Freak Flag

                                             

 Those of us born in the mid fifties have seen a transition of society that few have witnessed. I’m not referring to technology or war. We were raised with “spare the rod, spoil the child” and the idea that each generation would do better than the last. Our parents had grown up during the Great Depression. Their ideals and ideas were marinated in the cauldron of poverty and want so they were adamant that we seek material gain as a primary endeavor. Eisenhower was president. Home ownership was the American dream.  Conservative political and social ideals were the norm. You not only did not rock the boat but you sought to fit in at all costs. Feelings were “best kept to oneself.”

  As the page turned to the sixties and we entered grade school we watched John Kennedy debate Richard Nixon and knew something was stirring. We were watching the faces of change but did not know how vast a change lay ahead.

  For many of us life was rooted in soil like that of the television series “Happy Days” from the seventies and eighties. We went home for the summer after the tenth grade in continental slacks, starched oxford button down shirts, Florsheim tassle loafers and Ivy League haircuts. We came back the following September in pocket t-shirts, bell-bottom pants, blue jean jackets and hair covering our ears.

  Living in Charlotte, N.C. was like being in a delay time warp. In the summer of 69 we began to hear through the “grapevine” about this thing called “Woodstock” up north. During the fall we all went to see it at the drive in movie theatre out on Wilkinson Blvd. By then we had the act down pat. Chevy vans with mattresses and shag carpet were turned sideways to the screen as most of us stood and wandered about the pungent fog of a crisp fall weekend night.

  Mixed among the Chevy vans were plenty of 50’s and 60’s era muscle cars. There was no lack of letter jackets and brush cuts still. You see, we were southern by birth and heritage but Woodstock by default because we were young and this was the music that spoke to us all.

  For the next few years we experimented with life with all the gusto of youth. Easy Rider cruised through our psyches and we read Kerouac and regaled at the antics of Timothy Leary and his ilk.

  And then there was the music. Achievement fell by the wayside as we patterned ourselves after the bad boys of rock and roll. Hendricks, Morrison, Jagger, Duane and Greg Allman …. The list marched on. Names like Edgar Winter, Cream, Blue Oyster Cult, Blind Faith exploded in our minds as we bean bagged our way through black lights and purple haze.

  “Tin soldiers and Nixon’s comin’. We’re finally on our own. This summer I hear the drummin’, four dead in Ohio” We heard the lyric and we were shocked at the travesty of injustice and violence yet something had slipped our grasp.

  The choppers wopped their way through our suppers as we rushed to escape our wardens. We saw the body bags carried from the cargo jets but they were zipped up you see.

  Carlos Casteneda wrote of visions and we copied the act while leaving the concept of spirituality in the dust of the southwest desert.

  We mimicked the tortured poets of the rock world in all their actions, dress and mannerisms until we became a southern version of them.

  Lynard Skinnard played the Cellar and we partied the night away in the muck and mud of a beer-sodded floor that looked and smelled like dirt. The darkness forgave all. We became darkness and we wallowed in the detritus of a dream that had been born in the music of peace and love.

  The “Deadheads” wore tie-dye but we wore sequins and tight pants with shag haircuts as we plied the bars and saloons of Independence Blvd. Chaka Khan gyrated along with us as we shot pool and gathered in the name of hedonism to eat the flesh and bone of our ideals.

  We called ourselves “Freaks” as in “let your freak flag fly” until we were like old men sitting on bar stools telling rerun stories because we were too burned out to care anymore.

  The “devil had gone down to Charlotte” and we had sold our soul because we did not know who to be. We had lost our way and were destined to roam an aimless road to nowhere having forgotten how to care. We lived for no one but ourselves.

  As time rolled on the price of our negligence began to become visible. Few married. Even fewer bought homes or finished college. As we sat on the bar stools our eyes hollowed and our cheeks sunk. Our tight pants began to be loose and we could not afford new ones that fit.

  John Prine sang of a “hole in Daddy’s arm where all the money goes,” and we looked into the blackened pool of our existence where we could see the reflection of anguish that understood the lyric.

  There was no way home from here. It was a dead end and we did not believe we had the energy to make our way back to the fork in the road that we had not even seen when we passed. There had been no conscious choice …  only laughter. And then there was silence.

  I know you’re out there. If you’re reading this I need you to know that the fork is a long way back but you can make it. There really is a “city on the hill.” It is not made of gold but of spirit.

  I see you there in your Super Bee flying down the highway toward the beach. I remember how happy we were to greet each other at the bar when the entire world was new and the girls smelled like strawberries.

  I remember the shackles of your ten-year-old black Dodge rattling across the too high speed bumps at school.

  I smell the musty beds of the seedy hotel at Myrtle Beach and feel the gritty sand beneath my cheek as the slobber runs onto the pillow.
  Yet these memories are not the end of the story. There was a narrow way that led to life. I stand there now at the headwaters waiting for others to come. Lord willing I will be here to help them when they arrive. I will be here so that they will know. We were "lost but now are found." Each day the world is made new. Each day another fork in the road. The difference is ... now we can see it.

