Spilling Marbles

Watching the Rumble of the Index Finger

July 10, 2021

Literary Journey

There is a silent call that drags our hearts and our minds toward something that is beyond out control. What we do control is our answer to that call.

I’ve been watching the world closer than I have ever in my life. I’ve never been one for being a newsmonger or celebrity obsessed (or even mildly interested). The world’s goings-ons have always been there and if I hear about the ‘it’ of the time or not, I didn’t spend much time dwelling on ‘it.’ This has been quite a feat as I have lived through some interesting times.

In my youth, the 1970s, the biggest political upheaval was going on in the name of Watergate. To this day, I only have a vague idea of what it involved, and actually have a bit of sympathy for Richard Nixon as he probably did what others in his type of position of power have been doing for millennia (or more). The 70s ushered in the ‘need to know everything’ generation, and Watergate is part of that fallout.

True, this was hot on the heels of a cold war and the country was embroiled in the Vietnam war that opened a lot of minds to the questionability of the leaders of the free world.

Free world…

Nothing is free in the world.

Not only was Watergate infuriating the American youth, and Vietnam chewing up and spitting out the youth, there was a hostage situation in the middle east which, of course, impacted the gas situation in the United States, and drove up inflation.

Man, doesn’t this sound a lot like the state of the free world today?

So, these are the vague memories I have about being a child of the “Me Generation,” and supported by the embellished memories of Forest Gump.

The 80s and 90s are virtually world event vortexes. Reagan was president and everyone was feeling good about the economy. Changing from dungarees to informal formal daily wear and moving from home as humble abode to Town and Country opulence, and even if you couldn’t afford it, you strove for the yuppiedom that was gentrifying mass swaths of city life.

I, too, was focused on the upward mobility fueled by Reaganomics.

Then, the new millennia threated to have planes falling out of the sky, and banks purging monies to the detriment of their owners due to the computers thinking it was 1900 instead of 2000. While people hoarded food, delayed travel, and believed the assurances that the FDIC would watchdog their life savings.

I was also watching.

Little did we know that once Chicken Little’s cries were unfounded, we would find that truly the sky was going to fall down – or something would fall from the sky and life would be forever changed.

As we know, 9/11 changed the world.

The events that took place on September 11, 2001, shook up a complacent nation – a complacent world. As the, then, infallible world of the United States of America, it was an event that seemed impossible to occur. Why that is so, is the sheer fact that the American public believes it is beyond the reach (or should be) of the things that make life ugly, and this illusion has been shared by many other ideologically similar nations.

I was one of them. Aghast at the sights that were taking place before my eyes, I couldn’t stop watching. To this day, I can see those images and stop whatever I’m doing and watch, despite the fact that the images are indelibly etched in my minds-eye.

We were a changed nation.

This is when we, as people, changed.

I have noticed.

At first, we were unified in our horror. New York became America’s orphans, with the nations embrace coddling a broken city. The world watched and wondered; how could this happen? Our leadership had to respond. We could not take it sitting down; retaliation and retribution were necessary to feel balm to the gaping wound of betrayal.

Since that fateful period, I have tried to limit my engagement in the chaos of the world. I am a rather staunch believer in giving little emotional and mental space to situations that I lack passion for or feel it is outside my capacity to affect. Such as the political and governmental control of our space in the western hemisphere.

But I have watched the people watch the world.

It’s the people of the world that scare me. It’s the media’s control of the people that scare me. It’s how few people notice the crackled glass that is poised to shatter once the heat is too high. It’s the inability to repair the crackled glass globe once it has shattered that scares me.

Just like in the 1970s, we are seeing political turmoil. Leadership has lost the trust of its constituents and is now scrambling to keep their hands on their ‘deserved’ slice of pie. The American public screams ‘Justice!’ and is looking for someone to crucify.

Reagan was that answer in the 1980s. I wonder who will be the answer in the 2020s.

Or will we implode? Will we kill each other? Or will we just destroy what was once the greatest country of modern times?

It’s hard to say. Historically, we have seen great civilizations come and go. They have risen to great heights and then sunk below sea-level. The great nations of Egypt, China, Britain, and Rome were all once the ‘world power’ but lost their way, and have never fully recovered (yet). What makes America think it is immune to the fall of another great nation?

