Collection One
Happiness and Gratitued
“One is tempted to be in deep contemplation,” Randolph said to Margorie, his wife.
“What?” Marjorie answered from the stove, as she flipped the eggs. She was concentrating on eggs. Randolph liked them just so–flipped over but not hard–what was the term, oh yeah, easy over.
“I said, ‘I am tempted to be in deep contemplation.'”
“And why is that?” she responded as she lifted the eggs on to his plate. “Here you are dear, just as you like them–I hope,” she added in an imperceptible mutter.
“There is an article in todays paper about Mary Oliver dying. You know that great poet I often quote.”
“Yes, dear I remember the many times you have quoted her, you old romantic you. Well what did it say.”
“The article was quoting one of her most famous lines she offered for self exploration.”
“And what was that?”
“’Have I experienced happiness with sufficient gratitude? Have I experienced loneliness with Grace?'” he responded in his most eloquent Elizabethan voice.
“Oh, dear. that was so wonderfully stated. You make it sound so, oh, I don’t know, Godly, like Charleston Heston being Moses coming out of the mountains with the Ten Commandments.”
“Well, thank you dear. You know how much I like to orate whenever I get a chance. But just ponder this for a moment. This is a good question. Here we are in what I think we both agree is a later and possibly the last stage of our lives and I think it’s good to reflect on those ideas of happiness and gracefulness. Don’t you?”
“Oh, yes dear. I think you should do that. I’m too busy for such luxury. You know those grand kids of ours use up at least half of my time and I am so busy with that never ending spay-neuter clinic–seems like there must be a puppy mill some place that is cranking puppies out so darn fast that we can’t keep up with neutering the little buggers. There sure isn’t any loneliness in my life that I would have to be graceful about.”
Randolph smiled. Yes, he and Marjorie had somewhat of a different take on life. He was the romantic, the artist, the dreamer, the philosopher. She, well Marjorie was the grounded one, the one who wanted to give him perfect eggs, the one who worried about the happiness of dogs and cats.
“Well, for what it’s worth, my Sweet Marjorie, and I think you know this, but I like to say it anyway. I am so happy you came into my life, what is it now, 57 years ago? You have been my happiness and I am so grateful. Forgive me for not saying that more often. And it reminds me that our anniversary is a week from tomorrow. How ’bout we head off to the coast for the weekend. You know, that little cabin we went to for our 25th and 50th would be a great place to stay. What do you say?”
Marjorie came to his side of table, leaned over and gave him a kiss on the cheeks, sliding a piece of half-eaten toast onto his plate. “Yes, dear, you old softy. I know what you’ve got on your mind. You want to swish me off to that cozy little cottage, thinking about our little frolics the last two times we were there and thinking you can have you way with me. Well what about the fund raiser for the library I got us tickets for on the Friday of that weekend? We can’t just not go, for heaven’s sake.”
Randolph didn’t respond right away. That was it in a nutshell, Randolph admitted to himself. While their differences provide a wonderful opportunities to process and try to understand each other and work out compromises—”For growth,” the shrinks all said, he did wish that she would try to meet him in his romantic and fanciful world a little more often. But then, his mind went on, how often do you Mr. Philosopher try to meet her in her world? His thoughts went on. Here you are sitting on this wonderful invitation to ponder your life, be grateful, and graceful and all you see is the difference, the dissention.
Randolph had finished his breakfast, Marjorie was now at the sink, cleaning up as was her role. He moved beside her at the sink. “Sweetie, let me do the dishes for a change. You spend so much time taking care of my needs and I am so grateful for that, how you take care of me. And I am so afraid of being alone without you when that time comes.”
Marjorie, looked sideways. “Oh, you old coot. You can’t just turn your charm on me like that so that you get your way. But, I tell you what. You are so good to me and let me do whatever I want to do, that I’ll make you a deal. Since all I really need to do about that library fundraiser is get some money into the pot, how about we double our contribution by buying two more tickets and then just make some silly excuse about needing to be with your brother who is having a, whatever, let’s say hernia operation and wants us to be with him. Then just skip down to that little love nest that you have in mind. ’57’ is a big number for married couples. You’re right. We need to celebrate that. And why don’t you find a book of poems by that Mary Oliver women and read them to me. Who knows, you might just get lucky with me and have something to be happy and grateful for.
Motorcycle Escape
Prompt: My ways of escape.
From the top of the grave she heard a noise—kind of a scratching. The funeral service had ended more than an hour ago, but she remained, having thrown in a token shovel of dirt and then another. Could it be that he was still alive? Perhaps going crazy, stuck in the coffin, searching his mind for ways to escape.
No! That wasn’t possible. It had been 4 days since his coronary caused death. Machines and stethoscopes had confirmed his passing and he had been in the morgue since that time. Just not possible. Her face felt the wind and through tears her eyes caught the image of a tree and branches moving against the cemetery’s tool shed in synchrony with the scratching.
Oh my! What to do now? Eleanor threw another handful of dirt onto the coffin and rose from the grass as men in coveralls and a tractor like vehicle approached to cover the coffin.
