D is for Denial (or Disbelief)

It seems almost sacrilegious to write about the iPod saga during the most holy week of the year. 

But, I couldn't escape some commonalities between the two stories, so I decided to continue, perhaps highlighting along the way few shared insights in earnest hope that the reader would find them useful and even beneficial. 

Anyway, continuing on with the iPod touch 4th generation....

Having crossed out Laundry Part 1 off my mental to-do list, it took some time before my preoccupied mind registered the unusual banging noise from the washer. I paused the cycle, redistributed some weight that I assumed was causing it, and went on my busy way hopping from one task to the next, feeling rather accomplished.  Despite my redistributing the weight, the banging continued throughout the full wash cycle. It continued through the spin cycle.  And for some reason, I decided that this particular load needed another run through the spin cycle, so I set it off spinning once again.

When spinning and banging eventually stopped (“Ah that darn uneven load of varying weights of jackets!” I told myself)  I scooped the jumbled mess of clothes and threw it into the dryer, set the cycle on heavy, and pushed the start button.  I wasn’t surprised to hear the continued banging now inside the dryer. The clothes were all bunched up and it usually takes some time for the load to fluff up, but even after several minutes the banging continued, sounding even worse if that was possible.

But I could explain it away and convince you too why the noise the machine was making was perfectly understandable and acceptable and should be ignored. 

It’s truly amazing the stories our brains tell us to explain away the most obvious facts.

At the longest last, I went into the laundry room to check again. The moment I opened the dryer door the first thing I saw was my iPod’s now snow-white silicone case, sitting on the top of the wet clothes - empty!

In that instant my little mind slammed its door shut, flatly refusing to believe what my eyes just saw, scrambling to find a perfectly good reason for an empty case to sit on top of the load inside the dryer.

We do that kind of stuff, when the truth is too painful to accept, our mind kicks in and starts making up all kinds of fantastic stories to shield us from the brutality of unadorned facts. 

Disciples did it all throughout the Holy Week, we all do it when one form of crucifixion or another shows up at our doorstep. It just happened to many of us today as we watched the news of the catastrophic fire collapsing parts of Notre Dame cathedral.

Some things are too difficult to take in and have to be processed in bite-size pieces.

Sorry but Just Too Busy for...

I got iPod touch 4th generation back in 2012 at the recommendation of our 11 year old son. It was my official introduction into the ubiquitous universe of touch-screen, wireless technology.  Day by day, I was discovering more and more of what my little iPod could do, from taking photos to playing music to reading books, to telling time and setting bread and quiche alarms, downloading and sending both e-mails and text messages! Truly, there was absolutely nothing I needed that the little iPod couldn’t do - I was genuinely impressed and grateful.

Now I understand that in the fast-pace technology age, seven years might feel like seven hundred centuries. Or more. Still, despite it’s ancient age, the little iPod kept chugging away year in year out, my constant companion on many of life’s adventures.

Last week I had a particularly busy schedule. This for me means, the busier I get the faster I go, furiously cramming all the ‘regular’ busy along with the ‘over-the-top’ busy.  I could give a compelling speech or write a well-articulated thesis or even a book on why this is such a poor time-management technique and even worse life philosophy.  

But life has a way of speaking its own language, clearer and louder than any sermon or book.

Anyway, in order to be extra-productive before I left for work, I decided to tackle at least one load from the growing mountain of laundry. I hastily threw one item after another, checking pockets for spare change and anything else that shouldn’t go into the wash.  Half way through the process I decided that I don’t have time for this, plus I used my deductive reasoning – all the pockets I’d checked so far were empty so I could safely deduce that the rest of them were empty as well. Thus appeased, I stuffed the rest of the pile into the barrel, poured in a generous cup of Persil and started the washing machine, the calming sh-sh-sh-shhhh of the running water sending me off on to the next thing on my checklist. 

H-ang O-n P-ain E-nds

I guess it was appropriate to start Lent in such a way. The worstest of days, that rolls into an entire week.

Some weeks - not just some days - are like that. They go from bad to worse to the worstsest.

