What's in originality's DNA?
My guess is its nucleotide is courage.
What's in originality's DNA?
My guess is its nucleotide is courage.
Your first hop. It's up slightly and to a woody-ledge substrate that looks and smells like home, yet also feels uncomfortably not like it. You pause, adjusting your grip and pretend to look purposely at the hue-filled horizon but even its august nature is no balm for your swirling anxiety swirling inside. Above you creating circles of peace is a Red-tailed Hawk, adrift on an invisible net of currents. Below you is a pine tree-filled valley, falling away beyond the outcropping of ancient rock steadfastly wearing time as time wills. Your next step is a brief down, onto a craggy yet sturdy horizontal wooden bar of oak. Your mind tells you this is unsafe: turnaround, stay. But your instincts are your master and they march you into the unknown. A fountain of mid-summer air invites itself into the next moment, moving trees, branches, and leaves and your feathers. Your talons clutch the oak branch more tightly as all of nature looks on and wonders if courage made your heart or doubt made your mind. As the air turbulence reverberates throughout your fortress structure, you extend your wings above your head to stay on the balance beam until calm takes its turn by your side. You turn your head and glance at the only home you've ever known. You pause. And return your focus to the unknown ahead. If you spread your wings, you will what? If you do not spread your wings, you will what? If you do not move?
Toeing the starting line is one moment in time. The next is sometimes filled with getting to the finish line, and that's where things get sideways. Success in any venture -- whether or not you get the results you hoped and worked for -- is incumbent upon leaving the starting line behind and putting your whole self into the very next step, and every subsequent step along way.
Easier said than done but not impossible, focusing on each moment and enjoying each step will bring you home to yourself.
Album titles. The good ones are a message in a bottle of sorts. Just like a small piece of paper inside a hollow cookie that you won't eat or a few words on the back of a bottle cap that hit the spot.
Inspiration is everywhere and when you let your guard down you can see it then feel it and maybe even act upon it.
Do you have a calvary? A community that you can call on when you need help, because we all need some of that from time to time?
Superman had his earthly parents. And Lois. Spiderman ... Aunt May, Gwen, Robbie, and Mary Jane Watson. (Sure, they're heroes from comic books but their creators realized the truth: even the strongest of us need backup now and then.)
Life is hard sometimes and self-sufficiency is fine but so is balance and self-awareness and realizing that asking for help isn't a sign of weakness but an act of courage, humility and smarts.
I'm knocking on your bedroom door. You don't have to open it, just let my question come in:
What is the distance between you and your partner when you put your heads down on your pillows? The number a ruler would reveal is irrelevant because you're close. Very close.
Don't go to sleep on closeness. Never look at it as just plain ordinary. Closeness is never ordinary. Closeness is an unspoken agreement. It says: here I am, next to you. I'm right here and that means there still must be time for a kind word, a loving word, a gentle touch; there's still time to remind me that you care. You don't even need 20-seconds of insane courage to say something, to do something.
You just need 20 seconds.
Showers at the YMCA are not a place of privacy; they are, after all, in a locker room. Yet, today, there was a man at this intersection of dirty and clean using his time to wash as also a time to sing.
As warm water pitter-pattered onto my head, my ears soaked-in this man's song. Culturally, it sounded Native American; its words and melody were prayer-like. It wasn't too loud or too soft and he wasn't singing it to anyone else around him.
Yet it felt like he was sharing his music with someone: his God, a friend lost, a spouse, a parent, a memory.
He had a song to sing and he was brave enough to sing it.
Holding my hot, morning coffee in one hand while repositioning a wayward cardboard box near the grocery store recycle bin with the other, I look up.
"Can you help me?"
I turn towards a well-coifed man wearing largish, white-rimmed sunglasses speaking to me in an Australian brogue.
"Can you help me with an injured pigeon?"
There's a request you don't hear every day.
"I had him once and he got away. He flew towards the parking lot."
This makes me self-conscious; if I weren't standing within Boulder city limits, I'd be more so. As I walk alongside this concerned citizen nearing the first row of parked cars, I try to silence the part of me that's feeling embarrassed to rescue a pigeon in plain sight. A few strides more and we spot the bird. A few more strides and the Aussie swoops in and grabs him.
"His leg's not looking so good."
His leg looks broken.
"What should we do?"
Based upon the choice of pronouns, I am now fully involved. A passerby overhears the question, sees the bird in hand, and suggests that we call the Greenwood Wildlife Rehabilitation Center. I remember the wayward cardboard box and we head over to retrieve it; conveniently, it comes with a cardboard lid. Once the pigeon is tucked away within safe, temporary confines, I introduce myself.
"I'm waiting for my car," says Jeremy. "It's over at the stereo store. Do you know about how far away the Rehabilitation Center is?"
I motion towards Whole Pets at the far end of the parking lot. I tell Jeremy that they have info on Greenwood so he heads over while I sip still-warm coffee and keep watch over the box and its hidden contents. Odds are 50/50 that I'll be putting work on hold to drive a pigeon who-knows-how-many miles up the road. Standing outside in shirtsleeves on a 50-degree January morning, my Type A personality is somehow OK with it but only by the slimmest of margins.
"I got the number," mentions Jeremy walking up.
Before he can dial it, his phone rings. The stereo work on Jeremy's car is completed ahead of schedule. We look at one another.
"I can take her," blinks the Aussie.
Although I would have, I don't argue. Instead, I offer to buy Jeremy a morning beverage for the road.
"Maybe next time I see you here," he says.
I tuck the box into the hatch of his Subaru, we shake hands, and the de facto ambulance, driver and patient zoom away. As I head off to meet my daily responsibilities, the story about the kid on the beach throwing starfish--one by one--back into the ocean pops into my head. Cheers to giving a damn, cheers to Jeremy.