God's Orphan

It was noon on Saturday in downtown Pueblo.  Although the winter sun had reached its zenith it hung strangely low in the southern sky, its light was pale, soft and filtered.  The day was pleasantly warm except for the occasional breeze that cut me sharply as it blew by.  It was a needling reminder that the Queen of Summer had made her graceful exit long ago.  Her luminous sister, Dame Winter, was our sovereign now; ruling us with her chill and her coldness that was sometimes white, sometimes gray.  What struck me odd was the absence of the traffic that moved through the city and the cars that usually snuggled next to the sidewalk, bumper to bumper, patiently waiting for their owners to return.  The traffic signals turned red to green to red like a conductor leading an imaginary orchestra and playing to a non-existent audience.  I could smell the evergreen trees that grew out of the sidewalks like weeds in a majestic, silent garden of glass and steel, cement and asphalt.  And in the stead of the people who moved to and fro on mysterious errands and the ones who leaned against the buildings or hid in little alcoves smoking, there was one lone man.  He wore a coat that was the faded black that comes from much use and exposure to the outdoor elements.  His hair had the waxy sheen of a worn leather shoe; smooth, satiny, but not shiny, and it hung in greasy strings.  Somehow I knew that if I was near enough or if the breeze blew in the right direction I would be able to smell him, that stale odor of a body that hadn’t had the luxury of a bath or shower in some time.  One of God’s orphans, he traveled with a gait that was an odd cross of a march and a shuffle.  It wasn’t what I would call a walk but more of a series of broken falls.  It seemed as though he managed to get a foot beneath his body right before he plunged head first to the ground.  His head was down and his eyes were focused blankly toward the sidewalk.  Unaware of his surroundings it seemed as if he was pulled along by an invisible, magnetic force that he could not resist.  I tried to pretend I didn’t see him while keeping him in my peripheral vision and I listened intently to the drag, slap, drag, slap of his very stylized walk just in case he approached me.  Calm and nonchalant on the exterior I was poised for flight on the inside.  But he continued along drawn by his own puppet master to the destination that only he had knowledge of and he ignored my presence altogether.

 

Mom's Taxi

My fingers were drumming on the steering wheel while my left foot was jiggling double time.  “Come on, come on, COME ON!” I said to the red light as if my dance of impatience accompanied with a strong vocal back up would compel the light to change to green.  I was in a hurry to get my errands done.  The left turn arrow came on and a flash of yellow accompanied by a burst of air went by me on the driver’s side of my car.  It was a bright yellow kind of SUV kind of truck-like thing with black checkerboard patterned racing stripes from bumper to bumper.  Stenciled on the door and on the tailgate were the words, “Mom’s Taxi.”  A well coiffed young woman with designer sunglasses, that suited her beautifully, was behind the wheel.  Her manicured hand with acrylic fingernails was holding the newest cell phone contraption to her ear.  I saw the humor in the statement she was making with her uniquely painted vehicle and thought it was funny.  But it was not funny too.  We all lead such busy lives.

The light turned green and it was my turn to go.  The cars leapt forward like race horses from the gate.  Soon I was up to speed and my steel buggy was being pulled along like metal to an invisible magnet.  I felt myself slipping into that zone of semi-awareness that comes from traveling the same route day after day.  As always, I began mentally assessing my “to do” list, trying to retrieve from the deeper recesses of my mind, anything I possibly could have neglected to add to my list.  Satisfied that all was there I began to organize my itinerary of stops in order to make the most efficient use of my time.  My car, on auto-pilot, came to a stop at another red light and I realized that I had traveled at least five miles without remembering the trip at all.  It was if I was a “Time Traveler”, slipping through invisible portals, to land in another world and losing a block of time into the void.  As the light turned green and I maneuvered the car through the double left turn that would put me on Highway 50 and the ten mile stretch to the new Wal-Mart, the image of “Mom’s Taxi” with its unexpected message to me began to speak.

