The Stranger

I recently had an intriguing interchange with a stranger.

First let me say, I love talking to strangers. I talk to them in the grocery store while I am picking out my produce. I talk to them while I am waiting on the interminably long deli line each week. And I will start conversations with them when I am out walking. I don’t apologize for my boldness. I am cohabiting this earth with others, and I would like to get to know them. Besides, strangers are only strangers until you get to know them.

So the other day at work, I was minding my own business. It was Friday afternoon around 3:00, and I was trying to finish up some tasks so I could actually leave for home at a reasonable time. My phone buzzed, and I received a text message from a number I didn’t recognize. “All done. When I get to better service, I’ll send a pic……” The number was from my mother’s area code—the area code in which I grew up and still have a friend or two.

Maybe it’s someone I know, I reasoned. I decided to wait and see if the person texted me again. I put my phone back on my desk, and I promptly forgot about it.

Nearly two hours later, my phone buzzed again. This time, my screen displayed a picture of a white horse, his nose in a feedbag. “This is how he was waiting for me,” the message read. The picture made it very clear that the texter was not someone I knew. Though I felt pulled to hear the story of the horse.

“Cute picture,” I texted back. “But I think you might be texting the wrong person,” I informed the stranger.

“Oops. Thanks for resending… glad I made you smile.”

Now, don’t get me wrong. There is a part of me that wanted to keep texting. To probe deeper. To find out about this random stranger who texted me at quitting time on a Friday afternoon. To tell her about the coincidence of the area code. To find out about the horse. And to make her smile, too. There is a part of me that longed to make that connection.

Because a stranger is only a stranger until you get to know her.

Then she is a friend.

{Photo by Nikki Jeffrey on Unsplash}

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Silence

I have been sitting with the silence that many creative types (artists, writers, inventors) face at some point. This is the silence in which ideas don’t come. Silence can be frightening. Or silence can be an opportunity.

I will admit that I have likely played a role in this silence as I fill my days with a job that is demanding and draws on much of my energy—both physical and emotional. I have been implementing new programs, rethinking the way things are done, and pouring energy into helping students adjust to college.

So lately, ideas come and flit in my mind like a butterfly that lights ever so briefly on a flower or plant. But by the time I turn my attention fully to capture the idea, it is gone. And if it lingers, when I focus to put it on paper, it slowly fades until I can no longer see it, and it disappears.

But silence is a powerful teacher. By sitting with the silence, I am learning more about myself. About who I am, and about what truly moves me and drives me on. Something within me is beginning to emerge, playing with the edges of my conscious brain, but staying just within the boundaries of my subconscious.

As I sit in the silence, the ideas are starting to work their way into the space that I am holding for them. Today, two ideas came to me and stayed long enough to be held, turned, examined, and fleshed out—at least vaguely.

As I sit in the silence, I am hopeful for the future. I have reevaluated where I am and where I want to be. This particular period of silence has been deafeningly loud and longer than I would have liked. But now, I am ready for the ideas to come. I am ready to take the lessons of silence and turn them into something beautiful. I am ready for the sweet music of the muse.

Recharging

I am having difficulty writing these days. I don’t know where I’m stuck, but my mind will focus just long enough for me to have an idea and to think it is going to result in a blog post. But when I am part way through the writing, the idea fizzles, and I can’t figure out what it is I thought I would say. Or I’m distracted and end up a thousand miles away. Or perhaps… I have lost the magic.

Admittedly, I have been busy. The start of the school year has kept my mind moving a million miles a minute, or thereabouts. And long days of training students and prepping classes have kept me away from home and far from my computer.

Sometimes, we just need to take the time to work on finding balance and regaining our footing. So I am putting this here as a place holder to say, “I’m working on it.”

And I am. I am brainstorming and freewriting, doodling and walking. And I am staring at maps and asking for directions to help me find my way.

Before long, I will be back. The ideas will flow, and I will have direction. With any luck, my writing will be better than ever. Because the fact is I haven’t lost the magic. I am simply recharging my magic wand.

{Photo by Cristofer Jeschke on Unsplash}

Evening Reflection

Last night, at the tail end of dusk as the sky was still darkening in the west, I stepped outside for a walk down the street. It was peaceful and calm, and I was by myself. From the trees behind my house, an owl called its haunting call, waiting for a response. It was quiet for awhile, and when no response came, it called again, adding an air of mystery to the night.

The owl hooted a third time. From the edge of the slimy green pond, a lone bullfrog lazily harrumphed a response.

Bugs hovered in the air as the temperature dipped from the heat of the day. The path led into the dark of the woods where the brush was thickest, and the bugs gathered in thick buzzing clouds. I considered whether I would return on this same path or venture out into the road where the trees (and therefore, bugs) were more sparse. I opted for the woods at a quickened pace.

The woods opened up, and there were fields on both sides of the road. As I turned toward home at the end of the road, I noticed a shadowy figure off in the distance. Bear? I stared, forcing my eyes to adjust to the low light. No, too thin to be a bear. Deer, I guessed. I stood by a tree and watched it watching me.

I began to whistle a tune, willing it to come to me as the pied piper might. There are those social media videos of people playing various instruments and successfully attracting a herd of cows. Or Llamas. Are deer really that different? I whistled. I watched. The deer stayed still and stared my way.

