Dear Harley,

If I could write a letter that you would hear with your two big, floppy ears, I would tell you what a loyal companion and great dog you have been. If I could write a letter that you could feel in your heart, it would explain much, much more.

Although we could fool ourselves into thinking I chose you, we would both know that was a white lie. Back when you were one or two years old, in the pound (yes, you are not a pure Black Lab as you think), you chose me completely. Even then, you came to me, wagging and smiling, warding off anyone else who may claim you. As I made my way to the back of your awful cage, someone else circled around front. Without a moment to choose, you came to me, barking and letting me know we were buddies. You were mine, but I never owned you, we both knew that. We were in it together.

Together, we changed your name from awful sounding Wes to a better name that more suited your style. Trying over and over, a name that made you smile and your big ears perk up, we sounded out many names, until you found one you liked. Har-leeee.

You tried harder than I have ever seen anyone or anything try, to learn, and together we learned many life lessons. We learned that you like hardwood floors, not carpeting (because you pull it up) and that although I would always get up to let you out, I am not necessarily, a “morning person.” You learned to “potty” outside, within a few days, and scowled, like all of us, when an accident happened. But, as I forgave you for your imperfections, you forgave me as well.

I remember as if it were yesterday when I put you in a New England Patriots jersey and we watched them do the unthinkable with a rookie….much as we had done, together.

The perfect guard dog (in your younger years) you always barked and looked ferocious, but as both aged, we began to realize who was threatening and who was not. We both agreed that the mailman was not a threat and often napped through deliveries. You though, always knew the difference, and even in your sleep knew to protect me and keep me from harms reach.

We cared for each other when we were sick, very sick, and did all we could with smiles and hugs and love, to make the pain go away. And it always did. When you insisted on eating a rock in the backyard I was there for you, in the hospital, you in your IV and me in tears. And when I became sick, you worried more than any Mother Hen, or any parent, and never left my side, and together we both healed.

For years we moved from place to place, many more times than I would have liked, and we both adapted, and learned. You learned new boundaries and I learned that although neither of us liked change, we could face a new day, in a new place, always.

You did far more than any “pet” should ever do, and defended me as a soldier, a loyal companion, and best friend. You laid your own life on the line, when mine was in danger. Perhaps because at one point, you too, had been hurt. You did that though without hesitation and I knew right then that you would die for me. If you could talk you would have yelled, but then again, that was not your style. I, eventually, would move us again, to safer ground.

We would learn more and more about each other, perhaps from the moves, or the uncertainty, but I learned that you like fleece blankets, but not heated blankets and we both like a comfortable, soft place to sit and rest.

We both snore, and make growling sounds when we sit and get up, and although our bodies are strong in spirit our hips and back sometimes ache, and as much as we like to run in the snow, we also like to sit by the fire, and rest our bones.

And so, Harley-dog, as we both grow older, and know each other perhaps better than anyone could (without a word), we are reminded always that someday our paths may come to a fork in the road. As you approach your senior years, and I approach what could be my mid life, we know that the future is uncertain, but all things die. We also know that we will fix each other, and heal each other, as long as possible.

I will comfort your aging body as you comfort my aging soul, and together we will face pain, happiness and the not so graceful aging of our bodies. I will say little about your gray chin and I know you will think little of my gray hairs and love me just the same.

Together, I think, we have seen it all.

For now though, you remind me, by opening the cabinets and eating everything from flour to noodles, that you are old, but not so old. You remind to be young, and a little feisty and even a little naughty. Although someday everyone will meet the Angel of Death at the door, you remind me to keep dancing, and do all I can to be “here.” You have always been present and you remind me by your excitement to see me, to be “here”…now.

Someday though, as all roads do, our path will become two, and will we will go separate ways. I find comfort though, that up ahead, when the way bends and turns, and I too, head on to the unknown, that you will be there, waiting as all best friends do, to guide me, comfort me, and walk beside me.

If I could write a letter that you could feel in your heart, I guess it would only say four words. Thank you my friend.

