Whether naked and afraid

In the most desolate of places

In the loneliest of moments

Or darkest of spaces.

Not a penny to your name

Nor shirt on your back

Not a crumb in your stomach

Nor morsel to snack.

Closest to death

And losing the fight

On your last breath

The end now in sight.

It matters not time

It matters not place

You can always find humor

And a smile on your face.

Mostly, it was the manner in which he parked his car that captured my attention.

Nearly sunrise, he pulled the BMW into space 219 with what was either delicate care or anxious precision.  Slowly and with style, the white lines framed the gold, still freshly polished body with perpendicular perfection as the engine silenced, both synchronized as if the entire action was one choreographed eight count of a slow dance.

The door cracked and he took pause inside. I decided at that hour he was either a very stylish drunk young man or very regretful one.  The comma of that moment was more like a series of long hyphenations with the several small deliberate steps it took to create such a classy exit from that beamer after such an obviously long night on the town.

It was almost light enough to see his handsome, tall, tired frame and the thin emergent lines around his eyes which had grown all night in their attempts to lure him home to rest.  He’d been to several venues from nightclubs to titty bars and a few incoherent places in between as he’d been for every Friday night that he could remember from recent years…and many he did not.

I watched him from my quiet Sunday morning perch on the patio where I’d been enjoying the pre-dawn breeze and my thoughts. He clicked the locks and lights on the car. His pace was slow, straight, pensive and, I think—this time—a bit regretful.  I smiled to myself and applauded him silently as I witnessed this private, game changing epiphany of a young man’s life who’d finally decided he’d had enough of youth. The entire scene was just so incredibly well done, as I imagined were most of his life’s best moments.

And  just then, I thought I’d heard a crescendo of cymbals as he closed his front door on the first thin horizontal ray of the sun.

Each of us has that moment when we finally grow up.

I’d seen none as poignant as his.

I don’t remember the day when I grew up.  I’m pretty sure I did, but it was much later in years than I’d expected if I was to ever expect one. It wasn’t the sighting of a grey hair or the fact it hurt getting back up this time.  Just as I’d spied of this man’s experience, growing up was mostly a moment in my head.

If it were predictable, it would be meaningless.  The convergence of experience, thought and time just one day unexpectedly align, sometimes at the break of dawn after a night out that used to be a lot of crazy fun but now just seems crazy. Some divine element sets in motion a completely different paradigm to the path we had, up til then, so painstakingly prepared for ourselves.

We’re a lot more sober.  We are less prone to experience and more prone to contemplate.  We wonder how much of these years we will regret and which few experiences we will remember with fondness, and if we will even call it that.

There are no boundaries to youth except those which our consciences inflict upon us. And it’s always at the right time.  Wild and Crazy are sent to the back seat on our nights out and Wiser and Smarter sit driver and shotgun and set the route for the evening.  I think this is all supposed to happen before the back seat drivers take you on a trip to jail or worse, to the morgue.

But inevitably, at least for most of us, it happens at the right time and place. And sometimes it happens right in front of an unsuspecting someone very early one morning who imagines that we have finally found truth and meaning in one rather large but painless epiphany.

The warm morning sun was now well over the horizon and my coffee cup was empty.  My four-legged best friend was whining for our routine, so I slipped on something comfy and with leash in hand, headed out the door for a brisk morning walk before church.  While I was certain he’d long since gone to bed, we walked past his place and Butch flew off the leash and ran up the walk as he opened his door.  His chocolate brown Chihuahua met mine and instantly, they were buddies.

“Hi. Hey, sorry about that,” I said pulling on the leash.

“No worries, I was headed out for a walk with him anyway. It’s good they’re getting along.  A lot of times Chihuahuas don’t,” he assured me as the dogs were still introducing themselves to one another.

We were on the same path on the same street in the same direction and our dogs, already marvelous old friends, were doing what dogs do and people don’t understand yet admire.  It was just small talk between us and he’d no idea I’d witnessed the beautiful experience of his earlier arrival home nor what I’d inferred and suspected  to be a rather significant moment in his life.

“I’m always up early and we go on a walk in the morning.” I struggled to continue the conversation.

“Yeah, as events would have it, so am I,” he replied.

We continued the conversation and I avoided getting too deep as we’d only just met, though our dogs were chatting about intimate things like the smell of butts, dead birds and how many bushes they could pee on in one outing.

“Well, we’re gonna head back home I think. Time to get ready for church,” I said as I let our friends finish their business together.

“Church?  Man, I haven’t been to back to church in a long time,” he almost stuttered with great curiosity and the next question.

