"Invention is the mother of necessity"

I just saw the notice: Blogger is getting a new look in April.  I learnt today that, come March 30, Facebook's Timeline will be mandatory.  When did these tools we opted to use begin to mildly frustrate us as their purveyors push what they think is better?  We could opt out - or could we?  Well, we could, but, we have grown an extra limb or two or three.   Getting through our days without the Twitter limb or - for some - the Facebook limb, seems like a crazy, far-fetched idea.  When the creators of these limbs twist our arms to get us to move in their direction, quite frankly, it doesn't take much effort on their part.  It's pretty much get with it or get out of the way!

You may know of my love and appreciation for Marshall McLuhan's quotes:  "The medium is the message/massage"; "We shape our tools and then our tools shape us" and, a more recent fave, "Invention is the mother of necessity"!  So, there you have it, folks!  Let's just take that all in for a moment, shall we?  (Tangent:  I do like that part of the Bio that says: "He was learning in spite of his professors, but he would become a professor of English in spite of himself."  Not too keen on the "training of perception" idea, though.  I think it bothers me... or intrigues me...?  Not yet sure which. I would have to explore whether my appreciation for these quotes is incongruous with that idea... I dunno.  And now is not the time to ponder this.)   Moving on.

We have indeed shaped our tools and, in turn, have been shaped by them.  Our priorities have changed; our preferences for the way we interact have been re-defined.  There is a tool for every mood; a tool for every kind of message.  The medium that we use helps to shape the (kind of) message we wish to send.  Sometimes you'd rather not call, just text - because, well, you know.  The invention of gadgets and electronic tools galore have birthed the (desperate) need for accessories we had no clue we sooo needed before they came on stream.  We have a gazillion ways to talk and interact with each other, but more and more of which have little to do with the original - face to face.  Not in a Skype or other video chat way, either, but, in the way where we can reach out and touch each other; hug; hold.   Question: If we had an opportunity to get together with all our followers, LinkedIn contacts or Facebook friends, for example, would we?  Or, ok, we might have placed them in categories based on shared interests.  Even then, would we want to be in the presence of all these people of like interests?  I imagine the answer depends quite a bit on our personality but, whatever it is, we gotta give thought to the possibility that, at any given time, there are people with whom we would want to be in touch with physically and there are those we don't.  Also, that there is a time when it's convenient to connect and a time when it is not. And, there is a tool, a medium, for every preference. 

More than anything, however, all this repeatedly brings home to me the distinction between what really matters and what doesn't.  What.  People close to me matter to me.  A lot.  However, a few offline contacts/friends have come to matter, too.  And the joy (the what) that they bring to my life is invaluable - even if just for a season.  So, while we *cough* I *cough* bond with a new PlayBook (thanks for helping me choose @MizDurie), discover new ways to connect online and indulge in reading on the go, I've come to accept a few things:  (1) The fast pace and accoutrements of technology will be around for a while.  (2) The occasional mild frustration is bearable when compared with the thought of a severed limb.  (3) There is peace in creating at my own pace and (4) It's important that I remain grounded and book face time!


Updated: 2012-03-28 at 4:28PM with link to story on FB's Timeline.


Claudia
www.cyopro.com
www.twitter.com/cyopro

Writers' Heaven

How often do we get the opportunity to occupy our comfort zone? (Not thinking in the sense of Occupy Wall, Bay, Main and other streets now.  Stay with me.)  I mean occupy as in filling up our entire comfort zone  with, and being engaged in, something that is so satisfying, it moves us.  Hmm.  Occupy to the point of being moved.  And, we might have a few comfort zones but, I'm talking about that special one; the one you'd refer to as the zone.  Truth is, depending on our particular situations, we don't get such an opportunity very often.  What to do?  What to do?  If it means that much to us, we have to make these opportunities; make the time to indulge in and bask in and revel in that zone.

