Swaying Hugs and a Road Song

Frost on the Windshield

The recent snowfall painted a serene backdrop for my lengthy road trip to offer a final goodbye to someone that I’ve known most of my adult life. It seems I’ve lost count, but I know that I’ve attended far more memorial services in the past few years than I have in my entire lifetime. “It’s that circle of life thing”, a friend reminded me. His reply seemed far too casual… maybe even a bit too basic. And as much as I would like to think differently, he was absolutely right.

The calm of the distant drive had a soundtrack, but with little volume. Sometimes there was no volume at all. Instead I tuned to the noises of the moment… the wind, the road, and my thoughts as mile markers passed by as if to keep time.

As mournful as expectations were, the day was instead a celebration. I rekindled with faces I’d not seen in years. Those reunions were often followed by hugs. Long ones. The ones that make you sway back and forth in one another’s arms for what seems like forever… those welcomed kind of forevers. The day was filled with plenty of shared words of comfort. Smiling strangers offered personal accounts, memories, and stories of a man that we each knew just a little bit differently than the other. I laughed far more than I cried. At times, laughing loud enough that people sitting in pews in front of me would look back with a smile. Seems everyone did.

The return home soundtrack was not much different than the one from hours earlier. Loosening my necktie, I turned south on the rural two-lane route. Smiling, I waved back to the oncoming driver with four raised fingers from the top of my steering wheel. My right hand reached for the dial on the dash to raise the volume on the stereo. A mile or so later, I raised it even more. Each of those familiar lyrics was a longtime friend of mine. I sang the words to every song while reflections of miles passed behind me in the mirror, each seemingly humming the very same song.

It's Christmastime

That time of the year is here again. And with it, I look forward to seeing those I love in the next week. I'm counting on those days being filled with plenty of soul-filling goodness: puppy kisses and wagging tails, teary-eyed laughter, reading, studying, loads of fab music backed by a tad more groovy tunes, and a dinner and movie date (heck, maybe even two). It's Christmastime.

As another year passes, another one of promise and dreams will begin just behind it. Seems I'm still the same kid that would loudly sing along to his favorite song as it played through the single mono speaker on that lime green portable AM radio.... the one with the matching lime green wrist strap and the retractable chrome antenna. I still dream. I still laugh to myself ...and frequently laugh at myself. I'm still curious about life and sometimes wonder what if? ...what happened? ...where are they? …and often just a simple why? Why?

Through it all, it seems that I'm still defining me. Why would I ever stop? Each day is a gift, a lesson, an opportunity to smile at someone; not that plastic smile.... but the real eye-to-eye contact kind of smile. Those are the ones that count and the ones that really make a difference. I don't want to search or define reasons to create something new.... I just want to create with the hope of maybe leaving something of value, purpose, and good behind. It doesn't need to be extravagant or epic or life-changing either. Just make it real. That promises to make all the difference.

Looking back, I love the simple dirt under my fingernails, blue-collar, work-hard-every-day upbringing that I came from. It was genuine and provided me with the perfect starting point for my unusual, let's take this turn, roundabout, where the hell are you headed path that has brought me to where I am today. Five years ago, along that very path, I gifted myself with sobriety. It was the most humbling and honest soul-searching I have ever experienced. I awake blessed, thankful, and alive each morning. I dig this place.

I really loved that spark and spirited, song singing, love everyone, always smiling, creative kid that I used to be. I hope he's still the same and never loses that.

Love and stuff... It's Christmastime.

Casual Ordinary

The morning

Time never pauses.

Moments become years and then quickly pass with only a blink. Recently, I attended the memorial service for someone who walked through my life and left a mark. It was a good mark, one of love, one of goodness, one of spirit, and one that was always full of human originality. This was the third service I'd attended in a little less than two years.

These celebratory, we'll miss you kind of services seem far more frequent than I'd prefer. As more and more yesterdays hurriedly pass me by, I suppose that's to be expected. Each service is always for someone I'd spent far more casual, ordinary days with than monumental, memorable moments. In the end, it's those regular days that seem to matter the most anyway.

Even for those that I lost touch with for a few years... some even more than that, recounting all of those shared days of laughter is always the greatest of reunions. Memories like those are the most genuine, honest, and in their own unique way, oddly tangible. Regardless if you can see them or not, just hold and keep them safe.

