Dear Cupid...

I don't think it's a tradition--maybe I should make it one: this time of year, it's a great time to tell the world what I want for Valentine's Day:Image by chicks57 via Flickr

• Female
• Single (you have no idea...)
• Intelligent, introspective woman that puts thought into her conversation.
• Been around the block a few times--wisdom from experience yields street smarts.
• Motivated, goal-oriented, self-driven.
• Likes to hold hands.
• Appreciates chivalry.
• Has a slightly wild side.
• Active, athletic, understands the importance of working and playing hard.
• A woman who can just throw on a hat and head out the door.
• Artistic, cultured, and believes community is important.
• Creativity in task, problem-solving, and spontaneity.
• Keeps her nose in a book more often than a mirror.
• Understands the tension and balance of silly and serious.
• Can join in with a card-playing, drinking, joking, playfully gambling, sports-watching family... like mine.
• See above--and enjoys spending time with her own crazy family.
• Frequently uses her smile.
• When she smiles, it warms my heart. Every. Single. Damn. Time.

I'll go to bed early on Monday night, Cupid, so you have plenty of time to deliver! And, no receipt for this lovely lady being on back order; you've used that one TOO MANY TIMES!

Thoughts on Writing & Miracles

I was going to write today, there are lots of things in my head that need to get out, but I think I'm just going to reflect instead. That sounds a bit silly--by "write" I mean on my book and, even though reflecting is writing, it's not going to be writing my book.

However, I might write about writing my book.

In fact, during this fourth rewrite, I can see that one of two, perhaps both, things are happening. Either my writing has improved because I have to write professionally all day, or it takes me about four rewrites to get to the heart of the story that I’m trying to tell. My guess? It's a lot of both. And, with that knowledge in mind, I will draw on the energy of improvement even on days when writing social media posts for 3DTVs, diapers, anti-aging skincare, frozen food, and laptops... or proofreading 15-page statements of work... or video scripts for the world’s largest brands... even on days when these things wear me out, I'll know that their non-fiction improves my fiction.

Yesterday, we remembered a tragedy of nine years ago that kept most of us glued to the TV for days. We're intrigued by disaster; let's just admit it. We watch as weather wreaks havoc on cities. We slow down to ogle traffic accidents. We stare into the flames of forest fires and know that the difference between black smoke and white smoke delineates the difference between man and nature. We watch for hours as people on the scene pass bricks hand-to-hand in the hours after a devastating earthquake. We stand, even when sitting in the upper deck, when coaches, players and medical staff have surrounded a player, because we're trying to get a closer look at one's fate.

However, it's not because I’ve come to believe that we're all masochists. No, not at all. We’re not watching tragedy to bathe in horror; we’re watching tragedy to witness a miracle. The toddler is trapped in an unused well and is rescued 58 hours later. The racecar driver emerges from a demolished ball of steel. The player walks off the field under his own power. The driver trapped between two levels of concrete highway is freed 90 hours after the earthquake. The emergency personnel rescue 11 people in 24 hours, but continue to work around the clock for days fueled by the hope that someone might still be alive at ground zero. Miracles.

... Pause...

While we'll never forget, let's also remember that we don't need tragedies to see miracles. Life is a miracle. You want to rescue someone? Rescue them with a smile and ask for nothing in return. Hold a child's hand when you walk through the park. Help someone across the street. Hold the door, even when your party has long since made its way through it.

Be the miracle, ya? Okay. Enough reflecting. GO!

A Brief Passing

Image by tricky ™ via Flickr

I only just lost you a month ago,
Yet, here you are in my dream.
Over my shoulder and into the foreground,
"Is that you?" I thought.
You turned as if you heard me--
Question answered by a smile--
Then faded into my background
Just where you'd always been
For the past twenty years,
Apart from this brief passing.

Piroutte to Charge

Last week, I wrote about a cute little girl who played hide and seek with me, then pirouetted around Starbucks without a care or a stumble. Last night, I was in the same coffee shop and a

Image by cvogle via Flickr

completely different little girl, a tad bit younger, kept escaping from her mom and charging toward me... it was really more of a momentum and inertia thing... you know, once she got started, she kinda had to keep taking steps so as not to fall flat on her face. There was a big chair next to me, she'd jump up in it and we'd start talking about what she wanted for Christmas and what was on her shirt and whether she liked princesses... too cute!

She made the charge about eight times over the half hour that she was there... and each time she made me smile.

Thank you, Sweetie!

[I'm ready for that family whenever you are, Dream Girl! Come find me!]

Miles on a Soul

She walks away from me, then returns.

Image by juliecampbell via Flickr

In a matter of minutes, with thirty years between them.
Two different looks,
Same deep soul.
One looked to see if I was looking;
A spark on an otherwise chilly day.
The other too young to know better
(Or too wise to care?)
An unwavering stare into my eyes,
That caught me off guard in its simplicity.
“Who are you?” it said.
With my mind, I replied,
“Yes, you know me.”
“Why are you here?”
“Same as you…”
“To watch the world,” our minds said together.
She smiled, then ducked behind the back of her chair.
Mature in her naivety, unhindered by publicity,
Legs tucked up beneath her,
We hide,
And we seek,
Without going anywhere,
In a game that takes us far from here.
Her giggles tell me,
I’m in the right place,
At the right time.
As soon as I realize what she already knows—
My own little kid still alive inside—
Her tongue waggles at me
And her eyes squint closed,
To avoid sight of my equally silly retort.
She wins, we know, but graciously rewards me with
A million pirouettes in a room
Crowded with tables and people
Never nipping a one of them.
Her own perfect dance,
Perfect because she still is a little kid.
“Thank you for the energy,” I think to her
As she waves goodbye with one hand,
The other holding onto her mother.
Still dancing in her mind
Through a doorway
And back into the real world…
For both of us.
The age of the soul
Cares less about the vehicle
And more about the miles traveled.
A lifetime of roads,
Waypoints on a path;
Sometimes the same,
Sometimes different,
We’re lucky when they meet,
If only for a moment in many lifetimes,
Because in an instant we gain measure;
Notice of wrong,
Or confirmation of right.
She walks away, but turns back.
“Keep going,” her eyes say.
“What you write today,
Might help me tomorrow.”
I nod, my thank you a smile that she never saw,
But from experience, knew was there.