Are you climbing up or just hanging on?

I read this statement in a book about changing your life to adapt with business or corporate structure while watching a spider climb on a Christmas card basking in the sunlight.

The statement is very true of what individuals have in their being to want to strive for or be swept aside in the constant evolution. Some will set and seek goals of fortune or fame while others plod everyday to another’s demands.

Each might internally validate life’s accomplishments, yet other’s perceptions calculate unknown variations.

Pondering my father’s hopes, dreams, wishes, and reality I also reflect on my path.

No regrets behind me, yet the future, though it may be short, might hold a key.

A similar thought is the ambiance around us. Some hurry in a rush of noise and confusion, electronic devices clutter the air with news, weather, sports, and the constant chatter, while others relax in the quiet of their own being.

Music, I feel, is the glue that holds us together. Titles, language, politics, etc. cannot form a bond like music. Global recognition of rhythm brings smiles and tears and laughter and song to the human spirit.

So, life, like the corporate ladder, is a decision of climbing up or just hanging on. Music can create the soundtrack, but it is each of us to decide how far we climb.

And is there ever a top?

And death may be just letting go.

Snow Day

Today the sun is out, shining the crystal whiteness of the city.

After a day of eating, watching bad westerns, and being surround with the frozen water, I decided it was time to venture out.

There was no reason to lace up the boots and step out into the knee-deep powder. Stocks of food are plentiful, entertainment abundant, but the need for fresh air and sunshine compelled me to explore winter.

After feeding the yard critters, I strapped on my pack and trudged into the deep footsteps.

A few are out digging out their vehicles for the sliding necessary to open offices and stores with few calls or customers. Will we ever accept that this town is shut down until streets are passable for mom and pop to safely resume their daily chores?

The streets that are cleared are thick ice with a light white powder. I decide to take the safe yet slower path of stepping into the deep but firm footing on the edges.

A young woman guiding her little girl welcomes the beauty with me. A man, dressed for church, walks around the corner to the main road, to warm up his vehicle before loading his shivering offspring.

Sunshine convinces all it is warmer, but there are very few spots of melting. Yet the exercise, which would normally be a quick stroll, causes the body to perspire under the layers.

A two-mile hike takes two hours. I’m not in a hurry, actually noting the cold and the ice, took a very slow pace.

As I wander the streets, I wonder what the heck I am doing out here?

What would happen if I were to fall and break my hip?

Then my mind wondered to the thought of how long will I be able to do this? I’m not a young chicken now, but what will I do when it snows like this and I’m 80 years old? Would it would not be feasible or even possible for me stand knee deep in the cold, watch the yard bend to the weight, suck in the clear air, and listen to the wisp as fowl and flora as they struggle, the same as I, to get to Spring?

Before I slept last night under piles of blankets and comforters, warming my toes, cap on my head and my comfort knit around my neck, I thought of years gone by.

How did the pioneers survive in this weather? Sure, they burned wood (and I got plenty of wood) or climbed under piles of blankets (just like I did), and they did not have electric light or television or microwave popcorn or computer social networking while the snow falls, and yet they did survive. Maybe that is why the population grew so much, but even that body heat will subside.

Thinking back further, I imagine a medieval time of cold. Tapestry covered walls, huge fireplaces, long thick layers, and coal heated beds kept the upper tier tolerable to the weather, but what about the ones in the straw beds in drafty humble abodes?

I’ll survive this winter with a little more wisdom, appreciating the now and anticipating the future. Next winter will be just as cold, but I have learned from these experiences.

This is how we grow.

The Night Is Cold

I just came back from a walk through Colonial Place.

There is no white powder yet, but I feel the coming.

The silence is only broken by the whir of a motor vehicle zooming down the payment racing home before the storm.

Clouds mask the stars in grayness of winter.

The breath is clear and clean, yet the season of winter holds it’s internal capture of breathing and the body knows the difference.

Morning will bring a white blanket so it is time to sleep and await the crystal water.

I know the moon is up there shining bright to others.

Good night.

Fighting in Bed & Holes in my Pants

Maybe there are dreams or simple unrest, but I find myself every morning rearranging the stack of blankets that have been turned and strewn around the room. It looks like a battlefield.

