Summer Evening

The sun just dropped behind the trees.
The cicadas applaud its final encore.

The day
(a dog barks)
is done
(a bird's final call echos).

The cat with a twitchy tail meows.
Twitch.
Twitch.

Somewhere a workman puts up his tools.
His day ends with the thud of the toolbox lid.

The crickets become steady,
the undercurrent of the night.

The red barn is barely visible though the trees.
The neighbors' light gains strength.

The first mosquito bites.
Then the sky turns [second mosquito bite] dark purple.

And eventually dark.

exactly

where I am

"You aren't in school! Wow, you have it easy!" she said, barely containing her envy and amazement.

By this time I had learned just to smile and nod. Especially when the speaker was younger.

I couldn't explain to her that the "easiest" thing for me to do would be to go to school. Then the questions would stop. I wouldn't be quite so weird. My life would once again become productive to society's eyes.

People bought that taking-a-year-off idea. Most of them actually loved the concept. But as that one year has morphed into the foreseeable future, people have become resistive and very-unsold on the idea.

For some reason they took my word when I said God was leading me to take a year off, but they aren't willing to believe me when I tell them that God just isn't leading me back to school as far as I can see. Honest to goodness.

Not doing society's default, one-size-fits-all plan is not well accepted in general. Nor is it often correctly characterized.

It is a thing I have to work through on my own with God. This isn't an "easy" choice. This is a free, real life "waiting on the Lord" seminar. It is about letting go. What I will be doing in a year, six-months, next month I have no idea. And it took me a while to come to terms with that, to accept the future as not being my choice about me and my plans.

But God had been good. Sometimes He will lead me (and leave me) in the dark for a while. Then we will break into the sunshine and what I am do to for a period of time will be revealed. Then off we go again into the shadows of waiting.

It isn't an issue of life and death. My life isn't under stiff persecution. This is a small thing in the grand scale of life. But regardless of how small this is, it still matters. How I choose to react to this situation will impact me for a number of years, if not for the rest of my life.

Contentment through Him, resting in Him, and relying on Him have all become more real and tangible.

And sometimes I muse that I am learning more by being out of school than I would by being in school.

I am sad

I have come to a realization. A shocking one. Really actually a revelation.

You all do not read my stories, posts, etc. in the same tone and inflection and accent as I do.

No, you don't understand. This is a crucial crisis. This alters everything. Everything.

Nothing will ever be the same again. I write my stories in an accent, in a tone, in an inflection that makes my story my story. I tell to myself in my head in an accent. I don't just read my story as I write it. I tell it. I narrate it; I dramatize it.

It needs - it begs for - the accent, the inflection, the tone. Otherwise it is dead, blah, pointless. Boringly unacceptable. I am embarrassed.

Perhaps I will start prefacing my posts with the accent warning - I most often use either a slow, mellow Southern drawl, or a simple, unelaborative cadence with significant pauses - but it won't be the same. And I find that tragic.

Sometimes it is easier
- actually it always is -
to think things out in one's head
than try to put the pen to paper
- the fingers to the keys -
and make half-way decent sense.

As you can see.

The Bag Lady

Her hat was crooked. Not quite cocked, but looking like it wanted to be. She had long, dark, damp hair that disappeared somewhere in the folds of a once red but now ambiguously colored flannel jacket. I couldn’t see her eyes. She was staring at her cigarette. There wasn’t much to it. She had smoked it down to a nubbin. She stared at it with fixed attention. Then she glanced up. “Hi,” she said in a surprisingly mellow voice.

I never could resist walking up to street people. I was drawn to them and I hated it. I hated every minute I stood next to them. But the moment I walked away it was okay. Until the next time.

“Hi,” I said flatly. I looked at my shoes, then at a nearby trashcan. “Normally I’m the one wantin’ something,” she chuckled.

“So, why are you here?” I asked. I had learned that direct questions were the best for these situations. They appreciated it. Probably the only group of people in the world who collectively and consistently did.

They each had a story. Most sounded the same. But I always wanted to hear it anyway.

She kept chuckling and rolling the bit of cigarette left between her fingers. “Why do that matter?” she said, “Does it matter how I got here? Really? It doesn’t change a-thing. It don’t get me outta here.” Her voice had dropped by the time she reached her conclusion. It was low and muttering.

“But it tells me who you are,” I replied slowly. “And I want to know your story. I don’t know why. But I do.” I finished lamely, trailing off.

Some were better storytellers than others. Some glared at you and stalked away. Others were inescapable and were closely-related to three famous authors, one European opera singer, a wealthy Texas oilman, and a world-famous magician.

She looked at me suspiciously, then her face cleared. “Well,” she shoved her hat back. “ I just turned up here one day. I dunno know how. It wasn’t a one event that put me here. I just turned into me over my lifetime. It was a slow thing.” She cocked her head at me.

Her shoes were lace-less and her buggy only had three wheels. I automatically registered those details while she talked.

“Oh, I see,” I said, nodding. Our eyes met.
“Its okay,” she said, “It always is.”
“Right,” I said, not sure if her words were meant for herself or me. Or maybe it was her default phrase. Who knew.

“Well,” I shifted my weight and shuffled my feet in the customary signal for departure. “You know,” she continued obliviously, “Maybe it isn’t gonna be ok. Maybe it ain’t never has been. You know.”

I bit my lip. Normally these conversations were one-sided explanations of their plights. I was the silent, aloof observer, the unemotional receiver of the information.

“Maybe I have done wrong. Maybe I messed up. I dunno know. You know,” she finished up by biting the remaining end of the grimy cigarette.

Was I supposed to say something? Really, I was just here for a story. Though, in truth, why I even wanted to hear their stories in the first place I wasn’t sure.

Suddenly, she threw the cigarette pulp on the ground and started pushing her buggy away. The missing wheel caused the buggy to jolt and rattle rhythmically. Then she disappeared into the shadow of the nearby bridge.

People say the world is round. I don’t believe them. That would be too safe. And convenient. Everywhere I look I see edges. With people tottering on them. Waiting to fall, wanting to fall. And – sometimes, maybe – there are a few that just want something to hold onto.

Hang On

There is another post coming... soon. A good one.

I started it on Sunday and haven't looked at it since... but I have mulled it over at night when I can't go to sleep.

So, hopefully - soon the clouds will break for me and I will get the post on here...