The Road

I remember the day you were sick and would only calm your crying when I would rock-a-bye you in the blue chair that now sits on my front porch. You were four when I left and hard as it was to go, it was something I needed to do. More than a decade later and my actions are driving to get my family home. Funny in a way – how I left, collected my own little family and now want to show them what I had (have) as a wonderful life.

So why did that late night conversation wear on us so? I think it’s because we wish for time that has passed too quickly while we might have been asleep and desire to change the circumstances that leave us wondering now. And you – you’re more awake that I was at your age. In the words of John Lennon, “you may say that I’m a dreamer…” yes, I am. A blessing and a block dreaming is. For me, dreaming is a coping mechanism (for escape) and a planning tool for reality…for manifesting.

And for us – this whole journey, both my independent journey and yours…have been intertwined and crossed many times o’er. They’re supposed to be. In a way, they have been reflections for the other person. Kind of like me running a test, failing, and relaying back to you not to do that same thing. In that case, I’ve been like a researcher. In the meantime, you encourage, inspire and assist with so very much of my life that I’m forever indebted to that huge heart of yours. And both of us walk, talk and speak the line. We try to anyway and that is the point. To continue doing what is right, what is best and what should be done, regardless of the circumstances we find ourselves in. I know that I get stuck somewhere between want and need at times. When I think that things should just be easier, be clearer…be over, and they aren’t, that is the real test of faith. For the moments in time when things could have gone differently we have to recognize them as insights for that moment. We are here. And here, we are together.

The Recipe

Blue and clear glass canning jars with the lids reused, were washed and placed bottoms-side up in the dish drainer in preparation. Yes, there was enough room on the shelf high above the food products and deliberately out of reach. The red step ladder was placed beneath and the curtain pulled back to disclose the space that would soon be closed up for good.

Bitterness went in the first jar with the lid fastened tightly and the jar pushed all the way to the left. Jealousy was next and the contents were siphoned down as the jar was tapped repeatedly on the counter to get the product to settle. Anger, resentment and jaded went into wide-mouth containers. It seemed she had bulk of those, though spite, malice, fury, cynicism, and annoyance ran a close second. Every pain and poison was poured and ladled into their new glasses houses. Some blue, some clear – they each had a home and would hereby be measured by volume, not by weight as they were far too heavy to carry any longer.

Hatred, in its abundance took up the space of three jars – the biggest ones. Four quarts each made a full dozen in quarts of poison. Shameful. What was left after that, she swept from the floor and wiped from the counters into a dust pan. This was promptly emptied into the toilet and flushed. Twice. Regret, envy and worry were the last to go and were layered like a sand sculpture, revealing swirling folds of red-hued pain now encased in the tallest of glass testimonials. She guessed that this might cure her affliction with heartburn hereafter.

And then – like a cookie crumble-crusted and cream-filled hot pocket of goodness, she started again. Faith was the bottom layer and a requirement for this home-maker guru. Courage, adventure, and determination were mixed to a fulfilling base. Spunk, bravery and valor would be blended with spirit to develop a savory crust but would be set aside for the moment. Flavors and energy had to marry while she folded mojo, moxie and grit in on themselves to balance such a rich concoction. These were her most favorite ingredients – splashes of moxie and drizzles of mojo.

The nourishment was sure to be satisfying, yet leave her hungry for more. It was designed this way as an ideal fuel source. The taste would be inspiring; the delivery impeccable. She gave thanks in advance for what she already knew would be bestowed upon her. Joy, peace, contentment and calm were whipped to a stiff peak and refrigerated only until she could pour on the mojo, moxie, and grit sauce, which had become exquisitely aromatic. Lastly, she grated a fine coating of trust over the top and set down her tools.

A step back. Idyllic temptation.

While it baked to a convection perfection she would draw closed that curtain on the top shelf and wipe down the counters. And salivating in anticipation, something about her just knew that this was the answer all along.

Evidently

1995 was the year of the penny picked up and measured in due profit to her cause.  

Of late, she militated wanting to say something valuable but stifled it for the solution of vagueness she knew it marinated in.  With a deep breath in pulled down past her diaphragm and into the belly, she mustered the courage to back up all statements with faith that all would be well in the end, everything would work out as it was supposed to and the push and pull of what to do and when was the exactness of free choice and humanity. 

The surging pulse grew from the inside.  It beat like a base drum from a far-off hillside but grew closer every time she feigned her preparedness to speak.   She had a buffet of thoughts and subjects to choose from, yet it was never enough of that one thing to expedite the voice.  A dull “well” would usually surface, followed by the ever-anticipatory “Nothing”…still, no golden-globe.  

What kept her silent?!  Heads up, tails up it didn’t matter.  Friend or foe, she would listen and friend or foe she would empathize.  Yet, there was still nothing to be said about the greater challenged she was facing.  Mornings were similar to evenings…similar to afternoons and the same as the in-between times.  Silent. Nothing to say. The swell of energy for verbiage would often result in tears and they ran back down the face; materializing as the unspoken words she sought.

What goes up...

Evidently, she was not supposed to speak right now. Proven perspective when one sense is not 100% the other senses magnify to make up for the loss.  Logistically then, not speaking actualizes listening.

Turns out what is more difficult than speaking what she is not exactly certain she should speak of?...listening without speaking.  Tasked.

Brick by Brick

A solar flare at 5am burst rays of light through dusty drapes and shone like spotlights on the many home projects not yet completed. “Yeah, yeah” I murmur as I turn the other way and flop down on my feather pillow just in time to have the alarm blare in my face and blink 5-2-2…5-2-2…5-2-2 a.m. until I fist pound the snooze button on top.



My definition of friend has changed, as has how I define commitment, achievement, passion…depression. It could be that Cinnamon, the nurse practitioner was right when she told me that I didn’t “look depressed” five years ago. Curious if she would change her opinion today? Of course, does it matter when the greater challenge is taking someone named “Cinnamon” seriously?

I am five months into the greatest defining moment of my life today and yet it’s that solar flare highlighting my stagnated home projects that controls my thoughts. To be honest, those thoughts also compete with a failed political system, rising gas prices, the search for employment and neglectful parents. I go to work each day thankful for the consistent schedule yet yearning for the impassioned mind of being home and being free.

A friend spoke just today of this wrestling jive. The “rebuild to fall” of everyday situations we plan and ponder, create, step back, admire and then *crash*. The Jenga brick supporting most of the weight gets pulled too quickly and the tower falls down. In that respect, we are somewhat of a thick-headed …no, persevering population huffing and puffing in our tumbled messes and then reorganizing until we have another base on which to build. Brick by brick the plan is reconstructed with adjustments made where we guess our weak points were the first time.

The supports of strength come through on our rebuilding with the relationships we cultivate; prioritizing those closest to us first and fashioning our thoughts of hope and faith with functionality and some linear logic – at least enough to get those mental blueprints stamped approved. As it was, I am a particularly mutable substance transformed with all things musing and dissolving into a useful element of empathy. How depleting this can be. I am committed however. So my choice is really not a choice, but an assured response to do what is right, necessary and expected of that mutability.

Rebuilding ...