Hiding under a careless facade, she's surprisingly small, loud but timid, bold but meek, laughing but silently whimpering for more than fleeting attention.
She's average. Small frame, large teeth, slight mustache, but has beautiful, even stunning windows to her soul. Except an average passerby may miss her soul completely, distracted by the layers of gaudy makeup marring the view.
She commands attention with her presence, though not her poise. Negative attention will suffice when admiration is absent, and she demands it in a loud declaration of negativity. No matter the subject. No matter the location. People gawk, in awe, though not positively impressed. So small, yet so crass. Startlingly obtuse, yet completely unaware of her condition.
A raindrop is a thunderstorm, a bright day too cold. A smile froth with condescension, a glance full of contempt. She repels most, but attracts a needy select few and to them she clings, a cancerous tumor. Stealing their individuality, she monopolizes their time, cutting them off slowly from outsiders, filling their heads with fresh new negativity, metastasizing faster than projected. The life expectancy of former relationships is cut short by her erratic growth, and her host is left utterly alone, save for her malignant company.
When her host finally recognizes her cankerous presence as the cause of pain, solitude, and angst, it's too late. No amount of intensive care will revive past connections, since severed, shriveled, and decomposed. Suddenly alone and aware, her host is trapped and unhappily disconnected from those that made her smile in the past. With nowhere to go and nobody left to turn, the host is faced with a painful decision. Extract the negativity from her life and begin anew with the involved treatment or continue down the same path knowingly and resign herself to fate. Awareness has changed her perceptions, however, and now the loud, bold, crass, attention seeking facade has ceased being attractive. Now a blaring embarrassment, it has become hard to ignore.
Choosing the operation over certain death of character, the recovery is long, painful, and slow, as the cancer tries again and again to relapse, begging, pleading, lashing out, attacking, harassing, grasping, always threatening. As the host gains her strength of personality back, she is emboldened by the positive change, and finds herself rejecting the dejected tumor more easily than ever. She revels in appreciating a raindrop for its properties of renewal and cleansing, a bright day for the sun's warming effect on the soul. A smile is taken at face value, as a glance is met with a smile of her own. A smile that reflects her renewed health and joy.
The classic catastrophe, however, is in the disease, who sees not what she caused or created, but only her role as the victim. She laments the loss of her host and creates a cacophony, wondering to anyone who will listen why there are so many thunderstorms and cold days in her life. That is until, feeling her pain in a moment of vulnerability, her next host reaches out to her with an unprotected heart.
Friday, April 22, 2011
Saturday, March 26, 2011
Pestilent Purple Pulse
A blur of movement. Lights flash. The night has begun. They laugh, enjoying the glaring fluorescent glow of their white clothing in an otherwise dimly lit room. Purple. Their teeth and eyes stand apart. A dizzying contrast, with a side of alcohol, and a splash of pulsing noise. Glances froth with seduction accompany wandering hands as unfamiliar bodies brush against each other, moving to the pulse. Some feel the same beat, some different, some shake like willows in a thunderstorm. Wildly.
The noise is barely contained within four walls. Outside, passersby catch the pulsing purple as they drive, with interests piqued, if only for a fleeting moment. Remaining victims to tight schedules, they are too busy heading nowhere fast to stop and quench their curiosity. Some might roll down the window in order to catch the muffled rhythm, but instead instantly recoil when met by a blast of bitter cold, quickly securing themselves back into the stifled sanctity of their moving metal box.
Miles away her interests are piqued by a pulse as well, though not purple debauchery. It doesn't make her shake or seek contact from sweating seductive strangers. The air is still and silent, save the occasional squawking goose. Even the territorial cries of the angry birds are soothing to her. The mute breeze has a bite. It nibbles her nose and earlobes, pinches her cheeks. She takes a slow breath, and the sweet scent of raw earth courses through her body, straight to her soul, filling it with peace. The pulse is alive within her, and she smiles knowingly.
A reflection of the moon lays lazily on the lake's still surface smiling at her, calling to her inner tranquility. She takes in the brilliant stars, impressed by their ability to evoke awe as they confidently sparkle even in the presence of the tremendous luminescent orb. They are not lesser for their size. Complementing the night, casting shimmering flecks of personality on the placid, liquid face, the gaseous masses boldly command attention both directly and in reflection.
She remains that way: mere inches from the water's edge, seated on the soft, cool ground, resting her back against a young sapling, infrequently sipping on a thermos of hot hazelnut coffee for several hours. The pulse of silence, of nature, of solitude resonates, and she feels...complete. With a contented sigh, she pulls herself to her feet, briefly stretching achy hamstrings before casually following the light of the moon back to her own moving metal box. With a final glance at the two identical moons, she smiles and begins her short drive back to her other home.
Turning the corner onto Main Street, the purple pulse catches her attention through the steamy windows of an older style white building. There are several young people standing around on the street, swaying without confidence in equilibrium, stumbling as they attempt to walk. She slows, and finds herself staring into the vacant, blood shot, half closed eyes of a young man, over the drooping head of his female companion. In an attempt to be coy, he juts his chin up slightly, purses his lips, and smirks.
She sees in that moment, his soul is lacking the pulse of silence, of nature, of solitude. She senses instantly how desperately he must cling to the purple pulse, because it is obvious that between beats, his life is shockingly devoid of purpose and meaning. At once, she wishes to cure the plague, grab him by the hand and lead him to a place where silence reigns, forcing one to listen to a dissatisfied soul.
Bored with her blank expression and apparent refusal to play the game of flirtation, he turns away, gruffly ushering his stumbling lady friend up the stairs and back through the glass doors, back to the pestilent purple pulse, soon to forget the already almost nonexistent exchange.
The noise is barely contained within four walls. Outside, passersby catch the pulsing purple as they drive, with interests piqued, if only for a fleeting moment. Remaining victims to tight schedules, they are too busy heading nowhere fast to stop and quench their curiosity. Some might roll down the window in order to catch the muffled rhythm, but instead instantly recoil when met by a blast of bitter cold, quickly securing themselves back into the stifled sanctity of their moving metal box.
Miles away her interests are piqued by a pulse as well, though not purple debauchery. It doesn't make her shake or seek contact from sweating seductive strangers. The air is still and silent, save the occasional squawking goose. Even the territorial cries of the angry birds are soothing to her. The mute breeze has a bite. It nibbles her nose and earlobes, pinches her cheeks. She takes a slow breath, and the sweet scent of raw earth courses through her body, straight to her soul, filling it with peace. The pulse is alive within her, and she smiles knowingly.
