The deepest thoughts spill into the darkest hours.

4am.

Something in the quiet wakes me. My dreams must’ve been intense—though whatever they were slips away before I can hold onto their shape. Not anxious, not frightening—the lingering quality is a warm glow of comfort rimmed with excitement. It’s always frustrating when a potentially good story dissolves before I can assign it meaning.

I go for a walk. This morning’s quarter moon lacks inspired brilliance. Not moonless, but a fading light compliments the quiet. The world sleeps in the fourth watch of the night. Circadian rhythms synchronized like a line dance of collapsed humanity.

A delicious breeze greets me—perfectly tempered, not too harsh, with a faint hint of the sea. The trees wave at the starlight, celebrating the early morning stillness.

They whisper, “Praise and honor to our Creator! The Maker of all things who dwells in the glorious heavens above!!” And they applaud with their tendrils stretched skyward.

The sound and motion make me think of ‘The Music Takes Me’ by School of Seven Bells:

I hear you in the trees
 Swaying as you sing to me
 Feeling as your heart 
Pulses through my weary body

This week has been a spiritual and emotional renewal. I discovered a secret oasis again. I feel like I am living once more.

Little drops of concern and kindness have created a new chemistry in me—of happiness, of satisfaction—that had long been stripped away.

My only fear: can it last?

I hope. I pray.

Here in the dark, I can see the man I was—far off in the distance. A happy and excited fellow, brimming with possibility and energizing everything around him. He stands on a hilltop, contemplating how he got lost, trying to navigate his way back by the light of his Northern Star—his Polaris.

So I will try to maintain this fertile ground. I will keep the light on and hope he can trace his way back home again.

I don’t know if you miss him, but I sure do.

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#reflection #essay #memoir #journal #osxs #100daystooffset #writing

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You have been my friend. That in itself is a tremendous thing.

The trip, one for the memory books, is planned for 8 weeks. We left and drove across 5 states to southern Florida, flew to Long Island Bahamas for 3 weeks, flew back, drove up the east coast of Florida before coming to land.

Reunion

October 30

We arrive at the home of some of our oldest friends to a lush spread of people, wine and food.

Good to see our old besties again. They are always a breath of fresh air. Hugging her is an aromatic treat and he squeezes me like a long lost brother. My eyes fill with tears to see them after a year apart. Like every other experience we share with them, it is wonderful and refreshing.

My wife needed not worry we are walking into some kind of surprise party. There is a soiree planned in our honor later in the evening, but for the arrival, we have the opportunity to recover and refresh from the day’s drive.

The crowd tonight is our two friends, their daughter and husband and a new friend. She is newly single with a tragic tale and looking for friends and some renewal in life. A very attractive lady. Husband must have just been a jerk (or she maybe is a special kind of crazy? Probably some of both.). Either way she’s here for some association and we are happy to make new friends.

We start with freshening up and then retire to the basement for drinks before dinner. Bar looks great. Just really really amazing. It’s funny watching it transform over the last 10 years (how long have they lived here again?). It went from a ramshackle storage space to a fully rendered European pub.

The drinks are good. Soooo, good. Our friend is an amazing bartender. Great beer maker and drink mixer. I’m reminded of his setup in the chocolate chip cookie house on Scottsdale with it’s double rollup doors. A garage full of home brew bottles.

The night is wonderful and engaging and exactly what we needed.

Ups and Downs

Monday November 1

We have a relaxing day enjoying music and supping with our old friends. The weather is perfect for the end of fall and their home here in the east is just spectacular in its setting.

We have a full day together that starts with a lovely breakfast of eggs and bacon, toast and exotic honeys and jams he has brought back from his European travels.

We have a terrific evening of worship and I am so proud of my friend who is on the program that night in their congregation. They've grown so much emotionally and spiritually.

Sadly, the rest of the night and the early morning won't reflect the highs we've experienced so far. I won't go into it other than to say that the beer and amaretto got the better part of me that night.

We do manage to have a film festival that starts with Casablanca (not as good in color, IMHO), Legally Blonde, Sweet Home Alabama, and Perks of Being a Wallflower.

Made of Rubber

Tuesday November 2

Today we recover. We partied far too eagerly the night before and none of us, save our beer-making maestro, are in very good shape today. Our darling hostess is faring poorly needing rest and hydration. So we sleep late, hydrate and try to be as positive as possible. There are a lot of hours of self-reflection and self-recrimination. I've learned a lot about myself over the last 24 hours and it will take a few years for me to fully understand it all.

