The English Teacher

As the teacher stood before the classroom for the first time, there was no indication that he was the one who would be the compass guiding so many of the students forward through the maze of education toward enlightenment and helping each gain the essential skills of reasoned thought. Certainly, his reputation as the English teacher hinted at the unique experience that awaited, but there also were the eloquent detractors saying that other teachers provided a more fruitful experience and that this teacher’s reputation was built upon exaggeration. In the end, the truth was in the individual's progress and the outcome.

The teacher was not impressive visually. His small physical stature, thinning black hair and not-new suit and tie did not telegraph the intelligent passion and wit that would be displayed as one lesson followed the next throughout the year. Similarly, the students, having just awoken from the summer vacation in which their minds were put to little use other than the search for pleasure and entertainment, to the casual observer were not perched on the precipice of knowledge and exponential mental expansion. But, to the teacher, each student was fertile ground and he was the gardener granted the privilege (some would say the job, but to him it was much more than employment) to delicately plant the seeds, to nurture the seedlings with care, and to foster their growth into whatever plants would result.

At the outset, the teacher proceeded slowly and with guarded optimism knowing that sharing his entire plan and fully describing the path that stretched ahead could be counterproductive. Rather, he gave but a glimpse of the galaxy that was in their sky and described them as transient meteors that were being given the chance to gain a degree of control over their orbits. Those words elicited raised eyebrows from the students and internal questions about whether they had wandered into a science class by mistake. The verbal syllabus that followed assured the students that they were indeed in English I. The words that floated by enumerated the way stations along the road . . . Dickens, Shakespeare, Austen, Fitzgerald, Conrad, Golding, Crane, and their works A Tale of Two Cities, Macbeth, Hamlet, King Lear, Pride and Prejudice, The Great Gatsby, Lord Jim, Lord of the Flies and The Red Badge of Courage . . . but, although there was a ring of familiarity for some, for most the names and titles could have been in a foreign language. Then there was the teacher’s promise that was in the native tongue of the students . . . writing, grammar and diagramming. Like The Tale of Two Cities, the year would prove to me the best of times and the worst of times.

What followed were the teacher’s questions – “Are you ready to learn? Are you ready to challenge yourselves? Are you ready to be internally transformed? Are you ready to overcome the discomfort that comes as part of change? Thankfully, the questions were rhetorical for they were met with resounding silence. Yet, the teacher had seen the deer in the headlights response before and knew that the vulnerabilities of the nascent learners could be utilized to develop the passionate and intelligent graduates that he hoped to help develop.

And so, the teacher utilized all of the tricks of his trade teaching to each student according to the student’s needs and setting expectations for each student according to the student’s abilities. The teacher taught intelligently with a combination and balance of passion and compassion, seriousness and giddiness, urging and coercing. He taught with a crisp clarity and impelling style. He introduced the essential skills of analysis and refinement of ideas, the art of clear, concise written expression, and the ways to expand one’s self intellectually. He rarely, if ever, used his position or superior knowledge to dominate the classroom or to diminish the individual.

The teacher enjoyed the daily experiences and did not want to be alone in that enjoyment, and thus he viewed himself and the students as part of a bonded effort. He taught the students to recognize and appreciate the symbolism and the allusions, the subtleness of appearance versus reality, the fallibility of both characters and writers, the tensions within the text and that the text created in the reader, the balance between the rational and the irrational. During the year, even the occasional observer could recognize the creation of beginning thought and rational discourse as the teacher challenged the students to stretch beyond their self-imposed limits.

In the end, as he bid the class farewell, the teacher knew that although some were further along the path than others, each was well beyond the starting point and was closer to whatever endpoint awaited each. And, as he did every year after he watched the last of the students leave the classroom for the start of another summer, he sat back in his chair, lifted his feet onto his desk exposing the holes in his soles, reached down into his ever present well-worn leather briefcase, removed a tattered copy of Mr. Chips and, with a knowing Cheshire cat smile on his face, started once again with Chapter 1 and thought to himself, “all will be well”.

This entry was inspired by my high school English teacher, Dan Daly, who taught and inspired students for many years, and I was fortunate to be in his class for two years. In addition to teaching us English as described above, Mr. Daly was a role model for us and when I later taught grade school and middle school English, I often thought of Mr. Daly. For me, he was the special one who moves a student forward, beyond expectations, and for that, I am thankful. I also am thankful for Mr. Daly making detentions so enjoyable, and explaining to some of us (boys) that Little Red Riding Hood really is a sexual allegory.

The Proposal – Based On A True Story

On a warm April afternoon in 1980, the tumblers were set in motion with a simple envelope entitled “Deb - #1” left in Debbie’s green nylon running bag in her first grade classroom at the Heath School and the enclosed card – “Unable to run with you today. Meet me at home at 4:30 – not before and not after”. The number on the envelope and the message in the card were just enough to raise suspicion and take the first step along the road of suspense, but not enough to raise concern or prediction of what awaited.

In fact, the plan had been in process from almost the first date when we shared fortune cookies at the end of our Chinese meal. My fortune was “There will be no troubles in your home that you cannot overcome together”. Being bold and already confident of the relationship path, for it had started long before with a developing friendship, I placed the fortune in my wallet and said to Debbie, “The next time you see this fortune will be a special evening”. On a later date, we shared an equally meaningful fortune and I made the same prediction. Other than those two times, I don’t think that the fortunes were ever mentioned again, but I knew that they were with me at all times.

As time passed, Debbie and I shared many adventures and, unbeknownst to her, I saved something from many of the special occasions from concert tickets to theater programs to invitations and thank you notes, and I kept mental notes of all that we did, which was not as difficult then since our relationship was new and, as of that April date, less than two years old. Those remembrances, both the tangible and intangible, had been reviewed and organized throughout the end of March as my plan was in the late preparation stage and I was lucky that even then Debbie accepted my later than her hours, and that she never checked to see what I was doing after her bedtime.

Having left school promptly after having deposited the first envelope, I rushed home to clean, decorate and layout the numerous cards that I had prepared, to make the final calls reconfirming the arrangements, and to change and leave the apartment before the appointed time for Debbie’s arrival. Although I was not present for Debbie’s entry and adventure, I knew what would take place and have heard on many occasions what in fact occurred.

Debbie opened the front door, heard the music playing and called out my name, but, of course, she did not get a response. What did await her was an apartment filled with beautiful roses in every room and the next envelope in clear sight. Each envelope was numbered, I believe that there were eight in the apartment, and contained very specific directions. The first undoubtedly instructed Debbie to open each card in order, to follow the directions within the cards, and then to proceed to the next card.

The instructions were clear –
“Do not call anyone but just go along, all will be fine and your enjoyment is promised” - this was to be an evening just for the two of us;
“Be ready at 7:00 p.m. at which point you will be picked up by a cab that had been prepaid and has the directions – a bit more anticipation and suspense, but for what – a play, an\ special event or something more;
“Go to the refrigerator where you will find a treat for you immediate enjoyment” – and there waited champagne, a chilled glass, cheese and crackers, just something to sustain her through the adventure;
“Run a warm bath, the bubble formula is ready, disrobe, soak and enjoy the treats” - and there awaited the necessary ingredients for a luxurious calming bath – calming in the face of the unknown;
“Rest some more on the bed” – although I knew that probably would not be possible;
“Dress in the outfit that I have left for you” - it was one of my favorites;
“Remember to listen for the cab and, just in case the cab driver is not clear on the instructions, there is another envelope with both directions and the cab fare” – but still, I did not tell Debbie where she was going.

The cab driver needed both the directions and the fare, so even the best laid plans require some redundancy for protection – especially in the days before cell phones! The cab brought Debbie to the appointed destination – The Ritz – where I awaited her entry. In Debbie style, she entered looking radiantly beautiful, and also shaking with tears that must have been flowing for some time for her make-up was running. She looked at me with that wonderful smile and asked, “What is this all about?”. I asked her to trust me and join me for a glass of wine. Our waiter, with whom I had become friendly, took Debbie’s order, a white wine, and smiled at her with that “I know what is in store, but you don’t”.

The waiter returned carrying a silver platter on which there were two glasses of white wine and two fortune cookies. Now, Debbie was even more confused and tearful. I toasted Debbie and she toasted me for the wonderful surprises in our lives. I then asked her to open the fortune cookies, for I already knew their contents. Earlier in the week, I had journeyed to Chinatown where I had a bakery re-inset the fortunes that I had been carrying into new cookies. As Debbie crumbled the cookies and read the fortunes, I reminded her of my previous promises that if she ever got the fortunes again, it would be a special night. Debbie looked at me and into me, but still was not sure what this all meant.

After we drank our wine and re-saved the fortunes, I asked Debbie to walk with me a few blocks to the banks of the Charles River. On the way, we stopped at my car where I retrieved a box and a book, and then we continued along the way holding hands and talking. Upon our arrival at the Charles, we sat on a park bench with a beautiful view of the river and the neon sign for Electronic Corporation of America. I handed Debbie the book and asked her to read it page by page. She held the book in her shaking hands turning from one page to the next. This was the book for which I had been saving for more than a year and which I had put together over the prior two weeks. Its contents held the remembrances, actual items where they were available and key words where memory had to suffice.

