tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29604985698113741102024-03-12T19:44:47.023-07:00Finding WaterDISCOVERING MOMENTSUnknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger58125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2960498569811374110.post-69917245660450313452022-03-02T11:06:00.007-08:002023-04-25T14:09:13.742-07:00A Trek Around the Vineyard<p>I walked the perimeter of Martha’s Vineyard last October,
over four consecutive days. Walking six to seven hours a day; covering between
12-15 miles at a stretch. I went from Lake Tashmoo, through Menemsha, around
Aquinnah, along South Beach, across Chappaquiddick, and finished in Oak Bluffs.
The second day coincided with my 60<sup>th</sup> birthday, and I felt good
about that.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">There were lots of things I felt good about during and after
the walk, but there was also the physical toll and waves of emotion that
created different kinds of feelings and reflections. The walk was deeper than a
bucket-list adventure check-off (though I had been thinking of doing it for
years). It was more of a trek, a journey. A dialogue with myself, birds eavesdropping.
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">This is the story a venture out into the world and an
accomplishment adorned with a little bit of insight. History and future saddle-bagged
each step. Laughter, tears. My inside joke as the miles piled up, “How did you
get there? I walked.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">My past includes visiting the island since I was in diapers
with my family for vacations, usually staying on Ocean Park. I also lived there
for summers as a worker when I was older, and stayed year-round in the
mid-eighties working professionally as a social worker. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">But the Vineyard was always a presence. Idealized place?
Somewhat, but working and spending a winter tempered it a bit. Plus, my whole
family was familiar with the island, and the dynamics went beyond simple vacations
together, we brought the baggage of the outside world. Thoughts and feelings about
family rolled in with the tide. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Ultimately, the days ended up melding family history and
today. Step by step, some stretches more contemplative than others, the past
walked into the present.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I’ll tell you about 4 days, some of the minutes and hours.
Minutes spent slipping across what I call rock fields and hours spent in
trance-like, non-drug induced states. The whole trip added up to a total that
was greater than the sum of its parts. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">DAY 1, October 4: Lake Tashmoo to Menemsha <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Rain. Woke up in my comfy Air BNB hoping that the forecast
was wrong, but it was spot on and the rain was steady. Ate biscuits and drank
strong coffee. Made a note in my journal to the effect that I was glad I was
getting started but really anxious about whether I was ready physically.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">My training for the walk, back in Cleveland, was very
limited. I battled Plantar Fasciitis all summer and the longest walk I took in
a trekking style (i.e., not wandering on dog walks) was three miles. That’s it.
<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I concluded that the walk was going to have to be done on
willpower, stubbornness, and fear of looking silly after talking it up. Everyone
I talked to thought it was cool I was doing it, but I didn’t want to have to
explain if it didn’t happen. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: list .5in;">I filled my backpack with stuff
that included a gallon of water, tuna and crackers, extra socks, a small first
aid kit, notebook, pen, phone, map, Swiss Army knife, and (wishful-thinking for
day 1) sandals. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Then I put on my new raincoat and called the Uber. My
destination was the west side of Lake Tashmoo, where Chappaquosett Road ends.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The driver was a Jamaican woman, and we had a nice conversation.
Of course, she wanted to know what I was up to and I babbled a bit about
journey and desire, and laid out my walking plan. As we drove through the rain
and veered off Lambert’s Cove Road onto the final stretch of dirt roads to
Tashmoo, I told her I was bummed about the rain. She paused and gave me a gift
of words that stuck with me all day, acting as a mantra when the driving rain
was at its worst. She said, “The rain gonna do what it do, you just do what you
gonna do.” Bam. I got out of the car and walked onto the beach. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Two words encapsulate day 1: rain and rocks. The coast
heading southwest from Tashmoo is rocks with rocky rocks on top. Of rocks. I so
welcomed short stretches of sand. But I did find a new friend in spongy clumps
of seaweed. They actually made for surer footing rather than the slippery rocks.
I only thought later about how easy it would have been for me to twist (break!)
an ankle and have to limp to a road or house. I just had to concentrate on
where I stepped. The power of doing what’s right in front of you, literally.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The seaweed is an example of surprisingly useful walking features
I encountered. Other examples are tire tracks to follow in heavy sand (day 4) and
compacted low tide surfaces. But on day one it was the soaked-to-the-underwear
reality front and center. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Meanwhile, I saw dozens of washed-ashore lobster traps and
colorful rope (I saved a few pieces of unusual hues of blue and yellow). <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For a while I counted birds: cormorants,
terns, gulls, a few crows and one Egret. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I started thinking about where I was. On a gorgeous coast of
a beautiful island, alone and walking. A speck on a planet but significant in
my own way. Singular. It was a theme that rolled around in my head. I tried to
follow the mantra, w<i>hen you walk, just walk</i>. Prayed for people and the
earth. Sang. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Mostly on day one, though, and to some extent days 2, 3, and
4, my mind chattered & flitted, and my body sent messages of stress and
strain. I was vigilant about the rocks and aware of how wet I was and the
driving rain in my face. My feet hurt in my new, unbroken-in boots. That night
I examined and treated blisters and sore toenails, one of which was coming
loose.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I saw only one person and a dog all day before arriving in
Menemsha. They appeared in the distance early in the day on Lambert’s Cove
beach. Down around Cape Higgon I took a rest. Otherwise, 7.25 hours alone but
not lonely. I was mission-driven though, at times, miserable. Thoughts of
getting back to my warm and dry lodging helped. As did the thrill of doing what
I was doing. The rain did its thing, but I did mine. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">When I arrived in Menemsha a woman was on the beach and her
dog came running up to me. when I reached her, I said something about the dog
being my welcoming committee after walking from Tashmoo. She said, “Oh, don’t
you love being on the beach on rainy grey days?” I laughed and thought of the
rocks, driving rain, my sore muscles and feet. Then I realized that yes, in
fact, it was lovely. I slurped triumphantly on hot chowder and gobbled a couple
of stuffed scallops from the take-out window at Larsen’s fish market. In the
rain.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Eventually I took the bus to Vineyard Haven, went into the
Stop & Shop to grab some dinner and walked up State Road to my resting
place. I showered, ate, and was in bed by 7:10 pm, four Advil down the hatch.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">DAY 2, October 5: Menemsha to Stonewall Beach. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Woke up so stiff I couldn’t stretch my arms past my knees.
Happy 60<sup>th</sup> birthday! But I was encouraged as I moved around, drank
coffee, ate a banana. At least I was able to move. Got a ride to the end of
West Basin Road, hoping that walking would loosen me up. Turns out it did and
it didn’t. One big plus—the forecast was for intermittent rain. Wore my
raincoat anyway. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Day 2 was more drifty and dreamier than day 1. Less
stretches of rocks, until near the end approaching Squibnocket. I settled into
a nice rhythm, buoyed by the fact that I accomplished 12 or so miles yesterday
(my distance estimates are based on map measurements, not any kind of digital
counter). My eyes felt more emotionally and physically open, what with less
driving rain and a new confidence I could actually do 4 days of walking. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I took in boulders, studied visual patterns, smiled at the
intermittent sunshine, sang and used another mantra--<i>things look far away,
then you get there</i>. Not exactly quantum physics but it was pleasant to
repeat. I took pictures and short breaks. My feet were complaining and I played
some music for distraction. Tried to really take it all in.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The cliffs got bigger and bigger as I walked southwest to
Aquinnah, they began to literally take my breath away. Majesty and
magnificence. I realized for all the time I had spent on the Island, I had
never seen the view of the cliffs on the Lobsterville side of the Gay Head
Lighthouse. The Lighthouse become my morning beacon, and I hoped I had read the
tide chart correctly to get around the point without swimming. Had no trouble
getting around it at 1 p.m.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Soon, I saw a few people exploring the beach.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Later I stopped and bandaged my problem
toenail and big toe blister. Noticed other nails getting blood blisters.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">It is walking on uneven surfaces that affects feet the most.
The right hip, leg and foot are lower as you go. I chose to stick closer to the
water (often there were less rocks) even though it was more sloped. At points
the narrow beach forced the issue. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I thought a lot about it being my birthday. I’m the youngest
of nine kids and my family circumstances have included losing five siblings. Something
about walking lent itself to reflection, and my family’s history was
intertwined with the Vineyard. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">It felt like I was walking for all my sibs in the sense of
our shared history and love for the Island. Of course, when the family comes up
my thoughts can’t help but turn to my sister’s suicide, another’s accidental
death, multiple mental illnesses, and substance abuse. This is not a woe is me,
it’s just life on life’s terms. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I recalled my brother tossing a suitcase off the ferry into
the harbor while manically rambling. Thought about my sister in a tiny Circuit
Ave apartment: holed up, paranoid, getting blitzed. Then being the life of the
Ritz Café before getting bounced.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The walk created a space for reflection of the whole
kaleidoscope. My own substance abuse and sadness included. I got sober 16 years
ago and I don’t think I would have done the walk if I hadn’t. Somehow this was
all woven together as I gazed outward at the sea, upward at the cliffs, across
the sandy scene. A richness of experience, not all of it happy, but whose
experiences are always so? <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">At the end of the day, after Zach’s Cliffs, Long Beach, and Squibnocket
Point I sat in the parking lot of Stonewall beach. I had limped the last mile
or so, the rocks again making my will the engine of last resort. Plus, where
was I going to go but onward? A great day, but it got even better.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">My Uber app found none available, “try again later.”
