The Wine is Sweet

Ge milis am fìon, tha e searbh ri dhìol.
[The wine is sweet, the paying bitter.]

In my blood and in my veins; the stories of my forefathers have always been and will always remain. Yea, though I have walked through the valley of the shadow of death, I have known the experience of fearing no evil.

In my blood and in my veins I have also felt the dark power of the silencing of the voices of my past…the silencing of the voices of reason…the silencing of the voices of wisdom…the silencing of the voices of truth. I have felt the dark power of the illusion of false light, I have embraced the darkness and I have been consumed by the darkness. I have tasted the darkness and I have trembled alone in the dark

Yea, though I have walked through the shadow of the valley of death I have known the loneliness of fear…I have been inside the black heart of evil itself. I have experienced being disconnected from my own immortal soul.

What is bred in the bone will come out in the flesh~

In the briefest of moments, in a rare and fleeting moment of clarity; I remember as if in a dream, seeing a glimmer of light; a small flicker of hope has more power than one can imagine.

It may only be in my imagination or it may in fact exist somewhere within a truth beyond my comprehension…that the blood of my ancestors…the undeniable connection to my very own unique past…lifted this lost soul from the darkness of my own creation back onto higher ground.

Spiritual enlightenment is like totally way cool, man.

Where there should have been justice, instead I found grace. For this I am truly blessed.

Estoria continuum ad infinitem

I entertain imagined words in Latin. My creativity astounds only my ego's perception of self.
And as the story began, so the story continues...

Change is Everything

Are you willing to be sponged out, erased, canceled,
made nothing?
Are you willing to be made nothing?
...dipped into oblivion?
If not, you will never really change.
D.H.Lawrence

Just the other day...so many ideas were dancing and toying with me in my mind...just the other day.

You know, I sold the pistol long before I ever stopped wearing the holster. Traces of our past are worn as invisible cloaks in our present, and they often can only be seen in our very own minds eye. To the rest of the world, we have become what we appear to be. I am not who I once was, and for that I tell myself that I am grateful (and most often I am).

Old habits are like old friends and just because friends are old does not mean that they are good friends.

Sometimes I want to dance naked within the sound of thunderous chaos as drama fills the air like a torrential down pouring of passionate tears.

Instead I make tater tots and Sloppy Joes's and sing the alphabet song and do the next right thing.

You see, for me it is always easy to do the right thing. I simply do the opposite of whatever my inner drive, my instincts, my old habits, my patterns of behavior tell me to do.

I step opposite of where my foot would like to be placed!

What is your trick?

Scooby Snacks!

I sometimes have a fragile mind that ebbs and flows like the coming of the tide. Would you like an example?

There are songs that I love, that drive the soundtrack of the inner workings of my delicate life history. I think we all have a soundtrack and we all have the need to dance to our own rhythms; deep inside we have our very own sets of lyrics, some in rhyme and some with no reason.

The concept of Scooby Doo illustrates this best for me. Fasten your seatbelt and follow me on this one.

Mention the phrase "scooby-dooby-doo" and what will most people say? Clearly my educated guess would be "where are you?"

Get it? "Scooby-Dooby-Doo! Where are you?"

Did you know that Scooby Doo has been around for nearly four decades, first airing on the television in the year 1969?

What I would like to do, however, is meet someone who automatically follows the phrase "scooby dooby doo" with "oh sha sha we got to live together."

If you are lost, hold on for one more moment. I will make it real clear.

There may, in fact, be a dog that eats Scooby snacks somewhere in the cartoon world of all our childhood memories. But let us at least give credit where credit is due. The cartoon itself was created as an eclectic by-product of the psychedelic 60s.

Let us thank Brother Sylvester Stone for one of the finest lyrics every written. Now if you are thinking to yourself what song did Rocky Balboa or Rambo every write, then you definitely need to tune in or drop out.

Sylvester Stone is in fact "Sly" Stone of Sly and the Family Stone. In 1968 Sly wrote the song "Everyday People" and it was a big hit for Sly and the Family Stone.

Embedded within the lyrics is the phrase--
"and different strokes for different folks
and so on and so on and scooby dooby doo".

So if you are ever on a talk show and the question is who is Scooby Doo's daddy?