It was a sunny June morning on the desert as Eleanor and Sebastian had climbed to the overlook south of Mount Washington. One of those clear blue sky days under which no care seemed important enough to engage. Things had been tense between them in the days, more like weeks, before. When Sebastian invited her to join him on the hike, she had balked, but then reconsidered. Maybe some high mountain air could aid in bridging the gap. And then he fell to the ground and there was the 911 call and the airlift and in the end, it was the end.
What was the gap again? she thought, as she walked out of the cemetery. Oh yes, well, his reluctance to commit, his reluctance to leave Rachel. that wretched, mal-content of a wife and join her in life. Simple enough, but oh so complicated and heart wrenching for Eleanor.
She and Sebastian had tried everything. Gazing into each other’s eyes and breathing together to create report and harmony, writing out their visions of the future on big paper, meeting with counselors of various stripes. And yes, crawling into bed naked and sharing their appreciations of each other.
Through their travels, book clubs, and singing in the choir with the Unitarians, they had attempted to find a bonding for a path together. But the boulder had remained, his blasted marriage. He just wouldn’t give it up and felt too obligated to Rachel–didn’t want to upset the family, endure the wrath of his kids, co-workers, aging parents. “Coward,” she had uttered more than a few times in her triggered disgust. When times were good – it was oh so good. He touched her body and her soul like no other had. When they were in harmony life was bliss – and that’s why she hung on, in hope that the veil would be lifted and Sebastian would let go of Rachel and move along in life with her.
As Eleanor walked away from the grave, tears still dripping, a dove flew by giving it’s mournful who, who call. Yes, who, who am I now with his life gone. What’s next? As she walked on, the realization of her new reality began to form. Though Sebastian is gone, so is the dilemma he created. And so is the angst and the wondering. There is life up ahead. She began to grasp. I am youngish, smart, talented. I have friends, a car, and no commitments. Nothing to hold me back.
Eleanor drove through town to her favorite coffee and books shop, ordered her favorite latte and settled at a table. As she sat sipping, leafing through a book on horses that called to her from the shelf, she became aware of a man looking at her. Out of curiosity she held his gaze for a moment and he, returning a smile, moved her way. “I’m Robert,” he said. “You may not be aware of me, but Sebastian and I were motorcycle buddies. We rode through the Cascades together many times. I am aware of his death. I don’t like funerals so wasn’t there, but know who you are and of your relationship with Sebastian and its challenges.”
“Please sit if you like,” Eleanor heard herself say. He did, placed his cup on the table, looked at the book in her hands, looked into her eyes and said “I’m so sorry for your loss and your grief.”
She looked at him more deeply now. Sensed his warmth, his sensitivity, his strong male essence energy and acknowledged to herself that she liked this guy and was aware a bit of a buzz in her breast.
Conversation ensued, details emerged. Robert was single and free, a few years older than Eleanor. Two grown kids, one in Central Oregon, three grandkids. He was a free spirit, Harley riding dude, former high school teacher, financially self-sufficient and kind of a wild ass at heart.
After those details, talk drifted to Sebastian, their relationship, the troubles, the conflict, Sebastian’s vacillation. “You know.” Robert said. “Sebastian talked about it a lot. To him it was like being in one of those hamster cages. The ones that go round and round and you never get anywhere. He loved you, but just couldn’t pull the plug on his marriage and family. I recall once his saying that he wished there was a way out – some means of escape.”
Robert took another pull on his coffee, leaned back in his chair and sighed. “You know,” he said I really wasn’t surprised to hear of Sebastian’s death in the way it happened. It may seem crass, but maybe it was just his way of escaping the situation.”
Eleanor sat up right and prepared to slap him hard. But Robert met her with a smile, reached out his hand. “Now, little lady don’t take offense. I know that sounds harsh, but I did know that dude at a very deep level and heard the cry of pain in his soul.”
Eleanor softened, felt the tears streaming, held his hand and felt the strength flow through. She looked at Robert and sighed. “Is your Harley outside?”
“Sure.”
“Any chance of letting me hop on the back and you helping me escape into the mountains for a while?”
Letter to Hands
Prompt: Write a letter to a part of your body that wants to be recognized.
Dear Hands,
I’ve been thinking about you, Hands. You are so dear to me, so appreciated. Even as I type this letter to you, I am aware of your magnificence, how you know which keys to touch. And Thumb, how you know when to use the space bar. And you, Right Hand Ring Finger, how you know when to hit the delete key to back space over an error on the page–not to ignore that sometimes it is Little Finger and sometimes Middle Finger that performs that task.
And so much more. Let me acknowledge your brilliance, your accomplishments, your contribution to my life. Can you just listen? Can you be quiet until I am complete with my appreciation? Yes, you hands, my hands, the hands that carry me through life performing so many miracles, please let me adore you.
First I must focus on how you care for the rest of me, beginning with how you know exactly what to do with the electric toothbrush. Without my intentionally directing you, you responding to the space in the morning ritual when it is time to brush the teeth. Yes, the tooth brushing, always holding the handle of the brush at the exact angle to push the bristles into the cavity between the gums and teeth, always moving to and from to cover all 32 of those ivory gems–or is it 28 since removal of the wisdom teeth. Do you know? Did you adjust the count after those teeth were pulled? I wonder. How much do you know about my mouth and what goes on in there.