Instead, stuck out my thumb at the intersection of South & Squibnocket
Roads. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">An older woman named Paulette stopped! She immediately told
me she didn’t know why she stopped. I told her it was because I stuck my thumb
out. We laughed and immediately came to delight in each other’s company. She
gave me grief for what I was doing even as she obviously admired it. We joshed
and jived. About halfway to Vineyard Haven it struck me how much Paulette
resembled my mother Rene in appearance and attitude. Wrappers and other trash strewn
about the car, cigarette smell, quick to laugh. After the time I spent thinking
about my family, here was a spirit like my mom’s to take me safely back to my temporary
nest. Amazing way to end day 2.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">DAY 3, October 6, Chilmark to Katama.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I had gotten smart and bought some Epsom salt to soak in
after day 2. It didn’t help. I woke up achy and took more Advil. Started out a
little later, drank more coffee. It was sunny and getting warmer.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The day was a long march across the southern shore. Nothing
but sand in front of me and the Atlantic to my right for 14-plus miles. Except
when I got to the cut between Chilmark Pond and the Atlantic. Knew it was
coming, didn’t know if it would stop me and require circling back. It looked
like a mile across, but it was probably about 15 yards. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I paused only briefly at the rushing water. Wondered if the
tide was going in or out and if I should wait. Quickly I told myself not to
overthink it. Wrapped my phone in a plastic bag and put it into one of the
extra socks at the top of my backpack. Decided if I started wading and it got
to my chest I would turn around and find an inland route. Here goes!<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The current was stronger than it looked but the footing was
sandy. I leaned forward and crept slowly, step by step. Water got to my waist
when I was halfway across and I took heart. This meant it would slope up from
there, right? Only later would I realize that didn’t have to be the case, it
could have just gotten deeper. Geometry was never my strong suit. Fortunately,
each step after the mid-point got less deep. Then, the slip. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Three-quarters across, almost there, breathing easier, and
my right foot went awry. My shoulders lurched forward and I instinctively tried
to pull back, throwing my left leg forward to catch myself. It worked and while
I did get wet to my chest, I didn’t fall under. Pushing on I hit land-ho!<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Once safe on the sand I started laughing and yelling. I
whipped out my phone—dry as when I started. I took a 20 second clip of the cut
and kept laughing in relief.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Since I hadn’t seen anyone and doubted I would, I stripped
and laid my clothes out to dry. Looking out to sea, I thought, “Why not take a
swim?” It was about warm enough and it felt like a kind of baptism to mark the
successful crossing. It felt great. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The rest of the day until Katama was walk, walk, walk.
Unfortunately, I wasted some time grinding with anxiety as I approached
Edgartown Pond because I wasn’t sure if there was another cut to forge. There
wasn’t and I got mad at myself.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Here I was in such beauty and I was worrying about something
I couldn’t control. If there was a cut I would have to decide to either cross
it or go around. I was pissed that I was worrying but eventually got over
myself. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I grew mighty tired as I covered the rest of the miles to
Katama. Finally, there was the parking lot off of Atlantic Drive, a little way
past Crackatuxet Cove. Sat on a rock waiting for a ride, got back to my place
and was ready to collapse. First, a huge surprise. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">My wife flew in and was standing in the Air BNB’s living
room waiting for me when I walked in. I can’t describe how moving it was to see
her, truly ineffable. She came to witness, and added the oomph I needed to get
through day 4.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">DAY 4: Katama to Oak Bluffs.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The morning broke bright and clear. It occurred to me that
each day had gotten successively nicer weather-wise. Fitting. Here I was ready
to finish. I was exhausted and emotionally vulnerable. On day 3 I had burst
into tears a few times, overwhelmed by the beauty I was observing (did I
mention the clouds and the seals?), the deep sense of satisfaction I was
experiencing, the wonder of it all. Wonder-filled. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Again, I felt the paradox of being a tiny speck in the
universe and at the same time feeling like a huge, singular presence, embracing
a peak experience. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The walk was time
alone simultaneously with feeling woven into the fabric of everything. That’s
about the best I can describe it, so I’ll leave it there.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">As I headed toward Wasque Point, Katama Bay on my left, the
family history once again dominated my heart and mind. I had purposely saved
listening until this final day to a recording of interviews I did with three of
my siblings about their lives. It was from about 10 years ago and I had never
listened to it. </p><p class="MsoNormal">I heard my siblings’ voices expressing a mix of emotions as
I asked them about growing up among the heartaches of deaths and illnesses, rampant
substance abuse and conflicts. Let’s shorthand it this way—my family was included
in a National Institute of Mental Health study investigating familial
clustering of serious mental illnesses. Four of my siblings qualified, if you
count the suicide as a major depressive disorder. Add an early accidental
death. As one can imagine the affects upon all of us sibs and my parents were
monumental and devastating.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Eventually, the history dissipated, came to rest in my mind,
body and spirit. Gently, with no fanfare. It wasn’t in sharp relief anymore, it
just was. I’m relating a trek that included physical, emotional, and spiritual
dimensions over 4 days in October, and my internal encounter with family
history was part of it.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Most of day 4 felt triumphant. I rounded Wasque point and
saw Pocha Pond for the first time. Sensuous vista, that. I went as far as Dyke
Bridge and turned down Chappaquiddick Road to the ferry landing. It felt really
strange to walk on a road.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">As I continued to wind down my walking, I grew both more
excited and increasingly elegiac. It was almost over! Oh no, it’s over! Can’t
believe I did it coupled with of course I did. Smiling and getting teary.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The first thing that struck me after landing in Edgartown was
how busy it felt, a bustling metropolis. I stopped and bought a seltzer and the
newspaper and continued to State Beach. It wasn’t like I hadn’t been around
some people the past 3 days, but I did spend more time alone and walking during
my waking hours than anything else. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I walked along State Beach to Oak Bluffs. I felt emotional
and proud. I met my wife at Giordano’s pizza and clam bar. Damn the slices and
fried scallops were amazing! <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">We flew out the next day. I hold onto the experience like a
special gem, and carry a piece of Quahog clam shell with purple highlights in
my pocket every day. I decided to write about it, knowing my power of
description would inevitably fall short. But that’s okay.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">It was four days of rock, sand, sky, water, and self last
October. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Today a more peaceful view of
the past. How did I get there? I walked. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgqqEUgffTJk7GYdI_3RX7BjFtB7W2RDEWksXvQ8Ajdax8a_o_kbMXCEblcipi8hRRF5XotFoYqfesuXRk2YEtErtBYXT6MihdG_oJEFYMDKrVv8cO5hEGHvHa9Mxu5CHfI5qF8LVWN4EcIXsR6oIZUeawXOpyKXDv_PBkxDkqmWkmWjGu1MqJjT_BPNg=s1600" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgqqEUgffTJk7GYdI_3RX7BjFtB7W2RDEWksXvQ8Ajdax8a_o_kbMXCEblcipi8hRRF5XotFoYqfesuXRk2YEtErtBYXT6MihdG_oJEFYMDKrVv8cO5hEGHvHa9Mxu5CHfI5qF8LVWN4EcIXsR6oIZUeawXOpyKXDv_PBkxDkqmWkmWjGu1MqJjT_BPNg=w400-h300" width="400" /></a></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><br /></o:p></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2960498569811374110.post-35549513085613623532022-02-10T18:15:00.005-08:002022-02-10T18:16:23.512-08:00The Happiness Trap<p></p><p>I don't much worry about being happy anymore, I think it's a trap. A bill of
goods, a barker's jive. Step right up and prepare to be disappointed. Because
happiness, by its very nature, is conjoined with unhappiness. "I want to
be happy" is all about declaring that you are not. Or at least, if not
unhappy, then feeling something that is sketchy and gnawing. Wanting. Yearning. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p>Nah, I try to dig for something else like contentment and deep satisfaction. These
things aren't necessarily low-hanging fruit for our chattering minds. But enthusiasm
and curiosity are amazing tools to use to harvest them. And here's the fun part, these types of
things are as likely to find you as you them. Without sweating it. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p>Our Buddhist friends point out that all
striving (including for the sketchy <br />idea of happiness) is a dead end. So if not grinding with exertion, aiming for Mt. Happiness, what can get us through the days?</p><p>Part of the solution is to accept without judgement those things which are
there for the riling. Steaming piles of you-know-what. Letting them ripple on
by without your need to protest, be outraged, rage against. Then your
energy is more suited to rollin' on the sweet river. Finding your own water.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p>Part 2: tell people you're busy and sit. Quietly review what you have to be
