Paused at the coffee shop before work for a to-go cortado to shim my Thursday.
“Pete,” Morgan greeted me when I walked in.
Her expression seemed sombre, but that could’ve just been a pre-cortado take.
“I have to give you something,” she said.
Hands me a hand-written note.
“Dearest Pete …” it began.
__
Couple years ago I got the best birthday card from my daughter.
She would’ve made a good cave painter.
Her accompanying talk track illuminated the epic tale of her seeking counsel from Liam the Wise (whose official title is ‘barrista,’ but in this saga let’s call him “the Oracle”) on what all is involved in getting one’s mug hung on the wall behind the coffee shop’s counter.
Liam not only offered his wise counsel, but mapped directions to the precise mountain where the monks live who, for hundreds of years, have been humbly practicing their glass making craft of the perfect cortado vessel.
By which I mean he pointed her to a website.
Upon procurement of the mug, he told her that I need only bring it in and they would take it from there.
In Emma’s card I knew that I might just be holding the best birthday present I would ever receive.
By which I mean the card, and the heart that made it.
Ever since, when I walk in and see my mug hanging on the wall where I go to write my weekend medicine, I feel a tinge of what I imagine honored athletes feel seeing their jersey hung in the rafters of where they have done their best work.
__
“My Dearest Pete …,”
The note Morgan handed to me was from Emma. Not my Emma, but Emma who works at the coffee shop. She started while she was still in high school and still works weekends while going to the local college.
“It breaks my heart to inform you that I accidentally dropped your mug and broke it ….”
“I need a minute,” I told Morgan, and took a few steps back to read the rest, in which Emma profusely apologized, begged forgiveness and even offered to pay for a replacement.
She signed her note, “You’re most loyal and sorrowful barista, Emma.”
Which had me smiling by the time I looked up … appreciating that my Thursday morning had just found its shim.
By which I mean the note, and the heart that made it.
“She’s so upset,” Morgan said.
I asked when Emma worked next.
“Saturday,” Morgan said.
__
Saturday morning I made sure to arrive when the coffee shop opened at 8:30.
Emma was at the register, Liam at the espresso machine.
“I’m so sorry … I’ll buy you a new one,” Emma said as soon as she saw me.
I just shook my head.
“At least let me buy you your cortado.”
As Liam went to fire up the espresso machine, I stopped him.
And handed Emma a note.
__
“My dearest Emma,
You must know that there are few things in this world that I appreciate more than a hand-written note.
Reading yours brought a spark of joy to my Thursday.
If my beloved mug had to meet an untimely demise, I am grateful that it was at the hands of one who poured so many hearts into it.
You will not only appreciate that it was Liam who consulted with my daughter (whose name is also Emma) on the exact mug to buy me for my birthday two years ago (which will forever be my favorite birthday present ever), but that, when she did so, it came in a set of two.
So I commission the enclosed to your care … on one condition.
That you pour the first heart into it.”
She looked up from my note smiling the way her note made me smile.
“I always carry a spare,” I said, handing over the ‘Emma 2’ … for official christening.
She asked Liam if they could switch places.
“Only fitting,” he said.
“I don’t know,” Emma said sheepishly. “My latte art has been a little shaky … I’m out of practice,” she said.
“I know you have it inside you … and I mean that sincerely,” said Liam the Wise.
Told ya’ he’s the Oracle.
She took her time and filled it above the rim, trusting in the properties of surface tension and gravity to do their good jobs … so she could do hers.
It’s always magic to me how the molecules grab on to one another, and keep each other from flowing away and spilling.
I like how they are forgiving that way.
How the universe allows our fragile cups to be filled beyond their measure.
Even if I had the time or inclination to squeeze it all into a smaller suitcase for you, I’m not sure I would.
It’s just too damn good.
Not the writing itself … just the events as they unfolded.
This is me reminding myself that the most important choice is not this word or that word … it’s picking up the pen in the first place.
__
Couple weeks ago when the big blizzard hit, I was supposed to be in Lexington with my oldest for a boys weekend I’d gifted him / us for Christmas.
Our annual-ish pilgrimage to Kentucky to see the Wildcats men’s basketball team play.
Given the forecast I couldn’t see us making it back home on Sunday, which would’ve made a mess of Monday … which would’ve spilled all over the rest of the week.
So the night before the Friday we were supposed to leave, I made the tough call to cancel.
It was the responsible choice … even though it broke my heart.
Got screwed on our Air BnB, as our host had sub-zero interest in even a partial refund.
Lost out on our tickets, too, which weren’t at all cheap when I’d got ‘em at Christmas, and rendered all but worthless by the weather.
The heart-breaking part, though, was missing out on spending time with my son.
He’s just good light to be around.
Bummed and with nothing to do but wait for the snow that would require so much shoveling, I made a conscious choice.
