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Night Terror

Suddenly present

in a green grass meadow,

watching wind cavort

in a rippling sea of verdance,

Where is it going,

so sure of itself,

when I know nothing

of where I will stay

this night, or any other? 

I wander and gander,

peering and scrying

this feasting of sight,

sunrises vivid with hoping,

sunsets dismal with knowing

what tomorrow will be

and how it will end.

~~~

I portion out cash for a day at the store,

and give it to clerks

to man (or to woman)

the register of each department’s purview.

I want it back at the end of the day

with what has come in

less what has gone out.

to serve the avarice sparkling green in my eyes.

~~~

It feels good to be working

on my feet and in charge.

Something will be what it can

if I but see it as possible.

Then I catch sight of Maggie

the golden, my wonderful dog.

There she is.  I love her!  I do!

She bolts into my house and hides.

I look for her, and there she is, under my bed,

Nose tucked beneath paw.

Now a different collie breaks into view.

They look so alike and lovely, I wonder

Which is true friend?

~~~

With doubt it cracks, splits, fragments,

a crazy kaleidoscopic tumble,

a panicky stir of geometries,

shattered rainbows

of color and of shape,

of feeling, delight and

anguish, love and fear

that delight, mesmerize,

titillate, obsess, disgust,

and then, in blink

of jaundiced eye,

stop.

~~~

I look in the mirror

And what do I see,

But a fearsome image

Grinning back at me.

It is small and shrunken

More bone than bonny

More hag than handsome

with pretty forgotten

Shredded to time addled dust.

~~~

What frightens more than bones

Caught in crepy lucent skin

Is the visual of a mouth rimmed blue.

~~~

“I see you,” it says.

“Please go away.

I don’t want to be the you

one more tragedic day.”

~~~

I waken with relief to

another day of governed rest

one of many to endure

but to never number.

Each will follow after

the one that went before

like ducklings

in a fuzzy row

while I hide

in fear of spectral death.

