MIDNIGHT MASS FOR THE DYING YEAR

by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Yes, the Year is growing old,
And his eye is pale and bleared!
Death, with frosty hand and cold,
Plucks the old man by the beard,
Sorely, sorely!

The leaves are falling, falling,
Solemnly and slow;
Caw! caw! the rooks are calling,
It is a sound of woe,
A sound of woe!

Through woods and mountain passes
The winds, like anthems, roll;
They are chanting solemn masses,
Singing, "Pray for this poor soul,
Pray, pray!"

And the hooded clouds, like friars,
Tell their beads in drops of rain,
And patter their doleful prayers;
But their prayers are all in vain,
All in vain!

There he stands in the foul weather,
The foolish, fond Old Year,
Crowned with wild flowers and with heather,
Like weak, despised Lear,
A king, a king!

Then comes the summer-like day,
Bids the old man rejoice!
His joy! his last! O, the man gray
Loveth that ever-soft voice,
Gentle and low.

To the crimson woods he saith,
To the voice gentle and low
Of the soft air, like a daughter's breath,
"Pray do not mock me so!
Do not laugh at me!"

And now the sweet day is dead;
Cold in his arms it lies;
No stain from its breath is spread
Over the glassy skies,
No mist or stain!

Then, too, the Old Year dieth,
And the forests utter a moan,
Like the voice of one who crieth
In the wilderness alone,
"Vex not his ghost!"

Then comes, with an awful roar,
Gathering and sounding on,
The storm-wind from Labrador,
The wind Euroclydon,
The storm-wind!

Howl! howl! and from the forest
Sweep the red leaves away!
Would, the sins that thou abhorrest,
O Soul! could thus decay,
And be swept away!
For there shall come a mightier blast,
There shall be a darker day;

And the stars, from heaven down-cast
Like red leaves be swept away!
Kyrie, eleyson!
Christe, eleyson!

A Brief Sabbatical

More to come. Please check in next week!

The Passing of Another Year

Happy Birthday -- to ME! Yep, I'm rolling over another year today. It's one of those "in-between" birthdays that draws no attention, and I'm just fine with that. Today is also Sting's birthday. He and I may get together for cake later. Just so you know, I am a LOT younger than Sting. But he's richer and better looking, so he gets the last laugh, huh?

Also celebrating birthdays today are my niece and the daughter of the girl with the brown eyes. So Happy Birthday to Amber and Ashleigh as well!

No introspection or philosophical meandering today. I am, after all, a mere day older than I was yesterday. Life is good. Should you have a beer or a glass of wine today, raise a glass to the birthday boy. And if you see Sting, tell him I said hello.

Libras and Fall

On my sidebar, perhaps you have noticed my link to a site entitled Hollywood: Where HOT Comes to Die. I found it a while back by accident and always find it entertaining. At the onset of each astrological sign, Suzy (the writer) posts a graphic summary of the traits considered typical of people of that particular sign. I refer to it this time simply because we are now under my sign, Libra. I know it's just for fun, but check it out.

As I read the traits from Suzy's graphic (from Clayboys), I must admit that some apply. I can be an escapist, and I am easily influenced at times. I am frequently over-bearing and impatient and self-indulgent, and on a bad day I am intolerant of criticism. The one that nails me, though, is "always undecided." Yep. Or am I?

I do not, however, perceive myself as gossipy, flighty, gullible or narcissistic. And while I certainly have the necessary skills for being manipulative, I think that I have developed my personal integrity to the point that I would never permit myself to use those skills.

While certainly not science by any stretch of the imagination, astrology is often fascinating. I briefly dated a girl once who based every decision in her life on astrology and Joyce Meyer -- a truly bazaar combination! Skeptical though I am, one aspect of my profile rings consistently true for me. Libra, as I understand it, is about balance -- hence "The Scales." As I hope my previous posts demonstrate, I do strive for balance in all things -- including relationships. Should I, therefore, find a female Libra with whom to share my life? Opinions are welcomed.

Incidentally, I found another graphic (below, and also from Clayboys) that captures this particular Libra better. Yes, in true scientific method, I kept looking until I found one that I liked!

© 2003 Clayboys

Along with the sign of Libra comes the fall -- autumn. It has always been my favorite season, and it makes me long for those parts of the country where there actually IS a fall. As for Florida, we are still hot and the colors change little -- if any. Still, there is football and the assurance that cooler days and nights and clearer skies are coming. I find it easy to be optimistic in the fall. Or perhaps that is just the Libra-esque escapist in me talking!

For the Love of Joe!

In my younger days, I had a tendency to see routine as something to be avoided, even disdained. As time marches on, however, I have come to befriend routine as a shard of consistency in an ever changing world. It's nice to be able to count on something. Among my most cherished routines is my morning coffee.

I started drinking coffee as a kid -- six years old or thereabout. It was only a cup in the morning, diluted with milk and sugar. My real love affair with coffee didn't start until college when I bought my own coffee maker and brewed the coffee myself. That action lead to experimenting with different brands of coffee and collecting mugs. My consumption increased to several cups on normal days and more on "cram days." Moreover, I went from being a mere disciple to being a coffee evangelist, successfully converting several hard-core non-coffee drinkers to my caffeine-centric religion.

Several years later, while living in Louisville, KY, I befriended a Colombian woman who owned a coffee and tea shop in the mall where I worked part time while working on my Master's degree. It was Claire who would contribute actual education to my long-standing affinity for coffee. It was also Claire who would banish forever my willingness to settle for grocery store brands of coffee as she introduced me to beans from around the world and to different harvesting and roasting techniques. Louisville was also home to the John Conti Coffee Company and Museum from which I honed the coffee education that Claire started.

Fast-forwarding now to the late 1990's in Jacksonville, Florida, I was friends for several years with a young woman from Oregon -- yes, the same woman who would eventually promise to love, honor and clean the kitty box once a day. One day she said, "I wish we had Starbucks in Florida."

"Starbucks?" I replied. "What is Starbucks?"

She proceeded to tell me about a wonderful place that she enjoyed while living in Oregon and then San Diego. As she described it, there was a look in her eyes and a quality to her voice -- like a druggie having a flashback. Shortly thereafter, Barnes & Noble opened a book store in my community. In that store was a Starbucks cafe. She introduced me to my first breve latte. The rest, as they say, is history.

Now, of course, we have a Starbucks on every corner -- and they are all busy all the time. I have spent a fortune there myself. In fact, a few years ago I was going every day. Realizing just how much I was spending there, I decided to invest in one of their espresso machines so I could make the same drinks at home. Even at $450, I calculated that the machine would pay for itself in about 30 weeks. That was in the fall of 2002, and I still use it. Good investment.

What started when I was about six with a cup a day of sweet milky store-brand coffee has evolved into a daily morning routine of grinding espresso beans, steaming milk and brewing my own latte and sipping it while I do the morning crossword puzzle. When I crave regular coffee, I have a French press for that. Yes, it has gotten complicated -- all part of the ritual and routine that drags me out of bed in the morning.

