Flotsam and jetsam

My thoughts are blown back and forth today.
It's windy outside; windy and warm.
And like leaves on the tree in the yard, my thoughts are tossed, back and forth, sometimes coalescing into a semblance of calm, mostly just slipping over one another and knotting together only to be drawn apart.
This is not a productive mental environment.
I want answers and accomplishment. I also want to skip out on work and spend the rest of the day chasing after the elusive flotsam and jetsam of half-formed feelings and ideas.
Now though, I'm out of ice cream and the coffee is running low...

Investments and funeral clothes

What color clothing do you wear to the funeral of a good woman?
The funeral of a woman you barely remember, but who influenced your life and others so profoundly that her and her husband's initial investments still reverberate with deep, sonorous echoes in lives throughout the city and country.
Is she most honored with the deeply respectful black dress clothes? Or, is it more appropriate to dress to celebrate a life well lived and a reward and reunion finally gained?

The funeral was small. Her death unheralded. And, for the most part, not unexpected. The tiny funerary chapel was nearly filled with attendees who- if their sartorial choices were any indication- represented the spectrum of class, occupation, and background.

And as the old story was told again, several points became clear in the repetition.

- You can trust Him, a life based on that trust is witness and proof to that truth.
- Spiritual investment demands and expects a return.
- Resources are tools. You can't outgive God.

Think, it was said, of how different her and her husband's lives would have been if they hadn't spent thousands, upon thousands of dollars feeding other people's children.

How different my life would have been were it not for that investment.

Tank tops and head scarves

I thought I had come for the tank tops.

Bright, candy colored with just a hint of lace, the half-shirts were on special sale for just the weekend.

It had taken me almost 3 hours of rush hour traffic complicated by hydrochloric acid spills, angry commuters, several helicopters, and a truck that dripped life blood oil with every turn of the engine.

By the time I finally found the monolithic shopping experience somehow hidden between the parking garages and on-ramps, I was ready to turn around and call it a day, or rather evening.

But on the principle of the matter, and in the name of crazy low prices, the truck was parked- leaving the oil to slowly pool- and I went inside.

The capitalism was almost breathtaking in its totality. Everything- from the carpets, to the scent, not to mention the merchandise- breathed a collective agreement of affluence and possibility.

I, however, was determined to not fall sway. Regular priced merchandise was for those poor shoppers not able to distinguish between the glamorous facade and reality. I was there to buy sale items.

Hurrying by one of many bay windows looking out over the ever-lengthening lines of angry drivers, I almost missed them.

I saw the women first. They looked almost bored. Or if not bored, certainly out of place. Their covered heads were both bowed, talking quietly to each other and to the children in their laps.

The men were several chairs away. They sat with perfect posture, feet squared and shoulders back. They faced the window, and the setting sun.

Not going to lie, I slowed down, trying to figure out what they were doing.

Both men looked straight ahead. Their lips moved in a muttered cadence and they rhythmically leaned forward, ever so slightly, and then back again.

Not wanting to completely stop and gawk- my Mama did raise me with some manners- I kept going.

The scene sunk in a couple hundred feet later.

They were praying.

In the middle of all this, this Stuff, they stopped to follow the dictates of a religion that held higher precedence than the endless financial ebb and flow that surrounded them.

I wasn't sure if I was crying for the futility of their belief or from conviction as to the lack of passion that sometimes plagues mine.

I still hadn't figured it out when I left the store carrying a bag with more tank tops than I needed.

I walked back the way I came, this time slower, trying to catch a better glimpse.

It was too late. They were finished.

Identity and Disney pop music

It's almost embarrassing to admit- or think about- how many times I've listened to this song today.

"You are the thunder and I am the lightning/And I love the way you know who you are/and to me it's exciting when you know it's meant to be..."

She's got a good voice, nice range, and could have real promise when she actually grows up. 

She's very Disney.

Something about the song though has caught me from the first couple of beats, half-heard as they played in another room.

Maybe it's the theme? 

The danceable beat?

I avoided thinking about it for the better part of the day. 


In the meantime, "Everything comes naturally when you're with me, Baby..." dance-popped through my head.

Finally, the thought pounced, leaping from behind the thick veil of musical elitism it had been crouching behind.

It's the confidence she sings about.

That's what got its hooks into me.

Lifetime movies and lots of questions

I'm sitting here, alone, watching a Lifetime movie on a Sunday evening and feeling not a little envious.

She's beautiful. A not-so-ugly duckling transformed into a gorgeous swan before the movie's end. Shiny, buckets of cliche later, she's come to the realization that she can write her own happy ending. She's also gotten a book published under false pretenses, had a stunningly handsome publishing mogul's son fall in love with her, and had not 16 Cinderella references made.

It's cliche, overplayed, and wonderful.

It's a world where personal resolve and the right shoes can reweave the fabric of your life. Where the right clothes and a can-do attitude are the passkey to Tall, Dark and Handsome. Most of all, everything wraps up neatly and with no unresolved questions.

And tonight I want it badly.

Biscuits and gravy, denim and leather

Her mouth had more gaps than teeth.

She greeted me, smiling, with a "Hey, Darlin', what can I get you?" And, handing me a menu and a silverware set, passed me off into a booth that glittered with decades-old vinyl.

I sat, nearly swallowed in the broken springs and cracked seat, and obediently perused the menu. She took my order and left. 

It's an interesting collection of patrons who collect at a 24-hour diner at five minutes to 10 at night.

Across the restaurant, a weathered blonde woman dressed in head-to-toe denim and leather sat with her back to the door and jukebox. She was a regular, familiar with both the food and the patrons.

The cook wandered out from the kitchen, his formerly white apron tied haphazardly around his waist. Locating the dish bin, he wandered back. 

My waitress came back with a "honey," and a "sugar," left me my black coffee and biscuits and gravy.

She turned, distracted by her sister and brother-in-law coming in, and left me alone.

Texas biscuits and gravy aren't quite the best in the world, but they're close. Combined with strong coffee and a good dose of welcoming, they go a long way toward creating a bit of a haven on a cold Friday night.

I sat there, mopping up the lakes of gravy that pooled in the corners of my plate, and realized I had been missing this sense of grounding. 

New running shoes and old hurts

He nearly had me convinced.

He crouched there, showing off the features of the brand new, ultra technological, medically perfect running shoes. Not only would these shoes make my running stride ideal, they'd also help just about every other bone in my body.

They were also cute.

I sat on the bench, a bit entranced to be honest, trying to let myself be convinced to buy these podiatric wonders. I need to run, right? I need to be healthy while doing it, right? After all, my tolerance for nearly losing it is diminished after a while. Also, he had a South African accent. And that's just cool.

Common sense won out though. I realized one of the most upscale athletic stores in the city was probably not the wisest place to buy footwear. Or really anything.

Once I put my old shoes back on though, I realized my feet hurt. And they hurt bad. There was only a problem, mind you, after they knew what they were missing. Before, fine. After, lots of pain.

I think sometimes my heart and soul are the same way.

I don't see the ways I'm broken and hurting until they sound in sharp relief to a different situation.

Once I feel that something could be better, that healing could come, it's hard to go back to enduring the sting of sharp edges and cracked borders.

I don't have the perspective to really understand the right questions to ask as I process through what's happened this last stretch of life. Unlike the Shoe Manager, I can't tell what's going on or how to heal just by looking. 

What I can do is run hard- broken, painful feet and all- after the One who does know. 

I think He'll be ok with my old tennis shoes.