Because of the acceleration of government control in our lives I was going to re-post my blog entitled "Everybody Feeling The Pressure", from April 22, 2009. It was posted two years ago, and describes and defines the state of affairs in our country today. It was a wake-up call that is all the more relevant today. Although I've decided not to re-post it here, I would encourage you to find it in my blog archive and re-read it.
It seems to me however, that with the supposed culture war on women, the continuing attacks both by, and on, religion, we could all use a little levity for a change. For that reason I have re-posted below, a blog from April 30, 2009, entitled, "I Saw The Virgin Mary In A Cracker". I hope you can enjoy it.
I Saw The Virgin Mary In A Cracker
It was not the first time I saw the Virgin Mary. But it was the first time I saw her in a cracker. I understand she’s been seen in Dorritos, tortillas, on toast, and even in a biscuit. Partial to snacks, I guess. I’m not going to say anything here about women and food. Maybe the Virgin Mary figures appearing in snacks is the best way to communicate with Americans. I understand that in England she appears in tea bags. She’s also been seen periodically on walls, and in trees. I can understand why she might be in a tree, but can’t quite figure why she’d want to appear on a wall, unless maybe to speak to graffiti artists, or spread-eagled crime suspects waiting to be frisked.
I think I remember seeing her in a video, but, oh wait, that was Madonna. Sorry. Easy to confuse them, y’know, with the veil and all. Similar names, unblemished reputations, and complexion.
The question I have is “Why would the Virgin Mary want to appear to anyone anyway?” It’s not like she’s wanting to be popular, or anything like that. If that were the case she could open a MySpace or FaceBook account like the rest of us. No, I think maybe she just likes the notoriety of popping up for a few minutes here and there, get people talking about miracles again, keep herself in the news just enough to not be forgotten, then she’s gone. You know, kinda like Michael Jackson.
Or maybe it’s not about her at all, maybe it’s really about getting people to remember that, even though she’s a virgin, she’s got a pretty cool son. Maybe she’s curious if anybody cares about him anymore, or even remembers him. You know how mothers are about their kids, always looking out for them.
And I understand he takes after his mother.
I remember reading that he showed up not too long ago
in a grilled cheese sandwich.
Yeah, like mother, like son.
Thursday, March 22, 2012
Sunday, February 19, 2012
Seeking William Wallace
William Wallace, where have you gone?
We could use a bit of your chutzpah right about now.
I watched the movie, ‘Braveheart’, last night. I had a particular interest in, and identification with, the film because I am of Scottish ancestry. If you haven’t seen the movie, or if you have seen it, but not for a very long time, I would encourage you to Netflix it again. It is, in my opinion, one of the best movies ever produced. It was nominated for ten Academy Awards, and won five, including Best Picture, Best Director, Cinematography, and Sound Editing.
But that doesn’t tell the whole story, by any means. Braveheart is not about Academy Awards; it is about courage. It is about freedom, and it is about an indomitable will, a will that will not allow tyrannical rule, in ones life, or in ones country; something we know very little about today. Now, whether the movie is entirely historically accurate, or not, is almost irrelevant. Very few movies are. But the point is that it is an inspirational look at the human spirit, a spirit which, when summoned to defend its inalienable right to be free, refuses to be conquered, to be subjugated to authority, or even controlled by ones own weakness. It is a triumph of substance over style, truth over shallow ideology, soul over the status quo, right over wrong, and courage over fear.
Our culture today presents us every opportunity to just go along to get along. We offer incentives and rewards for weakness, for personal compromise, and for behavior that tears down our very stature, rather than reinforcing it. It is the world we have created for ourselves, and it is the world we have come to willingly embrace.
Braveheart illuminated Scotland’s courageous stand against the tyrannical occupation by the British, but it also revealed the men’s commitment to the defense of the lives, and the honor, of their women. When their wives were seized, raped, and, in the case of William Wallace’s wife, ultimately killed by the British, it enflamed a furor within the men that was unmatched even by their commitment to defend their homeland.
In our present culture, however, we as men are reluctant even to stand between our own wives and the ravages of the world. Our women are being used and abused by the world on a daily basis, and yet we continue to send them out there to fight our battles for us. We permit the denigration, and subjugation, of women through the proliferation of images that portray them to be objects to be used only for sexual gratification, and the indulgence of ego. Unfortunately, many women, and girls, present themselves in the same, or in an even more, unfavorable light. And we let them. But the point here is that we as men no longer summon the valor to stand against this diminishing standard, or the courage to insist that it must change. We have become deathly afraid of being less than politically correct, and it has manifested itself in our culture to the uncompromising detriment of our women.
We, as a nation, are in the process of approving women for combat in the military. Need I say more? We are afraid to stand up to the powers, and the influences, that determine our course. We are afraid to stand up to our own wives and daughters as well. Are we going to continue to allow them not only to fight our battles for us, but to engage in the dangerous business of war as well? If so, what does that really say about us? We will have descended as a nation past the point of diminishing returns.