Love, Chris

www.fourleafclover.us

In the past, Christmas had meant fun, family and holiday cheer, but I knew this year was the big leagues, and I had to get my game face on very soon if I was going to start answering questions and planting the seed of belief, faith and fairy tales in our “newest edition.” (Two years ago my boyfriend and I got custody of his grandson, who was at the time, two years old.) While the first and even second year of his life with us, was easy enough, this year he was totally on to the idea of a man in red suit coming down our chimney with presents, eating cookies, drinking milk and with a twinkle of his eye and touch of his nose, be back rooftop with his posse of reindeer. At four years old he seemed to know much more than I ever did about this jolly old red faced guy.

As more and more lights appeared on random shrubs, and more and more Christmas songs played on the radio, the overwhelming idea that this was up to us to pull off, made my eyes twitch and stain my face red, with the nervousness of this yearly ritual that was fast upon us. I was after all, too old for this. At 40, I had already stopped putting up a big Christmas tree due to the mess, no more lights, ah electricity bill, and who needed decorations…really? Who sees them anyways?

Well, this year it would all happen, decorations, tree, Christmas movies, Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer song rehearsals nightly, and cookies were carefully chosen for Santa Claus. We made reindeer food (oatmeal and glitter) and sprinkled it on the front lawn and I sprinkled the fireplace with powder and made boot prints from Santa. After a few days, and a beautiful winter storm, I began to think to my self that this might even be fun. There was one last event though, the infamous sitting on Santa’s lap.

A few days before Christmas, on a sunny Saturday afternoon, Santa did make a stop, only this was no ordinary stop, and no ordinary Santa Claus. This particular Santa Claus arrived on a giant fire truck courtesy of the Springfield (Massachusetts) Fire Department and had a certain twinkle in his eye that was very familiar to me. As the lights flashed atop the truck and the firemen proudly helped Santa off the huge, shiny ladder truck, children, and hundreds of them, poured out of the American Legion Post 420, to meet their new white haired friend, and our “grandson” held tightly to my hand in awe of what he was seeing. Pride of the fireman and of Santa took over me, and my eyes began to well up with tears of joy, delight and honor to know these people. The kind of people who would give of themselves freely and openly to children they didn’t know, and in a way that was so completely full of honor and respect, it left me speechless. Thankfully, just then Old Man Winter blew a strong gust directed right at me and my tears froze in place before spilling down my cheeks.

As AJ carefully and a little nervously made his way over to Santa to get a candy cane, he whispered to me, “I wish Papa could see this!” Little did he know that his Papa could see him.

Soon, Santa Claus made his way in to the hall of the American Legion and began handing out huge bags of presents to all the children! AJ looked on, from a safe distance at all was going on and little by little began to trust in the pure enjoyment and spirit of the day and moved a little closer to Santa. As I looked on with my boyfriend and my father’s good friend, Mark K. (Captain, Springfield Police Department, retired) we began to wonder if this man who we had all come to know and love really was Santa Claus. Although his costume was flawless, something else was swirling around this wonderful man on this day of enchantment. Something more than magical, more than mystical, and something that usually only exists in the hearts of children. Pure hope. Pure joy. Pure faith. Pure love. And pure pride.

As the children clapped and laughed in delight, and told this magical man their deepest dreams and wishes, I began to see life, just a little differently. Although pure chaos existed all around…. right there, on that special day, that one meeting, one twinkle and one candy cane had certainly set life in motion. The cosmic pendulum of tradition, faith and belief in something that others may eventually say isn’t real, began to swing.

As I smiled, and laughed and sang and watched a small boy let go a little, believe a lot, and trust in the magic of Christmas, I also saw a grown man do the same. Across the crowded hall, I made eye contact with Santa Claus, my father and AJ’s Papa. For one second, our eyes locked and I knew that all the weeks of preparation, all the songs, decorations and tales of elves and toy making had done something more than I expected. Somewhere between the verses, ornaments and painting of our beloved “love rocks” I had managed to smile a little more, laugh a lot more and earn the trust and unconditional love of a small child. I had gotten everything I had asked for, and for the first time in a long time, I had no doubts as to whether Santa was real. He was real. He was there on that day and if you don’t believe me, the Springfield Fire Department, some members of the Springfield Police Department and American Legion Post 420 and my father (USAF) would all swear to it.

Christmas will come and go, always. The feeling of excitement and the hope of a new friend and the love of family is year round….as it should be.

