A Few Photos

You Hurt

You hurt when you imagine him saying, "I am so disappointed in you that I could cry."

You do not know what to say, so you don't. You see the hurt in his eyes. Dark brown, they tear up a little, but not enough to let you truly see how deep the agony goes. Emotions are not easy for him. You would rip off an arm if it would ease his pain, but his torment is beyond the reach of such feeble gestures. You feel his writhing sadness within you. It has no place to go. It cannot be expressed so you bury it deep. You must not let it escape or else you will hurt him even more. A hurting machine, you turn to leave. He stops you.

"Why have you done this? How can you do this to me, to our family?"

He who was your God has become mere man. Shocked by the transformation, you halt; ready to receive whatever else he delivers, willing to be tortured for your sin, longing for the punishment you deserve.

You say, "I am just trying to be honest. I never meant to hurt anyone. I never meant to hurt you."

His jaw clenches. He watches a murder of crows land in the yard. It is a large yard, big enough for a homestead in many lands. The soil smells of your ancestor's sweat. Ancient oaks rise from earth made bare by timeless mounds of leaves that have devoured every hope of grass. Acorns roll among tiny islands of moss. You long to join the crows and moss; to be free of the guilt and judgment blazing from the eyes of the one who stands before you.

He is right of course. How can you turn away from all that you have been taught to cherish? What perverseness of spirit led you to this place? Certain that you are willful, selfish and sinful beyond redemption; your shame steals your breath. You beg the dirt to cover you, to shield you from the stare that once more turns your way. The dirt ignores your plea. You stand naked as his rages rises.

"That's hard to believe," he says. "You are deliberately choosing this. You want to do this. You have a choice. We always have a choice."

Once upon a time you also believed life was a clear choice between the right and wrong of things. Certainty about good and evil was a cornerstone of the rosy Never, Never Land of childhood. Now, the true north of the good has been dulled. You have seen "the good" sew evil and confusion. You have heard "teachers" twist words of love into hate and judgment. The once certain happiness of Never, Never Land has faded. There is no Peter Pan to whisk you away from it all if you are a "good" boy. Captain Hook is alive and well. He smiles as you hear the tick tock of the alligator's clock. Not content with a hand or arm, the toothy salamander is here to take your heart. You cling to kindness not to be "good", but simply to live.

He that was God, who now is man, speaks again.

"You know the difference between good and evil. You are consciously choosing to serve evil."

There it is; the ultimate condemnation. You are excommunicated, without any hope of salvation - unless of course you repent. Repent for saying the unpardonable. Repent from being the unimaginable. Repent from contemplating the heretical love of both women and men. Return to the fold or burn in the lake of eternal flame.

He stares, waiting for a response. There is none. He walks away.

You watch him leave. Your legs long to run after him. You want to grab his shoulders, turn him around and convince him of your love. Your heart screams.

"I love you. Don't leave me. Please don't turn away from me."

The words of your heart do not pass your lips so he cannot hear. His steps are cast in the path of the prophets. He is certain he knows the immutable truth of God's heart. He can no longer see you. He can no longer hear you. Even if he turned and spoke, he would speak to a ghost, a wraith already in its grave.

His form shrinks into the distance. You sit on a rock and breathe deeply. You exhale love into the vacancy that the God man has left behind. The sun still shines. The wind yet caresses your skin. The trees have no judgment in them; they wave and sing as they have since before there was anyone like you to hear them. You stand. You sing. You dance. Mother earth meets your feet with perpetual peace. You do not hurt. Others may pick up the hurt, but it is no longer yours. It is well. It is. And you are.

 

 

 

 

 

I AM GAY

I may be gay, or I may not be. Mostly I am confused.

When I reflect on it, I can recall numerous instances of being attracted to men; young, beautiful men, older rugged men; men with definite character and the courage to display it fully. Yet, when I have thought of expressing my attraction physically the best I can manage is a hug. When I was younger, sexual acts with men were not one of my fantasies. True I did on occasion envision a soft skinned bottom to be penetrated, but I did not know if it was male or female. When I had such fantasies, the butt typically was disembodied, floating free from any face or distinguishable other body parts. I did see women attached to the bottom sometimes, and when I found out that women had vaginas as well as anuses I was shocked. Having only learned of female anatomy from my cousin’s Barbie doll I thought women only had one hole down “there”. When I first began having sex, I found the female vagina alternatively beautiful and disgusting. In fact I found all sex alternatively beautiful and disgusting. I still do much of the time.

I explained to a friend recently that when I engage in sex it is as if I am an observer. I have virtually no sensations of arousal. I am able to successfully masturbate but when confronted by the real thing my body shuts down; most of the time. When I used to smoke pot sex felt wonderful. I had trouble with premature ejaculation at times but the feeling was there. Unfortunately, hallucinations and paranoia also accompanied my use of pot and alcohol. Once I got sober, sex lost its appeal. I found myself performing because it was expected of me; except for one time. I recall that when I returned from Japan after a failed attempt to become a Zen priest sex was very exciting, every bit as exciting as when I used to be high. I felt free of guilt and fear for one of the first times in my life. I wanted to continue on my sexual high and travel the world forever. Unfortunately, as diagnosed by very knowledgeable physicians, my exuberance was mania. I could scarcely argue since during my entire “episode” of sexual “liberation” I was certain that I was being filmed for a movie. Once my mania subsided, so did my sexual desire.

Today, I have returned to the land where sex is unimportant, or at least much less important than friendship and kindness. I would use the word “love” rather than kindness, but the term is so overused it has ceased to have much meaning for me. Kindness, gentleness, compassion; these seem more real and concrete than love and romance. And, they are much more precious to me than sex. If it were possible to have both kindness and sex I might reconsider things. But, I have not mastered this art. When I engage in sex it inevitably feels as if I am “performing”, trying to make sure my partner is pleased and that I am pleased in turn. The goal of climaxing overrides all else. Kindness seems to be replaced by lust and desire. The result is that I feel very sad afterwards. The same way I feel when I am selfish with money or other material things.

I am not saying that I no longer masturbate. I do. But it is primarily for relief of stress or to counteract boredom. I enjoy it. I truly do. When I masturbate I do not feel like I have to perform or be successful. I can take care of things and go on about my day.

Also, I am not saying I do not feel sexual attraction during the day. The beauty of the human form does not escape me as I engage in my pastime of people watching. I daydream about sexual encounters with both men and women, sometimes both together. Then I return to the reality of my experience. I am open to change. I truly am, but I will not waste anymore precious moments of life “wishing” and “desiring” change or trying to twist myself into changing. I will not hold my happiness hostage. I will not play the “I will be happy when” game. If change comes simply by being open, then it will come. If it requires endless fighting and struggling then I prefer to enjoy the day.

Thankfully, most of the guilt about sex has left me; at least the guilt that can be accessed by an honest attempt to face my fears and review my past behaviors. A friend has told me that I act as if I “were emotionally castrated at some point at life.” I do not know. There may very well be deep seated, repressed unconscious sexual feelings that I simply cannot access. To paraphrase Robert DeNiro’s character in the movie Awakenings, “I cannot tell anyone about the things of which I am not conscious.” I write. I draw. I share. Thanks to these efforts I can confront and discount guilt put upon me by other’s religious and political views. I am very thankful for this freedom. It allows me to candidly ask myself, “Am I gay, heterosexual or both?” I kind of like the idea that I may be both. At least that it is interesting.

