Floating in a Coffee Cup

Monday, the toughest day of the week for me, is followed by Tuesday.  Though I engage with the world a little easier on Tuesday, I still feel as though I would like to spend the day floating in a coffee cup.  Not just for the extra shot of caffeine, but because floating is a state of pure relaxation.   

If you look at the picture at the top of my blog, you’ll see my favorite aqua colored coffee cup.  It’s a large cup that holds double what a typical coffee cup does.  I can imagine placing an expanded version of it on my patio and climbing in, much like a hot tub.  The coffee cup is much deeper though, and my feet would be unable to touch.  I could slip a pastel colored noodle beneath my legs and float from side to side, or I could use my own buoyancy and lie in the middle of the cup, close my eyes, and enjoy the peaceful bob. 

It probably wouldn’t take very long for the caffeine contaminated water to seep into the pores of my skin and energize me to the point that floating would no longer be relaxing.  So in hindsight, floating in a cup full of coffee would probably not be such a good idea.  It’s a fun exercise though, thinking about silly or impossible things.  It does get the creative juices flowing and helps me to face the day. 

Okay blank page, here I come.    

It's Monday...Again

Back of the Bus

Imagine, if you will, leaving a cruise ship for a day excursion into Progresso, Mexico.  The ship has docked at the end of a three-mile long pier leaving the only transportation into town by way of bus.  Viewing the pier from the deck shortly after breakfast, you note the pool and bar area that lead to a small shopping center.  In front of the shopping center is a line of buses waiting to take those interested parties into town for shopping or sightseeing.  You hurry back to your room to gather the items needed for your excursion, collect the family, and head toward the elevator that will take you to the exit doors in the lower bowels of the ship.

Exiting the ship entails multiple pictures by the cruise line followed by catching up with two twenty-year-old boys who, in Mexico, are of drinking age and have shots waiting for you when you reach the bar area.  Slamming those down on top of eggs and bacon, you drag them away from the alcohol and through the shopping center toward the local transportation that will take you into town.  By the time you make it to the bus stop, it appears all the luxury buses have departed, leaving only a ramshackle shell with wheels.  

Looking at one another with trepidation (yes, if you haven’t figured it out by now, this is not a fictional story but one that our family actually encountered), we climbed the rusty stairs and entered the bus.  Saying it was on its last leg is being kind.  The seats, doubles on each side, had foam and springs escaping from their worn, stained cloth bodies.  They were covered with plastic, we could only assume, actually, let’s not go there.  There was plastic draped over the window openings as well.  Any glass that had once been there was long gone.  We followed the boys to the bench seat at the very back of the bus.

As we gently sat on the plastic covering, we chuckled nervously.  The ride was only three miles, how bad could it be?  Once the bus was full, the driver released the clutch, sending the bus rolling forward while our bodies slammed backward against the plastic bench behind us.  The rickety vehicle slowly moved forward, circled the parking lot, and made a creaky turn onto the pier, heading toward town.  With the boys laughing, my husband and I clasped each other’s hands and said silent prayers that we would make it the three miles in this dilapidated hunk of junk.

Wind blew in through the open windows sending the loose plastic dancing in its wake.  The view of the turquoise water stretching out on either side of the pier should have given us peace, but before we could enjoy the scenery, the front of the bus rolled over a speed bump the size of Mount Vesuvius.  When the back of the bus reached the mountain, all four of our bodies went airborne, butts leaving the seats and everyone’s head but mine (being short comes in handy sometimes) hitting the ceiling before returning with a lame thump onto the permanently indented bench beneath us.  Again, nervous laughter filled the air.  By the time we regained breathing rights, the second speed bump was beneath us and up in the air we traveled again.  There were three speed bumps in all.  At this point, part of me wished we’d stayed at the bar.  Finally, at what seemed an hour later, we arrived at the opposite end of the three-mile pier, unloaded ourselves, and walked away as quickly as possible. 

I’m sure that you have your own “back of the bus” story.  If not, my suggestion to you is that when it does happen, buy another round of shots at the bar and stay close to the boat!     

 

Beep…Leave a Message

I grew up with a rotary dial phone.  Mine was pumpkin orange.  I’m not sharing this to date myself but to share the simplicity of that particular device.  In fact, you only had to dial the last four numbers of the nine-digit number to reach any other phone in town.  It made it easy to remember thirty different phone numbers in your head at one time.  As a teenager, I exhausted many hours on our one family phone line jabbering with my friends.  There were no answering machines at that time.  If no one was home to answer the phone, it would ring on in perpetual anticipation until the caller made the disconnection.  It left us free to detach from the world of technology every time we left our house and to associate with people the old-fashioned way.

The time for such phone number memorization is over.  There are only two or three phone numbers that I can recall at this very moment.  My own cell phone number is not included among those.  I don’t have to remember them.  My cell phone recalls every number with the flick of a fingertip.  Most of my conversations aren’t carried through various towers by voice, they’re accomplished through text.  I feel pressure leaving the house without my phone in my purse or my pocket because I might miss an attempted connection. 

People talk and text constantly.  We answer our phones in restaurants, malls, and movie theaters.  People text in class, in the middle of face-to-face conversations with others, and while driving a two thousand pound car down the highway.  Sadly, the latter takes lives.  How have we become so dependent on digital gadgetry?  We are so intent on connecting with those in our cell phone directory that we tend to ignore those standing or sitting beside us.  We become self-absorbed and hardened to the world around us. 