It turns out, we were not the only ones.

Far and near, friends and family, the week unfurled its folds filled with unwanted surprises, one after another.

Somehow, we all made it to Sunday which to the casual eye looked like just an ordinary, humdrum Sunday.

But to us, nothing could be further from the truth. We were like survivors of a shipwreck, each clinging to something - anything! - until we were washed ashore,  nerves shredded, souls banged up, barely holding it together.

As we stood in circle, recounting our hair-raising 'week from hell' experiences, a strange thought crossed my mind,

This feels a little bit like heaven.... Despite all odds we made it! Now we are finally together and telling and hearing each other's stories of life and death, unembellished, unedited...

In that telling, a thread appeared, seemingly out of nowhere.  A shy, unpretentious gift of gratitude.
Not manufactured, obligatory, polite grateful. Definitely not faking-it grateful. But genuine, put-my-hand-on-my-mouth-in-awe-how-lucky-I-really-am grateful.

It's as if each of us, over the course of the worstest of weeks, lost something precious and gained a new set of eyes to see that despite the loss, there was still so very much we have that we don't deserve. That we take for granted day in day out.

And we almost became grateful for the worstest of all weeks...

Welcome to Lent 2019

Today is Ash Wednesday, the official beginning of Lent.  

I had horrible night’s sleep last night, largely because of a colossal screw-up that caused our son to miss out on an amazing, once-in-a-lifetime kind of opportunity that had the potential of shaping his future in significant ways.

As much as we may be tempted to point fingers and blame someone, it was nobody’s fault. Or perhaps, we all played a small part in it, inadvertently creating a tiny easily overlooked crack here and another there. All of them combined caused this chance to slip into nether. By the time we realized, it was too late. There was nothing anyone could do about it.

The screw-up ended up having a ripple effect on several fronts. Rattled by the disappointment of this loss, our son left a clear plastic bag with sixteen giant lollipops and sixty dollars inside an envelope with his name written on the front – his school orchestra fundraiser – in the 7^th period.   When he tried to retrieve it, it was gone. My kids laughed at me when I pointed out that the rightful owner was easily identifiable.

MOM, do you realize what kind of school we go to??? Do you realize what kind of WORLD we live in???

All this left me utterly drained and beyond exhausted, but presumably, not exhausted enough to get good rest.  I was already awake for hours at six o'clock when there was a loud knock on our bedroom door. Our daughter was asking for advice on how to best treat cat throw-up on her favorite blanket and the armchair slipcover. Some was on the carpet, but my husband was taking care of that bit. Carpet disasters are his specialty.

I rolled out of bed and went to the laundry room.

Her vomit looks like poop! This is going to be the last bag of this kind of cat food, I don't care how many coupons we have, I mumbled looking for Spray and Wash. 

In the back of my mind I was thinking, What a way to start Lent, the first thing to face - dribbling cat diarrhea-looking vomit!  

The little Optimist inside me was hoping that with such a start, things can only get better. At the time, she didn’t know that this, by far, would be the best part of my day.

Heirloom Tomato

Back in September of 2015, in anticipation of my parents arrival to Florida to spend winter with us, I planted some tomato seeds. It was in hope against hope, given my steady track record of failure. A preemptive strike against boredom they threatened would most certainly kill them inside our home in American suburbia.

The seeds sprouted – I’ve seen that before, and by the time Mom and Dad arrived they were the size of respectable seedlings.  That’s as far as my success ever reached. Respectable seedlings.  Only a whiff of a promise of home-grown tomato, nothing more.  

With little else to do, my parents threw themselves into caring for the garden.  Raking, watering, pruning, and tending to the seedlings.  Under their supervision they grew and grew, their limbs stretching tall until they had to be staked, and eventually the first blooms appeared followed by the tiny round balls.  

With my own eyes, I got to see the tomato in the making, and it was … marvelously addictive.

We ate the tomatoes off those vines all through June the following year. Before they left, my Mom made sure to set aside some seeds for the next year’s planting.

