Just an Ant's World

I walk Lolly and Pop every night after work. A few days ago, Poppy decided to pee on an ant hill. We have red ants in Florida and they are mean SOBs. He lifted his leg and the warm stream of urine rained. Pissed off (pun intended) ants showed up to the gun and knife fight looking for blood and revenge. Poppy had already walked away. Are you an ant...or Poppy? Maybe you are me, holding the leash while watching the show. 

Malleable

I have worked so hard and traveled so far. Sometimes I am so weary from making the effort. Taken for granted, pushed aside for the fake beauty of broken glass that sparks in the sunshine. I have been asked to forgive, to forget. I have been asked to swallow my pride and my feelings, choking on them as they went down. Then, throwing them back up because they refused to be ignored.

I've gotten caked with dirt while learning to love myself as I wrestled with the past, a formidable opponent.

I've made my way over, under, or through the obstacles in my path. Bad relationships, family sadness, cancer, less than stellar work environments, car accidents, and financial woes. I have also basked in the sunshine when the days are warm and bright.

I have found love, and lost it.

When you are down, please keep moving. Even if all you are capable of is grasping for a handhold, then do it. If all you can do is breath, then find peace that you are still alive. The sun rises and day transforms to night. It is how it works here. Do what you can, accept yourself. It is okay to feel fragile because you are also strong.

The trick in all of this is to know the wind comes. Bend, move with it. You will continue if you are malleable.

mal·le·a·ble

ˈmalyəb(ə)l/

adjective

adjective: malleable

(of a metal or other material) able to be hammered or pressed permanently out of shape without breaking or cracking.

 

Sometimes it hurts to be the metal in the forger's fire but, in the end, you become even more beautiful. 

Why am I here?

"Why am I here," he asked Spirit once again. The smell of moss, moist earth, and woods filled his nostrils. All he wore was his leather pants and moccasins. His skin was a deep dark sinewy red. The tears rolled down his cheeks. He was a proud man and this embarrassed him but he was too weak to stop them.

"My pain is great," he whispered to himself. Unclenching his fists, he wiped his face with his hands.From his left came the sounds of twigs snapping. A huge buck was making its way towards the Indian, its large soft brown eyes targeting the man.

He stood still and waited. The animal raised and lowered its head as it approached demonstrating its power and fearlessness. It walked a complete circle around him stopping in front of the man so closely that with each breath the buck breathed out, the man felt the moisture from the deer's nostrils spray his face.

Without a voice, the beast spoke to him."Touch my coat," the deer commanded.

The Indian reached out his hand and ran it down the side of the buck's neck. He felt the softness.

"Touch my antlers."

Again the man did what was asked of him. He felt the hard bone as the velvet covering was now gone.

"I am soft, yet I am equipped to defend myself. You are, too. Touch your head."

The Indian reached up with both hands. The shock of feeling antlers jerked his body.

"You are here to learn that a man is not one or the other. His heart is soft and his mind and body are strong and to be both at the same time is balance."

The Indian nodded and the dear touched his muzzle to the man's chest. A light burst forth and then the deer was gone.

The Best He Could Do

As a child, I was told I could do better. I was smart and should never be satisfied with the status quo. I should imagine how I would feel if I got an A+ instead of an A. Maybe if I had spent more time, took it more seriously, stopped fooling around. This is how I became a perfectionist. This is also how I became one who expects others to be perfect, too.

Even in Jim's death, I have learned from him. He did his best. I can wish he lived his life differently. I can point out the many times he should have made different decisions and think about how is life, and death, would have been different. But, it was his path to take. It was his row to hoe. Just like I have mine.

Jim's funeral service was this past Saturday. Interestingly enough, the same date as my son's birthday. Two Marines performed the military funeral rituals. The flag went to Jim's young son. People spoke of what it was like to have had Jim in their lives. He did some pretty amazing things like stealing an airport golf cart with his buddy and driving around the airport in it, throwing airport security into a tizzy. He offered a different way of life to a drug addict living on the streets. He didn't know her, but followed the voice in his heart. Nearly twenty years later she continues to do well, is married, and runs her own business.

As I think about Jim, his life, his actions, his funny Jim-isms, (You: "What's that smell?" Jim: "That's your upper lip.") I realize more and more he just did his best and I have to be okay with it. Perfectionism is an unrealistic unattainable goal. It's also not necessary.

I have learned that even though Jim's best sometimes hurt those that loved him, it compounded his sorrow, too. Superman has his kryptonite. Why shouldn't Jim be afforded the same forgiveness?

Skating through life

I wanted to glide through this life. I came here wearing a well sharpened pair of ankle high ice skates. They didn't helped me, though. Whenever I built up any kind of speed I would run pell-mell into a stop sign. Literally. So hard I would fall from the impact, with no control I was a jumble of arms and legs spinning on the hard slick ice.

But, every time I fell, I rose again. With lacerated palms, I wiped the blood from the cuts on my knees. Sometimes still bleeding and definitely still in pain, checking my laces first, I forced myself to keep going,

Bruised and stained by my own blood, the healing took place with each new forward push. Eventually I learned how to navigate around sharp corners, stop without crashing, and easily cruise around dangers like thin ice.

Now my pace is an easy sail. No more racing, which makes for less stop signs. Or, maybe this less hectic stride just makes them seem further apart.

Jim is Free

Besides going to the beach, Jim and I used to go to Gillespie Park and feed the squirrels roasted unsalted peanuts in the shell. With each visit they came to know us and once we were spotted we felt joy as we watched them scurry down from the trees and run over. Jim and I sat in the same spot every time so they knew the drill. We did it so often that a few of the braver ones would take the peanuts directly from our out-stretched fingers. For the rest of the crew, we would throw the nuts a few feet to them from our perch on beach towels at the top of a little hill.We enjoyed doing this for many reasons. First, the squirrels were fun to watch and it was fun feeding them. Secondly, having a squirrel take a peanut from your fingers was a thrill. Lastly, it was meditative and a quiet time for us to be together. It was always hard for us to pull ourselves away from there and go back to the realities and stresses of life.


Jim passed away this morning at 11:15. I was at work and was planning on leaving at 1 o'clock to see him. With his brother's urgent text message, I packed up and left at 10:30am instead. When I walked into Jim's room, I saw his sister-in-law at his side and I heard her tell Jim that I was there. I dropped my things on the table, hugged his brother and then hugged his sister-in-law. Before I sat down in the chair next to Jim's bed, his sister-in-law told me that he was waiting for me before he would pass.

"Hi, Sweetie." I took one of his hands in mine and with the other I caressed his head. "Hi, Baby. It's okay. Everything is okay." After a couple of labored breaths that seemed like hours apart, he stopped.

Free from pain, free from guilt, free from all of the bad memories that haunted him. Jim is free.