It is said that a house divided cannot stand, and that is where I see the United States presently. She is standing on the precipice, with crumbling gaps ready to swallow up those in its wake. We will watch those fall into the holes, pointing fingers at each other, saying this is your fault because, again, we seek retaliation and retribution to fill a gaping wound of.

Ultimately, what will the faultfinding achieve? I’m afraid we will find a whole lot of self-righteous justifications in the midst of a new country called the Divided States of America – land of the destitute and depraved.

And yes, God willing, I will be watching.

No comments on Watching the Rumble of the Index Finger
Elsa’s Debut

July 6, 2021

Literary Journey

The land of the place called Florida is again in the place of the receiving the wrath of the water and the wind and the rain. It is Hurricane season. Here it is in our second month of the season and we are already up to the E name – Elsa. Elsa isn’t very strong, but she was moving very quickly. The Caribbean has had three fatalities.

Right now, there is no wind, but there is a light rain and crickets. Are they happy? Are they complaining?

Hurricanes are quite exciting. I am well aware of their danger, and perhaps that’s what makes it exciting. I know that I’m not alone in my anticipation. Actually, my anticipation starts in May when I know that in June the potential for storms will begin.

I’m not partial to hurricanes. I like most storms. When the thunder makes the house shake, I am terrified. When the winds blow the trees and my big oak trees in the yard groan with the torque of it speed, I consider there may be a tree in my living room today, and yet I revel in the howls she screams.

What I don’t like are tornados.

Tornados cause destruction that is like ripping a Band-aid off your whole body. The pain it causes it immense. Tornados have no remorse. Like the locust who strips the field bare in its quest to feed its natural instinct.

There are memes about the crazy Floridian stocking up on liquor and hoping the hurricane comes on a workday. Memes are often true. This year, we don’t have the work thing too much because the pandemic is still loosely gripping business.

I have been in Florida for about sixteen years and was greeted by Hurricane Frances in 2004, one of the four hurricanes that roared through central Florida that year. We spent our first week without water, power, and very little food. We couldn’t take showers and it was sweltering hot – I’d say hot as hell, but that misnomer wouldn’t do. Hell is forever, and although those seven days in September 2004 may have felt forever, there was escape.

Remembering those early days of hurricane visits prompts me to prepare for the guests. Elsa isn’t expected to pass through my town, but some of her accoutrements will. As she is traveling up the coast to the east of us, we are what they say is on the dirty side of the hurricane. The dirty side can spawn children from Elsa, The dreaded tornado threat. But I don’t think so much about that as I prepare for the possibility of losing power. I never want to be as hot as I was my first week here.

Amazon has brought me a rechargeable fan and lamp, so I’m good to go.

The reason that I don’t worry too much about the storms is because I have my trust put in the one who controls the weather. I know He will keep me safe. My love of storms stems from my love of the Almighty God who controls all. A storm, to me, is the purest form of God’s strength and power. I don’t profess to know how God uses weather, or what His intention is with the display of grandeur, but I love the feel of power that I see when the thunder rumbles, sometimes seemingly for infinite moments which feel as if time stops. Or the flash of the lightning, which lights up the night and can take down a tall oak tree in an instant. The rain pelting down both washing the earth and threatening it at the same time. The intensity is amazing.

Yes, I know I can be seen as foolish in my great expectation each year, but I am full of respect and awe for the enormity with which can prevail from nature’s fury.

What we see on a stormy night is an outer display of the inner turmoil that goes on inside. Sometimes there are thunderbolts and lightning jolting my mind, pulling my body into many different directions. Sometimes the rain continues for so long that I can no longer feel my pulse as I am saturated with the weight of tears I carry inside. Sometimes it gets dark and the silence is deafening, just like when the eye of the storm passes over the plain and the world feels perfect, only to move on leaving a torrent of chaos in its wake. Leaving the survived to pick up the pieces and try again to set the world right.