Those children were eaten in 2017, and their children in 2018.

I admit at times I was tempted to abandon the whole idea, but it must be in my blood now because sooner or later, despite all objections I can’t help but…It's my version of The Call of the Wild. 

Usually, we would have a few plants, a dozen at the most, which is plenty to ‘service’ our tomato-devouring family.

Last year, the day after Christmas, against all rational reason, I opened the bag of what I guess we can  now 'officially' call 'heirloom' tomato seeds and did it again. As I said, normally we only had few tomato plants which was just about all I could handle. This weekend I counted fifty-six tomato seedlings that have sprouted from a single tomato! Fifty-six!!!  I wonder if we should be a Guinness Book of World records?

We went to the landfill to get compost and I scrounged for pots in the garden corners and the back of the garage.  I washed all that I found and filled them with warm, wet dirt, poking a hole for each seedling, then gently slipping it in.  

Now there is an army of pots on my back patio! 

I can’t help but feel a bit possessive, like a mother with a brood of babies she doesn’t want to entrust to some neglectful stranger. I don’t want them to go to someone who will take them only because they were free (or cheap) and then throw them into a corner of the yard and forget about them until they are all dead.

I want my babies to go to someone who will nurture them, give them what they need and protect them from adversaries of all kinds. Someone who would tend to them until they are filled with blooms and produce a bumper-crop of tomatoes for all to enjoy. 

Creative Valentine

Yesterday while I was making chocolate truffles as Valentine’s gifts for our kids’ teachers, our 15 year old daughter mentioned somewhat casually: 

I know the names of all the bones in our body.

You do?!!! What are they?  I ask, rolling the dough into a cylinder before I cut it into equal size wheels, to be turned into balls.

Starting from the top she points at her head and begins reciting, 

Cranium, mandible, maxilla, parietal bone, temporal bone…  She keeps going, moving down her body, pointing and naming, naming and pointing.

I am genuinely impressed.  I certainly can’t name all the bones in my body, and if asked, I might miss even some major ones.

When she finally gets to her toes, I tell her that.  She smiles and adds,

I know the muscles too.

No way!!! My eyeballs just about pop out of their sockets. With renewed vigor I roll the truffles - teachers deserve every ounce of love and encouragement no matter shape or form.

Oh yes!, she beams and proceeds to name the muscles. When I blurt out, Gluteus maximus, she corrects me,  

You are going out of order, mom – you have Gluteus medius first.

I laugh and let her finish, now almost worried-impressed.

While I roll the balls – uneven and a bit lumpy – I marvel at God’s outrageous creativity that started with a pinch of dust between his fingers and was fashioned into bones and muscles, organs and their varied functions, vascular and nervous systems, all masterfully connected and put together into a being that can see and hear, eat and taste, breathe and smell, think and understand. 

Feel. Hot, cold, scared, excited, in love, sad, satisfied. 

Able to speak, translate, write poetry, create songs, dance, build buildings, bridges and underwater tunnels.

Able to laugh. Cry.

Transform food into an art form, binary code into Internet, wind, water and electrons into electricity. 

We are made in God's image and our creativity is an expression of his own creative nature. 

Limited and imperfect,

uneven and lumpy,

just a tiny fraction

 broken, mangled and sometimes misguided

but still

rather amazing

reflection of his character and being.

Using our creativity - in its many, varied, uniquely personal forms is one of the best gifts we can give back to him.

In what way can you express your creativity today?

Resolution Revolution

Being a firm believer in 'walking the talk' has gotten me into trouble on more than one occasion. This is fine with me. I found very little in this world that nourishes humility so well as steady diet of eating your own words. 

My New Year's resolution at the beginning of January wasn't an exception in this regard. It's been exactly one month since many of us have decided to take a plunge at giving ourselves, the world, God and the universe one more chance to make it a little better place.

One month later, some people have made it a better place even without making any resolutions at all while others have made it worse without even trying. I guess each of us has our own special gift.

Which brings me back to my resolution. 