grateful for, what went well recently, a smile that snuck up on you. A person
you love and who loves you. This avoids the insatiable happiness trap.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p>Because a trap only ensnares when we follow the path to it. Acceptance and
replacement is a different path altogether. Accept that there are things which
are absolutely going to make you unhappy. Replace them with what is already
right in your world. No, it's not magic, it's just a way to try.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p>Right answers aren't the point anymore, only wrong questions. How can I be
happy? Who cares? How can I be of service is a pretty right question. There is a deep satisfaction that awaits, there for the taking. A box of contentment ribboned with joy, with
your name on it. Ready to be delivered. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></p><p>It’s just not labeled happiness.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p><br /><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg3qGmra5GKNN-QApSu8f4zRwmQYDkHuiFBxiff32r6rQ4b51qiOFSaq36C01LaAMv-sUHa2seD5KlthhlYJ217TkDk-d74olDKQDVHl0XoipOJVuoePmYNohhifk_8baKS8ylXo8B6UFzgvuzWlrGiCgwmPnQTcA80nl_9hFQ4ej1OKU8kFXhUysPI-g=s4032" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="2518" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg3qGmra5GKNN-QApSu8f4zRwmQYDkHuiFBxiff32r6rQ4b51qiOFSaq36C01LaAMv-sUHa2seD5KlthhlYJ217TkDk-d74olDKQDVHl0XoipOJVuoePmYNohhifk_8baKS8ylXo8B6UFzgvuzWlrGiCgwmPnQTcA80nl_9hFQ4ej1OKU8kFXhUysPI-g=w400-h640" width="400" /></a></div><br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2960498569811374110.post-16746257347475172682022-01-25T11:24:00.004-08:002022-02-10T14:28:14.869-08:00Let there be sun<p>Light has a quality of mood that demands attention. Any day, any hour, every minute--in any temperature. Both yesterday and today are crazy cold, but the difference is sunshine. It makes things better. Period. </p><p>The snow is still piled up, tough going on the sidewalks near my house. Me and the dog set forth, because neither of us gives up the walk until the wind chill plunges. Garage door rises, sun rays beam down. Not exactly resulting in a hop, skip, & a jump out the driveway, but my mind starts out positive.</p><p>Bundled up, breath plumes, beware-ing sloggy patches. On the route I see my shadow casting on the nearly blinding snow-white yards. No sunglasses but who cares? The squint is fine, I know from whence it comes. I keep the strides, celebrate the chug, watch the ice. </p><p>My ears are still cold, chin freezing, fingers getting nipped. But I turn to the sun and celebrate. You may come old man winter, but the sun can still kick your ass. Sunlight improves the mood and moves the heart. It's okay, I can make it through, it's going to be fine: sunshine! </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiqEzb7X6WcMvw85eiIHDgBk1zbChns0H2Gsp64aUrNK4MCrc5AoCP3_ooJgBzBqwExDd53QJLuEuCDAQhzi06ziLmLopbrwFYY-cfwnHuTozQihyir5Gs_0HbI2nAoTaBeTruGIRMz6HdRB-PGA4mjoFCFfvj-DMIx91OSM9NIemypqAytxZWzU3hWXA=s3987" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2559" data-original-width="3987" height="256" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiqEzb7X6WcMvw85eiIHDgBk1zbChns0H2Gsp64aUrNK4MCrc5AoCP3_ooJgBzBqwExDd53QJLuEuCDAQhzi06ziLmLopbrwFYY-cfwnHuTozQihyir5Gs_0HbI2nAoTaBeTruGIRMz6HdRB-PGA4mjoFCFfvj-DMIx91OSM9NIemypqAytxZWzU3hWXA=w400-h256" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2960498569811374110.post-42542854064172786752021-10-11T11:44:00.005-07:002021-10-11T11:50:26.800-07:00Love & Wonder at the Garage Sale<p>Let’s start with the birds, because a hummingbird makes an
appearance later. After many, many attempts to keep the squirrels (sky rats!)
off various bird feeders, my wife Allison figured it out. Long story, not really
important. But there it was, the set-up with the plastic shell that reduced the
squirrels to picking up the bird’s spilled seed. What counts is this: Allison
made the effort, again and again, because she loved watching the birds gather
in the morning, merrily picking away. Found it beautiful, looked in wonder, was
grateful to see it. Can you understand this? It’s a matter of taking the time
and paying attention.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">This is the story of taking time and paying attention. It
was not long after the wooden hexagonal bird feeder was in full swing, a
morning to appreciate the birds again. It was Saturday August 7, and we had a
garage sale planned. We ended up continuing it for a bit Sunday morning, we
thought because we still had the set of 4 mid-century dining room chairs to
sell, but we realized later it was so we could be gifted leftover church food
(this will make sense). <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Waking up, grabbing coffee, reporting for duty. Allison put
me to work right away moving display tables into the driveway and loading them
up: higher end knick-knacks, art work, Italian dishes, other dishes, chairs, stray
appliances, lamps, a sturdy bench, decorative objects, fabric, more chairs, end
tables, mirrors…you get the picture. The staging was all important; the curb
appeal necessary. Signs went out at 2 intersections, our cars parked out of the
way. Ready, set, sell!<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">We felt the crackling good vibes from the start. The weather
was cooperating, slight chance of thunderstorms in the afternoon. Both of us
set to enjoy hanging out together, counting fat cash. But it turns out cash was
not the most important thing we got. Instead, the only rain from the sky was,
well, angels. This is not said in jest. There is no other way to explain it, at
least for us. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">We got visited by angels disguised as buyers of our stuff.
As hanger-arounders that spoke of life and love, ashes and injuries. As people
who told us personal stories and thanked us for listening. It became abundantly
clear that the sale was just the universe’s way of keeping us in one place for
the day.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The individual encounters added up to an experience that was
greater than the sum of its parts. It was a kaleidoscope that came into sharp
relief by Sunday at noon: we were offered beauty and truth if we paid the
simple price of taking the time and paying attention. Being open to messages,
willing to really believe everything happens for a reason. Just being receptive
and stripping the bullshit away. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">First up was a woman who sauntered over and started asking
questions about our stuff. Questions more to do with what the stories were
behind the items, not just what the prices were. She ended up hanging out for quite
a while, returning to her car to grab a piece of cheesecake and come back and
talk some more. Then she reminded us to be generous to strangers.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">After claiming a wrought iron 2-person outdoor glider for
herself, she was in no hurry to load it in the car and go. Instead, she
overheard a couple telling us about the renovated porch they were finishing and
how the glider is just perfect for it. This woman didn’t hesitate, she told the
couple they could have it. So casual, so matter of fact. Based on how much she
loved it, the sacrifice was a reinforcement of the joy that comes from giving
rather than receiving. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Next came an apparition of sorts, or it seemed to me at
first. It was a sensory overload of a striking, narrow-faced woman wearing
something that looked like a bell man’s cap, adorned with plastic flowers. It
did not look silly; it made a statement. She wore a Sari and smelled like
incense, but it didn’t slide into caricature. It was her smile that pulled it
all together.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">She proceeded to tell us that she had just come from her
aunt’s 96<sup>th</sup> birthday party at a nursing home up the street. She had
stopped at a garage sale just that morning but felt drawn to ours as she
whizzed by the sign, circling the block to find us. It seems her other aunt and
cousin spent most of the time at the party scolding the birthday aunt and
telling her she needed to eat more “real” food. But, she wondered, wasn’t
birthday cake food? She showed us pictures and a short video of the
cake-eating. It was marvelous. Her first message to us was don’t sweat the
“should,” just enjoy the cake. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Her next message was more pointed. After major oohing and
ahhing about a metal sculpture of a branch with birds and a wall hanging of
wood and metal she told us she had a shrine in her garden. It was dedicated to
the memory of her mother and sister, she missed both of them terribly and didn’t
mind telling us so. She said they both loved flowers and these two pieces would
look wonderful as part of the shrine. We heard it loud and clear—bury the dead
but not your feelings.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">After that a grandma with two beautiful grand baby girl
toddlers rolled up. The little girls investigated the fun found in other
people’s stuff. The love that kept exchanging between grandma and the girls was
awe-striking. Conversing back and forth, seemingly converting the air into
loving breezes. The easy and total trust and love broadcast the lesson: wear
your life like a loose garment, and sweep the sky of clutter.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">At the very end of the day, as we were putting unsold stuff
back into the garage, a family drove up in a last-legs car. Mom, Dad, 2 kids
under 10. They spoke very little English and I gave them a “hola, como estas?” They
returned rapid fire Spanish. I said I spoke only “un poquito.” They smiled and
kept looking.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">It’s easy to tell when someone likes an item, and we saw
them light up at a couple of chairs and some dishes. With just a glance between
me and Allison, we charged them a very few bucks for what they wanted and gave
them a bunch of stuff for free. The excitement when they loaded the stuff up
was palpable. The message for us? Generosity is more a gift from the recipient
to the giver than anything else.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The next morning, we decided to put out just a few things.
