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Why do people carry books with them?

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Why do people carry the same books with them?

Usually Bibles or other religious books, I assume, but why?  Is it to read, or reread when time is theirs to spare?  Could it be kept nearby so they can make notes on the pages when something comes to mind?  Perhaps to have it on hand to share with others, if so moved.  Maybe it is simply for comfort.  I’m not sure why and I’d never really thought about it, until Nissa asked me “Do you think your binder is a Security Blanket?”

I replied (after a day of contemplation) “Perhaps… It is a security blanket, but I think it’s more a need to complete it (with no rush nor deadline).  If I stop, it may never be restarted and remain unfinished.  The story is too important, at least to me (besides the time invested) and deserves to be written to some level of completion”.

This question and contemplation all came about because; from the moment that I began writing about Sarrah I kept a black pleather binder with me, at all times.  This ‘manuscript’ evolved with daily handwritten words, as they came to me.  Mainly I retyped it in the early morning hours, those when Sarrah would have been by my side, while my dragon waited and before the day cluttered my mind.  Then I updated it onto printed pages.  In the quiet, alone times often I just read and reread portions of my writings, reliving them in my mind.  Sometimes I simply kept it open to a picture.

I am lucky that I started writing about Sarrah when I did, otherwise I may have never done it. 

Equally, that it grew enough momentum to help perpetuate itself.  

I always wanted the story to progress… but did not really want it to conclude.

The Weary Kind

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A couple of business collaborations ended over a three-year span.  One ended well having run its course, just a few months prior to the music stopping.  The later fell to the circumstances, making it time to pick up and try again.  I had seen glimpses of ‘the writing on the wall’ for quite a while in my handwriting (this is an example of where stubbornness isn’t always a quality) and knew that I needed to cause the latest change and jump into the pile of challenges that it takes, to move on.  My human battery would not hold a charge and I sensed that this change should be done while I still had my four-legged assistant, before I would not be able to rise out of bed, let alone to the occasion.  It was time to recycle my crippled career, in a new direction, with a new group, one more time.  Sarrah was eleven and half years old at this time with most of her life in the past and the dark cloud that all animal people are aware of, but try to ignore, was getting closer.

A working week alone with Sarrah at the Beach House in the late winter of Two Thousand Ten gave me time to do many things, one of which was to finally embrace this conclusion and scrounge up the energy required to get on with it.  While there I did some of the things that ease my mind, forms of what I suppose are mediation.  We walked many miles on the beach, through the dunes and down the roads.  The weather cooperated so I rode my motorcycle daily, around the community and the rural roads.  Most importantly, I simply sat in the sunshine with my best friend and watched her nap. At each day’s end, we walked to the beach to watch the sun disappear into the ocean.  Every evening I watched my favorite movie, “The World’s Fastest Indian”.  This was my first lone stay at the Beach House.  The quiet time alone was good for me and I feel fortunate that Sarrah was with me for this experience.

Shortly after returning, I met with another group who had expressed an interest in me, made ‘The Change’ and began the next chapter of my tired, working life story.  Around this time a movie titled “The Weary Kind” came out along with a soundtrack of the same name by Ryan Bingham that felt like a fitting battle song for the times (especially the lyrics “Somehow this don’t feel like home, anymore” and “Pick up your crazy heart and give it one more try”), Sarrah and I listened to this tune every morning as we rallied to fight on another day.

The tale of a battle scarred Viking

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My Helmet has been lost

My Sword is dull

My Battle Axe is broken and rusty

My Shield is faded and cracked

My Ship is weathered, battered and taking on water

It is time to seek the refuge of a calmer harbor, out of the rough sea…

In order to rebuild and fight another day

***

I scribbled this on a scrap of paper four years ago, things are better, but not much.

The less I Understand

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Like an early morning drunk, after having sat all night at a gaming table in the dark corner of a garish smoke stained casino, it seems that I had played this game too long.  Perhaps like most games, if you are distracted in the process of playing them well and lose track of time, you will eventually lose.  I guess sooner or later we all lose, Everything.

To borrow yet again from Don Henley, in his song The Heart of the Matter “The more I Know, The less I Understand” rings true for me, again.  Our dispiriting American economic meltdown also known as “The Great Recession” started for me and much of the residential real estate construction related world, in the fall of Two Thousand Eight.  My customer base was exclusively new construction driven and all caught up in the terminal economic tsunami.  I had earned a decent living for years prior to this carelessly fueled real estate lending boom, rode the waves along with the new “gold rush feverists” throwing up not so little boxes on the hill side and now continue to struggle in the rip tide with those who remain.  Most people that I know were greatly financially impacted, many were annihilated.  All have been battle scarred.  And the nightmare is far from over.