~~~

Why should I fear

some peaceful silent end

when I am

in verisimilitude

already dead?

~~~

Gone will come later

in soft sweet silent sleep.

Birthday

Larry spun his head about and nailed the boys in their back seats.  Dale and Lane, always jockeying for position in the family hierarchy, were baiting each other into misbehavior.  What else was there to do?  They straightened up for the moment, until Larry would become otherwise distracted and forget about them, sitting back there buckled into their distinct cockpits.  A nine-seat station wagon was a luxury most families wouldn’t presume to afford, but when several US automakers came out with the nine-seater , Larry and I, lulled into false confidence by a buff economy, had made the leap.  We bought a big long, metallic brown one, that looked like a limousine, and were settling down into all the room and luxury it afforded.  With two good engineering jobs going great guns, what could go wrong?

That same hubris had led to a decision to make one more baby before babies would become a lovely but past possibility.  We found an obgyn, got checked out, and were told babies were already not an element in any conjoined future plan.  Going home in a fog of remorse at having waited too long, we proceeded to make a liar out of the good doctor.  Throwing away my trusty diaphragm, we set about enjoying each other with more than ordinary joy.  That night one of my laggard eggs, which had waited until some last hurrah to declare itself, welcomed one of Larry’s most excellent, speedy, and adventurous spermatozoa.  They teamed up to make just one more baby.  Nine long months later, we had arrived at the culmination of all that planning, and now awaited my doctor’s decision: what to do about some insistent contractions that weren’t all that painful, but nevertheless persisted.  The morning had dawned with an awareness of a sea change.  Hormones had shifted.  I lay awake and aware of the return of a certain prurient sense of longing.  It was nothing to write home about, but something to pay attention to.  Such reporting to medical doctors only convinces them that you are hypochondriacal.  And that’s what happened.  He said to just go home and wait.

It was Saturday morning.  The day had dawned clear.  Across from Richardson’s Presbyterian Hospital, a petting zoo was setting up at North Park Mall.  I directed our expeditionary force to check out the animals while we let some time work its will.  Why should I believe what some doctor said about my flagrantly enceinte constitution, more that is, than I believed my own reliant self?  I was more attuned, more involved, and yes—more motivated to believe in my own credibility.  So we waited.  Hot dogs for Larry and the boys, a clear chug-a-lug of juice for me, and then we distracted ourselves with fuzzy bunnies, floppy eared milk goats, fat cuddly puppies, and even a llama that added the dimension of height to the four-footed menagerie.  The llama was a fuzzy, its hair dense, silky, and soft.  It was fascinating to stand with it and exchange vivid eye-to-eye mind melds.  It almost diverted me from the underlying reason for this strange detour around and about a Saturday morning.  Almost, but not quite.  Eye to eye with a llama, that was coincidentally pregnant, I sensed a kindred animal spirit.  Newly encouraged, inspired to lean into my day’s work, I had a baby to deliver.

Suddenly I yearned to sit down.  What had been a Braxton-Hicks Contraction, suddenly became an out-and-out labor pain.  The next one was not far behind, and soon we were hustling for the parking lot and reclaiming our long brown vehicle.  Across US 75 and into the hospital parking area was the next translation on our agenda.  Then a return to a disinterested emergency room led to a rolling of eyes, a re-exam, raised eye-brows, and a new sense of urgency.  Larry was dispatched to take the boys home to Sherman, a long ninety miles in a long car, for me a long wait while I got on with getting on.

Admission to the labor pavilion of the complex was a big concession from the medical establishment, but how could they argue with verifiable regularly spaced intra-uterine muscle spasms?  I had just the day before finished reading a well-chosen library book: Marjorie Karmel ‘s Thank You, Dr. Lamaze.  The Lamaze method of childbirth gained popularity in the United States after Ms Karmel wrote in 1959 about her experiences as a midwife.  Formation of the American Society for Psych prophylaxis in Obstetrics (ASPO Lamaze) soon followed, and by 1974, the Lamaze method was more than a big deal.  It had become the premier childbirth education certifying organization in the world.  The society’s title suggests upholding a woman’s mind as a viable partner in birthing a human child.  That is profound!  It took a creative intellect with a soupcon of arrogance to patent childbirth.

The key element I had absorbed from the reading was a freaky pattern of breathing that seemed to work as I tried it out in the labor room.  It became a shallow panting, like I had seen with dogs delivering puppies.  As long as I breathed fast and shallow, the pain went away.  As soon as I stopped and breathed normally, all the agony came crashing back.  I panted.  The labor nurse questioned my method, insisting that I take deep breaths and relax.  I shrieked, “I can’t!” and went back to panting.

That went on until almost suppertime.  I, of course, wasn’t having any supper, but Larry ate for two while I panted and dilated my aging cervix.  I watched nurses come and go.  Finally it was time to adjourn to the delivery room—blue, cold, and sterile.  Somebody called my doctor, who entered all gussied up in a tuxedo set off with with shiny black patent slippers, on his way to a formal event.  No wonder he didn’t want me tinkering with his evening.  He didn’t bother to gown up, but stood there resplendent in his regalia, directing the play by play.  First he wanted me to stop that infernal panting and agreed to give me a saddle block to obviate its necessity.  As soon as the needle was in, the pain stopped.  Bless medical science!  I smiled and lay back to enjoy watching the action.  Acquiescing to the sterility declared by pulling on rubber gloves, he reached for the forceps, one tong at a time.  No sooner did I spy that infernal tool of infant torture than I cried foul. 

“No forceps for me!”

“But you can’t push the baby out now that the block is in place,” he insisted.

“Just you watch!” I cried and proceeded to suck in a monster breath, hold it, and push down with everything I had.

“Wait!” he cried.  “Don’t push!” raising his hand like a traffic cop.  Time for delicate intervention, but with scalpel alone.  Soon he was satisfied the way had been prepared.

“Now push!”

I pushed, and a new person joined our assemblage.  Everything would have been fine if the newbie hadn’t proceeded to hose down the doctor’s tuxedo jacket.  Baby, too, was all wet, red from his rage at finding himself naked and shivering in a bright cold scary place, but soon appreciative of lots of up-to-date attention, a routine offered to every Texas newborn.  The room may have been cold and officious, but it was a good place that valued health and the humane dispensing of it.

The doctor departed to attend to his sartorial disarray, delegating stitches to the nurse.  She then wrapped up baby and laid him next to my bed where I could look into his great wide-open eyes.  I claimed him right then and there for my very own.  In case there had been any question, he was mine.  Those eyes with their fully dilated pupils said it all.  They looked deep into my soul.  I called him Kurt, short for Noble Counselor.  He has lived into that heavy moniker ever since, dispensing empathy and wise advice to all who share his august presence, which seems appropriate to his birthday, the tenth of August, 1974.

Kurt had established himself as a member of the family, and it was soon time to take him home.  That should have been a simple proposition, except for the canine member whom no one had considered.  This had in many ways been a ridiculously confident period of our lives as a Sherman, Texas family with two kids (now three) and a dog.  As well as buying a nine seat wagon, and undertaking to make another person to help fill it, we had opted for a Great Dane.  Others might have visited the local shelter and chosen any endearing canine, but we had to actually go and visit a Dane breeder— just to gather information of course—where we fell in love with a soft, sweet, floppy-eared six-week-old bitch that we dubbed “Greta” when she wagged her tail and licked our noses.  Given all that, we just had to write a fat check and take home a Von-Reisenhoff Dane.  The puppy grew into a big, big dog, that guarded our premises with a formidable voice and an imposing presence.  She ate a lot and kept low tables clear of interposing objects given the muscular nonchalance of her tail sweep.  Life was good.