As long as I can remember, I was told that I have a gift of words. I humbly agreed and proceeded to use this gift, for better or for worse, and became 'the Writer' in the family. Safely pigeonholed inside my 'domain' I marveled, oooo-ohed and aaaaa-ahed at all the other gifts distributed to other people. I would lie if I said I was never jealous, but mostly I've been amazed at the incredible diversity and power of various creative expressions.

If there was one gift in particular, however, that I really really wanted was being able to draw and paint. Especially watercolor. 

Alas, that wasn't my gift. I can draw a stick figure and that’s about it. I wasn't the Artist. I was just a writer. And not particularly good writer. I never even published a book!

All these years this was my mindset. Some of you may say that I've been held captive, imprisoned by my very own limiting beliefs.  That I have been living in a tiny dark musty cell of a self-made jail, without a warden except for the one residing inside my head.

The New Year's Challenge

We were at a New Year’s Eve party when a friend asked me if I would be willing to teach her how to paint.  

There was no alcohol involved and even if there was, she's not the drinking type.

Of course NOT! Why would you even think such a thing?!!?!, was my gut reaction.  

My gut is generally a pretty good guide, as long as I eat healthy, exercise regularly, have a good night’s sleep and not get into a fight with my husband or children.

Under those conditions, my gut shoots near-perfect almost every time while maintaining exceptionally good connection with my head.

What my head knew in this instance was that I’d just picked up a brush and a pan of watercolor paint for the first time in my life in the last quarter of 2018.  My head also understands that having a total of three months of painting experience may earn me a title of apprentice but certainly NOT a teacher.

I am not particularly talented. I am a slow learner.  And teaching is definitely not my spiritual gift. 

Still, despite my gut, despite my head, I kept my mouth shut.  I think I was stunned.

Some people interpret silence as agreement.

I've been scratching my head ever since, wondering why amidst all the painting pros, You-Tube tutorials and resources she asked me to help. I could easily come up with a slew of serious, substantial reasons why I am uniquely unqualified for the job. 

But, the more I reflected on our evening together, this golden thread of somewhat outlandish logic started coming together and I begun to  seriously consider accepting her New Year's challen... I mean, invitation. 

The Crack that Saved Christmas

I don’t know what exactly happened nor when or how...

Nobody assumed responsibility for the crime.

Perhaps somebody sneezed.

Or coughed.

Or took a deep breath and exhaled too hard.

Or gave them a mean look?

Maybe there was no crime committed at all...

Maybe it wasn’t anything that happened from the outside that caused it.

Perhaps it was from the inside - the internal weight of the burden held by the delicate vessel over time… until it became too much...

Without a bump, a look, a cough, a sneeze or even a breath, the rocks cradled inside the glass vase became too heavy to hold in, and all of a sudden, all by itself, the vase... cracked! 

Just 

like

that.

From the inside -

- OUT!

I know that most people do not walk around like see-through glass vases, revealing the burdens they carry inside their fragile frame. But the burden is there. And it is heavy.  

Ironically, Christmas season, despite all the good intentions of good people to bring 'good news of great joy', often makes the burdens even harder to bear.  The crushing weight of loneliness, illness, broken relationships, grief and loss is only intensified by the pressure to act happy regardless of how one genuinely feels on the inside.  

No wonder the cracks are appearing all over the carefully decorated facades. 

Tempers flare. Arguments erupt. Depression deepens.

Which makes me wonder if these cracks could be the best gift of the season, after all...

An invitation to forgo the rush…

Let go of the pressure...

Simply skip the pretense…

A call to pass over the unreasonable expectations and demands on time, wallet, physical, mental and emotional energy…

...and take a breath… 

...and another deep breath…

Until we can hear our own soul breathing again.

And who knows? 

The good Lord might surprise us and reveal that 

the Christ Child 

is already cradled there, 

just waiting... 

waiting for us to come... 

