Chasing Illusions

I am convinced that what prevails in suffering is the disallowance of time to feel.

   We can become so accustomed to fast pace living, chronic crises management, and instantaneous gratification, that we fail to recognize we exist in a cocktail of frets, worries, anxious hopes and fearful dreads.

   Sidestepping consequences, we follow a well-worn path of ritual practiced avoidance, as resignation from living to one of autopilot for the sake of what we deem safe.  "Busy" is just an excused 'flying blind.'  Too busy for what is important to us; too busy to consider our dreams; too busy to care. We’d rather react in haste in a crises than a deliberate response effecting a situation. 

   Without care there can be no quality; and that's the bedrock gist of it.  A self claimed promise of security through mediocre performance; trade-off quality for quantity of less risk results in bland unsavory results. Our distractions are choices.  Even when we feel powerless to change the selections, no choice is a choice. We miss the essential truth where we are not powerless to dedicate our attention when it comes to making our choices.  Doing so makes all the difference between being in charge and chasing the illusion of control.

Thank You for Not Being Insane

I live in a town whose roads all feed it’s people into the city; here you just have to drive to survive. So I catch a lot of antics while on the road that defy reasonable driving sense. My wife and I agree at times, the offending drivers are quite insane. I fondly recall the comedian George Carlin’s comments on people who drive too slow are ‘idiots’ and people who raced by were ‘maniacs. And it’s no stretch of the imagination to group maniacs, lunatics and insanity into behavior radically different than what is deemed normal. 

As a psychology student I learned clarity of terminology. Inevitably the process led to the word insane. It was made pointedly clear that insanity was a legal term, not a clinical one. Insanity by law’s definition is focused on violations of societal norms that included concerns over a person becoming a danger to themselves or others. In English the world ‘sane’ derives from the Latin adjective sanus meaning ‘healthy’. The phrase “mens sana in corpora sano” would be roughly, as a healthy mind in a healthy body. From this perspective, insanity would be considered poor health of the mind, not necessarily a physical flaw of the brain-organ. It refers to the defective function of mental processes such as reasoning. In this fashion psychology would refer to insanity as maladaptive behavior that is unhealthy. 

Enough of the clinical maturations, the point remains fairly clear to me that often we wish to be around others whose behavior and hopefully concept of the world pretty much agrees with our own. Oddly enough, we don’t venture to make those comparisons so much when selecting our intimate life partners. Oh no, only after the honeymoon do the really-sexy-difference in perspective begin to be made known. Sure, there is a tendency for most people to believe they’re pretty flexible about their values and their opinions on how the world ticks. That of course is put to the test when living day in and out with another human being who was raised with an entirely different value system than your own. Sure enough it shows in the little things first: where do you squeeze the toothpaste tube; (middle or end) can be seen as insignificant; at first. But, as time marches on it becomes clear that the other person has rituals and routines that just go against anything you ever considered as reasonable. And hey, let’s be honest, most of us don’t want to believe we’re so rigid that we can’t welcome or even accept something different in the way to get daily chores accomplished…right? 

It is here I am invited to reveal and perhaps even discuss the contradictions in the way my lovely bride and I do life. Yet, I have lived nearly sixty years on this planet developing, and honing, my survival skills; so I have learned this much: To find fault in any of my wife’s ways ~ in writing, and on a public forum, would be the surest sign of insanity for a man to display. 

So then; I am grateful for the differences that help me adapt to change. As for my wife, let me say: Thank you for not being Insane.

Starting the Cold Engine

From the stall I had to start my engine cold.

With that, check those items that made driving a pleasant experience.  So I’ll admit; I digressed.

   In the world of wants; ours is not to obtain.  Let me say that in another way; we are inspired by our desire, but that is not a contract for getting.

Clearing it up a bit maybe even more; because it bears repeating, striving due to an interest to get from here-and-now to there-and-then. 

   What sparkles, attracts us, this is the simplicity of relationship as cause to our effect; and we have a lot attracting us.  Put every experience you ever had; from tying your shoe to the first kiss of autumn and you'll get where I'm going.  And that is true, we're going...on and on.  The desire to express how we feel is valid, and it couples with another irresistible desire to feel connected. Not so much BE connected by some external measure, but frankly that 'WE' feel the rush when WE convince ourselves we're understood; thereby connected.  That may be a fancy word for accepted, and if so then you may sense where all of this takes us...to beliefs.