“You are always so busy, doing and doing, going and going.  And at the end of the day you don’t email your friends because you have nothing to say.  You can’t write the stories you dearly would love to write because the images of your day have been lost in a blur of time.  While you are on auto pilot, traveling place to place, your soul runs on empty.  She has a thirst that needs to be satisfied.  She needs to drink in the beauty of the world you live in.  You have plenty of time.”

“Got it.” I replied and let my eyes become the lenses of the inner camera of my being, taking pictures and storing images to up load at a later time.  I vowed that from now on I would note at least three things I saw as I travel place to place.

The wind was blowing from the south.  I could tell by the bend of the delicate, golden brown prairie grasses.  The US flag over Sweeney’s Feed Mill was flapping and snapping wildly.  Red Bud and Globe Willow trees were lavender and lime green, their edges softened and blended into the landscape.  I could see what inspired Monet.  The front range of the Rocky Mountains was navy blue with the patches of snow that still remained in between the trees looking like white freckles.  Pike’s Peak towered above it all, its slopes pink and grey.  The glacier on it that never melts was wrapped like a stylish scarf around its giant neck, as if it was an impetuous last minute addition to its attire.  I pulled into Wal-Mart and clicked the "save" button on my imaginary camera.

I see “Mom’s Taxi” quite often while I am out and about.  I smile and want to wink.  I don’t need to take a picture of the image that is permanently engraved upon my heart so I can remember the lesson I learned that day.  Angels, as messengers, can come in any form.  And multi-tasking, for me, isn’t about making time; it is about claiming time in my very busy day.

Muddy Paw Prints

I spent the night tossing and turning trying to find relief for the sharp, knife-like pain in my back that developed recently.  The electric blanket that had been my salvation this winter from the cold that stiffens my joints was not working and I could not get comfortable.  Apparently during my nighttime wrestling match I had pulled on the covers hard enough to unplug the cord.  If I had just forced myself to rise and investigate during the night I would have discovered the problem and while I may not have slept any better at least I would have been warm.  Now the day had begun, it was too late to go back to bed.

I wove and tottered my way to the kitchen like a toddler learning to walk.  I clumsily tried to manage the water, coffee grounds, filter, and coffee scoop to make the first pot of coffee of the day and regretted that I had not set it up the night before and used the automatic timer.  I had spilt coffee grounds and water everywhere.

The day promised to be much the same as all my other days, dishes in the dishwasher, trash collected, the first load of laundry washing, and my “to do” list waiting to be tackled after I spent a little time cleaning out the stalls and runs at the stables where my son takes riding lessons.  It is not a glamorous activity but it provides for me the fresh air and exercise that is lacking in my life.

It was cold and windy when I arrived at the stables.  The snow that had barely melted the day before had frozen overnight into icy booby traps and was interspersed with swatches of mud where the morning sun had begun the thawing process again.  I cringed inside knowing I would transport much of the mud home with me; on my feet, in my car, and eventually in my house and onto my freshly shampooed carpet.  Another mess to clean up, I thought, as I turned my mind to the task at hand, bundled up, and picked my way through the ice and mud puddles to retrieve a wheelbarrow and begin.

I noticed how the morning was bright and clear.  There is something about the cold and the wind that cleans our world and brings her sharply into focus.  It was strangely quiet and peaceful as the horses ate their hay with single minded purpose making me feel irrelevant in their world.  I pulled my scarf over my nose to help keep warm and immediately couldn’t see as my breath then fogged my sunglasses leaving me blind.  Taking them off, I perused the first stall I was going to clean with a deep inner sigh of relief.  The manure was dry and therefore light in weight and easy to clean up.  I grabbed the fan rake and began to work.  After I had all the manure in a pile I went to find a shovel to use to transfer it from ground to wheelbarrow.  And there to my surprise and delight was a shovel, made of plastic, and lightweight.  It was such a small thing and such a gift, no added weight to my chore.  Perhaps I could manage this after all.  Physical work had been so hard on me of late.