PS.

Dear Santa,
our candy cane broke that day and we bandaged it up with gauze to hang on tree for you to see, but we were hoping next year you could leave a new one? We’ll leave out an extra cookie for you! Thank you.

PPS Special thanks to the Springfield Fire Department of Mass. and the American Legion Post 420 for making all this possible!

Peace in 2010 and always, Chris

www.fourleafclover.us

*******This is a dedication that will appear in my next book, “A Voice to Be Heard, due out in 2010*******

I write this not because in the future I may not, but because words, and stories
and fairy tales are important, and because they must be told and often, to everyone that will listen.

In the future (near future I hope) but since I acknowledge that I don’t totally control the when only the now, I write this with the intention of hope, and inspiration and knowledge that the path to Hell is paved with my intentions, and everyone’s.

I write this now because the future as it is, is uncertain, and endless and unknown. It is for all of us, a rabbit hole, a path riddled with potholes and pitfalls and a journey whose end is not known by us now, or perhaps ever.

With that in mind, I dedicate my book “yet to be finished”, when the story is mostly told, in a voice that is only partly mine, to a child that I only recently came to know, in a way I could never have foreseen.

I dedicate this book to a boy who, at four years old, held my hand and promised to keep me safe…forever and ever. And I believed him.

With that faith I allow this to be his. In every way. Although the initial voice in this story (the one to be told soon) is mine, it never really was, and never will be. The Voice will always belong to someone else. As each story is told, and each generation listens, the story will no more belong to the teller of tales than to the listener.

This person, this small boy, I entrust to listen, and tell stories, and hold on to wooden spoons from long ago aunts, and buttons from wars he never saw, and toy cars of his Papa and quilts of his GG (Great Grandma) and shells found long ago on distant beaches.

To this boy, I give this story and my story.

We all have a story, but only some of us tell it, and even fewer listen.

Most fairy tales begin with sentences like, “Once upon a time in a land far….far away, there lived a little girl (or boy)…” Those magical words keep us linked to the “then”, the “now”, the hope of what may be, and the possibility of all dreams coming true.

To those that hold on to tales as if they were holding on to life, I say cheers, thank you and rest peacefully knowing that someday when there is nothing left of my body, my soul will be safely kept within the keepsake box of someone special who will tell tales often, and with love, and with the knowing that someday the time will come when his buttons, and shells, and wooden spoons will be kept safely by someone who will explain them in wonder, to those who likely don’t understand.

But they will be told.

And so, to my keeper of my wooden spoons and shells I say this: “Once upon a time, in a land not so far away, there lived a little girl…who would eventually meet a little boy, and to him she would promise her love, her protection, her life and her constant dedication….”

Wishing you all bright blue skies AJ, a peaceful New Year and long, smooth surfs, Chris

www.fourleafclover.us

I wanted to take this opportunity to thank each and every one of you for allowing me to enter your lives by way of my essays, thoughts and stories each month.

I hope you all have a wonderful, peaceful and extremely memorable Holiday Season and a very, Happy New Year!

Wishing you blue skies and long surfs, Chris

www.fourleafclover.us

I have failed at relationships of all shapes and sizes, jobs and certain various life tasks.

I was the world’s worst waitress. I could never remember small details like ketchup, extra water and details that clouded my mind and seemed to offer constant distractions.

I failed at marriage. And I failed at having children. I decided that I was a worthwhile person, and not one to be taken advantage of or made to feel inferior.

I have failed at love in many ways. Plants have been left un-watered, simple gestures that make peace such as a smile or wave, have often been neglected by me, the dog has not been walked as often as I would have liked, and friends have come and gone.

I failed at a championship basketball game when I scored two points for the other team, and I failed to learn that life lesson for decades.

I failed at being a social worker. I thought my pure instinct could change severe behavioral issues and make a difference. Hundreds of children returned to drug use, drug sales, the streets, violence and gangs. I failed at changing all of them.

I have also failed at being a deli owner, a landscape owner, a copier sales rep, an orthopedic sales rep and a janitorial sales rep.

I’m sure if I thought about it I could think of a longer list of failures.

I have failed probably hundreds, if not thousands, of times at life’s curveballs, fastballs, and knuckleballs.

