Long hair is companionable.
When I look down at my shoulder, there it is.
I imagine right now that it is a nice animal to pet.
I imagine that this kind animal has volunteered to keep me warm this winter.
I bathe it and dry it and try to keep it from embarrassing me too much.
But it is not, as they say, a tame animal.
It will be misbehaving!
Nevertheless, I am thankful for its presence in my life.
Wild though it be.

magic

The leaves have fallen
There's magic in the dry branch
Thick inside the veins
  
Magia gruesa, espesa.

Dentist update

I received two cards in the mail yesterday (along with birthday presents from Auntie Judy!).  One card was from my mom and had a cut out picture of a broccoli birthday cake (yes, stems of broccoli with candles on top of some kind of white sauce) and had back health stretching exercises inside.

The second card was, I assumed, also a birthday card, but no!  I couldn't have been more wronger.  It was a handwritten note in a card from my new BFF, the dentist's office, wherein they thanked me for my patronage and literally congratulated me on my excellent teeth and good checkup.

I'll assume by all that, they really meant, "Happy birthday!"

dentist

So, I went to the dentist today.  Yup, no longer have those coffee stains on my two bottom front teeth.  Let's pretend, for now, that coffee was the only thing staining those off-white pearls. Um...

I have never had a date to the dentist until today.  I have never had a date for many things until this year.  Weddings, for example.  Weddings were hard and dateless.  Wedding dates are your sister, if you have one, or a mutual friend to carpool, if you're lucky.  But I have had a wedding date for the past three-four weddings, courtesy of the man-cub.  Yes, that's what someone at the first wedding we went to together called him.  Seriously, it became a thing.  We laugh about it now.  It's okay.  And today, my first dentist date!  Interested?  Of course you are!  Read on!

We found the place (it is a new dentist for me) and he sat and read patiently while they x-rayed every portion of my mouth and even took photographs.  I assume it's because I'm so good looking.  But it's probably because they really like my teeth.   No, it's probably protocol, but they really, really like my teeth.  They said, "We don't see teeth this good in this area.  I'm jealous.  I wish I had your teeth."  The dentist said it, the hygienist said it, everyone.  Apparently I come from good stock in the bone department, and, you know, we rinsed with fluoride in grade school.  I credit my no-cavity smile with having had orthodontic work for years at a point when most kids eat sugar and chew gum and wreck their faces.  I brushed my teeth after everything I ate or drank (once famously refusing a snack in sixth grade because I wouldn't have time to brush my teeth before we took the hour long bus ride back home), and I stayed away from the bad food list.  My mom was a nurse, so no soda for us (hardly), just four to six glasses of milk a day.  You think I kid, but I do not.  And I still hate eating sticky food that I avoided back then.  It's just so hard to clean, and I worry that my teeth will get ripped out.  Or just my little protective dental caps on my molars for avoiding cavities, or whatever they're really called.  On the downside, I was severely reprimanded by the hygienist for not flossing, and I told her in my last ditch effort that I had bought those single-use dental picks, and she was slightly pacified.  Still, concerned.

I got done with the cleaning after such bloody gums you wouldn't want to be me except unless you were in a horror flick and it was byob (bring your own blood).  Boyfriend had finished reading the TIME Abraham Lincoln special (boring, he knew it all, the smartie) and much of his cheesy detective novel, so he was ready to hit the pavement and find some food with me.  Brunch.  So we went to IHOP after some deliberation, and were well rewarded.  Twins!  My favorites!  Working together!  And cute!  So, that basically made our collective day.  Also, boyfriend and I have an ongoing joke about sloth fingers, and pretended to steal the leftover tip money at our table, very slowly.  Rob laughed inordinately.  So did our cute server.  She's the best.  Really.  So much sweetness.  We also joked about having an in-depth conversation about fluoride, which was punctuated intentionally by holding hands and leaning in across the table, and sometimes giving worried looks.  It was fun. 

