Month: April 2013

I think one of the most interesting aspects to life is the people we meet, and the resulting human connections we make. Recently, I experienced something similar to the likes of a meet-cute with a rather influential individual. His name was Jack. Jack had spotted me, sitting kitty-corner my direction in the midst of the Hartsfield-Jackson Atlanta International Airport‘s hustle and bustle. He noticed me for the reason most people notice me, because of my puppy dog. I am the mother of a miniature Yorkshire Terrier. Mr. Yorkie travels alongside me pretty much everywhere I go. And everywhere I go, passerby wish to greet this pup. He undeniably exudes a charisma about himself, one which people diapered to grayed, black to white, short, tall and every flavor in between love. From across the way, Jack observed the slew of acquaintances Mr. Yorkie made. Eventually he joined in on the puppy dog entourage with a smile in his eyes as contagious as Mr. Yorkie. Jack’s well-kept manner embodied structure, curiosity, poise, and old-world charm simultaneously. Jack was 7013. 70 +13, and this gentleman still had it made. Though the moment did not entirely fulfill the meet-cute definition in the destined-to-fall-in-love-and-be-together-forever sort of way, it did comprise an encounter of individuals brought together in some unlikely fashion. He was 70+13. I am, well, a bit younger; therefore, unlikely we ever really would have crossed paths if it had not been for Mr. Yorkie. This unlikely happenstance of meeting 7013, in one of the largest airports in the world, ended up landing in my top-favorites of life moments.

The night prior to my airport jaunt had been dirtied, last night of vacation gone awry, to say the least. As a result, I was left a wee weary. Then along came Jack to brighten my way. Jack eventually occupied the seat next to me as we immersed further into conversation. Jack’s initial impression proved accurate as he shared thoughts on life, and the subsequent course its journey had run for him. Jack was a widow from the great state of Wisconsin, who was on his way to visit his daughter and granddaughter. Jack revealed personal theories: “Life is so much easier with a happy mindset, happy thoughts, and an upbeat attitude.” Jack shared moments of his previous connecting flight, illustrating his jovial, giving demeanor even clearer– After a flight attendant announced over the intercom,  “Today’s the day to smile. You should be smiling,” she saw to Jack who informed her of a special gift.

“I have a poem for you,” he claimed.

And so he did. A poem which his late mother, Pearl Marie, once displayed upon the fireplace mantel. Apropos to Jack, the poem went by the name of Smiles.

Smiles

Smile a while

And a while you’ll smile

Another smiles

And soon there are miles and miles of smiles

And life’s worth while because you smile

Later that morning, Jack found us again as we had boarded the same plane; he had arrived behind me while I waited to take my seat. With an endearing embrace around my shoulders he exclaimed, ” I know you!” Turning, I found my beloved Mary Poppins-worthy character, vintage luggage and all, grinning his signature suave smile. What a happy face! As quick as he found me, he was gone again. The memory of Jack remains with me for the long haul. In just the short while we shared in knowing each other, he left me feeling so joyful, so alive! He was the man who gave Smiles. I think life is best when filled with such people as Jack.

7013 with a Hartsfield-Jackson smile.

Yesterday my honey and I headed to our favorite local beach for a relaxing afternoon. Pass-A-Grille is a quaint beach community located at the very tip of a strand of islands running adjacent to the peninsula of Saint Petersburg (yes, the baby peninsula to the giant peninsula of the United States known as Florida). Being Pass-A-Grille sits by itself on the outskirts of the tourist-driven, hotel-ridden landscape, it is a refreshing oasis for us locals.

The daylight beams of the Pass-A-Grille beach tap-danced in their antique, picturesque tranquility.

Music notes and a game of catch tagged along our time spent in the sun.

Not too long after, my honey made his way to the surf where he came across a treasure. A shell. I lay face down bathing in the sun when he traveled to the seasoned couple across the way from our post to show-and-tell… then making his way toward me. The shell stretched long and lean, a posse of pygmy shells attached to its back. The top glory upon this particular shell happened to be the largest hermit crab my honey had ever seen… I know because he said so after pretending to throw the creature of claws at me. I shouldn’t have expected anything less after growing up in the company of three brothers.

I continued to soak up some sun, while my honey headed back to the waves, where I heard him repeatedly speak of the hermit to one passerby after another, as he released it back to its primitive home. Until a peculiar broad went for the shell’s reach. My honey then replied:

“There’s a hermit crab in there.”

To which she argued, “No there is not. I am going to take this shell to my grandchildren.”