Regardless of the fate of my genitalia, of one thing I am certain - whatever sexual activities or fantasies I engage in (or choose not to engage in) my first motive must be kindness. I can celebrate. I can fantasize and play roles. I can even be a little bit “kinky” in my dreaming – sometimes this is the most fun. But I must never force anyone to do things they are not comfortable doing. And equally important, I must not force myself or allow myself to be forced into doing something sexually that is uncomfortable to me. When I do this I give up all hope of seeing sex as a cause of celebration, and turn it into nothing more than a duty. I do not know how to enjoy sex, and perhaps I never shall. But I am fairly certain that any hopes of sexual enjoyment must begin with honesty.

So, I guess I AM GAY if the definition of gay is that I can think of men who are sexually attractive to me. Some of them are very attractive. But I can think of women who I find very attractive as well; many of them. So I guess the real truth is that I AM GAY, I AM HETERO, I AM BISEXUAL, I AM A REPROBATE – A CELIBATE BISEXUAL REPROBATE. I may be celibate for the rest of my life, but I still am Dale even if my sexual status is ambiguous. Perhaps this is why my Grandmother Hankins wanted me to have an ambiguous name, a name that could be male or female, pink or blue, but in the end mostly just purple. Today I am content with this thought; very content, because I am speaking from my heart as clearly as I know how to speak. I know there are family and friends who will not be comfortable with my words, if they ever happen to read them. I do not know what to do about that. My words would be true even if I had never written them. I hope that anyone who is offended will forgive me for any pain I may cause them. I certainly mean them no harm and I wish them well. Perhaps they can do the same for me.

I Will Fight No More Forever

I woke this morning with a stuffy head. I blew my nose. My nose cleared but my head remained stuffed. I had made the mistake of turning on the TV and listening to the 24 hour chatter about politics, the fate of our nation and the state of the world. The calm of sleep was quickly replaced by the turmoil of fear and anxiety. One well coifed pundit claimed that all the evils of the world are due to governments and regulation; that unless we return to unconstrained free enterprise all of us face a future of perpetual poverty. Another claimed that large greedy corporations are the root of all evil; that unless we constrain greedy businessmen we will soon find ourselves in chaos. Neither side seemed willing to claim any accountability for the world's condition. Each claimed to be the victim of the other; loudly proclaiming how others were making their lives miserable. I barely managed to pull on my clothes and stumble out the door without losing consciousness.

The rhythm of my strides and breathing restored a little serenity. As usual questions came. Why did such things disturb me? Why was the world the way it was? Why do people scream at each other? Why does each side believe their path alone is best for the world? The only answer I could find was that people are afraid and that I am easily infected by their fear. I have been infected by fear so long that sometimes I believe my natural condition is to constantly fight to survive in a dog eat dog world. When in this state, I can easily justify seeing myself as a victim, a prisoner in a cruel and heartless world – a world that requires me to hate and even kill others before they have a chance to kill me. In such a world I can easily justify hating and fearing those that look and behave differently. In such a world I can easily justify preemptive wars. In such a world I can easily hate myself for not thinking the way that I am "supposed" to think. In such a world I can soon find myself wondering if life is worth living.

Thankfully I know that my "dog eat dog" model of life is based on false assumptions. While it is true that I can easily find "dogs" to fear in life. It is equally true that I can face these "dogs" without being ruled by fear. I know this is true because I have done it and I have seen others do it. Most people are terrified of the "dogs" of poverty, loneliness, illness and death. These things cause me fear as well. I take action to avoid them, but I try not to be ruled by them. I have lived alone and still been surrounded by many friends. Before I die I may be very poor but I have lived on very little. I certainly will face the pain of illness and death, but I do not need to let this fear poison every moment of my life.

Some people claim that we may soon be able to eliminate virtually all illness and that we may even be able to "live" forever. Perhaps they are right, but I see little evidence that we would know how to live free from fear even if we lived forever. Others claim that there is no need to worry; that a supernatural being watches over all creation and will save the "worthy" ones, taking them to a special place of eternal and joy. Perhaps they are right. I see little evidence of supernatural beings who place man's wants and needs above all else in the universe, but I acknowledge the limits of my understanding. I do not have the answers to such weighty questions. What I do have is some experience facing my fears, and the witness of others who have faced theirs.

My most fundamental fear seems to be that I am separate and alone in a vast uncaring universe. In this view, my fellows seek to embarrass me and harm me because they hate me. When engaged in such thinking, I imagine that the world is against me. I imagine that I am but a tiny and insignificant fragment that by itself is worthless and powerless. To counteract this fear I act out in anger. I puff myself up, claiming to know more than I do, claiming to represent the "right" way of living so that I can rationalize my attempts to control and convert others. I become addicted to being "right". I erase my doubts by coercing you to agree with me. Often the best way for me to "convert" you is to incite fear within you, and then to offer you my "right" way of thinking as the answer. I become an evangelist of fear. When you accept my solution to the fear you have caught from me, you reinforce the correctness of my views. Your reinforcement gives me comfort for then I have company - there are two of us. Together we can incite more fear, helping to expand the circle of people who accept "our" true path. I have been caught up in this cycle so many times it is difficult for me to remember them all.

How can I fight against becoming part of such a cycle? My experience has been that fighting is not the answer. If I become fearful, angry and fight then I simply continue the cycle. The only peace I have had from this pattern is to do my best to act with kindness, even in the face of anger and fear, or perhaps especially when faced with anger and fear. If I "fight" the world's fear and anger then I become its victim. I must follow what seems to be the kindest course of action or face a life of unrest and unhappiness; a life where I despair; a life where I question the value of life itself.

Do I believe I have found the true, correct path? Of course not. Believing I have found "the truth" would encourage me to simply repeat the cycle. I likely would end up trying to make the world follow my particular view of kindness - repeating the very pattern I am trying to avoid. What others do is their business. I will not fight them. I will not ask them to pick up my fears and my way of dealing with it. And the good news is that no one can make me pick up their fear and anger unless I let them.

True, I often find myself filled with fear and anger. I often fight vainly against the world and those who hold the "wrong" point of view. As Dylan Thomas said I "rage, rage against the dying of the light", the fight for what I believe is right, fight for my life at any cost. This is only natural I suppose. Yet, when I have followed this path it has given me a "sickness unto death".

What about fighting for the life of others? Surely I must fight for social justice and world freedom. Perhaps, but I know of no case where fighting brought lasting justice and freedom. Even in societies claiming to be just and free, there is ample evidence of inequality and suffering. I have always found the idea of fighting for peace and equality something of an oxymoron. What happens to the fighters when they win? In seems the winners in any "fight" inevitably victimize or at a minimum demonize those they were fighting against. I only need to look at the political cycles in my own country to see evidence of this. Thankfully, we have not yet turned to violence; but there are those who advocate it.