Our politicians have become cowards, our teachers and religious leaders are afraid to offend, and our standard bearers have vanished like a passing wind.
Men, give ‘Braveheart’ another viewing. Be inspired; embrace the capacity for courage within yourself, and the commitment to inspire that same courage within others. Make a commitment to be sober minded and clear thinking for, perhaps even, the first time in your life.
Where, I ask, is William Wallace?
We could use a bit of your chutzpah right about now.
I watched the movie, ‘Braveheart’, last night. I had a particular interest in, and identification with, the film because I am of Scottish ancestry. If you haven’t seen the movie, or if you have seen it, but not for a very long time, I would encourage you to Netflix it again. It is, in my opinion, one of the best movies ever produced. It was nominated for ten Academy Awards, and won five, including Best Picture, Best Director, Cinematography, and Sound Editing.
But that doesn’t tell the whole story, by any means. Braveheart is not about Academy Awards; it is about courage. It is about freedom, and it is about an indomitable will, a will that will not allow tyrannical rule, in ones life, or in ones country; something we know very little about today. Now, whether the movie is entirely historically accurate, or not, is almost irrelevant. Very few movies are. But the point is that it is an inspirational look at the human spirit, a spirit which, when summoned to defend its inalienable right to be free, refuses to be conquered, to be subjugated to authority, or even controlled by ones own weakness. It is a triumph of substance over style, truth over shallow ideology, soul over the status quo, right over wrong, and courage over fear.
Our culture today presents us every opportunity to just go along to get along. We offer incentives and rewards for weakness, for personal compromise, and for behavior that tears down our very stature, rather than reinforcing it. It is the world we have created for ourselves, and it is the world we have come to willingly embrace.
Braveheart illuminated Scotland’s courageous stand against the tyrannical occupation by the British, but it also revealed the men’s commitment to the defense of the lives, and the honor, of their women. When their wives were seized, raped, and, in the case of William Wallace’s wife, ultimately killed by the British, it enflamed a furor within the men that was unmatched even by their commitment to defend their homeland.
In our present culture, however, we as men are reluctant even to stand between our own wives and the ravages of the world. Our women are being used and abused by the world on a daily basis, and yet we continue to send them out there to fight our battles for us. We permit the denigration, and subjugation, of women through the proliferation of images that portray them to be objects to be used only for sexual gratification, and the indulgence of ego. Unfortunately, many women, and girls, present themselves in the same, or in an even more, unfavorable light. And we let them. But the point here is that we as men no longer summon the valor to stand against this diminishing standard, or the courage to insist that it must change. We have become deathly afraid of being less than politically correct, and it has manifested itself in our culture to the uncompromising detriment of our women.
We, as a nation, are in the process of approving women for combat in the military. Need I say more? We are afraid to stand up to the powers, and the influences, that determine our course. We are afraid to stand up to our own wives and daughters as well. Are we going to continue to allow them not only to fight our battles for us, but to engage in the dangerous business of war as well? If so, what does that really say about us? We will have descended as a nation past the point of diminishing returns.
Our politicians have become cowards, our teachers and religious leaders are afraid to offend, and our standard bearers have vanished like a passing wind.
Men, give ‘Braveheart’ another viewing. Be inspired; embrace the capacity for courage within yourself, and the commitment to inspire that same courage within others. Make a commitment to be sober minded and clear thinking for, perhaps even, the first time in your life.
Where, I ask, is William Wallace?
Wednesday, February 8, 2012
Pain
Everybody has known pain, or will, of some kind or another, and at some time or another. Some have known physical pain, mental anguish, some emotional pain, or psychic trauma. And some have known it all. The pain of a body being broken or traumatized, diseased, or worn out; the pain of a lost love, splintered family, or a broken promise; the pain of shattered dreams, a broken spirit, or the loss of inspiration. Most of us have had loss. And loss is pain. If we have not, however, we will. It is inevitable, like the tide ebbs behind the flow.
My pain is not yours, nor yours mine, but we share the experience, nevertheless. It is part of what connects us as a human family. Maybe I cannot relate to your poverty, or to your wealth, your station in life, politics, religion, or lifestyle; but I can relate to your pain whether I know of it specifically or not. I can understand yours, not necessarily the circumstances, but the pain, and maybe even feel it, specifically because I’ve had my own. It is part of the way, and part of the reason, that people find healing. I can carry my own pain alone, and for a very long time if necessary. But when someone in my life, or a stranger even, shares even a small part of that pain, for no matter how brief of a moment, it can diminish its devastating impact in a very measurable way. We need each other like that.
We all do.
Pain might feel arbitrary, but it’s not. I may wonder why I have this kind of pain, and you have that kind. But I believe that our own particular pain chooses us for a purpose. I don’t know why I believe that, but I do. It is up to each of us to divine the intent of its presence in our lives. It is part of what will enable our learning, and our healing. We are sometimes able to come to a conclusion on our own, but, more often than not, it takes the company, the counsel, and the involvement of others.
Pain has a way of humbling us, and providing an opportunity for a deeper connection with the rest of the human race.