Addicted to coffee? I am. How about you? Click on the picture below for a short quiz to tell you how addicted to coffee you are. Try it. It's fun. Happy sipping....

I am 69% Addicted to Coffee

The Treasure of Friendship (and When to Bury It)

Do not allow yourself to be imprisoned by any affection. Keep your solitude. The day, if it ever comes, when you are given true affection there will be no opposition between interior solitude and friendship, quite the reverse. It is even by this infallible sign that you will recognize it. -- Simone Weil

"Am I simply...losing my whole self in it all?" This was the question posed in a recent blog entry by my good friend and fellow blogger. It is a poignant question that has the potential for exposing the soul of one brave enough to ask it and then to honestly seek the answer. In her post, she addressed romantic interests as well as friendships, but the same line of inquiry applies equally to any relationship -- marriage, family, friendship, employment, religion, and so on. At what point does blending in and being agreeable cross that line into betraying one's core values and integrity? How many times should you "take one for the team" before standing up and saying, "I quit!"? To quote one of my own previous posts, how do you know when to close a door?

The answer to any of these questions, of course, is as individual as the person asking them. My recent experience has abounded with similar situations, mostly because I waited far too long before confronting them. (See this post as an example.) In my abundance of caution not to burn bridges prematurely, I have often permitted those bridges to stand long after they were obsolete and unsafe for my emotional travel. I've said it before: I value relationships. But it is only fair to insist that they be mutual and healthy to all parties -- one of which is me.

In the realm of dating and romantic relationships, we seem typically better able to take a stand. But what of other relationships? Friendships seem to give some of us fits. I would venture to say that friendships are the most important of all our relationships, agreeing with Elie Weisel when he said, "Friendship marks a life even more deeply than love. Love risks degenerating into obsession; friendship is never anything but sharing." I note that he said "sharing," but nothing of agreeing. So sharing what? I maintain that respect is the primary thing to be shared.

I look back and realize that many of my closest friends have been people with whom I agreed on very little. Three particular friends from college come to mind: Ken, Jeff and David. I had known Ken since the 2nd grade when we became neighbors and best friends. We went on to be roommates for two years at Furman. Since we have the same last name, many thought us to be brothers. David was my freshman roommate, and Jeff was the lovable and weird guy at the end of the hall. I don't recall exactly how we met Jeff; he was just there one day and then every day thereafter. We all had some important elements in common. But we were vastly different in some critical ways. I recall many heated "debates" over such things as religion, politics, philosophy and so on. I'm sure they remember these as well. An onlooker may have suspected that violence was certain to ensue. But it never did. Respect was the glue that held these relationships together. The result: we learned from each other. I never fully adopted any of their views, but I did take parts of them and blended them into my own. I suspect they did the same, and we were all enriched.

The beauty, then, that friendship offers is the freedom to be oneself and to be respected and accepted for that, while extending the same freedom to the other person. And herein lies, in my estimation, the point at which so many friendships cease to be friendships. I think we figure this out by asking two questions: (1) What am I getting from this relationship? And (2) what is the other person getting from this relationship? The second is often the more revealing, especially if the answers are something like the following:

• This friendship benefits the other because I have a big screen TV and my friend doesn't.
• This friendship benefits the other because I have a pool in my yard and my friend doesn't.
• This friendship benefits the other by giving him (or her) someone to feel superior to (rightly or wrongly).
• And so on.

It happens. And when it does, we start to "lose our whole self in it all."

What about the first question? I read a book recently that brought out the importance of taking inventory of how we're feeling in different situations. The point was that we frequently are confused about what we think, but we always know clearly whether we feel good or bad -- and our feelings give us insight into what we're thinking. It makes sense, doesn't it? My litmus test, therefore, is something like this: When with friends (or girlfriends, boyfriends, or whomever), what do you feel? If you're feeling affirmed for who you truly are (or good), the situation is probably a good one for you, and the relationship is healthy. If you're not feeling affirmed; or, even worse, if you're feeling like you have to suppress yourself; or if you're feeling judged or unfairly criticized on a regular basis (or bad), that relationship may have become toxic, causing you to feel your self becoming lost.

Friendship, I read, ultimately is "an equality made of harmony." When either of those qualities fades, the friendship, in the truest sense, has ceased -- much like a corpse waiting for someone to finally declare it dead. The absence of that declaration, however, makes it no more alive.

We evolve. Our relationships either evolve with us or they die. Shouldn't we be okay with that? We divorce ourselves (too easily, perhaps) from spouses when it becomes evident that they no longer fit us. Sometimes we have to divorce ourselves from other relationships as well (friendships, jobs, etc.) that no longer fit us in order to be true to ourselves. That act doesn't discount what was; it merely acknowledges that things have changed. W. Somerset Maugham wrote that "it's no good trying to keep up old friendships. It's painful for both sides. The fact is, one grows out of people, and the only thing is to face it." While I do not agree in full with that statement, I think there occasions in which it is quite apt. On those occasions, I feel a moral responsibility to myself and to what I hold true to walk away, remembering with fondness what used to be, freeing myself from what has become so that I can face what is to be. (It won't be easy.)

If I have said anything suggestive that I do not value friendship, please understand that quite the opposite was my intent. Nor am I advocating a "zero-tolerance" policy on selfishness lest I condemn myself as well as each of you. My purpose was to explore what friendship is and isn't -- a topic on which volumes have been written. Although this post has been "quote heavy," I will close with yet one more. This one is from Henri Nouwen, a modern Dutch priest who, to me, brings good sense to matters that others tend to make muddy. On friendship....

When we honestly ask ourselves which person in our lives means the most us, we often find that it is those who, instead of giving much advice, solutions, or cures, have chosen rather to share our pain and touch our wounds with a gentle and tender hand. The friend who can be silent with us in a moment of despair or confusion, who can stay with us in an hour of grief and bereavement, who can tolerate not knowing, not curing, not healing and face with us the reality of our powerlessness, that is a friend who cares. (Henri Nouwen)

Rainy Days and Mondays...

The melodic strains of the late Karen Carpenter came to my mind as I woke up entirely too soon this morning. Remember the song?

Hangin' around; Nothing to do but frown. Rainy days and Mondays always get me down...

Today is a double-whammy: rainy AND Monday. And windy. It's one of those late summer nor'easters that we have in Jacksonville sometimes. I normally don't mind rainy days. Nor do I normally mind the arrival of Monday. The thing is this: My Sunday was terrible. I want to turn the clock back twenty-four hours and have another go at it, maybe make some different choices. As it stands, I was out of sync with the world yesterday. We all have those days, right? To make it worse, I encountered some unpleasantness -- some ghastly behavior -- and met it with less then stellar behavior of my own. I ended the day by going to bed emotionally drained but still upset -- a fact that became too evident when I found myself awake this morning at 4:00 replaying the tape in my head and unable to go back to sleep. Outside my window the rain poured. It's Monday! Please stop singing, Karen Carpenter!