Then there is using that razor to scrape my face in a way that avoids blood. Remember, there was a training period there. Do you remember that? Back when I first started to shave, mostly because I was a teenage boy wanting to grow up, not because there was anything there really to shave. But remember how my dad, sitting on the toilet while I did my morning get up routine, not because he was vulgar or invading my privacy, but because it was a one-bathroom house that often had to perform multiple functions simultaneously. After all there were three fixtures in there, toilet, sink and both tub.
So there he sat coaching me how to use that double edged blade razor. “Dip your fingers in the Burma Shave jar, smear it on your face with a little warm water, smooth it out evenly.” You had a little trouble with that, didn’t you, but caught on quickly? And then take the round metal tube like handle in your right hand. I was always right handed, but did some things with my left. Which of you decided who was going to be the dominant one? I never really knew. Anyway, right hand held the razor ever so gently beginning at my right sideburn, touched the blade to the skin and moved downward, and then retraced to be sure to get it all. Then sideways around the chin and up under the neck and to the other side, retracing several time to be sure. And then left hand coming to life, feeling the results and I assume communicating to the right hand where to go again. Yes, that was an amazing assistance into male passage.
There were so many other things: feeding my face and pulling on clothes and threading the belt through the loops on my Levis and buckling the buckle. So routine, so important to get it in the right notch to keep the Levis in place.
I remember too the skills you took on when I worked. That first year crawling on my knees along the strawberry row, my friends and school mates doing the same in adjacent rows. How you handled the berries that were ripe enough to pick, right hand holding the berry firmly while the left reached to the stem, dug thumb and index finger fingernails into the stem cap and pinched it to release the berry. The right hand able to tuck three or four berries into its palm and hold them before depositing the handful into the little wooden boxes in the six box carrier just in front of me. Yes, truly an accomplishment for a six-year old pair of hands. I’m proud of you understanding that speed was an issue. We were paid based on production you must remember. The faster you filled those little boxes, the more money I made that day. Good job.
Oh, so much focus on those early days in life. You learning how to be my hands to do the tasks to keep me alive. In those days other skills too: how to hold a screw driver, insert it into the slot on a screw, turn it one way or the other moving the screw into the wood or taking it out. Both motions so important. Then there was holding the hammer at just the right part of the handle to give the right force for right nail—near the bottom end for a strong swing for big nails, up close to the head for a light tap on small nails. How did you learn to do that? Was it logical or by trial and error? I really wonder about that.
But let’s skip ahead. So many things in school: using a pencil to form letters and then a pen to write more formally and later in life a paint brush to paint the window frame and walls and later to smear oil paint around on canvas to create an art.
And how about touch? How about touching another person? How about your learning to shake hands: Strong and firm with many, soft with finger tips for a child and slightly more for a woman unless she was old with big wrinkled hands that grabbed me strongly?
And the hands of loving, the hand that reached for Peggy’s hand in the back seat of the car and then responded to her hand on my face and how that led to the hands that taught themselves how to love and pleasure a woman so many years later. And the hand that learned to stroke and pleasure myself. Is it okay to acknowledge that? I suppose so. This is all about you hands, not about me.
Perhaps one of those talents you have that has brought the most pleasure is the skill you have with the strings of my guitar. I am ever so grateful for that. It took you a while. I guess nearly 50 years, but now you have it. Sometimes tender, sometimes strong and loud with the right hand while the left forms the chords, chooses the strings to hold down. I fear there is not enough time to truly describe the experience there, but know that my whole body appreciates that thrill, the feel of the rhythm in my chest and stomach and my voice that joins in the celebration of music. Was I troubled when I clipped the ends of two of those fingers off a few years back. Yes, I thought I’d never play the guitar again, but you remember those fine doctors that sewed you up and gave me hope. It’s okay. I just wish it hadn’t happened. I assume you do too.
I’m afraid I’m out of time to say more. Thank you for participating in this writing, Dear Hands. Know that this written testament will reside forever if you just hit the right key on this computer to save it. You can do that can’t you?
.
Looking through the lens
Prompt: Pretend looking through a very small camera lens and make it big to be able see it for a new reality as a large life form. Write from there.
Here I am, just here lying in bed gazing at the ceiling. I’m not happy. I don’t want to be here. Why do I have to lie here, alone? Nothing to do but lie here. I’m sick you know. Mom told me I had to lie here and rest so I can get better. But there is nothing to do. I know, I’ll turn on my side so’s I can look out the window and I’ll make my fist round and squint my eye and look through that little hole of my little finger right out the window.
Oh, it so tiny and so far away. What’s that, where the big branch comes out ? It’s a nest, a little birds nest. Oh my. Who lives there? Oh, there’s the cat walking on the fence. He looks so far away, so black, so cool just walking along….I’m so sleepy I think I’ll just….
“Hey Squirrel. Did you hear, the boy is sick?”
“No. How’d that happen? Has the little twerp been out smoking those cigarette butts again?”
“Don’t be so mean, he’s just checking things out. Ya, know, trying to figure out what works and what doesn’t, what’s right for him and what’s not right. Didn’t you do that when you were fresh out of the hole your mom brought you into? I can only imagine you biting into every thing to see what it tastes like.”
“Ya, got a point. Hey, you seen the Robin lately?
