i know you.
you can do it.
you can be calm.
not stress.
listen.
with an open mind.
drop the anger.
you.
yes, you.
will appreciate it.
feel better.
lighter.
happier.
and more connected.
to everyone.
everyone that is important to you.
everything.
yes, everything.
will look brighter.
better.
and more worthy.
so.
do it.
i know you can.
live simply.
love hard.
and smile.
The young girl sat in the back of the classroom. Not by choice but rather by alphabetical order. Last name order. And that particular year, she ended up sitting in the fourth row, last seat.
She actually didn’t care. Didn’t even really notice. It was just the way the teacher chose to sit all the students. And, anyway, the girl made no issues with having to sit in the back. Like some of the other kids did.
One morning, after she had arrived to class and put her things away, the youngster sat quietly, in her seat, awaiting instructions. She felt tired. Assumed she probably didn’t sleep well the night before. It seemed that there was more noise around the house than usual. Just people, her family, talking into the night. About everything. And their muffled voices kept waking her. As the late hour progressed.
The girl yawned. As she had before. Like many people do. In the classroom. While waiting for the teacher to call them all to attention.
The boy sitting in front of her turned around, and looked at her. His mouth was open as if he were going to ask her a question. But then he closed it back up. And turned his whole body back around facing the front. Face toward the chalkboard.
Not a minute later, he turned again, and asked the girl, “Why are you always crying?” She said not a word, and just looked at him, confused. He continued. “Your eyes are always watering. Like you’ve been crying.” She wiped the back of her hand across her eyes and saw that, yes she did have tears. “Oh. I’m not crying, I just yawned. I guess it made my eyes water.” The boy just looked at her. Didn’t know how to respond, so he simply turned back. And faced the front of the classroom. Again. And she yawned. Again. Feeling the tears pool in her eyes. And wondered who else thought she was always crying.
When Roberto was born, his head was perfectly shaped. Perfectly proportioned. With perfectly placed facial features. He was, in my opinion, a natural born attention-getter.
When he was a very young boy, Roberto was guaranteed to hear how beautiful his big blue eyes were. How cute he was. Yet, I made sure to counter-comment, after he would thank them for the compliment, with an observation of my own.
“…and he is such a nice, kind person. Smart too!”
You see, as far as I was concerned, and what I’ve wanted Roberto to embrace was that more than his good looks, concern for humanity should be a top priority, along with respect for others.
No longer a very young boy, Roberto is now a young adult, and his handsome features have not wavered, and neither has his appreciation of human life, and accepting people for who they are. As has always been important to me, Roberto also believes everyone should live their own life, in the way they chose, as long as they are not harming themselves, or more importantly, not hurting anyone else.
Roberto is what many call the life of the party. The person you can count on to bring happiness to any situation. A true, loyal friend. Someone dedicated to improving his own life, while enhancing the lives of others. He’s respectful, complete with morals and values. A well-rounded human being. Someone who will bend down and look a child in the eyes when talking to him or her. He will listen, with enthusiasm, to an elderly person, gaining valuable insight from the life of someone who has a story to tell, memories of long ago. Roberto enjoys the company of family, as much as he does his connection with friends.
As his mom, I am impressed and proud of the open-minded person he is. So, when he told me, with no fear of rejection, that he is gay, I warmly welcomed him into my embrace, because of the young man I know him to be, and because of the love he shares willingly, without conditions.
As far back as I can remember writing had never been my thing, the thing one thinks of as a passion, a lifeline, something one needs to do to feel whole. I have always loved the written word, yet I never considered myself as a writer.
I even proved as much when, during a teacher prep course in college, I wrote a very mundane story about me, a bathroom, nine brothers, a sister and a waiting line. I had no clue how to make what could have been a hilarious tale into an interesting read.
Years had passed since that book was turned in, and the only writing I had done since was scribbling my thoughts into a personal journal.
Until one day, several years later, when Rudy moved to Arkansas, to take a job out of necessity. My writing journey unexpectedly began with stories about us, living separate lives. My thoughts, tingling to my fingertips, spilt onto the page, revealing true, heartfelt bona fide affairs.
It was then that I knew I could write, pulling from emotions that are always on the edge of my mind, waiting for their turn.
The following conversation occurred several years ago. It still holds true today. Writing isn’t a quick job, or hobby, but rather it takes time to ‘Get to the Point’ as multiple thoughts are jotted down. Which are then arranged and rearranged appropriately, followed by tons of editing. And editing is what takes the most time before hitting the PUBLISH button. I applaud those who have written and published their work, garnering a reader’s want for more. Bravo.
“Are you done yet, Mom? You said we would watch a movie together.”
My son was sitting, waiting patiently on the couch.
“One minute. I just need to edit this. Make sure it makes sense. Includes all the important details,” I respond, not looking his way.
“It really has surprised me how much time it takes to write one piece,” I add, to myself.
I finish. Half an hour later.
“Movie?” she questions.
“Yeah. But hold on. I am working on something.” His eyes are focused on the laptop’s screen.
“Okay. Let me know when you are ready.” I walk back to the desktop computer. Open my post. Re-read it for any errors. Make sure it’s coherent.
I find a flaw. Or two.
A misspelled word.
A sentence that needs a pronoun.
“Mom? I’m ready,” my son says.
“One minute. I just need to edit this.”
If I could fly, I’d be happy. I’d like to soar overhead to view life from above. To see the beauty of the world without the jumble of noise. To float above all the negativity. And, instead, enjoy the cool breeze.