A reflection of the moon lays lazily on the lake's still surface smiling at her, calling to her inner tranquility. She takes in the brilliant stars, impressed by their ability to evoke awe as they confidently sparkle even in the presence of the tremendous luminescent orb. They are not lesser for their size. Complementing the night, casting shimmering flecks of personality on the placid, liquid face, the gaseous masses boldly command attention both directly and in reflection.
She remains that way: mere inches from the water's edge, seated on the soft, cool ground, resting her back against a young sapling, infrequently sipping on a thermos of hot hazelnut coffee for several hours. The pulse of silence, of nature, of solitude resonates, and she feels...complete. With a contented sigh, she pulls herself to her feet, briefly stretching achy hamstrings before casually following the light of the moon back to her own moving metal box. With a final glance at the two identical moons, she smiles and begins her short drive back to her other home.
Turning the corner onto Main Street, the purple pulse catches her attention through the steamy windows of an older style white building. There are several young people standing around on the street, swaying without confidence in equilibrium, stumbling as they attempt to walk. She slows, and finds herself staring into the vacant, blood shot, half closed eyes of a young man, over the drooping head of his female companion. In an attempt to be coy, he juts his chin up slightly, purses his lips, and smirks.
She sees in that moment, his soul is lacking the pulse of silence, of nature, of solitude. She senses instantly how desperately he must cling to the purple pulse, because it is obvious that between beats, his life is shockingly devoid of purpose and meaning. At once, she wishes to cure the plague, grab him by the hand and lead him to a place where silence reigns, forcing one to listen to a dissatisfied soul.
Bored with her blank expression and apparent refusal to play the game of flirtation, he turns away, gruffly ushering his stumbling lady friend up the stairs and back through the glass doors, back to the pestilent purple pulse, soon to forget the already almost nonexistent exchange.
Monday, March 14, 2011
Crashing Couches Casually Cultivating Close Connections
There is something I've gained from every trip I've taken. Each location resonates in me one way or another. Each place has called to my heart to return, but of all the places I've been, there have only been four in the continental United States that I've returned to time and time again. Monterey, CA, Annville, PA, Tampa, FL, and New York City.
~~~~~
I've found that it is not the scenery, club scene, nor quality of restaurants in these places, that causes me to return. To me, although I generally seek adventure and new experiences, there are certain traits from my exploration to which I find myself drawn time and time again. I've learned in life, you can see the most beautiful sights and participate in the most crazy exploits, but if you cultivate no connections along the way, the road can quickly become devoid of meaning, and then, instead of revelling and enjoying your journey to self discovery, you can find yourself flailing without an anchor, seemingly happy to untrained eyes, but truly empty and alone. Essentially living a Beat Generation existence in true form: travel, passion, alcohol, sex, debauchery, but missing vitality of the soul.
~~~~~
I just returned from one of the most beautiful islands in the world, Republica Dominicana. To date, this is the only international location which I've revisited. I spent a month there last February, mountain biking, wandering, hiking, dancing, and meeting people. This time I spent just one week on the island. The motivation, to the passive onlooker, might obviously have been the First International Bachata Festival. The opportunity to be part of history, where the people who love bachata travel from the other side of the world for the first time to celebrate its existence in the bachata capital of the world. However, in truth, it wasn't the festival itself so much as the prospect of having the chance to experience, once again, relationships I'd created along my path to self discovery at said festival that brought me to purchase the full pass and airfare.
~~~~~~
My participation in Couchsurfing.org has brought to me a lightness of spirit in travel and life in general. In learning to be open to making connections, hearing stories, and sharing moments with new friends around the world, the states, and close to home, I've become much more free with my heart. In past musings, I was known to say I loved horses and dogs, tolerated people...and it was true. In a crowded room, I was always amongst strangers, surrounded by acquaintances, distracted by thoughts of places...potential... practicalities. Half listening to everyone, half wishing I could disappear and hear no one. Half wanting them to like me, half not caring if they despised me. Half wanting recognition, half wanting to be ignored. Always with one foot out the door. Always on the outside looking in, and thoroughly enjoying the seclusion of separation; if only mental. Always judging. Always convinced nobody understood me, my plight, my story, and more so, feeling it wasn't worth explaining the restlessness and subtle boredom I felt around them.
~~~~~
That was then, this is now. No, I'm not referencing The Greasers. Though I enjoyed the genre thoroughly as a child.
~~~~~
Through travelling with nearly nothing, I've been exposed to the goodness of people: that spark in a soul that tempts your heart to reveal itself unabashed, and in turn nourishes the subsequently planted seed of friendship. With this gradual change in ideology, my horizons have expanded infinitely. I barely recognize my recent self when I consider the chained, dark moments of years past. The beauty of the transition is its subtlety. There was never a specific day I consciously chose to open my mind and heart to accept people from different paths. There was no distinct moment where I decided to be connected as opposed to removed.
~~~~~
I woke up one morning on a creaky, damp mattress sans sheets in a jungle cabin with no electricity near Puyo, Ecuador, covered in mosquito bites and smiling. I fought my way out from under the faulty mosquito net, and made my way to the crudely assembled wooden table in the kitchen, revelling in the sound of a torrential jungle downpour beating on the thatched roof. I smelled of sweat with a twinge of mildew, but not enough to overpower the sweet scent of Mother Nature's 100% organic cleaning solution that softly kissed my face in a misty breeze as I passed an open window. I greeted a couple from Riobamba, 4 Finnish girls, and a couple from Seattle that had already been wandering for four months when I sat down. Together we relaxed, shared stories, laughed, and enjoyed breakfast to the melody of a careless percipitation. It was in that moment I realized I wasn't on the outside looking in. I wasn't feigning interest. I was intrigued, and it wasn't forced. The best part? I realized in that moment that I would only be excluded in my future if I chose to be, because I recognized the lightening effect relationships have on your being.
~~~~~
There is something I've gained from every trip I've taken. Each place resonates in me one way or another. Each place has called my heart to return, but it's not the scenery, club scene, or quality of restaurants that tempts me. Solely people have the ability to lasso my spirit and draw it back to a location with me in tow. Whether it's Wlady in Ecuador, Don, Knikki, Tim, or any of my Chilkat Guides family in Alaska, Jota and Dina in DR, Cat in Monterey, David in England, Jorge in Spain, family in NY, FL, and PA, Peter, Aut, or Spaci in Czech Republic, Marydale in Afghanistan, Maurycy, Pawel, Erik or Quin in Seattle, Merlin, Rebecca, or La Familia de la Salsa in Watertown and Syracuse...whoever, wherever. These casually cultivated close connections are the true reason I return.
~~~~~
These days I am proud to declare honestly that I love horses, dogs, AND people.
