While walking around Newport a few weeks ago, the phrase "I drink my vodka, because I want ta" came into my head. I hadn't been drinking and don't even like to drink that much, but I liked the phrase so I remembered the phrase. Tonight, I let the words take me on a short journey. I have a tune for the words, but I can't convey it to you. Note that this ditty is a far cry from my prior post called "In The Sanctuary".
I drink my vodka
Cause I want ta
I don't have ta
But I like ta.
I drink it straight up
With some lime
Sometimes a lemon
Is just fine.
I like the feeling
That it gives me
It sends me reeling
It sets me so free.
I drink my vodka
Cause I want ta
I don't have ta
But I like ta
But when I don’t stop
It makes me crazy
I get so foolish
All gets hazy
My head starts throbbin
My eyes start sobbin
I swear to heaven
I’ll never do it again
But the next morning
Without any warning
I grab the bottle
And drink full throttle
while singing
I drink my vodka
Cause I want ta
I don't have ta
But I like ta.
Thursday, April 23, 2009
Sunday, April 19, 2009
In the Sanctuary
In 1867, Emma Lazarus (of “Give Me your Tired” fame) wrote “In the Jewish Synagogue at Newport” which was in response to Henry Wadsworth’s Longfellow’s poem, The Jewish Cemetery at Newport”. Those poems inspired the following entry (Emma Lazarus' is below) – no other comparison or connection is intended.
In the sanctuary, the noises of the outside world
Have been left at the entry threshold
In preparation for uninterrupted reflection
Illuminated by the glow of the past, present and future.
The living and those whose living breath is no more surround
Sounds of prayer fill the space from without and within
Dappled pages with foreign symbols are a harbinger of the journey
All beckons to an encounter with the miraculous spiritual world.
An expedition of perpetual exploration and self-discovery
Where the individual is elevated to a place within the human spirit
Never losing relevance even while being bound with and within the generations
From humankind’s birth through all that was, all that is and all that will be.
Gazing into the layered depths of time and understanding
We are the departing slaves, the bedraggled victims, the huddled masses of immigrants
The sages who ascended to a godly view of all creation
The sculptors and painters of life in every age.
Absorbed in and by all of the elements
Wrapped in the warmth of time, place and life’s vitality
Taking a nostalgic climb through internal seasons
With a personal lens to search for the paradise within.
I am transported to the days of beginning and youth
In another sanctuary thousands of days and miles away
Connected by invisible cords braided like a Sabbath challah
Illuminated by a warm glow like that from the Shabbat candles.
Playing endlessly with the macramé tzitzit of my father's tallis
Four with eight with five forming heart strings which unite all
Watching my mother’s face as she gazes into an unseen world
With a Moses like glow on her face and a tear in her eye.
Rising and falling with other congregants like ocean waves
Learning melodies and words lasting through sometimes lost relevance
Growing year by year toward understanding and conformity, distinction and separation
Watching the changing of the guard as the youth stand on the shoulders of the elders.
And then the internal scroll of life’s story is rolled and dressed
Stored lovingly until the next never-ending return to the sanctuary within
Where defining moments are recorded in mystical ways
The abstract leading to clarity, myth transforming into philosophy.
And still, the physical world awaits just outside the sanctuary
Yet re-entry will be by one who has been further bonded to the oneness of all
Whose way of being in the world has been modified though ever so slightly
Whose path has been varied by another journey of self and generational discovery.
In the Jewish Synagogue at Newport
Here, where the noises of the busy town,
The ocean's plunge and roar can enter not,
We stand and gaze around with fearful awe,
And muse upon the consecrated spot.
No signs of life are here: the very prayers,
Inscribed around are in a language dead,
The light of the "perpetual lamp" is spent
That an undying radiance was to shed.
What prayers were in this temple offered up,
Wrung from sad hearts that knew no joy on earth,
By these lone exiles of a thousand years,
From the fair sunrise land that gave them birth!
Now as we gaze, in this new world of light,
Upon this relic of the days of old,
The present vanishes, and tropic bloom
And Eastern towns and temples we behold.
Again we see the patriarch with his flocks,
The purple seas, the hot sky o'erhead,
The slaves of Egypt--omens, mysteries--
Dark fleeing hosts by flaming angels led.
A wondrous light upon a sky-kissed mount,
A man who reads Jehovah's written law,
'Midst blinding glory and effulgence rare,
Unto a people prone with reverent awe.
The pride of luxury's barbaric pomp,
In the rich court of royal
Solomon-- Alas! we wake: one scene alone remains
The exiles by the streams of Babylon.
Our softened voices send us back again
But mournful echoes through the empty hall;
Our footsteps have a strange, unnatural sound,
And with unwonted gentleness they fall.
The weary ones, the sad, the suffering,
All found their comfort in the holy place,
And children's gladness, and men's gratitude
Took voice and mingled in the chant of praise.
The funeral and the marriage, now, alas!
We know not which is sadder to recall;
For youth and happiness have followed age,
And green grass lieth gently over all.
And still the shrine is holy yet,
With its lone floors where reverent feet once trod.
Take off your shoes as by the burning bush,
Before the mystery of death and God.
In the sanctuary, the noises of the outside world
Have been left at the entry threshold
In preparation for uninterrupted reflection
Illuminated by the glow of the past, present and future.
The living and those whose living breath is no more surround
Sounds of prayer fill the space from without and within
Dappled pages with foreign symbols are a harbinger of the journey
All beckons to an encounter with the miraculous spiritual world.
An expedition of perpetual exploration and self-discovery
Where the individual is elevated to a place within the human spirit
Never losing relevance even while being bound with and within the generations
From humankind’s birth through all that was, all that is and all that will be.
Gazing into the layered depths of time and understanding
We are the departing slaves, the bedraggled victims, the huddled masses of immigrants
The sages who ascended to a godly view of all creation
The sculptors and painters of life in every age.
Absorbed in and by all of the elements
Wrapped in the warmth of time, place and life’s vitality
Taking a nostalgic climb through internal seasons
With a personal lens to search for the paradise within.
I am transported to the days of beginning and youth
In another sanctuary thousands of days and miles away
Connected by invisible cords braided like a Sabbath challah
Illuminated by a warm glow like that from the Shabbat candles.
Playing endlessly with the macramé tzitzit of my father's tallis
Four with eight with five forming heart strings which unite all
Watching my mother’s face as she gazes into an unseen world
With a Moses like glow on her face and a tear in her eye.
Rising and falling with other congregants like ocean waves
Learning melodies and words lasting through sometimes lost relevance
Growing year by year toward understanding and conformity, distinction and separation
Watching the changing of the guard as the youth stand on the shoulders of the elders.
And then the internal scroll of life’s story is rolled and dressed
Stored lovingly until the next never-ending return to the sanctuary within
Where defining moments are recorded in mystical ways
The abstract leading to clarity, myth transforming into philosophy.
And still, the physical world awaits just outside the sanctuary
Yet re-entry will be by one who has been further bonded to the oneness of all
Whose way of being in the world has been modified though ever so slightly
Whose path has been varied by another journey of self and generational discovery.
In the Jewish Synagogue at Newport
Here, where the noises of the busy town,
The ocean's plunge and roar can enter not,
We stand and gaze around with fearful awe,
And muse upon the consecrated spot.
No signs of life are here: the very prayers,
Inscribed around are in a language dead,
The light of the "perpetual lamp" is spent
That an undying radiance was to shed.
What prayers were in this temple offered up,
Wrung from sad hearts that knew no joy on earth,
By these lone exiles of a thousand years,
From the fair sunrise land that gave them birth!
Now as we gaze, in this new world of light,
Upon this relic of the days of old,
The present vanishes, and tropic bloom
And Eastern towns and temples we behold.
Again we see the patriarch with his flocks,
The purple seas, the hot sky o'erhead,
The slaves of Egypt--omens, mysteries--
Dark fleeing hosts by flaming angels led.
A wondrous light upon a sky-kissed mount,
A man who reads Jehovah's written law,
'Midst blinding glory and effulgence rare,
Unto a people prone with reverent awe.
The pride of luxury's barbaric pomp,
In the rich court of royal
Solomon-- Alas! we wake: one scene alone remains
The exiles by the streams of Babylon.
Our softened voices send us back again
But mournful echoes through the empty hall;
Our footsteps have a strange, unnatural sound,
And with unwonted gentleness they fall.
The weary ones, the sad, the suffering,
All found their comfort in the holy place,
And children's gladness, and men's gratitude
Took voice and mingled in the chant of praise.
The funeral and the marriage, now, alas!
We know not which is sadder to recall;
For youth and happiness have followed age,
And green grass lieth gently over all.
