Most mornings, I will sit at the table, cup of coffee, blinds open, watching the birds hustle to pick up the food I set out for them the night before. How hard life must be for them and how easy it seems to be for me. I think about a hot shower and how the water stings the back of my neck, long before the sun comes up. Slowly I crank up to meet the new day in my own ritual.
Beside’s the shower, this (sitting at the table) is usually the best place for me, early in the morning, to gather up my thoughts, and think about what it is that I am going to post for the day. On most days, I do not have a clue, as to what it is that I am going to share with you, I have not the faintest hint as to what I might have to freely give you. At times I often find myself, totally lost in the moment and find no chart, no clear concise course to follow.
On some mornings, I share a bowl of oatmeal with a friend and work out my day.
I will think about the first time my granddaughter took her little hand, placed it in mine and together, we walked across the parking lot of the truck-stop to the store. How good it feels to be needed and wanted. What was it that they used to call that feeling … oh yeah … a warm fuzzy. How a four year old will exclaim to anyone within earshot … “This is the bestest day of my life” and mean every word of it.
Other times, I will think about a 12 year old boy I know, who has no friends his age, cannot throw a football, is home schooled, and cannot tell you what 4X8 might be. “57? Uh 64? … 41” … all good guesses, but not one is even close. Deep inside it bothers me, because I know that not knowing how to spell a simple word like “cookie” at this age, will eventually lead to an emotionally crippled, ignorant teenager, in a very cold unfeeling world later on. I think about his limited options, all the time painfully knowing, I have to be quiet about it, because it is a “family thing.”
Even farther back in the cavities of my mind, I will think of walking to the back of a locomotive, on a chilly winter morning, slowly chugging thru the yard for another cut of cars. Reaching the back of the engine and finding my 47 year old friend Jack, sitting in the stairs, softly crying, because his kid is strung out on methamphetamine, and he doesn’t know what to do about it and I don’t know how to ease his pain. I think of all the times in my own life where I feel so inadequate and used up.
This kind of thinking, often will make me happy and sometimes, it will make me sad. Sometimes I will write about it and most often, I usually pass. You see, most of my choices are limited, some will work out and some will wither up and die on the vine.
My thoughts such as they are, have one common denominator.
This would be that I really don’t have a choice in the matter, I have to work with what it is that I have discovered (within myself) this day. My only options might be a set of headphones to drown out the noise or something like that.
You on the other hand, you have a choice.
You can flip off the page and go somewhere else. You can hit a delete button or escape and you are done. You can report it to wordpress.com moderators as untasteful or profane, objectionable to your good adult standards or morale code. You can ignore it completely.
The clock on the wall clicks off fractions of a day. Often early in the morning, when we sit down to write it and then put it up, another slice of life, a moment in time laid out on the page. Another offering is there for you to savor, relish and enjoy or to shut it down and walk away. Some of it good and some of it not all that great. It is all here, absolutely free. No baggage to take with you, no promises to make or break. And it only cost you a small portion of your time.
At times I think, believe it or not, you have the better part of the deal.
Thanks for stoppin by, as usual the comments section is open, take a shot at it if you wish. Ameliorate the content of the post or just say hello, either one will work.