Well, now you know!

For myself, I had often wondered which came first, the words or the animation. A little research proved what I have always known; words have the power to create!

Thanks for riding with me, if you follow my logic you may wish to follow up with psychiatric assistance. It's ok, I know someone who knows a guy who shrunk a head once, I'll give you the number….

While My House Gently Sleeps...

"To give your children the gift of courage, show them the depth of your faith." (circa 1999)

To be virtuous, you must live up to your words. To be noble, you must allow your actions to speak for you.

Remember, the life you live is measured in the moments when no one is around...the true measure of honor is in the depth of the actions you take in sincere humility without the drive for recognition.

We all have the ability for greatness within us, yet we must follow with faith the path which we are led upon.

Remember, we are never alone if our heart is truly open to God!

Where is your heart in this very hour?

In the Ride Line, Waiting

I remember when I was seven years old and was waiting in line for the roller coaster at the state fair. There was a boy my age that was a quadriplegic and when our eyes met I had an experience that I can not describe. To say that I was terribly saddened by the experience would be to try to put a label on something that I am not sure is possible to label.

The world changed. My eyes were opened. For every child I saw laughing and playing, I knew there was another child somewhere that was suffering. I have to warn you, when your eyes are opened to suffering you begin to see it everywhere. I lost countless nights of sleep and was labeled “troubled” by various medical professionals of the psychiatric persuasion. Thankfully I was not given medication. I would discover that on my own a few years later.

When I was born there was something wrong with my legs. I had this whole Forest Gump thing going on where I had to wear braces, but they were not independent of one another. My legs were bolted together by the ankles and it really was painful…not physically, but spiritually and psychologically. To be a toddler and unable to walk while all the other kids around you danced and played. At the time it was the most horrific experience of my life (mind you, I was only 3ish).

I understood the boy’s pain; it was the first time I felt connected to the human race. I understood his pain and I could not see any hope for his future. My only experience was my loss of legs, and it was only temporary. He lost all of his mobility and it was permanent.

Everything changed. When I felt hungry (a common experience when you grow up poor), I was connected to all of the children that were dying of starvation. When I was hit, I was connected to all of the children that were in some way abused.

Being connected to all humanity can be debilitating for some. It shut me down for many years. But I am human and I am resilient and there are forces of good at work amidst the darkness.

Being connected to all humanity means being responsible for one another. Responsibility can be seen as a burden by some, me included for much of my adult life. I now see responsibility as a privilege and an honor.

I no longer know where I was headed with this line of thinking. Can you finish my thoughts for me?

Rain or Shine

When I found I was able to look myself in the mirror, it no longer mattered what the weather was like outside.

The simplicity of the noble life is merely to do the very best at this very moment in the here and now. How many different times and in what different voices have we heard this notion during our lifetimes? Wouldn’t it be nice to live a noble life?

I sometimes wish I was a King!

The challenge with doing our very best each and every moment of each and every day, among other things, is that we are human. As such, we are inherently flawed by our inability to stay focused and we are insurmountably challenged by an endless flow of distractions.

So we convince ourselves; work harder, work longer, work faster, work more efficiently. When this does not work, we try working more strategically or we work harder at accepting that our work will never be done.

Owner’s manuals for a life well lived have been written in each and every language, within each and every culture, and for each and every challenge we may encounter. And so we wage war with time.

Driven by the need to win the war we so often forget that what may appear to be the front line is often an illusion. It is much more difficult to make peace with the enemy.

Written in Purple

The world could not see his wisdom. It was so well hidden, but it was there nonetheless. The things in life that were important, the things in life that truly mattered; he had them all at his fingertips: fresh air, comfortable shoes, warm clothes, solace, time, and of course freedom. Strolling leisurely through the park in downtown Denver on a warm summer’s eve, being homeless was not a word he would use to describe himself. Words like philosopher, nomadic poet, painter on the canvas of life; words like these seemed more fitting. And the fitting of his clothes, though he appeared torn and ragged to the untrained eye; they were his Technicolor dream coat that he wore on the stage of infinite possibilities.

Romantic words should always be used when describing a deliberate and passionate choice to explore one’s very own spirituality; unobstructed by the boundaries and influences of a world that can be sometimes difficult to understand, and at other times even more difficult to love.