And still the shrine is holy yet,
With its lone floors where reverent feet once trod.
Take off your shoes as by the burning bush,
Before the mystery of death and God.
Sunday, March 29, 2009
Morning Memory Picture Show
I wake in the dark stillness of the early morning with only the sound of the gentle popping lips floating from the other side of the bed and the forced air shushes of the breathing machine flowing through my Darth Vader mask. One flickering wink is all that is needed to make the choice to close my eyelids like one closes window shades to shut out the world. I want to return to my half dream state in which the mind’s eye views the imagined pictures of memories. I float through the memories of my early life and, as much as I want to linger over every memory, turning and viewing the mirages from every angle, bringing out the details like one develops the latent images of a photograph, the memories move away at their own speed vanishing like smoke vanishes into the air and like a gentle rain vanishes into the ground.
Opening the kitchen cabinets, I pull out my musical pot and spoon instrument to play a tribal melody. Scooting down the nursery school slide, dressed in dark shorts, a light shirt and suspenders, laughing and the run to the ladder to do it again and again. Standing at the front door, I cry as my mother drives away while Anna comforts me. Playing in the bathtub, entering with baby-like smooth skin and leaving with the wrinkled covering of an ancient man. Stretching hand over hand on the monkey bars and gliding to and fro as my brother pushes the swing’s seat and runs beneath. Watching my dog chasing round and round without ever catching his tail. Exploring the hedge maze on the corner hoping to create an adventure. Sitting on the porch waiting for my father to cruise into the drive. Coming into the house to the smell of chocolate chip cookies baking. Catching flickering fireflies in glass jars on warm spring evenings. Designing quickly vanishing air paintings with sizzling sparklers.
Then the memory picture show is interrupted by the soft whispering tones of “happy birthday”, and my day and a new year begins with a smile on my face.
Opening the kitchen cabinets, I pull out my musical pot and spoon instrument to play a tribal melody. Scooting down the nursery school slide, dressed in dark shorts, a light shirt and suspenders, laughing and the run to the ladder to do it again and again. Standing at the front door, I cry as my mother drives away while Anna comforts me. Playing in the bathtub, entering with baby-like smooth skin and leaving with the wrinkled covering of an ancient man. Stretching hand over hand on the monkey bars and gliding to and fro as my brother pushes the swing’s seat and runs beneath. Watching my dog chasing round and round without ever catching his tail. Exploring the hedge maze on the corner hoping to create an adventure. Sitting on the porch waiting for my father to cruise into the drive. Coming into the house to the smell of chocolate chip cookies baking. Catching flickering fireflies in glass jars on warm spring evenings. Designing quickly vanishing air paintings with sizzling sparklers.
Then the memory picture show is interrupted by the soft whispering tones of “happy birthday”, and my day and a new year begins with a smile on my face.
What We Don't Know
We don’t know what we don’t see that the other sees,
We don’t know what we don’t hear that the other hears,
We don’t know what we don’t feel that the other feels,
For you are you, I am me, and that’s the way it has to be
We don’t know the skies in which the other flies
We don’t know the waters in which the other swims
We don’t know the mountains that the other climbs
For you are you, I am me, and that’s the way it has to be
We don’t know the songs that the other sings
We don’t know the loves that the other loves
We don’t know the dreams that the other dreams
For you are you, I am me, and that’s the way it has to be
We don’t know the moments that the other lives
We don’t know the days and weeks that the other lives
We don’t know the world in which the other lives
For you are you, I am me, and that’s the way it has to be
Even though we know so much is out of sight
Even though we know so much cannot be shared
Even though we know what we don’t know
We know that you are you, I am me and together we are we
For we is what binds us together in an unbreakable bond
For we is what lights our path as we walk together holding hands
For we is what gives us strength as together we live our lives
For you may be you, I may be me, but what matters is that we are we
We don’t know what we don’t hear that the other hears,
We don’t know what we don’t feel that the other feels,
For you are you, I am me, and that’s the way it has to be
We don’t know the skies in which the other flies
We don’t know the waters in which the other swims
We don’t know the mountains that the other climbs
For you are you, I am me, and that’s the way it has to be
We don’t know the songs that the other sings
We don’t know the loves that the other loves
We don’t know the dreams that the other dreams
For you are you, I am me, and that’s the way it has to be
We don’t know the moments that the other lives
We don’t know the days and weeks that the other lives
We don’t know the world in which the other lives
For you are you, I am me, and that’s the way it has to be
Even though we know so much is out of sight
Even though we know so much cannot be shared
Even though we know what we don’t know
We know that you are you, I am me and together we are we
For we is what binds us together in an unbreakable bond
For we is what lights our path as we walk together holding hands
For we is what gives us strength as together we live our lives
For you may be you, I may be me, but what matters is that we are we
Saturday, March 28, 2009
It's A Long Road Out of Paradise and I'm in No Rush to Return
In the beginning "the earth was without form and empty, with darkness on the face of the depths".
Depths like that within the womb, without form and empty, filled with darkness, until male and female join together and new life is created.
Created as in Genesis - "male and female He created them", created at the same time, as equals, and placed in the Garden of Eden, just as within the womb new life is placed and bound.
Bound in a place without awareness, without spiritual growth, without learning, for everything is provided, in the Garden of Eden and the womb.
In the Garden of Eden and the womb, where personal efforts are not required, challenges are absent, needs are non-existent.
Non-existent just as are desires, losses and tears, non-existent for all is there for the taking.
Taking without effort, taking without appreciation, taking without understanding, taking without love, without even an understanding of love.
Love does not exist, in the Garden of Eden or in the womb, for without awareness, there only is . . .
Existence
Existence without knowledge,
Existence without the knowledge that comes from experiences.
Experiences that only are found on the journey that begins when woman and man are expelled from the Garden of Eden to discover life,
Life filled with the knowledge of good and evil, life filled with work to produce food, shelter and clothing, life lived with the knowledge that life will end somewhere along the journey.
The journey that for each starts upon being expelled from the womb, our own personal original Garden of Eden, to venture forth to experience all that life has to offer, satiation and hunger, successes and failures, joy and sadness, birth and death, love and loss, sunrises and sunsets.
Sunsets that one day come without a sunrise, a final sunset that signals the return to the womb of Mother Earth, to the earth’s Garden of Eden, to the place where there is no further awareness, no further needs, no further desires.
Desires that propel us along life’s journey, a journey with its share of losses, pain and tears, a journey filled with more than its share of learning, loving and living, a journey to be appreciated and savoured.
Having left the Garden of Eden, I am in no rush to return.
Depths like that within the womb, without form and empty, filled with darkness, until male and female join together and new life is created.
Created as in Genesis - "male and female He created them", created at the same time, as equals, and placed in the Garden of Eden, just as within the womb new life is placed and bound.
Bound in a place without awareness, without spiritual growth, without learning, for everything is provided, in the Garden of Eden and the womb.
In the Garden of Eden and the womb, where personal efforts are not required, challenges are absent, needs are non-existent.
Non-existent just as are desires, losses and tears, non-existent for all is there for the taking.
Taking without effort, taking without appreciation, taking without understanding, taking without love, without even an understanding of love.
Love does not exist, in the Garden of Eden or in the womb, for without awareness, there only is . . .
Existence
Existence without knowledge,
Existence without the knowledge that comes from experiences.
Experiences that only are found on the journey that begins when woman and man are expelled from the Garden of Eden to discover life,
Life filled with the knowledge of good and evil, life filled with work to produce food, shelter and clothing, life lived with the knowledge that life will end somewhere along the journey.
The journey that for each starts upon being expelled from the womb, our own personal original Garden of Eden, to venture forth to experience all that life has to offer, satiation and hunger, successes and failures, joy and sadness, birth and death, love and loss, sunrises and sunsets.
Sunsets that one day come without a sunrise, a final sunset that signals the return to the womb of Mother Earth, to the earth’s Garden of Eden, to the place where there is no further awareness, no further needs, no further desires.
Desires that propel us along life’s journey, a journey with its share of losses, pain and tears, a journey filled with more than its share of learning, loving and living, a journey to be appreciated and savoured.
Having left the Garden of Eden, I am in no rush to return.
Friday, March 27, 2009
The Smile
Pictures capture only moments
Moments reflect only instances
Instances are fleeting
But imagine a life
Captured in pictures
Each picture containing a smiling face
Not just a smile
But a radiating smile
One that warms all who see it.
Not just a radiating warming smile
But a smile that says "I love you"
A love that fills the essence of your soul
Not just an "I love you" smile
But a smile that says "I love this world"
A love that changes the way of life.