“Yeah, it’s just up the street and I still need a shower.”

I finally introduced myself by name and apartment number at that point, and as I turned, I smiled the exact same smile I’d smiled alone on my porch watching him in in the early dawn of that morning.

I was enjoying the experience of watching what was obviously  his second glorious epiphany of that morning.

Nobody ever regrets growing up,

and nobody ever regrets going back to church

on a Sunday morning.

What if that last time you pulled out in traffic, the bus actually hit you broadside?

What if when you found the gas on the stove and turned it off, it exploded.

What if last night’s indigestion that made you restless was actually a massive heart attack?

What if last July 4th, that dud really wasn’t a dud when you went to check it?

What if that flu you thought you could kick with plenty of rest wasn’t the flu?

What if that really cool lightning storm last month was a lot closer than you thought?

What if you stood a little too close to that cliff for that vacation selfie?

What if you walked into that store just a minute earlier, before you heard the gunfire?

What if while you were reading this….

you ran out of chances?

 Dad was diagnosed one year ago today.  This  evening, we held a tribute benefit for HopeLink where I work and these were the words I delivered to the 175 in attendance.

My dad and I met for coffee this morning.

It was about 3am, my usual wake up time.

I got out of bed, took the dog out to pee, brewed a pot of coffee and sat in the living room to watch him work in the stillness of the morning like I’ve done so many times in my life.  I scanned from frame to frame watching his broad strokes of genius on each of the memories hanging on my undeserving walls.  We exchanged opinions about the lighting in each scene, his choice of shadows, his mix of colors and over his shoulder, my tears dripped onto his palette as he again dipped his brush to paint his sky as they have each morning about this time for the last few months.

Mike Miller may be gone, but he will never be absent.

It was July of last year when my boss at my new job called me into her office and closed the door.

She said they were beginning to plan tonight’s event and she delicately asked if my dad wouldn’t mind if we paid him a small tribute this evening as part of this celebration of art, artists and artisans of many genres.

I was enroute to visit him in California that evening, midway through the battle that took him home last October.

I told him of her proposal for the February event and, predictably, he said that while he’d be honored  by the thought, I should hold off buying him a ticket.

Mike Miller may be gone, but he will never be absent.

Not just  a creative genius, he was a funny, funny man.

I’ve never written a tribute speech.

I spoke at his memorial.

But even there, he one upped me and everyone else in attendance  if you recall.

But tonight is no memorial.

Tonight is a celebration of the arts and what they give to us.

It is, indeed, a night about giving.

Mike Miller gave us a lot more than we realize.

He gave us countless pieces of beauty captured eternally on the canvasses of our walls.

He gave us big pictures of scenic designs  in many of Disney’s  first animated films.

He gave us caricatures, cartoons and creative campaigns of art and illustration.

He gave us bronze sculptures, mountain men and a glimpse into the hard life of the old west.

He gave us award-winning, provocative advertising, slogans and designs for 50 years.

He gave millions of dollars to the university and traded them a buck for it.

He gave thousands of children reading adventures withTomas the Tortoise.

And, he gave me, hands down, the best campaign signs for high school student body president, bar none.

Mike Miller may be gone, but he will never be absent.

The most unique attribute of art, is that it  continues to give well after the artist is gone.

Few of us will be able to do that in our lifetimes.

You see, the true heart of giving is not merely about that moment.

It’s about a contribution to a moment  that will inspire future moments

That will inspire future moments

That will inspire future moments of giving.

It’s about being the artist.

Truly, giving is about the artist in us all.

What will we create for others that will last well beyond our years?

What picture will we paint that will change the normal for so many who know no different?

The very last conversation I had with my dad at his bedside before he died wasn’t about his art.  It wasn’t about his childrens’ books.  It wasn’t even about “Hey Reb!”

It was about how proud he was of me of the choice I have made in my own life to do the work that I do that changes lives.

In essence, he called me his peer, an artist, who, by my work, will leave impressions on people I may never know or see.

Mike Miller gave so much.

He may be gone, but he will never be absent.

He mixed  his final stroke with my tears on the palette, and it was a masterpiece at 3am. The coffee was cold and I told him it was gonna be a busy day today getting ready for tonight’s event. I said thanks for giving a few of his pieces for tonight’s auction and for the memories. He said pick some nice pieces, Don.  It’s a great cause.

And could feel that funny grin over my shoulder….and he said, very quietly….

“But tell them I’ll be watching who’s bidding and how much.”

