Kindness Revolution

Be Kind.

It's such a simple phrase, but how simple is it to put into action?

From what I've noticed more and more, it seems that people in general are having extreme difficulty with kindness. It's everywhere: people have stopped holding doors, customer service is almost non-existent, and even a simple 'please and thank you' is almost unheard of.

When did this happen? Who decided that rudeness was acceptable? When came the point where we said to ourselves, "Oh, she's just a waitress--he's just a mechanic--she's just a voice on the phone--no need to have any common courtesy here."

This is NOT okay. I think most of us have been on the receiving end of this rudeness. It changes your whole mood, your whole day. Plus, it's contagious.

Well, I think if RUDENESS is contagious, then KINDNESS can be, too. How many movies like 'Pay it Forward' do we have to see before it sinks in?

Well, I've decided that I'm starting a personal 'BE KIND' revolution. No, I won't always get it right, but by God, I'm going to try. And I literally mean 'By God.'

I'm also going to write 'Be Kind' on a random assortment of notebooks, shoes, old jeans, etc.... and try to start a bit of a fad. In the grand scheme of things, if you MUST read something on my attire, I'd rather it say 'Be Kind' than Apple Bottom.

So that's all: Be Kind. And maybe sharpie the message around a bit.

Perfect words when i can't say what i need to

You know how sometimes you have a feeling in your heart or a thought in your head that there is NO way you could express through normal spoken conversation? Enter the world of the arts. :-) *SIGH*
Thank you, God, for understanding the depth of emotion in the human soul and the limitation of human speech.

"I'm Moving On"
I've dealt with my ghosts and I've faced all my demons
Finally content with a past I regret
I've found you find strength in your moments of weakness
For once I'm at peace with myself
I've been burdened with blame, trapped in the past for too long
I'm movin' on
I've lived in this place and I know all the faces
Each one is different but they're always the same
They mean me no harm but it's time that I face it
They'll never allow me to change
But I never dreamed home would end up where I don't belong
I'm movin' on
I'm movin' on
At last I can see life has been patiently waiting for me
And I know there's no guarantees, but I'm not alone
There comes a time in everyone's life
When all you can see are the years passing by
And I have made up my mind that those days are gone
I sold what I could and packed what I couldn't
Stopped to fill up on my way out of town
I've loved like I should but lived like I shouldn't
I had to lose everything to find out
Maybe forgiveness will find me somewhere down this road
I'm movin' on
I'm movin' on
I'm movin' on
-Rascall Flats

I have loved this song for years, and wow....CLICK. I get it. I cannot WAIT for LA. ;-)

So if you care to find me, look to the western sky!
As someone told me lately, EVERYONE deserves a chance to FLY!
And if I'm flying solo, at least I'm flying FREE,
to those who'd ground me, take a message back from me.
Tell them that I'm DEFYING GRAVITY!
Kiss me goodbye, defying gravity
And they'll never bring me down!
-Wicked

Entertaining Angels

Once again, today found me at my happy place (Borders) for a few hours. I like to sit in a cushy chair near the kids' section. The atmosphere is fun and kids are so charming to eavesdrop on! Anyway, there are four of these cushy chairs where I sit, arranged around a small table, and usually full of adults. Today was no exception.
I sat, with my wedding magazine (hey, one of my best buds is getting married) and my crochet (my cousin is having twins!) and joined the three men already seated in 'my spot' for some much needed Jess time.
Pretty immediately, I began to notice that the man diagonally across from me kept staring. He was maybe late 40s, very average, and not even trying to be discreet. EVERY time I looked up from the magazine, he was staring. Later, when I had resumed work on my crochet and would glance up, he was staring. Taking a sip of coffee? Staring. You get the point. Each time I glanced up, I was struck with a different thought. At first, I felt sure there was something in my teeth or on my face. Gradually, though, my thoughts moved away from myself to him. Was he a stalker? A serial killer? Oh, no! He was a serial killer stalker and he was studying me! It seems silly, sure, but after two hours of a strange dude staring at you, you might start to go a little crazy, too.
Finally, he got up to leave. I was about to breathe a huge sigh of relief until he stopped just short of my chair and hesitated. He cleared his thoat and leaned down.
"Excuse me, I-I'm sorry. I never do this. It's just, well, you have such a pretty smile." And with that, he smiled shyly, and walked away.
Stunned, it took me a second to call 'thank you!' to him.
Serial killer stalker indeed. :-)
Immediately, I thought of this scripture passage:
Hebrews 13:2Forget not to show love unto strangers: for thereby some have entertained angels unawares.
Sometimes, church happens at Borders.

Cooking for One

I stopped by my happy place (Borders) today after work to bask in the smell of coffee and new books and let the chattering of strangers flow over me for a while.