Not just a life changing smile
But a smile that says "I love life"
A love that makes you remember how great it is to be alive
Not just a smile
But a window to the world
A reflection of the love inside spilling out
A love that was put into action
A love that called others to action
A love that cared for others
A love that caused others to care
A love that knew no end
A love that created unending love in others
Pictures capture only moments
Moments reflect only instances
Instances are fleeting
But the memory of the smile
The memory and the love will live on
The memory and love of Peter.
Moments reflect only instances
Instances are fleeting
But imagine a life
Captured in pictures
Each picture containing a smiling face
Not just a smile
But a radiating smile
One that warms all who see it.
Not just a radiating warming smile
But a smile that says "I love you"
A love that fills the essence of your soul
Not just an "I love you" smile
But a smile that says "I love this world"
A love that changes the way of life.
Not just a life changing smile
But a smile that says "I love life"
A love that makes you remember how great it is to be alive
Not just a smile
But a window to the world
A reflection of the love inside spilling out
A love that was put into action
A love that called others to action
A love that cared for others
A love that caused others to care
A love that knew no end
A love that created unending love in others
Pictures capture only moments
Moments reflect only instances
Instances are fleeting
But the memory of the smile
The memory and the love will live on
The memory and love of Peter.
Wednesday, March 25, 2009
Memories and Visions
All the times that I remember
Looking back over fifty-seven years
Love and smiles and laughter
Sadness, frowns and sometimes tears
And I cherish every single moment
From childhood to this very day
For life is a wonderful journey
In which I continue to find my way
Sometimes life’s path has been cloudy and dark
More often light has filled every corner of my life
Sometimes the going seemed so easy
Occasionally the path was littered with strife
I know enough to be so thankful
For each moment and how I am blessed
For the life that I am living
Is the only one and also the best
So as I celebrate my birthday
And slide quietly into another year
I am filled with love and hope
With visions that are quiet clear
I see all my life has been
And all my life can still be
And with all that I have learned
I will live my life now stretching before me
Through the sunrises and sunsets
Through the clouds and stormy days
I will try to live as well as I can
For what more can I pray
So I venture into tomorrow
Remembering from where I came
Knowing that all that I can strive for
Is always to do honor to my name.
Looking back over fifty-seven years
Love and smiles and laughter
Sadness, frowns and sometimes tears
And I cherish every single moment
From childhood to this very day
For life is a wonderful journey
In which I continue to find my way
Sometimes life’s path has been cloudy and dark
More often light has filled every corner of my life
Sometimes the going seemed so easy
Occasionally the path was littered with strife
I know enough to be so thankful
For each moment and how I am blessed
For the life that I am living
Is the only one and also the best
So as I celebrate my birthday
And slide quietly into another year
I am filled with love and hope
With visions that are quiet clear
I see all my life has been
And all my life can still be
And with all that I have learned
I will live my life now stretching before me
Through the sunrises and sunsets
Through the clouds and stormy days
I will try to live as well as I can
For what more can I pray
So I venture into tomorrow
Remembering from where I came
Knowing that all that I can strive for
Is always to do honor to my name.
A New Garden - 2009
The seeds were dropped gently into the welcoming soil
Then each was covered with a loving touch
Water was added until moisture surrounded the seeds
Then it was time to wait and wait and wait
While on the surface there was no sign of life
Beneath the sprouts to be were being nourished
Until like a chick breaking out of its shell
The unseen seedlings break free from their encasements
Then feeling the warmth and sensing the light
The sprouts begin the journey out of the rich dark soil
Until in a Rocky like pose they reach toward the sky
Silently shouting in celebration
The sprouts of cucumber and squash race forth
While the tomatoes of multiple varieties
Move forth in an orderly no need to rush fashion
And the peppers refuse to get out from under the covers
The excitement of watching new life burst forth
The thrill of knowing that the circle is unbroken
The hope for all that the growing season will bring
The anticipation of the fruits and vegetables of my labors.
Then each was covered with a loving touch
Water was added until moisture surrounded the seeds
Then it was time to wait and wait and wait
While on the surface there was no sign of life
Beneath the sprouts to be were being nourished
Until like a chick breaking out of its shell
The unseen seedlings break free from their encasements
Then feeling the warmth and sensing the light
The sprouts begin the journey out of the rich dark soil
Until in a Rocky like pose they reach toward the sky
Silently shouting in celebration
The sprouts of cucumber and squash race forth
While the tomatoes of multiple varieties
Move forth in an orderly no need to rush fashion
And the peppers refuse to get out from under the covers
The excitement of watching new life burst forth
The thrill of knowing that the circle is unbroken
The hope for all that the growing season will bring
The anticipation of the fruits and vegetables of my labors.
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
Twenty-Six Years Today
My brother's voice came through the phone with a directness that is saved for these types of calls
Dad is in the hospital - He passed out this morning - The ambulance rushed him to the hospital - Mom is there with him - So is Phyllis - That's all I know.
The second call came within minutes and my brother's voice is different, the voice that is saved for these types of calls
Dad is gone - I don't know what happened - There was a code blue - They couldn't save him - That's all I know - I am so sorry - I love you - Dad is gone.
I hung up the phone overwhelmed, in an instant the world having changed in a way that is saved for these types of losses
Dad is gone - No more calls - No more source of fatherly advice - No more fatherly love - No more fatherly smiles and jokes - No more father-son relationship - No more shared times.
I packed without thought and went home in a dazed trip that is saved for these types of returns home.
Dad is gone - Mom needs support - Funeral plans need to be made - Stories need to be shared - Plans for the living need to be made.
I looked at Dad's final resting place with a teary stare that is saved for these types of good-byes
Dad is physically gone - Dad's voice is gone from the world - Dad's touch is gone - Dad's smiles are gone - Dad's pride is gone.
I moved forward in life in the way that one must with a strength that is saved for these types of life changes
Dad's words still can be heard in my mind - Dad's eyes still stare at me in the mirror - Dad's advice still guides me - Dad's love will never be lost.
Thanks Dad!
Dad is in the hospital - He passed out this morning - The ambulance rushed him to the hospital - Mom is there with him - So is Phyllis - That's all I know.
The second call came within minutes and my brother's voice is different, the voice that is saved for these types of calls
Dad is gone - I don't know what happened - There was a code blue - They couldn't save him - That's all I know - I am so sorry - I love you - Dad is gone.
I hung up the phone overwhelmed, in an instant the world having changed in a way that is saved for these types of losses
Dad is gone - No more calls - No more source of fatherly advice - No more fatherly love - No more fatherly smiles and jokes - No more father-son relationship - No more shared times.
I packed without thought and went home in a dazed trip that is saved for these types of returns home.
Dad is gone - Mom needs support - Funeral plans need to be made - Stories need to be shared - Plans for the living need to be made.
I looked at Dad's final resting place with a teary stare that is saved for these types of good-byes
Dad is physically gone - Dad's voice is gone from the world - Dad's touch is gone - Dad's smiles are gone - Dad's pride is gone.
I moved forward in life in the way that one must with a strength that is saved for these types of life changes
Dad's words still can be heard in my mind - Dad's eyes still stare at me in the mirror - Dad's advice still guides me - Dad's love will never be lost.
Thanks Dad!
But I Was Wrong
As a wide eyed three year old
I left the protective shell of my home behind and entered nursery school
Certain that a great play adventure awaited me
But I had no way of knowing the life that awaited me.
As a confident five year old,
I left the childish play of nursery school behind and entered kindergarten
Certain that I understood the ways of the big kid world
But I was wrong for there was so much more to learn.
As an excited nine year old,
I left the childish play of the primary grades behind and entered fourth grade
Certain that I understood the ways of the upper school world
But I was wrong for there was so much more to learn.
As an eager twelve year old,
I left the elementary ways of the upper grades behind and entered junior high
Certain that I understood the ways of the endless hallways and changing classes
But I was wrong for there was so much more to learn.
As a feeling my oats fifteen year old,
I left junior high grades behind and entered high school
Certain that I understood the ways of the teenage world
But I was wrong for there was so much more to learn.
As an independent eighteen year old,
I left high school behind and entered college
Certain that I understood the ways of the world
But I was wrong for there was so much more to learn.
As a confident twenty-one year old,
I left college behind and entered the work world
Certain that I understood the ways of adults
But I was wrong for there was so much more to learn.
As an adventurous twenty-five year old,
I left the work world temporarily behind and entered graduate school
Certain that I understood my profession and the working world
But I was wrong for there was so much more to learn.
As a self believing twenty-six year old,
I left graduate school behind and re-entered teacherhood
Certain that I understood how to shape the minds of children
But I was wrong for there was so much more to learn.
