Friday, May 7, 2010

Won't you be my neighbor?

Every morning, like clock work, there is an older gentleman who passes my porch on his way to and from his apartment. He wheels one of those large green trash cans behind him to dispose of what can only be assumed is his household garbage. Once he's back to his own little square of patio space, begins his yard work. He is meticulous. He is he thorough. He owns a weed wacker. And let me tell you... not one single unit in this complex has what would ever be considered to be a "yard". For the the six foot length of flower patch you get, you have 24 square feet of concrete, so I'm not sure what the rake is for, either.

But his routine is the same. Take the garbage out. Clean the yard. Sweep the patio. Take a long walk around the lake. Go home.

I like his routine, I really do. It's reliable (it even happens in inclimate weather). And it reminds me I'm not the only one who goes out of their way to create sound spaces of bullsh*t-free time. Some methodical things in this life keep us sane. We need them to come back to because they feel like home. We balance our crazy with our sound. It's... nice.

In my minds eye I imagine this man used to have a large yard, possibly a ranch style house with his wife. There he would spend his days raking the many leaves that fall from the towering oak trees on his property, ridding his yard of unnecessary weeds, and sweeping off the back patio before starting in on lunch. He may have even owned a riding lawnmower at that point - who's to know?

Above all else, I believe he keeps up this routine because it was important to him at one point in his life. And just like an internal alarm clock, he just can't help himself every day. If he didn't have this, what would he do with his life from 10-11:30am?

The possibilities are endless...

Wednesday, May 5, 2010

The Sensible Heart

I get so distracted... The smell of rain wafting through my living room. The rustling sound of the water gently disturbing the peaceful glass plane of the lake outside. Occasional flickering flashes of lightening. It all removes me, little by little, from the core of my thoughts.

It helps, you know, all these side notes. I couldn't long to be more distracted, forgetful even, of all that was said. Sometimes the people who hurt us the deepest are the ones we care about the most. For those precious ones, we let our guard down, open ourselves up, and put ourselves out there for them. And because of this, they better understand how we work, what makes us who we are, and which parts of ourselves are the most... tender. Those buttons can be both depressed and guarded by both parties. We choose to do this to each other. Choices are made, words are uttered, and hearts are broken in seconds.

My sensible heart keeps ticking on. Feeling how much it's hurting right now allows me to know myself better and in a different light. This sharp, crisp, biting pain is more pronounced than all the storms around me could ever be. And back from distraction I come.