A Million Miles in a Thousand Years

A Million Miles in a Thousand Years
Donald Miller
Friends warned me to set aside a lot of time when I started this book because I'd read it in two days; they were wrong. I read it in one.

The book is about how Miller gets an offer to turn his bestseller Blue Like Jazz into a movie and the process of writing the screenplay. In writing an autobiographical screenplay, Miller is asked to present a cinema-worthy version of himself and discovers that his "story" is just not that compelling.


Miller realizes that he is being called to "write a better story" for himself. Somewhere between riding his bike across the U.S., hiking Machu Picchu, and starting The Mentoring Project, Miller lets the Author write him into a better character.

"You can call it God or a conscience, or you can dismiss it as that intuitive knowing we all have as human beings, as living storytellers; but there is a knowing I feel that guides me toward better stories, toward being a better character. I believe there is a writer outside ourselves, plotting a better story for us, interacting with us, even, and whispering a better story into our consciousness."

Miller talks about overcoming fear and addresses the problem of having over-elevated expectations about people, possessions, and even God: "When you stop expecting people to be perfect, you can like them for who they are. And when you stop expecting material possessions to complete you, you'd be surprised at how much pleasure you get in material possessions. And when you stop expecting God to end all your troubles, you'd be surprised how much you like spending time with God."

Like me (and countless other people), Miller had to unlearn about the God he knew growing up—a god that inspires guilt and fear—in order to trust Him to write a better story. "As a kid, the only sense I got from God was guilt...The real Voice is stiller and smaller and seems to know, without confusion, the difference between right and wrong and the subtle delineation between the beautiful and profane. It's not an agitated Voice, but ever patient as though it approves a million false starts."

Miller doesn't treat God as a fearsome ruler or swing too far the other way, thinking of God as a fairy godfather; he treats God with as much respect as he does familiarity. Miller acknowledges that while God can help write a better story, He does not promise a perfect one: "Growing up in church, we were taught that Jesus was the answer to all our problems. We were taught that there was a circle-shaped hole in our heart and that we had tried to fill it with the square pegs of sex, drugs, and rock and roll; but only the circle peg of Jesus could fill our hole. I became a Christian based, in part, on this promise, but the hole never really went away. To be sure, I like Jesus and I still follow him, but the idea that Jesus will make everything better is a lie. It's basically biblical theology translated into the language of infomercials. The truth is, the apostles never really promise Jesus is going to make everything better here on earth...I think Jesus can make things better but I don't think he's going to make things perfect. Not here, not now."

"It's interesting that in the Bible, in the book of Ecclesiastes, the only practical advice given about living a meaningful life is to find job you like, enjoy your marriage, and obey God. It' as though God is saying, write a good story, take somebody with you, and let me help."

My fear of writing a better story is obvious: I'm worried where God will ask me to go and what He'll ask me to do. Also, I worry proximity to God will mean losing too much of myself. I'm not that great or anything, but at least I know who I am.

I worry that if I get too close to the source of all good that somehow I'll be absorbed; I'll never swear, or drink, or think about sex again. I'll become this Jesus drone—that God will steer me back to the Lutheran bubble, ask me to preach apologetics, and cause me to inexplicably volunteer to bring ambrosia salads for the church potlucks.

But what if it's not like that at all—what if proximity to God meant that I could be more myself than ever? Perhaps closeness to God would mean I could love more and judge less, have confidence to approach my Christian community with my biggest doubts and hardest questions, and read the Bible less for platitudes and more because it's full of stories about people even more messed up than me. What if it meant that, overall, I could live a better story?

I guess there's only one way to find out. I don't have a good conclusion for this post but I think I've at least got an inciting incident for my story.

