satisfaction | The Direction of Intention

20 Cents A Toe [David’s blog on saturday morning smack-dab]

Posted on June 22, 2024 by davidrobinsoncreative

Kerri rarely buys herself anything. Shoes have to fall off her feet before she will allow herself to buy another pair. And so it was with her flip-flops. Meant to be worn for a single season, her old pair had seen several seasons. They carried her for many, many miles. The heel was so thin it was nearly transparent when held up to the light. It’s worth noting that our summer footwear consists almost entirely of flip-flops. Recently, on every walk, on almost every step, she’d grit her teeth or squeak, “Ouch!” She felt every pebble, every uneven crack in the sidewalk. She was the Princess-and-the-Pea of footwear.

I was stunned when we went to the Old Navy outlet to take advantage of their $2 flip-flop sale and she walked out the door with three pair! “Who are you?” I asked, deeply concerned that she was experiencing a severe medical event. She explained that she couldn’t decide so in an uncanny, unusual and unfamiliar act of self-care, she splurged and bought all three.

“Six bucks!” she told 20 as she was modeling her footwear-coup. “Six bucks!”

“Wow,” he said, “That’s incredible. Catching my eye he added, “That’s 20 cents a toe! Good job!”

She beamed. Three pairs of flip-flops and deep inner satisfaction – all for six bucks! Worth every single penny spent on every single toe.

read Kerri’s blogpost about FLIP-FLOPS

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Know The Poem [on KS Friday]

Posted on April 15, 2022 by davidrobinsoncreative

“Spring has returned. The Earth is like a child that knows poems.” ~Rainier Maria Rilke

“First robin!” she said.

“What?”

“First robin. That means spring is here!” she looked at me with “duh” eyes. I was new to Wisconsin so the rituals were not yet known to me. I did not yet understand that in this strange land a water cooler is called a “bubbler” and that cheese curds are sacred food. Before the week was out, I’d heard it three times from strangers. “First robin!”

Years ago, during my first winter in Seattle, after months of gray, the sun came out for an hour and all the people working downtown poured out of the tall buildings and stood facing the sun. They moaned with satisfaction. “What’s this!” I exclaimed. Weird behavior. The next year, after months of dreary gray, the moment the sun peeked from behind the drab curtain, I ran out of my apartment to revel in the return. Leaning against a brick wall, eyes closed, feeling the warmth on my face and the heat reaching my bones, I knew this was my passage to becoming a “local”. I moaned with satisfaction.

Poetry is visceral. It has it roots in the moans of sun drinkers and robin-seers. The green pushing up from dark soil. The smell of spring or the first hint of warmth on the winter wind. Words cannot capture feelings but isn’t it glorious that we try?

We were walking the neighborhood on a cold afternoon. She squeezed my hand and pointed. “First robin,” I said and she smiled. “Spring.”

Now, doesn’t “First robin. Spring!” sound like a grand start to a poem of renewal? Ahhhhhh, yes. A hint of warmth on the wind, harbinger of green shoots reaching. Someday soon, sun will call me out of hiding and color my pale face.

read Kerri’s blogpost about FIRST ROBIN