I watched the smoke rise with a curious bewilderment. The sun sat warmly on my caramel arms and the mixture of grass and mesquite danced together in my nose like longtime lovers celebrating a lifetime together.
I was 9. My uncle was finishing up the cooking. He'd just put a bunch of super fresh sweet corn on the grill. I'd never before had corn from the grill. "Why would you want to burn it?" I thought. My curious fascination was broken momentarily by my cousins, pulling me out front to play hide and seek. Older cousins on the front porch, talking about yester-years. The elder Aunts in the house hooking up food, younger cousins sneaking sips from the vodka and whiskey bottles. My family cookouts. The world looked so much different then.rce
I was talking to a longtime friend yesterday about why it is that some of us continue after all these years to remain friends. It reminded me of why sometimes it feels good to be around family, when we all know too long around family will drive you to The Shining type crazy. I think the truth is, we all need, no matter how far we've come, to return to the source to recharge.
The source is your beginning.
Reality is relative. If you know me, you've heard me say this once or...fiddy'leven million times. But in this instance, I mean our sources may vary based on who we are and how we've grown. Each of our personal experiences have contributed different brush strokes at different times in our experience. Those strokes that helped us to identify the picture of our lives tend to have more relevance for us as nostalgic moments that formed who we are today. This is true of friends who were with me and helped me find my way...when I became more familiar with Jamaal. This is a part of my source. They will always be familiar and a beloved part of who I am.
I watch, in curious bewilderment, the smoke rising and dancing between slivers of light and shadow. I watch the twists and extensions, brief pauses and elegant leaps across the yard like a private performance of released emotion is being revealed...just to me. I feel privileged to witness it, as if the moment is intimate somehow. The moment is gone and the dancer vanishes, just in time for me to remember the corn. Charred husks hiding sweet bursts of deliciousness bundled in tiny kernels. It's somewhat surreal how a taste or aroma can trigger a return to the source.
I was 9. My uncle was finishing up the cooking. He'd just put a bunch of super fresh sweet corn on the grill. I'd never before had corn from the grill. "Why would you want to burn it?" I thought. My curious fascination was broken momentarily by my cousins, pulling me out front to play hide and seek. Older cousins on the front porch, talking about yester-years. The elder Aunts in the house hooking up food, younger cousins sneaking sips from the vodka and whiskey bottles. My family cookouts. The world looked so much different then.rce
I was talking to a longtime friend yesterday about why it is that some of us continue after all these years to remain friends. It reminded me of why sometimes it feels good to be around family, when we all know too long around family will drive you to The Shining type crazy. I think the truth is, we all need, no matter how far we've come, to return to the source to recharge.
The source is your beginning.
Reality is relative. If you know me, you've heard me say this once or...fiddy'leven million times. But in this instance, I mean our sources may vary based on who we are and how we've grown. Each of our personal experiences have contributed different brush strokes at different times in our experience. Those strokes that helped us to identify the picture of our lives tend to have more relevance for us as nostalgic moments that formed who we are today. This is true of friends who were with me and helped me find my way...when I became more familiar with Jamaal. This is a part of my source. They will always be familiar and a beloved part of who I am.
I watch, in curious bewilderment, the smoke rising and dancing between slivers of light and shadow. I watch the twists and extensions, brief pauses and elegant leaps across the yard like a private performance of released emotion is being revealed...just to me. I feel privileged to witness it, as if the moment is intimate somehow. The moment is gone and the dancer vanishes, just in time for me to remember the corn. Charred husks hiding sweet bursts of deliciousness bundled in tiny kernels. It's somewhat surreal how a taste or aroma can trigger a return to the source.
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