Crawling in the Switch Hedge

                            

  Being a child was like living in secret. All the men were loud and rough. They would tousle his thick, red hair and tease him for blushing. The sandy loam of his grandparent’s world was burdened with  spurs and there was no sign of books but the worn Bible.

 The old wooden house made of planks the color of rain, with its rusty tin roof was foreign and foreboding.

 One day his Dad took offense and made him go cut a switch from the hedge out front. He’d had to go back because the first one did not suit.

 After ...  his freckled legs stinging, the whelps trickling tiny spots of blood , he returned to the hedge. While cutting the switch he’d seen the tunnels. So he angled through the scratching brush to crawl on his knees in that soot-dirty loam so they would not see his shame.

  It was cooler there and he could watch the smoke from the old stone chimney spiraling up into the cloud-bruised sky. He could watch his fantasies of honor and heroes escape the hardscrabble cavern of that dream dashed shack that seemed to eat these men who had once been boys like him.

  It ate them, then spat them out, mean at heart with sly grins and easy offense. Yet he loved them still. 

Benevolent Beast

It’s dawning on me that I often don't live authentically … or at least I think I can’t. I grew up rock and roll in the late sixties and early seventies. Went overseas to Nam. Developed some bad habits but had a blast. When I came back music was still central to our lives.

Eventually I reformed, had kids, and joined a church. During all that I cut my long hair, changed the way I dressed, etc. I guess you could say I became a responsible productive member of society.

Thing is, sometimes I hear a song or see a music video and I get goosebumps. It’s a good thing. There’s a flood of energy, my heart beats a little faster, hair stands up on the back of my neck.

You see, this is part of who I am too. Greg Allman wrote a song, “I’m No Angel”. I’m pretty sure he was feeling some similar things. Reformation does not erase our heartbeats. Is it good to stifle a benevolent beast? I do a lot of reading and as far as I can tell suppressing our true selves can be a path to disaster.

I wanted to post a rock video on Facebook noting some memories and ask if “anybody was out there.” Then I got to thinking. What about the folks at church, the community, my clients, etc.? I deleted it and sat there wondering ...  what the hell?

I’m no angel. I just try to be the best I can be. I meditate, pray, practice yoga and tai chi chuan, serve as best I can but I also train to fight, listen to rock and roll and have a racy streak a mile wide. My son’s know Dad likes “edgy” things.

A friend of mine died yesterday … I’m no spring chicken so folks are dying all over the place. I don’t want to die a “pretender”.

I’m going to post this and I’m going to post that freakin’ video. Tonight I’ll say a prayer asking for knowledge of God’s will and the strength to carry it out.

Then tomorrow I’m going to look into getting that dragon tattoo I keep daydreaming about. 

https://youtu.be/Ov8uT8DTvlw

Charlie's Memory

 One of his earliest memories was his Mom lying half through the doorway her brunette hair splayed over the hardwood floor. The bedroom light was on but her torso and head lay in the shadow of the hall.

  She looked like she was sleeping in this irrational place. He knew different. His father had come home after a road trip. He had been happy to see his handsome, grinning Dad in his white shirt with the starched collar. The clip-on tie lay loose to the tie clip halfway down the front. Dad smelled like cologne and something else Charlie couldn’t quite place.

 Dad would say hello to Charlie, buss his thick red hair,  then go back to the bedroom. Mom would follow from the kitchen. It never took long for the whispers to start to rise. Before long they’d be yelling. Usually his father would stomp out, the taps on his spit shined shoes clipping along the slick  waxed floor.

 This time Charlie had heard a slap then his Mom had fell half into the hall. Dad stepped over her mumbling as he left.

  The door slammed and he was gone, so Charlie went to her. He knelt at her side … the carefully ironed pleats of her dark patterned skirt just at his feet. At first her eyes were closed but after a moment they pursed and then peered slitted up at him.

“It’s ok, Honey. Momma is just resting. Give me a minute and I’ll fix you something to eat.”

  Charlie waited. She was prettier than other Moms. It made him proud. He didn’t see his father much. He supposed that was best. Best for his Mom, anyway.

