Donkey Zonk

Mid-morning game shows are woven into the fabric of my childhood. 

Accordingly, my metaphors often come from  Let's Make A Deal or The Price is Right as much as  birds, bees and baby's breath. 

I remember thinking the lucky winner of a donkey behind Door #3 got to keep it and I wondered how they got this exciting prize back home. 

As a child, I didn't understand why it was a bad prize. It seemed to me then like pretty much the best prize ever.  

My parents already had a kitchen and a car but we didn't have a donkey or goat. 

Some shows referred to these so-called prizes as zonks. 

There's even a mathematic principle for the probability of ending up with a zonk.  

During my research, I read that some folks did indeed keep their zonk.  

I think those people - the zonk-keepers - are good sports and probably pretty interesting people to get to know. 

Even as I write this, I am looking for first hand accounts of domesticated zonks. 

Why am I telling you this?

 I'm not. 

I'm reminding me. 

This last quarter of the year, every door has seemed to hide a donkey or a zonk. 

There have been lots of zonks. Even more donkeys. 

One by one, I stuff them into my tiny toaster of a car and carry them home with me. 

Slowly ... slowly,  they become domesticated blessings. 

It requires squinting one eye to read the tiny inscriptions of gratitude aloud. 

:: some days a short mantra ... every day a litany ::

This year, an unlit, undecorated Christmas tree looks out the living room window over the remains of a large and fallen tree. 

I don't know when we'll get to either one of them. 

But everyday, between the boughs of pine, life waits to be unwrapped again. 

Life that is busy and brimming full of things to do, things we have to do, things we get to do...  I recite gratitude for all of it. 

I think about the donkeys of Christmas and Easter - two different donkeys, never stage play stars but not zonks either. 

Humble beasts in a holy play; always necessary for the narrative, to carry hope forward to birth or certain death...

They bear burdens. They bear hope.  Just like we do. 

And - hee haw - how they laugh. 

Maybe we ought, too. 

Whatever on Wednesdays: An Interruption

I interrupt my regularly scheduled "Writers on Wednesdays" to say that I actually hate it and I'm not planning to continue the schtick. 

And... I hate gimmicks ... opportunistic alliteration, too.

Yet, in an effort to be " a better writer " - or a more consistent one - in order to to do what it seems like I am "supposed " to be doing- I fall into these traps time and again.  ( re: Patheos )

I've realized I'm just not interested in building the typical platforms or structures associated with writing success - or much of anything at all really - with my words. 

It's not how writing works for me. 

It could. I realize that. 

I could work at writing and make it work for me. But, I don't want to. 

I haven't found words for what I find fulfilling about writing...yet. Maybe it's purpose that eludes me. 

Maybe I'm waiting on a story worth telling - or the right time to tell the ones I know. 

I enjoy writing, capturing truths and humor. 

Reading back over chronicled days has been helpful and informative in my journey.  

But... 

I've studied many of the end roads and don't desire those destinations for myself. 

I don't want to market and promote myself. 

I've always liked to say "Write your plans in pencil". I don't want to ink-down ideals I may grow to see differently. 

I don't want a microphone or a three-part series. 

Knowing what you don't want is an important step in figuring out what you do. 

During this season, the things I have to say are best shared one-on-one, in forums that welcome deeper conversations and accountability from those who hear from me. 

I'm more interested in good connections  than a large following or social media presence. I can't imagine building a follower base so large that replying to each comment takes a full day. (With deep respect for all my friends who do just that.) I already run over the margins of every given day.  

Still, I will share these words all the same. 

That's the why I'm looking for. 

Q: Why hit publish at all - if I'm not building anything?

A:I am compelled to. 

It's hardly an answer, but it's the only one I've got so far. 

Hands in my pockets, I roll my writer's twopence between my fingers and shuffle down the road. 

Perhaps I'll find something good to spend it on. 

Maybe there's a destination somewhere ahead worth building a road to,

Maybe I'll discover it. 

I'm content if I don't. 