I hope you’re managing the worst of your own pain.
And, if not, I wish for you the comfort of others.
My pain is not yours, nor yours mine, but we share the experience, nevertheless. It is part of what connects us as a human family. Maybe I cannot relate to your poverty, or to your wealth, your station in life, politics, religion, or lifestyle; but I can relate to your pain whether I know of it specifically or not. I can understand yours, not necessarily the circumstances, but the pain, and maybe even feel it, specifically because I’ve had my own. It is part of the way, and part of the reason, that people find healing. I can carry my own pain alone, and for a very long time if necessary. But when someone in my life, or a stranger even, shares even a small part of that pain, for no matter how brief of a moment, it can diminish its devastating impact in a very measurable way. We need each other like that.
We all do.
Pain might feel arbitrary, but it’s not. I may wonder why I have this kind of pain, and you have that kind. But I believe that our own particular pain chooses us for a purpose. I don’t know why I believe that, but I do. It is up to each of us to divine the intent of its presence in our lives. It is part of what will enable our learning, and our healing. We are sometimes able to come to a conclusion on our own, but, more often than not, it takes the company, the counsel, and the involvement of others.
Pain has a way of humbling us, and providing an opportunity for a deeper connection with the rest of the human race.
I hope you’re managing the worst of your own pain.
And, if not, I wish for you the comfort of others.
Monday, February 6, 2012
Give Me Dogs And Frisbees
I, like a hundred zillion other people watched the Super Bowl. Good game, I thought, although I didn’t really care who won.
But the halftime show? Well, it was Madonna: What would one expect besides the most pompous, self-aggrandizing, bloated tribute to self and excess that one could ever hope to produce.
And I just want to ask, “Is this really what our culture has become? Giving this kind of platform to this kind of person?
As I heard somebody say after enduring the torturous show, “PLEASE, GIVE ME DOGS AND FRISBEES.”
I cannot agree more.
In my humble opinion, how satisfying, and appropriate, was the very final second of the performance when Madonna flushed herself down the toilet, or whatever that apparatus was with the smoke and trap door. I don’t know about you, but I just wanted to stand up and cheer the symbolism of the moment. In any event, she was gone, disappearing suddenly, and hopefully for good.
Oh, and the Madonna and World peace display? Hey Madonna, how bout’ you start treating the people in, and around, your own life with a little dignity and respect, before you try to unite the rest of the world around your sleazy Kabbalah world peace act. In case you haven’t figured it out yet, getting people to love each other like you love others is more likely to lead to continued world conflict than it ever would to world peace.
Peace/Out
But the halftime show? Well, it was Madonna: What would one expect besides the most pompous, self-aggrandizing, bloated tribute to self and excess that one could ever hope to produce.
And I just want to ask, “Is this really what our culture has become? Giving this kind of platform to this kind of person?
As I heard somebody say after enduring the torturous show, “PLEASE, GIVE ME DOGS AND FRISBEES.”
I cannot agree more.
In my humble opinion, how satisfying, and appropriate, was the very final second of the performance when Madonna flushed herself down the toilet, or whatever that apparatus was with the smoke and trap door. I don’t know about you, but I just wanted to stand up and cheer the symbolism of the moment. In any event, she was gone, disappearing suddenly, and hopefully for good.
Oh, and the Madonna and World peace display? Hey Madonna, how bout’ you start treating the people in, and around, your own life with a little dignity and respect, before you try to unite the rest of the world around your sleazy Kabbalah world peace act. In case you haven’t figured it out yet, getting people to love each other like you love others is more likely to lead to continued world conflict than it ever would to world peace.
Peace/Out
Sunday, January 22, 2012
Vulture Peak
'Wilderness', the novel, is in the final stage of being readied for the Publisher, and should be submitted by the end of the week. It will be available soon for purchase. In the meantime, here's a small excerpt for your enjoyment.
Vulture Peak
It was a spring afternoon with soft light coming to rest on the hood of Tim’s truck, bathing his windshield in promise, and an unapologetic radiance, the kind you might be used to seeing in the early morning, or even later in the day as the light lingered. There was a calm, ethereal, glow as he moved through the naked landscape of the High Desert. It reminded him of something in a dream sequence from one of those low-key indie movies that were always winning the awards at Sundance.
Colors danced on sand canvas, cactus planted inadvertently, scattered, as if by the wind, across a vast landscape, rising like the hairs on the back of your neck would at the thought of being stranded there. Rocks lying about like treasure strewn across the ocean floor around an old shipwreck, other rocks reaching, spire-like, towards the sun, content in the knowledge of their own ancestry, and in their dominance of the landscape.
As Tim pulled into the dirt parking area for the Vulture Peak trail, he noticed Lindy under a scrub-pine tree off to the side of the trailhead. She was wearing khaki walking shorts, a soft terra cotta cotton blouse, and tan hiking boots with red laces. She was leaning forward, rear knee low to the ground, with her front knee pointing forward, stretching out her upper thigh, and lower back muscles, in a kind of scissors position. She completed the exercise, and then, standing upright, reached back to grab her foot, pulled it up to her butt, held it for a few moments to further stretch the thigh, released it back to the ground, and then did the same with the other foot. She finished up with toe-touches, bending from the waist, with palms lying flat on the top of her hiking boots.
