Eliott McKay's Blog

Over this past week, the heavens have rained down abundant blessings upon me. My fledgling business acquired some important new clients, my nephew drew this great picture for me to hang in my new apartment, and my book, THE AUREATE SPECTACLES, by Inkitt managed to hit the top 100 bestsellers list.

Being one who always wants to give back, I had to put some thought into what ought to be done...and then it came to me: I was going to do 100 good deeds in one week!


As I went about my merry-making way, I kept a list of my activities, but I'll only share a few of them here. Some of these deeds included throwing an extra quarter into a stranger's dryer at the laundromat, and sending an anonymous note to the grocery store manager to praise an employee that seemed to be having a rough day. Others are more everyday things, like stopping to help a stranded car on the side of the road, or watering the neighbors dried-out plant, or unplugging the janitor's vacuum and leaving a cookie next to the socket. (Ok, that happened a while ago, but still...)

It turns out that it's quite easy to do 100 good deeds, in fact, I'd say most of us do that without even realizing it, which in my opinion is the top miracle of all: we're surrounded by greatness. 

My heart is full.


Eliott McKay
Spreading Joy, Writing Books

A few weeks ago, while waiting for my car to undergo maintenance, I was feeling supremely inconvenienced. To help pass the time, I walked along a major street in the city where I currently reside. I am new to the area, as is the usual case with me, but saw there were some stores I could visit. Upon entering a beauty shop, I was instantly submerged in a cloud of aromatic overload. It was a factory of artificiality and it quickly became necessary to leave for the sake of my sinuses.

I cut through a parking lot behind what looked to be a defunct restaurant and observed a man sitting against the building. I've never in my life seen another human being in worse shape than this man. There was nothing fabricated about the forceful aroma that arose from him. I'm ashamed to admit, I might not, otherwise, have noticed him.

My initial instinct was a remorseful repulsion, but upon closer observation, I was strangely drawn to him. However, I didn't think I should  make an approach without something to offer. A Jimmy John's nearby seemed the best solution and with bag in hand, I returned.

He didn't seem to notice my presence, so I simply knelt down and placed the bag in front of him. I would likely have left it at that had words not suddenly rushed from my mouth. I asked for his name. He did not answer, but instead, looked at me for what seemed a long time. I was glad to be at eye level. There is something irreligious about standing over someone and expecting them to feel your equal or perceive your honest regard.

It seemed fairly certain he hadn't showered in several weeks, and the odor of his body cried out with a mighty plea to any who would heed it. That all-encompassing fetor, which was at first offensive, somehow mellowed, and became fragrant to the olfactory senses of my inner being. It was the perfume of humankind.
Holding hands with M.
His face and hands were filthy. He could have been my own brother for all I could tell, but then I realized, he was my brother on this earth. Earlier that morning, I had stuffed some hand wipes into my wallet for easy cleanup up after checking the oil reserves in my car.

I'm not sure what made me feel I had any right to do this, but I tore open the packets, and ever so gently, took one of his hands and began to wipe. It wasn't a perfect job and I only had a few towelettes, but I managed to clean both of his hands, and then, with tepid care, his face. He remained perfectly still and seemed to comprehend I was a friend. His hands were dry and cracked in places.

Over Christmas, my sister had sent me some samples of L'occitane lotion. Two of the foils remained in my wallet from a trip I had recently taken. I had been stingy with their use, as they were a pricey lotion. How swiftly my frivolous problems became unimportant, and the foils were opened.

As I lotioned the callused hands of this man, who was my brother, I kept my eyes on task, and upon finishing, found that a small bit remained. I gathered my courage and gingerly dabbed the fine substance along his weathered face. No hint of emotion ever touched his expression, and although I did not know how that man came to be in such a place, the strands in my throat caught sound, and my words were simple.

"You are strong enough to overcome whatever it is inside that's killing you."

He never spoke a word, but a glint of moisture dropped from his gray eye into the dark trench beneath it. He touched his face where my fingers had just been. I prayed he would comprehend that he was loved by many. When we serve each other, we do it at the behest of all, and most times, that brotherly love is the only meaningful thing we have to offer. I placed the lunch bag in his lap and to my surprise, repeated the same phrase.

I believe those words are true for all of us. Whatever your struggle may be, you are comprised of the precise mettle to overcome it, because that struggle was built uniquely for you. We can smother our battles with artificial remedies of a perfume-type quality, but it's the deep sweat of the soul that overcomes in the end.


