Who Do You Share Your Secrets With

The man looks me in the eye and asks me how I get away with all that I do.

I laugh and tell him I hide in the open and that half the time I am not hiding a damn thing.

This is who I am.

It is only partially true, because I don’t share all of my secrets with most people and even those who know the wizard is just a man may not know all.

That is because we don’t always invite everyone to come backstage and see what makes the magic happen.

The funny thing is some people always get a backstage pass but circumstances and or timing may make their visits inconsistent and that may make us reluctant to let them in.

What I haven’t been able to figure out is whether our reluctance to let them in really matters or not or if they can always wander back if they so choose.

The Support We Don’t Have

We get emails, comments and feedback that suggest we ought to look for a different line of work.

People are happy to offer to accuse me of all sorts of nefarious motives and deeds derived from the things they think they have read here.

Sometimes I read what they write and nod my head because I agree with what they have said or understand the conclusion they have drawn based upon what they think  they saw.

But not always.

Sometimes the words you read upon these pages are not filled with layers of suggestion and subterfuge.

The simple and obvious meaning is exactly what I wanted for you take from them and sometimes it is not.

Writing isn’t about using an outline and map that takes me on a precise trip from point A to point B.

It is a walk through deserts and mountains and long twisty roads that rarely have road signs.

My journey is often filled with my looking for my north star in the night sky or my closing my eyes to look inward followed by steps that are guided by the divining rod called my heart.

That is part of why I like the shuffle on my iTunes because the music sends me in all sorts of directions.

One moment it’s Manilow singing This One’s For You and the next I have Ozzy playing Crazy Train.

I might hear the Staying Alive and think of Travolta strutting down the street in Saturday Night Fever or Randy Newman sing I Love LA and remember driving down the Pacific Coast Highway in a convertible.

The best moments always come when I slip out of the handcuffs and run naked with the moon without thought or regard for what people might think.

Funny thing is as much as I don’t care what the haters think there are moments where I reel it back in a bit.

Not everyone deserves to see what lies beneath the surface or to find out what treasures or fools gold might be found.

I See Through You

During an argument someone once disputed my claim and said “they saw through me.”

They didn’t get a response from me because I knew it would tick them off and I thought it was better to make them angry because few people keep their wits about them when they are angry.

But it was also because I wondered if maybe they were right, maybe they could see right through me and it made me nervous.

Kind of a scary thing to know someone can see right through you.

But it reminded me I was certain I could see right through them too and I wondered if that made them nervous too.

It made me think about watching kids learn how to walk or ride a bike.

You know there is that moment where you see them start cruising along without any sort of help until they discover they aren’t holding hands or using training wheels and then they fall.

Eventually they gain enough confidence not to need a hand or extra wheel and they roll along just fine.

****

The boys and I are sitting outside of “The Tap.”

It’s spring of ’88 and we’re watching girls in short tops and shorts walk by and swapping stories about classes and summer plans.

One of our professors stops by the table mentions something about we ought to pay close attention to this moment because one day we’ll be forty-something year-old men who talk about how life used to be.

We nod our heads at him and as he walks away one of says if we stay focused we’ll never be out of shape or make cracks about it being hard t0 get out of bed.

****

I wake up with a big smile on my face. It is Saturday morning and though I have a long list of things to do, the day is my own.

But before I start my day I grab my iPhone to see what time it is and realize I can’t quite make out the small numbers.

Can’t hold the phone real tight yet because my finger is still healing and it is really stiff most mornings.

So I grab my reading glasses, glance at the phone and start stretching my finger so it will work.

A passing thought makes me wonder if this finger will give me trouble when I am older and I make a note to work on strengthen it.

Roll out of bed, take care of morning necessities and bang out a set of push-ups.

Going to take some time, but I expect to get back to being able to do a 100 a day with the thought that I want to turn that into 500.

Yeah, 500 per day is good. If I can do that, things will be good. Have to make sure to keep stretching and keep moving.

Life Interrupts

The hardest part of trying to write with reckless abandon isn’t tied into concern about what I share.

Nor is it connected to an attempt to write something meaningful and significant about who we invite or don’t invite to share our secrets.

Nah, it is about carving out moments and space for uninterrupted time to tap upon the keyboards.

Because the interruptions keep flying fast and furious upon me.

Friends and family call, text and or email alongside the tick-tock of the damn clock.

Sometimes it makes me feel like I am flying headlong towards a brick wall at warp speed.

Inside my head I hear the theme to Mission Impossible start playing and know I don’t have a choice about taking this mission.

Either I figure out how stop the car or discover some way to go around, over, under or through it.

Guess that means I need to stop writing this post and focus on figuring something out how to avoid that wall or put on a helmet at least. 😉