I have also, however, had just as many chances to shake things up a bit.

Although a bad waitress, the worst really, I did make lifelong friends while waiting tables, pouring pints, and running food. These friends offer wonderful stories, support and humor…to this day.

Although divorced, I did follow my heart, listened to myself, and take a chance. Chances in love may be mistakes and failures we live with for years, lifetimes and maybe even beyond, but they are chances I will take every, single time. And as much as I thought I did not and would not have a child, somehow, the Universe saw things differently. I have learned how to potty train, ride a bicycle (again), learn the names of Santa’s reindeer(again) and patience. I have learned Patience. I have also taught of few of those lessons and gained the respect and love of a small child.

I have recently learned that a simple gesture, hello, wave or sometimes even hug, can change a person’s day, attitude and outlook on life. I have become less stingy with smiles and waves, and although I may never see how it all plays out, I know it changes people, just a little.

Although a failure in one basketball game, I did go on to play in college and participate in events that most never get the chance to see. Sports taught me life lessons that will never be forgotten and will always be passed on.

Many, many children that I tried to reach returned to prison, but one did not. One moved away, gained successful employment, and has yet to return to his old lifestyle. Two years ago I saw this boy, now a man, at a store and he called out my name and thanked me for saving his life. I did not make a noticeable change to many, but I did help one child, before it was too late.

I have ridden the pine, stepped into the box, and even hit that homerun. I have failed, I have succeeded and at times, I have just watched.

As each chance presents itself I ask my Self which option is the best. As I listen to that little voice, I know I will most always, grab the bat, take a deep breath, step into the batter’s box and dream of the sweet spot. I will take the time to smell the fresh cut grass of youthful days on the field of life.

I will take it all in as each molecule represents some source of meaning that I may or may not understand. I may never know where my actions will lead, but I do know that I will go down swinging. I will have faith in my little voice, faith in the fact that the other side is unknown and faith that I will fail many, many times in this lifetime and I will embrace them all. I will also have faith that where I am is where I should be, and not necessarily where I thought I might land.

Faith.

I hope as the New Year approaches and resolutions are made that you take the time to celebrate your many failures for what they really are.

Happy Holidays, Merry Christmas and Happy New Year!!!

Peace, always, Chris

Please visit online for more stories, the online store and more….
www.fourleafclover.us

What I think people mean are things like an old GE fan that has long since lost its cord, an old badge from grandfather from a world war in which he was in charge of blackouts, and a flattened penny that another grandfather put down on a track for me mostly because I asked, but also because my cousin had a fake one and I wanted a real one.

I also have things that make even less sense I suppose, like an old Bible (which I have never read) with pages loose and falling out, an old chair from a favorite aunt, that isn’t pretty to look at, but suits me. I also have an old cigar box from when I was much younger which is penned in big letters, ROCKS, ETC.

This box has for many years been a prize of mine. I can only imagine what rock would have been beautiful enough to put in this cigar box, but I also can’t help wondering what the ETC. meant.

The box now has found its home on an old bookshelf and is filled with that flattened penny, my favorite old pictures, some rosary beads, one rock, one shell and one button.

I don’t know what most of them meant to me then, and I only guess as to their meaning now.

But I do know this to be true:

We keep things.

Things come in all shapes in sizes, some old, some new, some broken, some heavily laden with deep tradition and some also laden with a tradition that we can only guess at. We hang on to rare buttons that will never have a match, a shiny stone that meant the world decades ago, and old photos that somehow tie us to another time.

We were there, yes?.and it was simpler, and good? ahhhh.

We keep these things to remind us times gone by but to also remind us that time goes by.

As children we collect them, like tiny treasures, and hide them, and cherish, and look at them often, with flashlights, under our covers, late at night.

As we grow older, we keep them even closer. We hold these tiny, mysterious buttons and flattened pennies and smile. We cover ourselves with old crocheted blankets that our Nana made, and sigh. Somehow these tiny mementos from our times past, and their times past seem to connect us, always.

Sometimes, life moves fast and we need these pennies and pictures to keep a small part still with us, on a day to day basis. And sometimes, life refuses to go. Sometimes it holds on, long past when it should, for reasons we may never understand on this earthly plane. And when this ultimate sadness does occur, we often find ourselves reaching for those tiny buttons, and flattened pennies, and old fans, as a way to connect not with those who are gone, but as a way to reach out to those who have gone ahead and are waiting.