Tim was feeling nothing short of inspired by her beauty, and the natural elegance with which she moved. She blended with the landscape like a sunrise on an eastern peak. He was delightfully lost in the enchanting apparition for a moment.
As she was rising back to the upright position, Lindy caught Tim’s eye, and waved him over. Actually, I think she caught him staring, but had the presence of mind to not let on, the grace to let him off the hook, so to speak. It was, somehow, very enabling for Tim, just to see her. He felt himself kind of excited now for the walk.
Vulture Peak
It was a spring afternoon with soft light coming to rest on the hood of Tim’s truck, bathing his windshield in promise, and an unapologetic radiance, the kind you might be used to seeing in the early morning, or even later in the day as the light lingered. There was a calm, ethereal, glow as he moved through the naked landscape of the High Desert. It reminded him of something in a dream sequence from one of those low-key indie movies that were always winning the awards at Sundance.
Colors danced on sand canvas, cactus planted inadvertently, scattered, as if by the wind, across a vast landscape, rising like the hairs on the back of your neck would at the thought of being stranded there. Rocks lying about like treasure strewn across the ocean floor around an old shipwreck, other rocks reaching, spire-like, towards the sun, content in the knowledge of their own ancestry, and in their dominance of the landscape.
As Tim pulled into the dirt parking area for the Vulture Peak trail, he noticed Lindy under a scrub-pine tree off to the side of the trailhead. She was wearing khaki walking shorts, a soft terra cotta cotton blouse, and tan hiking boots with red laces. She was leaning forward, rear knee low to the ground, with her front knee pointing forward, stretching out her upper thigh, and lower back muscles, in a kind of scissors position. She completed the exercise, and then, standing upright, reached back to grab her foot, pulled it up to her butt, held it for a few moments to further stretch the thigh, released it back to the ground, and then did the same with the other foot. She finished up with toe-touches, bending from the waist, with palms lying flat on the top of her hiking boots.
Tim was feeling nothing short of inspired by her beauty, and the natural elegance with which she moved. She blended with the landscape like a sunrise on an eastern peak. He was delightfully lost in the enchanting apparition for a moment.
As she was rising back to the upright position, Lindy caught Tim’s eye, and waved him over. Actually, I think she caught him staring, but had the presence of mind to not let on, the grace to let him off the hook, so to speak. It was, somehow, very enabling for Tim, just to see her. He felt himself kind of excited now for the walk.
Monday, January 9, 2012
Still They Come
There was a full moon tonight. Still is actually. Lighting the sky, and the way of all after-hours travelers to the planet. Not that they couldn’t find us without the moon, but you know what I mean. The darkness would inhibit some, but encourage nocturnal visitors, to be sure. Same as it’s always been.
The earth has forever been a beacon for anonymous vagabonds, mysterious drifters, vagrants, beggars, tramps and hobos. Not to mention the nameless, faceless eccentrics, unusual, peculiar, bizarre, and just plain outrageous strangers traveling the myways, the buyways, and the high ways. Some come seeking to exploit earths meandering clans, some come with cash spilling from deep pockets in fancy sharkskin suits, and some come as pied pipers bearing medicine for the masses, intoxicants to pacify, and appease, the minds of the weak.
But you’ve got to love them. You’ve got to love them all. Some for the insistence of their own benevolence, even though the evidence shows otherwise, and some for their self-delusion. Some for their alacrity, and some for their lack of pretension. Some for their innocence, and some for their savvy manipulation of the system. Still, they come, like the annual migration of holiday shoppers to the great mall of America.
The full moon will continue to light the sky for them, and the way, every 30 days, for all who wish to visit earth, as it has now become the number one vacation destination.
The earth has forever been a beacon for anonymous vagabonds, mysterious drifters, vagrants, beggars, tramps and hobos. Not to mention the nameless, faceless eccentrics, unusual, peculiar, bizarre, and just plain outrageous strangers traveling the myways, the buyways, and the high ways. Some come seeking to exploit earths meandering clans, some come with cash spilling from deep pockets in fancy sharkskin suits, and some come as pied pipers bearing medicine for the masses, intoxicants to pacify, and appease, the minds of the weak.
But you’ve got to love them. You’ve got to love them all. Some for the insistence of their own benevolence, even though the evidence shows otherwise, and some for their self-delusion. Some for their alacrity, and some for their lack of pretension. Some for their innocence, and some for their savvy manipulation of the system. Still, they come, like the annual migration of holiday shoppers to the great mall of America.
The full moon will continue to light the sky for them, and the way, every 30 days, for all who wish to visit earth, as it has now become the number one vacation destination.
Sunday, January 1, 2012
My New Years Revolutions 2012
1. I will not take anything for granted.
If, in fact, I ever figure out exactly what that means.
