But I have

I am homesick for a place I have never been, 

a place I have never seen. 

Yet, as I wander on the thin map of my life, 

there are places where home finds me, 

there are ways I make it home. 

I remember a table at Stone Oven -

the old Stone Oven -

a pad of paper, a smooth pen, 

her whole self  listening. 

I remember a song sung in a simple church.  

A man, a guitar, three hundred

eyes looking at me as I spoke from 

the second beat of my heart, 

the one that pushes out truth. 

I remember the first time 

I kissed her in the spring outside.

Her lips warm, her face warm, 

her smell like the garden she was planting. 

I remember a day in the pouring rain, 

I remember a toddler wobbling toward me, 

I remember a bridge over a small creek. 

I remember a catch, a car, a star dotted sky. 

I remember six women appearing to circle the bed, 

I remember the last tear I saw on my mother's face. 

I do not have your silent husband, 

I will never have your daughter, your grown son, 

your baby Maya, your new parish to pastor. 

I will never know the still face of a younger sister, 

the vibration of a cello beneath my fingertips. 

But I have a home out there 

that keeps trying to find me, 

who keeps extending her soft hand, 

that faithfully remains, 

so familiar, so patient, 

so willing to wait for me. 

sign language

When I go outside, my 18 month old neighbor shouts, 

"Jeen, Jeen, Jeen."  Then she waddles over to me, 

extends her arms for a hug.  Even though it does not last long, 

she rests her head on my shoulder and pats my back. 

She points out flowers, she overturns rocks to look for bugs, 

she pours water into a cup, then dumps the water out.

Then she may look over at me, mowing or planting, 

point and say my name again.  I like that assurance, 

someone noticing me as I do completely ordinary things. 

And, even though there is a woman 13 miles from here 

who may never see me again who loved me once, 

fiercely and fully, and another woman seven states over

who would hold my aching back without me needing to ask, 

and one, about an hour away, who has not decided

what she will do with me yet, I have this:

The sun, the sky, a vegetable lasagna delivered to my door,  

a man crushing my spring debris into a lawn bag.  

Laughter tipped into giggling near midnight, 

a long drive past a lake, an email from my minister, 

strawberries dipped in sour cream and brown sugar, 

purple myrtle flowers, a cat sitting under my deck table, 

a song that I must turn up every time, a thank you card, 

warm socks, a rearview mirror wave, 

a boy planting seeds in squat position, 

the sound of pennies hitting a nearly full piggy bank, 

and her pressing her tiny fingers together when I head inside, 

as she shouts, "Jeen, more Jeen, more Jeen."

friday the 13th

 

Friday the 13th was the day I fell down the stairs at school and had to be taken to the hospital.  It also was a day, years ago, that I was rejected by my golf team.  So, the day and I have some history.  And, always, I wonder what might happen when it rolls around. 

Yesterday, though, should have been called whatever is opposite from Friday the 13th, maybe Friday the millionth.  Friday the great.  None of this was expected or planned, and that makes it all feel so much more solid and symbolic. 

I received assurances from every possible relationship I have.  A former student, from 12 years ago, came to visit.  Full of vigor and youth.  And athlete, a scholar, in the Army to work out his propensity for risk and action. I was able to support one of my closest working friends with a care package for a big comprehensive exam  and I knew exactly what to get her and why she would like each item.  A friend came over with a birthday present, perfect for me.  So perfect that I know he knows me well and deep and wide.  My neighbors called for help, something broken in their house.  A paramour from the past wrote with stories bridging the gap from when we knew each other to now.  And a friend called to ask if I could help her.  Help her in a way that no one had ever been asked.  Entrusted, I would be entrusted with a really honorable task.

A new acquaintance asked me what about my life surprises me, and after yesterday, it would probably be this: I am known and trusted in a way that my shy and nerdy seventh grade self never imagined would be possible. That there is a web of humanity and I am part of it.  Lucky to be part of it. 

