Layers

Sometimes the bad guys aren't really bad. Sometimes the good guys aren't really good.

Sometimes it's the perceptions we choose to believe within ourselves that give weight to the adornments others seem to wear.

Always make sure you see a costume for what it really is.

Layers.

Be Good

 

Find your Moment.

We all have them.

You probably haven't found yours yet, but you will. It's that moment when every worry you've ever had or every fear you've ever faced just fades away. It's that one moment that you can wrap around yourself, shielding whatever may come as best you can, and still know that you'll be OK.

It might be a memory or it might be a hopeful dream. It might be a vague idea or it might be a fantasy. It might be a song or it might be a book. It might be a wish or it might be a look. That rhymed in such an absurd way. This is your Dad we're talking about here.

Find your Moment and keep it stored so deep inside that no one, nothing & no circumstance can take it from you.

That's your center of the universe. That's your immortal star. That's your singularity.

We're all scared. We're all afraid of tomorrow, in a sense. We all worry about what is just right around the bend. We don't do such things because we're cowards, we do such things because we're Humans Being Human. It's a gift that being Alive gave us.

Find your Moment when you need it most. Rest in it for a while. And when you're ready to try again...

Be.

Just make sure that, above all else, you Be Good.

Because if you don't... you can't take it back.

Just Do It!

I kill me.

Love Songs or Alcohol

On your best day they'll love you and on you're worst day they'll hate you.

If they don't find one or the other, they never really cared to begin with.

That's what it feels like on the stage. Some nights you might find yourself a King and others you might find yourself a Pauper. It's an ugly gamble that you choose to make when you climb those three steps.

I say this because one day you'll start wondering and, knowing you as I have, you'll seek out the Why.

You don't have to sing better than everyone else. You don't have to play better than anyone else. You don't even have to give them something worth remembering. That isn't your job. Your job is to give them everything in you that is worthy of giving away. What they do with it is up to them.

Your Daddy has been there. On both sides of the bulbs.

There was a reason I put a full length mirror in both of your rooms. Ha Ha. There was a reason that Santa brought you instruments. He & I were in agreement. We both know what you'll end up chasing. It's in your blood. It's in your flesh. It's in your mind. It's in You.

Find a way to give them Love Songs or Alcohol.

That's what they're looking for.

Except when they're not.

Ever Might Be

Just about every night I have the same dream.

It may come around just after I've fallen asleep, when the numbers on the clock are virgin and young, or it may come around when those numbers climb their way to a new tomorrow. The only guarantee I know is that eventually, at some point, it will come.

The bed is always warm, the fan is always pointed in just the right direction, the pillows are always far too comfortable, and the night is always still hours away from its marriage with the rising sun.

In that dream I stir, I roll over onto my left side, and the question pops into my groggy head.

"Hey Kid... if you don't wake up tomorrow... are you proud of what you were awake for Today?"

As much as I want to say "Yes", I always know I'd be a liar to say such things. On the other hand, it always feels wrong to say "No". So, I always say the same thing.

"I might be."

Do me a favor... don't ever "Might Be".

It's a waste of a good dream.

Ten Miles

Orange Juice with the pulp may feel weird inside your mouth, but it tastes so much better than Orange Juice without the pulp.

Mountains aren't there to find a way around, they're there so you'll find the initiative to climb over them.

People are Mean. People, though, are usually not. (Just wait for it)

Hugs linger longer than handshakes.

Smiles may fade but frowns can't fade anymore than they already have.

Faith isn't spiritual, it's a choice.

Trust is something to re-gift. Often.

The only thing that matters more than anything in this world is, well, Mattering.

Quit worrying so damn much.

Oh, and one other thing... Love Is Yours.

Those are My Ten Miles.

Make It Stick

 
When I was 14 years old I had my first real kiss.

Granted, I kissed Tammy on the cheek in 4th grade but I don't think that actually counts.

When I was 14, though, at a church retreat, Carolyn and I snuck behind a building and she shoved her tongue into my mouth.

Yea, it was as creepy as that last sentence. But it was also something more. It made my face flush, my legs quiver, and my fingers play air guitar. I'm quite serious, I think I may have played "Flight of the wounded bumble bee" right there next to the central air units.

I say all of this so you'll know that when all else fails, when your body doesn't quite do what you intend it to do, and when your intentions outweigh your reality, the one thing you will always be able to count on... is your Kiss.

Everything else may change, but that does not.

So make it stick.

Seasons

My Fall

A few moments before you were born, I was afraid.

You had incubated inside your Mother for the better part of nine months and we'd waited impatiently for you to find us outside her womb. When the day finally came, I found myself in a comfortable room watching Virginia Tech lose to California on the little TV nestled in the corner. Your Mom, though, wasn't quite as comfortable. The epidural hadn't done what years of scientific research had predicted. It had only given half of her body the joys of lost sensation. Her left side, on the other hand, was ripe with feeling.

Couple that with the unsettling revelation that she hadn't dilated nearly enough, we were left with the prospect that you would be liberated through an incision.

When you finally graced this stage with your presence, you let everyone within earshot know you had arrived. It was calm at first, just hints that you were knocking on the door to a life, then the colors in the room changed. Casual at first, and then with vigor only a Daughter of mine could muster. Just when we all wondered what to expect, you let us know that expectations weren't worth passing glances.

The first time I looked into your eyes, you squinted and yelled at me. I fell in love with you immediately. That's why you're my Fall. That's when I let all of my fears slip away.

My Winter

You surprised us every step along the way.

Not only did you sneak into life quietly and unassuming, you found a way to leave us standing wide eyed and breathless in a living room. I'll bet you can still recall that living room.