2. I will let the future take care of itself. And if it doesn’t,
I will continue to live in the past until I’m confident that it will.
3. I will let bygones be bygones, since they already are anyway.
4. I will no longer hope for the best.
I will hope for the second best because that will leave some room for improvement.
5. I will leave politics to the politicians and curb my inclination to expose them. They are doing a pretty damn good job of exposing themselves.
6. I will speak only of what I know. What I don’t know can wait until I do.
Or until it just becomes readily apparent to everyone.
7. I will only think good thoughts. All of the other thoughts can be thought by more qualified thinkers than myself, whoever they are.
8. I will be grateful for what I have. And for what I don’t have.
9. I will only criticize the critical. Or those deserving of criticism. Or those who criticize those undeserving of criticism. Well, in any event, I’ll find somebody to criticize. And somebody not to criticize.
10. I will apologize to everyone I can think of this year, including myself.
That should make up for all the people who have never apologized to me, or to anyone else. For anything. Ever.
11. I will do my best to be guided by faith.
So if your faith contradicts my faith, I’ll have faith that your faith will eventually guide you to my faith, or mine to yours, so that we don’t have to disagree about faith anymore.
12. I will try to be more generous with my opinions. Which means that you might get even more sick of me in 2012 than you did in 2011.
And Have A Happy New Year.
If, in fact, I ever figure out exactly what that means.
2. I will let the future take care of itself. And if it doesn’t,
I will continue to live in the past until I’m confident that it will.
3. I will let bygones be bygones, since they already are anyway.
4. I will no longer hope for the best.
I will hope for the second best because that will leave some room for improvement.
5. I will leave politics to the politicians and curb my inclination to expose them. They are doing a pretty damn good job of exposing themselves.
6. I will speak only of what I know. What I don’t know can wait until I do.
Or until it just becomes readily apparent to everyone.
7. I will only think good thoughts. All of the other thoughts can be thought by more qualified thinkers than myself, whoever they are.
8. I will be grateful for what I have. And for what I don’t have.
9. I will only criticize the critical. Or those deserving of criticism. Or those who criticize those undeserving of criticism. Well, in any event, I’ll find somebody to criticize. And somebody not to criticize.
10. I will apologize to everyone I can think of this year, including myself.
That should make up for all the people who have never apologized to me, or to anyone else. For anything. Ever.
11. I will do my best to be guided by faith.
So if your faith contradicts my faith, I’ll have faith that your faith will eventually guide you to my faith, or mine to yours, so that we don’t have to disagree about faith anymore.
12. I will try to be more generous with my opinions. Which means that you might get even more sick of me in 2012 than you did in 2011.
And Have A Happy New Year.
Saturday, December 24, 2011
Rocks
I really like rocks.
They’re one of my favorite things.
They might even be my very favorite thing on earth.
It’s hard to explain why that is, it’s difficult for me to understand even. Something about them having been here for a long time, I think.
You don’t ever find a new rock. I don’t even know if there’s any such thing as a new rock. It seems like there’s new everything else, but rocks are always old.
New things don’t excite me that much anyway, but rocks do.
Rocks were not planned, designed, made, manufactured, or crafted.
They’ve just kind of always been here, in one form or another.
Some of them fell out of the sky, and some of them shot up out of the earth. Some of them even formed themselves right where they lay, out of minerals, stardust, and other such properties; but none of them were ever created by some clever marketer. They were not patented, and they are not advertised on late-night television. I like that about them too.
You look up ‘rock’ in the dictionary and it just says stuff about music and describes swaying back and forth in a chair, and stuff like that.
There are hard rocks, I think everybody knows that. There’s even a Hard Rock Café. But there are soft rocks as well. I’ll bet not nearly as many people know that. ‘Soft rock’ is kind of a contradiction of terms, but it is not a contradiction to a rock.
I used to bring a rock home whenever I went on a hike, or to a lake or river, to remind me of the beautiful place I’d been. Kind of like how some people buy a snow globe in every city, or country, they visit. Or some other kind of kitsch. But I eventually realized that I could never remember which rock was gathered from which place. And I never thought to date and label the rocks with a sharpie, so I stopped gathering them for that purpose. Besides, writing on a rock tends to invalidate its very character. Oh, I still gather them, but I no longer worry about where they came from.
I collect rocks on, and from around, my property, in the mountains, by the side of roads, and near rugged creeks and rivers. I know some environmentalists would have a fit over that, but the way I look at it is that those rocks were somewhere else before they were where I found them. And they’ll be somewhere else again. I’m a part of the natural cycle, and the natural re-cycle of nature, and nature tends to move things around a bit. I don’t steal from nature, I just relocate bits and pieces of it. You could say I do some landscaping, some design work, if you will.
On my own property I’ve found some giant boulders in the forest and dragged them with truck and chain up to the house because I like to look at them there. Some weigh hundreds, and even thousands of pounds. I like to walk out into my yard and see a two-ton rock that I moved by myself. It gives me great satisfaction, and it adds a pleasurable ambience to the area around the house.