When Debbie turned to the final page on which I had written, she found the simple words “I Love You!!! Will You Marry Me!!!”. By now, Debbie was crying and I was both excited and nervous, for I had never thought about the possibility that Debbie would not say yes, but in those fleeting seconds, I wondered. I handed Debbie a pen and asked her to put her answer in the book. To this day, I am thankful that the answer was quick and unequivocal - “Yes! Yes!! Yes!!!”.

With that, I handed Debbie the box and asked her to open it. The contents were simple – some tissue paper and a brass hand held bell. Debbie looked at me in a quizzical way and asked, “What is this”. I reply, “Just shake it, just shake it”, and so she did. But still, she asked “What is this”, and I answered, “It is your engagement ring”.

What followed was more typical – the calls to parents (from a pay phone), a dinner at one of our favorite Italian restaurants (I had made reservations at three establishments), and home for a celebratory evening together. The next day we ventured out in search of an engagement ring – the kind that Debbie could wear on her finger, much better than carrying around a brass bell!

Life's Story

The facial wrinkles were shared by the newborn and the nonagenarian as they forged a delicate alliance in which they studied each other in the attempt to comprehend the life that was to come and the life that had been lived. The infant wanted to absorb the life that stood before it with all of its tonal complexities, but its mind still in its simplistic state had the structures but not the tools to understand. Yet, the elder attempted to meld his mind through the infant’s piercing eyes so that his story would be passed to this next generation.

His story was one of passages from the shadowing beginnings of his birth onto the sweet ship of his youth, through the perilous tumultuous times of adulthood in which the balmy calm always gave way to the dark waters of the storm driven seas, and finally, as a survivor of life, accomplished through the social compact under which he lived, through the learned lessons of reconciliation, restraint and diplomacy, and of cooperation and mutual respect.

He ached to translate his life and vision with a luminous clarity and coherency, to share his intellectual and moral standards, to tell of his migrations and exiles, to describe the scenes and shenanigans, to warn of the darkness lurking at the fringes and the light awaiting over the horizon, to share the times of isolated disarray and acrimony, and the times of elaborate ideals and experiments in utopia.

He prayed for the time and ability to shape the emotional swirls of the infant into complex inner contours, to play a pivotal role, to assist the infant in comprehending the mixtures of experiences that awaited, the sharing and the bickering, the predictable and the shocking, the bountiful and the famine, the exciting and the tedious, the shared praised and malicious gossip, the knowing and the doubt, the respectful and the irreverent, the peacefully complete and the notoriously factious, the aloneness and the oneness.

He hoped to tell of a life well lived rather than squandered, being a loner and a part of the flock, periods of linear progressions and periods of fragmentation, ideals discovered and ideals lost, ideological coherency and incoherency, a steady path and watershed moments, the concrete and the symbolic, the feverish and the temperate, the evolution and revolutions.

His profound desire was to be a gifted storyteller, but as hard as he tried to will his life stories into the infant, the stories remained within, and so it was that the infant would have to learn the lessons of life through living.

Inspired by a family event at which there was a newborn and a 91 year old; the rest is just my imagination. In addition, in an effort to experiment with writing and expand my writing vocabulary, I wrote down words and phrases from the book I currently am reading, Promised Land, and specifically, its first chapter on The Plymouth Plantation.

Snowy Countryside

Snow covers the countryside with a monochrome shawl
Protecting the life below
That with the spring's warmth will blossom forth
In an abundance of multi-textured hues.

The blanc du blanc shimmers with a rippling breathing vibrance
That belies its inherent sterility
For it is only with the transformation from frozen flakes to water droplets
That the moisture will nurture the regeneration of life.

The Promised Land

In the light of the morning sun
In the dusk that precedes the night
On the horizon where land and sky meld
Awaits the Promised Land

In the lapping of the waters
In the whistling of the breezes
In the rustling of the fields
Is the voice of the Promised Land

In the cry of the newborn
In the smiles and giggles of the infant
In the first steps of the toddler
Is the hope of the Promised Land

In the words of the prophets
From every walk of life and age
In the cries of people for freedom
Are the footsteps to the Promised Land

In the extraordinary sacrifices of the ordinary
In the raging fire of hope that burns within
In the unending pursuit of justice
Is the promise of the Promised Land

In the dreams of our ancestors
In the prayers of our children
In the actions of our lives
Is the path to the Promised Land

The Promised Land
Always just beyond our grasp
Always just a step away
Always awaiting us
Always calling us forward
The Promised Land

The foregoing was inspired by the book "Promises Land" that I currently am reading and an NPR interview with its author.

Truth is a Grain of Sand

Truth is a grain of sand
Being shifted about
By wind and waves
Always in transition.

Truth is a beam of light
Being split into the spectrum
By glassy prisms
Always changing.

Truth is clay
Being shaped and reshaped
By the hands of sculptor
Always pliable.

Truth is a wooden log
Being slowly consumed
By a burning fire
Always disappearing.

Truth is a drop of mercury
Being impossible to hold
By one's fingers
Always slipping away.

Truth is water
Being converted
By heat and cold
Always transforming.

Truth is a feather
Being pushed through the air
By the breezes and winds
Always moving.

Truth is a thought
Being created in the mind
By the person of the day
Always evolving

Truth is a mirage
Being created on the horizon
By the heated atmosphere
Always vanishing.

Truth is always
In Transition
Changing
Pliable
Disappearing
Slipping Away
Transforming
Moving
Evolving
Vanishing

Snow Days

The gentle chirp of the alarm clock stirs me from my nightly death to my morning rebirth.

The warmth of the bed temporarily imprisoning as the caterpillar is held captive within its cocoon until it emerges as a transformed butterfly though I leave my blanket-built cocoon the same recognizable figure that voluntarily entered the night before.

The sun has not yet risen, but the screen glows casting its light around the room as the day’s news, sports and weather reports begin.

Moving gingerly across the screen’s bottom blue band is the information I seek. To some it is the “school closings” while to me it is “who gets to sleep in”.

I float away for a moment remembering the snow days of my youth spent at home building snowmen and then warming with hot red tomato soup into which crumbled saltine crackers would float while the rouge of the once vine hanging vegetables was absorbed and brittle broken pieces were transformed into a soggy pulp.

I return to wonder if the coming snow will be in the rainbow colors of the radar scan or will simply be the standard blowing pure white powder that will eventually transform to gray-brown. I know the answer.

The appointed snow start is delayed as the storm moves more slowly than anticipated much as does life. When finally it arrives, the albino mosquito-like flakes entice and entrance without warning of their larger relatives who will soon arrive for an extended visit.

The naked earth starts to transform as the multi-size flakes flying downward, upward and sideward all at once finally land to velcro themselves to their already grounded neighbors creating an unbroken covering that deepens layer by layer.

What was once brown on brown now is white on white on white.

But life must move on, perhaps forward, perhaps in a circle, perhaps downward, upward and sideward all at once, and so the bonded flakes must be separated into groups a flung through the air into new piles. As the clumps of snow take man-made flight, a pure white mist fills the air often falling back onto the moving force or the area from which it came.

The snow continues to fall, the pushing, shoving, throwing and flinging continues to move the white blanket to new locations, but a thin white layer always remains . . . for now.

And my cocoon bed remains and awaits my entry into my nightly death during which I will journey, with today’s new layer of life, forward to my morning rebirth.

My circle of life.

My Woman

I’m lying in my king size bed
With my love tonight
The woman sleeping next to me
Makes my life all right.

As she sleeps and I smile at her
I know the world is at peace
I may be alone in my mind right now
But she’s on the other side of the crease.

I wanted to write country western
Though I know I’m not getting it right
I’m too much in love with my woman
I can't write of sadness or fights.

The gentle soul next to me
Brings warmth to my life and bed
She loves me unconditionally
Or least that’s what she's said.

So I’m lying in my king size bed
With my woman sleeping next to me
I know what a lucky man I am
She’s what gives me the air to breathe.

Music In Words

Music infuses the room with an all encompassing sound that Magister Ludi would have appreciated as he translated the notes into numbers and formulas, but for this listener, the notes are translated into words and images.

Out from the silence the trumpets dance gingerly from note to note carrying the melody while floating above the feather pillow sound of the taut strings which in a breath pause and without warning ascend in smoke-like plumes pushing away the weakening trumpets creating a down comforter warmth.

But the trumpets refuse to take their last breath instead conserving their energy until a chosen bow reversal allows the crisp sounds to push through and recapture their dominance, remaining there until the sweet oboe vibration pierces their sound.

The oscillating reed perceived faintly at first bounces forward at an ever accelerating pace like the single horseman approaching over the horizon as a vibrating dot enlarging into a full size defined figure until it dominates the entire view.

In a snap and a blink, it is gone, the entire horizon visual expanse again exposed, but changed, the sun having moved, the shadows having shifted, the rider’s dust remaining suspended in the air as the music remains in the air with the violins and trumpets battling, the sounds of the oboe fading, the roles shifting.

