That's the Spirit

I don't know how much longer I can stay awake. I started this evening with the determined resolve to catch the Big Guy in the act. All the stories said he would come, usually down the chimney, but lacking a chimney, I was certain he'd use one of the two doors in this little house. I wasn't allowed to stay up and wait in the living room where I'd be sure to see him as he made his grand entrance with his red suit, jelly belly, rosy cheeks and his toy sack filled to the brim slung over his shoulder. But I could lay in my bed all attentive, knowing just what a jiggling door handle sounded like. Surely a sleigh being pulled by 8 tiny reindeer couldn't make a whisper-quiet landing on the roof. I was ready to spring out of bed at the first sign of any noise out of the norm.

Did I just hear something? I'm not sure, but I think I drifted off there for just a second. I must stay awake. I must stay...wait a minute. If he notices we don't have a chimney, will he land in the yard instead? That means I won't hear him on the roof. And then there's the tree. It's not real. It's not even green. It's shiny aluminum. Does that matter? Will it make a difference? Will he see the metallic glow and miss the fact that it's a tree, and not a low-hanging disco ball?

Have I been good enough this year? It wasn't my fault that I was left behind that one time when we were going to town because I was dragging my feet when Mom said to "hurry up if you don't want to be left behind." And I didn't flip the bird to my teacher. That was my ring finger. I have a hard time believing that he could see my intent, but couldn't see which finger I threw up. And, of course I didn't mean to laugh and call my sister names. I thought we were playing reindeer games...

I wonder what I'll get this year? I remember the best toy from last year. It was a Steve Austin 14-inch Action Figure with bionic eye (miniature spy glass through his head), bionic hand grip action, with crystal radio backpack. The radio had an earpiece and a long wire with an alligator clip to clip onto something metal that touched the earth to ground the crystal. It actually worked! Sort of. I enjoyed that gift about as much as I did my Evel Knievel on a rip-cord motorcycle and G. I. Joe action figure with rotating wrist (for hand-held rotor blades).

I don't even know what time it is. All I know is I gotta pee, but I can't keep my eyes open any longer. I must fight sleep! I must stay awake! I know I can do...

I'm being shaken. The bedroom is lit with a glow from the morning sun and my brother wants me to wake up. It was then that I realized I had failed. I had fallen asleep and missed Santa. It was Christmas morning. There were presents at the foot of my bed and presents under the tree. The stockings were filled with nuts and fruits and candies and little toys. The presents on the bed were wrapped; the ones under the tree were not. The wrapped ones were from Mom; unwrapped, from Santa. What did I see under the tree? There was a Tonka truck, a Ford Bronco with a shop jack in the bed and a winch on the front bumper. There was more than enough room for Steve and Joe to ride, and perhaps a little room for Barbie in there as well.

It was a good Christmas. There was still that bit of belief in its magic. There was still the mystery and childlike wonder at the appearance of gifts where there were none before. There was the spirit of giving and, I won't lie, getting. There was just one thing...

As I sit here and type this memory of a magical morning from my distant youth, I know what that one thing was, even though I wasn't aware of it for quite some time. Christmas was always special. We were never loaded down with gifts. We got something we wanted and something we needed. It was a perfect balance. We were kids, and kids want things and need things. Kids want to believe what you tell them. You tell them that this magical dude flies around the world to all the good boys and girls delivering gifts, and, lo and behold, there's gifts under the tree, they're gonna believe you. But that one thing...

I remembered more from that night than I thought. Even in a deep sleep, the need to go to the bathroom has great waking power. I remember getting up. I remember opening my door slowly, trying not to make noise that would wake anyone up. I remember turning as I shut my door, and as I did, I barely saw a movement in the direction of my grandmother's (whom we all called "Mom") bedroom. And what I didn't notice until after I'd come back from the bathroom, were shadows of things under the tree. Of course, I didn't go to investigate, because I'd been told to stay in bed. Bathroom break exempted, of course.

I believe that was my last Christmas truly believing in Santa Claus. It wasn't this earth-shattering revelation; something I'd one day be telling a therapist as I reclined on a couch. It wasn't something that changed my childhood forever, claiming lies over truth that would cause emotional scars. And maybe it really wasn't a total disbelief in the Big Guy, but perhaps the seeds of doubt were planted with a simple fleeting glimpse in a dark room of someone I knew and loved. I knew the presents at the foot of my bed were from her. She told us so. But making us believe that there were presents that were not from her? I didn't see the harm in that.