Friday, February 25, 2011
Living Life on Lover’s Lane: Likely a Legendary Love Story
Often times with technology as an excuse, individuals go day to day walking hurriedly past people with whom they would truly connect if they took a moment to communicate. Life becomes a race from one goal - one achievement to the next, all motivated by status and a longing for recognition. Left behind in the settling dust of unbridled ambition are decaying skeletons of relationships. Shadows of what could have been.
I met two people over the course of three days in the smokey saffron light of MJ's Coffee House that I knew would change my life, if ever so subtly. A man and a woman. In speaking with the man, I was reminded that there are still people in this world that believe in achieving their dreams. There are still those willing to fight the good fight to ensure they don't dry up like a raisin in the sun. Or fester like a sore - then run (I adore Langston). This man said things to me that I have written to others. We shared laughter, not like strangers meeting for the first time, but like close friends reuniting after months apart.
The world turns, and if allowed, kindred transient spirits meet in sleepy towns - a result of several unforeseen circumstances, random bits of serendipity -and in a moment, it is clear they will be a part of each other's lives in some capacity forever, whether as a sweet memory, a fleeting acquaintance, an active friendship, or unconditional love.
And so, that being said, I recall the woman. Tall and lean, her beauty commanded my attention as she sauntered through the glass doors, passed the old piano, and stepped onto the raised, carpeted level of the cafe, where I sat. I tried not to stare at her long, blond, twin braids, resting on her slender shoulders. She and her two male companions passed me with a friendly nod and sat at the table behind me. As they began chatting, I recognized an unfamiliar accent in her English. Immediately curious of from where she hailed, I found myself focusing less on Call Me Stupid, and more on her conversation.
She was talking to the men, who were completely enraptured by her every word, about a holistic healing class in India. I found myself hanging on her every syllable, musing that everyone in the cafe should be sitting cross legged at her feet, waiting for her next story like children used to do with their grandparents before video games stole the intimacy from the modern American family. Then she said it. Ice climbing. How absolutely intense it had been! How beautiful!
I couldn't hold it in. I turned around, met her eyes, flashed her a knowing smile, nodded, AND threw in a Shaka for good measure. Immediately, she returned my smile, and with a sparkle in her almond hazel eyes, invited me to sit and chat with them. In the next several moments, we discussed ice climbing, rock climbing, hiking, travelling, life, healing, and love.
You see, she was married to one of the men with whom she shared the table, and the other was helping to translate her book from Hebrew to English. Yes, my question was answered. She hailed from Israel. She spoke of her husband often, and when she did, I could feel...yes, palpably feel, the love between them. It tingled the hairs on my arm, the sensitive skin around my collarbone, the small of my back, behind my ears. I felt their love in the air, on my skin, inside my soul. It lifted and cradled my spirit, coursed through my veins on a mission to infect my heart, and my heart, in turn, pumped it to the far reaches of my being.
I stared in wonder at the couple as they told stories of their cross country cycling trip they took together, 18 years ago. I smiled as he looked at his adoring wife, matching her enamored expression with one of his own. They discussed the long distance hikes they had done all over the world, the crazy adventures they had experienced together, and I couldn't help but smile to myself. It's out there. It exists.
The book she had written is based on healing through walking, travelling, experiencing kindness, taking challenges, questioning yourself, and learning to grow healthily. The book I am writing is based on healing through running, travelling, experiencing kindness, taking challenges, questioning yourself and learning to grow healthily. We had much to discuss. We agreed on the inherent goodness of humanity, the willingness of strangers to feed, clothe, and share with the road worn traveller, the value of a story unfamiliar, the amazing way people can come together to help one another.
I left MJ's that evening with a smile on my face. Kindred transient spirits meet in sleepy towns - a result of several unforeseen circumstances and open minds and hearts; random bits of serendipity. In a simple conversation, we came together, sharing experiences, stories, and tidbits of wisdom picked up along our travels. We shared moments together, smiling back fondly on memories past, current passion, and future potential. I tasted an unconditional love between two pure hearts, and basked in the ambient light. I was reminded that it exists, and to settle without fighting the good fight would be to waste an invaluable gift.
Live, laugh, love - with pure, raw, unadultered emotion or don't do it at all.
Monday, January 3, 2011
Palpable Perceptions: Positive or Pessimistic?
She feels she has lost everything. It's been three years since her husband left. He walked out the door without looking back, leaving bitter words hanging in the stagnant air of loneliness, and what's worse, he took everything but the furniture. He left her with the furniture. What's a chair without the matching painting? A grandfather clock without the accompanying oriental rug? What used to be their home has since become a shell of her house. Three years it has been, and she has clung to the things he left behind as reminders of a love that once was.
Recently her employer told her she was no longer a necessary asset to the company. Granted, she didn't enjoy her job, but everyday she had been faithful to it, as she had been to her husband. Yet it, too, had betrayed her. 4 more weeks would she have an occupation, a paycheck, an excuse to get out of bed in the morning and face the day. 4 more weeks of dreading the sedentary day, but dreading more the quiet, empty nights in the shell of her house.
Her children would rather be with their father, that's obvious enough. Two of them are grown already, and refuse to come home for holidays. She still decorates the tree every Christmas with their traditional ornaments, bits of memories from the good times, in hopes that one or four of them will drop in to visit. She feels fully and utterly alone in an infinitely cruel world. The bank is threatening to take her home, since she has had a hard time keeping up with the payments after he turned his back. She has sold everything she could without making a visible dent in how she was living. She still eats on the fine china, although she disagrees with the blue swirly pattern slightly, and sips from their crystal wine glasses (a wedding gift) nightly. She and her husband had known the mortgage would be a challenge for the two of them, but when it became just one, it was simply impossible. Three years of defaults. Three years of scrambling to stay above water. Three years of misery, and she would soon have absolutely nothing to show for it.
~~~~~~~@~~~~~~~~
He woke up this morning to the crisp fresh air of another Christmas morning with nature. His breath formed small puffs of steam in the chill as he yawned, quietly taking in the soft pastels of an infinite sky moments before sunrise. To him there was nothing like seeing the first rays of light peeking over the sharp silhouette of a distant snow capped mountain, and he waited with the anticipation of a child listening for the click clack of reindeer hooves on the roof Christmas eve. This was his reminder that there was a world out there yet to be explored, enjoyed, and that he would be free again soon enough.
He scanned the rest of the hilltop, as he quickly thought through past Christmas celebrations he'd enjoyed. Scenes scrolled through his memory, all of them focusing on smiles of loved ones, moments by the fire, the beauty of being alive and comfortable. Back in the world of reality everyone was still sleeping soundly, save the four who were scanning the surrounding valley for any movement through their scopes. He glanced at his bag, black on immaculate white; a stark contrast.