I spent time imagining the weekend we might have had.
What we might have done.
Seen.
Tasted.
Noticed.
Wrote my imaginings down in my journal.
In minute detail.
Wasn’t the same, but it was warmer than wallowing.
And it allowed me to lavish some of my ever-fraying attention on what I appreciate about the gift of spending time in my son’s good light.
For the rest of the weekend, when I wasn’t shoveling or snow-blowing, I was imagining.
Treated it as if I was making myself a big ole’ pot of soup with no recipe.
Had no intentions of doing anything with it.
Just wanted to metaphorically stand in front of a boiling pot and inhale the steam while it all cooked down and the snow fell.
Nothing more than an exercise to keep my attention productively occupied.
Until a couple days later, I remembered that I owed my friend Jim a letter.
Had not sent him anything yet in the new year.
I try to make my letters worthy of Jim’s attention.
In reciprocity for the treasure he shares with me.
Jim’s a gifted poet.
In his 90’s.
Health has been failing him as of late.
Still writes.
Often achingly, always beautifully.
I can’t tell you how much I appreciate the act and the substance of what Jim shares with me.
For starters, he hand writes everything … in wobbly but persistent, near-calligraphic penmanship.
Sends me photocopies of his hand-written stuff.
The intentionality of just that — let alone how he makes words dance — fills my heart.
Our last correspondence was a golden phone call one evening a couple months ago, when he called just to let me know how much our correspondence means to him … and apologized that his short breath has kept him from going upstairs (where the printer is) to make me photo copies of his latest poems. The act of him, despite his circumstances, calling me … just to let me know that?
Better than getting a letter in the mail, let me tell you.
Though lately confined to the downstairs of his house, Jim’s aperture on the world remains wide.
He lets so much light in.
Despite his body failing him from a long life’s wear, his poet’s eye, ear and heart remain undiminished.
I find myself often saying aloud how I hope to someday write as well as Jim does in his 90’s.
In the days after the blizzard … seeing all the snow on the ground, I imagined that he probably felt even more cooped up than we did.
I tried to think of something I could send him that he might appreciate, but nothing came to mind.
I hadn’t written anything lately that I felt was worthy.
Then it hit me.
Maybe he’d appreciate some of the soup I’d been toiling over … about the weekend I never had.
So I sloppily ladled some of it onto a page, stuffed it into an envelope, and dropped it into the mail.
This is what I sent …
__
“Thursday, Jan. 27, 2026 7:49 a.m.
Dear Jim,
I hope this note finds you keeping warm. Karry just left for work, I think it’s one degree out. I am working remotely today so am anticipating a day of not having to leave the house, other than to walk to the mailbox and drop a postcard in the mail for Emma.
Oh, the weather of the world.
This past weekend Peter and I had planned to make our annual pilgrimage to Lexington to go see the Kentucky Wildcats play. We’ve done it for three or so years. Thursday night we decided to cancel our plans. I didn’t see us being able to make it back on Sunday, and we both needed to be home for work on Monday. The Air BnB host wouldn’t give us a refund, and we lost out on our tickets, but most of all, I just missed the experience of spending the weekend together with Peter. So, rather than wallow in disappointment, I decided to alchemize my circumstances … decided to write a story as if I was writing a journal entry commemorating the trip I imagined us having. Since I approached it as a journal entry, I allowed for the requisite frayed edges …
A brief excerpt
Saturday
I’d be the first one up, maybe a small pot of coffee, a deep inhale from a half-full bag before scooping grounds, let myself be seduced by the slow, gurgling percolation … pour a half-cup into one of the host’s old mugs fished from the cabinets, scribble a few words at whatever desk or counter, a weekend post card from Kentucky to Em … coax Peter awake early enough for … a cold walk over to Stella’s, ceremonially donning our Big Blue gear before heading out, he lending me a jersey from his collection, I’d pick John Wall given the choice.
We’d wait for two together at the counter to open up, and I’d rub my hand over the old coin embedded in the worn and weathered wood … confirmation.
Soak it all in like maple syrup … the tattoos and bleary-eyed chatter of the staff too young too early for a Saturday morning, listen for whatever they’re playing, maybe Tyler Childers …
… scan the poems framed on the walls on the way to the bathroom, one about Fallingwater … catch clips of expectant, game-day banter buzzing from the tables as I pass through.
Warm my hands around a mug of black coffee Kentucky straight from a fresh pot …
… agonize with Peter over our day’s biggest decision … go with Stella’s Hot Brown – the work of the angels — or just eggs, bacon, home fries well-done and those biscuits I sometimes dream about … yeah, proly that, leave the Hot Brown to legend.
He’d ask the girl about the steak and eggs … sometimes we’re just looking for someone in this world to help us say yes.