Soon yesterday’s grandma, decked out in her Sunday best, rolled up to say hi. But
not just that, she insisted we take some sandwiches from her church’s
post-service social. And some cake and macaroni salad too. It was an exchange
of nourishment for the body, after the previous day’s filling grace of her and
the grandbabies. Score one for laughter, and positive wishes you can quickly
have with strangers, if you want it. A declaration that everything comes
together in the end.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The final visitation was Sheila, she had a son who was
recovering from a very bad accident and not in the best shape. We chit-chatted
and then she hit us with, “I hope it’s okay to ask you this…would you pray with
me for my son?” We took no offense, joined hands and said a prayer. The message
is don’t hesitate to ask the universe for blessings.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Sometime later that day there it was, a hummingbird right at
our front window. There are lots of things that people say the bird represents,
I’ll go with joy, healing, good luck and messages from spirits.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Because the loud & clear from the whole garage sale was
to take time and pay attention; bask in the constant glow of precious life
around you. To live in and affirm the connectedness of all things, all people,
all garage sales, all not-offhand remarks that speak to all of us together. And
more. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguJ8m7pAa1GVKfmKm5leRec68hu9-PmhuCt6LVofUnMi7Vd2FkKsF43kbGaRX7og6-p92kitVduHlIiJLxVOS-MUsEXkBYEeDTJTsO6NIimYcPFc_KK09TyJEtgrdkspOz69n-Mr9jzTZT/s275/garage+sale.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="183" data-original-width="275" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguJ8m7pAa1GVKfmKm5leRec68hu9-PmhuCt6LVofUnMi7Vd2FkKsF43kbGaRX7og6-p92kitVduHlIiJLxVOS-MUsEXkBYEeDTJTsO6NIimYcPFc_KK09TyJEtgrdkspOz69n-Mr9jzTZT/w400-h266/garage+sale.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2960498569811374110.post-45271670246684504242021-03-08T11:27:00.008-08:002021-03-15T05:23:42.070-07:007 a.m. Prismatic<p>I woke up, made the bed, got a coffee, and sat back down in my sunny bedroom. Not quite ready to hit GO, just kind of organizing my thoughts. Glancing over my shoulder I saw the still-hanging-over-the-headboard holiday bulbs already in action. </p><p>The bulbs were throwing prismatic colors in perfect size & shape replicas on the wall behind them. It was a little after 7 a.m. on a still winter morning. Fueled by caffeine, sparked by sunlight going through glass, I started wondering.</p><p>Just what does "going through" something mean anyway? On this life's trail we are only wisps, here & also there (quantum-wise), spirits in the guise of solids. Also competing emotions, trapped inside bodies. </p><p> It's a wonder we get through anything at all. Or do we, really?</p><p>I got through the first year of the pandemic, shades of desperation notwithstanding. Made it through my last birthday, older. Fixed a bathroom drain, proudly. Got a new dog, thought about what's next, threw a bone to the hungry hound snapping at my ass from the past. Grieved losses, cursed what I couldn't accept, kept moving through the days and nights. </p><p>But did I get to some kind of "other side" of all this? Life is so not linear, neatly straight-lined. Where it counts, <i>down there where the spirit meets the bone </i>(Miller Williams), life is pretty much an imperfect circle. We're in it for the holy-hell ride, both sacred and profane curves on the trail. </p><p>Do our actions always cast beautiful shadows? I think not, but I know this: our job is to keep trying to do good as we go through life. By helping others, sharing kindnesses, loving with all our might, taking the time, making the effort, sharing the cool breeze in the heat of trouble, laughing. </p><p>Aiming to add beauty to somebody's life, as they go through it. Because it matters.</p><p>It was about 7 a.m., and glass bulbs in my bedroom spread beautiful prisms of light. We've not taken down those holiday bulbs yet, hopefully we never will. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGLPWeG-nL-TleqylT9k_gvkjhQAUSDpxuOZ2UbA6d850y-HQdB-XidacFQDS6mtXSjuBJXjqzCRBDDzEQSPaOQ3xQkdLhs-re0TSvfMLcwdkpM75YXk7Xy282Je8uAZ5pKot0XeLSrS-G/s2048/prismatic+smaller.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1211" data-original-width="2048" height="378" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGLPWeG-nL-TleqylT9k_gvkjhQAUSDpxuOZ2UbA6d850y-HQdB-XidacFQDS6mtXSjuBJXjqzCRBDDzEQSPaOQ3xQkdLhs-re0TSvfMLcwdkpM75YXk7Xy282Je8uAZ5pKot0XeLSrS-G/w640-h378/prismatic+smaller.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2960498569811374110.post-2759988818065122932021-02-15T12:17:00.005-08:002021-02-15T12:20:21.706-08:00Fever Dream on a Freezing Night<p>I dreamt I built a tree last night, and it turned out it was wintertime. And if I really built it, why, there's a miracle right there. Maybe I just drew it. Looking up from underneath, as if on my back. I must have sketched on the sky across the trunk, first one way then the other. Then the sky become the branches, one after another, then another, again. Looking from afar I marveled. </p><p>But what of this constructive dream of mine? Why, maybe it's simple: I want to set down roots and feel the ground of being. Nah, that can't be it. For real I'm still climbing to the top of the tree of life to catch a view. Every year is closer to the top, a pinnacle of flame. But, whoa, when you get there it's the inevitable drop to the earth (then six feet down). Yes, I'm talking death, the clubhouse after the back nine. Reminds me of, reminds me of reminds me of--you connect the dots. </p><p>Have you ever climbed a tree and gone higher than where you wished you stopped, upon reflection? A gulp in the stomach, a quick gasp of breath. There is a safe way down, right? I mean you got up here didn't you? There is the motion of the wand and the invisibility of the wind. Capture the leaves, but bare trees allow for no such luck. We're stuck.</p><p>Even if I was to carve a corny heart into the trunk, forever don't care for that junk. A blink of the eye and that tree is dust. What a waste of a dream.</p><p>Tonight I'm bringing an axe to bed, or at least my rusty ol' hatchet.</p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjY34EOvk0HSBxVzMtonz_QJU749NOUkYbtGsOmywK8Yqiqln4K8W68E_2pSW-CdGNZAoasLqo5G96n69vcHRRY6rsBwWGmFVjwqM7ZG8aVH2QRiuqBjzFXQIxvjzgRYZ70AQYKTDvJqC-o/s588/tree+dream+%25282%2529.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="331" data-original-width="588" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjY34EOvk0HSBxVzMtonz_QJU749NOUkYbtGsOmywK8Yqiqln4K8W68E_2pSW-CdGNZAoasLqo5G96n69vcHRRY6rsBwWGmFVjwqM7ZG8aVH2QRiuqBjzFXQIxvjzgRYZ70AQYKTDvJqC-o/w400-h225/tree+dream+%25282%2529.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2960498569811374110.post-36265242905045809122021-02-08T17:34:00.002-08:002021-02-08T17:43:52.213-08:00Kimchi-Tizzy<p>You know that moment at Costco when you look at that super-large whatever and think, "Oh no, that's much too much," but sometimes it falls in the cart anyway? Now I have a big bucket of Jongga Kimchi, proclaimed to be Korea's favorite sliced napa cabbage. Crunch, crunch.</p><p>Of course I'm sick of it already (<i>no more please!</i>). But in a weird way it has become an unlikely metaphor for changes in my life. Now, when I look at my green-topped kimchi bucket with the cute handle it brings me back to a different time, and then the time after that. </p><p>When I visited Korea years ago I was in the midst of my decades-long discontent. Went half-way around the world to drink alone (again) in a hotel room. Could have been Baltimore for all I cared (and many times it was). I remember feeling very tall walking down the street in Seoul, but it really was just the view from underground. Even when my hosts drove me up a mountain to eat mysterious things in little glass bowls I never left the lowlands. Like kimchi fermenting underground, it was all darkness and then some.</p><p>Years later I'm unearthed and sober, breathing the air way up here. It's a new design for living, and it includes enjoying the kimchi found on my plate. Now curiosity kicks complacency's ass, and amazing moments remain attainable--even on cloudy, nine degree days (sort of). </p><p>Even with the pandemic muddling the path and muddying the attitude, life is transformed. My life, like Jongga kimchi, has bite, purpose, varied & colorful textures, and promotes loud music. </p><p>I'll probably end up eating more out of that big bucket, what with its positive fermentation. But if I don't, I'm happy to just watch it sit in the fridge.</p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIEtainEqG4TIXVQDCJYQXnxZZBi4OsGPtthw3fI4lRG-DJ9hw9LlJa9Gctek5Q9t13fwTWZegRJNk2Jgk_5c8OaIYKt5lSZR9UQVDV8PFC_jmlf9ELV2odPpAYjGtmWOM6LsGMTulu6vQ/s2048/kimchi+smile.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="374" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIEtainEqG4TIXVQDCJYQXnxZZBi4OsGPtthw3fI4lRG-DJ9hw9LlJa9Gctek5Q9t13fwTWZegRJNk2Jgk_5c8OaIYKt5lSZR9UQVDV8PFC_jmlf9ELV2odPpAYjGtmWOM6LsGMTulu6vQ/w499-h374/kimchi+smile.jpg" width="499" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2960498569811374110.post-49530205055473703402021-01-14T12:36:00.008-08:002021-01-20T07:20:56.856-08:00Super-Dooper COVID Confusion<p>Don't even start with that mess in D.C., I got bigger fish to fry. The rocks in my head are rumbling, the sand in my toes non-existent. I dove in the Gulfstream waters not long ago, but it hardly felt like my land.</p><p>Was it your land? The twirl and swirl of the undefinable present. Marvin said it <i>Make him wanna holler</i>, but that was just a subtitle from a song 40 years ago. Did anyone ever get those 40 acres, let alone a mule? Can't know for sure, but this Christmas I got no shoes, only thermal socks.</p><p>Back to the present perfect. Because it is only what's there that matters. But IF it's so important, how come we constantly look away? This is <i>the</i> <i>times</i> <i>they</i> <i>are a changin'</i>, but that was 50 years back by now. You can't grab hold of that gold watch, the time bomb to the back nine is given to those we throw out on their ass. Don't let the door hit you and all that.