Restless

SMYTHE WOKE WELL BEFORE HER ALARM SOUNDED. SHE LAY IN BED, tossing from one side to the other, siphoning energy from her here-now moment by reviewing her to-do list. For her, the workload seemed daunting. Not only did she have to learn the course material, but she had to integrate it into her own life. She turned to lay on her back. She did not want to get up, but she could feel her shoulders tighten. Unable to coax herself back to sleep, she tumbled out of bed in a huff. She opened her chest of drawers and pulled out running attire. She dressed quickly, trying to move past the stress that came with no sleeping, and strode into the kitchen.

Artie was just beginning to stir. She peered up at the oval wall clock hanging against the wall over the kitchen pantry door. It read 1:00 a.m. “Oof,” she quietly said to herself as she leaned her elbow on the air mattress.

Had I known she was this much of an early bird…

She sat up and stretched long, her palms extending up toward the ceiling, before making her way to the bathroom to change.

Meanwhile, Smythe puttered around the kitchen. She pulled her French press from the cupboard and set down two mugs. Once the coffee was ready, she poured herself a cup, inhaling its mesmerizingly nutty notes. She took a sip, feeling the body of it against her tongue as it slid down her throat. The first sip was always the best, in Smythe’s opinion. She looked down at Artie’s air mattress and continued to sip on her coffee as she prepared to leave, gathering her phone, earbuds, and a couple of towels.

Artie returned to the kitchen, bypassing the mug Smythe left for her and pulled out a small thermos from the cupboard. Preoccupied with her previous conversation with Carole, she slowly added cream to her coffee, taking several sips before deflating her bed and storing it in the back of the dining room closet.

The clubhouse was barely a two-minute walk from Smythe’s apartment. Still, unwilling to take any chances, Artie chose two teams to escort them both to the gym. They moved quickly along the mildew-stained walkway, providing a cocoon of protection around the pair. Smythe gazed beyond her team as they passed a small grassy park that sat between two buildings. Droplets of rain from the night before covered two well-worn park benches. She remembered sitting during the warmer months of the year, watching dogs bound along the grass, playing fetch with their owners. One of her favorite four-legged creatures, Lucas—a caramel-colored, four-month-old Labradoodle—would bounce up to her and stand in front of her, waiting for a response. Lucas’ human would give Smythe a handful of the dog’s favorite treats to offer him, which he gladly accepted. After a while, Smythe purchased the same treats and would wait patiently for Lucas to arrive with his human. Smythe smiled at her memory. It was love at first (and every) sight between them.

The group continued along the sidewalk until they reached the clubhouse. The gym, spacious in its design, rivaled any paid membership facility, offering contemporary cardio, weight, and resistance equipment. The walls, painted in vibrant aqua, matched the geometric pattern on the floor. As if to motivate the member toward a fruitful workout, upbeat music played softly throughout the space.

Standing at the entrance, Smythe noted the gym once again sat empty, devoid of additional residents. She explained to Artie it was the reason she enjoyed the early hour—the emptiness allowed her the freedom to move about the gym unimpeded or gawked at by other residents. Artie nodded.

Smythe climbed onto her favorite treadmill, put on her headphones, and clicked on one of her playlists. The music mostly consisted of classical artists, with a few rhythm and blues artists thrown in for diversity. She kept a comfortable cadence to the tempo of her music, speeding through five miles. Artie, however, chose an upper body, free weight routine followed by several sets of squats. They completed their workout in well under an hour and returned to Smythe’s apartment.

“Why don’t you shower first? I need to spend some time in meditation,” Smythe said.

“Do you meditate every day?”

“I try. I am not as consistent as I’d like to be. Truth be told, I tend to lean into it more when I am troubled. One day I’ll learn.”

“Learn?”

“To be more consistent. Perhaps, if I were more consistent, some of the old ways of thinking wouldn’t be as bothersome.”

“Care to explain?”

“There’s the thought that meditation allows us to quiet our ego and allow for our gifts to be more perfectly honed. I have found that the art of it enables me to stop searching and to simply be. At least, that is what I am practicing. Spending some quiet time with some choice music, I feel more connected to the Source of all things. If I don’t search for anything, including revelation, that is when insight occurs—at least for me, anyway. I’ve heard that the more consistent we become in meditating, the more beneficial it becomes.

“Sounds lovely. I’ll head into the bathroom, then. I’ll be out in about ten.”

