What’s the thing you’re most scared to do? For me, it’s traveling down major highways or mountain highways on a motorbike. I am a logical person, and logically speaking, a motorbike is a tiny vehicle in comparison to a normal vehicle. Passenger vehicles have fancy features, like seatbelts and airbags and shatter-proof glass and metal surrounding their passengers. On a bike, there is zero protection. One can easily cross over into the great unknown due to weather, wildlife, or drivers on cocaine. Yup, I’m terrified right now imagining all the ways to meet death or disfigurement coming off a street bike.
I think about all the wildlife hazards for those on a motorbike. Animals are wild. Traffic laws do not apply to creatures of the forest. Wild creatures have the ability to cross the road at any moment, making it akin to a game of risk and uncertainty. You might make the trip without an incident, but you might not. Is there a moose, or an elk, or a deer in your path? Heck, it might even be a porcupine. Smaller animals are formidable obstacles if you hit one with a two-wheeled freedom seeker.
Next, I consider the very real danger of bad weather. Wet or icy roads pose significant risks for bikers. I imagine myself clinging to my husband like a monkey to a junkie’s back; we are miles from anywhere. Suddenly, marble-sized hail begins to rain, creating a slippery surface. We go into an uncontrollable skid toward the guardrail protecting us from a 600-foot drop. Then lightning flashes and thunder roars, and ocean-sized fish fall from the sky (honestly, there have been cases of fish raining down from the sky). A five-pound carp slams me in the head, and I topple sideways as we crash through the guardrail down into the scenic view of the Grand Canyon. The following day, we are the Sunday morning splat in the Las Vegas Review. This scenario does not align with my personal definition of adventure.
Thirdly, highways are busy roadways with an overabundance of giant semi trucks that generate intense air movement. Wind is the biker’s enemy. Now, combine a windstorm with a coked-up newbie semi-driver. Yikes, what a horror show that might be. We get sucked into the draft of the big truck, and splat, we are a smear on the side of the road.
So, in case you’re wondering, it is my hubby’s dream to tour on a motorbike, and since I kind of like him, I will consider going touring. And in case you are wondering, no, I would not feel any braver if I piloted my own bike. I’m kind of clumsy and accident-prone. I tend to drive where I look—and I like looking at trees. I love my car. Cars are way more forgiving; if you need to correct your steering abruptly, you can. Bikes? Not so much.
Once upon a time, as a teenager, I had a dirt bike, and then I made scars on my body. Funnily enough, my husband had a proper highway-legal bike when he was a teenager. He loved it, but then he had an accident. To be fair, my husband is much older now, and he is a competent driver—although he does enjoy speed and passing people on the highway. Still, I am comfortable while he drives. Airbags are a wonderful invention.
In conclusion, what would it take for me to be a passenger on my husband’s dream bike? Final answer: psilocybin mushrooms, the Devil’s lettuce, and/or my gramps old companion, Valium.
Daily writing prompt
What’s the thing you’re most scared to do? What would it take to get you to do it?
Someone must be spying on me to come up with the timely writing prompt, ‘Where can you reduce clutter in your life?’ Every time I open a closet, or cupboard, or drawer, I feel ashamed at the mishmash of stuff. Soooo much stuff. I admire organized people. At times I strive to be one and organize a few drawers and cupboards myself, but after a time, oddball stuff gets tossed back into these tidy places. Mostly because guests are coming, and I must have spotless counters and floors. The struggle with clutter is real. The items I struggle to evict overwhelm me with logical and emotional reasoning: “What if you need this in two days?” or “You can’t get rid of this; your daughter made it for you in grade one; it would be like getting rid of a piece of her.” or “You need to keep this; it was your mom’s moms and her moms before that.”
I recently heard decluttering is a form of releasing. My spirit animal is an octopus.
Please don’t worry for me, though: I’m not extreme enough to play the main character in the show Hoarders. My rooms do not have rabbit trails through mountains of teetering stuff or decomposing animals in my cupboards or the boxes. I’m a clean hoarder. I simply tuck oddments away into every hidden hole I find, where no one will see my clutter unless they snoop.
Okay, maybe it doesn’t matter if I am a rabbit trail hoarder or a drawer and closet hoarder. It is still clutter. So much of my clutter is sentimental. I have boxes and boxes of photo albums, and loose pictures, and teacups, and ornaments, and doilies, and so many of my dead family’s things. Some days I feel like the only thing I didn’t keep is their skeletons. I carry the weight of this clutter in my mind and body. It’s paralysing.