He blinked away yesterday. He had seen the eyes of a man, full of hatred, full of murderous intent. A man at the far end of an AK-47, dressed in black, with an equally black, stony gaze. Half of the man's tight expression had been hidden by an apple tree, but he saw enough. The muzzle flashed, and in a moment he was in a river bed, screaming to his brothers around him, ensuring everyone was responsive; returning fire. They had made it up the hill, the one from which he was enjoying the quiet moments of predawn light, and only then had he realized how close he had been to not being around another day.
In his bag, there had been a plastic bottle of mango iced tea, a few choice bits of MRE, changes of socks, and a sleeping bag. Tied to the outside had been two mortars. Tired from the excitement of the day, he reached into his bag, only to realize his iced tea had spilled on everything. Pulling it out, to inspect the carnage, time stood still for a moment. There were three holes in the bottle. Upon closer inspection, he realized there were also six holes in the bag. The mortars escaped unscathed and so had he.
That was yesterday. Today if the snow holds off there would be an air extraction, and he would be able to get a shower and hot soup. He smiled thinking of a cozy night in his warm tent. The first rays of light crawled over the jagged peak, and touched his face. A gentle, warm caress in a bitter cold. This morning he was alive and being warmed by the sun's first light. Life is a gift.
The snow stayed at bay long enough for him and his team to get lifted from the landing zone they set up in a nearby clearing that afternoon. He returned to the Forward Operating Base, hungry and exhausted from the firefights and ground they had been covering over the course of the week. Upon entering the chow hall, he was greeted with the sign, "Well come to Christmas!" He couldn't help but laugh at the absurdity of it all. Far from everything, disconnected from home, alone in Afghanistan, and laughing. Life is good.
As the evening wore on, he decided to get into line to use the computers for his allotted half hour. He wrote his mom as often as possible to let her know he was OK. After an hour wait, he finally got to the computer. The homepage took a full 90 seconds to load, and he sighed as he worked his way to Facebook and GMail simultaneously in different tabs. By the time both had loaded and he was ready to begin communicating, he had 22 minutes remaining.
~~~~~~~@~~~~~~~
She had written him an email on Facebook. They had been friends for years, since high school. The bank was threatening to take her home, her things, what she thought of as her livelihood, and she was threatening to take her life. She believed God had taken everything from her, and she saw nothing but dark. No light. No exit, just the darkness of a perpetual tunnel with round disorienting walls.
She, in her warm three bedroom house, decorated with Christmas ornaments, was emailing him from Florida. He, who had just almost died, ate dry turkey on a bench in a tent, and wanted only to curl up by a fireplace with his dog anywhere, just received an email from her. He stared blankly at the screen in disbelief. There is so much good in the world. He knew it existed. He even knew that underneath the hateful facade of the man in black, there was a loving son, brother, or father. There is so much for which to live, but how could he explain this to a woman who couldn't see it through the thick veil of her own tragic portrayal of self?
She was torn apart by an obsession with a man who hadn't wanted her for the last three years. She had pushed away her children because they reminded her of him, and was now losing everything she held dear to her. Her house, her furniture, her car, her status. He didn't understand how she couldn't see this as an opportunity for growth. He began to respond to her email, trying to explain to her that change is not a detriment, but an opportunity for growth. He alluded to self worth, and acknowledgement of such. When you know what you are worth, your need to try to convince others of it fades. If he doesn't appreciate you, you can do it better yourself. Love yourself, people are drawn in by that love. You do not need a fancy car or a big house with nice things to convince people how great you are. Your soul shines through your eyes, your smile, your actions, and in this world, the people worth being in your life see those signs as clear as day.
He was concluding the email, expounding upon her positive qualities, reminding her of her kindness, her intelligence, her ability to love, when the moderator made an announcement.
"Commo blackout, guys. Sorry. Say goodbye and shut it down," bellowed the young soldier. He froze, with his finger poised above the mouse, ready to send the email. How horrible to lose somebody on Christmas. Never is there a good day, but on Christmas...It broke his heart. He changed his mind and added another thought before hitting send: Tomorrow's not guaranteed, my love. Live this moment as well as you can. It will get better. I have to go, there is a commo blackout. He knew she would understand what that meant. The family of the soldier who had been killed would have to be notified before he would be allowed communication with the outside world again. They would get visited this Christmas not by the jolly fat man in the red suit, but by two somber men in immaculate blue and brass.
~~~~~~~@~~~~~~~
She received his reply the next morning when she ambled from the bed to the computer to seek empathy or even just some sympathy on Facebook. She read his mail, and suddenly felt foolish. She began to sob, asking herself why she had been so blind. He was her best friend, and separated from his family constantly. He lived in a tent, and looked forward to nights that weren't spent in a sleeping bag on the side of a desolate mountain. She looked at her California king Temperpedic mattress, framed by her cherry oak headboard, and decided to retake control of her life. If the bank wanted the house, they could have it. She chose that moment not only not to take her life, but to truly live from that day forward. She would sell those things she had clung to as lifelines but actually held no value in her life. She would take off her wedding band and would not allow the bitter words she had tasted in his departure to remain in the stagnant air of loneliness one more day. She would make loneliness her home, embrace it, and get to know herself once again.
She decided to get out and job search, but this time, she would only do a job she enjoyed, even if it meant a pay cut. She would strip her closet of the endless throngs of stilettos, slingbacks, and clogs, and replace them with satisfaction in her naked self. This would be the first day, the first step of a journey to self love. She responded to him in an email saying such. He was her angel. He opened her eyes to the world, and she was eternally happy to have a friend like him in her life.
~~~~~~~@~~~~~~~
The afternoon of the 26th, the blackout was lifted, and Morale Welfare and Recreation room was unlocked. He entered to check his email once again, and write to his mother, who was probably beside herself with worry by now. He received his friend's response, and relieved, couldn't help but smile yet again. Hers was a soul too bright to be dimmed by the cruelties of accumulation, and the worship of inanimate objects. He closed his eyes, seeing clearly his mother's loving expression, hearing her light laughter, and for a moment, he was back in her warm home, enjoying a cup of chai by her side with a movie playing and the fireplace roaring.
He opened his eyes, wet with memories, and began his email to his mom: Hi, mom. I love you. I'm one day closer to coming home today. Merry Christmas.
Recently her employer told her she was no longer a necessary asset to the company. Granted, she didn't enjoy her job, but everyday she had been faithful to it, as she had been to her husband. Yet it, too, had betrayed her. 4 more weeks would she have an occupation, a paycheck, an excuse to get out of bed in the morning and face the day. 4 more weeks of dreading the sedentary day, but dreading more the quiet, empty nights in the shell of her house.