Awakening

  Years ago I went on my first river-rafting trip. It was also the first time I’d ever gone formally camping. Once while hitchhiking across country I had slept in a sleeping bag in the high desert of Arizona but had never taken gear, set up a tent, built a fire and all that.  I liked the rafting but abhorred the camping.

 “I normally get paid to work.” I grumbled.

I was uncomfortable and put out but soldiered through because I knew it was good for the family. I went back every year for five or six years out of a sense of obligation to the group.

  My wife went on a couple of other trips to different rivers but I refused other than the yearly church trip. Then, one October we went to a river down south in the fall. This was a “different animal”. 

  The Chatooga looked like one long landslide of granite had tumbled into the rushing, cold, gray water. Four hours we lived among huge boulders with forest rising on either side.

  We rode seven-foot drops while soaring hawks watched from above. We stood at the foot of 100-foot falls as they took photos of us. Each of our group is grinning ear to ear from under the white plastic helmets they insist that you wear. The element of danger creates a bond with the folks you are with. You have to work together or you can get hurt.

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   I sense Indian spirits astride their painted ponies, camouflaged by the turning leaves. Half the day is in the shadow of the cliffs and forest with welcome breaks in the warming sun. I feel as if I am being bathed in nature as wind caresses my skin and the rust colored leaves dance on the air.

  Back at the rustic old wooden center of operations with its welcoming porch we regale one another with our spills and bruises, watching slide shows of ourselves engulfed by boiling white water. We laugh and joke at our faces forever frozen in moments of truth as the river has it’s way with us. 

  Back at camp we prepare a meal and gorge until we all meet by the blazing bonfire. Everyone laughs while some listen to the college football games, all basking in the warmth of the fire. I note the chill of the starlit night as I take mental photos of these grins of camaraderie.

  I've come to the tent that I did not mind setting up. I've lit the lanterns, put on some warm socks and lie here listening to voices outside as they fade with the dying fire. Some will talk until the wee hours. It used to bother me but now it’s ok. I’ll fall asleep to the sound of folks at ease with themselves.

  A few weeks back after work one evening I groused to my wife,

“I dread this trip.”

 “REALLY?” she said surprised.

 I knew even then there was something amiss in the comment. Now I know why. The truth is I stopped hating camping a long time ago. The truth is I feel close to God here.  He’s in the river. He’s in the wind and the mutating embers of the blazing fire. Most of all He’s in the people all around me, here in the woods, under the towering trees that reach ever higher into the infinite night sky.

The Flowers of War

Where have all the flowers gone?

What did we do with peace?

Did grace come once then abandon us,

To war and leave a lease

On hard times and hate and massacre,

On disease and pain and doubt?

Where have all the flowers gone?

Can you hear the children shout?

On fire they flee to darkest woe,

Searching for escape.

Listen close to bells that ring on high,

Drowning in hopeless hate.

Cast off the seed that leads to war

Call the master’s name.

Heed the toll of clarion call.

Deny the devil’s shame.

Rise up to purge unfettered gall

From all the despot’s phlegm.

Renew the Son that lies within,

Cease-fire and answer Him.  

Christ and the Martial Arts

 For the past year I have been avidly reading and practicing internal martial arts. This is basically the study of life force energy and how to connect with and use said energy or “qi”.

  At it’s most advanced stage one begins to connect with “shen” or spirit. For me it is all a form of meditation and mind body discipline that develop fighting skills. Why would I want to develop fighting skills you may ask; to protect and defend, to build confidence? The first rule of the martial arts I seek to practice (as a novice) is to avoid a fight. Once one ensues, the idea is to neutralize violence with minimum or no damage to the “opponent” or “attacker”. Through this process one expands their existence and seeks to improve each day their constant contact with a God of their understanding.

  I am a Christian. I believe that Jesus Christ is the Son of God and that he lived as a flesh and blood man, died on the cross to save us from our sins and rose from the dead into spirit form. Eventually (three days as the story goes) he ascended into the heavens to be with God the Father for eternity. We know God through Christ. We seek to follow his teachings and emulate his behavior here “on earth.”

  Jesus meditated. He walked in contemplation. He sought in each moment to be all that he could possibly be and carry the message of the Father. I believe that this is what martial art, in its true and sincere form, seeks to do.

 As I practice, I bring God to the fore drawing qi from my surrounding into the dan tien (lower belly area) Many of these practices stem from Taoist thought and tenets. I am not a Taoist. I do think they have some powerful methods for living. I do believe that as Christians we can utilize a myriad of practices throughout the scope of human experience to maximize our potential as spiritual creatures living in a material world.

  There is commentary suggesting that many practices of meditation and martial art are “sinful”. It has been said that their purpose is to drive Christians toward darkness and away from Christ.

 All I know is that if as a Christian I bring my beliefs into a practice; each time in each moment, inviting my God with prayer, then the practice is Christian. If I seek to do good and benefit my fellow man in Christ’s, name then my activity is Christian.

  If someone believes they have fallen from their Christian faith as a result of these practices then I contend that it was not the practices that brought on the fall. It was instead their perspective. It was the fact that they put something else in front of their Christian faith.

