OK so what is it with mechanics' shops and the lack of cleanliness in the waiting area? It's almost like they think the dirtier/greasier the shop, the better work they'll be able to produce. And it's not like I'm a housework goddess myself or anything even remotely related, but I don't understand why every shop I've ever visited (other than the super chains and dealerships) looks the same – threadbare industrial brown/grey carpet with grease spots; uncomfortable, stained chairs; and car magazines that look like they're from the 80s.

If you haven't realized it by now, I'm at the mechanics. I'm very self-reliant when it comes to repairs on my vehicle – I can pump gas, inflate a tire, and turn the radio up to cover over almost any sound – but the current issue is far above my abilities. I think it might be the brakes. Or the CV joints and axle. And I have no idea what that crazy sound my engine made yesterday might mean – nor can I mimic it now since (of course!) the car's not making that sound now that it has an audience.

I drive a Honda Accord. From 1989. It was supposed to be a transition car while I saved up for a new one. That was a couple of years ago. Since it was a "transition" car, I have been completely negligent: I've only changed the oil a couple of times and failed to do any other maintenance on it whatsoever. After all, I'm not keeping it for long, right?

The thing is, at 300+K miles, it's still going strong. Oh I had some issues when I first got it a couple of years back. I had to replace the thingie and my mechanic convinced me that the watchmacallit needed a new part. But other than that, I've not had to give my car much thought or care. So since it's been so good to me, maybe I should stop thinking of it as the rebound car, maybe start contemplating making some sort of commitment here.

You see, I'm jaded. I have been hurt and now I can't let myself trust again. I am a woman with a Past.

A few years after graduating college, flush with the confidence that comes from holding a "real" job, I was ready for my first adult purchase. I haughtily declined any offers of help from my parents and my boyfriend (who were they to tell me what to do?!). I read Consumer Reports; I searched online for tips on negotiation; I drank a lot caffeine, you know the usual. And, armed with all my strategies and wisdom, I walked into my first dealership. I walked out about two hours later with a key and a huge debt that I'd failed to negotiate down (in all the excitement of going on my first test drive, I forgot). After all my research, I picked, you know…. the pretty green one.

A Ford Escort.

A Ford Escort that clearly had enjoyed its short stay at the dealership and wasn't ready to go anywhere else just yet. It proceeded to live at said dealership's mechanic shop for the better part of the next two years. First, I spent a ton of money to replace the timing belt. Impossible, you say. But you'd be wrong. The mechanic did explain to me that it wasn't the timing belt itself that had failed; it was the screws which held it together which were poorly made and had basically rusted (yes, in a year!) and then caused the timing belt's demise.

Mind you, this was after already having spent a ton of money trying to find the non-existent flaw that kept making the service engine light come one.

Among other issues, the car kept going in and out of the shop because the Service Engine light kept coming on! Every time I took it in for service, they couldn't figure out what the problem was, but it cost me around $150 per trip.

Finally, we realized that that the little computer chip (which, of course was not covered by warranty) that kept detecting a flaw and making the light come on was itself flawed. It would cost $3500 to fix. There was no way to shut it off or remove it; it was so costly to repair because the whole engine had to be removed in order to reach it.

After costing me more in repairs than what I had paid down on the debt, I found myself with no money, a car I couldn't drive or fix or sell, and a serious lack of trust of anything on four wheels.

So fast forward six years and now here I sit, ready to admit that perhaps I have been too harsh. Maybe I'm punishing my Honda for sins the Ford committed. Maybe I should have been more careful, taken better of it. In fact, I know that's what I should have done. And, if given the chance, I can do better! I vow to change the oil at least every 6, no 8, no 10… every 10K miles. And I should find out what everyone means when they talk about a tune up. In fact, I promise that from now on, I will -----

******

Um.... The mechanic says my brakes are fine; there's a small crack in the axle, but nothing serious, and the engine's OK.

So, never mind.

He blamed his parents, of course, long before he was old enough to understand that this was the fashionable thing to do. If he hadn't, Society itself would have ignored any rationalizations he might have been clever enough to proffer. Experts with wizened expressions and somber voices would have been brought in to intone phrases like "attachment disorder," "parental deprivation," and "permissive parenting" that no one would question for fear of being thought ignorant. But Gerald knew those phrases meant nothing.

The real reason for his life of crime was simply that they’d named him Gerald.

Gerald!

What else was he supposed to do? Become an accountant?

There is a destiny which makes us brothers
None goes his way alone
All that we send into the lives of others
Comes back into our own.

This quote, from Edwin Markham, is one of my absolute favorites. He states what I believe is the whole point of living in community, of realizing that our actions and words have meaning beyond our own little lives.

Last night in the middle of watching the Cowboys v Bengals game, I made the sudden (and very un-Cecilia) decision to go out and pump gas. I knew I still had about a quarter tank left, but I went against my typical urge to procrastinate, got dressed and left the house. When I arrived at the gas station at the corner, a gentleman approached me and explained his predicament: he'd bought groceries and intended to hail a cab, but he had been waiting for longer than an hour without being able to spot a single taxi; he lived down the street about two miles away, could I give him a ride home.