Did I, when my kids were old enough to comprehend the concept of Christmas, let them believe as I once did? You bet I did. Did I, once they were old enough to decide on their own and begin to question, tell them the truth? Once again, yer darn tootin' I did. But just as my grandmother did, I left a little bit of mystery; a little bit of wonder to live on as a spirit of the season. There would always be one present that I had no clue where it had come from. And all of this was done with a wink and a nod. They knew, just as I did.

The spirit of Christmas isn't something that you unwrap on Christmas morning. It isn't a song you hear on the speakers over the din of frenzied shoppers looking for the perfect gift at the store. It isn't opening up the card at the company Christmas party and getting what you deem to be an insufficient bonus. It's the fact that you got one at all. It's singing along with the song you hear at the store. It's the feeling of being loved enough to have something given to you. It's giving to others and getting love in return.

This Christmas is going to be meager on both the giving and the getting of stuff. We all want stuff. I admit it. Not so much for me, but I like to give my kids things. They know how it is. They know that "Santa" is broke this year. Sure, there will be things under the replacement tree (fake ficus) and they know I try to give to them year-round. Me? If I want something, I just get it, if there's money to get it with. There are so many things I want...I had...that money can't buy. Those things slip through my fingers so easily.

This is something that I want my kids to know this Christmas day:

We may not have a tree, but I hope that you develop roots. Roots in good moral behavior. Roots in caring about other people. Roots in doing what you know is right in your heart.

There may not be lots of presents, but I will do my best to give you a future. A future where you can look back on your past and say, "I did my best." A future where faith holds promises for you. I'm not the best believer, and you know you're free to make your own choices in this matter, but example is a great teacher.

Giving. Loving. Family. Faith. To me, this is the spirit of this season. It's something we all need, and get too little of. Give some...get some.

Oh, and that Tonka truck I got that Christmas morning? I still have it.

Last Night

11:26.

That means it's really 11:16. Ten minute leeway on the morning alarms and all...

Sigh. I had been laying in bed for nearly two hours. I was really tired when I crawled under the sheet and double blankets that, at first were pulled up to my chin but are now currently pulled down mid-torso. I've heard the sounds of rain increase and then dwindle to a trickle. I've heard the sounds of the neighborhood dogs being joined by my dogs and a yipping handful of coyotes in a 2-mile radial display of canine operatics. And the cats...I've lost count of the laps they've run on the roof of this trailer. Only thing missing is the puppies whining to go outside, but that will occur at 2:00 a.m. with them refusing to leave the porch because of the rain, no matter how bad they have to go.

I hadn't felt good all day. Not bad enough to not go to work, but bad enough to not want to be there. Feeling like a fever, but not. Body aches that ibuprofen fixes right up. It's like I have Flu Lite. And as I lay here wondering why I'm not in dreamland, I also wonder if I dazily mistook DayQuil for NyQuil...

Slumber finally came upon me. I don't know when it came because I was laying on my back (a position that I rarely take in bed to sleep because the snoring soon wakes even myself up) and therefore couldn't see a clock. But before I slept, I thought. I thought about Christmas and how measly it is going to be this year. I was thinking that I can't afford the luxury of a tree, but I do have the fake ficus that can do the honor this year. Hey, it's a tree and it truly is ever green. Right?

I thought about how this year has been about 70/30 on the crappy/awesome ratio. April saw the demise of a relationship with someone I considered the second love of my life. Why the second? Because, come on, surely the mother of my kids was the first. That doesn't weaken the second love in the least. Nor does it put the first one on an unattainable pedestal. It's merely numerical...but still, I mourned that lost relationship for quite some time. Work? Well, it's work. It isn't perfect, but I love it now like I loved it when I first started.

Personal issues? I never said I was anything else than what I am. I am working on myself. I never said I was a good man. I only said I try.

Money? I don't even wanna talk about it, and that should speak volumes.

Dreams took me. I remember standing on a hillside looking over a valley below that was covered with ice and snow. A little road wove itself through that valley. The headlights of a car glistened off the icy road, disappearing behind sections of the road hidden by frost covered trees. As I stood there watching the lights come and go, I remember someone standing beside me. I don't know who it was, whether it was male or female, or even if the voice I heard speak was audible or in my head.

