Dissect me like a frog, and Area 51 notwithstanding, I believe this is what my emotional autopsy will discover.  Maybe these are a window into my soul, or just that I backed them up really good, letting them become a piece of my landscape.  It is funny though, in this computerized life when I honestly think “window,” it’s Microsoft, and then a dreaded blue screen, then Bill Gates and “Gates” take me to heaven, where it all makes some odd sense I guess.  The real sense however, is in the backup part, and how it will byte you depending on your mother board, should the process be ignored (similar to my dog, who will botch you, as per my grandson).  Unless of course, you are one of those bored mothers watching life pass by, and then a back hand is needed in lieu of back-up.

Those earliest memories swirl back now and then, in perfect Rod Serling fashion, and true to form, roll up in black and white.  I remember watching Bozo the clown on our small antenna connected set, and from a close up that predetermined Wayne’s World, Bozo popped in, nose to nose scaring me to death.  In a horrific Cecil B. De Clown moment, I mentally shut down, developed Post Traumatic Circus Disorder and was bent for life.  I also remember the original Don’t Ask Don’t Tell, which concerned cigarettes with a sailboat on the package, sitting on my father’s dresser.  I do not remember him smoking them, but I knew they were wrong and they were on the dresser of the rightist man I knew, again, bent for life. Around the time these backed up memories began to have true life altering attachment around age 5, I fell pre-tits over teacups, running out to see my father, who was walking up the path he had built from red flagstone.  I later discovered he was retuning from a doctors appointment, having been told to stop smoking (ironic huh?).  Regardless, I backed up that moment of skin, blood and tears before he got to me.  I am sure somewhere in the sectors of my oblongata hard drive, all of these back-ups were important, having never left me, and wait for me in times when I feel exceptionally black and white as I age.

Last Thanksgiving night, after the turkey and dressing, pie and rolls had been finished; my mother fell – odd, as it was only a few feet from the same vintage flagstone beach, which my five year old blood tide had washed up on so long ago.  Her fall began an unknowing hard five month count down for her, until she really saw those aforementioned gates.  I know in my soul, she walked through them in honor, finding my father and all of her family waiting in a true thanksgiving of life.  However, before she left us, she spent some of her time in another place only she could see.  A  place where she had backed up her life.  Looking across the room she saw things unseen or heard by others, she baked and cooked, sorted and clipped coupons, watched television, laughed and kissed small babies.  By all accounts she was content, happy and loved surrounded by her life.

When she mentally returned to us, her screen was bluer than I had anticipated. Emotionally, she wasn’t the same.  Yes, she was my mother, but my Mom was gone.   Mom had always been very observant, comical and sincere.  Now however, the observant part of her was no longer on a mission to collect and learn, it was merely to exist.  It became obvious her life was ending and she no longer needed a back-up.

Now that Mom has passed away, I piece back those last months a lot and see how she was only offering a back-up for those of us around her if we wanted it.  I guess in many ways it was her final gift.  I was thinking about this, when my grand daughter began backing up into my lap as I sat on the floor behind her.  She was a regular dump truck in motion, just without the annoying noise announcing her position, as one hears beeping loudly in a construction zone.  Her load, that being herself, settled in back first against my chest, remembering I was grandma, safe and where she wanted to be.  Putting my thoughts and her actions together, it became obvious a real back-up, is more than data or memories, it is who we become.  It is a window of sorts, peeking into what makes us who we are, what we want to share, and especially what is passed on by others after we have died.

Once we are gone, who knows what is behind those heavenly gates, or what we retain of the life we once lived.  The best I can figure is we need to always move forward, with more than a cursory glance, and to pause for back-ups when needed, to keep our soul grounded.    There may not always be space to store things in life, but our storage for life is endless, as long as we back it up now and then, and share more than we delete with those we love.

