Floyd

July 18, 2016

Greetings from the bookmark,

I opened the refrigerator and a jar leapt out, made a break for freedom.  It landed neatly and rolled across the wood floor, clearly a well thought out escape.  I caught it, feeling a little rueful for spoiling the opportunity. 

I stood in front of the fridge and looked at the shelves inside, wondering again how I would find the cream for my coffee.  Or anything else that might be nested in the puzzle of food wedged there.  I smile every time. 

I haven’t seen Floyd Boon for nearly ten years, and yet there are rare few days that pass that I am not aware of his place in our lives.  I am an early riser, and many mornings as I am making coffee and waiting for my eyes to focus, I am reminded of sitting in Floyd’s kitchen. 

It might be either of us who got up first, in the misty morning hours while our family slept.  I would come into the kitchen and he would be there in his boxer shorts, usually as gaudy as the Hawaiian shirts he loved, puttering around the sink, making coffee, rinsing dishes.  While the coffee brewed he would give himself an insulin shot.  It was an oddly intimate act that I grew accustomed to after the first couple of times.

We would wedge ourselves into our places at the little table and drink our coffee and talk.  Our friendship, cemented in the first hours we met, propelled us in all directions.  We talked about the day, about our families, the weather, the food.  He would share stories about his patients, a rich well of experience in a small town like Ludington.  We would talk about the world, swap philosophies.  It was a natural flow, an effortless exchange between friends, a gift that even this morning I am grateful for.

For many years he would walk the dog, a spirited Afghan named Kaylee.  And when the dog was gone, the leash hung in the back hall, a small bookmark in Floyd’s life, a reminder of something he loved. 

He would come back in from outside with the newspaper and we would read the Free Press and cluck over the bad news and laugh over the comics.  He would get out a pecan coffee cake that Yaya had bought for the kids and cut a few pieces for us, which almost always led to another slice.  Floyd loved to eat, which inspired us all to join him. 

Summer mornings, the house surrounded in mist, hint of light from the sun fighting to turn the day into its full potential, the soft, sad moan of the foghorn from the water’s edge.  The two of us sitting near the window, two fans blowing to cool Floyd’s percolating temperature.  The time blurred and neither of us ever looked at the clock. 

Whatever else we talked about, Floyd would hover over whatever he loved.  We would talk about what to make for lunch, and that would lead to great meals we had shared.  Mention friendship and there would be stories about life-long relationships, about meeting Dorothy and starting that romance, a rare second chance in that stage of life.  And that would lead to his family, his children, and his grandchildren, some of whom were sleeping in every bed or couch or on every floor in his home.

He said to me, many times: “You’ve got some great kids. Put the kids first.”  It has been advice that has driven many choices since then.

I would get up to get cream for my coffee, open the refrigerator door, and after years of training, reach to grab whatever fell out of the chaos inside.  His refrigerator was like a Jenga game; teetering bowls of leftovers stacked on cottage cheese wedged into boxes of brats layered over a head of lettuce on top of the strawberries for the shortcake shoved in the door next to the butter near the horseradish. 

I smile every time I open my own refrigerator and a jar tries to escape.

Floyd was a kind, gentle man, who demonstrated compassion and generosity in ways so simple it was inspiring to watch.  He taught me and my children a great many lessons, not always in what he said but in how he loved us and those around us.

Floyd and Dorothy’s refrigerator was overflowing, filled beyond capacity.  It held what they enjoyed, what they knew others would like; the fruit that was good, the ice cream that made the fruit better, the cold beer that tasted best after the parade, the bacon that made the house smell like morning.  It was a symbol of the love they shared for each other and for us.

My friend Floyd took a different path many years ago, on some other plane where he and Kaylee can take morning walks.  But he continues here too, in every memory we carry around with us.  In quiet mornings over coffee, in the breeze from a noisy fan, in the taste of a brat on the 4^th of July, or the simple pleasure of a good conversation.  He is still here in the places that hold all of the chaos together in my refrigerator.

Hope this finds you overflowing,

David

Copyright © 2016 David Smith

Response to the Tragic

July 11, 2016

Greetings from square one,

I wrote something else this morning and deleted it.  I remembered after I read it what my purpose is. 

It is hard to imagine that this morning won’t feature more bad news; tragedy, ever present in the wings, seems to have gained momentum in our world.  It changes our perspective.  It is up to us to find ways to bring balance to our view, to see that there is more to the human experience than the next act of violence.  That is another conversation.

