Sparks

I'd like to speak with eloquence today but I'm not certain it is possible.

I'm coming full circle in the rotation that showcases one of my greatest strengths is also the greatest weakness that leads to the slow bleed out of the body.

I am a firework.  Have I ever told you that?  God intends me for more than that, he built me to sustain and bear the burdens, but, alas, I am a firework.

My colors are bright and brilliant, oh yes, a  beautiful, passionate, ambitious burst of purple, green and blue explodes and shimmers in the night sky.  I burn white hot in pursuit of perfection. To be the fix you need at the right moment.  You need a gap filled, I will fill it.  I am always the right person for the job.  I will take charge and manage and solve and fix.  I will help you make connections.  I will work tirelessly to bring people together. I will singlehandedly solve world peace.  I have passion and zeal that I rarely see mirrored in others.

And I think that is a good thing. 

Because my strength is my greatest weakness.

June kicked my butt.  It took every ounce of strength and focus I had to give and left me crying and bleeding.  My life is pouring out of me as I speak.  My body is broken and exhausted, rather than sleeping my brain is going at 200% thinking of all the things that my body simply refuses to do in preparation for my incoming company.

Perhaps my spark is brilliant and beautiful, but it is flawed. 

It never met a middle ground that it understood. 

It must go one way or the other.  It sees only black and white.

Moderation. Grey. Tempered.  It cannot see through this lens.

I am really, really good at some things.  Some of these things bring me deep and abiding joy which should be a part of every life.  But a lesson this middle aged firecracker needs to learn is that sometimes it's okay to stay in the box or lay low.  Life can still be full and meaningful in the middle. Ground level fireworks are still hot. They still sputter and burn and glow. 

It's hard to repress that need to be in the sky.  To jump headfirst into the deep end.  To go all in every time.  Moderation seems equivalent to mediocrity and that is one word I hope no one utters at my funeral. 

I must learn though that it is far better to be mediocre than to fall short.  It is far better to spark a little than to race head over heels to the stars and then...nothing.

I want to be purple and green and blue.  I want to be the answer to the question you ask. I want to be the chunk that fits right into the hole of your life. I want....so many things. 

Right now.  I don't have the energy required to make the cup of coffee I'd like to taste.

Dud.

June Musings

This time of year is so incredibly busy. It's hard to keep up.  Anybody else feeling that way? It seems like it should be the slow and easy days of summer but we aren't quite there yet.

Each day I'm racing home from work, late to make dinner, late to get someone somewhere, I pass by a small, quiet cemetery nestled on the corner under tree cover.  It looks serene, which is not at all what I imagine my life appears to be.  Every day as I make the turn like Cruella de Vil hot on the trail of Dalmatian offspring, I see an old man sitting on the seat of his walker, staring at a grave marker.  There is always a somewhat younger woman with him.  Sometimes she is standing off to the side under the shade tree.  Sometimes she holds the umbrella for him. Sometimes she sits next to him in a camp chair.  That's right.  A camp chair. Like they are going to be here for awhile. I believe it too because the the times I pass are quite varied.

His head is often bowed.  And as I have continually observed, my head often is, too.  I think about it.  I think about what has happened in his life.  He has clearly lost someone who meant a great to him.  Maybe a spouse. A child. A friend.

He might, of course, have some extra time on his hands, he might be retired, but his dedication has made an impact on me.  He is mourning. Clearly.  And might I suggest he is doing it well?  The rest of us, we say we have to mourn on the fly, and it's partly true, we do have responsibilities to manage so we tuck any type of grief we encounter away as quickly as it comes. But what if we took some time to visit that wound?  What if we took some time to stare that marker in the face? What if we camped out with it in a deluge holding tightly to a yellow umbrella?  Would we gain some clarity?  Would we find relief?  Would we empty our hearts of the sorrow that strangles our voice?

I do not think my friend comes daily to be tortured.  He comes daily to seek peace, to empty his heart, to speak words or feel silence.  He comes to remember.  He comes to be as close as possible to what he has lost.   Maybe his tears mingle with the rain and water the grass that is now growing there.  But each day I imagine he goes back home grateful that he went.

I do not know this man or his story.  But while it seems like I am deep in the land of the living, I am thinking of deeper things.  Inhaling a deep breath of the summer air.  Listening to the birds.  Whispering words of love.  Eating an extra cookie. Working through some grief.

I've got a few things to tackle.  A few things to work out.  Now is the time.  Each afternoon is an opportunity.

You just never know how or when you might influence someone.  This man will never know the difference he made for me as I just casually observed his goings about.  But each day I now search for him and hope to catch a glimpse of his visit. Cruella has left the building.

He is daily reminding me of the good gifts I have.  I want to embrace and enjoy each one with a full and grateful heart.  For one day it is possible I will be doing the same as he.  And if so, may it be such a positive influence on someone as he has been for me.