Tag Archives: hope

Sit

I just wanted to sit on the steps.

No reason really.

Just sit.

Watch people. Do nothing.

I watched people walk by, sit on steps, talk, catch Uber rides, hail taxis, eat while walking.

There was a white dog trotting down sidewalk. Her fur was very clean. Very white.  She had a proud, friendly prance. She was smiling.

Dogs smile you know.

It was sunny. Not hot. Not cold.

I don’t remember how long I sat.

Miracle.

Want My Opinion? Oh, hell no.

Earlier this year I thought I was going to lose a longtime friend because he said I wasn’t “honest enough” with him. I only said good things about his writing, his opinions, what he was doing, etc. and he felt that just couldn’t be right. I couldn’t possibly like everything he was doing.

He said that it can’t be a really true friendship if we only say god things about one another.  We have to be able to say the good and the bad.  Truth.

Now, I have  another longtime friend who is at risk because, at her insistence, I gave my opinion about how she might beheld through an enormously stressful period right now by asking doctor about anti-anxiety medicine. Wrong answer.

She now thinks that I am belittling her and thinks she can’t manage her life well.

Then earlier today I asked my husband to “speak more deeply” about a topic. He was offended that I didn’t think he was already “being deep.” (We had barely started the conversation; I was wanting more).

So I guess I need to shut up.

Something I’m doing is offending people who are very important to me. Maybe I just need to go away, alone, for awhile.  Something is out of sync and the place to look first is in the mirror.

Shoot The Morning Finger

What would cause you, young, late-20-something year old male, to “shoot me the finger” so aggressively early yesterday morning?

It was a sunny and not yet oppressively hot day.  I was standing with my bike in the bike path, patiently waiting for all the cars to pass the cross road.  I was stationed well back from the road so it was clear I wasn’t a threat to cars. I wasn’t going to somehow lurch out into the road causing you to brake or dodge me and my little bike.

I don’t even look like a cyclist.  I don’t have the spandex.  None of my clothes match.  My helmet isn’t event same color as my fifteen year old bike.  I don’t look like an athlete.  How could I be a challenge of any sort?

There you drove though.  You and your passenger seat buddy.  He was looking straight forward and it was his huge grin that even made me look at your car.  It was then that I saw you leaning over from the driver’s seat to shoot me the finger through the open window.

If you wanted to offend me you didn’t.  Your action was irrelevant to me.  I just wondered what is in you that would cause you to do such a thing.

The others cars cleared the road and I continued on the bike path. The little brown rabbit off on the side chewing his morning grass made me smile.

Ok Then, Just Write

I remember being scared to say out loud, “I want to be a writer.”

That’s not entirely true. I declared to my mother when I was 11 that I wanted to be a journalist for National Geographic Magazine. Her immediate response was,”Well then you’ll always be lonely.” I guess back then the thinking was still that restrictive for girls; maybe it still is. That deflating comment came from a very progressive mother, and it stung for decades.

It took me until age 40, yes 40, before I could declare to my husband and two closest, lifelong best friends that “I want to be a writer.” Seventeen years later, I’m still primarily writing in my journal. I tweet for my public professional persona. I submitted one short story once to one publication. They printed it, paid me, and the editor wrote me a note thanking me for sharing such a touching story.

I blog, sometimes.

More and more though I hear the deep voice of myself wonder”Why?” Why do I fight what my soul wants?

At this stage in life it doesn’t even matter if people like my writing. It’s more about my need to do what I was put here to do.

Write. Just write.

 

Stranger in Her Backyard

Maris wasn’t a light sleeper, but her ear would catch unusual sounds in the house at night and wake her for investigation.  Her husband of twenty-seven years literally slept through lightning striking the tree outside their open window once, so she knew, if there was ever a noise, she would have to look around the house on her own.

So when she woke to the sound of running water, she lay still in her bed, listening over the hum  of the ceiling fan, to determine the source.  Her first thought was to wonder if it was Sunday or Thursday, her automatic sprinkler days.

” No. No, that’s not it because it’s Saturday… Unless my timer has screwed up.

“That sounds like the water faucet just outside our bedroom window.”

Without thinking, she reached out and touched the spot next to her where her cat always slept. He wasn’t there. She rolled around to look toward the bedroom window where she saw him sitting on the edge of the sill, staring at something outside. His head was slowly moving back and forth, following motion outside the window.

Maris got out of bed and tip – toed to the window, hoping to peek out the sliver of a gap in the curtain made by her cat’s body.  No luck. She leaned forward so her head was at the same level as her cat’s. Still no luck in having the right angle needed to see what was going on.

The water shut off. She froze.

“Did he see me? Why do I think he is a he? It could be a woman. Would that make a difference? Why am I thinking all this right now?”

Maris walked to the den, which also had a view of the backyard. She peeked around the corner, but saw no person and nothing unusual. The house was quiet again. She thought about doing something else to see what was going on, but, for some odd reason, decided not to. So she went back to sleep.

