Alive

Just caught the last 25 minutes of Shaw shank Redemption and realized in life love exists for one reason, to share. To push love forth, even when you know a mistake will be made, or it hurts, and you want to hold onto a false security, compliment an enemy, give a stranger your best gift, you never know when your time is up, love to comprehend all people.

Life might not be fair but it is always reveals truths and those truths set us free. Those that have corrupted, harmed, emotionally killed, and barred us will be dealt with, not by us, but by their own demise. Wisdom outweighs assets, nepotism, and the corporate ladder, that shatters those that climb for self servitude.

Belief wakes us up each morning, allows us to see past secular ideals, into an inner sanctum secure within our hearts. Hope sanctions our dreams, pressing them into reality, gnawing our souls into action. One step at a time.

Living

Just when you think you've licked another wound another death of a loved ones befalls opening a chasm so deep ones soul is swimming aimlessly?

Our last words to one another after eating lunch on last week were, "'We'll sit down after school and go through poetry, ideas for next term, and new film ideas."

How can one suffer so insurmountably breathing each pulse into her classroom instead of focusing on her...heart?

“Janice, now that your daughter is on the mend and she's moved out, this is your time to rejuvenate to begin to flourish again. You’ve spent so long taking care of her you've forgotten what your needs are, your desires and wants. In time I hope that you might meet someone special."

Janice laughs gently, shaking her head, "Oh Kathryn."

"I'm having enough troubles letting go of Caitlin. We see one another almost every day, but I worry so much about her safety, her health, her body."

One day in time you will release her to the world, just as she was brought into yours, and today that happened. You were taken from her and your boys without regard. Know that she will be loved, and they will be cared for, and your dream will live on in us.

As thoughts race to catch one another, to make sense, to grasp the truth, the reality that she won't be seated at her desk, as she's always been when I, when we, waltz in will take time to change course.  

 

"Overwhelmed is what I feel, Kathryn."
I can't stop hearing her tell me that again and again. Each lunch meeting, each day after school, and for what? Signs that all of us heard, words of encouragement to take time off, yet her determination to be with her students, her love of teaching and to remain interwoven kept her with us, perhaps too long. Perhaps to teach us all a lesson... be where you need to be. 

To know in her school community she is loved, so sincerely, so deeply, past her tenderness, and into the creative ideas, ingenuity, and joie de vive she unveiled. The influence that she had on each one of us pays tribute that so many people claim to have known her. She leaves us with a warm smile, her gentle touch, and a love so profound for her family and humanity.

Her physical frame didn’t exude the unrelenting depth of her being.

Janice taught us how to live.

Yearning for connection when physically it doesn’t exist now, possibly this is our call to reach out to one another, for the curriculum will always be there, but we won’t.

May she rest in Peace.

We love you Janice.

Death

It has come to three of our friends that God has taken their husband to be with him far earlier than anyone would have expected. We are left to question his intent, to deal with: hurt, surrender, to empathize with the wives and children, and truly never comprehend their pain. From a distance we offer what they are willing to share of their vulnerability.

Hope is all we have to cling to when the funerals, families, and friends have gone home. Hope that their lives were for the glory of God. To treasure the spring leaves renewing growth in nature, to renew growth in us. To see triumphs and trials with novel understanding of the journey we are on is not for this lifetime, yet for so many to come. We are part of a glorious continuum that has no commencement and no culmination. A depth so imparting of who God has created in each of us to share with one another. The labyrinth of color, creed, gender, and all religions living harmoniously for his good is our aspiration.

When our minds will not seize to spin look into a rose peddle to feel his mercy for you, again and again. Our tongues are to utter thoughtful loving words that ruminate contemplation. Our ears to hear intentions from him and act upon them eagerly knowing it is he that we are serving. Be delighted with those that anger us for it is a lesson in patience for us to teach one another. Heed his instructions for they hold fortitude and resolve. Lean on him with all your power for he will rejuvenate all those that come to him on bended knees.

Leave this earth with nothing, knowing you have served well and have emptied the reservoir he has given you.

 

Drunk on a Dream

Our movements slowed considerably with the onslaught of rain. Large globules spattered the window shield as we bid good bye to Cape Lookout, wet hair dripping as I began to drive further north into the unknown. Great expectations were on route to have a day of concrete walking through quaint towns, boutiques and bakeries.