What about fighting for the life of my family and loved ones? Surely I must fight those who would harm them. Surely I would kill someone who was trying to kill my grandchildren. I cannot answer such a question. I might very well kill such a person. Doing so would solve nothing. My grandchildren might live, but the grandchildren of the one I killed likely would seek revenge. Who can say when that cycle would end? I hope that I would place myself between my grandchildren and harm. I hope that the one seeking to harm them would be satisfied with my death and cease fighting. I hope that my friends and relatives would not seek revenge.

I am not saying that I chose to die. Far from it. I love life. The wonder of leaves rustling beneath my feet, the smile of my grandchildren, and the feel of air as it fills my lungs, all of it, all of the million and one little things of life fill me with great joy. I plan to enjoy them as long as possible; as long as holding on to them does not require a life of perpetual fear and anger. Why? Simply because when I live in fear and anger I cannot taste life, so in effect I am already dead. So I will hope to avoid raging and grasping life by the throat, practicing the dogmatic principle that the "ends justify the means". I hope to practice not fighting those who are different or who threaten me. I hope to enjoy the turning of the universe as it wheels on its unknowable path, and not waste time trying to control and manipulate it. I hope to cease looking for reasons to fear the thoughts and actions of others; looking instead for the kindness within them. In the words of the great Chief Joseph of the Nez Perce I hope that I will learn to "…fight no more forever."

Who Is Trash?

"It's like taking out the trash," he said.

I said, "Taking out the trash?"

"Yes. Like paying someone to do something I don't want to."

"Killing someone is like taking out the trash?"

"If they're evil, yes. Yes it is."

I could not respond. I sat across from an old and dear friend at a table in one of the finest restaurants of a large city. We had just finished a wonderful meal of sushi. As often happens when we meet, we were discussing the world and its troubles, solving each and every dilemma with the wise sagacity that comes with a full stomach. We agree on many things yet on this topic my friend's words sent a chill through me. Did he truly believe that taking a human life, regardless of the reason; was nothing more than removing garbage? To me there is a qualitative difference between taking a human life and taking rotting food, old newspapers and other refuse to a landfill.

The death penalty is a very controversial issue, but in the U.S. most states have death penalties and have used them since the Supreme Court restored the constitutionality of the death penalty in 1976. Texas leads with 464 executions. Virginia has executed 108. Combined, these two states "disposed" of over half the "trash" (572 of 1015 people) in the USA. Countries like China, Saudia Arabia and Iran execute more people per year than the U.S., but we tend to look down on them as less civilized.

I understand that we must protect innocent people from harm. However, I worry about our decision to kill people, particularly when it is done in a cold antiseptic fashion like "taking out the garbage". I say give the accused a fair trial. If they are convicted, and a death penalty is handed down, then those who support the death penalty should view the proceedings. Otherwise, we may simply equate taking life with removing garbage.

When I hide from the impact of my decisions I fail to take responsibility for them. I come to view life like reality television with an opportunity to relax and get a snack during commercials. I am not saying I would never want to kill someone if they harmed someone near and dear to me, but I am certain that doing so would make me miserable for the rest of my life. Thus I am very uncomfortable with the idea of hiring someone else to do the killing for me.

Some say that the death penalty deters murder, some say it doesn't. I don't know. Intuitively and in the minds of many, fear of death should make people pause before they commit a crime, yet in 2009, the seven states with the highest murder rates all had the death penalty. Regardless of the effectiveness of the death penalty, viewing executions as taking out the trash sickens me. I don't want to treat or see anyone as my death "trash man".

A potentially horrible outcome of the death penalty is the possibility (some say fact) of occasionally killing innocent people. The U.S. has released 15 prisoners since 1992 when DNA mapping was allowed as evidence. What if one of these had been executed? There are reports of innocent people who actually were executed. What if I was the trash man who executed one of these people? As I said, I may get angry enough to kill someday, but I am uncomfortable with hiring someone to kill for me. What right do I have to ask them to endure the suffering that must come from killing someone, especially if the someone is innocent?

Wait a second; don't I hire people to kill for me every day? Don't my taxes pay for policemen and soldiers to protect me? Don't these people have to kill others sometimes? What of them? How must they feel if they end up killing someone innocent of any crime other than being in the wrong place at the wrong time? I don't know the answers to these questions. To me it seems that killing ends up fostering more killing – if I kill you, your friends and relatives will want to kill me; if they kill me, my friends and relatives will want to kill them; on and on and on – a perpetual motion machine of death. But maybe everyone must have their own answers. If you catch me on the wrong day maybe I will view you as trash. Now that's something to think about; something to guard against. But right now it's time for green tea, oatmeal and a walk. Maybe when I am finished I will have the answer to who is trash and who isn't.

Adore Me

Please. Pretty please. Pretty please with sugar on top. Adore me. By the way, I'll adore you if you adore me. If I adore you, will you adore me?

Sometimes it astounds me how much of my life has been dominated by this kind of thinking. How many hours have I spent contriving ways to get attention? How many hours have I spent feeling depressed when I was ignored? Still, when I look around it seems that I am not alone in this perpetual desire for attention. Apparently, I live in a world that is driven to be adored and to practice adoration of others – preferably engaging in both activities simultaneously. My recognition of this fact is neither new nor profound. Oh how I wish it were. If I were the first to stumble on such a fundamental truth then I truly would be adored.

As usual, I was surfing the internet this morning. I ran across a video of someone who was lecturing on a new model for personal success. I also found a page for a consultant claims to help organizations become more courageous. I almost choked on my coffee. Both individuals clearly were at great pains to represent the proper models for adoration – money, fame, power and influence.

The model for personal success revolved around the proposition that, "You can be whoever you chose to be." I have yet to see evidence for such a remarkable claim. Quite the contrary, I see many people bravely living within the real world constraints life places on us. Ed is a friend of mine who has cerebral palsy and this places limits on his "success". He can "choose" to be free of cerebral palsy until the "cows come home" as we say in Arkansas. It will have little effect. He can, and indeed has, chosen to be a warm and caring person despite his difficulty. Unfortunately, this type of victory often is overlooked by those selling books or programs that claim, "You can be whoever you want," or "The only limits to your success are your lack of will and proper planning." Ed does not model the wealth, power and beauty required for recognition much less adoration in the world of personal success consultants. His is a world they (and most of society) would rather ignore.

The "courage" consultant claimed cliff diving as evidence of his braveness. His site says that he has dived many times from a cliff over 100 feet high. I am sure the experience was exhilarating but for me this is evidence of foolishness not courage. The courage I admire is shown by people like my friends David, Tom, Tony and Barry. David is fighting for his dream of a new life in a strange city, despite the challenges of being abandoned at birth and spending years in state institutions. Tom, Tony and Barry have often put their personal lives on hold to reach out and help others. They have given freely of their time and money to help others. I don't think David, Tom, Tony and Barry have jumped off any cliffs lately, but their courage is the lasting kind, the kind that truly reshapes the world.

