It's a suggestion that begs the question of how do I love myself?
And basically my answer is that I put up with myself because I am unable to get away from myself. I'm left with making the best of things with myself because there's no escaping being ever in my own presence.
But with others, the proximity is not so close nor so immediately necessary. Not only can I remove myself from being in the presence of others, I can't help but be removed from being in the presence of most people most of the time. So I can't really love them the way I love myself in terms of time allotment. I can't attend to them moment by moment like I attend to myself.
So it must mean something else. Some quality having to do with when I'm in the presence of others. And then perhaps it's suggesting that I would have to put up with them like I put up with myself. I would have to take them for all their goods and bads, like I have to take myself. I would have to take responsibility for their faults and errors and mistakes, just as I have to take responsibility for my own. I would have to include them in my personal responsibility, just as I attend to my own. Hm. That sounds pretty impossible, or at least quite imposing, difficult, overwhelming.
I like the idea of people taking care of themselves for the most part. I notice society gives a lot of lip service to that, too. "Nobody can make you feel any certain way. It's your own responsibility for how you interpret and process your feelings." "Anyone can be anything they want to be if they put their mind to it." "Nobody is a victim." "Everyone is responsible for their own happiness."
"Loving" is a rather vague word much magnified by the power breathed in it by culture. It vaguely, almost admonishingly, suggests we should all be more loving toward each other. "Love is the highest calling." "What the world needs now is love sweet love." "Love is all you need." Meanwhile, I rather like loving what I find lovable which has to do with my own preferences, aesthetics, interests, tolerances, choices as to who and what and how much I deal with at any given time. I like to express my personal traits for discernment. And this has a way of measuring some people more in and more worthy and interesting and satisfying to relate to than others. I rather like that freedom to decide. In utter frankness, I have to say I like turning away from some people while turning more toward others. Ugly as that sounds.
But I notice it gets me into trouble. I have my list of people I've turned away from. And that doesn't make me so happy that they're not happy with my turning away. I'm actually not always all that proud of my aesthetics. They encroach like a prejudice willing to abandon that which doesn't live up to my intrinsic or acquired tastes. And I notice they tend to like to get more refined over time. Quite self congratulatory! Yet I also notice there's something ugly about their increasingly sensitive justification for rejecting that which appears too ugly to relate to.
So, love the ugliness? Love the murderer, the confused and deranged and dysfunctional, the bore, the kook, the rude, the irritating? As though all of these qualities are in me to love in myself, too? I'm not sure I like the sound or challenge of that.
How strange the universe should make such unlikenesses, and then send a savior down to suggest we get along anyway. Where after all, is the likeness among so much unlikeness? Why create creatures who tend to be increasingly ever so finely attuning to their own tastes and temperaments, and then mess with them by suggesting they love beyond their limits? And why wouldn't a savior take their own advise and love us as we are, without asking us to change a thing about ourselves?
There must be fun is such maddening conundrums, of which, the universe has made me such a fine fit to be tied to.
--Steve
Wednesday, December 23, 2009
Sunday, December 20, 2009
All About Relationships
It's so simple when looked at from one basic premise: Life is the opportunity to relate. And then so magnificently difficult the complexity of how much we have to relate it. It is as if out of God's desire to make sure there are relationship, such an abundance has been made that we almost can't help but recurrently be overstressed among the ubiquity of what do make and do and how to feel among them all!
It would be like being given infinity for Christmas, where no amount of opening will ever open all of the gifts of relating poured out to us. And everywhere you turn, more and more and more. The tedium of them, the tiresome endless stream of them, the questionable nature of each, the cautions and excitements we quake at our questions of how to relate, how much, how little, what's sufficient, how do we feel in response to their relating to us? And on and on. This excess of relationships, and still we can want more and different and other and better and more particularly satisfying, and less of what doesn't feel so good, and all the guilts and resentments and jostling for position when feeling too left out of some and too caught up in others!
JESUS and Hallelujah! that we get to relate!
And OMG! how will we manage it all?
And then on top of it all
another Christmas comes around
and those damn wise men had to go and give baby Jesus those gifts
and now we're obliged to give likewise
to the already too many relationship we're trying to juggle and balance
and attend to and be enough for the maintenance of.
And meanwhile, the Kingdom of Heaven
is apparently already inside us.
And how sharply our attentions can shift
to feeling anything but already heavenly filled.
So, yes to relationships
and may we each get very good at being involved
with just enough
to not overwhelm ourselves
turning the whole thing against the value
it started out to be
which is very simply
to simply have something to relate to.