"Last night."

As soon as the words were spoken, the lights from the car vanished and I was no longer on the hillside. I was in the valley, in the woods. The snow was gone. Flowers were in bloom, trees had sprung forth leaves; new life was everywhere. And those words were still echoing in my head.

Then I awoke...

I had no clue what it meant. I have no idea what it means. I've had plenty of "last nights." Some I'd love to re-live, others I'd like to forget. But I can't do either. I thought that maybe, since I ended up in the woods with new life springing forth all around me, that perhaps a period of darkness was over; the last night of hurting; a last night of rejection; a last night of worry...all of that was coming to an end, replaced by the newness of something else.

There was something else I thought about before drifting off to sleep again. What if it meant it was my last night? What would I do if it was? I know one thing, first and foremost that I would do. Everyone I love would be fully aware that I love them. Those that I don't love as much? They would be made aware of that too. Would I change anything? If so, it wouldn't be much. Changing things always seems to come too late. It wouldn't make a difference anyway.

I've had hyper-realistic dreams or gut feelings before. Nothing's ever come from them, but when it happens, it seems so real, like it is something I can feel or at least do something about to either make it happen or prevent from happening. Perhaps this "last night" is a thought from deep within, a hope, a wish, a dream, a premonition of positivity and luck, from myself, to myself.

But then, perhaps it was just the nighttime flu medicine messing with my head...it's not as romantic, but it's much more believable. :-)

dr jn ltr

"Hey. I'm sorry, you're a really nice guy..."

Barely an hour after the family Thanksgiving feast and hardly two minutes after uttering the words, "I don't know what's going on," the ringtone that indicates an incoming text sang its muffled cry from my pocket. I had a hunch as to who it was from before I even pulled the phone out. But I really didn't expect what I read.

I had a feeling something was going sour for a few weeks. The time spent together had become less frequent and the quality of that time had not necessarily gone bad, but it had changed. The atmosphere was not as fluid; the little things had all but vanished. The texts that used to fill my phone's memory bank in a few days had dwindled down to texts that were merely responses to mine. Forget about incoming calls; those were non-existent.

"...and you deserve the best..."

Flames die out if they're not fed fuel. It takes more than just wanting a fire to have a fire. You've got to add to it something that will keep it going. It's got to have oxygen. It's got to have fuel; something to burn. A relationship is like that fire, hot and bright, where one person is the wood and the other is air, both adding to the mix to keep the fire going. Sure, sometimes external factors can hinder the flames, like water being poured on the coals, but if you take away either internal factor, poof...out it goes. You both have to contribute; you both have to put forth the effort it takes for combustion.

"...but I'm not happy being in a relationship with you..."

I should have seen this coming. In a way, I did have a premonition. After the times spent together became more infrequent, I would look forward to the next time together. This last time we were apart, it was just over a week since I'd seen her. Wouldn't that make you want to see someone after all that time? Wouldn't you be excited as that time drew nearer? I was. When I mentioned that I was so excited on the drive over that I almost had butterflies; like it was the first time all over again, the response I got was, "That's just weird."

Weird? Weird that I felt that excited about seeing someone who took my breath away? Weird that I wanted to see her again? I didn't get it. I still don't.

"...and I'm sorry, but I think it would be better if we just parted ways."

After a while, doing the same thing over and over again and expecting a different outcome grows quite old. When I say "doing the same thing over and over" I mean put my heart into somebody. I mean try and find someone who fits with my complexities, matches my simple personality, shares my love of weird things, tolerates my imperfections and won't run at the first sign of strife. Every time it seems right, it seems to go wrong. It gets tiring.

"I'm just not feeling it anymore...you didn't do anything wrong..."

I do love technology. I love having the world in the palm of my hand or at the end of my tapping fingertips. It does make things easier, if faster equates with easier, that is. Type up a few words, hit send and your recipient gets those words seconds later. Wanna read a book? Download that. Wanna hear a favorite song? YouTube it. Movies? Comics? Research? Just reach out and take it. There is something to say about a handwritten letter, though. The words written by hand, in my mind, carry a bit of the person who wrote them, like the ink flowed from their fingers. Reading a book...I love flipping through the pages. Renting a movie from the nearest Redbox...there's adventure in finding the nearest one with movies you want to see, and I usually throw an errand into the whole trip.