What to do? What to do?
Quite conveniently, we are moving in May. I have no choice but to clear my space. Would any of you happy hoarders like some more stuff? Boy oh boy, do I have a deal for you.
In this brand new year, I am asked, what could I do differently? Well, almost everything if I was so inclined. I could walk on my hands instead of my feet, or I could put my clothes on backward, or I could travel around with the circus and be a bearded woman. But I suppose the true intention behind asking that question is for people to go deep into the muddy pit of self-discovery.
For me, the pit of self-discovery is nothing new. In the past, I spent a great deal of time churning up my dirty laundry to remove my regrets, in hopes of becoming something pristine and squeaky clean. It was countless years of spinning round and round. Until, finally, I realized my stains were set. Resigned, I picked out all my inappropriate belly button lint, threw it away, and set myself out in the sunlight to dry. In the naked light of day, the blotches and splatters, and the threadbare fabric, and fraying edges were on full display. Yet, instead of feeling ashamed of the wearing of the years I felt a sense of peaceful knowing. Regrets are as pointless as planting a tree underwater; nothing thrives in the environment of regret.
So, what could I do differently? I discard the word, could. Instead, I simply do. I do kindness. I do love. I do learn from my mistakes. I honor my blotches and splatters, threadbare fabric, and tears, and I do better.
Let’s just call performing and public speaking exactly what it is: being seen. As a child I did not enjoy being seen. I avoided it at all costs. Sadly, once I reached a certain age, my invisibility cloak didn’t fully cover me anymore—and let me tell you, when people noticed legs running without a body attached, there was an uproar. I clearly failed that day. My desire to melt into the background continued in elementary school. Much to my appreciation, when it came to our yearly Christmas concert, all of our Christmas songs were performed as a group where I could sing as loud as I wanted and not be noticed. Even better, all my acting roles were silent, such as portraying a sleeping sheep, a cow chewing cud, or a nanny changing baby Jesus’s diaper beside the manger. All was perfect in my not being seen world, and then I grew up.
My mom passed away when I was in my mid-thirties. We were close. She was my mom. She baked me cookies and took care of my angelic little rug rats, giving me some time to shave my Sasquatch-style lower legs. After her sudden death, I felt compelled to challenge myself, break free from the wallflower life I had always led, and truly embrace life. I shaved my head to raise money for a boy with cancer, I took up tae kwon do, and I enrolled in singing lessons because the act of singing brought me closer to my mom. Lucky for the brave new me, singing lessons also meant participating in recitals, which included both group acts and solo performances. My singing instructor had talent coming out of her ying-yang (don’t judge me; I don’t know exactly what ying-yang means, but I heard my mom say it a couple of times, and it sounded edgy). Long, story short, I sang loudly in the group performances, and I did not die during my solo song. I didn’t even hyperventilate. However, I may have brought along a baby Jesus and a diaper bag and changed him while I sang. Amen
Daily writing prompt
Have you ever performed on stage or given a speech?
Pursing the craft of writing requires determination and a certain understanding that failure is a step to success. So, when I think of all the writers who struggle, I laugh. It is not a cackle of cold-hearted humour but a laugh of harmonious hysterics. And we must laugh, because it’s far less painful than banging one’s head against a wall. A day without laughter is a day with bandages on our heads.
And so, I commend all writers on their continued dedication to writing. Storytelling isn’t a craft for cowards; it is for people with golden scissors in the pocket of their pants. A tool to cut well-loved sentences, paragraphs, and chapters. In fact, well-written stories are the result of a bloody and thorough scissor slaughter. My novel, for instance, is beginning to feel like Frankenstein— a cobbled together horror of life.
In the end, dear fellow writers, the only way to finish is to keep on writing. Which oddly doesn’t always mean going forward; often times, in a banging your head against a wall situation, you need to go back to the beginning. Ugh. However, don’t give up. Whether it be forward or back, movement is the key to success.
Be the flowing words; be the vibrational hum; be the silence and the song. Warble on and tell your stories of deep longing in a world of shallow breaths. Go outside and walk upon the earth; take notice of the trees and the sky. Pause to listen to the screams of silent masses, and then come into yourself and gather up your gifts and share. Stories are you; they are me; they are everyone we see. Endless tales of wonder and laughter and banging our heads against the walls.