On the way in, I noticed a book on the discount rack called 'Alone in the Kitchen with an Eggplant' whch turned out to be a FABULOUS non-fiction book of essays wherein two dozen or so writers talk about meals, rituals, and secrets of dining alone. The reason that after reading only the introduction and two essays, the book has me hooked, is that it's honest and hilarious. It's not a snooty book of fabulous single serve lamb and prosciutto. Rather, it spills the secrets of who we are in the kitchen, alone, with no accountability to anyone. Beans from the can, saltines with jelly, only white food, the same meal for a week straight.....we all have odd food habits, and the beauty of singleness is that we have more time than others to explore and enjoy that part of ourselves. Most of the people in the book, from what I gather, are competant if not excellent cooks. The thing is, sometimes, cooking is more about doing things for others. That is certainly true for me. Occasionally, I go all out for myself, presentation and all. Usually? Usually I open a couple of cans or slap a sandwich together. Sometimes, I eat that sandwich over the sink. And I like it.

This book celebrates the fun of these nights while also admitting the sadness and melancholy of them. It is not an indictment of those of us who dine alone, but a from the gut, honest, and endearing work that screams 'You are not alone, saltine queen!'

I plan to head back to Borders tomorrow and probably buy the book. It's inspiring me to write my own 'strange foods' essay.

To those we love who have gone on

Today is the anniversary of my dad's death.

There are days throughout the year that make me miss him more, and this, most certainly, is one of them.

Mostly I miss my little girl idea of him: the sound of his boots on the floor, him tricking me into eating calf fries by telling me they were chicken nuggets, me snuggled with him and my big bro splitting one gigantic bowl of cereal.....

I'm sad that I never got to know him as a grown up. People say I'm a talker like he was. I kind of have the shape of his eyes. But periodically, I wonder about what all we missed out on: what would we have faught about when I was a teenager? What kinds of inside jokes would we have? Would he be totally bald yet? Would I roll my eyes with indulgent embarassment because he insists on wearing his 80s short shorts out in the summer?

It's a bittersweet guessing game at best, but for those of us left behind, it's the best we can do for now. So I'll say 'I miss ya, Dad. And for all of the fights we would have had and all of the jokes we would have shared, I guess I'll just never really know. But I am looking forward to splitting a bowl of cereal with you when I see you again ;-)'

Pity, it's a party

So in the last week alone, two friends have gotten engaged, one friend announced their pregnancy, I bought my wedding gift for another friend, and an old acquantance of mine found me online and sent me a ton of pics of herself and her new baby. This is not even counting last week where I went wedding dress shopping with one friend and celebrated the engagement of another.

Let me be VERY clear. I'm SO happy and thrilled for all of the people in my life who are in these situations. They are wonderful folks and I wish them every happiness.

But I'm 26. And single. And feeling increasingly....blank.

I'm starting to feel like Most Likely to Succeed was a joke played on me by my highschool classmates who all secretly knew that I was absent on the day of the 'How to really have a life and get what you've always wanted' seminar.

There is an incredible irony in the fact that I, the girl who has always been the responsible one, the girl who takes care of everyone, is more and more looking like the last one to have a family of her own. In fact, I'm feeling like the very definition of Ironic.

And so, my private pity party continues. Pity, party of One.

But for the rest of the world: congratulations, everyone, on everything. I will continue to smile and laugh and pick out dresses and coo over babies, don't worry. Loving you all is too much a part of me not to.

I'm just having one of those days where I don't understand God's timing, that's all.