Arriving home with Kurt wrapped in a baby-blue receiving blanket, we got him settled, with a full belly and a dry diaper, in the bassinet right next to me, where I could keep an ear tuned and a watchful eye peeled.  I relaxed into my place on the big bed and prepared to sink into a restorative night’s sleep.  Larry locked up the house and let Greta in for the night.  As he reached for the light-switch, she shoved him aside and charged through the door into the bedroom, just as Kurt began to wind up a whimper.  With an affronted roar, she launched a frontal attack, jumping over one corner of our king-size bed.  Larry, who had never demonstrated any athleticism, acted every bit the father.  He matched the dog’s assaulting arc with his own body and tackled her in mid-air.  He brought her down right at the base of the bassinet.  A good dog, Greta had defended me against an unidentified marauder; a good father, Larry had saved his child.  Kurt didn’t even know what happened.  The next day we staged a proper baby reception, where Dale, Lane, Greta, and baby brother Kurt were properly introduced.  Life continued to be good.

Tree

I am disheveled, only haphazardly clad, and not sure where I’m supposed to be.  All that long blonde hair I used to be so proud of is a wild declaration of my compromised status, whipping in the wind and stirring into one rambunctious tangle.  With nowhere to go, I trudge somewhere—anywhere at all—which turns out to be along a shorefront, a beach community, maybe Laguna Beach my best old haunt, the place where my finances started to become “complicated.”

With no shoes, I trudge along the waterline, waves keeping sand moist and firm, so it’s easier to walk than up higher where feet sink deep into hot sand, a calescent salty mire.  The wave water runs cool, always cool—not like the opposite coast—the Japan current assuring cold water and temperate air along our western seaboard.  The chill water is a sweet consolation, bathing hot feet with clear gentle brine.  But teasing lively waves as they venture ashore can only hold my attention for a while, and the need for diversion sets in, a bit of challenge even inside the warm body of a dream.  Tangles of seaweed piled and abandoned at high tide are beginning to dry now as the sun decides to work its will.

I leave the sea and its weed to sort things out, and clamber up the westernmost embankment of our great continent, finally gaining the roadbed of US 101, the coastal highway.  Here it is called Pacific Coast Highway, as differentiated from its Oregonian definition as Oregon Coast Highway.  Other monikers apply where appropriate, but not here where it’s definitely PCH.  I climb up to a rudimentary shelter, a lifeguard station, refuge from the vicissitudes of pulling swimmers out of tides and waves.  It’s only now that I realize this is a place I have visited a thousand times before.  I grab a stool, an old chair now missing its back, peeling what’s left of its paint that once was orange—like so many things recently of concern.  (Why must our current president spoil even my dreams with his identity as Orange Baby Man?)  The row of holes is left by extracted chair-back vertical elements—once there, now gone.

My arms reach for this artifact of my subconscious, an action I recall having repeated countless times.  I know what happens now: I lean back and look up, and there atop the overhanging bluff is a great tree.  It is old, and it is grey, and it is magnificent.  Bare-limbed and arrogant, it crowns the apex of this western promontory.  So, what’s to be done?  I grab the stool, turn it around so it fits the situation, and sit down to puzzle what to do next.

Finding myself here reminds me of how many times I looked up and marveled at the great buildings rimming that cliff-side aerie.  As a newbie store owner, when I first undertook to revitalize the old Fahrenheit 451 bookstore, I often glanced upward as I bustled about Laguna’s commercial district, itself strung along Coast Highway at near zero elevation, right at the edge of sand and sea.  I had no time to explore.  Running-a-business turned out to be a single all-consuming event.  It took all my time, and as it turns out, all my money.  I remember wondering who inhabited those amazing structures that graced such an enviable location at the western end of everything-American this side of Hawaii.  In my fantasies, I imagined them to be wealthy socialites, ostentatiously educated, smart enough to get amazingly rich.  I promised to someday drive up along those cliffs and explore—but never did it.  There was always something more important to do, something attached to a deadline, something soul numbing but necessary.  It wasn’t until several years into that grand misadventure, after I had added my retired father to the F451 payroll, that one evening I pointed out to him, with more than a bit of awe, the glittering community twinkling along Laguna’s elevated rim.  “Have you been up there?” he asked— a simple question with a lot of baggage.

After I confessed to never having driven up to Laguna Heights for a reality check, it was just like him to insist that not another day must pass without doing just that.  We revved up the car and scaled the bluffs.  The entire cliff edge with all those glorious seaside views was lined, not with mansions but with restaurants, classy but not prohibitively expensive.  Access to any of them was surely within our means.  Those enviable outdoor tables with their stupefactive views could all this time have seated me, my guests and my extended family stopping by for a visit while on California-or-bust road trips.  I felt like a numbskull, a certifiable nitwit.  It was a typical lesson from my dad.  He had spent a lifetime modeling for me how to define my world and make it serve my purposes, rather than being constrained by the creativity of my fears.

Before week’s end, I had reserved a table for four at the Quiet Cannon, a white-tablecloth eatery that was to become one of my favorite hangouts during those Laguna years.  I especially loved it because although it was once called “The Quiet Woman,” (demurely depicted on its sign by a headless human female) it had in enlightened times changed to the more dignified “Quiet Cannon,” itself a puzzling oxymoron.  We also learned to frequent several other spots perfect for celebrating sunsets while dining and imbibing along that once frightful overlook.  This became a place where memories were made.  Indeed it was there at the Quiet Cannon, only a few months later, that Daddy met me for dinner, gave me my copy of his will, explained the solemn duties of an executrix, and detailed his sad diagnosis of Alzheimer’s Dementia.  Perhaps that explains why a grand old tree haunts my dreams as a lucent avatar of wisdom, competing with Pacific lighthouses for that silent signal honor.

Hubris

When the Challenger lifted off on that fateful day in January of 1986, it was never to complete its mission, thanks to management taking over the place of engineering as prime decision-maker about something that was consummately technical. Those O-rings weren’t designed to function at the temperature predicted for that liftoff. Engineering provided the factual imperative to scrub the mission. Management ignored their input. The rest is a history that should inform, but too often doesn’t.

Donald Trump, sporting his “Keep America Great” hat, held forth during his tour of The Centers for Disease Control, and remarking on his “unusual aptitude for understanding the intricacies of Corona Virus prevention and mitigation” is comedic. Perhaps tragedic is a better term. This is particularly off-putting to my understanding since I lived through a similar catastrophe in 1970, working for Varo Engineering. Varo’s Static Power Division in Sherman, Texas was solely dedicated to making high voltage power supplies for night vision devices. It was a uniquely specialized product, historically successful under the leadership of Ernie Reich, a savvy electrical engineer.