Meanwhile, what I'm saying today is, sometimes I feel like talking about authors I admire. 

When I do, it isn't always Wednesday. 

Internet Wisdom & Inspirational Posts

 

The nature of my work brings me in contact with many interesting places on the internet.  I have likened it to visiting EPCOT. I learn about various cultures. I learn hip, new lingo that my teenager immediately forbids me to use. And I discover many interesting ways that people have found to use technology.

 I love it. 

Recently, I came across a bot that struck a chord with me. Not only because it is humorous, but also because it touches on an interesting phenomenon I've noticed online: Internet Wisdom & Inspirational Posts 

I am old enough to remember when motivational posters featuring one large inspirational word, along with that word's definition and a scenic photo against a black background, were all the rage in office decor. <photo> 

I remember, too, the trend in decorating with demotivational posters, sarcastic or satire versions of the same style. <photo>

And now, we decorate cyberspace with inspiration of all kinds. 

We all come across it. Memes, GIFS or graphics with inspirational quotes and images abound. I have more screenshots of humor or inspiration saved in my phone's photo albums than pictures of actual people and places I love... probably. 

When I went through a messy divorce several years ago, I began to see the posts as ironic. 

Sometimes, with a chuckle, I would save an image knowing full well my ex would likely relate the post to me in the same way I was relating it to him. Other times, a post was too mean-spirited for me to save, and yet I would still feel the sting as if it were pointed at me…figuring, if he saw the same post, it would be. 

Later, there was  some drama amongst friends. Onlookers who knew what was going on, understood that the internet wisdom being vague-posted between both parties were just passive-aggressive pot shots; that inspirational bible verse was really a silent slap in the face.

This is how we humans like to be sometimes. 

And then, there are those with aspirations of content creation who just regurgitate the same content in new font, creating a sea of platitudes and false positivity. 

On a low frequency, this content serves as "signs from the universe" to some and affirmation of bad choices or behavior to others. 

While helpful reminders are abundant, so too is a resounding, virtual  "Follow Your Heart" to the whole world.  Sometimes necessary nuance is left out. 

That can be dangerous. Or foolish. Or both. 

And so, when I learned about InspiroBot, I loved the satire; not to mention the blind validation this bot offers my own observations. 

I promptly wasted a good half hour on it, and - despite knowing in advance the content is randomly generated and mostly drivel - I found it irresistible not to save the inspirational posters like so many cookie fortunes.  

Enjoy my little gallery, save any you find applicable, and then, have fun making some of your own

And remember, if you read it on the internet, it simply must be true... for someone... maybe - but not always you. 

InspiroBot Album of Wisdom & Inspiration 

Go To InspiroBot > > > https://inspirobot.me/

::: dumbstruck :::

Doot, doot, doo, lookin' out my back door

One month ago today, Helene blew through town and took my words away. 

I wanted to use "awestruck" as my title. It's a prettier word and certainly applies in many ways, but "dumbstruck" is even more true.

dumb*struck- adjective: made silent by astonishment  

Astonishment. 

Yes. 

I've been using the term "shell shock" a lot, too. Because, around here, it looks - and feels - like a hundred thousand pipe bombs have gone off. 

From the linked definition 

…a reaction to the intensity of the bombardment and fighting that produced helplessness, which could manifest as panic, fear, flight, or an inability to reason, sleep, walk, or talk.

Bombardment. 

Yes, exactly. 

My daughter sometimes calls me a "yapper" - in fact, one time, she crowned me Mayor of Yapper Island. I'm sure she means it affectionately.  (I show my appreciation by adding whatever new lingo she introduces me to into my own vocabulary. )

But, lately, I've just needed to be quiet for awhile, to go slow with me.

I haven't had the words, or energy, and especially not the clarity to do much more than take one day at a time.

And that has been exactly what's been happening.

They just keep arriving, like waves at high tide.

The sun continues to rise, day after day, again and again, one at a time.

Birthdays came amidst fallen trees.

Life resumed with or without power or internet connection.