The deluge never subsided for 24 hours, and how we thanked the Lord for giving us the fortitude to rent a Yurt for this eve. From Garibaldi steam engine, to the boardwalks of Rockaway, Cannon Beach, to the outlet shops in Seaside, and onto Fort Steele there wasn’t a dry eye to be had.

Our Microbrewery Guide to the Coast would be our only companion today. A lonely barrel in the middle of the empty parking lot was the only sign of the Seaside Brewery. A cold bare saloon at 12:37 with a chalk board of its specialities was all Hal had to go on. The brewery was situated in a 1924 court house with jail cell still intact, that where the vats were kept, if you got out of hand, you were rooming with the hops, not bad for a robbery.  

Hal started with a mixture of hops, whisky, and spices resembling and tasting to me of black sludge. I tried some oyster shooters with lemon, with a proclivity to add sauces, I went raw.

Next stop was Astoria at the top of the Oregon Coast, there were five brewery of which we ventured into 3. Astoria brewery was situated over the ocean and the honking we’d heard down the coast from the sea lions persisted on the wharf and rungs of the pillars below, but out of sight. Hal enjoyed a delightful lighter Stout and I a horrid bitter concoction they called Angel. She must fallen from grace into hell to taste that bad. There drinks were procured with grand names: Bitter Bitch, Lynched Lager, Hitting Harder Stout, Solar Dog IPA and our favorite Mean Monster Mash.

We stopped at a road side picnic area to eat our lunch hunched over in the car avoiding the rain listening to Amy Whinehouse, always uplifting songs on a sour day.

Onto our favorite, George Public House and Brewery. You could see the vats through glass windows and the guys tasting the mixture every ten minutes, grand career. High beamed ceiling, warm character and heat was all it took when a middle aged women with a yellow and grey t-shirt dress with square glasses long grey pigtails greeted us with the warmest smile engaging in fruitful dialogue about each beer.

“Now this one is squash stout made with real squash in it. Deep essence of spices with a balanced texture and flavor.” I thought wine bottles were getting out of control with hints of apricot, apples and cinnamon, beer must have caught onto what sells. I had my first beer that I actually didn’t squint at Wix Mix, a light savory blend of beer…….the chips and salsa were superb, we might have stayed for dinner but it was only 4:30 and I was catching on to the structural atmosphere, stories behind the brewery locations, many of them outdoing the café I’d once enjoyed. Remember it is Monday afternoon and this place is hoping….pun intended.

Our last brewery was right on the waterfront with a large glass viewing platform to watch massive 1-2 ton sea lions using the stilts and platforms that this place is held up on for resting spots. I’d never seen a beast that big it was grotesque, and I thought they should have forced them into the open water for some exercise. Buoys Brewery overlooked the harbor with 3 mammoth cargo ships in port, one loading up and the other 2 waiting for their wares. Grey stormy skies left cold beer less than flavorful in my palates, yet I’d found another one. I had a mere ounce of it as this was Hal’s journey enjoying a London Bitter. He reminisced about opening a brewery in our backyard and then thought if only he had done it in his twenties. Okay perhaps instead of becoming a deacon we’d open a brewery when we retired.

Cannon Beach

Cheri’s café was so out of place with devil leprechauns and the owner that charged us double for our coffees because we didn’t buy anything else put more than bitter grounds on our palate. Cannon beach was a quaint town of uniformity, military conformity wasn’t far off, they had set a high standard and it was evident that no drifters were looking for lodging here.

Dashing into town yesterday morning was rather comical, looking for the Catholic Church we found 4, count em 4 churches on four adjoining corners but no papal speeches. It got a little much when the pastor of this First Christian Church spoke about how he hated ‘ego’ and proceeded to make reference to himself throughout the entire sermon. Hal had had enough when the Pastor said he took the bible literally when speaking about what the disciples had done. He whispered to me, “I don’t the disciples sat at the top of the mountain.”

Out into the outdoor we went venturing to the 2 Cheese markets and my second best cup of coffee at the Pelican Blue Heron Cheese Factory. Then we met flesh on flesh, at the Tillamook cheese factory where Hal and I were the only ones interested in the operations while corpulent American’s were devouring ice cream like the Tsunami’s they’d spoken about where going to happen and their next meal was going to be delayed by mere minutes.

Oceanside gave us ample time to admire massive rocks jetting and sand patterns. Sand was beginning to mount in our clothing, shoes, food, orifices in our bodies and the car. The sweet essence of the ocean mist was become pungent and we couldn’t find the precise source. Our calves were becoming strong from hours of walking on crushed rocks, sedimentary ones.

