Feeling Rootless

Perhaps two months is too long for me to be away from home.

Two months is long enough that I want to begin putting down roots where I am, but the knowledge that I am leaving soon hangs over me.  I have been away from home so long that I am beginning to feel disconnected.  The consequence is that I feel like I am drifting, and I am unsure of where I actually wish to land.  As I float along on an unfamiliar breeze, my roots are hanging below me like strings from a balloon.  I wonder where they might drag along and catch hold.

I have tried to keep myself busy here.  Thus far, I have read 11 novels, knit 3 scarves, made costumes for 2 grandchildren, given 1 chapel message at my grandchildren’s school with another scheduled tomorrow, taken an online writing course, and done all the normal household things like laundry, grocery shopping, meal preparation, cleaning, and paying bills.  I have also made some friends here.  I walk the beach for an hour most days, sometimes with one of my new friends, who is a neighbor here at the condo units.

I really like the church we attend here.  Our Sunday School class is comprised mainly of couples our age.  We have been out to brunch with the group, and they are friendly.  The music and preaching at the church are top notch.

But…

I don’t really live here.  My permanent address is a long way away.  I have a lovely home that is furnished to my tastes.  The can opener and iron there actually work.  I don’t have to think about which seasonings and spices I have available when preparing a meal.  I have a bit of a part-time job and some volunteer activities.  I am involved at two different churches there, and I enjoy both.  I have lots of friends and acquaintances….although, no one to walk the beach with or even to trudge through snow drifts with me.

 I also have boxes and boxes of “stuff” that needs to be sorted if I am pondering a move.  The downsize done six years ago wasn’t nearly sufficient.  Going home also means facing some tough issues and decisions.

Where am I supposed to spend the rest of my life? 

What is there yet for me to accomplish?

And…

Since only my first class mail is being forwarded, what has happened to all my junk mail?  

Holograms and Truth

I recently read that there are scientists who believe that everything we know is actually part of a two-dimensional hologram.  We experience it as three-dimensional, but it is in fact two dimensional.

I have been pondering this.  We know and live in three dimensions of space and one of time.  We can create holograms which are two-dimensional, but appear three dimensional.  It seems to me that an omniscient God who probably knows more dimensions than we can imagine, could create our less dimensioned world, and that it would take us awhile to figure this out.  Perhaps, we are just now beginning to comprehend the multiplicity of dimensions which exist.  That there are realities beyond what we can perceive either with our senses or minds or experiments we contrive which are dependent on our senses and minds.

This reminds me a bit of Plato’s Cave in which chained persons cannot see or know the reality outside of the cave, so they cannot comprehend it.  They believe that reality is only what they can see.  They have no understanding of the bigger reality outside the cave.

I do not really understand String Theory or a unifying Theory of Everything, but I know they require multiple dimensions.  I have no difficulty, as a Christian, with scientists experimenting and reasoning to try and discover how our universe works….and if it is part of something infinite. 

As long as one is seeking truth, he will eventually come face to face with Truth….omniscient and infinite TRUTH.

Tide Pools

Created by the waves,

Carved in the sand,

Temporary pools,

From an artful hand.

Scratched out by fingers,

Pulled toward the sea,

Rippled, undulating,

Fascinating me.

Fragments of memories,

Puddled in my mind,

Pools of joy and sorrow,

Caught and left behind.

Guilt Trip in Publix

One of the things that bothers me when I am in Florida is the contrast between the haves and the have-nots.  Along the beach in the condos, the residents clearly do not want for much in the way of material things.  These are the ladies that stroll the aisles of Harris Teeter and Publix finely dressed and not in any hurry.  Their hair and nails are well cared for.  They have probably been to the spa for a massage recently.  Many of the male shoppers appear tanned and fit for their age.  They are retired and able to live well.  Some of them pack their groceries into hot little convertibles with the tops down.

At the check-out counter are clerks and baggers who should be retired, but who apparently cannot afford to be.  I would think if they were working to stave off boredom, they would choose a different type of employment.  They are unfailingly polite and gracious, but I wonder if any resentment burns underneath the façade.

Today the gentleman who bagged my groceries was wobbly just moving the twelve inches from the end of the counter to my cart.  He was wrinkled, stooped and gray.  He was also slow.  The check-out clerk helped him finish bagging, because he couldn’t keep up.

When he had placed the last bag in my cart, he looked up, smiled and said, “Help you to your car?”

I wanted to cry.  I wondered whether he could actually make it to my car!

I assured him, I could manage by myself and returned his smile.

I wondered if he was hoping I would say ‘no.’  He seemed so frail.  I tried to guess his age, but the ravages of old age seem to happen so unevenly.  Was he 10 years older than me?  That would make him in his early 80s, but he could still be in his 70s…not that much older than I am.

As usual, I have lots of questions and few answers.  But, it did make me feel privileged because I can choose whether or not I work, grateful for good health, and a bit guilty for enjoying blessings I don’t deserve. 

The Face of a Murderer

Almost twenty years ago, a woman named Bonnie Hector was murdered a few miles outside of our city.  She worked for Geico insurance company in a small office along a busy highway, but not in a densely-populated area.  The property was adjacent to the Fort Drum military base, and a trail ran along the back of the building.

It appeared that she had come out of the building at the end of the work day and was shot and robbed on her way to the car.  The evidence seemed to indicate that her assailant had come and gone on a bike via the trail behind the building.

A couple of days later, I went into a bargain store that I frequented at the time for basic household supplies.  I nearly always used my credit card there, so I was surprised for multiple reasons when the clerk said, “Do they usually ask to see your ID when you use your card?”