I like to pick up rocks, all sizes of rock, really. I like to move them from here to there. I always have. I like to pick them up off the ground and put them into the truck, and I like to pull them out of the truck and put them back on the ground in a different place. I like the way rocks feel, and I like how they make me feel when I interact with them. I like to hold them, I like to throw them, sit on them, lean up against them, and even roll them down hills. I like to pry rocks loose from the earth. I like to climb rocks, and I like to build a campfire up against a big granite rock wall at night in the wilderness. Don’t ask me why. I couldn’t really tell you. It’s just that rocks tend to make everything right with my world.
It’s an ancient presence.
I also like to make things out of rocks. Fire pits, yard borders, sculptures, garden areas. I’ve always wanted to build a rock house by a river, and planned to collect all the rocks from the river as I built it. I probably won’t be doing that now because I’m getting pretty old, but I want to.
I’m sure I’ll always want to.
With the arrival of the Christmas season I often find myself thinking about the Rock of Ages. I even catch myself singing the old song sometimes.
Rock on.
They’re one of my favorite things.
They might even be my very favorite thing on earth.
It’s hard to explain why that is, it’s difficult for me to understand even. Something about them having been here for a long time, I think.
You don’t ever find a new rock. I don’t even know if there’s any such thing as a new rock. It seems like there’s new everything else, but rocks are always old.
New things don’t excite me that much anyway, but rocks do.
Rocks were not planned, designed, made, manufactured, or crafted.
They’ve just kind of always been here, in one form or another.
Some of them fell out of the sky, and some of them shot up out of the earth. Some of them even formed themselves right where they lay, out of minerals, stardust, and other such properties; but none of them were ever created by some clever marketer. They were not patented, and they are not advertised on late-night television. I like that about them too.
You look up ‘rock’ in the dictionary and it just says stuff about music and describes swaying back and forth in a chair, and stuff like that.
There are hard rocks, I think everybody knows that. There’s even a Hard Rock Café. But there are soft rocks as well. I’ll bet not nearly as many people know that. ‘Soft rock’ is kind of a contradiction of terms, but it is not a contradiction to a rock.
I used to bring a rock home whenever I went on a hike, or to a lake or river, to remind me of the beautiful place I’d been. Kind of like how some people buy a snow globe in every city, or country, they visit. Or some other kind of kitsch. But I eventually realized that I could never remember which rock was gathered from which place. And I never thought to date and label the rocks with a sharpie, so I stopped gathering them for that purpose. Besides, writing on a rock tends to invalidate its very character. Oh, I still gather them, but I no longer worry about where they came from.
I collect rocks on, and from around, my property, in the mountains, by the side of roads, and near rugged creeks and rivers. I know some environmentalists would have a fit over that, but the way I look at it is that those rocks were somewhere else before they were where I found them. And they’ll be somewhere else again. I’m a part of the natural cycle, and the natural re-cycle of nature, and nature tends to move things around a bit. I don’t steal from nature, I just relocate bits and pieces of it. You could say I do some landscaping, some design work, if you will.
On my own property I’ve found some giant boulders in the forest and dragged them with truck and chain up to the house because I like to look at them there. Some weigh hundreds, and even thousands of pounds. I like to walk out into my yard and see a two-ton rock that I moved by myself. It gives me great satisfaction, and it adds a pleasurable ambience to the area around the house.
I like to pick up rocks, all sizes of rock, really. I like to move them from here to there. I always have. I like to pick them up off the ground and put them into the truck, and I like to pull them out of the truck and put them back on the ground in a different place. I like the way rocks feel, and I like how they make me feel when I interact with them. I like to hold them, I like to throw them, sit on them, lean up against them, and even roll them down hills. I like to pry rocks loose from the earth. I like to climb rocks, and I like to build a campfire up against a big granite rock wall at night in the wilderness. Don’t ask me why. I couldn’t really tell you. It’s just that rocks tend to make everything right with my world.
It’s an ancient presence.
I also like to make things out of rocks. Fire pits, yard borders, sculptures, garden areas. I’ve always wanted to build a rock house by a river, and planned to collect all the rocks from the river as I built it. I probably won’t be doing that now because I’m getting pretty old, but I want to.
I’m sure I’ll always want to.
With the arrival of the Christmas season I often find myself thinking about the Rock of Ages. I even catch myself singing the old song sometimes.
Rock on.
Wednesday, December 21, 2011
The Brass Ring
Whenever I have something to say about the younger generations I know that I can immediately be labeled as an old guy who either doesn’t know anything about the younger generations, or who might know something about them but doesn’t really get it.
Well, one of the reasons I embrace the moniker of The Old Coyote is to just get that out of the way right up front. Not only am I old, but I’m also getting older every day. If that disqualifies me from valid observation of life, so be it. I happen to know, however, that I know a little more about life than those coming up behind me, as they will know a little more than those coming up behind them.
But if you really believe that age should disqualify my observation, you must then also disqualify my experience. And in that case you should disqualify your own as well, and not bother reading anything else I have to say.
