Tag Archives: compassion

All Truck Drivers are Dicks!

I live in a city. The trick with parking in a city is that there are a lot of us in one dense area, so there’s some competition involved. Normally, I park right in front of my house, and can leave my truck there until street-cleaning day. I roll over to somewhere else, then return my car to a spot in front of my house as soon as a space opens up.

I went to move my car, and saw this warning stuck to it.

Move along, Giganticar, or you will pay!

According to the time-stamp on the lower portion of the notice, this thing appeared on my windshield three hours before I got home from work. I wandered over to my truck to (you guessed it!) move it, again, for street cleaning.

Considering that my vehicle has sat in the same spot for much longer than the allotted time with no complaint, I’m forced to conclude that my neighbors got upset that I parked in front of their house for street cleaning. If they had left a note on my windshield explaining their position, I would have apologized, made them cookies, and moved the truck. There could have been good feeling spread all ’round. This whole ‘involving the police’ thing is a bit out of hand.

Of course, I have a massive, battle-scarred black truck. Most people imagine a big burly dude as the owner of this monster. Maybe they thought I would be impossible to talk to.

I have tried to make friends with my neighbors. I make an effort to learn people’s names, and say hi to them when I pass them on the street. One of my neighbors is a metalhead. Another is a gamer. I know we have things in common. I have passed out my phone number. No dice. The closest I came to a friendship was a regular interaction with a gent who suggested I call him The Candyman, and after a few weeks of basically normal interactions, he went off on me for not loaning him beer money. I said sorry, I can’t, because I rarely carry cash — and he went on a rant that began with “why do white people always…”

Those who seem furtive and shy (like my roommate), I leave alone; but I still get stared at by these folks. I don’t have any piercings or tattoos, but I am pretty scary. I wear combat boots. I stand tall. I’m starting to feel the weight of being ‘suspicious.’ Two years, here. Haven’t made a single friend.

In other, hipper neighborhoods, people know each other. You talk to your deli guy or your pizza guy, or the artists in the park, or whoever else. Here, there’s just concrete houses in bleached pastels.

In addition to the time stamp, the warning also listed the address where I was parked. In the event that the neighbor DID report my vehicle, and that was their address, I sent them a package. I sent them a box of truffles, and an apology. Best case, we become friends. Worst case, they have no idea who I am, and throw the box away.

Just gotta do the best you can.

I think the universe is gently reminding me that I don’t belong here.


These Are The People I Want In My Life

I found this beautiful poem through a friendship with a musician with a beautiful soul. I would not have met her if I didn’t know writers with beautiful souls. Beautiful souls are true, and shine bright, whether they glow with compassion or writhe in their own torment. For me, beauty lies solely in entelechy.

The Invitation
by Oriah
It doesn’t interest me what you do for a living. I want to know what you ache for and if you dare to dream of meeting your heart’s longing.It doesn’t interest me how old you are. I want to know if you will risk looking like a fool for love, for your dream, for the adventure of being alive.It doesn’t interest me what planets are squaring your moon. I want to know if you have touched the center of your own sorrow, if you have been opened by life’s betrayals or have become shriveled and closed from fear of further pain.I want to know if you can sit with pain, mine or your own, without moving to hide it, or fade it, or fix it.I want to know if you can be with joy, mine or your own; if you can dance with wildness and let the ecstasy fill you to the tips of your fingers and toes without cautioning us to be careful, be realistic, remember the limitations of being human.

It doesn’t interest me if the story you are telling me is true. I want to know if you can  disappoint another to be true to yourself. If you can bear the accusation of betrayal and not betray your own soul. If you can be faithless and therefore trustworthy.

I want to know if you can see Beauty even when it is not pretty every day. And if you can source your own life from its presence.

I want to know if you can live with failure, yours and mine, and still stand at the edge of the lake and shout to the silver of the full moon, ‘Yes.’

It doesn’t interest me to know where you live or how much money you have. I want to know if you can get up after the night of grief and despair, weary and bruised to the bone and do what needs to be done to feed the children.

It doesn’t interest me who you know or how you came to be here. I want to know if you will stand in the center of the fire with me and not shrink back.

It doesn’t interest me where or what or with whom you have studied. I want to know what sustains you from the inside when all else falls away.

I want to know if you can be alone with yourself and if you truly like the company you keep in the empty moments.