Homework, Nieces and Blogging January 28, 2010

My thoughts always seem to come in threes. This week it’s – 1) isn’t it wonderful to embark on an endeavor as exciting, fulfilling and amazing as a MFA degree at a school I love? Particularly at the age of… well somewhere between 30 and dead. 2) Isn’t it wonderful to open your inbox and have mail from not one, but two nieces? And 3) Wouldn’t it be wonderful if I could get this blogging thing down to a regular art?

As for the first - school is everything I’d hoped it would be plus about 100 things more. I’ve already learned more about the craft of writing in three weeks than I’ve learned in three years of reading books, attending workshops and going to conferences. That’s not to detract from the other things - they’ve been wonderful as well. But I’ve wanted this for so long – to have it turn out as great as it has is amazing. I’ve wanted other things in my life equally, but then gotten them only to think – hmmm, what was that all about? Or even worse, to think GET ME THE HELL OUT OF THIS!! (For those of you who know me, think Connecticut. Those of you who don’t, think Connecticut – cold, lonely, setting sun at 4pm, freezing in winter, gray in summer, and when the sun does come out the humidity is 100% and the black flies are frenzied! Not my favorite place to live.) School is different. It’s demanding, challenging, in my face confrontation of 90% of what I know. About writing yes, but also about politics and activism and me. Looking back on November and December, I can only smile, knowing I chose well. I may be in the early stages, and things may not always seem so rosy (talk to me when my thesis is coming due… AHHHhhhhhh!) but I don’t think so. I feel the rightness in my bones. I go to sleep exhausted, my eyes red and bleary, too tired to read more than a few paragraphs of my bedside book, and I sleep like the dead. This is a good thing. 

Add to this pleasure the absolute joy of coming home from my last trip to Maryland feeling good instead of sad. I can’t explain this, except to say two things were different about this trip. One, I got to spend a day with Lauren all to myself – a treat almost unheard of lately. We slept late, went to DC, had lunch at a perfect, bustling, loud, sunny, tasty, French Bistro, perused the stacks and stacks of books at her favorite used book store (Capital Hill Books – it is amazing!), sat in a coffee shop talking about life and love and dreams and words, and then went home to make dinner for the family. It was a perfect day. Just as good, we had spent the day before with Eric and his family celebrating his 50th birthday. And again, I had them all to myself! (Really, I’m not a selfish person, but it really is a lovely gift to get to have the people we love all to our selves now and then.) We spent the day just talking. The tv was on, but no one was really watching, instead we were laughing at Charlie, talking about life and celebrating Eric. And that felt so good. Riding the train home that Tuesday gave me plenty of time to bask in how fortunate I was to have such a family, such a life. A few days later, there were emails in my inbox from two of my nieces – one Rizzo and one Maier. The Maier niece is eleven and writes short, breathless bursts with random punctuation and lots of questions (“I guess ok well I have to go. How was your weekend?? Did you have fun?? Where are you right now?? I’m home and I’m about to do the dishes I think. (BYE)!!!!) The Rizzo niece is 20, studies poetry and writing and wants to study at Oxford this summer. Despite being brilliant and beautiful and all grown up, she still calls me “Auntie Annie.” I could just weep. A good weep, that is.

And then there’s this blog. Some members of my critique group and I were talking about how lonely it can get out here. You type, type away and when you press enter your words fall like weak neurons unable to make the next synapse down down into the abyss. It’s very disconcerting. I do have a few readers, though (like Romper Room: “I see Lauren and Russ and Jerry. And there’s Maureen, and look, is that Caity? Hello my friends!) and as Lauren says if you’re going to have a blog it comes with some responsibility to visit now and then. So here’s my thought. Even if all I post is some discussion from class, I’m going to aim at once a week. Daily is ridiculous. I don’t have that kind of time, and I certainly don’t lead the kind of life that would make that worthwhile for anyone happening upon 2wordjunkies. It’ll be fun. A challenge!

January 7, 2010 January 7, 2010

Squished Body Parts as Shamatha.

