A Wednesday

I’m sitting casually by an independent Cafe doing—not much of anything. I’m watching people as they walk by—without saying a word to me. Some seem to be in a hurry. Others seemed to walk by without a care in the world. I sit next to a large oak tree, two people talking in a seat not very far from me. I hear several cars go by—like rivers behind a large mansion. It’s a very beautiful day in Seattle. This summer has been the best that I can remember. It’s been a t-shirt kind of weather all summer. Women wearing pretty much of nothing. Men showing their butt cracks and their hairy chest. Why complain? Their pants are so low, you can even tell if they’ve wiped.  I hate to see women and men wearing these shorts; their backsides on display for everyone to see. But it’s summer. People are relaxed and carefree. It’s a wonderful thing. Why can’t I relax? Breathe.

I’ve been playing a little basketball over the summer. Not as energetic or as active like I used to be. But hey, that’s okay. There’s more to life than basketball. It does relax me.  And, I still enjoy the calmness and the peace of mind I get right after a game. Last week, I played a little basketball with my daughter. She told me that there was a very nice basketball court at her summer camp. Hardly anyone used it when she was there.  She would occasionally go to the basketball court to play with her friend. She found the large basketball court often empty, but for her, it felt good to be playing basketball again.

There are facilities and houses that go vacant and unused for long periods of time—no one uses them or ever think that maybe that might be a problem to solve.  It’s like watching a leaky faucet run continuously—without the thought of doing anything. In my family, we have a house on the beach, not three hours away from Seattle. Most of the time the place lies vacant. No one is there throughout the year. There are two additional houses. No one uses them. And, that’s one family. Maybe an App is the answer. I could call it TMP—take, my, property.

Well, back to something a bit more uplifting. I love and appreciate human progress. When I think of history or look back on what I’ve learned about history, I think we’ve come a very long way as a people. Our ancestors made a lot of progress. They were able to move us along somewhat nicely. And, I’m sure it wasn’t easy. The road to progress—change—is never easy or pretty. I need to constantly remind myself of that fact. Stop complaining—be part of the change.

Seattle has grown so fast.  On any given day, as I travel through the city, I realize the abundance we have. It’s amazing the beauty, the choices, and the richness of things we experience every day. I have to remind myself to be thankful. I think I’m thankful. At least, I hope I’m. I write to my mother often. I have no doubt that my letters will reach her every time I put it in the mailbox. How is that possible? That in itself is remarkable. I write a letter miles away, and a few days or so later, it’s in the hands of my mother—in an instant.  That’s remarkable. This is just one of the many miracles that happens every day. We overlook these miracles everyday—like it’s nothing. 

I see this beautiful couple walk by scanning their cellphones. I can tell that they are new to Seattle or here as tourists. The questions they ask strangers; the way they saunter; and the way they glance at everything. I’m sure the city looks and feels mind-blowing to them. But even to someone who’s been here for 30 years—it’s still amazes me.  The city is constantly changing. New things popping up all the time—pushing out the old at light speed. The city always feels new. New people. New things. They come and go constantly. They come and go like the seasons. If I left Seattle, and returned ten years later, I doubt if I would recognize the place. 

Well shit, it’s 5 p.m. I’m meeting a friend for happy hour on Capitol Hill. In brief, this friend and I met several years ago in college.  We were in the teacher certification program, but lost contact after the program ended. Since reconnecting, our conversations have been mostly about family. About our childhood experiences–growing up with strict parents who have deep emotional problems of their own. In short, I tell my friend it’s time to let go—to move on with life. We smile—not sure why—as a waitress brings us our food and drinks. We talked about family, school, Netflix and the BBC.  As we turned to leave, we catch the glance of a brother. We smile again and exit the restaurant.

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