But the tragedy is there, it will exist again today in some form.  For some it will be very personal, for others it will be a policy decision, a legal issue, a headline to mutter over.  There will be another challenging event, somewhere, and then there will be our response.

That is the space I want to consider.  It is the space I filled with my first essay this morning.

When we don’t know what to do next, there is a vacuum, even for a brief time, and we often fill that space with our first visceral reaction.  We are driven to think, say, to act on that impulse.

Imagine, just right now, imagine, if we all give in to our worst impulses.  Then imagine if we live up to our greatest potential. 

Human beings create their share of catastrophes.  What comes next is what we contribute too.  We can choose.  I am not talking about what side of a divisive argument you align yourself with on Facebook.  I mean before that, when your most private, from-the-gut thoughts begin to form.

This is where humans begin to gather around a direction.  Too often the reaction space is filled with death, violence, ego, pride, revenge, cynicism, anger.  But thankfully for all of us it can lead to hope, peace, justice, generosity, change.  Courage.

Courage is sometimes overcoming fear and sometimes it is overcoming an impulse.  It is pushing back from a instinctual response and reaching for what is better in us.  I’m asking you this morning: let it be whatever you are most proud of.

Since the time when my ancestors fought for freedom from oppression with rocks and sticks, and long before, mankind has turned to violence when it seemed there were no more options at hand.  It is not a heritage we seem capable of shaking, but I am hopeful. 

There are people in the world who are desperate, angry, hungry, defending themselves and their children from despicable situations that lead to acts that most of us will never have to consider. 

We are not all acting from desperation; we are not all acting from a narrow menu of choices.  We can take a deep breath and choose compassion, patience, hope.  We can make that the fuel that guides our words and our actions.  From there we can best contribute to the dialogue, to the next steps, to the clear thinking and selfless leadership that will create better headlines.

Maya Angelou said that bad circumstances are ‘the human inheritance’, but:  “..you must decide not to be reduced. You have your humanity, and you must not allow anything to reduce that.”

So the response is what you get a choice about.  Do what you will be most proud of.

Say what reflects the best in you, act intentionally, so that whatever happens next you can point to that moment and show your children how they will carry on the light.

Dr. Joshua Corsa, a surgeon at Orlando Regional Medical Center, spent too many hours in surgery trying to save the lives of the people attacked in the night club shooting there.  He shared that he intended to keep his blood-soaked shoes as a reminder of the tragedy.  Afterward he wrote, “After the worst of humanity reared its evil head, I saw the best of humanity of come fighting right back. I never want to forget that night.”

I read those words and decided, on second thought, to be a part of the best of humanity.  Instead of something else. 

Hope this finds you carrying the light,

David

Copyright © 2016 David Smith

Independence Day

July 4, 2016

Greetings from the Patriot,

When I was a small boy, about Noah’s age, I thought of the 4^th of July in simple terms but was still left slightly confused.  I was told that it was the Birthday of our Nation: in my experience this explained the ice cream, but not the parade.  And no kid I know got to play with sparklers on his birthday.   But, establishing a practice that has served me well from then until now, I tried not to think about it too much.

Sometime in my early schooling I was introduced to history, including some confusing reference to our country’s Four Fathers who founded our nation.  The image of Four Fathers starting families that would eventually populate the entire country was perfectly sensible given my Catholic education which proposed the world’s population started with one loving couple just east of Eden.   

And then there was the Continental Congress, which I thought was sponsored by the automobile company that made the Lincoln Continental.  Later, for obvious reasons, I failed a history test when I wrote that Lincoln signed the Declaration of Independence. 

As I got older some of the details began to fill in about Independence Day.  My friend Tom George told me that the Chinese invented firecrackers, for example.  I knew from watching Peabody and Sherman time travelling in the ‘Way Back Machine’ that Ben Franklin invented electricity.  Somehow those facts formed the image of Ben Franklin and the Chinese aligning against the British to blow up tea pots in Boston Harbor.  It’s the impression I still hold when I think of our nation’s early years.

This led to other poor showings in history tests that were so awful that one day they caused a Revolution in education and that’s why today we have Common Core.  Sorry everyone.

As I matured I learned more about our fight for independence, first from the British, then from the Spanish, the French, the Mexicans, aliens, the Japanese, the Germans and in a strange twist, Native Americans, or as they were called by all the cowboys I knew; ‘Indians’.  I will admit here that some of this education came from Saturday afternoon screenings of ‘Rocket Man’ at the local YMCA.