I don't know whether this has ever happened to you, but, over the past couple of years - and, more so, in the past few months - it has happened to me.  It's that phenomenon where, you publicly express your desire or preference for something and, all of a sudden, you become aware of like things around you.  Once I finally knocked some sense into my head and woke up conscious to the fact that my not being a published writer does not make me any less of a writer; once I recognized the fact (read: fact) that I had to write or suffocate; once I nodded my head in agreement with my handsome inner editor that I was not in love with the idea of writing (though, what a lovely idea, eh?) but the act of writing - and that the act is hard, grueling, at times frustrating work that might not even be rewarding except in the relief and satisfaction that the words on the page are exactly the words you wanted to get out; the story you wanted to tell...  Once I got all that out, or done, or in, I began to see opportunities to help me on this journey.  Folks around me - beside my sis @MizDurie, my harshest and gentlest critic, and my mother @jawil7, my biggest fan, in whose eyes none of my writing is ever crap (Language! Sorry, mother!) - started talking to me, and getting me to talk, about my writing.  In time, encouragement came from other quarters like Twitter - people whom  I'd never met before, but seemed to realize what my writing meant to me. Imagine my joy when I saw a comment on one of my posts from @grammakaye the other day!  Precious little things like that...

And, bigger things, too!  I long ago signed up for alerts to communications courses organized by my workplace.  Imagine my delight when I saw one for Creative Communicators! I registered. The long and the short, turns out I had registered for writers' heaven!  And I didn't have to die or anything!  It was a glorious day spent occupying my comfort zone.  And, people who "get it"; who get "this writing thing" were there.  Do you know how much of a relief it is not to have to explain the wherefores (read: whys) of yourself as a writer?  It's surprising how light that makes you feel. The facilitators, @imruthwalker and @gwynnscheltema, gently helped me discover, hitherto yet unknown (to me, anyway) abilities within.  (It was like that time I went to audition for that ad, and the casting director asked me to convey a particular emotion.  It was not until that moment that I knew I could cry on cue!)  So, there we were, in writers' heaven.  It was a mixed group - folks at different places on their own journeys.  We shut the doors; shut out the rest of the workplace - and the world.  We locked ourselves away and made ourselves at home.  Home.  Just looking at that word, knowing the weight of the meaning it holds in relation to my writing, brings tears.  I have a bit of a reference to a Robert Frost's poem on my Twitter account.  But, the desired quote from "The Death of the Hired Man" says, "Home is the place where, when you have to go there, They have to take you in."  I live in writing.  It's a haven for me. (The Lord knows what I mean; He gets it.) It's that place where, if they don't take me in, I'd be homeless...

I'm glad they've taken me in.  Who's "they"?  Doesn't matter.  At this moment, though, "they" just might be my alter ego which has an alter ego - which isn't me!  The little voices in my head must be them plotting how to get out.  Periodically, I pay them some mind, introduce them to my handsome inner editor, and, as soon as we transcribe their stories, they go quiet again.

'Til next time.


Claudia
www.cyopro.com
www.twitter.com/cyopro

No Mad Rush Required

Ever get the feeling that we're all flying about in this social media sphere, occasionally bumping into each other?  That each of us is trying to say something profound and original, while kinda knowing, deep down, that, if we have thought of it, somebody else, somewhere on this planet of seven billion plus people, must have thought of it, too?  That the race then becomes, who can get to put it out there first, in front of the widest audience - and be recognized as the author or creator.

I get that feeling.  Sometimes, that's exactly the kind of race in which I find myself.  There's so much information at our fingertips, it's one thing to rummage through the sheer pile of it all to find a gem.  It's another to be the creator of that gem!  This brings to mind a few lines from that piece I "discovered" and studied for my dramatic monologue for the audition for the part I got in the ad the other day (may I buy another "for"?)  The piece is from George Bernard Shaw's "Man and Superman" (ACT I, 182) .  Tanner is speaking to Tavy (Octavius) about the raging tension, if you will, between the "artist/man" and the "mother/woman": "Our minds are nothing more than this knowledge of ourselves, and he who adds one jot to such knowledge, creates new mind, as surely as any woman creates new men."  Who would not want to add to the body of knowledge that now exists? Now.  Now.  (Get it? Moving target.)  It is a challenge with which doctoral and other students grapple.  A lot.  Heck, it's not just a student/scholarly thing.  In the world outside the classroom, that desire to add to the body of knowledge among human beings is most times simply referred to as "making my mark". 

And, these days, it is way easier to do that.  (For the purpose of this post, never mind the kind of mark.)  And, if we can do it - add to knowledge or make our mark in such a way that we receive (almost) instant recognition and, quite possibly, reward, well, it certainly helps to explain the mad rush to do so.