Summer had come and gone and little Timmy was more than a little disappointed. But not for the same reasons as the other kids. He was back at school and like every September it just felt different. Though it was a new school year, he carried the same old duct taped backpack and torn shoes that now fit just a little tighter.
Timmy had always felt different, even before summer vacation. But now, a season later, little Timmy had grown up some and become a more curious little guy. This year, he was determined to figure out why he felt so different.
Though a little smarter now, little Timmy hadn’t grown much taller over the summer like some of the other kids at school. And that was probably a good thing because the pants he was wearing, like always, were too short from last spring. Mom told him it would be awhile before she could afford anything new. As the oldest of three brothers, he grew up always knowing that there were no hand-me-downs for him.
As she left for work in the early morning hour, Timmy asked his Mother, “Our family is very different isn’t it?” She said “Well I certainly hope so. All families are different in their own special way and it’s something to be proud of.” Timmy wondered why if it was so special, he didn’t feel so proud.
“Now you go help your brothers finish their homework and remember, I’ll be home late after work so be sure to get them to bed early tonight.”
This was what Mom said almost every time she left for her day job. Little Timmy began thinking about how the other kids at school talked about their parents helping them with their homework after the family dinner each night. He’d often hoped that someday his Mom would be able to help with his homework, and that maybe they could have a family dinner, but she was always working. He thought, “We are different.”
The next week was the end of the month and always a time when things around the house seemed especially difficult. But when Mom was there, she tried to make times fun for little Timmy and his brothers with flashlights and candles and an occasional ghost story before bed on her nights off before going back to her other job. Mom said the lights would be off until next payday but it was okay because he had his brothers with him and they could play flashlight games in the dark before bedtime. While they did have fun, he secretly hoped someday he would be able to help keep the lights on all the time. And again, he noticed how his family was just a little different.
The next day at school it was lunchtime. Timmy listened to the kids at the table next to him complain about how their Moms would pack their lunches with “leftovers” and wondered what upset them so much. His family didn’t have leftovers after meals. He could only hope to someday have something like a meatloaf sandwich in his lunchbox like other kids. His lunchbox always seemed to weigh a little less. “That’s different,” he told himself.
The more little Timmy put his mind to it, the more differences he found between his family and other kids’ families. And while his mom said he should be proud, he really tried.
When the teacher asked, “What do you want to be when you grow up?,” the kids yelled “Fireman!,” “A nurse!,” “I want to be an engineer!” Little Timmy always hoped someday he would be able to have a job but he had never really thought much about what it might be. In fact, he never really thought much beyond the week ahead, much less about what he’d be in the distant future when he was a grown up. Again, he felt that was a little different from the other kids.
At recess, some kids were petting a scruffy stray dog through the school fence, boasting about how cute their own dogs and cats were and what they’d named them. Little Timmy didn’t have a dog or a cat. His Mom had told the boys that someday they would, but that someday hadn’t come yet. Mom said it was an extra mouth to feed that she couldn’t afford right now, but hopefully at Christmastime. Though many Christmases had already passed, he continued hoping that someday he might open a little wrapped box with a puppy inside on Christmas morning. Now that would be different!
Little Timmy went home that night with his homework. His teacher had told the class to come prepared with an idea for show and tell. After feeding and bathing his brothers and getting them in their sleeping bags, he made his own bed on the sofa. Like most nights in that darkened living room, he waved his flashlight around on the ceiling and drew pictures with the beam of things he dreamed of, like little puppy faces which disappeared as quickly as he drew them. It was at that moment that Timmy came up with the best show and tell idea ever!
His Mom had come home very late from work but Timmy was still awake thinking of his wonderful idea. Though tired, she listened to Timmy describe his show and tell idea and she cried. He didn’t mean to make her sad but she said they were happy tears. “Timmy, nobody hopes and dreams like you. Never stop, Timmy. I have always said you can do anything if you put your mind to it.” Little Timmy smiled, blew out the candle and put himself to sleep.
It was his turn next at show and tell.
He’d waited all day for this.
“So Timmy, what do you have for us today at show and tell?” Little Timmy had already cleared the corner of his desk and arrived at the front of the classroom before she had even finished the question. From the pocket of his high-water pants, little Timmy pulled out a small, white light bulb and held it up for the class to see. A bit puzzled, the teacher asked “So little Timmy, what does the light bulb mean to you?”
Proudly, little Timmy replied, “It’s like an idea!”

“I’ve noticed that my family is different than the other kids’ families, but that being different is okay because it’s really just being normal, but in a different way.”
“I don’t have new clothes or a home-made lunch or a puppy like the other kids, but that’s normal for me. That’s what my family is used to. Like this light bulb, some families shine in ways other families don’t. Either way, all families make light and shine not because of what we have but because of how we love.”
“And it’s okay to be different…. just like everybody else.”