As an joyful twenty-eight year old,
I left single life behind and entered married life
Certain that I understood love and relationships
But I was wrong for there was so much more to learn.
As a prepared for what may come twenty-eight year old
I left the paying work world behind and entered law school
Certain that I understood what awaited me
But I was wrong for there was so much more to learn.
As a saddened thirty year old,
I said good-bye to my father (twenty-six years ago today)
Certain that I understood what it meant to be an independent adult
But I was wrong for there was so much more to learn.
As an excited thirty-one year old, thirty-five year old and forty-year old
I said hello to each of my children with thrill and sky-high dreams
Certain that I understood how to raise a child
But I was wrong for there was so much more to learn.
As a thought I was prepared thirty-one year old
I said good-bye to law school and entered the legal world
Certain that I understood how to be a lawyer
But I was wrong for there was so much more to learn.
As content fifty year old
I said good-bye to the first half century and hello to my fifties
Certain that I understood how to live and love
But I was wrong for there was so much more to learn.
As a saddened fifty-six year old,
I said good-bye to my mother
Certain that I understood the ways of life
But I was wrong for there was so much more to learn.
As a confident fifty-five year old lawyer and employer
I surveyed my professional life
Certain that I understood how to operate in my professional world
But I was wrong for there was so much more to learn.
Now as a "days away from being" fifty-seven years old
I reflect upon my life - my family, my friends, my work, my interests
Certain that I understand how to balance and orchestrate my life
But even now I know that I will be wrong
For having taken this introspective journey
Through a life for which I am thankful
I now am certain that I understand
There always is so much more to learn.
I left the protective shell of my home behind and entered nursery school
Certain that a great play adventure awaited me
But I had no way of knowing the life that awaited me.
As a confident five year old,
I left the childish play of nursery school behind and entered kindergarten
Certain that I understood the ways of the big kid world
But I was wrong for there was so much more to learn.
As an excited nine year old,
I left the childish play of the primary grades behind and entered fourth grade
Certain that I understood the ways of the upper school world
But I was wrong for there was so much more to learn.
As an eager twelve year old,
I left the elementary ways of the upper grades behind and entered junior high
Certain that I understood the ways of the endless hallways and changing classes
But I was wrong for there was so much more to learn.
As a feeling my oats fifteen year old,
I left junior high grades behind and entered high school
Certain that I understood the ways of the teenage world
But I was wrong for there was so much more to learn.
As an independent eighteen year old,
I left high school behind and entered college
Certain that I understood the ways of the world
But I was wrong for there was so much more to learn.
As a confident twenty-one year old,
I left college behind and entered the work world
Certain that I understood the ways of adults
But I was wrong for there was so much more to learn.
As an adventurous twenty-five year old,
I left the work world temporarily behind and entered graduate school
Certain that I understood my profession and the working world
But I was wrong for there was so much more to learn.
As a self believing twenty-six year old,
I left graduate school behind and re-entered teacherhood
Certain that I understood how to shape the minds of children
But I was wrong for there was so much more to learn.
As an joyful twenty-eight year old,
I left single life behind and entered married life
Certain that I understood love and relationships
But I was wrong for there was so much more to learn.
As a prepared for what may come twenty-eight year old
I left the paying work world behind and entered law school
Certain that I understood what awaited me
But I was wrong for there was so much more to learn.
As a saddened thirty year old,
I said good-bye to my father (twenty-six years ago today)
Certain that I understood what it meant to be an independent adult
But I was wrong for there was so much more to learn.
As an excited thirty-one year old, thirty-five year old and forty-year old
I said hello to each of my children with thrill and sky-high dreams
Certain that I understood how to raise a child
But I was wrong for there was so much more to learn.
As a thought I was prepared thirty-one year old
I said good-bye to law school and entered the legal world
Certain that I understood how to be a lawyer
But I was wrong for there was so much more to learn.
As content fifty year old
I said good-bye to the first half century and hello to my fifties
Certain that I understood how to live and love
But I was wrong for there was so much more to learn.
As a saddened fifty-six year old,
I said good-bye to my mother
Certain that I understood the ways of life
But I was wrong for there was so much more to learn.
As a confident fifty-five year old lawyer and employer
I surveyed my professional life
Certain that I understood how to operate in my professional world
But I was wrong for there was so much more to learn.
Now as a "days away from being" fifty-seven years old
I reflect upon my life - my family, my friends, my work, my interests
Certain that I understand how to balance and orchestrate my life
But even now I know that I will be wrong
For having taken this introspective journey
Through a life for which I am thankful
I now am certain that I understand
There always is so much more to learn.
Sunday, March 15, 2009
The Eyes Have It
The baby’s eyes darted continuously for everything was new.
The child’s eyes opened wide for everything was exciting.
The young person’s eyes glanced around wondering how everything fit together.
The teenager’s eyes peered about trying to see everything into the shadows.
The young man’s eyes squinted at everything searching for the unseen.
The middle age man’s eyes starred at everything with learned cynicism.
The old man’s eyes looked at everything wondering where the years had gone.
The old man’s mind eye saw everything and longed to see again with the eyes of the baby, the child, the teenager and the young man.
The child’s eyes opened wide for everything was exciting.
The young person’s eyes glanced around wondering how everything fit together.
The teenager’s eyes peered about trying to see everything into the shadows.
The young man’s eyes squinted at everything searching for the unseen.
The middle age man’s eyes starred at everything with learned cynicism.
The old man’s eyes looked at everything wondering where the years had gone.
The old man’s mind eye saw everything and longed to see again with the eyes of the baby, the child, the teenager and the young man.
Wednesday, March 4, 2009
Before My Eyes
Like a child’s transformer
They change before my eyes,
In unimaginable ways
From softly shaped infants
To well defined adults
Ever growing and changing
Ever remaining the same
Like lava lamps
The essence remains consistent
While the outlines continually evolve
From lumps of clay
To magnificent sculptures
Beautiful works of life
They change before my eyes,
In unimaginable ways
From softly shaped infants
To well defined adults
Ever growing and changing
Ever remaining the same
Like lava lamps
The essence remains consistent
While the outlines continually evolve
From lumps of clay
To magnificent sculptures
Beautiful works of life
The Layman Philosopher
As I exited the rain forest warm environment of my car, the cold shocked my entire being into a new reality creating a brain freeze as intense as any coming by way of a quickly eaten ice cream cone. I turned to begin an iceman slide-walk to the my destination, dressed in my multi-layered coat and Mt. Everest quality gloves, a young man in a simple summer-weight sweatshirt and holey blue jeans approached. In amazement, I called out “Nice weather, huh” and fully expected him to reply with a quivering shivering voice that his heated car was just a few steps away. Instead, he replied with a simple statement, “If you don’t have occasional pain, how do you know you are alive”. And so, I spent different parts of my day thinking about that statement from the layman philosopher. I had heard his lifetime lesson in various forms many time before, but just as one can walk the same path every day and still, from time to time, see something new that always was there, my attention had been drawn to a fact that always was there – it is sometimes that pain that lets us appreciate pleasure, the sadness that lets us appreciate happiness, the loss that lets us appreciate all we have.
Sunday, March 1, 2009
Water
The water forming the lake ripples gently
As the soft breeze dances lightly across its dark blue surface
The air is mountain clean
But its silent invisibility is filled with the moisture evaporating from lake
Ascending toward the heavens where it will join with moisture relatives
Forming wisps of white drawn together like magnets
Transforming into magnificent billowing powder puff clouds of virgin white And so they would remain if the moisture and constantly birthed wisps Would stop their transformation and immigration into the whiteness
But that is not the nature of water for it seeks to be with its family
In whatever form that family may be
And so, with time, the white transitions through shades of grey
Toward a stormy menacing restless blackness
Until with a flash and a shout the clouds open their fortress like doors
Exploding like suicide bombes
Spilling out their very essence until they fade from existence
And as that essence falls earthward
Sometimes along a hurried direct route as bullets seeking a target
Sometimes carried by the winds in a circuitous path
Up and down, side to side
But always reaching its next way station of ground
Where in time it finds a way to the streams
Some on the surface and others hidden
Some natural and some man made
And then from the steams to the lakes
And so it goes
So it goes
As the soft breeze dances lightly across its dark blue surface
The air is mountain clean
But its silent invisibility is filled with the moisture evaporating from lake
Ascending toward the heavens where it will join with moisture relatives
Forming wisps of white drawn together like magnets
Transforming into magnificent billowing powder puff clouds of virgin white And so they would remain if the moisture and constantly birthed wisps Would stop their transformation and immigration into the whiteness
But that is not the nature of water for it seeks to be with its family
In whatever form that family may be
And so, with time, the white transitions through shades of grey
Toward a stormy menacing restless blackness
Until with a flash and a shout the clouds open their fortress like doors
Exploding like suicide bombes
Spilling out their very essence until they fade from existence
And as that essence falls earthward
Sometimes along a hurried direct route as bullets seeking a target
Sometimes carried by the winds in a circuitous path
Up and down, side to side
But always reaching its next way station of ground
Where in time it finds a way to the streams
Some on the surface and others hidden
Some natural and some man made
And then from the steams to the lakes
And so it goes
So it goes
Sunday, February 22, 2009
Below the Surface
Every aspect of the household appeared impeccably neat
With items large and small seemingly in place as if in its own seat
Until I approached the cabinets for a container to look
When a warning came forth, “Be careful - beware before that door you unhook!!”
