The advantage of pre-morningtide vivication is that I was able to see some of the meteorites around 2:45. Later, after I got to work, I observed a few more streaking in the interstices of the light cloud cover. It was beguiling, beautiful, and temporarily luminous. I missed the eclipse of last week due to cloud cover. Because the cold November morning was largely absent vehicles or other people, I observed the streaks in the solitary stillness. Not bad for a Monday morning!
PS no picture of the meteorites… Too transitory to stand in the cold with my camera up, waiting. Witnessing them and archiving a memory in my head will have to be enough.
Yesterday, I thought I was in line for free pizza. Much to my surprise, I turned out to be in the voting line. I’m not sure I trust a world in which I’m able to vote. This time, despite dropping my license behind the table and next to the window (where it was almost unreachable), I relentlessly repeated my name and address as if I were being interrogated. I’ve voted early for so many cycles that I forgot how different it is to vote on the actual day.
I voted at Sequoyah UM Church. It was fast and efficient. Remarkably so. Whoever is in charge there did an outstanding job. Other than letting a couple of loons on the ballot. Whenever I see obviously unqualified candidates, much less fringe ones, I remind myself that maybe I, too, could get elected without much sense or qualifications.
Don’t worry about my vote counting. I am still so liberal that I might as well be voting in Finland as in Arkansas.
After voting, I wandered the back half of the property. It was not well-maintained, but I had some moments of beauty walking back there. The weather was uncharacteristically warm and calm for November. It was odd to sit on the benches in front of the rudimentary cross, feeling the sun filter through the trees and listening to the birds sing. Not too far away, the hectic comings and goings of voters might as well have been a mile away. It was a contemplative place, one that I alone owned for several minutes. I admit that it was a bit strange thinking that the ballot contained an initiative for religious freedom; it’s obvious that the intent is anything but motivated by freedom. Had I been in that mindset, I’m sure I could have felt the presence of a creator in those trees and on those benches. Please don’t fault me for not feeling such a presence. It was sufficient to be there, seeing the beautiful world around me.
When I walked across the dilapidated bridge walkway and emerged from the trees, a man exiting the voting place asked me what was back there.
“Five minutes of peace if you search for it.” I smiled.
“I’m in a hurry, but I’d really like to see.”
“You only live once. Just tell them a crazy guy at the church where you voted told you to take a moment.”
He laughed. “Deal! They will believe that.”
As I walked toward my car on the opposite end and side of the building, I turned to see him traverse the wooden bridge and disappear behind the treeline.
I’m certain he found something worthwhile back there. . . I rendered myself transparent in the picture because I felt a little other-worldly in the retreat behind the trees.
I’m in my cathedral at work. Because I usually have a couple of hours with no one in here with me, I can blast heavenly music curated with the intent to inspire or motivate. My cousin Jimmy used to torture me with Metallica, and sometimes with horrible bands like Pantera. Because he’s been on my mind a lot lately, I played a few songs for him and had to laugh. I also played “Far From Home” by Five Finger Death Punch, a song Jimmy didn’t live long enough to enjoy.I ended the set with a heavenly song from Il Divo, probably the most opposite and contrasting music possible. In his last few years, he would have appreciated the switch. And we probably would have laughed about his mullet.
Each of us has had our mullet years, the ones characterized by uncertain identity and our place in this world.
When we get older, we laugh about our mullet years. But nostalgia makes it golden.
Some of you are probably living through the best years of your life and you don’t even realize it.
Take a minute today and crank up one of your favorite songs. If you do, I hope it makes you vibrant and joyous.
If it doesn’t, go ahead and fill out that AARP application.
I woke up around 3 a.m. and could hear the neighbors outside on the landing, their night still in progress.
I retrieved my trusty sheet, put it over my head, and knocked.
“Trick or Treat,” I said. No treats were forthcoming.
My brother Mike would have been 57 today. I don’t know what to say about that. He could have lived another twenty years had his choices been different. If he were alive, I’d prank call him and say, “Good morning, you dumb bast**d!” and then hang up. He’d probably call back and leave a message, “Sew any non-bunching pillows lately?”
The picture is one from Dogpatch: me on the left, Mike, my sister Marsha crouched on the bottom, and my cousin Jimmy on the right. We got to see a lot of things thanks to Jimmy. I restored the faces in the photo. Jimmy’s gone too, but I’ll take a few moments to think about him and my brother today. And I’ll think about my other sister, the one I didn’t know I had for another 40+ years after this picture was taken.
The nostalgia will undoubtedly make me more at peace as the world swirls around me today; my thousands of steps and interactions will remind me of the frozen nature of memory and time.
Each second carries me further away from that moment so many years ago at Dogpatch.