****For a humorous read – check out my new book, “My Life Has Been A waist”****

http://www.amazon.com/My-Life-Has-Been-Waist/dp/1463405030/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1310053400&sr=1-1

If you go to Thinkexist.com, you will find William Cowper’s over used quote “Variety is the spice of life…” However, truly interesting is the quote directly below it:   “God moves in a mysterious way, His wonders to perform. He plants his footsteps in the sea, and rides upon the storm.”  The dichotomy between these two quotes side by side, and American’s total dissatisfaction with their lives, and a government’s spoiled, greedy debt ceiling in the TRILLIONS of dollars, was enough for me to stop and fertilize the roses today. For that alone I thank the solid and comforting image of James Whitmore!

There will never be enough of anything tangible in this life for the happiness we think it will give us.  We need to stop now, accept what we have, our ability to improve it, take a deep breath and just live! In other words, “Enjoy Your Lot in Life!”  I sometimes wonder if it will take some type of divine intervention, coupled with a sonic boom (sorry kids Google it) to make the point. I can’t blame Mrs. Robinson and her cupcakes for this, although, #cupcakes do trend on Twitter no and then.  I can however, somehow find a correlation to plastics!  Somewhere around the same time of Dustin Hoffman’s lost innocence, society began to search for what was already in red sequins on their feet and walked away from meaning of solid security in life.  Any intelligent man worth his salt will tell you the same thing. Ironically, years later Dustin proved this point in Tootsie, wearing an outfit Anne Bancroft would have loved.

If we can pinpoint the decline, it might have started in grocery and variety stores, that had once satisfied our needs with flavor, friendship, sparkle and necessity.  Slowly theses institutions of nutrition, found themselves replaced with “Big Box” stores.  Good grief, the label alone should explain our culture.  Why do I need 56 varieties of tea? Many of them the same flavor just by different companies.  I could never go through all the brands and varieties of shampoo if I was Rapunzel, had split ends and lived an extra 50 years – who are we kidding?  There are just too many redundant landfill destined choices, which leave us uncertain, unsatisfied and over whelmed.  This by the way also applies across the board from products to relationships.  We need to get back to the basic recipe that stuck to our ribs, filled our soul and gave us contentment, instead of the contempt we all seem to live with one way or another.

Variety may spice up life, but it relies on the basic fact, you already have a base to work from and most people today do not.  Flour, eggs, milk and salt have endless possibilities, just like answering a phone call, taking time to talk without a text, tweet or TV, read a book or listening with your heart and soul to another person. These aforementioned combinations are enjoyable, satisfying and could even be memorable, if given the chance, just ask Julia Child or if you could catch him, Graham Kerr.  A bowl of spice is just that, and all it will end up doing is making you sneeze, even if there is a great variety of flavor.  Yes, Tweeting, Texting, emailing and Goggling can enhance your knowledge and maybe spark some creativity.  However, as just isolated satisfactions, they go no where and leave us wanting more. Living life is after all when we allow our reality to show, it is not chasing a free parking pay off like an idiot on a reality show.

Sodom and Gomorrah were biblically presented as the worst levels of human existence, in a time left to greed, rage, carnal and demented personal satisfaction.  This is what happens to any living creature, when it is no longer a part of a working social structure, unable to receive and give positive reinforcement to another, and finding no satisfaction in their life.  To find such contentment, means facing occasional defeat, grass not so green, not having the biggest, the newest, or the best, and of course sometimes being the last one picked for basketball.  But that isn’t a televised option anymore, in this me first, have-it-all world we are living.  There is no longer a fight for Title IX, instead it is a complete eight count entitlement MINE!

Although her reasons for turning and becoming a pillar of salt instead of a pillar in her community, were wrong and only confirmed her own “Lot in Life,” I find it odd the biblical woman who was a wife and mother in this bible story, was never given a name, just known as the wife of Lot (not unlike a certain wizard, he who shall not be named, but close).  Maybe there is more than a simple quote here if we take the time and really think about it, because after all, having enough is not having a lot.  When you face the world, as a content, honest, loving and working component, making a difference, instead of a deviated defiant force to be reckoned with, people want to remember your name, they love who you are and they hold you in compassion, learn from what you offer and who knows, might even mention you in a positive @tweet one day!  In other words, Do every act of your life as if it were your last, a timeless quote that could Marcus in unity if we only let it.

