I used to believe . . .

. . . that everyone needed to be heard. Now I think that we get so caught up in pining for understanding that we stop paying attention to what it is that we have to say.

Sometimes I am guilty of sending flares up, crying out to be heard.

But no one can ever walk in our shoes. And I'm not so sure we even are well-acquainted with the actual person who does wear our shoes. 

It would be better if I listened, it would be better if I felt the pulse of the universe instead of always yearning to be listened to and understood.

The sky cries, too . . .

. . . and sometimes, like tonight, even the vegetation agrees with me: it is too much.

I wonder if my tears are like the stunts I pulled in adolescence. Am I simply pouting so that I can get my way? Well, it never was entirely about that, was it? It was about being mixed up and not knowing how to sort through everything. 

I think never having grown up--in this case--is not a good thing.

Once I dreamed . . .

. . . and I matched my dreaming with dedicated hours; I stretched and reached and kept the hope agile and alive.

Now, if I raise my eyes to glimpse the star of what could have been, my neck will snap, brittle from neglect and disuse. 

My grandmother passed . . .

. . . from this realm to the one beyond a year ago today.

On the way to dance class this morning my three-year-old niece asked me why Grandma died. We were remembering spending time with her this time last year, taking turns holding Grandma's hand. I don't know if it made Grandma feel any better or anymore loved, but she was always gracious, even when she was a whisper of herself. She always told us thank you and she always wanted to offer us a comfortable place to sit or some ice cream.

My answer wasn't convincing even to myself. "She died because she was very sick and in a lot of pain and old." 

"But why?" my niece asked.

"She's in heaven," I offered. "Someday we will all go to heaven. When we are very old."

"I don't want to go to heaven," she said.

"You want to stay in this world forever?"

"Yes."

This little girl has inherited my grandma's zest for life. My grandma didn't want to die either. She had a strong will to live and to live happy here with those she loved. (Of course life isn't like that.)

I don't remember all the turns of our conversation but my niece finally said, "I wanted her to come back." 

Truth:

I want her to come back, too. 

I miss her presence, her goodness, her interest in me so terribly sometimes that it feels like this unmendable rip in the fabric of my soul will only grow more empty with the passage of time.

Whoever would ever think . . .

. . . to place a lost and found box in front of a closet door in a basement-level vending machine room?

I found the box of sundry pencils and unmatched gloves quite by accident. What I was looking for was the drinking fountain, thirsty for life's most vital nutrient. The box delighted me. What are the odds of anyone finding a lost and found box that is itself lost, unmapped and uncharted except to those vending machine and water fountain frequenters? 

How long will the box sit in front of the door holding the miscellaneous of those who will likely never know where to find it?

?

One great rainstorm . . .

. . . and Fall is ushered in; one cool day and we forget that yesterday we wore flip-flops and bare arms. Humans are smart.

There is grass . . .

. . . where I once made the angels in the snow, one for me and one for you. The snow held our twin forms until the sun dissolved their lines and new snow filled the places my body had carved out.

This evening I look at the grass and see what is no longer there. And I wonder if I lie down will I be able to fit myself within the past's invisible lines? It would be one way of going back.

This kind of sorrow . . .

. . . resides deep below the earth where no water runs.

Maybe I should plead for an earthquake.

I smile when . . .

. . . I hear the phrases companies require their employees to say either in the form of a salutation or valediction. (I think I smile because of the obvious word choice or wordplay and because I'm no actor and delivering those preset lines would be difficult.)

When a McDonald's order taker asks me, "What can I make for you?" my inner smile is huge and I think, Make? Nothing.

The other day I took my niece to the Disney Store, and the closing there was, "Have a magical day!" Why thank you, I will.

And at See's Candies, after they've greeted you with a free chocolate and you've made your purchase: "Come and see us again!" Thanks, I think I will, mostly for the sweet valediction and the cherry chocolate.

Wouldn't it be nice . . .

. . . if, like a hermit crab outgrows its shell, we outgrew our troubles?

Only then wouldn't we discover that we had taken up residence in a new, roomier shell, housing even larger or more numerous problems?