“Ya, she’s there on her nest. Got eggs in the pan—gotta stay there night and day. I hear her guy, what’s his name, Ron, I think has been sticking by pretty close, but two days ago he said he was getting bored and he took a solo flight over to the golf course for some gourmet worm picking. Lucky dog. He can just up, up and away, whenever he wants.”
Oh, my gosh. Their talking to each other. The squirrel and cat and yes there is a robin on the nest. Or was I just dreaming. There is the cat, just sitting there licking his paw and the squirrel sticking his head in and out of the hole, but they seem to just ignore each other. Maybe if I roll up my fist and take another look it will be different.
“Hey Squirrel. He’s looking at us again. Do you think he can hear us?”
“I don’t know. Never thought the two leg-eds could hear us talking. Let’s give it a test. I’ll look at him and say something and you watch for a reaction, okay.”
“Hey boy. There’s a spider crawling on your head!”
Slap. “Oh darn missed it.”
“Yep, he hears us. What are we gonna do.”
” Well we can just pretend he doesn’t hear us and go on with life or we can make contact and see where it goes. Should we check with the Robin? It’s her life too you know.”
I’m going to open the window. “Hey out there. I can hear you guys talking. But, you know that I can only hear you when I look at you through the little hole in my fist.”
“Johnny. Time to get up. You’ve been in there long enough. Come on now. Get up and do you homework before your dad gets home. I’m cooking your favorite, hamburgers.”
Johnny rubbed his eyes. Looked around the room out the window. There he saw the cat and squirrel just looking at him and both robbins were on the nest. All seemed normal, just a cat and squirrel and some robins. Was he just dreaming or was it real? Did they really talk to him? But wait, didn’t it change when I looked through the hole in my fist? Is that what lets me hear them them talk?
Johnny made his fist again and looked through it. Just as he was about do say something, the door opened and there was mom with a smile and a glass of milk. “Hi there. Ready to come down?” Johnny took another quick look through his fist and was pretty sure he saw the cat give him a wink and the squirrel a give a husky swish of it’s tail.
“Okay, Mom. I’m coming. But can I ask you a question? Have you ever talked with the animals out in the yard? You know, the cat and the squirrel and the robin.”
He saw her glance at his fist and then there was a big smile on her face. “So, dear sweet Johnny, it seem that you’ve got the gift too. Yes, I do. Isn’t it fun? But lets not tell your Dad, okay?”
Time to Leave
6.22.22
Stan stood on the balcony gazing sadly at the meadows, trees and ramshackle cabins. Is it time to leave? was going through his mind. Was he finished here, complete with his purpose? A tall maple hung over the cabin nearest him on the left. It was his cabin for the time he had been here. He’d sat under the large branches of that maple many evenings, pulling on a joint, strumming his guitar, sometimes in front of a small campfire with others seated in fold-up chairs, humming and singing along with him if they knew the words.
He’d looked up through the branches of that maple on many mornings to see blue sky or large developing clouds, sometimes white, sometimes grey. And he’d seen the stars through those branches on clear nights. In summer time all he would see is green, layers of green. Sometimes he got the feeling that the maple tree was like a guide or a guru. He could sit there with a question or problem, look up to see blue or white or stars or green, focus on it for a while and slowly the answer would come, a solution would emerge, an issue would dissolve into reality.
Stan was somewhat of a teacher himself, philosophy at the community college in the south part of the state for many years, but that was some time ago. Now there was the head master role in the Waldorf school in that small little town just south of the retreat center where he now essentially lived. But he felt that he was more than a teacher, more of a coach, someone, others would confide in himwith problems and issues that he would listen to patiently and with a gentle voice ask questions and lead the way for the person, sometimes a teenager facing family issues, sometimes a trouble husband or wife doubting the fidelity of their spouse, sometimes an older person like himself who was looking for purpose in life.
So why was he standing under that maple tree wondering if it was time to leave? Well, she was leaving the next Sunday and heading north to New Town to be with her grandchildren whose father, her son in law, had died of covid less than a month ago. She being Sara, the woman who managed the retreat center whom he’d developed a cozy relationship with over the last several months.
Sara was a special woman, not unlike Gwen, his wife who’d passed away in child birth so many years before. And very different than Susanne the singer song writer who captured Stan to accompany her at gigs in the town tavern, but slipped off with the saxaphone player that rainy Saturday night he didn’t go with her to the tavern.
Yes, Sara, now nearing 70, as was he, was like a mom and a daughter and a best friend all rolled into one, who on occasion invited him to share her bed, but always just to cuddle and have a companion through the night.
Sara had shared the news of her departure a couple of weeks ago. Stan listened to her, asked her enough questions to know it was not a maybe, but a must do. He’d been contemplating his own future ever since. Should he stay? Should he head back to where he was from, maybe move in with his brother and his wife in Boston or try to join his own son’s family in South Florida. He thought about following Sara to New Town, but she’d not given any hint of a desire that he do that.
Stan sat down in the Adirondack chair under the maple tree and looked up, hoping to have an insight come into his mind. All he saw was green, green, green–but no there was some yellow way up at the top. Yes, yellow, the tree was getting ready to shed its leaves. His mind grabbed to the thought, the tree is saying it’s time for it to drop its leaves. “It’s time for me to leave, to drop my leaves.” But the message was clear. It was time for Stand to leave. Time for him to find a new place, to move on in life.
