The sudden clamor of little dogs yapping startles me into awareness in the predawn. What’s all the fuss about now? I groan. All I want is just a little more sleep. I try turning over in an attempt to shut out the little irritants. But then, as if part of a finely orchestrated production, a low rumble begins on cue. It’s the unmistakable sound of a large, heavy trash container as it slowly starts rolling that shakes the last bit of drowsiness loose from my mind. Oh, it’s Friday. I realize. And that means the intrusive low rumble will soon crescendo to a bump-scrape-roll-and-boom. It’s trash pick-up day on our street and my neighbor to the right, realizing that he has forgotten to curb his trash receptacles the night before, is now attempting to accomplish the chore with minimal disruption to those still locked in blissful sleep. The trouble is that the little yapping dogs, standing guard to the left, will not allow his task to be completed without their input. As hard as he tries, my neighbor cannot go unnoticed by the little sentries and the confrontation escalates with each successive can. Inevitably, as he abandons all hope of remaining undetected, he begins to hurry his task to keep the duration of the unfolding drama as short as possible. Now, as the yapping gets more furious, the thunder of rolling trashcans gets even more desperate and rushed. I begin to feel my neighbor’s pain as I lie there in amazement. His first trip down the long asphalt driveway is followed by another, and then another—all accompanied by the incessant yapping of delusional little dogs. It’s time to get up, I decide, crawling out from under my warm blanket.
Well, looks like I’m still here. I think to myself as I carefully peer outside. Each night as I go to sleep I pray that I would wake to find things changed. I ask God to provide a miracle that would transport me, while I slept, to a place far away from where I am. It’s cold. Five steps from here to the back door.... Can I make it without getting too wet? Just don’t trip and fall, like last time, I caution myself. After taking in a deep breath to help gather some determination, out I go.
I am a tent-dweller. I belong to the constituency of canvas. I did not choose this tent life. It pursued me and overcame me. I used to be a house-dweller. I used to live within real walls, with real glass for windows, and a solid roof overhead. I used to have a real doorknob, rather than the plastic, dysfunctional zipper that I have now. I used to have a light-switch, a floor, and the luxury of standing up straight in the morning. I would wake up to the distant, sounds of predawn, or even better, to no sounds at all. But these days the rumble of the rolling Friday morning trash containers, little yapping dogs, and the construct of poles and canvas that I call my room, is my unwanted reality. On some days, as I brace for the chill, I struggle with the emotional pain of morning. For some reason, today I’m okay—but it’s still early....
The preceding excerpt is actually taken from a true story. My story. I begin this blog with this post because I don't know where else to start. Capturing my thoughts is sometimes like trying to count patrons at the bus station when they are all simultaneously scurrying in every direction. It's tricky getting my brain to slow down to a writing pace—especially my hunt-and-peck writing pace. I just needed to start and let my thoughts start flowing onto the page.
Like many stories, mine is filled with unexpected turns. Yet enduring the plot twists of life have, over time, made me into the person I am. Fifty-two years of the unanticipated have taught me a little bit about living. Not the least of which is to steer clear of second-guessing and fortunetellers. I can no longer live with such fantasies for they conflict with my newfound conviction that my life, with all of its failures, is worth something in its broken state.
Being a broken man does not make me a weak man. The cracks in my soul are now filled with much stronger stuff than what was there before. Failure brings opportunity to show strength, but not the strength of which you might be thinking.
Today I believe that this tent life is more of a beginning of things than the end of them. I will try to explain some of these thoughts through the days, weeks, and possibly months that lie ahead. I hope they help a little.
Being a broken man does not make me a weak man. The cracks in my soul are now filled with much stronger stuff than what was there before. Failure brings opportunity to show strength, but not the strength of which you might be thinking.
Today I believe that this tent life is more of a beginning of things than the end of them. I will try to explain some of these thoughts through the days, weeks, and possibly months that lie ahead. I hope they help a little.
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| My tent, in the shadow of the ominous Station Fire of 2009. |