When I went outside at work, the wind gusted with surprising speed. It seemed like every leaf in NWA was twirling and spinning, even inside the concrete jungle around me. It took me a moment to realize I was witnessing a dust devil comprised of leaves. The inside crux of the tall buildings created an unnatural barrier against which opposing and contradictory wind gusts collided. Because I woke up with more energy than any one person should have, I took off running and chased it before it dissipated. I succeeded in running through it for two seconds. The number of leaves that touched me is unknowable. But the tickling sensation was divine. I probably looked like a damn fool. In fact, I usually do. I’ll take that any day if I can get that kind of sensation. Especially at work. Having fun at work is tantamount to stealing, you know.
Not bad for a Monday morning. Or any morning.
The picture contains the piled remains of the moment, a steadily decreasing number of leaves in each pile.
Every stone is a story. Of love, loss, regret, lessons, and acceptance.
I put one down, a singular stone, yesterday.
I placed it on a stem I bit off with my teeth.
Looking closely at the picture, you’ll see it handing in the branches. I took the picture when Erika and I walked the trail yesterday. Our walk went by the place that inspired my “¿” story from last Sunday. Pictures don’t capture how eerily overcast and beautifully the morning was. It was a stolen moment of warmth, falling leaves, and intimacy as our feet moved us along the path.
Fifteen years I carried that weight. I broke the watch purposefully all those years ago. A memento.
It’s on the trail now, maybe forever, maybe for a day.
It’s behind me now. Just as everything really is. I forgot I still had it. As I have with so many mementos lately, I wanted to release it and take back the power it once contained.
Everyone’s wounded in their own way. It’s easy to forget that because we feel like we have to conceal the hurt.
Because optimism is a consequence of love, the stone I left behind yesterday left my fingers easily. Erika stood behind me on the trail, watching me clumsily find my way closer to the abandoned trucks decomposing in the brush. After I walked back to the trail to meet her there and continue our lovely walk, I was happy.
Stones aren’t meant to be carried. They are meant to be measured, appreciated, and then left behind. If I had to carry all my accumulated stones, walking would be impossible, as unlikely as finding happiness if I were focused on my missteps.
Don’t forget your stones. Just don’t carry them.
Every stone in your pocket, in your heart, or in your head reduces your ability to siphon the good from whatever awaits you today.
Love, X .
PS I hadn’t heard the song “Stones” by Barbarossa until yesterday. I didn’t watch “HIMYM” like so many other people did. It got in my head to remind myself that every morning I get to decide whether to carry the stones or hurl them into the air – and away, where they belong.
I stood outside the convenience store after exiting.
A miracle car pulled up to the curb next to me. I call it a miracle because it was miraculous that it would run. All of its parts were culled from a hundred disparate vehicles. I saw bolts, baling wire, and tape in surprising places. A couple of pieces of the body looked burned. Or to be remnants of an explosion. It wasn’t loud, but it also sounded like special effects as the engine ran.
The picture I used in this description is not the actual car. Taking their picture would have ruined the moment.
A forty-ish man exited the passenger side. He fumbled with two large manilla envelopes.
From inside the car, a woman’s voice asked, “Are you warm enough? Are you sure you don’t want us to drop you somewhere else?”
He smiled as he managed the papers in his hands.
“I’m good. It’s my first day out. I’m not ever going back there. Never. I learned my lesson. Here is just fine.”
The driver was smoking, nodding his head, and laughing in appreciation of the enthusiasm and certainty with which the first man spoke those words.
I admit I lingered at that point, pretending to look for something in the pocket of my driver’s door.
It was obvious he was arriving home, wherever that might be, just out of prison.
The man walked over to the curb near the gas canister storage. A woman wearing only a jacket somehow got out of the car from the rear seat, as neither the door nor the seat seemed to move.
It was interesting that she had asked him if he were warm enough. When I say she was wearing only a jacket, I’m being literal.
She scampered up to him and gave him a huge hug. His face lit up like a sunrise.
“Are you sure we can’t take you somewhere? Anywhere you want to go?” She smiled up at him.
“No, thank you. I’m beyond good right here.”
He hugged her this time, his arms lifting her up in the air a little. She should have been very cold at that point.
She laughed.
I got in my car to leave, wanting to know his story.
He chose wisely, though.
Both for the hugs and for not getting back into the miracle car.
It MUST be fueled by hope as mechanically it’s an impossibility that it runs without suspending the laws of physics.
Maybe, just maybe, he provided the necessary hope.
There was something about the way he said he had learned the lesson that made me believe him.
I hope he’s safe and warm now, a couple of weeks later.
I didn’t know how to write this little story.
There’s no special ending, no words of wisdom.
It’s just a human moment that I was able to witness.
I wish I could hear the tone of his voice more in my daily life.
When I walked up the trail, a group of trees dropped about a thousand leaves. By the time I got my camera out and my fumble fingers straight, I caught the end of it.
I understand the biochemical reaction that causes such a simultaneous shedding of deciduous leaves.