Weathered Tablecloths

Wednesday November 3

We're all feeling much better today. Rested and recovered as much as we can and starting on the long road to healing.

We sit at the table they've had for 30 years. Red table cloth. Our friend comments she needs to wash it. I am sitting in the same chair that I am pretty sure I broke 25 years ago. Is that possible? Did they have it repaired? They never comment on it, but I think so. Or they ordered a new one from Germany.

The ever-present cuckoo clock tick tick tick tick tick ticks on the wall. It's so loud in the quietest moments here. Occasionally chirping the quarter or half hour and chiming loudly at the top of each. My knockoff painting of degas ballerina hangs to my right. It always makes my heart flutter to see that painting. It’s really quite good, which is not a normal reaction I expect to my work. But, here it is, framed and cared for by a family. How many times did the kids ignore that painting as just part of the fabric of their lives while they grew?

The skylight overhead lightens the room in the warm fall light of the day. My sketchbook is open in front of me, my computer is on. We have just had a wonderful, simple lunch. And a bike ride is to come.

Shared Reflections

Wednesday Afternoon

Our conversation with the wife turns sort of shadowed as she tells us of her deep depression during the pandemic. I am sad we couldn’t help her. Her husband couldn’t help her. It was her approach to life that suddenly took a shift. Her children, all grown and gone. Her charges having left, she filled her motherly desire with teaching and helping others. And now (during the pandemic) that too was awol. She tells us she seriously considered suicide.

At the time, I cannot relate to this. I have felt purpose my entire life. This is the doing of my relationship with God and overcommitting at every opportunity. Jehovah gives us work that always seems useful—so much so that it can become tiresome if one does not manage to keep a balance.

Since I first wrote this, I have come to understand my sister intimately. I faced my own life-shift and plowed head-first into a desperate and long-lasting depression that I am only now starting to come out of. Some of that is the Lexapro, some of it is just starting to heal from a ravaging year.

I ask why she doesn’t paint. Such a talent surely would be excellent at making things. ‘I don’t know’ is her reply. ‘I did take a writing workshop.’ She exits to claim her notebook and she reads stunningly from it.

She describes a character with which she has identified:

…and captures me from my hiding place in the ocean depths, and puts me in an aquarium. Then people see me and marvel at my tentacles and flexibility. My odd amalgam of ugly and beautiful. So trusting, I am easy prey. Confident that my creator has made me intelligent and adaptable, and that I can reflect his brilliance and glorify him. I am of the earth and water and the periodic table of the elements. I do not swim in a school, but glow, in periwinkle and tranquil in the graceful dance of the sea.

She finishes and takes a deep breath, then comments ‘I think this is the best thing I ever wrote.

I do not have a wide experience with her writing, but I agree that it is wonderful.

She goes on sweetly:

‘Impressions from Zukerman’s farm regarding Wilbur the pig Wilbur and Charlottes friendship had begun back in the spring. He gradually grew closer to her as she taught him and helped him by weaving words into her web. Some Pig. Terrific. Humble. Radiant. For Lurvy and the Zuckermans to see, so Wilbur wouldn’t be turned into ham and bacon come winter. The Geese. The Sheep. Fern on her milk stool and Templeton the Rat round out the picture of that stall in the corner of the barn in the manure pile where Wilbur slept. I can hear the flies buzzing and smell the hayloft. Feel the breeze blowing my hair back on the rope swing. Kids always hold on tighter than their parents think they do. At the state fair, Where were we? Somewhere in the midwest? The lights and the music of the rides. The smell of the popcorn and the cotton candy. The buttermilk bath that Wilbur had so he glowed pink for the awards. He didn’t win the blue ribbon. The Big Pig next door won that. But, Wilbur was awarded a special medal. And Templeton bit his tail to wake him up when he fainted. But then Charlotte didn’t go home to the farm that year. She stayed at the fairgrounds having sent her magnum opus home with Templeton. Wilbur. She had accomplished saving Wilbur’s life and creating her egg case to hatch in the spring. So she was successful.

No man hath greater love than this: That she should give up her life for her friends. And Wilbur was there that warm spring day when baby spiders hatched. And Life continued. The loss of Charlotte never grew dim in its stark emptiness. With the knowledge that Wilbur would have life, friends and a future gave comfort.

