My ability to juggle seems to have hit an all time low, but I’m-a-tryin!
I guess it’s really all about being able to get psyched for the show, ready for the big game, feet in the stirrups, and all that jazz. I just need a minute, a deep breath, a heavy sigh, and about a teaspoon of gratitude…
So even though my make-up seems to be a little flaking and the dreams within my heart are slightly aching, I walk the mile and dress in style, and wouldn’t you know it that on my face the cheesy smile…still stays on!
Perhaps Freddy Mercury said it best when he passionately concluded:
I'll top the bill! I'll overkill! I have to find the will to carry on! On with the, On with the show! The Show must go on.
His musical legacy lives on, but of course he died not long after singing these words.
Se la vie, carpe diem, esprit de corps, vini vidi vicci, and ibbity bibbity bippity bop!
I would bargain for a few extra hours in the day but I suppose working double time will have to suffice.
Fortunately there are very few challenges in life that a nap is unable to remedy. So armed with a teddy bear, a body pillow, and a cup of tea I tell myself that soon enough victory will be mine. But victory will have to wait until after my nap.
If only I were a cobbler and the elves were on their way...where is Waldo when you need him?
Some people have children in an attempt at non-scientific cloning; yearning to relive all of their shattered hopes and dreams through the possibility of a brighter future as seen through the eyes of their children.
For others, children are merely the accidental byproduct of a moment’s passion.
Some couples, perhaps, think that children are the well-planned reward of fiscal frugality and relational success.
And then, there are those of us that have a twinkle in our eye and a smile on our face whenever we think of our children. For us, perhaps, the reason matters much less than the result. “Woo hoo! Life is grand, we have children!” or so we say and think.
For me, I only know that I do have children. The world is different. The grass is greener. The sun is brighter. Cookies taste better.
Everyday when I come home there is a child whose whole world lights up because I am in the world. Wow! Tell me, how cool is that?!
It is only through the act of being a child and having a child that we are able to approach a full understanding of unconditional love!
Today my son and I shared a plate of spaghetti. For the first time in his life he discovered the joy of slurping up a noodle. With his tiny little fingers and his tiny little hands, he grabbed up noodles one by one. AND HE SLURPED THEM.
All I have to do is think about ‘the slurping of noodles’ and I am smiling inside and out.
That is why I have children, to remind myself that it is the simple things in life that are truly important.
Strangers know less than what we tell them…and less than half of what they see. Or so the story goes…
A story that isn’t told well loses all of its magnificence to the untrained or uninterested audience.
If we listen, each voice we hear tells its own complicated and fascinating story; its own incredible tale of sorrow and joy, passion and pain, sunrise and sunset.
Often stories that are told well are those that are artfully woven with crisp and clear details, with waves of flowing words that awaken each of our senses.
For me, however, sometimes the best part of a story is the part that remains hidden and untold. The truth is always out there waiting for someone to discover it. When my imagination is given free reign to run wild as it pleases, every breath becomes clouded with double meanings and things are never quite as simple as they appear.
Truth is truly stranger than fiction, and fiction is as fiction does.
I had some dreams; they were clouds in my coffee. ~ Carly Simon
I must have been about twenty-five-years-old when I sat down for the first time on an off-colored, poorly upholstered, semi-chairish couch at the local coffee shop. Sitting around drinking coffee in an eclectic public environment filled with intellectual chit-chat, socialist word-paintings, and awkward first-date conversations seemed like such a novel and bourgeois idea.
I do remember my very first cup of hot coffee. It was nighttime in the desert and the wind that blew chilled straight to the bone. My buddy pulled out a thermos and filled my canteen cup with the steaming hot black drink. Black has always been my favorite color. Black was the color of this moonless cloud-covered night. Black was the color of my childhood dreams. Black was the color of my foxhole buddy, a man I would have taken a bullet for without a moment’s hesitation.
Black is the color you will see when you look deep into the eyes of death. I have never given much attention to the bright white and purity of light rumors from those that say they have returned from beyond the darkness. I guess I just never stared into the eyes of death long enough to find out for myself.
I like my coffee black. It is all that I have ever truly known. And I do believe that Sisyphus deserves a coffee break.