</p><p>The movie theaters are still closed, I think, but there is always film at 11. We make do out of doo-doo, and collecting all the sticks and stones we can find just reminds me of the Silence of the Lambs. Hop, skip, and a jump and don't even pretend you don't understand. I'm talking to you! Can the cotton come out of your ears and make my pillow softer? </p><p>I lay my head down at night in gratitude, windows locked and steaming. My hound howls not only at sirens, but at the kids making noise after midnight (when <i>we're gonna let it all hang out). </i>I'm asleep and hoping to stay that way until dawn's early light.</p><p>And that's the point--wake up! The dream you call your own is just shoplifted from the nearest convenience store. If it's a chain store, the manager is off the hook. If it’s an independent, look at the floor, it needs sweeping. We will get by and use touchless payment: any way you look at it it's true.</p><p>We're all COVID-confused and counting. One Mississippi, two Mississippi, three Mississippi, and don't forget Detroit. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhyLwqbh4i8EkEziwSE0kO05Bgx0cX0EWzImqrgJJKGe4Op-bwmggAA7n9Lmlc1t2WXjLd8Wr2VLuZKKy7iQHuHxkWn1h9-ZveMjbmcG2ra5tONfEKftQhFwPNkAsJllCkOdMtzyvCxC5W/s2048/TC+COVID+window+edited.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1716" data-original-width="2048" height="463" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhyLwqbh4i8EkEziwSE0kO05Bgx0cX0EWzImqrgJJKGe4Op-bwmggAA7n9Lmlc1t2WXjLd8Wr2VLuZKKy7iQHuHxkWn1h9-ZveMjbmcG2ra5tONfEKftQhFwPNkAsJllCkOdMtzyvCxC5W/w543-h463/TC+COVID+window+edited.jpg" width="543" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2960498569811374110.post-66410761084587909882021-01-03T17:01:00.010-08:002021-01-14T12:01:58.752-08:00There and Back with Boone<p>I think there are beavers living in the stream on the golf course near my house. My critter-crazy hound dog, Boone, jabs his nose in the muddy bank, foraging for the semi-aquatic rodents. It's a desire for forcing action, and maybe more. He's most alive when chasing, most focused in pursuit.</p><p>He pants with purpose, wild-eyed, joyful. His scanning intensity locks on a lone squirrel 40 yards north. Now he bolts full throttle and almost gets it before treeing. Loud and angry chirps from above, Boone barks below. After a bit, we continue. </p><p>The walk itself, for me, is the embrace of slowing time. An empty off-season golf course, long fairways squishy with snow melt, soaked greens. Slosh never sounded so good under cloudy winter skies. </p><p>And it's a hopeful kind of quiet. Last year come and gone, time for renewing vistas. My breathing is relaxed, morning air is crisp. I take an inside turn and look forward. This year the pandemic will wane, normal will be different, hugs and handshakes not far behind. Better days.</p><p>Atop a ridge, I circle the full 360. My sense of being there is deep, like being tightly held by someone who loves you (and you love back). The sky closes in, bare branches wave. I remember that phrase, "When you walk, just walk." Sounds about right to me. </p><p>Boone, for the moment, is still. His brown eyes study me, then the woods. I study the woods too. The walk back to the car is not a straight path. We'll cut through those trees to the south, and cross over the stream just beyond that. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivm9z1Ppy0aBUmRhLXA7J9G1_r8aknOiKdR4PLSt4VY5JpR_puhif0xg5fqx_Ag7e_F395aax9QOa7UvMxy17mKhb7quWQ43nT0Auc4qfy59dVP9miwELTN6qgH09aikQ2irBt9e-nSKIw/s2000/boone+bank+3+large.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="851" data-original-width="2000" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivm9z1Ppy0aBUmRhLXA7J9G1_r8aknOiKdR4PLSt4VY5JpR_puhif0xg5fqx_Ag7e_F395aax9QOa7UvMxy17mKhb7quWQ43nT0Auc4qfy59dVP9miwELTN6qgH09aikQ2irBt9e-nSKIw/w503-h213/boone+bank+3+large.png" width="503" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsisp2DBc-YsH0aD-33nXUN0LwdZanRGU42kenikgiwjHLvcyjdTlBcolLgu23fKnr1ccOSN8u-JxcYWesnWVzPf86EK2nLdCyOmE65dbXJ-Uvw1MNnA3cIVc7vvs2qQrUddMwYPobZ_uE/s2048/boone+vista+1.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="379" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsisp2DBc-YsH0aD-33nXUN0LwdZanRGU42kenikgiwjHLvcyjdTlBcolLgu23fKnr1ccOSN8u-JxcYWesnWVzPf86EK2nLdCyOmE65dbXJ-Uvw1MNnA3cIVc7vvs2qQrUddMwYPobZ_uE/w505-h379/boone+vista+1.jpg" width="505" /></a></div><br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2960498569811374110.post-67886878042967882142020-12-20T16:27:00.004-08:002020-12-23T11:20:51.191-08:00The Every Time Moment<p><i>Constant, Roaring, Unstoppable</i>. My inadequate attempts to describe Great Falls of Tinkers Creek<i> </i>in Bedford's Viaduct Park. Gushing and such just don't cut it. I left the path during a visit and scrambled to the bottom, 10 yards from the constant-flowing curtain of water, swirling pools, splashes & splatters.</p><p>It was roaring loud like great music on a road trip and and I tilted back in wonder and smiled. Paused to take pics and video (steady-as-she-pans captain!). Felt the foggy mist, bathed in the afternoon light, celebrated the closeness. It isn't a huge falls, doesn't fancy itself so. This unstoppable volume of energy has no need to brag.</p><p>Glad I made time to visit, reveling in this every-time moment, the kind that stamps a beauty mark on your heart. These moments have a right there-ness: close by, accessible, worth sharing. </p><p>Reminded me of the father-son trip with my Noah to Niagara Falls a few years ago and the exchange we had with a little old lady and her son. We were standing at the rail awe-ing along with everybody else when we heard this wizened woman shouting in a Slavic-sounding tongue, tears spilling on her cheeks. Her eyes locked on the falls in front of us, she was letting everybody know what was what. </p><p>I asked her son to translate and he summarized. She was saying she'd never seen anything that so touched her heart, she was crying because it was so beautiful. She was also lamenting how so many in the world didn't have much water, and here was a inexhaustible-seeming supply. The bitter sweetness of life.</p><p>I turned to Noah, making sure he was getting the message. We stood there, together, and heeded the call to embrace the no-doubt-about-it truth of the moment. </p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrvIQD4bK02kgucuIwkCr2DBTN6Fu0Wy2SRcfhcNDL-JpfpECDpmtNqffyGqQ4f2agOCRHR7DYhugdWTjZ7H_BBrRaK_aavm1458WLnYhuwp6ZcyJgUWWk7Lk4k-5gokA-m-4Z14JXisQM/s2048/tc3.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrvIQD4bK02kgucuIwkCr2DBTN6Fu0Wy2SRcfhcNDL-JpfpECDpmtNqffyGqQ4f2agOCRHR7DYhugdWTjZ7H_BBrRaK_aavm1458WLnYhuwp6ZcyJgUWWk7Lk4k-5gokA-m-4Z14JXisQM/w400-h300/tc3.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXTqLrXcAQIi8thtbbdcle7F-UtbNVh__ymCcDHqu9dFVkzCtpSP07LjakYowrhzoutltBotdjno_AfmZHZTot2dONutL2up_gp7-8ZmPNrQot4I5K4nc5Kpkyhw21OsCyDNcReHiFqOeD/s2048/tc1large.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXTqLrXcAQIi8thtbbdcle7F-UtbNVh__ymCcDHqu9dFVkzCtpSP07LjakYowrhzoutltBotdjno_AfmZHZTot2dONutL2up_gp7-8ZmPNrQot4I5K4nc5Kpkyhw21OsCyDNcReHiFqOeD/w400-h300/tc1large.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /></div><br /><br /><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><br /><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p> </p><br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2960498569811374110.post-1388764875942644632020-12-07T07:29:00.007-08:002020-12-20T16:29:16.721-08:00Sometimes a little bit of nothing is a pretty good something<p><span style="font-family: arial;">I've been riding the COVID
Coaster, full of peaks and plunges. Here's a recent ride. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: arial;">7:06--wake up, grumble that it's cloudy and cold. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: arial;">7:11--ask my darling, generous, and supportive wife when the hell
the coffee was made, cause it tastes like crap. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: arial;">7:22--sarcastically note there is still a pandemic interfering
with how I want to live MY LIFE!<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: arial;">7:29--harrumph that I should just go back to bed (even though my
pillow pissed me off last night with its insolent lack of support). <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: arial;">Holy ungratefulness Batman! <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: arial;">Here's just some of what I overlooked: it was sunny and warm not
long ago; my wife got out of bed early on a Monday morning and made coffee for
us; the pandemic affects us all, and there is really NO comparison between how
I've been touched by it and the suffering of so many; and I'm truly fortunate
to have a super comfortable bed in a warm and loving home. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: arial;">Talk about crazy train! But how are we supposed to stay on
the grateful side of the tracks?! </span><span style="font-family: arial;">By choosing to drink from the never ending spring
of gratitude. </span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: arial;">I've taken to reading (and studying) a famous book in the past few
years. In it there is a call to stop putting yourself in the center of the
universe. To get over ourselves and to look for what we can contribute to a
given situation, not get from it. To be and act with gratitude.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">Recently I flagged down a passing municipal service truck and
asked them about the city plowing snow from certain nearby sidewalks. They said
yea it was them and I said thanks, it makes it easier my older arthritic dog to walk. They visibly startled (probably because they get more complaints than anything). Then they smiled wide. </span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: arial;">I tell you this only to share what people I love and trust have encouraged
me to do. The key is a desire to dedicate time and
attention to the practices of kindness and affirmation. And to realize the
power of human connection can make a pretty good something out of a little bit
of nothing. </span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjB4ZsE8ajnF0BzcnhZreIlbZuV1DN3uHeRgcExyY4YBV0h6olZv9A68zY9wTppIdEFBRDSK6_kCmPPDQeerLYse8Zoyw4_cRdV6a2moN4sh1ABMNyqkpRZ2en9mDiX2YmdcyDb5Y5xhz6S/s4032/PXL_20201201_163118770.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjB4ZsE8ajnF0BzcnhZreIlbZuV1DN3uHeRgcExyY4YBV0h6olZv9A68zY9wTppIdEFBRDSK6_kCmPPDQeerLYse8Zoyw4_cRdV6a2moN4sh1ABMNyqkpRZ2en9mDiX2YmdcyDb5Y5xhz6S/w480-h640/PXL_20201201_163118770.jpg" width="480" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span><p></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2960498569811374110.post-21136575340748655072020-12-04T08:03:00.001-08:002020-12-20T16:31:56.377-08:00These Things Are Known<span style="font-family: arial;">Are you kidding me? Every dog nose that the first walk of the day is the best ever, until the next one. Just like every real musician knows that the only note more important than this one is the next. Every hungry devil knows that fresh Diablo Sauce stings, and every trite-slinging writer excuses his or her tripe as necessary, at least this time. And this 59 year old father knows his son lives his own journey, even detours and dead ends.<br />