And that is nothing to sneeze at!

****For a humorous read – check out my new book, “My Life Has Been A waist”****

http://www.authorhouse.com/Bookstore/BookDetail.aspx?Book=318939

Animals rely on scent to survive.  Yes, it requires them to get up close and personal, but I also think it is how they develop such unconditional bonds with us.  There is nothing fake or misrepresented, you smell just who you are, and all emotion and talent become accounted for in one whiff.  That connection between us also explains some of the $50 billion dollars and cents, annually spent on man’s best friends – and that my friend ain’t just chimp change!

Humans on the other hand are very visual.  In order to accept and succeed, we have to see and/or hold what we desire.  This of course explains EBay, QVC, lap dances, subliminal advertising and maybe even backmasking, even though I always knew Paul wasn’t dead.  However, that is for another day.

One visual we all reach for are “the stars.”  We see them as a celestial challenge, mocking our inability to rise to their level.  So we elevate Athletes, actors, and sadly politicians to the level of “superstar,” as they eclipse our own self esteem challenged ability for greatness, with their achievements.  We watch them, emulate them and envy them, as they accomplish what appears to be out of our reach, not unlike a galaxy far far away (one where George Lucas was told he’d never make it and was rejected albeit.) If we see it, we believe it and we want it, never seeming to notice what it took for them to get there. Humans lose track of that aspect quickly, which is probably why we need bloodhounds for search and rescue.  Question is will you get rescued before your search is over?

If you ask a child to draw a star, initially it is a series of four lines that make more of a “starburst.”  Later, the lines become more defined, although crooked and later a five pointed star emerges from under the stub of a yellow, No.2 Iowa Standardized graphite.  That star will become the first visual “acceptance” in a child’s life.  They will wish on them, glitter them, place them on Christmas trees, accept them with pride on school papers and draw them in rapid spirograph succession across paper which will eventually become a night sky of implied lighted security.  More often than not however, it isn’t encouraged, assumed or taken into consideration; they themselves are already stars,  just waiting to light up life with imagination, emotion and promise.  Children need to have it pointed out, as they stand straight and tall with arms outstretched either direction to the future, feet firmly planted in commitment, they are indeed the true visual of a 5 pointed superstar! (Sorry president Bush, no points of light just yet.)  Encourage those “when I grow up…” enthusiastic impossible dream moments, which are given a whiff of hope in kindergarten!  Why are they so quickly forgotten just because someone moved the cheese?

I think as with everything in life we are prone to miss the obvious, no matter how pointed it is, making our journey that much harder to complete.  Why do we waste time wishing on stars (not to mention paying them!), wanting their fame and fortune, which causes us to become disenchanted with what we have right under our noses?  If we took a moment and listened with our hearts like those four legged friends, ironically “scent” from the heavens to protect, love and keep us, it might become more obvious.  This is of course one of those stop and smell the rose’s and touch Zuzu’s petals comments, in case you are needing something subliminal.

Today I drove to see my daughter, who was waiting on her front porch.  My grand daughter who is almost a year and half saw me first, becoming as animated as a Mexican jumping bean on a cheap hotel lamp bulb.  She knew it was me and she couldn’t contain her happiness.  I didn’t want to tell her I hadn’t won the Nobel Peace Prize, Academy Award, Lottery or Judicial Seat in the 6^th district somewhere. But then again commercial success is really just that “commercial,” something that just a breaks the stream of reality and the meat of the moment.  We set DVR’s to bypass such 30 second interruptions in our viewing pleasure and quickly zap them with a pop-up stopper on our computers, because they keep us from what is really important.  So why don’t we see that same need in life?