After ordering, the expectation and my topped off cup enlivening our conversation, I’d ask him his top 5 favorite Wildcats of all-time, and he’d give the cosmic question the attention it deserves … Herro, SGA locks for him, me, I’d proly reach all the way back to my first favorite, Kenny “Sky” Walker, who used to glide so gracefully from on high when he’d throw ‘em down … we’d refine and adjust our lists like safe-cracking thieves listening for confirming clicks til our waitress returns to put our plates down in front of us.
Us just staring like beggars for a couple respectful seconds … and before reaching for the salt and pepper … one of us would certainly say Grace out loud … and oh my gosh … is there anything better than first bites?
Couple years ago a wise person gifted me the notion that, wherever we are, whenever we are, it’s an opportunity to ask the question, “What’s for me here?” It’s baked in the idea that things don’t happen to us, they happen for us. That we always have agency despite our circumstances. That’s among the reasons I remain soooooo inspired and grateful for both the act and the substance of your writing, Jim. I remind myself that the most important choice that you make is not this word or that word … it’s picking up the pen in the first place.
Keep writing, my friend … “
__
Got home after 9 p.m. just this past Friday night, after meeting my wife and son for a comfort-food-filled dinner after a long Friday that dropped anchor on an already long week.
Proceeded upstairs, slow-dragging eff bombs across a few of the steps, sloppy-mop-style, as my right knee reminded me it is just not happy with me these days.
But before trudging down the hallway to get ready for bed, I stole a glance at the dining room table to see if there was any mail.
Saw an envelope on the place mat in front of my chair.
Stepped close enough to see my name scrawled in Jim’s persistent near-calligraphic hand.
Thanked the universe aloud for giving my Saturday something to look forward to.
Next day … I exercised monk-like restraint in waiting until I was sitting in the front seat of my car in the parking lot across the street from where I’d just finished a transcendent Saturday morning coffee date with my niece … to pluck Jim’s letter from my bag.
Whereupon I melted in place.
There were two pages in the envelope.
They weren’t photocopies.
They were the genuine articles, hand-written on notebook paper.
First page was a letter, dated Feb. 4.
With Jim’s permission, this is what he wrote to me.
“Pete,
Thanks, your letter of imagining, shaking me out of my accustomed lethargy.
Eliciting an immediate response, to your creativity — woke me up today.
Dull winter days, lasting forever chill, testing my old will to find something new and challenging to do.
Friends, like you, willing to take the time, and energy, to remember, with compassion, a lonely old man, far away, appreciated greatly — as we wait the renewed spring of life’s productivity.
I daily, nightly, pray for all your family, for love, God’s strength, to enliven your hopes and activity.
Keep sharing, and God be ever with you all.
Love and care,
Jim”
The note itself, poetry.
But the second page contained the poem.
Signed, dated and …
"Dedicated to Pete and Son's Imagined day,"
Imagine That!
I salute man's unique gift of imagining,
bringing life to an entirely new world,
of what might have been,
setting his feet on streets where he's never been,
feeling an intimate touch of impunity,
looking into eyes never meant for me.
Imagining, escape from a world of set destiny,
freedom to create, in god-like accuracy,
people, places and things,
of sheer, imagined fantasy,
perfectly fashioned and enjoyed, if only momentarily
my own separate world of autonomy.
The coffee is perfect, the eggs even better,
the son at my side, a co-conspirator,
not hindered by time, or other places to be,
we idle, an hour, in a diner's protective imagery,
reality forever bypassed, in this freedom's play,
to make a day go entirely our way.
Having had our opportunity, in spite of a short dismay,
life always has a way of disappointing us,
I have created a whole new day,
paper and pen and who's to say,
which of the two will last the longest,
in our time-clouded memory?
__
Oh my gosh.
I hope to some day write as well as Jim writes in his 90’s.
My heart was singing the entire 37-minute drive home from where I’d met my niece for coffee.
Had to pee by the time I pulled in the driveway.
Climbed upstairs and made a beeline for the bathroom that sits off my bed room.
On my way back through, I instinctively grabbed an old journal off my unmade bed.
Cracked it open to some random page that, it turns out, wasn’t random at all, and read the words I’d been moved to scribble on a page on some forgotten day some years ago … with only a vague hunch that my someday heart might need them to help me make sense of a cold world.
A quote from Rick Rubin.
“We share our way of seeing in order to spark an echo in others. Art is a reverberation of an impermanent life. Enduring affirmations of existence.”
__
From the thaw of a weekend-ruining blizzard … a poem for this world that would have never otherwise existed …
… If I hadn’t imperfectly imagined what was lost … and shared my way of seeing it like thrown together soup
… to warm an old poet’s heart … moving him to write and share spring once again.