Without consulting Wikipedia, even today it’s hard for me to keep all the characters of 1776 straight.  Men in white wigs start to all look the same after a while.  I am careful not to try to identify U.S. presidents any further back in history than Nixon. 

I have reached a point in life where I recognize the significance of the early history of our country.  I understand a little better that the choices that were made by the pioneers of our nation, and the courage that was required, is what provide us incredible opportunities today.  Even if I am a little vague on exact dates and names.

So I come to Independence Day wholly unqualified to speak with any authority about how we earned the freedoms we enjoy today.  Which doesn’t prevent me from having an opinion and expressing it, which is the beauty of living where I live.  And being me.

Noah passed me in the hall at church yesterday, focused on whatever small boy priority occupied his mind at that moment.  I asked Noah if he was going to celebrate the next day.  He looked up at me, hopping from one foot to the other, shaking his head, but looking at his mother for suggestions.

“Is tomorrow my birthday?” he asked her.  She reminded him that celebration was still some time off. 

I said “You’re on the right track.  It’s our Nation’s Birthday.” 

Noah paused for a fraction and said “Maybe he will give away his birthday presents.” 

This was delivered with his trademark smile, clearly hoping whatever celebration was happening he might benefit.

Of course Noah was on to something.  When we celebrate the Birthday of America there will be gifts shared.  Most of them will be so subtle we can take them for granted, and that’s the bad news.  The good news is we can remind each other, and tell the next generation, how essential what we’ve been given really is.

“Every human has four endowments - self awareness, conscience, independent will and creative imagination. These give us the ultimate human freedom... The power to choose, to respond, to change.”  Stephen Covey

Hope this finds you independent,

David

Copyright © 2016 David Smith

Joy

June 27, 2016

Greetings from where I find it,

And there it was.

There is a place on my run where the road rises slightly, crests a small hill.  There are trees growing on either side of the road, some arching up over the road.  Just beyond the last pine tree, the road slopes away and the horizon opens up to gently rolling farmland.

I have run by these houses hundreds of times and only seen two large white dogs who lumber out to roar at me.  I know that they will only tromp to the edge of the trees and go back to the porch having fulfilled their duty.  I have never seen a person here, usually passing by at an hour that even farmers will still be looking at the top of their coffee mug.

I was thinking about a conversation I had some time ago with a friend about what is ‘sustainable’.  We were talking about a challenging time he was going through and I had offered (unsolicited) advice on some practices to even out the day.  His response was that all of that kind of help he had ever heard was not ‘sustainable’ in the face of everyday life.  ‘Who has the energy for meditation when you have to get a two year old dressed to go to a funeral?’

On this morning, in the dim hours before my run, I had been reading ‘Daring Greatly’, a book filled with great insights in living a balanced life, and I found myself wondering about how much of it was ‘sustainable’.  I had just re-read a chapter about gratitude and joy, and as inspiring as it was, I found myself asking the same question about how practical it was in my chaos.

And there it was.

I was running ahead of the sun, up the small rise past the cluster of houses in the copse of trees.  I was covered in sweat, already five miles in, body working almost as well as it was going to.  Ahead of me I saw a man walking to the end of his gravel drive, pause and look both ways along the two-lane, and then walk across the road to his mailbox.

He was beautiful.  A man of an age that would likely have placed him in the Greatest Generation, he moved easily, without hesitation in his step.   He wore slippers; I’m certain chosen for their outdoor versatility, the likelihood of trips to the mailbox being high each morning.  And he wore pajamas of a gorgeous shade of Robin egg blue. 

He glanced my way as he headed back across the road to his driveway and saw me running toward him.  I saw him smile, flip a small wave at me, and then did a pantomime of a man running.  He was enjoying it, this little unspoken connection between us, slowly pumping his arms, gently lifting his knees, as if he were demonstrating how someone would run in Robin egg blue pajamas.

There was something in this that struck me.  This incongruous image, the grizzled man in pastel cotton, his impromptu ‘running man’ across the macadam, and the sheer silliness, the sound of him chuckling at himself, or me, as I ran by.

A few miles later I turned and looked back east across the young corn, glistening green in the morning sun.  I stopped there and let the beauty soak in, let the passion for this day fill up, felt the sun warm me to my summer bones.  I realized standing in that gorgeous moment how much the morning had given me to be grateful for. 

That morning I had read: ‘Joy comes to us in moments—ordinary moments.  We risk missing out on joy when we get too busy chasing down the extraordinary’.   Brene Brown makes the case that joy, and gratitude, build resilience in us.  Any time we add either to our day, it gives us the strength to contend with the other challenging realities that threaten to fill every moment.