"The Old Guitarist"

The Hindu call it “maya”, the distraction from eternal reality that is material existence. Constructed of the gunas that bind it all together, we move through a dream … searching.

In Picasso's “ The Old Guitarist”, he seems suspended in pain, resigned yet in all his weakness, attempting to make music of the instrument that is his “life”.

We are all much like this creature, wandering in a wilderness of seeming light while the truth swirls around and within our internal darkness. As long as we try we can hear, though faint, His music.

 As long as we search, we will continue to feel hints of His presence. As long as that last small flame flickers we will suspect that the universe is within us. If only we could hear… the sound of God.

aum ... 

A Baby's Cry

  We had a 10-day-old baby name Tobias spend the night with us last night. My 19 year old twin sons are home and Tobias’s parents slept on the couch so they could get a break, while my wife tended. We all held Tobias. I told the Mom as I watched everyone coo and play,

 “Thank you for bringing us this gift.”  

“Babies bring happiness, don’t they?” she replied. 

 We were all more animated than we’ve been for years. Of course my wife and I began to tell story after funny story of our boys when they were little so there was much laughter.

  I was up a couple hours later than usual. I was not tired after a long day as I am prone to be. I had been fascinated by the tiny fingers gripping my hand … the quick breaths … the wriggling as his tiny face revealed every bubble and feeling.

  I touched his glowing skin and hair and could not feel it unless I pressed a little harder. He finally opened his dark eyes and when he looked at me I felt special.

 As I entered my meditation space I was mindful that the house was full of love. Sometimes I forget.

  I performed my preparation and sat beginning the slow breath … waiting for Christ … waiting for Father, Son and Holy Spirit … sitting … and then he cried out from downstairs and before I knew it, for the first time in a year, I broke meditation, stood up and hurried downstairs.

  I needed to comfort him, to know what was wrong. I lay my hand in full upon his torso and tried to intone a sort of “OM” hoping the vibration might still him. It seemed to help just a bit but he was hungry.

  I retired with a soft heart.

  This morning I rose and entered the space again to sit with God. Same preparation, prayer … “ Come to me, Father … Come to me now. “

  As I settled into the breath, space and time expanding … gazing into the light, Tobias cried out. He’s so small, the sound like a baby lamb … “help me … help me”, he seemed to plead … my heart soared as tears rose and the light grew and I knew that God had spoken.

  Recently a teacher for whom I hold much respect gave us a story:

“ A couple I ministered had a baby and harbored much concern over how their precocious and active 4 year old might react. Would she be jealous? Would she hurt the baby? As we will do with our newborns, they watched and tried to always be present when their 4 year old was near.

  Then one night they heard a noise in the nursery. The mother tiptoed down the hall and as she came upon the door heard whispering. Something told her to wait so she stopped to peek through the crack of the parted door. Standing by the crib the four year old held the slats with her face in between and whispered to her baby brother,

“Tell me about God. You were just there but I’m forgetting already.”

 We strive each day to provide, maintain our health, serve others. We work and play and move through the reality we are familiar with. It is so easy to forget. Hours pass with little thought of the beauty, power and grace.

So I share this with you in the hopes that, for these few moments, you might be mindful. If you ever find that the spirit seems distant. If you are ever lonely and your heart is heavy … find a baby.

 “They were just there," and can help us remember.

Amen

For a Little While

  It’s a difficult time in America but not so different from many in the past. There is a rift but that is democracy. Yet I am saddened for the loss of something … many things.

  For a little while, we were thinking people. We examined the problem, polled all sides, accessed our resources and sought to solve any problem with determination and compassion for all.

 For a little while, we respected others and they respected us … not because we were stronger or louder but rather because they suspected we would act with reason and tolerance seeking consensus.

  For a little while we were assertive rather than aggressive.

We reached with open arms rather than balled up fists.

  We offered a ready smile yet brooked no attack. We made mistakes and named them … hiding from no one.

 We sought to help the poor and raise up the disenfranchised. We attempted to put reins on the greed of Wall Street and curtail the abuse of the environment by corporate concerns.