Every bit of all of it … nothing more and nothing less than the reverberations of impermanent lives.
Was downstairs and at my desk early yesterday morning.
Didn’t sleep much or well.
I was up and asking Alexa for the time every 20 or 30 minutes all the way from 2 until I pulled myself outta bed in surrender at 5:48.
Headspace is a fragile thing when I don’t sleep.
Vultures circle.
Downstairs I cracked open my laptop as mechanically as if brushing teeth, with nothing on my mind or heart.
Just started typing ….
“Dried out and crispy, flicking flint on stone, desperate for a spark.”
Then I received a text.
Was early for a text.
“Can you chat this morning?”
Old college roommate.
Seeing his name made me smile.
Lives on the other side of the state, doing the work of the angels.
We’ll sometimes schedule cup-filling calls on our respective morning commutes.
Don’t recall a chat ever being impromptu.
It’d been a few months since our last one.
Didn’t figure myself for good company, but I called him right away.
Me: On your commute?
He: Already parked and walking for coffee.
Me: Is it a London Fog morning?
He’s a big fan of the London Fog — Earl Gray tea, steamed milk, vanilla, hint of sugar.
“Tastes like a warm hug,” to quote my old roommate quoting one of his office colleagues.
Sometimes I find myself ordering one when I see it on the menu.
Always makes me think of him.
He: Ha, yes! I’ve been trying to cut back, though.
Me: Everything in moderation … to quote Ben Franklin.
He: I just walked past his grave, actually.
He really did … he passes Christ Church in downtown Philly on his morning pilgrimages for Warm Hugs.
Our conversation was as spontaneous as his text.
We bounced across topics like skipping stones … sleep, dispiriting Eastern winters, kids, family, work … making our days count.
During which I began to feel the gears of my heart start to loosen.
In passing I mentioned a friend’s recent retirement.
He said he’s got his own date, about a year out.
He spoke about ‘ending well.’
Said it’s something that’s been on his mind a lot.
He referenced one of our previous conversations that’s stayed with him.
I’d forgotten about it ’til he reminded me.
During one of our previously scheduled caffeinated commutes, I talked about how there’s a big difference between things that end, and things that have an ending.
How there’s a whole school of thought on the topic … called “endineering.”
How it’s an under-appreciated facet of experience design in my, um, experience.
How there’s a sturdy body of research that posits that the way an experience ends disproportionally weights participants’ memories — what they take away, what they remember — about it. (look up “Daniel Kahneman” and “Peak-End Rule,” ICYI).
And yet … most things in our lives just … end.
Friendships.
Marriages.
Jobs.
He said he’s mindful of the legacy he wants to leave with the people he touches … for those that come after him.
Not for the first time, I found myself inspired by my old roommates’ example.
We were about 15 or so minutes into our chat when I guesstimated he was on his way back to the office with his London Fog.
He affirmed such was the case.
So I made sure our conversation … ended well.
I broke the fourth wall.
Told him how perfectly timed his text was.
Thanked him for thinking of me.
Let him know his simple text had single-handedly re-directed the trajectory of the day I was headed for.
Reminded him to never underestimate his capacity to be awesome.
He made a point to remind me of the same.
___
I can’t overstate the power inherent in the simple act of letting folks know when you’re thinking of them.
You will be astonished by the flowers that bloom from parched earth.
Your timing will never not be perfect.
It scatters the vultures.
At least long enough to give our Thursdays a fighting chance.
I will go to my grave (while mentally walking past Ben Franklin’s) shouting it from the rooftops.
Went to a storytelling thing in the city a few weeks ago.
Flew solo … something I normally don’t do.
Usually my inner voice prepares a convincing list of reasons it’d be better for us to stay on the couch.
Something about the event’s theme — Bridges — made me think of a small story that might be worth telling.
I’m never really sure of such things.
Inner voice likes to remind me I could be full of shit.
Might be a story only I want to hear.
Which is among the reasons I appreciate the event’s drop-your-name-in-the-hat approach.
Lets the universe decide.
Was late peeling off work.
Got there about 10 minutes before it started. Place was pretty packed.
I made a beeline to the front to see if they were still taking names. Saw Jacob, the event’s producer. He asked if I wanted to tell a story.
“Thinking about it,” I said.
“Awesome. We only have two people so far, so you’re guaranteed a spot.”
Gulp.
Didn’t expect the universe to decide so quickly.
But then, Jacob did this thing.
He looked me in the eyes, put his hand over his heart, and said, “And I’d consider it a personal favor if you could shake the bushes and get a few more people on stage.”
“I’ll do my best,” I said.
I didn’t have the heart to tell him that I was flying solo … and that I didn’t know a single other soul in the place.
Not to mention the event was starting in like five minutes.
“And don’t forget that you’re a socially awkward introvert,” my inner voice chimed in.