75 reasons

1. He still wears those big glasses

2. He loves his baseball hats

3. He's younger than he is

4. Works hard

5. Always worked hard

6. Will always work hard

7. Has a good sense of order 

8. Listens well

9. Talks softly, never carries a big stick 

10. Meticulous 

11. Held my mom's hand

12. Provided even when stressed

13. Sacrificed even when stressed

14. Made a change 

15. Stuck with the change

16. Is gracious and giving

17. Can kick any crossword puzzle's ass

18. Listens to music

19. Good music

20. Appreciates the most important meal of the day

21. Can grill up some good stuff

22. Remembers to eat fruit

23. Honored his mother and father

24. Didn't give up when giving up would be easy

25. Dignified, but not in a pompous way

26. Cheers loudly for his favorites teams

27. Envelope gifts 

28. Two Christmas trees, every year

29. Made sure to drive us around to look at the lights

30. Coach

31. Timer

32. HORSE companion 

33. Devotes time to the things that matter to him

34. Let my mom get the attention she needed

35. Even if it meant sacrificing some that he may get

36. Bloody Mary recipe (though I do not personally know)

37. Taking us to baseball games 

38. Sharing Amelia Island 

39. Golf (even though he rolls the ball over)

40.  Wears pink shirts proudly 

41. And way before it was popular

42. Loved his dogs

43. Fed them ice cream 

44. Plans ahead

45. Years ahead

46. Is fiscally prepared 

47. Had convertibles 

48. Still wants a convertible

49. Knows how to keep the faith

50. Introduced me to pistachios

51. Permits me to be myself 

52. Defends me for who I am 

53. Smiles really big when he sees his grandchildren

54. Saves his change

55. Then counts and rolls it by hand

56. Can say a really good improvisational prayer

57. Comes when invited

58. Comes when needed

59. Writes in a beautiful way 

60. Organized

61. Open to where the spirit is moving

62. Protective

63. Always brought a gift home after traveling

64. Likes Chik-fil-a

65. Knows what is important and what is not

66. Let me be there when he could not

67. Kind, nice -- two overused words-- 

that in this case are true

68. Voted for Barack 

69. Does not need to be the center of attention

70. Is forgiving

71. Has gone from a pessimist to an optimist

72. But would never admit it 

73. Enjoys the morning sun 

74. Knows the value of sitting on the porch

75. Is trustworthy, reliable

Happy birthday, Dad. 

I finally got it

It came 4 minutes and 32 second ago 

when I was typing my last blog. 

I know why there has been a year of pain.  

Why the aftershocks continue to rumble.  

Where my phases of fleeting hatred well up from. 

We both decided that we were 

the kind of people who returned the cart. 

Metaphorically.  We put things back where they belong.  

We tended to the world carefully. 

And for years, we did that for each other too.  

Finding the fulcrum after any difficulty. 

Going through cycles of challenge, 

but always finding a newer, higher, deeper place. 

We put each other's heart back. 

Except in the end.  You left me out in the parking lot. 

No where near the warmth.  

No where to a safe home. Rain raining, 

snow falling, my wheels rusting in place. 

And I rolled around, wind gusts pushing me, 

bashing into cars and through the traffic. 

I made of wreck of it. 

You did not put the cart back. 

I'd never seen you do that before. 

I'd never known you not to clean up a mess. 

You did not put the cart back. 

Even if it was empty, the food and nourishment 

gone for you.  You did not push the cart back, 

though it would have been so easy to do. 

there was a woman

There was a woman walking down the central aisle of Zagara's,

the kind of woman that turns heads.  

Men's heads, women's heads. 

Her long shiny hair floating behind her, 

her chocolate coat like wings too. 

Her face was perfect, her skin had a warm undertone.

Ebullient eyes, long arms swinging.  

She was my age, maybe even older.  

Leaning toward fifty like her life would last forever.

I could not not look and look again. 

She had a four pack of pudding in her hand, 

golden butterscotch I think. (Odd I know).  

I watched her turn down the pasta aisle. 

She squatted down to inspect the items on the lower shelves. 

Who do you know that looks good down on their haunches?

No one, right?  But she did. 

I started dreaming of meeting her at some Chagrin Falls event, 

I would -- in this imaginary future intersection -- tell her

that I had seen her before and dreamed this friendship 

before she had ever spoken a word.  

It was her hair, her coat, her floating. 

She would laugh, touch my forearm, 

and some deep seed in me would shiver. 

There I was, deep into illusion, when she did it. 

Did the thing that defined her. 

She picked up a whole wheat pasta box, 

then turned and placed her pudding in a sauce display.

Shoved it way in the back where some 

minimum wage teenager would find it hours or days later. 

My hypothetical admiration, 

my loving peasant adoration, 

shrunk away to nothing.  

Everything beautiful about her

dissolved by that one act.

Beauty is more than skin deep. 

Beauty involves butterscotch pudding. 

Where it ends up when you are in a rush. 

Beauty involves carts, if they get walked 

all the way back into the building. 

Beauty involves turn signals, 

if they flutter in plenty of time. 

Beauty's not how well you take care of yourself;

it's how well you take care of others. 

in one year

The sadness has turned into a soft spot, 

more tender bruise than beating. 

My heart is larger, porous, 

more seeping in and out. 

My eyes are darker, my hair more gray.

My skin a little thicker, a little thinner, 

it all depends on the day. 

I have known the kind of pain 

that can recognize all pain. 

(And this is a gift).

I can sit in a cold dark well, 

and not wither, not wrinkle. 

I can play with the water, 

and somehow cleanse the fear. 

I am smarter.  I am smaller. 

I walk lightly on a thin mountain path. 

I am learning to release questions, 

as the trees finally know to drop brown leaves. 

I have traveled long distances in tight spaces, 

and arrived here, where I was, 

on the night it happened, 

but tonight, I am living. 

I am living.  I am living.