Sometimes....

     I stand and inhale the night sky. Today was a day of exhaling. Sometimes, sometimes, the only thing a person, a writer needs to write is “I love you.” To know you are not alone, to know you can hear the heart beats, to know the joy (and pain) of laughing … to know … it’s just that simple. And so with that I lay my pen down and smile.

Pet Rock

     Years ago I ran marathons. Note – please do not view my prior athletic prowess by my current body! I would easily log over 50 miles of running every week. I was not a sprinter. My body and my spirit were made for long distance running. I think that rhythm, that heart beat and breathing are part of my writing. There are times when I write that I can feel the movement of my legs and hear the tapping of my size two and a half sneakers giving high fives to the pavement. Sometimes, sorry, it takes me longer to warm up and get into the flow. Other times, I begin immediately with the muscles loose, the thighs burning and my breath in complete harmony with my legs.
     And then, one sees the finish line. A marathon, mind you, is 26.2 miles. Not twenty six miles, it is 26.2 miles. Do not forget those two tenths of a mile. When you think you see the finish line, believe you have made it, crashed through the physical and mental walls those two tenths of a mile taunt the last drop of reserve in your tank. The goal is visual and close. The race, truly a race against yourself not others, is almost over. You have mined yet another depth of your being to draw upon, when life becomes challenging outside the race, if you can but finish those two tenths.
     Other than the physical pain and mental fatigue, a runner’s worst enemy can be a stray pebble or over sized grain of sand that finds its way into your running shoe. A runner knows their body. However slight the grain of sand may be it dislodges their balance. Even worse, the mental concentration and physical rhythm are derailed. Will it become a blister? Will I be able to finish the race? Should I stop now and remove shoe and sock hoping to ward off a DNF (did not finish) or an injury that will side line me for weeks? What…no running? When I was running, I had friends who would throw my running shoes at me and tell me to go run, knowing that I always returned whole and healed. What if I could not run because of a blister?
     During the obsessive self talk and doubt, trying to find your stride once again, you see them. Neighbors from the houses lining the streets are sitting out in their lawn chairs cheering you on and clapping. Some have set up picnic tables with water cups to quench your thirst and douse over your head. They hold their offerings out to you so you don’t break stride having to stop and pick up the needed gifts. No, they stand and wait for you and as you approach their arms stretch out and they ask only to serve. I still remember my first marathon when I approached the first such gathering. I stopped dead in my tracks – almost creating a massive pile up, mind you. If I were a better writer perhaps I could help you see what I saw and what I felt, but alas, I can only say it was stunningly overwhelming. I tucked that cup behind my paper number pinned to my shirt and kept it for years. I do not remember that first marathon’s miles, they clipped away unnoticed as I pondered the tiny paper cup tucked against my body.
     I miss running. And if you have read between the lines above you know the depth of that statement. There are days when I find a pebble or over sized grain of sand has covertly found its way into life and my walk becomes a touch unbalanced. I will not say I handle this well, I don’t. But sometimes when something precious has gone, if you stop running, you might just notice the outstretched hand holding a tiny paper cup of water. They do not try to break your stride. They offer their cheers, support and are simply there because they want to celebrate your effort, your desire, your passion and your life in that moment. No, I don’t run anymore. I think, perchance, life is teaching me to walk, pause, sit and enjoy the company of the outstretched arms. To say thank you, ask their name and share my name not my runner’s number. And if that be the lesson of the pebble, then well done my pet rock!

Nothing Unsaid

     It was one of those moments that, in retrospect, leaves you naked and breathless. It was a moment that lacked the import of JFK’s assassination or the bombing of the World Trade Centers. It was a moment, nonetheless, like the others, that I shall always remember where I was and what I felt when I heard the news, the words. “We’ve been friends for so long, it’s not like there was anything left unsaid.”
     Her best friend had just passed away. Her comment was so casual, spoken without forethought that I do not think she realized the weight of its profoundness. To have walked beside someone, as a lover, a friend or as a family member and in absolute honesty be able to declare, “I have left nothing unsaid” is perhaps the summation of all spiritual quests. It transcends the literal translation of verbal communication and includes actions, presence, attentiveness and constancy.
     As I sit here, my tapping fingers are slowly wearing out the letters on the keyboard. Perhaps it is just a message for me and will not resonate with others. How does one write about leaving nothing unsaid? Have I come full circle again to the earlier post where frustration led me to Gabriel Oak’s quote? Can I unroll the scroll of my heart and speak their names in the same way? Will their names now bear the question of what is left unsaid? Alas, I am not so wise.
     When I look at you, fear not the concentration of my blue eyes. I am simply searching in yours what I have left unsaid. When I reach out to touch you, worry not that my hand may tremble or even linger just a moment. My energy, the force of life within me is speaking to you and asking what I have left unsaid. If you see me walk slower than normal do not assume the arthritis and my knees are cranky. The souls of my feet are speaking to the earth and asking what I have left unsaid. When I say ‘I love you’ it is the ‘you’ that you are, not what I need or wish you would be. I will not define you and risk a box that excludes and leaves something unsaid. And in my struggle to leave nothing unsaid, know that I am both saint and sinner, easily distracted and absent minded and my words may scale heights that my actions do not. My claim to imperfection will never go unsaid. Nor shall my cry for forgiveness and my zeal to begin again and leave nothing unsaid.