Come to Me, all who are weary and heavy-laden, and I will give you rest. Take My yoke upon you and learn from Me, for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. Matthew 11:28-29

The Best Doctor in Town

I have something to tell you, Joe starts while shaking my hand vigorously, as if thanking me for a great favor I didn’t do for him. It’s a saying I heard on my last deployment… 

I am already getting used to his 'emphasis pauses'. I think it's his version of Jesus', Truly, truly. I play right along.

Yeeeesssss???? I am all ears. 

The doctor who has no patients is the best doctor in town.

He lets go of my hand, still looking straight at me.

I chuckle at the irony of the saying. It doesn’t seem to be in the best interest of the doctor to lose all his patients. And yet… it certainly doesn’t seem to be in the best interest of the patient to perpetually need to go to the doctor, as is the habit of some.

The point of his saying is slowly dawning on me, although there might be an entire lifetime to live it both in and out.

It's a wise saying, nonetheless, one I needed to hear as much as I did his No Parent! No Librarian! 

The Lord bless you Joe.  We can only give what what we have received. I feel like I have received much from this shaggy toothless prophet.

And you too, he beams, the carnage and the gold inside his mouth somehow transformed with the broad smile that lit up his face.

Dueling Theologians

 

It could have been Wimbledon finals – the verbal ball whacked from one end of the court to the other.

Joe’s question.

Cris’ answer. Or at least attempt to answer, followed by Joe’s:

Parent! Or,

Librarian! Then,

Librarian!, again, then back to:

Parent!

Between Sam’s and my scrape-thump-scape-ing, and Joe’s ra-ta-ta’s to Cris’ apologetics, we sounded almost like a Broadway musical. Before I knew it my trunk was filled up with Publix plastic bags, now bulging with dark soil ready to receive some good seeds.  I rinsed out my hands and drank water, then walked back to the dueling theologians to bid my good bye.  

I noticed that Sam had stopped shoveling even though the bed of their truck was only half-full. He reappeared from around the pile, his arm stretched out towards me, holding an ice-cold bottle of water.

Sometimes it’s the smallest simplest actions of thoughtful kindness that bring us to our knees.

It was pleasure meeting you gentlemen, I choke a bit, and Cris, in his burly, warmhearted way, walks up to me and gives me a bear hug, which he punctuates, just in case there is any doubt of impropriety, with an energetic, 

The Lord BLESS you!!!

I receive the blessing and give one back in kind.

Joe watches our exchange of blessing with curiosity. He knows I’ve been a silent witness to their entire duel.  That fact may come as a bit of a shock to him since we Christians are better known for our ability to talk than our ability to listen.  I extend my hand to him and he takes it. I must be one enigma after another.

But, before I leave he feels compelled to add one more thing to our compost pile group date. 

A Parent, A Librarian or...?

I have a question for you, Cris, says Joe.

Finally a hope for a dialogue, I think, Joe’s interruption a welcome break from Cris’ lengthy monologue.

Cris too seems happy to be interrupted. He is shooting in all directions, covering all the bases but it is unclear if anything is hitting the target.  He doesn’t seem to mind the unfinished sentence - perhaps it wasn’t going anywhere anyway.

I am all ears…

Joe lingers. A lot longer than necessary. He looks around and lands his gaze on Cris before he continues,

I have a question for you, BUT…!  He emphasizes the ‘but’ as an absolute point of no negotiation. But I don’t want you to answer me as a parent. Or as a librarian…

He may be looking at Cris but this ruffles MY feathers.

I sense my Defender rising up ready to roar inside my chest.

I am a parent. Parents may not be perfect, but without them, there would be no human race.

I also often say that when I grow up, I want to become a librarian. It could very well be one of the most enviable, noble callings entrusted to mankind.  

I take Joe’s statement as a personal affront.  

What could possibly be wrong with being a parent or librarian?!!! 

The Great Shaking

The empty Publix bag in front of me, I notice, is shaking violently. 

Then I see my hands holding the bag, they are violently shaking too.  

Some tectonic plates deep inside are shifting and causing all this trembling. Not liking a feeling of unnerved I reach for the small shovel resting idle at the foot of the pile and start vigorously scooping the dirt and emptying into the bag.

The shaking subsides.