A quick tally of where my wallet was brought us back to Pelican Brewery where Hal truly wanted another pint. My wallet hadn’t moved nor had our bar spots or the Master’s Golf Open where Jordan Spieth won and we met a local that gave us insights for state parks to walk tomorrow.

Feeling a little woozy from the beer as I still considered myself a neophyte we ventured down the Cape Lookout pathway tactfully trying to avoid puddles of mud knee deep. Hal’s white runners were a muck but the 2.5 hour walk was met with reward at the end. Looking 37 miles out to sea we saw waves lots of them, but the evening walk on our private beach after tasting oysters proved magnificent as the waves in the evening light marvelled our minds. Translucent softened muscles shells swept down the beach for miles making layered patterns perfect for photography. All was well until late in the night when the dinner garlic decided to revolt on our bodies in the tent.

 

Mandrills

Hand in hand, for all those that think the big bang theory is the force, think about how humans walk hand in hand, ever seen our ancestors do that, they don’t but we do. The sky is the limit but only God could have thought of the comforts that cupped hands would bring in times of cold, intimacy, comfort and love, he reigns.

Walking down the Cape Lookout beach with Hal allows me to comprehend the myriad of reasons I have come to love this man. The warm of his hand in my constantly frigid ones allows more than heat to resonate between us. Discussing laureates, literature, careers, and why humans tend to hurt themselves when they are down and out, as he is reading yet another Irish novel filled with sorrow.

The wind hasn’t stopped howling on the Oregon coast it keeps the feet moving, jackets done up to the neck and toques on tight. An evening walk displayed hues of dark purple muscle shells gone jelly. We heard today that the starfish are all but gone due to a bacteria in the area. The photos of their being here are only visions for those of us that haven’t experienced them.

Last night at the Driftwood Inn in Yachats we listened to some blue grass music while being serenaded by many Canadian tunes. The musicians found out that Canadians were in the pub and played many of Hal’s favorites. Rich maple wood surrounded the bar that we were seated at with staff so overly friendly we thought they knew us. Bread pudding with rum, real rum glaze drizzled over it with whipping cream was given to us as a taster. It lathered our tongues, palates and spirits for the entire night for a storm was a brewing when we returned.

The tent breathed all night in and out pushing the gale winds hard into our heads then releasing us into the night sky just to repeat itself seconds later. It took some mind games to name all the vegetables I knew in alphabetical order to outdo the storm that was mere meters from our tent. The tide was in about midnight, our arrival back to camp, and the cacophony took some time to finally slip into a deep R.E.M. cycle and dream of new careers.

Yachats has proven to be an artist’s haven, what might have been a potters affair turned into the most magnificent artistry of oil, acrylics, unique jewelry, photography on steel, glass work, and wood sculptures. Just when you thought you’d seen it all, those creative mixture come up with new combinations.

Hal loved the brewery with a new found favorite, Tsunami Stout. With all the warning along the coast was it any wonder that drink, food, furniture and businesses were named after it.

Long walk on the beach and up through a botanical garden allowed us plenty of time to ponder gratitude which was the sermon this morning. We’d been listening to them daily with God pushing us to truly trust him without any doubts, yet humans have a need for assurance.

Hovered in our car writing our notes Hal jotting down poetry with classical music in the background, is there anywhere or anyone I’d rather be with, well you know the answer.

 

Southern Coast - Lush hints only of the sights missing the growth

Down to Eugene for the day in rain, we dodged puddles sprinting from one shop to another in cover. We ventured up to the University, my sister’s old stomping ground, and then onto some needed expensive shopping for a week of camping.

There are few words to describe when vegetation grows on every inch of building, ground, and earth. Our car headed coastal bound and immediately what should have been farm land was transformed into plush carpets of grass, wheat, and hay encased in mature trees with moss hanging on every limb. No bark was discernable as we stopped several times to photograph this phenomenon. Dr. Seuss must have visited here prior to writing about his Trufula trees.

Within an hour our feet were in sand dunes. Pine needles gave way to sand as our feet contoured this way and that to move up and down the dunes for hours to reach the ocean. Through pools of water that sat 2 ft. deep our feet were inevitably going to be wet, so we plunged in and were rewarded with a 12 mile beach to ourselves. The sun had come out long enough to doff the umbrellas and the wet sand made it easier to move beside the torrent of crashing waves.

