Moving On and Moving Mountains

Moving On and Moving Mountains

     It’s 2014. The dead Christmas tree is recycled, the holiday decorations are mothballed and Handel and his Messiah are tucked in. Everything moves on. 

     Barely ten hours into the new year of 2014 and I’m already a basket case. Why? Like Janus, January’s namesake, I’m looking both ways…a foot in the past, a foot in the future.  I’m conflicted. Moving on is essential.

     Every year, the same…drop this, grab that. Which?  Decision is impossible. So what happens? Not much. Easier to wait for deadlines and emergencies. They always arrive. 

      I check out last year’s resolutions, a ball and chain I hooked myself to. No good intention goes unpunished. All best-laid plans compete with the tyranny of the urgent. I find the list, all ninety-eight of ‘em. It’s written on the back of a church bulletin.

     I review it. Success in two. Not bad. I no longer say ‘wuz’ and ‘fixin’ to.’  Not a complete failure. The big one remains, ‘Clean out the garage!’ It’s been on every list for nine years straight. It’s my mountain to move. It mocks me, the reminder of an old girlfriend I couldn’t shake loose.

     Procrastination is the mountain… tomorrow, always tomorrow. My promise reeks of a shallow sincerity. Familiar? I postpone the job and visit my pal, Marvin. Moving mountains needs incentives. I lack even one.

     Since his ‘ex’ left, Marvin lives with his dog. He’s the source of amusement and weird wisdom. He rides a bike backwards. Says he learned the trick from Pickrick, a former governor of Georgia. Safer to view life looking backwards, he says…like reading the end of a book first. It eliminates surprises.

     Marvin talks a lot to himself and to Brutus, his dog. Claims it’s a consequence of PTSD…post-traumatic stressful divorce. Today they’re playing chess. Bonding.

     “Hey, Marvin, whatcha doing?” I ask.

     “Reading Scripture, playing chess with Brutus,” he says.

     “Dogs don’t play chess,” I say.

     “Brutus does. Beat me twice today.” Brutus lies there like a stuffed animal, half asleep, one eye open, disinterested. 

     “Explain this insanity,” I say.

      “Well, when it’s his move, I ask, ‘Knight or Pawn?’ He looks at me, nods one way or the other.  It’s dog braille. I know the signs. Worked it out with a computer algorithm. Slick, huh?”

     Some things defy logic. I skip it and move on. “Is that your Bible? Sorta beat up, I’d say.”

     “Gideon. Found it in a fleabag motel. I was hiding from my second wife. Been a Godsend. It helps me move mountains. I give the Gideons money.”

      “Be more specific,” I say.

     “OK.  See this verse by Matthew?  Says if you’re a mustard seed you can move mountains.  I felt about as small as one in those days. Pity-party hang-ups. I needed two divorces…my wife and the past. I got both. Now I’m a mustard seed.”

     “Do you believe a mustard seed can move a mountain?” I ask with a laugh.

     “Amen, brother. Even Brutus can move mountains.” (Marvin proves insanity exists.)

     “Convince me,” I say.

     “OK.”  Marvin goes out, moves his pickup by the back door. Brutus jumps up, barks incessantly for ten minutes.

     “OK, dude, what are my options here? Beat the dog senseless or move the truck?” Marvin asks. I shrug. So he goes out, moves the truck.  Brutus stops barking. They retreat to the chess table.

     “See? No problem. Dogs can move mountains. Even ants can move ‘em. Mountains are relative. Size is irrelevant.” Marvin says, grinning. “What’s your mountain?”

     “Haha, cleaning the garage. It’s that or divorce,” I say.  

     “Listen, for every mountain there’s a mountain mover. If you’re a mustard seed and join MSA, Mustard Seeds Anonymous, you’ll move mountains. Nothing’s impossible for a mustard seed,” he says with conviction.

     Marvin and Brutus resume their chess game. I leave. Marvin lives on another planet. Who ever heard of a mustard seed mountain mover? One can’t make this stuff up.

     Driving home, the cell rings. It’s Pedro. I answer, “Holla, que pasa, amigo?”

     “Need dinero,” he says.

     “Wanna clean my garage?” I ask. I feel both of our mountains begin to move. Maybe there’s something to being a mustard seed after all.

     I swing by the pet shelter, adopt a dog named Mac. Someone else’s mountain is moved.

     No New Year’s resolutions for me. I’m simply moving on. Mountains will move. Good luck with yours.

     This year, I’m gonna teach Mac to play chess. Look out, Brutus!

Bud Hearn

January 3, 2014