Every story I've ever heard or read about women getting killed or abducted came to mind. I hesitated. I didn't trust myself to make a judgement on his character simply by looks; I considered only the situation: we'd be alone in my car, at night, my cell phone safely left on its charger back in my living room. He took my hesitation as a good sign and began to pick up his many bags and case of water all the while saying, "Thank you; God bless you! Thank you so much." He had basically made himself a passenger in my car before I'd ever really made a definite decision.

I didn't relax at all during the short trip, and wondered how rude it would be if I asked him to keep his hands where I could see them. He tried to make small talk, telling me he was from Africa, asking me where I was from. He told me he was a Christian and had been praying for a way to get home for quite some time before I arrived. I answered his polite questions with as few words as possible and added no commentary to his prayer revelation.

After I dropped him off at his apartment building, I began to examine my reaction to the evening's events. There have been others to whom I've offered assistance. And typically, I love seeing the connection between people's prayers and how I "coincedentally" come into touch with them. There was the kid whose car broke down while on his way to take a final. I'd passed him on the road and barely noticed him because I was already late to a meeting, but the impression to go back was irresistible, so I turned around. There was the lady who was hopelessly lost and near tears because not getting to her destination meant she'd miss the one job interview she'd gotten in months. That time, I'd just decided to go for a drive during my lunch hour instead of eating at my desk per usual.

Last night, now that I think about it, was no different. Even though I always mean to pump gas when I get home in the afternoon or evening, I NEVER do.... I always leave it until morning. And I certainly would never go out specifically for such a mundane, boring task. But there I was, in the middle of enjoying my game with a sudden overwhelming desire to go out and do this.

I keep up with enough of the news to know my fears and hesitancy were well justified. But what about all the times someone has gone out of their way to help ME? I know I'm harmless, but the people who have stopped to help me don't. They, too, took a risk. I think back to the guy who stopped for me two years ago, in the middle of the night on I-95 when my car broke down at 1 AM. He let me use his cell phone to call AAA and waited with me until the tow truck arrived 45 minutes later: he said it wasn't safe for me to be alone. But, really, it wasn't safe for him either. He'd had no idea when he saw a car with blinking lights on the side of the road who might be there waiting for him.

This past weekend 10 health workers in Afganistan were killed by the Taliban. They had all devoted years of their lives to help the suffering Afghan poor. For their sacrifice, they received bullets instead of thanks. For each act of kindness, there are many more acts of brutality and senseless violence. And each of these makes us think twice before going out of our way to help someone else.

I think of my own response last night. I don't know that I'd be any more eager to help next time. I do think that it is wrong for simple kindness to die because of fear.

Por lo general, no me considero una persona muy romantica. Pero de vez en cuando, escuchando una cancion de Miguel Bose o Juan Fernando Velasco, pongo a un lado mi cinismo y recuerdo mis sueños.

Moving Stones by J Jordan Bruns (http://www.jjbruns.com/)

Like every good liberal arts student, I took the required Art Appreciation class where I learned to toss around words like "postmodernism" and "surrealism" and that it's WRONG to say things like "any two year old could have done this," even if with every fiber of your being you thought one could. I also learned that, with a piece of art, you're not supposed to, you know, like it. At least not without a good reason. A reason with a polysyllabic word in it (preferably a few). Of course, most important, any piece worth its salt had to have meaning; meaning that I could write about at length (10 pages, double spaced, with a one-inch margin all around); meaning that could bring up my GPA.

But meaning, I have found, is elusive at best – and deeply personal. It should not be dissected and pinned to a board for inspection.

Last year I blogged about Jordan Burns' exhibit because it moved me. Simply that. I'm sure there's a whole vocabulary to express the artist's mastery with the medium, but I don't possess it. All I know is that through my whole – oh let's call it "sabbatical" – my heart and thoughts kept drifting back to my memory of the pieces.

Today, I came back to the work itself. I sat on cross-legged across one piece, Swerve, and just let myself get lost in it. Felt a sort of home-coming in the play of light and shadow; a measure of comfort in the chaos and ruin it depicts; hope in the way the stones look full of life somehow. And meaning was revealed in what the print pulled out of me; in the tie – strong and true – that it has had over me even through the darkness and silence of the last few months.

A little while ago, my friend Robert (who is writing a children’s book) described for the rest of us what a typical day looked like for him, living out his dream in his chosen profession. Now, I am not writing full time; however, I thought I might give you, my adoring public, a glimpse into my life as you peep through the keyhole in my front door (you voyeurs). I will relate to you the activities of this past Sunday (yesterday), a day carefully chosen and set aside to pursue my own writing endeavors.

8:00 AM
It’s a brand new day! I make a determined vow to forget how I procrastinated yesterday (and the day before that). So what if I was unable to reach my 2K word goal? I’ll just make up for it today! That’s right…. I’ll write 4K words. And, hey, why stop there. I bet I can get 6K, or even 8K….. I’m unstoppable!!!!!

Which is why I should stop and have breakfast.