Eliott McKay
~Spreading Joy, Writing Books~

You can read my book, The Aureate Spectacles, for free on Inkitt

As many of you know, I am a bit of a hermit—socially speaking—but as of late, I have felt the desire to break free of my eremitic tendencies, that I might accomplish some good in the world and perhaps make a few friends along the way. While pondering this seemingly mountainous endeavor, an idea of stupendous proportions clobbered me right in the forehead, and being the spontaneous animal that I am, my plan was executed within a few short weeks.
My first task was to make this glorious sign:
"Free Lemonade and Kind Words"
I spent the next morning whipping up different batches of flavored lemonade: Lemonade, Pink Lemonade, Strawberry Lemonade, Tart Lemonade, etc., and also cut up lemon slices and strawberries for people to add to their drinks. I had a spot in the park all picked out in my mind, and along the way, stopped to purchase some ice and a big sun hat, but as I made my way to the check out stand, a six pack of bubbles on sale beckoned to me. How could I resist? It was an inspired buy.
After two long hours in the park of my own neighborhood, only one visitor had graced my stall: a guy from the bus station who obviously took pity upon me and drank six glasses of lemonade just to please me—which in my head seemed sure proof of my lemonade's superior quality.


At one point, a dark blue van filled with a wild brood of children drove by. They waved and shouted and I thought this could be it, but the driver never even slowed. It seemed I had chosen an area of town where few people had need of free lemonade or kind words, though I did get some curious smiles from drivers as they passed by.

Discouraged, I packed up my little shop and considered heading home, but never one to brook defeat, a sudden determination filled my chest. Soon, I was headed for juicier pastures and it was not long before I found myself at the trailhead of a biking path. Surely, hot, sweaty runners and bikers would yield to my delectable temptations. This time around, I left my fancy sign in the car and scrawled out a quick note, which I taped to the picnic table before going on a walk:

"Free Lemonade. Help Yourself!"

I also left the bubbles on the table for any takers. Before I had even made it around the first corner, some bikers had already stopped to partake, which gave me a small sense of self-congratulatory accomplishment. Down the lane a bit, I lounged on some thick tree roots and soaked my feet in the river. The water was nice and cool and the breeze lulled me to sleep under my giant sun hat. A while later, when I awoke, I found that I was covered in a light sprinkling of fluffy white stuff, which drew my eyes to the skies. To my great delight, the air was filled with whiffling flutters, a gift bestowed by the shedding of the cottonwood trees. It was a snowstorm befitting such a splendid June day.

After marveling at its beauty, its seemed best to go and check out the situation with my lemonade stand, lest the poison control squad arrive with many lengthy and unpleasant questions. Upon rounding the last bend, a magical sight loomed before me. The small clearing next to the river was filled with bubbles, floating up to meet the descending white flutters. Children's laughter rang out in pure mirth, while two parents refreshed themselves with liquid pink sweetness.

Unwilling to spoil this family's moment, I slid behind a tree and waited patiently for them to finish. My heart swelled with joy and my success could not have been more complete.

Although my day had not gone as expected—me, the assumed champion of keen and discerning comments, uplifting the masses—I had received something much greater in the wondrous miracles of the day: the enchanting flutters of the cottonwood trees, the loveliest nap a girl could ever ask for, and the euphoric squeals of small children chasing the uncatchable bubbles. Never was such happiness to be found anywhere. As always, the would-be uplifter became the uplifted.


Once I had safely emerged from my hiding spot, evening had started to settle. It was time to head home. After loading everything back into my car, I changed the sign one last time: 
"Free Bubbles. Help Yourself!"
Free Lemonade. Check. Free Bubbles. Double Check.

No words necessary . 

Wishing You Many Carefree Summer Days,
Eliott McKay
Spreading Joy, Writing Books

One day, after several hours of driving, I turned into a large parking lot to rest under some large trees that had tempted me from the highway. While sitting there, a friendly guy approached, and asked if he could wash my windshield for some spare change. Upon inspection, it appeared that several bugs had met a tragic end upon my windshield, so I agreed. As the man squeegeed, he also spoke, explaining that he had a regular nine-to-five job, but sometimes supporting a family was more than his pocketbook could take, so on his free weekends, he took up odd jobs. He seemed unashamed to be washing windshields, despite the fact that he was a prestigious plant manager. A couple of guys from his crew even passed by to "wave at the bossman."

This made me wonder if I would be willing to wash windshields for the people I loved. As an adult, I learned that my mother used to spend a couple of hours a week cleaning the local mercantile in exchange for groceries, mostly so we could have a little extra with our Sunday dinner.