— May I interrupt this dialogue with a perfectly respectful interlude: This woman I had spotted long before. One of those ‘locals’ who is waaay beyond  loCal with her leather encrypted epidermis, and gaunt frame as if she had run a few too many lines before her daily jaunt to the Grille—

Anyhow, she proceeds to accuse my honey of being ‘high on drugs’ when he refuses to hand over the hermit. The entire time I am laid up on my towel thinking he is versing a young child on the ways of crabs, only for him to return and set me straight. This woman was in fact, beyond the beyond , telling my love that the shell was not his to keep. He retorted, “It’s not yours either. His home is here in the sea.”

To whom did the Hermit belong? Admittedly, I may be biased, but I told my honey to throw the crab far into the ocean so the leatherette could not get her slippery hands on the innocent Herm. Truth be told, we trusted her not. Herm would not have lasted a day. The lady grudgingly, in stalkeresque fashion, followed us out to our vehicle as we headed off. Strange. Very, very strange. And so it goes. Such is life. But just one thing…

…to whom did Hermy belong?

Over the span of the last year, I personally have been touched by the hands of death many times. And I have wondered, what is it that takes a person from us? How do others survive? The answers to these questions I do not know. Self re-invigoration of life is the only option I found. To seize all of my dreams… to taste the zest of each day I am blessed enough to embrace. My script below reflects how it feels to ponder the realms of sustenance. A tribute to those who have passed, yet still fruitfully continue living:

Waves lay themselves upon the blond grains of the supple sand, as seagulls chime their hunger song, and the lovely melody of Billie Holiday’s “I’ll Be Seeing You” fills all remaining space in the scene with its alluding loss. I feel like I am someone else on a European beach in the light of another sun. Where are you? You could be somewhere close, or in another world so far. But are we not one in the same if you are there and I am here? If death is merely a transition could you not transition here? I feel you. I feel you in my pulse and in my bones. I see you splashing in the sea just yards in front of me. And so you are there. You are there because I carry you with me. You are my voice when in the shower I do sing. You are my song, playing upon repeat, forever you live on. 

In Loving Memory of Julie Overholt, Irma Zamora, Stacey Schreiber, Carlos Zamora, Bradford Garrison, Tucker Ward, Dremel & the  many others across the world who will never be forgotten

I performed an exercise in therapy once.

The exercise consisted of segmenting my persona into three parts:

• 1. I Do (action words of my personality)
• 2. Characters (descriptive words about my personal character)
• 3. I Am (the nouns I represent)

As part of my therapy, I created lists under the aforementioned categories so as to better understand that like any gem, I am a culmination of many facets. The first word I noted under the first column marked I Do: write.

Everything else on the page seems merely inconsequential compared to this one action. Write. Writer I am, forever I will be. I happened across this single page of reflection which laid dormant in my bedside table for years, after watching the film Adaptation. The film depicts the lives of several writers, both for narrative and screen, as they journey through the terrain of story telling. The film sparked the crevices of my therapy sessions so long ago. Adaptation helped me remember how crazy I am for writing. Writing is an all-consuming world. A world of complete passion, bubbling over with obsessive thoughts, words, and concepts– which ones to choose, or not. Maddening. Ferocious. (No, neither of these words I listed on my therapy page about myself; though admittedly, I could have.) Nicolas Cage’s character, Charlie, illustrates the self-inflicted drama a writer experiences when they cannot find their voice on a given topic.

For a while now I have known my beloved topic as a writer to be the topic of life. Broad, I know. But like Charlie, what I battled over was my chosen voice on the topic, with many hours of contemplation given to what level of truth I desired to represent. Do I put it all on the table, so-to-speak? Or do I scale back the reality? How will others feel about what I write? Then I met her: my third Deb in as many months, a waitress at a favored Mexican joint not too far from my home. Meeting Deb rivaled being slapped with all those insights elders told you about life but you never really quite knew how to digest, instantaneously, in one climatic moment, smack dab in your third eye. Wham! Hard and unrelenting. This was Deb. She spoke of her life in its current state, and how if she was young like me (her words) she would journal everything. Everything. So one day she would own something really worthwhile to pass on to her children. Deb digressed stating she never ended up having any children so it did not matter anyway. And she went on her way to do her job, servicing tables, while in her sadness I lingered. Her life did matter. It mattered to me. When life lessons come screaming down a tunnel like a locomotive full speed ahead, it matters. You will not forget. Journal. Everything.

So welcome to my blog. My journal, my voice, my truth on how I perceive life. I hope you stay tuned as I tackle the maddening, ferocious whirlwind of scribing it. May you find enlightenment from my expression for many moons to come.

Sat Nam.