Monkey infinitum

I was chatting with someone and recalled an event that still tugs at my heartstrings even though the event happened in 1998.

I was working on the 58th floor of a 68-storey skyscraper. Normally we could feel the slight and gentle swaying of the building as winds buffeted it. That was normal.

What was not normal came one day when a horrible storm hit. We could see sheets of water slam the glass walls of the building. Things hit the windows HARD with a frightening crack sound, but we couldn’t tell what they were. The gentle swaying became a sickening rocking feeling. When the overhead cabinet doors began opening and closing on their own, I, as many others on the floor, decided it was time to leave this potentially sinking ship.

We weren’t going to take the lifts. Too dangerous with the building moving like it was. Even if we wanted to, we couldn’t. Building management had shut off the lifts for safety reasons.

So we chatted and decided we’d walk the stairs. All 58 floors.

As I entered the stairwell I was overcome with the sounds and sights of hundreds of like-minded colleagues filling the echoey stairwell. Our voices and footfalls were amplified and this added to the hellish descent. No one was panicky but we all were dealing with concerns our own way. Some like me were silent and others were masking their concern with overly loud laughter and comments. The scent of fear and deodorized body odor filled my nose and mouth with every breath I took.

Eventually we made it to the ground floor and scurried along in a drenched tropical storm. We waddled because our legs had turned to stone and wood by floor 30. But we all walked out and made our ways home.

One person was not in that stairwell, and it is he who haunts me when I think of this event.

He was then a 58 yr old man in poor health.

“Let’s go down the stairs” we had said.

“No.” He said, remaining at his desk.

“Come on, man. It’s not safe up here,” we insisted.

“I can’t make that climb,” he said in his gruff manner, “I’ll have a heart attack before I reach bottom.”

At the time I was focused on getting home safely to my wife and kids. They were my highest priority. So I left him, as did the collective group.

The danger we thought we faced was not as bad as we thought. The building is rated to withstand winds up to 400 mph, much more than the storm that day had brought. But our fear and concern that day was just as real as if the building had started to collapse.

And now and again I think of that fellow sitting alone, listening to the whining of the storm, wondering what hard things were cracking against the glass walls, and gauging the creaking of the building. I wonder what he was wondering. I hope he had reached out to loved ones.

None of us mentioned that storm again after returning to work except for light discussions around it. He wasn’t the type to talk much about anything at length on a good day.  It didn’t surprise me that he’d not talk about this either. 

I pray he has forgiven us.

Just a thought. I may be completely off the rails, but this is something I’ve wondered for years. Definitely open to input and feedback/corrections here.

What if we are born completely unfiltered, open to all stimuli, create self-preservation filters over time, and are, in many cases, subsequently looking for ways to remove or alter those filters? I think this would explain so much of the human existence.

Think about it. We come into being and are surrounded by physical, emotional, and spiritual input. All the time. Even in our mother’s womb we are gathering input and are trying to sort things out.
Then we are birthed and exposed to so much MORE input.

Based on our cultural, biological, and psychological makeup we very quickly learn that to maintain our sanity we must identify things that help vs things that don’t help us.

We build filters.

We build masks with which to present ourselves.

We build structure in an otherwise random existence.

All within the first few months of touching air for the very first time.

We learn that our bodies, our voice, our interactions with other things yield cause and effect routines.

We continue to build our filters of the world because these prevent is from going completely unhinged.

Some of us never learn that skill.

And some do, but at rates different from those around us.

At some point in our lives, some of us realise we are allowing these filters to limit our potential.

So we find ways to adjust these filters. To change them, remove them at safe intervals and learn how to replace them at will when our experiences with the unfiltered world become overwhelming.

By contrast, some are perfectly happy – defiantly so in some cases – to preserve these filters at all costs. Because the view of an unfiltered experience is too much. They are not ignorant nor uneducated. They simply prefer to live in the filtered world of their making. It is safe in there.

But for those who DO want an unfiltered view of the world – a more child-like state, one might say – the journey there takes on many paths.

Some use drugs.

Others, meditation.

Others do so whilst enjoying a creative artistic work – either passively or by performing the task itself.

I may be partially or even completely mad for thinking this way.

But what if I’m not?

What if most of the human condition is a function of our self-taught structures of prisms that come between us and the realities that we have been invited to be a part of?

Now THERE’s an exciting thought.

Photo credit: https://www.flickr.com/photos/pagedooley/20254102379/sizes/l/

Some rights reserved by kevin dooley

Never once growing up had I thought I’d ever say these words: “My cow is in a quantum state of existence.”

But she is.

She’s not in a box, like Schrödinger’s famous thought experiment. She’s real, and lives on a pasture in Texas.

She does all the things a normal cow does. Eats, sleeps, produces methane, the lot.

But her stubbornness has put her in a quantum quandary. Or a quantum conundrum. Or..

Back to the point about why she’s physics fodder.

I’m in the process of buying an acreage. The family selling the place had livestock on the land. In preparation for selling the place, they rustled up all the livestock. Well, all but one.

This one wasn’t moving. This was her home, gosh durn it, and no one was moving her off the land. She dug her heels in and went so far as to back into the 20 foot deep pond area. That was when the owner decided it’s better to let things be for awhile.

He’s come back to try to collect her, but she’s not having any part of it. The sales contract says, in essense, “Livestock are not staying with the property”. But that was written without the cow’s input and consent.

Neither the current owner nor I want to amend the contract to include the cow. I’m not keen, as that will likely mean I have to determine the fair market price of an old and stubborn cow. The owner isn’t keen because he’d like every opportunity to collect this cow before closing.

So this cow does and does not belong to the property. Hence the quantum state of her existence.

There are others far more intelligent than I who can explain the mechanics behind quantum physics. Spoiler alert: if one truly understands this topic then one has not really read up on it, haha. But the gist of what I’m talking about relates to what’s called “superposition”. This means something can be considered to be in two places at once until someone observes the thing.

Normally this type of thing is limited to things at extremely tiny measurement levels – smaller than atoms, for instance. Look up “double-slit wave particle” on a web search and you’ll see what I mean. However, this cow is exhibiting a similar property. We won’t know whether or not she’s part of the property until we “observe” her state at time of closing. I have all the items required for closing so all we’re doing is waiting for the date to arrive.

Until then, she’s in a state where she belongs to the property and she does not belong to the property.

I say “my” cow but technically she’s owned by the current property owner. But it’s more fun to say “my cow is in a quantum state of existence.”