Oh my!

   Some beliefs and values are shoveled into us before most have even mastered speech.  Most have been indoctrinated before developing even the slightest inkling of reasoning; that was intentional and by design.  I'd not say it’s a conspiracy so much as it being a ritual that foremost worked and it avoids complications that may arise with asking.  We're all for efficiency and others have decided that ours would be a 'yes' if we had all the facts like they do.  Taken to extremes (as is always the case) we're enslaved before we even realized that's our social and personal nature to try and control.

    We endeavor to harness the universe, so that means control the externals...be they raw materials or our fellow breathing brethren.  Be that as it may, these filters to belief are put into place to create an interpretation of existence.  Intentionally, as I’ve mentioned, the facts you are given to use in your process of decision are selective and, well, a bit...slanted and biased. 

   But that doesn't invalidate the process in the quest to obtain what is true.  You get to decide as best you can with what you have.  And in that moment of clarity agree...be that in Santa; the tooth fairy; or the fairness of social justice, you are validated by none other than God...who happens to be provided to you in the manner the adults around you see fit.  Not the God of creation, but the god of consciousness in which we are all part.  Within all of that noise of interpretation is the primary operational template: Creation is our business.  That's what life does, that's ALL that life is interested in.  Not quality, and not quantity; just more and more of life.  Even in destruction life is creating possibilities into a reality that is necessary for its success. We feel comfort with obtaining our goals. (comfort is another concept that is contagious, right up there with entitlement). The good news is; it is temporary. The not so fun news is that most, if not all, of your beliefs are also temporary and mostly false.  Most are designed to limit you for some lofty reason or another, but the fact remains that freedom is under siege and it has always been at battle with fear and safe on the opponent’s side...and they're friggin cunning and smart.

   The silent peace that we seek is not end of conflict, but the presence of freedom.  Know that in the silent absence of creativity, that you are not lacking, but in repose.  Energy gathers even without asking.  Because that is the nature of our physical experience.  Energy becomes matter, and matter dissolves back to its fundamental elements; then it is attracted to like kind energy and when it becomes dense, returns to matter once more (even light is matter...electrons...tiny matter that matters fast). 

Abandon the need to judge by any standards beyond what you can feel.

It’s your only best compass, and it is dedicated to serve you with or without contamination.  All of that thinking about, and knowledge obtained are examples of passage, but does not in any case mean it’s true.  Even if it were true once upon a time, now is new.

So

Dabble, as I am doing here. And look what you have?  Several hundred words that depict the glory of being naked, or being seen naked and giggle at the idea that we can be naughty without fear of punishment.

Now that's not a mandate to go running down the street without shoes...there's glass out there so be careful.  What it does suggest is to consider what it is you would like...and make your plans with the spirit of excitement without results to deem them worthy....we are here for such a very short time.  And when that period is over...whether you were well known or obscure; hero or villain...the ride still stops.  Breath deep now and create without thinking about creating...dabble...like you knew how to do it without being shown.

What is this Creative Stall

I've spent a lot of time 'getting familiar' with the whole 'writing' experience.  So I have talked to a lot of writers; attended a fair number of seminars, along with conventions; and of course, read books; even bought a few, well, more than a few actually.  I'd say the shelf directly above my head in this study is totally dedicated to those professional whispers created for insecure neophyte writers who unabashedly need something comforting nearby to encourage continuing effort.  Your Novel proposal; Good Grammar; Writing for Dollars; and one of my all time favorites by Peter Bowerman The Well-Fed Writer.  Then of course the customary Webster’s and a Writers’ market of 2002 are still sitting in their chase positions. 

   OK, so I don't use my resources; much anyway, but like a quiver filled with arrows, I gain comfort knowing they are near if I should need them.  I have looked up some amusing names in the greatest baby name book ever; I have even glimpsed at Dream Symbols. Oh goodness, and look, Guide to Literary Agents, written in blood I think? Or perhaps I am confused and that's the theme of the book.  But all of that to say I've gleaned a few pearls out of the din of advice and warnings.  Never mind the market, or the necessary genuflecting that is strongly suggested, but any semblance of rebelling to such antics is received by shocked looks and scoffs over sincerity in venturing in to be a (angel choir voices kick in now please) Writer.

