The Ornate
an electrified candle, in the window
splays
Illumination, reflected glass
a dated, treasured turntable
spins
holiday homage to warm feelings
in the corner, a stoic toy soldier
surveys
convergence of joy and despair
a closest of old shoes
upstairs
sit deep and still, in the dark
around the room, eyes fixate on the
ornate
blur of complex emotion
do we believe, in these moments, of others
in ourselves
on the stage of the choreographed
a time to be pulled from life’s
river
do we instead draw backwards
to the mundane
but familiar
Murder on The Scajaquada
There is an area where a creek named ‘Scajaquada’ meets the also named Scajaquada Expressway in the city of Buffalo, New York. The identical name is derived from a lauded Native American from the region in the early 19th century who was known as ‘Ska-dyoh-gwa-deh’, which means ‘beyond the multitude’.
In 1963, shortly after the expressway was opened, panic met tragedy where entities bearing the same name collided.
Sandy, a boy of 15, was a renowned troublemaker. His parents split when he was two. He resided in his young years at his mother’s modest home on Bird Ave. in Buffalo. Reddish brown curly hair crowned his round freckled face. He spent countless nights in his tiny bedroom, allowing the city street lights to peek through his drapes and minuscule window, creating shadows in his room, and of his mind. In his bedroom mirror, he would look away. He often would take a few morning footsteps toward school, then dart in the opposite direction to find his solace, the Scajaquada Creek. He would walk to the creek’s edge, drop his strapped textbooks, and look for fish, anything moving. He imagined being under the water’s surface, grabbing hold of a tiny fin, and then slither effortlessly on a mystical tour of the creek’s bottom. He loved all the creatures that inhabited Scajaquada Creek. This young boy of 15 would stack his text books, Math, Science, and notebook, and make for a triumphant ladder, bringing the closest branch of his favorite tree into reach. He would wrap his legs around the branch while holding tight with his strong bare arms and hands, pull the limb toward him until his nose smashed against it, then rolled his shoulder over to then ride it like a cowboy, bobbing and testing its strength while he yelled. Sandy was alone, but fiercely independent.
In his depressed neighborhood lived an angry man next door. Laid off from a steel plant, he would spend his days regardless of weather on his front step stoop, in a white t-shirt, and drink beer. Sandy did not like this man. He reminded him of his father, his sternness, his drinking. And the man did not like Sandy. He reminded him of him. Yet what the boy didn’t know was that his neighbor’s nickname at the steel plant was ‘Sandy’.
On a winter morning in 1963, Sandy headed out his door for another walk to school, via the creek. A voice shouted out under the gray slate skies. “Your dog made a mess again in my yard, you little creep!” Sandy, though brave, was startled from his usual insomnia. “Go to hell, bastard!” he yelled back. Then a half full beer can hit Sandy in the head. Sandy didn’t hesitate. He ran toward the stoop, jumped on the railing, and landed on the man’s head. Sandy’s mother, in a bathrobe and bare feet, heard the rustling. She scampered through the snow with blue toes and grabbed the man, now on the ground, by his hair. “You stay the hell away from my son, ya drunk!” Sandy’s peaked adrenaline transported him in the direction of the creek. He was now out of sight.
That night, Sandy’s mother found herself with a cigarette in one hand, phone in the other. She was on the phone with the police. Sandy had not been seen all day. The police arrived, and as they pulled to the curb, a black car next door spun its wheels in reverse down its short driveway and sped away under the city lights. One of the officers made note as he entered Sandy’s home. “The devil”, Sandy’s mother said. The police took a report. This was not the first time either Sandy or his neighbor were mentioned to authorities. What they shared now in common was they were both out in the same snow flurry. Soon, Sandy’s mother, under duress, stepped also into the night.
Howls filled the night and into Sandy’s red cold ears as he laid on the snow. It should have felt like a heavenly blanket of adventure, but instead it ached. The creek seemed to gulp the snowflakes with redemption as soon as they met its surface. His peaceful place on earth felt nothing like before. He thought of the neighbor. He then thought of his father. He was getting colder, yet the thought of leaving his domain would mean only to go deeper into that horrible place called life.
On the Scajaquada Expressway, a black car was weaving between lanes. Frightened drivers sounded their horns as if they were protective shields from this crazed person. Weaving on foot through the brush near the creek, a desperate mother’s mental state was revealed in a hacking cough that produced blood on her bushwhacked trail’s wake. Sandy heard the honking horns. He then in that moment pictured his mother from the past, standing over the kitchen sink. The sound of running water disguised her weeping, having just been slapped by the man who was her husband. My mother needs help now, Sandy thought. He had been called, in this moment, to save his mother from all evil. He yelled at the top of his lungs, reminiscent of the yelps from that tree limb he loved, and ran toward the horns, the sounds of distress he knew was his mother’s.
There is a point where the Scajaquada Creek meets the Scajaquada Expressway. A slippery knoll from the creek takes one to the pavement. A place where some wildlife live their final moment, separated from their wilderness home only to be hurled to their death in the name of human transportation. Sandy desperately crab-walked upwards to the expressway berm, his treasured Converse high-top sneakers sliding under both snow and mud. Passing car lights revealed the terror in his eyes. “Mom, Mom!” He then stood. The night was suddenly still. Silent. He took his first breath without labor and looked toward the creek. A flashlight coming towards him was both startling and comforting. The flashlight then pointed downward. A silhouetted figure that could only be that of his shaking mother.In an instant, a horrendous thud. A black car, without lights, rolled down the embankment. Then, silence, again. A hiss from the car’s engine laid claim to the final moments. The flashlight beam played metronome left to right upon the snow until it found a bloodied face within. Good riddance, she thought. Echoes then. Curdling screams. “No…No… No… No!” Sandy’s mother pivoted, ran, slipped, fell, and finally staggered upon where the Scajaquada Creek meets the Scajaquada Expressway. Sandy had been taken from earth.