If being in a school taught us anything, it was in the values of “Finding Nemo” and not “Waiting for Godot,” because the 5 pointed Rosie message, was from a starfish who regardless of her humble beginnings on EBay, knew to look for the happy place in life.  I know such a happy place, and when I got out of my car I stood a little straighter with the knowledge I was important, just because I was me, and as I walked towards the chubby legs running in my direction, I knew the shadow falling behind me, may not have been gold, but it was indeed the shape of a star

****For a humorous read – check out my new book, “My Life Has Been A waist”****

http://www.amazon.com/My-Life-Has-Been-Waist/dp/1463405030/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1310053400&sr=1-1

http://www.authorhouse.com/Bookstore/BookDetail.aspx?Book=318939

My father was a policeman, but more than a title, he was a real man.  We had simple discipline, there was a right and a wrong, BUT above all there was respect.  I think the hardest moments in my growing up years and as a young adult, were those when I looked into dad’s eyes and knew I had hurt or disappointed him.   I know he felt and demonstrated the same towards all of us.  I heard the bible had a small bit about honor, covet, steal, murder or lie too, but maybe that was just the Cliff Notes version.  There is no need for threats, violence, belts, hot sauce and room confinement, when parent and child are bonded with such values.  “I am sorry,” means something and “I love you,” seals the understanding of having done wrong, learn from it, and been forgiven, allowing time to heal and move past it.   I look at the recent Casey Anthony trial and know she never knew such a loving and caring life, even though she too had a father in law enforcement.  Casey was obviously raised in an unchecked environment with more than a little nutty behavior.

When I think of punishment for breaking a law I think of peanuts, my father and an ashtray.  My niece was five and I was seven,  we had returned home from the weekly grocery store trip with my mother.   Sitting  in the living room she broke the shell on a peanut to eat.  The crack of that shell might as well have been the 3000 hit heard around the world this past week by Derek Jeter.  My father turned looking at us with eyes I knew could see the truth.  You see in those days soda, candy, store bought cookies, etc were treats, and not found in well stocked cabinets throughout the house like they are now.  So that small handful of peanuts stood out like a mustache on the Mona Lisa.

My niece was wearing a dark plaid dress with a separate bib front.  There were two gold buttons at each of the four sides holding it in place and thusly giving her a delightful faux kangaroo pouch.  Said pouch, was now filled with stolen peanuts from the grocery store and one was being enjoyed as a snack.  My father motioned her over and unbuttoned the bib front and watched the cascade of purloined peanuts fall onto the coffee table.  Her tears began to fall just as fast, because even at five she now knew it was wrong.  Did my father yell?  Did he slap her across the face or spank her?  Did he send her to her room with out food for days?  No, he did what was right and ruled from the values he gave us.  Looking directly at us both, he said in a firm level tone “You stole these didn’t you?” She nodded, tears falling down her cheeks.  Dad took them and over his ashtray crushed each peanut, into a dust that could have been the predecessor for dehydrated peanut butter if we had only known.

An ashtray of destroyed peanuts sat between my father, two little girls and the rest of our lives.  Dad wiped off his hands and cleared his throat.  “What you did was wrong.  You stole these and good girls don’t do that.”  We then sat on the couch for what seemed like days, before we were allowed to get ready for bed.  After offering a tearful “I am sorry,” dad kissed us good night.  My niece took my hand and we went to bed.  I wasn’t involved directly, but the lesson was for me as well, and heck if I remember it this clear at 51 the lesson worked!

Did she and I walk the straight and narrow all of our lives after that? No, we made stupid mistakes, said things we shouldn’t have and looking back would love to have rewritten more than a few youthful lapses in judgment.  But when it came to the important things in life, we raised our respective daughters the right way.  They knew they could come to us with anything, because between the values and the love, it would be worked out.  That is how a family works.

