Companionship

Autumn has arrived wrapped in her cloak of nutmeg and gold. She's brought with her more surprises than I expected....and not all of them lovely. However, I've retreated a bit from the whirlwind and sometimes taking two steps back and pausing--reveals.

This may look like an average kitchen windowsill. Usually littered with treasures from the garden, wine corks and the bits and odds that hover for a moment before finding their way back where they belong. I was washing up after lunch and saw movement. If you look closely....

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Yes, there's a stinkbug there. Clinging to the blossom like a raft in the midst of an ocean of stainless steel, glass and enamel. I raised my hand......and stopped. In your own corner of the world you may be unaware (shamelessly) that we've had a storm of stink bugs here in Pennsylvania. Swarms have invaded our homes, flown through the vents in our vehicles, clung to hair and blouse to the point of swatting and swearing inside markets and shops. They're everywhere.

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I've done my share of smashing and stomping, more than one stinkie has been flushed. But this particular afternoon, I was in a forgiving state of mind. Tired....and a bit lonely. I made him a deal. If he stayed on the flowers, he could live. I'd even name him.

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Stanly.

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I mean, really--what if today he was going to die? (how long do those suckers live anyway?) What if he had finally achieved his short life's goal of locating something lovely and natural in this concrete world?

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Stanly, sit. Stay. Good boy.

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He was there the next day. I watched him go from one flower to the next, his stick-like legs carefully grasping the petals. I whispered goodnight to him as I turned off the light.

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It's been eight days. I've told him all about my troubles. He even watched me shed a tear or two. I think he disapproved of my late night cheese raids--woke the poor chap up. I've chopped and roasted, baked and burned....all under the watchful eye of Stanly. Surprising camaraderie. Company.

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It's raining today. The windows shimmer with liquid light. Stanly and I are braising chicken, sausages and onions. Later he can supervise while I roast the butternut squash with rosemary and seasalt. (an addiction at this time of year)

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I didn't know. How much I needed company.

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No judgement, no comments, no platitudes or rebukes. Just company.

Persevere

The human being amazes me. Not for its capacity for creativity or beauty or science....not for advancement or achievement or depravity.....but for its ability to endure.

Scar tissue.

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Twisted lumps of whitened flesh that feel nothing. Severed nerve endings dangle uselessly, sending no messages....communicating nothing. I have a rather smashing scar on my right bicep. I was flying a kite as a child and while laughing and looking up to the clouds as I was running.....I crashed headlong into a barbed wire fence. The best thing about this particular macula is that as I lived on a ranch, miles from the closest doctor, after the original trip to be stitched up, a return for the "snipping" was deemed unnecessary by ye old dad. Perhaps it was a bit premature, but he thought the gash had healed well enough and sliced through the thread. It took a bit of yanking. Each and every spot that needle had pierced my skin, pulling filament behind--left a scar along side the laceration. Quite frankenstein, I assure you. Looks great with a tan. (and yes, I have told gawking strangers that I got it during a knife fight in Hong Kong...)

I've known many over the years who, thanks to sports and motorcycles and teenage antics, boast of scars much greater than mine. Did it deter them? No. The physical pain that wrecked through their bodies at the time of the injury was soon forgotten. The alabaster disfigurement becoming a badge of glory worn with pride during future episodes of genius judgement. Some might say this ability to omit physical pain is the reason we actually give birth to more than one child....

I still fly kites.

There are some scars, however, that are not so simply dismissed. They lay unseen, hidden beneath our pulsing flesh...jagged holes in our soul. These we do not boast about.

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They change the color of the sky.

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Yet the agony, no matter how grievous, doesn't kill us. At some point we fear it might......and then the sun rises.

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.........

The human being places bare feet on the cold floor. There is dust on the nightstand. Icy water sluices over the sink, puddles about the base. The click of the medicine cabinet seems to echo. Stare at the bedroom doors across the hall...small heads and soft hearts sleeping there still. A teddy bear on the floor. Plug in the iron, drape the skirt over the pale blue stained board.....breathe.

One step, then another. And then another.

Someone once said, "When you have no idea what to do....just do what comes next."