Pain from Lack of Communication

I currently have a cut that about 2 inches in length near my elbow. It is not a bad abrasion at all really, it bled much more than it should have. As I start to run in my mind how I received the cut, I begin to think about how I could have avoided it. The only reason I got the cut is because of a lack of communication between my dad and I when we were moving my couch from his living room to his truck. It was a hot day, the wind blowing around us did not help but only made the heat sting a bit more and we were tired from the work of the day before. Our voices were strained from our tiredness and could hardly be heard above the cars driving by on the street. I walked backwards, leading as he pushed forward following where I went. But when he began to rush forward, and I told him to slow down, that is when the pain struck. My left arm struck the boat parked in our driveway. It hurt, not badly, but enough to know that it was there and that it was bleeding. I continued on towards my father's truck and was able to rest the couch down before any other accidents happened. I realized what happened was a result from neither us speaking loud enough for the other to her. It was stubbornness, tiredness, and slight frustration that all combined together that caused us to not be mindful of the other and just push through hoping to avoid casualties. I think that sometimes I let my frustrations, stubbornness, and tiredness to stop myself from properly communicating what I think, see, feel and it eventually leads to pain. The pain can be different in each situation, small or great, physical or mental but in the end, its still hurts. Coming from a person who doesn't like pain, if I can avoid it, I would definitely do what I can to cause my body less harm. And to accomplish my self preservation with something so minute like communicating properly, it would be foolish of me to not try. Its good communication that avoids pain.

My Father and His Blue Hammer

Today my dad asked me to fetch his blue hammer for him. We were going to my sister's house to aid her in decorating for a ladies party she was throwing and we needed the hammer to pin up some nails so we could hang some items. Thus, I quickly walked to the back of our house and saw the hammer my dad was talking about. I picked up the hammer and saw that it wasn't the same hammer that I remembered it to be. It used to be blue, the brightest blue, and could pick it out of a line of hammer and think it was the best, but the blue has been peeling away and what is left of the blue paint has faded. The hammer part used to be the shiniest silver and would reflect the sun with great brightness and intensity, but now there are dents and marks all over it and the silver has faded into a grey. Its no longer pretty but it gets the job done. I remember when my dad first got it, as a carpenter he was very excited. It had a special feature on it that was magnetic and would hold the nail down for the first hit so the man hammering would not have to hold the nail down and risk hitting his fingers. I remember we were working on a specific house for a customer and he brought it out, set the nail on top of the magnet and with a smooth stroke the nail was set and the next hit had such great force upon it that it completely went into the wall without needing a second hit. When I tried to use my dads blue hammer, it weight was to great my arms to pick up and hold steady, my then small hands were barley big enough to grip the beast of a hammer. It was big, beautiful and in a way, it was who I think my dad is.

My dad may not be in the greatest shape that he once was, but he does not let the imperfections of his body slow him down when he is spending time with his family and when it comes to work, he always gets the job done. My dad's hands are rough and coarse from the years of work and labor with his hands, but when he holds my hand I feel the softness and love that wraps my hand and still engulfs it in safety. My dad's muscles may not be as cut as they once were in his life, but they still have the strength to lift me up and hold me as if I was still a baby tossing me in the air and catching me without me hitting the ground. My dad may have face that has been burnt from the sun, giving him a darker skin that he did not always have, but the smile I see when I come visit him is beautiful and the when the words 'i love you' come out of his mouth, it is honest and pure and I know he loves me. My dad may not be perfect in the eyes in many, but he is who he is, and I would want nothing else to be different. Big and beautiful, he is my perfect father.

Leaving On a Jet Plane!

Over the past few days I've had four friends leave me for a different state after living together for a couple of months. Three of those friends left on the plane. The last two were much closer to me than the others. But the final one that left was probably the hardest to watch leave.

I like airplanes, but at the same time I abhor them! One reason why I love them is because I met one of my best friends at an airport. He was there to pick me up in North Carolina when I was flying there to attend an orientation for a job. When it came time to leave, he was there to send me off. That same friend flew out to California to come work with me and I was able to meet him at the airport to give him a welcome that he gave me. A few months later I gave him a goodbye that was heartfelt and began to think he took a piece of my heart with him after he left. He was a good friend, an airplane brought me to him, and him to me; at the same time an airplane took each other away from one another. I can say I am truly looking forward to the day when the airplane allows us to see each other soon.

One reason why I abhor them, is because it was the last time I saw another one of my good friends. I remember at that time, pre-9/11 meaning no restrictions on how far you could go into the airport, seeing him walk into the tunnel on his flight that would take him to San Diego so he could go to his University. I remember hugging him and telling him I loved him for the last time. Though I cannot say for sure, the memory I have of him has him in a light blue shirt and jeans with a black satchel hanging on him. Because of this, I do not like airports; they took away someone that meant so much to me, and I never got to see him again.

With the last person I took to the airport, I am slightly concerned. Alright, more than slightly; I am truly concerned that I may never see this person again. I crave seeing this person already, even though I just left them yesterday. Inside my mind, when I saw them walk through the security gate and wave goodbye for the last time, I saw my younger self saying goodbye to my friend that never returned. I hoped and prayed that I would see this friend again, because I knew, like the one I dropped off the day before, they deserved to be apart of my life more than just a couple months. That I have a future with them, that I want a future with them, that I do not how I can go on without knowing I am going to see them again. If only I could live at an airport, and see them fly in to be with me again.

Help Is On The Way!

On my way from the airport today I ran out of gas in the vehicle I was driving. It was a adventure that I will not easily forget. It was the first time that I was driving a vehicle that was so low on gas. I turned off so many exits looking for a gas station, but as is true with all of life, when you need something the most and you are looking for it, it is never around. As I kept returning to the freeway to find my redemption in a gas station, I noticed the gas level going down far below the "E" symbol. Then it happened. I was driving and came to a point to where I was pushing the gas pedal but I was not going anymore forward. All I had left pushing me was the momentum from the speed I was at. I turned off at the next exit and hardly had enough to reach the light that was at the end of the turn off. I had my friend in the passenger seat next to me jump into the driver seat as I immediately went out of the car to start pushing it so we could make it to the stop light.

At that point, out of no where, a line of cars began to line up and honk loudly to protest their lack of movement from going forward. I apologized to the man that was directly behind me because he had his window down. He said it was fine, then put he emergency flashers on, but what he did next surprised me. He unbuckled his seat belt, open the door to his black Pontiac convertible and proceeded to step out. To my amazement, he stepped right to the side of me and helped me push the car forward. Together we pushed the car one block to the Shell gas station at the end of the block. We needed an extra push to get it into the gas station and another man came to help us. I was truly grateful for what both men did, because, despite my strength, I do not believe I would have been able to do it without them.

Some days, I feel like the world is no longer the decent place that it once was. But today I felt like there was more decency that many people give credit. If we wait just a little bit, help is on the way and sometimes it comes from places we may not expect it.