“I have measured out my life with coffee spoons.” T.S. Elliot
In some circles, there is a saying that religion is for those that are afraid of going to hell and spirituality is for those that have already been there. Although I have always enjoyed the subtle self-righteousness of that saying; I have met many a deeply spiritual folk whose personal connections to the Sacred stemmed directly from their devotion to the rituals of their religious persuasions, whether grounded in the time that they served in a mosque, a temple, a synagogue, a church, a mandir, a hogan, or a yadao zadora.
As my good friend Snoop would say, however, let’s get back to the lecture at hand. Rastafrican Kamaloha is a sui generis blend of exquisite coffee beans combined with the pseudo-unique ritual necessary for brewing such beans.
For those that do not know the difference between Coffea Arabica and Coffea Canephor, you have much to learn.
Part I attempted to establish the underlying premise that spirituality is both a collective and a personal journey (and one that I hope you are on). Part II is designed to illustrate the many facets that necessitate spiritually guided philosophy. In essence, it is through ritual and devotion that we are able to transcend the mundane of the ordinary. Or as Morpheus suggests, there is a difference between knowing the path and walking the path; “I can only show you the door. You're the one that has to walk through it.”
Let us reflect back upon the Moses Principle alluded to in Part I. In the strictest literal translation of many a miraculous act, does it require a leap of faith to believe that Moses did in fact part the Red Sea? For me it comes quite easily with faith, “to believe,” as long as the caveat is added that Moses was only able to part the Red Sea only after he had finished drinking his morning cup of coffee.
For my fellow java aficionados follow with me full speed ahead. For those of you Arabica-ly challenged unfortunates; attempt to view both the pomp and circumstance of ritual though the paradigm of whatever habit nourishes you daily. Tea perhaps? Crumpet maybe?
In the context of the fast food culture that most of us are immersed in, only 30 second sound bytes can capture our attention. I therefore urge you to trust me, initially, but do your own research. Schoolhouse Rock may have taught us that three is a magic number; however, four is a sacred number.
Coffee is sacred. In my humble opinion, four of the world’s finest coffee beans are 1) Jamaican Blue Mountain, 2) Tanzanian Peaberry, 3) Sumatra Mandheling, and 4) Hawaiian Kona.
A very specific combination of the above blend is the foundation of Rastafrican Kamaloha. Yes, there exist many words in my vocabulary that were given their first breath by moi. A fundamental and universal communication concept is that meanings are held among people and not in words; so for me Rastafrican Kamaloha has great meaning.
Rasta [rah-stuh]: JamaicanBlueMountain~grown in the perpetual mist of Jamaica’s highest mountain range. (a)frican [(a)f-ri-kuhn]: Tanzanian Peaberry~grown on the slopes of Mount Kilimanjaro. Kama [kah-muh]: Sumatra Mandheling~grown in the islands of Indonesia and named in this case after the Hindu god of erotic desire. (A)loha [(ah)-loh-hah]: Hawaiian Kona~named for the welcoming spirit that prevails throughout the islands where Kona is grown.
Fair Trade Certified Coffee a must!
So there you have it; the literal translation of Rastafrican Kamaloha.
Add to this foundation, clear blue water with a minimum mineral content of 150-200 parts per million. I prefer tap water from Colorado Springs or if it must come in a bottle then Fuji will do, but make do with what you can.
When I was seven, I used to spend the greater part of every Sunday being indoctrinated deep within the heart of the Christian faith. I can not say that it was something that I looked forward to, nor can I say that it was something that I dreaded. It simply was what it was...Sunday spent in a house of God; being told what to believe, how to believe, who to believe, and why.
I remember memorizing scriptures, singing hymns, trying to stay awake during sermons, and learning to keep any original thoughts and the numerous questions the experience induced to myself.
After all, what do you say to kid that asks “if God created everything, who created God?” Is it normal for a kid to ponder inconsistencies such as the concept that God loves you unconditionally and yet one should also be a "God fearing Christian?”
So many irreconcilable differences emerged between what was being said and what actually seemed to make sense.
One particular set of stories that I always struggled with was the whole Moses, slavery then exodus from Egypt, and the Ten Commandment’s. The Charlton Heston imagery set me on a philosophical whirlwind that I would not come to fully understand until I was an adult.How could someone (Moses) talk directly with God (the burning bush) and still find room to doubt and disobey?