A moment later, it took off running across the field, stopping briefly at the side of the road as a car approached and passed. It crossed the road and was gone.

I stepped out of the shadow of the tree and breathed in the night air. I made my way back through the stillness to the clamor and commotion of home.

{Photo used by permission of my beautiful daughter}

Remnants

The last time I was visiting Mom, she handed me a small plastic sandwich bag. “This is stuff I cleaned off your father’s dresser. Do you want any of it?” I studied the bag, turning it over in my hand. Seriously? I squinted through the plastic, my mind flipping back and forth between: Of course I want it! and Why would I want any of this?

When my son was little, he would pick up all sorts of remnants that he found on the floor. If we walked into a fabric or craft store, he would gather balls of thread that had fallen off the frayed edges of material on the bolt, pieces of silk flowers that were lying on the floor, buttons that had fallen off clothing. His pockets were never empty, and I had to be careful to check every single pocket on laundry day.

The bag my mother handed me was much like the contents of my young son’s pockets—remnants of a life of gathering. The bag contained pieces of unrelated objects collected on the daily journey and deposited into a common container on the top of Dad’s dresser. All they had in common was the container in which they ended up. And the man who had gathered them.

The bag held washers, screws, broken things, a bunch of oddball items. I sat down on the floor and untied the knot at the top of the bag. I stirred the contents with my finger, revealing all of the treasures that Dad had felt it necessary to keep. The metal spring from a wooden clothespin. A ring that I had made by winding yellow electrical wire around itself. Around and around and around. A firecracker with an old, frayed fuse, but no doubt just as explosive as ever. Two broken angel wings, clearly from two different angels.

No. Dad was not an angel wings kind of man. Two broken eagle wings, clearly from two different eagles. But with a lack context, they are the wings of angels in my mind. Under the circumstances and left to my interpretatin, angels are more appropriate.

Why did Dad collect these items, number one, and save them all, number two? What was it about the yellow wire ring? The firecracker? The angel wings?

This bag might seem to be full of useless items, some broken or seemingly meaningless. But they had meaning to Dad. He saved them all for a reason. Perhaps he intended to glue the wings back on the angels. Find the wooden parts of the clothespin. Set off the one remaining firecracker. Or maybe he was waiting to see how someone else might piece together the remnants he gathered up along his way.

You are HERE

You are HERE.

Most people think of HERE as a physical locale, and temporarily, it may be. But HERE (in the big picture) is your physical body and your emotional and spiritual wellbeing. In fact, HERE is less a physical locale than a mental state of being. HERE is a permanent but fluid state. Because no matter where you are, you still have to deal with the stuff that you can’t shake off—your health and your state of mind.  The good thing is, if you don’t like being HERE, you can change it.

When you say, “I’ll be happy when I can move to a warmer climate,” or “If only I made more money…,” you are stating that you are not happy right now. Right HERE. And if that is the case, moving to a new place or making more money won’t resolve the unhappy in the HERE.

No matter how much you try, you cannot run from HERE. Who you are, what haunts you, what keeps you up at night, and what pushes you on… these things will stay with you. They will follow you. HERE will always be a part of you.

If you face the HERE, you can do the work you need to do. Figure out who you are and what makes you tick. Learn to love yourself and be content with your situation. You have all the necessary tools and resources available to you. Discover them, grow them, and practice using them so you can become your own Master Craftsman. You will always be able to go back and draw on those resources when you need to.

Because no matter how much work you do and how much change you undergo, no matter how far you travel, you will always be HERE. There will always be work to be done.

You are HERE. Welcome!

{Photo by Jon Tyson on Unsplash}

Tangled

Somehow, my yellow yarn became hopelessly tangled. The skein began to fall apart, and pretty soon, it was all just a heap of string and knots. This evening, I decided to roll it into a ball. I cut it free from my knitting project, and I began to roll. At first, it was pretty easy. But soon, I hit some rough patches. There were several knots that seemed, at first, to be un-tangle-able.

But here’s the funny thing about knots. If you get frustrated and impatient, the knots become tighter and stronger and less manageable. But if you take your time, remain calm, and put in the patience to knead them, loosen them, and examine their workings, you can actually figure out how to unravel them and get back to something that is useful and knot-less.

These knots, they are much like life. If you hit a rough patch, or things get crazy, and you get frustrated and impatient, the situation can become more difficult and lead to greater challenge. If you pull too tightly, you can get yourself inextricably tangled in a mess that is greater than when it began. In these situations, it pays to step back and gather the patience to work through whatever you are going through.

If you look at the big picture, you can trace the path to the source—the root cause of the problem–and work your way through. Systematically. Methodically. Finding the problem and looking for the best direction.

With patience, I am creating a useful ball of yarn from the mess that was my yellow skein. I have worked the ball over, under, and through many loopholes, and I have loosened lots of tight spots. I am getting there. But I’m reaching my limit for now.

In the morning, I will pick up where I left off. Maybe I’ll give in to frustration, work through what I can, and cut off the rest. Or maybe, I will gather the patience to finish the job, to work out all the knots, and roll the rest of the yarn into the ball I’ve started.

It all depends, I guess, on what tomorrow brings.