"Grab your things I've come to take you home"

Dad,
Remember my green and white bike with the training wheels? You took those wheels off, raised the seat of that bike and decided it was time for me to learn. I think I must've protested. I was a hesitant kid, wasn't I? But we must've agreed at some point that it was, in fact time, for me to shed those worn out white plastic wheels that steadied my beloved little bike.

We walked up the driveway and into the street in front of our house. I mounted the bike with your firm grip on the back of my seat. You told me to pedal and ran with me down the street in front of our house. Your grip kept me from wobbling wildly for the first couple of runs. Patience.  You have more patience than anyone I know.  You reassured me you were still behind me, running to keep up while I pedalled on until suddenly, through my hesitance, you released your hold on my seat and called after me,

"Pedal, pedal, pedal!"

And I did, I pedalled valiantly until I abruptly collided with Mr. Ed's mailbox. Or was it ours? Some details escape me. I don't remember if I cried. Probably. I'm smiling at the memory. You probably laughed a little, I'm sure it was a pretty hysterical sight. You laugh inappropriately sometimes, like when you're nervous. Miranda does too and now we three share the habit.

I was a tangled wreck underneath the mailbox. You picked me up to my feet, reassured me that that was probably the last time I'd fall if I remembered to brake. I guess it was a lot to remember to steer, brake, and pedal all at once.

I can't recall if we lowered the seat to make me feel more at ease? I feel like you always seemed to raise my seat a little higher than I was comfortable with. Assuring me that the height was fine, where it needed to be. I remember whining that it was just a little too elevated for my comfort. I liked my feet flat on the ground and you explained the the proper riding stance was to be on your tip toes.

Is that a metaphor? Always raising the bar? Expectations? Urging me to stand on my toes, getting me away from my comfort zone?

Your hands that push to pedal on my own, the one on the back of my seat that steadies, and same that reach to pull me to my feet and into your arms.

Where would I be without you?

I love you, Bud.

No Need

I’m used to this.  I’ve grown accustomed to the sight of beggars standing in the midst of the exit for Freedom Parkway.  On my way home, while I’m forced to sit at the light and be begged by pitiful stares for whatever it is they need.   In just a few short months I’ve become proficient at averting my eyes.  Ignoring the trite signs that read “Homeless VET”, “Just Need Food” or some sort of derivative that clearly states,

“I need _____ from you, please”.

 Sometimes a request is offered; Perhaps a promise to work, most times not. One doesn't really have time to give a spiel at a red-light that properly conveys the series of events that lead to their current situation. These people are only armed with signs and open hands. I used to dig around for change or hand out Delta branded peanut pouches that I always seem to have stuffed in my pockets.  

Eventually, I allowed myself to grow cold and almost disdainful, not to be confused or mistaken for apathy.  I'm not apathetic. I'm... curiously skeptical. How deep is your need? How do I know you’re not lying?  Besides, once I give you just ask for more. These experiences and assumptions of their laziness and/or addiction I hope will somehow excuses my aversion and assuage my guilt. 

How much can I give? Every ride from work am I expected to give? And how can I choose?  

The guilt mounts as all the while I'm willing the light to change quickly so that the inner battle that wages in me will cease.

There are too many of you… don’t you know that I can’t give to all of you and how can you expect me to choose?  Ah, good, the light’s changed.  Out of sight out of mind- relief until tomorrow night.

However, as familiar the dance of my regretful if not disdainful neglect and subsequent mental battle with beggars has become, I was not prepared for my experience tonight. 

I see a wheelchair backlit by the headlights of the opposite direction traffic.  I was hesitant to continue my gaze, but as usual, my curiosity overtook my need for preservation. I followed the wheels up and realized that the owner was legless. The lighting is preventing me from discerning anything but the shadow of an outstretched cup.  I squint. My heart is betraying me.  I start to consider my wallet and the fact that , oddly enough, I’m carrying cash.  Before I’m able to fully make a decision to give the light turns and I’m regretful that I’m forced to begin moving forward.  As I draw closer my headlights illuminate the owner.  She’s smiling wildly,  her white teeth are glowing in the night. I assess the clarity of her skin and the attractiveness of her face, the expensive braiding of her hair.  She’s bundled up and I’m disgusted to see a North Face logo proudly displayed on her jacket.  I follow her jacket sleeve down to the arm and the gloved hand that’s extending the large McDonald’s cup. She’s shaking it, expectantly, all the while wearing that disturbing smile and making unsettling eye contact.  Suddenly I’m glaring. Angry.  Incensed that she has the audacity to look neither uncomfortable nor upset.  No torn clothes, no dirt, not even a sign with a sad statement, a sentiment, an excuse. Just the sheer fact that she’s lost her legs enough of a reason to sit at my exit and demand my money.   She has no need.  She just has no legs.