Time never pauses.

Words of Genuine

Heard Conversation

Today marks one week since I returned to days of habit after my ten-day retreat to the Blue Ridge Mountains of Southwest Virginia. Every time I return to that area, I locate a special sense of soul rejuvenation. This year was a bit different than previous years. Rather than hitting the road for a daily dose of off-the-beaten-path exploratory field trips, I anchored myself to the cabin by the lake for a week. Instead of my usual camera day trips, protecting time to focus on my graduate thesis took precedence this year. Soul sparking, however, was still thoroughly engaged.

Lakefront Fog

These Days

As I made my way through the week, I would occasionally slip away from my studies for a bit of fresh air, for both my lungs and my head. Never venturing too far away, my outstepping found me in an occasional thrift store, or junk store, or yard sale; the local grocery store; or a favorite country store to fill the gas tank and perhaps to pick up a package or two of their homemade chocolate, peanut butter, and oatmeal preacher cookies. The week delivered, of all things, a renewed belief in the power of conversation.

There wasn’t a day that passed that I didn’t find myself engaged with one of the locals. Each one offered a welcoming absence of business proposals, economic complaints, broken record political banter, or an abundance of select negative tones simply for the sake of completing a statement. Each individual was genuine and honest. We spoke face to face, looking at one another eye to eye, all without any distractions of a vibrating text message or the buzzing of a cell phone. There was also a genuine smile that nearly always followed the period at the end of every spoken sentence. Real is real.

Several of these faces I catch up with each year when I return to the rural area for my annual getaway. I look forward to seeing them and feel certain that the feeling is mutual. I met several new friends this year. Most were simply faces along my path, and more than likely, ones I’ll not run into again. Some, however, I will see again, and I look forward to that time. Whatever the case, our conversation and words of five minutes, thirty, or hours mattered.

The Unexpected Gift

As I prepared to return from my week and a half away, one of those friends stopped by the cabin to say goodbye the night before I was to head home. The two of us laughed and chatted for nearly an hour about things that mattered: life. Before he left, he took another sip from his coffee cup and mentioned that he had a little something for me. He handed me a small package. Tucked inside a black velvet sheath was a wood-barreled writing pen that he’d made for me. It was trimmed in antique brass and had a black ink cartridge. Using his wood lathe, he’d hand-turned the South American hardwood that week in his woodshop. He explained that the wood was given to him by his pastor. After nearly a week and a half of engaging conversations, words, and descriptive text from my week of study, I suddenly found myself with few words to reply with. Although it seemed so incomplete and not nearly enough, “thank you” delivered with an honest smile was as sincere as I could come up with. I meant both.

Living in a society where personal matters are broadcast to the world every second and then forgotten as old news a minute later, my recent revival experience of personal interaction, life, and words was a spirited gift of humanity.

imperfectly beautiful

polaroid100_500

I believe in second chances far more than abandonment.

Fewer days thrill me more than those where I can take something that’s been discarded, breathe new life in it, and have it resuscitate the same in me. I’m constantly surrounded by hand me downs, throwaways, secondhand left behinds, and rescues… each by choice. With their used to be past, their visibly less than perfect flaws, and their distinctive individualities, each mirror my own life perfectly.

Popularity is generally temporary fluff. The combination of uniqueness, imperfection, and originality however, will always display a sincere timeless genuine beauty.

I believe in believing.

blue collared hero

Father's Day Hero

My father meant the world to me. As years continue to pass, I've come to understand that more and more. Dad was a regular blue-collar kinda guy. He worked hard with his hands, and loved his family. He was also known to have a few days when he was the farthest thing from being an angel. Still though, he was my hero and my teacher of lessons, honesty, and hard work. He made sure I understood the importance of always being the man I saw in the mirror, not someone fake.

If there was ever a man of his word, it was my father. And when he gave it to you, you could count on that word and him. Period. He taught me that whenever I had one of those days when I did something wrong, it was my responsibility to own it, all of it, and to do whatever it took to make everything right again… if not, better. Apologies, love, forgiveness, and sincerity are life essentials. He taught me the value of each one.

The boys of 1966.

It's been 20 years since I spent Father's Day with Dad. I miss those Sunday afternoons that we'd regularly spend together just as much as I miss his smile. I still believe in heroes, especially mine.

Thanks Pop. Happy Father's Day.