Forgotten

Suddenly, the room, the people, and everything around him melted away in one quick instant, and he found he was standing outside, in an open field. Blinking, he looked around, wondering how and why he was suddenly standing here. Just moments before, he was – well – what was he doing? For some reason, he couldn’t quite remember where he had been just been, even though he was sure it was only seconds ago that he was there.  The harder he thought about it, the less he remembered.

Almost right away, he noticed that this field was not empty. Scattered around in no particular order, were large, white, words. They stood about chest high, and looked as though someone had dumped a bag full of charades words and had neglected to pick them up.

He started to walk toward one of the nearer piles, and saw that one of the words was “Vacuum.” Right next to it were the words “Sandra Bullock,” “Cardigan,” and “Bruschetta.” Puzzled, he continued to walk around and examine the different piles. Each one had disconnected words, completely out of context, just lying about. He thought that these words seemed to be…what was the word? It was on the tip of his tongue…these words seemed to be…

He tried to think of the word that described what these words seemed like, and as he did, he looked up toward the pale sky. There, right above him, high in the sky, was a small black dot, slowly getting larger. It only took him a few seconds to realize that something was falling out of the sky – and it was falling right toward him. Just as the object became frighteningly large, he dove out of the way and landed hard on the grass just a few feet away. Right where he was standing, there fell with a loud thud, another chest-high white block word.

He stood up and brushed the grass off his pant legs and started to walk around to the front of the object. As he rounded the corner of the word, he saw that it said “Forgotten.”

“Yes!” he shouted. “These words seem to be forgotten by someone! That’s the word I was trying to remember!” It didn’t seem strange to him that the word he was trying to remember fell out of the sky right where he had been standing. For some unknown reason, it seemed like exactly what should have happened, but if anyone asked him why it seemed this way, it is unlikely that he could have said.

Like a flash, he climbed on top of the word that had just landed and tried to survey the entire field. To his left, on the edge of where he could see, he thought he saw a tree line, but it was too far to tell. To his right, he saw an object that seemed to stand out against the hazy distance. He climbed down and started running toward it.

It took a few minutes to make it across the field, but as he got closer to it, he saw that it was a large sign, the bottom of which stood about two feet above his head. He moved around to the front of it and started to read it. This is what it said:

“The thoughtful forgetful forgetting to think

The thought you forgot is beginning to sink

Like lead it will land in this land on the lawn

And remain like a stain on the brain thereupon.”

As he stood there, reading the sign, trying to put the puzzling words together, he heard a voice behind him.

“What are you doing here?!”

The suddenness of the demand made him start and quickly look around. There, standing on the grass in front of him, was a tall, thin man in a three piece suit. The tie was perfectly done, and he stood there as still as a statue, staring at our visitor with wide, unblinking eyes.

“I…I don’t know. I was somewhere…I don’t remember where…and just showed up in this field. Where am I?”

“Oh, not another one.” Was is flat and droll reply. “I can’t believe this happened again.”

With these words, he pulled out a walkie talkie and spoke quickly into the receiver.

“Ed, another one dropped down and he’s here all confused. We’ve got to start another C-2358 before this turns into a full-blown incident.”

“Excuse me, but I still don’t know where I am. How do I get out?”

“Listen pal, if I had to explain this to you, I’d be getting paid a lot more than I’m getting paid, you know what I mean? Did you read the sign? We put that up so I’d have to stop telling people. You people are exhausting.”

“Yes, I read it, but I’m not sure I understand it. It’s a little cryptic, isn’t it?”

“Cryptic?! We went through study after study to make sure we wrote it so you people would understand it. Cryptic.”

At this last mutter, the tall thin man picked up his walkie talkie again and barked into the receiver at the person on the other end. “Hey Mac, how long is this going to take? This quacklacker is staring to get chatty, and I don’t have time to debrief another one. If this goes full incident, you’re going to be doing the explaining, not me, get it?”

There was a muffled reply over the walkie talkie, which seemed inaudible, but the tall man clearly understood it, because he turned red and barked back into the receiver.

“No, I did the last three and you haven’t done any since before…”

More muffled talking over the speaker cut him off mid-sentence. He thought for a minute and then clicked it off and put it back in his pocket.

“Okay, but you better pay attention, because I’m not repeating anything. I don’t have time for this nonsense, and no offence, but you don’t seem like the cleverest one we’ve ever gotten down here, you know?”

“Down where?”

“No questions. Just listening and nodding.”

He nodded his assent.

“You know when you forget a word? You think that word just drifts around forever after you forget it? No. That would be chaos. Could you imagine words just suspended in mid-air forever. That’d be crazy. So, this place is where they all land. You remember your word? Great. You think it just comes back like magic? No way. Words don’t work like that. If they did, I’d be out of a job faster than you could say blackjack. You forget a word, it lands here. The word you might remember later is a totally different word. Not the same one as before. Sure they sound the same, but they’re not. So when you people forget your words, they come down here. They gotta go somewhere Mack, and this is it. It’s not a glamorous job, but it’s a living. My job is to manage all the words so they don’t pile up and get in the way. They gotta be stored neat and nice, see?