And here is what I have to say today.
“The brass ring cannot be attained.”
No matter how many times one goes around the carousel of life, no matter how many different animals one may ride, no matter how many reinventions of one’s self, a person cannot, as a life goal, seek the brass ring and hope to find happiness, fulfillment, contentment, honor, dignity, or love.
It is never to be found on the carousel. It is anathema to the very concept. The carousel holds two illusions. The first is that if you grab the brass ring you’ll be happy. And the second is that if you missed the ring on the last pass, you’ll get it the next time around.
The ring is a promise, but it is a promise broken, invalidated if you will, even before it’s given. The wise among us know that intuitively, and the fortunate among us have been taught, and embrace, the truth of its lie.
Life is not a party, as many in today’s world seek for it to be. Life is a serious endeavor, punctuated with degrees of joy and sorrow, pleasure and pain. Those whose primary motivation in life is to party, to have wealth, stuff, recognition, prestige, celebrity, position, or power, will wake up to an empty life, a life bereft of everything that matters. The sad part about it is that they will not realize its full emptiness until later in life. It is the modern day equivalent of ‘keeping up with the Joneses', and it plays itself out today just as it always has.
As many young people find themselves always ‘needing’ the newest ‘this’, the latest ‘that’, the next ‘must have’, they also find themselves needing another drink, another toke, another hook-up, another party to satisfy the emptiness, to be OK with themselves. Every person of substance knows that those things, those endeavors, and those behaviors, don’t satisfy, but rather, just numb the senses, subjugate the pain, and prolong the inevitable.
I do not write these things to judge, or to condemn, young people. I was young once. But I am not here to be their friend either. I am here to show the way. I express what I know because I care deeply about them, as individuals, and as collective generations. I care about their long-term wellbeing, much more so than with their temporal gratification. I want them to wake up down the road and be satisfied that they have made wise, and responsible choices, that their actions, when young, will serve to enhance their overall lives, rather than to inhibit them.
True value in life is in a commitment to what you have, and to what is within reasonable reach of your means, rather than in a compulsive drive to acquire whatever you can get. It is true of relationships with people, as well as lifestyle. Value is in embracing love, and family, finding deeply satisfying work, and an appreciation of the divine, the God around whom all life actually revolves. Honor, respect, dignity, fulfillment, contentment, and, hopefully, even happiness, will follow. Happiness is not guaranteed to anybody, but seeking the brass ring only ensures that it will never be attained.
Do not believe the happiness images that celebrities, rock stars, socialites, and their publicists, attach to their lives. They have the wealth, the mansions, the adulation, beautiful people on their arms, sex at their command, enormous fame and notoriety; and they are, for the most part, pretty lonely, ambiguous, and unhappy people.
The party only lasts until closing time, and then the lights just dim again. They always do. They always will. Unconscious people tend to repeat the same familiar patterns, thinking there is satisfaction to be found. Don’t be unconscious, and don’t be fool enough to just repeat your own futile patterns.
Be smart, and be true to truth.
Our time on earth is short, and much too valuable to live with a shallow and cavalier ambition. Life is the greatest treasure one can be given, and it has already been given in abundance to each of us. It could never have been acquired on our own. It is not a brass ring. It just does not work that way. Take seriously what you do with the gift of your life.
The brass ring is slippery, and all but impossible to hold.
Believe me, it is not even worth the ride.
If you know somebody chasing the brass ring, and you want to help, please forward this to them.
And have a meaningful holiday this year.
Well, one of the reasons I embrace the moniker of The Old Coyote is to just get that out of the way right up front. Not only am I old, but I’m also getting older every day. If that disqualifies me from valid observation of life, so be it. I happen to know, however, that I know a little more about life than those coming up behind me, as they will know a little more than those coming up behind them.
But if you really believe that age should disqualify my observation, you must then also disqualify my experience. And in that case you should disqualify your own as well, and not bother reading anything else I have to say.
And here is what I have to say today.
“The brass ring cannot be attained.”
No matter how many times one goes around the carousel of life, no matter how many different animals one may ride, no matter how many reinventions of one’s self, a person cannot, as a life goal, seek the brass ring and hope to find happiness, fulfillment, contentment, honor, dignity, or love.
It is never to be found on the carousel. It is anathema to the very concept. The carousel holds two illusions. The first is that if you grab the brass ring you’ll be happy. And the second is that if you missed the ring on the last pass, you’ll get it the next time around.
The ring is a promise, but it is a promise broken, invalidated if you will, even before it’s given. The wise among us know that intuitively, and the fortunate among us have been taught, and embrace, the truth of its lie.
Life is not a party, as many in today’s world seek for it to be. Life is a serious endeavor, punctuated with degrees of joy and sorrow, pleasure and pain. Those whose primary motivation in life is to party, to have wealth, stuff, recognition, prestige, celebrity, position, or power, will wake up to an empty life, a life bereft of everything that matters. The sad part about it is that they will not realize its full emptiness until later in life. It is the modern day equivalent of ‘keeping up with the Joneses', and it plays itself out today just as it always has.