And the name “Ginger Cowabunga”? That was off the back of a cow-naming poll from immediate family and my realtor. I was leaning towards “Cowy McCowface” but calmer heads prevailed.

 

I’m a member of an online discussion group and someone asked the question, “Has humanity become a malignant virus on earth?”

That got me to thinking.

And then I started writing.

Here’s my reply.

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No. We are fully capable of performing wonderous and terrible things and all in between.  Many will call for the cleansing of the earth of our kind and that is a shame.

If all one looks at is the worst of us, then all one comes away with is the horrible things we do.

We are also incredibly gifted with potential that exceeds our perceived limitations. We just need to recognize this and push for that. 

And also we must kindly understand the misdeeds of our brethren and help each other want to be better versions of ourselves.  I don’t think malignant viruses are capable of this.

Heh, apologies if I sound a bit enthusiastic about our kind here.  I’ve just returned from a gathering of friends met to honor a mutual friend and his wife. 

He’d fallen about three years ago and died en route to the hospital due to a head injury.  He was brought back but suffered brain damage. He’s still in recovery and his right side is partially paralyzed. He can speak and move about but has lost the ability to come up with ways to say the words forming in his head.  Like understanding a foreign language when one hears the words but not knowing how to respond.

So why is this an example of the awesomeness of humankind?

Tonight I saw the result of the Drs and Nurses and folks who developed these things called “vehicles” and “hospitals” and my friend’s lovely and patient wife and the 50 or so friends who express continued interest in helping this family.

I saw the crooked smile on my friend’s face and saw his eyes light up as he saw familiar-yet-puzzling faces pop into view.

I see the glow of his wife taking in all the love and encouragement from those literally surrounding the two of them. She’s been the steadfast bearer of all the work involved with not only her husband’s health care but the raising of their kids and managing what little gov’t assistance they receive.

I saw hope for our kind tonight.  As ugly as we can be, we are also capable of being the lights that warm an otherwise cold and uncaring world.

Last week’s family visit reminded me that I’ve been blessed beyond measure in the seemingly random selection of family members. This blog entry hopes to do justice by my siblings and parents. But first, let’s chat about Death, shall we?

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Death is one of those funny little odd things in life we all must deal with. Some can go from birth to death without ever personally knowing the experiences others face daily – the good, the bad, and the mundane. But Death is universal and at the same time is extremely personal.

That’s the bit that makes it so funny – universal yet extremely personal. No one else in this world will ever experience Death like another one will. Yes, the physical and mental experiences may be extremely close when faced with similar scenarios (and for some groups, they all face it at the same moment in time), but in the end, it’s just me and the Reaper looking each other in the eyeballs. Just like everyone else.

My siblings and I have done a good job so far of avoiding Death’s embrace despite our ignorance of how the world works. One of us, however, has passed on by accident – “moved beyond the veil” is a phrase I really love. It is she who lingered behind my thoughts as I plotted my own demise not too long ago.

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Life has a funny way of throwing curveballs our way.  These are made easier to sort through when one has family support and isn’t afraid to ask for help. 

I recall a time when my sister asked for help when she was in desperate need.  Thankfully we were both young enough and had been very blessed in life to not know true desperation. Some teens’ scenarios of desperation are staggering and heartbreaking.  Ours, fourtunately, never were.

The “most desperate scenario” we found her to be in was that she has accidentally left her orthodontic retainer in the food tray  of a local shopping mall’s food court.  When she went back to get it, a mall employee had already emptied the tray into an unknown bin.  She didn’t want to tell our Dad that she’d lost (another) one, so could I help?  

A few hours later, after many many many many trash bags later, a miracle of miracles appeared in the form of once-wayward, now-found dental gear.  During the hunt, she and I were both frustrated, hot, and weary.  But it never occurred to me to say “no” or to stop until she was out of (relative) danger.

I am blessed in that all my siblings would do the same, and have all done something to show they are in this class of people as well. 

I had forgotten this fact when I was facing demons of my own, when I was in a place I thought was barren of life I wanted to be in, when the cold touch of Apathy touched my soul. 

When Death looked over and started to make eye contact with me.

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No don’t get me wrong; Death isn’t “evil” or “good”.  Death is like Fire.  It is like Wind or Water or Love.  It is a force, like any other natural thing.  We love to anthropomorphize it to make writing and thoughts more interesting.  I enjoy that as well.  But it is not a “bad thing” any more than controlled fire in a campfire or water in a fish tank is evil. Or “good”.

Death is part of life.  It is natural.

Unnatural death, now that’s a different story.

It would be safe to say each of us would like to feel “complete” when we know our time in the physical realm is at an end.  Whether it’s in a soft, cozy, warm spot with family and friends around to say farewell, on a battlefield knowing we are making a difference for those we leave behind, or any number of moments where we’re done for and have given every effort to stick around.

The unnatural deaths – ah, now these are the most difficult stories to see.

These are they who lose their lives by happenstance – being in the wrong place at the wrong time.  Those who are killed by another’s hands, some even before they even have a chance to open their eyes for the very first time.  Those who haven’t done quite everything possible to stick around longer and are caught by surprise and unready for the Train to Elsewhere.

And then there are the very unnatural deaths.

These are they who know when they will die and how it will happen.  They have a chance to get everything in order before they depart.  They know the timetable because they will be their own private agents of Death escorting themselves along the journey.  I know the type quite well.

Ah yes, but about my siblings.  Let’s chat about them.

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Without giving away too much personal detail on a public forum, I’ll say we grew up in what others considered to be a large family.  I didn’t think it was large – it was just the right amount of people.  Didn’t hurt that I was the eldest and had decision rights to guide the others as needed.  Truth be told, I didn’t guide the younguns as well as my parents wished.  It was pretty much a free-range babysitting environment when I was in charge.  But somehow we all made it though, and they all seem to still love me in the end, so we must have done something right.

I often imaged us to be the personification of nature elements.  I am Water, free flowing at times and icy and bitterly hard at others.  Another is Fire, molding situations with heat and pressure and galvanizing action from people.  Another Earth, solid, firm, and laying the foundation for activities.  Wind is there too, carrying life and lifting wings that soar over it.  And there is Spirit, moving mostly unseen, but carrying a power that encourages us lift our voices in laughter and action.

Our poor parents, managing a set of energy vessels like this!  No wonder we were always losing babysitters.