   No… the advice was useful to believers, but I had to ferret out truth from a different pot.  You know the old saying that a paradigm is never changed from inside an institution? It’s those damn outsiders that innovate.  That's a reasonable expectation; outsiders don't have a stake in the game of status quo.  Which comes to the metaphysical, new-age, cosmic secrets (not THE SECRET, the book, but close enough to the mark to suffice) of how to do what you want (in writing) aka...be creative and still become rich and famous...without the drug addictions; or maybe even the total collapse of your emotional support system of friends and family; usually both.  What surfaced to my fevered efforts to discern the truth was this: It just doesn't matter. 

   Now I'd like to attribute my clarity on the topic to Julia Cameron, because I dug her book THE ARTIST WAY.  Yet there are a host of other authors and deep thinkers who have credentials with letters after their names, and some that do not, who say pretty much the same thing using different words or examples.  What we perceive we believe. Boy that says heaps of volumes if ever there was a message to take home.  There are those times when the wheels no longer spit up sparks at my energetic effort.  I feel depleted or exhausted and fear that my fountain has dried up.  Gone for-EV-ah, the youth of my enthusiasm; snuffed out.  It's a good thing not to be an alcoholic who owns shot guns, or there might be a Hemingway sort of accident before conceding to the cycle imbued in creativity.  Ups and downs are the rhythm of the planet and because I’m here, even if thrown in, I am virtually unable to prevent getting external influences influencing my conclusions. 

   I am influenced as a condition of my exploration. That is an indisputable fact hidden in socialization. I'd go as far as to say even Tarzan learned the same way in the absence of social shaping.  But then again, he substituted chimpanzees as his social network now didn’t he?  I have been in the desert of concern over the 'lack' as some creative people mutter: The lack of inspiration; the lack of interest; the lack of funds; so now I wait tables at Sonic; and these skates are killing my ankles.  Where did all those dollars into education take me anyway?  Well, for all the teasing, I am exactly where I need to be; and if I’m breathing then I am not wasting my time writing as a corpse, I’ve succeeded in the passage from then into now. Congratulation; welcome to the view of disillusionment.  I remember an amusing bumper sticker, I think I even purchased it as a matter of recall, then pasted it onto my guitar case.  It read' "Remember you're unique...just like everybody else."  It would take another decade for me to see that I use to think special and unique were the same thing; which of course they are not.  Anyway, at the time, I thought that funny, that's why I got it, and I like plays on words, well except 'you make love funny' I don't think you can look at that as anything but a bad mark; probably will leave a scar...for life even.

I’m going to come back at this tomorrow, So far, so good.

Happy Trails

As a kid, I wasn’t all that hot over riding horses.

That was my sister's department. 

  I’d say that maybe because no matter how many times we'd adjust the stirrups for a ride, my legs always got cramped.  That or I'd get a worn out nag who had a perchance to run its rider into low hanging branches whenever it could; sneaky as a cat.  

Then there was my favorite; a half-wild beast whose training had two exclusive increments; Stop, or Full-out.  Never mind  that I address the general garden variety trail horses, or that I did not possess adequate instructions for me to be a stand in on a Bonanza episode, riding across a mountain glade smiling gaily.  It was beyond my natural skill.  I just didn't get the romantic attraction to horseback riding as girls did.  I was aware and liked the carnival of smells, I even enjoyed the sound of creaking leather whenever you moved, but not enough to distract the dull pulsing ache in my calves, or the pine tar taste left in my mouth from and unforeseen saplings slapping me in the face.

   Once we reached the half waypoint on any trail, the magical transformation would occur. Where the once a plodding replica of a sorry-wornout-plow pulling bag-of-bones would suddenly turn into a contestant for the Triple Crown. 