--Steve
It would be like being given infinity for Christmas, where no amount of opening will ever open all of the gifts of relating poured out to us. And everywhere you turn, more and more and more. The tedium of them, the tiresome endless stream of them, the questionable nature of each, the cautions and excitements we quake at our questions of how to relate, how much, how little, what's sufficient, how do we feel in response to their relating to us? And on and on. This excess of relationships, and still we can want more and different and other and better and more particularly satisfying, and less of what doesn't feel so good, and all the guilts and resentments and jostling for position when feeling too left out of some and too caught up in others!
JESUS and Hallelujah! that we get to relate!
And OMG! how will we manage it all?
And then on top of it all
another Christmas comes around
and those damn wise men had to go and give baby Jesus those gifts
and now we're obliged to give likewise
to the already too many relationship we're trying to juggle and balance
and attend to and be enough for the maintenance of.
And meanwhile, the Kingdom of Heaven
is apparently already inside us.
And how sharply our attentions can shift
to feeling anything but already heavenly filled.
So, yes to relationships
and may we each get very good at being involved
with just enough
to not overwhelm ourselves
turning the whole thing against the value
it started out to be
which is very simply
to simply have something to relate to.
--Steve
Tuesday, December 8, 2009
A Slow Trickle of Blood
This is hard to write. Hard to write because long ago I learned the hard way that writing about other people can lead to misunderstandings that don't untangle easily.
But I've been thinking over the past few days about old wounds. The kind that never heal. The kind that don't boil over, but instead just trickle.
Its strange how much power these wounds have, leaping forward from the past to the present, seeping into the day to day living. Like, lets say for the sake of argument, a little girl who didn't just feel unloved, but who felt in the core of her being that she was unlovable. She isn't of course. In fact she is adored. But lets say that there was a parent who had a problem. And that problem came from something completely unassociated with the little girl, but the little girl became the emodiment in the parent's mind of the problem. In that case, at the age of three and six and nine and twelve, does the little girl have the sophistication to understand whats really going on. Probably not. Definitely not. She is only going to see what is in front of her, and feel only the effects of the parent's reaction.
Lets say she remembers trying to be good. And she remembers trying to be pretty. And she remembers that nothing she ever did made any difference. She tried to love more, and was rebuffed. She tried to be beautiful and was mocked. Is there every going to be a time when she is enough? In her own mind?
Years and years go by. The people around her are confused. The more she tries the more they wonder. The more they wonder the more she tries. She grows into a beautiful and accomplished woman, but the mirror still reflects the little girl. The one whose brother tied her hair into pigtails with bailing twine because he was helping her to be enough. Which somehow didn't work.
What happens next? She is able to understand now, with her adult mind and her advanced training, she is able to understand what was happening. And yet the wound still slowly bleeds. The struggle now involves more people, and more efforts, and it is becoming exhausting. Not becoming, it has always been exhausting, only now the weight is becoming unbearable.
How does she unlearn the false lesson of those many years ago, and come into an understanding of her own worth as a person, not based on what she does, or how she looks, or how much she makes, but simply her own worth as a person on this planet whose space and value never had anything to do with anything more than her presence.
Can she learn to see the love that is around her as all the love she needs, and let go of the need for that one love? Can she learn to walk past the dry and ungiving well without longing to look one last time for a drop of water?
Does a wound inflicted on the giving flesh of a child ever heal enough? Can love withheld ever be replaced even if it can't be restored?
I have my own answers. But then my life is my own, my experiences, my wounds, my loves, my accomplishments. I don't know about the wounds of others. I know the answers that have staunched my own bleeding, but this slow trickle is not etched into me.
I wonder.
But I've been thinking over the past few days about old wounds. The kind that never heal. The kind that don't boil over, but instead just trickle.
Its strange how much power these wounds have, leaping forward from the past to the present, seeping into the day to day living. Like, lets say for the sake of argument, a little girl who didn't just feel unloved, but who felt in the core of her being that she was unlovable. She isn't of course. In fact she is adored. But lets say that there was a parent who had a problem. And that problem came from something completely unassociated with the little girl, but the little girl became the emodiment in the parent's mind of the problem. In that case, at the age of three and six and nine and twelve, does the little girl have the sophistication to understand whats really going on. Probably not. Definitely not. She is only going to see what is in front of her, and feel only the effects of the parent's reaction.
Lets say she remembers trying to be good. And she remembers trying to be pretty. And she remembers that nothing she ever did made any difference. She tried to love more, and was rebuffed. She tried to be beautiful and was mocked. Is there every going to be a time when she is enough? In her own mind?
Years and years go by. The people around her are confused. The more she tries the more they wonder. The more they wonder the more she tries. She grows into a beautiful and accomplished woman, but the mirror still reflects the little girl. The one whose brother tied her hair into pigtails with bailing twine because he was helping her to be enough. Which somehow didn't work.
