Today is the first day of February. That means we’re smack in the middle of winter. You know winter, right? Cold. Dreary. Icy sidewalks. Snow piled from here to….. and back again. Surely, God’s idea of a very bad joke.

Yet, it’s nearly 60 degrees outside. And I’m not talking about Florida. I’m talking Ohio! In fact, I’m talking about most of the days in January being above freezing, and the next week predicted to stay in the 40‘s. In other words: Sunshine. Blue skies. Temperatures you can live with. This is strange and wondrous stuff we’ve been handed. A gift of sorts.

Now I realize what I’m describing is not “normal”, and that it won’t last. My daffodils are not supposed to be five inches tall on the first of February, though they are. But I’m not complaining.

Last winter was normal, and I was miserable. Mostly, I was cold. And this past summer, as I looked ahead to now, the stories I told myself of what lay ahead were stories of last winter that I copied and pasted on to a new calendar. They weren’t the best stories, but they were the closest at hand. As I recall, they involved a lot of shoveling and less than charitable inner discussions on living in the bowels of…… oh well. You get the drift. Not charitable.

So a day like today – a month like this past month – was far better than expected. It was a true delight . . . not to go unchallenged, of course.

Early this afternoon, I took my dog Blue for a short walk. As we headed up the street, we bumped into a woman I’ve known for a couple years. And since the weather was the only thing anyone was talking about today, the two of us climbed into that puddle and splashed around for minute or two as well.

“Can you believe this weather?” she semi-gushed. “You know what they say though, don’t you? They say the time will come when you can’t tell winter from summer.” (Near 60 degrees on the first of February? Yep, looks like the start of summer to me!) “And when that happens …………… (long pause)…………… THE END IS NEAR.”

Hmmm. Really?

Being unable to let something like that simply slip by, I came back with, “The end is always near – for something. And once the end has come and gone, we’re back to a beginning again. That’s kind of how life works.”

“Yes, but, that’s not what I mean. THEY say ………………….”

“Maybe, but I’d rather just enjoy the day. The way I figure it: I’ve no control over the weather. And if something’s going to end as a result of that weather, I’ve no control over that either. So I think I’ll just enjoy the warmth while it lasts. It will be cold again soon enough”

I don’t think she found much comfort in my response.

The thing is: THEY never say things we want to hear. THEY feed us stories to scare us, but not to challenge us to think or act differently.

So I really have to wonder: Who on earth are THEY?! And who do THEY think THEY are!

I grew up asking questions. Okay, maybe I was a bit of a pain. At the very least, I grew up giving my own stories as much credence as I bestowed on those of others. For the most part, mine were better than theirs, anyway. But that’s not how most people seem to operate. It seems an awfully sad way to negotiate life.

In any case, here is the story I’m telling myself today, February 1, 2012:

I don’t know what’s going on with the weather. And that is okay.

I don’t pretend to know what is or isn’t coming to an end today, tomorrow, or the next day. Nor do I know what waits to begin after today has ended. And that is okay.

I do know that today has been a beautiful, beautiful day. I don’t need to attach a different story to it to increase its significance, or to give it some unearned power over me. I will let its simple story be its own. And that is more than okay.

The stories I told myself today were neither dreary nor snow-filled. And that made them just about perfect for an almost 60 degree day in February. You can’t get more okay than that.

And finally: If the end is near, let it be. That must mean I’m overdue for a party. THEY are not invited. And that’s totally okay!

©2012 Blog. All Rights Reserved.

Some stories are harder to wrap our minds around than others. The following is a story that took over my world when the phone rang a few months ago. Time has softened its sharp corners, and will continue to do that. For now, however, it is a story filled with unanswerable questions that call me to let go and give grief its due. And so, I brake/break for grief.

  ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

My best friend, Diane, died three months ago today. Actually, she killed herself three months ago yesterday. But part of her wasn’t ready to let go when she was, so things went into a holding pattern till all involved parties could reach some sort of binding agreement.

Then, she left.

And I broke… just a little. Actually, a corner of me fell away and disappeared forever with the soft release of her last breath. I don’t know which corner. I have so many. One less now. And it doesn’t really matter anyway. Actually, that particular corner had been on loan to her since we met back in 8th grade. It was filled to the brim with memories – a few, good… most, hardly worth keeping.

