It usually doesn’t happen this way.  At least I think it doesn’t….

The gift of insight, discovery, wisdom, etc. usually has a backstory:  a pregnant woman riding a bus stumbles upon the sacred moment, a man loses his family and job and finds freedom while biting an apple, a cockroach crawls across the foot of a woman in a boarding house and she bursts with joy and realizes she IS the cockroach.  Or you could read any religious text that centralizes the God experience in human struggle.  Buddha and the Bodhi tree.  Jesus, etc…..

I’m not about to tell my enlightenment story because, well, I’m not enlightened.  To me, it’s a holy hoax.  Flash in the illuminated pan.  I can’t say I haven’t tried, though—walking through graveyards talking to myself, primal screams, journal upon journal of brutal honesty-s, meditation retreats, psychedelic freak-outs, manifesting manifestos, and…oh yes….community service.  Not to mention lots and lots of songs about angels, God’s money, love, and light.  I figured if I name-dropped the immutable and unknowable, maybe the guardians of the gate would bump me up a couple of people in line.  But….no.  I’m still happy and sad with notice as to which is gonna be happening at any moment.  I think it’ll always be this way.  I think.

So nowadays, it seems as if the everyday experiences are what really test my resolve to….I hate to even say it…...ugh…..be….here….now.  Somewhere along the way, I went from pushing the merry-go-round to riding the merry-go-round.  Maybe time does this.  Maybe tears.  I’ll have to ask some really old people.  But they just usually rock in chairs and stare.  That must be what happens.  Breathing is enough for the oldies.

What I’m getting at is (and I don’t even know if I know what I’m getting at here), that when you’re in the ring, maybe it’s not the punches thrown as much as it is how the punches are taken.  What crag do I grab next as I’m scaling the rock wall?

Last Saturday, amidst being overtaken by a nasty flu, I locked myself out of the house I was sitting.  I stepped outside to breathe the morning air, and boom.  Click.  Shit.  I had no extra key.  No shoes.  No socks.  And I was supposed to meet my special lady friend and her grandma for lunch in the next hour.  All I could do at first was quietly laugh.  I mean, I’ve got the shivers, my throat feels like a bathtub drain covered in everyone’s hair, and my ears are clogged like Chicago traffic. 

So I knocked on doors:  Door 1.  Nobody’s home.  Door 2.  Nada.  Door 3.  Nope.  Door 4.  Four’s a charm.  A tall, skinny guy in a multi-colored robe answered the door.  He had thin hair getting ready to gray.  His face was a little hollowed like Life had vacuumed his floor a little longer than others.  His arm had tattoos.  His name was Pete.  I explained to him the story.  I needed to use his phone.  And to use his phone, I needed the internet to retrieve the numbers.  Double bummer.  He opened the door.  There was a knife on the cutting board and I thought he’d have no problem issuing a threat if I decided to get him sick or steal some toilet paper.  There were smokes on the counter.  “Good.  He smokes.  Even though that’s a sign of not being totally chill, at least he’s cool.  Hopefully, his tattoos are a sign of him being an explorer and not a dick with a past.”  All of my phony projections are happening in a matter of seconds.  Pete could be a killer or Pete could just be killer.  Either way, he was killer in my book.  And from the looks of the beige walls, framed Buddha picture, mahogany bookshelf, square chairs, and baby crib, Pete was settling into midlife like a sleigh in fresh snow.  He’s along for the ride.  Just like me.

I tried calling everyone that could help me.  No one’s home.  Everyone’s sleeping except me and Pete and the spring streetsweepers.  Pete turns on the computer and goes to the kitchen to cut carrots and apples.  It looks like we’re gonna have some breakfast.  He asks me if I want coffee.  Duh, Pete.  Yes, I want coffee and I don’t even drink, but you could put some whiskey in that coffee… and robotussin if you got it.  He’s even cutting up pita bread.  Nice.

So Pete and I, while waiting for some calls back, sit down outside to drink coffee and eat carrots, and as my good friend Keenan would say, “talk story”.  Pete and I are now pals trapped on a deserted apartment island in Saint Paul.  His wife and child are gone for the weekend.  Mine have yet to materialize (wife and child, that is).  He’s going to play ultimate frisbee today.  I’m from Texas.  He’s lived in Seattle.  I’ve lived on couches.  He was never too good with singing and playing the guitar.  I’ve had to work at it.  He’s been skydiving about 2000 times.  I’ve never been.  In between all the talk, there are those silences.  It feels like a first date.  I shoulda brought flowers.  It was a good brush with kindness.  I’ll try and pay it forward.

The phone rings.  The key is coming.  I’ll have socks once again.  What drove me here?  Human touch?  Absent mind?  Coffee? 

The mystery inheritance never runs dry….

—jason
04.18.09

p.s.  I’m very excited for our tour.
p.p.s I’m really excited for the tour.