We tipped, paid the other cutest twin ever, and left full of breakfast.  Boyfriend dropped me off, 'cuz duh, who's going to take two cars to something so far away?  So he's picking me up in an hour and I'm already stoked to hang out with him because he's my favorite.  Also because he shaved his neck beard.  And while that may not win points, it certainly stops taking them away.  It's like he has a scarf, made of fur, that goes all the way around his neck. 

You will, perhaps, recall the controversy surrounding the "restoration" of the painting Ecco Homo, or Cecelia Jimenez's version of it, Beast Jesus, and perhaps, the SNL skit based on her fame: "He had beautiful hair that became a scarf. It was a scarf made of hair that wrapped around his little, brown, expressionless face. And then he look at me with his dead black eyes...I say Jesus, why you look like a shark?"

And with that, I leave you to do something REALLY important.  No, really.  It's important. 

that kind of girl.

I want to be the kind of girl that...

Meets the Pope and talks with him about topics of current interest.
Dances with Stephen Colbert on his show.
Travels to Spain.
Opens a counseling practice.
Obtains a Spiritual Direction certification.
Sings in a choir.
Writes songs and collaborates with other artists.
Writes stories and collaborates with other artists.


I would also like to be the kind of girl that

Sings karaoke.
Dances in the kitchen with her man-friend.
Sleeps out of doors.
Takes the train to Portland.
Plants garlic in the fall.
Is honest with her friends and says uncomfortable and potentially embarrassing things.

story time.

this story has a lot to do with dog bites and misunderstandings and forgiveness and late night phone calls and prayers and contented hand holding and public hiking trail burials and that long sunday morning sitting in the armchair in front of the open window and the cool breeze and my fuzzy blanket and being so, so comfortable and more breakfasts and bacon and holding and letting go and a strange sense of peace and a logical sense of peace after intermittent anxiety and a thankfulness and a little bit of newness creeping into life.

it has a little to do with flowers and zucchini and ill-fated blueberry plants and long stretches of sidewalk and misbehaving vehicles and lost-and-found wallets and meteor showers and weekly reading parties of fantasy fiction and questionable taste in movies and video game animosity and seasonal blackberries and farm parties and friends' weddings and taking out the garbage and mushy cookies and approximately three dead animals.

it may well have to do with the state ferry system and our friends' back yard and fire pit and two sets of plane tickets and snow. on. christmas. 

oh boy.  i might just be in for it.

My life is a country song

My dog was my best friend and when he died,
I buried him off the trail of one of our favorite hikes.
The seats and windows in my Jeep are ripped up.
My ex-girlfriend just got married to a guy that looks like me.
I went for a three-day hike off the trail and into a thunderstorm
with my best friends and my legs are scratched and bitten beyond human recognition.
I used to own goats and I want to be a farmer.

I like to lay out in a field and watch shooting stars with my best gal.
I pick blackberries for her and call her my huckleberry.
I work at an auto parts store but I'd rather be camping.
Get me out of town and I'm a happy man.


My life is a country song.

The story of why I was at this artist thing

People keep askin' if I be writin' stories. 

(Please don't hold my faux-grammar against me.)

I keep saying no, and they look disappointed, like, why are you at this artist gathering?

Well, I figure I'm old enough to decide who I want to hang out with.

And I like people who are artists and storytellers.

I like to listen to their stories, and find mine in theirs.

Why am I here?

Well, I'd like to tell a good story some day. 

Like that girl from Cold Comfort Farm, I want to be a writer when I'm 50.

Like her, I bet I'll tell more stories with people than with paper.


I'm not sure I'm old enough to decide who I want to be.

But I keep choosing.  By saying yes, and saying no.

disquiet

Once upon a time, I had a friend who was a realtor.  He liked to sell houses and condos and be involved in business transactions and be professional and ask all his young friends if they wanted to buy houses.

Which was cute, and helpful, and terrifying.