Till the phone rang that morning, I had completely lost track of the corner she promised so many years ago to hold and forever protect for me.

Time does that. Whatever our promises, it just keeps moving on. And we lose track.

We do that, as well, to ourselves and to each other.

But, as I was saying, the phone rang. And when it did, everything I knew about myself grew a little less clear. Diane was gone. She had left with barely a whisper of warning. And the small corner of me that she had held in her keeping all these years… the small corner of me that only she knew… went with her. She never asked if I’d like to get it back should she one day decide to journey to some place that didn’t include me. I’m not sure what I’d have said had she asked, but I would have liked having the option.

Perhaps, though, my corner wasn’t her top priority that day. Okay, I know it wasn’t. Yet I’m quite sure she’s now learned the folly of ignoring corners like mine when it comes to major life decisions. The way I see it, the two of them are now forever bound together, forever bound to sit in a side-pocket of heaven drinking beers and watching ridiculously bad home movies. I hope they’re boring each other to tears. (I know. I’m being totally unfair to an innocent corner unless, of course, it picked up some of her bad habits over the years, which wouldn’t surprise me seeing as far too many of my corners are dreadful suck-ups.)

In any case: When Diane died, she left with a corner of me that no one else – not even I – will ever again experience or know. The memories that corner held are gone forever. And my world is now smaller as a result.

I blamed her for going – at least, at first. I told myself it was Diane’s fault my foot slammed on life’s brakes so I wouldn’t run into the massive pile of grief that kept playing chicken on the road ahead of me. That would have been a horrible mess. Hell. It IS a horrible mess. Grief, of course, is a messy business. And I didn’t think I had time for it.

I’ve since learned a very important lesson: The harder you brake, the faster the game. The faster the game, the bigger the mess when grief catches you. And it WILL catch you.

And I told myself it was her fault I wasn’t accomplishing all the things I’d set out to do since her passing. After all, she wouldn’t get out of my head. She taunted me from that corner of myself that she now owned in perpetuity. Hardly fair. Hardly the action of a best friend.

I, on the other hand, am still tending the corner of herself that she left with me way back then. I see parts of that corner much more clearly now than I ever did before, even as its edges have started fading into its past. The time will surely come when the memories it holds will be more fluid. And on that day, I will fold it into myself and speak in a new way of my old friend. I hope I’m up to that challenge.

The simple fact is that I broke just a little the day she left – and not just a corner of me. “I” broke, just a little. Grief does that. It acts like a rough pumice stone, shaving off and smoothing down life’s absolutes. Parts break away. Corners.

Then again, I’ve been breaking away from myself for a while now. Parts of me keep disappearing as parts not of me, but connected to me, die away and take their memories of me with them. I look in the mirror, and another corner is gone.

Maybe that’s what life is all about: Knowing how and when to brake around the corners, so the grief that throws itself in our path doesn’t break us.

As for Diane, I can only say, “Goodbye my friend. Your corner is safe with me.”

©2012 Blog. All Rights Reserved.

(In my book, Stories From the Cosmic Grill, everyone who works in and around the Grill is named Sal. Who would have imagined that the Grill’s version of the “salvation story” would already include “Sal” as a vital component?! Let me know what you think.)

Like a whirlwind’s mistress, Sal-vation swept confidently into the Grill’s ornate dance hall. As always, the hoard was waiting for her. They were always waiting for her. Pushing. Shoving. Stumbling over themselves and each other as they crowded ever closer to gain her attention. Each wanted just that one dance that would take them over the moon and into the promised land of their most fervent imaginings.

The stories their mothers had bathed them in since the time before their beginnings said she was the only one who could take them where they so desperately wanted to go. They despised her for that more than for anything else – that, and the fact that she was a “she”. And they, with all their outward power and control over everything else the universe had to offer, were compelled to lower their eyes when she passed.

What ever were the gods thinking! They had to have been mad the day they created her!

Then again, perhaps she was the one who created those same gods to do her bidding. Maybe they were nothing more than servants in Sal-vation’s games of life, death and everlasting redemption.

That would certainly explain a lot.

Had they been perfectly honest with themselves – which none felt they could afford to be – each would have to admit he had never been formally introduced to her.