So, with the eyes of the world, we would see a ragged and torn man in his early 40's. Hair that is dirty brown, getting longer everyday, matted and in need of a comb. Pants a size too big, maybe two sizes by the end of next week. A braided fine leather belt with a fancy turquoise buckle; well actually a carefully sized electrical cord with a well tied granny’s knot where the buckle should have been, but that’s just semantics and a lack of vivid imagination.

His name was Mister.

In contrast stood David. He was clean cut, as clean as they come. Why there was no doubt in David’s mind that he was one of God’s chosen vessels. Armed with the Word and the knowledge that the Word was good (and of course that the Word was God and God was the Word), he was on a mission of incredible importance. You may not know the difference between the Psalms and the Proverbs, but you’d better believe that David did. This young man had barely turned 18, yet he knew with all of the wisdom of a noble sage what his life’s work was cut out to be. His mission, much more important than saving lives; his quest was eternal. He was going to save souls. He would steal them back from the Devil one by one!

His big blue eyes, sunshine blond hair, and perfect smile full of zest were worn on a youthful firm body made strong from years of track, and of course the holy trinity of sports; baseball, basketball, and football. Yes, of course he had been quarterback.

Others may have come before him in teams, with their sandwiches, their blankets, and their toiletries, but he stepped into the park alone on this warm Denver evening. He stepped into the shadows of darkness armed with only his good intentions and his very own, worn from study, bible. The Holy Bible, standard King James Version, with the thee’s and thou’s. The very word, bible, he thought, did not do it justice. “The Living Word of a Living God!” he shouted proudly as the daylight burned it’s final hour. He had not yet saved a soul, but his conviction would not honor any discouragement. “To the glory of God I will save a soul before the setting of the sun!”

Conviction and madness are often indistinguishable.

When David approached the tree where the worn and tattered old homeless man was sitting, he momentarily glanced down to discover a crumpled up bill, an Andrew Jackson. This is a very good sign; he thought “perhaps I can use this as a strategy to gain the confidence of this poor and helpless old soul.”

“Excuse me mister” David forcefully announced.

“Yes son?” replied the man, not looking up from his work as he was tuning a little transistor radio someone had left for him near a dumpster.

“Mister, did you lose some money?” David questioned, “I found a 20 dollar bill over there that I think may belong to you.”

Mister ceased his fancy electronic repairs; reaching into his pocket he retrieved a thick wad of bills, tied delicately with a scarlet ribbon. He counted quickly, and by David’s estimation he had thumbed through over a dozen assorted bills.

“Son, it is not mine, but thanks for asking.”

Shocked, David found himself momentarily at a loss for words.

“Now you look a little lost yourself” spoke the man, “the park is no place for a child at night. Go on home where you belong.”

Confused and speechless, David began to obey the old man’s command. “God bless you mister” was all that he could manage to say.

David never saved a soul that night. His well rehearsed speech on the gift of salvation, joy and redemption, and the high price of forgiveness that had already been paid, remained unspoken.

There would be plenty of souls to save tomorrow.

All Children Have Dreams...

When I was a child, one of my recurring dreams carried with it the joy of flight. In this dream all that I needed to do was to bend my legs at the knees and swoosh I was off in flight. The wind blew through my hair and with a little practice I was soon navigating the aerial neighborhood above the small housing community we lived in.

Another series of childhood dreams occurred in the vicinity of the bush that grew in the front yard. You see, from the front it looked like an ordinary shrub with a few scattered wood chips that covered its roots. But in my dreams, when I would sneak behind the bush it turned into a magical world filled with dinosaurs and pterodactyls. It was a crossover place with equal parts Where the Wild Things Are and Land of the Lost.

These were the good childhood dreams. There were of course also the dreams in which I wound up walking to school wearing only my underwear. Although I grew more embarrassed with each and every step, I could not stop my forward motion until I would finally wake frantically from my dream right as I was standing in front of my kindergarten class.

Then there was the really bad dream...

In the very worst childhood dream I ever had, I woke up from my dream and I was all alone in our house on Beecher Street. It was a two-story Milwaukee style home built in the 1900s. The only problem was, I was not really awake. It was a dream within a dream! I was scared but I did not know why. Terrified actually.