We were together, daily, struggling and learning.  Sometimes struggling against ourselves, but mostly struggling to understand what this thing called “Life” expected of us.  Plan for tomorrow?  What?  TODAY I’m facing [insert struggle here].

Eventually each of us made our way into our own household management roles, and all that this entails.  In doing so, we naturally reached out to each other less and less, as we had our own partners and children to live with, love, and manage. 

We were learning how not to depend on each other any more.

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Not depending on one’s siblings and parents is a natural part of life.  It’s a form of Death, in a way.  In the natural order of things, we’ll never ever ever again live the life we had as a child.  

For some, this is a blessing.

For me, this was a bit of sorrow.  

But chin up, we’ve a family in our own home to love and feed, right?

And I did.

For a while.

And then again, a different family, for a little longer while.

Karma, being what it is, never sleeps.  It doesn’t forgive, nor does it forget.  

It, like Death, isn’t “good” nor “evil”.  It just IS.

So when in a fit of pompous rage I walked out on family #1, and started family #2, it was no surprise that partner #2 taught me a bit of grounding humility by pompously raging herself and the kids out of my life after a decade and a half of shared experiences.

So there I was.

Alone.

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Well, not literally alone.  I did have about 11 million other people around me.  Most of them were thankfully extremely polite, especially when we were all pressed up against each other on public transport.

I saw them daily on the walk up the escalators, on the trains, funneling ourselves into the tea shops, grocery stores, office buildings, railway stations.

I chatted with them in the office, made plans and successfully executed them (the plans, not my co-workers), spoke with the people on the phone when that was needed.

But everything I’d worked for since I was 14 years old was gone. All the belongings we shipped overseas were sold off.  I say “sold off” but in reality they were sold at pennies on the dollar at auction. I actually came away from the auction with a debt to pay. 

Time zones and distance being what they were, I had no ready access to the kids.  When I did have contact, it was through a series  of extremely stressful and uninformative text message volleys starting at my local time of midnight and ending about 4 am. That’s between dinner time and bedtime back home.  Anyone raising kids knows how dramatic this time frame can be, especially with pre-teens and teens involved. 

Holding meaningful work sessions with colleagues after having 2 hours of sleep while also fielding angry and heated (and expensive) overseas personal phone calls was kind of far away from the dream work/home life I’d imagined we’d be living.

My siblings?

They were still the amazing people they were, and still are.  However, they were filtered out from my vision.  Back then, social media wasn’t like it is today.  Heck, communication was different then too.  Text messages overseas cost 6 pence to send.  Smart phones were still in the price range of the elite and well-off, so we were still plonking around with flip-phones and T9 texting layouts.  Instant messaging was widely available but one needed to be sitting on a computer or (if we could afford it) a laptop that MAYBE had WiFi internet access nearby.

So my siblings heard bits and fits of my scenario, but never the full extent.  I was so focused on the trees in my personal mess that I didn’t realize I’d hit one until it was too late, and was so dazed I didn’t think to call on them as I did when we were children at home.

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Being alone is not a bad thing. I’ve grown to love it. To me it’s as natural and refreshing as sunshine on a spring day.

Being unnaturally alone, now that’s a different story.

I became unnaturally alone very very quickly when what was supposed to be a Christmas visit flight home for the family became a surprise one-way trip. 

I very quickly recognized Karma when it came overseas and kicked the legs out from under me.  “There you go,” it said, “now go apologize to your family #1 now that you really understand this.”

I did and asked Karma to bring things back to normal.

“Not my department,” I heard as it left me to my own devices.

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“Devices” are interesting things.  

Mirriam-Webster’s first entry for the term says these are “something devised or contrived: such as a scheme to deceive”.

Well, it wasn’t too long before such a thing came visiting round my place.  I’ll save the exact series of our conversations for a future blog post as they were very entertaining.  However, a brief summary can be boiled down to this:

• The dream you had is dead.  Join it.
• You are so far in debt, financially and emotionally.  Cut your losses while you can.
• No one cares. They care only as long as you provide things.  Punish them by not being here to provide for them.
• What are you waiting for?  Do it NOW.

Such a set of concepts does not come overnight.  And certainly not to those of rational thought.  It’s amazing what sleep deprivation, stress, and lack of control can do to a person.  No wonder torture artists use those tactics so often.  

It wasn’t long before I found myself staring at oncoming trains, strategic places on bridges, and isolated spots in the city or countryside.  What used to be photo op tours to scout for upcoming family outings became strategy missions to find the least messy and unobtrusive place someone would (maybe) eventually find my corpse. 

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Family to the rescue.

My mother, whether she intended to or not, steered me off a path best not taken.

“Son,” she said, perhaps sensing the unease in my spirit, “you should join this social media group we’re in.  You don’t have to write anything, just look at the things we’re posting and keep in touch that way.”

I did just that.   

At first, I didn’t post anything.  Just watched and saw text and photos from family I’d not heard from in what seemed to be a lifetime ago.

I saw posts from the son of my sibling who’d passed away ever so long ago.  I saw a network of information and interests from people I loved.  I saw the web articles shared by my mother and father and learned new things about their fields of interest.

I was intrigued.  A veil of heavy loss started clearing away.  The practicalities of my situation were still present and accounted for, but they were no longer the only thing I came back to see between the times when the current work day was done and a fitful sleep faced me before a new work day was to begin. 

And then, magic happened.  I posted something.  And my sister commented on it.  And LOLed.

Seems trivial to write of it.  Silly, even.

But at that moment in time, in the world I made for myself, there was little to no responding to my attempts to reach out.  Certainly no LOLing.

In this electronic-yet-very-human community of which I was now a part, I saw the light at the end of the tunnel, and it wasn’t a light from an oncoming train.

That trickster Device tapped me on the shoulder but I shrugged it off.  I looked at it dead in the eyes, paid my respects, and we parted ways.  Death nodded and averted its gaze for a spell.

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The world I live in now is populated with my First Best Friends, And Many Others.  It’s a much more cheerful place than where I was before.  There’s chatter about privacy invasion, data breaches, and personal data collection, which are all very serious subjects.  But this world is also a place of thoughts and ideas from those who have known me all my life.

I’m very slowly opening up my filter in this world to include non-family members and benefit from newfound friends’ insights.  Many share my world view and many don’t. 

I have counseled some who have faced the same demons and decisions I have for reasons of their own, and thankfully they are still here to experience our world with us.