Each June a new list of names are published of our potential future guests. Elsa is today’s guest. She is the Disney princess from Frozen. I find the irony amusing, but wonder why these names are chosen. I think that the hurricanes should be named after bands. You know, Metallica is coming, or Black Sabbath, or even Pink or Mozart. Perhaps the band could influence the severity of the storm. You know, like God, the next storm is Beethoven so let’s keep it slow. Alright, a bit crazy, but what’s the difference between Elsa, or Frances, or Xerxes? Hey, maybe they should be mythological….

We will weather the storm, as they say. Preparing our batteries, and generators. We will drink our wine and beer as the storm passes, or we will just sleep through it, praying everything is ok. Perhaps this is the purpose of storms – to remind the world that there is someone in control. You may call it mother nature, as some do, and you may just think it’s a scientific phenomenon, but you gotta have respect for a force that is far greater than the little things that we are. It is a big world, with far greater happenings than we can see. I will continue to revel in the power of forces that only present themselves sporadically, and keep musing over what it all means, inside the turbulent soul and the turbulent chaos of the world – remembering that a storm comes, a storm goes, and we pick up the pieces, till the next one comes along.

No comments on Elsa’s Debut
Gasp! The Things That People Say

July 1, 2021

Literary Journey

Jodie is sitting on the bench waiting for the number 9 bus like she does every day. She is reading the latest novel by her favorite author, Patrick Ness, who has planted her in a dystopian world of proportions which only can be imagined by his guidance. Her world is isolated, with only an awareness of the space that surrounds her person, and that of the whoosh of the bus coming to a stop.

Cocooned in her fantasy world, she becomes Viola as she reads her feelings and misadventures. She thinks about what it might be like to hear the thoughts of those around her. Are they really believing what they are saying? Do they understand that their thoughts compel their actions? What would others hear of her thoughts?

As she ponders her Violaian existence, she becomes aware of people encroaching her space. They are talking rather loudly, but she thinks they will pass her by to leave her in her introverted revelry.

To her dismay, the couple sits down next to her on the bench. She doesn’t usually mind, but she is disturbed by their incessant loud talking.

“Why do you always have to win? You are so self-centered. How could you think that it wouldn’t bother me to be called out in front of my friend?”

“He is so self-centered! I can’t stand how he treats me as if I am the enemy! I wish he would just go away and never come back!”

Wait, why is one conversation in second person? What weirdos’ they are!

“Hey, we’re not weirdos!” “You are!”

Huh…. She looks to her left and realizes she is Viola. Words are not needed.

No comments on Gasp! The Things That People Say
Hearts Attached Detached

June 29, 2021

Literary Journey

The little red ball beats. It controls the actions my body. It controls the actions of my soul. What is it about the little red ball that makes meaning for some, and nothing for others. I try to notice the moods of its struggle. I try to assuage its doom. I try to celebrate its successes, and its search throughout the room. This little red ball controls my life. If it’s sad, I am sad. If it’s jubilant, I too, am jubilant.

Some say the little red ball is blue. You may have heard it said. You may have heard it sung. But the little red ball is only blue when there is no fire left in its walls.

I am particular about what makes my little red ball beat faster. There isn’t room for many to enter. Once in a while though I find intrigue and wonder breaking its silence. Once in a while, it skips.

When I chase other red balls, there isn’t any response, and it doesn’t want to play – we shrink.

Some have big bouncy balls, that bring delight to those in its path. They frolic and dance with the other balls without fear of the path. These balls are quite amazing, with joyful boing, boing, a giggle, a laugh, and it’s all fun and games til they’re gone.

The echos of their boisterous berth stirring a longing in the less generous tumbler.

The little red ball gets sad, as they pitter and patter away, with diminishing returns the order of the day.

I protect my little red ball very carefully. I keep it tucked away. Far from sight from the most of the people, it beats.

Today it is joyful alone, as tomorrow is more of the same. I watch over the deepness of wondering where my big bouncy companion has gone.

Loneliness is a friend. When your companion is only yourself, you can look to loneliness to keep you happy. I am mostly happy. Mostly content. But the day after day chasm can take a toll on my joy. I made my choice. I was once a shining star (and a stabbing pain) in someone else’s life.