Same Frequency
slithering through air
the, and in common domain
exists a wave of kinetic bond
we may look at each other
we may not, it’s a feeling
our need for commonality
a need not of our own
instead, the uncommon
a heed to both you and I
no finger to point or to dial
to find common frequency
ours, air, we choose to share
Sons
tick of a clock
what will I be, who will I be
the light is bright, glaring
all that can become of me
let you live let you breathe
experience all, all that can be seen
yes who will you… because no I won’t answer
you instead, you be in my stead
where will I be
let go and hand over, sudden be you
let you see yourself, let you be yourself
then, just then, you see the real me
You Jeffrey, you Jack, my sons
will see yourself, will be yourself
love in your midst i will be
in your stead you take my stead
in order to see, all that I wanted to be
Motion
Stuck
twists of yearn
trying to find a moment
away from the way I feel caught in
turns that have brought me to here
Aware
yet of denial
that a remedy exists
much closer than the mind will allow
to break free
Dark
clutter of cave can overwhelm
but there is solution
a bubbling form of
better retreat
Up
with arms, hands
reach for the sky
will pull me out to instead
look out, look over this world
Motion
fibers of soul and on my shirt
begin their sizzle the wheels begin
to turn, raise the gates in smile
movement now lights the parade – of new
Postcard From Your Room
streetlight, bright- outside your window
blinds with their eyes half closed
a car rolls by in midnight
rumbles
whisks
dissolves…
Inside, your bedroom door is open a crack
lonely toys stack, murmur in a puzzle as
a G.I. Joe reads a book, upside down
behind sliding mirror where you saw yourself
grow from boy to man
a frame on the wall, crooked, like a
frown, since you’ve been gone
the ceiling blinks, looks for movement below
suspended walls painted in suspicion, wondering
will you ever lay here again
the hole in the door knob
has a pupil in its core, feels
might see you around the corner
press me with your palm
clench me, turn me, enter once more
creaking drawers are empty
your bed, made but stiff, confused
a warm body has left
your room, vacant of you
a hearth, that waits for strike of match
whenever you come back home…
To Cry
all are
welcomed
the door is open
your heart feels it so
it starts in your mind
guilt
then it hits your heart
to your stomach
defies gravity
no, follows it
down to
a moment
the moment
when all that you are
all that you want to be
expresses
blossoms
feels
may the feeling
take you
its ok
more than ok
alive….
a need to repress
no
this time
for all time
say ‘no’ to what is
right, proper
better than both
the now
your moment
embrace
hold
tears are
living
Life
you are
Alive
Matter
orbiting
pulled
a prisoner
of compulsion
no matter
less matter
i will stop being drawn to
Matter
eyes open, but not seeing
of limits, borders, contraction
tired of caring
desire to control
for fear of outcomes
pent energy needs
a separation
surrender
rid of self
I will open
come to me
I will come to you
the ‘what’ then
shall
suspend in
be free of
fate, and full in
less matter
Squeezed
we are trapped
In a tube
filled with emotion
pain, memory, angst
added ingredients inside the tube
to hide our
distress
lightener, brightener, protector
we are in a tube
with cold walls
and for the lucky ones
someone squeezes
wraps their hand around
us
rolls us
to the neck
gets it out
many though go
unsqueezed
unloved
ask someone
If you haven’t been
squeezed
rolled
to find
light, bright, protection
further I am from me
the closer I am
to you
the further I am
from me
better for me
for you
close to you
I can hide
in you
far from my
scared
scarred
angry
sad
lazy
crazy
mull
dull
the closer I am
to you
the further I am
from me
better for me
for you
close to you
far from me
I can hide
in your
Bright
Light
Easy
Sail
Floating
Joy
Full
the closer I am
to you
the further I am
from me
The Janitor
Hallways
His highways
Tonight, a stop
In a classroom
He reaches for a switch
In the dark
One light, casting silhouettes
of his yesterday
Stillness
He sits at a desk
A smoother seat than before
He lays his head down on laminate
once pine
And breathes
A waft of cheese cracker
Enters his nose
Days gone now envelope
That board of chalk
Now makes sense
Calm, facing that lion
He answers back, in silence
His
A different calling
He smiles
Tears warm his cheeks
the seat
Is smoother than before
Love is to Leave Alone
Squirming at first
oozing across the floor
Wiggling and swimming
in a carton
Of plastic
your car seat
center stage
Eyes bright, fearful
of curiosity
Climbing
little heights
To the place
of better
a look around
The bounce
in your legs
Gave way to lungs
that sustained
Laughing
Laughter
yes it will be OK
Suddenly
surround by strangers
Made you yearn
again to crawl
But all parts of you
knew yet
Something worldly could be found
Mystery and reason
making sense of it all
Your person then melds inside
And out
While each bridge
our crossing
hands held tight
Let way
and let go
For now the
greatest love
Is one to let you
Be
on your own way…
With Two Hands
need your insurance
to the top of the hill
i climb- you climb- we climb, life can be full
i need some reassurance
you won’t want to stray
Cause you and me and we can make it count, with…
two hands, show me you love me
two hands, show me you care
i need you closer, feel you next to me
eyes, heart, and thought
Go ahead, put your phone away
believe me, won’t you hear me
i carry you, now carry me in you
Cause you and me and we can make it count, with…
two hands, show me you love me
two hands, show me you care
don’t be discouraged
for the things i may do
i can’t love you, without two hands
hold you, squeeze you, never go away
Cause you and me and we can make it count, with…
two hands, show me you love me
two hands, show me you care
Ours, a Quiet Shine
Twisting roads
Put upon, or of our own
Love was mystery, shared in our restless souls
Who or what could untangle us
Wonder found thoughts of fine and narrow
Might take us to a peaceful place
Ours, a quiet shine
I looked at you and felt a pull
You didn’t even know
Crumbling, for never to know
Was the way I figured it would go
Closer then, you felt my wilt for you
And, for me, you decided to instead let it grow
Ours, a quiet shine
Hearts that were hurt made quivering call
Can you hear me
Do you feel me
Love, no – rather first
A connection of only emotion
One to soothe, one to smooth
Ours, a quiet shine
We gave what was left of us
A risk to try again
To fly where we only had dreamed
Time for once was ours to behold
Could we be bold, leap, exalt
Ours, a quiet shine
Years later, we formed our two
As then one, to then make two more
A home, a family, a life
From columns of love, built to protect
To then send off, with love and will
Ours, a quiet shine
the circle of friends
we don’t remember
we were too young
to remember
when we were
dropped
Into the mix
we do remember though
the angst, the struggle
the plight of being in the
bubble, of emotion, of fear
of the new
crawl, clench, we found
a friend in the midst
as mist was about to
downpour
overwhelm, a just in
time
with you, with me
a formation of
safety
comfort
In home
the circle of friends
through the tunnel we ran
hand in hand
smiling in our scared
Was there light?
we headed for the light
years later, the formation
reunites
to recollect, this time with
words, love, gratitude proclaimed
hatched from
the circle of friends
The Shot
The cold air chilled his exposed midriff as layers of clothing fell under his chin. Legs hung like a hanger hook off the pine’s hearty branch. He was inverted. A long camera lens protruded from his face as if a second nose. Click met bang. He captured his subject.