That night nestled in our tent we read books, listened to prayer and thanked God for this magnificent island we are on.

Morning came with Chinese children singing “All about the Bass” quarter a mile away yet their lilting voices carried through the empty campground. Fried eggs and cheese for breakfast and then off to the Hecate Lighthouse, situated far up on a cliff. We climbed behind it for an hour prior to descending to see the cut glass dome that shone out as a safety beacon for sailors. The rain gods had descended but there was far too much beach to see, so off to Hobbit Park up the road about 1 mile and down to the beach on a route lined by thick green leaves the size of your palm covered every living breathing thing.

Children were making castles in the sand as the rain hailed down only to stop about a mile down the beach for us. Sun takes on a different meaning here, since the warmth it brings is so intense it truly has a magical effect whenever it reaches the recesses of your body, warming it up, flushing out our pruned hands and toes.

Heading back home we noted a pull out and could hear a distinct air horn sound. Looking over the stone hedge tens upon tens of black seals hovered on the shore their close knit family never venturing without kin to the ocean waters. Green canopies of trees varying color with vibrant yellow flowers framed the perfect photos of the distant light house and bay.

Florence is a small town and meandering the old district allows history to rekindle harder times for men working the forest and ocean. A quick stop in the library to write to you and off to our tent to begin cooking a Mexican fiesta for dinner. Olah!

Florence is a small town and meandering the old district allows history to rekindle harder times for men working the forest and ocean. A quick stop in the library to write to you and off to our tent to begin cooking a Mexican fiesta for dinner. Olah!

Portland - liquid brown runs like the Niagara

Hal’s dream was to marry me first and then take me along to savour the myriad of brown stouts in Oregon. Just like Ireland I’ve become the designated driver and Hal, well he never drinks more than a pint or two yet those rosy cheeks can glow surrounded by beer vats, talks of hops, and his favorite chips in his midst.  

We arrived in Portland in the afternoon walked the floral streets of downtown up to the University admiring the vibrant blossoms of the: Japanese ornamental, cherry, laurel, thunderclouds and Mt. Fugi trees. Then onto to the Pearl district to view modern architecture and Hal’s first of many microbrewery – The Rogue. The sun shone through the hovering clouds as we shared several “flights” of varying colors, textures and tastes of beer. I have been corrupted never would my lips have tried beer now I am indulging and more often than not finding something that will quench my thirst.

That evening we found our home and nestled in with our hosts for the night rich in conversation about the arts, politics, and how Portland went from a logging mill to a beer and granola haven.

Up Mt. Tabor for our morning joint before savoring my first coffee in the Alberta District. Rich cream hit my tongue with a hint of bitter dark African coffee and I heaven bound. Cool brisk winds kept our feet hoping as the morning walk turned into a late lunch near the Mississippi District and Hal’s next brewery – Ex Novo. The seats were nestled right beside the massive vats of beer illuminating Hal’s linguistics chance to woe me further into his indulgences.

Walking into Laurel wood Park, similar to Mount Royal, large mature trees were the playground for children and their parents setting up picnics strolling past glorious homes teaming with flower pots of gold, orange, and lilac tulips. Matching the mauve bushes and teal blue heather growing on the ground. The lush green lawns looked artificial as we crouched down inconspicuously to see if they were. That evening back at our home we met a guest from Australia studying art in Argentina with a 1 month layover in the U.S., we shared fine wine and dinner as she spoke of her adventures.

 

Reverie of a life that once was

Two of our friends recently died sending a spiralling message to love the moment, love the person, and love the purpose that we may never know. For in each of us married or single we are truly the only ones that know what our deepest thoughts are with God, ourselves and this universe. We may share yet no one has access to the recesses of our conscious.

It is at times like these we wonder what if? Why? Will he take me home prior to old age? What are his plan that seems so illusive to us mere mortals trying to grasp daily needs? Where is he going with our planet and how do I truly fit in, are my actions significant? How does he chose who to take home?

Hovering in death is the closest we come to our true beings. Exposed in our vulnerability fears that have never been revealed. Like a child those in death speak with honest cords wiping away societal facades blemished inside out not running just being. Perhaps it is the closest we come to being still, tranquil, silent in thought and omniscient.

Death is part of our lives yet it remains as an enemy pushed outside excluded shamed dreaded for someone else to handle until it faces us. Here is where naked truth distinguishes those that are willing to go without his love and those that run to grasp his cloak. None will be the wiser disclosing your soul freedom is won harboring aversions disconnects one. Run to drug our lives full of fame to fashion when what we yearn is inside.

