Finding Hope

W hen someone passes away, I always stop. Especially when it is unexpected. My mind immediately goes back to the last time I saw them. Where were we? What did we talk about? What was the last thing they said to me? What did I say back? Sometimes I remember completely ordinary things. Where they were standing. What they were wearing. The look on their face. Things that meant absolutely nothing at the time suddenly feel important. Because they were there. And now they aren’t. That is the part I have the hardest time understanding. Someone wakes up in the morning with a day ahead of them. There are probably texts to answer, errands to run, something sitting on the kitchen counter they meant to put away. Maybe there is laundry in the dryer. An appointment on the calendar. A half-finished cup of coffee somewhere. Normal life. And then somehow all of those things remain. But the person doesn’t. I think about how they died. I always hope there was no pain. I hope they weren’t frightened. And ...

E ver spend so much time with someone that you eventually run out of things to say? I have. My conversational bag of tricks is not especially deep. I can usually start with the news. Local first. National if we’re feeling ambitious. International only if I sense the person is emotionally prepared and neither one of us has anywhere to be for the next forty-five minutes. That buys me a little time. Then I move to sports. Depending on the person, I may actually start there. Sports are safe. Unless, of course, you root for the teams I root for, in which case sports are less of a conversation starter and more of a recurring cry for help. Eventually I move on to work. How’s the job? How are the kids? Everybody doing okay? And then I reach the bottom of the bag. This is when I deploy my most advanced conversational strategy. I ask questions. People generally like talking about themselves. Sometimes a lot. Occasionally so much that I begin wondering if I accidentally wandered into the unabridg...

I noticed it this morning. One maple tree. Completely green except for three leaves near the top that had turned orange and red. Three. Apparently fall has sent an advance team. That tree will look completely different in a few weeks. Then different again a few weeks after that. For now, though, it is almost entirely summer with just the smallest hint of what is coming. The beginning. When one tree quietly gives away the secret. Three leaves changing while everything around them is still holding on. I stood there looking at them for an unreasonable amount of time. This is apparently who I am now. A man emotionally affected by three leaves. But there they were. And somehow, they were enough.

I had a dream the other night that felt different from most dreams, the kind that usually dissolve before your feet hit the floor and leave you with nothing but a strange feeling and maybe a vague memory of being somewhere that made absolutely no sense. This one stayed. I was somewhere familiar, although I could not tell you where. It felt a little like a church, a little like the house I grew up in, and a little like someplace I had never been before. There was warm light coming through a window, and everything was quiet in that way a place can be quiet without feeling empty. On a small wooden table was an envelope with my name on it. Michael. Not Mike. Just Michael, written in handwriting I somehow recognized even though I had never seen it before. I knew who it was from. My guardian angel. Apparently, mine has stationery. I opened the envelope, and inside was a single piece of paper. I expected something grand, I suppose, some explanation of why certain things had happened, what was...

E verybody has a favorite Beatle. At least I assume they do. I always wished I looked like Paul. Actually, depending on the lighting, I still think there’s a chance. Yeah right… I would have happily taken John’s wit and charm, and if I could have been as funny as Ringo, I’d have accepted that too. But I was always most drawn to George. The quiet one. The one who seemed less interested in being the loudest person in the room and more interested in figuring out what the room meant. George kept reaching for something deeper. God. Meaning. What lasts and what doesn’t. The whole strange business of being alive. And I keep coming back to one of his songs. “All Things Must Pass.” It has been my favorite for years, though I’m not sure I ever really understood it. I thought I did, which is something I have discovered I think about many things right before life explains them to me more aggressively. All things must pass. Of course they do. Summers end. Kids grow. Dogs get old. Hairlines retreat ...

                                                  I love "Patience" by Guns N' Roses. "Take it slow, and it'll work itself out." There is something about that song that makes you actually want to listen. The whistling. The guitar. The whole slow, beautiful thing. It may be one of the most meaningful songs ever written. A close second is "Jump Around" by House of Pain. Not because of the lyrics. Especially the John McEnroe verse. There is a line in there that I will not be repeating here because I am trying to become a better person. House of Pain, apparently, was not under the same restriction in the early 90's. But the second that horn hits? None of it matters. Your body knows what to do. Jump. "Patience" makes you want to slow down, breathe, and trust life a little. "Jump Around" makes a fifty-five-year-old man briefly forget that his knees are now mostly "f...