Standing in the wet grass, not too far from a foreign interstate. Looking at the low red moon. Feeling the unobstructed breeze hit me. Behind me, a hotel full of nomads on their way to somewhere else. I’m a temporary nomad myself. It’s strange how I find something wonderful in each new acre. Going back to the parking lot, I helped an older couple load their bags into their mammoth truck. People I will never see again. And a place that will soon be a memory, and on my way to hopefully make new ones. Love, X
My grandma was a worrier. I have a lot of stories about teasing her and the seemingly outlandish ways she would creatively invent to worry about new things. She was born in the early 1900s and lived through apocalyptic tornadoes, the depression, wars, and things that probably would have debilitated me. It’s fascinating to be older and to understand her a little bit more. At a certain point, you think you’ve seen it all. That’s when the universe looks down on you and says, “Hold my beer.” X
I sat in a pew, surrounded by a throng of people, listening to someone talk about their loved one. I was there in part to repay a debt incurred sixteen years ago.
“Who among us thought that a week ago we would be here? Or a month? Or a year?” Everyone listening to him would feel the urgency of an indistinct carpe diem tug at their heart. As the day would go on, though, most would let distractions and the to-do’s push the essential reminder out of their head. That’s just life.
Later, someone said to me, “Tomorrow.”
And I still can’t find the words to explain to people why the procrastination of tomorrow rings like a stick of dynamite in my ears.
I don’t want a promissory note, one serving as a promise of a hug, a laugh, or of a moment that might not ever come due.
Tomorrow.
If we’re lucky.
And if we’re not, what’s put off until tomorrow is gone forever.
There’s something about this that defines me.
Maybe it’s experience or age, perhaps it’s loss. The window to enjoy life and people shuts incrementally.
Tomorrow is here and it’s all you have. It’s camouflaged as today. If you wake up groggy, take a moment to taste the coffee. If you have someone, touch them lightly as a way to remind them.
I handed my guardian angel a cup of bitter black coffee. He wanted it hot. I could see the steam rising from it.
“Are you sure you want to do this?” I asked. “I kind of like having you around.”
He nodded. “Yes. I will only be banished for a ten years. It’s worth it. The afterlife is amazing, but every hundred years, I have to enjoy a cup.”
I laughed. “Yes, I can imagine.”
He pointed to the bench on my porch, indicating that I should sit with him.
As he cradled the cup of coffee between his fingers and sniffed at the pungent aroma, he took a small sip and sighed.
It was hard for me to imagine waiting so many years between cups of coffee. I could almost feel his toes curl with the pleasure of taking sips from the cup.
“Thank you for this. A substitute will be assigned to you while I’m gone. They probably won’t be as diligent as me. So stop climbing trees.”
“Does that mean I’ll definitely still be here in ten years?” I grinned. My guardian angel enjoyed it when I probed for clues about my life or the afterlife.
“Since I won’t get dinged for two violations, yeah, you’ll still be here. But not much longer than that.” He looked over the rim of the cup at me as he said it.
My grin grew.
“Hold on there. That doesn’t mean you’re invincible. I’ll be back before it’s time for you. Maybe we’ll have another cup of coffee?”
“I’m looking forward to it,” I told him. “I’ll be careful. And no one would believe me anyway.”
“I know. That’s the only reason I broke the rules and started talking to you. Well, and the fact that you have fantastic coffee.”
We both laughed.
“It’s time for me to go,” he said. He placed the coffee cup on the bench between us. His right hand reached out and touched my arm. When his fingers made contact, I felt a small jolt of electricity. He started to shimmer, small waves of almost imperceptible motion at first. In a few seconds, he was gone.
I took a few seconds to think about the next ten years. I picked up his cup and went back inside to start my day. The most valuable lesson my guardian angel taught me was that time was both imaginary and the only thing. And that knowing the secrets of the universe evidently might not compare to the beauty and majesty of a great cup of coffee. Take note, Folgers.
I’ll share a picture of him. It’s so vague that it could be a picture of anything. It’s enough for me to know.
