Behind closed doors.

The community rested on 28 acres of manicured lawns and gardens, nary a leaf out of place.
The poet found the perfection unusual, though not lacking in beauty.
He parked his car, crossed the lot and stepped into the foyer, as pristine on the inside as the outer grounds.

“Not bad, eh?” the older gentleman posited after the customary greetings. “We came here to die.”
The poet found that statement oddly troubling, its morbidity too rich in truth to go unnoticed, even if stated in jest.
“See,” added the man, as he pointed to condolence notices in a glass case on the wall. “They posted those four last week.”
The poet read the first line, then stopped: “We extend our deepest sympathies and regrets to the family of…”
He knew the rest.

After lunch, they toured the grounds.
“One guy built a nine-hole pitch and putt right over there,” the man shared. “It took him over a year.”
The poet nodded at the residents that passed, some with nametags, some without.
He wondered why.
“Another woman has an orchid garden in that far greenhouse. She practically lives in the place and usually graces our entryway with fresh flowers. Don’t know why we had none today.”
The man guided them into one of the various apartment buildings.

“They clean each unit once a week, with a deep cleaning every six months and they replace the carpeting, curtains and such once a decade whether they need it or not.” The man chuckled at his own joke. “Everyone decorates the little nook outside their front door as they see fit.”
As he walked the hall, the poet found himself captivated by the displays.
One wall presented a bevy of military decorations, each mounted on a separate plaque, a proud statement of achievement, or so he hoped.
Another featured three rag dolls, each several feet high, a representation of grandchildren.
“Why do their heads face the wall?” the poet pondered.
The visually impaired man kept a fresh daisy on a small wooden table and a simple sconce next to the doorbell.
The poet considered whether he could still see its color or only feast upon its scent.

On a miniature sideboard stood four pieces of china, a bunny, a pink rose, a toadstool and a tulip, with one of its leaves snapped off.
The lone leaf lay next to its parent, the chalky white cracked surface in contrast to the pale polished green sides.
The poet strolled past it, stopped and returned for a second look.
He stared at the cracked leaf, neither discarded nor fixed.
Why?
What did it represent?
Did it mean anything or nothing?
How long had it sat there?
Did the owner not care or did it break this very morning or had it been placed there on purpose, a symbol, a reminder, a metaphor of some sort?
“Why am I drawn to this?” he muttered inwardly.

The questions flooded him.
Why do some shiver in a rut while others gaze upon the stars?
How many wait in their hovels for an excuse to emerge, the daily meal, the monthly gala, a rare visit from a relative?
For every gardener or greens keeper, how many others live like inmates, eat, mandatory walk, nap and start again, the grave already dug in their minds?
“Why do I care and where did this turmoil stem from?” he sighed.
“The leaf,” the poet suddenly realized. “It’s out of order—the only thing out of order—nothing else is out of order.”
He paused and smiled for the first time, a smile of merriment and gratitude, a union of rebellious camaraderie with an unknown kindred soul.
He voiced a quiet “thanks” for the brave soul that lived behind that door.

Success Quotes

Whether you are eleven, forty-two or sixty-five, your attitude toward life is still under construction.
John C. Maxwell

I don’t want to be better than anybody, I just want to be better than yesterday.
Dr. Wayne Dyer

Key Points

Most people die somewhere around the age of 22 or 23 only to be buried after another 50 relatively meaningless years—lots of consumption, empty recreation, same ol’, same ol’—and little else to show from their journey. The slow decline, the morphing from a bursting bundle of energy to a surly, know-it-all teenager to a paint-by-numbers and struggle-to-survive employee punching a clock and counting the days, frankly revolts me. And that’s before we start discussing the golden years of pill popping and complaining about the never-ending, ever-growing list of ailments in anticipation of a pine box.
Given the infinite possibilities to those gifted with human form, we should take the idea of settling for less than we can become, attach it to the next NASA rocket and jettison it somewhere in never-never land. May it float aimlessly through space. Oh, but then we’d have to turn off the television, open our eyes, clean out our ears and dust off our brains that have developed sticky, caked layers of “settlement” and “compromise” film. Sounds like a lot of work.
In between rough and tumble matches on the jujutsu mats, I’m training for another marathon. Yup, pretty much every morning brings its unique areas of soreness. Of course, I could quit, forget about it, maybe cut down on the bruises. Except that I’d never know what it’s like to wear a black belt with pride. I’d miss out on the chance to push my own limits when I hit the wall around mile 22, or run 26.2 miles with my wife or my son or both. I guess I’d rather roll out of bed and groan and chuckle all at the same time.
If I change my mind, there’s always the remote.