Rocky's Story

Rocky always felt out of place. He was a sensitive soul I met at a diner down the street from my job. This spot was a retreat that we both discovered after a full day of office politics and "people games." We both had spent many years constantly trying to fit in by adapting ourselves to fit the "space available" in jobs, neighborhoods, or circles of acquaintances. Neither of us really had any current friends. We maintained complicated networks of co-workers, colleagues, and almost friends from wherever we had lived. But this is Rocky's story.

 

One day, Rocky was tired of trying to fit in all the time. He had "fit in" to too many different groups of people. He was "Rocky" here and "The Rock" there. It seemed that he became a different person with each new group and acquired a new name in the process. Rock, Rocky, The Rock, and George (his birth name) were littered throughout his personal story. He became increasingly fearful, tentative, and worried about the future recently. As hard as he tried, Rocky just did not fit in anywhere, even within himself. He was not sure who he was or what his name should be.

 

I was at the busy diner when I saw a stranger walk in. Rocky paused at the door and saw that the only place to sit was at the counter between two different sorts of guys. One had a beard and ponytail, and the other wore an expensive suit and tie. Hal, the ponytail, introduced himself first. Then Steve, the Suit, introduced himself. Something magical happened for the next 15 minutes while they drank their coffee and ate their pie. They enjoyed one another's company. Three complete strangers became something more than mere acquaintances.

 

We all showed up 2 – 3 times a week and moved from the counter to a table, our table, within a few days. We were so different. I am a free spirit. Steve was a focused executive. But Rocky had no script to follow. During our conversations, bits and pieces of him emerged and drifted away. Over the next few months, my "diner" companions became lunch buddies. We enjoyed sharing and listening to one another's stories. There was no judgment, only the discovery of people and their lives as they lived them. Mutuality and respect supported, surrounded, and filled our conversations.

 

In the process, Rocky began a journey into himself. He began to discover bits and pieces of himself lying around his story. He would flip from Rock, The Rock, Rocky, and George in the middle of a story, and we were not phased. We cared about him, not who he was or what he could do for us or anyone else. He was important to us. We enjoyed being with him, and, in the process, Rocky found a person within that he was comfortable with as well. There was no role-playing. There was no "fitting in." In truth, Rocky was fascinated by the person emerging from the underbrush of his old stories.

 

As Rocky began to appear, something even more strange began to happen. The woman at the check-out at the grocery store, the neighbor at his back fence, and a man in an elevator at the bank; all of them were comfortable with this new conglomeration of a person he now called "Rocky." As he grew in self-knowledge, he relaxed into his daily living. He discovered more people in his life who let him be who he was, not who he thought he was or who they thought he should be. Many of the old fears began to slip away. His anxiety began to drop. His overall outlook on life began to sprout the beginnings of hope.  

 

He left George, The Rock, and Rock behind (or rather, he took bits and pieces of each of them) and discovered the inner Rocky that had always been there.  

 

As Rocky's hope began to grow, Steve and I celebrated. The snarky, bitter, confused, and frightened man we met on that first encounter had changed. We had all changed. We found that the world was not as dark as it had been. We discovered that hope thrives when we relax into ourselves just as we are in a community that appreciates and celebrates this "you."   We dared to believe, even without evidence, that good will triumph in the end. Steve and I were constantly grateful for the Rocky that had become part of our lives. 

Aunt Joy's Little Garden

Aunt Joy’s Little Garden was one of those special places in the neighborhood.    Stepping through the small white gate felt like entering a sanctuary for the soul. It brought delight to the eyes, ears and nose.  There was an outer row of flowers that danced on the gentle breeze.  They and the flowering vegetables in the garden were filled with bees that hummed as they went about their all-important work among the blossoms.  The aroma of warm, freshly tilled earth mixed with the soft, delicate fragrances of all the blooming plants.  It was another world that caused the soul to rest and enjoy each moment as a cherished gift.

 

This extraordinary place was the gift of a remarkable soul, Aunt Joy.  She had fully grown into her birth name, and her very presence brought the sweet fragrance of joy to those around her.  I was among the fortunate ones who were able to spend time with her when I was young.  Sitting on a little bench at the edge of her garden, she would tell us stories about herself and her “little” garden.  