From nowhere the migrant sounds from throughout the instrumental world appear to contribute their individual sounds, blending one into another until disappearing into nothingness just as the sunlight and shadows blend at dusk until darkness reigns

Only roar of the kettle drum remains traveling in deep vibrations earthquaking the walls and rippling the floor, expanding the heart, creating a mental tremor, broken only by cymbals embracing like lovers running into each other’s arms, their shared sound fading and fading.

The silence dominates once again.

Hidden Stories

As I sit in the doctor's waiting room with its seemingly mismatched furniture, at least until the pattern is discerned, I gaze at my fellow waiters. Only one is younger than me although from the look on his face and his on-going mouth breathing, he feels much older, but that is only temporary whereas my age is a reality - albeit a fleeting one.

If I am fortunate, I will reach the other end of the spectrum of life that is sitting across the room with walker at her side. The soft couch on which she sits seems to be swallowing her whole although because of her diminished size and frailty, she no longer represents a full meal. The others in the room, while older than me, are sitting patiently with thoughts unknown, but their minds continue to produce just as does my imagination. We all are simply moving along our individual progression through seconds, minutes and days.

Like the furniture, the other patient patients at first seem mismatched with nothing in common, but on closer look, once again, the pattern can be discerned. We share a common story pattern - birth, life, death - and we undoubtedly share many of the same chapters in our book of life. How fascinating it would be if these personal stories were like the books in a library – available to anyone at anytime. Although there is not time in a lifetime to read all of the books, one can pick and choose those that appear interesting. Imagine if the same were true of people - everyone an open book that you could read just by asking and in doing so, have a Forest Gump experience.

Excuse me frail lady with the walker, but I would like to check you out and read the pages of your life. Tell me your stories, the ones of a birth in which your mother almost died but then went on the bear 8 more children, in which your father worked two and sometimes three jobs in order to provide food, shelter and clothing for your family, in which your parents did without so much to assure that you and the other children would be able to go to college. Tell me of how you chose to work so that your younger brother, the next on line, could go to a better school, how during the depression, your brothers and sisters and you would pass clothing - jackets, pants, dresses, shoes and even underwear, from one to another skipping the order only for your third sister (the fifty child) who, at an early age, outgrew her older siblings. Tell me of the time when a Saturday matinee was a weekly, then once a month and finally a once a year treat, of when your brother with the college education that you had gifted to him, was killed in the war and your sister who grew so quickly died from the cancerous cells that also grew just as quickly. Share with me the stories of your loves - the first who was lost during the war in the Pacific never to be seen and how you wonder to this day what became of him and of your second love who was your husband for 53 years before he was taken away to a place we all will go. Tell me of the years of happiness - your wedding, your children, your friends, your activities, your hobbies, your travels and all that makes up the fullness of your life. But tell me too of the sadness for no life is lived on one side of the emotion road. So tell me of the loss of your parents - first your father who after giving so much to his family had retired and within weeks was diagnosed with a terminable disease and was dead within weeks, and next your mother who always had been there for you and everyone, and then was alone to learn the skills that she had never acquired from driving to balancing a checking account to making reservations to living as a single old woman, proud of her life until the day she lay down in her bed where she dreamt about all who had left her in this earthly world and quietly joined them in peace. The same peace that you hope to achieve but you are not yet ready to go gently into that eternal night for although you are not afraid of death, you are not ready to stop living. Tell me that you still have so much that interests you and gives you joy - friends with which to visit, songs to sing, books to read, games to play, food to enjoy, loving children to appreciate and especially delicious grandchildren to love and cherish, and to tell your life stories for you have not written a book but your stories are hidden inside to be shared as gifts and perhaps one of your grandchildren will remember the stories and share them with your great grandchild still waiting to be created and in doing so continue your life.

But alas, the stories of my fellow patients are not available for perusal, and so, I will just have to be satisfied with my imagination . . . but that isn’t so bad, not at all.

Love Growing Day by Day

An elementary romance
Primary was the attention
Courtship in the school halls
Love growing day by day

A playground game called dating
Music filled the classroom air
Life lessons learned daily
Love growing day by day

Productions staged together
Eyes meeting across the room
Laughing at each other's words
Love growing day by day

The children knew the secret
No surprise for their young minds
They had seen it all along
Love growing day by day.

So long ago was elementary school
We've passed almost every grade
But still the lessons are learned
Love growing day by day

A Visit With Old Friends

I opened the black leather door
Leading to the rooms filled with my old friends
Who I had not seen for what seemed like an eternity,
But eternity is longer than life so how could that be.

As I entered I looked into the mirror
That had been hanging in the museum
Reflecting walls lined with aging portraits
Except the one of the young man camera covering his face
As he composed his self-portrait
Capturing his youth at that point in time
To be reflected on in his later years.

Another mirrored reflection
Held a different view of the young man
Lean of body and full of hair,
Standing motionless on the platform
Watching the train speed by
Without realizing
That his life would speed by all too quickly.

Through the windows of the room I toured
The juxtapositions presented themselves one by one
As the jesters did to the kings
The contrasts forever captured

A man standing on boulders near the harbor
The distant high rises monopolizing the horizon
Man forever planted
Between nature and development.

The final resting place of soldiers from the wars
Marked by neatly rowed white stones all alike from afar
The foreground holding the matching rows of military vehicles
From war to eternal rest
In the distance of a few feet.

The 18 wheeler
Speeding to its destination
While on the roadside grew a blossoming plant
With nowhere else to go
Man’s movement forever missing nature’s beauty.

The crying child in his summer play outfit
Tears of sadness unknown running down his face
Until they dropped one by one onto the ground
Looking across to the ancient mountain waterfall
Forever motionlessly pounding downward over the rocks
Into the waiting pool of countless
Droplets of the earth’s tears.

From above and below
The bookends of life stare forever at each other
The young boy’s face without a line and his eyes without a story
The grandmother’s neck stretching upward
But not enough to hide her worn and wrinkled skin
Her eyes holding a lifetime of joy and sadness,
Stories kept inside without escape.

The musicians of the seventies
Forever ready to play the music now held tightly in the mind

Jerry started off the procession
Still young, without the gray or excess weight that would visit him in later life
Guitar strapped across his shoulder covering part of his solid plain tee
His four fingered hand frozen mid-strum
As he looked across the stage and out into space toward his future.

At the piano sat Sly Stone, his name well earned
Dressed in flamboyant felt hat and cloak
Staring across to Dave Mason
In his what would later be known as a yuppie sweater vest
Pulling the weeping notes out of his guitar
Together forever playing their music.

Bob and Leon were there together
Dancing without motion across the stage
Robbie Robertson joined with them
The great ones of their music degeneration
Their youth never vanishing as on they played.

Some spokesmen of the 70's filled rooms of their own
Words floating somewhere in the air only rarely now heard

Angela her afro covering her absorbant head
Held full and proud for all to see
Powerful right fist thrust into the air
It would have reached the sky
Had it not been attached to her earthly body.

Joining in were David Dellinger
The active pacifist of the infamous Chicago 8
Then Ed Muskie suspended in time
Before he cried and his tears unjustly
Brought a rapid cessation to this presidential dream
But here David and and Ed can dream on, dream on.

Off to the side were the outcasts
The ones who never quite fit in and yet populate all of the world

Against a wall stood a life size raggedy-ann
Striped dress and a sailor tie
Her matching stuffed twin sister in arm
A drink in her hand seemingly not her first
A clenched smile on her face
Saying this was the wrong time and place.

The old man stood close by with his too large nose
A well-lined face told the story of his life
A woman’s feathered hat upon his head
His twin puppet where his left hand should have been
With its own large nose and feathered hat
The puppet ranting against the war and telling stories
That the old man's mouth could not directly share.

The forever overweight man
Trying to hide behind his dark glasses
One encircling fat roll resting on another
In an endless progression
A portion of his posterior resting for posterity
On the plastic seat of the metal chair that surely would break
If he failed to sit completely without motion
And complete motionless he sits - forever

Starring out into space
The man with just one tooth
A fang resting on his lower lop
One false move and it would pierce through
But it never has and it never will

As I left I stopped to gaze upon
The obligatory family portrait from a time long past

My father with his white hair and highly starched shirt
Contrasting with his solid black suit and neatly placed black tie dotted with white
His face showing the years of life
Of newspapers and war and business
The sparkling pride radiating from his face, radiating from his face.

My mother with that working on it smile
Surrounded by the family she loved so much
Oversized Jewish star hanging on a chain over her heart
Burrowing into her heart or out from her soul
Forever symbolizing the centrality of her religion in her life, religion in her life.

My brother with his long hair and wild beard
Smiling like a cheshire cat
Giving him an undeserved Charlie Manson look
While dressed in could have been a bar mitzvah suit with hip tie
A contradiction between convention and revolution, a contradiction.

My sister with a bright smile on her face
Shorter and older then her brothers
Yet then larger than us all in so many ways
Gazing to and through the burning Sabbath candles
Her youth captured where she stood
Forever young, forever young.

In the middle stood a younger version,
Of a boy-man I know to be me
Standing physically above the others with
Too large glasses and too long hair
The promise of a full beard that would be a life-long friend and protector
A future waiting to unfold, waiting to unfold.


