Quite possibly the most spectacular video on the internet.
Category: Life
Talking in the rain makes no sense. No sense at all. Logically, if you or I were in the middle of conversing with someone and it began raining, we would simply seek shelter. Its like life, we want things our way, as comfy as we can achieve. But I earnestly and honestly ask you, what advances in your life have come from being comfortable? I can speak for myself. None. If you look closer you’ll see, the state of contentment is a violently dangerous thing. I’m afraid all too often, being comfortable hinders us from living life and living a fulfilled one at that.
The idea of this post was created by my best friend Jeremy. We were having one of our “solving the world’s problems” conversations when, yep you guessed it, it starting raining. But the conversation was so accurate, so true, so completely hitting the target of what we were trying to work out that a little rain couldn’t and for that matter wouldn’t hinder something so much more important. Connecting.
We live in world that caters to us. Were spoiled to the core. We all have cell phones that do everything for us. Our cars basically drive themselves. We have a digital screen that follows us everywhere and displays peoples lives in a continuous, exhausting flow. We have the news media chomping at the bit for our attention. We have unqualified role models setting unobtainable expectations which is a disgusting product of marketing in America. But my point is: whatever you need, It’s here and available. Its comfortable and at an arm’s length to obtain. And in a crazy twist of our now scary reality, we are all content, dare I say numb to our surroundings. We are absent when questioning why. We just do and assume the best. We all need something to wake us up, out of this heavy, heavy haze.
That’s why we need to feel the rain. Or more importantly, *we* need to *feel* something. Anything. Anything to knock us out of that exhausting line of blindly walking to nowhere. There’s that popular Hilary Cooper quote: “Life is not measured by the number of breaths we take but by the moments that take our breath away.” Think about that for a second. Now the scary part, apply it to your life. Where I ask, where have our breathless moments gone? The option of having them hasn’t left. It’s sitting idle twiddling it’s thumbs while we use ours to flick the screens of our phones. A sad affair, unfortunately. Yet a reality.
What to do? Maybe your content with living life in this fashion. I’m not, and pray I never will be. So heres some thoughts I have on my brain to maybe change some things. Change your work flow so to speak. Maybe they’ll be beneficial to you, maybe not. But it doesn’t hurt trying.
First and foremost, Get out of your comfort zone. I mean we exist in a world of comfort. Comfort, in my opinion is not a measure of what you should be doing. So in that logic, just because your comfortable doesn’t mean what you’re doing is right. Probably, it means the opposite. Do something fresh, something new. Something you’re not an “expert” on. Learn something worth learning. Get out of routine. Don’t let your schedule run you. Theres something so simple and beautiful about a spontaneous moment. I fear when I look back at my life too many things will have been done because they were expected or part of an itinerary. That makes me sad. Sad for me sure, but more importantly sad for those I love.
The second thing is something I mentioned in a previous post “tech>you?” But I’ll hit it again here because it ties in nicely here. Trying connecting with people instead of screens. I know, I know, we love our phones and tablets and everything else. But what if connecting with people is the only thing that really matters in life? What if you find out too late that you should have spent more time with someone or gave someone more attention. Could it be that screens hinder us in ways we can’t control? I would bid to say yes. More so, I would submit that the recipient who deserves your attention feels unappreciated. I would hate to think someone (especially someone who I care for infinitely) felt second to a device or an inanimate object. It feels demoralizing and lonely. How do I know? Because to my shame I was on both ends. And if those are the vibes you want to throw to people. Well, I wouldn’t wish that on my worst enemy.
I’m not sure if those will help. But if you don’t believe these are serious affairs. Consider your kids (if you have them). Here’s a frightening question I submit to you. Would you be happy if your kids turned out exactly like you are at this moment? Scary stuff huh? Maybe it’s just me, but I would rather my son get a little wet in the rain having the best conversation or playtime of his life then be squeaky clean and dry staring at screen just because everyone else was. Its time to take back our lives from whatever hinders us from being us. The devices and schedules have won for far too long. Put them down and look around. Its worth it I promise. If not for you, for those who want to do that long lost thing: Connect with those they love.