Which caused me to stress out again, and die, and be very sad, and decide that I was doing everything wrong, and be afraid about money, and judge other people by whether or not they could buy houses, and then just generally start spiraling down the staircase of depression. 

Then I wrote about it.  And did not die.  And thought about a brick vicarage in Cambridge, and all the parsonages I grew up in  and how I never thought I would have to/think about/be able to buy a house.  Ever.  And how now is a great time to start thinking about it, but perhaps later is fine, as well. 

Turmoil and angst and wishing for a miracle.  Is this how everyone feels? 

I'm still disquieted in my spirit.

the hair and the restless

Hi, yes... I'm thirty and I'm wearing all my hair on top of my head in a ridiculously oversized bun.  Why?  Because I didn't want to wash it last night or this morning.  Because I thought it would work.  Because I live on the edge.  It's two hours till close at work, and the thing is still up, mostly, stacked precariously and held loosely by a hair band and bobby pins, rolling over to one side a little.   In my mind, it's just about to break loose, with enough stray hairs to tether a hot air balloon.  My window is open to my right, breeze blowing, and even though my armpits are sweating, and I close it to a crack because I worry about defectors.  Hairs that just give up the ghost, lose their will to stand upright.

The girls downstairs, and even the boss's son who stopped by to say hi to pa, have commented on my hair today and how good it looks.  I sent a picture of an "I'm over it" me-with-bun to my boyfriend today, grumbling about how one side of my head hurt because the roots of my hair don't like being told what to do... basically to stand on their heads (or mine) when they're used to sloughing off. 

I have restless body syndrome, and I can't stop swinging my crossed leg back and forth-- pumping, actually.  My back doesn't hurt today, which came as a welcome surprise, and to celebrate, I'm wearing a tee shirt and tank top and sweater.  Even though the day is warm for a NW summer.  The sweater is white, and it's camouflage so I'm not wearing all black like a witch (yeah, charcoal gray long skirt and black t-shirt).  Also, the board room is ridiculously cold in the summer, with AC blasting like a 90's boom box.  Hence: sweater.

I'm still pumping my leg, sitting at my desk, going over the month's billing cycle.
Half an hour to go, and I'm swinging my foot moderately.
Ten minutes, and still going.
ADHD.

play time

Be joyful, though you have considered all the facts.
[Wendell Berry]

 

What have you been doing lately?

Oh!  Hello there!  How has your summer been?
Cool.  Glad to hear it.  Uh-huh.  I know, right? 
Mine? Let's see... what did I do this weekend?

And that's when my mind goes blank.

Well, he came over, and I forget after that.
I don't know what we do...
Probably the same things most people do.
Eat food, clean up, lounge around, watch movies,
take walks, hang out with friends, take hikes, drive...
water plants, hug a lot, buy groceries, play with phones,
go to church, write stories, read aloud, laugh and be funny,
plan on spending time with the other's family, buy plane tickets,
be lazy, make lists, help each other process life, let the other cry,
let yourself cry, "pass notes" all day when we're apart, write haiku,
misunderstand, make up, worry, pray, tell secrets, drink tea, thrift shop,
hold hands, learn each other, forgive, notice the seasons, watch the stars,
take pictures, look at water, trim moustaches, clean glasses, wash cars, and
talk on the phone, meet the other's friends, feel anxious, and talk it all over again,
share devotional readings, read cat bible, fairy tales, poetry, fantasy, news articles,
bring over dinner, do rodent and pest control, learn how to fix backs, learn how to kiss,
play games, encourage and affirm, plan dates, make a movie queue, talk about our pasts,
talk about the future (as in next week or next month), talk about what we're going to do now,
try to find motivation to do what we are going to do now, do the thing that we're going to do now,
later.

After a nap, or a hug, or silence, or conversation, or re-thinking, or a trip to the loo, or sunglasses,
or an outfit change, an additional sweater or jacket or scarf, some jeans, shoes vs. flip flops, does my hair need doing, did you bring water and snacks and are we taking my car or your jeep, because if it's open air, I've gotta tether down my hair to keep it from cutting my face for half an hour straight. 