He leaned forward and waited for his audience of one to indicate that he was following along. 

Our visitor quickly nodded, hoping that his delay in response wouldn’t derail the story.

“Okay.” He continued. “So every once in a while, something gets crossed in the wires and we get someone like you down here. You all just pop up all confused and it falls to Ed, or more likely, me, to sit you down and explain what’s what. I’ve never figured out why we get you all sometimes, but it’s no picnic and I sure as Duffer ain’t compensated for my trouble.”

Just then, he reached into his pocket and flipped the switch back on.

“Ed, you got that C-2358 ready yet?”

More muffled sounds in response.

“Well it’s about time. Get it going before I come up there and smack you so hard you’ll see straight again.”

Before he finished speaking, everything began to go grainy and pixilated. The field, the tall thin man, the scattered words, all faded away, and he found himself back in the living room of his home, with a cup of coffee in his hand nodding along in conversation with a young woman a few feet away from him. She had just finished saying,

“…so I hope that’s not weird for you.”

Before he realized what he was saying, he found the words coming out of his mouth.

“Honestly, I am really happy for you. It seems like the best move for you, in every respect, so how selfish would it be for me to be upset about it?”

She smiled and breathed out a sigh of relief as she stepped forward to hug him.

“You’ve changed a lot, you know that?” she said as she finished the hug and stood apart again. “It’s like you’ve forgotten yourself and are putting other people first.”

Observations from a coffee shop table for one

At the next table, two middle-age women were talking about their husbands. One wore short hair and an athletic headband. The other wore long, dark hair with glasses perched on the top of her head. They were talking about how their husbands don’t like to sleep next to them anymore, how they stay on their separate sides of the bed.

“It’s like the great barrier reef!”

And they laughed, like this was normal, like it was OK. Laughing made it seem OK.

The dark-haired one said, “I’m not a jealous person, but he spends a lot of time with them. They’re in their ‘30s, you know.” And her friend nodded understandingly.

Then an elderly man shuffled in with an even-more-elderly woman.

“Do you want to sit in the sun or in the shade?” he asked.

The woman chose the sun, where the January light filtered through the horizontal blinds.

“Here, I’ll go get you something, Mama,” the man said. He walked to the counter. He came back with a croissant and a blueberry Danish. The woman took the plain one.

“Here, this is the one you like,” he said as he handed her a cup. He kept repeating, this is the one you like, this is your drink. It’s vanilla chai. She finally seemed to understand.

He raised his cup of mocha and tapped the rim of her to-go lid. “Here’s to us,” he said. “Here’s to your new…” But I couldn’t catch what was new.

The middle-aged women were still talking. The athletic one said, “You should be taking care of yourself, body, mind and soul.”

The dark-haired one nodded. “We have some things we’re working out. They’re not deal breakers,” she said, in a rising voice that suggested maybe she didn’t believe herself.

The man was talking more loudly. “This was my surprise for you,” he said, gesturing to the pastries. “All along, I wanted to stop here after.” It sounded like they’d just left a series of doctor’s appointments.

The woman smiled faintly and nodded.

“You seem to be hearing better,” he said.

She fussed with her napkin and the lid of her drink.

“You don’t need to hurry, Barbara. We have time.”

We have time.  

It seemed to hang in the air, echoing inaudibly.

I looked up in the pause and happened to make eye contact for a split second with a child across the room — a little girl sitting on her mother’s lap, a little girl wearing pink.

That’s when the interwoven, overheard conversations became overpowering. The voice of every generation seemed to be reverberating through the coffee shop on this Friday morning.

It’s amazing how life changes. It’s scary and beautiful, the way the stages fade in and out as time passes. Children and husbands and doctor’s appointments and new things.

We have time.

We have time for coffee.

We have time to fix our marriages.

We have time to grow up.

Sometimes time is all we have, but often it’s what makes all the difference.

Mountain Turns

Mountain Turns

 She opened her eyes to the sound of seagulls calling in the distance against the beat of the pounding surf.  Rolling over on her side, she had difficulty collecting her thoughts about the day ahead.  What could she do?  How was she going to get through it?  Life had delivered hard blows to her existence. The tears began to well up again as they had the week before.  The surf kept surging and her love was gone.  The bed on the other side was as cold as the room.  She slowly reached out to lightly touch the button on the bedside table stopping the gulls.  The beach scene was gone just like her husband.

Gone.  A deep breath and Meredith Everest thought she had a whiff of salt air left over from the fog and semi-conscience state she had been in the last five minutes.  Six o’clock.  The alarm had gone off at 5:55, the Triple Nickels that Sam set for his wake up time.  Her husband was fond of those numbers which identified his flying squadron back in the day, and now they meant a lot to EM, Sam’s EM. That’s what he called her.  At 60, EM had a terrific look with short white hair styled for her athletic build. She could still move very well. Was this a bad dream?  No, tomorrow had turned into today and EM saw the day as, well, so pivotal.  She told herself yesterday that she had wept enough.  Sam told her it would take time.  She loved that about him, always caring about the possibilities.  He seemed to know.  He knew this day was coming when he wasn't going to be there for her. In their younger days he sang to her.

