Another Birthday

Photographs are so funny - We can look at them a million times and find something new every time we look. I love this photo of you. It's priceless in so many ways. Snapped haphazardly by me on a beach outing, dad, you and I took in the early nineties. I don't remember that specific trip too much unfortunately..it's hard when you rely on memory - we took trips to the beach so often, and i wish so much i remembered more than i do. This was before you were sick. I still have that gray jacket you are wearing. The cuffs are tattered and holey, bleached with years of using it at my cleaning job. I still pull it on and wear it to keep me warm. The zipper is broke but it still it does its job. Even now... The car door open behind you belongs to the Caprice Classic we had that survived your lifetime of ownership and some of mine. That damn gold tank was a reliable S.O.B. Your thick beach coat is draped on the door, and the hint of gray sky in the corner tells me that the warm coat is essential. Your tussled hair and smile larger than life tells me it was a good day..perhaps perfect(?) beach outing - full of windy, cold weather and relief afterward from being higher up. Unfortunately i caught you at that nanosecond where you blinked. Blasted! I would have loved to have had the liveliness of your eyes captured, but that's ok. I haven't forgotten them..

If i didn't know you, what i would gauge from the photo would be that you were a happy, simple woman of little frills..someone of low maintenance that didn't mind her hair being mussed and a cloudy day to still smile truer than the sun. But, I DO know you..and that assessment still sits right.

I have photos later of you taken at the same beach. You are sick and bald and still smiling. It is perhaps not as wide but still as true.

Photographs really can capture a person's spirit/essence. Perhaps i wouldn't believe that if I didn't have this one as proof.

My father has called me over-sensitive before...he used that term in a time when he was trying to come up with my flaws. That's ok. I am. I am definitely over-sensitive. Perhaps Mom, you'd hate this photo of you? Well, I'm still glad i have it. And, if lingering in the details of a perfect day makes me super sensitive than so be it.

Happy Birthday Mom.

The details are not missed.

Having Gratitude

I miss writing. I don't know what happened.. An odd poem or scribble comes out of me like a random flatulence now. Unfortunately I have gas more often than I try to write. Even just jotting down these words feels like visiting an old stomping ground I use to frequent but forgot the path to. The truth is though I haven't forgotten, I've just grown lazy, uninspired, and complacent in my habits. Storing up your thoughts is no good. There are only so many cookies you can fit in the cookie jar before the lid won't fit on. Then, the cookies all dry up. Perhaps that's what I'm feeling? Dried up. Well, that's a depressing thought.

I use to journal my thoughts and ideas. Somewhere along the way of complacency my journal has become a simple daily log of actions and little more. It's only lately occurred to me that I've taken out all of the creativity of my journaling. What is the point in recording that on thursday, the 3^rd of May I listed 21 books, had pizza for dinner and felt constipated? How did I get here? What happened to derail my inspiration? I know I'm craving it because I read like a freak. I watch tons of movies and take in information like a sponge. The wheels are turning, I'm importing but not exporting much. I don't know if I've simply gotten lazy and unmotivated or the worse possible answer; I've just given up?

I'm hoping even by writing this little blurb of thought I'm digging myself slowly out of the sand. Perhaps I've just been in some stunted slumber? Perhaps there is hope in small epiphanies? For instance, it's 11:26 at night – an hour I'm not accustomed to, of all things trying to write, purge, force out thoughts in some semi-organized way, if for no other reason to simply do it. To remember I still can.

So, with the thought of thanksgiving soon I am forcing myself to dwell instead on the things to be thankful for. Not a usual place I visit in my head, but perhaps one I should. It would be easy to avoid this as life is an endless cycle of oopsies and unpleasant surprises where just getting through the day is often a massive feat. But just for a minute I am going to side-step the cringing reminder of my massive mortgage, ailing car and slow business. We all have things to be grateful for and even in a stunted slumber I can think of some. I am grateful NOT to be the following; blind, deaf, seriously ill, without limbs, incontinent, bald, homeless, jobless, friendless, fanatically religious or republican. I am grateful to my wonderful, frustrating, characteristic cat, Gertrude who fills my days with smiles and laughter and soft snuggles. There is no better place to land your head than a purring, warm kitty belly. I am grateful for my wits. For having them about me still and recognizing small beauties in daily life. I am grateful for feeling and being loved. That is a wonderful feeling and one that is not small in any capacity. I am grateful for the ability to love, even on my most cynical days. I am grateful for having the confidence to think for myself. I am grateful for an amazing mother, whom I miss daily. I am grateful for a few friends that renew my faith in humanity. I am grateful for teeth that are all mine, my back for not giving up on me, and my breasts for not succumbing to gravity. I am grateful to still feel like i have something to say, and manage in some fashion to say it.

It is easy to focus on the things to do, the many things that need fixing or change.

It is very easy to get down, frustrated and unhappy with all that isn't how we would like them to be. But, when life is often that series of unpleasant surprises, it can also have meaningful epiphanies.....still.

Well Versed

My hands are versed in the careful handling of fragile spine caps and brittle pages. The delicate separation of 100 year old, foxed leaves - musty and thin. One can read a books true condition with the hands best. To gently splay the covers before the binding cracks - and sense where it might is a learned act.

To run ones palm over the cloth or leather slowly like a lover's body, memorizing every attribute and flaw by sheer touch alone. To feel the weight of it, admire the craftsmanship and sustainability as unique as any person or snowflake.

Ah, to be let in to this beautiful binding. To dip inside the careful covers of a story. A Story. To touch the type as your eyes follow down the page - Tantalize your taste buds, traverse the landscape, tremor in the travels, but only (please) with well versed hands..

Cowardice

It hides in the folds and waits for the perfect time to show itself. That one time you need it most not to be there. Cowardice is the human flaw. The one we overcompensate with by false bravado and padded accomplishments. 

For most of us we show it simply, in little reactions or non-reactions we later kick ourselves for. For not speaking up, looking away, or pretending something didn't bother us when we secretly swallowed bile. For others cowardice takes on a larger precipice. It comes out at deal-breaking times when simply doing anything could have helped. 

When the scrambling tide comes to threaten all, and instead of grabbing for a hand, a raft or shouting 'help' one simply closes their eyes and convinces themselves this is not happening. When perhaps by reaching for that hand you could have saved one other person, or by moving you could have saved yourself – Cowardice will swell the insides and convince one that doing nothing is better than anything at all.

Should you survive your Giant crest of Cowardice, count yourself lucky and chose instead to grow a pair for future waves.