One stall down, then two and soon all of them were done.  The concentration on the work to be done had changed into a mindless meditation for me.  As I worked I could hear the swish, swish, of the horses eating hay and the startling, occasional thump of the goat butting the feeder on the fence to knock loose his share of the hay to the ground for him to eat.  It was a soothing barnyard ditty – rake, rake, scoop, scoop, swish, swish, and THUMP with the sound of metal chains rattling and gates clanging to add an interesting percussion.

I could feel my back tightening up and the fatigue that comes to me so readily these days.  I was glad to be finished as I put the tools away and headed to my car for the bag of carrots I like to bring for the horses.  Hand feeding the horses is a little oasis of pleasure for me.  I truly enjoy observing them up close while each of them reveals a little more of its unique and individual personality.  It is an amazing experience as we exchange breath in proper “horsey” etiquette.  I am always reminded that the Hebrew word for “soul” is “neshema”.  The literal translation of “neshema” is “breath”.  This equine ritual of smelling each others breath takes on a special beauty for me when I think of it as a true mingling of souls.  This day, however, it was becoming harder to stand and I hurried through the treat giving and headed to my car, tired, eager to sit down and ready to go home.

That is when I saw it and my heart just fell.  Sitting on my car, proudly posed in magnificent ancient Egyptian god-cat fashion, was the black and white barn cat (whose name I can never get straight) with a look of complete bliss and satisfaction on its face.  My car was covered in its very muddy foot prints, left behind after its thorough investigation, the depth and detail of which only the curiosity of a cat can produce.  Not much of the vehicle had been missed.  The mud was a paw print work of art right down to the smear on the windshield that looked like the stylized signature of an artist on his masterpiece, an added feline flourish.

I don’t know if I groaned out loud but I know I groaned at least inwardly.  Bone weary and discouraged I knew I would not wash the car this day because of lack of time and energy.  As I turned east on Highway 50 I thought if there was ever a day that I deserved a Vente Latte, this would be it, and I headed for the Starbucks with the drive up window.

I pulled up to the speaker and waited for the chipper, disembodied Starbucks employee voice.  The voice that they are trained to speak in, the staccato, high pitched and bubbly one, as if to imply, that I too, will be caffeinated, hyper, and happy soon.  Placing my order I proceeded to the window.

“That will be three dollars and fifty-four cents” the young woman said as she turned to look at me sitting in my car.  Momentarily stunned, she threw back her head and squealing with laughter said, “LOOK AT YOUR CAR!  YOU HAVE MUDDY PAW PRINTS EVERYWHERE!”  Knowing what she must see and her obvious, genuine amusement at the picture the car and I presented, I burst out in laughter too.  Uplifted, I carried the moment of levity home with me with a smile on my face.  I parked the car in the garage, sat on the wooden step that was directly in front of the car so that I could admire it while I sipped my coffee, attempting to hang on to the happy feelings as long as I could.

I recalled a Neuro-Linguistic Programming technique I had learned some time ago where you quietly sit; eyes closed, and recall a happy experience with all of the sights, sounds, smells and feelings of the event in great detail.  And when you are truly re-experiencing the event you place your right index finger on your right temple to affix it in your memory for instant access to be used later when you need to bring yourself out of the doldrums.  Somehow, in the mysterious machinations of the human psyche, it does work.

Eyes closed, I sat back.  And with the attention of a movie critic ready to write a review, I prepared to watch the re-run of my morning.  I began to carefully take in every detail.  Like the perfect green of the hay on the stable floor, it looks so good I am tempted to taste it and I know why it is called sweet grass.  And how the colt, little baby Cash, can fit his entire head and neck through the fence for a treat or attention, greedy for both, he is such a little sweetheart.  Then there was Poncho, the Grand Canyon Veteran Mule, stoic and long suffering, who surprised me this morning by expressing his enthusiasm for the carrot by thrusting his head forward and squeezing out the “hee” part of “hee-haw”.  I could smell the good-bad odor of the manure heavy in the air, pleasant and friendly.  It makes me feel like I am wrapped in a security blanket.  I reveled in the memories of the morning a while longer, put my finger on my temple, and went into my house.