Yeah, that too.
But, there was just something about the way he asked me.
Heard someone describe it once as “the happiness of being called upon.”
I had just enough time to grab a beer before things started.
While waiting for the bartender’s pour, I noticed a person at the other side of the bar chatting with some friends.
I don’t know if this makes sense, but have you ever seen someone smile … and, just by the way their smile lives on their face, you can tell they’re a character?
So I notice such a smile, and then a second later, hear the owner saying to her friends, “You know, I’ve been coming to these things for two years … and I have yet to put my name in the hat.”
A second later we make fleeting eye contact.
And I blurt out from across the bar, “TONIGHT’S THE NIGHT!”
My inner voice does a spit take … “What the fuck are you doing?”
And I’m like, oh … what the fuck am I doing?
“Sorry,” I say. “Um, don’t mean to intrude … but you should totally do it.”
And she says aloud to herself, as much as to her friends (and, um, me I guess), “You know, I was actually thinking of something …
“ … but I don’t have it worked out or anything.”
“Don’t overthink it,” I volleyed back across the bar. “They’re actually looking for storytellers. I think tonight’s the night.”
“I … I’m not prepared,” she said. “I’d have to be prepared …”
But then … she reached into her pocket. Pulled out her phone.
“I’d at least have to put some bullets down … to see if I even have enough.”
I grabbed my beer and went to find a seat.
As I passed behind her, I said, “No pressure … but just so you know, I’m preparing myself to witness history.”
The place was pretty packed. Saw a couple open rows in the back.
Spotted a guy sitting on the aisle, also flying solo. I asked if I could sit next to him.
“You look familiar,” he said. “Have you told a story before?”
We got to chatting. I learned that he was a friend of Jacob the producer.
“Have you ever gotten on stage?” I asked.
Nah, he said. Shook his head for emphasis.
Let a couple seconds pass.
“You know, I was kinda’ thinking of something on the way over,” he said.
“Dude … you should totally do it,” I replied. “I think tonight’s the night.”
“Ah …” he started walking it back in his head.
I wasn’t going to let him off the hook.
“They’re actually looking for storytellers. Jacob told me … they don’t have enough.”
“Really?”
“Don’t overthink it,” I said.
“Ah … I’ll decide at the intermission,” he said. “See how things are going.”
“Wise move,” I said … following it up with one last, “But you should totally do it.”
So, the event starts. First storyteller gets up on stage (and is amazing), then the host goes to pull the second name.
And I see the person who I’d last seen at the bar jotting down bullets into her phone … strolling to the stage.
My heart leaps.
I elbow my next chair neighbor and whisper, “We’re about to witness history.”
And I was right.
Her smile totally gave her away. She had a light, for sure.
In fact, her kindling of that light was the topic of her story.
That she didn’t wait to have it all figured out before stepping into the spotlight … was every bit as inspiring as the words that tumbled from her tongue.
What a gift to bear witness.
When she finished (to raucous applause), I exhaled.
My work is done here, I thought in my head.
The intermission comes. Host goes to pull the next name from the hat, and … my next chair neighbor get up.
Not sure if you’re keeping score here, but … I’m two for two.
And his story?
Epic.
A love story … which he chased across states … countries … years … before it all ran aground.
At the moment of their breakup, they had to decide who got to keep the German Shepherd they’d raised together.
He had rescued it as a puppy.
He loved the dog so much.
Knew he’d take better care of it than she would.
And he let her keep it.
And I’m wiping tears.
That wasn’t even the end of the story, which ended poignantly on a bridge in Pittsburgh, tying back to the event’s theme like Simone Biles sticking the landing in a floor exercise.
It was note perfect, I tell you. Like, one-man-show material.
He gets back to his chair … I’m like, “Dude,” held out a fist for bumping, since the lump still in my throat kept me from saying more.
Then, I hear the host call my name.
I’m still a bowl of soup from my neighbor’s tale.
But I get up and tell my tiny story.
About a scruffy saint I encountered in a coffee shop who reminded me — in both word and deed — that receiving kindness is every bit as important as giving kindness.
I wobbled in a couple places.
I pretty much wobble everywhere I go anymore.
But I told the story that I needed to hear.
At the end of the event, they bring everybody back on stage.
Then it’s over.
Under the best of circumstances, I’m bad at exits.
Flying solo in a roomful of strangers, after being vulnerable on stage for six minutes, I just wanted to get out of there.
But I had to say thank you.
Saw Jacob at the front of the stage.
I told him I fulfilled the mission.
He returned a quizzical look.
“Two of ‘em were mine,” I said.
You should have seen how the smile lived on his face.
“I’m proud of you,” he said.
Receiving those words made me put my hand over my heart.
The happiness of being called upon.