Her children would rather be with their father, that's obvious enough. Two of them are grown already, and refuse to come home for holidays. She still decorates the tree every Christmas with their traditional ornaments, bits of memories from the good times, in hopes that one or four of them will drop in to visit. She feels fully and utterly alone in an infinitely cruel world. The bank is threatening to take her home, since she has had a hard time keeping up with the payments after he turned his back. She has sold everything she could without making a visible dent in how she was living. She still eats on the fine china, although she disagrees with the blue swirly pattern slightly, and sips from their crystal wine glasses (a wedding gift) nightly. She and her husband had known the mortgage would be a challenge for the two of them, but when it became just one, it was simply impossible. Three years of defaults. Three years of scrambling to stay above water. Three years of misery, and she would soon have absolutely nothing to show for it.
~~~~~~~@~~~~~~~~
He woke up this morning to the crisp fresh air of another Christmas morning with nature. His breath formed small puffs of steam in the chill as he yawned, quietly taking in the soft pastels of an infinite sky moments before sunrise. To him there was nothing like seeing the first rays of light peeking over the sharp silhouette of a distant snow capped mountain, and he waited with the anticipation of a child listening for the click clack of reindeer hooves on the roof Christmas eve. This was his reminder that there was a world out there yet to be explored, enjoyed, and that he would be free again soon enough.
He scanned the rest of the hilltop, as he quickly thought through past Christmas celebrations he'd enjoyed. Scenes scrolled through his memory, all of them focusing on smiles of loved ones, moments by the fire, the beauty of being alive and comfortable. Back in the world of reality everyone was still sleeping soundly, save the four who were scanning the surrounding valley for any movement through their scopes. He glanced at his bag, black on immaculate white; a stark contrast.
He blinked away yesterday. He had seen the eyes of a man, full of hatred, full of murderous intent. A man at the far end of an AK-47, dressed in black, with an equally black, stony gaze. Half of the man's tight expression had been hidden by an apple tree, but he saw enough. The muzzle flashed, and in a moment he was in a river bed, screaming to his brothers around him, ensuring everyone was responsive; returning fire. They had made it up the hill, the one from which he was enjoying the quiet moments of predawn light, and only then had he realized how close he had been to not being around another day.
In his bag, there had been a plastic bottle of mango iced tea, a few choice bits of MRE, changes of socks, and a sleeping bag. Tied to the outside had been two mortars. Tired from the excitement of the day, he reached into his bag, only to realize his iced tea had spilled on everything. Pulling it out, to inspect the carnage, time stood still for a moment. There were three holes in the bottle. Upon closer inspection, he realized there were also six holes in the bag. The mortars escaped unscathed and so had he.
That was yesterday. Today if the snow holds off there would be an air extraction, and he would be able to get a shower and hot soup. He smiled thinking of a cozy night in his warm tent. The first rays of light crawled over the jagged peak, and touched his face. A gentle, warm caress in a bitter cold. This morning he was alive and being warmed by the sun's first light. Life is a gift.
The snow stayed at bay long enough for him and his team to get lifted from the landing zone they set up in a nearby clearing that afternoon. He returned to the Forward Operating Base, hungry and exhausted from the firefights and ground they had been covering over the course of the week. Upon entering the chow hall, he was greeted with the sign, "Well come to Christmas!" He couldn't help but laugh at the absurdity of it all. Far from everything, disconnected from home, alone in Afghanistan, and laughing. Life is good.
As the evening wore on, he decided to get into line to use the computers for his allotted half hour. He wrote his mom as often as possible to let her know he was OK. After an hour wait, he finally got to the computer. The homepage took a full 90 seconds to load, and he sighed as he worked his way to Facebook and GMail simultaneously in different tabs. By the time both had loaded and he was ready to begin communicating, he had 22 minutes remaining.
~~~~~~~@~~~~~~~
She had written him an email on Facebook. They had been friends for years, since high school. The bank was threatening to take her home, her things, what she thought of as her livelihood, and she was threatening to take her life. She believed God had taken everything from her, and she saw nothing but dark. No light. No exit, just the darkness of a perpetual tunnel with round disorienting walls.
She, in her warm three bedroom house, decorated with Christmas ornaments, was emailing him from Florida. He, who had just almost died, ate dry turkey on a bench in a tent, and wanted only to curl up by a fireplace with his dog anywhere, just received an email from her. He stared blankly at the screen in disbelief. There is so much good in the world. He knew it existed. He even knew that underneath the hateful facade of the man in black, there was a loving son, brother, or father. There is so much for which to live, but how could he explain this to a woman who couldn't see it through the thick veil of her own tragic portrayal of self?
She was torn apart by an obsession with a man who hadn't wanted her for the last three years. She had pushed away her children because they reminded her of him, and was now losing everything she held dear to her. Her house, her furniture, her car, her status. He didn't understand how she couldn't see this as an opportunity for growth. He began to respond to her email, trying to explain to her that change is not a detriment, but an opportunity for growth. He alluded to self worth, and acknowledgement of such. When you know what you are worth, your need to try to convince others of it fades. If he doesn't appreciate you, you can do it better yourself. Love yourself, people are drawn in by that love. You do not need a fancy car or a big house with nice things to convince people how great you are. Your soul shines through your eyes, your smile, your actions, and in this world, the people worth being in your life see those signs as clear as day.
He was concluding the email, expounding upon her positive qualities, reminding her of her kindness, her intelligence, her ability to love, when the moderator made an announcement.
"Commo blackout, guys. Sorry. Say goodbye and shut it down," bellowed the young soldier. He froze, with his finger poised above the mouse, ready to send the email. How horrible to lose somebody on Christmas. Never is there a good day, but on Christmas...It broke his heart. He changed his mind and added another thought before hitting send: Tomorrow's not guaranteed, my love. Live this moment as well as you can. It will get better. I have to go, there is a commo blackout. He knew she would understand what that meant. The family of the soldier who had been killed would have to be notified before he would be allowed communication with the outside world again. They would get visited this Christmas not by the jolly fat man in the red suit, but by two somber men in immaculate blue and brass.
~~~~~~~@~~~~~~~
She received his reply the next morning when she ambled from the bed to the computer to seek empathy or even just some sympathy on Facebook. She read his mail, and suddenly felt foolish. She began to sob, asking herself why she had been so blind. He was her best friend, and separated from his family constantly. He lived in a tent, and looked forward to nights that weren't spent in a sleeping bag on the side of a desolate mountain. She looked at her California king Temperpedic mattress, framed by her cherry oak headboard, and decided to retake control of her life. If the bank wanted the house, they could have it. She chose that moment not only not to take her life, but to truly live from that day forward. She would sell those things she had clung to as lifelines but actually held no value in her life. She would take off her wedding band and would not allow the bitter words she had tasted in his departure to remain in the stagnant air of loneliness one more day. She would make loneliness her home, embrace it, and get to know herself once again.