Wayne was the youngest of a large family that called western Pennsylvania, the town of Larkinville, their home. While siblings went off to college and careers, Wayne stayed back. He was comfortable at home in the woods. His father was given a camera for retirement from his banking job of 38 years. Having no interest in using, he gave it to his youngest son, a token of love and encouragement. Maybe the camera would be a friend for him, his father thought.
Several years ago the local grocery store burned the ground. Some had seen Wayne in the area during the fire and blamed him for it. Though he had nothing to do with it, Wayne since that time was treated like an outcast. Wayne worked at the Post Office and before or after work he would often go Into the woods with his friend the camera. With the revolving seasons he would see shotgun, bow and arrow, or fly rod. One man in town he saw through the trees with regularity Was Clyde Johnson. Clyde was a surly man, the local bully. Since the grocery store fire, Clyde was the only person still stirring stories of Wayne’s love of pyrotechnics. Wayne in fact had never even lit a match in his life.
It was on a fateful day at the Post Office. Clyde came in. Wayne was behind the desk. There was a long line. Clyde took advantage. He pointed at Wayne and yelled “Murderer!” Wayne dropped the package that was in his hands. Those in line were shaken. Wayne ran to the back of the Post Office. Clyde yelled more and then left.
Several months later Wayne was in the woods. He had just loaded his camera with film. New also was the snow that had fallen. And with it all, Wayne again felt a sense of calm that he does in breaching the dirt road for a gully to then rocky ground. As he aimed his camera at a woodpecker, he heard yelling. He looked up, he looked around, yet couldn’t see anything. His head then moved towards the clatter. He spotted a man with a shotgun running, just running, while glancing back in terror. But what was he running from, for he was a hunter, with a gun in his hands. Then, as if he were looking through his camera lens, Wayne spotted Clyde as clear as day. He too was running with furious speed, in camouflage, black boots, and hunting hat. He too had a gun, a shotgun, its stock buried in his left shoulder, while he glared down the barrel as if it were a magnet pulling him closer to his human prey. Wayne gave chase hoping to capture this moment in any way possible. In his pursuit he dropped his camera, stopping to pick it up and wipe it clean. He then heard nothing. Opportunity lost, he thought. Then, it sounded as though they were circling back towards him. His impulse, get elevated, climb, climb a tree. He wrapped his arms around the trunk of the closest tree, imagining for a flash it was Clyde he was tackling. The bark burned his hands as he shimmied up the trunk. He made it to the first sizable limb, then cat-walked towards the end of the limb, in the direction of the hysteria. As he brought the camera to his face he lost his balance.
The cold air chilled his exposed midriff as layers of clothing fell under his chin. legs hung like a hanger hook off a hearty branch of a pine. He was inverted. A long camera lens protruded from his face as if a second nose. Click. He captured his subject.
He captured the shot. Clyde was the murderer.
Sixty two days passed. Clyde suddenly appeared in public for the first time and far as Wayne was concerned. He was in the Post Office, again. Like last time it was a Monday morning and a large line had formed. Wayne looked up behind the counter. Clyde announced his presence by taunting Wayne with obscenities. Then he lit an envelope on fire, placed it in Wayne’s face, and called him the devil.
Wayne turned and went to the back of the Post Office, but came back quickly. Clyde figured he was running away again. But he was wrong. Wayne had something large in his hands. Not a gun. Something more ominous. The truth. He raised a large picture into the air, facing the line and Wayne. They look at it, puzzled. Then, he turned it upside down. It was right side up.
It was Wayne. Smoke billowing from his gun barrel. Blood on the snow. A man down.
In Larkinville it became known simply as- the shot.
The Nest
Stood a tree that would one day be
a home to dwellers of different backgrounds
unusual upbringings connected by a sense of
hope, that this limb maybe stronger than the first
A safe place to be built
with twigs, grass, leaves
like before
but different
A nest now with two eggs seems nice
a new plan, a new life now taking place
Mother and Daddy bird new at this
calls would be there’s to now make
The nest gives way to new baby birds
clatter quieted with open mouths fed
and all seems right
in the nest
But the nest brings back fears
of the past
what do I call?
what should I call?
The newly hatched in the nest
feel comfort In its shelter
and from it will provide intuition
as to what was the matter
Mother and Daddy bird, now older
need help back at the nest
yielded not from calls
but from its offspring, came empathy, nurtured by the nest
The nest proved strong, the limb proved strong
the young ones raised there, now know
love was always there, in the midst of confusion
matter most, now, protect each, in the nest
Clench
Climbing a hill I look into the dirt
My shoes point the way on an upward tilt
A search for both a presence and a distraction
maybe then a memory
It’s there but not yet vivid for insertion
So I stop in my mind. Legs still moving, I then imagine
In my palm, a piece of yarn, and it
Weaves into a dense fabric
A picture, a feeling, a meaning begins to form
My mind stitches, legs and movement propel the yarn
A feeling – most sought
Captured, with music in my head
and a squeeze of the heart
fortunate am I to have them, memories
now in in my hand, how to hold on
to the feeling, how to secure it
Fingers then one by one collapse to clench
weaving, motion, the dance of Light
weightless in swing, careless yet mindful
I clench one more time, then hold high
release, surrender, and watch it travel, to the sky
The man with two phones
‘Friends and Family’. He remembered the advertisement tagline. He didn’t really have any of those. But he could save money if he bought two lines, two phones. So he did. He set up the phones as ‘Me’ and ‘You’.
The next day he was in the waiting room of his doctor’s office. Others were looking at their phones, smiling, texting, sharing. So he took out both phones, placed them flat on his thighs, and began a conversation with himself. He called ‘You’, the phone vibrated and fell off his leg onto the floor . The room gave him a scowl. ‘Sorry, that was me, I mean you’. He found a funny video on YouTube and laughed hysterically. A woman near the door asked him to keep it down. ‘Sorry’. He liked the video so much he sent it to himself. He heard the message alert sound, looked down and saw he had a message. He smiled.
His own tiny universe. He began to feel a dialogue with the world. He was being heard. It was foreign, but he liked it.
He went to the store and found a crowded aisle. He placed his ‘You’ phone on a shelf, walked a few feet away and dialed it. Most did nothing. Some looked up. One went to the phone. It kept ringing. The person saw ‘You’ on the screen. She answered. ‘…Hello?’ “If you look up you will see a bright light. You are a bright light”. He hung up. She stood still. She put the phone down, and walked slowly away.