But the core of my thankfulness comes from the bond I have with my siblings and parents.  I see them daily, even if we don’t interact on a daily basis.  But they are here.  I can draw on their strength when I’m feeling low or weary.  I hope to think my frequent contributions lift their spirits as well.  The thoughts and photos we share – from the silly to the severe – continue to form the foundations of my heart.

My siblings and parents aren’t my collective Saviour – that’s a huge burden to bear – but they are physical, tangible reminders that:

• The dream you had has changed.  Join it.
• You have pulled yourself out of debt, financially and emotionally.  Enjoy this.
• People care, even if you don’t provide things.  Cherish them.
• I’m glad you waited.  NOW you can do even better things.

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Last bit of experience before I close this one out?

Never enter into a contract when you’re feeling suicidal; you may live to regret the outcome.

---

 

O hay, there’s that kid again. You know the one. He’s the kid we met earlier, about 40 years ago.

He’s looking pretty happy right about now. Sitting there, just yakkin’ with his friends. Listening to stories and sharing some too.

He’s getting up now, so I’ll scoot out of his way.

There he goes. Opening up a cooler, grabbing another beer.

Hang on a second.

GETTING ANOTHER BEER?

Checking again.

Ah. O, hey, that’s me, then. That’s me. Me, chatting with friends, swapping stories. Me.

I look at my friends again.

They are in the set of my “first best friends”. Traditionally known as “family”.

These folks sitting in front of me are part of a wider net of people who have shaped who I want my friends to act and sound like. My dad and mom took great pains to drive our little family to meet with our wider family multiple times a year, for many years.

We don’t choose our family we’re born or brought into. In this case I have been extremely blessed to have been brought into this family. My parents, grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins and siblings all – bar none – have been supportive, patient, and understanding when I have taken roads best left untraveled. When I’ve disappeared or have been distant. When choices I’ve made have stuck me out in what I thought was a peninsula of abandonment.

(Psst – spoiler alert – I was never alone, but just not seeing the family ties around me).

My original plan for this weekend was to take a quick 2-day visit and hug necks of family off the back of a recent funeral gathering. I’d bring my grandson and my daughter along if they were willing and able to make that quick trip.

Well, that happened, and more, which is why that kid showed up.

Unbeknownst to me, the organizer had asked for all of her siblings to show up, as well as all the siblings I’d gone to see for the funeral. That was of course not because of me, but was an outcome I hadn’t planned on.

So this precise gathering of people – which happens extremely rarely – represented a time I’d thought was long forgotten and done.

But it wasn’t.

Please take note: My story here of course does not diminish at all the fondness I have for my other first best friends. These would be those who saw me daily for years, not so daily for a while, and then only on occasion, and then only rarely, until I got plugged into the family social engagements again. I can dedicate an entire website to my “growing up family with siblings”. I may still do so!

Speaking of my siblings, I saw this weekend the same kind of magic happen that happens when we wind up in a room together: Time disappears.

I mean, time was still there, hanging on a wall clock, in our phone displays, in the lengthening shadows of the tall pines overlooking the lake we were facing. It was there in the quiet yawns of those enjoying the tales but not wanting to miss a word. There in a way that presses on us, but we press back harder, willing it away. It was reminding me that yes, I have a 3:30 am alarm going off to make the drive and airport parking and security navigation mazework.

But at the same time, it was GONE.

Sidebar: I have always been an analyst, asking questions and mentally recording feedback for questions like:

* How much time does it take to walk to school,
* how many steps are in a standard flight of stairs,
* why does a helium balloon on a string move forward when the car accelerates,
* etc.

So when that kid was around 40-some years ago when this group of family-friends would gather, he was observing, absorbing, analysing. Mostly just being happy he was included in this group of awesome people. But at the same time, he was measuring things. He was getting an imprint of what life should be like.

So about this “time stands still” thing…

One of my grandkids was there as well. He’s around the same age as that kid we met earlier. Give or take a few memories.

I saw my first best friends here react and interact with him the same way they did with a much, much younger me. They didn’t have to be so kind and understanding and willing to overlook his more than a few social faux pas moments. They could have very easily said, “Hey, momma, your son needs something to do” and could have gone along with their chats amongst each other.

But no. They brought him into their circle, showed him how to participate, corrected him when needed, and are leaving their indelible mark on his heart. All with respect and courtesy. My heart exploded with joy and pride as a result.

THIS – this is what I expect from my friends. And these are the people responsible for my expectation.

I held up a silent toast of thanks to all those who are who they are. We will not all be around forever in body, but for now, we can only be the best first best friends we can be to each other.

(Funny, after I wrote this up I had a feeling I’d done so before. And I DID, about 5-point-something years ago. Too bad I didn’t have time travel to stop me from writing this up a different way, a second time…)

The folks who create science-fantasy stories about time travel completely gloss over the staggering physics calculations and implications involved with the concept of time travel.

Here’s why: The basic premise of time travel has to assume that an object that is “moving through time” (forwards or backwards) is essentially removed from our current space-time plane during the “time” portion of travel. The writers indicate this by having the object “disappear” from view, only to “reappear” in a different time, presumably at the same physical location.

Ok, I’ll bite.

Let’s ignore “time” and deal with “location” only, which ISN’T mentioned in most popular fantasy stories.

Let’s say I’m on one of those schoolhouse spinny rides where the kids get on that is essentially a large metal plate that has handles on it.

That’s called a “roundabout” or “merry-go-round”. The roundabout spins when the kids grab the handles and run alongside it to jump on, or when the kids on the outside rim grab the handles, stand still, and pull or push the handles towards and away from them. You remember those. Probably remember the lunches you’ve lost while spinning round on the ride, too.

I’m on the roundabout, spinning. My “friends” are making the ride spin faster and faster. The centrifugal force of the spin is trying to pull me off. Weeeee!

In my hand is an object that will soon disappear from my plane of existence. Let’s say it’s a volleyball. I push the button and POOF it leaves my hand. Not for time-travel, but for location-travel.

Now this volleyball, having left my plane of existence, is no longer bound by the atoms of my hand that once held it. Let’s suspend disbelief for a moment and pretend we can actually see the volleyball.

If it’s following general physics, it’ll do one of many things.The simplest of actions are these:

1. It will continue to move along the last known direction it was travelling. I mentioned centrifugal force trying to pull us away from the center of the spinning plate. So it may fly away from my hand as if I had simply let it go. Meh, kind of interesting. I can see it fly to and eventually through my pal on the side and on and on forever until something happens to change it.
2. It will be removed from all forces and simply stand still because it’s no longer bound by any physical rules. Ah, now THIS is the interesting one.

