LOVE RULES ON PORTLAND PARK BLOCKS AND BLACK HEARTS

It was a dark and stormy night for love rules? No, not stormy, but dark, and I was in a certain space somewhere between regret and remorse.

So maybe it was stormy after all, my own little shower of despair.

It started with a conversation inside a Willamette Writers meeting, which is always a challenge. If you’ve ever talked to a writer, you know the drill.

I have goals, writing goals, and attending a monthly meeting for a few decades is one of them, along with having an awkward conversation.

First I parked the car in front of the business I was ingloriously ejected from to show I harbor no ill will. And I don’t. Really, I don’t. And here’s why: the Army trains soldiers to respect the uniform, if not the man wearing it.

Business carries a similar thread. Love rules for those who understand the rules.

The chair I found for the writers meeting was on the outside of a back row. Near the door. Why that chair? I think you know why.

I checked with the person in the next chair to be sure it was open instead of plopping down like some rude jackass.

Lately my conversation starter with strangers goes like this: “Doing anything different since corona?”

The person next to me said, “I wash my hands constantly, which is great for my OCD.”

I liked them right away.

We had what seemed like normal writer talk. He told me what he was working on; I mentioned my work in progress.

He told me a family member passed from cancer, and we were off.

Now, I’m a good listener no matter what those who know me say. I practice. I need more practice.

My new pal said the family passing was hard because they wanted to do more in the time left to their family member.

I stuck my foot in it with, “I get that. They shut you out.”

This is what I would have said if the ice age hadn’t descended:

Once the medical world tells you to put your things in order, the clock starts. Some go with their bucket list, some withdraw from normal life, some carry on like everything is fine, just fine.

It’s the last one that hurts most. Those of us who know about the tick tock of the death clock don’t want to be excluded. We want to share, celebrate, show how much love rules.

Is that asking too much? Consider the outpouring of emotions at the next funeral.

I could tell the guy had unfinished business with his old man, but I didn’t want to say we all have unfinished business with our old man. That’s why some people have kids.

If time and place matters in messaging, this was neither the time nor place to explain a hard learned life lesson.

For example: I recently met a guy I haven’t seen in a year. I sat next to him and acted like we were two guys on the bus riffing on what life shows us.

Turned out he was on a chemo pill for the rest of his life. When he said it, I resisted the urge to find out more.

This old man had already shut that door, so I sat there like it’s all normal. It’s a good thing to do with someone who would rather talk about anything than themselves.

When love rules, follow the lit path, not the dark one. Be the light.

That’s what I would have said if the conversation had had a chance to evolve.

I left under a cloak of jerkdom, of knowing better. It was a writers meeting, not group therapy, and I’ve always seen them as one and the same.