I’d love to fly around the world. At my leisure. A day here. A day there. Discover virgin land. Hover above. Honing in. Discovering unknowns. All without interfering with natural settings.
I’d grab the hands of those I love and glide along with them. Enjoying the world, in a positive way.
While talking, a man and his wife enjoyed their morning cup of coffee in their rather small kitchen. They were content there, with its cozy feel and just enough space for the two of them.
Their kitchen had become their place, a place to reminisce about days long past. And to dream. Dream about what will be.
They talked about how they had met fifty years previous, and were married within the month. They talked about their five children, each of whom had moved on, living their own lives, and how proud of them they were. The man and his wife talked about their love for each other. A never-ending endearment that began so long ago.
One morning, the man rolled out of bed, smelling the aroma of their morning brew. He gently guided his feet into his worn slippers then headed to the bathroom to wash his face and brush his teeth.
Not long after, he found his wife sitting at the kitchen table, with a pained look on her face, clutching her chest. He could see that she was trying to say something; instinctively he knew he needed to call 911.
She was having a heart attack.
While the dispatcher listened to the man, he rushed to his wife’s side, tugging on the coiled phone cord, willing it to stretch across the table. He pulled up a chair and sat, facing her, knee to knee. The man didn’t know what to do, how he could help, so he simply held her face in his smooth, wrinkled hands, while clinching the phone between his ear and shoulder.
Within minutes, he heard the blare of an ambulance’s arrival, causing him to drop the phone, and yell to the medical team, alerting them to their location. They rushed into the kitchen and quickly began attending to his wife, maneuvering about in the confined space. The man stepped back, almost into the adjacent room, watching, tears flowing from from his eyes.
His neighbors, a young guy and his pregnant wife and their two adorable kids, offered to drive the elderly man to the hospital.
“I love her so much,” he kept repeating over and over. “I don’t know what I would do without Anne.”
After having a stent inserted into her artery to prevent further heart attacks and a little over a week in the hospital, Anne returned home. Her husband cared for her, with the help of their children, who had flown in from various locations.
Post-recovery, after their children were gone, the man and his wife returned to their morning ritual, sitting in their small, cozy kitchen. Conversations flowed easily. They shared well-worn stories of their past, dreams about their future, and most importantly, conversations about the present moment.
One morning, after many mornings of enjoying each others company, there was a knock on the door.
“Come in!” they both hollered in unison, smiling at each other.
The door opened, and a small boy and his sister entered, holding a basket full of homemade muffins and freshly ground coffee. The kids’ mom, dad, and their newborn brother followed, greeting the man and his wife with a hug.
“Well, good morning!” the wife said, pulling the boy onto her lap.
“What’s this?” the man wondered, smiling coyly, when the little girl handed him a drawing.
It was a colorful picture of the man and his wife, sitting in their kitchen, drinking coffee, and talking. Over their heads was a big red heart.
“It’s you two. You are in love,” she giggled, looking at her brother, who laughed and proudly stated,
“We drew it together. For both of you.”
The kids’ mom and dad clasped hands and looked at the joyful man and wife, sitting comfortably in their kitchen. The young couple seemed to be dreaming about building a lifetime of cherished moments. Moments consistently filled with love.
Setting boundaries makes life easier and expectations are better understood. It may take time for those boundaries to cement themselves in place, but the effort is definitely worth it.
I sent this sentiment to my kids this morning, just a random feeling I felt about what we give and take within our daily lives, the setbacks and promises.
You see, we all need, each one of us, space to thrive. Our own space. So that when we choose to bring others into our circle, we are ready to engage, fully.
If the boundaries we set are loose and inconsistent, then we never get to a place of knowing exactly what it is we hope for, whether it be within personal relationships or more of a happenstance of interacting with others in which we are all desiring the simple, daily respect we all deserve.
When we allow ideas and wishes to become jumbled, thrown around, without the thoughts required to attain the promises life presents to us it is only each of us, individually, that suffers.
Therefore, it’s important to set boundaries, carving out our own personal space to rejuvenate mind, body, and soul because then, and only then, will life’s rewards happen, allowing us to enjoy the joys of life.
THREE FIVE-SENTENCE NANO-FICTION STORIES
(A challenge I was given 3 years ago that, obviously, I overlooked, or something)
Write three separate and unrelated stories, each consisting of exactly five sentences.
¹
“Stop!” she yelled. Silence. Everyone froze. The boy she was referring to smirked. But he quickly wiped that cockiness off his face when her seething eyes pierced the humor right out of him.
²
A man and a woman chatted. Lively conversation filled the air with happiness. The aroma of a home-cooked meal danced around the house. An opened front door filled with their children. Laughter followed and stayed for the weekend.
³
Ready. Or not. Here I write. Spilling my vulnerable soul. Into the hearts of humanity.
A penis is a penis is a penis.
So you’d think.
But apparently not.
Not when it comes (no pun intended, seriously, I’m being serious here) to length and girth.
I happened upon a documentary on Netflix™ called UnHung Hero about a guy named Patrick Moote whose marriage proposal was turned down by his girlfriend because his junk is too small.
Which led him on a journey, throughout parts of the United States and across the world, exploring what size means to different people, different cultures, different industries.
The overriding sentiment is that it’s not the size that matters, it’s the person. Women tend to agree; they are more impressed with a man’s skills than the size of his knob.
As we all know.
Right?
Right.
But still, men will be men.
It seems they continue to discover their worth amongst other bejeweled men while ⇑manning-up⇑ in the locker room.
BonaFideAffairs 