On a more positive note, I spent Saturday with my daughter. She needed a dress for homecoming, so I took on the task of assisting. And by assisting, I mostly mean that I drove her to the store and kept the MasterCard loaded and ready. She did, however, model a few and ask for my opinion. Smart kid, huh? It was a busy day in the junior's dress section as teenage girls from miles around shopped and tried on dresses, all while sending and receiving text messages on their cell phones. I was the only father in the place, so I felt like I stood out terribly. As I remained relaxed, taking it all in stride, the exasperated mothers looked at me and rolled their eyes as I smiled. To them, this event was another brick in the wall, I suppose. But to a single dad, this was quality time. And I sincerely mean that.

Alas, it is now Monday morning and time to get to work and on with a new week. I will allow the ugliness of yesterday to fade into oblivion while I hold on to the fun we had on Saturday. Now that I'm up and have had my latte, the sound of the rain in relaxing. I think it's going to be a fine day, rain and wind and Monday notwithstanding.

Okay, Karen Carpenter, you can start singing again....

Saturation

Two days ago I ventured out and wrote a post about my 9-11 memories. I tried to keep it simple, limiting it to my own personal experience and immediate observations. Upon checking my site meter, I discovered that that post received more hits that any I had written to date. While that was gratifying, I was intrigued that only one reader posted a comment on the site. (Others, however, sent them by email.) I read a few other 9-11 postings and found a similar trend. Great stories, but few comments from readers. Have we become 9-11 saturated? I think so.

I will confess that I reached my saturation point some time ago. My post on Tuesday, in fact, was the only time I have ever written of it in spite of the fact that I have many thoughts on the subject. But who doesn't?

I read an editorial this week stating that 9-11 has been the "most exploited event in history." A stark statement, yes. But I suspect that it is true. Differing takes on that day have fueled patriotism as well as what I deem "pseudo-patriotism." Some have construed those events as a reason (or excuse) for distrusting, or even hating, anyone not born in America of parents also born in America. Some have used 9-11 as justification for war, murder, slander, and racism in general. Others have seen the tragedy as a call for change within our borders and beyond -- and even within ourselves. Much has been constructive. Much has not. I wonder how many times the words "nine-eleven" will be uttered over the course of the presidential election. Too many? Probably. The words have become tantamount to an "invocation." But what they really do is play on our already over-taxed emotions on the topic.

Lest I be misconstrued, I am NOT in any way suggesting that we no longer care. We certainly do -- and should. I am merely suggesting that we be left to our personal memorials so that we can finally heal. That's all.

While I'm on the subject of saturation, haven't we also heard quite enough of Britney and Paris and Lindsay and other sad examples of celebrities behaving badly? And let's not be too quick to blame the media. They only sell what we buy. Let's resolve to attend to matters a bit more important. We do, after all, live in a society. Don't we?

Six Years Ago Today

This is September 11th, 2007. We all have our personal stories about where we were and how we felt six years ago today. This is mine.

My office in the insurance company where I worked was at the back of the department. There was a considerable distance between me and my closest co-worker, so I was fairly isolated -- a state I usually liked. The entire wall to my right was a plate glass window that overlooked a fountain and several hotels. Since I was on the 5th floor, the tops of the tallest buildings in downtown Jacksonville were visible on a normal day in the distance over the treetops. This was no normal day, even as it started around seven-thirty. It was a dark day, a stormy day. Massive black clouds hung low in the sky, and the air was thick -- "tornado weather," we would have called it in South Carolina where I grew up. I was glad to be inside. My still new bride, however, was traveling to an assignment at the King's Bay Naval Base, a nuclear submarine station. She was a software instructor and consultant at the time.

Although the scene outside my window grew darker as the morning wore on, I was barely aware of it as I started my work day, doing my normal mundane chores of checking email, looking over news headlines on the Internet, and planning my work for the day. From over my wall I could hear phones starting to ring, and then some conversation between co-workers, and then some escalation of those conversations. Actually, it was only in hindsight that I was aware of the escalation when a friend came to my office and told me that her sister just called and said an airplane had crashed into the World Trade Center in New York. We all assumed it was an accident. In fact, I envisioned a small private plane that had lost control. It was disturbing, but none of us had any idea what was really going on. My friend kept a small radio on her desk, so she started listening for news. I started checking web sites. Reliable information was slow to appear, but we quickly learned that it was a wide-body jet. It made no sense! Meanwhile, the weather became uglier outside my window, and I was suddenly aware of it. Something else didn't feel quite right; I couldn't put my finger on it.

By this time the atmosphere in our office was palpably tense. And then the news of the second plane crashing to the other tower hit the airwaves. Any conjecture about a terrible accident was now gone, and we knew that something sinister and malevolent was happening. Then, of course, we learned of two further crashes. I, like nearly everyone else, was trying to obtain information and to make sense of it all. My company's Internet access was still quite limited, so it was quickly overwhelmed. In fact, the Internet in general was overwhelmed that morning with people trying to find out what was happening. My friend's radio, in addition to phone calls, became our information sources. With my computer practically dead, I sat back in my chair to catch my breath, realizing that the solitude that I typically enjoyed in my little office felt oppressively solitary at that moment. And I gazed out the window again and realized that it looked like night outside -- eerily metaphorical.

Even at that moment, I remember the word "surreal" racing though my mind several times. That stood out to me as "surreal" is a word I so rarely use. I am a word person, and often become annoyed with people's misuse or overuse of powerful words to the point that those words lose their impact. On this occasion, however, "surreal" was an apt descriptor of what was happening. And even though it was all happening so far away, one had to wonder what was next.

That was when I thought about my wife. Oh, my gosh! She's on her way to a nuclear submarine base! She's probably rocking down I-95 with a CD playing, clueless as to what evil is unfolding. I tried to call her on her cell phone and got nothing. Are the towers down? Is she in a "dead zone"? I felt panicked and helpless. Thankfully, she soon called me. The submarine base, of course, had gone into lock-down, and all visitors and other non-essential personnel were made to leave the base. She was going home.

I wanted to go home, too. I did no work at all that day. I don't think anyone else did either. It was surely one of the longest days in history. Even once the dark clouds lifted around lunch time, that metaphorical darkness lingered. Once at home that evening, I was happy to see Amy there, already in pajamas and with her hair up -- finally something felt normal! I spent the rest of the evening watching news coverage in dismay until the day finally ended. And by "ended," I mean simply that the calendar changed from September 11th to September 12th. In so many ways, after all, that day has never ended.

In spite of the confusion and fear and sadness and fury of that fateful day, I clearly recall the glimpses of America at its best. Usually content in my office alone, I needed to be around my co-workers that day -- even the ones with whom I was not especially close. I saw the same thing everywhere: we needed each other; we appreciated each other; we helped each other. Politicians ceased, for a moment at least, being Democrats or Republicans as they joined hands on the Capital steps and sang America the Beautiful. And it was beautiful. In the face of unspeakable tragedy, we were one nation, albeit temporarily. While wounded and still counting the catastrophic losses, we stood victorious and proud.