So while I don’t know all there is to know, and would never ever want to, I am sitting with a small candle, a flat penny, and old fan, asking those that have gone before to come now?..Sometimes there is nothing left to do but ask, and ask, and ask.

I guess that’s at least part of the answer.

Peace , always….Chris

www.fourleafclover.us

I feel obligated, and touched, and honored,
to say thank you.
You see,
some years ago (many, many) I graduated from a Catholic school.
They were very clicky, and not so welcoming to an outsider, any outsider.
I was unlucky, and lucky, to be that girl.
“That ” girl.
I was the one who didn’t quite get the rules, or all the many prayers,
or the kneeling,
or the yardstick.
I did get it
though,
over time.
I left that school,
mostly unnoticed, and un-noted.
Until now that is.
Some years later,
I was contacted by them,
to come to a reunion of sorts, because the school was closing.
I initially said no, and for many months, I stood fast to my NO!
After time though, they became more than strangers.
These unknown names and faces from another period in my life
became….friendly

in a time when I was not so welcome, not so popular
these people reached out, across the decades, to say hello, for no good reason at all.
Over time, they asked about my day, my life and me,
they became,
somehow friends.
And I add this PS, as I have never done so before because,
like all great souls,
sometimes people become….
just because.
And for that I will always,
eternally,
be, grateful.

And because it is my favorite of all quotes, and because it fits, I leave you with this…just because…

“What is REAL?” asked the Rabbit one day, when they were lying side by side near the nursery fender, before Nana came to tidy the room. “Does it mean having things that buzz inside you and a stick-out handle?”

“Does it happen all at once, like being wound up,” he asked, “or bit by bit?”
“It doesn’t happen all at once,” said the Skin Horse. “You become. It takes a long time. That’s why it doesn’t happen often to people who break easily, or have sharp edges, or who have to be carefully kept. Generally, by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in your joints and very shabby. But these things don’t matter at all, because once you are Real you can’t be ugly, except to people who don’t understand.”

~Margery Williams, The Velveteen Rabbit

As all comings offer hope, and sunrises, and ah’s, and first breaths,
because there have been many goings I have been forced (I suppose) to find meaning in those “leavings.”
In the past 12 months I have said goodbye to a great soul I never met, a year I thought I’d never leave (39), the old me (completely, in nearly every way), friendships, relationships,
and a year of potty training, learning how to mother without being a Mom, and chasing away nightmares. This past year I have been grateful for strength, and a weakness that has forced me to reach out for help, when my path was too dimly lit to walk.
I have been grateful for a small child who loved me, regardless, to the moon and back down to the dirt…no matter my mood du jour.
I have enjoyed and said thanks to the universe for a reprieve of an illness just in time to have a bonfire with good friends on a perfect fall night. Even if we nearly got close lined “borrowing” wood from a neighbor.
I have been more grateful than I can ever express for penned words that somehow found a home in an inbox, that changed the world. I am grateful for a clothes drive that changed the lives of those I don’t know, and may never meet, from a woman I don’t know and may never meet. And I am grateful to the man who made it all possible, without knowing any of this.
This year has been trying, as it has been for everyone that has tried, and I thank my boyfriend for his patience, and love, and ability to listen without judgment…something I am hoping for more of in 2010.
I am grateful for those who have given without knowing me, for me, my freedom, my life. I am grateful not for a president I don’t know, but for a military who stands on a wall with or without me, so I can sleep with both eyes closed.
I am grateful for many things, many of which (most of which have not been mentioned) but one person, who will mostly go unnoticed and unnoted I say thank you.
I say thank you to someone who I mostly did not thank. In 40 plus years I don’t remember but a handful of thank you’s for an odd card or remembrance of my birthday.
To her, I say thank, and that I am grateful.
This woman, who most of you do not know, touched many.
Like so many great souls she did this without mention, or fuss.
She did this by giving a quiet gift on Christmas to her nieces, that none will forget.
Christmas socks.
Not your ordinary socks, but the nice thick ones with Christmas trees on them.
The kind you keep for years.
I am grateful for those socks.
In a time when I swore off socks (in college) I still wore those, with flip flops,
in the deep, wet, New Hampshire snow,
to say a special, thank and gratitude to her.
I will remember and be grateful, this year, and every year, for her giving a small boy five dollars, and teaching him to share one dollar with everyone in the room.
Gratitude is amazing and eternal.
This year, like many I will say goodbye to a great soul.
A wonderful aunt, who always had a porcelain Christmas tree lit to show the way
on Christmas Eve, and a kind soul who always remembered every holiday, especially Christmas, with those magical Christmas socks
As my family embraces, gathers strength, and prepares to say goodbye to one of its Godmothers, the world will never know.
Sometime between now and then, the world will have let go, and those that she saw having coffee across the street (her mother, father and brother) will have come to take her home, across a plane that none of us here can ever see, or visit, or even touch….not even for a minute.
Like so many great souls, here and now, and then and gone, she will have lived, and I am grateful.
We will be sad, and we will raise our glasses to a great woman, who once had purple hair, and thought nothing of it. To a woman who gave Christmas socks, and to a woman that many called, Aunt, sister, Mom, cousin, and friend, and to so many more that never got the chance….And also to a man, my Godfather, who, in her last breaths, stroked her legs and said “Hi Pretty.”
The body is cruel, but life is beautiful. Love is forever.
And for that I am grateful.
Always.