Stan lit his pipe, settled back into his chair and let his mind roam over the possibilities of where he should leave to. His mind rambling over the choices, son’s place, brothers place, a whole new place farther south into the sun.
He heard steps on his porch, looked up to see Sara walking toward him with a big smile. “Hi Stan. You look pretty engaged in thought. I hope I’m not interrupting, but I had to tell you about the phone call I just go from my daughter.” He pointed to the other Adirondack chair. She sat gingerly turning his way while continuing to talk. “She says that the New Town high school social studies teacher died of a heart attack two days ago and there is an immediate opening at the high school for a replacement. I thought you might be interested. You’re certainly qualified I should think.”
“Thanks Sara. “ He paused, took a pull on his pipe and exhaled. ” While it’s never good to hear of someone reaching their time to leave the planet, I’ve been sitting here thinking it’s time for me to leave this place and this lovely maple tree. Please let me make you coffee and you can tell me what you know about New Town and its high school.”
As she smiled, Stan caught movement above and watched as a bright yellow maple leaf floated down and settled into Sara’s lap.
How Beautiful My Mother
Prompt: When I’m gone who will remember how beautiful my mother was the day I was born.
Joaquin lay on his bed. His wife Lupita stood above his head massaging his temples. Beside him were his four children, eight of his 19 grandchildren and 12 of his 31 great grandchildren. His two close neighborhood friends Carlos and Hector were also there, standing hats in hand. Father Morelos was at the foot of his bed, bible in hand. Needless to say, the room was a bit crowded and there was an overflow into the adjacent living room. Most of the adults who were standing by had brought food or beverages, Jamaica tea, horchata and more than a few six packs of Corona and Pacifico. It was after all, a fiesta of sorts and probably the beginning of several days of remembrance of Joaquin.
It was a solemn day because all, including Joaquin, knew or expected that it may well be the last day of life for Joaquin. But it was also a joyous day. His family and close friends were with him. And, with Father Morelos present, Joaquin felt comfort that his next destination was secured.
Stories of Joaquin and the relationship each in the room had with him were abundant, entertaining, some very funny, some about things he had done for them, lessons they had learned from him.
His namesake grandson little Joaquin had a great story about fishing– the time they caught the biggest bass in the lake. Little Joaquin opened his arms wide and said “this big.” Son Jose spoke of the great lessons on carpentry and fixing cars that Joaquin had taught him, beginning when he was 11. Close friend Carlos, talked of their school days together in kindergarten all the way through primaria and secondaria, what a good student Joaquin was and how great a soccer player he was.
Joaquin could not restrain laughing, knowing that Carlos was exaggerating a bit about soccer and a lot about his being a good student. Friend Hector teased him about the day Joaquin had told him that he was going to ask Lupita to marry him. Lupita blushed and the rest of them applauded and laughed. And Father Morelos, after giving the last rights blessing, spoke grandly about Joaquin’s assistance maintaining the church garden for a long as he could remember and how sorry he was that he was not the one who had married Joaquin and Lupita, but how happy he was for their loving relationship.
Joaquin, though somewhat in pain from the creeping cancer, had the comfort of modern pain killers, was completely lucid and could think of no place he would rather be than at home with his wife, family, good friends and priest surrounding him. After stories subsided, Joaquin began to speak of his memories going way back to his early childhood, especially of his mother, Carmen. How beautiful she was, how caring and warm and guiding she was, how understanding she was in response to his deviances, how gentle she was in her correction of his misdeeds. And did he say how beautiful she was?
He then pulled from under the covers, a small sheet of paper, asked Lupita for his glasses, held the paper in front of him to catch the light coming through the window behind him. “This is a poem,” he said, “that I read one time in Reader Digest and I thought the title of it was so beautiful that I tore out the page and have kept it with me for this moment.” He read it out loud in a very strong but gentle voice that they all remembered well: “When I’m gone who will remember how beautiful my mother was the day I was born.”
Joaquin paused for several moments, looked around at each face. Some smiling, some looking a bit puzzled, perhaps questioning who could be left that was old enough to remember his mother at the time she gave birth to him. Maybe an older sister, but there were none left., Maybe a priest, but none of them either.
He smiled, then began to chuckle. “I have wondered ever since I found this poem, who that person might be that would remember. Well of course there is no one here that is old enough to remember. But I have the answer. On that shelf in the corner is a tall photograph of my mother. Padre, would you hand it to me. Most of you have probably never seen it before. But that is my mother holding me as a baby. Look at it most carefully and you will know the answer to this question in this poem. The answer is all of you. You all can remember how beautiful was my mother on the day I was born.”
Joaquin seemed compete. He let the picture drop to his chest and closed his eyes. There was silence. Then murmuring. Lupita started humming and all in the room joined hands, watching as Joaquin’s breath diminished and stopped. Father Morelos bowed his head, made the sign of the cross, then picked up the picture of Carmen and baby Joaquin and held it up for all to see.
And The Rains Came
6.9.22
If it wasn’t raining, he’d be on the golf course this morning, but the rain came as it often did this time of year. Of course there was nothing he could do about it except accept it. One of those events in life that one really has no control over, can only adjust to and go on.