Loss is necessary for rebirth so why is the aching so physical. Is it here we admit what our true desires are, to be loved……to be loved for who we truly are……broken and desperate for his mercy. All the worldly possessions fall ocean’s away from human adoration. “Nothing compares to the promise I have in you, nothing compares to your mighty love.” Draw unto him ask him for your truths.

If you have been blessed to have loved, truly given yourself to another, and been doubly blessed to have it returned. Nothing compares…. See the blessings gratitude for the next sunrise that coffee, friendly smile that comes when you have known love. Be still and feel the love that surrounds you, it is there.

An Ode to Quadrupeds

Entering the home it was apparent that something was awry, the rugs were bunched up exposing the underlay, how aghast, the stuffed animals filling was strewn near and far, tuffs of cat hair lingered, and wet paw prints loitered as evidence of a grand row gone wild. The K-9 and felines were sulking without jubilation at our entrance, a sure sign of guilt.

My mother’s British upbringing was instinctual. With broom in hand, cats at my leg, and a wide eyed dog whimpering for forgiveness. I dusted off the surfaces watching the lint, hair, and debris lift up into the late afternoon sunlight streaming across the room exposing all their affairs.

Hal arrived without my belated Valentines gift potentially placing me in a downward spiral yet his handsome smile, good humor and his new addiction, Mrs. Brown’s Boys, an Irish comedy saved the night. Laughter filled the room huddling around our iPad for far too long. How easily brilliant minds are amused diverting catastrophes of the developed world.

A late night walk exposed wafts of silvery clouds encircling the distant mountain as the full moon came up. Wilbur pulled us up and down the hamlet’s lanes nestled up against the mountain. Once our gate was astride on the thin ice we didn’t want to return, a calmness seeped inward.

Waking with swollen glands extenuated the horror that I might be allergic to fur. Ah…….. Wilber insisted in curling up at our feet not a delight to my spouse, by morning his whiskers bristled my face that I mistook for Hal’s stubbles. When I came through I couldn’t distinguish whose morning breathes was oh so sweet.

An abrupt knock came at the door and two lovely girls asked to walk Wilbur? Smiles caste a joy I’d forgotten about the uninhibited lives of children that immediately engulfed me. Skipping down the lane hand in hand with a great responsibility at hand, they informed me with affirmation that they were paid for their services.

We took a long walk along the valley’s cycling trails up into the Nordic Center. A lovely cup of tea was shared with Hal’s favorite pumpkin bread at Good Earth as we dawdled for some time discussing life, our children, and our blessings.

Sunday brought Catholic Church with the sermon as consistent as the tidal ebbs never veering from its course or timely ending. How sad substance has been replaced by speed. We diverted the cakes and coffee, a Lenten restraint and walked over to Beamer’s for directions up the mount to the Goat Creek Trail towards Banff.

Hand in hand with the man I love nothing could be more perfect. The sun at our backs with only God’s wonders in our vision, how truly blessed we are. The hours passed as the silence echoed naught into our ears.

A last supper together and an endearing walk with the K-9 as Hal departed back to the city. Leaving me to do up the dishes, the laundry, and yes, you guessed cleaning the litter boxes. Much to my dismay it wasn’t the pulling of the nails that I had expected. The smell wasn’t there, either that or I was so stuffed up I couldn’t tell, either way the job was done within minutes.

Without warning the howling sounds, a cacophony in its most literal sense, an unharmonious noise reverberated throughout the house. Door knobs rattled, frames shook violently while the animals whined in chorus frightened by Mother Nature’s remunerations.

Day 4-5 became the sequel to the Shining called the Shimmering.

My glands have now turned into goiters churning out phlegm like lava field. Food isn’t necessary as I haven’t been able to smell anything in 4 days. Swallowing has taken on a new appreciation as the pain in only alleviated with lozenges. Claritin I can now attest does little to alleviate my misery. Throbbing head, achy neck, plugged ears popping sleeping pills to witness nightmares of Jack Nicolson trapping me in his grip with cat in hand killing me slowly by exposure.

Oh….and the sight of the bed…..blankets strewn hither and thither….heaped between wet tissues to catch the inevitable drips during the night. Yellow catarrh has blood it in now from blowing so fervently along with raw hands and this was my dream vacation??