I can fall into the adoration trap when I discuss people Ed, David, Tom, Tony and Barry. Sometimes I try to help myself feel better about myself by idolizing those close to me – the old, "Look at me, I must be cool because I have such cool friends" phenomenon. Following this path can lead to problems when one or more of my friends fails to act like an idol; when they fail to act like the object of adoration I want them to be. It is healthier when I see them as they are with all their strengths and weaknesses loving them not as imaginary monuments of perfection like Michelangelo's David, but as jabbering little naked apes like me. Making them into objects of adoration leads to blindness and fosters the illusion that I cannot be happy unless I also am adored.

If I adore anything these days, it is life itself. When asked how I am doing I often say, "Loving life and living large." I also tell friends "there are worse things than death". The seeming contradiction of these two statements confuses some people. To me they are in perfect harmony. I love life because there are worse things than death. Often I look around and see people living in constant fear of death; to me this state is worse than death itself. I try to focus instead on the simple joys in life: the leaf I found on my walk this morning, the feel of cold air on my skin, feeling my legs carry me quickly toward my morning cup of coffee, the hug I got yesterday from one of the best friends I have ever had, the joyful anticipation of writing these words. I adore these things. Not because they will return my adoration. Not because they require adoration from me. I adore them simply because they exist. I adore them because I am lucky enough to share an instant of eternity with them.

Stars and Carbon Forever

"I'll be with you when the stars start falling…" Eric Clapton, The Cream

I hurt others sometimes by simply existing. I help others sometimes by simply breathing in and out. As I walked this morning, an almost countless number of carbon atoms bombarded me. Some of them were shed yesterday by friends and family around the planet. I inhaled some. Some became part of me in a process that has been going on since before the beginning of the idea of "time" as it exists in my carbon based brain. Sometimes I forget this simple fact and feel very, very alone. I can treat others as objects in an attempt to overcome this sense of loneliness. When I do this I become an object.

Recently, I mistreated someone I love deeply. I would travel back and undo the act if this were possible. Unfortunately, I cannot. Hope springs eternal, but I must accept that for now I am locked in the eternal present. I must feel the pain of having caused pain in another, accept it, and try to be more conscious in the future.

Perhaps someday I will be free of my brain's notion of time. Perhaps I will experience the freedom of a carbon atom; no longer seeing myself as separate from life but always as an integral part of it. I will not ask my fellow atoms about their politics. I will not ask them about their sexual preferences. I will not ask them about their god. I will pass from form to form; perhaps be buried for eons as part of a limestone cliff; perhaps fly into space to become part of a star; perhaps to become part of some creature or place I have never yet imagined. Regardless of the destination, and whether or not I will be conscious of it, I will be one with all the other atoms on a timeless journey. What an exciting adventure that will be.

Ancient Ants

In the 60's and 70's I knew nothing of ants. In the 60's and 70's the Beatles and the Spencer Davis Group were pounding in my brain. In the 60's I saw a man land on the moon. In the 60's I saw half a million people dance in the mud to music our parents were sure would turn us into raving lunatics. In 1970 I heard that Jimi and Janis were dead; a year later Morrison took the final trip on his Crystal Ship. Jesus may not have wept. I did. In 1970 I attended a memorial service for students killed by the National Guard at Kent State. Police attacked the peaceful rally and many students ran wild in the streets. I was one of them. I dreamed that I could force the world to change, make it to conform to my dream, persuade it to fulfill the destiny I had in mind. My dream was in the sky. Ants crawled about my feet. I ignored them as I operated on a "higher" plane. Unfazed, the ants moved the earth one grain at a time.

In 1970, miles south of my university dreamland, a young man was suffering in a mental institution. Abandoned at birth and then ripped from his foster parents at age seven, David Young had no time for dreams of making a better world. Like the ants, he navigated his world one grain at a time. His dream was to survive each day. Making slow, steady progress he taught himself to read and studied the world of ants. His passion for the very small kept him safe in the land of the very painful. "Freed" in the 80's he found a nest and built a new world, a world much larger than his bed at the institution but still small in the minds of many. He began to dream. Many of his dreams were frightening. But some took him to lands he had only read about in books.

Like an ant navigating pebbles and leaves of grass, David traveled west, finally coming to stand in "the Mother of Waters". I was blessed to travel with David as he explored the California "land of fuzzy hills" seeking a new nesting site. He found it in the Bay Area in the spring of '09. Soon we will rise, a swarm of two, and head west where David will build a fresh nest. Our dream buddy Barry will help, but David is the navigator - following the compass of his passion. Once trapped in an institution cell, now he flies toward his true self. Who has not had this dream? I lost it by dreaming of what others thought I should be. David held true to his course like the ant; patiently moving past each obstacle; persistently navigating challenges as his heart guided him onward. He has shown me that each of us carries our own unique dream; a path that often reveals itself only one grain at a time. No one can say how the dream journey will end but my money is on David. I will fly to many places as David creates his new nest. Sometimes I fear my journey, but thanks to David, I know that ants place no limits on success. Perhaps by moving the grains of my dream I will help change the world. I know that David, Barry, Tom and many others have changed mine.

Not Broken

I ask for help. You place your hand in mine. I get better. You will not let go of my hand. Stop. I am not broken. No further help is required. Please pass your way and let me be.

I get sick. You give me treatment. I get well. You tell me I am not well. Stop. I am not broken. I know the facts and figures. Please heal yourself and let me live.

I seek guidance. You show me a path. I learn and find my own path. You tell me I am still lost. Stop. I am not broken. I am no longer confused. Please open your eyes - I can see.

 

Broken? Not broken? Please help when I ask. Please stop when the need is past. Do not break that which is not broken.

 

You ask for help. I tell you what I would do. You get better. You keep asking. Stop. You are not broken. You can help yourself. Please know I care even though I must travel on.

You get sick. I share what made me well. You heal. You imagine you are still sick. Stop. You are not broken. Think of what made you well. Please let me see the joy of your healing.

You seek guidance. I show you my path and tell you there are many more. You find your path. You tell yourself you are still lost. Stop. You are not broken. Walk your path. Please know I hope our paths will cross again.

 

Broken? Not broken? I will help if you ask. But I will stop when the need is past. I will not break that which is not broken.

My Friend?

A friend said to me, "You are not praying so you do not belong to our group." I felt sad. I have shared much of my life's story with this friend, even the bits I am not proud of. I wanted to be part of the group. They have been part of my life for many years. Ageless feelings of loneliness and inadequacy surfaced and I was overwhelmed with guilt and shame. Why didn't I pray with the group? Was I just trying to be different for the sake of being different? Was I simply a willful child refusing to grow up and accept my responsibilities in the society I had chosen? What was wrong with me?

I suffered about this for several days. My friend may have had a role in the initial pain, but the continued suffering was largely due to factors that had nothing to do with my friend. Old and imagined hurts kept me imprisoned. My expectations of myself and others kept the prison locked tight. I felt angry. Who was my friend to question me? Why was what I believed so much more important than what I did? My internal musings took me away from interacting with others and being of use to my friends. Eventually, I returned to my daily routine of giving people rides, sharing conversations, buying a meal or two, just being there to participate in life with kindness. Eventually I realized that there was no suffering. Pain may come and it will go, but the suffering is optional – at least in part.