A seasoned trail rider would know there are those types of horses known as  'barn broke' mares on every trail ride, and I should know by now, I'd be the lucky one to draw such a mount in a chance of a lifetime lottery...consistently. The juncture of change would be instantly; from doddering to bouncing mercilessly in my ill fitting saddle. The so called ‘tame’ trail horse became a fire breathing hell stallion making its head long dash homeward.  No amount of whoa's could curtail the race back. I considered it a divine mercy that I made it back still in the saddle, and not pulled along in the dirt by the stirrup like a shot cowboy: fade to black.

Letters Home

The other day I remember promising myself that I would learn how the heart of my Harley ticked; I never did.  But I pondered how there seemed to have been a thread of mechanics in this part of the Clan.  My dad had gone into auto mechanics as his selected trade when he was in Public High School.  Back then, it was accepted practice to steer kids into a trade so they'd have opportunities for work when they graduated.  Unlike today, or well, when I was in High School, the emphasis was on college prep; so there wasn't a whole lot of attention spent on anyone who wasn’t pointing in that direction. Most of those I knew who realized books were not in their future took the initiative and got summer jobs doing what they were interested in.  Then, most of those were also just clinging on to HS until the senior year because they needed the diploma for the work a day world; not sticking to it out for some deep abiding love of learning the hidden nuance of Chaucer or the anomalies of fractions. Unfortunately for my dad, the Korean war came around, and he had a job working in a grocery store, so any plans he may have had were whisked away by war.  Once his time was up, he was standing hip deep in kids in California and out of the Marines.  So, he fell back on the only trade he had.  Then he stuck with it all those years to provide for his little family. 

   Ironic how sometimes our values move around surviving current situations.  It was more important for him to be a dependable father and husband than aspire to fulfill an ill defined dream of what he’d prefer to work at.  Guess that's what matters, that we do what nurtures our self esteem.  It works out when we do.  To listen to him, he had no regrets in the least.  I consider that a success, we should all be so fortunate.

    When I enlisted into the Army, I choose aircraft mechanic as my military occupational specialty.  I did a stint as an aircraft crewman; for a very very short time on what is called a medium lift helicopter; CH-47 Chinook, (we called them Shit-hook mostly because they didn't really fly all that well.  We use to say it just made such a racket that the earth repelled it! HA just a monstrosity of leaking hydraulic fluid, with huge 60 foot blades moving at 700 mphs in tandem, [fancy words for opposite circular paths towards one another] So much like British sports cars. Nice sexy idea, but prepare to tinker on it in obscure rural roadsides)

    I didn't have to fly on it often to realize I was not cut out to live in a vapor of oil...just knew this wasn't good for longevity's sake.  Somehow fate had it that our First Sergeant took an instant dislike to smart-asses; by his glare I could tell it was his mission in life to get me; what better way then to make me the unit mail clerk?  I can still recall that wonderful bonding moment.

"Cuddy, you're a flake"

"Yes First Sergeant"

"I don't like flakes"

"No First Sergeant"

"I'm making you my mail clerk because you have the security clearance and aptitude called for by the regs, to get a mail clerks card.  And you will pass that test.  I'm not asking"

"Yes First Sergeant"

"I'm guessing you'll fuck up and I can kick you out of the Army"

"Yes First Sergeant, I'm sure I won't disappoint you"

"You being smart with me boy?"

"Me First Sergeant?"

"You just try fucking with me son, I've ways to make you suffer that are just this side of legal, moral, and hu-mane. I know your type"

"Yes First Sergeant"

"You just step out of line"

"No First Sergeant"

"Get out, go find something useful to do Cuddy"

"Yes First Sergeant, have a nice day"

"It will be when you get the hell out of my office, why are you still here?"

"Roger Wilco First Sergeant"

"yeah...you Californians...I hate Californians, they're all..."

(I caught the flake part while closing his door, along with a chain of superlatives and profanity....it was art how that man could string them together...a sort of ....Poetry. I made it a point to stay out of his path because I had no interest in finding out what those suffering techniques he was talking about were. Fortunately he entertained those wiles with other not so cunning and clever underlings.  Fellows; who we in the barracks affectionately referred to as, shithead-targets. When he made Sergeant Major, he left our unit and moved to Stuttgart. I enrolled him in every porn magazine that came through the mailroom....it was the least I could do to show my appreciation for his kind and considerate manner; sort of a frosting to my nature at the time.  I was a hero to those in my company who were also card carrying flakes...in the words of Tony our beloved icon,

"We're Grrrr-ate"

   Well, so much for a snippet of those times that shaped me into that dynamic kinda fellow that is watched closely and pondered...is this guy for real?  And to just think, that at one time, I was signed for a dozen tactical nuclear warheads....now that's a prudent government decision for ya.