Hell, they couldn’t even agree on her name.

Yet each swore he knew her intimately, or intended to. After all, she was legend. And they so desperately wanted to experience everything their stories said she would give them, if only they could win her favor.

It was probably the spandex. Tight. Blue sequined, with just a hint of stardust. The hem of her skirt shared barely a whisper with the stiletto-heeled rise of her steel-toed construction boots. She was such a temptress. No, more brazen than that, in a sexy come hither sort of way. And sincere to a fault, but just the slightest bit off-color.

Each in his own imagination swore he loved her. Yet, they knew little of love. All they knew was desire. And however they saw her in their own small minds, they desired her more than anyone or anything else they had ever contemplated. That gave her a power over them that they hated almost as much as they loved the thought of what might happen to them if she actually accepted any of their advances.

Still, it didn’t much matter. There was such a fine line between love and hate. And that was the line Sal occupied. That was the line she drew and dared them to cross in the name of all eternity.

Some swore it was just a game to her: The picking and choosing of which desperate suitors were worthy of entering heaven by her command, and which would leave the dance floor with nothing but a one-way ticket back to their individual versions of hell.

Yet they kept showing up, hope against hope that it was their hand Sal-vation would choose, and their life she would introduce to paradise. If it WAS a game, they were the ones who wanted to play. And who was she to deny them?

Glancing quickly around the vast hall, Sal-vation threw her head back and laughed at the lot of them. They were so predictable. And most were such bad dancers. Still, she offered herself up to each in turn in the hope that a few would surprise her.  Okay. Most were sad disappointments. Still, all this inner dancing was an important part of her job. And she took such responsibilities as seriously as anyone could who held sway over the ever-lasting.

Whatever each imagined her to be, she was that and 10,000 times more. One by one, she held them like moths up to the flame of truth, and waited to see it they caught fire. Most just grew limp and melted into smarmy puddles at her feet. Her heat was so intense and her laughter, so seductive. They despised her for how inadequate they felt in her presence, and for all they wanted from her that she refused to give.

And still they threw themselves at her, each believing he could sweep her off her feet and take her as none had ever done before.

Such foolishness. Yet, they kept trying. With each turn round the floor, their self-inflated stories of unholy conquest grew ever louder and less constrained.

War, destruction, global upheaval, spatial eradication ……. fear, hatred, waste, greed.

It was all such piffle. She knew it. So did they. They just couldn’t help themselves. In their pictures of the world, it was all about winning and losing – their winning, and everyone else losing. Strange, how the stories never seemed to change.

As each reached the front of the line, Sal-vation offered her hand and pulled them in to  meet their maker. Despite their overgrown egos, they seemed so shriveled up and small next to her. Maybe that’s because they were. On the other hand, maybe that’s because they were.

In less than a step, she had exhausted them all. Try though they might, they couldn’t buy their way into heaven. She was guarding the door. And stepping on her feet gained them even less access. Still, one had shown promise. Maybe next time.

And so she sent them on their way. Some argued. Some cursed her for the delight she seemed to take in refusing them. Most simply gathered up their loud bravado and slithered out of her sight.

When the flash and noise were finally gone from the room, Sal pulled off her heavy boots and spun quietly across the dance hall’s great floor. The soft rise and fall of the music matched her every step. Through her half-closed eyes, she could see movement all around her.

This was the part of the job she truly loved.

Sal-vation stepped softly into the dance. She gathered the room round her, as she quickened her pace and the space within space grew dizzy in its efforts to mirror her every turn. Untold innocents, artists, abused, and dreamers – the ones who lived each day with hope and wonder – appeared as if out of nowhere to join her as she spun across the floor.

Sal would gladly have invited each of these to stand with her in eternity.  There was no sense suggesting it, though. In their eyes, perfection was to be found right where they were – not in some far off never never land. The Cosmic Grill was eternity enough for them, at least, for now. Their time would come, soon enough.

And so they danced. Each and every one of them. Millions. Billions. And Sal-vation shed her brilliant blue spandex and let her hair fall down around her. And she and they were one with all the Universe.

It caused no slight measure of surprise, therefore, when the heavy door at the back of the hall slowly opened and he stepped on to the floor. He wasn’t on anyone’s dance list. Yet, there he was.