I still completely agree with the first line of this post. Talking in the rain still makes no sense. No sense at all. I mean think about it. There you are standings with someone, both soaked with water dripping down your face. And sure maybe your uncomfortable, maybe you look silly. But maybe, just maybe your comfort doesn’t measure whats really important. Your outward appearance doesn’t judge who you are truly on the inside. But what if talking in the rain is all that really matters? An moment of pure connection.
Heres the thing, talking in the rain doesn’t need to make sense. Not everything we do needs to be logically correct or fit a certain order. It’s ok to do things that don’t make sense. It’s ok to not follow the mold. Its you being you and not a fabricated version of you with hints of genuine traits. It’s OK to feel the rain time and time again. It’s productive to get wet. To feel the result of a non comfortable life. You see, the rain is a test. A test of how you choose to live your life, and getting wet is the reward. The rain you can always dry off, remove if you will. Connecting with someone you love, you can’t.
We all need to get wet once in our lives, and live such a life that all that really matters is talking in the rain.
Pro Tip: Leave your umbrella at home.
gorgeous.
Great spot by dove. It’s amazing over time, how we perceive ourselves. Such a beautiful, simple message portrayed here.
“the second one looks more open, friendly and happy.”
Gets me every time…
Each life was a lonely tumble down a cold, dark chimney, falling, falling, then blackness. These were Santa’s thoughts as he prepared snickerdoodles in the kitchen. In the other room, the elves performed Christmas tunes and do-si-doed.
Carefully, he carried the tray of sweets into the living room. His wife, Martha, had been dead five years now, and he was alone, alone in a house full of elves. Jesus had dignity, apostles. All Santa had was high blood pressure and a communal toilet the size of a cereal bowl.
He sat down on the couch and watched the elves dance to “Feliz Navidad.” Jingles broke from the group of dancing elves and approached him. “You’re killing yourself with the doodles,” Jingle said. And lately, he’d been on Santa’s case to stop overeating, to get out of the house, and to get himself a girlfriend.
Glenda, the good witch of the north, lived only a few miles away and had just been left by her boyfriend, a walrus hunter who looked somewhat like a walrus himself. “Glenda’s into the Wilford Brimley type,” said Jingles, “so you’ve totally got a chance.” “Glenda?,” said Santa, “but she’s so sparkly. I miss Martha,” Santa said quietly.
He knew this was true, though not the entire truth. There was missing, of course, but there was also fear. “Look, I miss Martha too,” said Jingles. “But it’s time to move on now.”
“She was the only gal for me,” said Santa. Jingles put his tiny hand on Santa’s knee. “To be frank,” Jingles said, “I always thought your relationship a little narcissistic. Mrs. Claus was like your twin but with bosoms. Did you plan your outfits together?”
“We just had the same taste,” Santa sobbed. “Jingle Bell Rock” started up on the squeeze box, and Santa took that as his cue to head to bed. He never could stand rock and roll Christmas songs.
He liked Christmas songs, and he liked rock and roll. He just didn’t like them together. Martha had felt the exact same way. On their first year anniversary, Martha presented him with a pen, the fancy kind that came in a box.
“Oh, for the love of Saint Nicholas,” Santa had said, “what good is a pen? I’ll just end up losing it. Save your money and buy yourself something nice, or let me buy for you. That would make me most happy of all.”
For a man famous for his giving, Santa was terrible at receiving. Martha took the pen back and apologized. And that was the end of the gifts.
After she had died and Santa was cleaning out her stuff, in a jewelry box filled with the old love letters he’d sent during their courtship, he found the pen. He clutched it on the edge of the bed and wept. Jingles took it upon himself to just go ahead and arrange a date for Santa unbidden.
“Glenda’s expecting you at eight,” said Jingles, sidling up to him in the reindeer stable one morning. “And do me a favor. Trim your whiskers.” As instructed, Santa appeared at Glenda’s doorstep that evening, a paper bag of roasted chestnuts in his hand.
“Come on in, Mr. Claus,” said Glenda with a sweep of her arm. She was dressed all in white, and the house smelled of fresh gingerbread. Santa observed with a smile that there were several magic wands, gold and sparkly, in the umbrella rack.
For most of the evening they sat by the hearth and made clumsy conversation about the loneliness of living at the North Pole, mostly. “Unless I absolutely have to, I don’t even bother going outside,” said Glenda. “And when the cable goes out, it is out,” said Santa.