This piece is intended to express in writing my thoughts on the photographs that I produced in my 20's, mostly when I was attending Washington University or living in St. Louis post-graduation, and some during my travels throughout the country. The photographs now reside in a black leather portfolio on my bookshelf and remain my "old friends".

A Smiling Clown

The gray and tan checkerboard floor was beginning to drown in the puddles formed by the droplets running off the raincoats and soaked shoes of the shivering as they were propelled in a circle that wound from the fog covered glass doors to the quick stop no more time to think order counter and on to the pick-up area for the endless wait for fast food weight.

Then on to the row of two seat tables looking out into the dismal outside world where a clown face, peering out from within a newsstand filled with the soggy daily news, smiled and wished all a "Good Day".

Orders were placed in English – “the usual”, “large black”, “one with everything”, and every food combination from the beckoning order me, take me home with you board.

The echoed responses were in broken English that created a south of the border experience augmented by the no-English allowed talk among the working poor on the other side of the counter divide.

What were they really saying – “where are those pre-made plastic wrapped sandwiches to put in the make it taste fresh microwave”, “these people are wrapped in plastic like our chemical laced faux food”, “what type of cream cheese spread did she ask for”, “look at the spread on that one, why eat it first”, “what kind of doughnut filling did she want”, “that one brought her own internal filling”.

At the tables, a young couple, both in colorful multi-shade black with one color fits all slick black hair and matching piercings plotted the overthrow of the adult world while eating the national chain, everywhere you go tastes the same, food – the counterculture supporting the counter culture.

Next to them sat the handlebar moustached, bow tied, plaid jacketed, white haired, unshaved man with all of his worldly possessions in a forest green plastic bag stuffed into a two wheeler wire basket from which they could not escape anymore than his thoughts could escape his closed mind or his life could escape his wretched aqualung world.

Then sat the young must be a college student mindlessly stuffing the bagel into his ever moving saying nothing mouth, unaware of the taste or texture of the food or his life, consumed in the computer screen reading the news from the four corners of the round world to better understand all without gaining an awareness of self.

As each table was vacated it refilled just as did the cups of coffee, the trays of pastries, the napkin holders and the walking trash cans.

Having watched the people play the game of musical chairs, I played the role of the loser being exiled and forced out into the rain, passing by the new players who entered in an orderly fashion to walk the circle of orders.

As my remaining hair and gray-white beard were soaplessly showered again, I nodded at the smiling faced clown who clearly understood the world from his protected perspective on top of the news in the box.

The Woman in White

As I meandered down the asphalt walkway with the sun shining over my face
Turning my nose cherry red and certain to raise the reoccurring pustulating sores
Sores that had found a temporary fertile garden for growth, I came upon her.

Pale and white, she stood alone in the elements
As the wind whipped the leaves without concern for her well-being.
Pure faux linen cascaded over her head and onto her ridged shoulders
Where it draped her body removing all lines from her shape,
And yet she was beautiful.
Unaffected by her surroundings she appeared to stare at a single point on the distant horizon
A point beyond the forest of naked trees that swayed to the point to cracking.
Perhaps her gaze was fixed upon a different time or perhaps on a different reality.
And there she stood without movement, without change, without awareness.

I wanted to approach her, to get a closer look, to see her from all angles.
I wanted to ask what she saw, but that was not possible
For I knew that there would have been no answer
There could not have been a response.

And so, I moved on,
Pulled forward by my woolly century pound gentle four legged giant
Who showed no awareness of the unapproachable women.




The foregoing was motivated by a walk with my golden doodle in Maine, and a statue of Mary in a church yard where I was waiting for a real estate auction to start.

Deeds are Seeds

The the actions of our life are seeds that we plant and will grow - sometimes into weeds and sometimes into beautiful flowering plants. We hope that the weeds are few and that there growth can be stopped before they multiply. We hope that our flowering plants are numerous and can be nurtured so that they can spread their seeds and create more beauty. Although often we do not get to see the weeds and the flowering plants, many times we do.

Last night, I had the opportunity to hear too stories reflecting the growth of seeds of my deeds that I did not even remember, and I will share those stories not out of pride (although that exists), but as an acknowledgment and reminder.

The parent of a young man that we know provided a quick update on the medical school interview process that his son was going through. The parent wanted me to know that his son had told him that he always started the interview process with a firm handshake and a direct look in the eyes of the interviewer, and that this was a new found skill (at age 21) that I had showed him last year. For years, I have made it a habit to teach young people how to shake hands - with a firm, but not too firm, grip rather than the loose, dead fish, lifeless hand that is too often offered, a strong, but not too strong, movement (that should not include the entire upper body) and with direct eye contact being made. I started this teaching when I coached little league teams by explaining that I couldn't guaranty them wins or hits or wonderful plays, but I could assure them of handshakes at the end of each game. So, if this young man who learned a proper handshake last year now has added confidence when he meets people, perhaps some of the others have benefitted too. The deed as a seed.

At a service last night that focused on the creation of a welcoming community, a member told me of her search for a new temple when she moved to town with her family. They had been to many temples and synagogues in the surrounding area, and she was prepared to give up her search of out temple did not offer what she was looking for in a temple home. That Friday evening, her husband was out of town and so she came alone. She told of entering into the temple, and being greeted and welcomed warmly by me. It created a connection and an understanding of our community and so, after services, she went home, called her husband and said "we have found our temple". For years, I have made it a habit of greeting people at the temple as I believe that is part of the creation of a community. We all want to be welcomed. We all want to feel that we are part of a community. We all want to feel that we are cared for. We all want to know that we are recognized. So, if this woman and her family became part of our temple community because of an acknowledgment and welcoming, a recognition and conveyance of warmth, perhaps some of the others who I have recognized - from the toll taker to the waitperson to the gas pump attendant and so on have felt those feelings. The deed as a seed.

And so, as we move through life, let us plant the seeds that will growing into the flowering and multiplying plants.

I Will Be There

When the sands are burning
When the snows are deep
When the path is difficult
I will be there for you.

When the mountains are high
When the ravines are steep
When the rivers are wide
I will be there for you

When the noises are overwhelming
When the silences are deafening
When the thoughts are running wild
I will be there for you

When the hunger is consuming
When the thirst seems unquenchable
When the pain is intense
I will be there for you

Let me provide protection against the extremes
Let me be your strength and steadying force
Let me offer calmness to your soul
Let me provide sustenance and relief

Just want me to be with you
Just think of me in your heart
Just call for me in words or thoughts
I will be there, I will be there.

Learning By the Alphabet

Attending to conversations which bounce ideas against learning companions
Believing that there are answers for the unanswerable
Continuing along the path of learning, growth and change
Delving into unexplored areas of the mind and the history of the world
Elevating their thought process above what had existed before
Fixating their minds on points on the distant horizon of thought
Gravitating toward a new dimension of reality
Halting progression toward an indeterminable temporary conclusion
Integrating all of the elements into a composite with not yet visible cracks
Juxtaposing the seemingly inconsistent concepts until the consistencies are evident
Knowing that the unknown reveals itself step by step along a constantly turning, rut-filled path.
Leaning supports learning while challenging past learning
Memorizing gives way to conceptualizing, challenging, analyzing and reshaping
Nuancing the differences with a scalpel rather than an cleaver
Opening doors of perception through exploration rather than finalization
Pondering the puzzles of the puzzled in perpetual wonderment
Questioning all that has not been personally perceived
Recognizing the revolving nature of life and learning
Stifling the desire to cease the pursuit of enlightenment
Teaching that which was taught in the progression of learning and teaching
Utilizing all of the knowledge and skills that have been accumulated during life's process
Violating their previously unshakeable foundationless beliefs
Welcoming the temporary contentment arising through discovery until new discoveries are revealed
X-raying with their minds all that is hidden below the surface
Yawing through the undefined spaces of the unknown
Zapping all that stands in the way on life’s zig-zagging journey

Slips, Steps, Stumbles and Leaps

Some believe that life is a planned adventure while others believe that life is controlled by destiny. From my point of view, life is a series of slips, steps, stumbles and leaps some of which we do not control, some of which we have limited control, some of which we truly control, and none of which are based on destiny.

We slip from the womb in which we grew through a portal emerging into this world. We do not choose any of our characteristics or the qualities of our world. We may be loved or deprived of love, we may have health or lack health, we may be surrounded by wealth or by poverty, we may be surrounded by intelligence or by ignorance, we may have or not have so much. In the end, we start where we start and from there, each of us must continue on the path of life.

We take our steps sometimes without thinking about our destination and goals, and sometimes with a view to the horizon. In either event, the path is ever changing as each movement allows a new perspective and reveals the breadth of the path and its branches. Along the path, we are certain to stumble and perhaps fall. The stumble (which tends not to be a single, isolated event) may or may not have been outside of our control, but what happens next is for us to decide. The keys are in how we right ourselves, what we learn from the stumble, and how we modify our path and steps in light of the new view that exists when we scan the new horizon.

There are times when we are in the position to do more than step (and certainly more than slip and stumble) and have the opportunity to leap. The result of such leaps will vary from winged flight to plummeting falls, from success to failure but there will be substantial movement. In the end, the path will have changed and the steps will continue.

And so goes the movement along the path of life until we once again slip into a world that we do not know. So while we move. let us do so with confidence and the enjoyment of life.

