Month: April 2015

Sushi Night

Out to dinner at our regular Friday night sushi restaurant, we are seated and I’m sipping sparkling water. Earlier, a friend told me she sometimes feels invisible, and we are talking about what that must feel like. Nearby, at the table to my right, an uninhibited talker sucks me into his conversation. This loud talking middle-aged guy with thin hair and a blue sweater bellows “I was in court and said ‘your honor’” … I re-engage with my own conversation, simultaneously wondering if he is a lawyer or the plaintiff. I lift a piece of ginger with my chopsticks and place it over my spicy tuna roll, dipping it into wasabi-ized soy sauce. “What do you think it means to feel invisible?” I ask. Then the guy next to us steals a bit of my attention “And he wanted to have alternate weekends and split the summer 50-50” “Ok, he’s a divorce attorney with an overly loud voice” I think while also, actually, following our own conversation. “Having no control would make a person feel invisible” She says. Then I say “Or feeling condescended to” For a minute, we both ponder silently. To my left a late 30s couple with two shaggy pre-teen boys occupy a large booth. A woman dressed all in black with large hoop earrings and big hair joins them. She carries gift bags. “These aren’t really Easter gifts,” she says to the woman across the booth as she hands the bags to the boys and slides in next to them. The boys eagerly dig in. A bottle of white wine is delivered to their table. I consider their relationships: “She’s too young to be the grandmother. Well, maybe not. Or she could be an aunt…” We’ve finished our meal and ask for our check. Our conversation moved from invisibility, meandered through work, and finished with weekend plans. As we pay our bill, a loud version of Happy Birthday is heard from the main dining room. From my seat the crowded bar is in full view, and a late 50s looking guy in a golf sweater walks from his stool to the service bar, hands something to the bartender, and kisses her on the lips. “It’s the bartender’s birthday,” I say as we put on our coats. The singing comes to an end, and I add “she’s really popular” Walking to the car we pass a man with a sullen looking teenage girl who looks nothing like the man. They walk into the restaurant. I wonder if she’s his daughter, and if she’s adopted. We get into the car. Another Friday night sushi dinner.

Where is protect and serve?

The unforgettable images of Walter Scott being shot down dead, eight hate-filled shots in the back, play in a loop in my head. Unconsciously, my face contorts with the pain I feel in my heart. Where was protect and serve when handcuffs were placed on dying wrists? Where was protect and serve when the killer, to damn the dead, dropped the stun gun? Where was protect and serve when aid was withheld from the dying? How does a broken taillight become a murder? How does a walk to buy candy end with a boy shot dead? How does selling cigarettes end in a death choke on a city sidewalk? Drop the blinders America. BLACK LIVES MATTER must be the refrain of our time until it’s no longer perilous to be a black man in our country.

Beacons

Maritime beacons of bygone days stand tall and white near rocky shores, sending steer-clear signals to not-so-long-ago vessels. These illuminating pillars beckon like a magnet drawing us in. We are pulled to admire, and wonder…wander nearer, nearer..to see the unique fingerprint of each miraculous tower. Mirrors and gas-lights emit blinding beams, warning the vulnerable away from rough passage and rocky demise. Dedicated solitary servants tirelessly light the light, burning brightly for safe passage of unknown seafarers. We marvel at these symbols of yesterday, reminding us of days of mechanical safety and single-minded protectors.

The Tent

“Did you see my tent?” she asked as I cuddled her new baby brother (Hello little boy, welcome to the family).

“Susan gave you the tent. Why don’t you wait a minute” said her mom, my sweet niece who was the same imploring 3-year-old just 5 minutes ago.

“Come into my tent”, she said with pleading eyes and a half smile.

“Do you like your new baby?” I asked as I kissed his tiny fingers.

“Yes”…then… again, “come see my tent”

Giving up the bundle of a boy to his mom, I trail to the living room, home to Ikea’s best orange & yellow carnival tent; a child’s oasis from the stream of eyes for the newborn boy.

“Here, get in” I crouch to climb through the tiny flap to the precious space.

“I have a pillow, see, sit down” I sit, and she lays her head on the pillow with a sly, secret smile of success.

Hello New Daisy

Beseeching the sun, elastic silken petals stretching beyond their reach, yearning and grasping for energy and warmth. Elbowing past the un-bloomed buds for every kilowatt of breakfast. Growing gold, golden yellow with each beam ingested. Palm frond green leaves surround and protect the delicate beauties reaching up, up, up. Good morning. Hello new daisy. Welcome.

That’s my job

Running (driving) miles a day, from one stop to the next, each meeting with stressed out skeptics who worry and doubt. Constant calm (not freaking out) is the key to success. Empathizing but not absorbing their worry is the ideal. Rejuvenation comes while traversing the narrow, curvy, tree-lined roads, favorite routes with beautiful vistas of rolling pastures enclosed by straight-line fences containing chestnut mares and red red barns. The roads between the meetings, the sunsets and horses and farmhouses I pass and stop to take-in or photograph, preserve the calm. And then there’s Starbucks, the other oasis. Energy flows from those who look me in the eye and say thank you for helping us navigate this maze. Having the freedom to say “maybe we’re not a good match, let’s both move-on” preserves the sanity. And walking away from the draining and unrealistic is a productive, liberating decision. What a relief. The best parts are sharing joy with the excited and enthused, or giving hope to the vulnerable and fearful. And getting to the end with smiles, mutual thanks… and keys. That’s my job.

Road Closed

The “road closed” blockade encountered by the cyclist is, to her, an invitation to pedal around the orange sign, the striped barrel, the blinking lights. Her disbelief that there is truly an impossible to traverse breach in the road is steadfast. On an occasion when there is an actually gully so steep and rugged that it’s impossible to portage the bikes, or a completely missing bridge, exposing rushing water, she stands over her bike, in front of the obstacle, and drinks a long draw on the water bottle. She turns the bike around, backtracking toward the blockade. For the rest of the ride, all rules of the road are carefully followed. She has learned that apparently mutually exclusive qualities embodied within one human should be celebrated. Her contradictions create a bouquet of traits that confuse and entice.

Cinnamon Paws

“I need to find a poetry prompt”, I said as I sipped the last bit of my 2nd cup of coffee. “It’s been a couple of weeks since Mary Lambert’s poetry prompts ended, and I need something to keep it going” Then I headed to shower. “Cinnamon Paws” she called after me. “Cinnamon Paws?” I called back to her as I ascended the short flight of steps to our bedroom.  “Cinnamon Paws, what can I do with that,” I thought, as I blew my hair dry. Cinnamon Paws is nothing like an un-invented invention, a repeated phrase, or a letter to my younger self. But what did she mean by Cinnamon Paws? Our Mr. Pierre has special and rare charcoal black paws. What could she mean by Cinnamon Paws?  Does she (suddenly, unexpectedly) want a kitten to go with the perfect Mr. Pierre?  Dressed for work, I headed downstairs for a goodbye kiss. She was tucked-in on the purple couch in full work mode, computer on lap, 2 phones and headphone close by.  Mr. Pierre was right there, cuddled & snoozing on the comfy sling chair. I rubbed his head and lifted his front paw. “What did you mean? Cinnamon Paws? His paws are black” I said as I turned his paw and rubbed the jet black paw pad. “Are you thinking about a new kitten?” “Pierre’s are Cinnamon Paws,” she said.  And then, I saw, the top of the paw. Pure Cinnamon.