Short Shots

If you had been me this last week, here are some things you would've seen:

[—My dad, the world traveler, looking at the ocean as if he'd never seen it before; it makes itself new to him everytime he visits it.
—]An extra-slow-moving school bus with the words "NEVER TARDY" stenciled on the side.
[—An old lady dressed up as Michael Jackson on Halloween (she had everything right except that she had on a Jewish costume hat on (a fedora/top hat with two large brown curls coming out at the temples of the hat on each side, separated out to look like Michael's.
—]This guy position his skateboard on the sidewalk just so, then push off to ride it sitting down all the way down this huge hill by Rose Canyon.
[—A small section of my morning commute where there's not a palm in sight and a few of the trees are turning. When it's cloudy, it could be Nebraska.
—]You would've felt first then seen a little boy walking with his mom at the mall, and stick out his arm just in time to brush your calve as you passed one another, look down, then back at him as he looks back at you too grinning and waving.
[—My coworker coming into my cubicle to feel her baby doing flips in her tummy, my face and hand on her belly.
—]The scottie dog, Angus, I'm going to dog sit for the rest of the month who has a haircut that leaves his tail fluffy, his face hair long, and his back buzzed with a fringe of hair like a bed's dust ruffle that swings and swishes when he walks (not sure there are even feet under there.
[—A little kid ordering chocolate at See's Candy at the mall.
Kid: I need one chocolate cream.
See's Lady: Just the one?
Kid: It's not for me, it's for my Mom (as he counts out change from his pocket)
See's Lady: Do you like milk or dark chocolate?
Kid: I like mil...I mean, my Mom likes milk chocolate.
See's Lady: Got it! Here you go.
(She sets down the milk chocolate on the counter and slides the change into her palm and starts the arduous task of counting it. The kid spins the chocolate in its wrapper on the counter, rustling the wrapper paper and squeezing the chocolate through it as the lady slowly counts the change. She watches him.)
See's Lady: You know what? A girl can never have enough chocolate, why don't you give her this one too.
(The kid just looks at her.)
See's Lady: It's free.
(Kid smiles broadly at her and uses a cupped hand to slide the new chocolate next to the one he's been fussing with and stares at his wealth of chocolate.)
See's Lady: Ah, ah, ah...don't mix them up. I made sure to get one with nuts for your Mom. She'll want to know which is which when you give them to her.
(Kid nods sagely and puts one in each hand and thanks the lady and leaves.)
See's Lady: Welcome to See's Candy, what can I do for you?
Meg: I need a quarter pound of key lime truffles, and they're for my mother too.
(And they were, but I did got a delightful sample for me (dark chocolate shell around pineapple truffle.))

Chillin' with the Crazies

No five great things Friday, I plum forgot. Whoops! But I've got something better: I've got some of Cali's prime crazies at the coffee shop with me right now.

First pair of crazies a guy and a gal at the coffee shop:
MexiBarista: We roast our own beans.
Sport Sandals with Skirt: You know? That is SO great because in this world where nothing is organic or real or lasting, at least you can come to The Blue Mug and get a real cup of coffee.
MexiBarista: I hear ya (nodding vigorously). I mean I heard the other day...
Sport Sandals with Skirt: Think about it, we're all done in 2012. The ice caps won't melt because they won't be around anymore, the magnetic forces will be enough that it will melt everything down, but we're killing ourselves anyway so whatever.
MexiBarista: Right? I mean, did you see Wall-E? It's like the I Ching. You know how everyone floats around on hover crafts b/c we're all too fat and lazy to even move? That's gonna be us in, like...I wanna say...two years? Maybe.
Sport Sandals with Skirt: I never saw it.
MexiBarista: It's my favorite movie, it's not as good as anime, but for Pixar, it's really good. Funny.
Sport Sandals with Skirt: But you're missing the point. We're not going to hover (using hands to demonstrate complex concept of hovering) because we'll all be DEAD in two years! Did you know a woman dies in childbirth every. Single. Minute. (Pause for reaction).
MexiBarista: (Eyes raised to ceiling as if counting) You know, I don't really think that's possible. Wait. Wait, no, you know what, that's true. I heard that on the History channel. (Both nod.)

Meanwhile, "My Hips Don't Lie" comes on while Sport Sandals with Skirt tears open sugar packets three at a time and pours them into her coffee.
Sport Sandals with Skirt: I love this song (the velcro making little ripping noises as she flexes her feet, dancing).
MexiBarista: Mmmmmmnow see, I have to disagree. She's a little cocky when it comes to shaking her hips.