Maybe we should try shrinking from our troubles instead. But the shirking and getting smaller is no way to live. We learn that quite clearly from the Grinch's and Ebenezer's hearts. They had shrunk so small that the characters were unable to live alive; they were living dead.

So maybe we should, like the hermit crab, welcome bigger shells, roomier digs, and the new challenges that more space brings.

Outside . . .

. . . the sun is bright in the sky. I position myself in its rays so that I can feel its warmth. The rest of me remains as cold as this chilled day.

Today's score is . . .

. . . Me: 7, Universe: 567,433,124,719,806.

Must have been boring to watch the match-up.

I don't think there is a register of sadness lower than this. And yet I know that there must be. There are people dealing with "somethings" greater than anything I am worrying over.

I could run a city on the currency of my sorrow. What irony! A blob on the floor supplying the energy for thousands. (And for the record, I don't know how to change it.)

I am the hollow of . . .

. . . those cheap chocolate Easter bunnies. It's the shell that frames the emptiness inside.

Melt me down and there is nothing of worth there either, just waxy goo.

I reach . . .

. . . and there is nothing but air.

. . .

. . .

If God can move mountains, cause prison walls to crumble, and have angels visit . . .

. . . then is it too much to ask: please move this mountain, dissolve our prison walls, support and direct us with thy angel power.

I am in a place you have never been . . .

. . . waiting in a line of people with their furry creatures. It's grooming day.

I look more in need of a haircut than most of these dogs; although they look dirtier (at least my dog looks dirtier; he's supposed to be white).

And what's on my mind?

Let me apologize--please--for my despair, for my pounding defeat, for my vacancy. It hurt you and you and you, and I am sorry. I wasn't thinking (although I should have been). I didn't understand (although i should have) how the destructive force was corroding and chiseling at more than just me. I hurt you. And for this I am immensely sorry.

(I would rather cut off a toe than hurt those I love. Pease don't point out that I would have no toes left by now. I already know.)

O I try so hard to be hopeful . . .

. . . and it is very difficult.

Eating chocolate at seven a.m. . . .

. . . means I should quit going to mid-week parties where they send you home with dessert.

The morning is still . . .

. . . and I think about you. How can I reach out across continent and ocean to tell you that you are more than okay, you are wonderful.

This morning I sense the disruption, I feel something like (and softer than) your hurt, the ache of a dream yet again deferred, and the doubt and resignation that mixes with your hope. I know a parallel world. Even now with newfound strength I question my ability to reach high enough, and I have only myself tugging down on me. You have more powerful pulls on your being.

If you were here, I would climb the stairs to your world and we would walk together and enjoy toasted bagels with cream cheese and hot chocolate. We would talk about our frustrations and somehow work ourselves up to full-bodied laughter, too loud and too happy for other early morning diners. We would smile at that and laugh some more, and we would remember what we have always known in our cores, that we can do this, that we are good enough, that God placed us here to succeed, that these man- and devil-made roadblocks can be cleared even though we don't yet know how to clear them.

I sit here in this hour before dawn and wonder where you are now and how long you plan on wandering Europe untethered to technology? The space is good for clearing the mind, but I am selfish and would rather be traveling with you. And I secretly hope that you will break your technology fast and read these words in an Internet café. I want you to know that I miss you. I want you to remember how many good times we've had over the decades. I want you to know that I love you. You know that, right? O, I wish that I had made sure of it before you left.

I dreamed of reconfigured neighborhoods and new houses. I dreamed of meditating while holding really still and the different opinions people had about how and whether I should do this. It strikes me as funny now that their critiques and opinions were keeping me from the peace I already knew how to access.

That's what I wish for you across these many miles: peace, and within that peace the quiet assurance that you are enough, you are more than enough, you matter; you, my dear friend, are wonderful. Do you feel it? Please reach out and grab hold of it, pull it in.

I believe in dreams.
I believe in the possibility of overcoming the cant's of our own and others' creations. I believe that when we stand, we will see that this hole is not as deep as it feels.

Though in different countries in different time zones, let us climb together into the soft and glorious light of dawn. Are you ready? Take my hand.

It is a new (anew) day. Let's feel it, each in our own realm. Let's stand and face it, embrace it even. Let's hold its power in the palm of our outstretched hands.