1.16.2014

Narrate

I write to myself all day long.  Most things I see, I put a narrative to.  And then I wish I could remember them all at the end of every day to actually get to paper.  But then I think maybe that's the best about having this narrate style of brain, everything becomes a story.  A way of thinking things through.  Noticing.  Taking in.  Connecting.  Maybe those words are never supposed to see paper.  Maybe they are just my manual for living.  

Like when I see my neighbor about six houses down in the morning on my way to work.  Me with my coffee cup in one hand and the wheel in the other.  Him with his broom sweeping the tiniest flecks of snow from his driveway with his ear flap hat and khaki pants and white tennis shoes.  Every time he's there, I smile.  Raise my coffee cup to him as I drive by and we exchange a moment. 

Someday I'll be there.  To the place in my life where my morning consists of sweeping the tiniest of flecks of snow from my driveway, instead of my current place of running to catch the eight ball all the time. 

I'm not wishing away this running time, because I'm sure when he looks at me in my car hurriedly getting to work with that coffee cup in my hand he becomes nostalgic for a time long passed.  For a time when his mornings were much more. 

But here's what I think.  My mornings are not much more than his.  His aren't much more than mine.  It's not a greater or less than but a different.  We are in opposite stages.  There is honor in both and in everything in between. 

If we all did each different chapter with grace and to the very best of our abilities-taking pride in every task, the world would be a beautiful place.  Wait, the world is a beautiful place.  My neighbor six houses down with his ear flapped hat and broom remind me of that several times a week.   

Each chapter is a gift, a different story to put a narrative to. 

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