Skip to main content

pieces of me

We went away for the weekend; a quick getaway stolen to breathe. Stolen to rest. Stolen to connect, with each other, maybe with random encounters.

The sea was stormy, but we could walk on the beach without being soaked or blown away. Experiencing the power of the waves, noticing stones and debris, some quite large, tossed like one would toss Pick-up Stix. Sunny beach days are glorious, but for me, there’s a special appeal in the moodiness of a storm.

Our paths crossed with vendors and servers and other visitors such as ourselves. Two encounters were different, no actually three.

The initial encounter was with the servers at our first breakfast joint. The guy behind the counter was polite and refined in his jeans, t-shirt and Vans. The restaurant only accepts cash. Who carries much of that anymore? We had some, but needed to pay attention to what we ordered since we weren’t prepared. The gal said, “No worries, it happens all the time. Just stop back and pay us later.” Who says that now days?

Next, was the person running the local surf shop. He had that vibe, which was good since it was his shop. We’d been drawn in by a peace symbol sticker in the window. I’d also snapped a picture of a music gig set for that night that was also in the window. Turns out the guy in the surf shop and the musician were one and the same. We went to listen that night to a cool sorta reggae sound, mellow and alternative. He remembered us and came to chat in between sets. 

The final encounter was when we were gazing at the sea taking photos. A gentleman stopped his car and said the waves are great for photographing, have a nice day. He pulled forward slowly. I told him “thanks” for taking time to talk. This, in turn, opened a door for him to pour out a part of his life story, some good, some very sad.

What occurred to me in all of these instances is that I’d given pieces of me to others. 

Conversely, I’d received pieces of them. This is a concept that I’ve noticed throughout my life. You live in a spot and part of what makes up that spot becomes part of you. Working with a group of people and lives are intricately entwined.

Some pieces are big, others mere specks. Pieces can be given freely or torn. I️ picture it like the pretty montages of schooldays, torn pictures and colored paper arranged and glued to form something art worthy out of scraps and pieces.

I’m grateful for the pieces given, taken, received and shared back and forth. My pieces make me who I am; the good, the questionable, the downright ok and ugly. But, you know, I wouldn’t change it. It’s called living.


If you have been mildly amused, challenged or inspired by what you have read, please pass on my blog to a friend, colleague, family member or even random acquaintance


Popular posts from this blog

wild world: facing the wind

The page furled in the wind, several, actually as I struggled to control my notebook. The wind was crisp; it blew hair out of my face. A cerulean sky hung over head; the sun casting low.

I watered my potted plants, perhaps for the last time until spring. Snow’s in the 10 day forecast, which seems odd since only a few days ago it was 70 degrees.

Birds were chirping, squirrels doing their thing. They know the season is changing to the dormant time where food will be scarce and only the flimsy bare branches will shelter.

It’s November. We’re on the cusp of winter. Temperatures will be harsh. My thoughts turn to the outside folks; those who live in tents or boxes, occasionally scoring a room at the local shelter. It’s easier…when the weather is fair, but never easy.

Cat Stevens’ “Wild World” blares rather loudly from my Sonos. Two lines rattle for attention:

a lot of nice things turn bad out there you know I’ve seen a lot of what the world can do

Things are wild out there – the wind messi…

the lights just clicked on

The lights just clicked on. The ones we hung outside last Friday when the day was bright and fair. Today it’s cloudy and cold. It’s dark earlier. So, the lights just clicked on.

It’s pretty. If I squint, the white fairy lights look like tiny gleaming stars. Bordering on gazing at an inky sky, dotted and specked with minute bursts of light.

Two Moravian stars with multi-faceted points hang. They sway with the breeze. Moving to the wind’s breathed music. They reflect in the open window; mirror images, star duets.

Santa arrives in a helicopter descent at the Old Mill. He sets up shop, elves and reindeer to join later. High fives, and shy giggles, the kids approach. Innocent, bright eyes wide open and hopeful.

It’s a magical and expectant season. It’s Advent.

Advent – the arrival of the awaited One – is more than my lights clicking on, the Moravian stars dancing and my grandkids’ wonder at the arrival of Santa. I love each of these experiences and the specialness of the memories.

A baby sh…