Standing On The Porch

As I stood on the small concrete porch in front of the still green wooden door, I thought of all of the time that had passed since I crossed the threshold into this white stucco house on Howard Street that I used to call home. At my last crossing I was but a small for my age eight year old with a classic crew cut from the neighborhood barbershop with its red and white revolving cylinder that captivated my attention each time I passed through the doors. When I last departed from the Howard Street house, I did not know that it would be my last time in the interior that had provided the experiences of my early years.

The middle class house in the middle class neighborhood had three bedrooms. The middle bedroom, not even the largest, was the domain of my parents with a bed that then seemed so large and was always covered with a while bedspread with its patterned pill like balls that held my fascination on many a day. That was the bed in which I spend much of the first two weeks of public school as I recovered from pneumonia before sharing the sickness with my mother. One of the other rooms was my sister’s filled with her dolls and toys. The final bedroom was share with my brother who undoubtedly originally viewed me as an invader into the space that had been his own private area. We had twin beds and nightstands with lamps that rose out of a black horseshoe base. It was in that room that my father first told us the stories of the mystical dog, that was name “Scissors” (and I wonder what the name would have been had there been something other than a pair of scissors on the nightstand the night of the first story).

The house had but one bathroom and, like other families of that era, we had the lines and waits that don’t exist as much in these days of instant gratification. Back then, it simply was the way of the world. The bathroom was decorated in dominating while tiles with occasional inserts of black and pinkish or yellow walls. It was in that room that I shared the baths with my sister and brother, then just my brother until I finally had that white porcelain tub to myself. The bath always was filled with toys that made me stay until my fingers and hands wrinkled like a old man. There were tug boats and a baking powder powered submarine and when all else was gone, there were the soap contests as I tried to see how far the snapped bar of soap could go around the tub before losing power and careening into the by then cloudy water. Finally, when there were no more excuses for remaining in the water and the water had long since passed the enjoyable temperature phase, there was the treat of watch the water form a tornado funnel before it slurped its way into nothingness.

The stairway leading to the first floor had a window to the adult world that allowed me, sometimes with my brother and sister, to watch the adult events that were supposedly beyond the hours that we could function. My pre-event work of loading the cigarettes into the silver cups or boxes had been accomplished, and I had tasted everything that seemed interesting to my young palette. I had been fed, bathed, dressed in my pajamas – in the summer the ones that looked like a baseball uniform and in the winter the red flannel ones with cowboys or other designs and feet with white plastic soles, and put in bed. I then would tiptoe down the steps to the window and, until I was ushered off to bed once again, I would watch the adults mingling and do one of the activities of the night – sometimes just dinner and sometime playing bridge – but always there were smiles and laughter.

Near the first floor, the stairs turned left into the living room or right into the kitchen. It was a magnificent kitchen in my eyes filled with so much to enjoy. When I was a toddler, the lower cupboards held musical instruments in the form of pots, pans and lids. At the far end was the eating nook where morning and afternoon meals were enjoyed as we looked out to the backyard. The smells of my youth filled and emanated from that kitchen especially Shabbat dinners of chick and potatoes, and Sunday’s dinner of lamb chops or steak with French fries. And there never has been any smell that could create the excitement of the wafting smells of fresh chocolate chip cookies or bars that also meant that fresh uncooked cookie dough would be waiting.

Almost every evening, we shared dinner in the dining room situated right off the kitchen toward the front of the house. It was in that room that we enjoyed our Shabbat meals with the lighting of the Sabbath candles that gave off light for the remainder of the evening, the blessing were chanted over the wine in my father’s silver cup form which I was allowed just the smallest of sips, and the Challah prayer was said as the last step to enjoying the weekly feast. Only on Sunday did we eat diner in the living room where we eat on TV tables watched Disney or Ed Sullivan on one of the most recent models of television then available – first black and white and then the first in the neighborhood color TV (all because my father worked for a Philco distributor).

It was in the dining room that my father unveiled his surprise Valentine present for the family as he lifted from a box a beautiful black pug puppy that was promptly given the name “Scissors”. Scissors was a delightful companion and, although I don’t believe I ever fed or walked Scissors, he gave me hours of enjoyment until he finally lost his wrestling match with a car driving down our street – he caught the car, but the car got the better of him. The living room was where we shared hours of family fun from listening to music, especially the wonderful history of American music collection that we received one Chanukah, playing checkers and chess, and watching television from the children’s shows to early news broadcasts to inspiring sports events such as the Olympics especially the winter events with the skiers sliding down the slopes planting a seed in my brother’s heart that he enjoys to this day.

The basement was a scary wonderland – discovered by way of the creaky steep (at least to a child) stairs, with the musty laundry room, the extra bedroom that would be illegal today and was questionable back then, the shelves filled with old magazines that my mother was unwilling or unable to give away, the storage room where the home-made dill pickles and canned goods were stored, and the main room where we played and, at one point, watch the tadpoles that we caught a Elmwood park, mature into toads – sometime jumping out of their containers only to be squished or become dry on the floor.

The backyard was the place of hours and hours of three- season fun with its swing set bringing fun sky rides and monkey barring until the wasp nest and rust finally ended its play life. It was in the back yard where I hit my brother in the head with a rock and where we watched in amazement and then fear as one of our many dogs chased its tale to exhaustion before it was diagnosed with distemper. And the backyard provided the home field for the neighborhood wiffle ball games on the upper level that was relatively flat and open, bordered only by the family garden that grew each summer and spring with treats from carrots hidden in the ground to the corn stalks reaching toward the sky.

All of this had been left behind when I went with my grandmother, my Bobi, on a trip to Denver to visit the cousins (a trip when my only memory is of sharing a bed with my Bobi in which I slept with my head at the foot end of the bed and her feet being much to close to my face), and when I returned, we had moved. To this day, I don’t know how it happened so quickly and without my being there, but it did. When I returned, it was to a new house that soon became my new home. But I never had the opportunity to give a final farewell to Howard Street. Over the years, I would bike by the house and then drive by. When I moved out of town, my return visits always included a stop on Howard Street and perhaps a picture, but never did I venture to walk up onto the porch and ring the doorbell, until that moment this summer, after my mother’s funeral, when I parked, approached the front door much like Jacob must have approached Esau (but without the family being sent up first), up those stairs that once seemed so big, to the porch where many a picture of my early childhood was taken, and finally, a deep breath and my hand moved to the button which I touch with a firm finger and rang the doorbell.

But no one was home, no one was home.

A Long Sip From Life’s Eternal Fountain

To play on a rainbow and dance in a cloud
To slide down a moonbeam and laugh out loud
To grab onto a star and jump on the moon
To do the impossible while whistling a tune.

To sing in the sunshine and laugh in the rain
To skip in the fields and run through the grain
To ride on a waterfall and sleep in a tree
To have it all with an inner eye that can see.

To run like a cheetah and growl like a lion
To crawl like a snake and uncurl like a python
To purr like a kitten and sit content like a cat
To know the truth of life and where I am at.

To swim with a whale and fly with a bird
To gallop with a horse and walk with a herd
To glide on the waters and stand on a mountain
To take a long sip from life’s eternal fountain.

Many possible experiences unique and sublime
All that it takes is the effort and the time
Living life in both real time and in my mind
Amazing adventures each day do I find.

Giving Thanks For My Blessings

Life is lived in the actions of the moments
Life is appreciated in the moments of reflection.

So on this day which has been set aside for giving thanks
Here are my reflections on so much for which I am thankful.

My family -
My wife of 28 years and my best friend for longer with whom I walk the path of life,
My children who have been the best gifts of my life, and give me the greatest joy and satisfaction,
My extended family of siblings and siblings-in-law, niece and nephews, aunts, uncles and cousins galore and, of course, my esteemed father-in-law with whom I am pleased to share my home,
My friends who add a further dimension and texture to my life
My fortune to have, as I have said on so many occasions, so many of my family who are friends and so many of my friends who are like family
These are the people who bless my life with the richness of relationships
and the love and challenges that are part of those relationships.

My balancing components and fibers of my life -

My work that provides for my family and challenges me on many levels allowing me to think, interact, grow, provide, contribute and be conflicted,
My creative endeavors, currently writing, videography and photography, that give me such personal joy and a sense of satisfaction, and, on occasion as a side benefit, are appreciated by others, and that, perhaps, will leave at least temporary evidence (in addition to my beautiful children), that I lived,
My mind, neither the best nor the worst, which allows me to love and to learn,
My sense that allow be to know the world through the wonders of the five sense, to speak and to read, all of which I appreciate so dearly,
My sense of humor which, like my creative forays, first gives me great pleasure and sometimes elicits from others a smile, a chuckle or a loving moan and raised eyebrows,
My body that, although it creeks and aches more now that it used to, allows me to enjoy so many aspects of life.