But, oh, how tiring.  And, what do we give up in the pursuit of this goal?  It has taken me a while to learn - everybody doesn't learn at the same pace - that the joy is not in finishing first and standing out and and and...  But, instead, in being courageous enough to create, and being aware that God has blessed each of us with that something already unique to each of us - our unique selves.  That, if we simply be ourselves and let Him help us discover our talents and gifts and use them, we can - and will - exceed our own expectations.  And, be happy.

No mad rush required. 

Claudia 

www.cyopro.com

www.twitter.com/cyopro

Way to go! You dreamer and creator, you!

You know how sometimes you make an adamantine decision to do something, and, one day into the next, procrastination reigns, the next thing you know it’s like two and a half years after and it’s still not done? Ever get that? Of course, you can hardly help but wonder what happened to that rock hard resolution? What was sharp enough to poke a hole – sometimes not easily detected – into your iron-clad resolve? Whatever it was, it succeeded. And you wake up one day and kinda go, “Hmm. Whatever happened to my dream to do so and so?"

Well, this post isn’t about the lost dreams or the procrastination or the poked hole or the rusty resolution. Nope. This is about acknowledging and saluting you if you have ever had the courage to dream and then do it! This is about admiring your perseverance and your vim, vigour and vitality; your guts and gusto in going against the odds to get to your goal. And, believe me, sometimes it takes a lot of guts. And gusto!  I know.  I stepped out of my comfort zone again today.  It wasn't an awful experience, but it did remind me that creativity requires strength.

We live in a cynical world and people can be brutal in their criticisms. They don’t have to know you (and even those who do, how well do they?) to try to crush every move you make. You would think they get paid to do it (some do, I guess); that they find a warped and twisted joy in doing it (some do, I guess). On top of that, they have a tool to effect that criticism loud and clear and for many to see (read: read). For, with all the social networking and mobile apps and what not, a venomous word is just a click away, most times from behind that previously-spoken-about wall of anonymity.

When one finds the courage to do according to his/her dream, being grounded, and having time-tried-and-tested support, is paramount. You gotta have the people you have known, and who have cared about you from Adam, in your corner. For, once you create something, here come the editors! They never…well, make that, they don’t (it would appear) have the guts to create something, perhaps fearing that there are others out there like themselves who can’t wait to tear ‘em down and rip ‘em to shreds. They opt not to be creators but editors. Not the constructive type, either. So, you create and put it out there and the response (read: backlash) from the small online world (each person is just a touch of a button away which makes it small) comes fast and furious. As you know, no matter what, you will never – as in never – be able to please everyone. I mean, come on, look at how many were displeased with Jesus. Jesus!

It takes guts to create. And, it takes guts to share it with someone as you risk ridicule or rejection. Be wise in your choices regarding with whom you share and make sure to make a paper trail. Be creative with wild abandon but apply common sense and wisdom in your transactions. As a well-meaning creative person with good intentions, you might not even be able to fathom how cruel some will get as they set out to ravish your new ideas, or even just “change it a little”, to call it their own.

Use up your God-given talent; He’s got your back. Be wise. Be fearless.

And, way to go! You dreamer, doer, creator and achiever you!


 
Claudia
http://www.cyopro.com/
www.twitter.com/cyopro

"Your Dream"

Apparently, I wasn't always as happy as I am now.  I imagine, too, that I am not as happy now as I will be.  But, we'll wax philosophical another time ;-)  For this time and purpose, I'm sharing one of the poems I wrote just as I had exited my teenage years.  Seriously, I'm looking over these poems in this practically dust-covered book and going, "What was I thinking?"  Well, I kinda know.  For the most part, I was in love.  You can't really tell a teenager that what he/she is feeling isn't love.  So, most of my poems from that time had to do with love, as I knew it.  That, or my quest to discover life as I'd come to know it. I've tried, in sharing a few of these, to resist the urge to edit. The better writer / older woman / inner editor is having a tough time, but, here it is, as it was.

Your Dream

Can I...borrow your dream?

It's funny but it seems

Yours is so much brighter,

Filled with more...more hope.

Mine, on the other hand, is doped

With inhibitions, doubts and longstanding

Evidence (caused by a misunderstanding)

That it will not be realized.

So, before I lose

All faith in my future,

May I borrow yours for a minute?

While I try to suture

My edges, which I've all but gone over.

It's like crimson and clover,

Black and white.  No shades of grey.

You either have one, or you don't.

Dare you lend me your dream?

I'll either return it, or I won't.