Once she was out of sight, he collected his phone and went to another aisle. The man with two phones noticed a father struggling to manage two young children. He waited for his moment, then deftly placed the phone in their cart. He called the phone. One of the children thought the ring was a toy, and grabbed it out of the cart. The father took it hastily out of his hands and saw ‘You’ on the screen. ‘Hello?’ “You are a good father. Show them love.” He hung up. The father looked around, confused, and put the phone on a shelf. In the next aisle he saw the father crawl to a stop, clinch the handle of the cart, and began to sob. At first his children did not notice. Then one did. He walked to his father solemnly, and hugged his legs. The father put his arms around his son.
At home that night he sat alone in his small, dark living room. He then got up- went to the kitchen, and placed his ‘You’ phone on the counter. He went back to where he was, dialed the phone, and walked to the kitchen to answer it. ‘Hello?’ He walked back to the living room to respond. As he did he glanced at a photo of his dog, Charlie, who passed away two months earlier. He then picked up the phone in the living room. ‘I thought that might be you. How are you?’
A neighbor walked by and smiled seeing through the window that he was on the phone.
Missing My Pen
Stiff and sore and lately a real bore
my razor crosses my face like an errant cursor
the shower head works fine but water strikes like lead
something is wrong, I’m missing what’s important
I see things better when things aren’t wrong
If I can figure out why my lost is not found
meaning surrounds my life, if I stop to look around
brushing the paper with pen, ah maybe I’ve solved this caper
Anything I can’t really feel…because writing is my movie reel
ink flows down to the ballpoint like blood to my limbs
oil this soul, joints, mind, and free feeling
living is writing is loving is remembering
keep looking, moving, seeing, all to capture
In needs an Out- a place to express
across the page, across the miles, writing is the bridge to connection
and to more tomorrows
Take It Easy
It starts with a word, some may refer to it as the word. A word that we were not really familiar with when we were young. We might have heard it at one point, the word that may have applied to a relative, for example. Given the facial expression of those who shared the word around us when we heard it, we simply knew it wasn’t good, the word was not good. In growing up our thoughts and fears centered more around who liked us, passing the test, or hitting the ball. Then, life began to move faster. Priorities changed, it was time to get serious. We hear the word again. But it’s different this time. We know what the word means. We know what the word can imply.
This is the story of Mark Crafts. I met Mark in the late 1980’s while working at a company called Ziff Davis, a publisher of technology magazines. Mark and I were both advertising sales people. We became friends. Mark is the youngest of three children, growing up on Long Island. He is handsome, smart, a Buffalo Bills fan, and has a great sense of humor. He also has an enduring smile, symbolic of where and how he has lived, stretching from coast to coast. In our work days together and hence in his career he has challenged the norm, how to do things differently. In the late ‘90’s and early 2000’s we stayed in touch while we were busy starting our families. Mark has a wife Madeline, and a college age daughter Natalie. One thing that has kept us in virtual touch with each other are shared memories of laughter. The company we worked for was filled with ambitious and smart people, producing a competitive culture. Mark and I found solace in making each other laugh whenever we could.
In November of 2017 I got a phone call from Mark. He started the conversation like he usually does, laughing and sharing his observations about current events. Then he told me why he was calling. To deliver the word. He had been diagnosed with cancer. As I would find out months later it was stage 4 colon cancer, but he chose not to tell me the severity, he simply wanted to let me know. My first words to him were that I was honored that he had called me to tell me the news. Indeed what was happening in that moment was that Mark was teaching me how to be a true friend. His courage and willingness to share this news began to change my mindset, one that had shied away from difficult yet meaningful conversations. It was the fountain I had longed for.
We started to get together again for bike rides. Mark told me on one visit how he reacted to the cancer news once he had heard it. As the doctor was leading up to his statement of diagnosis, Mark interjected, asking about a pin that he was wearing. The pin he learned represented Conquer Cancer, an organization that raises funds for cancer research. Mark told me that once he learned about Conquer Cancer, he would process his diagnosis by helping this organization anyway he could. Mark began this new path by forming his team, ‘Team Crafty’. Team Crafty is made up of his doctors, nurses, family and friends who together were going to convey the message about Conquer Cancer, wrapped in the echoes of Mark’s motto, ‘Get Screened, Get Educated, Keep Rolling. The ‘rolling’ refers to his love of biking. Well before he had cancer, Mark had volunteered for MC charity bike rides, including a grueling trip down the complete coast of California. His next step was introducing the Conquer Cancer foundation to his local annual charity bike ride for a variety of causes in Petaluma, California. Mark invited all of Team Crafty to join him for the 45 mile bike ride to help raise funds. Mark completed the inaugural ride with a trademark smile from start to finish, a colostomy bag, and a grateful demeanor that shaded his condition. The first year’s ride temperatures were in the 40’s with high winds. The second year, torrential downpours. Many representing Team Crafty on these rides had never biked for distance and were unprepared for the freezing cold, yet each found a way to cross the finish line. These rides provided inspirational moments that set a foundation of commitment to Mark and the organization going forward. Mark has raised tens of thousands of dollars for Conquer Cancer.
To date Mark has had 59 rounds of chemotherapy, 25 rounds of radiation, and four surgeries- including the removal of 70% of his liver. He goes for treatment at the University of California San Francisco, a world renowned cancer treatment facility. And when he records updates via his blog or Facebook they naturally focus on others. Mark is particularly touched by the young children he sees in the corridors who are stricken, and the elderly who are facing a tough end of the road. Mark recently purchased 200 teddy bears and brought them to the hospital for these children.
In early 2021 he qualified to enter a clinical trial at University of California San Francisco. The trial involved injection of T cells into his body with the hope of helping his immune cells attack his cancer cells. His blood count had to be right as well as other biological parameters. After the procedure, he needed to stay within a mile of the hospital for one month in case of complications. The doctor’s greatest fear was that he would suddenly lose consciousness and not be able to help himself. It was then that Team Crafty kicked into high gear, individually staying with him in shifts around the clock. I was honored to help and spent several nights with Mark. One particular evening we were eating dinner at his small rented condo adjacent from where the San Francisco Giants play. We were watching the game on TV. During the 7th inning stretch announcer Joe Buck asked everyone in the stadium to rise. The moment was for another cancer organization, ‘Stand Up to Cancer’. From their seats, each of the over 40,000 fans held up a sign with the name of someone they knew who had or has cancer. It was then for the first time that I saw Mark visibly emotional. And he was not crying for or about himself, he was simply amazed at the spectacle, and we both felt the spirit emanating from that arena, magnified by its poignancy and our proximity to it.