 

One of my cousins asked Aunt Joy, “Did you do all this yourself?”  Aunt Joy replied, “Mostly, but a few folks have helped me, especially when I first started.  You would not have recognized this place 45 years ago.  It was just a scraggly bit of pasture that looked so sad.  I had to do something.  My sisters and brothers helped at first.  We dug up old bushes and broke the sod, one shovel full at a time.  But my sisters and brothers moved on and I stayed right here on the farm, so I just kept taking care of my little garden.”

 

Another cousin asked, “What is your favorite, the flowers, the fruits, or the vegetables?”  Aunt Joy got quiet and smiled a little bit and replied, “I suppose my favorite crop from this little garden is the harvest of contentment that I get every single day.”

 

All of us looked at one another and then at Aunt Joy.  She only smiled, so we looked back at each other and shrugged.

 

Aunt Joy went on, “Yep, I have been cultivating contentment in this little patch of dirt for 45 years and it has never failed to give a bumper crop right back.”

 

Again, we all looked at each other and shook our heads.

 

Aunt Joy, with a bemused grin, asked us, “Have you ever wanted something so bad that you did anything to have it.  And then, when you finally got, were disappointed?”

 

We all nodded. I thought about that red bike that I worked all Summer to buy and then it broke within a few weeks of riding it to school.  

 

Aunt Joy went on, “When I started the garden, I had all kinds of problems.  There were rocks everywhere and I had to dig them out by hand.  Then I had to muck out the dairy barn and mix the muck in the dirt.  We all shook with disgust. I worked hard because I knew that I would have the best tomatoes, strawberries, and melons I had ever tasted. At the end of that first year, do you know what I got from my garden?”

 

We all shook our heads. 

 

She continued, “I got rabbit food, bird food, bug food, and deer food.  I think I got to eat one tomato before the birds.  But I must tell you, that was the best tasting tomato I ever had!  I learned right there that I could either be all upset and give up on my garden, or I could enjoy that tomato and be content with what I had.  I chose to be satisfied and I have kept on choosing to be satisfied every single day.  And I have reaped a whole lot of contentment every single year.”

 

We sort of understood but we were still fuzzy about where this contentment came from.  

 

Before we could start asking a bunch of questions, Aunt Joy said, “This garden has taught me that joy is a choice, not a gift.  When we choose to have joy, we can bounce when things do not go our way.  Joy helps me see past all the ‘coulda, shoulda, and woulda’s’ in my life.  It helped me enjoy that one little tomato without being angry or upset. If I choose joy by cultivating a garden of contentment with what I have, then every single moment becomes a gift.  I don’t have to wait until Christmas or my birthday.  I get to celebrate every single day.”

 

She went on, “I can’t worry about the future or fret over the past.  Those worries and frets might keep me from ever planting anything again.  I focus on cultivating contentment and being satisfied with my best efforts.  And I also forgive myself when I fall short. “

 

“But what about all the varmints that steal your fruit?”, asked one of my cousins.  

 

Aunt joy responded, “I don’t look on it as stealing.  I am always grateful for everything that grows.  I am glad that others like it too.  I can sit here and watch the deer and the squirrels as they stop by for a bite.  I always try and plant enough for them.  The butterflies and moths, bees and other bugs do their share and deserve a nibble now that then.  My favorite are the birds when they stop by, but I watch them. They can be a bit greedy. I encourage them to move on after they have had a few bites.   But they are all part of the family.  It is their garden too.”

 

I must admit that Aunt Joy did not make much sense to a bunch of nieces and nephews who had never planted a garden.  We were all too young to understand any alternatives to greed and selfishness.  We thought everybody should be like our 9–10-year-old selves.  It never occurred to some of us that there really was a better way to live.

 

But over the years, Aunt Joy’s Garden has continued to yield a wondrous harvest in the souls of some of those kids.  Her words have taken on new meaning as we have planted “gardens” of our own in business or family life.  Some have gone on to great things, chasing great achievements.  The rest of us have lived our lives and have discovered the great gift od cultivated contentment in our own “little gardens.”