He never would forget her and I won’t either. It ends with the words ‘Charlotte was both’ but the only one I remember was ‘friend’ Because probably she was a teacher and a friend in Charlotte’s Web.

The Importance of friendship and how it hinges on self-sacrifice is a lesson not learned until later in life. At first it’s all about what we get from people, including our so-called friends. Until at some point we realize how much more important the giving is. There is more happiness in giving than there is receiving. Truer words were never spoken. Friendship starts as a seed imbued with needing of two halves and the energy reserved they will need to grow. The nurturing of this fragile union, the proper soil and watering are the kindness and trust that friendship needs to bloom. Time to grow, to share experiences. The blending of two haploid halves to make a diploid whole. Something unique in the universe.

The harvest comes when the nurturing and needing have resulted in something beautiful that is blooming and complete. And the blossoming wither with time or the death of one or both friends but the memory of that partnership, self-sustaining like an autotroph that depends on light from the sun no less resists in the time of recent memory.

The Fruitage of photosynthesis.

‘As you can see, science is never very far from my writing.’ She comments.

There is a conversation here about a character she fabricates named ‘Valerie’. Valerie is a young woman working in a diner. Our author-friend describes the light as an important component and Valerie sounds like a beautiful but melancholy young woman. The diner colors are muted and Valerie smiles as she serves her customers, distracted by her real passions in life that go unmentioned. Some details about Valerie: she doesn’t pray, she likes making love with the lights on, and she reads voraciously.

Parenthood Potential

Shifting gears, our friend asks us, ‘what would your kids have been like?’

I stumble, as I often do when talking to her. What would they have been like? I do not say, ‘troubled’, ‘unhappy’, ‘scared’. I have many fears about what my children would have faced. I do not have the confidence in child-rearing that my loving sister does. I always reach back and remember my own parents when we were small. And now I also reference my mate’s own loving-but-uneven childhood. And I know that whatever demons made us, they would haunt our dear little ones too. Hopefully minus the alcoholism and verbal, physical and sexual abuse… but I doubt they would have escape the scarring of sexual abuse. I don’t think many get away with missing that bullet. Though my friend asserts she was never abused. Sometimes I have my doubts. As she says ‘I have all the qualities of someone abused, but I never was!’

My wife, determined to keep the conversation light chimes in, ‘Our kids would have been smart-alecks!’ I appreciate her toning down of ‘smart-ass’ which is what I translate her words too. Is that wit? Certainly audacious, impudent… even saucy?

I think our friend's comments were aimed at me. A memory of a conversation 25 years prior is triggered. She offers to carry a child for us after we explain that one or both of us is infertile. Regardless, our dear friend makes this incredible offer. It’s not something we can even consider as fertility isn’t the real barrier to child-bearing for us, it is emotional scarring.

She asks, ‘WHY?’ In her chirpy, sing-songy laugh-voice.

My wife shoots back, ‘because we’re both smart-alecks… or we can be.’

Unfazed our darling sister goes on: ‘Your kids would have been creative. A little dingy. Probably non-conformist. A+D+D.’

The ADD comment is most certainly aimed at the maternal side of the tree. I would have added highly intelligent. Though all of those qualities will have to wait. Wait until a time where pornography isn’t a keystroke away. A time when I would not be afraid for them to alone with anyone. A time when I don’t have to institutionalize them from near-infancy so that I can participate in the worthless machine of industry. I’ll never, ever forget the trauma of getting left at school, feeling abandoned by the one person who had cared for and loved me. 5 is too young to teach the lesson of separation. Day 1 was a disaster, every day since is merely a matter of coping. I never have and never will heal from that.

Back On The Road

Thursday November 3

Our friend the pilot has risen early and left at 6:30 for a flight to Europe. His weekly schedule. I do not envy the challenges that come from driving from this mid-sized city, to a major one and then catching a flight to a major US hub for his airline. All before piloting a huge plane himself for 8-10 hours one way. But it does give them a very comfortable living.

I sit at the table alone this morning. Early, not crazy early though. I am thinking about the days to come and my own troubling thoughts. I've been so happy here in this home over the decades. It really does feel like home for me. I am desperate for acceptance and approval and this family has been so effusively generous with it over the decades that I stumble to think of anyone who makes me feel more loved. I always miss that when we leave.