Understanding it does not make it any less beautiful.
I stood under the trees and let the leaves rain on me.
It was 7:30 a.m. The sunrise was supposed to happen five minutes earlier. Clouds had rolled in to obscure it. Rain and storms arrived the night before. The early morning Sunday October sky was dark and beautiful. Without thinking about it, I found that I was headed to a part of the trail I rarely walked. About a quarter of a mile in, I noted the three abandoned antique vehicles in the brush. The broken, ancient barbed wire fence appeared, its length sporadically still intact.
Over the last year, the wild brush and trees on the other side called to me as I walked by them. I had no idea who owned it. The apparent neglect signaled to me that such a careless owner did not own it at all. The serpentine topography hid all clues about precisely where I was, as did the dense canopy of trees. When I approached the creek bed that flowed under the presumptive fence, I saw that the fence there was gone. Though my shoes were inappropriate for anything except pavement, I stepped through the gap.
With the second step, the air brightened, and the scent of fall decay receded. I took a dozen more steps and pushed against the gnarled branches.
Though the valley should have been shadowy and dark, I could feel the sun’s rays touching my neck. I looked behind me to see that the neglected bushes and trees were gone. In its place was an ankle-high expanse of grass and flowers. I felt like I was experiencing a hybrid dream, one combining Narnia and early-morning half-slumber.
I turned back to look. Instead of foliage, I saw a large red barn with its doors wide open. A hammer clanged rhythmically inside it. A mule stood nearby, untethered.
The hammer continued its work.
“Come on in, I’ve been waiting.” The voice was baritone and melodic.
I didn’t hesitate to walk forward. As I passed it, I rubbed the mule’s neck. It turned slightly to welcome it.
Though the voice did not match my memory, I already knew who would be standing there. I could feel the surety of it.
He appeared to be about forty-five. I never knew him as anything other than old, with a brutal life already behind him.
He wore an old pair of work pants and an oddly green shirt.
“Grandpa? It is you, isn’t it? Your voice is different.” I hesitated.
“I have the voice that belongs to the ideal me. Can I call you Little Bobby, the name I used when we sat on the porch swing together?”
I nodded. Without answering, I walked up to him and hugged him like I learned to do as an adult. He smelled of Old Spice, sawdust, and Cannonball chewing tobacco.
“Little Bobby, I’m most proud that you leaned away from hardness. It could have gone either way for you. I’ve waited forty-four years and three hundred and sixty-two days to tell you that.”
“Yes, but I feel like a failure, Grandpa.”
He smiled.
“I know. None of that is real, son. None of it.” Grandpa put his hand on my shoulder.
He laughed. “I can’t tell you any secrets that you can share. My words are for you only. That’s how it is done. One hour with you is all we get. Help me with this horseshoe, and we’ll talk. Agreed?”
“Yes. Let me help you mess this shoe up. I’m no good at this sort of thing.”
“You were almost a carpenter Little Bobby. And a farmer. Now you’re a writer. Because your job is to find a way to communicate the truth I’m going to share with you without violating the rules here.”
I stood next to Grandpa as he hammered the upper edges of the old horseshoe. The clang of metal was constant and comforting.
Grandpa began to talk, his voice even and confident. I felt like the little boy who sat next to him on the porch swing in Monroe County. Grandpa wasn’t a talkative man nor expressive. Wherever I was, I wanted to stand there forever as he talked. As his voice trailed to a whisper, I realized that the hour was over.
I hugged Grandpa. Instead of sadness, I felt joyous.
“Remember what I’ve told you, Little Bobby. Go live the rest of your life and find a way to share it. We’ll meet again one day and not in the way you expect. You’ll see.”
He turned back to finish another horseshoe, the heavy metal hammer rising and falling.
I walked through the barn doors and ran my hand along the mule’s neck again. Expecting reluctance, I found myself consumed by haste. Not to leave this place but to return to my life, one that would never be the same. In moments I was standing on the trail again, the gap between the creek and fence behind me. Light rain spattered my head and shoulders.
I know you want to know what Grandpa said to me.
I haven’t had enough time to process it, disguise it, and repeat it back. It’s likely that most people wouldn’t accept it. That’s how truth works. It’s obvious after-the-fact but a difficult pill at first.
I’ll give you a hint:
Go outside and look up at the dark sky. Feel the rain lingering in the air. Get a cup of coffee. Find a loved one and put your hand on their arm or run your fingers through their hair. Silence troubled words, worry, or distress that you have no control over your life or the world. Look inside and toward rather than away from.
Hidden inside those words is a world of truth. It’s a zen puzzle that’s not a puzzle at all.
Somewhere, the hammer still rises and falls.
Shadows turn to sunlight.
Voices echo with resonance and truth.
If you’re not sharing your voice and your love, you’re missing the point of everything.
P.S. Parenthetically Speaking 