Liturgy of Being Tamed

“Goodbye,” said the fox. “Here is my secret. It’s quite simple: One sees clearly only with the heart. Anything essential is invisible to the eyes. . . . It’s the time that you spent on your rose that makes your rose so important. . . . People have forgotten this truth,” the fox said, “But you mustn’t forget it. You become responsible for what you’ve tamed. You’re responsible for your rose. . . .” [The Little Prince by Antoine de Saint-Exupery]

    I unroll the scroll of my heart with the reverence, sanctity and veneration of a Rabbi opening the Torah’s scrolls. One by one my heart reads their names and bows to their images in my mind, each with their page sewn into my heart. Several have no images, only a name, but their inscription upon the scroll is equally deep. Some are present in my life today. Others have left this life and I await our meeting.
    The characters written upon the page differ in their boldness, grace and size. Written with love, the long strokes of fondness are thick and full. Other characters create names of those who taught my heart to heal. The pigment for the earth, her creatures, beauty, the sun, moon and sky are brilliant in their color and pictures. Whatever the boldness, size or color of the stroke each one has tamed me as I have been tamed.
    The liturgy is repeated each day and night and often when I spy a special star, a bird in flight or the sound of laughter. And as ritual and liturgy evolves over time so has mine. Time, roses and foxes have changed my ritual as I now begin with my own name.

Pearl Necklace Part 2: Hiking Boots - A Simple Hello

      Not a good day. NOT a good day. Not a good way to start the day telling yourself ‘not a good day.’ My work morning begins at 6 a.m. or earlier with a definite routine designed to get all the required reports ready for management before 8 a.m. There I was pouring the nectar of life, caffeine, when an email popped up on my work computer and crashed my routine. Despite my best efforts to keep a well intended process improvement group from ‘going into the light,’ they were storming ahead.
      Now you must understand that this fifty six year old woman looks upon the workers in the plant as her children. I am, to say the least, a ferocious mother bear when it comes to protecting them from the suits and clean finger nail level of management who see only profit and not people. Management was pressuring them. They were stressing out and not thinking. Thirty plus years of experience and wisdom scars told me they were going the wrong direction and headed for disaster. I felt like a parent trying to convince my puberty ridden teenager that just because everyone else was jumping off the roof doesn’t mean they should jump.
      Not a good day. NOT a good day. As their message to be delivered to management seared my heart another message reached my brain: stop pouring, STOP pouring! Like a waterfall spilling into the river lake my precious life sustenance overflowed the paper cup and was table dancing on my desktop. Rat farts batman! I must have verbalized my reaction because my buddy across the hall came over to make sure I was ok. I looked at his face, his gentle eyes and huge grin and pointed to the computer screen. His jolly Santa Claus face chuckled and he pointed to the coffee cup. We both stood there laughing. Shaking his head he left me alone to figure it out.
      Fast forward past the clean up. More messages continued to pop up related to the first as well as other disaster fears and I was beginning to feel Henny-penny was right. “Over my dead body” was ruled out as an acceptable response to the email. One fire at a time. I collared the guys and brought them into my office.
      As we all took a deep breath before the battle my work cell phone buzzed with a message. A gentle sister of light sent a ‘simple hello, you were on my mind’ email. That was it. I stared at the phone screen and folded my feet up in the lotus position. One of the guys cleared their throat to bring me back to reality. I looked up at them, down to my folded feet and back to the phone screen. My heart exhaled. When my blue teary eyes met their stare I smiled. My steel toed shoes made my favorite sitting position painful, my hiking boots did not. I did not need the protection. I didn’t need to ‘feel like one of them.’ I am who I am, I am me. I needed only to let the love of a mother bear spill over like my coffee cup. ‘Hello” I said to them with my eyes bowing to theirs. A simple hello. And we talked.