Peace, Chris

www.fourleafclover.us

From the beach, these five brought a smile to my face.
Their playfulness was not threatening and even though I had much to
learn about surfing,
still,
I paddled out, and hoped their silliness was contagious.

As I made my way across the stones,
and paddled towards the group,
I noticed something I had not seen,
from the beach.

They were not adolescents at all,
not even young adults.
This group of 60-ish men, were out there,
without a care in the world,
swimming, hanging ten, falling, and laughing.
Most of all, laughing.

We spoke very little, if at all,
but we laughed, and paddled, and floated, and tumbled
without a care in the world,
in a place so few go.

From the beach, I saw them,
and had I stayed with the sand under my toes,
and the blue line stretched out,
out of reach,
I would have never known their story,
and they would have never known mine.

Without a word, or care, or worry,
we managed, somehow, to communicate,
in a way that I would have never discovered,
from the beach.

Please visit www.fourleafclover.us for more essays, services, and life moments. Help support SurfAid by purchasing a Get Tide Bracelet or by pre-ordering postcards form the road, which will be available VERY soon. It will be available online at my home on the web, several local bookstores and at Amazon.

Spread the word!! four leaf clover is growing, and would love to continue to expand services and offerings. If you like the essays please help me grow by leaving thoughts, comments and overall love on the comment board, sharing this website with friends and family, and of course supporting the cause!

Thank you, Chris

I remember the best handshake I never got. It was from a man that touched my life profoundly in ways that I am only just beginning to understand. As I stood on the corner of a small street, on a bitter cold March day, I turned to see him, standing there alone, completely unaware of his greatness. I turned back around, gathered my strength to introduce myself, took a deep breath, stood nice and tall, turned around only to find emptiness where he was once was. Gone. My moment to meet him vanished, but for some strange reason I had no regrets, not then, and not even now. Something was clearly different about him, or me, or the day.

As many great souls have come and gone into my life I am often left wondering why? It seems so many people lead ordinary lives and never really face greatness or the flip side, which always comes with it, the darkest corners. I suppose that my path has certainly been more often than not, dimly lit. Perhaps that is why I look so hard for a beacon of hope, of light, and of inspiration. It has never been my intention to live an ordinary life, and in all the up’s, downs and sideways turns life has thrown, I can always say that it has never been plain, or ordinary or dull.
I have been fortunate to have not met such great souls as Pat M., (a woman whose battle with ALS changed the lives of many and still serves as a source of inspiration), the driver of white truck in front of me the nearly the entire way home from Florida to Massachusetts, Diane B. (the editor of a magazine that serves to protect the ocean, at any cost to her. A friend, truer than true, and a soul that is no doubt one the has traveled a path worth knowing), Carrie C. (the kindest soul I have ever not met. A person who chose to listen to her inner voice and teach, and guide, and inspire….against all odds), to Malachy M., one of the few great souls I have actually broken bread with and whose kindness although natural to him, has changed the direction of many sails out on the open waters. And to Frank M. (the greatest soul whose hand I never shook.)