 Ooh-oo child                                         
Things are gonna get easier,

Ooh-oo child

Things'll get brighter

Was it Salt?  No, it’s coffee.  Could her senses be that skewed?  Another deep breath and EM rose up and padded down the stairs toward the kitchen.  The aroma of Red Leaf Maple Tap coffee awakened the chemicals in her nervous system.  Sam loved to get the coffee ready the night before.  That hasn't changed.  He was never late for work that guy.  She had remembered to set the timer. The floor was cold and EM poured herself a mug of sweet blackness.  It was comforting, like the verses she had read yesterday about joy coming in the morning.  She touched her smart phone and there it was again, bold, bright, and clear as ever, Psalm 30.  I need to commit that to memory.  That’s what Sam did.  That’s what Sam would want.  She laughed. Oh gosh!  She actually smiled.  Was that a prayer answer?  Her thinking seemed clearer today.

EM began thumbing through the mail on the table.  There was a packet of seeds for sunflowers and Impatiens, and a large box that looked like it belonged under a Christmas tree addressed to Major Samuel A. Everest.   That’s really odd. They got his rank wrong and his middle initial. She didn't have the will to open the box yesterday, but she felt energy coming back into her body. She used a kitchen knife and opened the box. She squinted.  The package was a Happy Light for SAD.  “What? Seasonal Affect Disorder! Sam, you've got to be kidding me.”  She said it out loud, continuing, “I love you so much, I know you didn't do this to be cruel.  You just wanted to shake me.”  She added, “Well, you did.”  EM opened the package and plugged the unit in the wall.  Suddenly the kitchen table lit with a brilliant outdoor light so she closed her eyes to take in the glow.  “Thank you Sam.”  She slowly opened her eyes and remembered how Sam reveled in the light that bounced off the clouds when they flew the Cessna together, high above the earth.  It was so peaceful up there, so beautiful and majestic.  The space made your mind soar and your spirits lift.  So now he was up there, and EM, well she had this light, a Psalm, and memories. She got up and poured another hot cup and noticed for the first time that it had snowed last night.  A nuthatch was climbing up the tree off the deck.  EM felt the chill.  She went back to feel the warmth of the light and paged through a seed catalog that came in the mail.

EM’s phone chimed and she looked at the caller ID.  It was Samuel Everest, bold as ever.  Her heart skipped a beat!  She swiped the phone with her hands shaking. “Sam?” she answered hesitantly.  “Hello lovely lady, how did you sleep last night?”  The voice was soft and assuring.  Startled EM said “I’m sorry, who is this?” The man’s heart sunk.  “Mom it’s me your son, Sam. Are you all right? I’m calling to let you know that we’ll be there this afternoon, we got a flight out of Colorado Springs.”  EM had to brace herself against the table and her eyes wondered around the room, lost for a moment.  She reoriented herself and finally said, “Oh, Hi Sammy, how are you?  Yes, I’m alright. I just got up. I just opened a present from your father.”  Somewhat dumbfounded Sam then responded with care, “Mom?”  “No, really a package came yesterday.”  Sam’s Mom explained. “It’s one of those lights you put on to lift your spirits in the winter weather.”  Sam tried to keep the conversation casual.  “I saw the weather report, snow today.” “Just a bit of dust so far.” EM said.  “Are you going to visit soon?” Sam tried to be patient. “We’ll be there in about 5 hours Mom.”  “Oh good, are you going to bring your friend with you?” These phone conversations were difficult.  “Yes.  Mom, I have to go now, our flights about to leave.  I love you.”  “I love you too honey, see you soon then.”  EM was transfixed on the light in front of her. What was going on?

It was said that Major Samuel Adam Everest was a mountain of a man.  His squadron frequently made a joke about his name. They flew F-15 E Strike Eagles out of Nellis AFB. The aviator had a stout 6’ 1” frame with a muscular build for battling the G-forces of his office.  His sandy blonde was cut closer than regulation.   His coworkers however had not known his real hero, Dad.   Lt. Col.  S. J. Everest Sr. was awarded the Air Force Distinguished Service Medal, the Airman's Medal, and the Purple Heart.  On his last flying mission, Sam and his wing-man Capt. Bill Peters were shot down over North Vietnam.  Both men ejected from their cockpits.  Sam stayed with Bill for three days after recovering him in the dense jungle, but Bill died of his injuries.   He evaded the enemy for 3 weeks before his captured by the Viet Cong and Capt. Everest was a POW for 10 months.  He endured things that he would only talk about with several people.  Capt. Everest was rescued by a CIA supported elite team of French freedom fighters that had tracked his whereabouts having maintained a clandestine operation there for nearly 15 years.  Capt. Everest was brought back undercover without fanfare in order to protect the ongoing operation in North Vietnam.  After debriefing and medical care, he spent the rest of his career as an adviser between Air University at Maxwell AFB, Alabama and the Pentagon in Washington D.C.  Few knew his story. 