It has been a slow walk back to life as we know it, not to mention adjusting to ways of life that are new to us.

Our very terrain has changed.

There have been complaints, sure - but oh, there has been so much community.

I've been trying to take it all in.

I've lived long enough to understand the forgetfulness of man.

Sadly, eventually, after the dust clears and the debris is hauled away, our best behavior may be tucked away until the next disaster, like so many post nine-eleven American flags.

I wish the cuts needn't be so deep for our kindnesses to surface.

So I build a little altar of remembrance, using words as altar stones. 

When I meander through my history, as I am want to do, these little altars remind me of God's goodness in my life, and the glowing potential of man. 

Today, a month after the storm, I'm starting to find where they've been scattered. 

I'm picking them up to lay them back down. 

One of the first things I found to say was : There's a tree on our shed, but not on our heads. 

We have a lot to be grateful for.  (yes, there was rhyming, much to my own chagrin) 

Maybe I'll have more to say soon - maybe I'll write about writers again this Wednesday. I don't know, we'll see what tomorrow holds. 

"After all, tomorrow is another day" ~Scarlet  (with only DVDs to watch for a while, Riley has been to Tara and back again... and met with the wizard of Oz) 

Until then, here's a song: 

Twenty-Five

Twenty-five years ago, I started a new school from which I am never expected to graduate: Chandler Brice Brewer was born. 

My professor was younger than me. In fact, he was only minutes old when the lessons began. 

He came bearing the gift of questions and answers, metaphors and similes. 

He was wrapped in the invitation to explore imagination.  

Why was his resistance to sleep so strong, and what special magic did car rides possess to override this wide-eyed disposition? 

When was the last of each milestone and was I paying close enough attention? 

Where did the time go? 

Who knew how much a heart could expand?

Until I was enrolled, I only understood a parent's love as concept. 

Loving my own child was different than teaching, tutoring, and even 'big-sistering' countless children before. 

Not only did I gain new insight into what it means to love a child, I also began to understand what it means to be loved as a child, in the earthly realm of Momma and Daddy, as well as that higher, capital letter realm of Child and Father. 

It is something I hope my own children come to understand deeply  about themselves - and stand on when life feels like quicksand. 

Chandler is an adult now with a family of his own.  I do my best to be "on standby,” not standing in the way. 

And yet- I'm always internally poised to dive in if I am needed. Always will be. 

Happy Birthday, Chandler

Thank you for all you've taught -and are teaching- me. 

I love love love you, much, much, muchly. 

And I always will be. 

Love, 

Momma

Writers on Wednesday: O. Henry [William Sydney Porter]

Last Wednesday, having finished a favorite audiobook by a favorite author, I made writing about writers on Wednesday my goal. 

However,  I opted to save Edna Ferber, my inspiration for writing the series, for a future Wednesday, because the date was September 11 and my mind has linked the events of that day in 2001 forever with The Bridge of San Luis Rey and Thornton Wilder's approach to humanity. 

I am eschewing Edna again this week, because I realized this week that September 11 is also  the birthday of William Sydney Porter - better known to the world as O. Henry.  Had I a [deeper voice and an almanac] I may have known it sooner. 

O. Henry is one of my all-time, top-shelf favorite authors, and I love William Sydney Porter for the larger-than-life lore, too. 

Most of the authors I adore have long been on the other side of eternity. Sufficient biographies exist and it isn't my intent to write new ones. Go - delve into the material that has already been conveniently compiled - or just glance their [Wikipedia page]. 

Then let them tell you stories. 

I have always appreciated short stories, going as far back as the quick vignettes on Sesame Street. 

Blame my attention span. 

As I was raising (and homeschooling) my children, a large part of my reading time was our reading time. I read aloud from children's books and classics in the front seat of the car as we travelled or the hallway in between their bedrooms at bedtime.  I wouldn't change a thing.  

Short story collections fit perfectly into the thimble of time leftover for personal use. 

I discovered countless authors through short story anthologies. 

My own writing style has been influenced by short form in many ways. 

