The following is one report of today’s activities on Planet Earth.  We have a general idea of the location as California.  This is a Fig Newton of the Imagination, and does not purport to be an official 23:59 report from the United States of America.

It is impossible to fail when we imagine the possibilities to solve every problem.  Our results may fail every so often, but when we collaborate to improve our methods then we will eliminate failure and deliver best results.

Here is what was downloaded from the Collective Consciousness.  We hope you enjoy this story.  Here it goes.

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When the Caregiver got the call from California, she knew it was an emergency.  Rondell had been out of touch for a long time, yet they were always in touch.  The technology that connects the human mind and heart can only be upgraded by compassion, which was a force they always engaged with one another.

Rondell had come a long way, but he had never come to far to talk straight to the Caregiver.  He had pulled her out of the fire a few times, and she had done the same for him.  Attorneys suffer social isolation in that no one talks to them except criminals and other Attorneys.  Sometimes they forget to address themselves about important things, like taking care of their own health and their own families, and worse yet, they forget to talk to God in a quiet way, like we all do.

The Caregiver knew a long time ago that she was not cut out for LSATs and law school, which Rondell had aced many years before.  This was a great disappointment to some who considered human potential of greater value than human connection, except Rondell.  He valued her counsel more as a Caregiver than an Attorney, and that meant so much to her.  It seemed America was so obsessed with a vertical climb up the corporate ladder that they forgot the corps of humankind.  Web.  Cloud.  These were networks, not ladders.  They forgot to lay flat and breathe, as their own Mother had done to birth them.  To fail to identify the unique form and function of womankind was to prefer war over love.  Hail Mary.  The Caregiver cringed every time she heard that from a football announcer in relation to a pass.  She cringed and confessed every time she used vulgar language.

She had to keep herself very still and simple at all times or she would be consumed by forces that seemed to tell her the lie that she walked alone through this journey of life. Kanye West was right.  Jesus walks beside us, not above us.  Jesus walks.  He doesn’t climb without lifting, and to curse His Mother is to curse us all, as she had learned the very hard way.  Evil speech was a loaded weapon.  It had almost killed her after Momma claimed her own life with that gun near the lighthouse, but now she counted it all joy.

She wasn’t cut out for much except being engaged in simple, wholesome solutions to social isolation.  She knew the simplicity of helping people to access the law and make things right.  She kept her Notary Public and a ruck sack full of caregiver supplies, which seemed to be the best way to move the law forward.

Rondell’s sense of panic was quite familiar.  He was shooting off at the mouth incoherently, and the fact that she was the first call chosen by this wealthy, famous Compton born Attorney meant that there was true trouble.  A minimum wage worker is never the first call for a wealthy worker unless there is trouble money cannot solve.

This was trouble that could not be resolved quickly, with cash money, bonds in the bank, or even freshly cut roses.  Rondell had trouble with Mrs. Cruz, or Mrs. C as she was affectionately known.  This was not trouble that another Attorney with whom Rondell golfed could solve, and he was too ashamed of himself to ask his Mother for counsel.  Rondell had bailed the Caregiver out of jail a few times when he was in law school at Georgetown many years ago.  She had been arrested for sleeping in public parks between shifts, so she vowed always to be there for him.  Metro didn’t always run on Caregiver hours, and legalism had taken over sense in America.  Legalism was not bad, but outdated and excessive legalism were criminal.  America preferred excessive regulation to principles it seemed, and the Caregiver was grateful Rondell, or Mr. C as she called him, took compassion on her during his brief time as a public defender.