After a week of procrastinating on buying plants again because I am so nervous about starting my own garden.  How much time do I spend on things that everyone spends time on, but not as much as I do?  How do I factor in procrastination and not sound like Hamlet, suspicious, terrified, checking and double-checking, plotting and counter-plotting, all to simply show up and be ready and done in time to die?

I do what people do, what women do, what moms do, just by myself and often with a boy.

I've been to Mexico, but I want to go back

My favorite: Dog.

Last night at an open air concert in the city, I saw the frailest, oldest, quietest chihuahua of my life.  It was so fragile, shaped like a whippet, my brother's dog.  Those sensitive, bulbous eyes, protruding from delicately etched and scored temples, pitied the world while patiently accepting it.  Black graying, such a thin coat, suitable only for summers.  What a contrast to its owner, a ruddy, glowing girl with short, curly brown hair and a ready smile.  A baby-friend of mine reached out her hand for a pat, and I was in baby-dog heaven. 

In the market for a muse

Oh, hai!  I'm in the market for a muse.  Can you help me?  I have compiled a list of muses that simply will not do; please do not repeat the list in your suggestions.

I don't smoke, so I can't call up the genie in a pipe.  I prefer not to drink to any point of excess, so that's right out.  I'm not interested in passe form of chemical substance to alter my thinking, unless it's chocolate, which might also kill me.

Perhaps the spirit of some long-dead saint, or poet, or a fictional character from a fantasy novel.  Maybe it could be a living poet.  Or the pope.  I'm not sure how amusing that would be.

Maybe my muse could be the dog of some little boy's dreams.  Just so playful and unwieldy.  A dirt-roller and a flower-puller.

It could be an overachieving sister, or a timid mother, or a bulldozing father, but those don't seem like very fluid or inspirational characters to me at this time.  Plus, where would I find inspiration for them in the first place?

It could be a tall boy that smells like fabric softener and wears mottled orange t-shirts.  It could be that this boy has a beard, a crazy family, a recently-deceased best friend of a dog, a recently deceased dead-beat dad, and an eye for the beautiful and the absurd.  He could fool you into believing he is a semi-pro wrestler, a bodyguard, a bouncer.  Perhaps this boy has a penchant for the three R's: reading, writing, and reconciliation.  He may have the crazy idea that the whole world is a vast playground, and that he belongs to everything and everyone as much as they belong to him.  Maybe his one dream is to be a family man, to be respectable, to work well and wisely, to live quietly, to do good and raise some chickens. 

What if I am in love with my muse?

The Story's Out

Once upon a time, I met a boy named Rob at Hogwarts.  We were first years together, and I helped him overcome a twelve foot troll using a flying chandelier and a glass of warm milk.  He would say it was mostly my doing, but that's because he is humble.  If he would not have tripped the bloke, we never would have stood a chance.

Questions some mom asked her kids

Here is where I ask myself the same questions.

What is the meaning of life?  knowing and being known, giving and receiving love
What do you want to be when you grow up?  a low-powered executive/mom/ballerina
What brings you the most happiness? getting flowers from dogs that bite me
When do you feel the most loved?  see above
What are you afraid of? see above
If you had one wish, what would you wish for? see above
What is the funniest word? sacapuntas (it's spanish, look it up)
What is the hardest/easiest thing to do? wake up
What is the best/worst thing in the world? see above
What makes you mad? see above
What is the meaning of love? the trinity
If you had all the money in the world, what would you do with it? redistribute

The planning.

For the guy who reads this blog.  And all the rest of you.

I am hungry.  My stomach is hungry. 

My face and neck are sunburned, but sometimes I feel it on my shoulders... which didn't see a lick of sun.

The leaves are shiny green and matte red.