Not believing that possible in a house so well organized
I flung the door open and received a shocking surprise
As plastic of every size and shape tumbled in a cascade
I tried not to reveal my amazement or that I was afraid
Perhaps you wonder what I saw that did scare me
Certainly some bouncing plastic is not truly what I did see
What I saw was all of the seemingly well-organized aspects of life
Seemingly all in its place but within there’s so much strife
In an instant I thought of the lifestyle we lead
Where throughout our globe so many yearn to be free
I thought of the economy that we now know to have been a fake
What should have been transparent was so very opaque
I thought of the people who appear to have it under control
Who seem to have set and then achieved every goal
I wondered what is within each such heart and mind
If I could view inside perhaps a messy cabinet I would find
Then I thought of my own cabinets, closets and each storage area
And I realized that there was no need for hysteria
For in living our lives those portions sometimes will be in disarray
And so we just reorganize once again and live for another day
Inspired by M&EK
With items large and small seemingly in place as if in its own seat
Until I approached the cabinets for a container to look
When a warning came forth, “Be careful - beware before that door you unhook!!”
Not believing that possible in a house so well organized
I flung the door open and received a shocking surprise
As plastic of every size and shape tumbled in a cascade
I tried not to reveal my amazement or that I was afraid
Perhaps you wonder what I saw that did scare me
Certainly some bouncing plastic is not truly what I did see
What I saw was all of the seemingly well-organized aspects of life
Seemingly all in its place but within there’s so much strife
In an instant I thought of the lifestyle we lead
Where throughout our globe so many yearn to be free
I thought of the economy that we now know to have been a fake
What should have been transparent was so very opaque
I thought of the people who appear to have it under control
Who seem to have set and then achieved every goal
I wondered what is within each such heart and mind
If I could view inside perhaps a messy cabinet I would find
Then I thought of my own cabinets, closets and each storage area
And I realized that there was no need for hysteria
For in living our lives those portions sometimes will be in disarray
And so we just reorganize once again and live for another day
Inspired by M&EK
Imagining Great Lovers
Imagine I was Adam and you were Eve
With all the time in the world to please
To take care of nature and each other’s needs
Until the serpent with us would plead
We’d gain the knowledge but lose the idyllic life
As we would leave the garden for a lifetime of strife
Still I would be your husband and you would be my wife
Relying on our love and wits (as sharp as a well-honed knife)
Imagine you were Cleopatra and I was Anthony
Before us lay the world and our futures to see
With such immense love our lives would be carefree
Little would we know or care what awaited you and me
For there would be those who would plot
To make sure that our love would be for naught
And though we would end our lives to avoid the onslaught
We would do so in love and not be distraught
Imagine you were Juliet and I was Romeo
Two star-crossed lovers from long ago
You as my girl and I as your beau
With burning desires creating an internal glow
And if our families would not allow
The two of us together then and now
We would flee to take our eternal vow
Trusting our hearts to let us know how
Imagine you were Bonnie and I was Clyde
No living in public we’d have to hide
No rules to follow at least none we’d abide
We’d live life together on a non-stop joy ride
And if eventually we were tracked down
So that one day the police did fully surround
We’d hold hands and smile, there’d be no frown
As our love would vanish the fear of being cut down
No need to imagine ourselves as historic lovers
For to us our own love is a love like no others
Though sometimes we stumble along (like many fathers and mothers)
We know that for each one of us there is no other
So someday let someone write about our love
Let them describe its range as much more than an octave
Let them compare it in beauty to a pair of pure white doves
Circling high in the sky within the world and yet above
With all the time in the world to please
To take care of nature and each other’s needs
Until the serpent with us would plead
We’d gain the knowledge but lose the idyllic life
As we would leave the garden for a lifetime of strife
Still I would be your husband and you would be my wife
Relying on our love and wits (as sharp as a well-honed knife)
Imagine you were Cleopatra and I was Anthony
Before us lay the world and our futures to see
With such immense love our lives would be carefree
Little would we know or care what awaited you and me
For there would be those who would plot
To make sure that our love would be for naught
And though we would end our lives to avoid the onslaught
We would do so in love and not be distraught
Imagine you were Juliet and I was Romeo
Two star-crossed lovers from long ago
You as my girl and I as your beau
With burning desires creating an internal glow
And if our families would not allow
The two of us together then and now
We would flee to take our eternal vow
Trusting our hearts to let us know how
Imagine you were Bonnie and I was Clyde
No living in public we’d have to hide
No rules to follow at least none we’d abide
We’d live life together on a non-stop joy ride
And if eventually we were tracked down
So that one day the police did fully surround
We’d hold hands and smile, there’d be no frown
As our love would vanish the fear of being cut down
No need to imagine ourselves as historic lovers
For to us our own love is a love like no others
Though sometimes we stumble along (like many fathers and mothers)
We know that for each one of us there is no other
So someday let someone write about our love
Let them describe its range as much more than an octave
Let them compare it in beauty to a pair of pure white doves
Circling high in the sky within the world and yet above
Saturday, February 21, 2009
The Brain and The Mind
Our Brain
Encased in a protective bone shell
Tangled neurons generating electrical signals
A barrage of nerves creating our individual consciousness
Our Mind
Consciousness of our glorious world
Our identity and all information, and the gift of memory
Tears and smiles, moans and laughter, hate and love, all that we are
Our Visions
Of what has been and what can be
Of the world as a living hell full of pain and misery
Or as a Garden of Eden in which the lions and lambs rest together
Our Thoughts
Of all that could be
By treating our world as a treasure
By recognizing the value and worth of each person
Our Appreciation
For the scents that fill our world
For the multitude of sounds that surround us
For the beauty of the diverse elements of our world
Our Longings
For connections with our world
For companionship and friendship with others
For acceptance and love, peace on earth and good will to all
Our Mind
Our Consciousness
Our Visions and Thoughts
Our Appreciation and Longings
All from our Brain
All from our Brain
Inspired by an article in Discover entitled "Brain Trust".
Encased in a protective bone shell
Tangled neurons generating electrical signals
A barrage of nerves creating our individual consciousness
Our Mind
Consciousness of our glorious world
Our identity and all information, and the gift of memory
Tears and smiles, moans and laughter, hate and love, all that we are
Our Visions
Of what has been and what can be
Of the world as a living hell full of pain and misery
Or as a Garden of Eden in which the lions and lambs rest together
Our Thoughts
Of all that could be
By treating our world as a treasure
By recognizing the value and worth of each person
Our Appreciation
For the scents that fill our world
For the multitude of sounds that surround us
For the beauty of the diverse elements of our world
Our Longings
For connections with our world
For companionship and friendship with others
For acceptance and love, peace on earth and good will to all
Our Mind
Our Consciousness
Our Visions and Thoughts
Our Appreciation and Longings
All from our Brain
All from our Brain
Inspired by an article in Discover entitled "Brain Trust".
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
Reflections
Reflections of the beginning when they sat with childlike wide opened eyes
Thinking themselves prepared to absorb and process
And, in doing so, to expand their minds and mature their lives.
Reflections of moving their minds from static to dynamic
From unknowing to the knowing to unknowing
And, in doing so, to comprehend that they will forever be unknowing.
Reflections of realizing the value of both experience and knowledge
Gaining a perspective from which to see connections and disconnections
And, in doing so, to recognize that gaps and tensions forever exist.
Reflections of living with co-existing humility and pride, confidence and guilt
Proceeding with a focus on growth rather than nurturing shame
And, in doing so, to move toward the light away from the dark.
Thinking themselves prepared to absorb and process
And, in doing so, to expand their minds and mature their lives.
Reflections of moving their minds from static to dynamic
From unknowing to the knowing to unknowing
And, in doing so, to comprehend that they will forever be unknowing.