They look at each other for a minute, Sports Sandals with Skirt sips her coffee gingerly while she uses the other hand to wave good bye. Without a word, MexiBarista waves back and Sport Sandals with Skirt slowly walks through the coffee shop and out the door never taking her lips of of the to-stay coffee cup. Gets in her car, and drives off.

P.S. I posted this totally lame picture b/c it turned out so bad I thought it was appropriate to the crazies theme. I look positively headless.

The Spider that Went for a Ride

It's uncanny; if I park on the west side of the parking lot, I always have to clear out spider webs built up between my car and the one next to it and hope that the spider still isn't present. But if I park on the east side, no spiders or webs. Do you think I ever get home in time to catch the east-side spots? Of course not.

I'd learned my lesson early on last year. Orb weavers season begins in August and can extend well into winter here since we don't have frosts. Super. One morning last fall, walking to my car with my head down, finding the right key on the ring, I passed between my car and the next as my body pulled a huge spider web from its moorings, coating my face and arms in silk. I screamed in as undignified a manner as you might imagine and, somehow, it seemed logical that I chuck my purse as far away from me as possible. What probably looked to be a seizure, I high-kneed it to the middle of the parking lot and used my hands to wipe off every bit of skin exposed to the offending web.
When I finally regained some composure, I spotted my purse, which had bounced off the bank of bushes in front of my car, spilling all its contents, including my broken jar of apple sauce trailing out of it by the driver's door. I hugged my body and couldn't stop the sob that rose in my throat from the sheer injustice of being assaulted by my greatest fear before 8 A.M.

But this isn't about last autumn.
This is about yesterday.

Objects in the Mirror May Be Closer than They Appear
I groggily shuffled to my car yesterday morning and after spending a blissful five days away from my home and car, several large webs had built up between my car and the one next to it which, evidently, had taken the weekend off too. I searched for lingering spiders in the webs and seeing none, began to swipe and kick at the vacant webs making girly grunts of disgust as I went. I finally cleared the path between the cars and approached the driver's door. I inserted a pen into the space between the handle of my car and the car door where spiders absolutely love to hide, clicked it around to make sure it was safe to open, and got in. The interior of a car is almost always safe from spiders, sharply contrasting with the outside which seems to attract every one from a mile away.
I started the car and began my groggy but short drive to work. I checked my right rearview mirror to change lanes and gasped as I noticed a huge spider right in the middle of it. When I came to a stop light I moved the lever that adjusts that outside mirror from the inside. I handled the button like a joystick but the spider just lazily crawled to the corner of the mirror and picked at its web nonchalantly.
I was pissed. I hate spiders. And I hate mornings. I revved my engine and took off as fast as my in-line four engine would let me. I took my eyes off the road to watch the spider go flying off the mirror but not off the car! Connected by an invisible thread it was flying next to the window making the faintest "tap...tap" as the wind whipped at it, knocking it against the car. It was big enough that I could watch its eight legs flail behind its bulbous body. When I reached a stop light, I stopped as hard as I could, safely. It smacked against the mirror with another faint tap and began scrambling wildly all around the perimeter of the mirror building a stronger web as quickly as it could.
(NOTE: this is not an actual photograph of the event, it's a reenactment on paper as produced by the witness.)
I admit, I was a little impressed. I almost wondered if I should drive a little less erratically and just let the little stowaway have a free ride. I imagined getting pulled over and trying to explain to the police that I was trying to lose the big spider creeping me out on the rear view mirror outside my car. The light turned and I drove as I usually would and the spider again, went flying though not as wildly as before. When I came to the next stop light it swung forward under and over the mirror landing comically with another tap on the top of the mirror. It slowly dragged its body back to the middle of the mirror and sat still for a moment. It wandered a little to the left, changed its mind. A little to the right, stopped. Then suddenly, it just dropped. I lunged for the passenger seat to see where it went, barely keeping my foot on the brake, but it was gone. It had just said "Forget this noise!" and let go.
Truth be told, I hope it died. However, if it did miraculously survive, I imagine he had a pretty good story to tell the other spiders about how one morning it went for a ride.