A Candle Disposition

The joke goes, “A good analogy is hard as… (Grasping hands at air)…as…

The humor lies in the mental leap of irony...with a dash of absurdity to sweeten it. Yet, as analogies goes there is one that serves my purpose for today.  It is the one used by Neale Donald Walsh in one of his inspired books.  I borrow it for my purposes but I wanted to give credit to where I picked it up years ago.

   From a point of view, the concept goes, there exist the universal consciousness; the divine intelligence; as in all things.  Then apply that to using a candle as an individual conscious being. So then a representation of the entire collective presence of billions of these individual candles so close to one another that it was visible as a huge blinding light, as massive as a sun.  Now the beauty of this analogy is the rest of the story, and that would be where the individual consciousness had a deep desire to know it’s own brilliance; but couldn’t tell due to being surrounded by so much light. 

 So it was permitted to venture away from the great abundance into the darkness so it could see the limits of its affect.  In that moment of freedom the seed for longing to be reunited with the whole was also planted. It was the continuation of the dualistic understanding of all there is in the physical universe, as well as the unmanifested qualities (pretty much everything else). So we were given both the delight and the desires that accompany liberty; thriving in our exploration and discovery, while ever thirsting for reunion and connection to our home.

   The purely desirable proposition that we exist as both an individual and part of a greater totality could not be better exemplified by such a powerful analogy as this.

If one were to choose to believe in such a relationship.    

Just Not Interested

   “You’re married, you know how to relate, what am I doing wrong?”

I had to sigh; I remember not so long ago that was my own protest to a relationship that was slipping out of my control; what was I doing wrong?

   I so desperately wanted it to work.  I too even resorted to talking about my situation to anyone who would listen; friends and strangers alike, hoping against facts that someone would see an avenue I didn't try ~ a magical twist in approach that would bring about my desired end state.  It was, and remains, wishful thinking that someone besides you can solve your issues.  But, in this case, I was the friend who was given the troublesome burden; hoped to shed light on a problem that refused resolution for having him be the way she wanted.

  I offered what little wisdom I could glean from my own mistaken interpretation about love.

   “To paraphrase ~ he's just not interested.”

It may have been too broad of an assessment to utter, so I had to fill in the blanks to orient her on a perspective of how romance can often mislead a couple who are ensnared by expectations and disappointments.

   “Now, I had to really get 'real' with my own once upon a time.  And perhaps this is one of those sameness things that might apply, but that will be for you to decide, so in no way am I claiming the sacred ‘always’ ground when commenting on what you tell be is the struggle you are facing or why love can be so hard.”

   “There was a time I loved her with everything I had, but you know, there were clear signs that she was not as she was speaking when saying she sought that unconditional blissfully TRUE love; she was seeking something altogether different. She sought the unspoken sanctuary, shelter, refuge, or what- EVER it was that would give her a sense of peace; that was the ticket for her.  It just wasn't love.  She spoke of love as if it held her 'salvation' and 'redemption' but those are just the contrast of her hurting, pain and desperate motivating points to her survival.”

   She made the humming noise of comprehension. As if I had read a passage from her script.  Whose lines were being read, I couldn’t tell, but I had established a familiarity in my reference points that she recognized. This provided both credibility by being someone who had a similar experience, so I was welcomed in commonality; a kinsmanship by shared battle experiences.

    “I have the feeling  that you are tangled up with one who was interacting with you under the same 'idealism' of love without real 'commitment' to its tenant; those principles that call for no compromises, no fear, and no hedging.  He just wasn't available to participate at that kind of level with you.  It isn’t about you, or a violated belief system.  He couldn't walk the walk...as you were at least willing to try.”