If the volleyball stops moving (as it’s no longer bound by the physics of my body and surroundings), I will see it hover as I spin round and round.

I can watch it pass through me again and again while my pal laughs at the silliness of it all.

Finding a way to get it to land solidly exactly in my hand (without doing a brundlefly object merge in the process) is really really really tricky. This is WITHOUT any time displacement at all. Think about that for a minute or two.

But wait! (as the infamous TV adverts are fond of saying) There’s more.

The roundabout I was talking about? That’s just a frame of reference to illustrate a simple point.

The roundabout is spinning, but sitting on solid ground.

Just kidding!

The “solid ground” is itself spinning.

Spinning at about 1,000 miles per hour. More or less if we’re nearer to, or farther from the Earth’s equator.

That’s just the speed of Earth’s ROTATIONAL spin. That’s why we have sunrise, sunset, moonrise, moonset, all the rises and the sets.

So the math involved to get a ghost-object back into solid state, in my hand, while the roundabout is spinning while itself is on a rotating Earth object is really really really really really tricky. Really. Mind-boggling. But say we DO pull this off this and the volleyball is IN my hand and somehow not part OF my hand.

Let’s make it simpler for whoever is crunching the math.

I step off the roundabout. I fall since I am dizzy. My pal is REALLY having a larf this time. I throw the volleyball at my pal and get the ball thrown back at me.

I let go of the volleyball and again hit the “phase-shift” button. We see the ball stand still (which at this point, as we have established, is not standing still from MY perspective, but actually appearing to move at about 1,000 miles per hour away from me).

Easy peasy to get it back in my hand, right? Just have to factor in the Earth’s rotational spin speed depending on our latitude and direction we are facing.

Uh, not quite done, yet.

The Earth rotates on its axis. Yep. But it also ROTATES AROUND THE SUN.

This movement alone is about 67,000 miles per hour.

So we have an object that has been removed from our physical plane of existence – effectively “standing still” while everything around it moves 1,000 miles per hour one way and 67,000 miles per hour another way. Maybe the same direction, maybe a different direction; it all depends on the way we’re facing when we push the magic button, where we are located on the Earth, where we are located on the orbit around the sun, etc.

And if that’s not enough, there’s MORE.

The solar system that our sun is in (that we’re rotating around while we’re spinning) is also moving. FAST. Estimates are around 448,000 miles per hour.

So we have a ghost volleyball leaving my hand at (simultaneously):

• 1,000 miles per hour in one direction
• 67,000 miles per hour in another (or maybe the same) direction
• 448,000 miles per hour in yet a different (or maybe the same) direction

…and I expect it to appear in my hand when the “travel” is over somehow.

BUT WAIT THERE’S STILL MORE

The amount of ENERGY needed to manage this phase-shifting feat is equally staggering.

Ever rub your hands together to keep warm? That’s energy you’re producing there, and translating into heat.

The amount of energy (which will be translated into heat) needed to a) keep the phase-shifted volleyball “moving” at the same speed and velocity as my solid body and b) perform the phase-shifting itself is HUGE.

I fully expect that the amount of HEAT generated to make the ball disappear and reappear in my chubby, grubbly little paws will turn everything around us into a small star.

My pal won’t he laughing to much THEN, will he?

That’s just the PHYSICAL aspect of time-travel. That’s not including the bits that involve actual TIME movement (or lack thereof).

And this is why I must shut off my brain to enjoy science fantasy.

Forty-four years.

A lot can happen in forty-four years.

A lot HAS happened in forty-four years.

Time and space makes things change size as well, apparently.

But first, we see something. It’s a little kid.

——

Four-feet-something in height. Pudgy. Momma says he wears “husky” sized jeans but he knows that’s a momma’s way of saying, “fat”.

Husky kid pedals his bicycle up that frustratingly steep rural road in Wisconsin.

He won’t be husky very much longer. He’s in the middle of that magical year in the woods. The year where summer woody acreage mornings start at sunrise and don’t close until the lightning bugs surround him.

The year where the wet, heavy snow makes for beautiful but malformed snowmen and giant Easter-Islandy heads on that endless hillside sloping into the woods of adventure.

The year where Spring transforms melting snow and woods into creeks and mini rivers of exploration.

The year of stars in the sky, bright like suns.

—–

Time has had a way of stretching things.

Longer trips, bigger house, larger buildings, grander adventures, hundreds of people cramming us into giant tubes to take us to dizzying destinations.

It also has had a way of shrinking things.

In the rental car, I accidentally passed right by the used-to-be giant house and the endless adventure hill disappearing into the woods.

Had to turn around and retrace the path a second time, this time much slower.

Was amazed at how short the distance was between the old schoolhouse and the house mailbox.

Why would it take all day to walk that 30-second car drive?

Let’s ask that kid.

Yah, that kid over there. The one we can barely see.

The pudgy kid pushing his bike up the hill.

O wait, he’s stopped. Probably to catch his breath.

No, he’s stopped to poke a bug with a stick.

And now he’s poking another stick with that stick. Swatting a bee from around his head.

Pesky bees. Pebbles will keep them away. Ah. No, they’re SO hard to hit. I remember that. Trees are easier to peg than bees. Tree Peg, haha. Peg. Peg. Peg. Penk. Toss the pebble, make a penk sound. Did you know different trees make different sounds when they’re hit with pebbles? Penk, penk, pink, pock. And different sounds when they’re hit with sticks, too. Stick, stick, stick. Snick, Snick, snick. Stick, snick, stick, snick. Why aren’t these called SNICKS? That’s the sound they make when they hit things. Bees make a BEEEEEEE sound.  Oooo hey, THIS one is a BIG snick. It’s really a WHACKO. Whacko, whacko, whacko. It smells different from a snick. I don’t know what exactly. Not like a bendy. Bendys smell like green. Whackos smell like… ow! Whackos smell like pain. Throw that whacko in the street. They do roll nice though. But now it’s stopped. Pebbles will help it roll. Throw pebbles. Pink, penk, pock. Ah. Snicks and pebbles make different sounds when they hit the asphalt on the road, too. That asphalt smells like hot. Pebbles roll. Some pebbles roll farther than others when they are thrown downhill. Snicks don’t much. They just sit there. O wait, where’s that bee? A snick will chase that bee away. But now it’s not a snick any more; it’s a WHOOSHA. Whoosha, whoosha, whoosha…

—–

Gotta go, kid. Time for me to head back. People are waiting for me. Good to see you again and in great spirits.