Our lives, indeed our world, changed that day. There is much that we learned -- and failed to learn. Much has been and will be said about all of that. On this day and in this forum, however, I simply wanted to tell my story about how I experienced the world six years ago today. I trust that you will value mine as I value yours.

"I object to violence because when it appears to do good, the good is only temporary; the evil it does is permanent." - Mahatma Gandhi

Time Flies -- and Stands Still

It has been a while since I posted. Work and other facets of real life sometimes take priority. Besides, it is still hot. My previous post, therefore, is still applicable. But I am back to deliver more of whatever it is that I deliver here. Pass the word; tell your friends; alert the media!

______________________________________

We have all surely used the expression "Time flies" many times. As I am now just over 30 days from peering down the barrel of my 44th (gulp!) birthday, it really does seem that days are shorter, weeks are abbreviated, and we are changing calendars far before a year could possibly have come and gone. Time flies. Or does it? We sometimes experience those paradoxical moments when time appears to stand still -- when we return to a place from our past and look around to find that little has changed. I had such an experience over the weekend.

Last Wednesday afternoon while I was on the road in Gainesville, my uncle Bill quietly passed away after a fairly short but difficult battle with an aggressive cancer. Much of my extended family lives in a small mill village in South Carolina called Lockhart. Although I had seen them all at a family reunion four years ago, I had not actually been to Lockhart since we buried my grandmother in the fall of 1996. The timing, as usual, was less than ideal, but I felt it important to drive the 400 or so miles to attend the funeral to support Bill's wife, my aunt, who has always been there for me.

My family has long been among the cornerstones of the tiny Lockhart community. There were seven children. Of those, four remained in Lockhart. In fact, two of my aunts and their families (including my uncle Bill) live on either side of my grandparent's house, which was the center of activity for as long as I can remember. Even now, long after both grandparents have died, that house (pictured below) remains the gathering place.

On Friday morning, I arrived there for the first time in eleven years. One of my aunts stood on the porch as we drove up. At first glance, I would have sworn it was Nana! Upon entering the house, I was amazed at how nothing had changed. Everything was exactly as it had always been -- except for the absence of the aroma of Granddaddy's pipe tobacco. The old mantle clock that hasn't worked in my lifetime -- still there. Uncle Ralph's (also deceased) old record albums -- still there. The tacky decorative candles that I gave Nana as a gift some thirty years ago -- still there. I went outside and sat on the old porch swing where I have so many memories. As I looked around the village, the passing of years was evident in places. The mill was closed and torn down long ago, so most of the houses, which are over 100 years old, are empty. Some, in fact, are crumbling. But those three houses in a row are still kept, alive and proud -- and relatively unchanged.

I was happy to see everyone again in spite, of course, of the circumstances. These are salt-of-the-earth small-town people in the traditional South. I rejected that lifestyle long ago when I became educated and moved to Louisville, KY and then to Jacksonville, FL -- perhaps foolishly thinking myself somehow superior. As I listened to what would be the most appropriate eulogy I have ever heard, I realized some things about life and about those people I have perceived as simple and about myself. My uncle was a quiet man who was content with what he had. I heard those words several times: "content with what he had."

I find myself always wanting more and more and more -- never content. Perhaps that is indeed why time seems to fly here and why it seems to have stood still there. My life (and yours) is a non-stop process of striving and acquiring and going and coming and buying and selling and worrying and so on and so on. The gentleman who did Bill's funeral grew up in that small community, so he had known Bill all his life. He could not find or recall a single person who had an unkind thing to say about Bill. Moreover, neither he nor anyone else could recall a single occasion when Bill had an unkind thing to say about anyone else. So, there, in a box, lay a man everyone knew as "simple and quiet, and content with what he had." The room was full of people, and the procession to the cemetery was nearly a mile long. He mattered!

Time will continue to fly, and my day in a similar box will arrive too soon. I would love to think similar things will be spoken of me. If that is to be, I hope that I will keep the lessons I learned this past weekend -- that it isn't time that moves too quickly, but that we move too quickly though it; that being remembered for being kind and loving will ultimately trump all else; that much of our progress and achievements are illusions; that life is what we make it; and that simple pleasures are, indeed, the best of all.

In Memoriam
William Henry Jenkins
10/15/1925 to 8/22/2007

Is It Warm in Here, or Is It Me?

NEWS FLASH: It is hot!

Perhaps you've already heard. The rumor is true.

When I started this blog, one of my clear intents was not to ramble. For the most part, I think I achieved that intent to a great extent. I fear, however, that today's post might break the streak. My brain is addled from the heat -- air conditioning notwithstanding. You see, gentle reader, Michael is NOT a hot-weather sort of guy. When the temperature tops the 85 degree mark, I become miserable. For the fourth day in a row now, Jacksonville has been in the upper 90's with heat indexes around 115. If you're wondering why I moved to Florida, here is the short answer: I'm not very smart.

As I write this brief post, I hear thunder rolling outside my window. I am excited because of the possible temporary relief from a few degrees of heat should it rain. On the other hand, even a light rain tends to interrupt the power in my community, and I think I will resort to insanity if the air conditioning goes out even for a second. To make matters worse, in a few hours I have to put on a suit and go to a meeting. This also means I have to go outside -- and the seven feet from the door to the car may be sufficient to nullify my shower.

All around the area, people seem to be moving more slowly than usual. Oddly, they also seem to be more easily annoyed with everything, yet they can't muster the energy to be rude. It's just THAT hot!

Rambling session over. If you know of a place in Alaska I can rent, leave a comment. Please!

"Next Blog..."

How about a blog entry about blogs? Original, huh? Probably not. Nevertheless, I have a few observations as well as a question or two.

Millions of blogs now exist, posted throughout cyberspace. What was once the sole realm of the nerdy is now available to anyone thanks to template-based blogging sites, such as the one I use. In fact, I set up this blog in its basic form in a matter of minutes -- and a computer genius I am not. Of course, anal sort that I am, I have spent countless hours tweaking -- but such labor isn't required.

In that any Tom, Dick or Harry (or Linda or Brandi) can create a blog, you might guess that Blog World is chock-full of crap. And you would be right. Thankfully, there are legions of quality sites as well. I am frequently amazed at what I find from other everyday people such as myself. We all have our stories and ideas and insights, and many people are quite skilled and generous in their abilities to convey those through this medium.

One easy way of discovering blogs that run the gamut from terrible to wonderful is simply to click the "Next Blog" button in the blue bar at the top of this site and of many other sites. Some bloggers, of course, have elected not to include that bar -- a tactic that I liken to "false imprisonment." Go ahead; click on it (after, of course, you have finished reading me!). When you find something you like, bookmark it and visit often. And please leave comments. Comments are the holy grails of bloggers! No matter how silly, we crave comments!