It is sadly apparent and will be the epitaph for a big eyed little girl that she was born into a family of unvalued nuts that didn’t have an ashtray.  I do believe Caylee died as the result of an accident. The intent sadly, was how life in the Anthony home obviously was lived.  There was no recourse when Casey told lies, stole and eventually became pregnant, never treated like a mature adult. It appears the night she was finally brought to the woodshed as my father would say, to face claims she had taken cash from her grandfather’s nursing home account she snapped.  We won’t know the truth in this lifetime about what happened, but the result was a beautiful child died, accidentally I am sure.  However, having never had to account for her actions, a web of deceit was set in motion, which hurt more people than we will ever realize and earthly justice will never be served.

There are evil entities that walk this earth, they kill without a thought  satisfying a primal urge.  Most of them are caught; they go to jail, repeat the offense and some end up dead.  God has a checks and balance system we can not see and are not meant to understand.  However, when solid values are missing or they snap, animals, people and children disappear into clouds and webs of lies.  The guilty who once loved or had befriended the victim,  are unable to face the obvious moral judgment they have never had, so bodies are hidden, cases go cold and life goes on.  Take a look at tabloid screaming cases of missing adults, children and death, when the case is finally solved, sadly, the victim usually knew their killer either casually or lovingly.

Somewhere out there is the phrase, ‘An elephant never forgets.” And it has been proven true in nature.  For me however, it is peanuts that never forget, and that commandment wasn’t written in stone, it was written on my soul – thank you dad.

Don’t you love “ah ha” moments in life, when someone remembers you, notices something you have done or in some way elevates you, for how ever long, above the terra firma you normally exist on?  In case you need a visual, watch an awards ceremony, a new bride or parent seeing their child for the first time.  Our parched life finds a drop of the fountain of youth, in the sated seconds of recognition and or acclaim, and there is nothing wrong about loving it!  However, like anything in life, too much is a nightmare and too little is a shame.  Any movie star, business executive, historian or beauty queen can explain in great detail to that effect, especially after the limelight has faded them back to a normal and often embarrassing unrecognized existence.

As someone who has gotten her 15 minutes more than once, I know the rise and pitfall roller coaster and because of it, I will always recommend the merry-go-round for life’s enjoyment.  There is nothing wrong with watching those passing by, as you sit amid glittering paint and lights, offering a smile and wave now and then.  The scenery changes on every rotation, you are with friends, have the option of sitting down and usually a slight breeze in your face.  Heck could be worse!

I never realized how serious we take acceptance until the last days of my mother’s life.  A couple weeks short of her 91^st birthday, she was adjusting to life after taking a nasty fall.  Once sharp, with memory and wit that belied her true age, she had changed.  After falling, the pieces came back together physically, but she was frail and fading each day – none of the king’s horses on the merry-go-round could put her back together again.

One of her last enjoyments was to watch television.  She enjoyed the Hallmark channel, American Idol and Ellen (not always in that order.)  As her mind failed, the remote control became an enemy of unknown buttons and volume, which often landed her on an infomercial, which she would watch for hours without saying a word.  To avoid this and give her back control, there was  a page listing favorite shows, channel, date and time on her nightstand.

I printed it fast one night, opened notepad between emails and sent it off to print.  Because I didn’t save or title the document, it printed as “Untitled.txt” across the top, annoying to me, but a concern to my mother.  After she looked at it, there was a genuine panic across her face.  She looked at me and said “What is an “untitled?” What channel is it on? Do I like it?”  My vast computer knowledge saw the humor, it was unmistakable (remember the soda can holder when internal CD drives were introduced?)  But as a daughter with a dying parent, it was heartbreaking and brought her into a new light.

Mom’s days were slipping by – faster than we knew in tragic hindsight.  She was no longer in her own home after 60 years and in so many ways she herself had become untitled.  She had lived life titled as a daughter, sister, friend, wife, mother, aunt, and grandmother several greats attached I might add.  But now, as she was ending her life, with the exception of immediate family who might call, send an email, card or visit she was untitled to the rest of the world, that demands numerous attached nouns for person and place.