- Dnafcnatgada

July 6, 1991

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Another Fave from the 'Net

Once in a while I come across gems on the net that I hold on to, in some way shape or form, for posterity.  (Granted, my future generations mightn't share the same tastes nor interest in the stuff I'd have left for them.  But then again, they might.)  I've reproduced a few here before, giving credit as due - of course.  Here's another.  This one's by comedian Dave Barry.

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Dave Barry's Guide to Guys!

Let's say a guy named Roger is attracted to a woman named Elaine. He asks her out to a movie; she accepts; they have a pretty good time. A few nights later he asks her out to dinner, and again they enjoy themselves. They continue to see each other regularly, and after a while neither one of them is seeing anybody else.

And then, one evening when they're driving home, a thought occurs to Elaine, and, without really thinking, she says it aloud: ''Do you realize that, as of tonight, we've been seeing each other for exactly six months?''

And then there is silence in the car. To Elaine, it seems like a very loud silence. She thinks to herself: Geez, I wonder if it bothers him that I said that. Maybe he's been feeling confined by our relationship; maybe he thinks I'm trying to push him into some kind of obligation that he doesn't want, or isn't sure of.

And Roger is thinking: Gosh. Six months.

And Elaine is thinking: But, hey, I'm not so sure I want this kind of relationship, either. Sometimes I wish I had a little more space, so I'd have time to think about whether I really want us to keep going the way we are, moving steadily toward . . . I mean, where are we going? Are we just going to keep seeing each other at this level of intimacy? Are we heading toward marriage? Toward children? Toward a lifetime together? Am I ready for that level of commitment? Do I really even know this person?

And Roger is thinking: . . . so that means it was . . . let's see . . ...February when we started going out, which was right after I had the car at the dealer's, which means . . . lemme check the odometer . . . Whoa! I am way overdue for an oil change here.

And Elaine is thinking: He's upset. I can see it on his face. Maybe I'm reading this completely wrong. Maybe he wants more from our relationship, more intimacy, more commitment; maybe he has sensed -- even before I sensed it -- that I was feeling some reservations. Yes, I bet that's it. That's why he's so reluctant to say anything about his own feelings. He's afraid of being rejected.

And Roger is thinking: And I'm gonna have them look at the transmission again. I don't care what those morons say, it's still not shifting right. And they'd better not try to blame it on the cold weather this time. What cold weather? It's 87 degrees out, and this thing is shifting like a goddamn garbage truck, and I paid those incompetent thieves $600.

And Elaine is thinking: He's angry. And I don't blame him. I'd be angry, too. God, I feel so guilty, putting him through this, but I can't help the way I feel. I'm just not sure.

And Roger is thinking: They'll probably say it's only a 90-day warranty. That's exactly what they're gonna say, the scumballs.

And Elaine is thinking: Maybe I'm just too idealistic, waiting for a knight to come riding up on his white horse, when I'm sitting right next to a perfectly good person, a person I enjoy being with, a person I truly do care about, a person who seems to truly care about me. A person who is in pain because of myself-centered, schoolgirl romantic fantasy.

And Roger is thinking: Warranty? They want a warranty? I'll give them a goddamn warranty. I'll take their warranty and stick it right up their ...

''Roger,'' Elaine says aloud. ''What?'' says Roger, startled.

''Please don't torture yourself like this,'' she says, her eyes beginning to brim with tears. ''Maybe I should never have . . Oh God, I feel so ...

(She breaks down, sobbing.) ''What?'' says Roger.

''I'm such a fool,'' Elaine sobs. ''I mean, I know there's no knight. I really know that. It's silly. There's no knight, and there's no horse.''

''There's no horse?'' says Roger. ''You think I'm a fool, don't you?'' Elaine says. ''No!'' says Roger, glad to finally know the correct answer. ''It's just that . . . It's that I . . . I need some time,'' Elaine says. 

(There is a 15-second pause while Roger, thinking as fast as he can, tries to come up with a safe response. Finally he comes up with one that he thinks might work.)

"Yes,'' he says. (Elaine, deeply moved, touches his hand.) ''Oh, Roger, do you really feel that way?'' she says. ''What way?'' says Roger. ''That way about time,'' says Elaine.

''Oh,'' says Roger. ''Yes.'' (Elaine turns to face him and gazes deeply into his eyes, causing him to become very nervous about what she might say next, especially if it involves a horse.

