The Gratitude Rock

 I am a rock and, at this moment in my very long history, I live in Natick Massachusetts. Previously, for the past many million years, I lived at the bottom of the Atlantic Ocean. Or not. I may have arrived on a glacier from up North as recently as 20,000 years ago, dropped off Fortune Rocks Beach on the coast of what is now called Maine. As the Mainer’s say “Hahd tellin, not knowin.”

But several years ago, I washed up on the beach.  I enjoyed beach life; seagulls squawking, surf pounding, wide open skies. The sand and tides polished my rough edges. I was content. And then this older, gray-haired guy picked me up and took me home.

He keeps me on the windowsill next to his reading chair among pictures of family and departed loved ones. He likes the weight of me, the smoothness shaped by time, the striations that mark my long journey. Every morning he picks me up from my place, positions me just so in his palm and sits quietly for a time looking at the photos and the dawning of a new day.  He calls me his “Gratitude Rock”.

The rock identification app on his iPhone says I am Green Jasper formed between 3.5 billion and 35 million years ago.. But, as they say, age is just a number. In my case, a really big number.

Simon and Garfunkel once sang, “I am a rock…and a rock feels no pain.” True enough, but like the old dude, I feel grateful—for the warmth of my sunny windowsill. I feel the gentle pressure of a human hand that lifts me with intention. I feel the quiet appreciation of being chosen, noticed, held.

Gratitude, it turns out, is not limited to beings with beating hearts.

And so, as he sits each morning reflecting on what has been and what may come, I sit with him—steady, ancient, and grateful.

 That makes two of us.

Delayed Ambition

He grew up in the Northeast Kingdom of Vermont until age 10. Enrolled in first grade at age 5, always smaller, always slower. The drive up the snowy mountain dirt road in a 4-wheel drive Suburban to a 4 room schoolhouse; 1^st thru 8^th, 2 grades in each room. Farm kids. Ambitions? Drive the tractor instead of throwing hay bales. Milk the herd instead of mucking stalls,

The nearest town,10 miles, the closest neighbor, 2. At home, the only boy, he spent his time alone in the woods and swamps, fishing, frogging, building forts, snow tunnels, tree stands. Crafting stone hand axes, bows and arrows, spears. Catching snakes, bugs, butterflies. He was happy, insular, unchallenged. Ambitions/interests: Comic books, picking on an old guitar.

The move to Portland, Maine was life altering in so many ways. So much to navigate. Taking the city bus into the YMCA with tough City kids. Getting his first library card and exploring a huge, quiet edifice filled with books. Being picked last in any sports activity because he had no skills. Having to brawl to establish his place in the pecking order. Competing with peers who all seemed to have ambitions.

By age 11 he had discovered his niche. As a worker, he felt fierce pride in being the best at picking beet greens, mowing lawns, shoveling snow. Later working at A&W Root Beer filling mugs with sweet, brown, delicious beverage; at Howard Johnsons scooping 28 distinctive flavors of ice cream, washing dishes, bussing tables; grounds-keeping for several local motels. In school and sports, he got by. In Boy Scouts and at Church, he got by. But in the workplace, he excelled.

In college he stumbled from major to major. Forestry, Wildlife Biology, Environmental Science; always looking for a path that would lead him back to the woods and the swamps.

And then he met Her.

And they bought a little house and started a family.

And that is when he discovered the fire of true ambition.

Days of Our Lives

 Remember the soap opera "Days of our Lives?" It got me thinking. How many days are there in our lives. Well, that depends.

American women live on average 81.4 years or 29,711 days. American men, 76.5 years or 27,922 days. Things that impact these averages include ethnicity, profession, geographic location, genetics, lifestyle, diet, etc.

So I looked back at the Family Foss. Mom lived 25,819 days. Dad lived 27,264. as of tomorrow I will have outlived them both.

My grandfather, lived, Hiram, lived 10,353 days. His father, Arthur, 14,887. His father, William who fought in the Civil War, 31,936.  William's great grandfather, Isaiah who fought in the Revolutionary War, 34,849. And Isaiah's great grandfather, John who fought on a British war ship and escaped to the Colonies in 1654, lived 28,185days.

My sons. Ryan lived 15,209 days. Eric lived 7,647 days. Too young, too soon.

The saying goes "it's not the days in your life, but the life in your days that matter." But then, there is no way to measure that. 

Muhammad Ali said, "Don't count the days. Make the days count." 

Right on, Champ.

Blog Quotes

 For the past 20 years I have been collecting quotes, a collection of ideas and words that resonated. I recently shared them with my sister and she understood immediately they were more than quotes. They are a map of my evolution of thought during a difficult time of intense questioning and introspection. They are special to me. And I share them with you.

Blog Quotes D.docx