Sadly, I realized how much of her life was left untitled to me personally.  Her generation, the one that saw the depression, the wars, computerization, miniaturization, the Internet and a million other life changing things,, was also a generation who kept themselves private and lived their lives with integrity and due diligence. I knew she was my mother, but most of her pages were unfilled, as well as untitled.

There had been times in my life when she shared stories and moments which had made her who she had become.  Her recipes and baking were a life blood to me, but it was only shortly after she died, I learned she and her mother baked and sold things to a local bakery when she was a child. I had always thought she worked at that bakery as a young girl, maybe after school and imagined her sharing brownies and cookies with hard working young men stopping in for a flirt and a snack. I discovered a similar reality when my grandmother passed away, and to my delight found she had been outspoken in human equality in her era and most certainly would have supported her friends on Gay Pride Day, and had been a “Rosie the Riveter” during the war.  Who knew? Sadly, not me, until it was too late.

My own daughters have always known the path I walked in life, my pride and embarrassment be damned.  They know all the souvenirs I keep, in the form of memory, friend, love or artifact.  I never wanted them to blindly face the unknown in their lives, but to use my experience as a divining rod, finding where hope springs eternal and not where tickets are sold out for their awaiting divine comedy.

Maybe we have become too open with the information we share, blog, file and USB pocket flash.  But as we move away from learning experiences that require and register hard cover books, paper and pencil, what else can we do for future generations?  Becoming the Fahrenheit 451 autobiography standard for our children seems to be the greatest gift we can ever give to them, especially if we never have 15 minutes in the spotlight.  Because frankly, the alternative is something I would rather not watch or leave untitled.

My job as a child on grocery day was to hold the “adder “This was a wondrous 6 inch case with turning wheels that looked like clocks.  I took the metal stick and “dialed” prices of each item, advancing it to a total.  Life in those days was as simple as that little machine.  We took in information and tallied it up between our own little gears getting the right answer.

Obviously, we had to evolve and grow, and memories from the heart of a child fade into reality and adulthood.  Evolution in junior high for me was an “electric” typewriter with keys dancing across carbon paper, like the June Taylor Dancers.  In time the “adder” also changed, it became a huge powerful hand cranked adding machine and eventually was a plastic Texas Instrument blue light LED desktop calculator, with a keyboard of flat plastic indentations.  Soon, computers were beginning to show up and although they resembled the Forbin Project, they still were amazing at what they could accomplish along with Mag Card processors and telex machines, leaving confetti trails in their wake.

Then, paper communication started down the path of  obsolete, with the arrival of the fax machine.  I could magically send facts, drawings and comments to someone anywhere, in a matter of seconds.   I thought mom would like to communicate this way to my sisters. Yes, she wrote a long letter, but then called me dismayed, because she didn’t know where to stick the note in the phone receiver.  I bought her a fax machine of her own after that memorable memory.  As time progressed I sometimes forgot, she was only 7 when the ballpoint pen was given a patent and really what she had seen evolve her life.  When she passed away this year at age 90, and pretty tech savvy I might add, she could delete with the best of us, no eraser necessary.

So as I watch the ongoing “Trial of the Century” in Florida this 4th of July, I pray justice will be done for the lost little girl.  However, I have to question the essence of our justice, because everything on the planet we once took for granted and accepted, has evolved in ways we never envisioned.  My father walked a police beat and later became police chief behind a wooden desk, with a phone that had two modern blinking line buttons.  What would he think now about mass spectrometry, hard drives the size of a cigarette pack holding the equivalent of a public library and 24 hour information at your fingertips?  The peers in our lives are behind 1984 styled dystopia touch screen technology, leaving face to face communication at a minimum.  No one knows what really goes on behind closed doors in a family since The Honeymooners and Ozzie and Harriet moved away and The Osbournes were cancelled. Being judged by a jury of your peers is frighteningly antiquated.  Who are our peers?  Do we even have peers?

