And so it begins

Iowa caucuses tomorrow and so begins the primary season.
Please, folks, choose candidates who are qualified and honest. PLEASE don't make me choose between Trump or Cruz and Clinton!
Please?

It's so hard

It is so, so hard not to respond to some of the utter hogwash making the rounds of social media these days.

For example, the guy who suggested that anyone who might vote for a certain candidate should move to Canada, instead of voting. And said leaving the country would contribute to maintaining democracy. So, let me get this straight – democracy is best served by the removal from the voting ranks of anyone who disagrees with you?

Pretty sure there’s a different word for that.

Once again yesterday someone posted the specious claim that anti-gun folks would change their tune when the bad guys break into their homes in the middle of the night. First mistake – I’m not anti-gun, a gun being an inanimate object. What I am ‘anti’ is idiots and criminals and – dare I say it – people who like guns entirely too much having guns. Especially guns that allow them to fire thirty rounds in thirteen seconds. And second, no… let it go, Michael. They’re not listening.

“My dog is smarter than your honor student!”  Need I say more? This person must have received some feedback, judging by how quickly she deleted the post.

I could go on, of course, but what would be the point?

I’d much rather focus my attention on the positive posts I see. Such as the one by Sindy about John Hall (high school teacher) contributing to her life. Or almost any of the cute / funny / heart wrenching dog videos people post. Or the post by one of Rachel’s friends, saying, “Life is not a spectator sport.”

Or the ones by my wife showing the reno job she and her brother are doing for their ailing mother. Or Sherree’s sharing a video of the guy getting a baby kangaroo to snuggle into his bag. Or, speaking of Sherrio, any pic with her bare feet in the foreground and the ocean in the background.

Angela’s reposts of her pics from college and Disney days. And her frequent sharing of fox videos (to be clear, the furry animal).

It’s all about what you choose to care about.

Karmic comeuppance

Every now and then life gives us little reminders of the need to be kind. I received such a reminder the other day.

Waiting in line for my morning bus, I was one of several people who bore witness to a little scene when another bus pulled up and a young homeless woman trying to board lost her jeans. I don’t mean they slipped a little. I mean Miss Commando mooned us for fair.

The view was so unexpected that not one of us moved as this person tried frantically to find her bus pass while balancing her worldly belongings and of course, trying to return her apparel to a more appropriate alignment. We just stood there, trying to look anywhere but. (Sorry, couldn’t help it.)

She struggled onto the coach, found a seat, glared at us as the bus pulled away and just then, the woman in line next to me, one of the regulars snorted and the whole line dissolved in guffaws.

We should have been more charitable. At least, not laughed. I felt bad for a moment and then forgot about it as I immersed myself in Paradise.

I had been at work about fifteen minutes and was eating my muffin when I realized something was amiss with mine own apparel. Some places should just not feel breezes. And as you’ve probably surmised, it turned out I had split my pants in a most impressive fashion. And I could not reconstruct when the malfunction had occurred.

I’d made promises I needed to keep, so there was nothing for it but to remain at my desk and get the work done and just hope I didn’t get called into a meeting (I wasn’t). Besides, this has happened to me before – the cost of stuffing my girth into the same three pairs of pants day after week.

When it was time to go home, I grabbed a bright red hoodie I happened to have at work and tied it around my waist, put on my coat and headed for the bus.

Payback stuck in the form of one of the regular street folk who laughed loudly, tapped me on the shoulder and proclaimed to the world, “Mister, you stylin’!” She was joined by maybe a half dozen others in celebrating my fashion sense with loud brays.

I looked straight ahead and kept walking.

And the score from Third and Pine: Karma – 1; My dignity – 0

Fear

I promised myself I would stay away from blogging, flash fiction meetings and letter writing until I had made a milestone in editing da book. Well, the milestone is now behind me, so here I be. I’ll leave it to you to decide whether that’s good news.

I was watching a speech by Melinda Gates and was inspired to write down the following: “Let’s not be afraid to fail. In fact, let’s be afraid to not try.”

Cool quote. Not the first person to express that sentiment but she expressed it well. And it got me to thinking (smell of burning circuits).

I get differing reactions from people when they learn my hobby and passion is writing novels. Of course, many of my friends are writers of one stripe or another, so their reactions are not the same as what I get from people who consider the creation of a shopping list a literary chore.