I realize that I must go out of the house in order to do this because the only thing that’s edible in the entire apartment is the frost in the freezer and I don’t have any chocolate syrup to pour over it.

Anyway, it should only take me, like, 10 minutes to go grab some McD’s for my Breakfast of Champions meal.

10:37 AM
Time to turn my computer on so I can get started. While the computer boots up, I start to wonder about my belly button. Well, more specifically, my belly button lint. Actually, lest you think me self-centered, I start to tackle this mystery for the benefit of the entire human race.

Seriously, where does it come from? Does it come in peace? Is it influenced by diet?

The computer has finished its various morning exercises and is fully connected to the Internet. Which is great because I’ve got a lot of research to do!

Anyway, it should only take me, like, 10 minutes to find some answers.

12:43 PM
People! People! No need to panic! Turns out belly button lint is completely harmless, and requires no corrective action. Now we call all breath a collective sigh of relief.

Well. No more distractions. Time to wwwwwwrrrrrrrioiiioiisifsiofjs’dfisdj’ofjs’dofgjsd skdfsodisjoisd psofjspdovskx pefus09ihvxokvn popfos j’opsv;lk cvspiefwis pfosjovis


1:52 PM
Kitty climbed up to the keyboard looking for someplace warm to lay down. I’d have moved her but I felt so bad about having neglected her so much lately, what with all my writing getting in the way of running away from her in abject terror.

Of course now the morning’s gone. Still. I’m not panicked. It’s not like I’m a morning person anyway. All I need is a little inspiration. Since I’m writing a love story, it occurs to me that the reason I haven’t been very productive is that I’m not listening to the appropriate music. I need a song. No, I need The Song. You know, the one that just melts your heart because the guy says exactly the right words and promises just enough to make your heart soar, but not so much that you’re like: what kind of idiot do you take me for? Yeah. That one.

There was this song I used to listen to when I was in high school. Something about cactus in the spring time and fog… I think there was fog. Darn! What were the words again? I must find out because my brain has suddenly decided that it cannot live through another day without this song.

It’ll just take me a minute to find it on YouTube.

4:06 PM
Annie’s Song by John Denver.

I knew I’d find it!

Of course, now that I’ve listened to it for the first time in about 20 years, I’m not sure why I liked it to so much back then. It’s kind of depressing. Wow. What a waste of time. I need a break. I’ll just watch TV for a few seconds.

8:39 PM
No way!!!! I almost missed the Giants v. Chargers game… I can’t believe I’d forgotten that was today. Well, to be completely fair to myself, I didn’t really know that they were playing today, but boy was I glad I got to watch that blood bath.

Ha! In your face, Eli! The New York Giants are completely out of the running for Division leaders now, and with both Dallas and the Eagles doing so well right now, they’re not even looking good for being the Wild Card team. I’d be so psyched if they didn’t even make it to the play offs. :) Sweet!

See? NOW that that’s settled, I can sit down to write in peace. Oh, I know I didn’t get to write the whole day, like I’d planned. But I’m a night owl, so it’s all good! The night is young… Wooo Hooo!

11:19 PM
Wow. I must have drowsed off there for a minute….. The cat is sitting on my chest, licking my face so I gather she missed dinner. Hmmm…. Incredible. I can’t remember the last time I fell asleep so early. I must not be entirely over my cold yet. Maybe my body is trying to tell me something.

I should go to bed right now and start fresh in the morning. I know I didn’t reach my 2K-word goal for today. But I’m sure I can write 4K tomorrow.

Heck, why stop there, I could probably do 6K… maybe even 8K….

Medea tilted her head back and allowed the spray of water to hit her face full force. The sound of running water had always soothed her, but she hadn't stepped into the shower today to be soothed or comforted today--she was beyond all of that now. What she hoped as she had made the water scalding hot was that she could scrub away the thin layer of cliché that clung to her pores.

Jason's betrayal had done more than deceive her; it had changed who she was. She had become a shallow grave, a faint memory, a déjà vu. The archetypal (her detractors would probably say stereotypical) woman scorned.

How many would ever understand what she'd done today? Would anyone?

She knew that she'd be vilified, but a strange sense of calm had overtaken her.

For Jason, and the ones who'd come before him, she'd been nothing more than a rag to be dirtied and then tossed aside. She had facilitated that by making excuses for them: he's tired; he's under so much stress; he hurts. I can wait. My needs can wait. And so, one after the other, they'd only scorned her, ridiculed her, used her.

But this time was different; she'd made sure of it.

There would be no next time, this time.

As she washed the blood from her hands, she felt an endless nothingness in the place her heart had lived. She had killed her hopes, her dreams, her future. She should have been weeping. Instead, she felt relieved. And in control of her own destiny for once.

There would be no next time, this time.

After her shower, she dressed in simple robes, then walked out to her balcony where the chorus was already assembled. She could hear their wailing and their cries.

"Jason is gone. The children are gone. Oh, Medea, you are left desolate. What is left you?"

She surveyed the crowd stoically. "What do you mean what is left? I am left. Everything is left."