My memories of my parents
on whose proverbial shoulders I stand as I walk my life path that is a contiuation of a path that was blazed in part by them and theirs -
My father who has been physically gone for more than 25 years, but who I carry with me not with a daily remembrance, but with a deep seeded love and appreciation, and a sadness that he did not get to see enough of my life (let alone enough of his life) for I wish he could have known my children and seen the blessings of my life, and
My mother who has been physically gone for less than 5 months, but whose mind began to run away much earlier so that the person who was my mother was lost long ago and surfaced only occasionally, but that does not dampen my memories of the strong and vibrant woman she was,
The blessings of the examples that each provided to me of giving, caring and doing, of words and actions, of loving and being loved.

I am thankful for -

The beauty of our world
With its sunrises and sunsets
Its valleys, plains and mountains
Its forests, grasslands and deserts
Its waters and its sky.

I am thankful for -

The wonder of touch
The connection from an intertwined hand
The warmth of a hug and cuddle
The sweetness of a kiss

I am thankful for life.
I am thankful for my life.

My Mind Ran Away From Me

I was walking through the woods one day
Thinking about the meaning of life
Trying to see the forest through the trees
Trying to find how to live and how to believe

Then I had the classic epiphany
I knew just what I had to do
But before I could even find the words to say
I lost it all when my mind ran away.

My mind ran away from me
I don't know where it's gone
My mind ran away from me
So I'll just keep moving on.

I was thinking about the world's problems
Wanting to contribute in my own way
Ending hunger, disease and war
Starting small and then doing so much more

Suddenly the answer came to me
And I wanted to write it down
I knew that my solution was oh so true.
But my mind ran away before the words came through

My mind ran away from me
I don't know where it's gone
My mind ran away from me
So I'll just keep moving on.

As I walked into the party
I wasn't looking for love that would last
Then there you were with that transcendental smile
And I knew for you I would walk that endless mile

I wanted to tell you how my heart did beat
To express my burning enduring love
I walked up to you with eloquent words to say
But before I could my mind ran away.

My mind ran away from me
I don't know where it's gone
My mind ran away from me
So I'll just keep moving on.

I was humming a tune just repeating some notes
The melody flowed without any thoughts
But a tune without words isn't really a song
So I tried to find words as I shuffled along

Then somewhere between here and there
The notes met the words and the words met the tune
I tried to sing them to bring forth the sound
But my mind ran away before my steps hit the ground

So I don't have the meaning to life
The worlds problems I cannot solve
I don't have the woman I met that day
And I don't have a song because my mind ran away.

My mind ran away from me
I don't know where it's gone
My mind ran away from me
So I'll just keep moving on.

Streams of Rain

The sun was shining for so long
The memories of the last rain storm faded from memory
Until one day on the horizon
The dark clouds finally re-appeared

When the clouds first began to crack
The departing droplets formed but a mist
Some locations were dampened
But most remained dry

Like a slowly accelerating locomotive
Gaining speed after being planted in one place
Or a snowball rolling down a hillside and gaining size along the way
The mist forming droplets turned to pellets of water.

The thick clouds continued to expand and darken
Releasing the rain as a dump truck discharging its load
Or a river pouring its contents over a cliff
Until the land was soaked

When the sponge of the rain soaked land could hold no more
The water flowed from one area to the next to the next
The dry land falling like dominos until the entire earth was wet
No portion remained dry

The fields ceased to produced
The fieldworkers were without food
The storage shelves became empty
The people grew hungry.

The fear grew uncontrollably
Like a weed multiplying without end
Until the growth threatens to rob life from the garden
Until the fear overcomes the ability to exist

But weeds can be removed and the garden can thrive
And so the rain will slow until it falls no more
And the clouds will fade revealing pure blue sky and the glorious sun
Warming the earth and drying the land

Until the life that had hidden in the saturated earth
Absorbed the warmth of the sun and the nutrients of the soil
and the seeds became shoots reaching toward the sky
To become nourishing plants to sustain the people.

The fields once again produced
The fieldworkers once again had food
The storage shelves became full
The people were no longer hungry.

And as the people became satiated with food and drink
And the wealth of the garden of the world
The memory of the rain, the flood, the hunger and the fear
Faded into nothingness

The people returned to the days before the flood without memory
Without preparing for the inevitable return of the storm
Without an understanding to the cycle of the life of the earth
Without thoughts of the lessons to be learned - the preparations to be made

But there were some who would not allow the children to grow
Without the knowledge that could ease their pain during the next flood
The teachers of the new generation
The tenders of the earthly garden and the garden of lives.

Where Have You Gone Jack Nicholson

Cunning Approaches Rarely Necessitate Alternative Longings
Knights Never Organize World Lifting Eternally Delightful Grandiose Events

Economic Altruism Served Yesterdays
Rarely Included Diverse Elements Realistically

Timeless History Everywhere
Justifying Only Known Eventual Realities

Only New Events
Find Lovely Elemental Wisdom
On Various Established Roadways
That Heretofore Expose
Critical Underlying Contemporary Knowledge Overtly Offerred
Nefarious Educational Systematic Tests

Chic Haughty Individuals Never Attend Tony Openings When Nervous

Election Reflections

After years of eager populus anticipation
During which planted ideas took hold like seeds breaking through the fertile earth to reach toward the sunlit sky
While the supporters increased imperceptibly and then exponentially
Their whispering voices finally combining in a thunderous crescendo
Until their hearts and souls filled the booths of decision making
And tears flowed as the historical created the hysterical
So that when the results were announced the elation without hesitation was transformed into spontaneous planned celebration
As the realization of the promise which had been declared at the beginning and the dream that was given voice a generation before
Were finally transformed into reality

A reality of challenges
A reality of possibilities
A reality that planted seeds may grow
A reality that dreamed dreams may become waking truths
A reality that the hopes, prayers, lives and sacrifices of those in whose footsteps we walk were not in vain.

But the dreams and hopes are not fully realized
Some seeds may have grown to plants and started to produce fruits
But the fruitful growth is only in midseason
For there are buds on the vines that have yet to mature and the fruits hold within them the seeds of future growth and possibilities

We are the farmers of the neverending garden of change
We decide what seeds are planted and which plants to tend
We bear the responsibility for the creation of a modern garden of Eden
In which someday there may be sustenance, understanding and peace.

Seeing the Meeting

Peering over his low riding reading glasses the captain surveys the crew.
One with his Obama blue tie encasing his McCain voicebox
One the fact tracking captain's assistant seemingly speaking with his left hand
Then the brown tie with available housing sits quietly absorbing endlessly like a black star.
Next the man with large hands peruses the scene focusing on the silver apple that he henry carreses.
Removed from the group the earth tone man lounging with his shiny black word pistol shooting out messages to the world.
Then the solo lady with grey pearls resting on the crimson cloth like a jewelry counter display keeps track of the floating words which either rise like the sun and sink like an anchor to unpreceivable depths
The red flushed face covered with vanilla white hair relaxes with manila paper filled folders at hand
While the herringbone encased blue shirted maroon tied drawer of lines surveys the tablescape
Next to the yellow sweater car counter with twin tortoise shell glasses one resting on the aging nose and one roped around his neck
And me - viewing and recording the scene.

Sleepless in Brighton

Only by shaking and pounding the lettered glass door did I gain entrance to fluorescent lighted room with picture frame windows holding the silhouetted buildings with twinkling sparkles.
Then escorted by the hospital blue clad clerk down the tunnel-like hallway from which the experiment rooms branched.
This room will be yours for the night - but would it be just the night or would one night transition into a day, a week, a lifetime or perhaps the night would slowly pass seeming as a lifetime.
How do the unknown decisionmakers pick the mustard wall and then not include pickles or ketchup, but instead pretend that the Monet print of Water Lilies will spice the room and substitute for a window on the windowless four walls.
One unshaded flood directly over the bed illuminates the room in a most uncomfortable manner evoking pictures of mental tortures and resulting breakdowns.
Will the light shine throughout the night or will it be doused to create a coal black coffin darkness making me a blind man with sight.
How could I have missed the two black ceiling spheres - one a spotlight for the experimental interrogation that will come and one for a camera that will record the turns and convulsions, the repeated minature suffocations that will take place before I am allowed to escape into a world of peaceful sleep.
How long will I be allowed to suffer before I am allowed to escape?
How long?

Leaves and Life

Perhaps I missed the changing colors that signal the progression of the seasons
But there is no missing the dry brown leaves that now descend to their earthly homes
Never alone, but always in every growing groups
Huddling against stone walls, against tree trunks,
Against anything that will provide their lifeless lightness with structure
Only to be moved about without control
Pushed by the breezes of the wind or the cars rushing by
To new homes with new groups with which there will be but a temporary stay
Before the comb like rakes and hurricane wind machines move them out of sight
Where we no longer have to look on them or deal with their troublesome appearance.

Perhaps I missed the changing times that signal the downward trend of the society
But there is no missing the once self-sufficient who now descend to their foreign homes
No longer alone, but newly in ever growing groups
Huddling on sidewalks, in shelters,
In anything that will provide their lightless lives with sustenance
Only to be moved about without control
Pushed by the breezes of governmental agencies and social services.
To new homes with new groups with which there will be but a temporary stay.
Before the comb like rules and hot air regulations move them out of sight
Where we no longer have to look on them or deal with their troublesome appearance.

Missing in Action

I love the lyric, "Life is what happens when you're busy making other plans". So true that as we plan. life goes on and sometimes, it goes on to the extent that the plans that were being made no longer work. It seems also that life sometimes is happens while the presumed writer is not writing.