What happens next? She is able to understand now, with her adult mind and her advanced training, she is able to understand what was happening. And yet the wound still slowly bleeds. The struggle now involves more people, and more efforts, and it is becoming exhausting. Not becoming, it has always been exhausting, only now the weight is becoming unbearable.
How does she unlearn the false lesson of those many years ago, and come into an understanding of her own worth as a person, not based on what she does, or how she looks, or how much she makes, but simply her own worth as a person on this planet whose space and value never had anything to do with anything more than her presence.
Can she learn to see the love that is around her as all the love she needs, and let go of the need for that one love? Can she learn to walk past the dry and ungiving well without longing to look one last time for a drop of water?
Does a wound inflicted on the giving flesh of a child ever heal enough? Can love withheld ever be replaced even if it can't be restored?
I have my own answers. But then my life is my own, my experiences, my wounds, my loves, my accomplishments. I don't know about the wounds of others. I know the answers that have staunched my own bleeding, but this slow trickle is not etched into me.
I wonder.
Wednesday, November 25, 2009
Other People's Stories
This is the kind of thing that makes me happy.
The other day I was at Walmart. Walmart itself does not make me happy. In fact, there is nothing about Walmart that I find happy. I don't even find the smiley face button happy. I find it desperate.
But I had some things to pick up for the school, so I was there. And I was being checked out by this guy who I could have easily overlooked. There was nothing about him that seemed like he had an interesting story to tell. But to pass the time, I struck up a conversation about the upcoming Black Friday and how that must be kind of a nightmare to deal with. Which it was of course, will be of course.
"But I don't have to come in until 8," he told me. "Last year I had to come in at 4:30. This will be the first year since I've been here that I haven't come in at 4:30."
"How long have you been here?"
"Fifteen years. There's a group of us, who were the first employees when the store first opened."
Jesus. Really? I mean really? And then. Why not?
Then a woman walked over, and the three of us were talking, joined in by the woman behind me in line. The woman who also worked there, had been there less time. Only thirteen years. She and the guy started talking about whether the people who came in at 4:30 would be on break or on lunch when they came in. It was decided they would be on lunch, because otherwise the register would time them out.
"We dated for so long," the guy tells me, "That we still finish each other's conversations. We dated for eight years."
Now this is not that fascinating, and yet it is. Its an entire world inside this flourescent lit cube, that has played out over all these years. I can go through life saying "Hello, and have a nice day," to every stranger I meet, and that would be polite and proper. Or I can listen. I can ask people about themselves and enjoy the story that comes out, because how often in my life do I get to meet a couple whose entire relationship was played out inside a Walmart in Bristol Virginia. Beginning. Middle. End.
I wish I could remember that more. I wish I could remember how little I know. I wish I could remember how the surface rarely reflects the interior. I wish I could remember how interesting people are for the simple fact that they are living. Because life is endlessly interesting. Its like an equation that I understand only on alternate Fridays and in between its blankly convoluted. But really, its all very simple.
On another note, I am ecstatic because a short piece of fiction I rattled off and submitted to Red Line Blues which is this really cool literary journal published out of Asheville and Brooklyn was accepted for their next issue.
I am so grateful.
The other day I was at Walmart. Walmart itself does not make me happy. In fact, there is nothing about Walmart that I find happy. I don't even find the smiley face button happy. I find it desperate.
But I had some things to pick up for the school, so I was there. And I was being checked out by this guy who I could have easily overlooked. There was nothing about him that seemed like he had an interesting story to tell. But to pass the time, I struck up a conversation about the upcoming Black Friday and how that must be kind of a nightmare to deal with. Which it was of course, will be of course.
"But I don't have to come in until 8," he told me. "Last year I had to come in at 4:30. This will be the first year since I've been here that I haven't come in at 4:30."
"How long have you been here?"
"Fifteen years. There's a group of us, who were the first employees when the store first opened."
Jesus. Really? I mean really? And then. Why not?
Then a woman walked over, and the three of us were talking, joined in by the woman behind me in line. The woman who also worked there, had been there less time. Only thirteen years. She and the guy started talking about whether the people who came in at 4:30 would be on break or on lunch when they came in. It was decided they would be on lunch, because otherwise the register would time them out.
"We dated for so long," the guy tells me, "That we still finish each other's conversations. We dated for eight years."
Now this is not that fascinating, and yet it is. Its an entire world inside this flourescent lit cube, that has played out over all these years. I can go through life saying "Hello, and have a nice day," to every stranger I meet, and that would be polite and proper. Or I can listen. I can ask people about themselves and enjoy the story that comes out, because how often in my life do I get to meet a couple whose entire relationship was played out inside a Walmart in Bristol Virginia. Beginning. Middle. End.
I wish I could remember that more. I wish I could remember how little I know. I wish I could remember how the surface rarely reflects the interior. I wish I could remember how interesting people are for the simple fact that they are living. Because life is endlessly interesting. Its like an equation that I understand only on alternate Fridays and in between its blankly convoluted. But really, its all very simple.