The next morning she looked to see if the backyard faucet hose was off its holder or looked disturbed.  It was slightly jumbled, “but it always is,” she thought.

It happened again three nights later.

The sound of running water. Her cat in the window watching something. This time though, Maris decided she would pull the curtain back far enough to see who was out there. Again, she thought about waking her husband but knew he would simply say, “What do you want me to do?”

“What if, like a horror movie, his face is right outside the window and he’s waiting for me? I have to know what’s going on.” That was Maris’ approach to life, always curious, fearless in that curiosity.

She peeked through the curtain to see a bearded man, bare-chested, scrubbing his shirt under the running water.  He was very thin, gaunt. Maybe only 150 pounds on his 6’4″ body. His collar bones jutted out like sticks.

His boots and socks were sitting off to the side.  The socks appeared to be laid out to dry. The heels of the boots were worn almost flat. His tan workman’s pants were cinched tight with a brown belt blackened by use. A small backpack was sitting nearby on the grass.

He laid his shirt out on the hedges then turned to the faucet and started washing his face, neck, chest, underarms… He was meticulous in how he cleaned each part of his body. He cleaned his fingernails by running one nail under the other until all were clean. Or, at least, Maris assumed they were clean.

The moon was full and bright.  The natural light and the fact that he was only about four feet from her window made it easy for her to see that his skin was tanned mahogany, his hair was touching his shoulders and parted in the middle, his beard was full and hung mid-length at his neck, he stood very straight and appeared “refined, cultured, dignified… how to describe it?” wondered Maris.

He turned off the water and sat on the grass beside his drying clothes. Knees tucked under his chin.  He closed his eyes and seemed to fall asleep immediately.

She stepped away from the curtain.

“Who does he think he is coming into my backyard?” Maris tried to be angry and offended, but wasn’t.  “I need to lock the gates.”

“But why?” said another voice. “What has he done, but use a little water to clean himself?”

Her cat stepped away from the curtain and looked up at Maris as if to say, “Let’s go back to sleep.”  Bootsey jumped on the bed and started cleaning himself.  Maris peeked out the window. The man and all his belongings were gone. Disappeared.  It was just moments before that he looked like he was sleeping and now he was gone. “Is he a ghost? Or an angel? Or a test?”

Maris had a theory that anytime she encountered something that needed care it was a test by God to see what kind of person she was.  How did she respond when something, or someone, in front of her needed help.  It could be as simple as picking up trash to nodding “hello” to  homeless people, or giving them food.

“Food. I bet he’s hungry.  He certainly looks hungry. But is he coming back?”

Four days later, again before Saturday morning sunrise, Maris woke to the sound of running water and her cat sitting in the window sill, watching. Maris didn’t bother getting out of bed. She knew what she was going to do.

On Monday night, after her husband had fallen asleep, Maris filled a water bottle and put fresh bread and bananas in a zip lock bag.  She sat these items in a basket next to the water faucet outside her window.

On cue, before dawn Tuesday, she woke to hear the running water, saw Bootsey in the window watching, but decided to return to her sleep rather than getting up.  “Let him have his privacy.”

In the morning she checked the basket outside.  The food and water bottle were gone. The basket remained.

Maris sat food and drink out every Monday and Friday night for the next six weeks.  And every Tuesday and Saturday morning before dawn, she heard the water running outside. She added Ensure (“That’ll give him more nutrition”) and sandwiches to the basket.  She only used soft food because she assumed his teeth were bad and he wouldn’t be able to chew well.

When the first cool breeze of the fall came, Maris added a sock cap, scarf and socks to the basket.  She didn’t look out the window anymore when she heard the water.  She’d just look at Bootsey watching the Stranger and then return to her sleep.

Then it stopped.

One Saturday morning she woke on cue, but heard no running water.  Bootsey was asleep beside her. She couldn’t go back to sleep and just laid in bed until sunrise. While her husband still slept, Maris went into the backyard.

The food and drink were gone. In the basket was a note that said, “Thanks.”

Maris smiled. She knew he was gone. She’d passed the test.

That Moon Still Catches Me

Yes, all of us on earth “look up and wonder at the same moon,” but it still thrills me to know that we do.

I stare at that shine in the night and imagine people in different parts of the world and wonder what they are thinking right now as they, too, look at the moon. And what did those on the other side of the night where its now morning think when they saw the craters that look like a face.  Or does everyone think it looks like a face? A man? What are the traditions around the world?

People living in places that  may be very different from my home…a city, a field, a jungle, a mountain, war ravaged terrain, lush garden… I imagine they have that same feeling inside. The one that catches us off guard and reminds us we’re just one here together on this planet.  We really do all look up and “wonder at the same moon.”

And I believe in that surprising moment we share a longing to connect together.

Sometimes that’s when I ask the moon beams to thread us together.  Remind. Just one. Together. All here. Same planet. People. Sharing feelings.Love.