Reflections of realizing the value of both experience and knowledge
Gaining a perspective from which to see connections and disconnections
And, in doing so, to recognize that gaps and tensions forever exist.
Reflections of living with co-existing humility and pride, confidence and guilt
Proceeding with a focus on growth rather than nurturing shame
And, in doing so, to move toward the light away from the dark.
Hidden Within
I once had a computer generated picture
Composed of seemingly random colorful dots
But with time and unfocused perceiving eyes
The picture within emerged from its plain sight hiding place.
I wonder if our world is like that picture
Composed of seemingly random sights, sounds, smells and textures
So that with time and unfocused perceiving senses
The world that is hidden in plain view will reveal itself.
Composed of seemingly random colorful dots
But with time and unfocused perceiving eyes
The picture within emerged from its plain sight hiding place.
I wonder if our world is like that picture
Composed of seemingly random sights, sounds, smells and textures
So that with time and unfocused perceiving senses
The world that is hidden in plain view will reveal itself.
Monday, February 16, 2009
My Body Cries Out
I remember springing from bed
Each morning ready to face the world
Full of energy and vigor
Totally unaware of my body.
My mind still says "spring forth"
But my body no longer obeys
And when it finally moves
My body parts shout forth in unison
Ankles and knees clicking loudly
Muscles straining to elongate
Against rubber band like resistance
Shoulders and back ratcheting open
I wish my body were not so busy
Making itself known to me
I liked it when it was so silent
I did not know it was there.
Each morning ready to face the world
Full of energy and vigor
Totally unaware of my body.
My mind still says "spring forth"
But my body no longer obeys
And when it finally moves
My body parts shout forth in unison
Ankles and knees clicking loudly
Muscles straining to elongate
Against rubber band like resistance
Shoulders and back ratcheting open
I wish my body were not so busy
Making itself known to me
I liked it when it was so silent
I did not know it was there.
Saturday, February 14, 2009
Transition
At times it seems as if the snow and cold will never go away
That the green and blossoms of spring will never reappear
That the chilling numbness brought by the cold winds will last forever
That the warming sensations brought by the tropic breezes will never come
At times it seems as if the night and darkness will never go away
That the glowing and redness of the horizon will never reappear
That the trembling uncertainty brought by the pitch blackness will last forever
That the calming feelings brought by the rising sun will never come
At times it seems as if the stillness and silence will never go away
That the moving and sounds of life will never reappear
That the being motionless brought by the living sleep will last forever
That the dancing steps brought by the music of life will never come
But in its time, always in its own time
The warming tropic breezes reappear
The rising sun brings forth the calmness
The music of life is heard again and the dance begins.
That the green and blossoms of spring will never reappear
That the chilling numbness brought by the cold winds will last forever
That the warming sensations brought by the tropic breezes will never come
At times it seems as if the night and darkness will never go away
That the glowing and redness of the horizon will never reappear
That the trembling uncertainty brought by the pitch blackness will last forever
That the calming feelings brought by the rising sun will never come
At times it seems as if the stillness and silence will never go away
That the moving and sounds of life will never reappear
That the being motionless brought by the living sleep will last forever
That the dancing steps brought by the music of life will never come
But in its time, always in its own time
The warming tropic breezes reappear
The rising sun brings forth the calmness
The music of life is heard again and the dance begins.
Sunday, February 8, 2009
The Last Week of January 2009
Last week there were endings
Opportunities for new beginnings
Or so the song lyrics tell me
But ending are endings, beginnings are beginnings
A year of working on my Israel video production
With hours of fine tuning
Elements that matter only to me
Finally showing and distributing
The end of production, the beginning of preserved shared memories.
Six months of living with my father-in-law
With hours of shared time
Elements that matter to us both
Finally hugging and handshaking
The end of house sharing, the beginning of new times together.
Years of working with my fellow lawyers
With hours of interacting
Building a community and firm together
Finally reducing numbers and people
The end of firm building, the beginning of survival and re-growth
Opportunities for new beginnings
Or so the song lyrics tell me
But ending are endings, beginnings are beginnings
A year of working on my Israel video production
With hours of fine tuning
Elements that matter only to me
Finally showing and distributing
The end of production, the beginning of preserved shared memories.
Six months of living with my father-in-law
With hours of shared time
Elements that matter to us both
Finally hugging and handshaking
The end of house sharing, the beginning of new times together.
Years of working with my fellow lawyers
With hours of interacting
Building a community and firm together
Finally reducing numbers and people
The end of firm building, the beginning of survival and re-growth
Songs of Youth and Reflections
Sixty thousand years ago, the bow and arrow was "invented", whatever that means. Then, the device seems to have "disappeared" for over thirty thousand years at which point it was used with a vengeance both in terms of its popularity and its intended use (at least from the point of view of the recipient of the arrow).
Around ten thousand years ago, the agricultural revolution "started", whatever that means. Agricultural certainly was not invented at that time, but it was around then that people developed the ability to work with some parts of nature (hence, controlled irrigation) and in doing so, they were able to grow more food than was needed for their immediate needs and they no longer had to rely on the ability to kill wild animals (some days that worked and the people were satiated, other days it didn't work and the people remained hungry. and some days, it didn't wok and the wild animals ate well).
As a result of man's "advance", whatever that means, it became necessary to store the harvest and to protect the stored harvest. And so, armed forces were used (undoubtedly using the bows and arrows that had been developed just twenty or fifty thousand years ago, depending on one's point of view).
Some four thousand years ago, Abraham comes onto the world stage, whatever that means, but it was a stage that already was well established and then around five hundred years later, there was "Moses", whatever that means (another revolution).
Around two thousand five hundred years ago, Darius the Great, whatever that means, ruled much of his world, and enjoyed archaeology as a pastime (maybe he was looking for the roots of the agricultural revolution but even for him, that was long in the past).
Two thousand years ago, we have Jesus as a world changer with the start of a religious revolution, whatever that means.
Around fourteen hundred years ago, we have Mohammed as another world change with the start of a different religious revolution, whatever that means.
Some thousand years ago, Leif Erickson becomes the first European to "discover" North America, whatever that means because it probably never was lost but it became forgotten because then some five hundred years ago, Columbus "discovers" North America all over again.
Some two hundred thirty years ago, the United States is born, whatever that means.
Some one hundred fifty years ago, the Civil War almost kills the United States, whatever that means.
Some ninety and some seventy years ago, the World Wars threaten to bring an end to life as we know it, whatever that means.
Some (almost) fifty-seven years ago, I was born and in less than fifty years, I will be dead, whatever that means.
So, although my life seems short to me in terms of how quickly it is going by, it is oh so much shorter when taking into account the history of the world, whatever that means.
So, do you know what this means? If you do, let me know, because I don't?
I do know this, however. I can travel into the past by listening to music with each song taking me back to the time that I listened to it - I become young again.
I do know this, too. I can be brought to reality by looking in a mirror for it is then I see the the lines of life etching their way into my face, etching that certainly is taking place internally for I now feel parts of my body that before were silent partners, but no more.
So, although there is little to do about the body parts that are crying out, I think that I will cover the mirrors and turn on the oldies, and just live this short lifetime with a song of my youth on my lips and a smile on my face, for life, no matter how long, is short, it is very short.
And if they can lose the bow and arrow and North America, think how quickly memory of one's life can be lost, whatever that means.
Around ten thousand years ago, the agricultural revolution "started", whatever that means. Agricultural certainly was not invented at that time, but it was around then that people developed the ability to work with some parts of nature (hence, controlled irrigation) and in doing so, they were able to grow more food than was needed for their immediate needs and they no longer had to rely on the ability to kill wild animals (some days that worked and the people were satiated, other days it didn't work and the people remained hungry. and some days, it didn't wok and the wild animals ate well).
As a result of man's "advance", whatever that means, it became necessary to store the harvest and to protect the stored harvest. And so, armed forces were used (undoubtedly using the bows and arrows that had been developed just twenty or fifty thousand years ago, depending on one's point of view).
Some four thousand years ago, Abraham comes onto the world stage, whatever that means, but it was a stage that already was well established and then around five hundred years later, there was "Moses", whatever that means (another revolution).
Around two thousand five hundred years ago, Darius the Great, whatever that means, ruled much of his world, and enjoyed archaeology as a pastime (maybe he was looking for the roots of the agricultural revolution but even for him, that was long in the past).
Two thousand years ago, we have Jesus as a world changer with the start of a religious revolution, whatever that means.
Around fourteen hundred years ago, we have Mohammed as another world change with the start of a different religious revolution, whatever that means.
Some thousand years ago, Leif Erickson becomes the first European to "discover" North America, whatever that means because it probably never was lost but it became forgotten because then some five hundred years ago, Columbus "discovers" North America all over again.