Moses was a spiritual man. He was the chosen one. And yet, he was also human. Although he was the deliverer, the Promised Land was never his to see.So what does his have to do with Rastafrican Kamaloha?
Well, I guess it has to do with discovering for yourself if you have ever been to the crossroads or how far you would be willing to go to have a spiritual experience.
Is everything somehow interconnected and interrelated? Or is everything random and does chance rule the universe?
Well hell, push me into shallow water before I get too deep. Rastafrican Kamaloha could very well just be a handful of coffee beans, roasted to perfection. To the untrained observer we will discover that that is precisely what Rastafrican Kamaloha is. For me anyhow...
I had another one of those dreams again last night. You know the type! In this particular dream I was a noble and beloved hero that was adored by everyone.
It was really quite a good dream. I had solved the problem of global warming and the world threw me one hell of a party.
The solution?
Ice Cube Mondays!
Get it? All week, everyone would make a couple of trays of ice cubes and at the end of the week, bright and early on Monday morning, they would awake to the joyful feeling that can only come from playing ones part in saving humanity.
Ice Cube Mondays!
Everyone took their trays and scattered ice upon their lawn or in their driveways. Miraculously, the temperature of the planet dropped, and global warming was ended.
Now the specific-techno-scientific-human-reality type details about global warming did not take up any of my dream space. What did take up all of my dream space was the greatest party ever known—the Joe’s Our Hero for Saving the World Party!
Awesome party! Everyone was there including YOU!
I can’t wait to go to bed tonight…who knows, the party could still be going on!
Whatever happens, tomorrow will come. Chances are it is almost here, getting closer with every passing moment.
This we cannot change.
What we can do, however, after accepting this fact of course, is embrace the opportunity to provide some input into the shape and texture of the future.
Embrace the opportunity!
Simply said, not simply done.
Who has the best strategy?
Well here is one idea, start by imagining the very best and brightest of futures and allow no obstacles to cloud this vision.
It is as difficult to explain what shamanism is as it is to define the context of my experimentation with the world of the shaman.
Peter Viebsky, a cultural anthropologist, provides a rich introduction to the complexity of defining shamanism.
“Shamans are at once doctors, priests, social workers and mystics. They have been called madmen or madwomen, were frequently persecuted throughout history, dismissed in the 1960s as a ‘desiccated’ and ‘insipid’ figment of the anthropologist’s imagination, and are now so fashionable that they inspire both intense academic debate and the naming of pop groups. Shamans have probably attracted more diverse and conflicting opinions than any other kind of spiritual specialist. The shaman seems to be all things to all people.”
The word shaman itself has received a great deal of debate in some areas of anthropology. According to Viebsky the word shaman comes from the language of the Evenk, a small Tungus-speaking group of hunters and reindeer herders in Siberia.
On the one hand the word replaces another term, witch doctor, which carries with it stereotypical images and historical misunderstandings of the spiritual role of the shaman. On the other hand, however, the term comes from a specific culture and is tied to the beliefs of that culture (the Siberian shaman).
Alice Kehoe, an anthropologist critical of the term, describes the challenge of New Age and modern Western forms of Shamanism. According to Kehoe the problem is that these groups not only misrepresent or 'dilute' genuine indigenous practices but do so in a way that reinforces negative cultural stereotypes.
Common words that are used in a variety of sources to describe the shaman include spiritual healer, guide, storyteller, and mystic. In a pseudo-new-age-styled text designed to teach shamanic principles, Sandra Ingerman captures this sentiment by stating “when many of us think of the word ‘shaman,’ it brings to mind a spiritual healer steeped in secret knowledge and mysterious powers.”
Although I truly appreciate that there are numerous books designed to teach the western world this ‘secret knowledge and mysterious power,’ I fear that these are merely an ethnocentric approach to gaining wisdom and insights without doing any of the hard work of understanding the complexity of a culture other than ones own.
Who knows, I could be wrong.
Each night for the past year, give or take, I put a compact disc of shamanic drumming into my computer and set it on a virtual replay cycle.