Sustainable?  Why not?  Yes it takes being intentional, but we are choosing that all day anyway.  We choose what to focus on, what to retain, what affects us.  Go into the day expecting to find joy, expecting to see beauty, and it will come to you.   The day will not arrange itself in the order we need it, so we have to be open, aware of what we are being given.  Even stuck in traffic.

Whatever difficulties this day brings us, we should know there has already been put the joy we need.  Not all inspiration comes in dramatic sunrises.  It can be unexpected chocolate, a call from your best friend, a kiss you didn’t know you needed, a prayer answered, a chance to play.  Sometimes it is in a book you read, or in the painting you create.  Sometimes it is in a full dishwasher.  Sometimes it is in the door you hold open, or the kind word you weren’t going to say. Sometimes it comes in Robin egg blue pajamas.

Hope this finds you soaking it in,

David

Copyright © 2016 David Smith

Marathon Dad

June 20, 2016

Greetings from the long run,

If aliens came down to earth and tried to learn anything about being a male parent, they might go to the Hallmark store and look at Father’s Day cards.  There they would find common themes that seem to summarize fatherhood: lawn mowing, beer, cooking out, long visits to the bathroom, golf, napping on the couch in front of TV, farting, fishing, and working under the hood of old trucks.

They would also find a segment of cards that describe a loving person who is wise and kind and encouraging and able to teach his offspring how to tie a square knot, ride a bike, train a dog, and fly a kite.

If aliens then decided to kidnap Earth’s prime Father Candidates based on their Hallmark research, I can tell you I would still be on the ground waving to them as their flying saucer whisked the abductees off to whatever probing they were destined for.  My farting abilities notwithstanding, I doubt I would make the cut.

My children have all made it into adulthood and seem like they are on a good trajectory, but I will admit that was more likely in spite of my efforts rather than because of them.  I won’t list my shortcomings as a parent here, since I like to keep this essay around 800 words and to avoid profanity when possible. 

But I have learned a few things as a Father, and because I am also a runner I tend to see everything through that filter, I am able to share with you: “Lessons from a Marathon Dad”.

I have aligned the mile markers of the marathon with the ages of children.  It’s not a perfect system, but I am confident you didn’t read this far expecting perfection.

Miles 1-5:  You think it matters that your shoes match your shorts.  You are caught up in the excitement of a new thing.  Then you get tired. You have no idea how this will go, only that it seems hard.  You wish you had trained better, paid closer attention to advice from more experienced people, and stretched more.  You have doubts.  Mostly because you hear the word ‘No!’ a lot.  One of the bands on the course plays ‘It’s a Beautiful Day in the Neighborhood’ and it sticks in your head for ten miles.

Miles 5-10: Things get easier for a while, you are warmed up.  You think maybe there is hope.  You are in your groove, it’s fun.  You stop caring about how you look or if any one hears you fart.  You have learned not to listen to the spectators, particularly the ones who have never run a marathon or who say ‘Just wait, it gets worse’.

Miles 10-15: Things get hard again and even though you had been warned, you are surprised, because what you learned about running from the first ten doesn’t prepare you.  Emotions are rampant; the word ‘No!’ comes up for new reasons.  Spectators are telling you that ‘you look great’, ‘you are almost there’, ‘it’s all downhill’ and other lies.  You wonder if you should have signed up for the half marathon.

Miles 15-20: You doubt that you would recommend this to anyone else. None of the bands on the course play the music you like.  It occurs to you how much money this all costs.  You feel pain where you didn’t know you could feel pain.  There are some miles that are fun and effortless, and then you can’t remember what that’s like because you’re climbing a hill.

Miles 20-25: You have no idea how you got this far.  It’s challenging on a new level.  Delirium sets in. You realize that even though you are running slower, the miles are going by faster.  You think that maybe you should have started running earlier. 

Miles 25-26.2: Now emotions are running the show.  You are near tears, in part because you realize what you have accomplished, and in part because it will soon be over.  You start to notice people who have already finished, and the look in their eyes gives you hope, and makes you sad.

Post race: The band is playing your music again.  You have forgotten how to dance but you don’t care. You learn there is no finish line; that you will be running this race for as long as you are a Father. 

I am certain none of this wisdom will make it into a Hallmark card, and I doubt it will get me a spot on the next alien abduction bus.  But for me, and a narrow band of running parents, it probably makes some sense.  Marathons are the hardest thing you’ll ever love.  Like raising children.