Our hostess rouses and I hear her shuffling in the kitchen. Coffee and toast this morning. Simple fare as she is alone and we will soon be leaving. But I'm in no hurry. I could easily stay here for another week. But that's not wise, to be honest. And my missus is ready for the next chapter. We'll be back. We always are.

She comes in and smiles warmly at me. I love that smile and the way her eyes squeeze closed the happier she is. This morning, in spite of us all leaving, she has a heart full of levity and warmth for us that we'll carry with us.

She has me rouse my wife and we breakfast and exchange gossip about old friends and new and talk about a potential return trip next year.

Fond Farewells

It takes three hours, but we finally find ourselves packed and ready to get back on the road. Climbing down the brick steps of their massive home, I admire the giant trees that give so much shade here. It's drastically different from our home in Dust Meridian. Maybe we will live here one day. What a joy that would be to be so close to those we care so much for.

We hug and try to inhale one another and take the obligatory photos so we don't forget how old we are all getting. And we promise to talk soon and share our adventures with one another. There is never a shortage of material from either of our families.

We love them so much. We love her. She is the heart of her wonderful family. Their very own Charlotte.

Looking Back

Things changed a lot after we left our friends. the Bible says that at the end of all things it would be critical times, hard to deal with. And I always believed in that. But, I didn't expect the things that would challenge us the most would be our own minds and hearts. Just like our friend fought depression and anxiety, we too now face it and it's compounded with getting older and the other physical debilitations that come with that.

Every relationship I've ever cherished has changed dramatically. I can only hope that we can survive the pressures and one day again enjoy one another's company, laughter and stories.

I miss them. I miss who I was.

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#essay #travel #osxs #memoir #journal

A hiss and crackle spilled from the speakers after the needle but before the first sonic burst.

She had left the list in his inbox with a wink and no explanation — a cocktail of songs that spanned decades and moods. Stella Artois sweated on the coaster beside him as he hit play.

“Shout It Out Loud” jolted the room to life like neon, KISS pulling him out of his chair and into a dance with a ghost. He spun in his socks on the wood floor, laughing at himself, the volume too loud.

When “If I Needed Someone” followed, something in him softened. He saw her face — the one she made when she was pretending not to watch him, chin tucked slightly, one brow raised like she knew exactly what he'd do next.

By “People of the South Wind,” he was humming along, imagining her barefoot in his kitchen, stirring something she'd pretend was a recipe, though she always cooked by instinct.

He didn't see the wave coming.

It wasn’t until “I Have the Touch” that it broke — a rush of sensation, not memory, but presence. Like she was in the room. Not past, not imagined, but right there, a smile and energy filling the space.

“I need contact and I'm wanting touch…”

The lyric landed.

He put down his drink. His fingers trembled. His skin buzzed with echo and the electricity of a biomechanic being when the synapses light up and endorphins flood neuroreceptors.

A flash — moments from the past of levity and seriousness. The way she’d say his name differently when she meant it.

He sat back, eyes closed, the music pulling his breath ragged. She had arranged this on purpose. Not a tease. Awakening.

To remind.

Of the power of music and message to move the mind and soul like a speaker moved air. Of the body that could still respond to a single song like it was a summoning.

When “Private Investigations” came on, he stayed perfectly still. The world shrank to the space between notes and pulsebeats.

The wind-down was artistically designed to deliver honest acceptance to a relaxed mind and body. Tomorrow could wait.

He had tonight. And her fingerprints all over it.

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#journal #confession #osxs #memoir

She Was On His Mind Like A Song On The Radio

She said it softly— not as a confession,
 but as something elemental,
 like the wind admitting
 it moves the treetops.

“Communicating with you Is as natural as breathing,”

And he has always
 breathed her in— 
each word she gave,
 a lungful of meaning, Of validation and celebration, each reply he offered,
 a quiet exhale of Hope for understanding.

But there was never a Need for explanation. 
 No scrambling for the Perfect phrase.
 Just thoughts curving Toward one another
 Like vines in the same wind.

Ideas drifting back and forth Like streams over stones That knew their way even If they didn’t understand The destination.

Now he sits, pen in hand,
 lungs still full
 of what she left in him,
 writing not to be heard,
 but to remember
 how it felt
 to be fully understood.

To be seen.

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#poetry #memoir #journal #osxs #100daystooffset #writing

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