The month passed and fortunately he had no complications. But the trial was unsuccessful. There was no improvement, in fact there had been some additional spread of the cancer to his lungs. Though disappointed, Mark has never played the role of victim- of the failed trial or his situation.
In 2022 his condition seemed to be stabilizing; there had been no additional movement or dramatic growth of cancer. His blood count was exceptional for someone in his shoes. Unfortunately, things have changed in the last 2 months. It was about that long ago when Mark and I spoke by phone. At the end of our conversation he told me about a book that he said he was ‘eating up’. I was anxious to hear the title. He said it was a book about putting his affairs together. Mark never makes statements that are emphatically negative. He intertwines tough news with what he’s up to or what he’s thinking. He shared that he wished he knew more people that had his advanced type of disease. Mark has never referred to his situation as a ‘battle’ but rather a ‘climb up cancer mountain’. This personalized reference is indicative of him in two ways; his unique approach to the things in life, and the ‘climb’ representing learning. Mark has dug into every component of his disease, to understand it, and the science behind the treatments.
He went on to say to me that he’ll keep climbing to the furthest point he can go. But that he won’t be coming down. And that he will then be found. And at that point on the mountain, that will be the goal where the next cancer climber can reach, and then go beyond.
Yes, Mark has taught me so much about so many things: friendship, courage, love, gratitude, and removal of self. Last Friday I spoke to him by phone and he told me that his blood count isn’t currently appropriate for chemo and that doctors had to place a stent in his liver because there’s some pressure in that area that needed to be addressed. He then got reflective. He talked about a TV show he is watching about survival called Alone, where contestants are placed in the wilderness, the prize going to the last survivor. He was moved that some contestants, when at the point of starvation, were not willing to kill wildlife, in order to survive.
His final remarks on this call were as usual- filled with thankfulness, love in his heart, and his appreciation of the simple words ‘take it easy’
Maggie
our beings wilted weak, together
a current then of energy
that lit dark, and the dark shimmers
with memories of you
sadness you may not want me to feel
while turn roll rumble disbelief
prepared or not, no one can…
It is only meant to be felt
I can call your name
are you there
know that I called your name, for you
For you
you made me
You had me
forget about me
Did I thank you, love you enough
I loved you, admired you
needed you
but never owned you
yours was a love – for all
Missing
You can hear it. Moving. Ripples. Constant. Enduring. Calling.
Then forgotten. Pushed away. Fear. Disdain. Confusion.
We walk, run, flee from what is good for us. Then we stop, hearing it again. It’s a stream, it is nearby, but not visible. It draws the hunter, who is looking for something else. A mother, who gives and gives. The child, who yearns for something they feel exists, but too young to ask for it.
Missing. Someone who did not come home, for they don’t know where home is.
We all feel it.
We might ask ourselves, do others hear it, the stream. It seems as if they do, they are not preoccupied, or do not appear so.
But we are, we all are.
This is what makes us all the same.
Go to the stream. Find it.
And when you arrive, when it arrives at your feet, place yourself in it.
Look into its reflection. See the trees and clouds and blue sky in its mirror. It’s looking back at you.
This time, things are different. You have shunned it long enough.
love.
The Answer Is Coming
Toe to toe with a foe
it stews In my mind
then is expressed in the wrong direction
that ‘thing’ on the other side of me
the weight of a self placed asterisk
*addiction
It is to defend
have I considered what I am defending
my own unwillingness
to first examine
before considering change
Not willing
anxiety emboldens my denial
it’s in my thoughts and actions
resistance is unwillingness
unwillingness to surrender to the enemy
The thing that I need
I don’t need it
can I resist the twisted need
to repeat
looking away from my enemy
Change
no
replace
no
new
no
What is the right word
what is the answer
I will forget living in the right and wrong
instead look for what I once thought selfish
to try and just be
a friend
to me
STRESS UNDRESSED
A dressing room with no hooks?
I need, then, to hold on to what I am trying
To take off, the disgust around my shoulders,
The anxiety that strangles my waist, anger that
Cripples my cuffs,
let me then walk out
Of this dark room with no hooks
Naked
And Free
In the middle of
Me
Secret
There’s something I need to get off my chest
A pang in my wrist
an ache in my head
a lump on my lip
a ringing in my ear
a cough that doesn’t cough
on me
over me
around me
surrounding me
I have a secret
a burden
and it’s becoming harder
to hold on
to hold in
I told a tree
a dog
the mirror
my secret burden
but I don’t feel better
can I tell you my secret
will you help me
to carry it
you on one end
me on the other
you can tell me yours too
and we can carry each
over the hills
over time
———–
Ball in the Corner
Cleaning out the garage what a mess
Old cans, rags, boxes part of the quest
Digging and cursing through the lack of order
Each pile drawing lines of ownership border
Up on the ladder to reach for
A chair or ski poll or just more
Of the stuff we don’t use anymore
Came crashing down on the floor
A pirouette off the ladder so high
Anger and frustration lead to a sigh
Rolling quickly out of reach came still
Your favorite ball in the corner
Not a baseball or football or any type
Of ball that any sport could hype
It was big, orange and bounced with a pang
At that moment memory of your smile rang
Yes you loved that ball and you smiled
All day – as it bounced you for miles
For a moment then all turned to wonder
Placing back life, like the ball in the corner
_____
Assumptions
When I am at my worst, I live in a world of assumptions. It is unhealthy.
My judgment of others is born of assumption.
I assume that if you drive a fancy car you are a jerk.
I assume we are different.
I assume you may not want or need a phone call because you’re probably okay.
I assume if you represent ‘the other side’ that you must be a bad person.
I assume things won’t get better.
I assume you don’t want to talk about a tough subject.
I assume you don’t want to know how I’m feeling.
I assume I am alone.
I assume other people are happy.
I assume you don’t like me.
Assumptions fuel my character flaws.
Assumptions lead me to turn my back on opportunities to become connected to others.
I live part of my life in a world of assumptions. It is unhealthy.