When we look at our purpose in life ultimately we search for where we are when we are at our best.  We find the most satisfaction in what asks the most of us, challenges us, makes us dig for the gifts we must have.  I don’t think every moment as a Father, or a runner, has been the best I have to offer, but every day, every mile that goes by gives me another chance.  It’s so worth it.

Hope this finds you running with all your heart,

David

Copyright © 2016 David Smith

Ludington Sundae

June 13, 2016

Greetings from The Other West Coast,

Of course I love her.  She is beautiful, interesting, generous, fun, warm, exciting. She is unique.  She is all of that and of course so much more to be discovered.

She offers so much to everyone, and each of us finds that special connection that brings us back to her.  She is unassuming, still living up to her real potential, struggling a little with her identity.

She sits on the edge of this peninsula, braving months of lake effect snow and roaring winds in the off season, but gaining a huge pay off when the snow melts. A small town, if you weren’t paying attention it would be easy to miss.  But once you find your way there, it’s hard to resist.

Yes, Thanksgiving dinners, and fall color tours and Christmas Eve, the neighbor scraping jingle bells on the roof of the house so the kids would hear Santa.  Tromping through deep snow to the icy edge of where the world meets the lake.  Marveling at the sculpture nature made on the lighthouse.

But she will always be summer for me. 

The mournful, insistent howl of the horn from the harbor, and gathering the kids to race to watch the Badger go out, still a big occasion, even knowing it will happen again tomorrow.  Walking along the rocks at the harbor, following the water’s edge to the breakwall, and out to the lighthouse and back again.  Driving to First Curve.  Exploring the dunes. Soaking in the sun on nearly perfect sand, a beach that rivals Hawaii and Florida or nearly anywhere that water meets land.  Years of Fourth of July parades and sojourns to ‘Park Dairy’, and running the Lakestride, shuffling through the Art Fair.  Watching Ludrock become a new tradition.

I am not a native, and I don’t live there, but I was adopted into the fold of Ludington years ago.  I have watched her come into her own, stumbling and struggling to move from the shadow of lumber and trains and the Watchcase factory and become the destination that she is meant to be.

And then there is this; I love her because she has a sense of humor. 

This weekend the Ludington community gathered around a cause.  It was inspirational to watch; thousands of people volunteering to stand in the sun for a purpose that restores your faith in humanity.

To construct an ice cream sundae, half a mile long.

There are enough causes for all of us to get behind, and the people of Ludington do their share to make the world better place.  For me, watching people do what was needed to make assemble a 2971 foot long dessert was making the world a better place.

There doesn’t need to be a good reason to create the World’s Longest ice cream sundae.  It’s better if there is no good reason. 

Even so, House of Flavors, possibly the Center of the Universe for All Things Ice Cream, decided that if anyone should claim the Guinness World Record for the longest sundae it should happen in Ludington.  And so it did. 

It’s an impressive feat, if you stop to think about it, and I tried not to.  Marshalling the people and the product, and timing it all so that there was something other than a half mile of gooey soup, is nothing less than a marvel of organization. 

Imagine hundreds of tables stretching through town, a nearly endless rain gutter manufactured right on site, taped in place and lined with foil.  Thousands of hands scooping ice cream, dousing on chocolate, spraying with whipped cream and topping with cherries.

And course, someone had to eat it all.  It was a chaotic, cacophonic consumption of copious calories.

There is no shortage of challenges in our world, and no day dawns without tragedy and strife.  It is all we can do to cope sometimes, let alone find ways to enjoy the day, let alone encourage others to that light.  I’ll be honest, too many days go by that I would not be tempted to see a giant sundae put together.

Records and accolades aside, seeing the town of Ludington rally around a half mile of fun was inspirational.  It reminded me of the dozens of reasons I love her.  Reminded me to seek out the next silly reason to stop and sit in the sun.

Hope this finds you getting a double dip,

David

Copyright © 2016 David Smith

Forty Years Later

June 6, 2016

Greetings from the adventure,

I still get the same twinge, feel the vibration.  When I see two lane road split the green in front of me, disappear over a hill.  When the road takes me to a place where the world opens up and I can see that it leads to more world. 

Forty years ago, on this morning, I awoke in a hammock next to a raging river flowing between thick forests.  There was snow on the ground around me, and on the mountains above.  I was on the lip of Yellowstone, following the road to more world.  When I had my coffee and packed up my gear, I swung my leg over the saddle and rode out to find it.