The "Next Blog" button, in spite of its obvious utility, is also a bit of a mystery. In fact, it can be occasionally frustrating. What determines the next blog? What is the methodology? I originally figured it to be random. You will quickly see, however, that it isn't. On any given day, you will see one or two sites that come up time after time after time. What is more perplexing is that the sites that come up multiple times typically are among the worst. Can a blogger pay to have his or her site appear there? I don't know. If you figure it out, please let me know. Yes, leave a comment!

I have found some of my favorite blogs using the afore-mentioned button. Likewise, I have found some trends that leave me scratching my head. Allow me to share some observations:

• Apparently, every Asian-American kid under the age of 13 has a blog. And they all (the blogs, that is) look alike -- all decoration and no content except for digital photographs of themselves and their friends in silly poses. Oh, yeah -- they all have music that plays whether you want it to or not. (I don't.)

• A minimum of 65% of Americans who have ever been in a church or who have read a Bible more than twice consider themselves experts on religion and feel compelled to share their expertise with the world through the wonderful world of blogging. I have perused a few, and have been inspired to quote a bit of the Bible myself: "...and there was nothing new under the sun." (Ecclesiastes, if you care.) Click "Next Blog" quickly!
  

• Even blogs with the most mundane names may actually be cleverly disguised porn sites. More often than not, these are the sites that do NOT include a "Next Blog" button. Be prepared, then, to click the "Back" button on your browser, and then "Next Blog" again. Or linger for a while if that's your thing.

• At least 20% of blogs contain line after line of question marks and nothing else. If you figure this one out, let me know. (LEAVE A COMMENT!)

• When a blog has the word "blog" in the title, save yourself some time. Keep going. There's nothing to see here.
  

• ...and so on. Feel free to continue the observations.

In perusing the blogs of others, it is clear that free speech is, indeed, alive and well -- for now, at least. If you're an extremist of any ilk or persuasion, you are sure to find someone out there in Blog World with whom you can identify (or with whom you can argue -- take your pick). If you just like to tune in to the daily lives of ordinary people, the sky is the limit. If you want to be inspired, enraged, titillated, annoyed, informed, etc., etc., all you need is some time and a mouse. Next Blog, please....

The Mystery of Sex - SOLVED!

Do you ever read news stories and say, "Well, DUH!" right out loud? If not, here is your chance.

According to the Associated Press, the University of Texas spent five years and who knows how much money researching why people have sex. Turns out the number 1 reason is -- (wait for it...) -- because it feels good!

Say it with me: Well, DUH!

I am amazed that they undertook such a study -- not that isn't a fun topic. Heck, my college research projects always involved rats in Skinner boxes or testing memory trends among freshmen. What is even more amazing here is that the researchers came up with a list of 237 reasons why people have sex. Yes, 237! As I sit making my own list in my head, I can come up with maybe five or six -- and at least two of them are redundant.

If anything truly enlightening came from the study, it is the debunking of the whole "men are from Mars and women are from Venus" idea. Turns out we really aren't that different -- at least when it comes to sex. Women and men have sex for essentially the same reason. Do you remember what that reason is?

Because it feels good!

Well, DUH!

________________________________

P.S. to University of Texas Research Team: I am available to serve as a subject should this matter require additional research. Call me. Really.

The Girl with the Brown Eyes (addendum)

Yesterday, I posted a story about a high school crush. As an addendum, I decided to post the poem to which I referred. Bear in mind, I was 16 when I wrote this.

The Girl with the Brown Eyes

_________________________________________________

When I first saw the girl with the brown eyes,
Though I do not remember when,
I saw her through a window
As she walked through Autumn’s world
With its wind in her auburn hair.
The leaves that hung from the trees
Were brilliant shades of gold and red,
And they formed for the girl
A floral and fragrant canopy,
While the leaves that had fallen from the trees
Lay upon the ground as her carpet,
And it gave grace to her feet as she walked.
And when Autumn surrendered to Winter
I continued to see the girl with the brown eyes,
Sometimes from the same window,
While at other times nearly at her side.
Even on the coldest days Winter could create –
When chilling winds blew the rain and snow,
And when ice made mirrors of the streets –
The girl with the brown eyes
Always possessed a loving warmth
That I could feel each time I saw her.
And now Spring is visiting almost every day,
Bringing the magic for which it is known –
The magic of the smell in the air,
And the magic of the sights that delight the eye,
And the magic that every heart seems to feel.
And at the height of Spring’s overture
I see the girl with the brown eyes
Amid the blossoming of the new colors,
And she looks so beautiful in the world,
As the world looks so beautiful in her brown eyes,
For they seem to reflect the things
That are wonderful and true.
Since the first time I saw the girl with the brown eyes
I have seen her nearly every day;
And every day there is a smile across her lips
That radiates from an already radiant face;
And every day there is a trace of a tear
That gives her eyes a sparkle of youth.
The trees still form her canopy,
And the new grass becomes her carpet;
And the sun and the moon are both her friends
For they provide her with a golden light
In which her brown eyes may shine.
And now every time I see her
I smile as I think to myself
Of the many wonderful ways
That the days of my life have been touched
By the girl with the brown eyes.

The Girl With the Brown Eyes

Imagine a high school boy, full of imagination and creativity and life, but painfully shy. He hasn't quite grown into his body yet; his nose doesn't fit his face, but it is more than sufficient for holding up his glasses. That was me -- at least that was I saw myself then. My world was one of words and music as I wrote stories and poetry and played French horn in any band, orchestra or ensemble that would have me. I don't mind saying that I was very good at those things. I was. Much was missing in my life, though. My parents were homebodies and fairly shy themselves. Consequently, my opportunities to experiment and develop socially and to build self-confidence did not present themselves until quite a bit later, leaving those high school years as ones I spent largely anonymous except among others in the music programs. Like any boy, I dreamed of love and I was very attracted to the girls. But I lacked the confidence to do much about it.

When I was 16, one girl in particular caught my attention and held it for a long time. I would see her nearly daily when she walked though the courtyard on her way to a class. If there were a such thing as angels, surely, I thought, they would look like this girl. Not knowing her name, I grew to know her only as "The Girl with the Brown Eyes." (A friend who knew of my fancy for the girl suggested "The Girl with the Nice Ass" -- which was also an apt description!) Seeing her from a distance became a favorite part of my day, and my heart would skip a beat when I saw her. At other times I would see her walking with a guy, and that was disheartening. But during that lunch period she always walked alone, so for that brief moment, and only in my mind, she was all mine.

Whether by my decision or by default, I wrote a poem about the girl. The title? What else but The Girl with the Brown Eyes? I poured myself into it to the point that I fell in love. I would eventually discover that her name was Roxann. I would also learn a few miscellaneous facts about her. Of course I had enough insight to realize that my "Girl with the Brown Eyes" and Roxann were separate entities who shared nothing more than a body and a face. Roxann was a flesh and blood person whom I didn't know; "the girl" of my poem was my creation and, as such, was truly the girl of my dreams.