———————
Cross the Divide
You may think there is somewhere you need to go
different from
here and now
rather than a clock face
look then at your reflection
when will you heed, concede
that there is no next
place you need to be
exit signs abound in your mind
from situations,
people,
but mostly
you
then
freed
then
plummet again
into dwell of preoccupation
a constant occupation
there is a person
other than you
who needs you
to stay, seated
with attention to listen
offering a gift, of separation
from your molded self
the damp, cold and familiar
pretense of being
pretense of caring
across from you is someone
who may not need it
repel it
the need for you
to sit, to stay
let the push instead
be the pull
surrender
as you take a seat
across from you
———
What Has Been Learned
Too long now to worry
Let the years now evaporate
The regret, i will not
trade for what has been learned
In time, places I found myself
In situations known and unknown
To latch on to its meaning
Or wait for the moment to dissolve
Reliance on self and trust
Absent from my mind
And the things that mattered were not
The ones I worried so much about
Too long now to worry
No need to barter present for the past
Knowledge the highest currency
Not in my wallet, but soul
The moments I was most afraid
Were actually the ones that captured
My desire, my ability
brought together with fortitude
While grit and good fortune needed to play
Along with my scrum of right and wrong
Love was the thing most missing
Felt, but imprisoned to express
Too long now to worry
The keyhole now fits with the key
With fingers, hand, and wrist
Dangling from the chain of life’s decisions
Came the turn – of what has been learned
————–
David Schultz
In an exchange, written, how do words flow
One to read, while the other in silent expression
Is it a matter only of taste that makes the mind glow
Or is it trust, elevating highest, that cedes concession
In an exchange, written, I found a friend
In him, a chamber to pen, run wild, ruminate
Risk, on paper, my fear was then stemmed
At your door, pieces of me now sensical, culminate
Grasping, a need to breathe, my tentacle
Slithering beneath to reach- touch, feel, creation
To find a calming eye, a line of sight, to potential
Growth in self from you, cause of my new formation
An English teacher, David Schultz was his name
Not past, ever present, your heart in many, life’s frame
————
Las Trampas
Your is not a facade
No windows, just an aged face
Coast live oaks deep rooted
Perform a balancing act with ground and
Wind that sways them, a dance of concur
I poke at your sight, not a digital print
Yours is real
Lumens glare with contempt back at you
You are instead, surreal
Shine on all, light is life
Your skin fortifies theirs
Coyote, Steer, Fox, Deer
A bed for them
green, brown, floral
May they all feel safe in your arms
We are just visitors, its ok if you
Stare, our moves are dependent
On how you wish us to pay tribute
Mesmerized, we think not of ourselves
In your arms, The Love, Las Trampas
———-
Hair
Had i not seen you first
A mirror
I would not have been moved
To move it, with me
Motion to the left
Pull it back
Or make me blind
I saw you first, in a mirror
And forward to change
To be magnet
Disguise
What can i
Control
About me
Cut at angle
Hope in the angels
It would come alive
Make me smile
Hide my sorrow
Wet, colored
Vain, or lost
It is for eyes
Or angry hand
My drapes
To the neck
Or over shoulder
Did you look
Will he look
Coiffed or messy
Tell me how you feel
Shine, Shimmer, Shiver
I can see you
The way you move
In it, I see all of you
———-
Pulled from the Wall
a favorite print
dresser
pulled from the wall
that was home
now
away
no longer as one
a separation
the floor sobs
plastic covers her heart
mine was it’s ground
now no longer
people I don’t know
walk through while
the door is open
a wide, cry for help
what i knew is gone
was i really here
I don’t want to go
I now all
disbelieve
my hands, scraped
from her skin
clinching my home
i loved her
my home is now gone
pulled from the wall
————-
Bud
‘One thing you learn is not to correct them. It’s too late. Don’t argue any more… if they’re enjoying that memory, let it go.’
This recent quote is by Viggo Mortnesen, Danish actor who is directing the upcoming movie entitled Falling, his family story about dementia. Where I recollected this was in the living room of 92 year old Bud Rotermund, my Meals on Wheels partner whom I began seeing on Wednesdays last year. Bud was describing at the time a trip to a pear grove, and this is why he was late for our visit. Jane, his wife of 38 years, nodded her head in my direction to convey that this was not reality. Viggo’s quote has been useful with Bud since reading it.
All were nervous when we first met, including Meals on Wheels representative Tuyet Iaconis who introduced me to Bud for the first time in their modest suburban Walnut Creek home. Bud uses a walker, sleeps often, and per his profile was hoping to find a friend to play cribbage with, and someone to listen to his stories. The night before our first meeting- I watched a few videos about the game I had never played before. During our first meeting it was evident that any training would be unnecessary. Our bond instead would be built on the connection first made with both Bud and Jane. Her presence was vital- she is caring, smart, and helped assess the range of activities and depth of conversation we may hope to have. With Jane at his side, the three of us slowly opened ourselves to conversation destinations that were revealing, impactful, and gave color to the room.
Bud is one of two children, having grown up in Berkeley, Ca. His 94 year old sister lives in Vermont. His father was an engineer with several patents, quiet, but helped Bud when asked. He had a loving mother. Most profound was his family’s Christian faith, symbolized as Bud explains by the numerous non-family members who lived in his home for all of his young life. His parents provided for strangers.
Bud graduated from high school at 16. He celebrated by hitchhiking alone across the country to Washington D.C. in 1946. He returned home a year later to attend Cal. A brilliant man, he then headed back to D.C. and George Washington University to earn a medical degree. He was an OBGYN for 46 years. He served patients in his home state as well as Guatemala, South Africa, and South America. Jane was a nurse at the hospital where they both worked.
Each Wednesday at 1pm, over coffee, the two of us ‘wind the propeller’ to conversation. How will it start, will it start? A sip and a smile sent to him, he begins. It will sometimes be a dream he had that he believes to be reality. He then stops and ponders. Understanding he may be under stress, a question for him- what has he read recently from the Bible. In that moment he seems to enter the body of a younger, curious, searching man. “I can’t believe what is in Genesis. Awful.” He at 92 is reading the Old Testament for the first time. “Ecclesiastes, no better.” If he has the energy, he takes me through a few verses each week to illustrate his points. Though he was brought up in an extremely religious environment, my sense is he enlisted himself early on as the one who would watch over his well being, and his actions.
Bud has shared that his long working hours and drinking caused resentment between him and his children. I shared my struggles with alcohol as well.
We usually end each visit with Bud doing his exercises. And in watching his feet, it is to walk in his shoes, with the statements or questions he asks each week;
“I think I have lived a good life.”
‘Do my kids hate me, I don’t know.”
“Have I harmed anyone? I don’t think so.”
“I have helped a lot of people.”
Bud is not interested in cribbage.
Bud is seeking late in his life an affirming echo, someone other than family, to feel acceptance through a portal, one that provides eternal peace.