“I'll give you the whole secret to short story writing. Here it is. Rule 1: Write stories that please yourself. There is no Rule 2.”
― O. Henry

I still have the first O. Henry collection I bought many years ago, found in one of my favorite old bookstores down by the river in Beaufort, SC. 

I wanted a library full of books, especially old ones with their papery perfume and ancient wisdom. I found O. Henry's familiar name on the cracking orange spines of a two volume set as good a start as any.

“Each of us, when our day's work is done, must seek our ideal, whether it be love or pinochle or lobster à la Newburg, or the sweet silence of the musty bookshelves.”
― O. Henry

I don't recall if the library seeds came before or after my blog Ordinary Life -longtime onlookers know I've kept more blogs than a fur coat of Dalmatians- and the name wasn't a direct reference to any one factor. But O. Henry's [delight over ordinary things] is sympatico in spirit. 

“There are stories in everything. I've got some of my best yarns from park benches, lampposts, and newspaper stands.”
― O. Henry

One of my favorite things about reading O. Henry is discovering the way the world was before me. Often ways that are no longer commonplace but were as normal as [dandelions in salad] once upon a time. 

I also like the current of writer's life humming through his writing. The fourth wall is often broken or ignored altogether and the reader is trusted to always catch his meaning. 

I remember learning, a long, long time ago, that Mickey's Christmas Carol was based on real stories from books. And so, I was an early fan of [The Gift of the Magi. 

It was much later, and thanks to [Bill Myers]  I discovered [The Last Leaf] was written by the same author. 

And that is likely where my greater discovery of O. Henry's works began. 

The names of authors and books inside other books are highly contagious. 

“It would seem that the story is ended, instead of begun; that the close of a tragedy and the climax of a romance have covered the ground of interest; but, to the more curious reader it shall be some slight instruction to trace the close threads that underlie the ingenuous web of circumstances.”
― O. Henry, O. Henry: The Complete Works

I can't list here all of O. Henry's stories I've read - again, I sometimes neglect the ones I haven't gotten to for another round with the ones I love. Right now, I'm listening through [Waifs and Strays] via LibriVox, mostly while driving. 

And every year, on the Fourth of July, it is my own tradition to listen to [The Fourth in Salvador]

Each time I visit a new-to-me story - by O. Henry or any favorite author - I am always sorry I didn't arrive sooner. 

"And most wonderful of all are words, and how they make friends one with another, being oft associated, until not even obituary notices them do part.”― O. Henry, Whirligigs

One thing I learned about O. Henry as I was readying to write this is that he died at the age of 47 from diabetes. That's less than a stone's throw from my own age.  His complete life and body of work before the benefit of fifty. 

“The true adventurer goes forth aimless and uncalculating to meet and greet unknown fate. A fine example was the Prodigal Son — when he started back home.” ― O. Henry, The Green Door

How very glad I am he didn't dillydally. Time, being as it is, of the essence. 

“The most notable thing about Time is that it is so purely relative. A large amount of reminiscence is, by common consent, conceded to the drowning man; and it is not past belief that one may review an entire courtship while removing one's gloves.”― O. Henry

“If a person has lived through war, poverty and love, he has lived a full life”
― O. Henry

“We can't buy one minute of time with cash; if we could, rich people would live longer.” -O. Henry

Hidden Things

 I've been hiding some things. 

I plan to keep hiding them, too. 

If you would like to see the things that I've been hiding, go [ here ] 

For a long time, my inner-child was sitting at the table in a stand-off with the cold spinach of unfinished projects.

Whether the projects turned out terribly or something changed in my motivation, I had a lot of elements I felt I had to "put to good use" before I was "allowed" to start something new. (Metaphor, much?) 

Perfectly good half-painted canvases in the top of my closet, abandoned when I was, waited for new direction.

Stacks of magazines and clipped collage words were in need of sorting and stringing together.

Dreggs of leftover paint in every hue waited to be shaken with enough vigor to reconstitute a rainbow.

