We meet a lot of people, but who are the ones that stick in your mind? Do you ever wonder if you’re that memorable stranger for someone?
Grief is a strange creature. It rears its head when you least expect it, and it hangs around in ways that you could never have imagined. Its appearances can be logical, but they don’t always have to be. Sometimes grief only pokes its head out to greet you, and then other times it feels like its lying on your chest trying to smother you.
Maybe it’s because of my Catholic schooling, or maybe it’s my Baptist upbringing/inherent guilt, or maybe it’s all of those after-school specials, but I believe that part of being a good person is helping others. Perhaps you feel this way too, but, as you know, sometimes doing community service takes time and energy—two things that people don’t always have. So I present to you a list of ways to help others that can be easy, quick, and done with very little effort.
I feel like I’m still waking up. I shake my head to rid my brain of the musty cobwebs, but they remain and I look at the world through half-open eyes. This is an unwelcomed feeling, but I guess that it’s part of the grieving process. I do feel like I’m starting to wake up though. It’s slow, but I believe that it will happen. Everything that has happened lately has made me reevaluate some things, and I’ve drafted up a few new goals.
I’ve been thinking quite a bit about a friend who passed away a little over a year ago. She is best described as giggling, cussing sunshine, and that’s how I’ll always remember her.
My dad and I have been looking for a new fly rod for me (he kind of wants his Sage Z-Axis back, and I can't blame him), and I found out that Sage has a pink fly rod. *gasp* It doesn't come in the length that I need (and it's expensive), but it did lead me to an organization called Casting for Recovery (http://castingforrecovery.org/).
While I was waiting for the elevator, a woman was wheeled into the corridor where I was waiting. She was probably no more than forty-five years old, and maybe even less. She was clearly riddled with cancer, so it was difficult to gauge her real age. Her face was pale with pain, and her eyes were sunken with fatigue. An elegant, floral scarf covered her head, and she carried a girly purse in her lap that was dripping in charms and gold chains. Only one leg dangled from her wheelchair—the other one being non-existent.