In the spring of the same year (I was a senior), I decided to meet the girl and to at least give her a copy of the poem she inspired. I mustered the nerve one day and actually did it. I have little memory of that day except that my heart pounded so that it was surely visible through my shirt. I do recall that she was as pretty up close as she was at the distance to which I was accustomed. She probably thought I was crazy -- and she may have been correct in that. But I did it. I introduced myself, gave her the poem, and went my way. Weeks later I graduated and went off to college, figuring never to see her again. I continued to think of her, though, and would eventually compose two more poems to make the original a trilogy. And there was a song that I heard for the first time during that period and it became forever associated with her. Even to this day, I can't hear the song and not think of the girl with the brown eyes.

If you've stayed with me to this point you're probably wondering why, after all these years, I am telling this story. Good question. Read on.

About two months ago, I was amazed one afternoon when an email showed up in my in box. It was from Roxann! She located me on Classmates.com and wrote a short email thanking me for the poem. She gave me a brief update on her life and said that she had thought of me from time to time over the years. I never would have thought I had been more than a blip on the radar screen of her life, and I never thought our lives might intersect. I responded to her email and we established a dialog. And then, about a week ago, she informed me that she was vacationing in Florida and would be passing though Jacksonville Saturday on her way home. We arranged to meet for lunch. As if I were still in high school, I could see in my mind's eye the same small and beautiful girl who captured my heart and imagination so long ago. I could hear that song in my head. I could ever remember much of the poem I wrote. The only difference: no fear! My personal evolution since those days has been satisfying, and the shy kid is no more. So as Saturday approached I was excited, full of nostalgia, expecting nothing and open to anything.

Lunch became a 3-hour event, and her 12-year-old daughter and friend entertained us as only kids that age can. We interacted as if old friends in spite of the fact that we had only met once in an awkward encounter 26 years ago. (She said we met twice, but I don't remember the second time.) Had she changed? Well, of course -- as have I. After all, when I last saw her, we were only slightly older than our children are now. The beauty is that The Girl with the Brown Eyes will always be fifteen and will always stroll through the seasons in an ethereal high school courtyard of the romanticized imagination of a boy at sixteen. Meanwhile, the real Roxann and the real Michael will go about lives much like everyone else in the real world.

Looking back now at the lunch date that was 26 years in the making, I can't help but think of the words to the song I mentioned. How prophetic they seem now:

You're not a dream,
You're not an angel;
You're a woman.
I'm not a king;
I'm a man.
Take my hand.
We'll make a space
In the lives that we've planned.
And here we'll stay
Until it's time for you to go.

Lo, the Sun Through Darkness Pierces!

I recall, as a kid, being fascinated at learning that some parts of the world experience lengthy periods of darkness -- months, in fact. I was watching a television documentary recently that referred to a 16-hour night in Northern Canada. What seemed so cool to me as a kid now looks a bit differently, and I realize how depressing and bleak such a situation could be. Imagine it being six o'clock in the evening and looking out the window to see the sun slowly falling, knowing that it would not arise again until days or weeks later.

In an peculiar way, I think I understand. I get that sinking feeling about mid-January as the sun begins to set on another football season. A mild depression sets in as I cling to each play-off game as if it were a life raft on a restless sea. At first there are eight games in a weekend. And then four. And then two. Of course, college football is already over. And then the Super Bowl comes and goes like an annual anticlimax. Yes, there is the Pro Bowl a week later, but who cares? Seriously, it's hardly a game at all. But then it's over. Football is gone. Saturday and Sunday weep in boredom. Monday night becomes a television vacuum. Okay, I'm getting emotional and must move on....

Alas, we are now approaching the end of July, and NFL teams start training camps tomorrow. College teams are already practicing (sort of). The sun is rising! A few nights ago, I saw FSU coach Bobby Bowden being interviewed on the local news. Although not paying attention, my ears perked when I heard him say, "Our first game is in 3 1/2 weeks." The clouds are parting! About the same time, our Jacksonville Jaguars will have their first pre-season game in anticipation of another season of frustration and disappointment. The flowers are starting to bloom!

Ah, the circle of life is completing itself once again. The night, though long, is nearing its end. God bless us everyone!

In Search of 20/20: Done Deal!

I promised to write on Friday -- I know. As it turned out, sitting in front of a computer was pretty low on my priority list. I was out seeing things!

The surgery on Thursday was a great success. To my surprise, I slept like a baby Wednesday night, so I went into the surgery rested and cracking jokes (as usual). I didn't get nervous until I finally was on the table looking up into the red light. Even then, I was able to relax myself for the few short minutes that it took, after which it was all over. That relief of the second the doctor said "Everything looks perfect" is like nothing I had experienced before -- except, of course, the birth of my daughter. But let me back up a bit and tell the story.

I woke up Thursday morning at my friend's house as she was accompanying me to the surgery center. It was like waking up on Christmas morning. My appointment was at 8:30 at the beach -- about a 30 minute drive from her house. I had envisioned the morning as hectic. It was, in fact, anything but hectic. We left shortly after 6:30! I wanted to go to Starbucks (of course) and then to get breakfast. I also needed a blank VHS tape so I could get a copy of my procedure. We found the tape easily and drank our lattes as we drove to the beach. Once there, we found a quaint cafe two blocks from the beach and five blocks from the surgery center, so we were able to enjoy a big and leisurely breakfast, still with time to spare. Should this be so easy?

At about 8:20 we entered the eye clinic and I signed in. No sooner than I had picked up a magazine, one of the technicians took me back for a re-check of my vision -- just to confirm the findings from a week earlier. This took only a few minutes, after which time I returned to my magazine, only to be interrupted by the first of five sets of drops to dilate my eyes. Then it was time to go the administrator's office to sign the papers and write the check. Then back to the waiting room. Over the next 30 or so minutes, the next four sets of drops were applied at about 10-minute intervals. With the final drops, I was also given two Valium pills to make me sleep afterwards. During a trip to the restroom I noticed how I looked like an owl and that I couldn't see much of anything though such dilated pupils. I still wasn't noticeably nervous.

Finally, the tall frame of Dr. Schneider appeared at the waiting room entrance and he called my name. We went into his exam room for a few last measurements. He asked if I had any questions, then gave me an overview of what was about to happen. Then he stood and said, "Let's go make you see better," and we went into the laser room. I got comfortable on the table, and he numbed my eyes. From that point my memory is a bit fuzzy. I recall Dr. Schneider being very reassuring and comforting, and I recall staring into a blinking red light -- one eye, then the other. And it was done. The assistant placed plastic shields over my eyes and gave me some ridiculous looking sunglasses. We all exchanged a few nice comments, and my friend drove me home and put me to bed.

The next morning, I removed the shields and was amazed at how clearly I could see already. At my post-op visit to the doctor later that morning -- a mere 24 hours after surgery -- my vision tested at 20/15. It had been 20/200 in the right eye, and 20/400 in the left. Amazing!