I turned to make a beeline for the door.
Didn’t get very far before someone stopped me.
“I just wanted to let you know that your story made me glad I came,” she said.
Oh my gosh, I replied.
So, it wasn’t only a story that I needed to hear.
Almost started crying again.
Then, she did the kindest thing.
“Can I give you a hug?” she asked.
Our stories?
Bridges indeed.
__
Ever since that night, I keep coming back to the same four words.
Four words that I’ve come to realize are a magic spell … for experiencing awe.
“If it wasn’t for ….”
Wherever you are … whenever you are, say those four words, then fill in the blank with the things responsible for this … whatever this is.
Keep filling. You don’t have to go very far before you strike awe, which is merely a bridge … to profound gratitude.
If it wasn’t for Jacob’s Great Commission …
… I’m not sure I notice the way a smile lives on someone’s face … I don’t interrupt a conversation from across the bar … she doesn’t pull out her phone … punch in the bullets that give her the confidence to make history for herself, and do a thing she’d never done in two years of showing up …
… I don’t fist bump a next chair neighbor for exponentially expanding my understanding of humanity’s capacity for grace (he let her have the dog for cryin’ out loud).
If it wasn’t for the theme of the night, I don’t think of a story and spend six minutes wobbling on stage, so I can be reminded yet again by a stranger that …
… it’s just as important to receive kindness as it is to give kindness …
… that we should never be shy about sharing our stories, because they just might be somebody else’s bread …
… that even when we’re flying solo, we’re not necessarily alone.
And perhaps most importantly, I don’t discover this encouraging, bush-shaking voice that I didn’t even know was inside of me … that’s pretty fucking good at its job.
And that is making its debut on the page here to tell you that I would consider it a personal favor, if you would promise me …
… to never underestimate your capacity for being awesome. To be generous with your invitations, your smiles, your encouragements, your hugs, your stories. To never forget that we can’t change anything, but we can influence everything.
No pressure, but just so you know, I’m preparing myself to witness history.
Re-watched all of my favorite holiday movies this season.
Except one.
A Charlie Brown Christmas, which we never got around to.
Destination TV when the kids were younger, though.
I mean, Linus droppin’ the mic at the end?
Puts a lump in my throat every time.
It was only this year that I was made aware of something I’d never noticed in all my previous watchings.
He drops the blanket, too.
In the climactic “Light’s, please” scene, right before he says, “Fear not …” Linus drops his blanket.
All those years I watched it, I never noticed it.
When a friend mentioned it to me, I got chills.
A sermon hidden in plain sight.
Looked it up online.
Yep.
Apparently, the Internet’s known about this for some time.
I asked my family if they were aware.
Nope.
Once I became aware, though, I couldn’t stop geeking out about it, asking friends. Sharing with those, who like me, were uninitiated.
Immediately thought of my high school buddy, Bob, an animator, who grew up a connoisseur of comics and cartoons.
I shot him a note … said I assumed he knew about this, but I couldn’t risk him not knowing.
He, of course, knew about the scene.
Shared the wisest reply.
“I did know about the dropped blanket thing, but I never really attached any significance to it.
“I always looked at it from an animation perspective, where I think Linus does a lot of arm gesturing during that scene and instead of animating a blanket moving around wildly with his arms, they just had him drop it and then pick it up again when he was done talking. I think the reason I thought that was because when Charlie Brown is talking to him right before Linus goes off, Charlie Brown drops his coat right before talking with his hands. Again, I assumed that was for animation purposes.”
Brilliant insight, which Bob’s always been good for.
At first his reply hit me like a splash of cold water.
“A Charlie Brown Christmas.” (Peanuts Worldwide)
So … a practical animation choice.
No sermon intended.
Nothing to see here.
Hmm.
But just because Charles Schulz may have been more interested in easing his animating burden doesn’t mean there’s not a sermon to be found.
Just because something isn’t true, or as intended, doesn’t mean it can’t be meaningful.
Otherwise myths wouldn’t exist.
Or religions, some might say.
We live in a world that would rather know how the trick is done than believe in magic.
Not me.
I’d rather be (open to being) awed.
I’ve learned to keep my antenna up for magic and meaning … even where it’s not supposed to exist.
Who says a perfect sermon can’t be found in a practical choice?
Even Bob in his wisdom agrees.
“But I guess in the big picture, it’s a much better story and makes more sense to say that Linus didn’t need security during that moment.”
We can let the blanket drop … without letting it get wet.
__
Sitting in my usual seat at my favorite coffee shop where I’m typing this, I watched an older woman, bundled head to toe for the cold, walk in to warm herself for a few minutes before catching her Saturday morning bus.
As she was trudging back to the door with 12 warm ounces in her hand, already bracing for the cold on the other side, a familiar downtown face came in, and seeing her, stepped to the side, and with his right arm, backhanded the door open for her.
