|
A
few days ago, after spending some time on Poodle Beach, I was checking
out my tan. I visit a tanning bed frequently during the fall, winter,
and spring, but during the summer I tell myself that I’ll hit the
beach every weekend, so who needs a tanning bed? But alas, all too
frequently on summer weekends in Rehoboth, I find myself sleeping late
and then enjoying a leisurely brunch that keeps me from making it to the
sand before early afternoon, so I don’t spend much time catching rays.
Then, too, my self-diagnosed ADD prevents me from sunning for more than
an hour. In addition, my face burns and peels, and I end up looking more
like a victim of Agent Orange than a religious sun-worshiper. Ah, the
perils of maintaining the body beautiful!
But
while examining my melatonin status the other day, I remembered that my
stomach actually retains the dark, desired hue. After lingering over my
gym-worked abs for a few minutes, I noticed a physical feature that I
haven’t considered, much less admired, in years-my navel! I realize
that your navel is not something you consider often, nor is it something
you usually boast about at a cocktail party. “Tom! Put down that
cosmopolitan and get over here! You have just got to see this guy’s
belly button!”
But
my obsessive-compulsive mind picked up the thought and ran with it. I
began to tug at the skin on my stomach and revel in the glory of my
navel. Just above it remains a small hole from which a bold gold ring
used to protrude, and fledgling stubbles of dark hair trailed south. My
navel is a nice-sized, suprisingly symmetrical innie, forming an
intricate swirl like its own little galaxy in the center of my tummy.
(Incidentally, this notorious clean freak is sad to report, I was
reminded that even a little galaxy needs a thorough cleaning every now
and then. I wonder if the Andromeda galaxy gets cluttered with lint? And
does God use colossal Q-tips and lots of rubbing alcohol, like my mother
always told me to do?)
My
rediscovered navel filled me with a sense of awe and respect for small
things-a feeling, I must confess, I haven’t harbored in quite some
time. This was the very spot, I reflected, from which I was cut forever
from my mother and dropped into a sometimes frightening world of
personal autonomy. Had I known what I was in store for-especially living
gay in a heterosexist world-would I have been kicking and screaming for
different reasons than my newborn body being passed around the delivery
room or my bottom being spanked? (I must have achieved some degree of
maturity in the past twenty-seven years. Now I daydream about someone
spanking my bottom-all the better if it’s a doctor.)
Anyway,
I began to contemplate a few of my favorite things, and I have made a
conscious decision to remember them whenever I’m feeling down. First
of all, I am so blessed to have my family. My parents and brother are
endlessly supportive, and I am eternally grateful. They only question my
aspirations enough to make me give them a necessary second look before
plunging in with both feet. They thank me for enriching their lives and
tell me that they love me every time we speak. Most importantly, they
show me that they respect me by accepting me unconditionally and
verbally slapping some sense into my head when I need it. You really
can’t ask for much more than that.
I
am dually blessed with wonderful friends. It is true that most friends
come and go, and I am grateful for many such casual cameos in my life up
until this point. But there are a few friends-an invaluable handful-who
stand by you through thick and thin, and for some cosmic reason, you
feel the need to do the same. Sometimes, you glance through a photo
album or read an inscription in a book given to you as a gift, and you
realize that the greatest gift this world holds is the insurmountable
power and grace of a true friendship.
I
am fortunate enough to awake each morning looking forward to going to
work. Granted, I don’t usually tap dance around the office brimming
with glee (at least not until just before the whistle blows on Friday
afternoon), but my co-workers are my friends and family, too, always
ready to lend an ear, a few kind words of praise, or even the pencil
sharpener. I think we’ve all made a conscious decision that if we are
going to spend forty-plus hours per week looking at each other’s
faces, we ought to spend some time looking inside each other, too. And
we usually like what we see.
Some
small things that make me happy are like tiny colorful sparks that dance
through my senses every once in a while. Like the way my oldest niece
whispers, “I love you, Uncle Eric” before I hang up the phone…the
first time each summer when the rolling waves of the Atlantic ocean
freeze my toes…the pungent, papery odor of a new book and the wise
words I know hide inside…the inked-up, dog-eared, yellowing pages of
an old book that I curl up with and rest my head upon after I can’t
believe it ended that way again…my favorite lines of a memorized movie
that I quote over and over again…the bittersweet memories of old loves
and the tender anticipation of new loves to come…the hypnotic drizzle
of rain outside the window as I write these words.
Do
this sarcastic, sentimental writer a favor. The next time your heart has
been plucked off your sleeve and trod upon, or tears well up in your
eyes and it’s not because a grain of sand has found its way underneath
your contact lens, find a calm spot free of distraction. Clear your
head. Light a candle, burn some incense, or set your childhood stuffed
animal beside you. Take out a piece of paper, and write down twenty-five
little things that still make you happy. Then, when you’re amazed at
how many you’ve forgotten and how much fun it is remembering, turn
over the page and keep going. I guarantee that you won’t be able to
stop at twenty-five.
If
you need some inspiration to get started, just take a look at your belly
button.
Eric
lives in Claymont, Delaware and is a frequent visitor to Rehoboth Beach.
If you’re the kind of person who appreciates the little things,
contact him at eric.a.morrison@verizon.net.
He’ll get back to you as soon as he puts down the Q-tip.
|