The whirlwind that found us sequestered in a small side room was as much to blame on the hospital's construction as it was on your choice when to arrive. The plan was well thought out, scripted and sculpted, and convenient. Valentine's Day seemed that much more of a perk.

But you're like me. Why leave a party content when you can leave it with style.

You weren't breathing when you found that little room. Your eyes were closed and you couldn't see me looking at you across the table. I watched them work on your little chest for what seemed like hours. In reality, it was a few immortal minutes.

When you quietly chirped for the first time, I exhaled. It was as if I'd kept a deep held breath for my entire life. I was elated and light headed and exhausted. All for a tiny, quiet "chirp".

One day later they finally let me see you. You were in a little plastic bubble. I couldn't hold you but I could reach my hand in and touch yours. You seemed so peaceful laying there. You just looked at me as if to convey "Be Still". Then you inhaled so deeply that I saw your little chest rise and without missing a beat you exhaled even deeper. I cried like a baby. I cried like a Father finally seeing his Son. Fittingly.

That's why you're my Winter. Because you let the world assume one thing and then you give it something altogether different.

I used to lament the fact that my world was tilted on its axis. I used to begrudge the fact that I rotated in an odd manner. Now I realize that if I didn't turn in such a fashion...

... I wouldn't have My Seasons to adore.

Before & After & Matters & Maybe

 

One day this won't sound like gibberish.

There is a before of which you cannot conceive, not yet, anyway. So many things happened, happen, and will happen. There is also an after that hasn't yet to find it's way into being a before. It's trying though. It's trying with every breath.

Afters tend to do that to the befores. They hang around until they can be what they weren't, and ironically, what they're not yet. Until they are, of course.

That's what makes the in between so fragile.

Think of the moments before you were born. Better yet, before that perfect moment when the electrons in your freshly developed brain began firing off. Think back to your time in the womb and that moment before you recognized that you Were. Granted, you had no idea where you Were or what in the world You were doing, but you Were, and that mattered most of all. Now the big question... can you recall the moment before That occurred?

What if the after doesn't actually do anything to the before... other than learn from it?

Things change, then they change again, then they change once or twice more. That is the nature of those things in between the before and the after. They don't have a choice, like you do. They do so because they must. That is why they Are.

If you try, you might be able to collect the before in one hand and the after in the other hand.

If you can pull that off, then maybe, just maybe, you'll figure out how to hold on tight to that in between. Maybe, just maybe, you'll be able to stuff it in your pocket and carry it with you.

Find a way to do so and the Before & After won't end up mattering at all.

And that... Matters.

Maybe.

Sprout

The road tends to shy away from the meadow. I don't know why. Perhaps it knows it has no place there.

I've passed by it so very many times. The asphalt nudges its way around a brook and leans precariously to the right. Almost as if it were avoiding what it could not, does not, or wishes to never, understand. Land.

I see the house there. The home, as it were. The place where I lay my head at night and rest easy and accomplished until the sun finds reason to rise again, the following morning. I see my hands in the soil, planting flowers, planting crops, planting abundance. I see the blisters I earn in planting such things.

Our nearest star sets low over the valley. It casually finds its way down, as softly as possible, kissing the last remaining remnants of whatever stands tall enough to see it's momentary slumber. The trees, the weeds, the tallest grass blade. It sends out its immortal light to find a place to linger. If only for a moment.

In the quiet places I can see myself inhaling the cool, fragrant, innocent autumn air. The exhaustion of thousands of years of renewal, redemption, invigoration, and invitation. It begs me to visit. It pleads with me to partake of what it quietly has to whisper. It desires me to remain there, if only for a season.


Sprout, old Friend.


I'm Trying.

Water Remains

When I was young and full of intent I always found a way to find a way. Now that I'm waning in the sky of my life, I find I'm more inclined to let the way find me.

I can recall with vigor how voraciously I pursued the ideology that we are born and as such, begin to die. I can also recall with vigor countering that view with the fact that we live, alive, and continue to do so until we do not anymore.

On one hand the glass is half empty, on the other it is half full.

Frankly, at this point, I find all of that horseshit funny.

Perhaps the ultimate truth is simply that the water remains. One way or the other.

The glass is indifferent.

Chasing Ghosts

I'm halfway Home.

Patient and waiting in the wings, willing and able, wanting and wondering, those are my definitions. The days push past as drab and vibrant as they intended. I stand aside and nod. That is my purpose right now. Observing what is and what will never be, seeing what is not and will always be.

Sometimes breathing intoxicates me. Other times, it chokes me.

The leaves are falling now. They're letting go and finding their way down. They're going where they must go.

Some days I see far too much. Other days... well, I simply envy the blind.

Either way I figure I'm just chasing ghosts in the dark.

Somewhere to Land

Breathing comes easy.

It's just what I do. Well, it's what we all do. Without thinking upon it, ironically enough. The one thing that keeps us upright and uptight and Up.

Some days we're the fresh breath of the wind that hovers over the river. Other days we're the gentle, lazy cadence of the breeze that winds its way along a little bit of worn out earth that one day found itself a stream. Still sometimes, not often, but on occasion, we may just be the stagnant haze that weighs itself down, heavy and fat, waiting on a reason for drifting in an estuary.

I wonder which category I fall into, or float within, or drift about. Then again, maybe I'm just a bottle. A bottle waiting on a beach. Perhaps I've already found out how to hover. Perhaps I've already discovered how to waltz. Maybe I've finally figured out the secret to a drift.

What is inside doesn't matter as much as the fact that what was inside finally found somewhere to land.

Or at least beach itself.