Hamlet in the Litter Box

Talking with friends about cats, of all things, I said, I kind of enjoy scooping the litter box. This raised doubting eyebrows. No, really, I said. It's like a Zen garden.

One of my friends told me, "scooping litter is not like a Zen garden" full stop.

I didn't protest, didn't know how to press my case, and was in no mood to argue with friends. But tonight, Hamlet came to me: "for there is nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so." I felt immediately better though not about litter.

I was scooping litter, but I was thinking about the big project my work partner and I have taken on. The number of people who have told me I'm crazy, I might as well be Hamlet tearing pages from the books. "Words, words, words."

This afternoon, I believed them. Madness for sure, a project simply too large. Impossible. Hopeless. I'm not making any progress. My conclusions have been off the mark. I don't deserve the trust others have invested in me. I was almost set to pack it in, declare it a failure, declare me a failure. I could have called the whole thing a prison were I thinking of Hamlet then. But it didn't come until I was sifting the litter.

That's when the words came. Some of them. I've memorized less Shakespeare than I'd like. Scooping litter, my mind remembered, nothing either good but thinking makes it so.

I smiled at a clump of litter. Shook my head and laughed a little thinking what my friends might think watching me. I scooped the litter clean, smoothed it, drew a curve in it with the edge of the scoop, and smoothed it away.

Thinking makes it so. Nothing bad or good but thinking makes it so.

Perhaps the work project will prove more than I'm able. This afternoon, thinking made it seem so. Tonight, the litter box clean, a small grin still at play on my face, I'm thinking it otherwise. Denmark may have been Hamlet's prison. A litter box may not be a Zen garden. But the wind has just turned southerly and, mad as I may seem to have taken this project on, I just may yet know a hawk from a handsaw.

Rereading the Past, Perhaps With Love

Tonight, I picked up a book to re-read. Sticking out of it was a page of notepad paper I used as a bookmark the first time. Inside the book's front cover, I'd written "December 25, 2007, from Mom and Dad." That brought back a couple memories.

First, Dad was still alive then but, the book was, as most presents were, picked out by Mom, according to a list I'd given her. By then, I'd been making Christmas lists since 1974. Most of the time Mom got most of what I'd listed. It occurred to me, holding the book, how seldom I mention that about her.

A second memory came from the notepad page. On it were notes for teaching. This was when I taught at-risk kids at Cortland Alternative School. I recall almost exactly what I'd planned on that page: making a piece of student prose look like a poem so kids would see how periods work. I wanted them to understand that only one thought should lie between capital letter and ending period. Switching to the next thought, it's time for that period and another capital letter.

All this brought me to a couple conclusions.

First, that was a hard job that I did well. I didn't think so then because I measured success poorly. I thought I had to do impossible things and so I kept failing.

Which is why conclusion two was a realization that my supreme unhappiness and depression then wasn't all because of the school, the administration, or any outside force. It sprang from within me because I hadn't learned how to measure myself, how to know that imperfection could still be wondrous and was almost always better than good enough .

I really wish I could have felt that then. Might have saved what came next.

About half a year after reading that book for the first time and writing that notepad bookmark, I came to where the road diverged not in a yellow wood, but within my mind. I chose a path that led to so much destruction and hurt.

I often wish I could go back, choose again. I can reread a book, remember teaching notes from a career I've since left, but there's no changing what was done. Instead there's me learning to apply better measures. There are all the choices I make now.

And Frost wasn't wrong. There's no real difference between the paths. Way leads onto way. Had I not chosen poorly then, I'd have chosen poorly some other time. Having chosen poorly then, I've made good (and bad) choices since. Life really does go on. We keep reading, turning pages one after another.

Turns out that living can be a hard job, but with the accurate measures and continued choices, I come back to myself and smile at the man I meet.

I recall the man I was sixteen years ago and find room to be loving toward him. I remember the child I was, receiving what Mom bought me for Christmas. I see her trying her best, probably measuring success and failure as inaccurately as I have. We learn these things from one another.

Maybe eventually, choice after choice, rereading after reading, we come to some understanding, perhaps even to grace. Despite all we've learned, we look at ourselves past and present with tenderness and maybe even something like love for who we are becoming.

Love From Out of Nowhere

A woman who may or may not have issues with mental stability sat near me at the coffee shop. I had spread my stuff over two tables and apologized. Sorry, do you need this table? No, she said. I'm just waiting for my coffee. I said, I'd just carelessly pushed stuff over there. She said, don't you worry about it.

Then she said, that blazer and shirt, those glasses, you look sharp. You look really sharp.

I smiled and said, thank you. I was surprised how happy and grateful I felt.

No, no, she said, like she could tell I was surprised. Really, you look really, really sharp. She made an okay sign andnodded.

I thanked her again.

She said, I can't remember the last time someone said they loved me. Even when I was married. I mean, that was a long time ago, but still. You know?

She looked about forty, so I wondered what a long time meant to her.

I wanted to tell her I loved her. Mostly because, in that moment, I kind of did. But no, it wasn't possible.

Instead, I said, it's important say that a lot more often.

Yeah, she said. Yeah. You get it.

The barista called her name. A beautiful name I hope really was hers. She got up, got her coffee, talked to the barista, then went out into the street.

I'd say it was the best thing that happened to me today, but I've been showered with love all day long. My cup, it overflows. And really, in this blazer, shirt, and glasses, I look sharp, ready to tell you all that I love you.

All of the Above

Work let out early today for the eclipse, so I decided to squeeze in a run before the moon blotted out the sunlight. I grabbed a bite to eat and climbed the stairs to get changed. Ow, my thighs complained. I cchanged into shorts and a t-shirt anyway and wend back down the stairs. Ouch, ouch, ouch. Outside, I did some stretches because I've been told they'll loosen things up. They don't, but I did them anyway. The first steps of the run were tough, but I ran down the block and along the brook.

It didn't go well. I was too tired. I couldn't keep myself going. I ran only two miles at a slog. Returning home, I felt defeated.

I had the urge to write about it as I do most things in my life. I couldn't figure out why until I typed the first line of paragraph two: it didn't go well. Right away I wanted to begin the next paragraph like this:

It went pretty well. I was tired. I had some trouble keeping myself going. But I ran two miles and I don't often care the pace at which I'm moving. I feel good just having run.

Then I could write this: The run was bad, good, neither, both, and more than I can imagine.

The sooner I accept that, the better I'll move through this world whether at a run, walk, crawl, or even standing still letting the universe pass me by.