Joe’s gruesome self-disclosure seems to have little effect on Cris. To his credit, he didn’t have much opportunity to respond since Joe continued on with his story, tone unchanged, like he was telling the most hum-drum tale ever told.

Moreover, he said, the Lord likes me so much that he gave me all this money, so much money I don’t know what to do with it. It’s waaay more than I could ever need. He gave me this money and now I don’t know what to do with it. I want to give it away to some worthy cause… maybe he wants me to give it back to him…?

Joe stares at Cris, eyebrows raised, as if expecting an answer from him. An insider certainly has a better grasp on the mysteries of the mind of God and consequently is better suited to guide us through the strange landscape of his unfathomable will. 

Cris takes the bait.

Giving the money to his church would be excellent investment for Joe, since they are involved in so many worthy charitable causes.

2+2=4

The more Cris talks, the more excited he seems to realize the unfolding of the providence’s generous dealings in arranging our little compost pile meetup. 

It all makes perfect sense to him. Joe’s unfortunate fate to catch the bullet with his mouth, his pastor’s sermons, the large amount of money, and men’s purpose in this world – they all fit neatly and perfectly inside Cris’ box. 

He is so focused while explaining all this to Joe, I don’t think his ears even register the harmonizing of his friend’s and my shovel scrape-scrape-thump-thump background music.

Few minutes into the soliloquy, Joe interrupts.

Cris Meets Joe

Cris and Joe exchange a vigorous hand-shake, and just as Joe is about to join his shoveling friend, Cris interjects:

I and my friend here, he points at my crouching figure still holding an empty Publix bag in my hands, waiting for the delivery of the next shovelful of dirt…  we were just talking about the Lord. Do you know the Lord Joe?

Cris is not beating around the bush, and Joe doesn't strike me as 'beating around the bush' kind of guy either. I am half-amused half-intrigued to see how this is going to unfold. I don’t have to wait long.

Lord? Aaaaah Lord! Joe replies, O Lord and I are like THIS – he lifts his hand with the pointing and middle fingers pressed together in inseparable unity. We are like… best buddies.

Cris’ face beams with pure joy. Here we are, gathered together around the compost pile of all places, four complete strangers, worshiping the Lord. Joe’s shoveling friend is included in this community by proxy. Cris hasn’t determined the nature of his relationship with the Lord yet.

Even though it’s quite warm, a shiver goes down my spine. Something about the gesture and Joe’s inflection when he says ‘best buddies’ makes me cringe.

Really?!!?! That’s wonderful!, says my friendly giant, not a trace of guile. I met Jesus five months ago. I love my church! You can come to visit any…

Joe continues as if Cris said none of this.

The Lord loves me so much, I am like his favorite. He gave me gold… gold teeth, see... Joe stretches out a corner of his mouth to reveal quite a sight of dental carnage. He sent a bullet through my mouth on my last tour and saved my life so I can get gold instead of my old yellow teeth.

My heart sinks into my dirt filled shoes.

Meet Joe

I am not in a chatty mood and I feel like I’ve already met my daily kindness quota by allowing him to fill my bags his way - quickly and efficiently.  Still, no point in being rude, so I respond with all the eloquence I have left in me:

Hi Cris.

He must have gotten the message of my downward inflection, because next few shovelfuls happen in silence.

But, as I said, he is a friendly, sincere giant and he can’t help himself:

What a wonderful day the good Lord has given us!

The whole hell may be breaking loose at a different place at this time, and the same might have been true of us in some moment in the past or coming our way in the future. But right here right now I can't argue with Cris. 

The sky above us is a glorious shade of cerulean blue.

Both of us drove to the landfill in our respective vehicles with enough gas to get us here and back.  Enough food in our stomach to have enough strength in our bodies to carry not only our own weight but a loaded shovel as well. 

What more can one expect from life?!!??  

The Lord indeed is good. 

I grunt an affirmative, Uh-huh, reaching for another bag from the trunk.

He sees this as an opportunity and jumps in with both feet.

Do you know the Lord?