We are given things in life that inevitably are taken for granted. It’s natural. It’s human constitution.

Blinded by what I didn’t have, what I was missing, and what it should have and be. I couldn’t see the things that were of value. I didn’t see you anymore – and I think you didn’t see me.

We both made mistakes. We both felt cheated.

And maybe we were.

We were not well suited as lovers, but we were supremely suited as friends. You were my best friend, and my faithful companion. We never had a chance.

A man will leave his home and cleave to his wife, is what the Bible says. I think that is necessary, as cleaving is the bond that keeps the two together. We never cleaved.

I remember the day I realized that we couldn’t go on the way we were. We were driving home from Sarasota (or was it a Rays game). We had just spent a great day together. We spent many great days together – the consummate companions. Well, we had just spent a great day together and Aretha Franklin came on the radio singing “Neither one of us wants to be the first say Goodbye.” I was saturated with the words she was saying. I was listening to my life, our life, being sung by someone who had apparently been living the same lie that we were. My tears filled the wells of my brown tortoiseshell sunglasses. I didn’t say a word the rest of the way home.

I couldn’t help thinking about how we had never made a life together. We had moved across several states, and settled down without our families. We bought several houses. We moved through many job situations. We went to concerts, and movies, and far more days at DisneyWorld that are countable, and yet, we didn’t really know each other. And worse, we didn’t respect each other.

Yes, we cared about each other. Yes, we would have done anything for the other. Even after our divorce, we lived together for nearly a year and a half. Who does that?? We did.

I saw something on Facebook today that said, “If you can still be friends with your ex, you either didn’t love them or you are still in love with them.” I wonder which is true.

I still love you. You as my friend. I still think about you. Actually, I dreamed about you last night. It was a dream where we were still friends, but we couldn’t stay together.

I would still be your friend if your new wife hadn’t put the kibosh on our friendship. But she may just be representative of the Facebook sentiment.

I continue to long for the kind of love in my dreams. Someone who will be my partner in all things. Not a sprout that sticks to a reed, but two strong reeds that are surrounded by other strong reeds. I’m looking for someone who can talk to me for hours, and who listens to my stories too – while we make new ones. I have dreams, and in them I see you, whoever you are. We are going to have a wonderful 40 years, if what my heart says is true.

But right now, God doesn’t see fit to send the one who will fill my life with the presence it is missing. I will wait. Maybe the you in my dreams for the next 40 years is you my sweet savior. And that’s ok too.

I no longer mourn what is gone because I know in my heart that separating was the right thing for us. I believe you have found someone better for you. Someone who makes you stronger, and not weaker, as I did. And I, I have made a home and found me – the me that I was looking for.

“Farewell, my love, goodbyyyye.”

Thank you Aretha Franklin.

No comments on Hearts Attached Detached
What in the World Wednesday – The Fab Millions Cicada Invasion

June 9, 2021

Literary Journey

So, the funniest story in the news today (at least to me anyway) was Biden’s delayed trip to the U.K. Apparently, the cicadas grounded Air Force One and all the passengers. Cicadas are a known pestilence that wreak havoc on unsuspecting moving objects (presidents included). These creatures wait 17 years to emerge, but when they do they want to world to know it.

According to cicadamania.com (yes, there’s a website for it), this not-so-little bugger really bugs us every year, it’s just every 17 years they have a party and everyone from their clan (formally ‘brood) attends.

While reading about the divebombing attack to Biden’s neck, I began to wonder, isn’t cicada another name for locust?

It would seem that I am not the only one thinking this long-held (mis)conception. A-z-animalsl.com set me straight by giving a through definition of the differences, but to keep you awake, suffice it to say if you are to have an invasion of one of them, you would choose the cicada, which is smaller in size, less destructive, lives a shorter lifespan, and procreate in vastly smaller proportions.

Cicadas do not present as a plague. King Ramses may have been less concerned by an infestation of cicada instead of the dreaded locust (dreaded by all but John the Baptist) that God sent to motivate him to let the enslaved Israelites go.

As for me, I still won’t know the difference when I hear the song in the night, and will rest in the assurance that God knows. God always knows. He loves you… yeah, yeah, yeah.