I don't know if I will return to the group. The group strongly insists on a particular pattern of belief. Lately, I have had more and more trouble buying into the idea that I honor one practice above all others. There are some beliefs that I find truly admirable, like the idea of being kind regardless of the personal consequences. There are some that I find truly detestable, like the idea that some people have more legal rights because of their creed, sexual preference, color, ability or economic status. Other than that, there is a huge middle ground of beliefs that I can pick and choose from. The more effort any group spends in trying to convince me of the rightness or exclusiveness of their view, the more nervous I become. Why all the insistence of conformity of belief? Why the fear of different beliefs? Who truly can judge the beliefs of another? Actions yes. We have rules and laws to limit damaging or hurtful actions. But beliefs?

I probably will return to the group. Without being egotistical, it probably needs at least a few weirdos like me if for no other reason than to inspire others to greater fervor. I would like the group to succeed. I know that its success will require balancing the competing practices of being open to new ideas while honoring traditions. I think in the end, like all groups I know of, it will succeed or fail based on its actions not its beliefs. Some claim prayer can only be given with a bowed head and beautiful words. I think even more wonderfully it can be lived as an act of kindness to others.

Last night, the moon was large and bright. It has watched over the rise and fall of all of mankind's beliefs. It has not been moved. It has gone about its business of passing through phases, raising and lowering tides since before there was a man to have beliefs. May I be like the moon. May my shining be free of fear. May I act consistent with my beliefs without having to justify them or seek approval of them from others. May I seek to protect the rights of others to do the same. May I resist anger without being a "sunshine patriot" to the goal of acting with love and compassion regardless of how others view me. If the only way I can be your friend is to share your fear and judgment of others then I may not be your friend. But even then I will strive to treat you with kindness and respect. I can stand and be myself even if others think I am broken or wrong. I can be free. I am. Free.

Now it is time to go call David and eat at the Chinese Buffet one more time. I hope they have octopi for him. God how tired I am of eating at that place. J

Me Against The World

I spoke with a friend yesterday. I was upset about the rampant idiocy I see in this world. I felt I was very persuasive with my arguments and facts.

"Did you know?," I began, "Nearly 40% of Americans are on an anti-intellectual crusade? When we learn something new in physics, astronomy, meteorology, geology or biology that does not agree with their religious views they cast it aside or try to co-opt it as evidence for clinging to the existence of a supernatural sky father."

My friend smiled at me as I paused for breath. I continued, "They claim that religious practices yield a better society. With the possible exception of Ireland, America has the highest level of belief in God and Jesus of any industrialized nation, but the United States has far higher homicide, poverty, obesity, and homelessness rates than any of its more secular peer nations."

I am sure that my eyes were bulging and that my face was red by this point. "The fact is that extremely secular nations such as Japan and Sweden are much safer, cleaner, healthier, better educated, and more humane." (Reference 1)

Spent, I waited for my friend's response.

"Well, what do you think?"

"Not much," he said.

"What? Aren't you afraid of what will happen if the religious wing nuts gain control of the world?"

"Not really," he said.

"How can you know that?"

"I don't know that. It's just that I don't see any evidence of anyone or anything being in control."

I took a breath. "I guess I was speaking politically."

He laughed. "Politicians have the least control. They are so busy chasing the illusion of power that they cannot even control their personal lives. Seems to me, most of them live in misery."

"But what about Hitler, Stalin, Caesar…people like that?"

"Where are they now?"

"But while they were alive they had great power."

"Only over those who feared them, those who forgot how to think for themselves."

"What about freedom of speech?"

"Freedom of thought is more important. Without that I have nothing to say anyhow."

"Guess you're right."

"Why?"

"But you just said…"

"I know what I said, why did you agree with me?"

"It sounded persuasive."

"Why?"

"I guess it felt right."

"So if it feels right then it is right?"

"I see where you're headed."

"Where exactly is that?"

"Let me see if I can put it together…Accepting something as true just because it agrees with how I feel is not a good reason for believing it. I should ask for more."

"Got it in one."

"Maybe I should ask for even more proof if it an idea agrees with something I truly, truly believe in."

"Absolument, mon cherie."

"So the real threat to me is my hatred of what I call idiocy."

"Yes, in part. There may be a real threat to freedom there, but the first step to fighting it is to apply critical thinking to your own prejudice."

"Like why do I think it's idiotic to believe in a sky father?"

"Or more to the point, why are you angry at those who do?"

"I'm afraid of what they may do to me and the future of the country."

"What is the best way

 

 

 

 

 

The Sun Never Sets

The sun never sets. The earth may turn but the sun never sets. The moon never rises or changes phases. Tides may rise but the moon never does, moon and earth merely dance together. Every sunset, every new moon is an illusion; fig newtons of my imagination, mere artifacts of how I see the world from where I sit. My ancestors took this evidence as proof certain that the sun does in fact rise and that the moon does change phases. Often, they killed or cast out those who tried to say otherwise. They acted on incomplete information. Clearly the truth requires more than the evidence that is readily available to me. Clearly my perception of things is limited. Clearly, if I am to see beyond the illusion of sunsets and moon phases I must begin by accepting nothing on face value.

I think life is like that. I assume that I can tell living (sentient) from dead (non-sentient) things in the world. I see a rock and say, "That is not sentient, it is a dead thing," so I feel no remorse when I kick it down the road, forever separating it from the place it has occupied for days, weeks, years or even longer. Based on current evidence, the probability is that the rock is in fact not sentient. It has none of the basic requirements necessary for it to be classified as a feeling being. But stating a probability is the best I can do. I am still learning. Someday, I could look back on my act of kicking the rock as a thoughtless crime against a sentient being. Looking at things in today's view, it seems very unlikely that this is the case but I must remain open.

The same goes for the question of when life begins and when it ends. I see a baby and rejoice at the beginning of new life. I see a corpse and I mourn the death of a loved one. But I'll bet that is simply my take, my point of view once more. The real phenomena of life and death likely are well beyond my poor ability to perceive them. I can watch a baby being born, or if I am lucky be there to participate in its conception. But this experience is not proof certain that the beginning did not come earlier still. I can watch a "dead" body decay into its component parts, smaller and smaller pieces breaking down into yet smaller ones until eventually only atoms are left. Even these at some great distant day will become sub atomic particles. My perception of this broad play is limited to tiny sliver of time. And my perception of time itself is only partial.

My ancestors were certain that the sun set and that the moon went through phases. They were right, and they were wrong. They were right to take action using the best information they had at the time. Their information was wrong. This is natural, but some of them refused to accept new information when it became available. Some of them fought against learning more about life. I have done this. I have held onto old beliefs and actions long past the time when they were useful to me and those around me. When I did so I became more and more closed in, more and more afraid of change, less and less tolerant and able to show compassion. For me, being human, being alive, requires me to question, verify and question again. Some tell me that I should accept things without questioning them. I do not understand this point of view. It seems guaranteed to keep me in ignorance. Perhaps that is a state of bliss for some, but it is not helpful to me. Ignorance did not cure my cancer. Ignorance did not give me the cup of coffee I drank this morning. Ignorance will not allow me to reach out and embrace the wonder and diversity of life.