After a beat of silence, Glenda looked at him, a smile across her face. “Is this a good conversation?” she asked. Santa laughed and assured her it was.
They played cribbage, drank eggnog, and watched the snow outside the window fall. And in the vestibule, before leaving, Glenda placed her hand on Santa’s shoulder and kissed him right beneath his eye. As she did, Santa felt as though his chest were a chimney, and inside a sleeping dove was stirring awake.
They made a date for the following weekend. And just before he left, Glenda gave him a container of cranberry mini muffins she’d baked. Santa told her he could not accept such a gift, at which point she thrust it into this chest with surprising force. “Take it,” she said. On the sleigh ride home, Santa realized with mixed feelings that he’d hardly thought of Martha the whole night.
When he showed up the following Saturday, Glenda was all apologies. “Change of plans,” she said, stopping him in the vestibule. “Sheila’s here, flew in this afternoon from Tampa.”
“Sheila?” asked Santa. “AKA, the wicked witch of the east,” she said quickly, “My old college roommate.” “College?” asked Santa. “For witches?”
“She’s always showing up like this,” Glenda went on. “Every time there’s trouble in Tampa, I get a knock at the door.” In the den, Sheila was lying on the couch in a kittenish tangle, all in black and smoking what smelled like European cigarettes.
She studied Santa while playing with her hair. “Hey, chubs,” she said. “I told you to smoke outside,” said Glenda with exasperation. She went into the kitchen to get some fruitcake as Santa made his way over to the couch.
Sheila didn’t move. So he squeezed into the corner, her black stocking toes touching his thigh. “So what do you do, fatso?” Santa began to stammer. “Oh, I–”
“Relax, I know who you are. You’re famous,” she said, taking the last cookie from the tray. “So how do you know Glenda?”
“Oh, we’re neighbors,” said Santa. “And you buy this good witch crap?” she asked in a whisper. “A downward turn in the black arts, and all of a sudden she’s moved to the North Pole and rebranded herself a good witch. Whoever heard of a good witch, am I right? It’s an oxymoron, like baby grand or jolly fat man. Everyone knows fat men are sad. Look at you, totally depressed. Am I right?”
“I mean, maybe a little,” Santa said. “My wife recently died.” “And what’s with this Glenda nonsense?” interrupted Sheila. “Her name’s Linda.”
Often, when Santa didn’t know what else to say, he’d break into a jolly sounding chuckle. He tried it just then, but the chuckle got caught in his throat and came out sounding sweaty and choked. Sheila stared at him.
“You have this weird crap in your beard,” she said. She reached in to pull it out, and as she did, she brought her face in close enough for Santa to smell her. Whereas Glenda smelled like baby powder and cinnamon, Sheila smelled of something he couldn’t quite put his finger on. Cigarettes, of course, but something else, too. It set the chimney in his chest ablaze, ashy black doves trying to flap out their flaming wings.
As Sheila rummaged through his beard, the look on her face was all little girl concentration. “You have nice bone structure,” she said. “You should try wearing black. It would have a slimming effect.”
Withdrawing a tiny shriveled raisin from Santa’s beard, Sheila crinkled up her face and flicked it on the carpet. “Eww, gross,” she said. Glenda walked back into the room with drinks. And when Santa reached for one, he realized his hand was shaking.
He excused himself to use the bathroom, where he thought he might hum a few carols to calm himself down. Everything inside the bathroom was glittery and white, white glittery soaps, shampoos, curtains. But there, hanging from the white shower curtain rod, was something black.
Strung there for all the world to see were a pair of silky black stockings, Sheila’s black stockings. For years, Santa had dealt intimately with stockings, stuffing them with coal or presents, and never thought about it twice. But just then, seeing those black stockings of hers, being alone with them, something came over him. And suddenly, he was on his toes biting the tips like a playful pup, like a fat old playful pup.
Returning to the living room, Santa sat back down on the couch and listened, enraptured, as Sheila encouraged him to revise his policy on naughtiness. Santa nodded his head as though giving her suggestion some thought. In bed that night, Santa replayed each of Sheila’s words and gestures.