 

Thank you, Aunt Joy.  I hope you will stop by sometime while I am enjoying my own little “garden” so that I can tell you all about it.  You were right, cultivating contentment makes it a lot easier to deal with the hard stuff.  You planted your own little garden in my soul, and I think it is growing very well. 

The Neighbor's Fence

Herb is my next-door neighbor. He was the first to build a house in this subdivision nearly 40 years ago. He moved into his brand-new house with his wife and two kids. Since then, his kids have grown up and moved away. I don’t see them very often. Mostly, they come by to check on Dad since his wife, Mary, died several years ago. Herb was always a different sort of fellow. But after becoming a widower, his uniqueness has become more pronounced. His fence serves as a good example.

 

When we moved in 35 years ago, Herb had a nicely trimmed and well-spaced line of shrubs between our houses. The kids could run through them to visit their friends. The shrubs were a suggestion of a property line than anything else. But over the years, that property line has become more and more critical to Herb’s sense of self and security.  

 

It began a few years after we moved in. Herb’s kids got into a shoving match with some neighbor kids, some of whom were African American. Boys get into kid fights all the time. It was part of growing up. But Herb was upset that his kids came out on the losing end. 

 

Herb reported it to me when we ran into each other doing yard work. With visible anger, Herb said, “I can’t believe what this neighborhood is coming to. Those thugs down the street beat up my boy.”  I replied, “I heard the boys had a dust-up at the park yesterday.”  I didn’t hear that anyone was beat-up. Is your boy ok?”  Herb answered, “Yea, he’s a tough kid, but his eye is a little purple. The way he tells it, the black boys jumped him. Herb pointed out that his boys were minding their business when the “gang” jumped him.

 

I shook my head a bit. “That does not sound like those kids. Are you sure your boy wasn’t fudging the truth a bit?’

 

Herb did not like my response. He replied, “You can close your eyes to what’s really happening around her, but those boys and their families are going make a mess out of our neighborhood. They are going to bring more of “their kind” in, and before you know it, we will be living in a ghetto.”  Herb’s uniqueness was starting to show along with his increasingly “red neck.”

 

To be fair, Herb is not a bad guy, just someone who fears change. Herb wants to look ahead and see his boys living the same good life that he has lived. He wants to rest his head on his pillow at night, knowing that all is right with the world and that he and his family are safe. But this “change” in the neighborhood prompted Herb to build his first fence, clearly marking every square inch of his property in a community he saw as becoming increasingly hostile to his hopes and dreams.

 

It has been 30 years since that fence became a brick wall. Herb added a gate to his property about 15 years ago as further changes in the neighborhood pushed his fears. Asians, Hispanics, and more Blacks moved in. Herb no longer had the “luxury of walking through the neighborhood and knowing every family or seeing people who looked like him. His walls did more than keep the neighbors out. They now kept him and his wife in, safe and insulated from the world beyond. He did not visit his neighbors, and they did not visit him. He continued living their isolated life, maintaining friendships with people who had moved out of the neighborhood. When they got together, the former neighbors commiserated about the changes destroying the “old neighborhood.”  The outer walls had stopped at five feet tall. But that inner wall continued to grow year after year, along with his fear.

 

Herb’s wife died several years ago. Unfortunately, she was his last tie to the world beyond his walls. The neighbors knew her by name. She stayed in touch with the kids and with old friends. But when she died suddenly, Herb’s world became a kingdom of one. He spent his days listening to Fox News and AM talk radio. He heard many stories confirming his worst fears about the world “out there.”  He became a prisoner in his own home, trapped by his fears. He put bars on his windows and had a small arsenal in his home to protect himself from the outside world. His uniqueness had become open and unequivocal hostility to everything beyond his understanding.  

 

There is another way. 

 

My neighbor on the other side is called Sam. He had two strong beliefs. The first was that the “Good Old Days” never really were. Second, he refused to accept that the best of life was behind him. Therefore, he looked ahead with anticipation, not anger and fear. He enjoyed getting to know new people. When he faced the unknown, he had a trusting humility that helped him accept the mystery for what it was, something he did not understand that evoked awe and wonder.

