Charlie Rose

It's dark and raining, today. My heart is a little sad.

While planning goals that would serve as a map for my new year, I did not intend to start it with an emotional blog post.

My husband and I attended a funeral, this afternoon.

Charlie Rose: Lifelong farmer, deer hunter and fisherman. My down-the-road neighbor. His hayfield lays out across the country road from my century old farmhouse. He waved from his tractor or silver truck every time he spotted me outside. I bought sweet potatoes from him on my front porch. We alerted him when rascally kids went 4-wheeling through his field at night. A little socially awkward, he thrust his arm in front of me so I could touch where that prize winning pig had left a tooth! I imagine he would lend his help if ever we would've called. But, we did not. We would've been there for him, if he would've called. But, he did not.

Now, many in this farming countryside ask that all too often unanswered question, "Why?"

Hopeless despair is a dark prison isolating its captives while the key is in their pocket. 

Perhaps, the new mommy can't place a finger on why she's so blue. That big guy may be too embarrassed about his emotions. Maybe, it's a new season in one's life where he or she feels lost and no longer needed. There are people who suffer clinical imbalance, temporary or long-term, requiring the intervention of a qualified counselor. There's nothing wrong with that. With the grey, shorter days of winter settling in, many battle seasonal affective disorder (SAD).

The despairing smile to our faces and wave from their tractors, but go home and close the door to their prison cell.

Do this one thing: Check on your neighbors. The dumb thing to say is "I don't know them," and do nothing. You -and I- may be a ray of hope piercing their darkness while there's still time.

The Dessert Menu: (suggested books and media)
God Will Make a Way by Dr. Henry Cloud & Dr. John Townsend
Website: https://store.cloudtownsend.com/special-interests.html

Its the Little Things: Community

Flying over the patchwork quilt
of farming somewhere over Colorado 

Transposed the days of the Little Things to breathe-in and include the joy of travel! To stay put in one place and never experience other cultures, food or air would leave me feeling suffocated. Even as I type that last line, my respiration quickens to a small implosion of panic. My personality is wired to explore and experience and my husband is gracious to oblige speaking my love language.

As I write, seated on a plane next to me is a fellow-Nashvillian-replant. She from Portland, Oregon, and me from - welpst, all over. 

After babies and 52 years in one state, she relocated to our little city of hospitality about eight years ago and loves it. However, it's the personal history with friends and locale she misses from home. She longs for the instant connectivity of falling into easy conversation with a former high school classmate or giving directions to the favorite coffee spot known to locals. She skis and misses the quick one hour to perfect, snowy slopes.

I get it.

Although being from everywhere and nowhere, I enjoy my longtime association with Music City and the nooks out of sight from tourists, but am eager to direct the tourists to my favorite locals' haunt. 

There is community in living in one place where neighbors check on neighbors leaving veggies on the porch and friends become family when Thanksgiving finds the road too long and the holiday weekend too short. And, if you're blessed to have them nearby, real family hugs you tightly each time you see each other, picks up the mail and takes care of your dog while you're away.

See, I do get it.

I will always adore the thrill of new places and the journey to get there, but am growing to appreciate there's truly no place like home.