:: Little by little, while she was looking away, I scooped forkfuls from her plate and sent her out to play::

I spent more than two weeks deciphering the archeology and anthropology of earlier forms of me, myself and my mediocre art. 

And then - I embraced the VC  *vomit copy, for the uninitiated* 

Stuck between an inability to put new ideas on old canvases and throwing perfectly good art supplies away,  I chose deus ex machina and turned the whole thing into a game. 

Using my mini thermal printer, I tagged the bad old art and slapped finishing touches on the incomplete stuff. Then I hid them all around town and called it scavenged art 

I made a few new pieces from the stock pile of spent supplies and took them with me out of town to hide. I sent other pieces in the mail to be hidden around the towns of my friends and family. I hid them in places that were meaningful to me. I hid some with Riley in a caper Downtown. 

She said she felt like a criminal... 

It didn't matter whether the pieces were found since they had been as good as trash. 

But - on the day that the first person found art and connected with me? That was a fantastic day. 

Fantastic. 

And so, as it often goes, a string of new beginnings was affixed all along to the old kite I let fly.

I've been making new things to hide, to brighten other people's day and make my own more interactive.

I know I did not invent this wheel. Rather- in the same spirit of recent [permission slips granted to me by me to harmonize] I'm allowing myself to join the fun. 

Over the years, we've participated in various rock hiding and hunting groups. The kids and I took it a step further with all the traveling we used to do, hiding different objects and "kindness cards" tagged with our instagram account made just for hide & seek *since deactivated*

I was also influenced by local artist, [Jason Craig], whose art I found @Riverwalk when I first moved back to town. ( and which, I still have and still plan to help travel onward...)

 Not to mention our whole creative community, we who find a blank wall insufferable. [Mural Tour] 

Another inspiration I have long carried with me is the [ Treasure Hunt on Jekyll Island. ] 

Every year, Jekyll Island artists hide blown glass baubles around the island for residents and visitors to find. When Rye and I visited again recently for a [ field trip ] we hid one of my favorite pieces of scavenged art at a place where good memories linger long, and we talked about the good things that have been, and most importantly, of the good things to come.  

Writers on Wednesday: Thornton Wilder

This week, I finished an audio book from one of my favorite authors, [Edna Ferber].  I wondered which of my other writing friends may fancy her work, and having recently purposed to walk more on the writing treadmill, I decided to make up one of those little alliterative things we like to do- you know,  Taco Tuesdays, Thirsty Thursdays, Freaky Fridays and Moonlight Madness sales. 

I would write about my favorite authors on Wednesdays - until I had a hall of fame, or at least a top ten. 

I thought I would start with the most recent ending -author of the book I just finished-  but then I remembered what today is and switched to someone I find more fitting: 

Thornton Wilder

He gave us [The Bridge of St. Luis Rey] - a story where one monk dedicates what remains of his life investigating whether a sudden disaster was caused or allowed by God, whether the people who lost their lives had been punished or granted deliverance from their circumstances. He conducts interviews and tackles all the angles of "why" and "what if" in the face of tragedy.  

[read it here] or [listen via LibriVox]

But he also gave us [Our Town] (coming back soon to Broadway!) and The Matchmaker (Hello!Dolly) which ties in with [my full circle Monday] and the Island Player's production that firstly disappointed Riley because it wasn't about making matches and went on to disappoint her a second time because there were also no dolls at all. 

Wilder gave us the Indian burian grounds in The Long Christmas Dinner - an all time favorite - you can watch it as a short film [here]

It took me longer to catch the rhythm in [The Skin of Our Teeth] - but once I did, I love it as much as the Fractured Fairy Tales of Bullwinkle Moose or Monty Python's circus. 

I rode through time and space on [Pullman Car Hiawatha] (and learned what a Pullman Car was) and journeyed happily to Trenton and Camden with a family, tender as my own in times of tribulation. 

There are still a handful of his titles I am working toward or through, the delay due to my tendency to read through my favorite titles again and again. 

I always close books by Wilder thinking "He knew." 