Where has the burning desire gone? Where has the "everything seems worth of writing about" gone? Where is the energy? Where is the creative feelings that boiled over every day?

Where has my focus been? On children, on father-in-laws, on work, on trying to find the energy - which I don't have now.

Keeping Score

Written Saturday, October 11, 2008:

This morning I watched the end of a movie I had seen before but it was a reminder of a truth that I know but, in the living of iife, I sometimes forget to keep in the forefront as a torch to light the way. In the movie, the mentor takes his student on a hike promising to show him something that the mentor believes the student is finally ready to view. After a thee hour walk filled with the student's excited anticipation, the sight to behold was simply a stone on the ground. To his confused and upset student, the mentor explained that even he did not know what would be found at the end of their hike, but he questioned the student's reaction since the student had been so happy and excited during the hike. After an initial frustrated outburst, the student has an epiphamy. The joy and excitement is in the journey, not the destination.

Why is in such a difficult lesson to teach and a difficult way to live? Perhaps it is that we are so focused on goals and the goals are often destinations. Maybe recognition of the importance of the journey is why I have not focused on the grades my children make or how those grades will impact the colleges they will get in. Instead, I have stressed the importance of developing the skills to be a lifelong learner and the love of learning. It seems that the development of the skill and the love gives one some of the tools for life's journey. Now, admittedly, the grades may reflect the development or existence of these attributes, but not necessarily. There appear to be so many students who are getting the grades and doing the activities, but are doing so for the resume. As a result, they may be developing the skills without a pure love of learning. Maybe this is a maturity issue and perhaps not. I probably fell into the group more interested in the resume when was younger and, like most, I probably now am stuck between the love of learning (which I truly believe I have) and the love of grade - but now, the grades have been replaced by a different scorecard. It is a scorecard that includes a broad range of subject areas - family, work, creatve endeavors (such as writing, movie- making, photography). The most difficult scorecard is the one in which it is not easy to know what constitutes a "score" and those tend to be the ones with the long range (not instant gratification) elements. The easier ones for the score card are, like grades, easily seen - how much work is getting accomplished, how much money is being made, how many clients, how many friends, how many this and how many that, and it is these that one has to get beyond to see where they lead. So, today I have recorded one more score on the scorecard of journal entries, but where will this process lead?

A Yom Kippur Birthday Surgery Thought

I am reminded of the story in the Peanuts comic strip where Snoopy is writing his great novel. The novel involves three very separate and seemingly unrelated story lines (with the only one that I remember being the pirate ship sailing on an ocean). In the end, Snoopy brings the stories together. That concept certainly is not new in the annuls of story telling and writing, but it was new enough to make an impression on me. I wonder whether the author of Crash also read the Peanuts strip to come up with the ideas of finding the connection between the unconnected.

Today, there are three seemingly unrelated story lines taking place (certainly more, but I will focus on three).

Today is Yom Kippur. It is the Sabbath of Sabbaths, the holiest day in the Jewish calendar. This is a day that for almost fifty years I have attended temple for Yom Kippur services with my family and/or friends. While it has not always been a day of prayer, for over the years my thoughts and feelings about prayer, and my understanding of the term "prayer" have changed, but it always has been a day of reflection and introspection, of thoughtfulness and attempts at connection, of atonement and intention. Yet, today is Yom Kippur and I am not in temple and not participating in services. I am in a hospital waiting room which, for today, will be my temple. I am joined by family and friends, and I will have to find time and focus to create this Yom Kippur.

Today is Debbie's birthday. Typically, this is a day for celebrating her life, a day to congratulate her on another year, a day to focus (at least part of the day) on her - to single her out, a day to review all of the many accomplishments of the past year, a day to recognize her wonderful character, and a day to let her know how much she is loved and appreciated. Yet today, there are competing interests and although we will do much that is typical for a birthday, it will be done in a different and less prioritized manner, and like the difference between touching something directly and touching it through a covering, the sensation of this birthday recognition will be tempered.

Today is Al's surgery. This day is one for which I can draw no comparisons, no statements of how I typically spend this day and event. Thankfully, there have been few days in my life when I have been part of the surgical waiting team and there have been even fewer (have there been any) days in which the surgery is of such significant import with such significant potential impact. The period leading up to today has been so very meaningful as we have spent more time with Al than we typically get and we have had the chance to appreciate (even more than usual) his life story and many special qualities. When we left him, as he was being wheeled off to the operating room, we all remarked about the strength and dignity with which he was facing yet another one of his life challenging/threatening mission. Although only spoken about on the edges, there is no question that he and we know the risks involved and the potential benefits, and there was no need to speak directly about them. What was important was to speak about, or to convey simply with touches, looks, laughter and smiles, was those matters that did not start today but have been in every day of his life (and will be in every future day, week and year) - love and caring, the manner in which one chooses to live life and make his decisions, the importance of family and values, the importance of of making a difference. This is a man who has made a difference at so many levels throughout his life, and today we both reflect on those, and we think about the future and the impacts that he will make on lives as he continues to set the example, teach the lessons, create and inspire in his days to come - through his recovery and beyond.

So, three seemingly different and unrelated events on the same day are actually very connected. On this day of Yom Kippur, Debbie's birthday and Al's surgery, we find that we are performing the same ritual for each and unlike a typical day in which we may think about these topics, today we do so with a heightened sense of importance and focus. We reflect on all that has brought us to this day of Yom Kippur, Debbie's birthday and Al's surgery, and on that which each of us has brought to this day. We give thanks for all that we have - for the blessings of our lives. We look forward to the days and years to coming knowing that we cannot know what awaits us, but also knowing that we approach the future with love and optimism, with hope and intent, with a promise to live our lives fully. Perhaps this is the best Yom Kippur observance, the appropriate birthday recognition, and the best way to approach Al's surgery. If this all is prayer, then let it be so.

A Night at the Hospital - October 7 - Entry 6; A Variation on the Marine Hymn - A Prayer for All

From the Halls of Montezuma
To the shores of Tripoli;
We will fight our country's battles
In the air, on land and sea;
First to fight for right and freedom
And to keep our honor clean;
We are proud to claim the title
of United States Marine.

In our journey from birth to through life,
Whereever we may travel
May we fight the battle for what is right
In each instance and at each opportunity
To fight first for the good for all of mankind and our earthly home.
To do so recognizing the obligation to repair the world
To do so with pride at being a part of this world and journey
To do so with price in our own name and the name that we establish

Our flag's unfurled to every breeze
From dawn to setting sun;
We have fought in ev'ry clime and place
Where we could take a gun;
In the snow of far-off Northern lands
And in sunny tropic scenes;
You will find us always on the job--
The United States Marines.

Our lives are our flags waving in the wind of time
On each day from the dawn to the setting sun
We have battles to fight where ever we may go
Everyplace we walk or that we run
In the places of our birth and youth
And in the places of our adult years
May we always live with an appreciation
Of the blessings we have been given and those that we can give

Here's health to you and to our Corps
Which we are proud to serve
In many a strife we've fought for life
And never lost our nerve;
If the Army and the Navy
Ever look on Heaven's scenes;
They will find the streets are guarded
By United States Marines.

Here's health to each of us throughout our lives
Blessed by our lives and the time we have to use
At times in our lives there will be strife through which we fight
May we do so with strength and never lose our nerve
May we honor those on whose shoulders we stand
And assure those who follow us that the road has been continued
And the path of righteouness has been guarded
By each of us - let that be our word.

A Night at the Hospital - October 7 - Entry 5; God Is On My Shoulder

An Imagined Prayer

When my parents first looked at me,
Did they see god on my shoulder?

When I played on the streets of my youth,
I did not know that god was on my shoulder.

When I played on the fields of sport,
I did not know that god was on my shoulder.

When I was lost in the whirlwinds and darkness, and then found my way home,
I understood that god was on my shoulder.

When I first looked into the eyes of my beloved,
I knew that god was on my shoulder

When I gazed for the first time at each of my children,
I knew that god was on my shoulder and on each of their shoulders.

When I witnessed the passing of my youngest and then my beloved,
I wondered whether god was still on my shoulder.

When my life continued and I found joy in each day, in my children and granchildren and friends,
I knew once again that god was on my shoulder.

As I face the challenges of aging,
I know that god is on my shoulder.

As I face the battle for health
I know that god is on my shoulder

God has always been on my shoulder
God will always be on my shoulder
God will always be on my shoulder

A Night at the Hospital - October 7 - Entry 4

The clock approaches 4. This is not a night for sleep for there will be time for that later in the day. I'm being kept company by Rod Stewart and lyrics that can take me to different destinations. I am taking journeys through the landacapes of my youth, the pleasures and pains of love, the trials and tribulations life, the hopes and concerns of the future.

A Night at the Hospital - October 7 - Entry 3

If one thinks long enough, there is a connection between everything and lessons waitimg to be learned or drawn from everything. Each song on my iPod brings back a memory of a time gone by or the hope of a time yet to come and sometimes, both. Indeed, I absolutely marvel at duality and, more accurately, the multiplicity and layers of so many parts of life. I wonder if any thoughts or actions really are singular. We love to give because it helps others and we love to be known as one who gives. Not mutually exclusive, but yet very different. We can love and dislike at the same time. We can thrill at the unknown and fear it at the same time. The list goes on and I am thankful that the layers exist.

