simplicity

Garbage Day Gratitude ~ Reprise

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Thank you, little person, who goes through my recycling bin on trash day.

I say, person because I can’t tell if you’re a man or a woman…and it really doesn’t matter.

It’s that smile of yours that stops me in my tracks every time, reminding me just how good life really is.

Even though you are barely taller than the large blue bin you manage to get to the bottom of things. I see you digging underneath the highly top-secret, shredded documents that leave my husband’s office every week, without making a mess. You can even navigate styrofoam popcorn at the holidays without even one escaping into the gutter.
That is a talent.

I’m intrigued with you. I really am.
It can be one hundred degrees or fifty, it doesn’t matter. There you are, rain or shine, covered head to toe, dressed like a beekeeper, with your pith helmet covered in a fine gauge netting that leaves only your tanned face exposed.

Yet, you have eyes that dance with mischief and dare I say…joy?
And when you smile, which is often, I’ve noticed that you have—at the most—maybe five teeth.

You are unabashedly happy as you gather our neighborhood’s valuable recyclables. All of the plastic, cans, and glass bottles. And unapologetic, I can tell.
You take great pride in your work as you sift and sort, making sense out of chaos. You find the treasure amid the trash. I admire you for that.

I can be in the worst mood, convinced that my life sucks ass, then I drive up, see your big toothless grin, and it can change my day. You have changed my day—many times.
Because how bad can my life be? I mean, you’re happy and I’m not?
That’s a reality check.
That’s a game changer.
That’s a Universal kick in the pants.

I also suspect part of your joy and contentment comes from knowing that there’s big money to be made here.
Listen, I’ve joked a couple of times that judging from the number of wire baskets you fill with the valuable stuff that we can’t be bothered with, you probably have a Mercedes parked a few blocks away, and are wearing couture under your beekeeper’s outfit like the Saudi woman do under their burkas.

Good for you.

You provide a service we never knew we needed—and you do it with a smile.

Or, you’re medicated out of your mind. I have a cynical friend that swears nobody is that happy especially someone who rifles through trash all day, and that you must be blissed out on some really great shit.
“I’ll have what he/she’s having”, is what she always says about you.

It doesn’t matter to me.
Thank you for making me happy every damn Tuesday.

Carry on,
xox

My Kind of Fame

Hello tribe,
Anne Lamott starts her new book “Hallelujah Anyway” with this poem and I just love it.
In a world where you can be famous for nothing more than your sex tape, your secretly scripted reality show, or for lying with a straight face—this puts everything back into perspective for me.
 
Carry on,
xox
____________________________________________

Famous

The river is famous to the fish.
The loud voice is famous to silence,
which knew it would inherit the earth
before anybody said so.
The cat sleeping on the fence is famous to the birds
watching him from the birdhouse.
The tear is famous, briefly, to the cheek.
The idea you carry close to your bosom
is famous to your bosom.
The boot is famous to the earth,
more famous than the dress shoe,
which is famous only to floors.
The bent photograph is famous to the one who carries it
and not at all famous to the one who is pictured.
I want to be famous to shuffling men
who smile while crossing streets,
sticky children in grocery lines,
famous as the one who smiled back.
I want to be famous in the way a pulley is famous,
or a buttonhole, not because it did anything spectacular,
but because it never forgot what it could do.
Naomi  Shihab Nye, “Famous” from Words Under the Words: Selected Poems by Naomi Shihab Nye, copyright © 1995.  Used with permission of Far Corner Books.
Hi, I’m Janet

Mentor. Pirate. Dropper of F-bombs.

This is where I write about my version of life. My stories. Told in my own words.

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