Alas tomorrow is my departure……the sounds of cat purring, hissing, biting, scratching and gnawing that I thought once to be endearing will be swept away with the hurricane winds. For three days and three nights the foundation has clattered relentlessly leaving the cats jittery, in a state of panic, claws extended ready to shred their next victim. I knew Exshaw to be breezy but this is off the Richter scale. I tried to walk Wilbur this morning and he hid behind a tree. With ears tucked back he mustered all his might a 15 lb. mutt can and pushed through a gale winds in all directions.

The quiet solitude has allowed me to write and to this I am very grateful. No phone calls, few texts, only emails in the morning leaving me time to enjoy and reminiscing the many pot lucks, pre-ski breakfasts, grand chats and warm nights beside the fireplace with gracious friends. This has all but made for the unforeseen feline allergies, so much so I might return. Isn’t that what pregnant women do vow to never have another during childbirth then linger in the arms of a man and without notice another is upon them. The mind the mind what a wonderful tool it plays tricks with those that aren’t watching.  

Mount St. Francis Lenten Retreat

With the love of the mountains, the quiet of the forest, and the wisdom of the Father’s and Sister’s I knew I was going to be engulfed into God’s milieu. The silent retreat was a gentle blend of equanimity and reflection. The Father’s and Sister’s brought us together 5 times during the week-end to impart their knowledge, years of listening, reading, teaching, and absolution.

The excitement of a new toy is no different for those who spring to clutch the Lord’s cloak. The last supper without silence, I can’t but look at my new acquaintances not truly wanting to speak for in a mere half an hour we will be silenced for 48 hours. Light whispers contemplate the food as much as our first Lenten workshop. My eyes leap from one shelf to another in the expansive library yearning to catch the eye of a book that will revolutionize my week-end. Spiritual Master’s by Father B. Hughes it is.

Father Kevin, a spry lean man gentle in touch, speech and gestures engages us in the

Possibility that we are a reflection of God’s beauty.
Isaiah 61 - The Spirit of the Lord God is upon me; because the Lord hath anointed me to preach good tidings unto the meek; he hath sent me to bind up the broken hearted, to proclaim liberty to the captives, and the opening of the prison to them that are bound.

My mind reels into the lost opportunities, the stories of what never happened, due to my rush, my embarrassment, my need to protect myself. And, yet he returns and shows me new places, spaces to dwell with those that need sustenance.

We are to be the voice for those that have none, and yet here we are silenced, for me the safest place to be, for in my youth too much excitation existed my vocals with rhetoric.

“Christ,” he says, didn’t walk with those like him, he choose to reside with the sinners, tax collectors, and women of the night. It is here he felt comfortable, why is it so hard for us to distance ourselves from those different from us. What is in our makeup that pushes our synapsis to fire viciously, repulsively for those that were made perfect in his image too?

Father’s last words are; “He is everything for everyone.” Why isn’t that enough at times for me?

Father Louis.

Perseverance – A willingness to include pain and suffering in our approaches to life – Psalm 27
When we say, I love you, what are we saying:
I accept you/ you are precious/ apart of my life that I love/ we are giving life/ God is begin us to come close/ pay attention to body in thinking about Christ.

We are saying to God that we are ready to do his Will.

He taught us a new approach to prayer;
I want to approach you through the gifts of the Holy Spirit dwelling within me. I place them in your hands. Help me to be attentive and receptive of your world. Accept the time I spend in your presence as an expression of my love for you, my desire to be with you.

Lent is a time lean on Christ, this was very new to me, not only to be available but be renewed. I hope to spend all the gifts God gave me during this time, leaving only a little footprint for others to follow.