Sheila said whatever she felt like, touching and smelling everything like an animal. She was not afraid to take, avail herself of the world, drinks, cigarettes, hospitality. Without so much as asking, she’d even plunged her hand into Santa’s Shirley Temple, plucking the maraschino cherry right out and using his hat to wipe her hands.
For Santa, one so in love with giving, he could not help but see before him a kind of black hole, a sexy and sublime black hole into which he could deliver forth his greatest gift. In Sheila, he saw an insatiable hunger for life. With such a woman to give to, to give himself to, it would feel as though every day was Christmas.
When they had made plans for the following weekend, Glenda had asked if Santa could bring along a friend for Sheila. And so he showed up with Jingles. Anything to help a brother out, Jingles had said. Strolling into Glenda’s living room, Jingles did that thing where he jumped onto the couch while crossing his legs in midair. He landed right beside Sheila.
“You are just too cute for words,” exclaimed Sheila. “Try anyway,” said Jingles, snipping the tip of his cigar. It was the length of his forearm.
“I’d prefer to keep the house smoke free,” said Glenda. “More like fun free,” said Sheila. “Say, what do you call people who live around here anyway? North Pollack’s?”
Sheila and Jingles had a million things to talk about. All the while, Glenda and Santa just sort of sat there smiling awkwardly and watching the snowfall. “It’s an uninhabitable wasteland,” Santa heard Sheila say. “Tampa sounds awesome,” said Jingles. “If only I could convince El Jefe over there to move the operation south.”
Jingles looked over at Santa, and seeing his bro struggling with his date decided to kick things into gear. “Come on y’all,” said the elf, addressing the group. “Gather around for a little spin o’ the bottle.”
“I’ve got just the one,” said Sheila, downing the last of the red wine straight from the bottle. “Spin the what?” asked Glenda. Sheila rolled her eyes, placed the bottle down on the carpet, and spun.
Santa watched the bottle spin with an anxiety that bordered on mania. What if the bottle dictated that he was to kiss Sheila? He would almost certainly die.
But he did not have to ponder such a kiss for very long, for soon the bottle slowed to a halt, pointing directly at Jingles. And when Sheila licked her lips and leaned her face downward, Jingles grabbed her head in his small hands and planted his tiny mouth on hers. Santa felt the chimney fire in his chest snuff out.
He and Glenda watched them kiss. Then after a while they watched the snowfall. Then they went back to watching them kiss. Eventually Jingles led Sheila into the vestibule where he said he wanted to show her the secret to getting the tips of his shoes so curly.
Left alone, and at somewhat of a loss, Glenda got up and fished around in a cabinet drawer beside the couch. Santa thought she might be looking for a game of some sort. But then she said,” “I have something for you.”
She held out a glistening package. “No way, Jose,” Santa said. “I’m the gift giver around here. And it’s not even Christmas yet.”
Santa was about to really kick up a fuss. But then, as a downright witchy look fell across Glenda’ face, he trailed off. “It’s nothing that big,” she insisted, thrusting the present at his chest. “Besides, it was fun trying to find the perfect something for you. And then to actually find it, there’s no greater feeling in the world. But look who I’m telling this to.”
Hearing her words and seeing the look of excitement on her face, Santa had a puzzling thought. Perhaps he’d somehow misjudged things. Perhaps he’d somehow gotten it wrong.
By refusing the gifts people wished to bestow on him, he’d consistently failed to give the experience of giving. He’d hogged that particular pleasure all to himself. And so he took the package. It was flat and square.
Tearing the wrapping paper open, he saw it was a record, Rocking Christmas Party Songs, Volume One. He absolutely hated it. Not just because the thought of listening to it made him feel like one of those old white haired hippies who had to make everything, from getting their prostate checked to celebrating Christmas, not just a good time but a rocking good time. But it was also one of those gifts that said something about the recipient, something that was hard to swallow, like the gift of a back scratcher that says you’re alone in this world and must fend for yourself or the gift of a warm house coat that says your days of party dresses are over.
The gift of a perfectly awful Christmas album being handed to you by a woman who liked you said loud and clear, you must learn to compromise. For after all his years of giving, Santa knew better than anyone that we don’t always receive what we want nor even what we deserve. We receive what life brings us. And when it comes to life, we haven’t a choice but to open our arms.
