The After Life

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She'll be 93 in February.

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

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

As I Lie

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Starstruck

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Freewill

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

What to do, what to do...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Keep the Change

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And that's change I can keep.

All Apologies

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Supplicant Oracle

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Their heads chewed off...

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

So there is hope after all. :-)

Quoted sources:

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

When I Was 15

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Happy birthday, sweet child of mine.

You are 15.

Poke

Poke.

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

Poke.

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

Poke.

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

Poke.

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

Poke.

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

Poke.

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

Poke.

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

Poke.

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

Poke.

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

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

The Passing Storm

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And it waits.