Image of a dry leaf blowing in the wind

My dear friends,

It is hard to describe this strange place and time, in which I find myself. It began as routine follow up after a surgery for cancer. It grew by two CT Scans, into a quandary that can only be resolved by a PET scan. I had that this morning; it is now more than 12 hours later.

No word yet, it will now be Monday at the earliest. My Dr. left on vacation last night and won’t be back till the 28th or 29th. My next appointment is the 30th. I'm supposed to be impressed that I'm among the first he will see.

I sure as hell hope I won’t have to wait till then to know; it is a long time to stew in one’s own juice. I'm not falling apart! I am pissed, but I guess doctors probably need their vacation time as much or more than anyone else.

Being pissed does help keep from focusing on being afraid. I just want to know that I have enough time to finish what I have started.

"Please God let me put these stories down coherently. Help me to tell these stories that you gave me, Lord, the ones that deserve to be heard."

Thank you for opening my eyes to the fact that our quiet little corner in South Dakota was home to the best and the worst of man. Ears turned away and pretended to not hear, completely unable to bear the truth; its weight was just too heavy. Yet each of us tried to carry it all alone. Says a lot about how, where, and what we learned. Then there are the things that I saw and did not understand. In those times we were innocent enough to believe; and hungry enough to eat, what was set before us, and perhaps we were a little lazy. It is easy enough to dismiss the signs of excruciating pain in others. It is mind numbing, soul eating, and almost completely forgettable.

If only I did not have so many brightly Colored Glossy Pictures so carefully tucked between the folders in my mind. They have hidden so long; but that one persistent corner pokes out; announcing that it is not yet in place. I hear the echoes of things, both said and unsaid resting unresolved; just rocks tumbling noisily into the canyons of my mind.

Each of those pictures provokes storms of wondering, what does this mean?

I remember the sound of fists hitting flesh as the male in the house next door asserted his dominance over his poor wife and frightened children.

Long ago I saw these things imprinted upon the eyes of my friends. No one really had it easy. I sought solace in books. Being focused on a story in a book allowed me the option of not hearing the little girl sobbing alone in her room on the other side of the thin sheet rock divider between my house and hers. Things I did not want to see, and things I did not want to hear, hid the monster in plain sight in the cloud of our confusion, and inability to understand.

It wore different masks revealing a different face to each house it visited. Like Santa Claus, it missed no home, but it left us presents of sorrow and shame. Now each of us must carry that weight with every step we take. It leaves sore calves, thighs and aching feet. They nag us, things done; things left undone, things I pray for the strength to finish.

Isolation is a breeding ground for evil, but it also produces Saints with skinned knees, a shy smile, and the power to heal with a gentle touch.

So often such talent is wasted; Left to drown in Sweet Summer Wine, hung over and craving "Just one more sip;" Just another sad victim to the weakness that hides within the soul, because of a failure to understand.

I remember the people of our town; each was tortured by their own individual demon. When it showed its face; it left an after image etched in the mind of child who could not understand. To protect ourselves for the moment we turned away chucking the heavy remains into the bag which we carry with us. Who ever said it would be easy to let go of the echo of something spoken, which hurt someone else? Even worse is something of which we should have spoken and failed to do. Being human it is so easy to choke on words we could not say or understand.

Why be deluded? It is not something that any one need struggle beneath its weight. It is foolish to groan under the weight, simply refusing to ask for help. Perhaps it is because we never learned how.

For now I write as I feel the joy and pain of life. As long as I'm breathing I am glad to be alive, the pain focuses into the energy that drives all the stories from between the folders, out onto a table for my careful examination. Each story has a life that can only start when shared with others. Can this be done to the enrichment of all? I do the best I can, and pray that it is enough.

I am absolutely sure you will identify with every word I wrote. We all peer into our mirror, our personal responsibility is inherent, to cause no harm. The lessons are right there in front of our aging eyes.

What do they mean? Will I ever know? Can I show them to others in way that makes each of us stronger and more able to take that next step down the Road?

The legacy of life is the thousands of tiny places where we touched each other’s lives, just for a moment. Is the memory pleasant, unpleasant, or blah? That kind of depends on how much and what kind of energy we were willing to expend. We make the choice. Who in our life has touched and left fingerprints of love behind? And we define the word love. We either use it freely, applying it with a broad brush, or we are stingy and only dab it occasional with a tiny artists brush.

I love you my friends,

If I did not, could I write this way to you?