I didn't even realize it, but last week's "Five Great Things Friday" was my 100th post! So thanks for reading!

Ooh La La!

It's Sunday morning and I'm at Wired Le Bistro, a très chic little cafe in La Jolla whose name belies its fabulousness. It really is one of my favorite spots in all of San Diego. The inside is cozy enough to make you want to stay all day but trendy enough to be in keeping with its cuisine's Parisian edge. The ceiling undulates with old burlap coffee bags that have been tacked up above, seating options include hard wooden high backs, black wrought iron chairs, or cozy eggplant-hued benches that outline the perimeter of the room. I enjoy the old-fashioned patisserie glass case, and that they imported the female servers.
If I were a gentleman, I'd be tempted to haunt this cafe for nothing more than the beautiful women who drift past the tables. The first time I was here, I knew they were French before they opened their mouths to speak with their quick, sharp little consonants and longer sweeter vowels that charactarize their accents; petite graceful bodies, hair slicked back to expose their fine bone structure and wearing black. You can also tell a french woman by her Mona Lisa smile curling slightly and inexplicably on her rosy lips. Somehow, it makes me feel more beautiful to be around them.
Today, at the urging of the server who recognized me, I ordered crepes nutella (as in that sinful hazelnut/chocolate spread Europeans have the good sense to put on everything) and a cup of coffee, and cream. Her recommendation reminded me of an important fact I wish all to know: the key to ordering a breakfast that won't leave you with a bellyache. It's simple; order a plain coffee if you're going to have a sweet dish, order a sweet coffee if you're going to have a savory dish. That's it, don't be seduced by an indulgent mocha to accompany your crepes, or you'll be sorry.
I think now would be a good time to mention that I'm being watched by a handsome young gentleman. He is with a woman who isn't offended by her date's inattention to his and blatant window-knocking at me as I sit on the other side of that window on the patio. His feet dangle two feet from he ground, his plate, bearing a large sweet roll, is poised perfectly at mouth-level. His mother watches fondly as he takes advantage of his position. He reaches forward with both hands cupping the back of the roll, scoops it toward his face and sinks his teeth in. He then flings his arms apart that conveys some sort of achievement and turns to look out the window, directly at me with full mouth and messy face as if to say, "check it out!" I assume a serious face and nod approvingly. He grins with flaky bits and cinnamon frosting all over his small teeth and turns back around.

In unrelated news, a bee has alighted on and made a home of my book which is in my purse. My book that I would very much like to be reading as soon as I've posted this. However, he's been there 45 minutes so far and seems to have decided that my tome makes for a good napping spot. I have a straw I could use to prod him away from my belongings but in a zen moment, I decided that this would be an unkindness as I wouldn't like to be awoken in such a manner. So he stays.
What I love even more than the sun-drenched patio with its wood-framed umbrellas, and strong European coffee is that every time I'm here I am privy to a variety of languages. French on left, South-American Spanish on right, Castillian Spanish behind, some language I can't identify at the table in front of me, old women two tables away slipping in and out of their old Italian in croaky tones complete with hand gestures. By sitting on the patio I miss the great music inside, but I gain the musicality of these different dialects as they float around me.

Viva la Vivahhhhhhhno

Meg: I'd like to try one of your smoothies.
Bucky (the Starbucks lady): Oh these? (pointing to the big chalky ad) These aren't smoothies. (pause and her face stifled suppressed glee, like she had a great secret to divulge)
Meg: Oh, okay. Well can I have a banana choco...
Bucky: They're Vivahhhhnos.
Meg: ...colate oh, right. Well can I have a banana chocolate vivahhhno with a shot of...
Bucky: I'd recommend a shot of espresso.
Meg: Right, one of those and can I also have you...
Bucky: And we can use any kind of milk you want including soy and we can also add a powder shot that contains...
Meg: Nonfat. Espresso. Chocolate Banana Vivahhhno. Grande. Please.
Bucky: Mmmm, excellent choice. Here's our nutritions facts chart, you can see there's lots of fiber and protein and you've made the best choice by selecting non-fat milk...

