Wayside Pulpit

The Deal

The cat hovers on the back of my chair
wanting food.
I ignore the deep purrs--
the swish of tail
the saucer eyes.

"I just can't move from this place
sweet feline.
I so want to
but these words,
of my black on white world
have bound me
here."

The cat jumps to desk
rifling through
pens, papers, and yesterday's tea.
He is an oversized duster
undoing what I've done.

"The distraction won't work!"

Human hands to furry body to hardwood floor.

"Kitty dear, an ancient set of emotions
combs through me
and I have lost
the words
right when I need them the most.

I'll tell you what,
if you can find them
I will give you food."

The cat slips
through the open door.

To Love as we are Loved

Today I moved out of my apartment. I've only been living in the one-bedroom third-floor walk-up for about a year, but it was home. Yet, even as far as homes go, it has not been my favorite. I never really embodied the space. I continually grumbled about some of its eccentricities--not enough sun, too chilly, small kitchen, lack of a breeze, and on and on and on.

As I was cleaning up the place for the last time, I felt a deep sense of gratitude for the place that has held me this past year. It kept me dry, mostly warm, well-fed, and comfortable. The apartment never failed to embrace me after a difficult day, a lonely evening, or even a joyous occurrence. In a sense, it showed me unconditional love, even as I griped about its many failings.

In the process of scrubbing the stove and the rest of the kitchen, I began to clean out of a sense of honor for the place. Even the places where no one ever looks (under the bottom edge of the oven door, for example) I cleaned until white. As I cleaned, I could feel my orientation to the apartment drastically change.

It finally became mine.

Recycling Money

I bought a pint of frozen yogurt a few days back and I received 0.73 US cents in return.  I had this wild hair idea of leaving it somewhere on the sidewalk. Then a thought occurred, why just .73 cents? Why not something a bit bigger?  I had a crumpled up one dollar bill in my pocket, and knew that I could part with it.  

I walked along the sidewalk looking for the right place.  Finding this right place was a game of intuition; a waiting for that tug of gut string that says, "This is it!" The tug happened under an old street lamp and I let the dollar go.  It settled in some leaves that had wrapped themselves around the lamp's base.  I stood for a minute and stared at it feeling a strange sense of excitement. Who would find it? Who would get that small rush of pleasure that happens when finding a dollar?  

The next morning the dollar was gone.

Yesterday, in the early morning, I repeated the task along a different street. A few blocks after dropping the money a woman passed me walking in the opposite direction.  I turned and watched her head up the sidewalk in the way I had just come.  One block.  Two blocks. Three blocks. Eventually, I could barely make out her shape, and could see nothing but her blue coat bobbing away from me.  Then the spot of blue stopped, leaned over, and one arm reached toward the ground.  

I'm not sure if the dollar made her day, but I know that it made mine.