Frances, his long term girlfriend, although she was so much more than that, had draped her raincoat over the back of the dining room chair and was stirring around the kitchen attested to by an occasional banging of a pot lid or cabinet door.
Jeff lifted his coffee cup to his lips, “So what are you off too this rainy morning, My Dear? Shopping, walking, meeting? I’ve forgotten what you told me last night about your day today.”
Grabbing the just popped up toast, she turned toward him. “Oh, you know, at least, I think you do. It’s Wednesday, my Pilates day. I guess you forgot that because you’re usually on the golf course by now. I’ll be gone about an hour and a half.”
Jeff looked up from his bowl of granola, “I have an idea, since Wednesday is exercise day for both of us, how about we both skip class, put a collar and leash on Maxie and take a walk up into the forest; see what the rain does to the mountainside.”
Frances, buttered toast in hand, pulled out another chair. Took a bite of toast, pondered while chewing.”
“It’s interesting how my mind grabbed what you just said and is running through its analysis. What impact would it have if I skipped Pilates ? Would I get a credit on my subscription? How would that affect the teacher? Would it impact her financially? Would anyone in the class miss me, wonder what went wrong for me? Was I ill?”
Jeff laughed. “Yes, that would be you, thinking through the impact. But what if we just disappeared for a few hours, a day or a week. Do you think anyone would really care or just wave it off and say, “Oh the rain came and all bets are off?”
Before she could respond, there was a sharp knock on the front door–unusual at this hour of a weekday morning. Jeff sat his coffee down, backed his chair out, walked through the hall to the front entry. He could see a uniform cap through the high window in the door. “Oh, oh, trouble” went through his mind.
It was a deputy sheriff standing in front of him in full dress wearing a clear plastic rain jacket. “Good morning. Sorry to disturb you, but the rain that started last night is quite heavy up in the mountains and there is a chance of a flash flood in the canyon across the road.” He waved his hands backward. “We’re going door to door to alert residents. Not sure if it will be necessary to evacuate, but want you to be prepared if it is. Ya know, pack a few things to tide you over for a couple of days, get your pets ready, maybe think about what things you wouldn’t want to get wet and pack them in the car. This happens sometimes when the rain comes, may not be a worry, but best to be prepared.” The sheriff tipped his hat with his hand, turned and was gone.
“Well what was that about?” Frances queried him.
“Deputy sheriff says there are heavy rains on the mountains. There may be a flash flood coming down our canyon and we should prepare for the possibility of having to evacuate.”
“Well, what’s the probability and what does it mean.” Her face was getting red. “Is it just going to wash across our lawn or lift our whole house off the foundation. I mean how much danger is there. We didn’t really think about what it means when the rain comes when we bought this place. I don’t recall the realtor or anyone in that attorney’s office telling us that flash flood was a possibility when we were signing paper. I want to call the sheriff’s office and find out what’s really going on. I mean maybe it was a prank, someone wanting to get us out of our house so they could burglarize it. What’s the sheriff guy’s name?”
Jeff didn’t know how to respond. It wasn’t like a semi-hysterical reaction from Fran was unusual. He could think of others, but thought it best not to go down that road. After all it was just a little rain and just a polite civil service alert.
“You could call the sheriff, but let’s turn on the radio, perhaps there’s more information.”
“Radio?” She said in a high pitched voice. “That’s years ago. But going on Google could be a good idea.” She opened her laptop. The lights flickered and went out. Fran slapped the lid closed. She paused, took a deep breath. ”Ok ,what did that sheriff guy suggest we do?”
“Just get ready to leave in case we need to. Pack what we might need for a couple of days, grab valuables, get pets and stand by.”
Fran pulled down two suitcases from the closet shelf. Opened them and started pulling stuff out of her dresser drawer, then went to the kitchen for her favorite appliances. Jeff filled a cardboard box with his laptop, photo albums and two priceless first editions hardbound books and grabbed a 10 pound bag of dog food. They moved the boxes and suitcases to the front door, put a collar and leash on Maxie the dog and sat in arm chairs facing the door.
Jeff looked over at Fran. “Well at least we’ll have something to tell our friend about when they ask what we did when the rain came.” He was glad to see her smile and hear her giggle. Maxie jumped up on his lap and licked his face.
We Must Play the Game
Prompt: Destiny shuffles the cards but we are the ones who must play the game.
Oh where does the wisdom come from anyway? Who is this Destiny that whoever made that statement believes shuffles the cards? Who is the puppeteer? Who calls the shots, is the grand organizer of it all, of my destiny, of me. Shuffling sounds like it’s all random motion and a crap shoot of sorts. What hand we will be dealt is a very simple view of life. And in what way do we at a conscious level participate in the shuffle or maybe even in the stacking of the deck that we are then obligated to play, or permitted to play or challenged to play. I guess it boils down to a line in a song that stuck in my head from the movie Alfie of many years ago which I recall starred Peter O’Toole: “What’s it all about Alfie?”
I have reached a point in life after many pastors, books, gurus and teachers, where I am pretty reticent to expound on what it’s all about, or why we are here, or what is our purpose, somewhat because if I do, then I will probably have to listen to someone else spout on the same subject. Not my favorite thing to do. But I think too, it’s because my take on it all it still evolving, affected by each and every experience of life that I have.