It’s a simple, yes or no question, but like a witness in a senate hearing, I find myself fumbling for a simple answer. Saying ‘yes’ sounds rather presumptuous and kind of arrogant. I can't even say that I know myself! 

But I can’t say ‘no’ either.  

While I am still pondering the best way to summarize my 30+ tumultuous years with Jesus, Cris proceeds with his own answer to his question:

I met Jesus five months ago! I am going to the best church in town! Come to visit us on any Sunday! Our pastor is …

His 600wpm soliloquy is blissfully interrupted by another truck that backs up into our pile. Two men in work-worn jeans jump out, each of them with a shovel in hand.

My friendly giant stops both the soliloquy and shoveling, to greet the newcomers.

Hi there! I am Cris.

Hi Cris. I am Joe. And this is my friend…

But his friend is already furiously at work, shoveling dirt into the bed of their pick-up truck.

Meet Cris

A truck rumbles in, backs up into the compost pile. The driver jumps out, slams the door behind him, shovel in hand:

I’ll help you fill up your car, a mound of dirt stacked high in his shovel all ready for delivery.

I look up at the burly giant with a huge smile wrapped around his entire head. It’s the kind of face that knows no strangers – friendly, boyishly sincere and utterly disarming. But I have my own weapons too.

I’m good. Thanks.

It will only take a minute…

This is not a suggestion. And it’s not asking permission.  It’s a statement of irrefutable fact with the loaded shovel to prove it.

No. Really, I am good. I have time. I have a system going… I point at my earbuds and the playlist on my phone.

He tilts his head to one side examining the strange animal with iPhone, a small shovel and time on her hand. The fact that he is probably three times my size doesn’t help my case either.

It’s an unusual standoff.  Two people intent on doing good, no matter what.   

Two people, same goal but vastly different ways of securing how it is accomplished.

It's remarkably obvious that the friendly giant needs to help. All that friendly giant sees is my empty trunk and my tiny shovel. He is a smart giant who puts two and two together. Help needed! His shovel is ready, whether I am ready for it or not. He wants to help, whether his help is helpful to me or not.

What the friendly giant doesn’t understand is that my coming to the compost pile is not only to fill up my trunk with good dirt. It’s a sacred space of reflection and a reliable escape route from my stretched out, stressed out world. I need this reminder of the basics of life. Dirt. Seed. Love. Time. Growth. Repeat. 

I seem to be able to digest these basics only in bite-size chunks. Not a dump truck load, but one small shovelful at a time. 

I look at him again and something tells me that in this very moment, the giant’s need to help is far greater than my need for solitude and whatever escape the mount of dirt provides. So, I stretch out my hands holding the bag and he happily loads it up.

Hi. I am Cris. 

Method and Madness

Everybody who comes here means business. We come with what we have - trucks, cars and trailers, armed with shovels, gloves, containers and the determination to get the job done quickly, efficiently and leave.  

Except for the scraping of our shovels it’s usually quiet. The sound of silence a therapeutic backdrop for the rhythmic scrape-thump-scrape of the tools.  When I pause to catch my breath and look around, I realize my neighbors are a miniature cross-section of the United Nations. Maybe that’s why we don’t talk – we may not speak the same language! And yet, there is a sense of comradery here, you can almost scoop it in the palms of your hands and feel its weight and texture.  

I wonder what it is about this uncomely spot that melts the barriers and unites us.

Part of me thinks we all are a little (or perhaps a LOT) crazy. Who in their right mind leaves the comfort of their air conditioned home and braves Florida summer heat and humidity to get… dirt???

Of course, as Shakespeare warned us, where there is madness, there could be very well be a method hiding behind. 

I look at my sweaty, filthy dirt-mates with fresh eyes and I see not the raggedy crazies but visionaries of the worlds that for right now exist only inside their heads. But give it a month or two, those visions will sprout and grow, change and transform, from dirt and seed, into a stalk of tomato, a cucumber vine, a daisy and a marigold.

It was on one such day that I met first Cris and soon after Joe and his friend Sam.