A strange combination of construction worker and poet, he quietly crossed the room to face her. Unlike all those others she had tested and failed that day, he would not be dismissed. He had nothing to prove. He would not melt in her presence.

The stranger looked Sal-vation squarely in the eyes, as he reached for her hand. There was little he hadn’t seen before. Eternity didn’t impress him.

For the first time ever, and ever so briefly, she lowered her gaze.

When she looked back up, he was gone, along with her favorite stiletto-heeled steel-toed construction boots. In their place, a note: “See you at home for dinner. Don’t forget the ice cream.”

Sal-vation laughed so hard she could barely speak. Some things would never change.

©2012 Blog. All Rights Reserved.

Life is filled with the stories we tell ourselves. Today I’m taking a picnic lunch into the mine field of stories that is salvation. I hope you’ll join me, because there’s way too much yummy stuff in my basket for me alone. Besides, salvation is loaded with stories. I’m betting you have some to share as well. So grab a seat and a sandwich. And watch out for the ants……

Salvation is a story we tell ourselves. It is a story of eternity, pearly gates, spandex, and seven virgins – plus or minus the spandex.

It is a story made flesh in Sunday School by children and elders alike who are willing to believe that a glorious magical redemption awaits them and them alone for going to the right church, and condemning everyone to hell who sees the world in effervescence and sparkling colors that their own failing black and white visions cannot accept as real.

It is the story the next suicide bomber will hear himself or herself repeating one millisecond before pushing the button that forever denies the world what might have been possible had the artist in them been handed a paintbrush or a pen rather than an ideology and a bomb.

It is the unattainable story far too many young girls and old women have drilled into their minds over and over again as they are being abused, used up and thrown away for the sin of having been born female in cultures or families that value men over women and the explosive issuance of a scud missile penis over the life giving sanctity of a uterus.

And it is the story of the supremely powerful few who get to decide who wins and who loses in the grand scheme of things . . . and of the powerless many who accept those decisions as gospel because they believe that they have no other choice, and that their sacrifices will eventually give them a far better life in the next dimension than they ever could have hoped for in this one.

Sadly, each of these – whatever their supposed status – will learn too late that their salvation narratives are little more than empty shells provided to carry them up to the gates of eternity before disintegrating in a dusty heap at their feet. Still, it’s all in the journey. There will always be the next turn of the great wheel if this one isn’t to their liking.

Too bad, really. Those who fail to feel any awe at the mystery that surrounds them, and so go through life wasting and plundering the magic of here and now because all they can imagine is a heavenly tomorrow, started as the source of such wonder and delight when they were first fashioned into being.

But then, that was before the stories of promised salvation baptized them in the name of other people’s agendas. That was before it was decided by those in control that some part of everyone else was fashioned less than perfect by the Source of all creation. That was before all who fill the world with wonder became expendable – just like you, I, the whale, the wolf, and the great sea ice are expendable – in the distorted picture books of those who believe they must control the world and its destiny.

Yet, what if the true story of salvation lies not in the ever after? What if the story of salvation that we have been so carefully taught to tell ourselves is little more than a cruel farce?

What if, instead, the true story of salvation lies in the mystery of what each of us chooses to be and to do in this immediate moment and in this most perfect of spaces?

What if the ultimate story of salvation is a movable feast into which each of us – in our own unique ways – is called to share rather than to take?

What if – when all is said and done – the story we need to start telling ourselves of salvation has nothing whatsoever to do with us as nation states, power-brokers, or individuals . . . and everything to do with spandex?

©2012 Blog. All Rights Reserved.

What is it about parenting a creative spark, that the effort leaves us thoroughly exhausted . . . but more awake to our own passions than we ever were before?

And what is it about that spark that, as afraid as we are of being burned by it, we are even more afraid it will go out and forever be lost to us?

Nearly a year has passed since I told Barbara Sher I was writing two books – one for her WriteSpeak program, and the other for the sheer joy writing it was giving me. From that point on, I was writing only one: Stories From The Cosmic Grill.

Nearly four months have gone by since the last story of that book found its way out of my unconscious and into the contents.

Over 50 stories in seven months: One might assume I was driven. And so I was, by some wholly unrelenting force of nature. Something in me took hold and pushed every other mental calibration out of the way till these stories had staked a claim that none other in my life dared challenge. The spark, once lighted, held me in its trance.