Things went very well until a change of plant manager upset everything. Tom Robinson came in with much fanfare and put himself forward as Mr. Know-it-all. He decided to make a change to the basic design that could not work—ever. Even I, as a mere manufacturing engineer, understood that what he was planning was impossible. That was when I decided to save poor Mr. Robinson from himself. I went to his office, sat down, and explained why what he was planning would not be advisable. Somehow, he failed to understand that I was doing him the best of favors. The next thing I knew my supervisor was giving me an exit interview. No, all those excellent performance reviews didn’t matter. Tom Robinson wanted me out.

I was out, but soon found work down the road at Texas Instruments where they remembered all those good years spent at Richardson TI’s Apparatus Division. No sooner had I gotten settled down that I learned what happened back at Varo. Robinson made his star-crossed design change to high voltage multipliers. Reich quit and started his own company in his garage, Reich Associates. The military pulled Varo’s contract, awarding it instead to Ernie Reich. Varo’s Static Power Division went belly up, and I did some moonlighting mold design for Ernie for a while just to rub it in.

Don’t be consoled with the idea that Trump’s shenanigans may yield any such benevolent outcome, though even the most cosmic definition of God won’t allow for evil to prevail in the end. When even Democrats can cooperate to mount a siege, as in four presidential candidates withdrawing to make sure someone who can beat Trump is nominated, something momentous is surely afoot.

I haven’t failed to grasp, however, the significance of my own piece of hubris as I marched into a new plant manager’s office to tell him how best to do his job. It is so easy to become convinced in the perfection of an opinion that wisdom fails. That’s when disaster puts on his “Keep America Great” hat and chaos runs amok. But if you wash your hands every twenty minutes, you won’t have time to get into trouble, and if Corona virus gets the last laugh, they won’t blame you.

My most important function here at Redeemer is to get hold of myself.  I need to decide what I believe and why.  At Thursday Morning Bible Study, that just might happen.  We are learning to trust each other.  That means daring to ask hard questions and grow with the answers.  It means putting words to our pain and asking for prayer, and meeting the answers with gratitude.  It’s learning that these friends will call you out when you are being stupid, but will love you anyway, especially if you keep on trying.  We are getting to be cozy with the Good Book, and trying out a lively variety of its verities.

The most exciting thing I have been doing is inviting people to sample our special take on being Christian.  There is so much going on here that it’s natural to offer to share it with others, especially when some certain thing we are doing would so enrich their lives.  My grandson, Remington, finally came to check us out on Christmas Eve, and we enjoyed the warmth of a hygga fireplace and a cup of Christmas tea after the service.  He is a baritone, a guitarist, and a computer wizard, who after work likes to multiplex his soundtracks on his home computer to amazing effect.  A midnight tour of our premises ignited his imagination with respect to the Celtic service.  He promises to attend one of those soon.  Who knows where that may go?

Other than praying about it and promoting it, what am I actually doing?  I’m busy with a lot of things, but the choir is my anchor as a church member.  It’s a place where I can show up and know there’s work to be done, work I can still do, even as an old person.  Sure it’s a major concern whether this is the day I won’t make it up the aisle when balance fails, and my old computer injury keeps gnawing at my shoulder bones as I heft that music folder through yet another service.  But I can still pick up an unfamiliar score and read the soprano line like a pro.  That feels good—good to hope I might still be viable.  I’ll never sing another solo, but I can be part of the perfect harmony. 

It feels calming to make sure the choir room chairs line up just right to greet our singers as they enter, and I arrive early at rehearsal to make that happen.  I like to record our Sunday anthems when they are memorable.  My IPhone pew-sits right in front of the Tenors.  It’s set at Voice Memos and its red button, pushed-to-start, makes a beautiful memory of a morning anthem.  I text it to my sister, who just this year lost her husband, and often to my musical grandchildren who are popping up like genetic mushrooms all over the country.  Sure it may be a bit Tenor heavy, but I love tenori.  If we wait for perfect, we’ll never get anything done.  I’m making noises about doing some proper recording of the choir so we can make a CD and raise some money for our 2021 Scotland pilgrimage.  There’s even politicking to be done, trying to get the choir listed in our bulletin as a proper participant in Sunday services. 

Whatever I do at Redeemer seems to circle back to Bible Study and the prayer that sets the tone for everything else.  That’s where we go each week to pick Philip DeVaul’s brain.  It’s not so much that he tells us what to think, but that he makes us want to.  The ideas he brings to our attention are so vibrant, we spend the whole week dissecting them.  Sometimes we even feel inspired to think thoughts of our very own.  I just finished such an exploration titled ‘House of God.’  It was based on a real dream, a place visited many times in rem sleep but never before recalled on awakening.  It reads as follows:

“She sees it.  It’s there, hanging in the mist, wanting to become a real thing.  She swims in her vision, aching to get to it, sensing that this is the final answer—if there is a final answer.  Only at times like these does wanting make it so.  The haze clears as she nears, to reveal a stone church, once a place where people came for refuge, to worship and to pray.  They sensed it to be a sacred altar where God, if there was one, might hear what they had to say, even to themselves.  Their prayer lay full-formed in their minds, wanting to be muscled into striving, into belief that such things are possible—into faith.

“In the clarity of pre-dawn, she approaches the structure and wonders why it is so small, why so spare and lacking in any claim to magnificence.  She is not impressed.  Perhaps, she thinks, this is but a fool’s errand and I need not enter in.  I could leave, go back, give up, just go away and pretend I never even determined to haunt this old relic—but no.  She keeps on.  If there were outbuildings they are long gone and cleared away.  All that’s left is this one edifice reaching from out of the mist and beckoning.  She moves her feet, a studied pattern of will.  She wants to go inside and meet what she finds there—waiting—just for her. 

“There must have been a steeple long ago, but all that’s left is a discontinuity of roofline where once rocks took on an upward urge and bravely pointed the way to spirit—or to God.  If there were a door she would open it, but it has long ago succumbed to the ravages of time and age.  Only the memory of a door remains as the evidence of its past attachment, the holes left by long lost bolts and rustic cinctures.  She reaches out to touch the tiny apertures.  They are really there.  Satisfied, she engages feet and steps inside.  The dawn has not yet found its way inside this shaded vestibule.  She stops to breathe and say a prayer of thanks for this quiet entrance into what was surely a place of prayer, where folk arrived to safety, from who knows what alarms.  A deep breath, and she draws herself in her entirety into the main vault of the surround.  Only then does she look down.

“There, under her feet, are a quadrillion tiny stones, gathered there to form the underlayment of what she might—perhaps—believe to be real.  They are formed as part of the natural order of things, shaped by grinding against all other stones in an ancient river of time.  Every stone is perfect in its own intrinsic way, formed as it was out of its own primordial way of being.  She bends down and scoops up a handful of the variegated gravel.  The colors brave the spectrum of universe and reflect every hue of light’s arc of possibility.  Sparkles emanate from inside the hearts of clear gemstones, as occasional rays of white light are simply reflected out, and find purchase in her human retinas.  They celebrate that first incarnation of God as physical matter, as solid mass and rock, as molten magma, cooled and coalesced into earth, bound by gravity’s longing, circling faithfully about what it forever loves.  “These are the jewels of God’s own treasure,” she breathes, as she rolls them between her palms.