No, don’t get up, it’s ok.

Say hi to your momma for me.

“O hey, thanks for coming over so quickly.”

“No worries. Here, let me set this down and we’ll see what’s up.”

“Sure! O is that your lunch?”

“Some of it. I didn’t quite finish but I’ve a a banana left.” [Looks at scenario] “Ehrm, ah, this isn’t set up correctly.”

“I know! This ‘fishing’ thing, I still don’t quite get it. What am I doing wrong?”

“Well, for starters, this here…” [moves item over] “…should be here…”

“Ah! Brilliant! No wonder you’re the master. And what about this?”

“O dear. No, it’s to be held like…” [Shows correct usage]

“Oooo I see. Again, I couldn’t have seen that. And I do this…?” [Does this]

“No, no, but you’re very close. Here, see?” [Does this correctly, and hands the kit over to the learner]

“Ah. Now we’re talking! So then I do that…” [Does that]

“Sorry, you’re holding it wrong. Here, I’ll how you…” [Takes kit and uses it properly]

“Ahhh ok, nice, very nice!” [mobile phone rings] “Ah, hold on, I’m getting a call.” [Answers mobile] “Yes? No sorry, I’m in the middle of… are you sure? O dear, hold on.”

[Whispers to teacher] “I’ll be just a moment. Can you hold that for us? The line’s already cast. Won’t be a minute.”

“But… ahh”

“Is it ok if I borrow your banana? All this work has me quite hungry.”

“Erhm, well, ok…”

“You’re the best mate. The absolute best! Will be right back…”

[Teacher sits solo, fishing. What happened here?]

photo:
Some rights reserved by Inquisitive P

https://www.flickr.com/photos/legitimatequestionability/4981705766/sizes/l

I’m in the midst of a social experiment I’ve concocted. I’ve read that men who are passionate about their work tend to lose their way after retirement. Depression, feelings of guilt, trouble sleeping, etc.
So I set up an experiment where I am practicing being retired.

Summary

Not to worry, loved ones. I’ll be happy as a clam in my retirement digs.

Younguns, put money aside for retirement. NOW. Today, even if it’s $50 a month for the rest of your life. Future you will thank young you.

Details

I’ve taken two whole weeks off work with no travel plans. This is a career first, and I’ve been working since I was 14 yrs old. (That’s 39 years, for those who don’t like math puzzles.)

Usually on my time off, I take only a single week (if that) and rush a road or plane trip in there. Maximise time and all that.

This time round I’ve taken two weeks off in a row. That’s the first since 2007 I think. And that one was an emergency trip from London thru Houston to LA and back, towing wife and kids with me. No holiday there!
With the exception of some external commitments, I wake when I want, sleep when I want, do all the things that a person with no pressing commitments does. Driving in the sunlight is very enjoyable. More so than you’d think. If it’s raining too hard, or is too cold, then I don’t go outside until the environment is better. Simply lovely.

Speaking of weather, it’s nice today, so after picking up a pizza order from a local shop I stopped to pick up some trash in the ditch that’s been bothering me on my commutes to and from work. Wonderful weather – cool and breezy with sun warming me up. Yah there’s trash on the ground (was on the ground) but there’s more nature than trash today, so I enjoyed the nature part of it.

I’d casually go visit family on my schedule but they are working or too far away for a day trip. If I’d a longer time off, I’d probably do some slow road trips to visit friends and family.

A few more years now and this will be my daily routine. That’s the plan at least. Need $$$ for that. So work ’til I can cut my expenses and gracefully and peacefully retire. I should have started saving up years and years ago! Ah well, never to late to start saving money.

I remember a girl in gym class. We were in like 7th or 8th grade. Made us like 12 or 13 yrs old, I guess.

---

But before I go on about the girl, let’s talk about gym class when one is in the very early teens.

Terrible place.

We’re always wondering about where hair was (or wasn’t) growing, whether or not an odd odor came from our sweaty pits, socks, musty gym clothes, or someone else’s effects.

Then there were always the kids who were more muscular, fit, quicker on the run, or had the confident air about them so the lack of any of the essential gym class skills wasn’t a problem.

That would be me in the former instance and definitely not in the latter.

Our coach at the time wasn’t particularly bothered about ensuring everyone was toned and fit. He mainly just cared if 1) a given student was dressed for gym class and 2) there were enough kids playing on the floor to make teams. He didn’t need many teams – only two really, and he was happy.

So I learned very early on that a) if I dressed for class and b) walked verrrrrryyyy slowly out of the locker room, all the team spots would be taken and I’d still get credit for class.

Nice.

So that offered many opportunities for me to wander around, visiting and generally not participating in class, but still getting counted as being present.

Well I learned there’s a third element the coach really really liked – c) those who weren’t active in sport had better be sitting quietly on the bleachers. Or else.

We still got pops on the backside in those days. The coach had a paddle with holes drilled in them to provide less air resistance. I learned that the hard way.

Lesson quickly learned was that after walking slowly enough to not be selected for a team one, had to still walk quickly enough to get a good seat on the bleachers. One where one could chat quietly without being noticed by the coach.

It was an art, and I like honing my craft.

---

Within a couple of weeks, we all had the routine down. Jocks vault into play first, those who didn’t want to sit still for 30 – 40 minutes follow after them, and the rest of us fall neatly into file-and rank procession in our unofficial dedicated spots. All’s well with the world.

Then one day I felt something on my arm. Something warm.

I looked down and there it was.

The girl’s hand.

On my forearm.

I looked up at her but she was casually and intently looking at the two teams playing whatever game the coach selected for them. Carefully not looking at me.

“Eh,” I thought, “why not?”

So I reached out and held her hand.

The rest of the session was just us watching the players do their thing. Folks talking smack to each other, celebrating their wins and tripping each other on purpose. We were the spectators, enjoying the entertainment they offered. Holding hands, silently.

Then the buzzer went off and we all went our merry way. Because I wasn’t hot, sweaty, and adrenaline-filled, I could just swap gym clothes with street clothes without having to deal with the showers and towel-snapping that went along with that mess.

---

The next day came and went. Same scene.

And the next, and the same.

And the same.

We did this for weeks.