Melancholy is a common occurrence and perhaps even more common these days. This meandering affliction has flitted in and out of my life in an erratic flow, mostly concealed and locked up tight. And within those months—and even years, I felt utterly exhausted and completely incapable of succeeding at any task. Yet, somehow, I pushed through, numb and only partially engaged. Fat with anxiety. I found myself operating on autopilot, completely unable to plot a course for my future. My lifetime of gaffes and blunders replayed throughout my waking hours on and on like the relentless refrain of an old song stuck in my head.
As I grew older, my list of botches grew longer and longer. And then, when people confided in me with their own troubles, I oddly found myself automatically adding them to my own litany of unravelings or downfalls to solve. At best, this idea seemed absurd, as if I could also resolve their issues? Soon, in any conversation, I found myself begging in a silent voice, “Please don’t ask anything of me with your expectant eyes and anxious energy, for I cannot carry your burden too.” In reality, I’m confident that if they had known my thoughts, they would have assumed I’d lost my ever-loving mind and would have responded, “But I haven’t asked you for a thing.” Deep down, I would know that this is true. However, being raised the middle child in a dysfunctional family, I constantly strived to improve things for everyone else. I felt it was my job. I was forever on guard. As soon as I’d enter a room, I’d read the emotion gathered there; if it proved tense, I’d either try to defuse the bomb before it exploded or run away before it did. Unfortunately, by constantly focusing on others to maintain a smoother path in life for them, I neglected to plan a clear road for myself.
As time went on, what should have been joyful, celebratory events with family and friends turned empty. I acted within the play. Despite the good-humoured grins and laughter that were thrown around like money in a casino, my smiles were consistently hollow, and my laughter was forced—a pittance at the penny slots. My feelings contracted. The space inside my heart reserved for warmth and caring iced over, and in actual fact, the slow pulsing core of my being became more desolate than a prairie field in the depths of winter— icy, rigid, and filled with emptiness.
Those were the darkest of days. Today, the sunlight pours down, creating dancing shadows on the ground. My smile is an expression of my heart, my future unfolds as I choose. This is our one guarantee in life: everything changes. So, if you are feeling that your life is pointless, overwhelming, and beyond repair, believe me when I say it is not. We live in a world of opposites: up/down, rich/poor, cold/hot, happy/sad, and on and on. Nothing is stagnant. All around us, every day, everything transforms, including you.
So, if you find yourself at the bottom of a dark and despairing hole, please remember… The light of spring will come again. The dull, lifeless grass will manifest into an iridescent carpet of emerald green under the warmth of the sun, a kaleidoscope of flowers will bloom, and the gophers in the burrows will foster little ones. A better future is here.
I, for one, believe in you. Perhaps you are wondering, “How can you believe in me?” You don’t even know me, and I reply, “It’s because you are human that I believe in you.I trust in your heart—your love, forgiveness, and kindness. I believe in your creativity, in your tears, and in your future joys. I believe in the contrast in who you are. Even the most evil-minded individual holds the capacity to become giving and loving. We all have the potential to transform and grow.
We falter, we fall, we bleed, we lash out, and we learn. If we can be strong enough to accept our pain without blaming the world or those around us, we grow. Our power lies in the love we give, not in the love we hold in our hearts. Our gifts are the love we offer in a smile, in a letter, in a devil’s food cake. Humans are magical creatures because they possess the ability to overcome. Let us overcome.
It was July 29/21 and I was doing it. I could nearly hear my dead mother gasp with shock, I could almost see my dead father giving me the head-shake of disapproval, and I was convinced I heard my husband cuss me out with worry, as I stepped on the brake to offer a ride to a stranger on the road of life.
A week ago, I wouldn’t have dared grant a lift to a scruffy looking man without having another person with me for added protection. I’m not a total country hick. I’ve seen the news reports and read the horror stories of well-meaning people picking up strangers and having things go dark and dastardly. I’m quite aware of how easily a stranger could overpower me, strangle me or stab me and then kick me down into a steep ditch. I even admit to being aware that the stranger could have driven away with my weeks’ worth of groceries and my daughter’s groceries too, leaving my family hungry. But honestly, at that point, none of those considerations mattered, the only thing that mattered was that I had been given a distinctive sign from above to offer this man a ride.
To be clear, there was no flashing neon lettering hanging over the gaunt man’s head instructing me to give him a lift. It was subtle, much more subtle, and in all fairness, the only reason I had noticed at all was due to my newfound meditation practice. For those in doubt, I wrote meditation, not medication. This practice tends to enhance one’s attention on life’s details in a way that is nearly magical. For myself, meditation gave me cause to open my heart to a scruffy stranger and as a result I was granted the wondrous gift of knowing we are all connected no matter our status in life.
