The streets in Clover were my walking path, yesterday. I needed a different scene from that of my neighborhood streets.
There are times that I love to misplace myself … wander around places I haven’t been and have to figure out how to return back to the place I started. It is on these unwalled paths that I find different thoughts and sights and smells.
There was a magnolia tree that stopped and stunned me. It was massive and had some low hung great branches that I am not sure how they defy gravity.
I stood before that tree, mouth slack, boggling at its magnificence. I always think about God in those moments. Actually, I think about God a lot.
Yes, I do. And yes, I can think about God shortly after writing an absurd, borderline, tawdry post on the Skardashian.
It is the way I operate. Reverence and irreverence in almost the same breath.
In many ways, I am a contradiction. My thoughts contradict themselves. Sometimes, my mouth and actions do, too.
I love compassion and reaching out to people, but sometimes find that that is not what I do … at least in all circumstances. I do try. But sometimes, I am a flop. Failure. Asshat.
That has mostly to do with relationships. I have had friendships that have melted away. I have had family relationships that have been and continue to be rocky and awkward. Obviously, these are not bragging points … just the truth.
Is there a “fault” that lies in the relationships? I’d say that most of these relationships have fractured over time. Foiled and spoiled relationships leave a residual behind in me. Sometimes, it is relief. People change and grow apart and maybe not all relationships are meant to last forever. Or there are times when you realize that a relationship is very one-sided in the give-and-take.
Sometimes, you still talk, only less frequently, but in your soul, you know something has been broken. There are times when you never speak, again.
People are different. Many are contradictory. Darn … people are strange.
I know I am.
I bet you are, too.
Sirens are blaring outside, going down Rte 55. There is probably a wreck.
A thought that has been brewing. It has bounced in my head several times. Really, it is a question.
If you knew that you would die nine hours from now, what would you do in those nine hours?
I thought about that as I walked the streets of Clover, looking at the houses, homes where inside, people live their lives.
Would I make a mad dash somewhere? Would I call people and say goodbye? Would I hit every bakery and hamburger joint?
Would I go on about my day as if were normal?
Would I take a nap? A bath? Plant some flowers?
It would be a weird call to make to people, wouldn’t it?
“Hey, this is me. I am going to die in 9 hours. Just wanted to say, ‘hi’ and that I really think you should start coloring your hair again.”
Would I spend the day crying and mourning things I haven’t done that I wanted to do? Would I regret the things I did and things I said?
Would I go for a ride? Head to the woods and go into the forest and bargain for more time or say thank you for the life I had?
Maybe I would write letters to people, my grandchildren.
Or maybe I would tell no one. Just let time play out as time does.
I know this is a big enchilada of a question. But I am glad I got it off my chest, which by the way, in Ireland, I call my breasts my “cushions of consolation.” Yessirrebob. The Irish men are often short, and whenever I hugged a man, especially a short priest, their head would hit in the valley between my two peaks.
I was lucky I never got motorboat by the parish priest. But because the priest were celebrate and I thought, lonely, I felt it my duty as a woman and spiritual person, to offer them my cushions of consolation
Egad, where that came from, I don’t know.
Just thought you should know.