On another note, I am ecstatic because a short piece of fiction I rattled off and submitted to Red Line Blues which is this really cool literary journal published out of Asheville and Brooklyn was accepted for their next issue.
I am so grateful.
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
Radio
I'm remembering radio.
When I was growing up in North Idaho, the only radio stations we could pick up were from Spokane, WA and for some reason a station in Vancouver BC. By pick up, I mean if you were in exactly the right location to pick up the faint single being bounced off the tower on Black Mountain. On the North Bench you could pick up the Vancouver BC station with minimal static, and I remember hearing Foreigner's Hot Blooded for the first time while driving with my brother through the darkness on our way to somewhere. We had an ancient old radio from somewhere out in the barn, and for the most part it only squawked, but on one clear spring day it let us hear Glen Campbell singing Rhinestone Cowboy.
Then KBFI happened. Bonners Ferry finally had a tiny weak little AM station, and music blasted into my life. KBFI played a mix of everything the program director thought anyone in Bonners Ferry might want to hear, regardless of age or interest. A three song set could easily include Kenny Rogers, Andy Gibb and Frank Sinatra. Why not? Someone was bound to like something. The A&W also had a jukebox, and to this day I can't hear Kansas's Blowing in the Wind without smelling a a Papa Bear and onion rings.
Music was an avenue into the world that I had not ever experienced. Suddenly, for the first time, I had some small thing in common with other people. Knowing the same songs was almost like being related. One Christmas we got Realistic tape decks from Radio Shack, and after that browsing the music racks at Tafts became a ritual. We listened to Fleetwood Mac, and The Eagles, and The Moody Blues, and Al Stewart, and Anne Murray, and Air Supply, and Supertramp, and Steely Dan, and Loggins and Messina with almost religious fervor, playing the songs over and over until we knew every word.
A few years ago, when I was working on a project that seemed to need a blast of sense memory, I created a playlist on my Ipod which is an almost exact duplicate of a week's worth of music on KBFI. I threw everything on there, everything which would take me to a place where I could realistically create the world of Bonners Ferry in the late 1970s and early 1980s. And today, for the first time in I don't know when, I punched it up.
I had already milked the cow, and I had already collected the eggs. The pig was fed, and the chickens watered. I needed to make bread because the students are coming back tomorrow, so I figured as long as I had to do that, I might as well get a jump on tomorrow. So I took my ipod down to the school, and got to work.
The first thing that happened is I didn't work, because I had to clap my hands and shake my ass and Mick dance like a maniac all over the kitchen to Start Me Up.
Then I got the sponge started for the bread, and while that was working I mixed up the ingredients for Parmesan Chicken. While Carly Simon sang about Jesse, I mixed the wet and dry ingredients for Porridge Rolls, and then Gordon Lightfoot was doing Old Dan's Records while I went to the root cellar for potatoes.
The bread was ready to be kneeded, and Michael Jackson's Don't Stop 'Til You Get Enough, Steve Miller doing Fly Like an Eagle, and Trouble by Cat Stevens helped get me through that. I set the bread to rise and started making brownies while ELO blasted through Living Things, and Linda Rondstadt wandered through Blue Bayou, and Supertramp Took the Long Way Home, and Mac Davis warned Don't Get Hooked on Me.
I got the stuff out for expedition check-in and lined it up on the porch, and put the students' names on the check-in lists as Rickie Lee Jones sang about Chuck E's in Love and The Eagle's bemoaned Your Lyin' Eyes, and the Beatles sang The Ballad of John and Yoko. Christ you know it ain't easy...you know how hard it can be...the way things are going...they're gonna crucify me.
The timer went off and I gave the bread a second knead and then formed the loaves. Jackson Brown sang Before the Deluge and John Denver sang Matthew, and Nazareth sang Love Hurts. The brownies came out of the oven, and I went downstairs to start the woodburning furnace. Through the grate I could hear Stevie Nicks and Tom Petty wailing Stop Dragging My Heart Around.
Back upstairs the bread went in, and I went back to the root cellar for a jar of green beans. As I came back through the door 38 Special was telling me to Hold on Loosely which gave way to Boz Scaggs doing the Lido Shuffle.
Then the Beatles again. The Long and Winding Road. As I waited for the bread to finish baking, I thought about The Long and Winding Road. That leads me to your door.
To come full circle I would have to be back in Idaho, but if I were, I could not be doing anything that so exactly duplicates the experiences of my parents when they were my age. When I listened to these songs, I was 11, 12, 13, 14 years old. The rythmn of life in that place was the only rythmn I knew. And I hated it.