     “At the moment your love persists; because it refuses the chains of conditions.  He, on the other hand, may only know conditions and situations....in substitution for the freedom that love offers.  He is not blind to the choice of wisdom or ignorance...but prefers the comfort of suffering over the potential discomfort of taking responsibility for his happiness day to day; just as maybe you do.  Some do prefer to curse the darkness than light a candle...because even if frightening, the darkness has become known...some don't wish to be in the mystery; that notion is too terrifying. Recognize this is not about worth, it’s the most basic and simple case of different orientations.  If there is no sense or need to change; then none will be forthcoming. 

 You can’t dance with an unwilling partner, all you can ever do is invite; after that, screw up the courage to be able to walk away with some dignity if they decline in word or deed.”

Like Karma

In the early waking moments of the morning, interest can get hooked on a theme; like a branch on shoals of a rushing stream; or an idea like a siren in a Greek story, suggesting hidden pleasures and secret knowing.  So it is with me, repeatedly with words ~ their meaning, implied as well as commonly considered concrete.  How certainty and knowing played a game of tag in my yet discerning consciousness. It reminded me of how Karma was explained to me.  I am confident there are many constructions of the concept with this particular term, but allow me to use it as a reference point on the cool path my bare feet trod upon.  Karma, I had been told, translated to ‘action’.  So unlike my previous understanding of it being more a celestial justice, as in what goes around comes around; or that the evil you do will have a day of comeuppance.  That had been my street-wise interpretation gleaned by listening to others use the term of ‘Your or my Karma.’

  The beauty of Karma being ‘action’ opens the door to comprehending that we take steps, or the example I was given, laying tile where a path of one step following the other in a direction of choosing.  And, just as with laying tile, it takes effort to change a direction one is going without a deliberate conscious intent.  There was a time when I was genuinely surprise to arrive at the consequences of my slovenly uncaring choices.  “How did this happen? And most importantly, why to me?  I considered myself a good person so why did evil pluck me out of the teeming masses and descend on me? It must be due to my disfavored standing with the only power in the universe that protects me from such happenstance.  Yes, I was living a powerless life waiting for the victim card to fall in order for me to lament and regret my unthinking choices.  Having pointed this out, I’m going to take a turn into my excitement and continued interest in other words such as ‘certainty’.  As I studied statistics the term ‘with a degree of certainty’ we can predict. What that turned out to mean was that we can ‘expect’ to have the same results based on what we have learned, or what we know, of the nature of a process we have been observing.  We know, with certainty, the sun will come up tomorrow because we base our conclusions on experience of a chain of other experiences that leads us to a conclusion that is without reasonable doubt.  Sure, the sun will burn out some day, but most likely not tomorrow, so we have confidence that our certainty is trusted; without knowing as an absolute when exactly the sun will not fulfill our prediction of rising.   What all of this does is take the notion of a definition from being exactly precise, and ultimately rigid possessing the ‘always’ or ‘exactly’ position. 

There’s wiggle room.

Yet, the idea of certainty is a subjective value that I can trust, and even believe in.  Heck, without facts it can become my faith.  But just like Karma I am not a slave to a rule, a law that holds me accountable to its boundaries.  I can choose the steps I take, and Karma says “ok” just as my certainty in the universe following a prescribed path based upon my understanding of the facts I have experienced.  That’s ok too.  I am cautioned to remember the only law that prevails over all other concepts I choose to enjoy and trust is that of change.  And with that, I can go out into the playground of the here-and-now and be as pleasant or as uncooperative as I choose; because after all Karma tells me that I will go in the direction my actions take me.

And I can trust that with certainty.

We Call Them Zen Days

We call them Zen days; times Montse does a thorough cleaning of the house. I don't demand or expect it, so it is her own private demons that drive her to such detailed work: Short version, she was a maid in another life.  As she invests her attention, I focus some time on writing and expressing my current perspective on being. As a side note, I wrote in my Blog about a Relative Universe and in it mentioned a lost band-aid in the shower; Montse just called out to me from the master bathroom shower that she found it. She couldn't say how it appeared on the floor of the shower, but it just did. I conjectured that perhaps speaking of the alternate universe created a vortex-gravity that pulled the lost item back into this existence…(I speak new age) Spooky. Go read my January 20^th post, A RELATIVE UNIVERSE and you'll appreciate the irony.

