His solid white beard was perfectly trimmed. Occasionally, when he was trying to describe something, he’d take off his company cap and run his fingers through his full, thick head of equally white hair. It was a stark contrast to his deep black, wire-rim glasses.
Today’s his last day on the job. He’s been preparing a long time for retirement, and now, it’s here.
As we all went through the day, I’d stop by and say things to acknowledge him.
“You know, this is the last 9:15 AM at work in your career”.
He stayed busy, in thanks partly to a number of phone calls from folks he’d worked with. He said, “I’ve just been really surprised by how many nice things folks have said to me.”
My mind turns, twists, moves and churns. Earthquakes of urgent thoughts turn into raging thought tsunamis.
It’s not what isn ‘t. It’s what is.
What’s isn’t, isn’t talked about. What is, is.
Raging waters flow uphill, gather speed, then dribble down the mind’s mountainside spilling into the deepest depths, depths that do not surrender the issues of thought, whether forgotten or taught, surrendered or caught, given or bought.
Words sound large, but quiet speaks loud. Its silence heals. The healing rest, the energizing of silence slips away in our loud, boisterous, information-based system of living. Yet the need to be still and hear the leaves rustle remains, even when it’s pushed aside.
I was zonked asleep, which is important, because sometimes I daydream. In fact, sometimes blogging is like daydreaming, except with words.
Anyway, I was asleep dreaming.
My dreams are usually weird — near sighted blonde unicorns with measles playing frisbee golf while carrying spittoons for their chewing tobacco weird. Unless you’re deranged, my dreams seldom make sense!
I dreamed about being in an open country field with rolling hills and tall grass as a contestant in a show similar to Wipe Out. The next task in the show was to ride a merry-go-round for children. Continue reading Dreamtown to Awakeville→
Sometimes I just sit in my home “office” staring at my wall of collected musical instruments. I don’t play any of them. I just like them.
It seems nostalgic, yet, real.
It started with a casual garage sale purchase, but now I want a mural of music making contraptions. Granted, most are non-functioning wall hangers, but when I stare at them, I wonder, imagining the sound of each instrument as deaf music flows to hearing ears.
Whether a solo, or a symphony of organized noise produced by metal, wood and strings, sometimes I hear it. Continue reading Hear the Music→
Stories about family, faith, friends and funnies. Pull up a chair. Grab a cup of coffee and laugh, cry, ponder and inspire about ordinary events of this wonderful, ever changing, bubbling pot that we call "every day life".