She decided to get out and job search, but this time, she would only do a job she enjoyed, even if it meant a pay cut. She would strip her closet of the endless throngs of stilettos, slingbacks, and clogs, and replace them with satisfaction in her naked self. This would be the first day, the first step of a journey to self love. She responded to him in an email saying such. He was her angel. He opened her eyes to the world, and she was eternally happy to have a friend like him in her life.
~~~~~~~@~~~~~~~
The afternoon of the 26th, the blackout was lifted, and Morale Welfare and Recreation room was unlocked. He entered to check his email once again, and write to his mother, who was probably beside herself with worry by now. He received his friend's response, and relieved, couldn't help but smile yet again. Hers was a soul too bright to be dimmed by the cruelties of accumulation, and the worship of inanimate objects. He closed his eyes, seeing clearly his mother's loving expression, hearing her light laughter, and for a moment, he was back in her warm home, enjoying a cup of chai by her side with a movie playing and the fireplace roaring.
He opened his eyes, wet with memories, and began his email to his mom: Hi, mom. I love you. I'm one day closer to coming home today. Merry Christmas.
Saturday, December 25, 2010
Heartbreakingly Blind to Blatant Beauty
Sometimes people who live in small towns spend hours daily dreaming of escaping the dull confines of underpopulated living. They spend 48 weeks sitting behind their desks planning and imagining the fun they'll have on their 4 weeks they'll be given free as a reward for their invested time. They label someone who has travelled beyond the next two towns as unique, bold, and mysterious. A soul simply plagued with wanderlust is an intrigue, and treated as such. They coral the bold adventurer and fire question after question about experiences. Which place was the best? Where were the people the most eccentric? Why did you go to THIS country, why did you visit THAT one? Were they racist there? Did you drink the water? How do you FUND this? Aren't you scared to travel alone?
They quip about the doldrums of small town living. They scoff at the scenery from their windows saying things like, "There's nothing worth seeing HERE," "You must have cabin fever being stuck in THIS little town after the things YOU'VE seen," "You'll NEVER find a view as beautiful as (insert random vacation resort/country here) in THIS shit hole." Day after day the adventurer listens to their complaining, all the while wondering why, if they are so discontent with their surroundings do they insist on remaining there in said small town? Is it the town with which they are truly dissatisfied or could they find flaws in paradise? The adventurer is perplexed, as her presence in this hole in the wall forgotten oasis was a deliberate decision, and over 3,000 miles had been driven solely to be there.
Further confusing the adventurer is the reigning dissatisfaction with local culture among certain individuals. The adventurer enjoys the friendliness of the young people working at the local cafe. After two days, they'd ask upon her arrival if it would be the "usual" or something different for the evening. She has been recognized as an out of towner, and accepted by the older community as well. There are not only many friendships to be had, but also many trails to run, hikes to take, rivers to see, mountains to climb, slopes to ski, movies to watch, salsa to dance, open mike nights to attend, and potlucks in which to participate.
Moments after being told how there were no beautiful sights, the adventurer walked outside and experienced an incredible sunset. The sky, set ablaze and chilled simultaneously in blazing crimson and icy blue, beckoned her to run back inside and grab her camera to return snapping away frantically at the sight. The vibrant pastels that followed made her want to climb a mountain and shout out to the world, "OPEN YOUR EYES! THE BEAUTY IS RIGHT THERE IN FRONT OF YOU!"
You see, to the adventurer, the world is inherently beautiful as people are inherently good. There is a moment in each day that will take your breath away if you open your eyes and allow it to touch your heart. There is beauty around each corner, in each day, each morning, each evening.
Look up, look around, turn off your phone or computer, and smile at somebody or something tangible. Guaranteed, it will make you appreciate your life more, and you might even find yourself inviting somebody to visit the newly discovered awesome town in which you live.
They quip about the doldrums of small town living. They scoff at the scenery from their windows saying things like, "There's nothing worth seeing HERE," "You must have cabin fever being stuck in THIS little town after the things YOU'VE seen," "You'll NEVER find a view as beautiful as (insert random vacation resort/country here) in THIS shit hole." Day after day the adventurer listens to their complaining, all the while wondering why, if they are so discontent with their surroundings do they insist on remaining there in said small town? Is it the town with which they are truly dissatisfied or could they find flaws in paradise? The adventurer is perplexed, as her presence in this hole in the wall forgotten oasis was a deliberate decision, and over 3,000 miles had been driven solely to be there.
Further confusing the adventurer is the reigning dissatisfaction with local culture among certain individuals. The adventurer enjoys the friendliness of the young people working at the local cafe. After two days, they'd ask upon her arrival if it would be the "usual" or something different for the evening. She has been recognized as an out of towner, and accepted by the older community as well. There are not only many friendships to be had, but also many trails to run, hikes to take, rivers to see, mountains to climb, slopes to ski, movies to watch, salsa to dance, open mike nights to attend, and potlucks in which to participate.
Moments after being told how there were no beautiful sights, the adventurer walked outside and experienced an incredible sunset. The sky, set ablaze and chilled simultaneously in blazing crimson and icy blue, beckoned her to run back inside and grab her camera to return snapping away frantically at the sight. The vibrant pastels that followed made her want to climb a mountain and shout out to the world, "OPEN YOUR EYES! THE BEAUTY IS RIGHT THERE IN FRONT OF YOU!"
You see, to the adventurer, the world is inherently beautiful as people are inherently good. There is a moment in each day that will take your breath away if you open your eyes and allow it to touch your heart. There is beauty around each corner, in each day, each morning, each evening.
Look up, look around, turn off your phone or computer, and smile at somebody or something tangible. Guaranteed, it will make you appreciate your life more, and you might even find yourself inviting somebody to visit the newly discovered awesome town in which you live.
Tuesday, December 14, 2010
Hardly Hindering Happenings and the Hitchhiking Hoodlum
I left California twelve hours later than originally planned. It's ok. I know. Typical Rita. Got it. I found myself procrastinating, not wanting to leave without saying goodbye. I took the dogs to a dog park where they romped, drooled, and rolled in everything I had hoped they'd avoid. I did laundry. I walked. The warm sun was a welcome change to Seattle's dreary skies. Finally, when I found the strength to leave, I began my trek east.
