HAIKU STORM …
the storm slithered in
angry, fiercely, it rose up
and trees cower down
WHAT DO YOU DO WHEN TIME FLIES …
A friend of mine recently told me how much more quickly time seems to be passing in his life. He wondered if I had noticed it too. I hadn’t really. I asked him what he was doing lately.
He said, “Nothing much, really. You know what it’s like. Different day, same sh(t. Week after week.”
“So what do you do to break things up a bit?” I asked.
“Nothing much,” he repeated. “Guess I’m just stuck in a rut.”
“Well, that’s your problem,” I said. “You know what they say, ‘Time flies when you’re stuck in a rut.’”
There is some science behind it. I remember reading something a few years ago, about people whose lives follow essentially the same routine day after day, have the mental effect of speeding up time for them. Their days wash into weeks. Their weeks melt into months. Before they know it, in the time it takes to yawn, years have passed. It least, that’s how it feels to them. And apparently, it gets even worse the older you grow, because the routines become, well, even more routine.
What’s the cure, you ask.
Okay, you really didn’t ask, did you? Because the answer is really obvious.
Change your routines whenever you can.
Always drive the same way to work? Try a different route or a different mode. Leave early. Stay late. Notice things on the way. Make a mental note to check them out on the weekend.
Always watch the same show every Tuesday night at 7:00? Record it and watch it on Wednesday at 9:12pm. Or save it until Saturday morning. Or better yet, skip watching it for a week. Then another week. Until your routine is different.
Always eat gruel for breakfast, a hard boiled egg for lunch, and a lettuce sandwich with stone soup for dinner? Hello?! Switch it up.
Think of routine like the monitor that measures time sequence for heart or brain activity. If nothing’s going on, it’s just a flatline.
If there’s activity, it shows the peaks and valleys of life. That’s the one you want.
PRACTICE MAKES PERFECT, EVEN IN IMPERFECT MOMENTS OF PRACTICE
“My needs are few,” she said. “A warm hug, a little kiss, and some of that.” She pointed to the block of yellow cheese that was on sale.
It was, without any doubt, the only time I’ve heard someone, anyone, answer the question, “Can I help you?” in that manner. Apparently, it was the only time the deli counter staff heard that answer as well.
“Excuse me?” he asked, his eyes opening wide and his brows raising to emphasize his apparent confusion.
“I said, my needs are few,” she repeated. “A warm hug, a little kiss, and some of that.” Again, she pointed to the cheese, and added, “About a half pound, please.”
The confusion didn’t leave his face, but he picked up the block of cheese, turned around and placed it in the slicer. He turned back around, still looking confused, and asked, “A half pound?”
He turned back to the slicer and began slicing. Exactly three-hundredths more of a half pound later, he handed her the wrapped cheese. “Anything else?” he asked.
“No, thank you,” she said. “That will do just fine.”
I finished my shopping and was about to pack the groceries in the car, when the young woman happened to stop at the car next to mine.
“Excuse me,” I said. “I couldn’t help but overhearing your answer at the deli counter and I was just wondering why you answered that way.”
“Oh that,” she said matter-of-factly. “I’m in a community theater and it’s one of my lines. But I keep getting it mixed up. Sometimes I say, ‘A warm kiss and little hug,’ or I might say, ‘A little warm hug and kiss me.’ I’ve just been having a time getting it right. So now, I say it, the right way, whenever the opportunity avails itself.”
“Do you get a lot of confused looks when you say it?” I asked.
“Tons. But that’s okay. I think I’ve finally got it right.”
“Well, good luck with your production,” I said. I drove away thinking of Martha Graham’s quote:
“Practice is a means of inviting the perfection desired.”
FIRE GOOD? FIRE BAD? ME WANT KNOW …
The evening is quite cold and dark as we join Monkalunk and Kraklehead on the plateau just outside their cave.
Monkalunk says, “Night feel like be real cold.”
Kraklehead looks up from his stick, “Cold. Not good. Me not like cold. Like warm.”
“Mm. Warm. Me like warm too,” Monkalunk says. “Why not SkyGod make warm now?”
Suddenly, a loud crack fills the air and an almost blinding streak of lightning strikes a bush about ten feet from where our caveguys are sitting. The bush roars into a flaming bonfire.
“Loud,” Kraklehead says. “Me not like loud. Me not like cold. Me like warm.”
Monkalunk slowly walks over to the burning bush. He stands in front of it for about 20 seconds. He runs back to Kraklehead.
“Warm!” Monkalunk shouts. “Fire warm. Fire good. Me like fire. Come Kraklehead. Come by warm.”
“Me like warm,” Kraklehead says, as he walks over to the burning bush with Monkalunk. “Mmmm. Warm good. Fire good.”
Monkalunk looks at Kraklehead and says, “Throw stick on fire.”
“No! My stick,” Kraklehead yells. “Not throw on fire. My stick. You throw other stick.”
The night grows colder and darker but our two caveguys are rather enjoying throwing other sticks on the fire and staying warm.
“Time go sleep,” Monkalunk says. “Come Kraklehead.”
“Okay. But me trade cold stick for warm stick to bring back to cave.” Kraklehead says, as he throws his stick into the fire and grabs a different stick. One burning red hot.
“AAAAAAAAAAAUGH!!” Kraklehead screams. “FIRE BURN. FIRE BAD. KILL FIRE NOW.” Kraklehead quickly sticks his blistering hand into a bucket of cold creek water. “Aaaaah. Cold good. Me like cold.”
Meanwhile, Monkalunk grabbed a fire extinguisher and put out the burning bush. (Yes, they had fire extinguisher’s back then. You know. Sort of. In a caveman-ish kind of way.) He walked over to his friend and asked him how his hand was feeling.
“Hand cold,” Kraklehead says. “Cold good. You kill fire?”
“Yes, fire dead,” Monkalunk says. “Fire hurt friend. Fire Bad. Me hate fire. How hand, now?”
“Hand still cold. Cold good. Me like cold. Me like sleep. Go sleep now.” Kraklehead says.
They walk into their cave, which is even darker and colder than the night has become. Shivering, they eventually fall asleep. For about three hours.
“Monkalunk,” Kraklehead says. “You sleep?”
“Not sleep now. What up?”
“Me cold. Me not like cold. Me like warm.” Kraklehead tells his friend. “Can you make SkyGod make fire come back?”
“Mmm. Fire warm. Fire good. Me like fire.”
Okay, so is there a moral to this story?
In fact, there are a few morals. But me only post story. You think moral. Moral good. You like moral.