I feel I have slept well, but the covers show there was a trauma in the darkness.

Riding a bike every day is a progressive pattern of movement that put pressure of legs churning up and down against the narrow leather seat.

Every mile rubs on the material of the rider’s pants until the wear is apparent.

The continued chaff creates small holes and with daily wear, the seat tears.

Today I realize, this pair of jeans I have been wearing for the past month must go to the trash, but the battle in the bedroom will continue.

Trains

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Late at night when I wake up, I hear the rumble of trains.

Far away sounds, yet very familiar.

To the south, the crash of empty railway cars rolling west to prepare to fill themselves with the tops of Coal Mountains fill the night air.

To the north, a whistle announces the arrival of consumer goods.

The railways were here long before I arrived. I learned its history was leaned in television programs and folk songs.

I worked at a train station for a while, with access to free travel on the rocking cars.

But until you ride the rails and fill the rhythm, you cannot appreciate the magnitude of the metal ribbon, which connected our country.

And to me is a wonderful method to travel. Enjoy the ride.

Spring Can’t Be Far Away

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Drag myself out of bed with the sound of the birdcall.

Without leggings and loose socks wipe my eyes to see the sunshine knowing full well I would travel today.

The rain has stopped.

The ground squishes as I put out sunflower seed for the critters, then float the flack for the orange bodies who have endured the cold.

A cup of coffee and a cup of fruit, pull up the zippers and the gloves.

Time to mail the $3,000.00 in bills for repairs that have just begun on my humble abode.

At the mall, I decide to continue my journey to my morning run, but in reverse.

The hills are a little more difficult and the traffic congestion adjusts my path, but the first stop for water brings the remembrance of clear breathing.

I cut the voyage short due to thoughts of the hot water maker being left on.

Another cup of coffee reading the mail, there is little motivation to jump into a project.

A quick trip to the grocery store for refreshments and creamer precedes another lapse into television boredom.

Shaking it off, I climb the 13 steps to load another 10 trash bags, delivering boxes and bags rolling down to the kitchen.

Dragging out the piles of mother’s curtains, scraps of flags, shirts, dresses, sweaters from years ago, the piles fill the space for the Monday retrieval by the cities huge trucks.

Tomorrow brings rain, football, and an attempt to play along with a geezer song selection.

Sleep well tonight for tomorrow you must dust off the cases and place fingers on metal wire strumming to a wooden box.

Specs

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I feel I have worn glasses forever.

They are as much a part of me as grabbing my wallet, pocketknife, keys, and handkerchief.

But looking back at photos I’m surprised how long it took my parents to realize I could not see.

I remember having problems in school because I couldn’t see the blackboard.

Reading was a struggle so homework suffered.

I didn’t play sports because I couldn’t see the ball until it hit me in the face.

From the dates on the photos it looks like I was 12 when I started to wear the plastic frames.

Most of the time I didn’t have much selection or choice for a fashion look, so the brown thick frames divided my face.

Later in life, I had to buy my own vision and went through many changes.

Big frames, metal frames, shaded lenses, bi-focal lenses, and dark glasses I could see through changed my look through the years.

Being an artist, my eyes and my hands have been instruments of my career.

Years of televisions small grainy black and white screens took its toil on my sight, and then the computer came along with a noticeable drop in viewing details.

I’m sure I can blame age on some of this, but I must wear my specs every day. They are the first thing to put on every morning and the last thing to take off at night.

Being a four-eyes is what I am.

or as the Lovin' Spoonful said:

For eyes, what you gonna do now
Fore eyes, and how much do you see now
How many fingers, ha ha ha
When your kids that see through plastic
with a harness of elastic
So the girls all think you´re icky
And the boys all think you´re queer
Then the hinges all get rusty
And the seventh pair gets busted
So you graduate to tortoise
Shell that makes you look severe
When you´re so blind they call you Batman
You can´t even see a fat man
You can´t dig just where he´s at man
Without windows on your eyes
But the frames ain´t your decision
And they´re fitted with precision
And they magnify your eyes like they´re a pair of cherry pies
Here´s a word to all you parents
Give a break to little Clarence
When he says the blackboard´s fadin´
And the world´s a fuzzy place
Mister up in middle classes
And please recall that after all he
wears them on his face