She had the privilege to care for his Mother in Compton a few summers ago, and enjoyed cleaning her home very much.  She enjoyed cooking homemade meals from her, and especially enjoyed the genuine praise she received from his beautiful Mother.  Their quid pro quo service knit them together as a family, connected now by this current trauma.  Current.  Current means present moment and electricity.  At the present moment the electricity emitted by Mr. C’s brain was off the charts.  His brain was playing roller derby in the stratosphere.  The Caregiver could see his trauma in living color.  He was tripping hard.  His family had lost their land at Manhattan Beach to eminent domain generations ago.  After all, who in Orange County gave Black families permission to own private property?  Yet he counted it all joy and kept moving forward.  He had lost several cases on his way to making it to billionaire status.  He had lost Rolex watches, cars, dogs, and golf games, but now his immediate trauma was that he was about to lose Mrs. C for good.  He had been on a wrong trend for too long, and the same situation set her off again.

It was the same situation on repeat.  Years before, while vacationing in Florida, Mrs. C had been delighted to shop at Publix where she found their private label paper towels.  They were environmentally friendly, super absorbent, and perforated in halves so she could easily determine the proper amount of paper.  She had trained all seven of their children the proper use of paper towels, since they were more of a luxury than a necessity.  Mrs. C had never had the luxury of using paper towels until she moved from Pascagoula, Mississippi to Compton to live with her Aunt Oletha when her parents died in a car wreck in 1964.  She had used old muslin rags, which she scrubbed daily in Borax with hot water boiled on the wood stove to render them clean for use.  No one could even access paper towels from the apartheid side of Pascagoula when she was coming of age.  It was important to keep certain rags separate from others to prevent infection and cross contamination.  People knew little about the struggles of Southern women, particularly Black women, and she cared little to continue her war stories on repeat.  Suffice it to say, she knew the value of resources.  She taught everyone in her home where the clean chamois cloths, old towels, and sanitary cotton rags were stored.  These were to be used to clean up spills, dust furniture, and were separated to avoid cross contamination.  Their daughters were never forced to know why certain rags were kept separate in a basket in the Ladies Room.  Mrs. C thanked God every day her children had been spared the indignity of scarcity, yet she was alarmed to see this indignity replaced with a certain apathy about waste.  Not from her children.  This apathy came from Mr. C.  It alarmed her a bit, but she adored him, so she let it go.  Until now.  The head of the home often becomes disconnected from its heart, and this is what happened again today.  Mr. C had become disconnected from Mrs. C’s values again today, and now was describing in a rather elliptical way how it was connected to the previous incident.

Years ago, upon returning to their Hyde Park home after a wonderful day at Tampa Bay, Mr. C neglected to tighten the base of the blender and spewed an entire pitcher of margaritas all over their Spanish tile kitchen.  Mrs. C was not wild about alcoholic beverages in general, nor margaritas in particular, but this was a special occasion.  Their children were with their youth group at Disney World, and this was their romantic evening together.  Mr. C insisted on cooking her supper.  She had asked Mr. C several times never to use her Publix Premium paper towels in the event of a spill.  She had shown him where the assortment of clean up rags were located, but her comparatively privileged King took paper goods for granted, since they had always been available on demand to him in California.  The spilled margaritas did not upset her at all, since he made another pitcher without her ever being the wiser.  It was the morning after this beautiful supper of fresh seafood, margaritas, and marital intimacy that she saw a familiar scene that broke her heart.  A man who cooks dinner must also learn to clean up his evidence.  Mr. C had loaded the dishwasher with admirable aplomb, but still in a way that proved that he spent more time in the court room than in the kitchen.  That much she could let go.  What upset her so is that he had used her entire roll of paper towels to clean up the spill.  He had done so in a careless manner, so as to leave a thick coat of sticky all over the brand new Spanish tiles.  That much she could clean, but what she could not ignore was his alarming lack of control over his own health.  He was eating out too much instead of taking the lunch their children packed for him daily.  She found fast food wrappers in his Mercedes Benz all too often.  He had started smoking cigars again.  Mrs. C did not go ballistic in the way usually portrayed of Black women.  She did not shout.  She did not scream.  She did not throw things.