I began to look at people differently, wondering what their stories were, and later in the day, while ascending a hill, a tipped-over shopping cart loomed into view. The wind was crazy, and a man struggled to pull the cart upright as his things blew everywhere. The scene was so chaotic that it took me a moment to collect myself and figure out how to respond. After finding a safe spot to park on the edge of the road, I jumped out of my car and grabbed at some of the items that had flung across the street. It took both of our strength to heft that shopping cart back up onto the sidewalk. It must have been made of pure iron and looked to be a relic from the 1970's.

After securing the cart against a tree, the two of us raced to collect his things, most of which were either junk or clothing, and all of which were soaked in alcohol. The smell was so overpowering, I was forced to smile to hide my surprise. In return, I received the full authority of his gaze through unexpectedly sea-green eyes, normally hidden behind a mane of grizzly facial hair.

By this time, other people had also stopped to help, but my new friend turned upon them, angry, and threatened to cut them up into little pieces and throw them into the river if they didn't get away. I remember him saying that they weren't "legitimate," that they "didn't really want to help."

That was when I saw it. This man was a living, breathing soul, and his anger was a defense mechanism. It was his way of expressing the profound hurt—and perhaps deep humiliation—that he had felt that no one had stopped sooner... much, much sooner. Perhaps he was lashing out at all of people who had failed him well before he had ever gotten to this point in life. I cannot be sure, but for one fragment of a second, right when he smiled, I saw the spark of his soul.

I thought of these words: A Particle of God.

A phrase coined by the infamous Dan Brown in his book The Lost Symbol. I was forcibly struck by the idea that God, the supreme ruler of the universe, had chosen "Father" as his number one title. It suddenly became clear to me that every person who had ever lived could very well be a small part God... a particle. This man—hurt, floundering, dying inside—was a particle of God... and I saw it. And I was not afraid. I was awed.

This overwhelming affection filled me as I witnessed this roughened, immense particle—who, despite his problems and addictions—kept fighting. Fighting for his very existence, for his need to be acknowledged as a human being. Something about his reaction told me that the crossroads of his life were rapidly approaching, that he was on the brink of an emotional meltdown if something didn't change. My heart cried out in urgent appeal that he would make the better choice.

Circumpunct: Symbol for God and the Universe
(And many other things)I do not know what expression was set upon my face, but the moment he turned and saw it, his demeanor settled. The buffering of the wind seemed to have little effect on us as we calmly collected the rest of his belongings. When we finished, I inquired after his name, which turned out to be Justin.

It seemed interesting to me that one of the meanings of his name is "upright." We had certainly "uprighted" his cart, but would he be able to upright his life? I instinctively felt that he had what it would take. I think each of us is given the ability to overcome our own particular set of evils, which is good, because it can be tempting in circumstances like these to try and right the problems of other, and though we can lend a hand when the moment strikes, it is imperative that we never rob each other of the right to choose for ourselves.

It is in those moments, at breaking point, that we finally have a chance to show what we are made of; will our particles radiate as we take courage and face the fire or be quelled as we sink back into the darkness?
If it became my lot to wash windshields, or clean a mercantile, or push a shopping cart up a hill, would I be up to the task? Would I be ashamed to have my friends drive by and see me? Or would I shore myself up in a Sisyphean manner, and push my burden—however futile it may seem—with the sure knowledge that the stuff I am made of is a particle of supreme royalty. That, to me, is the very essence of purpose. 
Just for today, look around at the people you think you know... and then look again.
Thanks for reading Eliott's Life Adventures.
Until Next Time,
Eliott

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I have an uncle who died of cancer. Within weeks of his diagnosis, the horrible disease ravaged his body, and my aunt was left alone. My uncle didn't believe in life after death and after their two children died in a car accident, years before, they never visited the gravesite again — but they had a plan: the whole family would to be buried together and in this way, would be together forever, which was comforting. However, when the time arrived, the paperwork could not be located and the nearing plots had already been sold. As a result, my uncle was buried elsewhere — in a grassless, dirt-filled graveyard, embellished with various cacti. The whole thing carried a bitter sting, and needless to say, was distressing to my aunt and her family.

So I came up with a plan, and this is how it went:
Dear Aunt [Sally]:
Today, I made something special to take to the graveyard.


A capsule with your family pictures and a special, secret message.

Then I went to just the right place...

Where I dug a stealthy hole...


And hoped not to get caught.

I took some of the hallowed ground for you to plant in your garden. (I love your garden)

 ...and left something in its place.