Taking the chart from her and nodding as she went on I wanted to be annoyed, but I remembered my days at the GAP.
Customer: Um, how much are these jeans.
Meg: (drawing on pre-programed script) Oh they're not jeans.
Customer: Really?
Meg: They're denim trousers, see the flat back pockets and trouser clasp front...
Customer: So these cotton, blue pants aren't jeans?
Meg: No, and it's not really indigo, it's a special dye designed to be resiliant against the harshest detergents so your jeans never lose their color.
Customer: Trousers.
Meg: Righ...what?
Customer: You said jeans.
Meg: Right.

I don't miss that job. Maybe the discount, but not the job.

In conclusion, thanks Peter for the recommendation on the Vivanno. It was absolutely delicious!
P.S. An editor's delight: these photos came from Reuters blog and I love that this latter features a misspelled "Vivanno," looks like even baristas have trouble with Starbuckanese.

Editor's 911

Okay, so today I had a grammar question that even stumped my mentor, goddess of grammar, and I was in panic! So I looked up some grammar hotlines online. It's hilarious and awesome that there are actual hotlines for this; about one on every campus worth its salt. Anyway, I called up Purdue U and got a hold of "Tony." He had a nice voice and spoke to me of such things as clauses, structure, and participles. It was very hot. I started blushing and thanked him about five times consecutively out of nervousness. He laughed and told me to have a good day.

We'll probably get married.
And have four grammatically correct children.
And they'll never start their sentences with a conjunction, like their mother.

Someone(s) to Watch over Me

Last week, I did my laundry at the on-premises facility in my apartment complex, I'd neglected to switch out my clothes from the dryer and remembered only long after they were done. I returned to the machines to find my clothes in a neatly stacked, folded pile in my basket.

Yesterday, I stood in line behind a man with more groceries than reasonably fit into a single cart, also in tow was his son in a carrier. The toddler eyed me suspiciously, so I decided to prove I wasn't a threat by helping him take off his socks and find his piggies. The dad watched, amused at the farce of "lost toe-kies" and the three of us shared a chuckle.

I collapsed, exhausted on some grass by Mission Bay after a long walk/jog and had begun to snooze under the sun when a woman—also apparently worn out from a jog—hovered over me to inform me that I was "looking a little pink," and to head indoors before I got a sunburn. I really was looking quite rosy and I don't think I would've been very content with what would've been the outcome of that nap; a lobsteresque exterior.

My fruit-stand guys are endlessly patient with my comical Spanish. I haven't practiced conversation for some time and I find that the flow is good, but the terms are off. "¿Cuantos libres?," I ask "How many freedoms?" instead of "How many pounds" of fruit I'm looking to purchase. I had to ask about four times before I remembered how to say "plums," (ciruelas, if anyone's interested), and hilarity ensues as I answer "Yes." to either/or questions I thought were yes/no. The guys promise me fresh produce and Spanish lessons whenever I stop by and that they don't mind my practicing with them as it always results in a good laugh.
My library lady insists I come over for lunch sometime to chat, share a cup of tea, and look at her scrapbooks. Though I had some more youthful activities in mind for my social calendar, my 60-something friend is too sweet to resist.
.

Flustered after being the cause of a not-so-smallish snafu at work, I ran to put some gas in my car, distractedly grabbed the pump and prepared to fill up when a man comes running up to me. Being in lone-woman-in-the-city-fending-for-herself mode, I prepared to key or claw in case the man intended to accost me in some manner. He puts his hand over mine on the pump and swiftly pulls it out of my tank. "What are you doing?," I asked, not so kindly. "Well," he responded, "unless your car takes diesel, I'd highly discourage using the green pump." I shudder to think what would have become of my darling little Honda if it weren't for this man, I told him he was a stud and thanked him profusely.