In Buddhism, shamatha is a form of meditation focused on holding, without intrusive thought, a single object in the mind for a desired period of time. (It is also known as “single-pointed concentration.”) Ever since quitting my real job in 2006, I have sought a path to a more compassionate life. Writing is part of that, bringing into focus my own beliefs, fears and obstacles in recognizing and empathizing with my fellow beings. A regular yoga practice teaches me acceptance and patience (with the added bonus of staving off, I hope, arthritis, dementia, osteoporosis and flab!) Reading is huge: others have tread the paths now before me, and studying their words allows me to learn from their insights. But while devotion to this, my personal trifecta of bliss, has completely transformed my life, it hasn’t quite resulted in an ability to look at myself and say – Aha! So here I am, Annie Maier, the person I was born to be. I am not, in Caroline Myss’ words, fulfilling my “sacred contract.” Because I absolutely believe in this theory, which suggests we are born with a specific responsibility to ourselves and others and much of our stress and anxiety (the second of which I have in frightening abundance!) can be attributed to not recognizing and/or meeting this responsibility, I’ve consulted an amazing and varied assortment of priests, astrologists, shamans, therapists and friends on how oh-how to figure out exactly what it is I am supposed to be doing. Though each of them was to varying degrees helpful, it was the astrologist, the wonderful Steve Nelson who can warm a room simply be being in it, who pointed out that I was in layman’s terms “stuck.” For those of you who study taroh, the place of my self-exile is the tower. For those of you disinclined to such mysticism, the tower can be seen as a symbol of coming change, chaos or an ill omen. My own someplace in between interpretation is that I have remained hidden, ensconced in a hand-picked, self-made fortress under the vastly misguided notion that I was protecting myself.

According not only to Steve but also my own internal wisdom and that of everyone else I’ve consulted, including the priest, what is missing on my path is meditation. Ah. So simple. So peaceful. So… impossible. Not impossible it can’t be done, but impossible, I haven’t despite hours of study and a world of desire made the commitment to take 10 lousy minutes out of each evening to contemplate my navel. But today… An epiphany. In, of all places, the radiology department of Presbyterian hospital, where I stood, naked from the waste up and (okay, disclaimer – this might get graphic) with my right breast sandwiched between a most improperly impersonal slab of stainless steel and a 6″x 9″ plastic tray. Really, you haven’t lived until you’ve placed at least one but preferably two of your most sensitive body parts into the careless, vice-like jaws of a self-propelled machine three times bigger than you as it steadily, slowly tightens its grip. Picture it then, envision me there - well, don’t envision me there, try some faceless, stick-figure woman and call her me - naked before a machine kneading my breast like Play-Doh, while the oh-so-kind radiologist (torturess, masochist, dominatrix, whatever they’re called…) said, “Okay, remember to relax and breathe!” HA!

Now, I don’t dread this day like many women I know. It is after all, just a breast and honestly the entire thing can’t take more than ten minutes. Squish, turn, squash turn times two and you’re out of there. In the meantime, everyone around you is feeling your pain and so breaking their necks and backs and schedules to take the time to be nice to you. All in all, it’s really a quite pleasant experience, minus the squishing.  That said, it’s not exactly a day at the beach either and I don’t necessarily look forward to this yearly putty-fest. (I won’t dwell on the fact, but I’m sure this has far more to do with issues about self-image than pain. I mean, if they were squashing my clothed breast, it would probably be a lot easier to take. Sad, but true.) Which leads to the epiphany. Just as the machine rotates its first turn, a thought appears. How, I wonder, can I rise above this situation? And viola! Without further ado, I began meditating. First with my eyes shut, but then, because I was afraid some beatific, spaced out look might appear on my face and freak out the lady in the lab coat, with my eyes open. And I am happy to report – it worked. I was, briefly, transported. The room was warm, I had a drape over my soon-to-be exposed left breast and what the hell, didn’t even notice what was up with the right. And in that moment I knew – if I can will myself out of a situation like that – I can escape that damned tower.   

To Boulder with me, then. Following Allen Ginsberg and Anne Waldman and Jack Kerouac (my new hero – please please read The Dharma Bums) and my friend Celina Mincey out west chasing her dream and my daughter Lauren up north hunting down hers, into my sacred destiny.