Leaving the farmyard that morning, I had a smile on my face and elevated emotions in my soul and there was no reason for either. It was an overcast day, and I was merely going to town for groceries. As I turned off the gravel road and onto the highway I met another vehicle travelling in the opposite direction. Instantly, my thoughts drifted to the people in the other vehicle and I wondered about their lives. Not knowing a thing about them, I simply smiled at the black, shiny truck now in my rear-view mirror and said, “Good morning! I love you!”
I blushed a bit at my silliness. People would think I had lost it, never mind meditation, they would have thought I was on too much medication. But my current practice of mindfulness had taught me that my feelings are an important guidance system, so instead of judging myself, I considered how I felt: My heart was lifted with joy. Everyone could use a little more love I decided with a nod, and I certainly wasn’t hurting anyone, so continued to say I love you to every vehicle I met along the way.
Before I knew it, birds were soaring alongside my vehicle and daringly darting in and out in front of me, never seeming to be in any danger. It was as though they approved of my sentiments. I looked up. Clouds shifted aside and the suns rays fingered downwards displaying a kaleidoscope of colours shimmering with light. Magnificent. My heart blossomed hot pink. Feeling encouraged by natures response to my proclamations of love, I playfully began to singsong, “I love you,” instead of simply saying it.
Fifteen minutes later, I noticed the stranger up ahead on the side of the road, he wasn’t hitchhiking exactly, he was walking in the same direction as I was driving but in the opposite lane facing the oncoming traffic. I glanced at him as I passed and said, “I love you!” in an upbeat voice. My enthusiasm completely contrary to his demeanour. As I studied him in my rear-view mirror, I took my foot off the gas. My inner voice was suggesting I stop and offer him a ride. At that thought, my fears puffed up inside of me, a black balloon of programmed negativity expanding into every nook and cranny of my being. In an instant I recalled dire news stories, and many loved one’s warnings instructing me to never pick up a stranger. Those thoughts instantly deflated my good feeling vibe.
I stepped on the gas driving away from the stranger and wrestled with the morality of my decision. I gripped my steering wheel much harder than necessary. Maybe I should have stopped for him? After all, he was a person in need, my inner voice wanted me to pick him up. Guilt. A heavy self condemning dislike for myself stuck me with sharp barbs. All the sudden, a bird smacked into the front-end passenger side of my car with a loud thwack, and then 30 seconds later I hit my breaks to avoid killing another dodgy bird. See? I thought, even the birds are telling me I should have stopped for the man.
And then I felt ashamed. “What’s wrong with me?” I fumed, voicing my anger aloud. “Why am I so afraid of everything? We are the same, the stranger and I. We are all just people trying to find our way in this crazy fucking world.” My chest tightened; heavy with regret, with sadness. My decision had been wrong. I acted out of fear instead of love. I snorted at myself. What a hypocrite I am, I thought. Here I was shouting, “I love you,” to everyone, but without action they are empty words.
Coward. I though. My heart nearly winced at the abuse. Tears welled up spilling over, and then my inner guidance spoke to me, “By judging yourself you are in a sense disrespecting the stranger too; condemnation without offering space for forgiveness blocks all healing… we are all connected by the living threads of energy. He is you and you are him.”
Tiny streams of wetness ran down my cheeks and I was urged to place a hand on my heart and whisper, “I love you and I forgive you for being afraid.” And then I did not block the rest of my tears with my usual wall of hard self-judgement. Instead, I offered myself compassion. In that moment, I decided if I saw the stranger again I would stop and offer him a ride.
The grocery pick-up was quick and easy and before I knew it I did see the man again. He was still travelling alongside the road. I wish I could say I felt courageous but I didn’t, I felt the shaking hands of nervousness strumming my tethered line of fear. Sitting up taller and grasping at elusive threads of courage, I roped my emotions and turned into an approach a few hundred feet ahead of the somber trudging figure. Another human being that was down on his luck. Instantly, I wanted to give him something, my grandma’s standard fix for everything was food. So, I turned around and rifled through my grocery bags until I came up with a vibrant red apple. I set the fruit in my cup holder and looked up. He was closer now, shambling towards the car, his face hollowed and drawn, a bulging pack on his back. It looked like everything he owned was in that bag. He was so thin. My throat tightened with emotion, I wanted to help him with more than just an apple. What road in life had brought him to this point?