For example, this quote, “Destiny shuffles…” came from a book I just started the, beginning of which is about a fictitious artist, a painter, of some years who is reflecting to a woman who is interviewing him about his mode of painting. He talks of the way he is consumed when he is painting, consumed with the images, the paints and a wonderment of what will emerge from his paint brush to be the finished painting.
From that, I take away a confirmation of the current statement of my belief system which is This-is-ism. This is it or be here now, or accept the present moment, because it is what is—and maybe I can change the future by what I think or intend or say, but buster, right now, in this moment this is what is—so get on with life and let go of your desire to have a perfect past. Trust that in each moment you will know what to do. I can say it makes sense but there are those instances when I just don’t understand the why.
One of those was a year and a half ago when I nipped off the ends of two fingers in a power woodworking tool and gasped, “I’ll never play guitar again.” But dear partner, Karen, comments in ad-on’s to my telling that story, that I did seem to quickly adapt and accept the condition of those nipped off fingers and life ahead with that reality—perhaps my commitment to This-is-ism actual works. Fortunately, with the aid of two skillfully performed surgeries, I am playing guitar once again. But the purpose of it all, the purpose of nipping off of those fingers still eludes me.
So, beyond that, the this is it philosophy which of course, since it is my current one, I believe to be an absolute truth and absolutely applies to everyone and every situation. I can say that with good authority because pretty much every religious, spiritual or this is how it works philosophy that I have encountered has had some part of it’s dogma that says ours is correct, the truth and therefore applies to everyone. Anyone who isn’t on that path is either going to hell, not going to make it to whatever the goal is, or wasting their time.
The outgrowth of that is that I’m not very interested in hearing other people’s beliefs, tenants or theories. But I am very interested in hearing their experiences of life and what they know to be true for them, how they got there and how those experiences have affected how they live and interact with others and in the long run have affected their life.
I do admit to having some beliefs. I use that word “belief” to identify things that I think could be true, could be valid explanations. Mostly they are things I’ve read or heard someone say that make sense, fit into a pattern or philosophy that I’ve heard others state, especially if the other sources are folks that I’ve come to respect or believe have a deep experience of what they are expressing. These are such things as “there is life beyond our physical death”, “there is a higher consciousness than the one I experience on a day to day basis”, “it is possible to communicate with that higher consciousness”, “that higher consciousness is either part of us or we are a part of it or him/her or them” as the case may be and there are differing theories on that one. And there is the continuations of that, the what we do in this life can affect our life beyond and the next life we have on earth theory.
I do have a firm belief that my life is guided. The result of so many instances of serendipitous meetings of people who brought messages or learning, finding or being given books with relevant teachings, jobs I’ve been guided to, and yes, getting the perfect parking spot. And, when I remember to do it, I can write a request in my journal to Spirit and my Divine Inner Guidance, as I call it, to give me guidance and input for these times. And they, someone, something, sends me thoughts that I write down and then reread, always impressed by the wisdom that has poured out on to the pages.
So that all rolls into a simple one liner that I first drafted about 15 years ago when I was writing my profile for an online dating service called Match.com, that prompts members to disclose who they are by responding to certain questions. In response to the relevant one, something about my spiritual philosophy, I wrote and rewrote several times, was this: I am a spirit in a human body. I am guided in every moment by a consciousness greater than my everyday consciousness. My purpose here is to accept what is and engage with it fully. I can affect what happens in the future by my present thoughts and actions. It felt good at the time and some of the responders to my profile commented that the statement inspired them to reach out to me because of a similar belief, trusting, I guess, that I’d know how to respond to their response.
So who/what is the Destiny, the divine shuffler? I honestly don’t know, but what the bottom line is for me in just about any conversation of such sorts, I declare that there are probably seven billion plus religions in the world. That’s as many religions or spiritual sets of belief on this planet as there are people—and that who or how it works is certainly beyond what my mind can understand—and therefor probably beyond anyone else’s too.
I am happy with that as I acknowledge what the quote says and play out the game with the many different hands that I have been dealt trying to accept, not complain and just enjoy the ride, smooth or bumpy. And what about death, the big question, what happens next?–well that’s another story. I trust I’ll know how to play that hand when it’s dealt.
Where the Hell Are We?
January 7, 2021
“Where the hell are we?” Sheldon blurted out. He reached for his cell phone, handed it to Sally. “Click on maps and see if you can figure it out,” he barked. He scanned the tumbleweed laced terrain as the sun rose over the tallest of the peaks to the east, looked straight ahead to the dirt road that disappeared through a gate of barbed wire attached to a pole that was chained and padlocked to four foot tall post imbedded in the sand.
Sally laughed. “You aren’t going to believe this ,’she said.” We are exactly there. I made this map really big and there it is, a marker like they put on those maps for restaurants and grocery stores that says ‘Hell’s Half Acre.’ She laughed again and as Sheldon watched Sally turned into a goulash witch with long red finger nails and a hideous crooked nose.