Smythe smiled. She walked to her bedroom, shut her door, and placed a towel upon her chair before seating herself. A Navajo flute, which sounded like a prayer, played softly in the background. She thought about the enchanting melody of the instrument. Her grandmother would say the flute had something to say, not only about the traditions of her people, but about oneself. Smythe slowed her breathing and listened to its dulcet sound. Still disturbed by yesterday’s events, she could only wrestle herself through ten minutes of meditation. She furrowed her brow as her mind concerned itself with the inconvenience of a security detail. Replaying her recent conversations with Artie, she noticed her jaw beginning to tense and recognized she disdained the idea of anyone getting to close to her.

Stop it! You’re getting too vulnerable with this woman. She doesn’t need to know that much about you.

Her eyes snapped open. She remembered her conversation with her Beloved about trust, and she could only smirk at herself. Ok, so I’m learning to trust. It’s only been a day.

She listened for any sound that indicated Artie had exited the bathroom. She rose from her chair, walked to her door, and opened it slowly. Artie stood dressed at the counter in the kitchen, her hair wrapped in a towel, pouring herself another cup of coffee.

Smythe strode out of her bedroom. “My turn?” she asked, pointing toward the bathroom. Artie nodded and walked toward the living room.

Both were ready to travel in short order, and the caravan arrived at the baker’s shop well before Smythe’s usual 4:00 a.m. arrival time. After she ordered her coffee, Smythe smiled at her friend as he continued to prepare his shop to open. He had just placed a batch of malasadas on a cooling rack and fiddled with the placement of some of his other pastries.

“Joao, how is it that you arrive to work at 1:30 in the morning every day? Well, except for Sundays. Normally I’m just beginning to stir from my sleep.”

Standing behind his counter, the baker offered her the wide smile Smythe had come to appreciate.

“Why do you think it is work, my friend?”

“Because I see how people enter the bakery. It’s 5:00 in the morning when you open. Most people seem cranky and show some level of disrespect to you in their tone as they place their orders, especially as the morning revs up into high gear. Puts a bit of a damper on the whole experience of coming to a bakery shop, if you ask me. It feels like it’s just another task on their to-do list. There’s a certain lack of civility.”

“You cannot go by body language alone, my daughter.”

Waving towards the variety of pastries placed in perfect formation in the display cases, the baker continued.

“Every morning, I create these. You are only partially correct in your observation of my guests. It is true—every morning, people start coming into my shop. I can see the stress on their body, the grumpy, how you say—harried expression on their faces. Then they come closer to my counter like you did earlier, and it all goes away. They become mesmerized by the treats before them and a slight smile—one that you do not see, Smythe—lights up their faces. My creation did that!”

His exuberance was contagious.

“My creation made a frown into a smile! No, my daughter, this is not work, this is joy—for it is this work that I do which allows me to keep pace with the soul of our earth so that I may move with the infinite of all that is.”

As an afterthought, he added, “Perhaps the work that others do should not be the work that they continue to do. Especially if it does not bring them joy. I think joy should be the work we all do, for it draws out our gifts for all to partake.”

The baker proudly swept his arms around his shop. “Every dream we dream, for, umm… good purpose—the reason we are getting up in the morning, that which sings to our heart—is from our ALL. It may feel like work at times, but it is also for the good of us all.”

“What do you mean by ALL? Do you mean God or the Divine?”

“Yes. The Universe contains ALL there is. When I say ALL, I connect everything there ever was, is, and will be as ALL. You say Beloved, yes?”

“Yes.”

The baker beamed a wide smile at Smythe. “That is good. So, my daughter, what are your plans for good today?”

“I don’t quite know yet. I haven’t been able to get quiet enough to determine that.”

“Well, whatever you do, make sure you do good for ALL. I offer you this prayer—may the work that you do today be the music of the everlasting song of love. I hope its melody will be a tender hope as reverent as the flute of your Navajo people.”

“You remembered,” Smythe replied, smiling at the thought.

“Yes, of course. I remember everything.”

After spending a couple of hours in the shop, Smythe returned to study. Several hours later, as tension mounted within her, she decided to run a single errand. However, once she was out and about and feeling less claustrophobic, Smythe made up several errands she forgot in order to escape the walls of her apartment. She went to her favorite bookstore, a small market, and a clothing store. Artie did her best to accommodate her client, but as time went on, she grew increasingly tense at the last-minute requests. She looked at her watch and the growing amount of traffic, her anxiety rising by the second.