I worked on an introduction to my talk for Sunday over lunch at Starbucks.  It just happened as I was reading Henri Nouwen that I wanted to start writing about it.  I was okay with what came out, and in fact, was immediately happy to have written it. 

It came out like grace.  However, my stomach just tied a little knot of anxiety thinking about piecing together the psalm sections and deciding which translation or song or paraphrase fits best... and then timing them all... oh my.  Anxiety, begone!  It will be what it will be, thank God.

The fire is under the cauldron.  The pot is being stirred.  The fragrance is wafting.  The host is preparing, the guest is being prepared.  Ready the feast!

the best day of my life

...was yesterday... or perhaps tomorrow?  Anyway, it was when I was three, and it was my birthday, and we went to the zoo.  I don't remember a lick of it, but I hear it was fun, fun, fun.

The best day of my life is yet to come: when I am sitting in my summer skin, just outside, eating apricots and really liking salad for the fifth time in my life.  Mostly it has to do with my body, this good day, and how it feels and what it has learned to accomplish and how it's stuck with me and supported me all these years, to my surprise. 

Honorable mentions:

Listening to Chris Thile play the mandolin, with a most lovely friend sitting by my side.

Bluegrass festivals and hot bbq pork sandwiches.  Magical fallen trees over the water.  Campfire breakfasts. 

The Upper Peninsula of Michigan, the Point, Narnia, The Dawn Treader.

Watching sunsets from my window.  Any window.

Christmas vacation mornings at my parents' house.

That day in a beach town in Mexico where I ate good food literally all day long and into the evening with great friends. 

X-Country

No, I never was in cross country in high school.  One season of track was all I could manage, and enough to know what I didn't want.  I've never crossed the country from front to back, but there was that north-south trip I did a few times down and back... which trips felt like all Iowa, all the time, with the rest being comprised of melting rush hours' worth of cities in Texas. 

I have, however, started in the Midwest and finished in the Far West... done that twice now.  Let's see if I can remember the first trip... Ah, yes.  I must have been starting college, because my brother had just finished up and was marrying his sweetheart. I don't remember much about the drive there, and even less about the drive back, although I assume we did that, too.  So I'll confine my memoir to a few items of note.

Noteworthy:

My sister may have just started driving.  I may have almost run over a large blown-out tire in plain view on the interstate.  My dad may have gone slightly crazy driving sleep-deprived through the mountain passes.  He may have stopped part way through, got out of the car with a glazed look in his eyes, checked out the scenery, and started flapping his wings and, well, hooting, for lack of a better term.  My mom may have bought her dress for the wedding in Missoula, MT. 

We stayed overnight in our old hometown in ND.  Must have seen a few people, but I don't recall who... probably "Grandma Margaret."  One of the Grandma Margarets, anyway.  There was a city one and a country one.  I think it was the country one.  Where they lived on a farm, with real farm animals and lots of "barn kitties."  Where we had helped the neighbors slaughter a semi truck full of... chickens?  Turkeys?  I helped pluck one, at any rate.  Or was it the city one?  She had written a children's story book, and used to try and comb the snarls out of my sister's hair whenever she was over.  We stayed with her anytime we were "snowed in"--when the busses couldn't drive us home after it had snowed.  Once, that I recall.  So yes, it might have been her.

We stayed in a hotel for the first time (at least in my memory).  Somewhere in nowhere, MT.  I don't know that my parents have stayed in one since.  Nasty, expensive, unnecessary inconveniences, especially as they don't travel anywhere they can't stay with family.

It started: Flat, few trees, growing drier as you head west.  Then even drier, but rocky.  Then a bit more green, mostly flat, with the exception of buttes.  Then Coeur d'Alene.  Gorgeous.  Then dry.  Then wet.  With some mountains in between.  Fill in the blanks, and you've got Northwestern American Geography!

