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.