 The guys didn't know the real “Mountain”.  Sam Jr. closed his phone as their flight number was being called.  He looked at Jill, his wife of eight years and their two children Samantha 7 and James 4. They had met in Colorado Springs when Sam was at the Academy.  Jill had grown up in an Air Force family too.  Sam thought, so much to do now. He was going to have to climb these mountains instead of flying over them.  He had to take leave and figure things out.  Care needed to be arranged for Mom.  He wished he lived closer.  He wished the light he ordered had not been delivered so quickly.  He thought he would beat it there.  He didn't mean to confuse her.  His Mom’s dementia seemed to be getting worse.  It would be so hard for her to leave the house and bring her to Nevada.  But what else could he do?  Most of her friends were in Beaver Creek, Ohio.  He could try to get a transfer to Wright Patterson but there he would have to fly a desk. Jill put her hand in his and saw the anguish in his eyes.  “Honey, it’s time to board.”  “Yes, it is,” Sam said, “Yes it is.”

Seated next to his daughter in coach, with Jill across the aisle with James, Sam stared out the window at billowing clouds ominously passing by.  He wished that he had control of the aircraft.  He needed to fly.  Transfer was out of the question.  He thought about his flights with Dad, how much fun they had together, and how much they both loved his Mom and flying.  He closed his eyes with Samantha’s head on his chest fast asleep and he felt the minimal G-force as the pilot turned the craft east towards Mom. 

Landing in Dayton, Ohio four and half hours later, the Everest family headed over to luggage and car rental.  He remembered that he had promised the kids to take them to the National Museum of the United States Air Force the next time they visited grandma.  He would have to make it up to them or maybe Mom would want to go and he could get a better gauge of how she was really doing.  Sam wanted to show the kids their grandpa’s aircraft he flew in Vietnam.  The museum had a stellar display of the F-4 Phantom, and the fighter and reconnaissance missions that Capt. Sam Everest Sr. flew.  Sam’s hero and best friend was gone now for three years losing his battle with lung cancer that had metastasized to his brain. His war injuries caused him to have an aversion to medical doctors mostly because they kept you from flying.  When you were DNIF; duty not to include flying, you wondered when the last day would be when you could no longer climb into the cockpit.  It was something no pilot ever wanted to think about. On his return from the war, he was hoping to get a training instructor assignment but it never panned out. So when he finally retired he missed his annual checks.  He was great at checking his six, but when it came to twelve o’clock high he was always checking everyone else instead of his own.  He had lost his wing-man. Shoot, why couldn't he see that his families’ best asset was himself. Why did he have to leave this life so early?

Sam dialed his Mom’s cell and prayed. God, help me to do the right thing, help Mom to be ok!  The phone picked up. “Hello Sam, this is Margaret.”  Margaret was Bill Peter’s widow.  Their families were indelibly bonded together.  “Oh hi Margaret, is everything ok?  May I speak to Mom?”  “Sam, I just got here to check on EM and she’s not here!  The car is here and the back door is open.  There are some tracks leading out to the back woods so I’m heading out there now.”  Sam said, “We just landed. I’ll be there in 30 minutes, please Margaret go find her!” Margaret Peters was way ahead of him. “I’m on it Sam, don’t worry, the tracks are fresh.” Sam urged her on.  “Go Margaret go. See you soon!” 

Sam gathered his family quickly and told Jill about Mom.  He implored the rental car lady to hurry it up, this was urgent.  Margaret was EM’s best friend in life. They attended the same church and had reached out to many spouses of military families who were making huge sacrifices to serve their country.  Margaret was the first person to alert Sam about the changes that EM was going through.  EM had been there for Margaret during the most difficult days of her life. She was Margaret’s wing-man.

 The rental car company gave the Everest’s a black Camaro. The drive took 12 minutes despite the slippery conditions.  He was not worried about his speed.  The fighter pilot never is in order to meet his objective.  The kids were having fun.  The garage door was open and Margaret’s car was in the driveway.  Sam was first to hit the door calling, “Mom! “ They were not there.  Sam told Jill and the kids to stay in the house and he ran through the back door into the woods following the two footprints in the snow.  It was a clear sunny crisp afternoon, 25 degrees F. and 3 inches of new powdered snow.  Sam saw the pine trees fly by. 

Margaret had tracked EM’s footsteps out about 500 yards down the back trail to the vista overlooking the flight line at Wright Patterson.  EM had a sweater on and no boots.  Margaret wrapped her coat around EM and they both watched a C-141 land softly on the strip.  They embraced for a long while and didn't say a word.  There was no need to talk.  Finally with tears in her eyes EM said, “I didn't know it would be this hard.” Sam came upon them in 3 minutes.  He saw these two brave women and stopped to assess the situation.  He walked slowly behind them and looked out over the airfield. He finally interrupted and the ladies turned around to see the relief on his face.  “Mom, what are you doing out here?  Where are your boots?”  Seeing her son smiling with the sun gleaming in his eyes, EM replied, “I could ask you the same thing, coatless and bootless son!”  Sam embraced them both and then the three finally felt the chill in the wind and laughed all the way back to the house. 

