Caution: Watch Where You're Walking

Last night the dogs were restless, waking me throughout the night with dog tag jingle jazz, percussed with hocks hitting the wooden floors as they scratched. Not very restful, and I gave up about 7:30 and got up, thinking I'd have some breakfast, see how I felt, maybe just come back to bed in a few.

Breakfast eaten and dogs fed, I sat down to catch up on what my friends were doing on Facebook. There's always something that makes me laugh, and I needed a better start to the day than I was getting from my own tired spirit.

One of my friends consistently posts the best music, often with stunning videos. She's a visual artist, and I love how she finds unusual video with different subjects.

Today's choice* was exceptionally beautiful, shot in B&W, with some clever speed effects in the movement of the dancers. I was enjoying the art and flow, until at 3:10 there came an image I've spent most of the last 18 years avoiding.

A graphic scene of a gunshot wound to the head.

I was stunned to say the least, and very glad for B&W film at that moment. Though when I watched the video the second time, I could see I might have had an inkling that there would be the possibility of something like this. I mean, after all, it does start with a young man deliberately falling backwards off the roof of a camping trailer onto the roof of a car, the possible imitation of a suicide.

What my friend didn't know is that it's only a few days until the anniversary of my father's death by self inflicted gun shot wound. (And even if she had, I would not expect her to avoid putting this or any other video up for others to enjoy. I'd only hope she'd give me a wee warning.) So this reminder of the destruction of him and the house of cards that was my family was particularly disturbing for me. I've come to refer to this time of year as "flashback season", even though I was spared finding my father. But there are things about that time that I'll never be able to wipe out of my mind, but also cannot bring myself to share with my family or friends.

One of my favorite poets says that everyone has their story that no one can know. Everyone suffers. I try to remember that when the person in front of me is being unkind to the clerk, or not paying attention, or looks like the last time they smiled it was so painful they vowed never to smile again. Remembering that they may be suffering a loss, whether it be of a loved one, their health, their job, their peace of mind, helps me practice compassion for them. Maybe share a smile with them, if I can spare one that day. A kind and encouraging word.

But the part of my story that you can know is that today, for the first time, I did not let that image effect the rest of my day. I was able to let go , to start the healing wave again. Our wounds are often too immense to recover immediately; like the sea, healing rocks in ragged rhythms. Cresting in high and low tides, every seventh wave threatening to take us under in its powerful grasp, working with the abrasive sand to chip away our sorrow, barnacle by barnacle.

Let me also share the outstanding experience of the day before. One of my friends was journeying to Florida, and I asked her a favor over a month ago when she announced her plans. "While you're there, would you write my name in the sand, so Mama Ocean can kiss me?" She's a busy lady, so I figured it wouldn't happen.

But it did. She'd been back a couple of days when she posted the pictures of her writing my name in lovely script on the beach. Staying with it until the waves came in and smoothed my name out of the sand, bearing part of my spirit back out to sea with them, where peace, hope, and joy float.

I am so blessed.

*you can find the video here:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BrZTNhW44-o

. . .Ms. Taken. . . or Ms. Diewreckted?

My last post dealt with how I'm frequently mistaken for my friend Olive by folks here in southeast Kansas. I left everyone with the knowledge that Olive had never been mistaken by me. . .until the arrival of a letter for Olive, addressed to my house.

Now, when I first saw the return address of somewhere in Idaho, I remembered Olive's story of visiting family and llamas there. Understandably, I assumed the letter to be from her relatives, but I couldn't figure out: a) why they'd sent the letter to my address; b) how did they even know my address; c) why didn't they know Olive's address? weren't they family?

Finally got in touch with Olive, who said, "I know it's a royalty check. Open it up and tell me how much it is. I know it's not going to be much, but I can't wait!" So I opened it up, read her the letter, and put some of the pieces together.

Olive, and her father, the esteemed Dr. Victor Sullivan (retired from PSU) had both written stories to be included in the book of aviation tales: "Flights of Adventure" . (www.flightsofadventure.info) It was published earlier this year, and Olive and Victor have done a "meet the authors" book signing at the local library. They sold books. When you sell books, you get royalties. Not much sometimes, but you get enough to go out to dinner. Maybe.

Apparently, "Flights" had sold enough that it was time to divy up the proceeds. This was done, and checks mailed out. Olive and I are still trying to figure out how the two people in charge of this effort, who have never even met me, ended up with my address and thought it was Olive's.

For now, the relatives and the llamas are off the hook. But if Olive and I ever figure out how come that royalty check got addressed to come to my house, we'll let you know!