Human Condition

Our bodies a massive series of interconnected tissues that record history of scares, injuries, accidents and time spent under a florescent light in sterile dwellings of sadness. Wheeling our stories in and out of blood lines capturing another time when life disappeared more fluidly. Modern trajectories heave souls to remain where they want not. Holes in our skin causes holes in our heart a cavity impenetrable.
What is life a sequence of events as  scalpel extract congealed plasma from his leg one year at a time. Each visit more is gone of his leg and being, he is leaving in flesh with his flesh looking at black globules splattered on the ground.
Ah!...that hurts.....oh!.....don't do that.....my leg, MY LEG!....
Ouch!.....as his hand reaching into the air for strength, for help, for a drug that will assist this hell.
My daughter bedside breathing, puffing air in and out of her lungs. I hear her does it register this stupidity she is urging me to copy. Others watch in horror hear my angst.
Puff.....inhale in slowly then hold 1, 2 fuck it, blow out. Again.
Puff .....inhale slowly and out.....Inhale in and out....Ah! why did this have to happen. I'm pissed off at my condition.
I can't figure out how to place my good foot, my left foot, ahead of my right when walking with the walker. I try....I hear their advice.....off in the distance it comes at a cost.....I am ashamed at where I am. My wife, anyone but me should be here. This is fate getting me, my sins....I laugh....I know it is my life getting me back....but I have to laugh.....there are others around judging me......I know my decisions haven't been sound. How to stop the speed of time.....there is so much to do....so much my wife wants to do .....and my body is failing me.
This bloody walker gets caught on every minute edge, crack, rug, a slight bump in concrete, in my agenda. My body heaves it up and over into another realm.....I am calm eyes closed I can feel the ocean.
In bed again, thank God.....the heat of the afternoon light streams in the bedroom window washing over my body the shame I feel having to be bathed like a babe, helpless, hapless. I am warm for once in this city.....did I really want to come so long ago.....I know we wanted to go back....it never happened. Now it is too late.
The bank has called again, the store, the meetings I am missing.....can I possibly catch up....did I ever think I would be here, others have been before me, why is this so foreign, perhaps this is my time.
Food is obsolete I eat as I am told, little flavor contrasts the metal staleness of prescriptions. Christ my pills I have to take all five of them now. Light purple is for my heart, 2 pink ones are for blood thinners, the orange for antibiotics, the yellow for pain, and the white for high blood pressure.....a new condition to my dyeing body.
Borrowed time this is my time! Christ says he has a purpose for me, at this late stage what could possibly arrive into a womb so gnarled. Ashes to ashes dust to dust, is it really here versions of it are arriving on my mind daily.
My family knew the man that I was, the man that God was transforming me to become, the man that somewhere along the route got lost. I am here now, this is me, wounded emotionally, physically, psychologically, and perhaps spiritually, but I will get it back. I need him. I need him to place a memory in my family's heart of who I am in his eyes.

The Sound of Loneliness

Every human has felt loneliness when friends aren’t around, friends have moved away and friends can’t come out to play. Evolution allows us to experience these ambiances to learn what comes next. Are we ones to falter, ruin an evening, a week-end, or muster joy in what we might have missed had our friends been around. It is these treasures that the spirit places in our midst. Most often family members that we might not wish to spend time with come alive allowing us to appreciate them for who they truly are, God’s blessing to us.

As age comes upon us pressures mount words are spoken or not, leaving hearts hollow cavities to fill. Some turn to the bottle some to limbs others to remedies cursing legalities engulfing their sorrows. Never finding the bottom of what truly ails them they run to catch the wind. Decades pass then one day a gesture resonates that piercing pain and if lucky would play they stop, linger, fight the embarrassment and shame and face the bastard straight on.

The sound of loneliness can only be felt at the bottom of one’s heart. Dropping a coin in a tin it reverberates the echoes of emptiness. Alone on the ocean with only sky above sea below screaming thoughts of what hasn’t been stares at you in ghosts. Stirring visions migrate into your soul across water evaporating long after consuming your fear.

How to go grasp what was once your true being. You reach out and hear

“You’ll figure it out?”  

You’re instantly back at the first blow that took you away to the depth of despair. Yearning like a babe simply to be held, to return to when you understood. Vacuity envelops you, drowning, unable to breath of what could have been. Ocean floors provide no consolation exits to rise in. Wide eye you float unconsciously unable to rescue your dream. What was it you were to do? To become?

This is your last chance to ride that train. It’s leaving the station with one destination your lungs need to expand or be crushed by twenty years of weight. Time forges ahead, it is the one constant. It knows not your aspirations nor does it care, it’s only purpose is to rhyme. Your job is to capture seconds into devotions, intentions and dedications.

To make a story of your life, rich in depth, shallow in distress and regrets.

Sometimes it is those that seem unlikely/ That do things that no one can imagine

Isn’t this what God asks of us every day? To be all that he has created each one of us to do? Somewhere in life our rush, our haste outdoes our imagination, our greatest gift to one another. Let’s make a plan to do something so wonderful for ourselves every day that we anticipate the morning to create for another entire day. Springing to life in all of us the joy that plants a seed so deep that the world can't undo.