(At last she speaks.) ''Thank you, Roger,'' she says. ''Thank you,'' says Roger. 

Then he takes her home, and she lies on her bed, a conflicted, tortured soul, and weeps until dawn.  Whereas, when Roger gets back to his place, he opens a bag of Doritos, turns on the TV, and immediately becomes deeply involved in a rerun of a tennis match between two Czechoslovakians he never heard of. A tiny voice in the far recesses of his mind tells him that something major was going on back there in the car, but he is pretty sure there is no way he would ever understand what, and so he figures it's better if he doesn't think about it. (This is also Roger's policy regarding world hunger.)

The next day Elaine will call her closest friend, or perhaps two of them, and they will talk about this situation for six straight hours. In painstaking detail, they will analyze everything she said and everything he said, going over it time and time again, exploring every word, expression, and gesture for nuances of meaning, considering every possible ramification. They will continue to discuss this subject, off and on, for weeks, maybe months, never reaching any definite conclusions, but never getting bored with it, either.

Meanwhile, Roger, while playing racquetball one day with a mutual friend of his and Elaine's, will pause just before serving, frown, and say: ''Norm, did Elaine ever own a horse?''

###

Claudia 

www.cyopro.com

www.twitter.com/cyopro

"The Spot" - A Short Story

In response to the first short story I posted here, I heard from folks who'd never commented on my blog/ writing before.  That was...neat.   Thanks, always, for the comments. I welcome them.  Really.



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THE SPOT

The day was not too hot; it was not too cold.  Like the baby bear’s porridge in the story, it was just right.  Jade pulled in to the parking lot, music blaring from her car’s speakers.  Her body moved to the beat and rhythm of the heavy bass line and drums.  It wasn’t her favourite music to listen to, though it was on the playlist for her workout.  But, this wasn’t a morning for listening.  This was a morning for dancing - or wiggling – as she moved as best she could, tapping out the beat on the steering wheel.  As she got closer to the supermarket, she turned the music down and tried to will her body to keep still.  Her head kept the beat, though, as she spotted a space to her left. 

As usual, she inched forward so she could reverse into the spot, wrapping to her left.  Jade was about three-quarters of the way in, checking her right side mirror and about to straighten up, when she heard the sound of a horn behind her.  She knew she had made sure the space was clear.  Still, she glanced quickly at her left side mirror in time to see a car pulling into the same spot!  How could that be?  Jade imagined that...actually, she couldn’t imagine what the driver might have been thinking.  All she knew was that she could reverse no farther into the spot and the other driver did not have enough space to pull forward.  This was going to be interesting.

Growing up, Jade was never afraid of being confrontational.  If it didn’t look right, she felt it her right and business to speak up.  Granted, she’d also noticed how she had mellowed a little by the time she got to her late thirties. She had, as someone said, “learned to pick her battles.”  So, she sat there and toyed with the idea of just waiting out the other driver.  Maybe he – or she – would get the message and find another spot.  Why did she have to be the one to move?  She was there first!  Plus, she was already three-quarters of the way in!  What kind of unconscionable creature would creep up on someone and try to take a parking spot when the spot was almost filled?  Ooooh!  As the thoughts piled up, Jade started moving beyond annoyed to angry. She was clearly not parked properly.  She tried fiddling with her phone as if she was preoccupied and didn’t care.  That didn’t last long.  She noticed a few people glancing at “the situation” as they made their way from the supermarket to their own vehicles.  Was it worth it? Wasn’t she going to look weak if she backed down? Why should she back down from this woman? “I bet it’s a woman!” Jade thought.   

Then, without even thinking, really, Jade undid her seat belt, got out of her car and approached the driver of the car behind her.  Well, it was a woman all right. An old woman.  That didn’t phase her.  If she could drive, she certainly could answer the only question she had in mind.  “Ma’am? What...what are you doing?” Jade asked her.

“I’m trying to park my car!  Didn’t you see me pulling into the spot?” The woman shot back.

“Ma’am? I was already almost all the way in, when you started to pull in.  Why would you do that?” Jade surprised herself with the gentleness of her questioning. Maybe the sermon about kindness on Sunday had hit a spot. 

She glanced at the old woman whose eyes were looking straight ahead, hands firmly on her steering wheel.  There was no point.  Jade went back to her car.