He saw people well - clear through to their soul. He was able to put into words the ephemeral experience of being alive, the new-Creation-nakedness of being human. 

And I love his insistence on simplicity - perfect contrast to the complexity of life itself. 

Twenty three years ago, I was 21 and living in a hotel room in Jacksonville, Florida. 

When the news broke of America's unexpected tragedy on 9/11, my two children - both under the age of two - were on a pallet bed, asleep on the floor.  

The next few hours held shock, fear, grief and a sudden solidarity like I'd never experienced before. 

I don't know where all the American flags came from that next day and stretching into the months to come- they simply multiplied. 

We pledged then to never, ever forget

What was it we wanted to remember? 

The frailty of life? 

The unpredictability of a day? 

The unity of our nation? 

That [life goes on and on and on... ] ?

All that and then some, I know. 

Today, I am 44. My children have doubled and (hopefully) none are forced to sleep on the floor. One son is the same age now as I was then, one daughter, even younger. 

They came after the cleared debris, and once those flags, one by one, got quietly tucked away. 

We do not know what they may face, anymore than we know for ourselves, but they will draw from the wells of wisdom we dig- let us ensure that they run deep. 

As Thornton Wilder said, first in "Our Town" and then again, in "The Skin of Our Teeth" : 

“We all know that something is eternal. And it ain’t houses and it ain’t names, and it ain’t earth, and it ain’t even the stars . . . everybody knows in their bones that something is eternal, and that something has to do with human beings. All the greatest people ever lived have been telling us that for five thousand years and yet you’d be surprised how people are always losing hold of it. There’s something way down deep that’s eternal about every human being.”
― Thornton Wilder, Our Town

“Each new child that’s born…seems to them to be sufficient reason for the whole universe’s being set in motion; and each new child that dies seems to them to have been spared a whole world of sorrow, and what the end of it will be is still very much an open question.”
― Thornton Wilder, The Skin of Our Teeth: A Play

May they never find themselves as bankrupt as George Antrobus, devoid the desire to build again.  

MRS. ANTROBUS: What, George? What have you lost? 

MR. ANTROBUS: The most important thing of all: The desire to begin again, to start building.” 

― Thornton Wilder, The Skin of Our Teeth: A Play

Full Circle Road Trip

I put the XL iced tea from Love's Truckstop in my forward-most cupholder, moving the morning's  M and mostly-empty coffee cup from GasPro to the neighboring "passenger" cup holder, checkmating my spent energy can of Passion Fruit flavored vitamin enrichment to the makeshift trash bag hanging from the shifter. 

Riley attended her morning classes from the backseat via hotspot

Her breakfast of hot boiled peanuts lasted well into lunch, along with Reese Cups and bottled water. 

According to our global positioning system, we had a little more than an hour before we reached our field trip destination: Georgia's Sea Turtle Center on Jekyll Island. 

The last time we were at the Sea Turtle Center  was when BeanBean & DuhDuh visited in 2016. [album]

The museum was smaller than we remembered, but the more we move forward in life, the more it seems to be that way with things we’ve left behind. 

After a full 20 minute tour, we left through the same doors we'd entered, doing our part to save turtles via purchase of gift shop tchotchkes on our way out (stickers and a leather bracelet-"like Rory wears".)

There was a scavenger hunt planned for students when everyone finished their self-guided tours, but facing the 3+ hour return and a sky full of dark clouds, we decided to get on to highstepping. 

Before we could leave, we had to attend to some monkey business on the neighboring island. 

Rye -having started her All-Things-Autumn-and-Pumpkin-Flavored Season  the minute the clock struck September, was keenly interested in the bread that Barbara Jean bestows upon her guests. There was no option to just buy the bread, so we allowed ourselves to be seated. Having done so, we then felt compelled to place a courtesy order. 

We agreed to go tapas in order to save room for Larry's but the plan was destined to fail - we had a very generous waitress who sent Riley home with extra pumpkin bread. 