A Forrest in my sunset

I have a story today, I know I haven’t had one for a while. Three weeks ago, I was driving home and took a detour so I’d drive by La Jolla beach. As I could’ve predicted, the ocean worked on me like a magnet, I was compelled to pull over and park, slip on my flip-flops (I always keep a pair in the car now), and run down to the water. I only meant to get my feet wet, but I played in the water, sand, and tide pools from 4:00 p.m. until the sun began to set (about 7:30 p.m. here). I hadn’t even realized how long I’d been out there but seeing that the sun was setting, I made my way back to the top of the cliffs for a better view of the scene, sat on a free bench and decided to have a chat with God.
I’d been feeling a little, okay a lot more distant from God than I’d like to admit and was ready to have quite the little discussion with Him. As usual, I came to him with the sort of indignance and frustration that I know for certain is my own doing, but I like to pretend is his fault. God doesn’t mind, I’m sure. It’s so incredulous and foolish that he can only shake His head and return my fist-shaking session with patience, waiting for me to get the picture. I asked God what I was doing here in San Diego and why I wasn’t meeting more people and why he wouldn’t give me a church and a community.
I was engrossed in this mental vent session when this man suddenly appeared at my side. I was truly startled and looked up to see a grizzled man peering at me from under a fisherman's hat, wearing soiled clothes, and holding an engorged plastic sack in one hand and a tattered backpack in the other.
“I’m having a barbeque,” he said, “but the problem is I don’t have a grill or anyone to share it with.”
Never at a loss for words, I responded coolly (I was more in the mood for conversation with the Almighty than a bum), “That sounds like a conundrum.”
“Conundrum! Now there’s a 5-dollar word!”
I have a curse for using overly large words when in the presence of those who are least able to grasp them. I’m not joking. It’s one of the things that makes communication with children difficult for me. Inevitably, whenever I need to sound eloquent and well-spoken all the richness of the English language eludes me. But put a homeless man in front of me and eureka! It immediately put a wall up between this man and myself, though I hadn’t meant for it to.
I began to say something else but he interrupted, “Do you mind if I sit here?” as he set down his bags and eased himself down beside me—I noticed that the bulging platic bag contained cans and cans of cheap beer. I inwardly sighed and consented though I wished him gone. He began a few more times to make conversation with me and I, while trying to remain somewhat civil, ignored each of his queries and icebreakers. I did a safety scan: were there people within screaming distance? Yes. Were there cars frequenting the street behind us should he choose to attack? Yes. Did I have even a remotely sharp object on me should I need to protect myself? Yes, I loosened the cap off of the pen in my pocket…just in case.
As I wound up my analysis, he expressed his impatience for my disdain and accused me of not even being able to look him in the eye. This I proceeded to do and asked him with equal impatience if he could honestly blame me, a woman on my own, for being wary of a strange man with a plastic bag full of beer. His expression and tone of voice changed immediately. He said, “I’m not really a bad guy, if you don’t mind alcoholics.” I told him I’d not known any so he would be soley responsible for the basis on which I would form my opinion. He cracked open a can and cheered to that.
He repeated, “I’m not a bad guy, in fact, I would like to give you a present.” He proceeded to dig around in his back pack from which he produced a canvas back full of seashells and a length of elastic. He asked me to hold out my wrist, I refused. I was uncomfortable. So he pursed his lips and nodded and encircled his own wrist with the elastic and cut off a length a bit smaller than that. He looked at me and asked, “I don’t have any friends or anyone to talk to. Could you do something for me? Can you stay here with me? You can leave either as soon as the sun goes down or as soon as I finish your bracelet, whichever comes first. But please stay.”
I nodded, and he set to work, his clumsy hands and painstakingly stringing the small shells onto the elastic explaining that this is what he did for a living. It was too hard for me to watch him. The craft would’ve taken young, dexterous hands moments to complete, but his rough hands with scabs and cuts all over them worked so slowly. I had to look at the sunset, I would guess we had about 15 minutes left. He almost completed the bracelet when the elastic broke and he had to start over again. I helped him gather the shells that had flown off. He patiently began again, using his own wrist to measure, not asking me this time. At this point I felt so bad, I offered to purchase the bracelet from him, I only had $3, but he seemed grateful for the offer and accepted. The sun sank faster than I’d predicted and he prattled on about disconnected facts about himself I tried to follow and stories whose meaning was indiscernible. "By the way, I'm Forrest." All the while he talked, I tried to find a way to introduce the subject of God into the conversation, for what could offer more comfort to a man like this? Maybe he could even go to a church for some aid. That's what I was there for right? Isn't that how the Chicken Soup for the Soul books go? There to pray but a serendipitous encounter leads to warm and fuzzies in the end? But he prattled on without ceasing and I never felt like that opportunity presented itself and I inwardly yelled at God for the second time that day, “What the heck am I doing here if you don’t want me to witness to him God? Why this utter waste of my time? Why won’t you help me do what I'm supposed to be able to do?!” I was so angry.
He finally finished, just as the sun hit the water and he held it up to examine it. I started tearing up out of frustration at not being able to introduce the subject of God and at the overwhelming pity I felt for this man, luckily it was getting too dark for him to tell. I handed him the money, and he held the bracelet open for me to slip my hand through. I tensed at once, having no desire whatsoever to touch or be touched by this man. But then a moment of clarity—Jesus never refused to touch anyone no matter what their status or situation, and he was God! He, of all men, did not have to condescend to touch and interact with the lowly. The man’s hands were still suspended in air, holding open the ‘o’ of the bracelet for me and I looked him in the eyes and saw him as an equal, for the first time. I put my hand though, feeling his calloused skin brush mine, and he took the back of my hand, turned it over, and examined the inside of my wrist staring at it and stroked it with his thumb then released it. It was a very intimate moment that could’ve easily taken a on a shade of perverseness, but was very innocent and our eyes met as one human to another, his were clear of any ulterior motive and full of appreciation. Mine still welled with tears. He thanked me slowly and sincerely saying, “Thank you for letting a lonely man share a sunset with a beautiful woman.” I didn't feel beautiful at all, I felt like an insufferable snob who was rubbish at witnessing. I thanked him for the bracelet, put on my sandals and told him to take care of himself.
There's no punch line, I'm about as confused now as I was when I drove away from the beach. I failed to share Jesus with Forrest, but I gave him the only thing that occurred to me that Jesus might give; a touch.