With maybe a little navel-gazing along the way.

 

January 4, 2010 January 4, 2010

New Years, Non-resolutions and the Waiting Game

The general consensus in the media and around the web is that 2009 ended not a moment too soon. Being on the cusp of a new age (Aquarius), seems to have unglued not only our culture at large – beginning with the spectacular crash of our economy – but also any number of my friends. I am, it seems, on the lucky side. No illnesses, physical disasters or emotional meltdowns befell me. There were a few close calls, owing more to my general lack of human engagement than to any one occurrence, but nothing lasting and/or insurmountable. Beginning with Obama’s inauguration in January, my 2009 was a reasonable success, filled with the usual amount of upheaval and promise.

 Now it’s 2010. We’ve survived the waning darkness and are about to embark on a new decade. I’ve never been much for making resolutions, being of the belief that transformation can begin at any time, and have not made any plans for sweeping change in my life. I have goals, of course, and ambitions for my present and future. I want to be a better person – more compassionate, more aware, more present – and I want to do well in grad school. I’d like to write more, say more and maybe even publish more. I don’t plan on gaining any weight, nor losing any – though I wouldn’t complain. Getting my arms straight up over my head in yoga would be a bonus. Discovering the cause for the pain in my shoulder would engender a level ecstasy heretofore unheard of. But I’m not holding my breath. And money… I don’t believe in money – which might explain why I don’t actually have much of my own – but maybe there’s a “regular” job in my future. Who knows?

 These are not resolutions, however. They’re intentions. Some I know I will accomplish, others I’m not so sure. (Writing and school are, barring any unexpected brain hemorrhages, within my control. My shoulder, on the other hand, is up to some illusive combination of culprits and cures, including but limited to the gods of aging bodies, my chiropractor, my yoga teacher, my commitment to Qi Gong and exercise and the amount of time I spend hunched over my computer.) I’m not putting myself on a deadline, and I’m not promising anyone, including me, progress. I’ll just take it a moment at a time, doing what I can where I can and accepting the rest. My body is a remarkable tool, letting me know when I can rest and when I need to do more. If I remember to listen, it’ll be a great year.  If not, well…

As for waiting – there’s been no word from Naropa. Registration starts today, but I can’t access their web-reg until they issue me an ID and password, which they won’t do until Wednesday. Classes begin on Monday and I have no books, no classes, no way to move forward. I’m doing everything I can to breathe through this delay, trying to trust the process and not question why in the hell they’d make me wait until Wednesday to register for classes while telling me I’ll be screwed if the ones I need are full. Ah! An opportunity - my first of 2010.  Breathing in, breathing out. In… Out…

Happy New Year!

December 28, 2009 December 28, 2009

Holidays, Birthdays and Distant Longings

My number one follower, advisor and critic assures me that no one will ever read my blog if I’m not more consistent.  Part of me agrees -hibernation isn’t all that exciting after all, in bears or in blogs. And anyway, what kind of writer am I if I allow a lack of inspiration to affect motivation? But see, that’s where another part of me disagrees. I could show up day after day, writing with or without direction – but isn’t that what a journal is for? And who in their right mind would want to read such drivel? There might be a pithy observation from time to time, maybe even a juicy bit of personal confession, but for the most part, my internal musings are pretty lame. So, I’m torn. (This isn’t an unusual state for my brain to be in; I spend way more time going back and forth with the voices in my head than I do conversing with live people.) To daily blog or not to daily blog?

Anyway – onward. The holidays are over. Cards have been sent, gifts have been opened, food and alcohol have been consumed. Lauren is back in Maryland, my husband is back at work and I am back in front of the page. And what conjurings appear this 28th day of December? Well, yesterday was my birthday. Though I no longer count the years, I still enjoy the bit about presents and cake. I won’t go into the whole boring spiel about close-to-Christmas birthdays. Suffice it to say it is all true. Growing up, my parents generally marked the occasion of my birth with a Christmas present, wrapped in Christmas paper and handed over on Christmas day. As an adult, things don’t always feel so different. One year, my husband, daughter and I were on vacation and forgot the day entirely. When AOL reminded us, (“Hello Annie! Happy Birthday!”) Billy ran out and bought me a Ho-ho and stuck a match in it. They had to sing really fast to avoid setting the hotel room on fire. Yesterday was better. We went to lunch at my favorite place (Intermezzo in Charlotte.) and then saw a movie. There was no cake (no one understood why the idea of sticking a candle in a three-day old Christmas cupcake upset me), but there were presents, and my daughter, for the first time ever, picked out a card just from her! Nice touch that. Plus, I think she reminded my brother because he remembered for the first time in years. Which is all to say – it’s not the birthday that matters, it’s feeling like people care. 