Then I filled in the edges with dirt and grass clippings.

And "borrowed" a flower from the cemetery  rose  bushes to cover my tracks.

  I kept some of the displaced soil for you to put with my uncle.
As far as I can figure, if you're buried in the same soil,  you're buried in the same place.

Then I stood back and admired my handiwork... and thought of you all.

Nearby, I found another grave of interest: that of my maternal grandfather's (we think). My mother has been without family roots most of her life, so I dug up some of his  grass  and sent her some "roots" to plant in her yard.


I may have borrowed another flower from  those  lovely, obliging rose bushes.

After my visit to this sanctified place, I packaged up the grass and dirt — stuffed with plastic ice cubes to keep it cool — along with pictures of my doings. I am told that the grass was planted in the respective yards, and the precious soil was placed appropriately. I am further informed that the grass spread quickly through my aunt's garden and was soon transplanted to my uncle's grave — which in my cousin's head is the most thriving, grassy mound in the driest necropolis ever to be found — but in reality, upon recent inspection, is a small patch of beautiful green which I hear my cousin waters regularly. I like to imagine him sloshing along with his watering can, whistling a happy tune.
 **Oh, happiness!**
What wonderful feedback to receive after all of these months.
Thank you for reading.
All Best,
Eliott
P.S. My aunt leaned over and whispered in my ear that someday I would have to tell her the secret message. Perhaps someday...

If you enjoy reading  Eliott's Life Adventures , then you too will enjoy my book,  Midnight Engagement ,  released by:

As featured on the Crimson Romance Website:

Love’s Little Mysteries: Photo credit: TheAlieness GiselaGiardino²³ / Foter.com / CC BY-SAOnce, while out on my evening walk, the heavens graced me with an enchanting sunset. The clouds glowed like molten pots of honey and the air was infused with the clean sarsaparilla of an oncoming storm. Its beauty was such as to fill me with wonder and rendered its glory memorable. It was the kind of view that needed sharing and I yearned for a bit of companionship.When I got back to the parking lot, I found a note on my windshield, that read: I love it when you come and walk. Seeing you makes my day. You are perfect. Though I was far from perfect, my desire had been answered, and it fostered the thrill of a subtle mystery...The walking path circumnavigated acres of greenery studded with office buildings. I could only assume that my admiring friend worked in one of these establishments, but I had the feeling he was watching me at that very moment, and I’m sure the glow that erupted inside of me diffused outward.A good love story should always have a little mystery, it should make our hearts skip a beat, engender hope in our breasts, and reflect the patterns of a meaningful life. It transforms everything, makes the bland beautiful, adds sparkle to the eye, and turns the forlorn into magnets of joy. Midnight Engagement , released by Crimson Romance, is a story of love, filled with those special mysteries that distill into our souls and abate the heartache of life, allowing our inner-light to shine… one page at a time. I hope to be there with you.

Eliott McKay
Spreading Joy Writing Books



All Crimson Romance books are $1.99 through the month of JULY!

For some time, I have carried around this mini do-gooder kit on a quest to prove that little things can make a big difference. I was on the prowl for just the right opportunity to put these tools to use, but every such occasion generally required equipment on a much grander scale.
A few months ago, I found a posting of a little girl fighting cancer who wanted people to write her letters. Straightaway, I sat down to do it, but found that I had no wisdom to offer one of her situation, who was, undoubtedly, much wiser than myself. I sat stumped until a thought niggled into my brain: maybe it was time to pass along the do-gooder kit.



It quickly became a treasure chest.



It was filled with contents, such as the mini do-gooder kit, an angel with a scroll of paper rolled up inside for recording future goals, a glass star from a figurine of another angel that fell apart during a move, etc. I like stars... and angels. They bring happiness. I put these smaller items into a jar that once held my mother's beauty cream — that, and because it's just so pretty.



Next, I pulled up Google Maps and used the landmarks immediately surrounding the house where the letters were to be sent to make a real-live treasure map. Several question marks were markered-in to add mystery over the prospective hiding places. This was a helpful strategy, as I wasn't sure where the chest would end up getting buried.
(My map was nowhere this cool... but you get the idea!) Photo credit: edenpictures / Foter.com / CC BY
The mailbox-turned-treasure chest had everything from mini paints, to sidewalk chalk (which works great on walls!), to sparkly stickers, and a few other surprises — a treasure trove of delights!