(Photo is, finally, not "borrowed" from the Internet. A shot of sunset on La Jolla beach--not taken on the same day as my meeting with Forrest.)

Snapshots: Better than Better | Have a Good Day Sun! | Afraid of Heights | Cake

Me: Were you scared at all when you found out?
Rita*: Well no! When the doctor told me about it, I just told him, "That's stupid".
Me: Huh. I don't think I would have been able to say that.
Rita: Well, don't you think it's stupid?
Me: A brain tumor?
Rita: Yeah! I mean, being scared doesn't make something go away.
Me: So how did treating it with contempt work for you?
Rita: Pretty good I guess, it's not in here anymore anyway! (self-consciously smoothing down the back of her hair over the long scar trailing from the nape of her neck into her scalp)
Me: I'm glad you're better.
Rita: Honey, I'm better than better. No go get to work. Come back to my office for lunch sometime. We'll clear off my desk, put down a tablecloth and order in and have a picnic.
*Coworker, and survivor of a brain tumor diagnosed in December 2007
........................................................................
I watched my first sunset on the beach last Saturday night, "alone" in the La Jolla Cove. I'm learning that alone isn't a state of being, it's a state of mind. If that's true, then I shared the sunset with a father and son and here's what they were talking about...
Dad: See? There it goes! Say buh-bye sun! (or maybe it was "son")
Boy: (loud enough so the sun could hear him) BUH-BYE SUN! I'LL SEE YOU...um...I'll seE YOU TOMORROW DAY!!
Dad: Yup, because right now it's going to bed.
Boy: HOPE YOU HAVE A GOOD DAY!
Dad: A good night, you mean.
Son: (thinking, then saying with conviction) Sure.