Something was keeping me trapped in the house and as hard as I tried I could not wake up. If you have ever had a dream such as this, you know the terror of which I speak; the overwhelming feeling of impending doom.

And the doom was consuming me and I felt as though I was going to become the victim of a fate worse than death. I could hardly breathe. I could hardly walk. I could hardly see. I was being overcome by despair.

At the moment when all seemed lost, my brother James entered the front door of my dream and instantly everything was ok. My brother James has always been like that. Even in my dreams he was there protecting me.

I only wish that I could be in his dreams tonight, protecting him the way that he would surely have protected me.

All I Wanted Was a Pepsi

I had a friend once; one of those incredibly handsome, incredibly charismatic, incredibly charming, everything he touched was blessed kind of people. You couldn’t help but like him.

He had a bad day and wound up on the wrong side of a pistol, a pistol that he alone was holding. He pulled the trigger, I wish he hadn’t, but he did. No miracles, no divine intervention, just dead and buried and gone forever.

I have been fortunate, for even in my darkest of times I have always held onto the hope that there would be one more moment of joy worth fighting for. For me that joy now fills most every waking hour of my existence; perhaps that is why I often try to put positive energy into the world.

There is plenty of suffering, plenty of meanness, plenty of “bad stuff” going around that I do not want to contribute. Sometimes it can be quite seductive, it can feel temporarily good to put someone down, it can be easier to be unkind…and sometimes I am. I am only human, but when I make a mess I hold onto the ideal that I eventually will try to come around to cleaning it up.

I wrote a book once that was deeply personal and filled with what may have been some of my best poems and short stories. This was long before the days in which we all had our own personal computers, so it was written in hand, sometimes scribbled in crayon, and sometimes artistically woven with painstaking calligraphic beauty.

Then I built a fire while I was camping alone; I enjoyed the peace of looking into the flames, the way my thoughts were carried off in the flickering and crackling of the embers. In one of my moments of despair and darkness I threw this book into the flames. It is forever gone.

For some reason, tonight I remembered a few lines of one of the poems…it was about circles and karma and new beginnings and lost opportunities…

a child is born as an old man lay dying
and happiness found is another day crying…
it’s the circle of life, a free flowing line
that keeps the scales balanced and balances time.

If you are sad, you are not alone.

There will be another day filled with smiles, although you can not see it right now it will arrive.

Hold on.

Mitakuye Oyasin

Several years ago, in the first season following my tour of duty as an authentic G.I.Joe, I set foot onto a campus of higher learning to obtain a formal education. I was unaware at the time that in life the real learning occurrs outside of the context of the classroom environment.

As a veteran soldier, I was abducted by a group of Native American veterans seeking to remember a fallen brother in arms, Ira Hayes. A full blooded Pima warrior, this man who at one time raised a flag at Iwo Jima, died while lost to a life of obscurity. Cultural genocide can be a cunning enemy.

Mitakuye Oyasin

A roommate of mine, in the season following this, borrowed my car for a very long time. My friend was both Dine (Navajo) and Lakota Sioux. Prior to his departure, he had the most beautiful hair I had ever seen…it literally fell all the way to the ground. He returned days later and perhaps I should have been mad. His ponytail was not with him. His grandfather had passed away.

In a discussion later I would learn an invaluable insight. My young idealistic mind was filled with so many questions, and he was always willing to share the stories of his other world, but one night in frustration he said unto me "Find your own Grandfathers!"

Mitakuye Oyasin

Half a dozen seasons times half a dozen years later I found myself standing in the middle of Cockroach Park. I have never known the real name of this park. I was at a Pow Wow that turned into a gathering at one of the elders' homes. The Pow Wow began in August and somehow it ended near the beginning of the winter solstice.

I sat out by the fire as the sacred stones were being prepared for ceremony. The snow fell gently on my shoulders, the moon was full, and I listened to the sound of the night, the sound of the wind, the sound of the fire burning. As the fire began to tell its tale, I understood this ancient language, this cracking and popping and warming of wood. This was the very same fire that my grandfathers had listened to as they tended to their animals while sitting on a ridge somewhere in the Scottish highlands.