Do you ever wonder what someone on the other end of the world is doing? And in 2006 when I was in Ghana I met 2 people that changed the world for the better, my life was forever changed. Anna was a 65 year old teacher that was devotedly religious. Church was at 6:00 prior to our teaching day and at 6:00 at night. Her words were few yet fierce. When discussing gender issues and men thought it alright to fondle their high school female students. Her force came alive. I was asked to mediate and quickly relinquished the floor to her. Quietly, serenely her words cut through color, gender and skin.

“God is our witness, our compass, and in times of temptation, CRY TO HIM, SCREAM TO HIM, yet never let your hands touch another woman.”

Silence was deafening.

 There are few people that followed God as closely as she did. I feel so blessed to have met her, listened to her wisdom, and pondered her silence. She died 6 months after we left Ghana. The world will truly miss her.

 An elderly man, that is a proverb, as there are so few with the onset of aids. Walking in the side street on our day off I met him days prior to leaving. I was chewing on a raw carrot I’d bought at a road side stand…..not fully paying attention….I noted that he cocked his head as I passed by. I stopped and drew near. Boys were playing soccer with a make shift ball made out of plastic bags wrapped around and around in the background. Hunched over with grey hair he said.

“The saddest day in a man’s life is when he thinks he can do it on his own.”
When I returned a superintendent at work asked me the most profound thing that has happened in Africa….. 70 years of discretion fell on deaf ears, how utterly tragic.

Their motto is “And this shall pass too.” Referring to principals that will leave schools for their tyranny is unsurpassed. Another is “It is my way or the highway.” Proverbial said by most principals and superintendents, too utterly scared to face their own demons, themselves, those that lean solely to use them as climbing limbs. This district sees differences as threating.
A week later I was asked in to this same man’s office.

I wanted to know if he was man enough to tell me the truth……when we met for my review for an advancement. God has graced me or cursed me with the gift of discernment. I already knew that he, would never hire me. I prayed while he found minuscule comments to speak about..... He asked why how excited I was? Without taking my eyes from his I said, “My work for God is not done.” He knew then that I knew that there was no job.
When our chief of staff left there was a reception and I congratulated the same man on his speech.

His exact words were, “Thanks…..and good luck with your future career.”
As if I needed his permission to move forth….. this wearing scales he remained blind.

I learned more about him in those few words than a life time of his good intensions.
He has stood before me speechless at numerous engagements. It is not I that has lost years of advancement it those that he has misused of God’s….and those can’t be supplanted.

Looking for Wonderful

I wrote a list of five main projects I wanted to complete while taking a year away from teaching. What I have learned is the order of what I had suspected would constitute my daily hours has changed. Grasshopper is learning to listen. …………………the rest of this blog should be blank yet the cocoons still needs to be unveiled butterfly has sprung new wings.

The internal search for peace took me to church, I mean literally to church. I wake with anticipation of darkness to suppress racing thoughts. Pray until my mind is bursting with lists and walk along hard packed paths unwinding. Reflection, presence, contemplation, deliberation are taking me on wild adventures. People ask for obvious trips…..those less drug induced……and without a plane, train, or automobile don’t register on the sex, violence, and Nazi scale. I’ve gone further in 6 months, clocked more mileage a

Forgiveness of myself has increased. Making conscious choices to reach out at every chance to those I didn’t heed, that didn’t transmit. Beating down demons that 30 years of routine have ingrained memory is hard to recall. I have speeded up to slow down. Prototypes are my friend. Listening records stories. Observing humans for their gifts, only their gifts, leaving pain for those in search. Finding truth when asked what I am most proud of. Not any accolades what others have shown me of themselves, their vulnerability to risk all has soared my gratitude and brought me to my knees.

Asking others who they are, what their passionate about when no one else is around, listening to the pause……then pure delight in someone truly being interested in who they are. No letters, no cards, simply joy.

Blinded by fear, hearing voices that push creativity into the recesses of graves are fading. They were the norm for a time and now free there are days I allow my mind to ruminate at how entombed I’d become.

Appreciation is what allows me to live each like it is the last.

My father frail in body said, “With the time I have left I want people to know I am open to them” I recall my grandmother telling me she was ready to go. My father cried in my arms for hours. Now here he is knowing there are more years behind than ahead, the raw exposure calms me before my head can truly grasp the loss of hearing his voice daily. I record our conversations.

Wisdom throws laughter in the heat of a moment drawing sagaciousness from still waters.

The silence that surrounds me shrouds me to hear what is truly there.