 I disinfected everything, since I didn't want to send any germs with my gift, and added a special message that I once found on an ice-cream cone:



The address was only a few hours away from where I was living, so I made an afternoon of it. Once I found the place, I parked across the street and sat for a moment, debating on just the right spot to hide the chest, now wrapped in brown paper. I waited for the coast to clear, then casually strolled across the street, hoping no one would notice me. Only then did it occur to me that people might think I was some sort of crazy stalker. This thought added an edge of insecurity to my activities and I'm sure my casual stroll came off about as cool as sporting bell-bottoms at a pool party.

Me in my secret agent hat

I took one last look around then made a mad dash to the nearest bush, where I hastily stashed the treasure.  The theme song to Mission Impossible played wildly in my head as I tried not to race back to the car. I'll admit, the temptation to speed away like a mad bandit — leaving behind nothing but a cloud of smoked rubber — was strong, but I kept my cool... plus, speeding bandits usually got caught.

Many miles down the road, I pulled over to add a few more landmarks to the treasure map, then rolled it up with a string down the center — for easy extraction purposes — and stuffed it into this green bottle:


Which I mailed on my way home... after all, the posting did ask for letters.
One can only presume that my package was delivered. I like to imagine a joyous treasure hunt, ending in victory at the last question mark on the map. I like to think of all the positive vibes our young cancer-surviving friend might experience while writing down her goals and planning for the future. I like to envision the great works of art she might create on her bedroom walls with her new set of mini tools.

Treasures, indeed.
In life, it's the little things that matter most:
Such as leaving your housemate a few extra rolls of toilet paper, just in case...


 Or returning the five dollars that you found in the street:
(you can read about that here)




Or encountering the Mystery Machine on an impromptu road trip.
(I did not catch a glimpse of Scooby Doo — but I was looking!)




It is my belief that even the most seemingly insignificant of people can change the world by serving with optimism. God's ultimate secret weapons. Experience teaches that a single ounce of goodness can counteract ten times its evil, as even the smallest flame can cast the darkness from a room. It's a flame that resides in all of us if we will but feed on the oxygen of positivity and turn our eyes outward from the all-consuming selfishness that plagues us daily. In turn, we will gain a sincere desire to give back, and in the process, unavoidably bless ourselves and the people around us.
If you want a better life, break out your secret-weapon do-gooder kit and see what happens. Your life will be transformed.
Eliott

Sunday afternoons are a personal time for me, a time of pondering and reflection. I often take walks or go for drives, and on one recent occasion, I happened upon this vehicle. A powerful gravitation pulled my eyes to the words shouted from its tarnished tail. My car seemed to migrate off the road by itself, where I sat staring at those words:

Fix Me!
Those were the words of my heart. 
How many times had everything inside of me shouted those words! They appeared to have burned through the decay in a desperate plea to be heard before it was too late, before the ever-creeping blanket of rust could swallow the carriage whole.
I thought of a time when my younger brother arrived home on a Saturday, downcast, because his friend, Henry, had purposely excluded him. It was not the first time this had occurred, and my ten-year-old sense of justice simply could not brook any more unpunished bad behavior. I was going to "fix" things.

Hastily, I transformed my bunk bed into a prison cell, then proceeded to lure young Henry to the prepared location — employing every disreputable method of deception my decade of experience could procure, including fibs and even a touch of physical force. My dad had an ancient set of handcuffs, which I used to secure him to one of the posts, where I left him to rot for what seemed a whole day, but was really an afternoon. I fed him bread and water — as they did in the movies — and at the end of his sentence, lectured him long and hard about his crimes.
Photo credit: mikecogh / Foter.com / CC BY-SA
As Henry left, his dejection was evident, and even though I felt he deserved it, my victory was quelled by a befuddling sense of wrong-doing. He was too young to comprehend what I was trying to accomplish. I was just a mean girl who locked him up for something he didn't understand. I did my best to revive his spirits, but he just stared at me with these vacant, troubled eyes, and I knew that Henry understood with absolute clarity that I had intentionally hurt him.

My fixing hadn't gone well.

The old adage teaches us that people don't always remember what we said or did, but they always remember how we made them feel.

Just a few days ago — and many years later — as I was on my way home home, I noticed a young man sitting on a park bench. His head was in his hands and the very position of his bodily stance advertised a forlorn state.

My inner-radar detected a clear distress signal, and one that couldn't be ignored or justified by the flippant excuses of a rushed society. Once again, of its own accord, my car seemed to pull itself over, and I sat watching, unsure... after all, what was I to do? I had no words to fix him.

