Promises Without a Bottle

I will put the associated song here in case you want to listen to it.

Promises Without a Bottle

A kind and thoughtful reader commented on the most recent blog and said that what eventually matters is walking toward the future with quiet clarity. Got me thinking. Sounds beautiful, almost poetic. But let’s not kid ourselves. Clarity in relationships is reaching perfection, and perfection is no small trick. Because clarity happens when promises and actions converge. When they don’t, the whole thing falls apart. Promises without action? That’s fluff, nothing more than sweet talk floating in the air. Action without promise? That’s just confusing—why the heck did you bother if there’s no suggestion of a future, no hint you’ll ever repeat it again? Sure, the promises—I care for you, I think about you—sound noble, but words without action are nothing but stage props. The real test of a narrative is not how pretty the dialogue sounds, but whether it can stand up, walk into the room, and pour the coffee. Coffee shared. A bottle of wine uncorked. Laughter across a table. That’s what gives words bones. And when the bones get old - stand the test of time - then you have clarity. Without that, there is no clarity and the story isn’t a story. It’s fiction. And fiction, no matter how carefully it’s written, always gives itself away the moment the action never shows up. Just like the Martian of the science fiction never shows up in real life – is never expected to be present – because it is a fictional character – not supposed to be there. Because here’s the signal everyone sees but no one likes to admit: lack of presnece and the lack of acknowledgment of presence is the proof. You can repeat I think about you until the paint peels off the walls, but if you can’t sit across from someone, if you can’t put glass to table, the promise is dead. And everybody knows it. The absence of presence isn’t a small thing—it’s the whole thing. And over there in the corner, watching like a hawk, sits the newcomer—the one who cavalierly tells you promises are enough. The one who has no patience for the old habits of presence, the showing up, the rituals that gave a relationship—maybe even a friendship—its breath. The newcomer sees those habits as threats, as cracks in control. So, the actions that once gave truth to promises are quietly strangled, until all that’s left is flimsy scaffolding of words. That’s when the tension builds. On one side: promises of care. On the other: the newcomer’s judgment. And in between: the absence where presence used to live. Once upon a time, there was action, real action, again and again, for years. That was the lifeblood of the story. But now even that history is sacrificed. Years of showing up are erased with a simple rule—you are not allowed anymore. Presence is forbidden, shoved into shadows, so the newcomer can strut around pretending it was always the only story in town. And in the end, judgment wins. Because the chance to act was taken away. And so, the story collapses under the weight of absence, and those who once believed action spoke louder than words are forced to watch while years of showing up are traded away for the silence demanded by the newcomer. Clarity, then, isn’t in the stories. It’s in the actions. And when actions are blocked, clarity is blocked. Which means, my dear reader, your reminder about walking toward the future with quiet clarity is something I wish I could hold onto. I wish it were as simple as shaping our own story. But very often our story gets rewritten by others, and clarity slips away in the collision between stories and reality. Still, thank you for reading, and thank you for reminding me. Because even if clarity is elusive, it helps to know someone out there is still looking for it. And if you want clarity, turn to the song of David Allen Coe who reminded the listeners, “Actions speak louder than words don’t you know.”