 EM’s cheeks were rosy red from her sojourn out to the woods.  Margaret brewed some tea and hot chocolate and looked at Sam to give him a reassuring nod.  EM embraced Jill and both were getting reacquainted.  Sam joined the hug fest.  EM looked down at her grand kids and said, “Hello my little darlings, I was thinking we could plant some sunflower seeds so this beautiful light doesn't go to waste.  Then I was hoping we could all go and see your grandpa’s jet.”  Jill looked at Sam and their hands touched.  On the banister which overlooked the living room there was a triangular shadow box that held the blue field with stars to commemorate the life of Sam’s hero.  Sam wanted to etch this scene into his memory. He whispered a quick prayer, Thank you God for taking care of my Mom.  He squeezed Jill’s hand and they both walked over to Margaret while EM busied herself with the kids. Sam said “Margaret, we would love for you to come with us to the National Museum.  “I wouldn't miss it for the world.”  Margaret said.  “EM is my wing-man.”  Sam acknowledged with a smile.  EM overheard the wing man comment and said, “Sammy, we’re taking turns.”

The End

3rd Annual Writer's March Challenge

Welcome to the third year of The Writer's March! This year is going to be a little different than the past two years, but I think it'll make it more fun and more of a challenge.

For New Writers
If this is your first year being a contributor, I want to welcome you and thank you for your interest. In a nutshell, The Writer's March is an annual writing challenge, where contributors choose how much writing they want to do this month and post on a shared blog for the month of March.

The writers in past years have shown that they are very supportive and eager to help, and there is a wide range of experiences, skill sets, and points of view represented.

If you don't have a Gmail account, you'll need to set one up to be a contributor. They are free and easy to set up - just follow this link to get started. Once you've got a Gmail account, send an email to thewritersmarch@gmail.com asking to be added. I will need to give you permissions to post on the site, so after I add your email address, be sure to follow the links to accept.

For Previous Contributors
Thanks so much for making past years such a success. It's been so exciting to see the things you all have written in the past two years. All of your previous posts are still saved on the site - I have just labeled them with the year they were published, so you'll know what challenge they were a part of.

Your permissions should still be active, but please let me know if you run into any trouble accessing or posting.

New Format This Year
This year is going to be themed - that means that we're going to pick one genre and stick to it for all the posts. The themes will change each year, so if there is a theme you would like to see, let me know.

The 2015 theme is going to be: Short Stories

Challenge Details
Everyone who decides to participate should plan on at least doing the Beginner challenge. For those of you with more appetite, you are welcome to aim for the more difficult challenges.

Each short story should be more than 1,000 words long. There is no maximum length for the stories, but the art of a short story is being able to capture someone from start to finish in a manageable amount of space, so keep that in mind. I think 1,000 is a decent minimum - 350 is about a page, so it equals about three pages.

Challenge: 
Beginner: Write Two Short Fiction Stories any Time in March

Intermediate: Write Three Short Fiction Stories any Time March

Advanced: Write Four Short Fiction Stories - Must be One Per Week

Seasoned Writer: Write Five Short Fiction Stories - At Least One Per Week

Insanity: Write Six or More Short Fiction Stories - At Least One Per Week


Final Details
There is no deadline for signup - but the sooner I hear from you, the sooner I can get  you administrator privileges for the blog. If you have friends who would like to join, just have them send me an email at thewritersmarch@gmail.com and I'll work with them to get their account set up.

Thanks again, and here's to a great March this year!
Stephen

Yes, I See Me in the Wee

I've been wanting to upload this for a while, but the ending is week so I put it off.  March is coming to a close, so here goes, weak ending.  Suggestions welcome.  :)

Yes, I See Me in the Wee

I had to dremel the dog’s toenails today.  I didn’t know dremels existed until this dog.  It’s a very cool electric thingy with a rotating head covered by an emory band, so it spins doggie toenails into dust.  I bought it because clipping his nails required the muscles of a trainer,  because I was terrified of getting into the quick, and because the process was so traumatizing to him that he would wee whenever he saw the clippers.  So, the last time the groomer clipped him to the quick, I bought the dremel.

Now my lab wees when he sees the dremel.  It doesn’t hurt, but he wees.  Every time.  I give him treats, I woo and pet and praise him.  He cowers and wees.  I roll him on his back, lay a towel on his privates, and start the dremel on low.  It doesn’t matter how low.  Whiz goes the dremel; wee goes the dog. 

He does the same at bath time.  A bath means being praised for every baby step into the tub, getting watered down with a warm spray, and being gently massaged with a fluffly glove.  He takes on a droopy turkey-vulture look from the minute I say, “Bath,” head hanging low, eyes looking down, suspicious that this one time will be different than all others. 

I’m the one who bathes and dremels him, the one who wipes out his ears with a cotton swap, the one who brings the flea meds into the house.  I am the adversary.  In between those events, he is cuddled next to me or begging to be petted.  But, when a dremel or cotton ball or flea pill appears, he eyes me suspiciously, wishing I would stop interfering in his life.  I become the one he tries to hide from.  The one he dreads.  I am the weirdo who won’t leave him alone. 