A couple of weeks ago I got a card from my mother.  “Happy Fortieth”  it said.  Took me a few minutes to figure out what anniversary she was remembering.  “Keep on spinning.” she wrote. 

I went to my room and opened a wooden box that sits where I can see it every morning.  Inside are the tattered and stained notebooks from four decades ago.  I leafed through the first one and found the date.  I had started across the country on my bicycle forty years ago on the date she remembered.

I don’t spend a lot of time reminiscing, for good or bad.  I love the life I’ve had, but I love the life I’m living too, so I tend to focus more on this moment than that.  And so it’s easy to get surprised by forty years.

I travelled all over the country on my bike, sometimes with friends, sometimes alone.  There is no question that those experiences shaped my early life, put grooves in me that would guide many choices since then.  That time added color and depth and texture to me that still lives in me.

A lot of what I wrote in those journals was naïve and idealistic and hopeful.  Thankfully a lot of those ideas have stayed with me.  I saw, for example, that people are usually generous and open and friendly, and so it was easy to think the best of most everyone I met.  That theme has never left me. 

I discovered what breathtaking beauty is, not from a screen or through a window, but from being in it.  I fought to find words to save what I saw and fell short.  Sunrise over the desert.  Cruising past the Tetons.  Zig zagging along the Pacific Coast.  Climbing Trail Ridge Pass over the Rockies. My tires humming on blacktop as I wove between redwoods.   In my journal I tried to describe my impression of the Big Horn Mountains, and like so many times I was at a loss for words.  I finally wrote this truth: “…it does not present an image, it is an experience.”

Reading my journals I was reminded:

I would rather be outside.  If things are hard, be harder.  There is nothing like the sound of rain on your tent.  Always treat people like you might meet them later in the day.  The mountain does not care.  After a few days without a shower you’re the only person who can’t smell you. 

Coming off the road is hard.  It will pass. Being at the mercy of the elements, living in the world and not on it, teaches you humility. 

I learned that I could be alone, and that there is a price that comes with that.  It is good to spend time with yourself, and really face what you think.  But from there I gained a new appreciation of what it is like to be with people. Being alone takes practice; there is an ache that gets better, like your body adjusting to a new effort.  For me it is a survival skill not a lifestyle.  I love finding people in my day.

Traveling on a bicycle provided a unique connection to the strangers I met every day.  They were curious about me, enough to provide us a place to begin a conversation.  That would open doors to a meal, to hospitality, to friendship.  I would share what I had, and they would share what they had.  It always began with understanding the other’s perspective. 

I wrote down some reminders of what I thought I would need when the tour ended.  Be content.  Be where you are.  Be patient.  ‘It will pass.’  Find intensity. Find passion.  Be persistent.  I can’t say I remembered these consistently, but I do recognize the words in some of my days.

The time on the road provided amazing experiences that hold up even after decades of a life filled with amazing experiences.  Sleeping on picnic tables, under bridges, in barns, in fields.  Grapenuts and peanut butter and macaroni and tuna, and coffee and coffee.  Riding up mountains, along rivers, and across prairies and into small towns and on to other small towns.  Powered by my legs and my determination through deserts and green valleys,  past mansions and shacks, through rain and snow and locust swarms and blistering heat. Gas station maps; tracing my finger along the pale grey lines that connected this place with more world.  I am sitting at my desk, folding the journals up and putting them back in the box, smiling, grateful for my mother’s reminder. 

So I have been sitting here all morning wondering; what matters in all of this?  Maybe it is enough to wade through the memories and enjoy that for what it was, like seeing an interesting movie or reading a book that you enjoy.

But what has been coursing through me since I opened the card from my mom was the thought that forty years from now I would want to look back at this morning with the same feeling of richness and satisfaction.  That this day had been as full as those of my nineteenth year.

Not every day is a mountain top experience.  We have to get the oil changed and do the laundry and wait in line at the DMV.  But if we don’t build the other stuff into our day, as often as we can, than who will do it for us?  Who else will make this the day that will shine through the next forty years?  To be honest, that is the most important lesson I brought off the road, one that I have forgotten too often. 

“There are as many worlds as there are kinds of days, and as an opal changes its colors and its fire to match the nature of a day, so do I.”  John Steinbeck.  ‘Travels with Charley’

Hope this finds swinging your leg over the saddle,

David

If you would like to hear a story from the road, you can click here to watch this video from our story telling evening last year.  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rZUlEZ94OyM