A day with Odin

It’s a breath of fresh air and a sight for sore eyes to see the white fencing that runs across the front and lines the driveway. The short drive up to the farm is all uphill and the place feels like it’s much closer to the sky, leaving behind the small city’s noise and hubbub.

Not only on Sunday

There is a charming little town set up on the outskirts of the city as a museum to preserve the history of what life was like “back then.” The buildings are a collection of structures brought in from many little towns – a cabin, a general store, post office, jail, a train depot and a few outbuildings. Striving for authenticity, the display is today’s interpretation of what life must have been like; with a few “holes” filled in with much more modern items (dollar-store throw rugs, color photographs, manufactured dolls) than would have been found in the late 1800’s, Still, when I toured the little town with my camera clicking away in November of 2009, I was caught up in the charm and the respect for the people who put the display together, all the while battling the incongruences in the back of my mind.

Ah, it’s a new day

Is it a good thing, or a cause for worry? Every now and then, I’ll tell someone that I can’t remember if I had breakfast, let alone what I ate, so don’t bother asking what I did the other day.

On one hand, that’s good. My sights are set to forward, tally-ho, gung-ho and all that look-out-here-I-come bull-in-a-china-closet mentality at its best. If my feets are a-moving, that’s a good sign of life and I don’t look back.

(Have you ever tried to type while peeling a Cutie mandarin orange? Me neither, so give me a second to … Oh, now that is good. Was good. Where was I?)

On the other hand, I’m at the age where memory slippage just might be a concern. I’m all for trying things once, with some things earmarked quickly for the Never Again category, and memory slippage would be at the top of that list. The second thing, following closely behind forgetfulness, is getting so caught up in the drama of the day that The Moments fly by without notice. Not good. Not good at all.

Every day holds many of those moments that take your breath away and make all the rest of the crap worth enduring. And, if you forget, no problem. There’s more, many more moments ahead. You just have to recognize it for what it is, kick yourself back into life and pick up where you left off.

(That second Cutie was just as good as the first, and quite the ray of sunshine to my tastebuds.)

So there you go. It’s a new day.

I won't look back

I won't look back. No. My sights are locked forward, straight ahead, myopic tunnel vision and all. 2011 was a year with as many shots up cut short as there were plummets to depths averted by twists, turns and loop-de-loops.

So no, I won't look back. There is only ahead to look.

It's all a blur anyway. I am blessed with shoddy memory, never remembering to eat breakfast, let alone remember what I had. And that's a good thing. It takes the sting out of traumas and dramas.

Because, you see, it's all about potential. It's all about taking each moment and making the best of it. Always. Time is linear; we are linear creatures and time drags us right along. We can go kicking and screaming, or we can look forward at what can be and make it so. Are there gray areas? Are there times when the fight against the tide muddies the waters and the vision? Sure. But, a simple realignment is all it takes to clear things up again. Straight ahead.

Yes, it's just that abstract. Take it from someone who can't do anything but wonder at the powerful drugs Picasso must've indulged in to create the messes he made and trust that the past is just that - a mess of an abstract. It's done. It's over with. It's set. Time to move on.

Ahead. I'm ready. A new moment is waiting.

Happy New Year!

Update: See? Picasso was a nut!

Sex isn’t a secret. It’s a key.

Of course I remember; it was The Big Day. I had no idea why, though I suspected it was a Big Deal considering how many whispers behind hands were fed into ears. It was Sex Education day in the grade school, and we were all to watch a film shown to all the 6th grade classes that day. Whispers and wiggles. Whispers and wiggles.

I must point out that it was a relief that lunches were only long enough to bolt down the sad excuse for food slopped on a sectioned tray because they were nothing more than slab seats attached to slab tables that folded to move out of the way. The film started shortly after the lights went out, and that’s when the wiggling finally stopped. It must’ve been made in the 1940’s – it was black and white, streaked, stuttery and utterly boring. My seat because uncomfortable and fast.

Just do your job already!

I must’ve walked over these leaves a half dozen times before I really looked down. There, in a pile of leaves blown up against the stoop, were two leaves unlike all the others. Somewhere, a sycamore had dropped its huge leaves, but there is no sycamore around; not in the yard or the neighboring yard of magnolias; not across the street, not down the street. Yet, there they are, two sycamore leaves, joined with the countless others piled up against the back door step. That’s the mystery, the story behind this photo, and a pretty good symbol of what my mind has been caught up with.

Questions I’ve struggled with often rose up to the surface yet again today as I walked my usual steps through the day. These are the questions that I find ultimately separate me from a good number of my fellow human beings. No matter how many times I ask these questions, I never find a suitable answer.