Mitakuye Oyasin

It is a Lakota word that means we are all related. We are all connected to one another, to the Earth, the animals and all of nature. We are indeed a family.

I had finally found my grandfathers.

Boom Sham-a-lam-ah!

The youngest of my cubs delights me to no end. Spending time in his presence is truly an exercise in non-stop hilarity. The things that make him laugh are nothing more than the common elements of our everyday existence. Through his eyes I am learning to laugh at just about anything, to laugh at just about everything…and it is just about time that I have learned to just laugh about the sound of laughter.

Laughter keeps the heart young and there is nothing quite like feeling the heartbeat of your child nestled in your arms. Heart to heart, beat to beat, breath to breath; teach me something baby, teach me something new.

Late at night when we have performed our daily ritual of floating beyond new horizons in a hot, fun-to-be-young bubble bath…the drumming begins.

Bam-bam has nothing on my Boom Sham-a-lam-ah! With a spoon and a pan or a rock and a can, the rhythms flow pure and loud and wild and free.

So, lately I’ve been winding him down to dream town with the sound of drums in the background. Shamanic drumming beats looped back-to-back with psychedelic multi-colored patterns dancing on the screen as he and I drift to the place between awake and sleep.

I confess I am a bit too old and cynical and faithless to let the shamanic drumming carry me off to the otherworld. But with my child in my arms I hold on tight, ready to journey beyond this world as his eager and steadfast companion!

Endnote: The other night his mother my wife checked on us as we sat in my armchair drifting off into our nightly trance. She said she could not find us. We were there, only we were temporarily invisible to the naked eye!

Tolerance

While I was still knee-high to a grasshopper, I participated in a class project that involved building an ant farm for our class. Everyone was allowed to bring in a jar full of ants on opening day, so I spent the weekend gathering ants while avoiding the temptation to cook them with a magnifying glass.

On the grand opening of our elaborate "farm," each of us little first grade hobgoblins lined up to empty our jars of ants into their new homes. Immediately, most of them began crawling into their little tunnels and making themselves at home.

For some reason, however, my ants just roamed around on the surface. The teacher could see I was concerned about my ants not entering their wonderful new tunnels and he came over to console me. In a comforting voice he said they were not going into their holes because, in his words, "you've got taller ants!"

I have no tolerance sometimes, but then there are other times when I am the model of patience and understanding.

Flipping a coin can usually determine which side of the fence I am on.

Acmena Lilly Pily

I would like to take a long dip inside the Acmena Lilly Pily.

You are lost. I am not.

I have been thinking, and then analyzing, and then attempting to un-think thoughts that are deep rooted in the fiber of the American experience, or my experience, or a combination of both.

Pedagogical unraveling still seems to follow traditional paradigms.

I would like to quick shift my paradigm and then freeze frame it in time so I can take a good look at things from an entirely new perspective.

Step inside of my world for a moment and take for instance a stab at “thinking outside of the box.” Wow, not an entirely novice gesture, but an admirable and noble pursuit. But wait. In thinking outside of the box, thinking creatively, thinking with bold new brush strokes, there is really nothing new but a slight shift of perspective.

Don’t you get it???? Your thinking is still in direct relation to "the box." And if you want to change the world, you can not change it by attempting to change it, even if you attempt a radical shift in direct relation to the thing you are attempting to change.

You are a product of "the box!" Fight it, flee it, acknowledge it and free it. The “box” still remains.

Even if you attempt to destroy or burn the box, you are still acting in direct relation to it. Can you escape?...follow me, I think I may have found a way...

Let’s go swimming in the sweet juice of the Acmena Lilly Pily.

Note: Acmena Lilly Pily just came into existence in my world as I began to write these words. It is something that I will assume to be completely real. It is an exotic Australian fruit that is in the form of a berry. It is not poisonous. I have never been to Australia nor have I tasted this fruit. Therefore…instead of thinking outside of “the box," instead of trying to ignore the existence of “the box," I will go swimming in the rare fruit of a berry that comes from an island I have never been to and hopefully “the box” will just go away.

It is worth a try

Not Easy Being Green

I remember a time when I rowed the boat from shore.

Hallelujah!

