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.
Sunday, November 30, 2008
Saturday, November 29, 2008
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.
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.
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.
Thursday, November 27, 2008
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.
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.
Sunday, November 23, 2008
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.
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.
Wednesday, November 12, 2008
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.
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.
Tuesday, November 11, 2008
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
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
Wednesday, November 5, 2008
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.
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.
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?
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?
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