I snatched up my purse and grabbed my wallet hoping I had stashed some cash for a rainy day. I almost never carried cash. Today, there was a fifty and a ten. My desire to help swiftly wrestled my tight-fisted Scottish genetics into submission and I grabbed the fifty from my wallet sticking it under my leg for easy access. My Scottish bloodline kept the ten.
The man approached my driver’s window at a weary pace, rumpled and shaggy, looking as wary as I felt. I rolled down my window to greet him, and as he stepped closer my planned words were obliterated by my horror. His feet were bare. “Oh my God, you have no shoes!” I said with far more forcefulness than I intended.
He bent his head and studied his feet momentarily, almost sheepishly. Then, he sighed and met my eyes gesturing with a limp hand towards the lumpy knapsack on his back where his shoes dangled like an oversized car mirror decoration. “I got soaked this morning when the rainstorms came through,” he said, his voice rusted from lack of use. “My feet were getting rubbed raw, so I was letting them dry.” Weariness lined the edges of his dull blue eyes and blondish stubble roughened his face; thick straw-coloured hair stuck out from under the edges of a black ball-cap. His frayed tan shorts and faded t-shirt hung on him; a scarecrow left to be weathered and worn.
“Where are you headed?” I said, still feeling slightly nervous despite his harmless appearance. Fear porn news stories still rolling in the back of my mind.
“I’m going to Plamondon,” he said, a touch of hope sounded in his words. “I have a line on a job.” The stranger reached up with one hand, fingertips brushing the peak of his ball cap and then sliding back alongside his hair smoothing it down.
Plamondon was behind me and a little off my trail, but it would only be an extra twenty minutes. “Do you want a ride?” I asked, feeling lighter as I spoke the words. Love and kindness winning.
“Yeah, that would be great.” His cloudy eyes brightening suddenly; a flash of brilliant blue.
As he walked around the back end of my car, I tossed my coat and purse into the back to give him room to sit in the passengers seat.
The back passenger door swung opened, and he held his backpack in his hand looking for a spot to put his possessions. I awkwardly moved a grocery bag out of the way feeling a crushing sense of guilt at the amount of food in the car. “It was my grocery day,” I said, blurting it out, wanting to explain. “I shop once a week online and since I am at the store anyway, I pick up my daughter’s grocery order too.” I laughed, a stuttering laugh and then offered the stranger an excessive grin. “It saves two vehicles going… you know, the extra gas.”
He nodded politely, and set his gear inside and closed the door.
I turned back to the front and then remembered a container of delicate Hey Clay sculptures I had sitting on the floor in front of the passengers seat, they were my granddaughters creations. The door opened just as I lifted the treasures from the floor. The man slid into his seat and clicked his seatbelt into place, appearing completely innocent. The fact he had put his knapsack in the back had made me feel much safer.
I held the container out towards him like a peace-offering. “Would you mind holding these? They are my granddaughters—they were broken by her cousin—adorable sweet boy, but rough— and my husband has fixed them so I was returning them to my granddaughter today.” I was rambling, but he didn’t seem to take any notice.
He just nodded and offered the slightest grin.
I swallowed hard, put the car in gear and turned onto the highway back the way I had come. The stranger studied the carefully crafted blue dragon with interest. “These are pretty good,” he said, his tone honest.
I glanced over and smiled at his appreciation of the amateur art. “The sculpting material is called Hey Clay, it’s much better than the Play-Doh we used to have when we were kids, and it air dries really well too.”
His features suddenly softened and he appeared much younger.
“Well, you probably played withPlay-Doh when you were young,” I said, trying to make a connection with his past.
He nodded enthusiastically, childlike. “Yeah, I used Play-Doh all the time.” His scruffy face flinched then, as though the good memory hurt and he set the dragon back in the box with a light sigh.
Again, I wondered of his story, he seemed so wounded, his obvious pain triggered my desire to help even further. I remembered the apple and motioned to the fruit in the cup holder. “Oh yeah, I was wondering if you wanted an apple, I thought you might want a snack or something after walking this morning?” Ugh, I silently groaned at my words. Talk about minimizing; like he had gone for a pleasing stroll along the edge of the road to listen to the birds, instead of an agonizing walk in wet sneakers that rubbed his heels raw forcing him onto the pavement barefoot.
He reached down and lifted the apple with thin spidery fingers. “Thank you, I am kind of hungry.” He held it tightly in his hand, fist pressed against his stomach.
