11. A Novel Idea

The little bell that jingles when I walk through the door always makes me feel invited, and even though I don’t like cats I tolerate Emerson’s affectionate nuzzle against my leg.

“Maybe I’ll revisit Emerson today, Ralph Waldo that is, or maybe Thoreau, or Steinbeck, or some other classic literature giant,” I thought as I ran my fingers over the stacks of cracked spines.

No matter how often I read them, I will not tire of the eloquence in East of Eden, Walden Pond, Self-Reliance.

You see, they make me feel more my age; these persuasive men, these yellowed pages. 

10. In A Cappella

There are few things that make me more insecure than hearing the noise of my own voice unaccompanied by a melodious symphony of sounds.

So, when the band ceased the playing of their instruments on Sunday and continued with an A cappella chorus, I paused momentarily, unsure with my voice no longer camouflaged by the thick reverberation from the speakers.

That was, until I heard the most beautiful cacophony of sounds. Voices high and low, on key and off; my brothers and sisters singing in perfect union; so, I unabashedly joined in…

.. Nothing compares to this love, love, love…

9. Textured Language

Try as I might to decipher the languages placed before me on a daily basis, I’m constantly getting lost in the heady, dense jargon of my fellow scientists and thick, sugar-coated mess of the overtly Christian conversations in which I often partake. I attempt but even falter in the disciplines of icy slander and abrasive sarcasm. 

However, I never lose my way in the simple fluidity of a warm embrace; there isn't confusion in unblemished, selfless service. As imperfect as it may or may not be, my heart always beats in sync with the soft spoken sentiment, I love you. 

‎"Language, imperfect as it may be, is the realizer of our world. It is the texture of our thoughts."

Juxtaposition

A slightly labored breath escaped the tiny mouth of the newborn baby boy I cradled gently in the crevasse of my arms. “You’ll figure it out little buddy,” I thought as I realized how strange it must be to learn something like breathing. Weird and wonderful to think that 48 hours prior breathing wasn’t even on his radar. When his tiny wrinkled hand slipped around my finger and gripped it tightly, the progression of my thoughts went somewhere I wasn’t expecting. Time warped into a different hospital room with an equally wrinkled hand wrapped tightly around mine, all fingers inter woven.

His breaths were labored also but not because it was a new phenomenon.  No, as he reached his final cap, his allotted number so to speak each one became more exerted, deliberate, and full of intention. “You’ll figure it out grandpa,” I thought, as I realized how strange it must be for him to begin to fully know that time is short, finite here.

The juxtaposition is eerily similar for me. I remember tracing the lines of their faces with my eyes, taking in each feature, trying desperately to etch the gravity of the situation in my mind forever because moments like these don’t just happen every day. Feeling my heart swollen with emotion; immense adoration hidden in the warmest chamber of my heart.

Remembering now, I can’t help but wonder if their thoughts spun in the same direction. I can’t help but wonder that in the birth and death of the day, if we all desire little more than to grip on to the tangible love in front of us, to hold tightly to that which brings comfort and peace, to be cradled with affection, to breathe in and out. 

8. Insider

They aren’t MY friends. I’m an outsider to this unique group of four who call Michigan home. I didn’t forge a relationship with them at their camp, in their beloved upper peninsula.  I met them sipping cocktails in a corner booth, supporting our friend, their fifth and my only connection, the beautiful bride to be.

I’d heard plenty about them from Linda’s stories both written and spoken, and the pictures she painted of love, affection and edification couldn’t have been more accurate.

Then somehow when I wasn’t paying attention, somewhere between the cocktails and the vows, they welcomed me in.

7. Personal Tragedy

If I saw it in a movie, I’d look away, or cover my eyes.  I certainly wouldn’t fixate on the details, taking in the sights and sounds and smells.

I wouldn’t know the trajectory of her thoughts, or notice the desperation grow as the minutes accumulate more and more rapidly.

No, I wouldn’t relate to this story. I’d be as naïve as the religious folk we all love to hate. I’d be safe and sound and whole within.

But in this nightmare of a dream I get no such luxury. I’m a front row spectator to my own personal tragedy. 

6. Crash

It sounded like a cracking whip amplified by one hundred. Ten fingers and ten toes, no broken bones; Shattered glass strewn about the car and all over my lap.

I ached all over but not enough to want attention, not enough to want your pity. Gotta be strong; be calm, cool, collected.

I made the statement to the police officer and tried not to be angry, tried not to blame her for being careless, young and scared.

A stiff neck brace and seventeen x-rays later I still tried to be tough, but today, I’m not and I refuse to pretend.