No comments on What in the World Wednesday – The Fab Millions Cicada Invasion
Let’s Book Tuesday – Genesis 18

June 8, 2021

Literary Journey

²²… Abraham remained standing before the Lord.^[d] ²³Then Abraham approached him and said: “Will you sweep away the righteous with the wicked?

Last night, I thought about how prayer works. The Moravian’s thought prayer was so important that they had developed a spirit of 24/7 prayer that was carried out daily by twenty-four men and twenty-four women, for one hundred years (according to the internet)!

Imagine organizing groups of people that present themselves to God every minute of every day. I have no reason to doubt that there are prayers going up to heaven every minute, perhaps every second, but what impresses me in the consciousness of this coordinated effort.

My woman’s prayer group is led by a beautiful soul who just has a heart for building God’s kingdom and wanting to bring life’s ups and downs before Him. She has availed herself every night for nightly prayer, and she is the one who reminded me of the Moravians.

The Moravians are known for their piety; a word that we don’t often like as it has become synonymous with restriction, and even intolerance in our era.

But God loves the pious. He longs for us to love His Word, His truth, and His commands as much as He does so we can live in eternal bliss with Him.

Think about it like this. If I were to open my house to guests, I would not appreciate it if they soiled it by trashing the place. I would want the guests to respect my belongings, and my rules. Why? Well, because it is my house and I have a right to expect those I have invited in to honor my wishes. If they made a mistake, we would forgive them, if they were contrite, and allow them to stay. Just as Jesus offers us time to become better guests for the places He has prepared for us.

I don’t know about you, but I want to be a good guest in His house, as I try to be a good guest in my friends’ houses now. I want to be asked to return.

For me, this is why we pray, and it seems we are more in need of 24/7 prayer than any time in recent history. God has a plan, but we can only learn about Him and what it might be to spend eternity in His realm, by visiting with Him, and meeting with others to discuss what He has shown us.

We must be diligent, and change always begins with us. The change is good when God is the beginning. Let’s pray.

No comments on Let’s Book Tuesday – Genesis 18
Mondays are Made for Memories – Need for Speed

June 7, 2021

Literary Journey

The tires squealed as I turned the corner, going much faster than I should have been going, but the darn light was going to change! I hate waiting for traffic lights – or any kind of traffic situation actually – I just want to keep moving!

Well, this time my impatience was costly.

I accelerated (when I should have braked) on the lovely yellow light. Instead of rounding the corner smoothly and moving on, I found myself inside a tin can being extracted by the jaws-of-life.

It’s freaky when something like this happens to you. The gap between yellow light go — to hearing the whirr of steel being pried apart in extraction is what it must feel like to have a seizure or a blackout. Everything normal is misplaced.

“Are your alright?”

Uh, I don’t know… but I nod an assert. I’m breathing.

“We’re going to get you outta there. Just sit tight.”

I think, great advice and where were you with it before I impatiently blew through that yellow.

I don’t fully understand how I hit the median. I later went back to see if I could see, but all I saw were two indistinct red lines on the concrete; graffiti left by my month-old Grand Am, now residing in the scrap graveyard. I, miraculously, escaped with only collateral damage: a slight concussion and a broken clavicle (thank you seat belt).

I am grateful, and today, I try not to be in such a big rush (still working on it), but I do often hear that echo of a voice, that remains without a face, saying “Just sit tight,” and I know that my need for speed could result in a far greater loss.

No comments on Mondays are Made for Memories – Need for Speed
Monday’s are Made for Memories – Fly Silently

March 29, 2021

Literary Journey

Sitting on the patio watching the hawks soar overhead. There are three of them. Three, then two, then none. They disappear behind the tangle of branches lining the borders of the Disney conservation park, only to pop back and pass obscured by my roofs opacity, riding the wind, dipping and diving to some unseen adventure.

Silent.

The cardinal adds symphony to their muted flight, a pinprick of red alight on the autumn branch of a sleeping oak. It’s basking in its own reverie unaware of the song it sings to the hawks hoedown.