“I love it,” said Santa with a half smile. Unpeeling the plastic, they placed the album on the record player. Santa held out his arms, and Glenda entered his embrace. And together, they danced about the room as Chuck Berry belted out “Run Rudolph Run.” And it was almost enough to drown out the sounds in the vestibule.
One day I’ll truly understand what being thankful means. As I grow older and dare I say, more mature, I’m beginning to question more and more what I honestly think about things and the place they have in my life. We all have that time in our lives where things are just accepted. Usually at a young age, shaped by our parents. So obviously what we are thankful for ties hand in hand with the values which we are taught. I speak for myself when I say. Just recently, those values have shifted from another’s to my own.
I guess being thankful starts with comfort. You are naturally thankful for things you “like” or “enjoy.” But as I have grown older, I begin to realize being thankful is tied directly to what you truly hold dear. For some it may be possessions, others achievements. Nothing wrong with those. Both are reputable in the world and mostly cherished.
In my life to this point, the most honest answer I can give, would be relationships. Past and present. Big and small. Relationships are unique. They are not given but earned. They take time develop and mature. Occurrences and past experiences shape the final result. No 2 could be alike. No 2 should be alike. They are tailor made for the participants and fill emotions in the gaps of those peoples lives. Very special are they and treasuring them is simple yet steadied art to achieve.
Firstly my wife Lindsey, She is an unselfish, honest woman who is pure at heart. Those traits are all too often looked upon lightly (mostly by myself.) And in my opinion, qualities that aren’t easy to abide by, she effortlessly performs them daily. I’m thankful for her and her presence in my life and by zero means do I deserve what she brings to it. I still haven’t figured out a way to demonstrate the emotion of thankfulness to her in a acceptable way in my opinion, yet she stays. That means everything to me.
Another relationship I am immensely thankful for is my cousin Mike. We live in different states now. But in my younger years he took time to show me I mattered. He spent real time with me talking about my interest and helping me with my problems. Things I now hold very highly for my wish list on how to treat others. He told me without telling me that he cared about me. Even though we are miles away, the bond we made remains strong. Something to cherish and not something easily obtained.
My best friend Jeremy also is someone to cherish. I look up to him in many areas, professionally and personally. He has done many things for me in the past and recently. Things that some family members wouldn’t do for each other. He is someone who is truly a friend with no motive behind his actions. In my opinion that is a rarity. I only wish I could return what he is to me unto him. To this date, I’ve never met a more selfless person in my travels.
My Nonni is someone who I daily gain more respect and appreciation for. The longer she is gone the more I look back upon her and what she held important. I miss her a bunch. I miss the way she would tell a story. She would make you feel special and she wouldn’t shy away from true feelings. She loved telling you how she felt. Sometimes it was harsh, but it taught me a lot. Being a true friend and loving a person doesn’t mean you yes them to death or tell them what they wish to hear. To Nonni, loving you meant to give it to you straight, a noble trait in that is seemingly lost in most people nowadays.
Last (in this post) but certainly not least would be my mom and Dad. Maybe we always didn’t see eye to eye and still probably don’t on topics and life decisions. But that fact alone has only makes me appreciated them more. They still care for me regardless of decisions I have made in my life. There is a bond there that can never be broken, for better or worse and I appreciate that. They truly care for me and I’m not so naive to take that for granted anymore. A constant love is what they offer, to me thats the best gift parent can display.
Those are just examples and Lord knows if I mentioned everyone this post would be intolerable even by my standards. But I guess what I am trying to get across is that being thankful changes in one’s life over a period of time. Right now for me, I’m most thankful for people and the connection I make with them. I’m one of those “I don’t expect anything” people. It’s one of my few traits I actually very much appreciate. So when someone takes in interest in me, I really, truly appreciate it.
I dare you to take time to search what you are truly thankful for. Not some monotone, prefabricated answer that is expected of you. Something that truly matters. It doesn’t matter if people don’t agree. That’s the beauty of opinion. Take careful notes of what you choose. Save them. And after a couple of years put them together and see how you’ve grown. I promise you’ll learn something about yourself. If for no other reason, you’ll understand that you are not as important as you think, and the objects of your thankfulness are the things that are.
And that is something truly to be thankful for.