Cleaning up the last puddle of wee today, I thought, “You ridiculous, ridiculous dog.  Stop making this mess.  You have nothing to fear in me.  I wish you could speak English.  I wish I could speak dog.”

Yes, I got it.  Yes, I saw me in the wee.  Running, hiding, weirding out over things I can’t figure out.  Peering around a corner at the future, wondering if my master will really insist on another bath or clean ears or good medicine.  And if so, will they look different than last time?  My head might know He is good and loves me, and experience might tell me He has only done me good.  But, my ridiculous, ridiculous flesh still sometimes asks if I can really trust him this time not to drown or poison me, trim me too close, or cause me unnecessary pain.  And I sulk and tremble and wee.

I’m glad He’s patient.  And that keeps interfering. 

100 Questions

Some time last year, I started listening to an audio book about Leonardo da Vinci, and how he thought. In this book, it talked a lot about being able to think differently from everyone else, and having a variety of skills that you are particularly good at. One section, dealing with introspection, said to get a pen and paper, and write down 100 questions. These questions are important questions that are important to you.

This seemed like a daunting task, but I was in school at the time, and decided to work on this in class. Should I have been paying attention to class?  Sure.  But somehow I still managed to graduate, so we'll let it slide.

I started with the big questions, like "How do I know God?" and "How do I live well?"  But as the list went on, they started moving from these kind of questions, to far more personal questions, like "Why do I want to be a writer?" and "Why is pride so easy for me?"

The exercise then said to take these 100 questions and find your top 10.  Of these top 10, pick 1 and spend time thinking and writing about it; Develop it, go deep, and keep stripping away the layers.  This teaches us to not only seek questions, but also to mature those questions into meaningful thought.  

I have found this to be a very helpful exercise, and every once in a while, I take one of these questions as a prompt for my writing projects. It's not as daunting as you might think.  Just start with the big ones, and keep thinking until you have reached 100. You'll find you are more prone to think deeply about things you otherwise wouldn't have noticed.

Falling With Style

I went skydiving for the first time this past weekend. One thing I learned is why people phrase it that way when they go skydiving having never been before. "I went skydiving for the first time." It's not so much to emphasize it's the first time, but to suggest that it's not the last. Everything about skydiving that has ever been described to me about the unique experience of hurtling toward the earth from two and a half miles above it is true, but in most aspects falls short. Exhilaration and trepidation flood your senses as the vibrations of the small aircraft's wheels racing down the runway fade into a subtle transition. The vibrations are altered as the lift on the wings, seemingly generated by pockets of air bombarding every inch of surface on the plane, carry you into the sky. It's too much, let me start at the beginning.

Everyone has those moments in life when you realize that a seed of greatness has been planted. Too many times it withers and dies, but sometimes it culminates into a hallmark experience. This particular seed originates from a passing comment I made about skydiving to a coworker. From there it generated some interest and after a few weeks of planning we found ourselves scrunched together in a truck on the road to a rural airport in Palatka. One of my coworkers, scared to pieces about the upcoming event, stayed behind when we got to the airfield to smoke (not her last) cigarette to calm her nerves. My other coworker, the complete opposite, could not wait to do all the prep work required to participate in the tandem skydive. I gauged my emotions to be somewhat middling between their two extremes. However, I had resolved to go skydiving that day and that's exactly what I intended to do.

Finally, the go-big-or-go-home moment had arrived. Settling into the plane, my two brave coworkers who accompanied me on this adventure and I became quite close to one another. Quite literally, actually. On a tiny plane, we fit the three of us, our skydive instructor partners, three videographers, and the pilot. Nine, including me. On the ride up I mused on the idea that these might be the last nine faces I see in this life. Of course, I had been doing that for the last twenty-four hours. This might be that last time I close at work. This might be my last dinner. This might be the last time I eat eggs (I'm glad the eggs turned out so well in that case!). On the ascent, it didn't take long for the trees to become miniature and for the streets, houses, lakes, and rivers to appear as though they were merely drawn upon a child's play mat. Rattling our way into the clouds on the single-propellered rocket of destiny, it was finally time to shake off any lingering doubts and prepare for the last decision I would ever make ("No," I thought. "Knock it off with those crazy thoughts." "Fine thought," retorted my inner heckler, "from a guy about to jump out of a plane.").

So it was that my less-frightened coworker vanished from the opening in the air craft. I didn't even see where she went. Not down, certainly. Just vanished. After a moment, my less-courageous coworker vanished too! I'm pretty sure I heard a final profanity come out of her before any trace of her was lost to the roaring wind. Finally, my turn. I turned and asked my instructor if I was my attachments were secure. You see, in tandem skydiving you're not connected to the parachute. You're connected to the guy who is connected to the parachute. To say that notion is alarming is an understatement. "Do you feel secure?" my instructor shouted over the wind gushing in our faces. "I feel very close to you right now!" I shouted back. Indeed, there was absolutely no room between us thanks to the bindings of the harnesses. He laughed and responded, "You're gonna have to buy me dinner after this, I think!"