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In the late afternoon gifted photographers know light is the bomb-diggity magic, as much as ice cream truck drivers know their magic poofs into being when they pull over to delight kids. Every weed-whacking yay-hoo ought to know about noise pollution, and everybody knows kindness trumps harshness, but we aren't perfect. <br />
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For all the every-time you do it, even as "this time" will be the last, so will the did-it-anyway times be a chance for redemption. Every chicken pot pie knows it's cooked when it bubbles. And every body of water thirsts for embracing bodies, sort of like every mountain longs to be climbed.<br />
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In the age of the image, every word knows its time is coming (or has past). Every social media touts itself as king, but every post to Instagram isn't close to equal. Every slow cooked pork roast knows it's delicious, vegetarians notwithstanding. Every dense and fecund Sugar Maple-filled woods need the falling leaves, even with no one there to catch them.<br />
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And for certain every heart knows it's big enough to love everything, even as our minds may forget, or tell us it's not so. </span><div><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial;">These things, and more, are known.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaWnDMJdEH3lkGfPiqHeAS03e9HbfStR6_9nRkOLKLB0zj1Dbz0QBKS7v4HZA8i9-5tUbLOXOG_pJzo_0WcntcXuCKHYM9yVsb-VKYQ2NEZD3pRqIbU9cIJIzdLynqzTyJUVK_aHgGtfYB/s4032/IMG_20200812_173846.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaWnDMJdEH3lkGfPiqHeAS03e9HbfStR6_9nRkOLKLB0zj1Dbz0QBKS7v4HZA8i9-5tUbLOXOG_pJzo_0WcntcXuCKHYM9yVsb-VKYQ2NEZD3pRqIbU9cIJIzdLynqzTyJUVK_aHgGtfYB/w480-h640/IMG_20200812_173846.jpg" width="480" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: arial;"><br />
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<br /></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2960498569811374110.post-55279660850589644212020-12-03T09:28:00.000-08:002020-12-04T13:15:15.096-08:00Twenty eight things I heard on my walk this morning and four reminders.<span style="font-family: arial;">The first <i>snap to </i>sound was a blue plastic Heinen's grocery bag high up in a oak tree. I enjoyed it's flapping, whapping vibrato sound and thought for a second I might like one up in my tree. But that's weird and probably would get annoying.<br />
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Then I heard an Orthodox Jew in a black hat and black suit phone-walking, "It's the first not the second street where you turn." He scuffed away.<br />
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Hearing a bird barrage--cartoon tweets, trills, almost-whistles, <i>Ca-Ca</i>-ing crows, abbreviated chirps--reminded me of how I don't know very many bird names. Next a jet flying overhead that I couldn't see because of cloud cover.<br />
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Soon a white passenger van accelerated quickly then coasted. A girl opening a car door shouting, "Hurry up!" toward a house, another girl in curlers bursting through the front door, "All right, all right!" More birds. A once shiny silver now mostly rusty sports coupe misfiring around a corner.<br />
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After that a small tan pickup with red plastic over one tail light trying hard to start (I almost heard the guy inside whispering, <i>C'mon!, C'mon!</i>), six cars clacking over a certain crack in the road, my dog's collar jangling and his big nose sniffing just an inch above the ground. Shortly thereafter the sound of his nails scraping on the sidewalk, reminding me that they need cut. A young-sounding dog barking in the distance.<br />
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My own nose sniffling, throat clearing, breathing. The sound of my hand across my brow, reminding me that my skin is dry and I ought to use lotion. Somewhere off to my left a siren (probably ambulance, not police). Finally a garage door opening and the creak of neglected hinges.<br />
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Inside my house it was quiet, and that reminded me that outside can be noisy.<br /></span>
<i><br /></i>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2960498569811374110.post-62140134121453388602020-12-02T10:45:00.000-08:002020-12-04T13:16:08.057-08:00Amazon announces delivery of all of Real Life to your door.<br /><span style="font-family: arial;">In a surprising, yet unsurprising, unparalleled, yet inevitable societal development, Amazon said today that they are now delivering all of Real Life right to your door. Industry experts, who preferred to remain anonymous, said this means that emotions, spirituality and social engagement will now arrive in the familiar brown box, just like your favorite re-order of paper towels or re-purchased electronic must-haves. <br />
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Amazon spokesperson Edvard Munch (no relation to the 20th century Norwegian painter) giggled as he declared that this means that all people at every level of desire will soon enjoy the convenience of not having to remember, think, or plan about the past, present or future. Munch went on to scream, "We're happy to announce this market-cornering action, and hope its value becomes clear as more and more people stay in their homes, texting and Instagramming on smartphones securely snuggled in 20% off retail phone cases."<br />
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Amazon's CEO Seller X coughed twice, cleared his throat and whispered that fear & anxiety are the first emotions slated to be offered with Real Life service, with wistfulness soon to follow. Spiritual states of Grace will be available by March, with dreams and wishes able to be ordered and delivered sometime next summer.<br />
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The third phase of roll out will provide social media posts, pictures, quips, news clips and funny videos for your use, all customized to resemble your former social activities (without having to actually do anything).<br />
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Reaction to the news by a variety of Cultural Studies professors at small and wildly expensive private colleges uniformly denounced the Real Life delivery system, one of them boldly declaring, "We will whine & bitch about this until it's time to go to get new corduroy pants--at an actual store!"<br />
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Performance artist extraordinaire Marina Abramovic quickly decided to sit at a small table in front of every person in the world's door, one by one, silently waiting for something or other.<br />
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White House spokesperson A. Hole could not be reached for comment, but outgoing President Clowny Lump immediately tweeted, "Bally-who, slim jim, coo-coo cachoo."<br /></span>
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2960498569811374110.post-72808846772071671722020-12-01T13:34:00.002-08:002020-12-04T13:19:12.969-08:00X Minutes to Everywhere<span style="font-family: arial;">I used to commute across I-480, half-hour each way. Zip to cruising speed, change lanes, watch for Troopers, exit as directed. Favorite billboard, "When you die, you go to heaven: 855- FOR-TRUTH." It connects to a Gospel Billboard company. But then there's the traffic forecasting billboard, telling me I'm X minutes from...<br />
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One day it says I'm 11 minutes from downtown, via I-77. Next day I'm 11 minutes from Rt. 194. But does my travel time include day-dream interludes...wondering if blue Lexus lady grips her wheel so tight because she's angry, or just full of fright? Is the ball-capped lead foot in the F-150 jerkily changing lanes to make it home to dear wife or because he is escaping for dear life? Or what joyful noise cascades from the Jetta's speakers, to make the kid inside smile so bright?!<br />
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Time and destination and certainty and routes spelled out for everyone to see. We all can make it downtown from this point on I-480 in 13 minutes on this Tuesday, but in what state upon arrival? Pitfalls, potholes and panoramic views, whiz-banging outside my windows.<br />
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Oh wise billboard, what route leads to right life?<br />
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What if traffic billboards helped with transit plans AND life's other junctures too, "Take the lateral job change now, big promotion next exit." Or, "Caution, use care with grandma. Guilt warning 500 feet." Maybe "Use alternate route, no good marriage ahead." Perhaps the right billboard could actually pick up our existential question at mile marker 14 and supply the answer by mile 21.<br />
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In an obscenely uncertain future, we all want to know how long it takes to get there and what we'll find. But really, no matter what the road, all we can do is drive.<br />
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2960498569811374110.post-69264073495552336722020-11-30T05:45:00.001-08:002020-12-07T08:24:09.884-08:00Longer Way Home<span style="font-family: arial;">Lake Erie sits there like the reality it is. A fundamental, elemental, rock-bottom "there" that is so obvious it's invisible. Ho-hum it's the Lake. Who looks? We should. More.<br />
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Maybe when I've slow biked (one gear) along the path from MLK Blvd to Burke Lakefront Airport, past urban fishing holes ten yards north of zooming I-90. Past rusty-gated E. 55th Street Marina and through the goose poop covering the grounds of the Cleveland Public Power building. Stopping for a corn dog, Faygo and chips with my son. But the water's significance far exceeds the attention span.<br />