Freshly showered, clean clothes and make-up on, I set about my errands.  The pleasant moments of my morning were long forgotten as I drove across town.  I went to the bank and the grocery store, with my final stop at Sears to purchase the new dishwasher my husband and I agonized over for a week before surrendering to the inevitable conclusion that, ready or not, the old one had to be replaced.  I deserve a medal for the patience I displayed there.  The color I wanted wasn’t in stock and had to be ordered, my credit card had expired and I had to speak with their credit department which made me feel like I was on trial, and I had to listen while they tried to sell me a maintenance agreement for an additional gazillion dollars and that I didn’t want.  My back was aching and my feet were burning the entire time.

I left Sears and crossed the parking lot towards my car.  My walk had become an organized stumble, and I was mourning the things I had hoped to purchase this payday instead of a new dishwasher we could barely afford.  Feeling a little resentful and cheated, sorry for myself, I looked up just in time to see the head-snapping double-take of a man as he passed my car with the muddy paw prints.

I touched my finger to my temple….went back in time to the barn…..and smiled.

Post It Notes

Last Monday was our nineteenth wedding anniversary.  My husband was working out of town and didn’t call until the day after to wish me Happy Anniversary.  To my chagrin, I had COMPLETELY FORGOTTEN ABOUT IT!  I could imagine him working up his courage to call, shaking in his work boots, thinking that I would be upset.  He must have been relieved that he wasn’t in trouble and couldn’t be because I didn’t remember it at all.  Instead, I thought it was hilarious that neither of us was paying attention.

I recall a time when I would have been devastated that my husband called the day after “our special day”.  I probably would have cried, pouted, and claimed he didn’t care about me.  I would have been disappointed that we wouldn’t have been together to celebrate the day or unhappy that we didn’t have plans for a special dinner out with an exchange of gifts.  It was not so this time.  I simply forgot it all together.  I found myself asking if my marriage had become so blasé it wasn’t important to mark the day we said our vows.  I wondered if my marriage could be in trouble.  Should I be reading a book by Dr. Phil?

We have been through a lot together over the years.  There have been good times and bad.  In spite of the traumas that often drive a couple apart, we remain…..married.

This past Valentine’s Day, there were no flowers or candy, and that is a good thing.  I would not be here talking about them.  They would be gone and forgotten.  Instead, my best friend was with me that day, offering his arm to me to help me keep my balance walking across the parking lot to the doctor’s office.  He sat by my side, quietly reading a book, while we waited in the waiting room.  And he was there when my appointment was done to drive me home and ask me if I was alright.  No gifts or cards, no romantic dinner or night out on the town, just that solid, dependable bond that has been there from day one and is still here.  I don’t need special celebrations once or twice a year to know that I am blessed every day.

No, I don’t think my marriage is blasé.  It is peaceful and full of trust.  Dr. Phil couldn’t possibly have anything to add to what I have already got.  And I’ve decided my marriage isn’t in any kind of trouble…..that some Post It Notes won’t fix.

Four Monkeys

Four Monkeys

From the time my son was able to talk he has had an incessant need for conversation.  To this day, at eighteen years of age, he still follows me around the house, asking questions and seeking to get me engaged.

Early on he learned that he could manipulate me into talking with him if he asked questions about a subject he knew interested me.  So one evening when he was about nine years old he came up behind me while I was on the computer and asked: “What about angels mom, what are they?”  He was well aware that World Religion and Religious Traditions fascinated me and I would probably be willing to talk.  And I was.

So with half a mind on my email and the other half on the conversation I said, “The Hebrew word for angel is Malach which means Messenger.  Some people even believe that good thoughts create good angels who carry good messages to the world and that evil thoughts create evil angels who carry evil messages to the world.”

“Oh.”, he said, “Then there are Four Monkeys.”  Apparently satisfied, he turned and walked away.

I stopped and paused in my typing.  How did he leap frog from angels to monkeys?  I thought for a moment and smiled.

Hear No Evil.

See No Evil.

Speak No Evil.

THINK No Evil.

Four Monkeys indeed