I have learned through experience that the most important thing in this world is its people.  It doesn’t matter whether we’re young, old, rich, poor, extraverted or introverted.  Neither race nor religion matters.  People matter.  You matter.  The person next to you matters.  Will you put your phone down to look your neighbor in the eye?  A smile or a small touch can change someone’s day or change their outlook.  A kind word can has the power to change someone’s self-worth. 

It only takes a moment to acknowledge someone else.  Today, I am leaving my phone at home.  If you call, you’re hear my request for you to leave a message following the beep.  Please do.  I will get back with you.  Today my attention will be focused on those who God puts in my path.  Maybe tonight, I’ll have a new phone number to add to my directory.  And if not, I’ll be content knowing that today, I put others before myself.

Eyeliner for Crayons

Ladies, for most of us, each day usually starts out the same way.  We shower, shave, apply our makeup, hair products, and blow dryer.  We dress, apply deodorant, and top off the outfit with the appropriate jewelry accompaniments.  We then inhale breakfast and if we scheduled enough time (most likely not) sit down to enjoy a cup of coffee and a brief perusal of the newspaper before climbing in the car and heading off to work.  It’s another day invested in corporate America.

And weekends, what’s considered our time is usually spent catching up on everything that our day job prevents us from achieving during the work week.  It’s an exhausting circle of replication.

This was my life before letting go of the corporate day job with the repetitive schedule for my dream job of full time writing.  I can now set my own hours, which are no doubt more than my corporate hours were, but they are my choice to schedule.  I can work when my creativity level is highest and not just during an allotted time frame. 

I can climb out of bed and have breakfast in my screened Florida room while listening to the birds chatter within the surrounding greenery of our house.  I can read the paper, converse with my husband, give my pups some hands-on loving, and then head to my office – a mere steps away still wearing my pajamas and with my hair sticking straight up (if I want to)!  I don’t have to log personal, sick, or vacation time.  I can talk things through or plan things out with my business partner husband, but we have no annual reviews.  However, we do have a business plan that keeps us on track and allows us to enjoy lunch and cheap movie dates on Tuesday afternoons.

So yes, I have traded in my eyeliner for crayons.  The crayons referred to here are the keys of my computer that allow me to add color and vibrancy to my fictional stories.  They are bright and colorful worlds just waiting for guidance.  The bigger the crayon box, the better!

My wish for you is that you can dream big and trade in your eyeliner for crayons too.

Super Heroes Wear Floaties

Where would we be without our Super Heroes? 

·         Batman & Robin – as soon as the bat phone rings or the bat light shines, Bruce Wayne and Dick Grayson don their suits to take on Gotham City with the ever intensifying, yet coolest modes of transportation.

·         Captain America – enhanced to the peak of human perfection by an experimental serum, Steve Rogers is armed with an indestructible, boomerang-like shield.  It’s a weapon that can both destroy and defend as each crisis dictates.

·         The Incredible Hulk - when angered, Dr. Bruce Banner’s congenial persona explodes into a gigantic, green, irradiated, mutated humanoid monster with incredible strength.  Evil doers need beware.

·         Spiderman, after suffering a radioactive spider bite, Peter Parker is quick to find himself swinging off buildings with his web-shooters, using his spider sense, and fighting crime in every way he can (when he’s not in school).

·         Superman, one of the original super heroes, Clark Kent poses as an employee at the Daily Planet newspaper by day.  By night however, he is the mask wearing, cape flapping, Lois Lane courting, steel bodied, speeding bullet of a crime stopper.

·         Thor – this hammer wielding god is the perfect specimen of manliness (for the ladies), with thunder, lightning, storms, oak trees, strength, the protection of mankind, and also hallowing, healing and fertility (for the men).

Though each the above are viable stars and rake in movie money hand over fist (especially when joining forces), my favorite Super Hero is my grandson.  He has all the costumes, which he is unafraid of mixing and matching to create his own brand of super hero capabilities.  It’s unbeknownst to him that this can be a little confusing for those around him to compete against.  Regardless, his partner in crime, Princess Leia (the family pup), wreak havoc upon the neighborhood together as they disperse their own brand of super heroism - tough as nails until snack time.  My little super hero still takes the occasional nap, converses only until what needs to be communicated is complete, loves his Super Hero bedroom, and yes, wears floaties in the pool.  

The Hands of Life

I look down at my hands on the keyboard as my fingers dance over the keys on a mission to spill words onto the page.  Hands are tiny things of wonder when a newborn babe latches onto your finger, as well as wrinkled, age-spotted laborers peacefully crossed over the chest of your 101 year old grandmother as she is laid to rest.  From beginning to end, they are everything in between. 

As small children, they touch toys and books, pets and dirt, walls and doors, mom and dad. 

As adolescence, they touch sports gear and homework, sweepers and lawn mowers, cell phones and IPods, steering wheels and keyboards, and clasp tightly with the hand of someone they’ve become smitten with.

As adults, they caress loved ones, touch their children in love or discipline, work to protect a job of choice, and are used tirelessly throughout the course of each day. 

At any age, our hands mirror in prayer, rest across our hearts in patriotism, clap in our joy, wipe away our tears or those of others, hug those around us, stroke our pets, clasp the faces of loved ones, twist in anguish, express emotion, play musical instruments, build something from scratch, tear it down, paint, draw, write, and the list goes on and on and on.

Through this writing, I’ve realized what my hands represent and how I need to put them to better use.  There are many things my hands can do that they are not.  As I mirror them in prayer, I will ask God for more responsibility where my hands are concerned.  May they be blessed and used as instruments of love in this broken world.

What special things are your hands responsible for?  If you could make them do something, anything, what would it be?