“She takes a step and notices the cushion created by movement of slick shiny pebbles sliding over their very selves and providing a safe way for feet to transverse the vastness of this nave.  She smiles, thankful for the insight.  Like most physical representations, these rocks suggest a metaphor for all the many ways of interpreting humanity’s god—one  who was there, must be there, just had to be there.  But how was he to be described?  How understood?  How worshiped, if indeed that was what he required?  She doesn’t pray for an answer.  That would be too simplistic.  She closes her eyes and touches the gratitude of being a form of life on a complex and eloquent planetary expression of Ultimate Being.”

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

When I texted ‘House of God’ to my priest, he actually read it.  That’s major!  I seem to have become a writer in this my last hurrah, and believe me, the most important thing for a writer is to find people who will occasionally read your words.  As an introvert I must think to talk, not talk to think.  Talking and thinking at the same time confounds me.  That’s why I’m so driven to write.  It’s my best way to reach for friendship.

This adventure at Redeemer has assuredly been a roundelay, a song that moves in circles.  Beginning as songs do in the choir room, it is circling ‘out-and-about’ the community, ‘up’ to Rise and Shine, ‘over-under-around-and-through’ Knittin’ Kittens, ‘on’ Sacred Ground, ‘over-the-hill’ to Second Half, and always ‘into’ the prayerful heart of Bible Study.  I love you Redeemer.  You are my church home.

House of God

She sees it.  It’s there, hanging in the mist, wanting to become a real thing.  She swims in her thoughts, wanting to get there, sensing that this is the final answer—if there is a final answer.  Only at times like these does wanting make it so.  The haze clears as she nears, to reveal a stone church, once a place where people came for refuge, to worship and to pray.  They sensed it to be a sacred altar where God, if there was one, might hear what they had to say even to themselves.  Their prayer lay full-formed in their minds, wanting to be muscled into striving, into belief that such things are possible— into faith.

In the clarity of pre-dawn, she approaches the structure and wonders, Why is it so small?  Why so spare and lacking in any claim to magnificence?  She is not impressed.  Perhaps, she thinks, this is but a fool’s errand and I need not enter in.  I could leave, go back, give up, just go away and pretend I never even determined to haunt this old relic—but no.  She keeps on.  If there were outbuildings they are long gone and cleared away.  All that’s left is this one sanctuary reaching from out of the mist and beckoning to her.  She moves her feet, a studied pattern of will.  She wants to go inside and meet what she finds there waiting just for her. 

There must have been a steeple long ago, but all that’s left is a discontinuity of roofline where once rocks took on an upward urge and bravely pointed the way to spirit—or God.  If there were a door she would open it, but it has long ago succumbed to the ravages of time and age.  Only the memory of a door remains as the evidence of its past attachment, the holes left by long lost bolts and rustic cinctures.  She reaches out to touch the tiny apertures.  They are really there.  Satisfied, she engages feet and steps inside.  The dawn has not yet found its way inside this shaded vestibule.  She stops to breathe and say a prayer of thanks for this quiet entrance into what was surely a place of prayer, where folk arrived in safety, from who knows what alarms.  A deep breath and she draws herself in her entirety into the main vault of the surround.  Only then does she look down.

There, under her feet, are a quadrillion tiny stones, gathered there to form the underlayment of what she might believe as real.  They are formed as part of the natural order of things, shaped by grinding against all other stones in an ancient river of time.  Every stone is perfect in its own intrinsic way, formed as it was out of its own primordial way of being.  She bends down and scoops up a handful of the variegated gravel.  Their colors brave the spectrum of universe and reflect every hue of light’s arc of possibility.  Sparkles emanate from inside the hearts of clear gemstones, as occasional rays of white light are simply reflected out, and find purchase in her human retinal plane.  They celebrate that first incarnation of God as physical matter, as solid mass and rock, as molten magma, cooled and coalesced into earth, bound by gravity’s longing, circling faithfully about what it forever loves.  “These are the jewels of God’s own treasure,” she breathes, as she rolls them between her palms.

She takes a step and notices the cushion created by movement of slick shiny pebbles sliding over their very selves and providing a safe way of proceeding for feet to transverse the vastness of the nave.  She smiles, thankful for understanding.  Like most physical representations, these rocks are a metaphor for all the many ways of interpreting a god that was there, must surely be there, just had to be there.  But how was he to be described?  How understood?  How worshiped, if indeed that was what he required?  She doesn’t pray for an answer.  That would be too simplistic.  She closes her eyes and feels the gratitude of being a form of life on a complex and eloquent planetary expression of Ultimate Being.

Chronos

Chronos, full of himself,

  cut a swath in the fabric of time

  with one great sweep

  of his mighty scythe.

Then he was eaten up with remorse

  at the thought of so many lovely minutes

  sacrificed to his impetuosity.

He swore a solemn oath

  for all to hear and remember:

“Between those who love

  minutes shall become eternal,

  shall live forever as timeless moments.”

There is an enchanted space

  between “the you” and “the me”

  where all can be,

Where time is not measured

  in fascist minutes and hours,

  but instead calibrates itself

 in slices of forever.

Seconds goose-step past,

  an ordered flow

  of diminutive helmeted Gestapo,

  moving on, marking time.

But we aren’t recognized

  nor counted in the enchanted

  hollow of our space.

Be patient.  Yes.

Step carefully, slowly.

This is unmapped territory.

Phallic imperatives do not apply,

  do not compute.

The urge and urgency

  of goal set and achieved,

  of point wagered and won,

  object objectified.

Between “the us”

  all these are null.

Time has been neutered.

Flow has assumed

  an aspect of the feminine.

Action leads to action

  as rationality condones.

Gone is striving to completion,

  to resolution.

Time has appropriated

  for itself new meaning.

Each moment contains

   and is contained by

   all the moments that ever were

   or ever will become.

In the quiet spiral of our ocean conch,

I hear only silence,

   save surge of breath and beat of heart.

As we intertwine,

   eyes open wide and clear,

   time looks graciously away,

   and leaves us to our sacred space.

My eyes feast upon

  the tender curve of your lips.

My fingers touch and trace

  their gentle arch and swell,

  meeting left and right.

Time has gifted us this moment

  that minutes cannot define,

  describe, delimit.

More than happy, I am happiness.

With no goal to strive toward,

No plan unrolls before me

  demanding that I “do” in order to “be”.

“I am that I am”, as “you are surely you.” 

Dare I plagiarize the poesy of the divine?

It was Moses’ God first coined that line,

His as flame, mine constrained to word.

The winds of your love

  flow gentle through my hair

  while those silken silver strands

  cocoon the enchantment of our magic.

In a land far away

  but as close as your next breath,

  where all moments, that ever were

  converge, and  time becomes eternal.

All minutes become moments

  in one temporal orgasmic scream.

This is the land where time stands still

  and hearts skip beats,

  and worlds come wobbling

  and lurching to a stop.

There is food here for philosophers,

  but I am merely sated and fulfilled,

  forever being and becoming love.

Feeling Good