Which brings me to distant longings. Lauren was able to come home for Christmas – the first time she’s been here in close to a year. We had a wonderful time, baking and shopping with my mom, baking and laughing, baking and talking about life. The only downside was not being in Maryland. This wasn’t so bad in itself - Maryland is a bit frightening at any time of year, but especially in December when the sky is a sloping gray and the air is either cold and dry or cold and sodden. What was bad was not being with the rest of our family. Particularly my family. My brother and I have always been close in the way of the troubled children born to troubled parents. Although Eric isn’t one to call or write or even talk to me when I’m in the same room, he is the only other person in this life who can understand my childhood. Nearly two years separate us, but in many ways I feel we are twins. Not in looks – Eric favors the Rizzos while I am Shirley through and through - or temperament. And certainly not in ambition, but in something deeper. Something I can’t even begin to explain. Just hearing his voice can lift, or shatter, my day. Unfortunately, there are hundreds of miles between us – mentally, physically, philosophically. Staying close, loving someone despite distance, is damned difficult. Particularly when that someone would rather kiss a snake than pick up the telephone. I keep at it not only because he is my brother, but also because I have a guilty conscience. Eric has Parkinson’s. I should be there, but I’m not. I’m here where life is sunnier, warmer and easier than it ever was in Maryland.

December 7, 2009 December 11, 2009

 

In Honor of Joe Rizzo (December 6, 1936 – May 27, 2005)

Yesterday was my father’s birthday. I still miss him, but I’m glad he’s at peace, whatever that looks like. Sadness comes and goes, along with my notions of death. Mostly, I invision him as floating around with me – little particles dispersed in the eternity of air and earth and water that surrounds us all. As comforting as that idea is, the whole invisible thing is a drag. I wish I could see him if even for a moment, to make sure he is okay and that he could hear me when I talk. And if he could, what would I tell him? How much I love him, of course. But that’s an involuntary reflex generated by loss. One thing my father never had cause to doubt was the love of his children. (If I couldn’t sit here and know I did everything I could to communicate my love to my father, I would never accomplish another thing. I would be too busy consuming and being consumed by remorse. Not being a huge fan of regret, I try to keep that in mind.)

So, what would I say?

 I would tell him that life is short. That blood pressure is still undervalued and Rizzos are not inherently unlucky. I would tell him he deserved every bit of love he received in this life, and more. That death isn’t, I hope, as bad as he expected. That Lauren and Cat and Bon are doing great; Eric less so. Mama is Mama – that shouldn’t surprise him, and hopefully my saying so would no longer anger him. Finally, I would tell him happiness is not impossible.

My dad was a silent man, though, in the manner of those uncomfortable in their own skin. We share that, and the sharing made conversation between us sporadic and trivial. I don’t imagine he would care much for post mortem postulations any more than he did pre-death small talk. In my dreams, whenever he reappears, healthy and unchanged, it’s always with an air of nonchalance. No one comments on his long absence or on his former illness. It’s not that I don’t recognize both, I just decide to leave well enough alone. “He’s back,” I think, and that is enough. Sometimes, at the end of the dream, he gets sick again. Sometimes I realize I am dreaming and that he is dead. Even then, I don’t comment, I just watch to see how he takes the transformation. He doesn’t usually take it well. Neither do I. In this life, my waking life, any words would depend on time and circumstance. If we had a few days I’d say too little; a few minutes and I’d most assuredly say too much. Caught unaware – Daddy, hey, what are you doing here? – there’s a good possibility that I wouldn’t say anything of consequence. So, how’s it going? See anyone you know floating around the universe? If, implausibly, death had changed him, made him relaxed and confident, I’d let him take the lead.

