SATURDAY MORNING
It’s finally Saturday — my day to sleep-in without the intrusions and demands of the work-week. I haven’t has a regular work-week in months. But that doesn’t matter. The patterns remain the same — the need remains the same.
It’s a delicious feeling to wake up, look at the clock and see it’s 6:00 a.m., and merely roll over and drift back to sleep. But that hardly every happens. I wake up with a snort, dribble oozing out of the corner of my mouth. I feel in my bones that it’s Friday and I’m going to be late for work. So I bolt out of bed, not even bothering to make it up — a major omission for me.
Rushing into the bathroom I hastily attend to my toilet. I decide my hair doesn’t need to be washed as I take a quick, two-minute shower. I wave the towel over my body so I mostly air-dry. Did you know that not getting a towel wet extends the time between laundry cycles?
It’s sad that the modern woman has been programmed to think she must wash her hair every day or it’s not clean. I believe there are gradations of clean. There’s “squeaky-clean”, which is what you get when you shampoo two times before using conditioner. There’s “pretty-clean”, which is shampooing once.
Then there’s mine, what you would call “just-this-side-of-greasy”. Left alone, sans shampoo and conditioner, my hair is much easier to pile on top of my head. I can stick it where I want and it stays in place, no problem — sort of like using Velcro®. I don’t have to douse my hair with hairspray, either.
And thank God for that because I don’t know what marketing genius came up with the idea of flower-scented hairspray, but I sure don’t appreciate walking outside and attracting bees to my bonnet. I don’t need bees eyeing me for food or mating.
It’s about the time I’ve managed to throw clothes on and taken a swab at applying makeup, that I actually listen to the radio and realize it’s Saturday. I wash off my attempts at makeup and head back toward the bed.
I undo my hair and it falls reluctantly in big, stringy clumps. Pulling my clothes off as I go, I’m nearly naked except for clean underwear should my mother call. I climb back into bed, pulling the sheet over my head, settling in like a gopher in its hole.
As I’m drifting back to sleep I’m awakened by the sound of my neighbor firing-up his lawnmower. He has the noisiest lawnmower this side of Old MacDonald’s farm. I hear it sputter as it chokes on big clots of grass. I hope it dies.
My neighbor, Mr. Nice Guy, stops the mower periodically as he bags up the mown grass. There’s a long pause or two. I know he’s eyeing my lawn. The grass is so high and dense you could hide escaped convicts or obnoxious children in it, no problem.
I let my lawn go to seed in part as a protest against the Homeowners Association’s rules for clean living — in part because I’m trying the save the planet — in part because I’m lazy. Mr. Nice Guy must be debating whether he should report me to the Association or tar-and-feather me himself.
I hear a faint rapping on my door. I pretend I’m not home, even though my car is parked in the driveway and my garbage-can contents overflow onto the sidewalk. I sink further into the dark, smelly recesses of my bed. He soon gives up. The lawnmower comes back to life with a whine.
If you're enjoying this over coffee, tea, or whatever, please consider buying me a cup!BELIEVE IN YOUR DREAMS
Look around. What do you see? I see a tube of hand cream, a daily inspirational calendar, a bottle of saline nasal spray, half a latte from my favorite coffee shop, Cuppy’s of Wilmington, and, of course, a computer with an HTML editor glowing on it.
The latte came from my friends’ shop. They are hard working people who had a dream. They dared to imagine. They had the courage to pluck that dream from inside their heads, nurture it, endure hardship, and suffer disappointment in order to transform their dream into reality. The result sitting before me represents a living testament to their will — a yummy nonfat, sugar-free, orange-almond latte!
Excuse me. Let me pause for a sip. “Aaaaaah. Salut, mon amis! Thank you for following your dream.”
Everything I see around me has a similar story. Yes, even the nasal spray. Every item began as an idea in someone’s imagination. Each idea manifested into form and took shape through physical effort. Every one of those efforts paid off in a tangible item that can be seen.
Maybe even all the “natural stuff” surrounding us began as an idea within the imagination of the Creator, which then manifested into reality. But who can know for sure? I’ll leave that discussion to theologians, scientists, philosophers, and other pedants inclined to such debates. I’ll just enjoy the benefit of that “stuff” without worrying about their origin.
If I utilize other senses, my nose detects the lingering aroma of the toasted bagel I just tasted. Also, I hear the resounding glory of Bach’s Toccata and Fugue. Not to mention the tactile sensations I’m experiencing as I tap the keys to write these musings you’re reading now.
Every effort undertaken results in something that can be seen, felt, tasted, smelled, and/or heard. And every one of them began as nothing more than an idea in a glimmer of imagination. Ideas lead to belief. Belief breeds hope. Hope leads to effort. Effort requires action. Action is responsible for everything we create.
If any of the links in that chain of events is weak, then the chain breaks. The wispy idea which forged each link just dissipates, often never to return again. Broken chains piling up around us restrict our movement, until eventually we become buried in them. Unable to move, we simply atrophy.
Which is the weakest link? Well, that depends on each person. For some – like me – it’s effort. Being an avowed procrastinator whose motto is, “Why do today what you can put off until tomorrow,” my challenge is overcoming inertia. Fortunately, that’s the easiest one to overcome. All it takes is practicing discipline.
For others, it’s hope. Hope is fragile. Once hope is slashed, the cut can run deeper than the single event to which that hope was tied. Faded hope can insidiously infiltrate into other, seeming unrelated, areas of our lives. To rise above dashed hope, we must regroup back into belief; letting its soothing waters pool around us, washing us clean of our disappointment, ready to renew our effort.
There are yet others who lack belief – belief in anything outside of themselves, belief in the goodness of others, or worse yet belief in themselves. Belief is where the process of transforming ideas into reality truly begins. But for those who lack belief, the process short circuits even before the idea takes root. If the baton of an idea is dropped when passing it off to the hand of belief, then the race is over. Without belief, there is nothing. Hence, above all else, belief must be clutched fiercely.
Every idea represents a dream that can come true. Believe in yourself, in your efforts, in the goodness that surrounds you. Follow your dreams. If I didn’t, right now I’d be drinking my latte while looking at today’s weather . . . and you’d be perusing the websites of other dreamers.
If you're enjoying this over coffee, tea, or whatever, please consider buying me a cup!