Ever done one of these drives?  Try it.  Maybe, if you're lucky, you can stay with Grandma Margaret.  Or the other one.

on the beach

When we were swimming in huge waves, and I couldn't touch the floor, and there were waves breaking over us, and I could see my friends on the beach, I felt bare, open, so visible to the sun above, so visible to the eye of God.  And I waved, to the shore, to my friends, to the lifeguard. 

And they came, he came, slowly, thinking that I was saving my friend on the surfboard, who was also too far out, whose surfboard I had grabbed onto as I was weak.  And they came, he came, the lifeguard came, and saved me, on a beach, in Mexico.  Afterwards, he interviewed my friend who he thought was needing the saving, who perhaps was, and I perhaps did, and did not. 

And I was at peace, being seen by the one who sees me, even as I was afraid, and desperate, and stupid, and young, and oblivious about swimming in currents.  And I didn't go in the water the rest of the weekend.

A blog post for the end of the day

You have done the things you did.  Somehow, somewhere, inside of you, you found yourself or lost yourself in the doing. 

You can mourn.  You can celebrate.  You can remember. 

You will be there tomorrow, doing and saying things.  You can practice restraint and you can practice abandon. 

Holy, holy, holy.

Really, really.

From my window

It's lunch break time, and story time, both!

Alert reader Rob Pierce pitched me a challenge to write over my lunch break about something I can see from my window at work.  Very well, sir, I accept.

1.  The window itself.  I see it. 
2.  I can see things much better from outside of it.
3.  The bottom half of my window has a screen.
4.  I have a bug's eye view of the neighborhood.
5.  I can see the roof of a garage that holds a ballet studio and class space.
6.  There is a lilac bush in front of the garage.
7.  Lilac season is just over.
8.  I see power lines, telephone lines, unidentified sky lines, criss-crossing the lots and alley way.
9.  Clouds: white, gray, a muted cobalt blue.
10.  Sky: clear and bright at the top through the clouds, faint and muted over the edges.
11.  The red maple tree takes up about one quarter of the lower half of my window, when I am seated.
12.  I see seven other distinctive trees from my window.
13.  Plus a wall of pines on the horizon, past the freeeway.
14.  There being also a freeway.
15.  Lots of semi trucks, many cars, clear of congestion, good speed.
16.  There is sun shining somewhere today.
17.  Starting at about three o'clock, the sun shines off a neighboring roof.
18.  The glare pierces me at eye level.
19.  I pull down the blinds.
20.  On days when there is sun.
21.  The maple is bouncing, waving, swaying, breathing.  Lifted.
22.  The lilac bush is fluttering, waving, loose.
23.  The leaves on the tree across the alley are supple, verdant, shimmying and shining.
24.  I am breathing, lifted, pressing and depressing my phalanges.
25.  Meeting and receiving the welcome offered in their stable, fluid, reaching movements.

How to get along...

How to get along with your significant other's friends, continued...

You are already at the park.  Follow me through the evening's events.

1.  Bring something messy to eat.  Like rotisserie chicken.  It's good for bonding, because it's so greasy!

2.  Bring a roll of paper towels.  See above.

3.  Don't expect secondary introductions or overly warm greetings.  These people are already familiar with one another.  You are the anthropologist entering their world.  You are on their turf.  There is no neutral ground.  It's go time.

4.  Pretend you are as comfortable with them as they seem to be with each other.  It's really just you being comfortable with yourself. 

5.  Laugh at their jokes. 

6.  Make a pun that you're pretty sure they'll like.  Wait for their laughter.  If you hear it, you're in.  If not,  know that they may be adverse to punning or witticisms in general, in which case, they may not be the friends for you.  They may just be your shirttail friends.  You gotta be prepared for that. 

7.  Ask questions.  Talk to them about stuff they're knowledgeable about or interested in.  For example, their jobs, their kids, and/or... childbirth. 

8.  Oh, and I forgot to mention, don't be afraid to show up a little bit late!  It shows that you are casual/cool, and/or that you last-minute had to hike to find the park's restroom facilities. 