Experience had taught me the value of listening to myself, and sooner than expected, I was out of the car and approaching the bench, where I casually sat down... and did nothing. I just sat there. After a few minutes, the solution suddenly came to me. I felt compelled to pat this young man on the back, which I did — gently, but surely.

The young man looked up, surprised by my presence. His eyes reflected deep wounds. He looked at me the same way I had at the words on that car. After what seemed an age, he gave a subtle nod, lifted a hand, and offered it to me, and in a shaky voice — rife with emotion — told me his name... Henry. I shook his hand, and responded in kind, after which, we both got up and left. And that was that. Nothing more was needed.

Though we were strangers, we spoke the common language of human understanding. All he needed to know was that someone, somewhere, saw him — really saw him, and in a small measure, shared his grief, whatever it may have been. Sometimes, the genuine concern of our hearts shines through and does all of the talking for us — thank goodness!

In life, the fixing of other people is not a true option, and is, in itself, a sort of evil. It takes away from the agency of others to choose how they will act and live, and denies the growth of character. The first Henry had no choice in his imprisonment, and the second had to choose to accept my proffered solace. A brave decision. Though we cannot fix each other, we can offer the occasional tune-up by uplifting and refraining from harsh words, by seeing the good when the bad is so readily evident, and by the pouring-out of silent pep talks as each of us embark upon the great task of overhauling our souls.

A quote from another Henry:

Three things in human life are important. The first is to be kind. The second is to be kind. And the third is to be kind. ~ Henry James

May we strive to be kind.

Eliott

*The names of the people in this post, though identical in real life, were changed for reasons of privacy.

There is a beach in West Cork near Ownahincha known as the Long Strand. It's a deadly beach, famous for sneak waves caused by the quick, deep descent of its shifty sands. Surfers love this beach, as do I — not so much for the surfing, which I was never very good at, but for the cobbles spit from the frothy churn of those steely blue waters.

One morning as I bumbled along the beach, the water was barely visible through a dense shroud of fog. I happened upon something singular and unexpected: a perfectly shaped skipping stone.

The fog made it special, like I was in a private room, especially reserved for this hallowed bestowal — the ultimate gift wrapping.

I picked it up and rubbed its smooth, flat surface between my fingers and thought of my older brother. We were riding bikes through the sweet smelling vineyards of Megier and came across a river where we stopped to cool off. I had never skipped a stone in my life until my older brother taught me that day. It was a memorable occasion, a time-honored passage of rites, and it was special. Little did I know that just a few days prior, he and my sister — whose favorite movie is Amelie — had an Amelie day, scootering around Paris, where they too skipped stones... c'etais la saison, Je s'pose.

That morning the beach was foggy and the waters choppy, not exactly ideal conditions for skipping stones, so I tucked the rock safely into my pocket and continued along my way. A few moments later, I happened upon another one. It was just as flawless as the first; I couldn't possibly leave it behind... and an idea struck — subtle and enlivening. A gentle clinking reached my ears as the second stone landed in my pocket. I continued along my path, alert and searching, and every so often the sea-smoked room would gift me with another stone.

I came across this another day at the same beach.Soon my pockets clanked as I moved, a human-powered wind chime, laden with enough ballast to ensure my drowning should a sneak wave attack; but it was a risk worth taking, for I had gathered stones sufficient to compile a most splendid gift.

Upon returning to my beautiful, rented cottage near the Galley Head Lighthouse, I rinsed them up and set them out to dry on the stone-flagged patio while I searched for the perfect container. I found it in a bag that once housed a fancy chocolate Easter egg. After the morning fog burned off and the roads were safe to use again, I peddled ten miles into town and purchased a silver paint pen, which I used to carefully inscribe the title of my gift:  Joey's Skipping Stones .

It was perfect and filled me with a deep sense of pleasure. Those significant stones were hand-entrusted from the sands of a most beloved Irish beach to the palm-studded shores of Southern California.

A few weeks later I got a text from my brother citing that he loved his gift, but wasn't sure if he should keep them, skip them, or chuck them at the neighbors dog that forever barked in the morning. What an excellent response!

It wasn't long before my nephew was born. I made certain to gather another bag of stones for him, so that someday my brother can teach his son the important lesson of skipping stones. A gift of generations. Perhaps someday when my nephew is on his own, facing tough life decisions, he will recall the much-needed advice imparted to him while skipping stones with his dad. If so, my life on this planet, will indeed, have been worthwhile.


If I can stop one heart from breaking, I shall not live in vain . ~ Emily Dickinson

Until Next Time,

Eliott McKay