Monkey Dancing

In any absolute sense of the words I have stolen, I have lied, I have cheated. In any absolute sense of the words I will steal again, I will lie, I will cheat again. I once believed the only path to peace was to find some way to totally free myself from stealing, lying and cheating. Like a little monkey, I danced from religion to religion from faith to faith from philosophy to philosophy, from cause to cause hoping for relief. I hopped and leaped about, hard to catch, impossible to pin down. Each time a religion, faith, philosophy or cause "failed me" I became depressed and angry at those who offered their path as the only "right" dance.

Lately, I am enjoying all dances. Each "dance" has merit, if only that created by those who find it valuable. I am not a Christian, yet I saw my Grandmother MacDaniel dance what she saw as Christ's waltz and display the finest grace and charity I have ever seen. I am not a Buddhist, but I have watched a Zen master glide through the chasms of mind to light up corners of consciousness hidden to others. I am not a Muslim yet I have twirled like a Sufi in my mind as I read the words of Rumi, "Your task is not to seek for love, but merely to seek and find all the barriers within yourself that you have built against it." I am not a Hindu but I have visited India and stood in awe at the power of Shiva's dance of simultaneous creation and destruction.

I am not a Social worker, yet I have seen their compassion and clapped my hands as one played country and folk music (even though country and folk music normally makes me want to pull out my hair). I am not a Scientist but I love science's dance of eternal questioning and learning about the wonderful world in which we live. I am not an Addict or Alcoholic, but there was a time when drugs led me to ecstasy, burning a hole through some old prejudices. I am not a Businessman, but there was a time when I boogied to the rumba of enterprise and fame; creating wealth - sometimes wisely, sometimes not.

To be a happy monkey and create my own dance, I have had to learn a few steps of all dances. The trick is not to be trapped by memories of past dances; to be honest about how they have helped or caused me to stumble, but to avoid viewing them with pride, regret, or guilt. They were just dances using the music available to me at the time. I can use what I learned from them to make a new dance. Now that I am an old monkey, I sometimes manage to jump and leap for the pure joy of life. I dance an ever changing dance. Each day reveals new steps, but my dance is always complete while I dance it. How can it be complete and still benefit from change? Even the Monkey doesn't know that. Rock on Monkey.

Homecoming

I am home. I opened the door for someone, they passed through and said, “Thank you.” Yes. This is Iowa City. I am back from a trip to the South, but it might have been pretty much anywhere where people do not know me. In the outside world, diversity seems much more of an issue than it is here. I have let my hair grow long, something that evidently is not as well accepted in parts of the outside world.

As I walked down the street of a "foreign" town an African American gentleman whispered, “Can’t tell him from a goddamn girl.” It was uttered indistinctly, more like a spit or hiss than a sentence. But the message was very clear. “You are not welcome here. We do not like people like you. We do not really know you, but we know enough about people who look like you to say that we do not like you. Accept our ways and be like us or leave.

Later, I was getting a cup of coffee at a gas station. I offered an elderly white man, a lid for his cup of coffee. He pushed my lid aside and took another. As I was leaving, I held the door open for another older white gentleman. He would not meet my eyes and went in a different door.

It felt like this was due to the fact that I have long hair and a beard. I feel like I am back in the 1960’s. Yet as I read this I see that I am guilty of the same prejudice I see in others. Why was it important for me to mention the race and age of those I felt were discriminating against me? Clearly, I am not free of prejudice. Perhaps no one is totally free. Perhaps it is unreasonable to expect to live in such a world.

Luckily, saving the world is not my job. I need only try to be kind. This works for me. Even when I notice the differences between us I can try to overlook those that disturb me. I can make an effort to treat you as I would be treated; to treat you with respect. Why is this so difficult? It may be because we evolved to use discrimination for our survival. Determining tribal membership was vital when we were still wandering the plains of the Serengeti. Make a mistake and you could be dinner. Perhaps we still live in such a world. The rage between our racial, political, social, economic and religious tribes seems stronger than it has in a very long time.

Hopefully, we will tire of this soon and realize that in the end there is but one tribe. It is called the Earth. Our land is this “tiny blue dot” we live on and share with all the other life we know. Even more broadly, there may be but one tribe within all the universes that now exist or that ever have existed. I can add to the kindness and joy of this tribe or detract from it. The choice is mine.

Maybe I will shave my head and cut off my beard the next time I travel out of Iowa City. I can do this much to reduce the chances of creating unease in others and encountering their prejudice. But what of those who encounter prejudice because of their skin color, size, intelligence, abilities or other more permanent features? They cannot change their color, suddenly grow a new limb or become more intelligent. I cannot imagine the challenges they face. In fact, I cannot say I truly understand the challenges and prejudice anyone else faces. Thankfully, I don’t need to. I can continue the practice of kindness without such knowledge. This is enough.

On second thought, I think I will let my hair grow so long that I can sit on it. Then when I travel outside of my town, I can wear long robes and carry a staff (and of course wear my sunglasses). Perhaps those who bear prejudice will think twice when presented with such an image. Or perhaps they will beat me silly. In either case it will simply be yet another chapter in what has already been an interesting and wonderful life. Whatever is left after the beating will either continue the wonder of this life or release its resources to be used by others. Regardless, life and its wonder will continue. At least that is how it seems to me. Other’s views may be different. In the end, differing views are not important. What is important is that I not be distracted by differences, no matter how long my hair, the color of my skin or my lack of wisdom and “common sense”.

Clearing My Brain

The brain goes where it will. Yesterday a man appeared who I had not seen before. He shared that he had been sober 27 years. There was no reason for me to doubt his word, but something about the way he said it made me wonder if it were true. He shared that he knew God’s will for him was to help drunks. He said this as if he were on a great mission.

I too have thought this. I no longer do. I do not know what “god” is – there are so many definitions it is impossible for me to find a consistent view. Even if I was sure who god was, the only way I would know his will is if he were to communicate it to me. There have been times when I was certain god was talking directly to me. As it turns out these were very dangerous times, times when I was so into my “vision” that I overlooked the beauty of life, times when family and friends did not exist – the only important thing was my communication with god.

When I am “communicating with god”, seeing a vision, or accepting a great mission, I have no way of telling if I am experiencing a hallucination or having a revelation. I don’t deny anyone else the right to have visions or “talk” with god. I wish them well. So long as they do not insist that I join them on their journey or they do not prevent me from following my own path we can live in peace.

Life is beautiful. Life is precious. Life is real. I no longer need, nor can I safely indulge in visions of god or a precise definition of god’s will. Simple kindness is enough for me. More than enough. I have yet to exhaust its potential for bringing me peace.

For me, kindness requires no vision. Kindness requires no interpretation or special training – only continual practice with a heart that seeks to be honest, open and willing to change. I study kindness by cleaning the toilet at the gas station. I understand kindness when I open up and let others hold me, hug me and love me. I practice kindness when I turn aside other’s requirement that I pick up their fear, hatred and judgment in order to belong to their clan, tribe or church. I master kindness when I recognize that I cannot practice it perfectly, that for me there is no perfect kindness; only a simple plan of trying to be kind to the next person, place or thing I encounter.