LIAM AGE 2 VIDEO:
https://vimeo.com/75968967
I understand you are not old enough to read this. But I hope my actions and affections towards you reflect these words. Three years ago today, your mom and I welcomed you into the world. In an instant, I was exhausted, jubilant, scared, proud, and hopeful. In the intervening years, not too much has changed to my shame, aside from the fact that you have changed us both in ways I couldn’t have anticipated. On a daily basis you make me doubt my ability to be a great dad and then reinforces it immediately thereafter. Seeing you when I come home is the highlight of my day, and as soon as I walk through the door, whatever I had hanging over me is diminished.
I know you can’t understand these words and sentences. But maybe one day you will read this. Maybe not. Either way, 2nd to meeting your mom, you are the single best thing that has ever happened to me. I love you and thank you for being such a sweet boy. Happy Birthday.
your daddy
My nonni had a way of making people feel important. In many ways, a special gift she possessed. As a young boy, I remember thinking she was the sole person who actually listened to me. When your young that means a bunch, especially if your looking for a lending ear. When you grow and begin maturing, it means substantially more. She taught me and in many ways still is, that listening is vastly more important than talking. While my famous sunday evening memories are engulfed with very talkative conversation, the most fluid and influential are unsurprisingly calm and quiet vignettes that stand the test of time.
7PM was the appointed meeting time at nonni’s home. Every Sunday, all year. Two other very special people came, and we formed in many ways a bond that will never be broken. A past memory we were fortunate enough to be around for. If we were ignorant in the beginning to just how special this time would be, it became more apparent as sundays went. The event gave me something to look forward to you. It gave me hope that in a rough week, nonni’s was around the corner. Once in a while I would “accidentally” arrive early. Not too early, but a mere 20 or so minutes prior to the next. Those 20 minutes were simply me talking and nonni listening. She taught and told me without uttering a single syllable, listening is what matters.
It never failed, once the clock hit 7 and the three of us were assembled around the table, she would inevitably give the command. In a seemingly random order, one of us would be summoned to pick the pasta. Surely, a mundane action to anyone especially us, considering it happened every single Sunday. But to her, an important reminder for us that we were important. The command signified a pause in life. As soon as the order was given, it was ok to settle in. In many ways, it was her saying sit down and relax. It was a subtle phrase that suddenly meant the world to me. Much like nonni’s, the emotion changed from mundane to admiration.
Conversations were picked and plucked from many different worlds at nonni’s table. Her participation varied and nearing the end of her life, she was reserved to just listening for the most part. I wouldn’t be so ignorant to think this wasn’t purposeful though. She was as much of the conversation quiet as she was vocal. She loved to just sit there and let us talk, mostly about subjects she had admittedly, absolute zero interest in. But even in the moment I assumed something deeper was happening.
It occurred to me after the fact that Nonni in many ways was an enabler. An enabler of this event for starts. It was in fact her who first invited us over, only to let us talk and converse about things she didn’t care about, yet endured the conversations. You see she didn’t care about the subjects of topic, or type of pasta we picked or anything for that matter. All she truly cared about was that we were there. And she did everything in her humble ways to make us feel welcome and significant. From varying bowl sizes according to appropriately sized eaters, to simply just listening about things she didn’t necessarily care about but knew we did. She was all about us, all of time.
I think nonni’s impact was so influential on me simply because she never flaunted her motives. She never needed credit for doing anything and she certainly wasn’t looking for it. She was more invested in spending time with us, then projecting life lessons. But the beautiful revelation of Sundays at nonni’s, came to me after the fact. Like a great painting, being too close to something blurs the intended meaning. Nonni’s was always about life lessons and they were so effective because they were genuinely distributed.
You see Nonni always wanted to make one of us feel special, she always gave us all the time we needed. To talk amongst each other or simply listen to us individually, unconditionally. Not impending judgement, just lending an ear with input if we so desired. She taught me, there’s a place for that in life. There’s a place called meekness that lives only when you realize a direct way to someones life is through their heart, not their head. Something Nonni did so well, just listen and invest in those you love. A great life lesson she distributed to me. Something I am forever grateful for and an area I continually try to improve in.
