In The Grout

Maybe it starts with the graffiti above the urinal in men's bathrooms. Suicide is never the answer, one read. Several tiles over… you are so loved.

Somebody decided those words needed to be read so drastically, they were willing to spend, however long it takes, to scribble them in the grout. And I have a hunch it was a man. I read them no less than ten times.

Then I pulled my phone out to snap a photo.

Yea. Somebody tried to scratch out the never part, but it didn’t last. Love won.

Then the door opened.

Then, it was awkward.

I walked out, hopped in my truck, and sat for a minute thinking about those words. As I felt the idea come to me, one of my favorite songs came on in the midst of this somewhat low-flying panic attack.

I put my head in my hands and Dirt crawled over the console and sat in my lap.

“Maybe it starts with bathroom wall graffiti.” I told him.

“What starts with bathroom wall graffiti?”

“The revolution.”

“What revolution?”

“The kindness revolution.”

“The graffiti above the urinal in men’s bathrooms, is the start to a kindness revolution? I’d say that's a bit of a stretch, Dad. Don’t you think?”

“Probably. But why? Usually, those walls are filled with slanderous slogans, racist rants, and prostitutional propositions, so when I start to see love scribbled in the grout, I have to assume people are ready for a change.”

“Amen.” Mud said from the backseat.

“Not saying it can’t happen, Dad. It’d be great. But revolutionary?”

“It’s gotta start somewhere, Dirt. And where better than the place a man goes to think.”

“To think? Y’all humans go to the bathroom to think?”

“Half the time, yes.”

“Amen.” Mud preaches again.

“What about the other half?” Dirt asked.

“I guess we go not to think at all.”

“This all just feels like a lot.”

“It is a lot. It’s not easy being human.”

“I’m glad I’m a dog.”

“Me too, Dirt,” I told him.

“You know why us dogs always like ourselves?”

“Why?”

“Because we forgive ourselves. Immediately and on the spot.”

“Preach it, brother.” Mud again.

“Look at me. I’m as pure as the fallen snow, and Mud is most likely the result of a hole in a fence...”

“Wait, what?” Mud asked. Perplexed.

“Looking at us,” Dirt continued, “We’re opposites in almost every way, but under our coats, we’re dang near identical.”

“Why is that so important, though?”

“Well, if we didn’t forgive ourselves, we‘d believe we’re the sum of our worst days and moments. And to believe we’re the result of our lowest lows is also to believe we’re unlovable. For example, you still love me even though I've nipped most of your ex-girlfriends, right?”

“Well, yeah, I guess. But some did kinda deserve it.”

“Amen.” Mud again.

"But everybody loves dogs, Dirt. They just don't like to be nipped." I said.

“Dad, I know it's hard to believe, but not everybody loves dogs,” Dirt said. “And that’s okay.”

“It just feels a little self-centered to love myself like that,” I said with a slightly puzzled look.

“What’s self-centered is believing you’re the sum of your worst days and having an ego to think everyone should like you. To that point, how can you give love to others when you don’t even love yourself? And expecting everyone to like us is also to let them decide whether we’re a good dog or not.”

“Yep. And that’s why they’re no bad dogs.” Mud proudly stated. “Loving yourself starts with forgiving yourself. Like just this morning, I might’ve licked your toast before you ate it. But I immediately forgave myself.”

“Amen, brother.” Dirt nodded in agreement.

I couldn’t help but laugh as I too, said, “Amen.”

Why did I have to read this between the grout above a urinal? Why aren’t these words and others like them, not on every billboard, TV commercial, bumper sticker, T-shirt, email signature, and spoken through the phone any time we’re placed on hold as opposed to elevator music?

What I find more interesting is that, in addition to finding them scribbled in the grout of men's bathrooms, I’ve noticed they’re making an appearance in the places they’re needed the most: social media, bumper stickers, T-shirts, etc… Maybe there's something revolutionary happening after all?

For me, it’s hard to think of a revolution without thinking of freedom. But what is freedom? Is it the freedom to do what you want with your life? To say what you want? To live where you want? To love who you want? To believe what you want?

The definition of freedom is:

The power or right to act, speak, or think as one wants without hindrance or restraint.

When we get down to it, what Webster’s really trying to say is to live without fear.

On the drive home, Mud spoke up from the backseat.

“You know, Dad, when it comes to you humans liking Dogs, it’s hit or miss and that’s ok. But you know who's always hated dogs?”

“Who’s that Mud Man?”

“Fear. Fear can’t keep us from having the courage to forgive ourselves. It’s a brave thing to do when you stop beating yourself up over something you did that you can’t change.”

“Amen.”