A Day in the Life of Chaos

Everyone and every culture has a different way of communicating.  Some do it through actions, some gestures.  Some people have to say what they feel, some can never find the words.  For myself, I have always communicated best with the written word.  To me there is something magical intertwined between the letters and that can reflect sentiment far better than I can in voice.  Language is the essence of humanity and the written word is far more complex than the spoken one. When speaking, 2,000 English words cover 96% of the average person's vocabulary.  The passive vocabulary that a person understands is far higher, perhaps 10,000 words.   Writing rather then speaking gives me an opportunity to think and reflect.  Often the spoken word only reflects a momentary emotion yet is void of contemplation.  It is ironic in a way, I was trained years ago in speech and debate.  In high school it was my passion and I was highly decorated for my ability.  However, as life progressed something

Last night in the last moments before sleep carried me away my son came to me.  He hugged me and had anguish in his voice.  It was a deep sadness and while I could not see his eyes I felt they were filled with tears. "I will never see Greg sitting in his living room again Pop."   I immediately knew what he was talking about.  Greg was the husband for one year of a woman who lives one house up the street.  He married the divorced mother of one of Noah's best friends and was the owner of his own landscaping company.  He was only in his early 50's and seemed to be filling a void in the lives of his three step children.  He must have brought stability to their house again.  The sense of permanence that children long for.  In the mornings I would see him preparing for the work day with a Mexican he employed.  In the afternoons he would be outside playing basketball or throwing a football with one of the boys.  Last May he was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer.  When I h

Today as I prepared to go to work I sat in a hand carved thrown chair personally carried from Bolivia and regulated to my laundry room.  It has a red velvet pillow, lions feet for hand rests and a high carved back.  It sits next to my washer and dryer and is really quite regal.  I reached for a worn pair of brown leather shoes and cinched the laces tightly.  I buttoned myself up in a coat and prepared to meet the cold weather out side.  It is January 2011, a new year has arrived and carries with it all the promise that was never reached in 2010. New Years always amazes me.  People make resolutions, promises and pledges.  With the changing date there is a perception that a page has been turned in the book of life.  The new page is simply blank, not tarnished by words or finger prints, not soiled by oil or drops of food.   It is a page yet to be written.  This year will bring new challenges.  It will usher in new promise and for a neighbor of mine who just lost her new husband to pan