There was an old man about 4 feet away from me who eased himself down on the low wall along the walkway and sat with such a hunch that his eye level was even with top of the cane he used, held erect and steady with his hand atop it. He looked sooooo lonely and it ached somewhere beneath my collarbone to watch him sit there alone waiting for the sun to set. I'd almost decided to go over there, but rethought the action; not all those who are alone are lonely, just as not all who wander are lost. Then it occurred to me, that it was I who was a little lonely and I got up and sat beside him.
Meg: Excuse me, I'm watching the sunset alone, and you didn't look like had any company either and I figured... (I sort of started to lose my nerve a little, though not usually shy)...
Man: Are you afraid of heights?
Me (caught a little off guard): A little, why?
Man: I'm pleased with myself, because I am afraid of heights and this is the closest I've gotten to these cliffs by the beach before.
Me: That's pretty good! (looking over the side of where we were situated safely and really not that far up at all) I'm impressed.
Man: Well thank you, but you shouldn't be. To be honest I was just tired and didn't want to go any farther so I stopped here.
Me: Still counts.
Man: I s'pose. (smiles)
Me: Would you like to watch the sun set together?
Man: I'm sorry, I'd love to, but I'm meeting my wife at a restaurant a little farther down the way.
I was surprised that he had a date waiting for him; I'd misjudged his situation. He got up, smiled, and started walking away and I felt a pang at being the one left. I sadly watched him walk away but after he took a few shuffling steps away from me, I couldn't hang onto my self-pity another moment, so pleased was I to know that he had someone and somewhere. The ache let up and I smiled to myself. My ocean sunset was, as you can imagine or have see for yourself at one time or another, marvelous. It burns red just before it dips down to the water, I imagine that were I closer to it, I could hear it sizzle as it hit the water; the white light reflecting on the water just below the sun moves to-and-fro as if it were simmering, making the metaphor more substantial.
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Why one should never underestimate the power of the chocolate and coffee bean to remedy a situation.
I went to a crowded coffee shop appropriately called "The Living Room;" it was furnished with old chaise lounges, velvet parlor sofas, and mismatched dining sets. I claimed a table and began to write letters to close friends and family. Soon after, two older ladies came in and settled just behind me. No sooner were they there than they began to complain about the overly-trendy crowd, lack of space, and shabby furniture. As one of them incessantly bemoaned her surroundings, her friend had enough sense to take some kind of action...
Lady 1: I'm going to go buy us some dessert
Lady 2: It's 10:00 in the morning!
Lady 1: So what? What would you like?
Lady 2: How should I know?
Lady 1: Would you like to come to the front and look?
Lady 2: No, just pick something you think I would like.
Lady 1: Something with chocolate in it?
Lady 2: No.
Lady 1: What about pie or a tart or something?
Lady 2: No.
Lady 1: A danish, croissant, muffin?
Lady 2: I don't KNOW! I'll just have whatever you get.
The first old lady got up to make her purchase, mumbling a little as she went, and returned five minutes later carrying two (mismatched) plates with large pieces of chocolate cake and forks sliding precariously on each. She set down the plates, and wordlessly they began to eat the cake. I got up to get a glass of water in order to better view the scene, I got the cup and glanced over. They were sitting straight, just as proper ladies should, I smiled and looked down to focus on what I was doing. Once I'd filled my glass, I squeezed a wedge of lemon into it and started back to my table. When I took in the ladies a second time, their faces were significantly closer to the plates and their forks scraped against their dishes as they collected the final morsels of their morning dessert. I stifled a giggle and sat back down to listen...
Lady 2: The lighting isn't very good here, is it?
pause
Lady 2: Though, I'd say they make up for it with their food. I always say that dessert should precede a meal, that way if you run out of room you don't miss the best part.
Lady 1: I like the music. (it was classical, maybe Wagner)
Lady 2: Yes, it's actually very good (I hear her fork clinking on the plate again, though I know the cake is no longer). They should still replace the furniture in here, but my chair is surprisingly comfortable.
Lady 1: How have you been feeling lately?
Lady 2: (ignoring the question) Thank you for the cake.
Lady 1: I ordered coffee too, but I forgot to make it decaf.
Lady 2: (threatening to relapse into grumpiness) Oh, well I'll never get to sleep tonight, the last time I drank...
A server approaches the table and says
Server: Here are your coffees ladies, and I'm sorry but we just ran out of regular so I brought you decafs until we get another pot of regular brewed.

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