Cah, cah, cah, enters the crow, who is searching for his friends. Where’s the party it seems to be saying. The lone red bird is silenced in its intrusion, like the poor introvert who is kicked out at the whim of its roomie, allowing for the cacophony to fill the space once filled by its melodious murmurings.

My cats are entranced by the cackle of the crows, where the cardinal song was as the breeze of the day. As the cool girls who demand all the attention, dim the lights that shine bright on their own. The loudest one gets the attention, and the crows stand out. Black. No fear in the crow mars their search.

I think about the nature I am surrounded by. The birds do what they do, affected by their companions, yet disaffected by the worlds beyond their sight. As the introspective relates more to the internal, the birds only know.

The hawk seeks the right winds to take their wings, not beating, not struggling, just opportunity, waiting for the air to take their stride. The cardinal sits amidst the gray wooden arms, boldly seen but through no effort, just the color of their body, noticed. A song to give the world to those that hear.

I hear.

The quiet beauty of the patio, a place of solitude, where I can forget that there are crows waiting for my attention in the form of work, errands, obligations. This moment is just for me. A gift from God. The birds of the air, so simple, so wonderful, show how we are in our natural habitat. One without concrete, or cash, or consternation. Without contention.

Birds fly.

I watch, silently, pondering.

No comments on Monday’s are Made for Memories – Fly Silently
Monday is Made for Memories – Fallen, and I Can’t Get Back

March 22, 2021

Literary Journey

When we first met, your smile dazzled me. Your obnoxious repetition claiming that “Today… Today… Today… was the greatest day of your life… life… life” made me laugh and delight in the specialness you surrounded me with. Somehow, it was the greatest day when I met you.

The late summer day, seemingly hand-picked for me and you, was filled with the smells of roasting meat, keg beer breath, and puffs of cigarette smoke filling our nostrils as we watched people fall from the sky, who sent up joyous shouts of euphoria. It’s not everyday you see your friends and colleagues jump out of airplanes. It’s not every day that you meet the love of your life.

You were that, you know. You used to say, “Don’t ever let me go,” but you forgot to take heed of your own plea. Slowly our grasps got loose, and we let our love slip away. No one knew, and we refused to see it ourselves for many years.

The water under the bridge, swept it away. We stood in the muck, wondering where do we go and how do we get there?

Our feet firmly planted in the clay of our making, we looked around for a lifeline, a cord or switch with which to take us ashore. Unfortunately, our rescue came from separate saviors. My lead taking me away from you as you watched, choosing to stay where you were, anticipating. When none came, you sat down and gave up.

I sent a ship for you to carry you home, but you refused to board it. As the mud caked your boots, and it started to sink in that I could not get to you, you started your long journey to a place where I could no longer go.

Sometimes, despite all the wants of the heart, the bleeding cannot be abated by a dentist. A smile will not repair the cracks in the chest. And even though the braces are removed, the retainer that keeps everything in order gets lost, the smile fades, the crooked path leads to another, better equipped physician, who touches the cracks of the heart, seeing past the broken smile, attempting to repair the emptiness the greatest day of our lives has ever given.

No comments on Monday is Made for Memories – Fallen, and I Can’t Get Back
Lyrical Thoughts Thursday – A Little Life

March 18, 2021

Literary Journey

There’s a group of twilight dwellers that are twinkling every day,

unbeknownst to the common realms of social interaction.

It’s almost magical how these mist riders’ existence is hidden from

everyday life. Riding in the dolphins’ wake, they revel

in this joyride of sorts,

each and every day.

As the lights turn amber, and the sea meets the sun,

emerge these Lilliputian giants.

Glistening

as a dew drop for which it’s become.

These sunset surfers drinking in the spray,

Catching waves, and socializing in their own way.

For the moment, in the glowing blaze, wondrously

slicing through

surface tension. They get lost in

the dream and sensation of cresting

and falling drives.

The sounds rushing through their ears, while the water

is a cascading river over their tiny bodies. Some standing,

some lying, some balance between what’s been and what’s to come, but…

they only have now. These Polynesians posture, relaxed,

as the big fish slices silently, through the water, descending on dinner.

No comments on Lyrical Thoughts Thursday – A Little Life