These Are My Truths...

      Alright, so, I’ve decided to make ONE, yes ONE coaster/trivet/masterpiece/disaster. I’ve arrived at the sealing portion which just so happens to enlist the powers of (DUN DUN DUNNNN) POLYURYTHANE. Whoa, is that right? Do I really know how to spell that word? Hells yeah I DO! Okay, anyway, so OBVIOUSLY because it’s me you got kinda worried about me using polyurethane  (Oh, okay I DIDN'T know how to spell that word, but guess what? THE INTERNET DOES) SAID CAN IS a SPRAY can. I’m headed out to the back deck with said WMD (weapon of mass destruction(I spelled destruction with an ‘I’ at first… shhhh).

So I start thinking ahead, RIGHT?! Like I’m all “hey, maybe I should get something to put this on before I go spraying a substance that, judging by what I read on the bottle, can actually kill the population of a small polis. (CITY STATE! HISTORY LESSON!).

I’m simultaneously pre-congratulating myself for both having FORESIGHT and also considering giving a huge EFF YOU to Jeff, the landlord who doesn’t have a soul/will not allow me to have a dog by carelessly (passive-aggressively) spraying poly-SARS all over the back deck. DEAL WITH IT, JEFF! 

While all this GENIUS is taking place in my head I’ve somehow managed to work the cap off of Death (now conveniently sold in spray bottle) and read the REST of the directions.  With a furrowed brow I decided that I am fully capable of working this simple machine.  I bend over, extend my arm the recommended 12 inches from object, recheck my aim, level my head and CONFIDENTLY apply pressure to the tip of the spray apparatus while "LIKE A BOSS!" is being said like a mantra in my head.

Needless to say, I think we both know which I chose, right?

Now that I've engaged in a 45 minute thorough eyewash that HOPEFULLY saved my eyesight, I had to relinquish hold on the sink sprayer because OBVIOUSLY I have larger fish to fry. 

How the in the ACTUAL hell do I get polyurethane out of my hair?

Disclaimer: I am marginally inebriated, though I don’t think it factored. These are my truths.

"It's hard to dance with the devil on your back so shake him off"

It's cool enough to shoot baskets in the drive-way without having to take a shower before dinner and warm enough to sit outside to eat a meal.  A light jacket day.  One you race home off the bus, violently throw your book bag in the house and dart back outside, jump on your bike and race to a friend's house.  There's only three hours before dusk and you plan on making absolutely every moment of it count.  These are the memories I wish would flood back to me when I'm four hours into a sixteen hour shift and one day into my seven day work week.  These are the days I need when I'm terrified that I'm failing at life.

I'm standing here, trying, straining, desperate to recall a day spent this way, from beginning to end. I begin to picture waking up to my alarm clock blaring on my bedside table at 7:00am, dragging myself into the shower that my sister and I shared, throwing on clothes without real thought, shoving down a mom made breakfast... school? I remember gym, and recess.  I remember the smell, the people and I remember the principal's office.

How many of these days can I remember?  I'm dismayed.  I'm finding I can't, actually.  I can't recall an entire day.  I've not only lost minutes, hours... I've lost days.

I've lost days in another shameful fashion.  I've wasted them.  How many minutes, hours, have I wasted blowing off people I care about for people who have only spent minutes with me.  How many hours have I wasted by doing things I knew I shouldn't.  How many have I disappointed and dishonored by shoving them aside while I enact selfish need?

I give my head the smallest shake and the room slowly comes into focus, the kitchen of my parent's house, the faces of of my family, the slight tug of Maci and my clasped hands.

"We're about to say the blessing," she reminds me while looking at my face somewhat curiously.

"K," I'm smiling like I'm drunk, which I realize, is probably why she's looking at me like I'm a stranger.  Maci typically says grace, and she demands our rapt attention when she does.

"Thank you Jesus..." she begins.  With my eyes closed I somewhat drift away and attempt to count my blessings.

"One, two, six, twenty-three, one-hundred ninety-seven, 10,633, 1.9 million..." 


I won't stop counting.

"Hearts are stronger after broken. So wake on up from your slumber, baby, open up your eyes!"

More than a year ago I attended a church service which placed this card in my possession.

I received this during the period that occurred after I'd broken and I was in the recovery stages. I felt awakened, raw, humbled and eager to learn. The sermon had a compelling message and I had strong intentions to hold my self accountable to loving in this way. I realized that these are the ways in which we should love one another. I never wanted the people in my life to question my love for them and I was certain that my faithfulness to these simple truths were going to ensure that I would do exactly what I intended.

I succeeded.

I failed. 

I failed because I forgot.

It only takes an infraction of ONE of these guidelines to fall short of showing your overwhelming love for someone. It's absolutely impossible to show love through, insecurity, selfishness, anger, envy, pessimism and pride. It's difficult to give when we're reminded so often by others how fleeting our ability to show love actually is.