I destroy my practice of kindness when I make it exclusive to “drunks” or any other group, including my family. If I try to practice kindness only in special cases or with particular people I begin to experience judgment and fear – the things destroy any joy I may find in life. But that is my path, and as it has often been said and is well documented: I am insane.

The Diamond Back (Part 1)

John Boe Cole drinks his whiskey. I sit at the other end of the bar watching. No one drinks whiskey like JB. Least no one I have ever seen. He doesn't sip it. He doesn't swig it. He doesn't throw it against the back of his throat and choke it down. He kind of slurps it, sucking real hard just above the surface to make a fine mist that he inhales. He can clear a double shot in one long breath, making you wonder why he doesn't choke.

I nurse my Pabst and wait. JB is quiet now but that will change.

JB's ankles are bare above his buster brown work boots. It is 95 outside but he wears a flannel shirt over a grey-white longjohn undershirt. The shirtsleeves are rolled back and the elbows are worn through. His nails are dirty. His skin is dark and pockmarked and his high-boned cheeks are hollow. His black hair is greased back with a handful of Southern Rose. Some say he is part Indian, but I've never heard him say so. He turns to look at me. His red-rimmed eyes are blank beneath a sloping forehead; eyebrows bushy enough to sweep floors are separated by a nose that would make Caesar proud. His stare is empty. I return its emptiness. We've seen darkness that would make the devil shiver and have returned. We've both watched hatred, fear and guilt poison everyone that loved us. Now we are strangely content with the vacancy of our lives. If this is as good as it gets it is enough. If it is going to get worse then let it come quickly.

We've sat together in the Diamondback for years. Perhaps we have been here forever. Who knows the time in a place like the Diamondback? This is a dreamland without day or night. The only light is the neon over the bar and the florescents on the jukebox and over the pool table in back. The tiny stage by the exit door is empty, except for Friday's open mike and Saturday night when the Watson boys play. Time mostly passes as shots and drafts. We know it's not Friday or Saturday night but that's about it. Right now for example, the bar clock with the big white hands shows 11:23 but I can't remember if it's light or dark outside. I get my answer when some damn fool suddenly opens the door and daylight bursts in. I clamp my eyes shut and then open them to squint at the invader. It's Nathan, JB's younger brother. JB is tall. Nathan is short. JB is thin. Nathan is broad. His hands are square blocks and twitch at his side.

"JB come on home. Mamma's worried sick.

JB swings around on his stool and leans his elbows back on the bar. He gives Nathan the same gaze he gave me. Even in the Diamondback's twilight I can see Nathan's face darken. Nathan hasn't seen the devil's darkness. To him JB's gaze is a challenge rather than the white flag of surrender. Nathan leans in closer.

"Well? Ain't you gonna say nothing?"

JB sits up a bit and reaches back to get his shot glass. He empties it with a long, loud slurp.

"Dammit JB. What the hell are you thinking?"

I walk back to the jukebox. This is a familiar scene. Time after time Nathan makes the same mistake - trying to talk some sense into JB, getting frustrated and then either shaking JB or trying to drag him out to his truck. Most time JB just goes along without a fuss. Today is not one of those times.

Post From An Old Blog

This is a post from an older blog of mine.

Tuesday, September 27, 2005

Today

This is Don a friend of mine from Uptown Bill's. Some people say he is handicapped. He does not see it that way. He is simply someone who is trying to become more healthy. That is what Don has taught me today. I would tell you what he taught me yesterday but I think this site may be censored.

Aunt Sugar's Crows

“I hate crows. They always take the best and leave the rest.”

Aunt Sugar stands at the kitchen sink washing the breakfast dishes and looking out the window as the mob of crows devastates the persimmon orchard. The back of her neck turns red. Soon she will take the shotgun and begin manufacturing crow fertilizer.

A short woman, broad in the shoulders, those who dare might call her stout. They would be fools. At 60 Aunt Sugar still is a deadly threat to anyone who crosses her. Few seldom do. Most people remember when she threw Heath Jackson under the horses, and for those with a memory deficit she is always ready to repeat the tale. I love hearing it.

“Back in those days, in high school, Heath and the fancy ones only knew me as one of those girls, the ones who didn’t look good enough or dress good enough to get asked out on Saturday nights. Sometimes, I wondered why the good Lord gave all looks and money to folks like the Jacksons – silly people who never seemed to appreciate it.” She would straighten her head and fix her eyes on mine. “But I never sat around feeling sorry for myself. No sirree Bob. I always went out on Saturdays anyhow. Me, Sally Jenkins, and Betty Robinson would go on out and have a good time, even if it was just us.”

A master of dramatic pauses, she would smooth her dress, brush back her hair, wipe the table or take some other small distracting action before continuing. “Well this one night we was at a football game. Heath Jackson scored three times. He was a beautiful boy, Heath was – blond hair, smooth skin and eyes that sparkled like diamonds. Maybe I loved him a little. Maybe I did.” On cue, moisture would glisten at the corner of her eye. She would refuse to brush it away, daring it to roll down her cheek. It never did.

“Anyhow, after the game we hung around the exit to catch sight of Heath. I guess he was anxious to leave. I heard him say, ‘Hey Stumpy, why don’t you and the cow girls get out of the way?’”

Her lips would become a thin line. “Then he pushed me and I looked up into his laughing face. Things went white. People say I grabbed him by his shirt and slung him like a sack of flour towards the wagon by the gate. They was gonna be a hayride or somethin’ that night I guess.”

She would reach for my hand and hold it as she neared the climax. “I never meant it to be that way Danny. I didn’t aim for him to land under the horses. I didn’t aim for the horses to spook and run over him. Never in a million years did I mean for it to turn out that away.”

Heath never scored another touchdown. Doctors repaired his broken legs but could not restore his speed and he finally quit the team. The sheriff visited with Aunt Sugar the next day but nothing ever came of it. As for Heath and his family they either were too humiliated or too amazed to accept that tiny Aunt Sugar could bring down a hero like Heath. What judge would possibly believe such a tale? Even those who saw it could not accept that Aunt Sugar had played David to Heath’s Goliath. The paper listed it as a tragic accident. Heath had tripped.

I knew better. I had felt Aunt Sugar’s hands on me more than once as a child. I was grown now, a man visiting my favorite Aunt, but I knew better than to challenge her. When you are Aunt Sugar’s it is best to play by her rules. Outside the window, the crows must have forgotten this truth or perhaps they were ignorant or willfully defiant. No matter. Soon they would pay the ultimate price. Watching them continue to destroy the orchard, Aunt Sugar shook her head, almost dislodging her huge bun of hair.

“Yes damn them. They always take the best part. And that fool Jay just lets it happen.”

Her back is to me as she stands at the sink. Her summer cotton dress reaches to her calves, where solid ankles rise from heavy shoes with square heels: sensible dress for a strong woman; a woman who held her head high as friend after friend left her. Heath’s popularity and the town’s anger over his loss to the football team stripped Aunt Sugar of her friends. Even teachers were wary of her. Her final year of high school was spent in defiant silence.