But you know what's best? What carries the most weight and means more to me than any email, text or even a handwritten letter? What puts more meaning into this whole "tactile experience of life?" Face to face communication. Sure, it's easier to say something when you don't have to look them in the eye. It takes the pressure off, reduces the timidity or the awkwardness of speaking. I'm the first to admit that my hands speak better than my tongue ever could. But when it comes to getting your point across with something as important as say, removing yourself from someone's life or expressing your love, nothing's better; nothing's more personal than live, in-your-face interaction.

"I just know you're not the one for me."

As much as that stuck the knife right into my heart, at least it wasn't twisted while it was in there. Truth is so much better than lies. Explanation is so much better than being left wondering why; so much better that the end comes sooner than later when all signs point toward failure, no matter how much you want it to work. I'm strangely fine with it. No regrets, right?

I'm not mad. Just like I wish for myself the best in this life quest, I too wish the same for her. Just like I want someone to put up with me, I wish the same for her. Like I said, I'm not mad.

I only wish that it had happened to my face, not via text.

Common Wealth

"We all have riches. Some have them in money, but most have riches in talent, ideas, creativity, loving, caring, or wisdom." -Sara Teasdale

As I closed the checkbook on another bill-paying session, I noticed that the number of days left until the next payday was not equally proportionate to the final number in the check register. I get paid every 15 days, which means that there are 11 days to go. 11 days to curtail spending. 11 days to wonder where it all goes. 11 days to watch it go. In the end, it doesn't really matter. I always seem to make it, one way or another. Besides, I have more wealth than a positive cash flow.

I was talking to a friend a while back around the icy chill of a cold one or two or six. Chit-chat turned to small talk turned to random thoughts turned to deep conversation. I remember talking about a guy we both know who had run into some trouble and with whom we had fallen out of contact with. He was the type of guy who couldn't sit still. He couldn't get his mind off of business and the art of accumulating the almighty dollar long enough to enjoy conversation and the deep connection between friends. Even on a camping trip, when he said "No business this weekend" he was on his phone, trying to make money.

There's absolutely nothing wrong with making money. After all, it takes money to live, no matter where you are. Even those who "live off of the grid" had to buy things to get them there. Growing up, I never really knew how low the income level was at our house. We always seemed to have what we needed. And occasionally, what we wanted. But there was never a shortage on things that kids need; love from my grandmother, food on the table, the whole world in a 2-acre yard, education from schooling and from common sense, shoes and clothes, and whenever deemed necessary...a good ol' paddlin'.

There are things in our lives much more important than money. The love of your family and friends, good health, hobbies, and time spent with all the above, just to name a few. This guy just didn't get it. It came out in our conversation that our friend asked my buddy, "Aren't you worried about money? Don't you want wealth?" And the answer to his questions stunned him; he was blown away. My buddy told him exactly what I would have said. "I do have wealth. I have a wife and kids who love me. I have a job that pays the bills. I have my toys; my cars which are my hobbies. I am surrounded by friends who are always there for me and are always welcome in my home. I have all the wealth I need at the moment." This other guy didn't get it. He asked, "How do you get these things?" My friend answered, "It isn't something you get. It's just something you have. And all I know is that I have it."

I get it. In fact, I got it too. I have children that love me and I love them. I have a woman who has my heart and who means the world to me. I love her. I have a job that doesn't make me rich, but I consider it the best job I've ever had. I may not have a lot of material goods, but what I have is mine. I didn't "get" any of these common riches by buying them. I just have them. If I have to buy these things, it sure isn't bought with money. The down payment is kindness. The monthly payment is understanding. And the interest earned is love.

Too many people are concerned about their fat bank accounts without even caring about others who may be in dire need. They are too focused on the accumulation of their own wealth. It doesn't matter that there isn't a high-definition flat-panel television in my living room. I don't care that I drive a small economy car that was isn't flashy or could smoke you on the straightaway and that my other vehicle is one whose meager monthly payments ended while I still hadn't even grown my first facial hair. My house isn't much to look at or to brag about, but it is home. I get it. I got it. It's good. I share a common wealth with my friends and loved ones who also get it.

And that makes me rich beyond my wildest dreams.