From start to finish, my LASIK experience was wonderful. I was careful in my selection of a surgeon, and am confident that I made the best choice. Now, nearly a week later, my vision continues to improve. I am very diligent about my post-op care, which will continue for some time. But it is all worth the effort. In my mind I keep hearing the old song, "I can see clearly now...." Indeed, I can!

In Search of 20/20: The Day Before

It is Wednesday evening and the clock is ticking down the hours until I undergo LASIK surgery in the morning. Someone asked me if I am nervous. To my amazement, I am not. Well, not yet. My excitement and fascination with the procedure is keeping nervousness at bay so far. I scheduled the surgery last Friday and was very pleased that there was an opening so soon. I am, you see, not a patient person in matters such as this. I have toyed with this idea for a few years now, so having made the decision to go forward, I just want to get it over with.

As a requirement for the surgery, I have not been able to wear contact lenses for the past two weeks. That is no major concern when working or when I'm at home as my old glasses suffice. It is at the gym where I miss them. I don't like working out and sweating in glasses, so I leave them in the car. The gym can be a blurry place! Even so, I manage quite well as long as I am doing weight training. The cardio portion of my workout, however, is a different story. Since I am trying to drop five pounds, I have been spending a great amount of time on treadmills, elliptical machines, stationary bikes, and the such. While the blurriness leads to a slight balance problem at times, it is really the boredom that is the main issue here. The cardio area is lined with televisions -- but I can't see them. The gym is full of interesting people doing interesting things -- but I can't see them either. An hour feels like a long time when you're panting and sweating in a sea-like blur. It will be fun to return Friday or Saturday -- hopefully with vision approximating 20/20.

So I have my prescription eye drops and will begin that regimen tonight as directed. I have read the consent forms (YIKES!), and I have my transportation ready. Most importantly, I have my credit card dusted off and prepared for the hit. I doubt I will sleep much tonight, but that's okay. A Valium-induced sleep is my assignment for the remainder of the day tomorrow following the surgery. For the rest of the story, check in Friday evening or Saturday. Here's to 20/20 vision!

The Week to Come

It is Monday morning -- early. The caffeine from my morning latte is slowly beginning to enter my bloodstream. I slept somewhere other than my own bed my own house last night, so I naturally didn't sleep as well as I normally would. Perhaps a second latte is in order? But no, that would push my already rapid heart rate too high for my pending gym session. I stayed up late last night watching a History Channel reality program about a group of truckers who haul freight across a frozen lake in Northern Canada. It was fascinating. They had six weeks to transport 10,000 loads before the ice melted for the year. I gained a new respect for truckers.

I admit to feeling like an irresponsible blogger, realizing that I haven't written in a few weeks. (I will also admit to disliking the word "blogger.") The "Jamie" situation continues to weigh on me -- being sure my decision was right at times, and wondering at others. I do miss her. I have also been spending more time in the gym over the past month. In fact, I plan to write a few posts about those experiences -- so keep checking in.

As for the week to come -- the one that started when I woke up this morning at 5:30 -- I am truly excited. Those who know me know that I am among the most laid back men on the planet. Not much gets me outwardly excited. But for the last few days I have been nearly giddy. On Thursday morning (a little over three days from now) I am having Lasik surgery on my eyes! The prospect of having 20/20 vision for the first time since junior high school has me filled with anticipation. I met with the surgeon on Friday morning and was completely inspired with confidence, so I decided to make the investment. I do plan to write at least one post between now and then. But I can assure you that I will write on Friday of the experience. So plan on visiting sometime in the afternoon for the full story. I can't wait!

A Glimpse at our Lives

A Summer Wine Dilemma

My love affair with wine started in 2000. Newly diagnosed with Celiac Disease, beer became off limits because of its malt origin. So I started exploring wines with the woman who promised to love, honor, and imbibe -- among other things. My earliest experiences with wines were with the reds. I never gave whites a chance until we sat one evening at a restaurant at the beach and tried the Kendal Jackson Chardonnay. That, and other Chards, have been my preference ever since, especially when the weather is warm.

A few weeks ago I walked into a small new wine shop here in sunny Jacksonville in search of something new -- a nice wine for the summer. The proprietor of this shop is passionate about wines and eager to share his knowledge. He, in fact, uses such words as "pretty" and "lovely" to describe wines, managing to remain perfectly masculine all the time. I described my quest to him, and he took me immediately to a "very pretty" white wine called "Ladybug." On the label, indeed, are ladybugs. This gentlemen has never steered me wrong, so I tried it -- with some reluctance. As usual, he was on target as the wine was precisely what I was looking for. The wine.com review described it thus:

If ladybugs could talk, they would say that this is the ideal summer white wine: delicately fruity, medium full bodied, dry and long on the palate, with subtle flavors of pear, apple, honeysuckle, and lime.

Blend: French Colombard, Semillon, Chenin Blanc, Chardonnay

Viticulture Technique: Our Ladybug White is produced from fruit grown in the classic old vineyards in Mendocino.

So where is the dilemma? Even though I am very much a man of the 21st century, I admit to feeling funny about walking around a store carrying a wine called "Ladybug." Unless, of course, I'm at the same wine shop. He understands. Anywhere else, I might shrug and say something like, "Yep, the little woman sent me out for this." But the real dilemma is the fact that this wine is difficult to find. Many stores do not sell it, and my wine shop -- when they have it -- sells it by the case. So if you see it, grab a few bottles and enjoy it while you can. "Ladybug" truly is a worthy summer wine.

Father Forgets

I intended to post this yesterday for Father's Day but was away from the computer most of the day. This is a little piece that was published many years ago -- in the 1930's I believe -- originally in the People's Home Journal, and then in this condensed version in Reader's Digest. It has been reproduced hundreds of time since then, including its presence in Dale Carnegie's book How to Win Friends and Influence People. I try to follow this man's lesson in my own fathering as well as in my other relationships. Of course I fail frequently, but will keep trying and learning until criticizing, condemning and complaining cease to be in my repertoire of behaviors. The story speaks for itself.

Father Forgets

by W. Livingston Larned

---

Listen, son; I am saying this as you lie asleep, one little paw crumpled under your cheek and the blond curls stickily wet on your damp forehead. I have stolen into your room alone. Just a few minutes ago, as I sat reading my paper in the library, a stifling wave of remorse swept over me. Guiltily I came to your bedside.

There are things I was thinking, son: I had been cross to you. I scolded you as you were dressing for school because you gave your face merely a dab with a towel. I took you to task for not cleaning your shoes. I called out angrily when you threw some of your things on the floor.

At breakfast I found fault, too. You spilled things. You gulped down your food. You put your elbows on the table. You spread butter too thick on your bread. And as you started off to play and I made for my train, you turned and waved a hand and called, "Goodbye, Daddy!" and I frowned, and said in reply, "Hold your shoulders back!"

Then it began all over again in the late afternoon. As I came Up the road, I spied you, down on your knees, playing marbles. There were holes in your stockings. I humiliated you before you boyfriends by marching you ahead of me to the house. Stockings were expensive - and if you had to buy them you would be more careful! Imagine that, son, form a father!