We split Jay's half-order of Gritters (deep fried ham and white cheddar cheese grit fritters) and ordered a vegetable side apiece (Rye got more white cheddar grits while I enjoyed the squash casserole) 

After a hearty walk around the village, we were still full. But since we don't have a very convenient Larry's (Athens) we decided we would still stop and place an order to go,  for tomorrow... or at least a little further down the road. 

As we pulled into  the sub station, Riley suddenly remembered her fondness for Smallcakes, right next door,  and forgot about being full long enough to sprint for the door. With a luxurious 7 minutes to spare before closing, we cleared the counter with just enough time to have four cupcakes boxed for the road: Butterbeer, Birthday Cake, Strawberry & Hot Fudge Sundae. (No, you can't see them- they're already in various stages of demolition) 

We grabbed the usual from the giant gorilla. Riley used to be scared of him when she was little - now, slightly less so. 

As we got back in the car, she explained: "Disney was to my detriment" (her own words) "I used to think that monkey, and all the things like it,  were just going to suddenly come to life and hurt me." 

Having walked the beach and befriended the sea birds, it was time to get back home. 

On the highway home, I passed a Maserati - and he let me, instantly alerting me that Georgia State Patrol had not yet tired of shooting fish in the barrel. I cleared the lane change and saw we were both losing to a truck carrying marble slabs, slowed down to appreciate several road side light shows. 

I settled in, then, for LibriVox and a leisurely pace homeward - fully aware that my early morning ticket (sorry Momma!) would grant no immunity from a late night encore. 

One nice thing about being (somewhat) familiar with an area is knowing there's a better gas station up ahead within 'wait it out' range. I bypassed some iffy places for the clean, well-lit Parker's in Statesboro and added a full measure of petrol to the fumes in my tank. 

Back in the car, I combined my iced tea from Larry's into the Love's cup from earlier, peg-jumping it like a golf tee at Cracker-Barrel into the secondary, overflow cup holder, where the ancient GasPro cup had been kinged to abandoned his throne. I placed the latest cup in the premier spot, where reaching for it with my eyes on the road would be easier. 

As my hand brushed the morning's cup, now jammed between the shifter and dash, I realized I was back to coffee, full circle. 

Full circle. 

I take my tea unsweet (except when they 'mis-hear' me) and my coffee darker than a starless night. 

But sometimes, only certain times, I will add cream. 

Even more rarely, I'll make it sweet. 

For reasons. 

Last night's hazelnut reason was driving full circle. 

But also, my own quiet nod to life and her concentric circles. 

You see, many years ago, I lived on Jekyll Island. 

I started drinking coffee in the first place as the Golden Isles rode out Hurricanes Ivan and Jean. 

For a wary moment, we watched Katrina, before she made her turn for the worst.  

Coffee was the only thing available in the little seaside villa's lobby, where we watched weather developments into the wee hours and waited, intermittently, for power to come back on.   

I wasn't a coffee drinker back then, so the 2/3 cup of cream (or approximately 9 little creamers) helped smooth the bitter,

I was carried home on that last L cup of brood -  a little smoother than I generally take it, a little sweeter, too. 

The day held so many interesting things: a homeless man and a Peregrine falcon sharing the same intersection, lizards playing tag, historic places, sea turtles(of course) and a shy Fiddler crab; a family of island deer, beer bottle seaglass, a man playing harmonica, friendly passers-by. 

We collided with a butterfly.

The clouds were soft and gray and the breeze an oscillating fan; at once strong then gentle again. 

There were other "weather patterns" throughout my day that would take too long to unpack here - each declaring  both "You've been here before" and, simultaneously, "You don't live there anymore" 

With my eyes fixed on the road ahead of me, I reflected on myriad things; the jagged edges of shattered glass, worn smooth by tumbling seas. 

I reached my driveway as the last crumbs of Edna Ferber's buttery stories played. I locked up, set the alarm and climbed swiftly into bed. 

I slept soundly, 

profoundly grateful~ 

Home is where I am. 

Georgia Sea Turtle Center & Golden Isles Trip 2024