————
‘Stand Next to Each Other’
It’s a familiar request. Mother or father, relative, needs a picture. ‘Stand next to each other’. A moment of still. For boys at a young age, maybe some reluctance. There is a ball that wants to be thrown, or a lake that wants to be jumped into, instead. But in that moment, you are reminded, you have a brother, a friend. This is a brief story about brotherhood and our sons, Jeff and Jack McGill.
I grew up with a brother, Brad McGill. We are 14 months apart. Looking back at our younger years, sharing experiences together was helpful, but certainly we never talked about it. Glimpses to each other in trying moments was sustaining. We shared things in common, love of sports, outdoors. We were very different students, he liked math, I ran from numbers to find letters. We started each day by ‘checking in’ with someone close, someone other than ourselves. Is he in a good mood? Is he crying? Is he mad? Am I teasing him? Questions, born from anxiety, created an energy- one to the other – the only way we knew how to express- that we loved each other.
Love begins early, if they are lucky enough, for brothers having equal reach to the top of the triangle. Jeff and Jack both received the loving arms of their mother, Julie. Jeff, the older by 2.5 years, was fine with a few ‘slick back strokes’ of the comb from Mom. Jack cared a bit less about the ‘do.
Julie grew up with one sister, Jill. So between the two of us, as parents, we were aware of the push and pull that could exist between Jeff and Jack. Julie was the bad cop, and I was Don Knots. This seemed to work. A balancing of the emotional scales, one that evolved amongst all of us, without the caring of keeping score. Jeff, similar to my brother, was intrigued by math. Jack was into the arts, running around the house with a microphone singing the theme from Blues Clues. For many years, though they had their own bedrooms, they slept together, one on a bed, one on a fold out, so they could be next to each other. Julie and I took turns, risking our lives by lying in the crevasse between the bed and the fold out, to read them a nighttime story. Unlike my brother and I, Jeff and Jack never physically fought. They had their disagreements. Possibly in not keeping score, all won.
Today, they both live in Los Angeles. Jeff Graduated from UCLA with a degree in Applied Mathematics. Jack graduated from Loyola Marymount University in Los Angeles with a degree in Film Production. They don’t live together, but see each other often. And when they do, they sit down, talk, and listen. Being different from one another makes them close. Sharing similarities makes them close. Jeff is a caring big brother. Jack appreciates his brother. Neither one cares about an age difference. They kid each other. They look at their phones together. And in the energy they create from one to the other, in the way they choose to express it- they love each other.
—————
In a Picture
This is a picture of our son Jeff’s High School Lacrosse team from 2012. They had just defeated a cross town rival in the playoffs. Beyond the scoreboard tally, a different story altogether is being told in the picture.
Just moments ago the field was filled with crashing bodies, balls flying, heart beating chests.
Something now more important fills the air, told by the picture.
By and large hands are down at their sides, some heads bowed, others look forward, those whose eyes track a path to something more important than the scoreboard. Their expressions are dignified, the thought of someone other than themselves.
Whether with eyes or feet, the players are drawn by a being that for two years has taught them more than any text book could.
It is Coach Todd French.
Like human cells that try their best, his players are approaching, to surround and protect him. Their coach is dying of cancer.
We may flip furiously through photo albums that document our lives. We are well served to pull our hands away from the laminate, pause, and look into the eyes of those in the picture to discover the real story being told.
—————–
In The Room
Not many expect in their lifetime that they may need to pass through the doorway leading into the room. The threshold at the bottom of that door rises ominously.
Fear. Anger. Resentment. The mind goes blank in another challenging predicament – of self.
This is how it begins as an alcoholic.
At 5 I was alcoholic. At 17 I was alcoholic. At 42 I was alcoholic. At 53, I became an alcoholic.
The grammar check is shouting to correct ‘was alcoholic’ to ‘was an alcoholic’. But this is not about grammar. I am different and don’t sometimes even match up with grammar checks.
Honoring anonymity, come please into this room, in your mind, without harm or association.
Nuts and bolts are all that are needed here, holding the chairs and tables together which frame our stories. Each of us enters with a different circumstance, yet a common thread. Something beyond alcohol- pangs, vibrations, and disturbances seem to rule our world.
Early on, I assume I sit among others inferior to me. I am indignant, yet again, only to learn later in the room that self-centered fear distorts my daily perspective. Still unaware, louder noises follow, and the fluorescent above provides glare, not light.
I came into the room hoping to learn that I do not have a drinking problem. Despair and denial, one in the same, represent my home base. From my wooden chair I chart a familiar and futile route to escape, only to arrive back where I started. I stumble, in the room, and in the world, stumble over myself, my thinking.
It is difficult to listen or learn when years of fear mold a soul resentful. I am not aware of myself. Literally. Under the influence or not, my behaviors observed by normal folk appear to be without thought. That is the thought of others. Nothing makes sense at this point, not even in this room, the one supposedly made for me.
Alcohol was my solution. The world, people, circumstances, events, nothing made sense, all are against me. Seeking relief, I just needed that one thing. Family may know. I am suspicious. So I hide, isolate, digging even deeper into my soiled thinking
In the room, I look at the 12 steps on the banner placed above. ‘We’ is the first word. Then, the moment comes, motivating a courageous yet helpless leap of desperation. At the moment, I plead for a train to come, in my mind, a train full of cars, where the last car brings the answer in bold letters ‘Them’.
‘Them’ represents fault- their’s, not mine.
I scream inside ‘Affirm me!’
It’s coming, the train is coming, the stack is fuming, wheels squealing in revolt. The last car comes into focus. And it reads…
‘You’.
Shock. Then just as quickly, a seismic change of thinking because the answer is what I have been running from all my life in being alcoholic, and as an alcoholic.
Some refer to alcoholism as a disease. We who attend AA meetings subscribe to this or not in the same way we may or may not believe in God. God is a large part of AA. But the program makes it clear that God exists as we understand him. For me, God is anyone or thing but myself. A being, a spirit, a moment of time, all in my opinion can play the role of God. Our understanding then becomes the decisions we make, for our benefit, or for others.
Resentment is a cornerstone of my problem. God or the equivalent can inspire me to live with myself by taking responsibility for my resentments. A calling to pursue new conversations to find understanding with others. This was a summit insurmountable before.
In the room. Together, I discover that the bottle was not the problem, that I am instead seeking a solution to the problem of me. If I can accept this, I will celebrate this, every day.
A victory for self is not the pursuit, rather a victory over self, from which I am able to see others- for the first time.