At the time, I had no idea what that thing was. I knew only that ignoring it would gain me nothing. And so I wrote, till all that had filled me with stories was empty – vanished like wisps of fog in the heat of the morning sun.

And when not another story could be rung from my mental juices, I stopped and looked around for the next instruction to be delivered to me from on high. But none arrived.

Instructions? What Instructions?

Well, that’s not quite true.

Actually, none arrived all neatly wrapped and tied up in ribbons and bows. There were several that threw themselves at me. Some yelled “Publish!” in my sleep. They, of course, didn’t bother to share the details of what was involved in the publishing – or the time frame upon which such activities should optimally progress. (Basically, I seem to have started behind the eight ball on both counts. Oh well.)

Others wormed their little wormy, “You’ll never find someone to publish this” taunts behind my back. Lucky for me – or not – I learned long ago that such things probably didn’t warrant my attention. So I ignored those, and looked around again for an answer that was at least a little more refined. None came.

It was never a matter of my not intending to publish what I had written. I did. I just didn’t know what step to take next. I didn’t have a map. If nothing else, I was born with a map in my genetic makeup.

Of course, Stories from the Cosmic Grill hadn’t exactly been invited into my thinking back when it first appeared. (I was head over tail writing nonfiction.) Yet the Cosmic Grill had shown up and cleared itself a path. And not just a path, a good and relatively straight path. Perhaps publishing will do the same.

Eenie, Meenie, Minie, Moe

Then again, there are so many intersecting roads and alleyways in the ever-evolving territory that is publishing.

There are so many “experts” around to give conflicting directions to the place I am trying to go. Traditional publishing? Self-Publishing? Agents? eBook? All of the above?!

There are too many answers. And each answer just creates more questions. Heaven forbid I get it wrong. Heaven forbid it blows up in my face.

After all, my newborn book is just a baby. I don’t want to expose it to life’s harsh realities before both it and I are ready.

Maybe I should give it more time – to acclimate.

And so time passes by. A few weeks. A few months.

Are you noticing a pattern here?

What is it about this whole creating new life thing? We go through all the anticipatory stresses, excitement, morning and evening sickness, shopping. We work at making our creation the most amazing part of ourselves ever imagined.

And then we give it birth – if only partially, in the solitude of our own space.

And then we – I – turn my back to it and go off to start over again on a new project . . . NO!

NO!  NO!  NO!  NO! NO!

Okay, that’s what I would like to do. I’m not thrilled with the busywork that comes between the writing and the “getting it out there” part. Mostly, I’m terrified that I’ll get it out there and no one will like it. Or no one will even see it. Or some who do see it may call it the ugliest baby they have ever had the misfortune to read. That’s just mean, but it could happen. People do that, sometimes.

Others may not understand it. It IS a very intelligent being, after all. You can’t just read it and assume. In other words, these stories actually expect you to think. They actually demand that you think. (Word has it a lot of folks don’t like to think. Or they’ve forgotten how. Those are the ones who probably won’t like my stories much. Too bad. But that’s okay.)

Some Times You Just Have To Get It Done

But if I don’t do the busywork . . . if I don’t get my book published and give people a chance to read it . . . it will never waken. I will never know if it can stand on its own merits. And that’s not fair to any of us.

If I don’t do the busywork, you will never get to read it.

How can I do that to you! You’re the one I’ve written it for, after all.

So I guess what I’m saying here is that I have officially finished procrastinating on the busywork of pre-publishing my book. (Whew, I didn’t realize that was what I was going to be saying in this post. Okay. Guess it’s official.) There is still a fair amount for me to take care of, but it’s doable. It just demands some time and attention – no different from any nearly newborn.

In other words, the Stories from the Cosmic Grill will be coming into this world soon. I can feel them moving. They are starting to awaken. I’m still not sure what route they will be taking to get out and into the world, but I am very, very excited about introducing them to you.

Hope you’re excited to know them, too.

Soon, my friend. Soon.

Subscribe to this Blog so you won’t have to miss any of the activities at the Cosmic Grill. I’ll see you inside.  – g

©2012 Blog. All Rights Reserved.