What’s the best feeling you ever had—the absolute most glorious thing you ever experienced?  Is that a satisfactory gravatar of what it is to be “the you?”  What was happening to engender such a feeling?  Where were you?  Who was with you?  Slip into your memory of that posture—that place—that time.  Is it an actual experience or a fantastic one, allowing you to flow into the full spectrum of your mentality?

Sometimes it is useful to pose such a question to your vision of another, a person you love and want more fully to apprehend.  If I query my understanding of my son, Kurt, for instance, what comes up is always the new father, still in the delivery room, accepting a tiny bundle from a smiling midwife.  For him in that defining moment, everything inverts.  It’s all made new.  Burton snowboards, with their endless egoic expression of primal urge, instantly evaporate, to be replaced with making all things possible for this nascent confabulation of endowment.  Kurt is a dad!  This vision never fails to make me happy.  Kurt is my youngest.  He follows in some big footprints left by Dale and Lane, his big brothers who showed him how to be the best of men.  My favorite memory of the three of them is in Lee Vining, the Sierra village where we ran an architectural design firm.  Hard at work at my drafting table, a knock on the office door heralds the arrival of the two big guys. They have stopped at Lee Vining market, picked up a pound of ground beef, hamburger buns, and fixin’s.  They are off to Lee Vining canyon, the eastern gateway to Yosemite.  They want to jump in Lane’s pickup and go make lunch at the Tarns.  “Let’s go! they say.  Kurt too!  Even Larry, if he’s around.  I throw down my drawing instruments, grab a sweater, roust Kurt from his favorite spot under my table, and we’re off!  It’s hard to find a braver memory or a better feeling—well-nigh impossible.

As a parent, such feelings abound, and can be summoned to joyful effect with respect to their offspring.  All too soon they define what it means to become a grandparent, and since others are in sync with the whole mechanism, small wonder that social groups disallow endless ecstatic diatribes describing the genius propensities of offspring.  They understand, but would rather go on and on about the attributes of their own progeny.

When I first became a tool designer at Texas Instruments, most all of my time was spent at my drafting table.  That’s the way it was, before computer aided design.  I was new to office politics, and thought it was something I myself had somehow created out of my penchant for dreaming up wacky widgets.  All the small-minded grousing, theirs and mine, hurt.  I wanted to feel something different when I worked at my table.  So I would rummage up some beautiful nature photo, typically from a calendar that displayed quiet gentle elements of the natural world, fading away to an infinite distance.  If I taped such an image to the back edge of my drawing table lamp, the picture would appear to glow.  As I perched on my stool and worked away, I could gradually enter that image and become that peace.  It took me a while to separate office strife from something that truly mattered, and such attitude adjustments helped a great deal to get me through trying times.

That was a visual, but it works with auditory input as well.  I have a thing going with the movie, Sound of Music.  Maria Von Trapp and I must have been soulmates.  Maria, finding love in all the right places, is every bit Dorothy Jeanette—might-as-well-be orphan, tom-boy, wanna-be-religious, not sure about all those children, but finally delighting in them, dreaming of and winning her own true loves, matrimonial then maternal.  Julie Andrews only acted the part.  I lived it, pirouetting on a West Virginia hilltop, singing my heart out to the wind that blew through the trees and the birds who shared that glory with me.  Bluebirds and skylarks took flight—swooping again and again across swales of verdant green.  They rode that ocean of floral fecundity as life bloomed!  I was part of it!  Julie could only playact and sing.  I made real babies and figured out how they worked, or tried to.  I didn’t always do it right, but I did it with fervor.  It has become apparent that if I am in a sour mood, I have but to load the Sound of Music onto any available auditory output device, and my attitude improves.  That is not unlike hanging a visual image from a drawing lamp to get through a mean workday.

Place is a potent factor in titrating what we want to feel.  We all have places catalogued in our psyche that are sure to adjust how we perceive the world and ourselves.  I have but to remember the green hills of West Virginia, the gentle flow of Hughes River past the old swinging bridge, around the rectangle of the Peck field, past our cabin where we started three beautiful children and my whole presence feels like a long deep breath.  Going there for a visit would be great, but I hear the bridge has washed away and most of the trees have been harvested by loggers.  Sometimes reality fails, and remembrance of things past serves quite well, thank you.

For a long while I hated being in my little apartment, bitter that it didn’t accommodate all the things that once made me feel like a power player.  They had all fallen away, as well they should.  I have only recently learned to appreciate the quiet peace it provides, and to savor the soft power of where things go, what gets thrown away or saved, and when the lights go out at night.  It’s my place.  My hand holds the clicker.  That’s a good thing.

When I want to feel the nearness of God, I look into my heart, but when I want to experience his love at work in the world, I go to church.  It is there that I practice making friends—saying things that cause them to stay and chat, rather than flee to talk to somebody with more social skills.  It is there that I study what I can’t make up, but must learn from other people.  It’s a place to practice the habit of appreciating others and, scariest of all, of allowing them to appreciate me.  Church is my most important place to be, especially at this deconstructing time of life.  There I find people who are also learning the things they probably should have learned long ago, but like me were sure they knew, if not everything, at least enough it to affect a degree of hauteur.

My favorite feeling is the one I call the Titanic Moment.  It’s the one most likely to achieve successful orgasm.  In fantasy mode I scale the prow of the great ship, climb outside the guardrail, and face the wind, greeting it with purposeful abandon, looking toward whatever comes and daring it to be more powerful than my own vision.  Feet set apart as a sturdy base, I spread my arms—a welcome to whatever dares to come.  Don’t hold on!  Have faith that the wind will hold you hard against that railing.  It’s the thing that MLK calls a mountaintop experience.  We all have them.  The important thing is to not forget them.  Unlike seagulls, we can’t maintain that lofty perch every day, but when the time is right, we want to go there and sing into the wind—maybe even cry if it’s just too wonderful.

What good feelings do I miss the most?  Adopting a new puppy, promise of total unconditional love—the only sass a bark.  It’ll never quip “whatever” as a saucy parting shot.  I live in a pet-unfriendly apartment, so the happiness of a warm puppy has to be only a memory.  Then there’s the sweet satisfaction of snuggling with a mate, promises made and kept, facing what’s to come as a team.  That’s not likely to be again encountered in this lifetime, but who knows about the next?

And last, what feeling am I most happy, in spite of the vicissitudes of age, to still enjoy?  Being heard!  That’s a satisfaction courted for a lifetime, seldom achieved, but giddily celebrated when it occurs.  I experience it as a quotidian gift on the morning of every Monday among my dear writers.  Yes, it must be earned, but when our words take to the air, it’s a gift of sense to sense, one that must be given with humility, accepted with grace, and reciprocated with joy.  I am still giggling from this past Thanksgiving, when my three sons and I shared our own literary encounter.  It reminded me that love is listening—the purest validation there is.

Fault