———————
humble is connection
‘There are a few things more liberating in this life than to have one’s greatest fear realized’ –Conan O’Brien, Dartmouth Commencement – 2011
Profound insight from a person who has made a living in comedy. He was referring to his achieving, then losing his dream- of hosting The Tonight Show. A meld of self-effacing humor and frankness elevated all to a unifying level.
Is someone born humble, or do they become it?
Funny in a way, for in our culture chest pounding and pride seem most esteemed.
For those of us who seek peace in our steps, this confuses. Can we not be brave without pointing belligerently at the enemy, conquering fear, being victorious over others, by being any other way?
Stepping out of it’s running stream, hoisting our limbs to high and solid ground.
We look to the sky, feel our being, hear quiet, and then maybe even laugh.
We ask ourselves in the moment what drew us to that moving current. It seemed to beckon those of us who were seeking answers from anyone or anything, but ourselves.
Seeking. Answers. Guarantees.
It becomes clearer in our minds that reaching into these rapids was futile.
Looking into our hands, an unsettling realization that seeking has kept us at a distance, from others, missing the point, missing the moment.
Some are born with it. Others become it.
No matter.
Those who are humble have freedom, and live comfortably within it.
———————
At the Point
in time, at the point
when we find
no more voices, but ours
to then, make the choice
or realize there is something else
do we, are we
destined before we even
know we are moving
in the direction of common
who did, did they, did it
happen, in time, at the point
when i was aware and listening
that I was being called in the
direction of uncommon
in my shadow, do i lead or
do i follow
do i realize that
in the end what mattered most
in answering
what could I do?
what should i do?
To then realize and clasp with
what needed to be done
that was, it seemed
most important
in time, at the point
when I knew neither
choice or not
———————-
the in between
we see it, the next rock to jump to, a next in the little leaps of reaching…what?, the day, moment, minute, goal …
we see it, the next
and what are we doing, what is, why is, the next
and what is between the the rock we are on, and the one to follow
is it the passage of time, to simply move forward, or does it
is it instead the flow of life, the current in living, that is the space between the rocks
maybe better than jump, to leap, rock to rock,
is to surrender
and instead dive into unknown, for what we didn’t think was for us
to become a friend of unknown, that then reveals what
can be
life, living, creating, and finding peace
———-
Incessant Wind
Beginning in March of 2020, the world began to narrow, and the breeze of our existence became a roiling gust. Before, we may have lived lives of either choice or inertia. For all, it forced a time of measurement. Work, relationships, health, goals, addictions, and dreams, all were suddenly spotlit for examination.
As the pandemic strengthened, the evolution of our new selves were formed from signals received within, and possibly with the influence of others. A time when, by nature, we first assessed our own state. Is anything about this new world good? What about it is torment? Is this the wake up call I needed, or do I feel cheated?
Then we began to see its impact on others. Those who suffered and passed, those who lost jobs, bolstered by the noble reaction of caregivers. All put self on notice.
In considering young people, those who were about to enter a scholastic or career leap, they became without choice, stifled by the headwind. Many stayed or returned home, placing their ‘ready to fly’ wings in the same closet where memories of yesterday became tarnished.
If nothing else, we as a people in some ways became more similar through the push back of vulnerability. Paying for a way out became as much about emotional as monetary currency.
As a country and a culture, we seem to forget sacrifice quickly, whether of our own or that of others.
As individuals, we became more than we might realize during this time. More good, or more bad.
What seems to matter most is looking closely, before the wheels turn fast again, at what we did, what we thought, the decisions we made, and how we made them, as time stood still.
———–
Awe
A telescope is an interesting shape. The circumference is smallest at one end which encircles just our eye, the largest at the opposite end, showing us things that amaze, no matter our grandest expectation.
Like the telescope, our emotions can convey a vantage point. When stressed, our worlds become small, as we swell. Fear is often at the center. Negative thoughts can rule us. Discounting others. Failure. Exhaustion. Lack of trust. Whatever Dr. Phil says is perplexing us. In the dirt, we roll in it, fight with it, instead of dusting ourselves off. In these moments, we are not able to imagine escape. Handcuffed in the cell we built, something tells us we are no longer free.
As if we are looking through the telescope from the end not intended.
Time passes and we are not aware of a gift that is coming to greet us as we hold onto the rails. The greater our clinch, the more profound the rebound.
In frustration to break free, we pick up the telescope again. Starting with the smaller end this time. The one that fits our eye. We extend an arm to clasp hold the other, larger end. The one that encompasses the world.
Now we peer, and are struck by the slightness of our being on one side of the scope compared to the grandeur on the other.
We see bright light, shapes, clusters, in a backdrop of infinity.
Awe.
We put the telescope down, rub the blur out of our eye to see our dog, a messy garage, a parent-in-law in underwear, it doesn’t matter. We remember the moment. We now are in the moment, again.
The walls begin to lift, when we get smaller.
——————–
skipping stones
I remember skipping stones growing up in Westline, Pa., a town where my father was born- in his house. The area is filled with beautiful streams, trout, a raw air aloft in its inhabitance.
We would go to Westline many weekends during my young years, to help my grandparents with outdoor chores, then go fishing at the end of the day as a treat. On Monday mornings my brother and I would hear about the fun our friends had back home in East Aurora while we were gone. It’s just something we were made to do.
I consider my current state of mind at age 60. I then think about life as a continuum. For me, my end points represent the extremes of despair and joy. Struggling emotionally for many years to become mature, peak events in my life such as becoming a father and quitting alcohol began to form definition and purpose within me.
So why would I then think about skipping stones as a metaphor for life’s reconciliation?
Life has slowed for a moment. My sons are back home. I don’t have to commute anymore. I appear healed from prostate cancer. The house rumbles with my wife’s laughter.
Maybe then what my mind is doing, in its new found strength, is allowing itself to make peace with the past.
When I look back and consider skipping stones, I remember the effort made to find the perfect rock. It took a little bit of time and patience to find the right shape and feel to determine which one would skip and slither best. Yes, it had to be flat, but in clinching its surface, smooth feel, was there comfort in it to be found.
Once you felt you had the best rock, all that was left to do was give it the right hurl. You don’t want to waste a stellar rock on a hasty toss. And when the rock was right, and the throw controlled and natural, time stood still, as light bounces of joy found its potential in crossing to the other side.
Looking back, I now wish I had made the same effort earlier in life to ponder my own shape and feel and how it might travel across to the other side.
I was reluctant to stop, bend down, and consider the possibilities.
That is in the past.
All that is important now, years later, is to keep looking for the right rock.
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