Open Books

I want to be connected.

In- between thoughts, I admire the walks, and habitual movements, and the backs of those in front of me crossing the street. I notice their hair- blond, brown, black- and their backpacks, especially the ones that are the same rusty orange as mine. Though, their initials are different, I’m glad to see that something that belongs to me belongs to someone else. We are different. We have something that’s exactly the same.

“Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same.”

Are yours and mine the same?

I hope they are. I really do.

I’ve written it before, but I have a feeling that we spend most of our time avoiding one another. Walking and talking and looking around each other. But I don’t know why. I have a feeling that we share more than the same backpacks and shoes and songs.

Your sunglasses keep me out, and your cell phone is stealing your attention, and you look at the ground the moment I look for your eyes. I’m going to be so bold as to say that you are avoiding me. And I avoid you too.

You’re a blur, really. You are whatever I want you to be. What you look like is who you are. And I’m sure you’re assuming and doing the same about me.

***

At the grocery store, you’re on the same aisle as me. And while you pick between crunchy or smooth peanut butter, you want to cry because ...but you can’t because I’m standing there

Rewrite: you don’t know what you’re doing

Rewrite: your thinking about how much your dad loves peanut butter

Rewrite: you’re picking out peanut butter for your roommate and you so happen to be allergic to it, but you’re awesome, and will hold it at arm’s length all the way to check-out

So, I say “hi

Rewrite: I stare blankly as you choose because I don’t know what I’m doing

Rewrite: I’m thinking about how much my dad loves peanut butter

Rewrite: I want to cry because…but can’t because you’re standing there

Rewrite: I wonder what it would be like to be allergic to peanut butter and pity those who are.

Rewrite: pretend I don’t see you, and grab my peanut butter and head for the Oreos.
…
We’re missing “it,” whatever “it” is. But “it” was intended to be good.

You’re supposed to be giving me advice, and sharing your hopes, and letting me find little pieces of myself in you. And I’m supposed to tell you this story about this time that is going to help you when your time comes. And I’m supposed to encourage you and love you unconditionally because that’s what God asks me to do.

Supposed to. But don’t.

I want to be connected.

I want more than small talk, and absently watching movies, and staring at cracks in the sidewalk to avoid the one’s in your face.

If I may be so unrealistic and hopeful, I’ll say this.

We’re all our own little books. And if we were read, and read others’, it’d probably be the best thing, hardest thing, saddest thing, most romantic thing, scariest thing, most vulnerable thing, craziest thing, Greatest thing any of us would ever or could do.

In my ideal world, we’d all be open books, but in reality, we’re mostly shut.

And as an avid reader, I have a feeling that there are some amazing books that I’ll never get to read, and I’m sorry for it.

Mason Jars and Fireflies

I've heard numerous comments and I have already read plenty of blogs about fireflies. I know, I know, we are all mesmerized by shiny, glowy things. So when I saw fireflies flying around in the backyard, I -like any reasonable adult- got really excited, quixotic, and decided I'd stand outside and watch them.

Watching fireflies is no good. You watch them, but all the while, you feel yourself being pulled to them, until you're holding one in your hands. And if you're really excited about them, you'll put them in a jar and keep them for yourself (hoarders).I haven't actually ever put the fireflies I've caught in a jar before. I typically hold them in my hand for a second or two, and then just let them go. But catching fireflies in grandmother's mason jar- or in my case Sarah Shine's mason jar- sounds a lot more romantic. And I am a romantic.

I found that catching fireflies with just your hands seems near impossible. Catching them with a jar is a cinch. It makes you wonder if they want to be caught...

I caught four. I could have easily caught more, but I headed back inside to test them out. I figured sleeping with little glowing lights on my writing desk would be nice, and so I went upstairs to my room, and turned the light off.

The fireflies and I both sat in the dark. Looking at one another. I can't make myself glow, and they refused. So we sat in the dark. I tapped the glass. I tipped it upside down. No good.

Sitting, they were just ugly bugs in an old jar. In the house, the magic was gone. They flew into one another, making clink clink noises against the glass as they flew into it. Clink clink clink. clink clink clink. And I was disappointed.

I shook the jar a bit more. Maybe they needed time. Maybe they only glow when there's a little more light. So I cracked the door to let some light from the bathroom in.

clink clink clink. They flew, and fumbled, and fell.

And I wonder why we love them so much. What is so wonderful about a bunch of glowing bugs. We pay exterminators to kill the bugs that get into the house, and we wear repellent, and light candles, and what not to get rid of the ones outside of the house. So why in the world are we running outside with our grandmother's priceless jars to put bugs in them??

The only thing I can think of is the light. We're drawn to light. It's warm, beautiful, and it makes us full somewhere. And we love light so much that we'd catch a bunch of bugs in a jar to keep some on a summer day.

They take us back to when magic was real. When being a kid was good. When we ate warm watermelon outside and let the juice roll down our hands, and arms, and shirts. And we'd spit the seeds out. And if we swallowed one we hoped it wouldn't grow in our stomach. They take us to somewhere hopeful and beautiful and good.

As I let them all go, the moment they left my jar, they filled with light, and glowed, and glowed, and I was sorry I'd ever put them in a jar. That I had tried to catch their little bit of magic. And that's what I love most about them, you can't catch them. Not really. You can put them in a jar, but they won't glow then. They won't do it.

I love that. I love that you can't keep them. Not forever. Not like you want to keep them. Their like a beautiful dream. Always hovering before you, but once caught, they kind of disappear back to something quite ordinary. But in the summers,  every evening, just before the sun is gone, they invite you to sit and watch them. to remember good and warm and comfortable things. They invite you to a place you can't wait to return to. And every summer, as they draw nearer, you'll sit out longer waiting to see the warm glow they leave in their wake.

And when they're gone. We'll hope for them to come back.