Of course it was my fault.  These things are always my fault.  In my universe, if I love something it dies.  Dick Hellman was a most ardent fan, especially when I wrote of things that might raise eyebrows.  He actually liked them.  His favorite was Massage, a piece that recounted a top to toe titillation that somehow led to a rip-roaring release of absolutely everything.  I managed to tell the tale with honesty, yet hold on to a degree of decorum.  Dick loved it and made a point of telling me so.  He liked my stories about inventions created in service to military aero-space, engaging his own memory of personal engineering triumphs.  We shared a similar work history.  He, ever the gentleman, hesitated to veer into what might be viewed as braggadocio but, spurred by the group’s acceptance of my own chest-beating, felt inspired to write some of his own at-a-boys.  It was good to be one of the guys along with the likes of Dick Hellman, but now he’s dead. 

I just this month wrote an exposé concerning our string-theory strung-together universes postulating that we humans each create our own.  Mine is the one wherein my one-of-a-kind only daughter is terminated by a vehicle—and now there’s Dick getting harvested by a car that seemed not to give a damn.  Jesus famously said, “The kingdom of heaven is within you.”  It follows as the night the day: “So is the kingdom of hell.” 

My fateful day in 1963 Pennsboro, West Virginia, April eleventh to be precise, was the first lovely day of spring following yet another ravaging winter of frozen.  Everybody was outside enjoying that first morning when even sweaters could be tossed aside.  Not I however.  I had to write.  Completing my baccalaureate at a local teachers college, I had to finish a term paper or bust.  I was up and down, first writing, then up patrolling the windows to check on the kids.  Dale was trustworthy, and Melanie was way too smart to get into trouble.  Of that I was sure.  All would be well.  When a motorcycle broke down and pulled off the road at the far end of our property, the kids came and asked permission to watch the effort to get it up and running.  I agreed, reaffirming my instruction to stay off the road.  They promised, and I returned to work.  Then…

Dorothy sat at her typewriter fingering the keys, not choosing any to strike.  She looked out the window, past the ancient oak tree and saw an old car coming round the bend, emerging slowly from beyond the fringe of willows where a two-lane bridge spanned the creek.  It was a sedan, faded green, dust from the road etching a soft haze on the window glass.  The old man inside wore thick bottle glasses, a concession no doubt to cataract surgery.  In 1963, intraocular lenses had yet to be invented.  He strained, stretching and squinting, to see over and beyond the steering wheel.  An oncoming car had stopped for a chat with the across-the-street neighbor, pulling over onto the wrong side of the road.  Confused, the driver’s decision wavered as he veered to the right, off the asphalt and onto roadside gravel.  He didn’t see Melanie who had spied a pretty pink stone and decided to harvest it.  Time slowed, then inched forward, like the old car.

Dorothy looked out the window, unseeing.  Instead, she huddled, now only a slash of thought in a crook of the oak tree, where lowermost branch joined trunk.  It was a good place to be, the breeze sorting through new green leaves.  It reminded her of her tree at grandpa’s house, where she could swing higher and higher, flying with the wind right into blue bowl of sky.  Her mind reached for the dense center of grandfather oak.  She whispered, “Tree, I am here.”

“I see you,” breathed the oak tree, rattling his branches.  “I know you and your children.  You love them more than life, but now you aren’t seeing them.  Look!  The car comes closer.  It’s going to impact your little girl.  Don’t be afraid to see what is real.  You think you should stop it from coming, but there is nothing you can do.  Nothing.  Humans are strange and wonderful creatures.  I have always known them since first I split that acorn husk.  They are good, for the most part.  But they don’t know themselves, don’t have the courage to be who they really are.  Maybe it’s because they aren’t firmly planted like me.  See my roots?  You can see how strong they are even before they dig deep—deep into the earth. 

Well now!  Humans have to move about.  With no roots they must have a hard time knowing they belong anywhere at all.  Isn’t that true?”  The old oak sighed, leaves rustling gently.  He sensed the young woman standing by the window, her eyes first wide with terror, then dead with denial.  A firm understanding with the earth was for him a source of substantial pride.  But in some ways he envied the woman her ability to freely walk upon the earth, to move and act and yes—to accomplish.  “No wonder she toils at her pitiful little typing machine.  I wish I could create a poem, or a story.  God knows what a tale I could tell.  I’ve seen so much, felt so much, remembered so much.”  My heart shelters hers, he thought, arching his branches over the spot where her soul huddled, a refugee from terror.  “Dorothy,” he spoke firmly, the north wind gusting through his topmost branches.  It sent chills rippling down his bark, “You know what is happening to Melanie.  You do know.  If you keep that from yourself you will be slashed from top to bottom like a tree split in a lightning strike.”  Dorothy shuddered, her center of knowing dancing a phosphorescent jig on the tree limb.

“I know,” she said and dived off the branch, tumbling over and over, finally steadying into a glide.  She veered to the right, banked a degree to the left, willed herself up and up, just clearing a roof’s ridge, and thudded down onto an eaves-trough.  She clung to the metal edge, reeling from what she had let herself know.  She could see her oak tree, now far across the yard standing quiet and still, and she missed his solid center.  As she visualized the strength of the oak, she became that strength and was thankful.

“If indeed you are strong and brave, and have good eyes, you can see everything from here,” a crisp voice beside her announced.  Startled, she jumped and turned to face the corner-most clapboard shingle that was pointing urgently toward the road where the green sedan approached, crunching roadside gravel.  The shingle gathered up his importance and nodded.  He inspected this fragment of a human, feeling strange to address a consciousness so foreign, albeit just a disarticulated thought.  He brushed the edge of empathy, but skirted it with care.  “She wants to see,” he mused.  “Needs to, if I am correct.  But won’t let herself, if I am equally correct.”  He gazed past the disambiguated thought and watched as the car rolled forward, the bumper nudging the girl’s shoulder, spilling her onto the roadway.  The right front tire caught her shoulder and slowly rolled over her head, crushing her skull like a hairy melon.  “You saw,” he said.

“I saw,” Dorothy gasped, and pitched forward, tumbling from the eave and dropping to the walk below.  The spirit that was her knowing spiraled and coiled tighter, spinning into itself until it was a ball and rolled slowly down the walk, bounce-bounce-bouncing gently down-down-down the steps, out to where the child lay sprawled beside the road.  It nudged a still small hand and stopped.

The road rumbled to the ball, “Why are you here?”  She waited for an answer, and hearing none, stretched herself from east to west, and from west to east, on around the bend and across the bridge.  It felt good to stretch, since it was what she did best, extending in her mighty concrete and asphalt web from sea to shining sea.  The road was a well-grounded entity, more in contact with the earth than even the oak tree with his venerable roots.  The road rolled over the land seemingly forever.  She perceived more than any human could ever hope to see or know.  And she did even more.  She understood.  She knew why that living sphere of anguish hid beneath the child’s pale hand.  In that moment she pitied the woman, still standing by the window, having sent her soul alone to acknowledge what she herself could not.  The road smoothed her mighty lap and accepted the child as she lay ruined, her blood slowly pooling about her head while the siren from the approaching ambulance grew louder and louder.  The road groaned, touching the pain of the woman and of the child, one of body, one of mind.  And in the touching was born an understanding shared by the woman and by the road.  Dorothy turned from the window and walked slowly back to her desk.  She sank to her chair and began—began to type…

Did I see what happened?  I must have, but now fifty-six years later I have absolutely no real memory of it.  Blocked?  I hope so.  I have tried to tell that story, tried to write it down, but have always failed.  I got close with this silly fiction told in the voices of inanimate beings and objects.  Maybe leaning on Dick’s Hellmann’s strength I can do better:

Much later in Ritchie County’s main courthouse, Judge Max DeBerry personally             questioned witnesses to the accident.  It was my first time to hear the information:

Gale Hammet, retired Pennsboro High School Principal explained how he made ice cream that first day of good weather and wanted to share it with the neighbors.  His expansive nature came through in his testimony:

“I made some peach ice cream in my old hand crank mixer with what was left of last year’s canning.  It was super good, and I wanted to share it.  I hailed a couple of ol’ boys headed into town and they crossed over to my side of the road.  We were catching up while they ate, and then everything happened.”

Judge DeBerry asked, “Did they come into your house?”

“No, they stayed in their truck and ate while we talked.”

“Who else shared your ice cream?” the Judge queried.

Hammet gulped and cleared his throat.  “A boy whose motorcycle had broken down, and the Taylor children, Dale and Melanie.  They all came over and had some.”

“Did the children have permission to cross the road?”

“I told them it was alright if they were careful.  Then after they got their ice cream, I made sure they were back on their side safe and sound.”

“Where was their mother?”

“In her house.”

“Did you see the accident?”

 “I saw it all.  When the old man came around the bend he slowed down and looked confused.  My buddies were parked on my side but were heading the wrong way to match his understanding of things.  The old man pulled off the asphalt onto the Taylor side, to go around the wrong-way truck, and ran over the girl.  It was horrible.  I picked her up and carried her to the Taylor’s front porch.  I called out.  Mrs. Taylor came to the door and       asked what had happened.  I explained that Melanie was gone.  Mrs. Taylor didn’t seem to miss a beat and said that moving her might make it hard to heal her injuries.  She said to put her back carefully just like she was, so I wouldn’t get into any trouble.  Worried about me, she was.  She went back inside then and closed the door.  She must have called the ambulance, ‘cause in just a couple of minutes I heard it while I was watching over the     child’s body.”

 The Judge, pale in spite of his long experience with such matters, told Mr. Hammond to provide personal identifying information about the men in the truck to the Clerk of the Court, and to step down for now.

    
  I heard one of my attorneys whisper to the other, “Let’s sue the whole kit and caboodle!”

Later I told him to forget that.  I didn’t want to make any money out of what had happened.  My daughter was not for sale.  The old man took the accident especially hard and swore to never drive again.  That, I agreed, was for the best, but I felt bad for him.  I remembered how my grandfather, a retired preacher and Watkins Products salesman felt when returning to his Model T after a sales call at a private home.  He drove off, crushing
one of the children who had crawled under his car to enjoy the shade.  One evening as the sun was setting, I gathered my thirteen month old, Lane, snug for the night in his footie pajamas, and walked down the road with Dale, my five-year-old, to call on the old man. He cried when he saw us, but I comforted him.  “Don’t worry,” I made my mouth smile and crinkled my eyes, dry with what felt like a fixed stare.

“See, I have two more babies.  We’ll do ok.  I know you didn’t mean to do it.”  I left then before I might intrude into his personal grief.

 Judge DeBerry came through for me, granting me custody of the remaining minor  children, but in keeping with West Virginia jurisprudence, I had to wait for seven years before I might be granted dissolution of matrimony…

All this came boiling to the surface last week with the killing of yet another loved person.  Dick Hellmann liked my writing; I liked his.  That’s what we do at the Monday Morning Writers Group.  He was definitely part of my universe of constructed reality.  Since 2010 when I first joined the group, I have been making a place for myself at the writer’s table.  I come early every week and make sure the furniture is arranged to accommodate the group’s needs.  I like to make sure any extra chairs are rendered inaccessible to those who would camp on our periphery, engage their smart phones, and spoil our time reading and listening and socializing.

It’s been a time for me to try and understand myself, even though I thought it was about getting them to understand me.  They are still wondering what I am about.  There are some things yet to be explained—like why I wouldn’t accept that Melanie couldn’t be fixed and needed to be given a soft berth in the house rather than being carefully fit into some crime scene configuration along the extended berm of Mountain Drive.  Why was I the only one who couldn’t cry?  Why did I run around consoling everybody else when I was surely dying inside?  My thought process doesn’t yet arrange itself around that part of the story, but it will.  If I keep attending MMWG, and singing in the choir at Church of the Redeemer, and showing up for the camaraderie of bible study, and if I keep on writing and writing and writing, maybe I’ll get it figured out.

Reality

Nothing just happens.  Is it some kind of cosmic happenstance that caused you and me to be living at this precise time in the construct of universal reality?  How was it that we came to be living beings at this exact juncture of what is?  If we could have chosen the most important century to inhabit, in the most influential political entity on earth, given the most fascinating technological amazements ever to be achieved in the history of history, how could we have chosen better than here and now?

Things keep happening to remind me of this serendipitous truthiness.  Last week my phone went bad like it always does when I venture into West Virginia.  When I returned to Ohio it did its best but couldn’t engage its GPS, so I chose to duck into my son’s house and borrow his WIFI to urge my iPhone back into sentient service.  It worked.  Then I left and stupidly abandoned my purse on his living room couch.  My phone is so much smarter than I.

That senior moment required that I meet Lane and his sweetie the next day and retrieve the purse that contained all my credit cards, cash, and personal ID.  Lane set a time and place to meet: The Starbucks close to Northgate Mall.  When I got close, I asked SIRI to find it for me, but all she would do was search, and search, and search…  The intersection of Colerain and US Route 275 is interesting enough, but how many times can you negotiate it before you begin to feel more than a bit foolish?

Finally I just gave up.  I rolled into an available parking lot and meandered about, turning the steering wheel wherever inspiration dictated.  I kept an eye out for the little green Starbucks Siren, but it was nowhere.  Finally, one set of turns put me into a parking area close to Colerain Avenue.  I hesitated, looked straight ahead, and there at eye level in six foot high green letters was STARBUCKS.  Not only that, but my Highlander was lined up with the premiere parking space right at the front door.  It was empty and beckoning.  “Come hither,” it said.  “Park.”

Was that the serendipity that I love to blather about?  It keeps happening, assuring everything stays on track, toward what I don’t know.  But I’m glad it does.  Like deja vu, whenever it happens I assume I must be on my right path.  I pulled in to the space, locked the car, entered the coffee store, and ordered a decaf tall cappuccino.  No sooner had I sat down to wait than a dearly familiar male voice behind me said, “Mom?”

What I’m daring to suggest is that we, all of us, create our own realities out of where we find ourselves as physical manifestations.  There is considerable physics to support this wild possibility.  String theory talks about multiple universes that overlay and interlace each other.  Maybe they are created by you and me as we swim in special realities, yours and mine and ours.

I continue to marvel at the somewhat agreed-upon stories shared among family members.  Everyone, it seems, has a slightly different remembrance of things past.  Trial lawyers and accident investigators speak of how differently various witnesses attest to what happened.  According to them, that is just an aspect of human nature.  What if it isn’t just faulty memory, but different lived experience?  What if in my universe things play out just a wee bit differently from what they do in yours?