She did the same thing his own Mother had done several times.  She elongated her regal neck and sentenced him simply with true conviction, “Rondell.  I am truly disappointed in you.”  With that she climbed into her BMW and took herself to a leisurely brunch at Treasure Island, while Rondell marinated on her words.  He remembered getting in trouble for drinking too much while on liberty during his Navy service many years before.  Just the thought of his Captain calling his Mother caused him a sense of doom.  White men would have just put him in the drunk tank, and let him out the next day.  Black men knew that calling his Mother would be far worse.  Captain Ellis was an Old School Military Man, and he understood this archetype well.  He knew everything about being a Black man, and took seriously his charge to care for each life in his corps.  He made it clear that he was Rondell’s superior and not his brother.  He agreed to forfeit all his liberty for the remaining year just so his Mother would not find out.  He enforced this loss of liberty objectively and without emotion.  It was a square deal, since Mother Cruz never got report of his ill behavior.

Old School Military Men prefer feminine respect to great riches, and Rondell was no exception.  Just as Queens prefer their King’s praise to platinum rings, so do Kings prefer their Queen’s respect to Rolex watches.  When these forces are lost, everything else is soon to follow.

His Mother and Mrs. C’s sentence weighed heavily on his constitution.  His constitution had already been taxed by years of life, and bad habits that were getting worse every day.  He had indeed survived a lot, but he could not survive this sentence.  The first time it had happened, he sweated it out for almost a week after he disappointed his Queen by misuse of her resources.  The Caregiver had counseled him then, but there was no global pandemic then.  She had helped him remotely when he called her in a panic years ago, as she did today.  Now the supply chain and global resource network had been impacted such that paper goods were no longer available on demand as they were years ago.  Together they scrubbed every speck of sticky from between Mrs. C’s brand new Spanish tiles and ensured he knew to stock the pantry with her favorite brand of paper towels.  Then he cleaned out his Benz, emptying it of cigar butts and litter.  He scrubbed the leather, and made a VHS video of himself as he toiled.  The Caregiver knew that Mrs. C would not be pleased if he merely paid someone else to clean up his mess.  The Caregiver reminded Mr. C that his goal was always to earn and maintain her respect, and paying other people money could not do that.  He had to work by the sweat of his brow.

This situation was much worse.  Mr. C had, by his own confession, been controlling about shopping online.  He had been smoking too much weed again, and had fallen into several online conspiracy theory groups.  He was adamant that she not shop online.  He was paranoid about their privacy.  He could not understand why she would shop online, when they had homes all over the world graciously appointed with everything she could ever need by buyers he hired.  Again, he had forgotten the importance of her resource economy.  He had forgotten how she loved him, organized him, fed him, and invited him to work out with her every day.

“Please.  Tell me anything on your mind about how disconnected you have become from Mrs. C’s values”, the Caregiver stated calmly.  It was never an interrogation.  It was always an invitation.  As Epsom Salts drew the poison out of a boil or the ache out of a muscle, so did her calm invitation lead him right to the moment that he began to verge from their shared values.

This time, nothing was so easy.  Mr. C  had the disadvantage of being in Orange County during wildfires and a run on paper goods.  He had used four rolls of paper towels to clean up a Crock Pot full of vegetarian chili he had made to impress her.  Once again, she enjoyed the meal, conversation, and marital intimacy her King’s kind gesture afforded his Queen.  Once again, she walked into a kitchen that looked more like a crime scene than the elegant center of nutrition she prided herself in keeping spotless.  She had schlepped the four rolls of Brawny paper towels, which were not quite her favorite, from their Laguna Beach home to Orange County, since the local WalMart shelves were bare.  She had complied with Frank’s paranoid request for her not to shop online.  Now in her mind she was back in Mississippi as a young girl with little control over the situation, where dirty rags were all she had to clean up a mess.  It was much worse this time.  Mrs. C cried as though her heart would break.  She was too upset to speak.  Her sentence came down in a waterfall of tears that broke his heart.  She sat down at the kitchen table, held her beautiful face in her hands, and sobbed with disappointment and heart break.  She didn’t need to verbalize how disappointed she was with Mr. C.  He knew.