“Smythe, I get that you may have forgotten that you need to run an errand here or pick up something at the market, but you really need to plan what you want to do each day so that I can plan for your safety. The later it gets, the more people are out and about. You are stretching my teams thin and placing yourself at needless risk.”

Smythe could feel her face redden, but to avoid an argument, she bit the inside of her cheek and refrained from speaking. As far as she was concerned, it wasn’t her fault that she was cooped up behind closed doors. What did Artie expect? That she would never go out? She simply nodded and asked to complete one last errand. Once she finally returned home, she spent the rest of the day studying and writing.

Every hour, like clockwork, Smythe would take a break in attempt to get out of her head. She would stand up, leave her dining room, and retreat to her bedroom. By evening, Smythe began to relax. She thought about all she had accomplished and learned that day. She silently congratulated herself, something her mentor had taught her to do. She looked around her space and smirked. She rather liked the idea of completing the workday with spoken, uplifting remarks. She wondered how often people actually congratulate themselves. But then, she immediately knew the answer.

Her mentor had spoken about the need to develop the practice of positive affirmation. Most people congratulate themselves on their more significant accomplishments of life, but he suggested people acknowledge the smaller successes as well. The daily acknowledgement was the most important affirmation a person could offer themselves because it allows the person to positively stroke the subconscious mind, allowing it to pursue further accomplishments. Over time, it also allows the person to re-program negative beliefs.

Smythe stood before her bathroom mirror, looking herself in the eye. She could feel the tension building in her shoulders again. It was more than just the trial that disturbed her, and she wondered how long it would take to re-program her own thinking. It would be a question she would silently hold before her Beloved until it was answered.

Artie chose to cook that evening, preparing a simple meal of angel hair pasta and salad. Grateful for the meal, Smythe smiled and hummed the entire time during dinner. Artie could only laugh at Smythe’s delight.

“I didn’t know you liked pasta.”

“In small doses, it tends to inflame me. But this was really, really good.”

“Mmm, good to know.”

“What else do you cook?”

“Soup. I’m pretty good at soup—osso buco specifically, which is braised veal with vegetables.”

“Oh, do you ever make it without veal?”

“Haven’t ever tried to. You don’t eat veal?” Artie asked, a bit disappointed.

“No, I don’t. I’m pretty much a vegetarian. I feel better without meat. I’m not judging, mind you. There’s enough of that going around. It’s just that even as a child, I wasn’t that crazy about eating meat. But I wasn’t really given a choice. ‘You better eat everything on that plate before you leave the dinner table, young lady,’ was the edict in our house.”

“Mine too. My mother wanted us to learn how to cook, so when we married, we could feed ourselves and our husbands. So, I spent a lot of time learning to cook.”

Smythe smiled.

“Do you cook?” Artie asked.

“I do, but I’m usually too busy to think about food—as you could tell when you got back. I apologize. I sometimes forget to offer to make you a meal.”

“I didn’t notice. Don’t worry about it; you’re not my housewife. I had a hankering for some homemade pasta. I noticed you had pasta and all the fixings for a salad. So, wha-la—we had a meal.”

After cleaning the kitchen, Smythe joined Artie in the living room. She was unsure how to start the conversations she wanted to have with Artie. If she were truthful with herself, she was a bit afraid. Afraid that the information she would ask for might trigger anxiety. Yet, she also wanted to face her fears. Taking a seat on the sofa, she turned toward Artie.

“Tell me about them?”

“Tell you about who?”

“About the people that want to hurt me. Tell me about them.”

Artie narrowed her eyes.

“Why?”

“Please, just tell me.”

Searching her memory, Artie questioned just how much she wanted to share.

“I think first you need to understand what a syndicate is; particularly, a crime syndicate.”

“I already know. A syndicate, by definition, can be formed to promote, coordinate, and engage in a specific business to pursue a common or shared interest. A company or a group of companies and corporations could, in the broadest sense of the term, be considered a syndicate.”

Artie blinked at her in astonishment. Does she have an eidetic memory?

“I looked it up, but I’m not referring to that. I’m interested in the people who want to hurt or kill me—the way they killed the guy in the parking lot.”

Artie let out a slow sigh. “Smythe, what we’re dealing with is a bunch of local yokels organized by local leaders bent on crime. It is always a for-profit venture, and there are always winners and losers. In this case, the city is expanding at an exponential rate. This group simply wants a piece of the expansion. They may be part of a larger whole, operating under a number of businesses, to control as many aspects of the community as possible.”