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The Lake is there without really being here. For all the sacred power humankind ascribes to water, the fact that we live so close sometimes feels so far away. At least within urbanized Northeast Ohio.<br />
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I have to remind myself to look, really try to look at it when I'm near it downtown or driving within view. When I do it looks damn good sitting there, sun or not, rain or snow, windy or still. But mostly it is reduced to something like white noise, ignored in favor of getting somewhere else, thinking about some situation or daydreaming sweet nothings. <br />
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When I remember the Lake there is a choice I can make. Take the longer Shoreway route home. Then I take a measure in. Spot boats. At the rise coming up on the 72nd Street exit there is a really good view. And it feels right to look. Even better to go there and sit.</span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2960498569811374110.post-17177095140623025642020-11-29T17:43:00.000-08:002020-12-04T13:35:40.730-08:00Leaf Me Alone<span style="font-family: arial;">Every October, leaves fall. They say sayonara, hasta luego, auf wiedershen, so long suckers! as they pop their stems and glide like little puffs from heaven. Only the joke's on them--after landing there is only a slow transition to sepia-crackle, and the extra-wide ("clog free!") green tine plastic rake.<br />
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Clumping in corners, dying of thirst, the leaves beg forgiveness for fetish-ising the moist ground below, idealizing their appetite flight to destruction. There is no such forgiveness in the calendar, the winter comes just as planned. Beyond Indian summer and the October reprieves (with the sun so strong and summery), there are only shorter days and falling temps.<br />
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The leaves die. Yea, in a blaze of.<br />
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The final kaleidoscopic montage of glory, a freedom beyond spring's imagination. Crimson combinations, yellow poetics, green dialectics and orange you glad you have eyes? All the color of life right beside dear death.<br />
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The declaration of the wild-eyed stone true prophet of paradox: only the fantastical routine reminds us that trees are miracles; only in death do we know life.<br />
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In and around Cleveland there are Sugar Maples and Oaks and Elms and other Maples in the Metroparks and in Cuyahoga Valley and beyond Bedford and proximate to Parma. Even refugee suburban clusters testifying against clear-cut desires.<br />
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In my front yard there is a fire, and the tree tops burn color beyond recognition. Mon Dieu, this sight!</span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2960498569811374110.post-28550687360290809932020-11-29T10:02:00.000-08:002020-12-04T13:25:48.439-08:00Found and claimed<span style="font-family: arial;">Walking, I keep my eyes peeled for random debris, vigilant for meaning, ready to impart (or receive) significance into (or from) found objects-- the magic and wonder of toy parts, playing cards, wordy scraps of paper, labels, medallions, bits of plastic, broken tools, colorful ropes. Pray tell, what they tell?<br />
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Once I found a red foam clown's nose in the grass near the rushing waters of Euclid Creek, after arriving there in a lousy mood. Hard to stay pissy in the face of red foam.<br />
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So I scan with talismanic fever, interpreting ground debris, forgotten fragments. My claimed meaning as true as anything else, sincere if not on target. Weirdly appropriate items inappropriately found, happens everywhere I live. <br />
<br />
Recently a little metal tag from a Jimmy Choo shoe, a brand I referenced in a poem ("wobbling in her Jimmy Choo shoes...").<br />
<br />
Today was a doozy. Feeling anxious, jangles wrangling in my head, peeved. Park truck, open door, look down. A purple-swirled super ball in the grass. Like the ones you get from the turn the quarter, get-the- cheap-stuff machines at the grocery store. Always lose them, but my son Noah says they almost always show up again. You mean like outside your car as a reminder that folly trumps your tiresome seriousness and self-pity?<br />
<br />
I bounce my new purple super ball, wondering what else it means.</span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2960498569811374110.post-33894090785206143132020-11-28T19:46:00.000-08:002020-12-04T13:24:56.010-08:00Purple people pleasersSo one day the often black-tied Trustees of the venerable Cleveland Museum of Art have a meeting. One rich dude says to the rest of them, cartoon-like Harvard lock-jaw style, "What say we do something purple?" And the restees say "Tally-Ho, old chap, let's do it!"<br />
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Forget the permanent collection, with its notorious browns of Rembrandt, Caravaggio's suggestive reds, the sublime greens in Frederic Church's sunset and Degas' wispy gray dancers. What the people want is purple, and the funkadelics in charge made it happen. Thousands of times.<br />
<br />
In the museum's cubic glass gallery, former home to priceless Rodin sculptures, are mounds and mounds of purple latex balloons, about 25,000. Exhibit is called <i>No. 965: Half the air in a given space. </i>Artist is Martin Creed, an acclaimed Brit, says he ponders relations between air in spaces. Critics applaud, I take my son Noah to plow through the purple.<br />
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First you deny latex allergy, then a badge goes over your head, then they tell you get lost follow the solid wall. Put your hands up, back against the door, and enter sideways. Step into the happening.<br />
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Balloons in your face, around your legs, up your back, beside your arms, touching your stomach, resting on top of your head. Eau de latex and Noah and I crack up. We are in the art, of the art and being the art as we move and push and touch and bounce. After a grab and pop I stick the purple fragment in my pocket. Somewhere else a pop, laughter, shouts. Soft collisions and smiles, "Dad, take a picture!"<br />
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The center is dark, we make for the far glass wall. Looking out from an Amazary (<i>my new word--a place of Wonder</i>) of balloons--the street, our car, green grass, people walking in the sun. We're inside twirling, laughing, exclaiming how it feels so crazy!<br />
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For purple mountain's majesty indeed, above our thinking brains.<br />
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2960498569811374110.post-14510425174844229132020-11-24T11:38:00.002-08:002020-12-04T13:20:06.947-08:00Messages Delivered<br />
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<span style="font-family: arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" face="Calibri, sans-serif"><span face=""Calibri","sans-serif"">I pick up stuff when walking, seems like
I'm supposed to. Connections are then made between these physical items and my spiritual condition. These non-happenstances are often startling, mostly
affirming, sometimes puzzling, but always overflowing with rhymes
between spirits & facts, making mockery of our addiction to linear thought.</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" face="Calibri, sans-serif"><span face=""Calibri","sans-serif""><br /></span></span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" face="Calibri, sans-serif"><span style="font-family: arial;">Recently I found a tattered golf scorecard on a neighbor's lawn from an Akron country club my dad Bernie and I used to play on 35 years ago. Dead since 1984, Bernie was telling me to carry on, despite the crappy
email received that morning rejecting some of my creative work. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" face="Calibri, sans-serif"><span face=""Calibri","sans-serif"">This morning I completed an unexpected
trilogy. First it was last week’s nickel-sized photo of a little girl's face, probably
cut from a class picture, now glued to piece of fuzzy purple pipe cleaner. It
joined a 2 inch blue plastic bust of a robot ("Rock-em, Sock-em” vintage),
suitable for finger-puppetry. Rocko sat on the ground outside a church I exited
Monday night. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" face="Calibri, sans-serif"><span face=""Calibri","sans-serif""><br /></span></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" face="Calibri, sans-serif"><span style="font-family: arial;">This morning the trilogy gelled around a 6
X 4 inch shiny plastic strip with the word "<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Surge</i>" emblazoned across it, one of those velcro-enabled wraps
that you see on a kid's bike. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" face="Calibri, sans-serif"><span face=""Calibri","sans-serif"" style="font-family: arial;"><span>So, a little girl's face, a fighting puppet
piece and the command to move on with purpose. You could spend your whole life
debating the holy mystery of this trinity, or just realize this: life is about
remaining child-like, struggle is inevitable and keep moving forward if you
want to get to heaven. Real simple.</span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2960498569811374110.post-88033704787303649152020-11-23T19:07:00.000-08:002020-12-04T12:09:22.315-08:00Forty Speakers, One Truth<span style="font-family: arial;">It's a Friday and most of me wants to chill at home, cocoon the night away. But the wife says her old friend with the new boyfriend wants us to meet them down at the Cleveland Museum of Art and offer beau feedback. The gathering is a mixy something--mild DJ, cash bar and all the exhibits open late. O.k., at the very least it means soaking up some majestifying light in the museum's new atrium. <br />