This trial will come to a verdict, turning into many book versions, movies, and sadly a video game, which peers of the accused will purchase.  They will ironically judge those media offerings just as they did her, for quality and value.  Unlike Lizzy Borden who is forever a historical blood soaked criminal splatter of her own circumstances, which carbon copied the values of those who passed judgment as her peers.  Today, individuality and advances in technology have replaced such class and stepford status, the latter  sitting behind track homes in matching subdivisions waiting for a Schwan’s delivery before bridge.

Like it or not, our justice system is Captain Kirk’s last frontier ripe for inevitable evolution and the prospects are as bone chilling as a Klingon invasion.  Society offers us no real peers who can judge the political and moral correctness of our actions.  How can future law truly be enforced short of a penal colony and Snake Plissken? As long as I walk the straight and narrow I hope I never have to face that question, let alone the individuals who might pass voir dire at my trial.  The sweet homemaker with a college degree, three wonderful children and a visual appearance of a sweet 1964 Leslie Ann Warren Cinderella, transforms from the other side of her computer screen profile, into the actual over weight, heavy machine operator named Bruce, who drinks beer like water, killed his cat, lives alone in a Detroit basement apartment and believes most people are beneath his level of intelligence, which stopped when he dropped out of junior high at age 13.  But then again, as we approach the point were everything is technically done for us, so might there evolve a judicial button to push, allowing verdict and sentence to be delivered in a nanosecond.   Joe Friday who carries a badge, won’t even have time to ask for the just the facts ma’am.

So remind me and John Lennon again about the fax of evolution, justice and how we once watched the innocent wheels turn, while I tuck myself in with the evolution of our society and literature, with the New York Times best seller offering of Go the Fuck To Sleep.

Air.  Curious, how we carry our emotions safe and secret, through this invisible veil.  It gives us life and all that we are, but yet we never fully live, instead we hide behind it.    I hadn’t thought much about it until a recent hot day, when I was reminded by someone that the “air” was hot.  Okay, so was the front porch I was standing on, my glass of water without ice and me in general (menopause aside it was indeed hot.)

Think about it, we have seasonal air, that  smells like fall, winter, spring and summer and countless variations, the air is crisp, there is rain in the air or the air is so thick I could cut it with a knife.  There are emotional versions:  Airing out dirty laundry, a still in the air, sadness or joy in the air, magic in the air, a silence in the air, romance in the air and air of authority, an air about them, and a chill in the air (Snap! No snow falling with this one!  If you are in a relationship of any kind you understand.)

Physical air exists too:  Stale air, conditioned air, heated air, fresh air, night air, blowing air and even dead air (I have a connection there, but will leave it for now).  Why is it then, we can communication in an instant to another person, exactly what the air presents as it sets a common ground, but we can never really express our emotions more than a few times a day honestly if at all?

With all this air around us, you would think we would be at our oxygen best to tackle relationships, goals and commitments right?   Wrong.  Most of us become air heads at the worst possible time and either become full of hot air or become deflated never getting out what we want to say.  Somewhere out there in the great book of books, human photosynthesis never really sunk in, as we took our place in the emotional food chain of life and journeyed along together.

If you hold your breath theoretically you are suppose to turn blue and die, but it is impossible, as we have a built in escape clause which won’t let us self destruct (at least physically).  However, when it comes to relationships, we destruct, crash and burn or just suffocate one another on a regular basis.  I like to imagine each encounter with someone no different than visiting a new planet.  The first thing you do is test to see if the air is okay to sustain life. No difference really from man’s best friend, who goes right up for a meet and sniff.

This is however where it gets tricky, especially if the air is hostile, angry, unforgiving, cold, hot or silent.  It may sustain life, but you could be annihilated just the same.  So remember the next time you have one of these close encounters of the communication type, take a deep breath, let the air give you the life it is meant to and live the moment.  Reach deep inside, use the air figurative (as we describe it) and literally, make something wonderful happen!  Air out a difference with someone or move past hurt feelings, disappointment or pain.  Celebrate life by sharing laughter, love or thoughtfulness with those around you and you will never regret it.  Our life in this world is too brief for anything less and we need to remember it all begins when we take that first real breath.