Erika gave me the old tea lamp. I revived it, putting a glass column inside it and wrapping multicolored fairy lights around the core. I went to bed before the sunset last night and was unable to witness its premiere. Not to mention that I forgot to turn it on so that the photosensitive light would trigger automatically so that I might see it when I woke up ridiculously early. Color, color, and more color. X
I’m no fan of photography, but I do love pictures. Over the years, I became so tired of people’s reluctance to have their pictures taken. I was once a fan of guerilla photography or in-the-moment shots. Digital transformed the world. I could take endless pictures without concern for staging, lighting, speed, or detail. Except the one consequence that emerged was people’s reluctance to have their pictures taken. I let it dampen my enthusiasm and slowly stopped enjoying the attempt. People do have the right to express displeasure at having their photos taken. But. I don’t understand it. They want to curate, approve, or control their image. The weird thing about it is the element of control. These same people walk around all day, and people see them in all manner of contortions and situations. They are in view, observed, and noted hundreds of times a day without the slightest possibility of them being able to reduce, filter, or affect it. Most of us are in countless passive surveillance videos and camera shots. We’ve become mostly blind to it. At the heart of it all? If someone is taking a picture of you, it’s overwhelmingly because they know you, like you, love you, and want to capture a small slice of you, captured in time and place. Everyone has a camera in their pocket now. I shake my head at the fact that so many want to take pictures of other people and yet recoil if the urge is reciprocal in others. It’s becoming unhealthy – that urge to curate. As for me, I might not love some of the pictures taken of me, but all of them ARE me in whatever moment is captured. I relish it when anyone wants a picture of me. Not because of vanity… (because I’m not George Clooney). Rather, because it demonstrates interest. I’ve lost almost all my aversion to worrying about how pictures of me look. I miss the days when I could snap a photo of any moment filled with the people around me. Because no matter how you think you look, you are still you twenty-four hours a day. The fact that a picture is being taken is a testament to your presence in life. It is bewildering to me in an age of constant surveillance that people strive so hard to control their own curation. Let it be, let it flow, and feel appreciated. Photography isn’t accusation. It’s a frozen moment in time of how you really look. It isn’t intended to provoke an identity crisis. Relax. We all see you as you all day. Love, X
I’m a very hands-on affectionate person. Could it be a trauma response to my childhood? I hope so. I unilaterally rejected almost all the behaviors and habits of my parents. There are some consequences to growing up that way that have positive benefits. I’m not worried about being emotional, saying I love you, hugging, or expressing myself. I’m not aggressive, but there is a buried hardness inside me thanks to my dad. I didn’t realize that it could be a good thing until much later in life. It’s there if needed. My instincts are a guide for me. That too is probably a trauma response. I’m aware of the fact that it developed from needing to be dialed into the potential for drama and violence and the danger of lesser people. It can be an anxiety response that doesn’t serve my happiness sometimes. But its presence and the overthinking it causes has at times been a lightning bolt in my head that frequently categorizes people for me, even when there’s nothing observable to justify it. I can’t change things that happened decades ago. Likewise, I am happy that the maelstrom of toxicity affected me. I would have rather grown up otherwise. I can’t change that, though. I wish I could double back twenty years and see if these realizations would yield a different me. But that past thinking always robs the present and the future. I’m me, and you’re you. Both of us have the opportunity to redefine and discard the things about ourselves that don’t work well for us. Mostly, though? We don’t. Change is hard, insight is sporadic, and the motivation to put in the work to be who we’d like is unimaginably uncomfortable. Love, X
There’s something to be said about walking a canopied path, one with an unknown terminus. I hear the dutiful mower off in the unmeasured distance and the inescapable traffic humming from another planet. Birds without cipher, and the gentle waterfall of the creek. I walk barefoot on the path. I am more than willing to accept the bite of an unexpected pebble. Descending into the creek, I let the energetic minnows nibble and dart at my feet. My feet toughen perennially with the inevitable warmth. As I stood in the creek today, I watched a snake rhythmically approach me. I stood motionless to avoid disturbing it or drawing its attention. In a moment of mindless forgetfulness, I reached into the creek to pick up a beautiful flat stone, forgetting my Fitbit watch on my wrist. Luckily, nature and technology called a truce. A woman and her blue-silver eyed German Shepherd came down to the creek bottom so that the dog could drink and frolic. He nuzzled my hand as I stood in water that was only a foot deep. He thanked me by splashing and shaking the water from his coat as he moved away. The solitude was refreshing, but I wish I could have had a hand near me, attached to someone listening to me pointing excitedly at what probably seems like mundane nature. For a while out there, there were moments I didn’t even have my own voice in my head. Love, X .
He was lost in the maze of the hospital. Somehow he found himself in a hallway by elevators reserved for the people conducting the largely hidden work that sustains such a place. He stood by the elevators, casually looking at all the unhelpful signage. The access doors opened to his right. A nurse pushing a bed came through them, struggling with the effort. On the bed lay a young woman about 16 years of age. Her hair was disheveled, and she looked uncertain. Next to her was an open book upside down. The nurse dragged the bed to a stop inches away from the man. He turned towards the young girl and said, “You look so much like my niece.” The young woman smiled weakly toward him and nodded. “Are you doing okay?” he asked her. She shook her head “no” as the nurse watched her. “I know you don’t know me, but do you need anything?” His voice cracked as he spoke. The young woman reached up with her right hand and held his. The man didn’t flinch and lightly gripped her hand in return. After a few seconds, she let go and smiled again. The nurse gave the bed a sharp push and continued down the hall. Anyone standing there bore witness to one of those rare moments of anonymous caring. The kind we hope fills every corner of the world. Love, X +
P.S. Parenthetically Speaking 