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A short wandering while later, now in the museum proper, faint choral music drifts down the original 1916 Building's marble steps, drawing us upward. We climb toward the Italian Baroque gallery, never expecting to be heaven sent. Because in that space, amidst the big drama art (huge paintings of Christ appearing to the Virgin, Samson getting his locks chopped by Delilah, Venus discovering the dead Adonis), we discover forty crispy quality speakers on forty individual tripods, clustered in eight groups of five, forming an oval that fills the gallery's floor space.<br />
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And from each of the forty speakers comes a single singing voice, each one recorded separately. Forty tracks of a choir singing in Latin--e pluribus transcendence.<br />
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The effect is staggering, walloping the senses--the eyes scramble at the sculptural aspect, the body zombie-moves into the middle to sit on the padded benches, the nose detects the hushing odor of greatness and the ears, well, good luck ingesting all the beauty made by this sound in this space.<br />
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It's officially called <i>Forty-Part Motet, </i>a sound installation by Canadian artist Janet Cardiff. There's a little booklet available, filled with artist-interview gems like, "You can almost see the movement of the music around the room" and, "I really wanted the sense that each speaker was a person." Memo to Janet--you succeeded.<br />
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The fourteen minute song loops, with ambient choir voices filling the three minute breaks in between (you can hear singers chatting, coughing, chuckling). Artist Cardiff says keeping that stuff audible keeps the sound sculpture real.<br />
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Which is good, because the three times I've been it feels like I'm melting into the ceiling, extended on the sublime notes of people posing as angels. Each time I see and share the amazement in faces older and younger, black, white, Asian, latino, tee shirted and buttoned down, museum novices and the old guard alike. <br />
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When it's done most everybody pauses, looks around, and smiles. Forty speakers worth of truth and wonder.<br />
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2960498569811374110.post-48961437098236164342020-11-16T18:17:00.000-08:002020-12-04T12:29:31.761-08:00Hounds on the Loose<span style="font-family: arial;">The guy with the poodle knows it, so does the lady with the lab mix. Ms. Cutey Pie with the sheltie-something and the muscle man with the similarly ripped pit bull both know it. Of course the elderly and very regal woman with the snarling Pomeranian has no doubt about it. It's a beautiful, no perfect, night to walk the dog.<br />
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At sidewalk speed we nod and smile. Sometimes there is sniffing, maybe woofing or whining. The universal certainties are "hell yea it's good to be out" by the hounds and "ooohh this is nice" by the two-leggeds.<br />
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One foot and two paws in front of the other(s) we meet the future and face the truth--toddlers always know the truth when they exclaim "doggie!" and point. God is just Dog turned around.<br />
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<i>What kind of dog is that mister? Does he bite? What's his name? </i>Well, he's a...good dog. And no, he doesn't. Boss. If you insist he's a hound-doberman-shepherd-type All-American masterpiece.<br />
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Mixed breeds: every dog is every one at once. Just like us.<br />
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We're all running loose on the streets, pooches and people, taking in the air, believing in the magic of walking, panting in our pleasure, knowing.</span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2960498569811374110.post-14469993512995376242020-11-11T18:39:00.000-08:002020-12-04T12:25:36.372-08:00Fire Lane<div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;">There's a street across Green Road from my house that slopes gently to a stop sign. A short "No Outlet" block comes in there, and a swath of woods divides two nice houses. It's a sweet spot, glows warm and right in magic hour light. But this time it's all spinning lights—cops and fire engines surrounding a burgundy-ish Ford sedan. That was just on fire.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;">Not having been there, I know exactly what's happened. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;">Car starts overheating, driver pulls over, flames lick hood edges, guy can't believe it (visions of exploding car movie scenes dance in his head), he bails, fire department gets call, chemically-foamy-sudsy-bright white spray floods the engine and ends up in the gutter and the guy still can't believe it and now the stink is the only reminder that this wasn't just a trip to Heinen's for juice and canned peas. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;">Cars in flame are one of those archetypal images of end-of-days lore, proffering wail-full moments of trekkers in trouble. Nothing good comes from a scene with a burning car. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;">I once saw a car engine burning, albeit a small flicker of flames, and the emergency folks didn't seem too stressed about it. A mechanic told me if you shut off the car and stop the fuel flowing the chances of an engine exploding are pretty slim, and the car won't fireball unless the gas tank leaks. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;"><o:p></o:p></span></div><span style="font-family: arial;">True or not, who cares? Fire in my engine needs no explanation, it just needs me gone.</span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2960498569811374110.post-32117725997088136922020-11-11T14:05:00.000-08:002020-12-04T12:20:37.979-08:00Coyote Trouble<div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;">
Boots battle mud this day at Squire Valleview Farm, out Fairmount Avenue almost to the Chagrin River. I take the mutts out there to run, nice space. It's a Case Western U. research farm; sign says no dogs off leash. Posted too is a sheet with reasons, like potential damage to field experiments. Oh well, not the first time I rule break.</span></div>
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The sheet doesn't say why no deer are around. Fine by me, dogs give chase and cause concern, once attacked a doe momentarily grounded on slippery hillside (another story). This story is dog gets caught in coyote trap. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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Because coyotes equal no deer but plenty worried farm neighbors here in exurbia. Worried enough to set traps. </span></div>
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My reverie this day interrupted by stomach-flipping dog cries (too loud!) Two hounds here, where's third? I ran toward the sound, cursing. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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All of a sudden a voice out of nowhere, "Stop right there! Your dog is in a coyote trap." Wha? Who? Then I saw him--Izod & khaki man, standing behind his nice house in the woods, cupping hands, shouting, instructing. "Your dog is in a trap...move to your right…come up behind...there are other traps." So, what, now I'm in a mine field? You're joking right??<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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The no humor man talked me through hidden dangers and trap-release protocols. It's a miracle my dog wasn't hurt. Gingerly I tiptoed back to safety. His parting shot, "that's why you're supposed to leash your dog!" Oh yea? I hope a coyote whees on your roses.</span><o:p></o:p></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2960498569811374110.post-27200314336202145642020-11-10T06:02:00.001-08:002020-12-09T05:56:08.393-08:00Dee Jay Doc and the Art of Scary Caring<span style="font-family: arial;">It's nerve wracking and a little scary when you sincerely put your beliefs out there--even when (or especially when?) you do it with great love in your heart. All of it goes right on the line (gulp, gulp) and your cares and concerns are hanging for all to see.<br />
<br />
And when it's done with an absolute absence of pretense, cover-up, ironic distance or concern for keeping the walls between ourselves and our true nature in place--wow. You may as well run naked down Euclid Avenue singing the theme song to Gilligan's Island. Because you're going to attract attention when you are so authentic. My friend Dee Jay Doc is a great example of someone who puts his beliefs into action, and instead of running down Euclid Avenue, he runs a place of Grace called Fresh Camp.<br />
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Fresh Camp is a summer camp where kids learn to define themselves, their neighborhood and, really, their lives. They are growing up with less advantages and more stressors. In some cases they don't have great access to fundamental goodies like healthcare, fresh food, safety and support.<br />
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They live in the Glenville neighborhood of Cleveland, and there's some hard times that have moved in and stayed for awhile now. Of course not all is dim in these kids' environment, Doc being one of the shining lights, but the need is real and the effort sacred.<br />
<br />
Doc is working with his heartbeat to pump good energy into the neighborhood where he lives and makes a life for his family. And he is trying to raise money, through an Indiegogo fundraising campaign to keep Fresh Camp possible and reach its potential. Here's the link to the Campaign Home, [LINK NO LONGER ACTIVE, GO TO <a href="REFRESHCOLLECTIVE.ORG" target="_blank">REFRESH COLLECTIVE</a>]where Doc speaks his piece much better than I ever could. What I will tell you is that I have been beside Doc when he passionately shared about his neighborhood (see Doc rapping about Glenville <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EgW1rT2AMqY&feature=youtu.be">here</a> from a PBS piece we worked on together) and he is the real deal.<br />
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So what do you say? Are you going to help make a difference by kicking in a little bit? Or are you going to pass your bucks to someplace else? Consider taking a chance to be true, and join Dee Jay Doc in his dream.<br />
<br /></span>
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1