  So I've had time to digest my rigid routine of servicing needs. That's not a judgment or anything, it is what it is (ugh, I hate resorting to that worn out phrase). There's still plenty to be said about it, but I'd venture a 'this too shall pass' as my alter ego queries 'when?' If I take the bait, I’d guess with a reply like, “soon” then realize I’m talking to myself and I don’t have drugs to blame for that…yet.

So, then, I have no idea what I am talking about other than a grasp of an overarching hope; may suffering result in a resolution I can embrace.

  Something that I thought I'd share under the umbrella of cultivated trust in honesty, how I was feeling about the world as it reveals its raw-often harsh-facts to me. I mentioned earlier how Montse and I are in agreement that we're spent on being in Georgia. Oh, we entertained a desire to reside in Savannah, but later discovered what that really revealed was a desire to be in a Old World style small town that often is but a remnant reflection of yet a European flavor (which of course just so happens to be the allure of the quaintness of Savannah.) It has successfully resisted the influence and change of architecture, anything remotely familiar to this century or the last; save perhaps those unobtrusive niceties such as electricity, indoor plumbing, and wifi.

  So then, we began scanning our vision Northward towards latitudes above the snow line in hopes of witnessing the four seasons, along with summers free of humidity and triple digit heat; New England. In due course, we found that the market value of our house compared to the outstanding balance of our mortgage placed us in the not-so-enviable position of being upside down. The only solution open was that of either foreclosure (with all of its long-lasting negatives) or short sale. It was difficult to swallow that twenty years of investment equated to only deductions on annual income taxes, because there will be no residual equity to speak of...ever. With that reality comes both the upset, the visit of grief of loss in a value closely held dear, and the glimmer of hope for better. The good things are replete. We don't have to do anything in this instant; we still enjoy the comfort and ease of a home; we are clearer on our future goals and ways to get there; and finally that life is a series of releases...successfully I suppose at the very end when we leave the husk of our physical form as the ultimate and inevitable, last surrender. How philosophical I am today?

I forgot to mention the other benefit in facing the impermanence of treasures. It helps me see clear towards those I care about and spend more time reaching to connect and savor more than anything I may temporarily possess.

Bagged Lunch

 I saw something in a film the other day that touched my heart.  The character was a hurried father who in the midst of all the demands he was facing was pictured at the end of the night, making his little daughter her lunch for the next day at school; you know spreading mustard on slices of bread, tossing on cold cuts.  It reminded me of when I used to make lunch for Luke way back when he was in grammar school.  I made it a point to pack in as many of his favorite things into that bag that I could find. To this day I can easily recall him mentioning later that day how great his lunch was and how surprised he had been; it gave me great pleasure.  I did that because I remember when I was a student, my lunches were very skimp and repetitive; to the point I developed the idea that my mom just didn’t get it when it came to making lunches; I eventually took over the task and at a very young age; complaining just wasn't making improvements.  

I learn self sufficiency through that. I guess it might also be true that we’re prone to corrective behavior: That’s where we take actions in the present hoping to correct the disappointment from our past.  But that wasn’t all that raced through my observation. I recognized one of those sweet moments where a parent can express their devotion and love without a lot of fanfare.  In the quiet evening…at the end of an exhausting day, when no one is watching, I love you might just be crafted in simple acts; 

like providing a sandwich, an apple, and maybe a few chips or cookies.

A Relative Universe

Many days start with me toying with topics to write about in my blog.  If I’m really lucky they pop almost out of nowhere; often as not they’re hidden in statements of written text I happen to be reading; books, magazines, cereal boxes, the like.  Or they sometimes are fragments of a radio conversation; sometimes even in my own discussions with others.  Every so often something happens that draws my attention and presto that blossoms into a chain of thoughts that congeal into specific narrative on facets of living.  All of that as a preamble to a mystery I’ve been aware of most of my life, but where the incidents are so space apart that I only ponder them for a brief time and then forget about it as I am enamored by other sparkly qualities manifesting before my attention. 