 

Sam had his bad days in the neighborhood. There was the time when the kids wrecked his hedge along the street with their Street Soccer. There was the time a neighbor’s tree came down and took out the edge of his garage. But, when he got to his wit’s end, he did not need to find a “boogie man” upon whom to blame all his troubles. He leaned on his trust that the world would make sense of the mystery even if he did not “get it.”  He did not need to figure it all out. He knew he was not that smart.   He would trust life to sort things out as he walked through those troubled days.

 

Herb was all about conspiracies that told him about strangers who were out to take his things and make his life difficult. Sam, however, understood that conspiracy thinking was ego-thinking – all about the pride of knowing and believing that he has some measure of control over the mystery. Sam knew he had limited control and found a way to live without fear and blaming everyone and everything around him for his problems. Sam did not need a conspiracy theory that went around the “crazy bend” to “explain” a mystery. He simply let the mystery teach him things he did not yet know. And if it didn’t make sense, he trusted that someday it might all come together if he paid attention.

 

Sam did not want fences around his life. He found them too confining. He liked living out in the neighborhood even though there was much he never understood. Sam even found that old hedge to be too much of a barrier. He took it out and sat on his porch, watching the neighborhood kids play ball. Somedays, he even took a pitcher of lemonade out to them. Yep, there is a better way for those who, like Sam, are humble enough to trust life to teach them through the wondrous mystery that surrounds us all.

Grandma and Grandpa's Squabbles

Nan was so excited. She was riding with Grandma and Grandpa to their cabin, where they would meet her other cousins for Cousin Camp. It was several hours, but Nan loved being with Grandpa and Grandma. Just in case, she also had her book and bag of snacks. All was well!

 

After an hour, Grandma said, "We need to stop at the next rest area." Grandpa sighed, "Already!" Grandma did not say anything with her lips. But her eyes said plenty. Grandpa immediately replied, "Yes, dear." Nan had never seen that look in her Grandma's eyes before. It made her feel a little strange.

 

After the pit stop, they were on their way. Grandpa spoke up, asking, "Did you pack my binoculars?" Grandma replied, "No, I packed everything else. Can't you take care of your stuff?"

 

Nan felt that strange feeling again.

 

Grandpa replied, "They were on the bed. Couldn't you have just slipped them in the suitcase?" Grandma said, "I didn't know where you wanted them." Grandpa was a little irked, "Why would I leave them on the bed if …." He never finished that sentence. He knew he had just stepped over an invisible line and offered a simple response, "Yes, dear!" He resumed driving.  

Nan could not believe her ears. She knew something had happened but was not sure what it was. Nan had never seen her grandparents’ squabble before. She tried to escape into her book, but there was no way to quiet the "qeasies." She sat the rest of the trip with that queasy, strange feeling on the inside.

 

Nan did not know that during their fifty years of marriage, Grandma and Grandpa had learned many valuable lessons. But there was none so useful as the lesson of being patient with themselves and each other, especially when life did not sort itself out to one or the other's liking. Sixty years ago, Nan would have understood when someone cried "uncle" in the middle of a disagreement. But 60 years later, Grandpa would yield the argument and say, "Yes, Dear." with just a tiny hint of sarcasm. Grandma's word was "Okay!" but a little louder and more intense than its more ordinary usage. This little bit of patience allowed them to say, "Our 50 years together are more important than this disagreement. Let's move on." But Nan did not understand all of this. All she knew was her stomach hurt.

 

Being patient with our companions in life allows love to coexist within disagreements. It sets the relationship above the emotions of battle. It says their companionship builds on something more profound than sharing a common perspective or passionately held beliefs. Being patient with others and patience with ourselves allows us to weather the occasional storms. Their kids, Nan's Mom, used to get disturbed by their disagreements.  

 

Nan sat down with her mom that night, and her mom explained it this way.  

 

"Nan, my Mom and Dad have been together a very long time. I used to get upset when they would fight. But after a few years, I learned they always find a way to sort things out. They have gotten a lot better in the last few years. They used to let it ruin our day. But now, the hard feelings usually slip by in a few minutes. I have seen their squabbles for what they are, a Summer Storm that blows over quickly. They love each other too much to let anything mess things up for long."

 

Nan thought for a minute and then said. "So, it's okay that they get upset because they know it's not forever, right!!"

 

Mom replied, "Yep, just smile and nod. You know the secret. Be patient with them because love will always win out for those two."