---

I never presumed she would want to hold my hand; she would always put her hand on my arm as the signal for me to reach out. And we would never chat more than a few words at a time, and then, only about what was taking place on the gym floor.

She never asked for my name. Likewise, I never asked for hers. We were in no other classes together; the school was large enough that we never crossed paths outside of that 4 foot special place on the gym bleachers.

We danced that polite, gentle dance until the semester ended and our schedules tossed every classmate all over the map.

---

Looking back I’ve always thought this to be an odd arrangement.

Odd in may ways – not just those stated, but these as well:

No one EVER teased us for holding hands in the middle of class. I’ve been in the midst of the “Johnny loves Sally” crowds, and have thrown a few shouts out myself from the sidelines before then (and after then I must admit). But this seemed natural to all around – like watching a sparrow leap from a branch into the air. No one stares at shocked amazement for THAT event, and no one did for ours.

We never sought each other out outside of class. That was part of our unspoken understanding; this was a special time where we were safe. There was no pressure to follow up on anything after that. We were free to come back the next day and be in a warm and gentle place.

We calmed each other in the midst of one of the most stressful times in a young (pre)teen’s life without saying anything meaningful. Not because we were “soulmates” or were “destined” to be together. Simply because we were both polite, respectful, and dependable.

---

I often think about that young lady.

Not because I want to find out about her, nor do I long for her hand-holding.

I just think that – and maybe this is a silly, romantic wish – that she’s found her safe place in the adult world, where she can simply BE and be pleased with that.

Not BE AWESOME

Not BE AMAZING

Not BE WITTY, ENTERTAINING, DA BOMB

Not BE EPIC WINNING

Just BE.

BE Happy.

---

Photo credit: https://www.flickr.com/photos/jrproductions2012/4629817118/sizes/l/

Some rights reserved by JordanAnthony

The homeless man’s eyes are cloudy blue.

He is a black man.

The cloudy blue mass covering his irises were not natural.

But then, what IS natural, exactly, about being homeless?

The eyes stand out, nonetheless.

I first saw these eyes shortly after he gingerly approached my truck as I was loading groceries into the back seat.  But not at first.

My grandson was playing with a brand-new set of “grabby hands” – inexpensive stretchy rubber hands on long gooey arms – and called out in response to the man’s hesitant but toothy smile and greeting.  “HI I’ve got grrrrabby hands!” was his counter-greeting.

“Oh, you DO,” said the homeless man to him, then gently to me, “Can I have enough to get a sandwich?”, as be pantomimed the action of feeding ones’ self.

Out of years of practice, I responded with a firm but gentle, “No.” and a shake of the head.

I’ve put myself in danger before, giving rides to strangers in parking lots.  I’ve also decided it’s cruel to pay someone to stay on the street.  Here in the 4th largest city in the USA, we have many shelters and many churches to help those who find their way to the places of shelter.  Paying folks on street corners simply keeps them from going to the shelters, and keeps them in danger on the exposed outdoor environments.  So I say, “No” as a rule.

“Ok,” said the man with the cloudy blue eyes.

At that time I hadn’t a clue about those eyes.  We weren’t close enough to see each other well.

“I can pick up THINGS with my grabby hands!” shouted the grandson as the man wandered away and approached another person putting groceries into his vehicle.

---

I finished loading the items into the truck and corralled the grandboy into the back seat as well.

I looked up and over at the man, who was now standing near a grocery trolley collection stall.  His forearms rested on the sun-baked, hot metal pipe of the stall as he seemed to wait to see what the world would send his way.  My heart tugged as it always does, but there was a weariness from him I’d not seen – really seen – in a long time.  I felt like recognised it. I’d felt before as he looked then.

“Gwumpa, I’m thirsty.” came a commanding voice from the back seat.

Thirsty.

I suddenly felt that man’s thirst.

Felt the physical and emotional thirst the man experienced.

Felt the spiritual yearning in that God-sized hole in his heart.

“Hang on, we’ll be back to my place soon,” I said to the grandboy in the back, “but first I need to talk to that fella.”

“Ok gwumpa,” came the response as I got out of the truck and headed over to the ageless man who also somehow seemed as old as time at that moment.

Sometimes the litteun knows my moods well enough to not kick up a fuss when something important is brewing.

---

“Sir?” I said as I approached the man.

He turned to me and that’s when I saw his eyes, those cloudy blue eyes.

Those cloudy blue eyes that had no business on a dark black man who’d spent a very long time in the Southeastern Texas heat.

“Sir, I know it’s hard out here.” I started, and shook his hand with mine; mine that had a small amount of cash folded up in it.  “Would you be ok if I prayed with you?”

He looked at the money in his hand and nodded.  We held the handshake and extended it into the “standard” prayer stance that I knew from decades of church-going.  He seemed to know it as well.  Right hands clasped in handshake, left hands on the other’s shoulder.  It may be just a Southern USA thing, but I’m glad to have it.

---

I couldn’t get two words out before busting into tears.

That’s one of the reasons I don’t go out in pubic – that “gift” of empathy is overwhelming.  I can read people’s body language as clearly as if everyone was wearing billboards and flashing neon signs.  I can see stories laid out in malls, airports, elevators, you name it – and the emotions in those stories can drain an empath as quickly and sometimes as violently as placing a copper wire between the poles of a 9-volt battery.

I powered through the imagined mental images I saw in front of us, and prayed.

---

Home.

That’s the word and place that clamped my throat shut.

I “saw” his need to be “home” – wherever that may be – and we prayed for it.

Not in those words, mind you.  This is a powerful word, and I believe that folks can be nudged “home” to a place that caused them to be homeless in the first place.  It may be a silly belief but I know that some “homes” aren’t healthy.  I don’t want to be emotionally responsible for sending people to an unsafe place.

So instead of praying for him to find his way “home”, God’s guidance nudged me instead to pray that he finds his way to where God wants him to be.

God knows where this man’s home is.  In a million years of personal interaction, I’d never know this place as well as this man’s Creator would know it.

We prayed for God to help him find the place where God wants him to be.

Silently, I prayed that the God-shaped hole in this man’s heart pulls him to a place where he can see where he fits in God’s plan for things.

---

The grandboy and I manoeuvred our way around the busy car park afterwards.  Plenty of people were around, and between cars and foot traffic, it was a while before we made our way to one of the entrance/exits.

And by seeming coincidence (psst – there are no coincidences in this world, especially where people are involved) at the same entrance/exit was that cloudy-blue-eyed ancient black man, stepping forward in what seemed to be a determined walk.