Some two hundred thirty years ago, the United States is born, whatever that means.
Some one hundred fifty years ago, the Civil War almost kills the United States, whatever that means.
Some ninety and some seventy years ago, the World Wars threaten to bring an end to life as we know it, whatever that means.
Some (almost) fifty-seven years ago, I was born and in less than fifty years, I will be dead, whatever that means.
So, although my life seems short to me in terms of how quickly it is going by, it is oh so much shorter when taking into account the history of the world, whatever that means.
So, do you know what this means? If you do, let me know, because I don't?
I do know this, however. I can travel into the past by listening to music with each song taking me back to the time that I listened to it - I become young again.
I do know this, too. I can be brought to reality by looking in a mirror for it is then I see the the lines of life etching their way into my face, etching that certainly is taking place internally for I now feel parts of my body that before were silent partners, but no more.
So, although there is little to do about the body parts that are crying out, I think that I will cover the mirrors and turn on the oldies, and just live this short lifetime with a song of my youth on my lips and a smile on my face, for life, no matter how long, is short, it is very short.
And if they can lose the bow and arrow and North America, think how quickly memory of one's life can be lost, whatever that means.
Saturday, January 31, 2009
Kindergarten Thoughts
When it was time for the first day of kindergarten
I was home in bed with pneumonia
So I started two weeks later than everyone else
I wish I had caught up with life, but don’t think I have
When I finally arrived I was asked to draw a picture
Red and blue lines scribbled on the page in a meaningless way
But I was asked to explain so I said it was a roadmap
I wish I had the ability to draw a roadmap for life
Each of us had to bring from home a nap mat
Mine was a multi-colored plaid like a Scottish cloth
Those were the days when a mid-morning nap was required
I wish I had the time now to take mid-morning naps
On the playground my favorite game was freeze tag
As the “It” moved to touch me I bent my head slightly
I was so short that the “it” missed and I freed everyone
I wish I had the ability to avoid being frozen and to save everyone
One day I was dressed in my white clam-diggers
Three quarter length pants with a red stripe on each leg
I was so proud of the outfit until I looked back at the pictures
I wish I had a better sense of style then and now
When I spoke my name (then) Ronnie, it was heard by others as Lonnie
So saying my name and certain words became frustrating
But a speech teacher taught me to pronounce and endure
I wish I had a life teacher as I continue to mature
Kindergarten was a time for beginnings
A time for dreaming without limits
A time when all one’s dreams had time to come true
I wish I had more time for dreaming and more time for the dreams to come true.
I was home in bed with pneumonia
So I started two weeks later than everyone else
I wish I had caught up with life, but don’t think I have
When I finally arrived I was asked to draw a picture
Red and blue lines scribbled on the page in a meaningless way
But I was asked to explain so I said it was a roadmap
I wish I had the ability to draw a roadmap for life
Each of us had to bring from home a nap mat
Mine was a multi-colored plaid like a Scottish cloth
Those were the days when a mid-morning nap was required
I wish I had the time now to take mid-morning naps
On the playground my favorite game was freeze tag
As the “It” moved to touch me I bent my head slightly
I was so short that the “it” missed and I freed everyone
I wish I had the ability to avoid being frozen and to save everyone
One day I was dressed in my white clam-diggers
Three quarter length pants with a red stripe on each leg
I was so proud of the outfit until I looked back at the pictures
I wish I had a better sense of style then and now
When I spoke my name (then) Ronnie, it was heard by others as Lonnie
So saying my name and certain words became frustrating
But a speech teacher taught me to pronounce and endure
I wish I had a life teacher as I continue to mature
Kindergarten was a time for beginnings
A time for dreaming without limits
A time when all one’s dreams had time to come true
I wish I had more time for dreaming and more time for the dreams to come true.
Rambling Random Thoughts
Perhaps we are being moved along on the field of life
Like plastic football player pieces on a vibrating board
Like a fallen leaf floating down the meandering stream
Like a plastic wrapper blown aimlessly by the wind
If we live our lives only looking forward
Without looking at where we have been
We will be like the foolish women
Who would only fly toward the west
Appearance versus reality
Important to consider as are
Beautiful lies and ugly truths
Sad births and joyful deaths
Unjust rewards and undeserved losses
Pure black being the absence of anything
White being the combination of all
Like plastic football player pieces on a vibrating board
Like a fallen leaf floating down the meandering stream
Like a plastic wrapper blown aimlessly by the wind
If we live our lives only looking forward
Without looking at where we have been
We will be like the foolish women
Who would only fly toward the west
Appearance versus reality
Important to consider as are
Beautiful lies and ugly truths
Sad births and joyful deaths
Unjust rewards and undeserved losses
Pure black being the absence of anything
White being the combination of all
War and Games
The room was filled with nervous yet enthusiastic sixteen-year-old faces
Starring intently at the computer projections on the wall-sized screen
Showing the path toward their college adventures
Toward their glorious glorified educational futures
Soon they will be home ensconced in their electronic laden rooms
Playing Nintendo war games where the buildings are demolished
Where the bodies are torn apart and the blood is splashed endlessly
Until the game is reset and all is as it was
Elsewhere a room is filled with nervous unenthusiastic slightly older faces
Starring intently at the computer projections on a wall-sized screen
Showing the computer-line paths of the missiles guided
Toward their unaware targets with soon to be terminated futures.
After their shifts they will be home in the company of wives and children
Leaving behind their real war modified-Nintendo controls
The game-like pictures where buildings are demolished
Where bodies are torn apart and blood is splashed endlessly
But there is no reset and all will never be as it was.
This entry was based on a presentation at my son's school and an NPR story about fighting wars with computer technology.
Starring intently at the computer projections on the wall-sized screen
Showing the path toward their college adventures
Toward their glorious glorified educational futures
Soon they will be home ensconced in their electronic laden rooms
Playing Nintendo war games where the buildings are demolished
Where the bodies are torn apart and the blood is splashed endlessly
Until the game is reset and all is as it was
Elsewhere a room is filled with nervous unenthusiastic slightly older faces
Starring intently at the computer projections on a wall-sized screen
Showing the computer-line paths of the missiles guided
Toward their unaware targets with soon to be terminated futures.
After their shifts they will be home in the company of wives and children
Leaving behind their real war modified-Nintendo controls
The game-like pictures where buildings are demolished
Where bodies are torn apart and blood is splashed endlessly
But there is no reset and all will never be as it was.
This entry was based on a presentation at my son's school and an NPR story about fighting wars with computer technology.
Sunday, January 11, 2009
A Final Resting Place
As we drove into the cemetery, my thoughts were not of the scene that I was about to witness, the one that in my early death related experiences had been both frightening and sad, the one that was so hard when I had visualized it many times in my mind as I tried to "test" rational thoughts about death against emotion. My focus was on the workers who guarded the hillside dotted with ground level memorial plaques like facial chicken pox scars and one open wound being the grave that had been dug. Standing motionless at the foot of the hill was the sandy-hair, tall, lanky boy/man in his over-sized gym shorts, dirty tee-shirt and sockless sneakers. Nearer to the dirt mounds that marked the location of the six foot waiting hole were two farm boy grave diggers who looked like twins in their faded blue overalls, beards of the type one sees on hillbillies and orthodox men, sweat stained plaid shirts, and bulging bellies, differentiated only by a single undone shoulder strap on one. I knew that these men could not be permitted to complete the burial task. The honor of doing so would rest with the family and not theses strange strangers.
The procession moved at cemetery speed around the paved loop. After parking and taking a deep emotion calming breath, I walked behind the coffin between the grandchildren who served as loving and respectful guardian escorts to the final physical resting place. Though they stood with solemn faces, Mary would have been as pleased and smiled. As the adult family members, Annie, Marsha, Mark, Robin and I took placed in front of the open grave above which the plain wood coffin was suspended on two taut nylon strips, my loving wife, Debbie, recognizing that there were not enough chairs, stood behind me with her hands resting lightly on my shoulders, conveying both comfort and her own pain.
The power of the coffin with its known contents drew my full visual attention and the meaningless sounds of the mournful Hebrew prayers filled my ears. Then the world became silent and motionless except for the steps of the as he approached the burial mechanism, leaned down and turned the pitted silver lever. As I placed my arms around Mark and Marsha, and the green straps on which the coffin rested began to unwind slowly, but without hesitation, lowering the coffin into the ground. The act was not as hard as I thought it would be for perhaps I was too well prepared.