Not the biggest fellow, he had to bend over a bit to muster the strength to brace the door open with just his one arm.
But from where I sat, his forced hunch read as a bow, imbuing his humble act with an added reverence.
Allowing the older woman catching her bus to pass through the door regal as a queen, nobly enrobed in her winter coat, her toboggan pulled tight like a crown.
She nodded thanks to him as she exited.
As if to a loyal subject.
It was a scene that neither would likely think of ever again.
She, a bus to catch.
He, cold hands to warm at the fireplace.
Me, a lump in my throat for the gift of bearing witness.
It was a scene I’m likely never to forget.
His bow. Her nod.
A sermon hidden in plain sight.
A sweet and simple reminder to be kind where we can to those we encounter along the way.
To humble ourselves to allow the strangers we meet to walk in dignity in an otherwise cold world.
If he’d have been holding a blanket in his right hand, he might have made the practical choice to drop it, too.
Em’s reply when asked if she wanted signed up for the New Year’s Day Resolution 5K we ran last year.
“Yes … a tradition!” I enthused.
To be clear, she detests running. Didn’t have her newer tennis shoes at home. Had to borrow my old hoodie.
When Peter asked her goal for race day, she answered: “To not cry the entire time.”
“Me too!” I replied, holding up a hi-5 which she promptly ignored.
In this year’s sequel, I took note of a few differences from our maiden voyage.
For starters we arrived early.
In the 23 years I’ve been a parent, we’ve never been early for anything.
Like, ever.
We had ample time to get our bibs, pee, stretch.
I actually peed a second time … because I knew I may never be this early again.
To be fair, last year was a totally spur of the moment affair. In a spasm of poor decision-making, I signed us up on New Year’s Eve — the day before the race — whilst slightly north of my second Moscow Mule of the evening. Was genuinely surprised they both said yes. It was their first 5K.
This year was Em’s second.
Her brother, on the other hand ….
Peter’s actually taken a keen interest in running over the past year. Much more serious than mine. Minds his times and distances. Actually had a New Year’s Race Day goal in mind.
Meanwhile, I held fast(-ish) to mine from last year: not puking.
With the aforethought that comes with pre-planning, I strategically managed my New Year’s Eve race prep.
Stayed away from Moscow Mules.
Opted for margaritas instead.
Was coming off an uneven night’s sleep when we took our place among the mass of humanity at the starting line. Didn’t feel like I had much in the tank.
So I was grateful to find a person shortly after the start to hitch my wagon to, so to speak. From the back, the guy looked middled-aged and mis-matched … seemed to be wearing a collared shirt over another shirt (?), along with shorts, dark socks and a ballcap. Temperature was in the 30s, which made his incongruous ensemble read as either brazen or ironic — both of which I found oddly appealing.
He seemed like a poorly informed tourist from another country trying too hard to blend in … or exactly how I’ve felt in every race I’ve ever participated in.
His pace was reasonable, though. Determined without trying to prove too much … which, I reminded myself, was the same criteria I used for picking my middle school cologne.
Managed to keep him in my sights the first mile. The trail was puddled in places, which made it a little challenging for me to keep up, but not too off-putting.
After I hit the mid-point turnaround, I was greeted by a winter wind bent on smacking me in the face the whole rest of the way (rude). Over the second mile, my pacer lengthened his lead, but I did my best to keep from falling too far behind.
I find once one crests a race’s midpoint, one’s playlist becomes really important. You need that voice in your head to take your mind away from the realization that, if it wasn’t for your poor decision-making, you could be home right now under a weighted blanket on the couch, binge-watching Murder She Wrote while sipping hot cocoa.
My playlist was on shuffle, so up popped a slow ballad I love by a melancholic Pittsburgh band from the 90’s, whose singer began to croon, “This world will be the death of me,” which convinced me I should maybe outsource the curation of my hype music to the algorithms.
Stole a glance down at my phone to hit skip, trading “… satchel full of broken hopes … ” (wtf?) for “Heroes” by Bowie (universe balance = restored), and noticed I had just under a half-mile left. Took a quick inventory of my legs, breath and bowels and, confirming stasis, looked up and noticed I’d gotten a little closer to Dark Sock Ironic Collar Guy.
This is the point in the proceedings where one starts thinking about one’s finishing kick, which for me, consists of trying not to giggle slash pee oneself.
The lesson of the TBPPD (Tall Bearded Prematurely Peaking Dude) from a year ago slow-jogged through my mind as I considered my strategy. The previous night’s margaritas suggested … a conservative approach.
So I waited ’til the three mile mark, and then, you know, called down to engineering to fire up the old warp core.