Where is he going?

What is his story now?

Where does God want him to be?

Will he make it to that place?

So many questions.

So many people.

Today in the USA we celebrate a day of thankfulness.  Granted, not all celebrate the aftershock of newcomers to North America (then and now), but the idea of recognising our thankfulness as a group is generally a good thing.

Ideally we’d each be in a constant state of thankfulness, but that’s a different blog post entirely.

I’ll share two items of thankfulness and then will let you be on your way.

1. Family texts

A small portion of our family (my siblings and father) have had a shared text chat going on for over a year now.  At first it was our of necessity, to notify us all at once of mother’s declining health and to offer reassurance in prayer and in other ways.

But over time it has become a home away from home.

We don’t contribute to it often, but when I see that group chat pop up, I know I’m getting a long-distance hug across the miles.  This morning, the first ‘ping’ my phone was a ‘Happy Thanksgiving’ greeting from one of the siblings, followed by an ‘ack’ by the others.

I’m thankful that my family thought to do this.  It’s a regular affirmation that no matter what the winds of change may bring, we have a lifeline that spans distance and time.  When I tease my little sister or brothers on the chat, it’s like time has melted away.  Simply magic.

2. Family tradition

Today was the first thanksgiving dinner presented by daughter, with great assistance by her big brother. The apartment was decorated already for Christmas and it was so comforting.  It was also so nice to hear the prayers of thankfulness (led by the grandboy) each of us offered before eating.

Shortly afterwards I received Happy Thanksgiving messages from my son and daughter-in-law in another town. We exchanged nice chats about our plans for the day and went on to our own business.  It’s always a pleasure to get messages that just say, “Hi” with no drama or hidden messages to decipher behind them.

My daughter’s mother nor I were big on holiday pomp and circumstance as they grew up in our household, so I don’t know from where she inherited the drive for holiday .  My sister has it too, so it’s definitely a genetic disposition + environmental setup thing. These are they who forge and carry on our future family traditions.

I’m thankful there’s hope for our next lines of lineage that the holiday spirit will not die with us olduns who say, “meh” on holiday gatherings.

---

Photo credit: Some rights reserved by Pictoscribe

Mothers are amazing.

They are our first friends in this big, scary world.

They are the ones who teach young ladies how to become young ladies, and the ones who teach young gentlemen how to become young gentlemen.

They are also the ones who teach little boys what happens when the boys start digging in a lady’s purse.  That can be a noisy lesson.

---

My mother was definitely a teacher.  Anyone who knew her for more than ten minutes found this out.

She taught me about the Internet before we had services like Pinterest, Instagram, Wikpedia, blogging, or YouTube.  Even before we had personal computers, even.

Our home – when I was growing up – had all of this.  Well, not globally-connected, but we had this nonetheless.

Our home overflowed with books, music albums, arts & crafts materials, writing materials, you name it.  Poor Dad – he probably felt like he was living in a mix of art museum and public library most of the time.

And in the home, at the centre, was Mom. If we couldn’t find the answer in her library or on the crafting tables, we’d ask her for guidance.

The best part was that Mom was never afraid to say when she didn’t know something.  In these cases, she’d say,

“You know, that’s a good question.  Let’s find out together.”

I can see her now, as folks are being assigned duties up in Heaven.  She’d likely take on the role of a “greeter”, meeting folks as they arrived. I can also see a new, nervous entrant into the Pearly Gates coming up to her to ask what he or she could expect.  And as she’s said so many times here, she’d assure them by saying,

“You know, that’s a good question.  Let’s find out together.”

---

One last thing and I’ll let you back to your day.

This is an old, cliched concept but I’ll subject you to it anyway.

If you take a candle and use it to light other candles, and then blow out the first candle, the room is a bit dimmer.  But the original light is still there.  We can experience how much brighter is the room for having had the original candle there to start this process off.

Such is my mother.

She’s said many times she’s just a vessel passing on the light.  The light is the knowledge that God loves each of is uniquely and deeply, no matter our deeds or misdeeds.

Those who’ve spent time with my mother have been given the amazing gift of this light, as well as the awe-inspiring responsibility that comes with that gift.

I challenge each of us here, as she has regularly challenged me:

What will you do with this gift, now that you are aware of it?

How will you use this gift make this world better for having been here?

She has indeed made this world a bit brighter, a bit better, a bit more loving, for having been here.

---

Photo credit: Some rights reserved by QueenNomad

This is a truck.  A Ford, to be more precise.  An F150, to be even more precise.  A 1997 F150, V8, automatic in a regular cab, short bed chassis with add-on camper top, to be bordering on motorhead precision here.

But that’s not all it is.

It’s a place where stories have been told, and secrets shared which have never left the cab.

It’s a place where hours of meaningful solitude have been racked up, and are still rolling along with the 364,000+ miles on the odometer as daily commutes to and from work are driven.

It’s a place of shelter when I’m in the wild of West Texas, sleeping under the endless stars and thanking my Creator for sights unseen by man for possibly centuries of time.

It’s been the rescue vehicle for many a family member in need, when I’ve been roused from deep slumber or pulled away from work activities due to issues elsewhere.

It’s a place where many a podcast has educated, inspired, and encouraged me to keep on keepin on, even when things were looking bleak.

It’s the place where over 2,200 individual songs on my music-on-demand player have been “liked” during hours and hours of driving.  I only really listen to on-demand music when driving.

---

But mostly, it’s a symbol of rebirth.  Of renewal.  Of maintaining that which can be saved.

A little over 8 years ago I arrived in this place from overseas, penniless, in unspeakable debt, having had family torn asunder and only a hope of income to sustain me.

This was my first tangible purchase meant to get me through the day and off the public transport system.  Walking a mile to and from the home-based bus stop, then another quarter mile or so to and from the downtown work location stop to work in the steamy, sometimes torrential southeastern Texas climate wasn’t helping me to present the case of me being a successful software developer.  And in the post-recession financial climate, presentation was EVERYTHING.

It wasn’t just a work thing I was resolving.  I was beat.  I won’t go into detail about what was happening, but I needed desperately to fix something and keep it fixed.

---

 

So here we are, some 8 years later.

The truck is still running – as am I.

It has its days where things stop working well due to old age or daily wear, and need attention – as do I.

It hopefully has many more days of adventures, of untold stories, of sights to behold – as do I, I pray.