This time things would not be so easy.  The Caregiver knew just what to do.  Often times the best Old School Military Man is indeed a woman, and so it was with Belle.  Belle had Military credentials and titles galore, but like most country people, she preferred simplicity to complication.  Belle.  Belle meant beautiful, and it was better than any title Amazon or several branches of the Armed Forces had given her.  Belle agreed to the Caregiver’s plan.

After ordering a monthly subscription of Solimo paper towels to be shipped to all thirty three of their homes, Mr. C donned a clean face mask after taking a shower and realizing he really did need to relax on the weed a bit.  Becoming a billionaire afforded him the privilege of comfort, but it had also afforded him the imprisonment of excess and poor judgment.

During his three days on Belle’s Amazon Prime fleet, he helped unload cargo, traveled the world, and had Belle’s staff from LAX to UAE photograph him assist their hard work to keep inventory moving equitably world wide.  Mrs. C’s grief, worry, and disappointment finally broke when Mr. C pinged her the third day of photographs.  He was working hard to earn her respect again.  He was living off beef jerky, fruit leather, bottled water, and raw cashews as he schlepped around the world in an Amazon Prime plane.  This new routine slimmed him down by about ten pounds.  He was doing hard physical labor to work off some of the alcohol and THC trapped in his fat cells, which had formed an extra fifty pounds on his tall frame.  He had ignored his Queen’s concern for his health for years now.  He had never cheated on her in their marriage bed, of that he was proud.  Yet he had cheated on her by not caring enough about her values.  Of this he was ashamed, but truly she was so proud of him.  He was super high the night he depleted her precious resource of paper towels to sop up some spilled vegetarian chili.  He could have done anything to make up for the mess, or he could have done nothing.  Instead, he did the right thing and searched his soul.  He had forgotten that she could not be impressed by anything more than his own honor.

After they had a heart wrenching, heart warming reconciliation, the Caregiver got the call she had been waiting on all week.  Mr. C had won Mrs. C again, and now the Caregiver had to help him with a meaningful 50 Year Wedding Anniversary.  He knew now that was better to be itty bitty and change his daily habits in small ways to endear himself to her and win her respect.  He knew improving his own health would be a better gift than another diamond ring, which she never asked for anyway.  He fell in love with her the nanosecond he laid eyes on her in grammar school.  Her energy was so pure, so perfect, so feminine, so positive that he knew she was his Queen.  Whether her hair was covered, braided, permed, or natural she was a knock out beauty with nothing but Shea Moisture on her beautiful face.  She was more beautiful this way to him than all dolled up on the red carpet.  He loved her with all his heart, and he vowed to call the Caregiver before he made a meal or margaritas in the kitchen to plan ahead and avoid strike three on improper allocation of paper towels.  The Caregiver was highly honored to keep the Cruz Family knit together in her tiny ways.  He pinged her a donation, which she accepted with gratitude.  She exhaled with gratitude that her life was yet again of benefit to someone, somewhere in the world.  She laid down on her Army cot to catch a nap before her next shift, and admired her  bivouac on the hospital’s roof.  The maintenance people were very kind and kept her hid, in exchange for fresh vegetables and pleasant conversation.  It was too much trouble catching the bus back to her temporary room, plus it was not nearly as nice as her open air home on the roof.

The bivouac was beautiful, with planters full of Butternut Squash, Okra, Tomatoes, String Beans, and Marigolds.  She realized the one third of the world felt sorry for living in what they perceived as poverty.

The truth was that she felt sorry for them that they had no idea what true wealth was.  It was neither for hatred of rich nor poor that she lived as she did, but for the love of God whose engineering genius hung the twinkling stars on the pure black canvas of California night.
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This has been an unofficial 23:59 report from Planet Earth.  Imagine the possibilities when we connect through compassion and mutual guarantee.

#planetearth #ourhome #unity #generosity #empathy