I wanted to faster staccato rythmn of my cousins, I wanted to be in the middle of everything. I didn't want to be in a quiet place.
But today, as I salted the butter I had just churned, from cream from the cow I had just milked, smelling the baking bread I had just made, I became still in my gratitude for the experience I am having. I think nothing could be more appropriate, for all the roads I have traveled to have lead me to this place, where for this time, I do the simplest things with the greatest satisfaction. Yesterday I struggled mightily with passages from my book, untangling things I had written before and seeking a new way to say something important. That is my love and my soul and my breathing, but today...today was simpler.
And it was the music. It was the recollection of a time and a place and the people who inhabited it. It was a memory of Mom and Dad and Susan Hepler and yeah, you Steve, and Scott Simpson and Dean McFalls and Mac Schneider, and Dave Ottavi and Dan and Pachy Larson and Barb and Charlie McCrum and all these people who did for their time, what I am doing now. Living a simple life, albeit among sometimes complicated people, and I became so aware of the legacy and the importance and the great gift I have been blessed to experience, and the sense of having shared with those people I named above, something truly special.
So with my music and my milking and my baking and my fire building I come to the end of the day, and I am grateful for KBFI and the jukebox at A&W and even that scratchy distant radio station in Vancouver. The music I heard then is the music I heard today. And the music ultimately allowed me to be in two places in two different times doing the exact same thing. And in that, I realized, not for the first time, but at an important time, the amazing beautiful gift I have been given.
So here's to radio!
When I was growing up in North Idaho, the only radio stations we could pick up were from Spokane, WA and for some reason a station in Vancouver BC. By pick up, I mean if you were in exactly the right location to pick up the faint single being bounced off the tower on Black Mountain. On the North Bench you could pick up the Vancouver BC station with minimal static, and I remember hearing Foreigner's Hot Blooded for the first time while driving with my brother through the darkness on our way to somewhere. We had an ancient old radio from somewhere out in the barn, and for the most part it only squawked, but on one clear spring day it let us hear Glen Campbell singing Rhinestone Cowboy.
Then KBFI happened. Bonners Ferry finally had a tiny weak little AM station, and music blasted into my life. KBFI played a mix of everything the program director thought anyone in Bonners Ferry might want to hear, regardless of age or interest. A three song set could easily include Kenny Rogers, Andy Gibb and Frank Sinatra. Why not? Someone was bound to like something. The A&W also had a jukebox, and to this day I can't hear Kansas's Blowing in the Wind without smelling a a Papa Bear and onion rings.
Music was an avenue into the world that I had not ever experienced. Suddenly, for the first time, I had some small thing in common with other people. Knowing the same songs was almost like being related. One Christmas we got Realistic tape decks from Radio Shack, and after that browsing the music racks at Tafts became a ritual. We listened to Fleetwood Mac, and The Eagles, and The Moody Blues, and Al Stewart, and Anne Murray, and Air Supply, and Supertramp, and Steely Dan, and Loggins and Messina with almost religious fervor, playing the songs over and over until we knew every word.
A few years ago, when I was working on a project that seemed to need a blast of sense memory, I created a playlist on my Ipod which is an almost exact duplicate of a week's worth of music on KBFI. I threw everything on there, everything which would take me to a place where I could realistically create the world of Bonners Ferry in the late 1970s and early 1980s. And today, for the first time in I don't know when, I punched it up.
I had already milked the cow, and I had already collected the eggs. The pig was fed, and the chickens watered. I needed to make bread because the students are coming back tomorrow, so I figured as long as I had to do that, I might as well get a jump on tomorrow. So I took my ipod down to the school, and got to work.
The first thing that happened is I didn't work, because I had to clap my hands and shake my ass and Mick dance like a maniac all over the kitchen to Start Me Up.
Then I got the sponge started for the bread, and while that was working I mixed up the ingredients for Parmesan Chicken. While Carly Simon sang about Jesse, I mixed the wet and dry ingredients for Porridge Rolls, and then Gordon Lightfoot was doing Old Dan's Records while I went to the root cellar for potatoes.
The bread was ready to be kneeded, and Michael Jackson's Don't Stop 'Til You Get Enough, Steve Miller doing Fly Like an Eagle, and Trouble by Cat Stevens helped get me through that. I set the bread to rise and started making brownies while ELO blasted through Living Things, and Linda Rondstadt wandered through Blue Bayou, and Supertramp Took the Long Way Home, and Mac Davis warned Don't Get Hooked on Me.
I got the stuff out for expedition check-in and lined it up on the porch, and put the students' names on the check-in lists as Rickie Lee Jones sang about Chuck E's in Love and The Eagle's bemoaned Your Lyin' Eyes, and the Beatles sang The Ballad of John and Yoko. Christ you know it ain't easy...you know how hard it can be...the way things are going...they're gonna crucify me.