I popped "Why We Suck" into the cd player, and proceeded to laugh spastically for the next several hours, replaying choice pieces of unfiltered truth about Americans, politics, kids, and fat people *see aforementioned Americans. Satire. I love it. If you haven't read it or listened to Why We Suck, go buy it. Now. Really. It will make you laugh until you cry, or if it applies to you, maybe just cry. Either way, it will be a teachable moment, one to remember and hold dear. Go buy it. Really. Go. Right after you finish reading this...even simultaneously, if you have Itunes. :)
I got sleepy before I made it to Flagstaff, and since I hadn't done my homework and made plans there, I decided to pull into the darkest spot I could possible find to spend the night. You see, last night was the Geminids Meteor Shower...something I refused to miss. I sat, mouth agape as 63 blazing balls of rock and fire burned their way across the midnight sky in absolute silence. A concept so grand, so otherworldy, it rocks my world to consider. I stared into the abyss that is space, trying to wrap my mind around the distances and speed, the raw unadultured beauty of a night alone with two furry friends in an unrecognized land. Finally, I let my mind rest on the events of the day, and I drifted into a dreamless sleep with a slight smile playing on my lips.
I awoke yet again to the soft pastels of sunrise this morning. There is no way I'd rather do things than opening my groggy eyes to the promise of warm rays of light on my sleepy face. Both of the furballs had crawled into the sleeping bag with me. I maneuvered to the front seat as Corky scowled at me for having disturbed his beauty sleep, and started the car to thaw the windows...Yes, it was frigid last night in Arizona.
I watched the sunrise as I continued east. I considered detouring to the Grand Canyon for a spell, but I promised my mom I'd be back by my birthday, and faced with a temptation like that, I'm not sure I would have been able to make it even if I had told myself, "Just for a few hours." I played with the idea of the sun resting its rays softly on my forehead, my nose, my cheeks, and as I reached with my neck towards the source, opening my eyes to the vast openness. The Grand Canyon is magical. The scene played, teased, tempted, but I had the strength to stay my path. For this, I am proud.
I drove, sipped tea, sang a little, but mostly played tag with a tan sedan for hours. When he pulled off the road to a rest stop, I was a bit disappointed. Nobody else seemed interested in my game of pass and be passed. Suddenly there was a car approaching, gaining, gaining.
Shit. A cop.
If you didn't know, it's illegal to drive faster than the speeds posted in bold black letters on the dingy white signs along the road. Apparently, driving over 85 anywhere in Arizona is grounds for arrest and a mandatory court hearing. So, 95 in a 75....well, you see where this is heading. I had just driven past a sign that said "Purple Heart Trail." Surely that would work in my favor. If a $125 fine is in my favor, then yes, the tags worked with flying colors. HOWEVER, I AM writing this from my car in Amarillo, so I didn't spend the afternoon in jail. I don't have to return to Arizona for court, and my ticket says 84, so I have to grin for small victories. Although, now that I think of it, I could have gotten that on a smile and a polite apology. My plates were slacking today. There's always next time. :)
I continued my drive chuckling about how wasteful that was. I could buy 3 tanks of gas for the price of that ticket! I promptly put on cruise control, lest I should begin to feel my foot hardening into a lead stump again. I pulled off after having seen a sign for Red Rock Park. Red Rock. Sounds fun. I was looking for a place to run, explore, scramble, and that's what I found. I decided not to change into running clothes, just to change into my trail shoes. I began my jog/trek/scramble with the pups, having no idea what to expect. I trotted down the sandy path with my furry friends, stopping occasionally to pull Russian Thistle from their paws when they strayed too far from the path. We climbed slippery slopes, jumped across small crevices, we ran, walked, huffed, and puffed. I forgot about the elevation out here.
After a few miles I turned around and barrelled back to my car as hard as I could. I reached the vehicle, had some gorp, a swig of water and got ready to leave. I checked my center console for my important things, i.e. id, credit card, cash. The id was there, but the card....
Ah. Must be in my pocket.
Nope.
Oh. Well, maybe it fell between the seats.
Nope.
Crap.
I trotted back to the trail head, braving gusting winds and stinging sand at this point.
Nothing.
Bummer.
I walked up to a security guard and he directed me to the lost and found, just in case I had dropped it in the parking lot before hitting the trails. Nope. He seemed hesitant to let me leave, and offered food. Now, as I had walked into the convention center where the lost and found was located, the smell of tortillas, beans, rice, salsa, and pork had invaded my senses immediately. I was probably noticeably salivating. Apparently, the Navaho were having a banquet and had prepared food for 900. Only 400 showed. After convincing me it would indeed be free, I followed him into the kitchen and grabbed a steaming plate of amazing. (Yes, that was the end of the sentence. Amazing is a noun in this case. :D)
I lost my card on a road trip with a quarter tank of gas in the middle of nowhere, and I had the biggest grin on my face as I returned to my "house" to choke down the plate as fast as I could. It was classy. I'm telling you, minutes after I put the empty plate in the trash, I felt behind me just to be sure the card hadn't slipped between the cushions of the seat, and I found....a piece of tomato. I ate that, too.
As I turned the key to the ignition, I looked up. The moon was staring back at me. A half moon. I took the moment as a sign. A pivotal moment in life. Is the moon half full or half new? I chose the former, and chuckled at my silliness. Life is good.
The first stop I made was a gas station to sweet talk the cashier into allowing me to use my checks. The next stop was to pick up a hitchhiker, dressed in all black and looking like a thuglet. I laughed as I pulled over. Black clothes in my car. Cute. We started driving east together. Mike was his name. We spoke of experiences, life lessons, travels, education, and close calls. You see, Mike was raised in Arizona, but was sent to Chicago as a tween. He got involved with gangs there, and began a meth lab. He finished school at 14. I was impressed.
With a GED?
No. A diploma.
WOW! How'd you manage that?
Everyone has a price. I was selling meth, making over 5k a week. I bought my principal and teachers. Paying their rent and shit..
Hmmm. *Inwardly I thought...No. Not EVERYONE has a price.*
His stories were intense. Forty something fire fights, 20 something injuries, his heart stopped twice after overdosing on meth. He was better now. But the kicker? He is 18 years old. EIGHTEEN!!!!!!!
I had to admit, he was the coolest person I've picked up thus far. Usually, my hitchhikers are just kids like me, wandering the world in search of light, love, and beauty. Not that that's not interesting, but having died once, woken up, kicked the doctor's ass, then died again? Really?! You can't make up stories like that!
My lesson to you *things to be gained from today's blog*
Speed limits are suggestions...except in Arizona.
Live free, laugh loudly, and love with everything you have.
If you see a rock, climb it.
Wake up outside to a sunrise. There's nothing like it.
A half moon is ALWAYS half full.
Pick up hitchhikers.
Learn something from a stranger today.
