Season and Purpose

Glancing with reluctance at his crotch, which was sheltered by faded red surfer-style board shorts, the old man asked to use the bathroom. “Sorry, we don’t have a public restroom,” she answered. The employee was young – senior high school or early college. I suspect the “what is public” topic had been covered in training, maybe even as part of the employee handbook. Perhaps there was a form she had to sign indicating that she read the rules and pinky promised to abide by them.

This exchange of information came as a surprise to me because I’ve used their bathroom before and I am of the public persuasion.

He shifted gears from toilet to food. “Could I get a piece of fruit, maybe an apple? I have money.”

“Of course. Would you also like some water?’

“That would be most lovely,” he answered, pure and kind, not a hint of resentment for having been denied the potty.

He pulled rumpled ones from his swim pocket. As faded as his shorts, the money looked as though it had been laundered by sea and sun.

“To everything and for everyone, there is purpose and season,” he said to her as he handed over the bills, gentle-like.

She nodded, tilting her head, contemplating him without making eye contact. The bell on the door rang signaling his departure, still in need of a pee.

I placed my purchases on the counter – fresh green onions, roasted red pepper goat cheese, gourmet vegetable risotto, two heads of organic broccoli. “I’m here by myself today,” she said, her tone apologetic. “I’m trying to get everything done.” She totaled me up on the iPad register. I didn’t need a bag.

“You’re doing a good job.”

“I hated not to let him use the restroom.”

“I’m sure he’ll be okay.”

“It’s just that ­­–” she started to elaborate on her reasoning, justify her decision, but she stopped herself and sighed. I smiled at her. There was nothing to add or subtract from the situation or conversation. Life is full of micro and macro decisions and it’s admirable to self-reflect. There was no need for me to weigh in on the rights and wrongs of the universe. Sometimes the best thing to offer is the underrated, little recognized sibling of the gift of gab – the sercy of shutting the hell up.

On one hand, Red Shorts could be the type to go into the bathroom, shoot up with heroin, and leave a dirty needle on the counter. On another, he could be a heaven-sent disciple that lives modestly, doing odd jobs, spreading love and faith – influencing thought along the way. I have a brother who has played both of these hands. Right now, he’s the latter, but the residue of the former doesn’t wash off with soap; it lingers in the pores. It causes hesitation. It gets written into handbooks. It makes decision making hard.

“I’ll see you next week.” The bell chimed as I exited.

The wind was whipping as I drove over the Atlantic Beach Bridge, the waves white capping in the waterway. The forecast predicted high sustained gusts and beach hazards and it had proven to be accurate. Mother Nature was restless and rowdy. Red Shorts had stopped his bicycle at the crest of the bridge and, leaning against the railing, he was enjoying his recently purchased apple with the few teeth still housed in his mouth. His hair was blowing wildly in the wind, and he smiled and waved at me. I returned the gesture, wondering about the intersection of our paths.

Purpose and season. Season and purpose. Season. Purpose. Purpose. Season. I volleyed the words back and forth on my drive home.

I am no stranger to purpose. I grew up in a task focused family. From the vantage point of the tractor, Daddy often yelled encouraging, uplifting phrases such as, “Hurry up, what’s the matter with you? We’re not on vacation.” I had not confused picking up sticks or stacking wood or harvesting corn or throwing hay to the cows as vacation type recreation, but I kept those thoughts to myself and accelerated the pace.

Then I grew up and went to work for a company that instilled purpose into people’s lives, leading others to create visions for their futures. In front of audiences, I repeated the phrase, “Two ships set sail. One named, Aimless Wanderer, the other, Mindful Specific – which do you think made it to port first?”

Anyone? Anyone?

Mindful Specific for the win. Life was a race and damn if I didn’t get after it with precision and speed, recommending that others do the same. Purposefully on purpose. That’s what it was all about. The new business reality of more, better, faster with less – a mantra for the purposey.

While this indeed holds significance and worth, Red Shorts mentioned purpose and season. His one sentence motivational statement caused my heart to hiccup. Season gets the back seat on purpose. It’s hard to measure. It resists taming. It’s unpredictable. It’s high sustained gusts and beach hazards. It’s undeniable aimless wandering and maybe even aimless clinging to the life-vesting. It suggests that there’s a shelf life to what we might be experiencing, and the extra, extra read all about it, bad news involves the reckless abandon kind of removal of control.

Back at home, I took a walk with this idea, the wind still blowing a small gale and what flooded the streets of my mind drenched me in season. When I look hard at these two words, the sharp turns and vivid moments in my mind play back in time and image.

There was the lingering summer of 2006, causing my mama’s flowers to mark time past their expiration date, allowing me to loiter with her glorious green thumb in the months after she left earth for another garden.

The fluffy snow of early December in 2017 matching my father in law’s white hair, as he took his final breaths in a peaceful Hospice House and traveled to West Virginia to rest forever with his wife and son, flakes gently swirling in the air.

The golden Aspen of an autumn Colorado, the warm greeting backdrop of my first airplane ride.

A breakthrough spring flower in the concrete crack of the waterway bridge, displaying that even under challenging circumstances, seeds can find a way to take root and bloom – as it’s their season to do so.

I didn’t make any of these things happen, rather the purpose showed up in the season. If purpose is the drive, then season might be a culmination of all the other gears that make the ride worth traveling and remembering, working in a yin and yang kind of concert.

While I am indebted to the things purpose has provided, I’m learning lessons from a facilitator called season.

A few days have passed, and I have roasted broccoli with green onions and made risotto with goat cheese. The wind has settled, and the water has turned calm and inviting. Perhaps I’ll take a sail on Aimless Wanderer and catch a glimpse of Captain Red Shorts. I might not make it first to port but it seems that doesn’t matter as much as I once believed.

 Anyone? Anyone?