SOMEONE GAVE ME A HUG TONIGHT

Lee_Broom

1976 was the worst year of my life. 1977 was the best. In 1977 a new friend told me the following things. In the years to pass I would discover them for myself. They are as follows:

Love is the Power that heals.

Love is the Power that overcomes fear.

Love is the Power that forgives.

Love is the Power that is offered with no expectation of anything in return. Love is Completely Unconditional.

Love is present when we cry.

Love is the energy contained in the laugh of a child or the cry of the warrior holding the lifeless body of a fallen comrade.

We humans, like everything else in nature possess a motive for everything we do, even when that motive is an unconscious event. In other words being the self-centered critters that we are, Love as a deliberate act is unnatural. We cannot “do” Love. But we recognize the feeling it leaves in us, usually after that feeling ebbs.

Where does Love come from?

Love is within arm’s reach.

What is Love?

Love is…

That’s all.

I feel loved when I say “I accept”.

I feel loved when I help another, especially if the person I am helping is unaware of what I am doing.

And, I was told that even though I thought I had lost everything, I still had something that someone else needed.

 

 

SPACE DUST

Lee_Broom

Experience is the progenitor of bias.
Sadie Hannah (Marie) Broom

The really important stuff you have to imagine on your own.
Horace Dixie Broom. 

Resentment is like drinking poison in the hope that someone else dies.
Frank M.

 

Rules can protect us.

Rules can also destroy us.

Rules can be made to protect personal freedom.

Rules can be made to insure fairness.

Freedom promotes freedom.

Fairness promotes government.

Doing nothing promotes nothing.

Lee Broom.

 

 

I’m tap, tap, tapping

Lee_Broom

I’m tap, tap, tapping

At my itty, bitty laptop

Thinkin’ in my tip-top

How to make it stop, stop.

Soundin’ kinda hip hop.

Wundrin’ how to say what I mean.

Nuff said.

I just finished watching a two-hour movie in Spanish.

I don’t speak Spanish.

It was a scenario with a psychedelic blend of imaginary cultures in an unfamiliar world, ten thousand years or so ago, give or take a century or two.

None of the different cultures understood each other’s words. There were people fighting, there was a love story, two wars, terrifying conflicts with carnivorous giant ostriches, a saber-tooth tiger and lots of mastodons.

There was a complicated story line and occasionally I would say to myself “Well, what the hell, if this was truly ten thousand years ago I wouldn’t speak those languages either.

When the movie was over I understood the entire thing. It might of well have been the English version. It didn’t matter. The words, dammit. They didn’t mean anything at all. Only hours ago I walked away from the end of a seventeen year old friendship. We fought over the fact that even though we both speak English-Only, we don’t speak the same language.

I know what the movie was about.

I know nothing of value about the real life story. Nothing. Absolutely NOTHING.

I’m tap, tap, tappin’

At my itty, bitty laptop

Thinkin’ in my tip-top

How to make it stop, stop.

Soundin’ kinda hip hop.

Wundrin’ how to say what I mean.

Wundrin’ how to say what I mean

The Beggar and the Businessman

lee_broom

 

He appears from the darkness in silence; He may have been there for hours.
Like the minute hand on my Omega, I failed to notice him at first.

“Hello”.

I speak; he glares.

“Hello”
The tattered apparition holds his gaze.

“May I pass please?” I attempt to move around him. “May I pass?”

He remains silent. His eyes hold mine. What are they telling me? He’s wearing a badly soiled, well-tailored, senatorially pinstriped suit, crafted apparently for a taller man in a different time, most certainly a better defined neighborhood. His attire assumes a sadness; a life of poverty? Perhaps a recently downgraded lifestyle forced upon him by difficult times?

I step to my right – he steps to his left.

“Please” I implore, “My lunch hour is over. I need to get back to my desk.” neither a minute flick of lash nor hint of furrowed brow.

I breathe deeply and attempt to relax the imagined lines in my forehead. He remains implacable; an immovable stoic with an unknown plan. What does he have on his mind. His left hand is hidden in the left trouser pocket where gentlemen account for their coins. Is he holding a weapon? A switch-blade?
I move to the left – he to the right.

“Are you hungry? There is a warm dinner roll in my doggie bag. I had one of these for lunch; delicious. I think you’ll enjoy it.” I raised the offering; no response.

I deke to the right and quickly left. Had I been wearing a weathered, fifty year-old, hand tailored, poorly fitting suit I might have thought for a moment that I was dancing at a street corner, practicing moves before a mirror.

Mulling momentarily: “How much to cross the street?”

“Fifty Cents”: I offer a dollar; his left hand withdraws from the left trouser pocket and places two quarters into my open palm.
The disheveled entrepreneur steps to his left.
The light turns green.

(Most who have read this describe when requested to do so, the businessman as the man with the expensive watch. In fact, the business man is the fellow in the tattered suit, the beggar being the one who asks permission to cross the city street.)