But maybe none of that is important.

Maybe all I would really need to tell him is Happy Birthday, Pate. Hope you’re enjoying the afterlife. 

December 2, 2009 December 2, 2009

Home, Black Dots and History

Being in Maryland this past week, I was reminded of two things: how much I miss my family and friends and how depressing I find the area of my birth. Prince Georges County is perhaps the most misbegotten stretch of suburban decay in all of America. Buildings sag and crack, cars rust and whine, roads heave and buckle, strip malls fade and eventually fall down only to be replaced by newer, no less decrepit generations. And everywhere you look people appear stricken. miniature mirrors reflecting their inanimate surroundings - mothers frown in line at the grocery store with raw-faced toddlers at their sides; men idle on sidewalks and at gas stations, arms and faces as slack as forgotten laundry; students, city workers and tourists watch for trains with heads bent low over damp newspapers and battered cell phones. Overhead, the sun refuses to shine, hung low in a sky laden with sadness and unshed snow.

And yet, it is home.

Although I don’t actually like Maryland, I’m comfortable there in a way I’ve not been able to replicate since leaving in 1995. I’m not sure, and it would take hours of therapy I can’t afford to find out, but I think this has more to do with my present life than my past. Although not rural, my current house in Fort Mill, South Carolina is miles from any type of excitement. My neighbors, all younger, perkier and blonder than I’ll ever be, have toddlers and responsibilities I can barely remember much less relate to. We speak, but superficially. Friendship is, it seems, out. For entertainment, I drive half an hour to meet other writers, go to the movies and take piano lessons in Charlotte. Yoga is twenty minutes away, as is Qi Gong and the nearest coffee shop – which because I can’t stand the silence of an empty house, is where I work. About the only thing I do that doesn’t burn half a tank of gas is cook, garden and play Super Mario.

Maryland is different. I was born there, went to school there, worked got married had a child lived there for 32 years. In addition to my brother Eric and his family, my aunt and uncle are there, as are my cousins, neices, sisters-in-law and several good friends. I still go back to my old job, drive by my old house, buy soap at the Smile Herb Shop and eat barbeque at Red Hot and Blue. Although the area is depressing – it’s in a way I’m familiar with. A Rizzo/Shirley relatives-living-in-trailors sort of way. That’s where the past comes in. My father (a Rizzo) was a hard-working man of great compassion and lousy judgement. He was also the most unlucky person I’ve ever known, starting with the day he was born as an only child to parents obsessed with children and ending the day he died a wrenching, painful death. Still, my brother is a close second. In spite of being warm, funny and smart – he never found his niche and so he flounders. As he stumbles about looking for a purpose in this world, drunk drivers smash into his car, termites infest his termite-proofed house and strays from three neighborhoods down limp to his door bearing diseases and kittens and begging for food. His wife and kids love him, but it seems to be against their better judgment.

In an attempt to explain and thus refute his many misfortunes, Eric developed a theory about fate based upon a trio of dots. There are, in this theory, three levels of luck in the world, all with a corresponding dot. Red signifies really good luck, the kind associated with fame, fortune and a good chin. Tan signifies reasonable luck, insuring that the bearer will land a decent job, marry well and sire/birth talented though not exceptional children. Black dots, Rizzo dots, signify horrible luck – leading to dead-end jobs, various forms of mental illness and/or jail. According to Eric, all Rizzos labor beneath the black dot. Although no Rizzo can aspire to a red dot, they can – as I did – marry one and thus attain tan status, increasing the likelihood that drunk-drivers, termites and starving kittens will pass them by.

Eric’s theory has, over the years, proved remarkably reliable, one might even say self-fulfilling, with the only exceptions being our children – all of whom have genes only lightly tainted by the stigma of the black dot. Eric’s oldest daughter is brilliant, with a Phd in molecular, biological, cellular something. His youngest is a gifted and determined writer. And my daughter, a lighting technician for Wooly Mammoth Theatre in DC, graduated from college and immediately ensconced herself in a profession she loves. That all three struggle mightily with the whole social thing is simply proof of their ancestry.