People have called me an empath, and maybe I am, I have always been sensitive, and this human being beside me leaked a type of suffering that I had rarely been around. The underlying pain and hurt inside of him was soul crushing. In that moment I just wanted him to know that he meant something. He was something. He was a living creation of a holy energy and that something was looking out for him in this world, whether we call it the Creator, or God or Source or Allah or whatever. This man needed to know he was looked after. So, in my authentic and unceremonious way, I said, “I was supposed to pick you up today.” I glanced at him brightly, earnestly… not crazily.
He met my gaze, eyes curious. “Yeah?”
“I mean, I was supposed to pick you up when I first saw you on my way into town, but—” I bit my lip and I frowned at my former actions. “—You know.”
He knew.
“I let my fear stop me the first time,” I explained glancing at him earnestly. He dropped his eyes, clearly uncomfortable but I continued on, “And then by the time I reconsidered you were too far back. So then, I don’t know— the Universe, or God, or the Creator, or whatever you may believe, gave me the idea to stop and see if you needed a ride if I saw you on my way home.”
“Hmph,” he said, an acknowledgment but a dismissal as well.
I laughed. It was a genuine laugh. “I know. It sounds crazy, absolutely bonkers, but it’s true. You don’t have to believe me.” And he didn’t. But I felt at peace.
He scratched his temple. “No. That’s cool, I appreciate the ride.”
“Happy to do it,” I said, “What’s your name?”
“Mitchell.”
My body, my brain, my very soul expanded with light. “Shut up!” I said, my filled with awe, bubbling over, my eyes wide. I’m nearly giggling as I explain, “My maiden name is Mitchell and my sister named her only son Mitchell. Isn’t that crazy?”
He patted his knee, unsure, and then nodded, his head a child’s rocking horse bobbing at an even tempo. “Yeah,” he said, his tone wondering. “Mitchell, isn’t a common name around here.”
I wanted to offer him more. “My nephew Mitchell is really clever.”
He bobbed again. “I used to be smart too,” he said, voice sad, regretful, beaten.
“I’m sure, you are still very smart.”
“I don’t know,” he said.
“You should give yourself more credit.” I said, in the tone of a bossy older sister, “Obviously the Universe believes in you, I wasn’t planning on picking anyone up today.”
He smiled and his eyes contemplated my words.
I slowed the vehicle as we drove into the small community of Plamondon. “Where do you want to be dropped off?”
He sat up taller looking ahead and pointing. “At the co-op gas station. Maybe I can get a coffee,” he said, sounding hopeful, “I could really use one.”
As soon as I rolled to a stop, I pulled the fifty dollar bill out from under my leg and thrust it towards Mitchell. “Here,”
Wide-eyed, he accepted the bill with a shaking hand, and then his brow creased as though he couldn’t quite believe his eyes. “Really?”
“Yeah really,” I nodded eagerly. “The Universe wants good things for you. You deserve good things.”
His voice trembled. “Well, thank you.” Appreciation shone on his face. “You have no idea how much I needed this.” And then he snorted happily. “Now, I really can get that cup of coffee.”
My heart sank. He really didn’t have anything. I watched Mitchell, hop out of my car taking tender steps on the rough ground as he retrieved his bag from the backseat. “Thanks again,” he said.
“Anytime,” I said “It was nice to meet you, Mitchell. Good luck on your job.”
The story doesn’t end there. There was one more gift in store for me.
On my way to my daughters to drop off her groceries, I picked up her mail. She had some parcels. At her house, after her groceries were put away she made me a coffee and then she began to open up her packages. As she sliced open the boxes, I started retelling the story of my day: of my spontaneous proclamations of love to everyone I met; how I wrestled with myself about picking up a stranger walking on the side of the road; and how the strangers first name was Mitchell like my maiden name. I told her how I cried when I had first refused to pick him up and that when I heard his name was Mitchell it was a clear sign that love is the thread that connects us all.
My daughter, Megan, had followed the story up to that point nodding here and there, and then suddenly when she opened her final package exposing some gorgeous plumes of pampas grass, she squealed with shock. “Oh my God! Mom, this is crazy!”
“What? What?” I said, nearly dumping my coffee in my lap.
She thrust a piece of plastic with writing on it at me with one hand and held her other hand to her throat, tears forming in her eyes. “Look! Look at this!”
I took the floppy plastic from her, bold lettering leaped out at me. SAY “I LOVE YOU”
Blessed. I felt blessed. And then I read the whole thing from top to bottom and felt even more blessed. Today, was my wedding anniversary.
Sharpenedink 