I get that. I get that some people consider writing a necessary core activity to their lives. And that others consider it something to be avoided at all costs.

For me, writing is something without which I would… well, to be honest I don’t know the answer to ‘what, if not writing.’ I suppose I’d play my guitar more but that’s a pastime, not a passion. Writing fills me with self-worth. A pursuit that begins with whimsical supposition is for me the height of creativity in a soul that cries out to create.

Being a writer is fun and funny, fascinating and (for me) fantastical. But honesty requires that I extend the alliteration to include one more f-word.

No, not that one. The word is fearful.

The Patent Desk is out for first round reading by several people I trust both for their literary acumen and for their honesty. The point being that they will give me feedback as needed to make the book and my writing of it better.

The thing is, I’m scared Trumpless at the prospect of allowing people I like and respect to read my work. I’d sooner go to the top of the highest building in Seattle and lean over the edge. Eat mushrooms. Let a butterfly land on me. And those of you who are familiar with my odd collection of phobias will appreciate that I’m talking serious fear.

Truth be told, I have to force myself every time to post a blog entry. Scares the pants off me.

It’s a fear of disappointing, I suppose. Alright, I know it is.

It’s a fear I’ve had to confront. Because the job of a writer is to communicate. And that’s not something you can do without a reader. So I have to press on.

When it comes right down to brass tacks, at 62 and counting I’m orders of magnitude more afraid of not trying than of trying and failing. Only Buddha knows how much time I have on this earth and I’m not inclined to waste any of it. I’ll spend as much as possible of that time writing.

If only it didn’t mean actually letting folks read my work.  (Yeah, I’m a puzzle.)

You don't know...

…how much a person has become a part of your life until she goes to take care of her mother for a month and you’re missing her the first day.

…how lucky you are to live where you do until you’re riding home on the bus and look across the lake and the water is so flat and the hills so green and the Mountain is out.

…how incredible it is to have children until they both grow into these wonderful people who amaze you every time you’re around them.

…how scary it is to be a writer until you actually send out copies for comment – Oy!

…how cool your job is until you find yourself actually looking forward to flying on a Sunday.

…how beloved the dog is until you are able to watch him slow down.

…how twisted our brother is until it’s two weeks past Christmas and you still can’t figure out the point of the stocking stuffer he gave you.

 …how truly fortunate you are until you find yourself writing a list like this without having to, you know, think about it.

This morning...

…. as the bus crossed the floating bridge over Lake Washington, I was treated to one of the great sights of nature. The Mountain was out, silhouetted by a stunning array of high clouds lit from below by the red-amber prologue to sunrise. It seemed not merely to announce the day but rather to proclaim it.

I know this probably seems a tad hyperbolic but I promise you, it was a truly peak peek and turned my morning around. It made me think of beginnings rather than endings. And I needed that.

You see, from the time I woke up this morning, well before the alarm announced it was time, I have been worrying about today. More specifically, I worry about you and what you might do today.

We’ve never met. I don’t even know your name. My daughter is very private about some things and I have not been invited to explore too closely my curiosity about the meeting with you she has planned for today. I know only that you will meet with the objective of helping her to deal with the comet trail of emotions she’s been dealing with these past months.

And years, if we’re going to be honest.

I worry about you because I can’t know how good you are at what you do, how sensitively you will receive the information she will pour out for you, how welcome you will help her feel or how trustworthy you will prove to be.

She badly needs someone who is neither family nor friend, who has no history with her but who will seek to understand her story. She so profoundly needs a neutral corner from which to prepare for her next round of battle with demons she is only now beginning to understand.

Please don’t see her as broken. She has been beaten – both literally and figuratively – and bloodied, but don’t you dare see her as broken. The moment you see her as ‘lost’ you will disqualify yourself for the task.

She has been waylaid but never lost. Even from the bottom she was always looking up. She reached out for this help but she must not be smothered. She is a strong person, a good person, a superlatively intelligent person. You are there to help her find perspective, not to fashion her plan.

The utterly terrifying part of all of this is that of trust. She has to place trust in a stranger and as her father and friend, I have to place trust in both of you. I do trust my daughter because she has proven herself trustworthy at the most difficult of times.

You are the wild card, the uneasy unknown.

Please, if you do nothing else today, please, please just listen.

Let her tell you. Because somewhere beneath the hurt and beyond the doubt, she knows.