I will begin simply.  Years ago I was introduced to the power of the written word when used to share a slice of life that mattered.  My parents were moving out of our childhood home after thirty-two years.  As a tribute, I recorded it in an essay and sent it out as a Christmas greeting.  The emotional response to that essay was unexpected.  Tears were shed, second copies were requested. It seemed the readers found themselves with two feet firmly planted in a moment that mattered. And it felt good.

I walk through my days much like everyone else, but once in awhile I am treated to something that stirs… simple kindness, a helpless look, unbridled laughter, a simple exchange between strangers, road rage, a comedic fumbling of words, an elderly man with red eyes brimming with tears.  Moments that say to me…this is what it means to be a human being.  Moments which reveal the soul at a depth where words are often inadequate to capture its essence.

Those of you who have read Halfway to Each Other will recognize that the story of our year in Italy was written in this manner. A string of moments, like knots on a rope, that enabled me to climb above my own limits and end up perched at the top with a new view of life as it spread out gloriously below.

Opinions and circumstances come and go, life moves in streams around us, TV news and journalists blur together as I try to keep up with it all, but give me a moment of pure humanity, give me a glimpse of raw innocence or yearning or naked anger and I will stop and give you my full attention. That is why I read:  to give words to my aches, permission to my longings, and action to my reticence. That is also why I write.

This blog will be an experiment.  I will begin by posting the chapters of the book that were cut for one reason or another.  After that, I will pack a journal in my handbag and record the moments that tug deeply. Moments that matter.  We’ll try this thing together, you and I, soul to soul.

I sat in the back of the taxi cab, counting the fuzzy braids that flayed out beneath the cabbie’s knit cap, a huge black spider with crazy legs.  Slumped down in his seat with one lazy arm guiding the wheel, he looked like he was parked rather than barreling down the highway at breakneck speeds.  I tightened my seatbelt as I started singing War’s Low Rider in my head,

“All my friends, know the low rider…”

The Mapquest directions I handed him had landed on the floor of the passenger side of the front seat.  I craned my neck so he would notice that I noticed.  Since I did not know my way around Austin, I was hoping that he would take me to my hotel and not his favorite crack house.

“So, is the Austin Motel nice?” I asked with my polite, yet firm, voice.

“Yeah, s’ real nice.”

“The Austin Motel on South Congress?”

“Yeah, s’ real nice.”

“Because I didn’t want you to confuse it with another Austin Motel, because, you know, since we’re in Austin there might be a few.” I added with my still polite, yet firm, voice. “I think my directions fell on your floor.”

“Don’t you worry, Honey, I got ya.”  You got me? And I am hardly your Honey, Mr Taxi Driver.

“Low Rider knows every street, yeah…”

I studied the ID card that hung from the rearview mirror.  The mirror that he did not seem to need as he wove through traffic.  Okay, Jeremiah.  I’ve got your name and number. I’m writing it all down right here on my hotel reservation sheet.  I’m sure that will make the drug dealers at the crack house nervous.

There’s something unnerving about taking a cab when I am traveling alone; willingly stepping into a stranger’s vehicle and assuming he/she is of sound mind and body.  I hate the fact that I have to take the taxi at the front of the line at the airport.  I think one should be able to size up the drivers beforehand and choose the one with whom you want to risk your life.

“Car 2547 do you read? Car 2547?  What’s your location?” The shortwave radio crackled and spat. He reached for the hand mic and held it to his mouth.

“Hey Baby,” his voice suddenly deeper, Barry White-ish, “yeah, uhmmmm, who-ooo, oh yeah….Airport run then I’m done.” Giggles on the other end.  Very professional.

“Low Rider is the one to meet, yeah.”

He replaced the mic and smirked sideways at me.

“She digs me.”  Digs you?  As in Susan Dey digs Keith Partridge?

“I’m sure she does.”

“Just moved here from Houston. Gots ta keep the ladies happy.  Good for business.”

“Of course.” He leaned over and turned the volume knob to the left, muting the female voice and revealing long, yellowed fingernails.  Nice.

“This is just a side gig.”

“Really?”  I asked since I felt that humoring him would keep those fingernails on the wheel. “On the side of what?”

“Music.” His eyes lit up and his lips curled into a smile.

“Austin’s a great place for that.”

“My band’s in the line-up for the festival.”

“Well, congratulations.”

“Thank you,” he turned his head and looked me square in the eye. “I ‘precciate that. I do.  It’s a lot of work, you know?  Followin’ your passion. Puttin’ your heart on the line.”

“I do know.”  I sat back and relaxed as we chatted about taking risks and chance meetings.

He veered onto the off ramp and turned left.  As we wound through the city streets I took in the sights as he threw out a few historical facts. He even filled me in on the Austin Motel, how it has been a family run business for over 60 years weathering good times and bad.

“Take a little trip. Take a little trip with me.”

Before I knew it, my Low Rider taxi friend pulled up to the Austin Motel.  He jumped out of the car and opened my door with a deep theatrical bow and a wave of his arm.

“Thank you for the ride,” I said with sincerity as I pulled out a few bills and handed them to him. “And good luck with the concert.”

He gave me a sideways smirk and slid in to the driver’s seat. I watched for a long moment as he eased his way back into traffic and joined a sea of red tail lights snaking toward downtown.