“But why? I get that they want to control the community, but I am talking about the cultural traditions of the community. I understand the rings of hierarchy. It forms social and cultural traditions. How are they doing it here? How did our collective consciousness allow it into power?”

“Heady questions, Smythe. I don’t have all of the answers. What I can tell you is that as long as people abdicate independent thought, there will always be a crime syndicate.”

“Say more.”

Artie smiled to herself. “Well, in order for a group to take power, there have to be willing citizens—people who don’t want to think. Ever notice the first thing a lot of people do when they get home is turn on the television? Even us. We watch the news and think the brief 45-second segment is the totality of the story. There is no contemplation of the untold story. A lot of people can also tell you what show comes on what day and what time. Their excuse for sitting in front of a television all evening—night after night, week after week, year after year—is that they’ve had a hard day at work, and they don’t want to think.”

“I get that. That’s why our smart devices have become so popular.”

“In part, yes. That lack of thinking also spills out into other areas. For example, the people we elect to lead us. We don’t take the time the read ballot initiatives or understand exactly where a candidate stands on the issues most important to us. We support a government—hell, we even follow religious theologies so that we don’t have to think. Instead, we want those leaders to think for us. Feed us what we need to know, but not too much. We listen to sound bites without asking important questions. We rely on newscasters to tell us their version of the truth. There’s very little independent thought from us, the citizens of the community, asking the deeper questions. So, when I talk about lack of thought, it’s much deeper. From all of us, it requires contemplation and willingness to understand the bigger picture and the effect on each of us, and the community as a whole, rather than just a sound bite.”

“I see that. We want it easy. We want everything to be easy.”

“It would seem so. We want someone else to tell us what to do, but then we get disillusioned or disgusted because we followed all of the rules and didn’t get what we wanted. We’re left wondering what the hell happened. Where was the return on our rule-following? Where do I go now? Where do I sit? What do I eat? What should I believe? Just tell me what to do. Is it any wonder that when our independent thought is abdicated, a gap forms? In fact, several gaps form.

“Commerce, Smythe, is big, big business. This local crime ring saw a gap, and they stepped in. They offer something. Usually, some form of protection to a community member in exchange for their souls, i.e., a piece of the business or straight out dollars. Soon, community members recognize they are playing with the devil, and they want out. The problem is the devil plays for keeps. There is no out.”

“It just saddens me. Is there any hope that the crime ring will just leave? I’m sorry, I know I sound naive.”

“It is naive to believe they will just leave. They have to be driven out. That’s where the FBI comes in. They have an entire division dedicated to rooting them out, but it’s a long process. And usually, when they convict one member, there are others in the wings ready to take over. So, the idea is to take down the big guns in hopes the ring will dissolve through power struggles.”

“So, what you’re saying is that really, my testimony won’t do a whole lot.”

“It will, Smythe. It has to.” Artie paused, believing that perhaps she had said too much. This was not what would ease her client’s mind.

“Having said all of that, let’s do some of our own abdicating. This kind of talk will only add to your restlessness.”

“You noticed.”

“I’m trained to notice everything.”

Artie grabbed the remote and browsed through Netflix until she found a documentary on climate change.

“This might allow your brain to chew on something else. Interested?”

“Absolutely.”

After the documentary, Smythe decided to retire to bed. It had been a long day, and there were longer days to come. Resting her head and shoulders against her headboard she thought about her conversation with Artie.

She’s right. I am restless.

She closed her eyes, feeling the rhythm of her breath and deepened into meditation. Slowly, she became aware of a mud-stained window. She recognized the window as herself, which had been muddied by the life she had long ago created. Taking some effort to clean, Smythe watched as she wiped away the caked grime and smiled.

Smythe settled into her bed and reached for one of several books she was reading. Interestingly enough, she began to read about individual responsibility. Through her reading, she understood individual responsibility was not what the distortion of her country told it had become—a dog-eat-dog philosophy. Nor was it an “every person for themselves” mentality, but instead, individual responsibility had always been, and will forever be, the highest expression of oneself—the expression of love.

She suddenly understood the collective “we” were not created so a select few survive and prosper, but that everyone could and should grow, survive, and thrive together. The goal for the human race, she surmised, was that people would not turn their backs on the needy, never say no to the hungry, and share abundance so not one is homeless. But, in order to live into the highest form of responsibility, no one could abdicate individual responsibility. Smythe’s eyes began to close. She slid more fully into her bed, feeling the gentleness of her Beloved envelop her as she drifted peacefully off to sleep.