Perhaps my dottage (not to be confused with my dotage) is enough to explain the nearly unrecognizable lack of self-consciousness I enjoy in my hometown. We’re all misfits in this life – normal being no more than a out-dated, poorly defined word – but as with everything, there are degrees of deviation. Fleeing Maryland so long ago, I thought to leave the gloom behind. I don’t know, though. In trying to understand my love/hate relationship with the place I still call “home,”  I can’t help recalling the words of a friend, who once cautioned me against the lure and promise of escape.

“Just remember,” he said, “you can take the girl out of PG County, but you can never take PG County out of the girl.”

As much as the idea disturbs me – I think he might have been right.

November 23, 2009 November 23, 2009

“A John”      (Part 5)

 

“What’s that?”

“Can I pray with you?”

Damn! Why couldn’t he have said pray for you? Even before I gave up on religion, praying wasn’t something I did with anyone.

“Would that be okay?”

I nodded, once again aware of the passing cars.

He lowered his cross. “Is it okay if I touch you?”

At his tone, which clearly said he would understand if I refused, my hesitation vanished. This was Jesus after all and a little more human (some would say divine) interaction is something we could all benefit from. “Absolutely.”

“Can I ask your name?”

“Annie.”

Without moving any closer, he placed his left thumb on my forehead and began praying. “Lord, please look down on your daughter Annie. Bless her, take care of her, take care of her family. Thank you for sending her to me today. Enter her heart, let her know your love.”

At first, my thoughts were clear, because every one of my senses were singing with self-consciousness. As he kept going, however, I lost track of his words. My heart rate slowed and I quit thinking about what Mom or anyone else might think about this impromptu blessing.

He finished, once again lifting the cross and whispering amen. 

We stood quiet for a moment and then he thanked me. Turning to go, I asked his name.

“Me?” I thought for a moment he wasn’t going to answer, but then he said, “I’m a John.”

“A” John. How was that different from plain John? I had no idea, but clearly there was some distinction. No matter. I held out my hand, saying, “It’s been a pleasure meeting you, John.” And because he knew I was sincere he grasped my palm, holding it for what would have seemed, in the real world, a breath too long. 

“Take care, Annie.”  

“You, too.”

Climbing back into my car, I felt my face flaming. Forestalling Mom’s questions, I handed her the ten dollars, tossing the groceries into the back seat.

“Didn’t he want it?” she asked.

“No.”

“No? What kind of a nut is he?”

“He’s not a nut,” I replied. “He’s a John.”

Or so he said. I’m thinking he was a Jesus.

 

November 18, 2009 November 18, 2009

A John            (Part 4)

By now I knew this man would never accept Mama’s ten dollars, but I also knew I’d better not climb back into that car without at least trying. “Since you won’t take food, I imagine money is totally out.”

He laughed, probably at my awkward delivery more than my words. “Yes, money is definitely out.”

Relaxed now – all my offerings had been dispensed and rejected, what else did I have to lose? – I found myself enjoying this man’s company. No longer bothered by the traffic, or the stares, I began speaking as a human being, not a helper of the homeless. “I think I understand,” I told him, “but I have to admit I’m a bit chagrined at being rejected.” As his eyes registered the slightest hint of remorse – rejection had definitely not been on his list of things to do today – I rushed on. “No, it’s okay. It’s was a lesson that needed learning.”

He let that go, instead nodding in the direction of the road, where my bright red Mini Cooper rested. “Nice car you have there.”

Surprised, because I had more or less decided this man was Jesus and who knew messiahs had any interest in cars, I thanked him. At the same time, I cursed whatever gods had given me the means to have such a vehicle when this man didn’t even have a safe place to sleep. “It gets great gas mileage,” I said. As if that somehow made everything alright.

“I appreciate you coming out here.” 

He did?

“It was a brave thing to do.”

It was?

I thought about this. I knew what he meant – I had felt exposed and stupid facing all that traffic. But twenty feet of discomfort is nothing compared to hours of cross-bearing. “I don’t know about brave. It just seemed like the right thing to do. I’m wrong about that sometimes.”