Do you remember, later, when I was reading in the library, how you came in timidly, with a sort of hurt look in your eyes? When I glanced up over my paper, impatient at the interruption, you hesitated at the door. "What is it you want?" I snapped.

You said nothing, but ran across in one tempestuous plunge, and threw your arms around my neck and kissed me, and your small arms tightened with an affection that God had set blooming in your heart and which even neglect could not wither. And then you were gone, pattering up the stairs.

Well, son, it was shortly afterwards that my paper slipped from my hands and a terrible sickening fear came over me. What has habit been doing to me? The habit of finding fault, of reprimanding - this was my reward to your for being a boy. It was not that I did not love you; it was that I expected too muchof youth. I was measuring you by the yardstick of my own years.

And there was so much that was good and fine and true in your character. The little heart of you was as big as the dawn itself over the wide hills. This was shown by your spontaneous impulse to rush in and kiss me good night. Nothing else matters tonight, son. I have come to your bedside in the darkness, and I have knelt there, ashamed!

It is a feeble atonement; I know you would not understand these things if I told them to you during your waking hours. But tomorrow I will be a real daddy! I will chum with you, and suffer when you suffer, and laugh when you laugh. I will bite my tongue when impatient words come. I will keep saying as if it were a ritual: "He is nothing buy a boy - a little boy!"

I am afraid I have visualized you as a man. Yet as I see you now, son, crumpled and weary in your cot, I see that you are still a baby. Yesterday you were in your mother's arms, your head on her shoulder. I have asked too much, too much.

Happy Father's Day

Knowing When to Close a Door

Being defeated is often a temporary condition.
Giving up is what makes it permanent.

Marilyn vos Savant

I read a statement that said something to the effect that a true friend will know you better in a few minutes than an acquaintance will know you in a lifetime. Once in a great while, those of us fortunate enough to have such a "true friend" will have an experience that brings this assertion to life. I had such an experience this past weekend, and it was welcome and unwelcome at the same time. Permit me, if you will, to backtrack a bit, after which time I will return to this thought. I will admit at the outset to being hesitant to relate this story. It is personal and it even shows me to be a bit foolish. Since it is a story that many of us have lived in one way or another, however, I will step out on that ledge and continue.

For the purpose of this post I will call her "Jamie," a fictitious name. I have referred to her in previous posts. In Spring Cleaning, she was the woman who is "too aloof." And in The Ghost of Memorial Days Past, she was the one with whom I camped in 2004 and to whom I alluded wistfully thereafter. We met in February of 2004. At the time, I had been divorced for two years and had dated more in that span of time than I had in my entire life until then. Some of the women were fun, some were fantastic, some were beautiful, and some were crazy. I sowed my wild oats and did all the rebounding that I needed to do. I was ready to meet someone and establish something meaningful, substantial, and lasting. That is when I met Jamie -- on a blind date of sorts.

It was a Saturday night, and I was taking her the Conch House in St. Augustine. The Conch House is a favorite restaurant located at a marina on the Matanzas River. It features outdoor dining on the dock. At night, the St. Augustine Lighthouse is clearly visible less than a mile down the coast. We were fortunate that night to get one of the tables that sits high on piers and underneath a grass roof, putting us very much alone to ourselves, away from the crowd. I had no expectations whatsoever for this date. She was very pretty and her face was warm and calming. We talked easily as we sat in our private hut literally for hours until we became cold. I drove her home and we reluctantly said goodnight with a hug and a promise to go out again soon. I drove home smiling and feeling like something good had just happened. I liked this woman!

We did go out again soon -- only a few days later. And so it began. The calls were frequent, and the dates were regular. Everything seemed to be going nicely, and I decided that I wanted to have an exclusive relationship with Jamie. So, after three weeks, I asked her. She wasn't ready for that, but she wasn't discouraging, either. In fact, her exact words were, "You have nothing to worry about." It wasn't until a few weeks later that she disclosed that she was seeing someone else. She met him the same week that she met me. The dilemma: She liked us both. I felt devastated. Nevertheless, there was something in me that told me to keep seeing Jamie and that it would all work out in the end. I attributed it to a newfound faith and to God -- concepts with which I had lost touch years before. "Don't give up," the little voice would say. And I didn't.

For the next year, during which time the camping trip took place, I refused to see anyone but Jamie. After that time, and since her situation remained unchanged, I started to see other women from time to time. They could all tell that my heart was occupied elsewhere. A few, in fact, were outstanding women -- "keepers." But I let them go as I knew who my princess was to be. In January of last year, in fact, I met a young woman who might have changed my world. Although way too young for me, we clicked. And we started something exciting. As fate would have it, at the very same time Jamie decided that it was time to make our relationship exclusive! What I had wanted for so long! At first I said, "No." But she pressed and made me believe her, so I agreed. And they lived happily ever after? Read on.

Jamie's concept of "exclusivity" turned out to be significantly different from mine. I would discover, indeed, that the other guy was still very much in the picture, after which I cut ties with her for about six months. She called me again and asked me to join her for lunch one day, and I reluctantly agreed. I kept my distance at first, but she drew me back in -- well, as much as I would permit. The other guy remains in the background in spite of her voiced intent to distance from him. She isn't happy with him, but she can't let him go. Something keeps bringing her back to me. Even so, she only comes part of the way back. It is a pattern that neither she nor the other man seem capable of stopping. So I must do it. I must walk away. I must close the door.

It was last last week that I made the decision. It was difficult and painful on many levels. I reasoned that I wasn't really losing her. I never had her, so I couldn't lose her. It is letting go of hope that stings. I had developed a faith that I now had to admit was baseless. In addition to stinging, that initiates an existential crisis that I did not want to face at this stage of my life. But here I am.

Needless to say, this past weekend was not pleasant. It was the first weekend of my self-imposed liberation from Jamie. And this is where I started my post. My good friend called and invited me over, sensing that all was not right in my little world. She has known me for years and has been a casual observer of my relationship with Jamie. She summarized it something like this: "It is obvious that you love her -- more than you have ever loved anyone else. It is also obvious that it just wasn't meant to be. She isn't right for you, and you deserve better." She said more, but that was the essence. The words were brutally honest and true, and on some level I had known for a long time. It isn't easy to close a door. Sometimes, however, the hardest thing to do is the right thing to do.

Is there a silver lining? Surely there is -- else I've wasted three and a half years. The silver lining is in the lessons learned. I learned (again) that life isn't always fair and that the best man doesn't always win. I learned much about commitment and "hanging in there." Indeed, I ran a good race and fought a good fight. That I lost them will eventually be little more than a footnote to the bigger story. I like to think that I have learned yet more about love and what it is -- and isn't. Love, in it's purest form, demands nothing in return. As a very human man, though, my deepest wish is to share it -- to give it and receive it back in equitable portions. And I have no doubt that I will. Every ending is another beginning. So off I go ... again.