Towards the end of nonni’s life I came to find out something very interesting. It turned out, nonni always knew who’s turn it was to pick the pasta. As weeks went by, she kept a record of it. It wasn’t a guess on her part. It was important to her; remembering the little details about loved ones in her life. But I cant help but wonder that she knew, one day we would understand and comprehend. Understand her quietness around the table. Comprehend that listening is the best gift you can give someone. I cant help but think she knew as we grew older, that the purpose for coming to Nonni’s wasn’t at all to keep her company as we all thought. But for us to learn. Learn how to one day, let someone else pick the pasta.
In a world where people are cold, dark and harsh; I found love. I found warmth. Most importantly, I found innocence. I found all of these things in a little girl. The bravest, most robust human being couldn’t measure up to what this gentle angel was.
She died on Christmas Eve. I remember thinking nothing could be more suitable; a gift to God would be an understatement. I had the grandest pleasure of witnessing her final days. Seeing her strength and love for her family was foreign to me. I grew up an orphan, was lucky enough to find parents. But having parents is different than having someone you called a mother and a father. They did their 18 years of duty and please don’t get me wrong, I appreciated every inch of it. But this little girl had it different. There was genuine care and love. Not from her parents, but from her. It can almost be explained as if she was conducting an orchestra, no one fighting her, just playing along in unison. But it was clear she was the conductor.
Maybe this was all due to her condition. You see, I’m a janitor in a hospital. So my visions of this little girl are only similar to vignettes of my passing by. She had no hair, she should of looked weak, and she should have looked frail and pale. She didn’t. You have never seen someone more vibrant in your life.
She had leukemia. She was in her final stages. This was evident. What wasn’t evident was that she would teach me more in a week than I would learn my entire life. It took me a couple days to figure out something special was occurring in room 0925. Day after day I did my rounds, saw Doctors in and out of the room. Balloons and gifts engulfed her surroundings. But one gift changed my life. One gift.
Before I got to my rounds on her floor on day 5, she was gone. The room was grey and ordinary. Nothing special. Nothing vibrant. Nothing innocent. It made me think how quickly things can change. It made me sad that I never met her. I went in to mop and sanitize room 0925 on day 5 sad, but working here, you get used to people leaving. This was different. The happiness on that little girl’s face sparked my life with light. It didn’t seem fair that she was gone. It didn’t seem fair that we never spoke. But sometimes that’s how life is. It just leaves you with unanswered questions. Working in a hospital for a while, I should have known better. But the energy that little girl gave off was so rich and pure. It was a breath of fresh air I couldn’t resist.
Not all was lost. While cleaning her room I found something of significance. Something I would have passed by any other day, in any other room. A business card lay peacefully behind a chair. Sure enough the address was richly printed on the front.
My decision to go the address was a simple one. Up until the moment I first saw her, my entire life was idle without being conscious of it. I had to go to this address. Call it selfish, call it what you like.
When I arrived at the address, I was shocked it was a private home. I don’t really know what I was expecting, but there was a moment that happened to me in that driveway. I like to call it a moment of clarity. I guess when something special occurs in anyone’s life, theres always a pinch me moment. You always must take a step back from it. Let your feet hit the ground. I mean that’s life. That’s reality. So here it was. Do I let life put another stop sign in front of me to obey? Or do I leave my own path in the woods? I was too tired of stop signs.
The reason I am writing you isn’t because I put my car in reverse. I walked up those steps and knocked on that door. Each knock was a sound of optimism. I waited and waited, studied the door and waited more. There was no answer. For a moment that door seemed like my life. It stood as still as static. Waiting for something to occur was all too familiar in my life.
Ironically, the door was unlocked. Letting myself in was a simple enough choice. Pictures of the little girl surrounded the house. The environment was calm, dim and peaceful. Silence echoed and soothed the air. I was wondering where everyone was, there were so many cars in the driveway?
Suddenly, a knock on the door intruded my silence. I looked back quickly. I was in shock to see the little girl standing in the doorway. She smiled at me gently and continued to slowly walk up to me. I felt a urge of rush accompanied with infinite questions. How is she OK? Is she healthy? All these obvious questions seemed so irrelevant. So fake, compared to the reality of her footsteps.