Now, I had a witty response. I just don't remember what it was. This might sound like a convenient alibi but one, two, THREE! And the illusion of ground that was the airplane's floor suddenly no longer existed for me. The wind that had been pounding the walls of the last airplane I'd ever(Stop it, brain.) was now like a thousand invisible hands holding me up in the air. As cliche as it is to say, it's the only permissible use of the phrase, "it was just like flying." The ground didn't seem to even be approaching despite my 80mph decent. But about halfway to the parachuting altitude I realized that like Buzz Lightyear I was not flying. I was falling, but with style.

Finally, the videographer opened his parachute and appeared to shoot upward in my view. This indicated to me that it was nearly time for my instructor and I to do the same. And, as planned, we did. Freefalling may seem scary, but try falling softly and gently hoping along the way that the freefall doesn't recommence. The sensation of getting caught in midair by a complex length of material connected by an organization of string is one of a kind. Your life literally depends on the integrity of that system and the person who put that system into place. In the meantime, as if for comedic relief to your dire situation, you might feel like Winnie the Pooh floating along by balloon humming "I'm Just a Little Black Raincloud." What a rush! Followed by the most singularly unique view of the earth I have ever been privileged to witness. There I was, wisping along slowly downward toward the safety (or demise, depending on your velocity) of the ground.

Now during the free fall, there is no hope of conversation. The plane shields most of the wind when the doors open but out in the sky there is no barrier. There is a tiny hurricane in both of your ears until the parachute saves your life. Afterward, five to seven quiet minutes are solely yours to take in the view and realize that you barely know the person behind you as you attempt to make any degree of conversation. This same person who you have just met is the same person in whose hands you have put your life into. That is an enormous amount of faith to have in a person anyway, and I don't even have faith in milk the day after the container tells me it expires.

This epiphany made me realize exactly what I had gotten myself into. To me it was another moment of greatness in my life, which may sound a bit exaggerated to some. I define a moment of greatness as an experience in which we do not know if we will come out of it okay and, upon doing so, come out the other side transformed forever. Indeed, it's impossible not to look at things a bit differently after skydiving. You learn a lot about yourself in those moments leading up to those points of no return. You learn a lot about faith and gain a perspective on things that you might find surprising. All of these notions may seem ambiguous and subjective in nature, but that is the whole point. Each time someone experiences a moment of greatness, even if it can be described with human words such as skydiving, running a marathon, going for a job interview, etc., it nonetheless cannot be defined by anything less than the experience of the person living it and how they choose to interpret it.

Skydiving has become a mainstreamed bucket list must. However, I can vouch for the fact that it has earned its renown for being something one would be remiss not doing at least once in their life. Whether it happens to bring terror or wonder to you, there is nothing quite like it. Be warned though, the moment you touch the ground you're going to be wondering why you had never done this sooner, and what your next overdue adventure is going to be.

Red Light Prayer

I have a big boy job now.

What that really means, is that I commute to work, have a desk and computer, work eight hours, and have a lunch break. It's nice - something I'm not used to, but I'm figuring out how offices and commuting work.

Our small group has been focusing on being more intentional with our time, money, and energy - essentially, if we acted like we were missionaries in our home towns. One morning, a couple weeks ago, I was driving to work, and got caught at the same red light I always get caught at. Jacksonville residents might know that 9A near Philips Highway just added 9B to cut off some of the traffic build up. 9B and Philips Highway, I always get stopped at the light.

That morning, I was in traffic, and looked in my rear view mirror. The middle-aged man in the BMW was yelling at someone on the phone. I mean, really screaming. I chuckled a little bit, thinking that this was the picture of unhappy corporate America. Then that small voice in the back of my head said, "Pray for him."

Of course! Being more intentional with my time means praying for people I see who are struggling. Feeling like an idiot, I spent the next five minutes praying for this guy behind me. Turns out, we work in the same building, and parked three spots away from each other, so there might more to that story later.

This started something I call "Red Light Prayer" every morning. As soon as I pull up to this intersection, I start praying for the person behind me, even if they haven't arrived yet. It's been something that has helped me be compassionate to complete strangers, and use my time productively in the car. Red lights don't bother me as much, because as I continue to be faithful in prayer, I know God is going to put people who need prayer behind me.

This morning, I pulled up to the stop light at 9B and Philips Highway, and waited for the person behind me to show up. They didn't. The light turned green, and I drove through. Clearly, malicious forces were giving me this green light to prevent me from praying for someone.

I prayed for the person in front of me instead. Take that Satan. That's what you get for giving me a green light. 

Puting a Period at the End of this Thought.

The Yellow Wallpaper has been my absolute favorite short story since I was in high school. Reading it every few years always sparks some new interpretation. This is the beginning of a final I was writing but never finished for lack of ability to express my thoughts. However, now that the pressure is off, I believe I have finally created a more cohesive thought.