It was dusk on the river, with twilight setting in as the sunset slipped away behind a horizon filled with trees. It was summer so of course they were all green.

How many such horizons has any one of us seen in a lifetime?

And as I rowed the boat from shore...

Hallelujah!

There was a smell of fresh water filling my youthful nostrils, clean and vibrant and pure and wet. The smell of the outdoors will always reawaken such childhood memories.

The sense of smell is definitely among the top five, don’t you agree?

The oars created a remarkably simple melody as I rowed the boat from shore.

Hallelujah!

The tiny heads of little frogs appeared upon the water and nearby splashes marked the memory of frog prints on abundant lily pads. The night has always held traces of such magical moments.

When night consumes and sleep arrives, what are the fond memories of which you dream?

There are no more frogs upon the river of my childhood. Glimpses of green can not be seen as the moonlight reflects upon the moments caught in mystical underwater frog dances.

The lily pads have been replaced by shore bound condominiums. Concrete mixed with steal in swift architectural brush strokes can not capture the simple shades of green that were intrinsic to the quaint little homes of long forgotten frogs.

The horizon is still there, yes my friend that is true, but the trees are few and far between.

You see, in this world of ours, it is not very easy being green.

Delivery Me This...

Quite often…the story appears to begin in the delivery room.

We are socialized to naturally think that without an audience, the tree does not make a sound as it falls in the woods. It appears to be a moment of truth, the moment when that first breath is taken; the moment beyond when the head first crowns that it all begins to make sense.

These are the never quite remembered flurry of moments in which consciousness and dreaming breath as one. Time itself stands still. For the briefest of moments there is a pause as the universal language utters life; but the mysticism seems to quietly fade away the moment the umbilical chord is cut and the intricate connection with the mother is physically severed forever.

There is no going back, life must always move forward.

Long forgotten are these moments of conception, these magical moments when from the abyss and semi-lifeless single celled separation of man and woman two threads are woven together into the divine. These are the moments that the already begun appears to begin.

Sometimes the subtle nuances of theological faith raging in dialectic tension against scientific reasoning seem unavoidable. Perhaps they should aspire to be more like the awkward dancing of various separate rhythms. Beyond the moment of imagination, the artistic rendering of DNA sequencing, the melodic recording of the complete uniqueness of a life unlike any other…alas, our minds so seldom embrace what exactly it is that our eyes can not see.

What if THE story begins with a birth…a childhood, selected memories, youth, turmoil, angst and joy, mingled randomly with countless other possibilities. There really is no such transcendence found in the deception spoken in the cliché regarding yet again, the same old story. As much thought is given to the moment of the first breath, so too shall it be given at the very moment of the last breath. A story with identical details, a story of yet another birth, and soon we forget all that is not written. The circle of life is the simple irony that everything that every will be, has already been.

Only no one remembers.

Would you rather hear a story that is merely about stale doughnuts or something like that, rather plain, and unassuming?

Good narrative, drama, love, and death. Hollywood I bow to thee.

Daily Meditations

I would rather be touched by madness than scarred by mediocrity.

Is there anything wrong with taking a moment to acknowledge that some of the thoughts we have entertained over the years would surely mark us as crazy? If the world only knew the things that only we know. There is no need to ponder this notion endlessly, it is either true or it is irrelevant, or both.

Whenever we allow ourselves the time to reflect upon the thoughts that live within our minds, we give ourselves a wonderful gift. Reflecting can be a powerful tool that serves to either inhibit us or challenge us to grow. It is through critical reflection that we develop and enhance our analytical skills.

Thinking, in and of itself however, is never enough. The act of thinking alone, no matter how deep or insightful the thoughts may be, should serve a greater purpose than self entertainment. Without action, thoughts are nothing more than beautiful images sculpted into the landscape of our minds. Wind and change will erode these images and all that will be left is sand.

Thoughts woven into action can be eternal. If we allow our reflective process to guide our decision making process, if we ponder relentlessly all that is fathomable, the exercise will not be in vain if at its closure we have taken the responsibility to act on our choices. And of course, if it is wise choices that we make, we have succeeded in taking an important step.

I Blog Alone

I enjoy blogging, although I hear that it can make you go blind.