The timer went off and I gave the bread a second knead and then formed the loaves. Jackson Brown sang Before the Deluge and John Denver sang Matthew, and Nazareth sang Love Hurts. The brownies came out of the oven, and I went downstairs to start the woodburning furnace. Through the grate I could hear Stevie Nicks and Tom Petty wailing Stop Dragging My Heart Around.
Back upstairs the bread went in, and I went back to the root cellar for a jar of green beans. As I came back through the door 38 Special was telling me to Hold on Loosely which gave way to Boz Scaggs doing the Lido Shuffle.
Then the Beatles again. The Long and Winding Road. As I waited for the bread to finish baking, I thought about The Long and Winding Road. That leads me to your door.
To come full circle I would have to be back in Idaho, but if I were, I could not be doing anything that so exactly duplicates the experiences of my parents when they were my age. When I listened to these songs, I was 11, 12, 13, 14 years old. The rythmn of life in that place was the only rythmn I knew. And I hated it.
I wanted to faster staccato rythmn of my cousins, I wanted to be in the middle of everything. I didn't want to be in a quiet place.
But today, as I salted the butter I had just churned, from cream from the cow I had just milked, smelling the baking bread I had just made, I became still in my gratitude for the experience I am having. I think nothing could be more appropriate, for all the roads I have traveled to have lead me to this place, where for this time, I do the simplest things with the greatest satisfaction. Yesterday I struggled mightily with passages from my book, untangling things I had written before and seeking a new way to say something important. That is my love and my soul and my breathing, but today...today was simpler.
And it was the music. It was the recollection of a time and a place and the people who inhabited it. It was a memory of Mom and Dad and Susan Hepler and yeah, you Steve, and Scott Simpson and Dean McFalls and Mac Schneider, and Dave Ottavi and Dan and Pachy Larson and Barb and Charlie McCrum and all these people who did for their time, what I am doing now. Living a simple life, albeit among sometimes complicated people, and I became so aware of the legacy and the importance and the great gift I have been blessed to experience, and the sense of having shared with those people I named above, something truly special.
So with my music and my milking and my baking and my fire building I come to the end of the day, and I am grateful for KBFI and the jukebox at A&W and even that scratchy distant radio station in Vancouver. The music I heard then is the music I heard today. And the music ultimately allowed me to be in two places in two different times doing the exact same thing. And in that, I realized, not for the first time, but at an important time, the amazing beautiful gift I have been given.
So here's to radio!
Yesterday was the last day of our second summer. Sunlit days and warm temperatures, gave way to clouds and gusts of blustering wind. I had come to feel like that little kid in the beginning of Monster House, riding her tricycle down the street, "LA LA LA LA LA Hello leaves LA LA LA LA Hello house..."
I've enjoyed these quiet days, more than I thought I would. I longed to go out on expedition, and yet walking the path to the back of the property to check on the cows, feeling the sun on my neck as I fed the pig, leaning into Cocoa as I milked her, all of these things turned out to be soothing. I had wanted the calm forces of nature, and trees overhead to quiet some chaotic thinking, and I've found that here, the chaos has quieted.
It's early morning, I have my coffee, Cocoa is lying in the field outside my window, and I have lots to do today. My morning meditations have been leading me into quiet and still places. Places with guiding words that say "wait." That say "listen." That say "turn inwards." That say "turn to the forces of joy." Today was no exception.
While I wish sometimes that the guiding words would say "turn left at the crossroad ahead, proceed four miles, then turn right and go another twelve miles and you will be there," that doesn't seem to be whats happening. Instead, whatever messages are drifting down to me seem to be more along the line of "hold in your breath 'til you come back up in full, hold in your breath 'til you've thought it through you foolish child..."
Anyone know that song? Yeah...that one. You know the one that gets inside you and kind of plagues you and makes you feel like crying and laughing altogether in a coughing burst.
So as the weather turns again, and winter, which had gone off on it's own quiet wandering, circles back around because it has a job to do, I also have a job to do. According to my reading this morning it goes like this: "What you need to know will come. Look for it in your heart, not the world..." or rather..."If you read nothing and wisdom sees your fervor, awareness will sit in your hand like a tamed dove."
I've enjoyed these quiet days, more than I thought I would. I longed to go out on expedition, and yet walking the path to the back of the property to check on the cows, feeling the sun on my neck as I fed the pig, leaning into Cocoa as I milked her, all of these things turned out to be soothing. I had wanted the calm forces of nature, and trees overhead to quiet some chaotic thinking, and I've found that here, the chaos has quieted.
It's early morning, I have my coffee, Cocoa is lying in the field outside my window, and I have lots to do today. My morning meditations have been leading me into quiet and still places. Places with guiding words that say "wait." That say "listen." That say "turn inwards." That say "turn to the forces of joy." Today was no exception.