Once the coffin had reached the bottom and bonded with the ground, and the strange strangers had removed the straps, each of the burial witnesses took a turn at placing dirt into the grave and onto the coffin with the shovel turned upside down to symbolize the reluctance and sadness of the participant. The first clumps of dirt sent forth a thud as they hit the partially hallow wood enclosure. The sounds vanished as the wood disappeared.
Usurping the role of the strange strangers, the sons, grandsons and nephews filled the remainder of the grave, shoveling with strength and energy (the reluctance and sadness remaining inside) until it was level with the unnatural landscape and their shoes were coated with a mud that would dry and remain long after the day was but a memory. While others were finishing the loving task, I knelt and paid respect at my father's grave immediately beside the woman who he had loved, reading the carved words carefully, but not speaking to Dad as I had done on my last visit. Then, as a final act, Marsha, Mark, Annie and I stood before the freshly disbursed earth, turned like a Nebraska field ready to be planted with a new crop, and fulfilled one of Mom's "funeral" wishes. Mark spoke a few words about Mom's love of Israel and her desire that the final earth placed on her grave be the soil of Israel she had purchased for this very purpose so many years ago. Mark opened the bag, sprinkled some of its contents, and then Marsha, I and Annie did the same. Finally, Mark spoke of how this product of Omaha, Nebraska had returned to the home she loved and had longed for the past few years that she lived in a nursing home in St. Paul. And with the mention of home, my mind wandered to earlier times.
To Be Continued
The procession moved at cemetery speed around the paved loop. After parking and taking a deep emotion calming breath, I walked behind the coffin between the grandchildren who served as loving and respectful guardian escorts to the final physical resting place. Though they stood with solemn faces, Mary would have been as pleased and smiled. As the adult family members, Annie, Marsha, Mark, Robin and I took placed in front of the open grave above which the plain wood coffin was suspended on two taut nylon strips, my loving wife, Debbie, recognizing that there were not enough chairs, stood behind me with her hands resting lightly on my shoulders, conveying both comfort and her own pain.
The power of the coffin with its known contents drew my full visual attention and the meaningless sounds of the mournful Hebrew prayers filled my ears. Then the world became silent and motionless except for the steps of the as he approached the burial mechanism, leaned down and turned the pitted silver lever. As I placed my arms around Mark and Marsha, and the green straps on which the coffin rested began to unwind slowly, but without hesitation, lowering the coffin into the ground. The act was not as hard as I thought it would be for perhaps I was too well prepared.
Once the coffin had reached the bottom and bonded with the ground, and the strange strangers had removed the straps, each of the burial witnesses took a turn at placing dirt into the grave and onto the coffin with the shovel turned upside down to symbolize the reluctance and sadness of the participant. The first clumps of dirt sent forth a thud as they hit the partially hallow wood enclosure. The sounds vanished as the wood disappeared.
Usurping the role of the strange strangers, the sons, grandsons and nephews filled the remainder of the grave, shoveling with strength and energy (the reluctance and sadness remaining inside) until it was level with the unnatural landscape and their shoes were coated with a mud that would dry and remain long after the day was but a memory. While others were finishing the loving task, I knelt and paid respect at my father's grave immediately beside the woman who he had loved, reading the carved words carefully, but not speaking to Dad as I had done on my last visit. Then, as a final act, Marsha, Mark, Annie and I stood before the freshly disbursed earth, turned like a Nebraska field ready to be planted with a new crop, and fulfilled one of Mom's "funeral" wishes. Mark spoke a few words about Mom's love of Israel and her desire that the final earth placed on her grave be the soil of Israel she had purchased for this very purpose so many years ago. Mark opened the bag, sprinkled some of its contents, and then Marsha, I and Annie did the same. Finally, Mark spoke of how this product of Omaha, Nebraska had returned to the home she loved and had longed for the past few years that she lived in a nursing home in St. Paul. And with the mention of home, my mind wandered to earlier times.
To Be Continued
Saturday, January 10, 2009
All Is Good
The plane lands softly on the concrete runway and the landscape speeds by in a blur while off in the distance the buildings seem to hold their position although the angle changes little by little. Eventually the doorway opens and one by one the passengers step from the fuselage to the walkway to the terminal and toward their destinations. Soon she moves from the warmth into the cold air and into loving arms. It is good to be back home.
As she loads her bags into the car, the motion of her precious one causes the carrier to tumble to the ground, but the almost pure white puppy takes the fall in stride and dishes out kisses without end.
Soon she arrives at the house that had been left only a few months before. The population explodes to six plus seven. Mother, father, brother, brother, grandfather and she make up the six. Large dog, medium dog, small dog, and two tiny dogs, as well as two cats make up the seven. The house is full and the warmth flows . . . all is good as they light the first candles of Hanukkah celebrating her arrival . . . once again . . . the twenty-fifth celebration.
How quickly the time passes . . .
So much to do
So much done
So much left undone
So much to say
So much said
So much left to say
So many to see
So many seen
So many unseen
So much love to give
So much love given
So much love received
So much love
The interactions span the range of possibilities . . . all of the combinations of people and animals . . . the good, the bad, the ugly and the elegant. A lifetime compressed into a three week period – real time – but in reality just three weeks, not a lifetime.
Soon, in just hours, she will leave the house behind once more, but she knows that it is but a temporary departure, not a final farewell or even a long-term good-bye, simply a see you soon . . . until next time.
She knows that . . .
there will be tears
some will flow within
some will flow for all to see
for the feelings run deep.
She knows that . . .
the comings and the goings are a way of life
the modern marvels of communication reduce the distance
nothing compares to or can replace a hand held or a kiss
or the feeling of shared tears,
or the warmth of a hug or cuddle
but they all linger long and are not forgotten
She knows that . . .
for a while all will be shared in time limited periods
love and communication, the building blocks and cement of relationships, overcome distance
she is loved and she loves.
She knows that . . .
she carries her life with her
she has the life of her original home
she has the life of her new home
she has her old friends
she has her new friends
she has her loving family always
she has room for everyone and everything without one diminishing the other.
So as she packs and departs with a mixture of emotions, she know that . . .
she is loved
she loves
she is loved
and that there will be so many more times together as life moves forward in its unending progression.
All is good. All is good.
As she loads her bags into the car, the motion of her precious one causes the carrier to tumble to the ground, but the almost pure white puppy takes the fall in stride and dishes out kisses without end.
Soon she arrives at the house that had been left only a few months before. The population explodes to six plus seven. Mother, father, brother, brother, grandfather and she make up the six. Large dog, medium dog, small dog, and two tiny dogs, as well as two cats make up the seven. The house is full and the warmth flows . . . all is good as they light the first candles of Hanukkah celebrating her arrival . . . once again . . . the twenty-fifth celebration.
How quickly the time passes . . .
So much to do
So much done
So much left undone
So much to say
So much said
So much left to say
So many to see
So many seen
So many unseen
So much love to give
So much love given
So much love received
So much love
The interactions span the range of possibilities . . . all of the combinations of people and animals . . . the good, the bad, the ugly and the elegant. A lifetime compressed into a three week period – real time – but in reality just three weeks, not a lifetime.
Soon, in just hours, she will leave the house behind once more, but she knows that it is but a temporary departure, not a final farewell or even a long-term good-bye, simply a see you soon . . . until next time.
She knows that . . .
there will be tears
some will flow within
some will flow for all to see
for the feelings run deep.
She knows that . . .
the comings and the goings are a way of life
the modern marvels of communication reduce the distance
nothing compares to or can replace a hand held or a kiss
or the feeling of shared tears,
or the warmth of a hug or cuddle
but they all linger long and are not forgotten
She knows that . . .
for a while all will be shared in time limited periods
love and communication, the building blocks and cement of relationships, overcome distance
she is loved and she loves.
She knows that . . .
she carries her life with her
she has the life of her original home
she has the life of her new home
she has her old friends
she has her new friends
she has her loving family always
she has room for everyone and everything without one diminishing the other.
So as she packs and departs with a mixture of emotions, she know that . . .
she is loved
she loves
she is loved
and that there will be so many more times together as life moves forward in its unending progression.
All is good. All is good.
Sunday, December 28, 2008
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 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.
Saturday, December 27, 2008
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!
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.
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.
Friday, December 26, 2008
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.
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.
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.
Friday, December 19, 2008
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
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.
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.
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.
Wednesday, December 17, 2008
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.
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.
Tuesday, December 16, 2008
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.
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.
Sunday, December 14, 2008
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
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
Saturday, December 13, 2008
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".
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".
Friday, December 12, 2008
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.
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.
Saturday, December 6, 2008
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.
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.
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.
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.
Tuesday, December 2, 2008
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
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
Sunday, November 30, 2008
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.
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.
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