She handed me a letter, it read as follows:
“This is a private letter to you. A letter from me to you. It’s not important who I am or Where I live. I could be your grandmother. I could be your son. I could live across the street or on the other side of the world. But maybe just maybe I caught you at a time in your life where the magic has left. Maybe you needed to hear about optimism and innocence. Maybe this letter was specifically written for you. On the other hand, maybe you have already written this letter to someone and have grown weary of life. Maybe you need to be encouraged. You need to believe that the world around you doesn’t define you. Maybe you just need to hear, no matter who you are, that life is beautiful. That life has treasures. That life has miracles. And most importantly, and so vital for you to understand, life is what you make it.“
I put the letter down and looked for her. It was no coincidence she was gone. She didn’t need to stay. Her purpose was fulfilled. Whatever it was, it was complete. I took one last look at the interior of that house. So calm, so peaceful. I exited softly and drove my car pondering what I just experienced.
The next day at the hospital, I started to notice a difference in myself. I was more open to people. More open to help, more available to talk, more apt to listen. I started valuing people instead of evaluating them. I started living life with my arms open. A change had struck. A real change.
Years have gone by, but not a day passed I didn’t put that letter in my pocket. I assume it’s only suitable that you know the truth. Today I am in a hospital, but not for work. My time isn’t long here. I lived a long life. Some good, some bad. But it seemed a unison belief my time was limited.
When the nurse asked me what instructions I had regarding my death. I only requested one thing. I handed her the letter and told her softly “read it and pass it to a stranger.” She smiled and accepted.
When i decided that starting a blog made sense in my life, i had to configure what was worth writing about. After an almost endless internal thought process, my passions started to become clear. It’s funny how aspects of your life stay with you. Friends certainly don’t, relationships for the most part fall by the wayside. Few things have been with me my entire life. The love of movies is one of them.
Being a young boy i remember the impact of movies and how the “larger than life” feel was a powerful one. My parents got divorced when i was a weird age. Not quite old enough to drive myself to and from at my will and certainly not young enough to be oblivious to what was happening around me. To the best of my knowledge, i coped with their divorce in many ways, one of the largest being film.
There i was, a 12 year old going from house to house with my backpack full of movies. While i had many friends at this period in my life, none of them were making the to’s and fro’s to my parent’s separate worlds. The love of film entered my life because a void needed to be filled. Picture a train going its normal speed but with no stops. Just a continuous ride. Thats how i felt. For whatever reason, movies gave me my stop. My train station if you will.
The films in that backpack started to become essential to me. No matter what my ever-changing life could throw, those films always were consistent in being present. Always there, always the same and to a 12 year old who’s life was always being altered, that was a big deal.
(While the titles changed sometimes randomly) the staples were always accounted for. Rear Window, Rope. Close Encounters of the Third kind, Vertigo among others. The characters in these films became my closest friends. No matter what i was going through, no matter what changed, no matter who entered and exited; these characters remained. There is something to be said about people in your life. Your “real friends” people say, are the ones that stick close through thick and thin. By definition then, mine were people i never met. Although they obviously will never know the role they played in my life, thankfully they were there when i needed them most.
Thinking back on those days, the emotions and results alike, i honestly can’t picture that time without film. One of my favorite aspects of movies is how they can be so, so personal to someone and nothing more than a mere 2 hours wasted in another’s life. The point is they reach. In that time in my life, i needed some reaching and was eager to reach back.
Film has impacting me to the extent of making my own. The words “The Fiction” will always be very special to me. I remember writing The Fiction and just the pure act of really writing a movie felt so close to home for me. I felt comfortable and familiar. When the decision to film came about, surprisingly i was even more comfortable. I won’t prolong this post on The Fiction as i suppose future posts will call “The Fiction” home, but to not mention it in this body of words would have been a serious crime Sam Spade certainly wouldn’t have allowed.
Done right or not, movies speak. We are all so different that movies align properly with whom they choose. They do all of us justice or a disservice. They point something out in your life or simply remind you of a past memory. They make you appreciate or repress. While the final verdict of a film differs between us all, we can all agree on one thing; movies touch us in our own unique ways. I know they did for me. Much like the characters i befriended long ago, film will never know my love for it. But that doesn’t mean i’ll stop reaching. More importantly it means movies will never stop reaching back for me. And ill be there.
*ddileo 