While I wish sometimes that the guiding words would say "turn left at the crossroad ahead, proceed four miles, then turn right and go another twelve miles and you will be there," that doesn't seem to be whats happening. Instead, whatever messages are drifting down to me seem to be more along the line of "hold in your breath 'til you come back up in full, hold in your breath 'til you've thought it through you foolish child..."
Anyone know that song? Yeah...that one. You know the one that gets inside you and kind of plagues you and makes you feel like crying and laughing altogether in a coughing burst.
So as the weather turns again, and winter, which had gone off on it's own quiet wandering, circles back around because it has a job to do, I also have a job to do. According to my reading this morning it goes like this: "What you need to know will come. Look for it in your heart, not the world..." or rather..."If you read nothing and wisdom sees your fervor, awareness will sit in your hand like a tamed dove."
Monday, November 16, 2009
Beginning Again at the End of the World
So, yesterday was Sunday. On a wave of good feelings after having found some old files on Mom's computer, I took myself into Virginia, down through the canyon of leafless trees alongside Laurel Creek, on through Damascus and into the spreading fields leading to Abingdon. Margaret and Mike and the kids had left earlier that day on a road trip, and the students are off on expedition until Thursday. So with no pressures on deck, I drove off to see 2012, because, and I mean this with no irony, something that always makes me happy is watching the world be destroyed in the most cinematic way possible. Not because I hate the world, but because I love disaster movies and I love special effects, and when they come together this spectacularly I am filled with glee.
So, I'm in the car. And I've finished listening to my lecture series on Monsters, Gods and Heroes: A History of the Epic (which was great by the way, should you want to check it out) and I wasn't in the mood to listen to Regina Spektor which was the musical choice. Earlier that day I had packed up some speaker tapes and cds to send to my friend Chris, who needs them to decide if I'm flying to LA to speak at the convention, and I had found this old blank cassette.
I pop it in, and to my surprise my voice emerges.
Its one of the cassettes I made driving across country from Baltimore to LA when I moved there in 1993. I had picked up a handheld cassette recorder in order to preserve every passing thought I had as I drove away from a well worn life into one that bore no etchings. It seemed monumental at the time, it was monumental. I had been living a life in Baltimore that had taken on a kind of inexorable momentum that was leading me towards a future in which I just couldn't see myself. I was fading out of my own life, vanishing into a murky misty kind of phantom who walked and talked and every day became less a part of the world. At the time I lacked the ability to even know that, to see that, to feel it. I don't even quite remember now how I felt. Choices were made that were not my own, because I had lost the ability to make choices for myself, and I had begun to come awake in a cold cold winter of snow and ice and highways with hard ruts. Thats literal by the way, not metaphor.
So I packed up my car, and headed west. Outside of Atlanta I picked up the handheld.
So, now...16 years later, I'm listening to the young man I was observe his surroundings and ponder his future. To a soundtrack of background music including Kirstie McCall, Erasure, REM, Pearl Jam, The Smashing Pumpkins and occasional snippets of music from pop radio stations he passed along the way, I listened as he contemplated picking up hitchhikers, dealt with boredom, observed passing tourist traps, battled a cold, and in between, thought and thought about his future.
I laughed as I listened to this young man I once was swear not to make the same mistakes again, and I spoke back from 16 years in the future and told him "yes, you will." And I forgave him for those mistakes and forgave myself. I listened as he told me about how he would never get caught up in a job to the extent that it compromised this living of his life. And I said, "Oh honey, I'm sorry. You will." And I laughed. I listened as he told me that he would never again throw away his sense of himself in order to find companionship with a lover. "Oh," I said. "Really?"
He drove on and on. He stopped in Phoenix to visit his brother, and flew with him to the Grand Canyon. He became excited as he saw signs for California, and even more excited when he passed palm trees. I thought about his adventures there. I wanted to tell him that he would make a life there. That he would fall in love there. That he would fall out of love, and that it would hurt, but he would survive even when he felt like he couldn't. That he would be succesful. That his dream of living in a house overlooking downtown LA would come true. It would take time, but it would come true. I wanted to tell him that he would be lonely at times, but it would all be okay. I wanted to tell him that his dream of being a writer would come true in ways he was not expecting. I wanted to tell him to not drink so much. I wanted to tell him to not let silly little things hurt him so much. But I couldn't of course, and I'm glad. Because he had a grand adventure.