Scarlet fever took Aunt Sugar’s parents the year after graduation. She kept up the house by working at the Rexall and mending clothes. Her name was Clarissa McKinsey then. There was little sweet or sugar like in her life. She retreated into a routine of work and church until a willowy, shy man named Jay penetrated her shell. Jay Tucker, my Uncle, watched Clarissa McKinsey for years before he dared approach. Like her, he was no friend of the Jackson’s. Like her, he worked hard for what he had. Like her, he had spent endless Saturday nights alone. He lived at the edge of town on a few stony acres whose best feature was a hillside of fruit trees, persimmon trees mostly.

He watched Clarissa carefully, admiring how she marched through the pain of her high school days and her parent’s death. He watched her go to church every Sunday. He thought of asking her to join the group that went to Leon’s for catfish after the sermon but she always disappeared before he could catch her. He asked Pastor Jamieson about it.

The Pastor looked at Jay over the top of his reading glasses. “Now you need to keep this to yourself understand?”

Jay nodded.

“You know old man Hensley and how he has cheated almost everyone in town?”

“Yes.”

“Well he even tried to steal Clarissa’s house from the bank, when she fell behind in her payments. But then he lost his wife last May. And strangest thing, Clarissa came to me and said how she felt like she would start bringin’ him a plate of food every Sunday. Said she didn’t want nobody else to know.”

The Pastor adjusted his glasses. “Like I said, it’s passing strange, but maybe she’s drawn to his meanness. Plenty of folks have called her mean over the years. It don’t matter. I only know Clarissa is doing what no one else will – carrying Christian kindness to someone who most folk hate.”

“Hmm…” was all Jay said, but he watched Clarissa even more closely.

Finally, as if he were a male preying mantis approaching a voracious female, Jay began leaving anonymous notes and gifts on Clarissa’s front steps. This went on for several months: Jay never daring to reveal himself and Clarissa refusing to acknowledge the gifts. Curiosity finally woke Clarissa one dawn and she opened the door as Jay was placing a box of candy on the steps.

Jay jumped as though bitten. “I’m Jay, Jay Tucker, miss.”

Clarissa laughed. “I’m hardly a Miss. You know I’m nearly 30.”

“Being ‘Miss’ ain’t about age I reckon.”

“Is that a fact? Well what is it about?”

Jay cleared his throat and stared up at the roof as if studying it for some sign of disrepair. “Well as I see it, someone is a Miss until they’s married.”

“You don’t say.”

“Yes miss. I do say. And…”

For the first time in nearly a decade, a smile flirted with the corners of Clarissa’s mouth. “And what?"

Uncle Jay did a bit more throat clearing and continued avoiding Clarissa’s eyes. “Well miss. I was wondering if you had ever thought of changing that.”

“Changing what?”

“Changing from being a miss.” Jay’s eyes stopped wandering and found Clarissa’s.

Clarissa stood open mouthed. The air was heavy and difficult to inhale.

Jay smiled. He picked up the box of candy and placed it in Clarissa’s hand.

“Is it alright if I call you Sugar?”

Clarissa heard someone say, “I…I guess so.”

“I’ll be going then. I’ll come by on Saturday and we can go to a movie or somethin’.”

Clarissa remained motionless except for a brief nod.

Jay bowed deeply, turned and skipped down the steps. Whistling he walked away. Clarissa, soon to be my Aunt Sugar, watched as the scarecrow of a man disappeared down the street. Her smile returned. She opened the box of chocolate, ate one and then ate one more. She left the rest. She closed the box and put it into the dowry chest her mother had left her. It was still there when, two months later she and Jay got married. It was a small wedding, just the two of them with the Pastor and his wife. They moved to Jay’s farm.

They never had children. Uncle Jay wanted them, but Aunt Sugar was afraid. Why bring children like her into the world? Why add to the world’s suffering? No, far better to keep things simple. Uncle Jay adjusted. From what I can tell they were happy enough. Their farm always was well kept, even if the poor soil kept it from being among the most productive. Aunt Sugar’s quilts were on walls as far away as New York and their persimmon jam always took first prize at the county fair. Last year a national chain offered to buy the recipe. Uncle Jay often tells me that even without children, their life has been full on this farm; the farm with the persimmon orchard; the persimmon orchard that is full of crows.

The crow’s time has come. Turning to grin at me, Aunt Sugar grabs the shotgun and we head out to the orchard. The mob erupts noisily and flees, but not before Aunt Sugar brings down a dozen or more, her shots ringing out in the clear morning air. Crows flap about on the ground before lying still – midnight corpses among the leaves. I see Uncle Jay at the edge of the orchard. He is like that. Quietly sneaking up on you when you least expect it. Aunt Sugar goes back in to start on lunch. Uncle Jay and I pick up the corpses. Have the best been taken? Are these all that are left? I do not know.

Brain Malfunction

Introduction: My brain gave me the following words this morning. I was told the passage is similar to what Yahweh said to Jesus in the Garden of Gethsemane, to what Buddha found under the Bodhi, to what Mohammed heard from Allah after Gabriel led him to the throne of heaven, to what is within Ishvara and Brahman…well you get the picture. Those who know of me, know that I have great reason to mistrust my brain. I am diagnosed as insane, and I do have the papers to prove it. Forgive my ramblings. They give me relief. Do not read them if you fear they will bring you pain.

Speak like a madman. Speak as though your life depends on it. Let the words flow from you; poison gushing from the infected wounds of your sorrows. Release your thoughts as a scream that moves beyond self, becoming the elemental cry of life, the yell of an infant claiming defiant entrance into the world. As a child, you did not ask for life. Life was thrust upon you. Let the world listen as you claim life by embracing your rage and fear of the gift. In this way you will truly heal. Only in this way will you help those who are searching.

Calm, reasoned discussion will not allow you to find your fears, to know them, to move through them. The false tranquility of your life must be ruffled in order to reflect your new face. Untested peace is empty of comfort. Ecstasy requires its agony.

Your song will not be of pain alone. As you befriend your fears they will disappear. You will find voice for joy, releasing the light within, sharing it with those around you. Your suffering will be nothing but a moment’s illusion as you are swept up in the boundless energy of life without end. You will see the stars, behold the wonder of their making, and be freed from the desire for significance. Others may try to steal your wonder by naming it – teacher they will say, or father, or even the bringer of their salvation. Do not listen to them. Theirs is the voice of the serpent at the tree telling the lie of separation between you and me. We have never been separate. We have always been together, without need for measures – none higher or lower, none greater or smaller.

The phantom mind that holds you tightly now will at last pass away. Your true self will finally see me clearly and fear no more. Dancing on the very pinpoint of time, space and thought we will journey ever further into the wonderful mysteries of life. All that man has been on your tiny world will be yours; all those who painted, sang and twirled, all those who fought and who resisted fighting, and all those who dared to learn from the stars, letting go of superstition and fear. All that you call nature will open and embrace you, welcoming you to the breath of life eternal. That which was you will fully join that which is us.

Rest easy my son. Your trials are momentary. Your path is eternal. Creature of an instant, ancient of days, you tread where there is no space, no time, no depth, breadth or height – the place where there is only love.