Sol's Random Stories

Not what one would expect it to look like, heaven's red door. What would anyone expect of the unknown? Any dream is as good as another, any fantasy made real somewhere in the fleeing universe, believe as you will.  Or, small chapel cove of stone and rock, chamber of final confession, hewn thru millenniums of suffering and grief, now the blessed relief of departure from this physical world- is there another? Or, as Krishnamurti and others believe, there is only thought. Or, just a red door, no eyehole, simple lock, behind it only trusting souls we know.  

It was nothing to him, hard work. Jack could work all day and night, grinning and carrying on, he outlasted men half his age with seemingly no effort whatsoever. Losing his dad at five, something snapped inside, he started working like his father worked, early and hard till late. No matter the project or effort, Jack seemed to thrive when others  reached exhaustion. By the end of his teens, he had saved enough for both a home and business, learning real estate, then got his state credential at twenty. By age thirty Jack's office was bustling with buyers, sellers, and listings enough for a small but growing sales team, and a new loan financing bank alliance. Then, one plain August morning they found him in an old freight elevator, after Jack went missing for two days. No note. All the while we toil over our little life plans, so much effort every day to be successful. But, no one ever knows what fate has already decided ahead for us. If you believe in that sort of thing.  ...

Because life is so very brief, let's be honest whenever reasonably possible. For example, it doesn't help my desire to awaken with gratitude when my phone alarm goes off at 4:45am. Yes, I do have the old Peanuts piano solo as my wake-up, the venerable Snoopy tune, always cool. But, after recalling the day of the week, and that it's a 6am work shift morning, my gratefulness for waking up is next. Some unknown and unnamed force in this immensely mysterious universe has given me another day of living. Another day in the light of my thoughts passing in a stream of random or subconscious associations. How can I dependably awaken without some alarm, even nice, charming ones, jogging me out of delta deep dreams as if consciousness is so much better, or a bit more sleep is just inconsequential? I could train my dog to wake me up, but no, she's okay with me getting fired for serial tardiness.  Maybe I can awaken to the wonderful ground root sounds of Gregorian chants, then segue...

How annoying is it to hear myself use the cliche so blithely, an unclever response to some throw-away query? Yup, turning 70 this May 9th, "It's just a number." As if this fluffle had any meaning, or helped me in any way with the mad and somewhat roiling stew of mixed feelings about this milestone. My dear buds have comical offerings of their own, most are approaching the age or already there, a few beyond.  "Dude least you're not on the wrong side of the grass!" "You look good for eighty!" "Remember, it's not how long you live." "Spend it all before you go!"  It's funny or maybe just routine how we all deal with aging awkwardly at times, other times, we feel a calmer grace.  Being so amazingly blessed to have my mom in my life at this age, what else even matters? So many of my dear friends miss their folks like a daily ache that never leaves, a lifelong, honorable burden, a pain that cannot be resolved.  All I want for ...