My computer monitor fades to black and then reemerges with hallucinogen-like images of rainbow colored lines and circles and stars and swirls. Over and over, dancing in harmony with the rhythm’s played on my crisp and clear Bose speakers.
Magic never sounded so good.
Perhaps the magic is indeed the medium; a young and beautiful multifaceted gift from God. As I hold my infant son in my lap, we rock back and forth allowing our hearts to beat in unison with the drumming and the dreaming and the drifting.
My wife smiles and leaves us alone to our bonding, pleased that only one of us will emerge from the experience awake, the other to rest peacefully through the night.
Truth be told, however, I am much too seasoned and cynical to take the leap of faith into the other world, the outer world, the under world. But I hold on tightly to my son because part of me believes that one night he will indeed transcend and if I am lucky I will get go along for the ride.
Postscript: Now that my youngest has traveled the sun in one full circle, it will not be much longer and I will not be able to get away with reading him Mircea Eliade and pretending it is a bed time story.
While laziness kisses my lips, a dozen chocolaty chipped cookies make their way to my hips.
But what manner of man am I, to fret over such frivolous things?
I have never butchered a once living beast, nor have I dipped a wax wick into a candlestick…but Tollhouse and I have kicked it with the Crocker’s every night since the illustrious Sweet Tooth Mutiny.
And now heavily sedated by sugary venom I think of things imagined but unfinished…
Tall grass grows where my lawnmower once roamed.
Tree branches loom where my chainsaw once danced at the end of a pole.
The water runs green where the filters once were clean and choking with thick chlorine.
And tool after tool must join to gather their dust as celibacy pervades over their creationist lust.
What manner of man am I to leave chore after chore at the door like a whore?
Oh, to lose myself in the translation of lists unfinished and unfortunately unforgotten?
Short lived, say I, as my man cub tries to claim his throne by beating me senseless with plastic spatulas and misshaped Tupperware weaponry.
Could this be the manner of man I am, bench warming the seat of tomorrow while my children plot my demise?
Everybody has an attitude…that is, everybody with a pulse.
Sometimes a pessimist is just an optimist with a bad attitude. Perhaps an optimist is just a pessimist that doesn’t know any better.
What is the condition of your glass? And if your eyes are not too good, what is the condition of your glasses?
Optimism likely stems from a couple of possible sources; it can flow from an inner hope that everything will work out all right; it can mirror deep conviction and a faith that life is part of a larger picture; or it can be contagious, like an airborne element caught when surrounded by positive people.
Optimism—Pessimism—or anywhere along the continuum may be factors chosen by free will or they may be environmental in nature.
Either way, an optimist is always more fun to be around…though pessimists may often have a better sense of humor.
For all you hardcore parents out there…you know what I’m talking about.
Just when you are settled in for the evening and think all is well in the world, it happens! When you least expect it, wham! Another assassination attempt!
Trust me, you have to be vigilant and on your toes at all times because you just never know when one of your kids is going to try to take you out.
My youngest tried to kill me tonight.
It was his first assassination attempt.
He is not even a year old.
“Oh, he’s just a baby” you say.
Well I say you don’t have to believe me, this time I have witnesses.
First, he pushed his walker into the hallway right outside the downstairs bathroom.Then he snuck into the bathroom and started tearing up the place, knowing damn well I would be the one to come a-chasing after him. In one quick motion I snatched him into my arms and swung around to exit the scene of the crime.BUT as I turned, I swear he smiled and winked at me as my foot hit the walker and my left leg began to give out.
He is slick.
He is patient.
He is crafty.
He is diligent.
He knew my paternal instinct would kick in and I would throw myself into harms way to ensure that he was safe.So as I fell, smashing crashing and bashing myself on the way down…like a heroic warrior I gently set him sitting on the counter before the final crash.
Him—unharmed and smiling.
Me—two broken legs, a bruised elbow, and a minor concussion.
This time he was unsuccessful.There will be a next time, when and where and how I do not know. But there will be a next time, mark my words.
p.s. For the unconditionally loving parent types out there, I know you will understand this when I say that although my son quite literally tried to take me out tonight, I am quite proud of the strategic brilliance of his attack.
n]: Tanzanian Peaberry~grown on the slopes of 