He talked about that. He talked about adventure. He talked about how the road trip hadn't turned out to be the adventure he wanted it to be, and I wanted to tell him that that was OK, because he would take other road trips and they would infuse him with joy. And they would be adventures. But more than that, he would have adventures unlike any he could even conceive of. He would find God staring down at him as he sat crying on a rock watching the sun set over Joshua Tree. He would set aside his fears and then encounter their embodiment a few moments later and stand and watch and marvel at the beauty of the pattern on the skin of a snake. He would roam his landscape with marvelous friends, the likes of whom he had always dreamed. And they would hold him up, and stare him down, and make him laugh, and soothe his burning. Such a great life, such a great adventure he was beginning.
Oh, what a gift. What a gift to hear this young man. What a joy to know what lay ahead for him. What a joy to understand how good, how true, how exciting life would be. So I think about my own bumps and bruises, and I think about a man, living far in the future, well beyond 2012, and he is listening to me now. And he is smiling. And he is laughing. And he is remembering. And he is telling me, "Oh, what a grand adventure lies ahead for you. You have no idea!"
--Dan
So, I'm in the car. And I've finished listening to my lecture series on Monsters, Gods and Heroes: A History of the Epic (which was great by the way, should you want to check it out) and I wasn't in the mood to listen to Regina Spektor which was the musical choice. Earlier that day I had packed up some speaker tapes and cds to send to my friend Chris, who needs them to decide if I'm flying to LA to speak at the convention, and I had found this old blank cassette.
I pop it in, and to my surprise my voice emerges.
Its one of the cassettes I made driving across country from Baltimore to LA when I moved there in 1993. I had picked up a handheld cassette recorder in order to preserve every passing thought I had as I drove away from a well worn life into one that bore no etchings. It seemed monumental at the time, it was monumental. I had been living a life in Baltimore that had taken on a kind of inexorable momentum that was leading me towards a future in which I just couldn't see myself. I was fading out of my own life, vanishing into a murky misty kind of phantom who walked and talked and every day became less a part of the world. At the time I lacked the ability to even know that, to see that, to feel it. I don't even quite remember now how I felt. Choices were made that were not my own, because I had lost the ability to make choices for myself, and I had begun to come awake in a cold cold winter of snow and ice and highways with hard ruts. Thats literal by the way, not metaphor.
So I packed up my car, and headed west. Outside of Atlanta I picked up the handheld.
So, now...16 years later, I'm listening to the young man I was observe his surroundings and ponder his future. To a soundtrack of background music including Kirstie McCall, Erasure, REM, Pearl Jam, The Smashing Pumpkins and occasional snippets of music from pop radio stations he passed along the way, I listened as he contemplated picking up hitchhikers, dealt with boredom, observed passing tourist traps, battled a cold, and in between, thought and thought about his future.
I laughed as I listened to this young man I once was swear not to make the same mistakes again, and I spoke back from 16 years in the future and told him "yes, you will." And I forgave him for those mistakes and forgave myself. I listened as he told me about how he would never get caught up in a job to the extent that it compromised this living of his life. And I said, "Oh honey, I'm sorry. You will." And I laughed. I listened as he told me that he would never again throw away his sense of himself in order to find companionship with a lover. "Oh," I said. "Really?"
He drove on and on. He stopped in Phoenix to visit his brother, and flew with him to the Grand Canyon. He became excited as he saw signs for California, and even more excited when he passed palm trees. I thought about his adventures there. I wanted to tell him that he would make a life there. That he would fall in love there. That he would fall out of love, and that it would hurt, but he would survive even when he felt like he couldn't. That he would be succesful. That his dream of living in a house overlooking downtown LA would come true. It would take time, but it would come true. I wanted to tell him that he would be lonely at times, but it would all be okay. I wanted to tell him that his dream of being a writer would come true in ways he was not expecting. I wanted to tell him to not drink so much. I wanted to tell him to not let silly little things hurt him so much. But I couldn't of course, and I'm glad. Because he had a grand adventure.
He talked about that. He talked about adventure. He talked about how the road trip hadn't turned out to be the adventure he wanted it to be, and I wanted to tell him that that was OK, because he would take other road trips and they would infuse him with joy. And they would be adventures. But more than that, he would have adventures unlike any he could even conceive of. He would find God staring down at him as he sat crying on a rock watching the sun set over Joshua Tree. He would set aside his fears and then encounter their embodiment a few moments later and stand and watch and marvel at the beauty of the pattern on the skin of a snake. He would roam his landscape with marvelous friends, the likes of whom he had always dreamed. And they would hold him up, and stare him down, and make him laugh, and soothe his burning. Such a great life, such a great adventure he was beginning.
Oh, what a gift. What a gift to hear this young man. What a joy to know what lay ahead for him. What a joy to understand how good, how true, how exciting life would be. So I think about my own bumps and bruises, and I think about a man, living far in the future, well beyond 2012, and he is listening to me now. And he is smiling. And he is laughing. And he is remembering. And he is telling me, "Oh, what a grand adventure lies ahead for you. You have no idea!"
--Dan
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