9.  Be a gift to the family.  Give their kids a little attention.   Help the pre-schooler fold the blanket to the right size.  Hold their baby, even if you're not a baby person, and you freak out a little as you're afraid you'll break the kid's neck.  It'll be okay.

10.  Listen to and request to hear stories of the old times.  The more you know, the more you can joke about with them!

How to get along with your significant other's friends

Do you have a significant other?  Do they have friends?  If the answer to either of those is no, this post may not be particularly helpful to you at the moment.  But then again, it might.

I recently met my best man-friend's best man friend.  It's not that confusing, really. 

First.  Check to see that they actually have friends.  Go to the source.  Meet the peeps.

Second.  Location, location, location.  When you meet, try not to let it first be at a movie.  In a poorly orchestrated fundraiser.  At a church.  Sitting on pews.  In the dark.  You will not get to know them.  You will hardly say words.  It will be awkward.  They will come late and leave early.  As you wish you would have done.  Really.


Third.  When you do finally meet, you meet at a park, for a picnic, because you knew better than to try the movie thing, being so smart and having read about it here, folks.

Um, that's all I have time to write about here and now.  But I'm sure there will be further droppings of wisdom onto your proverbial plates.  Look for it here.

In which I say no to drug use

Let me be completely honest with you: I don't do drugs.  Well, maybe only caffeine occasionally.  So occasionally that I don't write that word, and I actually spelled it wrong.  And sugar.  Because that is definitely a drug.  So I am oblivious when it comes to, oh, say, paraphernalia, which word I also didn't know how to spell.  So oblivious that I didn't know that "bud" was a drug-related term, so when my friend and I were vacationing in northern CA last week and an old man we had seen on the beach drove by and offered us, instead of a ride in his car, "a bud from his garden", which he assured us was organic, I thought he wanted to give us flowers.  Oh my.  We had to google image search the phrase, and sure enough came up with the correct answer.  It was indeed fragrant, but of course I couldn't place the smell, either.  Guess what got flushed down the hotel toilet, unused but highly educational?  Oh yes, you are correct. 

I'm telling you

I'm telling you, I saw it! I'm telling you right now!  This is what I saw! I saw the guy in the backseat of the police car, handcuffed, breaking legs with his steel toed boots. I saw his eyes spit in the dark. I heard his breath and breathed his stench. I felt his crazy emanating from the vehicle. 

I went out for coffee yesterday, brought my book, and stared absently out of the window at the cherry blossoms.  Heard a guy talking with his pastor or something, just a normal sort of conversation, about looking for jobs, restoring family relationships, starting fresh again every day.  I thought, this guy sounds alive, ready, just down for anything, charactered, seasoned, and earnest.  I glanced over, my spirit stirring, and saw the steel toed boots.  And his parole officer. 

I don't know if he just got back on his meds, or if his family finally decided to show up and support the guy, or if he'd always been that eager, sincere, and alive, and just got exploited by substances or circumstances or chemicals in the brain gone mad.  But now I wonder.  I accept.  I hope as never before.  And I'm frankly terrified.  I am terrified of myself and of humanity and of the thing that burrows inside the hole in my pain.  I don't want to be reminded of what lurks beneath the new walmart jeans and thrift store shirt, the jail haircut and the strangely calm eyes.  I know that place in me, and I hate it.  It's so easy to hate him, the pariah, the abuser, the other that is too close for comfort. 

Will I mourn for him?  Will I allow him to mourn for me? 
But his hope terrifies me the more. If he can start, and feel, and rest, and work, and breathe, and know, and believe, what does that mean for my end, my death, my delusion, my disillusion?  Where's my escape?  What happens when I outlive my end, when I overextend my resources and find I'm still here, working, trusting, breathing along with him?  What if the same thing that gnaws at me gnaws at him, this hope that points and directs and shapes? 

Will I let it in?  Will I let him in?