I thought this a strange question for multiple reasons:

            *I used the card there regularly and had never been asked for my ID.

*He was the clerk and should have been trained in the store’s procedure.  Why would he ask the customer?

*Did he not understand that running my card through the computer meant there was an automatic check on the validity of the card?

I sized him up making eye contact.  He was young…probably late teens, a good-looking black fellow, polite when he spoke, nothing stood out as being odd about him.  But, his question caused me to look at his name tag and notice that he had an unusual first name…Provard.  I had never heard that first name before, so it locked in my brain.

I told him that I was not asked for my ID, but that it was my understanding that the card was computer checked when it was run through the machine to make sure it was not stolen.

He put my purchases in a bag, handed me the receipt, and off I went.  The fact that the encounter seemed strange stuck with me.

Within a few days, Provard Jones was arrested for the murder and robbery of the woman from the insurance office.  It was then that it was revealed that it was not just the money bag from the day that had been stolen, but also, her purse….with her credit cards.

I was chilled to realize that the pleasant store clerk was a murderer, and that his question to me was an attempt to figure out whether he could safely use her credit cards.  The card I used that day was a Mastercard with a picture of Boldt Castle on the front.  Clerks sometimes commented that they hadn’t seen a card of that type with that picture before.  I wondered whether she had the same card with the same picture, and if that prompted him to ask me his question.

I called the detective on the case and told him my story.  It was not evidence, but it spoke to his callousness.  The case did not go to trial.  Mr. Jones took a plea deal and got 30 years to life.

I am thinking about this, because yesterday I was in a store and the clerk gave me the creeps.  He looked miserably unhappy and his face and voice were expressionless as he handed me the receipt and said, “Have a great day.”

I wonder what his story is.

            

Looking for Inspiration

I have a head full of ideas swirling around, and it seems as though some of them should crash into each other and precipitate out into an interesting story worth reading.  But no….

I actually got to this point a few minutes ago, and my cursor disappeared, and I could not type on the page. I had to do a restart. An omen?

In the interest of promoting aforementioned congealing of thoughts, I will list them.

*spending about 18 hours in a roomette on Amtrak has caused me to think very descriptively of the experience beginning with the sensation of being in such a small space that is overall blue in color from the seat cushions to the pleated curtains to the dark, dark blue of the night sky out the window.  I have never taken this ride so soon after Christmas before, and it was enjoyable to see the Christmas lights as we passed through towns and villages along the route.  There ought to be a mystery story set on the train, where so many strangers are in such proximity.

*sitting in the Amtrak terminal, I observe that the majority of the passengers on the auto-train are elderly.  I overheard someone wondering about average age.  I amused myself by trying to picture what various couples might have looked like on their wedding day forty or fifty or more years ago.  What secrets have their lives held?  With so many old folks in one place, is a medical emergency imminent?

*I am currently sitting on the balcony of a condo on Amelia Island.  The noise of the surf, the blue of the sky, the warm breeze of salt air are so very different from the setting I left a couple of days ago.  This is a wonderful spot for an adventure story or a romance.

*There are so many vile comments floating around on the internet about Obama and Trump.  The nation seems divided and itching for anarchy.  Perhaps it is a time to write social commentary.

*Gee….I feel sort of guilty and self-indulgent.  The condo is huge and beautiful….much more space than we need.  Do I deserve this comfort when there is such pain and suffering in the world?  Should I be writing something brooding and introspective?

Maybe I’ll go read a book.  It seems I don’t have the inspiration to write one.

Or perhaps, take a nap….a self-indulgent nap…..

Unanswered Cry, Breaking Heart

Recently I visited my newest grandchild for 10 days.  He was about 5 weeks old…still technically a newborn.  All babies cry…it is normal.  Those who don’t are either weak or sick.  They cry because they have no other way to communicate their needs.

One day as I held him and tried to comfort him I told him that his crying was “breaking my heart.”  I should not have said this in front of his two year-old sister, who got a horrified look on her face and said, “He is breaking Grandma’s heart!”  I tried to explain to her that I was just trying to say that it made me sad to see him cry, and that I was sad when she cried too.

But….I, of course, knew that his mother was near-by and was available to nurse him, if it was hunger that was causing the crying.  We would change his diaper, rock him, walk the floor with him and do whatever else we could to comfort him.

What really “breaks my heart” is the knowledge that there are many babies and children in this world right now, who are crying, and whose cries will not be responded to by a loving parent.

There are parents who are not loving, who really didn’t want this child.

There are parents who are self-absorbed.  The child is not their priority.  Perhaps, video games or their cell phone or drugs or going out to drink are more important.

There are loving parents who cannot respond.  Perhaps they are lying dead in the rubble of Aleppo or some other war-torn spot.  The child will cry over and over until too weak to cry and may die unheeded and uncomforted.

A few years ago, a single mother in my city died in her apartment shortly after giving birth.  She had no local family, and apparently, no friends.  No one checked on her after her discharge from the hospital.  Her baby starved to death before anyone found them.  It made me sick at heart to think of people in adjacent apartments who might have heard the crying baby and just assumed it was normal fussing, rather than realizing it was a desperate cry for life itself.  Compassionate people, who would have helped, drove by on the busy street in front of the apartment oblivious to the need.

I cannot solve the problems in Syria or Africa or even in my own city.  I can only deal with the needs that God allows me to see…the crying He allows me to hear, but there are times when the burden of the crying children in this world weighs on my heart and “breaks” it.