  I was getting into the shower while rehearsing in my mind what I was preparing for today’s entry.  I distinctly remember taking a band-aid off my index finger that was protecting a healing nail.  I put it on a shelf near the shower door.  As I was doing my business I was visiting in my memory a photo of a cat looking at a goldfish in a bowl and pondering the condition of inside.  A fish inside a bowl, with a cat watching inside a room, inside an apartment , inside a city, inside a country you know, appreciating the telescopic nature of the universe.  Just as I was concluding my ritual I noticed the band-aid was no longer on the shelf.  I looked to the floor, nada.  I looked at the drain entertaining the possibility that unnoticed by me the band-aid was washed to the floor and maybe down the drain? No way, the darn thing was at least an inch long and half as wide, and in this case crumbled into a ball. The holes in the drains were fractions of the mass, even if I tried to stomp it through I couldn’t do it; and of course  I had not.  I was in earnest to solve the riddle of the missing band-aid. Was I so focused on my thoughts that my half-ritual process tossed the band-aid out of the shower?  I looked on the sink, the floor, heck I even got out of the shower and walked into the toilet room, then looked in the waste basket; no band-aid.

   “Well what the heck?”

  Was this yet another visit to the lost-sock-in-the-wash land?  Countless times having done wash bringing clothes and towels up to be folded find there’s one missing sock.  Check the dryer and the washer and  never finding the socks mate. Nor did the sock ever come up out of nowhere, like say dropped on the stairs or on the carpet, or stuck to the cat.  Where did that sock go?  Talking to others they too had similar experiences, heck I’ve heard comedians build entire routines out of talking on where do lost socks go?

  Are we in a leaky universe?  Am I finding evidence that perhaps those leaks are becoming more frequent, or getting bigger? Is that what the Rapture will be? Where the leaks get so big entire people will fall through the rips that previously only accommodated socks and small items like band-aids?

  I told my wife about all of this, she mentioned I was going on a strict reduced caffeine diet starting now.

That’s what I get for being observant.  Maybe when one day she finds herself on a mountain of socks and band-aids she’ll realize I was really warning her of pending doom.  I like that word doom; it has no boundaries, it lets the imagination leak into it. Yeah, place it on the shelf in an alternate universe with all those single socks, used band-aids, and who knows what else.

Ancient Attachments

I wanted to share this with you before I forget, but also as an effort to continue to provide reason to consider your own path. As a parent I will ever endeavor to make ready my help in that effort. It's what parents become, as the years march by, we share indiscriminately; even when we miss the mark.   On this occasion I wanted to share with you the tragic feeling of loss when a value is proven invalid.

  When I was young, it was commonly believed that buying a house was your best bet for a retirement nest egg. So, time was spent on repairing and improving the investment so it would gain in value over the years; along with a sense of pride obtained in cultivating a small-albeit-nothing to brag about, fortune for your golden years.

  All of that has changed...as most things do. I had to admit that the value of my property is less than the remaining mortgage...like by a third. Meaning, the present market will never correct to the point where the note would be retired and there would be a residual from my thirty years of faithful payments left over to provide for those 'golden years'.

  Now I could go on a rant and whine about those blood sucking banks and all of that, but as you know, even if you've seen exceptions, in the case of changed economy, that turd can't be shined.

  So we're pursuing a short sale. And that meets with reason when escape is the primary goal; where release means leaving ancient attachments behind.

  But the lesson I wanted to convey is be vigilant for similar times when your own values wane. Yes, they are subjective and selected by you, and you alone, (even when they are handed down to you...or even hammered into you so that they appear to be worthwhile to continue.) Be aware of the feeling of disillusionment when they fail to deliver a promise.  Know that it will be a feeling of grief.....it is a loss of a strongly held belief, but it's a fantasy away from real.

So the gift of disillusionment is return to the actual.

I didn't like admitting that I was clinging to a wishful way of thinking that somehow the market would rise back up and my golden egg would return.

  Never mind all of the particulars....I wanted to share the feeling of meeting my illusion and the...discomfort that came with it. I'm sure you have your stories to tell as well....but it never hurts to be reminded we're forever spinning fairytales.

It's what we do.

It's all that we do....

Oh wait...that's the terminator.