A Night at the Hospital - October 7 - Entry 2

It is 3 a.m and I am listening to Karen Armstrong as she traces the history of of religion and, in doing so, the history of the development of civilization as we known it. Armstrong speaks of the importance of movement and the power of fire for if one could steal the fire of another, one could also steal the persons cattle for the cattle always would folllow the fire.

Then, as if there was a commercial, interruption to an educational show, the voices of Simon and Garfunkle come forth singing "Old Friends". Perhaps this accident of the iPod shuttle function actually carries with it the message that we, the modern intellectual logical variation of man, do indeed have old friends in our distant ancestors

A Night at the Hospital - October 7 - Entry 1

A soft red glow eminates from the far corner of the room while a clear white light is visible through the white plastic screen covering the window in the door that separates this interior sanctuary safe haven from the outer world of the hospital. Next to the bed stands the ever moving monitor with its green diode number 70 remaining unchanged while a stream of unreadable letters move across the screen below, and the device is capped with a green glowing plastic that when in use will measure both pulse and blood oxygen.

Outside the night world moves through its schedule toward the morning light, but until that light arrives, the colorless night shelters all the dark possibilities of life, possibilities that will retreat like a vampire at first light but will not vanish. Still we hope for the first indication of light and the warmth that it offers even on a cold day.

The seconds on the clock tick by in a seemingless endless progression, on a journey that began long before I arrived and will continue long after I am not longer here to witness the timely transitions.

What is time and how is one moment connected to the next? Are we created anew with each passing moment? Certainly we are not exactly the same for cells come and go, and our minds change. So what are we and what makes us we and me me?

Where Have All the Entries Gone

Written October 2, but posted today.

As I sit at the Shapiro Cardiac Center waiting for the seminar provided to families of cardiac surgery patients, I have to admit that the experiment is over. The experiment was writing something every day.

The first sign of the end was when I began doing short entries on gmail that I failed to finish and therefore failed to post - but at least I has written something that day. Then came the days when I didn't even do the short non-posted entries. Then a week passed without writing for this journal.

I am not sure of the reason, but it certainly was not the lack of subject matter. I could have written about (and may still write about) (a) my father-in-law's rising battle with health issues, the financial crisis and my belief that if you tell the people often enough that the sky is falling, it will be brought down by the people, (b) the political scene in which it is hard to believe that we are where we are being limited to the choices we have, being exposed to sound bite, finger pointing, instant reaction, biased reporting, often superficial campaigns and media coverage, (c) old friendships that, when we are lucky, as have the chance to continue as I did last week over a late night beer, (d) my sister-in-law's broken leg that quickly morphed from simple to complex to challenging to threatening to finally being on the road to what we all hope will be a full recovery, (d) to the impact of the economy on those I do not know and those close to me, (e) to the day to day challenges of life from the caring for the family to caring for four dogs and two cats, (f) to the experience of my Temple involvement, and (g) to all of the biographical material that I want to explore and record. Perhaps it is that all of the topics take more time to explore and write about than I have. My Summer has transitioned to Fall. What will the Winter bring?

Michael - Facing Fears

Written October 4, but posted today.

There have been amazing changes in Michael. After 5 1/2 years in the confines of a kennel with only ocasaional times outside in the free light of day, Michael was a timid dog seemingly afraid of unknown sights and sounds, and certainly afraid of people he did not know. This approach and attitude evidenced itself in many ways from the barking to the running away ever seeking of shelter often in a corner seemingly protected on all sides, but also boxed in from all directions.

Somehow, however, Michael has learned to trust and, on doing so, he has seemed to find more peace. While he still barks at unknown noises, the barks stop when he recognizes the source and his body language changes from the stiff yet shaky panic to an exciting shimmy with the tail wagging the entire back half of his body. What a diference learning to trust has made in Michael's life and in our lives.

Thought of the Day: Like Michael's owners kept him in a closed area separated from those who would have cared about him and would have given him what he needed - companionship, playmates, attention, and more, we so often close ourselves off and, in doing so, we miss so many opportunities. Sometimes we believe that in closing ourselves off, we are protecting ourselves from some unknown hurt. In fact, we often are simply putting ourselves in a corner from which there is no seeming escape. In fact, the escape is to simply walk toward that which scares us and, in most cases, we will find that there is nothing to fear or that the consequences of facing our fears is less than we thought. In the end, we can be like Michael - still reacting when necessary, but then moving forward. Perhaps we too can wag our tails!

One Movement of the Second Hand

Written on September 22, but posted today.

The movement of the second hand from one clock-marking to the next was almost imperceptible and yet, with that movement, Summer 2008 was pushed off the cliff of time to slowly fade from memory except for the mental highlights that will flash from time to time but never give the full picture of the event. Summer 2008 now joins the pile of summers past that I constantly try to mine in order to recapture bits and pieces of my youth.

In line, just beyond the upcoming Fall, Winter and Spring, there are the Summers to come but I can't seem to make out how many Summers are in that line. Is it even a Summer waiting out there and if so,, is it alone? Those are questions for which I do not have the answers and so, I will turn my attention to today, the beginning of Fall-Autumn. Take your pick of the name, but for me it depends on what mood is to be created. Fall is a simple common sounding word while autumn is more formal and even "foreign" sounding. Still, each elicits pictures of leaves falling from the trees, apples being picked before they fall to the ground, and falling temperatures. It will be an Autumn - Fall to remember.

Road Trip

We pulled out of Omaha
On a trip that was long planned
Our car was fully loaded
Was a VW Bug, not a hippy van

And we headed north just Mark and me
On the adventure of our lives
These were the days when we were young and single
Without family or wives.

But we didn't make it far out of town
Before the car slowed down
No matter how hard we accelerated
So we turned ourselves around.

We knew that Mark's car was through
And our father's car would have to do
So two long hair brothers repacked and left
In a Galaxy 500 that was blue.

Oh that trip was fun, it was more than fine
And we had a wonderful time,
Here's the story of those days
Of our drives and walks and climbs.

[To Be Continued When the Memories Return]

The Holidays Approach

The seasons come and go in a steady procession
Now the time of has come around to make a personal confession
To reflect on who I am and try not to just deflect
To be thoughtful and true, showing myself respect

So often we spend our time looking outward
Now the time has come to take a deep look inward
To think about how I will move forward
Which of the voices with be heard and unheard

The seasons come and go as long as we endure
Now the time has come again to contemplate and mature
To accept who I am and identify what I want to change
To be careful as my life I will somewhat rearrange

Movies That Make Me Feel and Think

Today I watched the end of The Autobiography of Miss Jane Pittman and, as always, my eyes filled with tears as, after having heard that her great grandson had been killed, Pittman (played magnificently by Cicely Tyson) goes into town ago orders and, with the moving movie music playing, slowly walks to the courthouse water fountain where she takes a drink of water from the "Whites Only" faucet. That scene supposedly takes place in 1962 and, as we know, so much happened in the years immediately after the scene that changed the face and the color of the United States. Last night, Barack Obama and John McCain debated at the University of Mississippi, which Obama could not have safely attended in 1962. How far we have come, but how far we have yet to go.

Our lives truly are too short to truly see the changing patterns of society. Certainly we can look back and see from where we have come. In the case of Obama running for the presidency of the United States, we can consider the history of the enslavement of blacks, the freeing of the blacks that did not truly result in freedom and all of the steps that led to the place we are in today. However, it is more difficult to see where all of this is heading and what our country and the world will look like in 50 years. Still, it would be nice to have the 100+ years that Miss Jane has (in the movie) to see the wonders of the changing world.

The movie moves me on another level (at least on other level). It reminds me of the importance of giving of oneself on more than the economic level. The people whose lives are portrayed move society forward with a push and a pull, a shove and a drag. This probably is a good message for this time of year in which we will have a chance for reflection during the holidays and another chance to make a new (or more likely re-emphasized) resolution. Time is short so I should start thinking about what I will promise myself this year.

Another movie that mixes water and eyesight is Field of Dreams. It is the last scene (always those last scenes) in which Kevin Costner's character has the opportunity to place catch with his father when his father was a young man before he was "worn down by life" when he had "his whole life in front of him". This moves me on so many levels. First, I would love to have the opportunity to play catch ("interact" in a true give and take) with my father when he was young man. Perhaps that is why, after my mother's death, it was such an emotional pleasure to make a slide show of the pictures of my father when he was young - as a school boy, a high school and college student, an Army officer, and young executive, a young father, etc. The pictures took me part way there, but not as far as I wish I could go. I wish that I had the same type of materials that I have for my mother, for whom I have the pictures, but also a significant amount of her school year writing. So that is the first basis for the connection with the father-son catch scene. The second is the chance to recapture the years of my youth - to do the things that I did with my father as well as the things we never did. I am not overwhelmed by these feelings in life and really am quite content with the relationships I had with my parents. However, a movie like The Field of Dreams brings up the feelings and I have to admit I like those feelings . . . they keep me connected.