She sat there for a while.  This whole “show love and be considerate to others thing” was not as easy as it sounded coming from the preacher on a Sunday morning.  She was a Christian and tried to be a good one.  But, as she sat there in the moment, with no music – she had turned it off from the time she heard the honk – she was seething. This might not be the most God-pleasing reaction.  For a few seconds, all she could think about was that she was right.  She was right. And, this woman in the car behind her... Jade glanced at the figure in her peripheral view.  It was the woman!  She had got out of her car, which was far from being properly parked, and was walking toward the store!   Jade sighed.  Just then, the driver of the car to her right – another woman – came along, grocery bags in hand.  Jade was pretty sure she spotted an amused look on her face, as she glanced at the two of them and the two awkwardly-parked cars.  Jade sighed again, as she knew the move she had to make.

They finally both parked properly – Jade in the new spot and the woman in the space she had wrestled from her. They both alighted from their vehicles about the same time, too. So, it was no surprise that they would be walking in, almost lock step with each other.  It was the woman who broke the silence. 

“You know, I have a bum leg, and this is how you treat someone with a bum leg?” She started.

“Ma’am?” Jade interrupted, “I wouldn’t have known anything about your bum leg.  All I saw was someone driving into the spot when I was almost all the way in.” She noticed that the woman was big in body - about five feet seven inches and somewhat overweight.

“You have no respect for seniors,” the woman continued.

That hurt. By this time, they had reached the sliding doors and, once inside, Jade picked up a basket and they went their separate ways.

As Jade went down the fruits aisle, she spotted her out of the corner of her eye.  She was by the veggies section.  Although Jade quickly took her eyes off her, a nagging conviction had already set in.  She created a bit more distance between them as she turned toward another aisle.  Still, she couldn’t shake the heaviness that she should go over and apologize to her.  Jade spent about a minute trying to decide whether it was guilt or God. Maybe she would’ve felt guilty, had she done something wrong. But, here she was, in the right, feeling that she had to somehow make it better for the other person. What was that all about?  It sure felt like God.  And then it hit the spot. “Go and apologize – and offer to pay for her groceries.”  Jade raised an eyebrow and tried putting her reaction into thoughts. “Okaaay. Pardon me?” She thought, as if she were expecting an answer.  What if the woman rejected the offer?  What if her groceries cost a lot?  But the directive didn’t leave her.  And, she knew there was no fighting it.

She mumbled a little prayer, mustered up her courage and took the very long walk over to the stall with the oranges. It was really no more than about ten metres away.  The woman had a few items in her hand; she wasn’t using a basket.  Jade approached her, “I want to apologize for what happened in the parking lot. I’d like to pay for your groceries, if that’s OK?”

She didn’t decline the offer; she didn’t reject the offer.  Instead, she replied, “Well, you don’t have to.”

“It’s OK. Really,” Jade said.

“Well, I’m just about done. Are you finished?” She asked.

“No, actually, I have a few more items to go,” Jade replied. “Let me hurry and grab them.  I can meet you at checkout, OK?”

Jade went to join her in the line at the checkout.  The woman turned to her, “It’s very kind of you to offer.”  Jade explained that it was no problem; that she was glad to be doing it.  The older woman continued, “It’s very difficult for seniors, especially at this age, to keep their drivers licence, you know.”

Jade knitted her brow. “What do you mean?” She asked.

“Well, when you get to eighty, once you get into an accident, that’s it. They take your licence.  And, I’m eighty-three. 

“Well, you don’t look eighty-three,” Jade blurted out.

“Well, thank you, but, I am.”

“May I ask your name?” Jade said, and she too introduced herself.

Jade let her go through checkout first.  She gave her the receipt in case she would need to return something.  Jade was a little disappointed that the bill hadn’t even amounted to twenty dollars.  Still, they said their goodbyes and she left the supermarket. 

As she paid for her own groceries, Jade wondered whether their paths would cross again.  Maybe she could look out for her on another Saturday, about noon? Of course, they would be getting together under better circumstances.  When Jade got outside and headed to her car, she noticed the woman sitting in her car, hands on the steering wheel, looking in her direction.  She had been waiting.  As Jade approached her, she rolled her car window down, beckoned to her a little, and said, “Thank you, again.” 

Jade smiled as she replied, “You’re welcome, Maria.”

Her name was Maria.

THE END

Claudia
www.cyopro.com
www.twitter.com/cyopro