 ****

Charlotte Perkins Gilman’s The Yellow Wallpaper is narrated by a delusional and insane narrator, through this bias narration, the imagery and diction contributes to the confusion and ambiguity within the story. The narrator’s conflict with the yellow wallpaper, which symbolizes her instability, pushes her towards a deeper sense of insanity and the imagery often symbolizes the elevation of her paranoia and confinement. Being narrated by the main character results in ambiguity in reference to her sanity until the end.

When the narrator discusses her condition, she remains slightly ambiguous., restating only what her doctor, husband says, then brushes it off, “So I will let it alone and talk about the house” (2). She does sometimes assert possible solutions to her problem but she never hypothesizes about the root of her problem. The quote above is also the first incident where she buries her problems by talking of the house, which ultimately begins to illustrate her madness.

The narrator speaks very often of her “husband” but due to some strange statements about him, it could be asserted that this “husband” could be her doctor with whom she has fictionalized some romantic connection with in order to cope with her presence in an insane asylum. Through the reading, we learn that he does not stay with her at night, “John is away all day, and even some nights when his cases are serious” (4). It is highly coincidental that she married a man who happened to be an expert in mental disorders who has extreme “cases” (4). There is enough ambiguity to categorize his character as the doctor and her character as the patient. He talks to her patronizingly, the way a doctor who believed his female patient to be simply suffering “hysteria” would in the early 1900’s (4). The final moment that supports this assertion is during an episode between John and his “sister”, Jennie, “I heard him ask Jennie a lot of professional questions about me. She had a very good report to give” (17). This quote persuades the reader to also question whether Jennie is John’s sister or a nurse. The use of the term “report” insinuates that Jennie is literate in the diagnoses of “hysteria” and again questions the legitimacy of our narrator’s observations.

The images within this story are highly personified, adding a sense of the paranoia of our narrator. This imagery repeats the feelings of paranoia several times throughout the story. The narrator applies human aspects to the objects within the house, “All those […] bulbous eyes” in the wallpaper. The eyeballs insinuate her feelings of being observed by Jennie and John; she expresses her awareness of their watchful eyes by putting eyes onto the wallpaper. More personification of objects in her past perpetuate her personification of the things around her, “I remember what a kindly wind the knobs of our big, old bureau used to have, and there was one chair that always seemed like a strong friend. I used to feel that if any of the other things looked too fierce I could always hop into that chair and be safe” (7). Further personification of the furniture around her insinuates bother her desire for protection and her paranoia.

Images within her room insinuate her confinement (possibly unwilling confinement). This imagery is perpetuated by several different descriptions provided by the narrator. Her description of her room provides more insinuations of confinement, but to a stronger extent, it appears to be more of a prison. Her “bedstead is nailed down […] and the “bedstead is fairly gnawed” (18), she sees “bars” in the wallpaper (15), and the windows themselves have “bars” (13).

This short story contains an interesting use of pronouns. Gilman often changes her use of pronoun very quickly, without notice, to confuse and interchange the point of view and perpetuate our characters madness. One scene especially illustrates the narrator’s confusion with her use of pronouns, “I pulled and she shook, I shook and she pulled, and before morning we had peeled off yards of that paper” (17). The beginning of this scene approaches these two women as separate entities, ultimately bringing them together- insinuating that the woman is actually seeing herself within the wallpaper and the other woman is a mirroring vision of our narrator. Gilman uses pronouns to interchange the speaker and actor. The word “creeps” several times, which refers to someone crawling on all fours. Throughout the readers encounters with “creep” the “creeper” changes form. “it creeps” (14), “she is always creeping” (16), “you have to creep” (19), “I had to creep” (20). This use of alternating pronouns shows the narrator to slowly change from a depressed woman to an out of control, animal-like individual.

Conflict within this short story occurs in several different areas, her “husband” presents a sort of contingency, her writing serves as a conflicting exercise of coping, but the yellow wallpaper is what drives our narrator to her ultimate loss of control. She is obsessed with this wallpaper, it affects her directly, and as she interprets it, she puts herself into the wallpaper. This results in a fabricated vision of herself- running her wild. The use of pronouns in reference to, “she” the woman in the wallpaper and “I” the narrator is a representation of herself as she attempts to free herself from her imprisonment.   

Every Reason

Every day I see You, though I really don’t

I really want to get to know You, but my flesh really won’t
I’m taking off time and building up my walls
Just to watch them fall on down

Since You are just, and You are good; You will help me right now

[chorus:]
You calmed the storms on that dead sea

You brought peace to this war-torn city
You are the cool even when
There is a high humidity

You are the One who brought me life

Living, You said, I would die

If everything You’ve said so far is true

Then I have every reason

To believe You

Broken panes and ashes, aren’t what I had thought

Beauty comes from the not beautiful, I guess that it just ought

I’m hoping that You will come and save my life
‘Cause I don’t need a thing else
You are great, and in control, and You hear as I cry out

[chorus]

I feel sometimes like I’m caught

In the mediocre

Help me to rise above,

‘Cause it’s hard to see You

Sometimes it’s hard to see You

[chorus]