As many young people find themselves always ‘needing’ the newest ‘this’, the latest ‘that’, the next ‘must have’, they also find themselves needing another drink, another toke, another hook-up, another party to satisfy the emptiness, to be OK with themselves. Every person of substance knows that those things, those endeavors, and those behaviors, don’t satisfy, but rather, just numb the senses, subjugate the pain, and prolong the inevitable.
I do not write these things to judge, or to condemn, young people. I was young once. But I am not here to be their friend either. I am here to show the way. I express what I know because I care deeply about them, as individuals, and as collective generations. I care about their long-term wellbeing, much more so than with their temporal gratification. I want them to wake up down the road and be satisfied that they have made wise, and responsible choices, that their actions, when young, will serve to enhance their overall lives, rather than to inhibit them.
True value in life is in a commitment to what you have, and to what is within reasonable reach of your means, rather than in a compulsive drive to acquire whatever you can get. It is true of relationships with people, as well as lifestyle. Value is in embracing love, and family, finding deeply satisfying work, and an appreciation of the divine, the God around whom all life actually revolves. Honor, respect, dignity, fulfillment, contentment, and, hopefully, even happiness, will follow. Happiness is not guaranteed to anybody, but seeking the brass ring only ensures that it will never be attained.
Do not believe the happiness images that celebrities, rock stars, socialites, and their publicists, attach to their lives. They have the wealth, the mansions, the adulation, beautiful people on their arms, sex at their command, enormous fame and notoriety; and they are, for the most part, pretty lonely, ambiguous, and unhappy people.
The party only lasts until closing time, and then the lights just dim again. They always do. They always will. Unconscious people tend to repeat the same familiar patterns, thinking there is satisfaction to be found. Don’t be unconscious, and don’t be fool enough to just repeat your own futile patterns.
Be smart, and be true to truth.
Our time on earth is short, and much too valuable to live with a shallow and cavalier ambition. Life is the greatest treasure one can be given, and it has already been given in abundance to each of us. It could never have been acquired on our own. It is not a brass ring. It just does not work that way. Take seriously what you do with the gift of your life.
The brass ring is slippery, and all but impossible to hold.
Believe me, it is not even worth the ride.
If you know somebody chasing the brass ring, and you want to help, please forward this to them.
And have a meaningful holiday this year.
Monday, December 12, 2011
I Walked Into The Past
I walked on the beach this morning, the same beach I walked on when I was a teen-ager. It all felt familiar, like nothing had really changed. And, in fact, nothing had changed.
Now, forty-five years later, the tide still ebbed and flowed. The waves still rolled towards shore and tumbled into whitewater like they always have. Seaweed floated on the surface of the sea, some of it standing vertical, not too far offshore. Pelicans patrolled an emerging sky just outside my reach, or within it had I just had arms a little longer, and dolphins lazed about playfully in the glassy calm ocean like children frolicking on grass.
People looked the same as well; mothers with babies, the surfers, the beachcombers, fishermen, and the beach patrol. The moms and dads, they were there, with two kids, racing the water to deeper sand in a futile attempt to keep their feet from getting wet. Everything was as it had been, and how it will be in the foreseeable future.
I walked the length of the pier, as I used to do, bought a corn dog at the bait and tackle shop, about a quarter mile out to sea, then sat and watched young lovers stealing time from their hurried, and harried, lives, time they finally found to set aside just for themselves.
Clouds drifted by overhead, slowly, reflecting the pace of the people on the pier.
I drifted in and out of reminiscence, present at times, conscious, and at others just barely touching the fringes of life in the now.
I walked into the past this morning. It all felt familiar, like nothing had really changed. And, in fact, nothing had changed, except myself.
And the cost of a corn dog.
Now, forty-five years later, the tide still ebbed and flowed. The waves still rolled towards shore and tumbled into whitewater like they always have. Seaweed floated on the surface of the sea, some of it standing vertical, not too far offshore. Pelicans patrolled an emerging sky just outside my reach, or within it had I just had arms a little longer, and dolphins lazed about playfully in the glassy calm ocean like children frolicking on grass.
People looked the same as well; mothers with babies, the surfers, the beachcombers, fishermen, and the beach patrol. The moms and dads, they were there, with two kids, racing the water to deeper sand in a futile attempt to keep their feet from getting wet. Everything was as it had been, and how it will be in the foreseeable future.
I walked the length of the pier, as I used to do, bought a corn dog at the bait and tackle shop, about a quarter mile out to sea, then sat and watched young lovers stealing time from their hurried, and harried, lives, time they finally found to set aside just for themselves.
Clouds drifted by overhead, slowly, reflecting the pace of the people on the pier.
I drifted in and out of reminiscence, present at times, conscious, and at others just barely touching the fringes of life in the now.
I walked into the past this morning. It all felt familiar, like nothing had really changed. And, in fact, nothing had changed, except myself.
And the cost of a corn dog.
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