I once read, by an author whose name I’m not sure of, that it would be nice to get to know someone for awhile, perhaps over dinner, or even drinks, without knowing what they did for a living. It would be nice to not pass any judgment on for what they did, who they were, or what they had done, based on a work title. I agreed then and write this with that in mind. (I will only mention this once, and do so because I myself, like clarity. I could be more vague, but I trust you to not judge, validate, or invalidate, anything I say by any names I have or may in the future mention. Like many groups learning their first steps, I ask that you read this, and accept this with complete anonymity to anyone mentioned. It is written to you, my friend(s), with all filters, off.)

With so may great souls that have crossed my path, I have chosen to write about Frank M. Perhaps it is because of his recent crossing over to a light on the water where old souls must, and do always, pass, or maybe it’s because I was remembering a great St. Patrick’s Day with good friends (where Frank M. was the Grand Marshall), or maybe it is something much simpler. Maybe I write this just because he crossed my mind today, as they all did, and do, nearly every day, as I wonder what they see across the sea, and what the ship looks like that has come to carry them home.

When I’m down, I call on these great souls for memories, conversations (yes, I talk to them, quietly, and listen in my mind and in my heart, to what they have to say. I have learned that if I listen as quietly as possible, they do speak, volumes.), and ideas that they once had or have.

As I sit quietly I can almost hear, “…you, the privileged, the chosen, the pampered, with nothing to do but go to school, hang out, do a little studying, go to college, get into a money-making racket, grow into your fat forties, still whining, still complaining, when there are millions around the world who’d offer fingers and toes to be in your seats, nicely clothed, well fed, with the world by the balls.” ~Frank McCourt

I guess the world will never hear again that voice, in quite that manner, but I am confidant that if it’s paying attention, that story will change many more lives.

As I get older, I look for meanings, ways to define what is going on around me. I have defined, at least for me simple truths, certain truths, the secret to my life, and now I offer one more certain truth, how to spot a great soul.

A great soul can be spotted by seeing them not with your eyes, hearing them not with your ears, and more times than not, meeting them without ever saying a word or shaking a hand. A great soul offers hope, inspiration and devotion in a way often disguised in humor, and silence.

What I haven’t defined, is the after life, and may never come to any resolution with that. I have no idea what exists after we close our eyes with the final deep sigh, and exhale for the last time with the last breath, ah, but of this I am certain…. I know that the great souls I have met will be there, laughing, telling tall tales, and offering an outstretched hand, welcoming me to the next stop.

Since I’m in no rush to get “there” though, I offer this tipping of my hat, and my drink and say until then my friends, …..until then…..as I do this though I also must thank them for being there then, now, and then…in a way that I suppose only someone looking for them would see….on the horizon…

Cheers, Chris
www.fourleafclover.us

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For some strange reason, dates have played a larger role in my life than I could ever have imagined. It all started forty years ago (plus or minus a day or so.) July 19th, the day I was born, not only symbolized the year of my birth, but the day before the great line was spoken by Neil Armstrong, “that’s one small step for man, and one giant leap for mankind.” I don’t wear a watch, or keep track of time, a calendar in the house is scarce, but yet dates, well; they seem to serve as constant reminders of all major comings and goings, whether I am paying attention or not.

We spend a great deal of our lives concerned with dates, appointments, must do’s and other rites of passage. They range from birth, to (for some) baptism, first communion, marriage, turning 21 and then again turning 40, retiring and then, yes, death. The final rite of passage, maybe? (Now this is not to say that turning 40 is followed by death, but that the order of the rites of passage does lead us closer to the grave with each one.) All rites of passage seem to be marked down on some cosmic calendar that we don’t actually ever see….or at least not on this plane of existence.

As I get older, (sigh) I remember often something I wrote. I could look it up but I choose to write this essay as I would write a letter to my oldest friend and paraphrase. (I write this as a whole, the way a friend told me once, to write everything.) I once wrote about my grandfather’s farm and how it existed as an “endless round”, presenting just enough work to keep Popie busy. I think of that phrase I wrote so many years ago, and wonder about it. It is this “endless round” that peaks my interest today.

