Mine…All Mine

This is my journey. It is mine…you have yours…sometimes they overlap but they are never the same. I’ve been on my journey a long time and I have read a great deal of spiritual literature. Over the years, I have determined that inadvertenly, I do not always say the right thing. Unfortunately, I do not always do the right thing. But I sincerely hope that I have the right intentions. I can’t change you, I can’t make you learn anything; I can hold you in the light and I can recognize teachable moments…that is about it. As I have come down this path, I have discovered that I pray only two prayers – one is a prayer of gratitude. I am thankful for experiences, no matter how painful and memorable, that have brought me here. The other prayer is acceptance…I am accepting the wonderful blessings being bestowed on me every day. Sometimes the blessing is a small one – lunch with a loved one – and sometimes it is a bigger one – a check found in unclaimed property- all wonderful blessings in my life. Elizabeth Edwards of NC lost her 16 year old son in a freak accident. Someone said to her that people say awful things in condolence. She replied, “When that happens, I always tell myself that they meant to say the right thing.” I try to think of that wise woman and the Five Simple Rules for Happiness: Free your heart from hatred. Free your mind from worries. Live simply. Give more. Expect less. The rules of the road on the journey of life.

Absolution

Today is our 16th wedding anniversary and tomorrow, the 19th anniversary of our first meeting. Red roses awaited me this morning when I woke up and after gushing over them, I asked my spouse, “Out of all the girls milling around you 19 years ago, what made you pick me?” He replied, “You were the nicest person I’d ever met.” Wow, talk about setting the bar high. Anyway, so it got me to thinking about my behavior and I just want to say this. If I have offended or disrespected you, if I have hovered and smothered you (you kids know I’m talking to you), if I have interrupted you or tried to control you or boss you around (oh, yes, I know I have!) or in ANY way at all hurt your feelings, please allow me to apologize. I am sincerely and genuinely sorry for the times I was not nice to you. I hope you can forgive me and absolve me of those times. I want to be as nice as my husband believes I am and I promise I will continue to strive for that high standard.

Himself a Story

On Wednesday night, I attended my first in a series of four classes on short story writing. The location was downtown Denver, the Captiol Hill area. Through the goodness of MapQuest, I found the corner, parked the car and began to wander up and down the short block. It seemed to be one business after another…a shop, a photographer, a salon…and then I decided to check the address number…..1116, 1112…where was 1114? Ah, here it is….a dark blue door, paint chipped and cracked, a door knob grimy with the years and a hand lettered sign “Writing Class, Please Ring Bell.” I pushed the bell and waited. In a minute, the door was opened by a white haired gentleman, holding a barking schaunzer, who said, “Come in, come in!” In front of me was a wide staircase, obviously built in a time when labor was cheap and so was lumber, meant to convey a sense of grandeur. Now the carpet was ratty and spotty and the handrail was shaky. We made our way up the stairs and there on the landing were numerous plants, a bicycle and a refrigerator. He opened the door, one of four, next to the antique appliance and we stepped back in time. Except for the obvious fact that the carpet had been peed on numerous times by the dog, the apartment hadn’t been touched in decades. On the right, in the kitchen, original tile hung on the walls, a gas stove in the popular rust color of the 1960s sat against a wall and a table and two mismatched chairs followed the inward slant of the floor. Off the kitchen was a balcony, littered with bits and pieces of broken equipment with a view of an alley. He ushered us – there were two of us – into a small room where he had set up a rectangular table and two chairs. Despite the odor and the appearance that the seat would not hold my weight, I sat down. He sat on a stool, facing us and began to talk about the short story. His notes were written on a notepad provided by a pharmaceutical company and he soon told us that he had been in the hospital. Throughout the course of the two hours, he shared that he has been in a war (Vietnam?) and had been a newspaper man, had lived in Greece a couple of years and was “a wild man painter in my younger years.” At the end of the class, the other student and I navigated the foyer and descended the rickety stairs, turned the aged door knob and were almost startled to find that Capitol Hill still existed in 2009! Now I need to get to work on my short story….and I’m thinking our instructor could easily be the main character!