 When I put anything in front of Christ I lose it and I lose Christ too.  The good thing is He’s always with me … no matter what.

In Christ’s name … peace and blessings. 

Red Bridge

  The red lacquer bridge is a beckoning place. I have been there in my dreams. Here I commune with the animals. Life surrounds me as hawks and wolves and holy men. There is a sound of low hum vibrating through us all. It is the life force calling us home. Come and rejoin the circle that is existence. Come beyond what we see and know in this place of flesh and bone. Come and be united with the universe. Come home … come home … come home.

Redneck Pride

  Not long past I saw a link on “Facebook” to watch a video called “Redneck Pride”, With an idea in mind. I clicked on it.

  It was a litany of monster trucks slinging mud, obese women in spandex, rotten teeth and mobile homes with junk cars in the yard. The video was a hog sloppin “yee-haw”  of offensive, stereotypical garbage that many ethnic and or racial groups would have been up in arms about had their “ilk”  been drug through the mud (no pun intended) in such a way

  You see, for a brief moment I had thought that when I clicked on that link there would be a tribute to someone or something like my stepfather.

  I had in my mind’s eye a man as self sufficient as any on earth, a hunter, fisher, planter, mechanic, carpenter, musician, patriot, dutiful father, husband, son, in other words a true renaissance man.

  When I saw the title “Redneck Pride” for a brief moment I had deluded myself into thinking that someone had taken an opportunity to recognize those who take pride in taking care of their own. I thought that they might want to elevate, just this once, a group of folks in the southern region of these United States who came from the land and live in communion with its bounty and its hardships. I dreamed they might praise a type of human being who knows the truth of God like frosty breath on a freezing winter morning in the woods, rifle in hand, matching wits with the environment that is their birthright, that flows like honey in their blood.

  I was naïve or maybe just hopeful enough that they might show someone building a cabin with their own bare hands as the wife carries, cleans and organizes; just the two of them alone on a mountain top toiling in the grace of God for a future they believe in.

  I mistakenly thought that maybe for once a vertebra in the backbone of America might be honored for the core of life that it is rather than some stale joke that is told over and over until many believe that it’s true. 

Decision

Month's before my son was diagnosed with cancer I wrote this. Somehow it rings of a deeper truth to me;  a place in the mind that transcends ... portends ... delivers.

  Pacing under the garish fluorescent light his heart pounded in his temples and his lips trembled. His adolescent son was dying. Just days before he had been pacing the sidelines while the boy sprinted up the soccer field for a shot on goal.

  Tyler’s kidneys were failing. The only way the doctors could stop the insidious attacker was an immediate transplant. Ben was devastated but couldn’t donate. A few years prior he had been diagnosed with an autoimmune condition.

   His wife was not a match. The fraternal twin brother Cameron was a perfect match but had a heart condition that was inherited from Ben’s side of the family. The odds were not favorable for surgery on Cameron. There was no time. He felt responsible for it all.

   The two boys were like a photo and its negative. Cameron was like his father, Tyler a carbon copy of the mother. He loved them both … his tall gray-eyed blond and the sinewy brown-eyed athlete with tangled dark hair.

  How could God ask him to make this decision? He was afraid. He wanted to puke. As he paced further he cast a furtive glance through an open door and saw the stained glass and pews of a small hospital chapel and entered in.

  He walked to the front of the dimly lit room. Here the antiseptic institutional smell became a thicker, sweeter aroma. He moved quietly to the cross at the front of the empty room and dropped to his knees. Clasping his sweaty palms he bowed his head and began to plead for the life of his sons.

  Memories of the boys flooded his mind’s eye until he remembered. Once, he had heard a woman share about the death of her infant daughter. She had told the story of standing on a balcony begging for her child’s life … some miracle to change the reality as it was. She had shared that suddenly in her anguish she was suffused with a light that told her to let go. “Let go of your pain. Surrender your will to God.”

    The frail, lovely saint shared that it was in that moment she had become free from the burden of her agony. She’d been able to surrender the life of her child to the heavenly Father. She understood, as her Bible had taught her, that she was only a steward. God had always been the Father and He would take her daughter into his loving arms.

  There was no peace in this for Ben but he no longer felt so alone. His gut churned and the horror of powerlessness threatened to consume him.  Suddenly he sensed the presence of someone near. He looked up and Cameron stood there crying.

  “We know what you’re doing Dad and we need for you to stop,” the boy croaked..  “Never, for a moment, has either of us questioned how much you love us. Not for one second have we ever thought you loved one any more than the other,”

  Cameron knelt down beside Ben, took his hands and with quavering voice explained, “There’s no choice to be made. Were Tyler to die and I hadn’t done everything in my power to save him … I don’t think I could go on. One thing I’m certain of is that I’d never forgive myself. It would be worse than death to let my brother die knowing I could have helped him and didn’t.”

   To this day, Ben says he’s not exactly sure what happened next. He tells me his only memory is of his gray-eyed child kneeling before him, as through the blur of his tears, Cameron became a man much too soon.