Once engaged I passed DSICG with all the urgency of a middle-aged man on the cusp of the morning’s third pee … in the process resisting the temptation to look over my shoulder to see if my backdraft caused the collar on his shirt to at all flutter.
Hubris eventually comes for us all.
Pushed as hard as I could as I crossed the finish line.
But after catching my breath on the other side, I sought out my pacer.
“Excuse me, sir,” I called out.
He turned around, whereupon I noticed that (a.) he was a bit older than me, and (b.) his collar was actually a neck-warming device (pro move). I also saw the front of his shirt for the first time, which commemorated a Boston Marathon he’d previously conquered decades ago.
Respect.
I congratulated him on running a great race. Told him he was my North Star, and thanked him accordingly.
He confessed he hadn’t run in two months, so wasn’t sure what his body was going to give him. From where I stood, he did more than OK.
I sought out Peter and Em in the post-race hubub, and we headed back indoors to warm up and so Peter could check out the results.
He found his name on the printout they taped to the wall by the awards table. Finished top 25, third in his age group, shaving a whopping two minutes-plus per mile from a year ago.
What a difference a year can make.
So we hung around for the awards.
They went oldest to youngest, announcing the winners in the 70-and-above category first.
A familiar figure walked up to claim first place.
Dark socks. Shorts.
Dude was in his 70s.
Um … brazen, it turns out.
As far as North’s Stars go, I chose wisely.
Probably went home and spent the afternoon chopping wood.
Needless to say, I found the experience of smoking a stone cold septuagenarian down the home stretch very satisfying.
We waited through the other age groups until they got to the 20-29s.
Announced females first.
When we heard third place finished just above 30 minutes, Em and I had the same thought.
She turned to me, “Wait, if she was third … then I might have ….”
We were both giggling by the time she finished the sentence, just as they were calling her name for winning her age group.
In the ironic category.
I had a fresh hi-5 waiting for her by the time she returned to her seat … which she promptly ignored.
I informed her that she was now bound by honor to come back next year and defend her crown.
My normal custom for an early-in-the-week Jim letter is to save it to open on Saturday morning.
To give myself something to look forward to.
And to make sure I have the space — temporal, physical, soulful — to savor the treasure inside.
My friend Jim’s a wonderful poet. His letters are always accompanied by a few of his recent poems.
He happens to be in his 90s now.
When I grow up, I hope to someday write as well as Jim does in his 90s.
At his age he senses the nearness of death. As a former pastor he also senses the nearness of being called Home.
Having lived so long, having lost his wife, Mary, to dementia a couple years ago … he keenly appreciates the preciousness of days and time.
And stares it all down with a poet’s heart.
Has made a practice of sifting the everyday for meaning and for magic.
And somehow makes it all rhyme … figuratively and literally.
“Poetry is persistently plaguing me at night, and when, half asleep, I kick off the covers, I force myself to get up, write down a phrase, or a line or two, so precious that I just can’t chance to let it wander away.”
For the record, I’m a little over half Jim’s age, and when I kick off the covers at night, it’s to get up to pee, not scribble down epiphanies.
Jim inspires me so much, in both the act and the substance of his letters and poems.
We’ve carried on a correspondence for a few years now.
I’ve noticed a common refrain in his letters. A lament.
He’s always longed for his poetry to be published … so it can be remembered.
In a post-Thanksgiving letter, he wrote, “Doggerel, following me like a lost puppy, and when on Google yesterday, I found a host of famous lines of Tennyson … I asked, ‘Will anyone remember even one of mine?’ as if I’ll care after my death.”
But only a line later … “Sunday morning sun brightens the tarnished attitude I bring to life on these usual dull winter days.”
I can attest that Jim’s poetry is beyond worthy.
When I wrote him back, I asked him if he would mind if I shared his poems with friends.
And for once, when his reply arrived in the mail, I didn’t wait until Saturday morning to open it.
Something about the urgent pause of a New Year’s Eve suggests a break with custom.
“YES, you may share whatever comes from me. That is the greatest tribute that I know of … of my attempts at poetry … to be liked enough to share.”
In thinking how I might best serve your precious attention in this moment … I can’t think of any better gift to share with you than Jim’s gifts shared with me. Of his noticing in a sparrow’s visit a kindred spirit. His allowing a newborn sun to surround in warmth all that’s old in him.
So in this space between the holidays, between our no longers and our not yets, may we greet whatever lies ahead as if it were a Sunday morning sun.
May we approach it with the wisdom, persistence and awe of a 90-year-old poet still sifting this broken world for its good light.
May we ever be so alive to what moves us that we have no choice but to kick off the covers and call it by name, so we can share our magic words with the world around us.
May we always (always) have something to look forward to.
If you are so moved, you have Jim’s permission to like, share and comment. I promise to reflect your good light back to him.
Letters for Maggie 