Food For Thought

There is a man that I see about one out of every eight times I go to Borders (I go a lot). I noticed him because it's pretty clear that he is homeless and so there was a tug at my heart. He is an old man, and small. His hair has gone silver, his cheeks are gaunt, and the first time I remember seeing him, he was picking up trash from the ground outside and throwing it away. I remember thinking what a sad/sweet thing that was, for this man with no home to care about the upkeep of a public place where he spends a great deal of his time--he was cleaning his house, in a way. Another time I saw him, I was at a table with a friend of mine when he came in to buy some coffee and a bagel with a giftcard someone had given him. I had a moment of panic when there was a problem with his card. He excused himself to go wash up in the restroom while the clerk continued to try and get his card to swipe. I ran to the counter the second he was gone to make sure there was enough on his card to buy his dinner. I was dead broke, but determined to figure something out if I needed to step in. Luckily, the card starting working and he had plenty left on it. I quickly resumed my seat before the man came back. I was afraid if he knew my concern, it would embarass us both. From time to time, I have thought about that little man with the gray hair and black jacket. I have thought about him, and seen him, and debated whether I should try and talk with him sometime.
'Sometime' was Friday night.
I was exhausted and had been on a film set all day. I looked a little rough and was looking forward to a quick bite and then bed. I called Hungry Howie's from the road, ordered my dinner, and headed to Blockbuster to return my overdue movies and then to Hungry Howie's, next door. That's when I saw him: the homeless man. He was digging through the trashcan out front until he found a water bottle. I watched from my car as he washed his hands with the water left in the bottle and dried them on his shirt. Taking a deep breath, I got out of the car, dropped my DVDs in the return slot at Blockbuster, and reached into my purse for my hand sanitizer. I very timidly approached him and offered him the sanitizer, telling him he could keep it, that I had plenty. He thanked me, and I suddenly found myself asking him if he'd had dinner yet, and if not, would he join me for pizza? I always over order, I told him. A large is too much for one person. He took me up on it and so in we went, the man and I, to Hungry Howie's for cheese pizza.
About this time, I was feeling lots of things at once. Hunger, sure. Pity for the man, unease at the situation, and yes, just a bit nervous that he would do something crazy or dangerous. The man, whose name is Steve, has quite a story. He's remarkably well-read, retains a great deal of the knowledge he's gotten from books, and really likes to talk. We talked about classical Greek plays and the nuclear weapons race, we talked about Los Angeles (his home town and where I plan to move in a few months). We talked about Tallahassee and traveling and age (he's in his 60s) and music. And then I did it: I asked him how it was he came to be homeless. This is the point where the conversation took a VERY unexpected turn.
As it turns out, my homeless man (as I'd fondly begun to think of him) is not a very nice person. He's also made some pretty terrible choices in his life. In fact, and yes, this will sound judgemental to say, but he's a pretty bad guy. Without batting an eye, this mild mannered man who thirty minutes before wouldn't shake my hand because it wouldn't have been proper for him to touch a lady, began telling me about things like abandoning three children by two different wives because he never wanted the little bastards, as he put it. He told me how he served three years in jail in California for non-support of those kids. He told me about illegal Tijuana abortions and described to me in graphic terms what that meant and how that's why scrambled eggs are sometimes called Tijuana eggs. He left another woman because she refused to have one of these. He told me he hated working and only a stupid man would waste forty years at a job and that he'd been begging his way through life simply because he could. He told me about his 'beggar wife' as he called his most recent relationship, and how he used to smack her around a little but he'd break a man's face just for looking at her too long. He left her because she was cramping his style, whatever that means. He has no idea if his parents are still living, he last contacted them three years ago. He tried once to find his kids though his parents, but they wouldn't tell him where to find them because they knew he'd only contact them because he wanted money. "Well, what else would I want from the little bastards?" he'd asked, as if it were the most logical question in the universe.
I sat there for a good thirty minutes listening to him rant, asking qestions periodically, and becoming more and more distant from this person who only an hour before, I wanted to champion. I had wanted to find him a job and a house and give him money and a chance and in my Pollyanna brain, it was all going to work out fine. He was just down on his luck, that's all. Something tragic and horrible had happened to him and he just needed a helping hand. But that was before. By this point, I was hard pressed to keep my seat across from the man without smacking him a good one. Finally, when he finished his rant about religion and churches in general and the Catholic church in particular, I broke in. Very quietly, I said "Steve, I'm Catholic." He didn't miss a beat. He just told me that I was a regular idiot and had no clout since I wasn't a nun and couldn't be a priest. I didn't even know what that meant, but frankly, I'd had it.
I put my hand up to end the ranting. I had a few things I wanted to say. I made myself stay calm and keep my voice kind, and then I let loose. I told him that he'd made some pretty terrible choices in his life. I told him what he did to his children was awful and that my father died when I was nine and every day I wish he could have been there to watch me grow up. I told him that he DID have a chance to be there for his kids and should be ashamed that he wasn't. Fine if you didn't want them, I said, but it's a crappy thing to not even make sure they can eat. I can't hold the women you've left against you because frankly, they were grown and should have been able to see who you were for themselves. As for the begging, I suppose it's a good thing that so many other people didn't mind working boring jobs for 40 years and it's very fortunate for you that at least some of them had good hearts and didn't mind sharing what they'd worked for with you. It's just a pity, I said, that there are so many people out there with legitimate disabilities who can't work and would love the chance to, who aren't faring nearly as well as you seem to be. I'm sad for you, Steve, that your heart is so hardened that you don't care that you're alone and that you don't care if your parents are even still alive. I sat down with you expecting another story entirely, and to be honest, the one you tell is hard and bitter and I almost wish I hadn't hear it.
I stood to go, still struggling to be cordial. I insisted he take the leftover pizza. I told him it was nice to meet him and I'd likely see him around. And then remorse pierced my heart, and the guilt came. For all of what I'd heard, Steve was still a person, and lost, and unarguably living a hard life. I turned to look at him as I held the door. "Hey Steve. You know you've messed up, man. You've made some really crappy choices and I can't say I'll ever understand them, but the thing is, even though made your thoughts on the subject really clear, I just want to tell you that no matter what happened before or will happen in the future, Jesus really does love you, man." It was the best and only truth I could give him. My compassion was not as it should have been.
I got in my car feeling like I failed him. And he failed me. And neither of us got what we were expecting.
As I pulled out of the parking lot, I saw Steve in the rearview mirror. He was throwing away the pizza.