Now go buy that damn book. :)
I popped "Why We Suck" into the cd player, and proceeded to laugh spastically for the next several hours, replaying choice pieces of unfiltered truth about Americans, politics, kids, and fat people *see aforementioned Americans. Satire. I love it. If you haven't read it or listened to Why We Suck, go buy it. Now. Really. It will make you laugh until you cry, or if it applies to you, maybe just cry. Either way, it will be a teachable moment, one to remember and hold dear. Go buy it. Really. Go. Right after you finish reading this...even simultaneously, if you have Itunes. :)
I got sleepy before I made it to Flagstaff, and since I hadn't done my homework and made plans there, I decided to pull into the darkest spot I could possible find to spend the night. You see, last night was the Geminids Meteor Shower...something I refused to miss. I sat, mouth agape as 63 blazing balls of rock and fire burned their way across the midnight sky in absolute silence. A concept so grand, so otherworldy, it rocks my world to consider. I stared into the abyss that is space, trying to wrap my mind around the distances and speed, the raw unadultured beauty of a night alone with two furry friends in an unrecognized land. Finally, I let my mind rest on the events of the day, and I drifted into a dreamless sleep with a slight smile playing on my lips.
I awoke yet again to the soft pastels of sunrise this morning. There is no way I'd rather do things than opening my groggy eyes to the promise of warm rays of light on my sleepy face. Both of the furballs had crawled into the sleeping bag with me. I maneuvered to the front seat as Corky scowled at me for having disturbed his beauty sleep, and started the car to thaw the windows...Yes, it was frigid last night in Arizona.
I watched the sunrise as I continued east. I considered detouring to the Grand Canyon for a spell, but I promised my mom I'd be back by my birthday, and faced with a temptation like that, I'm not sure I would have been able to make it even if I had told myself, "Just for a few hours." I played with the idea of the sun resting its rays softly on my forehead, my nose, my cheeks, and as I reached with my neck towards the source, opening my eyes to the vast openness. The Grand Canyon is magical. The scene played, teased, tempted, but I had the strength to stay my path. For this, I am proud.
I drove, sipped tea, sang a little, but mostly played tag with a tan sedan for hours. When he pulled off the road to a rest stop, I was a bit disappointed. Nobody else seemed interested in my game of pass and be passed. Suddenly there was a car approaching, gaining, gaining.
Shit. A cop.
If you didn't know, it's illegal to drive faster than the speeds posted in bold black letters on the dingy white signs along the road. Apparently, driving over 85 anywhere in Arizona is grounds for arrest and a mandatory court hearing. So, 95 in a 75....well, you see where this is heading. I had just driven past a sign that said "Purple Heart Trail." Surely that would work in my favor. If a $125 fine is in my favor, then yes, the tags worked with flying colors. HOWEVER, I AM writing this from my car in Amarillo, so I didn't spend the afternoon in jail. I don't have to return to Arizona for court, and my ticket says 84, so I have to grin for small victories. Although, now that I think of it, I could have gotten that on a smile and a polite apology. My plates were slacking today. There's always next time. :)
I continued my drive chuckling about how wasteful that was. I could buy 3 tanks of gas for the price of that ticket! I promptly put on cruise control, lest I should begin to feel my foot hardening into a lead stump again. I pulled off after having seen a sign for Red Rock Park. Red Rock. Sounds fun. I was looking for a place to run, explore, scramble, and that's what I found. I decided not to change into running clothes, just to change into my trail shoes. I began my jog/trek/scramble with the pups, having no idea what to expect. I trotted down the sandy path with my furry friends, stopping occasionally to pull Russian Thistle from their paws when they strayed too far from the path. We climbed slippery slopes, jumped across small crevices, we ran, walked, huffed, and puffed. I forgot about the elevation out here.
After a few miles I turned around and barrelled back to my car as hard as I could. I reached the vehicle, had some gorp, a swig of water and got ready to leave. I checked my center console for my important things, i.e. id, credit card, cash. The id was there, but the card....
Ah. Must be in my pocket.
Nope.
Oh. Well, maybe it fell between the seats.
Nope.
Crap.
I trotted back to the trail head, braving gusting winds and stinging sand at this point.
Nothing.
Bummer.
I walked up to a security guard and he directed me to the lost and found, just in case I had dropped it in the parking lot before hitting the trails. Nope. He seemed hesitant to let me leave, and offered food. Now, as I had walked into the convention center where the lost and found was located, the smell of tortillas, beans, rice, salsa, and pork had invaded my senses immediately. I was probably noticeably salivating. Apparently, the Navaho were having a banquet and had prepared food for 900. Only 400 showed. After convincing me it would indeed be free, I followed him into the kitchen and grabbed a steaming plate of amazing. (Yes, that was the end of the sentence. Amazing is a noun in this case. :D)
I lost my card on a road trip with a quarter tank of gas in the middle of nowhere, and I had the biggest grin on my face as I returned to my "house" to choke down the plate as fast as I could. It was classy. I'm telling you, minutes after I put the empty plate in the trash, I felt behind me just to be sure the card hadn't slipped between the cushions of the seat, and I found....a piece of tomato. I ate that, too.
As I turned the key to the ignition, I looked up. The moon was staring back at me. A half moon. I took the moment as a sign. A pivotal moment in life. Is the moon half full or half new? I chose the former, and chuckled at my silliness. Life is good.
The first stop I made was a gas station to sweet talk the cashier into allowing me to use my checks. The next stop was to pick up a hitchhiker, dressed in all black and looking like a thuglet. I laughed as I pulled over. Black clothes in my car. Cute. We started driving east together. Mike was his name. We spoke of experiences, life lessons, travels, education, and close calls. You see, Mike was raised in Arizona, but was sent to Chicago as a tween. He got involved with gangs there, and began a meth lab. He finished school at 14. I was impressed.
With a GED?
No. A diploma.
WOW! How'd you manage that?
Everyone has a price. I was selling meth, making over 5k a week. I bought my principal and teachers. Paying their rent and shit..
Hmmm. *Inwardly I thought...No. Not EVERYONE has a price.*
His stories were intense. Forty something fire fights, 20 something injuries, his heart stopped twice after overdosing on meth. He was better now. But the kicker? He is 18 years old. EIGHTEEN!!!!!!!
I had to admit, he was the coolest person I've picked up thus far. Usually, my hitchhikers are just kids like me, wandering the world in search of light, love, and beauty. Not that that's not interesting, but having died once, woken up, kicked the doctor's ass, then died again? Really?! You can't make up stories like that!
My lesson to you *things to be gained from today's blog*
Speed limits are suggestions...except in Arizona.
Live free, laugh loudly, and love with everything you have.
If you see a rock, climb it.
Wake up outside to a sunrise. There's nothing like it.
A half moon is ALWAYS half full.
Pick up hitchhikers.
Learn something from a stranger today.
Now go buy that damn book. :)
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