn't going away, though. It was still headed my way. I made it inside and waited for it to come. But this time, I knew what was coming. I had experienced it. So when the rain started hitting the windows and the thunder started rolling, I knew what to expect. When the lightning started flashing, even striking so close, close enough to make my lights flicker and a loud crack happen right outside my bedroom window, I wasn't surprised. But when the storm had passed as quickly as it had moved in, I went outside to see that the breaker to my yard light had tripped, leaving my yard in darkness. That's when I saw that the stars were brighter; more obvious. The Moon was peeking through a tree in my yard, obscured, but visible. And there, just above Cassiopeia, was the fuzzy band of the Milky Way.
And I was happy.
Misguidedly happy.
Friday, December 25, 2015
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.
Wednesday, September 2, 2015
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.
Sunday, June 21, 2015
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.
Thursday, June 4, 2015
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
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