You mean it until you don't

You see until you're blind

You give until you take

You take until you give

You're deaf until you hear

You can until you can't

You can't until you can

You won't until you will

You will until you won't

You don't love til you do

You love until you don't 

I am reminded, I will love

I am stubborn. I asked you to lead me, yet I followed my own path. I asked to be shown the way, but I made myself blind to your guidance. I asked for strength to resist, yet wallowed in temptation. Finally, I asked for my greatest fear, to be broken, and you delivered.

 

Thank you loving me enough to keep reminding me. Please forgive me. I am yours.

Don't Blink or Stare

Curious, contemplative, urgent, and habitually are only a few ways I have considered this watch.

Sitting in my work vehicle, my left leg propped up, right hand on the steering wheel I brought up my left arm and turned it so that I could  know the time.  Only intending for it to be a quick glance, I was startled by the realization that I'd had this watch since my first day of work at this company.  I began examining reverently.  Sure, it's missing a pretty good sized chunk of its band, a few minor scratches here and there and perhaps the paint may actually be completely gone in a couple of spots, but it's never stopped, its alarm has never failed to inform me of important events, it's never lost track, I've never even had to replace the battery.  It's kept up with time for the better part of four years. Perhaps even more startling for me was the simple truth that I have never once considered replacing it.

This sparked an entire new train of thought; how much have I lost track of in four years? What have I replaced?  Objects and belongings that I once considered irreplaceable? What are those and when did disregard them as superfluous?  People, friends, lovers, partners, animals, family... at what point in time did my mind change to consider these not worth my time?  Because if I really break it down, that's exactly what you're deciding when you rid yourself of something, anything. This is not worth the space it takes up, the energy it requires to keep, and most importantly, the time it drains to the ever present ticking countdown of your life. How much time have I lost?

That clock's ticking is louder than absolutely any other piece of enjoyment you take from this world.  The ticking is conveyed in every inspirational and motivational piece we hold dear.  Sure the old adage begins by encouraging you to "enjoy life" but it's quickly followed by the daunting ticking "before time is gone".

Enjoy... before it's too late...  tick, tick, tick....

"Better three hours too soon than a minute too late" - William Shakespeare

"The price of anything is the amount of life you exchange for it".- Henry David Thoreau

"Time brings all things to pass."- Aeschylus

"It could all be gone in the blink of an eye."

“There’s no next time. It’s now or never.” – Celestine Chua

"When in doubt, take more time." - John Zimmerman

"We are not long here, our time is but a breath so we better breathe it" -Brooke Fraser

"Time is money." Benjamin Franklin

You hear it now, don't you? But more importantly you feel it, don't you?

Tick, tick, tick, tick

According to what we're told time can heal your broken heart, bring clarity to your fraughtful mind, even bring prosperity, allow for greater opportunities at work, school your home life, teach you patience... etc. Time is the answer to every question you have, right?

But that infernal ticking makes us believe otherwise, doesn't it? It brings the anxiety with the realization that sometimes there's no time; not to explain, not enough time in a day to finish your work, say goodbye, clean the dishes, shower, play catch with your kid, kiss your lover, call your mother on her birthday, sleep, breathe...

Tick, tick, tick, tick
                                                                                           
How can we possibly be expected to push the adage to take advantage of something as fleeting as time when we don't don't feel we have enough of it to sit and actually contemplate how it's being squandered?  How can we devise and set into action a plan that frees us of the ticking???

When stripped of possessions, goals and love, when we're broken and at our smallest and most vulnerable the one thing that will remain ours alone is our time.  So take back your time because eventually your timer's ringing is gonna signal the end to not only your past and present but also your future.

Will you be left saying, "No! I wasn't finished! I need more time!"?

I don't have answers (Duh, do I ever?) I'm searching for them.  The absolute only contentment I feel is when I remember times in which the ticking was replaced by ringing.  Time to act, the ringing cries.  The time is... right... now....

Time is Ticking

But I'm not always diligent and I don't always care, 

Though it only takes a moment that I'm made painfully aware.

That time is short, but some days are long, 

And that's only hard to remember until time is gone.

It's not supported

As it's been deemed unimportant

The colors run together

Some things never change

Like the manner in which your glasses slide down the bridge of your nose, though they're differently framed 

The errant press of your fingers to realign them remains.

We stroll down the sidewalk, still incapable of walking without glancing off one another every three or four steps.

One, two, three, collide...

Your chin is lowered a little but you're offsetting it with a confident smile

You're wearing your gait like a comfortable sweater

Perhaps more importantly, you know I am too

I love that everything is differently the same

Even though the feelings and rules have changed

Comfort lies in everything's differently the same