The more I think about it, the more it seems to be one of my certain truths, and as unpleasant as it may be, it does seem that as the round goes round, that “things”, all things, die. Relationships die. Pets die. Love dies. Marriages die. Careers die.

People die.

No matter how hard we wish, and pray and believe otherwise, this is one truth refuses to give in to our humanly, mortal demands. It exists, with or without our permission, on its own playing field.

Sometimes, although our calendars may look blank, there is a check somewhere on the cosmic calendar that says on this date this “thing” must die. As I wonder this I can’t help but also wonder that when relationships die, it seems when healing has begun, soul mates present themselves. And when careers end, as much as we may fight and protest, the opportunity to reinvent ourselves is always, ALWAYS, right in front of us. With all death, there is an opportunity for life….the “endless round.”

While it is true that the death part of the round often represents sadness due to loss and the fear of the unknown, the life part can also be equally scary. Life is bumpy, and dangerous, and more often than not presents us with sharp edges, unknown pitfalls and always, the “divine banana peel” that drops in just to make sure we’re paying attention. If life exists with coming and goings, and in some way pulses with a constant force, than it only can mean that the circle of life is just that, a circle and what was, will be, and must be, again.

I have been pondering this idea for some time and felt it only right to write it now, on the post eve of my birthday. For me, this day charged in with all the emotion of a raging fire and fizzled quietly and calmly out with beauty and inner peace. It was a raging bonfire that was not extinguished by a nearby garden hose, but one that was allowed to burn, glowing, and fading, until the last ember burst quickly into the brightest of orange life and then quietly, peacefully, went dark.

For me, July 19th was to be a day filled with friends, family and remembrances of great times gone by. A day of hello’s. A day that existed there for me solely, my day. For others, it would be a day that existed only for them. For him. To some, July 19th would be a day also filled with family, friends, and remembrances. For them, it would exist as a day of goodbyes. Forever marked in history books as a final goodbye. A chapter closed. The final rite of passage completed. Those that didn’t know better would say, The End.

This day would forever represent the universal day of mourning for the loss of a great teacher, writer, speaker, and kind, clever, soul. The cosmic calendar was as always, on that day, busy again.

As my rite of passage charged in and left in its wake a group of older, perhaps wiser people all remembering the good times, the happy times, the jokes and the humor of life, for others it meant something else. For me it was July 19th, my 40th birthday, my coming into “adulthood”, but for the rest of the world, it was July 19th, the day that Frank McCourt, passed quietly and peacefully into a plane that exists only briefly for those ready to move on to the unknown, the uncharted, and the next stop on the great Ferris wheel.

‘I didn’t call myself anything. I was more than a teacher. And less. In the high school classroom you are a drill sergeant, a rabbi, a shoulder to cry on, a disciplinarian, a singer, a low level scholar, a clerk, a referee, a clown, a counselor, a dress-code enforcer, a conductor, an apologist, a philosopher, a collaborator, a tap dancer, a traffic cop, a priest, a mother-father-brother-sister-uncle-aunt, a bookkeeper, a critic, a psychologist, the last straw.’

~Frank McCourt

And so, like many others, I say goodbye to Frank McCourt, at least for now, for today. A person who I never met (although I did see once but was too nervous to approach). A person who’s humor made it possible to deal with so many of life’s curveballs and who’s literary magic made it possible for everyone to read, relate to, and laugh about struggles that would otherwise be unmentionable.

And so, I share willingly and openly (and most proudly) this July 19th with a man who made the hard road of life a little more tolerable for many, and did it in a way that offered a soft cushion for the hard reality, a good laugh for the immorality, and a way to say goodbye with a smile, a story and an inner calmness that can only come from knowing that your story has changed lives and will continue to do so.

Comings and goings.

Peace, always, Chris

writer, Grandma by default, small wave ambassador, teacher, student, wanderer, friend, lover of all chapters, and yes, last straw, more or less….

** Editor’s Note*** If typos, or grammatical errors exist in this I ask that you embrace them as you would bumps in the road of life, nothing is smooth, completely….

www.fourleafclover.us
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