  We sought through economic sanction and thoughtful discourse to impede the growth of nuclear war capacity. We tore down old walls of past offenses that no longer served.

For a little while, the world viewed us as a progressive bastion of free and inclusive policy with empathy for the plight of others not so fortunate.

  For a little while we brought the youth of America home to their families instead of indiscriminately sending them into the maw of 2000-year-old fistfights. We understood that our way might not be the right way for all peoples yet we welcomed the “huddled masses” that would escape tyranny.

 For a little while we refused to be the brute we abhorred and the whole world knew that right or wrong we sought the higher ground.

  Maybe some find hope in angry vitriol. Maybe some find vindication in exclusion, judgment, and intolerance of those who are different than them. Maybe they think that self-serving isolationism will build a wall behind which they can live.

  Troy fell, Rome deteriorated behind its wall of arrogance, and Nazi Germany dissolved like the “wicked witch of the north” for its hate and angry oratory steeped in the highest wall of all … racial superiority.

 For a little while we were a nation of solutions. It was far from perfect yet each day … each mistake, I felt like we were grounded in the love of all mankind.

  I know that our soul is still alive. I know that when the dust settles, we will pick ourselves up and seek to regain the posture of magnanimity that is the defining banner of this great nation.

 It is not the end but rather a beginning. There are those that have not been heard and they have raised up the only hope they could see.

  For a little while we believed so deeply in our just cause that we ignored the voices of the masses that sought so desperately to tell us they were suffering.

  For a little while we attended to the downtrodden, the minority the immigrant until the salt of the earth became poisoned by our neglect.

   Now … for a little while we must listen more, talk less and stand firm in the belief that all people are created equal and we must not …  at the risk of our fundamental way of life, ignore anyone that would live free.

  The call is to honor and justice. The mission is to bind ourselves to the truth that lies within the heart and soul of all humanity … love.

We must love with all our hearts and all our minds and all our strength so that no matter what, we will persevere as a nation of free peoples that represent … no …  that fight … for the rights of all.

Why Some Men Cry

Opey accidentally kills a bird with his new slingshot. His look of shock and dismay pierce my heart.  I look over my shoulder to see if I am alone.

 

My two-year-old son, Tucker, at the pool on the first day he could duck his head under the water and hold his breath. I’d drop pennies on the baby steps. He would “dive” under and bring them up. Once, twice … three times … four. Sputtering, gasping, grinning from ear to ear. “ Do it again, Daddy. Do it again! I am thankful in that crowded pool for my dark sunglasses.

I’m with my red headed kid brother in a movie theater

, “Dead Poet’s Society”. Prep school boys troubled but saved by the literature professor tenderly played by Robin Williams. He won’t give up on them. He manages to show them their inner beauty. Betrayed and falsely accused, he has been cast out by the powers that be. His students are confused. As he departs, thinking he has lost them, one boy stands on top of his desk and head high, hand to heart, intones clearly to the professor’s bowed, stooped and resigned back … “Captain my Captain!”  As each boy stands to his desk my well of emotion pours forth. I am glad it is dark. We have to sit for an uncomfortable time after the lights go up. We chuckle nervously.

My dear friend is ordained as a minister. Her father, a pastor all her life, speaks in the sanctuary where my satin clad babies were presented to the church. She sits before us in a chair bathed in the soft light of day cast through the stained glass. She seems so small there … so vulnerable. Each congregant makes their way down to touch her and whisper in her ear.  There’s her husband, then her children. Young and old walk down the aisle until her father in law, Henry … shaky on his cane … brave to even try, moves toward her. I am undone.

A writing class during an exercise. I remember the face of a dear and cherished woman whose career and good heart I revere. I have seen her recently gazing up at the cross. She is somewhere between here and another place. As I write and read of that vision of her rapture I am overwhelmed.

I’m not sure why some men cry and others don’t so much. I have heard that it has to do with our childhood wounds. What I do know is that we all see God in our different ways. Sometimes when I see him it’s a lot like dropping an Alka-Seltzer into a coke. The reaction is sudden and I am near helpless.

I figure … in the end … it’s just another of God’s ways of keeping me humble.