And that day, little Timmy got the only “A” for show and tell.
And Little Timmy was no longer Little Timmy, for he grew a whole inch taller that same day Mom came home with a big barking bow-tied box.

One in five in your kid’s class today will go to bed hungry tonight.

Thousands of  fixed income elderly  are deciding at this very  moment, if they can afford a second meal today.

Parents will serve their children dinner  and a lie this evening, telling them it’s okay, they already ate.

And someone in your office is googling the nearest food pantry to stop by discreetly on the way home.

None of them are proud of it.

All of them hide it.

But they’re hungry.

These are the facts.

This is their normal.

HopeLink of Southern Nevada wants to change their normal.

For the amount of change in your pockets, we can feed hundreds of hungry people

And take away their shame.

Please go to link2hope.org

And help HopeLink change their normal.

I winced

And grit my teeth

And let the tears roll from my eyes

As I listened to the cries

And was angry.

I thought

And bowed my head

And pondered nothing but everything

As I strained for a whisper

And heard none.

I stood

And called to them all

And begged for their affirming voice

As the echo returned empty

And disgusting.

I looked

And found one soul

And passed him my  filled cup

As he stared through me

And dared a smile.

I knew

And loved them all

And cared for one by one

As they came my way

And I found peace.

LMSM,

Don

Barring any currently hibernating disease or unfortunate future accident, I have decided that I would like to live quite a while longer.

I’m confident that I have a lot left to offer this world before my expiration date.  Surprising to most—including yours truly– this is a new revelation. Not that I have been suicidal or had a secret death wish, I had just arrived at a place in my life where I neither feared death nor the idea of it.  The death part is acceptable, not so much the idea of dying.  I have never been a fan of suffering, but I digress.

However comfortable that revelation was, I have since realized it had stolen my zest and zeal for the long term.  I have always had purpose and drive and known my life has had meaning. That was never missing.  But I have lacked that kernel or spark that comes with a future orientation.  Subsequently, I haven’t paid much attention to taking care of myself—which, apart from genetic destiny, is probably the best predictor of longevity.

So far, cancer, diabetes, hypertension and heart disease appear to be genetic markers in my family tree.  And at 54 years old, if these diseases are going to manifest or really blossom into something, I’m about ripe for it to happen.  If I can stave those four horsemen off for even a few years, I’m totally down for it.

So, I think it no coincidence of timing that I should have this revelation at this time in my life.

I have some bad habits involving food, nutrition, exercise and cigarettes.  I realize change is necessary.

So here’s my purpose for this post:

I need to bond with someone who will help develop a plan of attack on all levels.  One that is gradual and comprehensive.   I am willing to empty my refrigerator, freezer and pantry and start over.  I am willing to make time for stretching and exercise and fitness stuff, too.  I am also willing to make a full-on attack against the loaded revolvers I put in my mouth several times a day.

I’m not into being sold on fad diets or buying fitness equipment.  There are many friends who swear by their programs and businesses.  I’m happy for you and don’t doubt your belief in your products.  Frankly, I don’t have the extra money to buy a killer blender or a meal program and maybe not even a gym membership since I have a moderately equipped gym at my complex already.  I really would like to consult with someone who can help put together a practical and reasonable program of personal self improvement which will give my insides a better than even chance, help me lose a small belly and increase my energy and vitality.

In short, I’m looking for someone who thinks it would be a good thing for me to live as long as I am able unless, of course, I’m hit by a bus or succumb to a predetermined, diseased fate.

If Life Means So Much, then I  guess I better live up to my words.

If you think that is you and you are interested in taking me on as a project, I can write an incredible testimonial story and keep a good daily journal along the way.

Email me at dondida180@gmail.com

Thanks.

Don

More likely than not

today will be just another day

when we wake at different hours

and our redundant routines will

interact creating each other’s daily fate.

More likely than not,

today will be just another day

handing us much of what we want

and some of what we don’t

according to our emerging random mood.

More likely than not

today will be just another day.

through which time slowly passes

a gradual assessment and assigns a label

of good, bad or something equally myopic.

More likely than not

today will be just another day.

which retires our minds, bodies and souls

to tomorrow’s worries

which are, more likely than not,

going to be the same as yesterday’s.

And more likely than not

the day will arrive when we wager the next

on a random hope

that tomorrow is more likely than not.

And we will lose.

And more likely than not,

we will have expired the lesson

that each day is just another

and another, and another

for those with empty dreams and purposes

which inspire them to live like

today is just another day.

LMSM,

Don