Tinkle, swish, tinkle swish. Sheldon woke with a start, reached to his phone to shut off the alarm, settled back into his pillow while the image of the witch and desert land faded from his mind. He turned to his right, could see the back of Sally’s head with a pink bandana pulled tightly against the morning chill. She wiggled a bit, reached back to touch Sheldon’s arm. “That time again already, huh. Too damn soon after last night.”
“You can say that again. But I’m glad the alarm rang. I was in a horrible dream, lost somewhere in desert. I asked you where in the hell we were, asked you to figure out where we were on my phone map. You said we were at Hell’s half acre and then turned into a witch.”
Sally, turned toward him, scooted over into his arms and stroked his face. “So how did I look as witch? Was I one of those cute slinky ones in dark stockings and short skirt with flowing long black hair?”
“Nope, you had a huge nose and craggy face. Must have been all of that champagne. We were pretty smashed before we hit the sack last night, but well worth it. Right. Watching it ’til the end.”
He went on, “All of those rangy looking dudes barging through the Capitol police security, watching it unfold until they got all of the votes counted. I was so absorbed that I started to wonder where in the hell we were. And then all of those idiots arguing back and forth about a bunch of votes that didn’t really matter. Worse than hell. A way backward dictator run third world country.”
“I’m glad that we watched it through though. It was a good movie, a good story, very creative script. Damn good acting, especially the grumpy Senators and all of those extras they had to hire to play insurrectionists. Tough that I have to go to work after all of that booze that kind of took me out of reality and it was a short night of sleep. I’m lying hear wondering if something like that could every happen in the US, what with all of the election turmoil going on and the President shouting ‘stolen election.”
Sally said nothing, sat up in bed, looked over at Sheldon. A wide eyed look on her face. Not sure what to say, but holding back a big guffaw, wondering if she should bring him back to reality.
Sheldon caught her grin. “What are you grinning at? Oh I know today’s the day the congress hears the electoral college vote right and you think that movie might be a warning. That’s absurd. That couldn’t happen here in the US, I’m sure—too much frigging security. You remember how the cops came out in force to protect the Capitol from the black lives matters throng. I almost forgot about it. Yeah, we’re finally going to get a confirmation. That will be good. I’ve been anxious about it for far too long.” “Funny though how that movie was playing last night. I wonder if it was coincidental or what. Boy something like happening in the US would make me wonder where in the hell we were.” Sally got out of bed, moved toward the closet. “Hey, where are you going?” Sheldon questioned..
“Oh, just going to get my devil costume and pitchfork so I can welcome you to the reality of where the hell we were last night and still are.”
Valentine To Elvis
Yelapa, 2.14.11
Prompt: Write about a Valentine sent to Elvis
Staring out the window at the birds in the bird bath, noting their early arrival this year, Maud sighed softly. Early February, the daffodils poked their head through the thin cover of snow, just a few days until Valentines Day.
Maud is an Elvis fan, has been since he first appeared, first swung his elastic hips across the black and white TV screen and captured her heart along with millions like her. She followed him through his career, his movies, his songs, his loves, his demise– his death.
Oh yes, she had her reality loves, her real time lovers. There were those who pierced the Elvis veil to steal a piece of her heart away. But always, at her core, her heart was his. Her thoughts were about Elvis, her attention was on him and the current chapter of his life. She saw him once, at a Vegas show with Luke, her then husband. Always a bit jealous, but never feeling threatened, he showed his deep love by arranging the night with Elvis for her.
Maud always sent a valentine to Elvis, timed to arrive on The Day. Carefully selected from Hallmark or one of the others. The perfect message for the time and the state of her heart. And a hand written personal note. In the days he was alive, it was a note of encouragement, acknowledgment of a victory, a compassionate expression of sorrow—and just a short reference to some small piece of her life. Always in secret, never revealed. Her little piece of mystery.
Maud received a response once. Though clearly produced for the masses, it was a missel from him with his signature, an expression of gratitude and well wishes—addressed to her. She recalled that day once again as she had done so many times before. A smile crossed her face, her eyes glazed, soft and radiant.
In her hand was the card for this year. She found it a few days ago at that newly opened little store that carried healthy food and a few bits and pieces of other things that she didn’t see at Walmart or Alberstons. This card was among them. Simple in form, but so lovely. A hand drawn rose, bright red, soft edged petals. She envisioned its velvety texture as her fingers caressed the paper. The verse inside followed its simplicity. “I love you”, is all it said.
Since the day she bought it, she had been pondering what else she would say. Would she again tell how much she appreciated him or his music or his hip gyrations. Would she convey again her sorrow at his troubled life or the deep gap in her heart from his death. She paused, looked again at the birds in the fountain, the daffodils. A smile crept across her face as she took up the pen, the special red one that she had used for years for just this purpose. As she always did, she practiced on another sheet—wanting the on-card version to be perfect.
At first it was “The world misses you. Thank you for all you gave us and contributed to our lives”. And then,” We miss you. Thanks for what you gave us”. And then, “I miss you. Thank you”. She pondered, wrote it out again, this time with little flairs on the serifs. She glanced again at the birds, the daffodil. Closed her eyes, thinking only “I miss you.” As Maud drifted off to sleep her pen rolled to the floor. She felt his sweet lips upon hers as he held her closely, deep brown eyes fixed on hers, and slowly oh so slowly danced her away into the light.