“Not entirely wrong – there is one thing you can do for me.”

I knew where this was going, of course. Had known since this morning when I first saw him. Somehow though, I had hoped to extract myself before Jesus offered me something I didn’t necessarily want. It was too late now, however. I had offered and he had accepted. I had no choice but to suck it up and be gracious.

November 17, 2009 November 17, 2009

A John            (Part 3)

“I’ve got everything I need,” he said. “I have a tent, and I get food stamps.”

“Oh.” I swallowed. “I just thought…” I drifted off. What did I think? I thought he was homeless, which was apparently correct, but I also thought that being homeless meant he needed my help. As his eyes finally met my own, I realized how wrong I had been. They were clear and direct – so deep a blue as to resemble the autumn sky above us. Intelligence was there, as was humility and, now that he had acknowledged me, compassion. He needed something, to be sure, but not from me. Not from anyone naïve enough to offer in such a way.

In the blank space of my dawning awareness, he glanced down at the plastic bag in my hand. I had been holding it slightly behind me – trying, I think, to hide my sudden embarrassment from him as well as the staring pairs of eyes from the road beside us.

“I understand that you don’t need anything,” I said, “but you might want something… a soda maybe or a sandwich.” I lifted the bag higher, thinking maybe he could be tempted. “Wanting is much different than needing, after all.”

He laughed and the remaining embers of his aloofness vanished. “This is true, but I don’t eat or drink anything when I’m out.” He gestured to the cross. “It’s just my way.”

I nodded, finally understanding. He might not word it this way, almost assuredly not being Catholic, but this was his penance. An Act of Contrition without words. Having formed this opinion, I immediately jumped to the next – no one could be sinful enough to warrant living in a tent, eating food supplied by an indifferent government and standing on the side of the road holding an enormous cross and praying no do-gooders will come along to spoil your solitude.   

“I’ve committed my share of sins in the past,” he continued, smiling at the memory. “Maybe more than my share. This is a small gesture to make amends.”

November 11, 2009 November 11, 2009

Listening to Kathleen Purvis at the Charlotte Writers’ Club meeting last night, I was surprised (and delighted) to hear her say that not enough blogs “told a story.” Too many, she said, are devoted to ”quick” information. I feel like I’ve been given licence to be as wordy as necessary. And from a professional no less! Not that such licence is free. With it comes an expectation that said stories will be good – interesting, well told and compelling. That’s the hard part.

Anyway, here’s part two of my story. If you haven’t already – please read Part 1 (November 10th).   

A John  (Part 2)

Soon, I could see the man’s eyes beneath his dirty black baseball cap. Although I was now within shouting distance, his gaze didn’t waver.

“Sir?” I called. No response. I got closer. “Sir?” Close enough to touch him. “Sir?”

That’s when I realized we were in a test of wills. He didn’t want me there and I had no idea how to gracefully extract myself. Cars were zinging past. My mother, who, despite offering the ten dollars had asked me not to do this, was in the car watching. And I, notorious meddler from way back, was standing in the middle of rush hour looking and feeling ridiculous. I stood there, wondering about the etiquette of accosting strangers in the street. Should I place the bag of food at his feet, a silent almsgiving to my guilty, comfortable conscience? Should I thrust out my hand and introduce myself? Offer him tea? Damn, what does one do with reluctant recipients of kind-hearted, misguided gestures?

As I contemplated shriveling up into the hot pavement, he turned. He didn’t acknowledge me in any way, but the slight movement of his head was enough to loose my dry and pasty tongue.

“Hello,” I offered a lame and wilting smile. “I thought maybe you’d like some food?”

 No answer.

“Sir?”

“No,” he said. I felt my heart jump higher in my chest.

“No?”

He shook his head, once again training his eyes just above the cars that flashed across the horizon. Confusion and embarrassment prickled my spine. It was as if I had disappeared. As if I had, in that one moment, ceased existing. Everything went silent – the street, the cars, the voice in my head. Then it all roared back to life.

Damn! What do I do now? Speak? Walk away? Run away? Somebody help me here!

And in that second, he relented. I don’t know why. He just did.