As the world turns, nothing changes unless I change. The label for the 525,600 ticks of a clock from midnight 12/31 to midnight 12/31 is 2009. I can begin to use a brand new calendar tomorrow. In fact, there are multiple calendars to start using tomorrow; electronic on my desk top, my lap top, my phone, paper on my wall at the apartment, and the one I keep in my coat pocket...there are more, I'm sure. A new day is dawning. A New Year. Whew. Can I walk away from the old one the way I walk away from a road kill varmint?
A few hundred days plus ago didn't we do the same thing? 2008 was looking shiny and new, '07 was haggard...but it was once brand new too. A week ago we were concerned about what Santa had seen---were we naughty or nice? Oh, the resentments in the past. How would Santa judge my self righteousness? My selfishness? I assured him it was all justifiable behavior. I had a right, you know.
The delusion is that tonight I can turn the page. It's all brand new. The pages are crisp and clean. White slates to be filled in with happy times and good deeds. My intentions are just. My actions will surely be noble. There is no page to turn.
The future is as unsettling as is my past uncomfortable. Can I live in the past? Can I live in the future? One foot in 2009, one foot in 2008. One foot in the crisp pages of tomorrow, the other in the smudges of yesterday. .
When I stand where I am--in the moment, I see what Janis Joplin said: "It's all the same f---in' year, maannn." What she was saying, I think, is this: I can't disown my past and I can't expect a different result in the future if nothing but the calendar changes. I have to change. Be the change I want to see in the world. I pray for certain character deficiencies to be lifted. To make that happen, my actions have to be different from my tendencies.
Today is tomorrow. The day will not change. I change by my actions. I have a choice today, because of the grace of God. There was a day when I had no choices.
Anonymous commented: WHATEVER TOM. No objection from me. None whatever.
Wednesday, December 31, 2008
Saturday, December 27, 2008
Home Is A Safe Place
Patrick and I attended a discussion two days before Christmas where we heard a person say, "My home is a safe place." We looked at each other and smiled. Just one month earlier, Patrick tried to tell two adults that he wanted his own home to remain "a safe place". Seems like a reasonable request. It got him labeled disrespectful. I admire his courage and prudence. Protecting one's home does not require respect when none is shown by a guest...regardless of the age difference.
Friday, December 19, 2008
Surrender
Cease to resist.
Life will be life.
Surrender was never something I could follow through. I did not, and maybe still do not know surrender. I do know cease to resist.
Life situations will continue regardless of my serenity. What I can control is my reaction to life. Before action, I will cease to resist.
Patrick and Aaron ceased to resist.
Wednesday, December 17, 2008
Society
C.S. Lewis: We will never have a Christian society unless most of us become Christian individuals.
Ghandi said: Be the change you wish to see in the world.
A drug free America? Not until most of us become drug free individuals.
Visit Aaron's House in Madison, WI
Ghandi said: Be the change you wish to see in the world.
A drug free America? Not until most of us become drug free individuals.
Visit Aaron's House in Madison, WI
Sunday, December 14, 2008
Circumstances
The word keeps coming up: Circumstance. Victim of circumstance. When describing a situation, the weight of my description dominated by my characterization of other people shows my level of victim mentality. I can quickly see it in other people, the challenge is to see the victim of circumstance in me.
Maybe the best use of my last 48 hours was to get out of my ego where I could observe my mind. Like a potter I let my mind turn the wheel and be the hands to form something from a lump of clay. Art is within my capability. A lump of clay you would think can't be turned into anything less, but a circumstance can be more or less than reality.
Time is overrated and under scrutinized in my opinion, so it is no surprise that given time, I am capable of creating illusion from reality. What a low level of awareness. Time, left alone does nothing except slip into the future. Time seasoned with resentment is bitter. Add forgiveness and compassion to get something worthy. Today I am grateful for the people who saved me from misery once before. They raise me up to a higher ground to see the world from a different point of view.
Once again, I get the opportunity to answer the question, "Now that this has happened, what am I going to do about me?" What I was resisting for the last week was not answering the question, I resisted asking the question.
How I answer the question is not in words. My answer has to be in action.
Maybe the best use of my last 48 hours was to get out of my ego where I could observe my mind. Like a potter I let my mind turn the wheel and be the hands to form something from a lump of clay. Art is within my capability. A lump of clay you would think can't be turned into anything less, but a circumstance can be more or less than reality.
Time is overrated and under scrutinized in my opinion, so it is no surprise that given time, I am capable of creating illusion from reality. What a low level of awareness. Time, left alone does nothing except slip into the future. Time seasoned with resentment is bitter. Add forgiveness and compassion to get something worthy. Today I am grateful for the people who saved me from misery once before. They raise me up to a higher ground to see the world from a different point of view.
Once again, I get the opportunity to answer the question, "Now that this has happened, what am I going to do about me?" What I was resisting for the last week was not answering the question, I resisted asking the question.
How I answer the question is not in words. My answer has to be in action.
Thursday, December 04, 2008
Thanksgiving at Aaron House
When Aaron House was only a vision people were asked to support the project on faith. Dozens of dozens of people gave thousands of dollars. Explaining the concept was a challenge. Not everyone understands alcohol and other drug addictions. How the Aaron House project would work was an idea with few tangibles. The people who knew how to write a program of support were doing their work. The pieces would come together, but in the fall of '05 through the end of summer of '07 the puzzle was scattered.
Aaron was home when I bought a book explaining the power of a story. Books find you, and this book selected me---the name I don't remember, but the message was heard. Easier for me to tell a story to show a vision than to explain the details. Standing before a crowd, telling the story, I drift on the emotions of people as we cry, and laugh, and cry again. I'm grateful for the experience.
A young person with an addiction in the family generates waves of energy to build tumultuous waves. No one drifts in that sea of chaos. Aaron House, I told listeners, would one day host Moms, Dads, brothers, and sisters with sons and brothers in peace for holiday dinners. People who did not know if their loved one would be living or dead, lost or wandering lost, would find their way to a family dinner in the tranquility of Aaron House. These people, I explained, no nothing of Aaron himself, but they know their own Aaron. They know there must be an answer. They would pray to God for an answer. They would pray for peace and relief for themselves and their son, brother,...
God does answer prayers. The work is done through other people. Some were angels, others mortal. Aaron House opened. It exists. Last Saturday night I was ate and laughed, and cried, and laughed again with the guys, their parents, their friends at Aaron House. Aaron was not seen in the midst of the fun. He was felt. The story is true. The feelings are real. The healing is tangible.
Thank you for your faith and charity. It is mercy God desires, not sacrifice. Your mercy is a blessing.
Peace
Aaron was home when I bought a book explaining the power of a story. Books find you, and this book selected me---the name I don't remember, but the message was heard. Easier for me to tell a story to show a vision than to explain the details. Standing before a crowd, telling the story, I drift on the emotions of people as we cry, and laugh, and cry again. I'm grateful for the experience.
A young person with an addiction in the family generates waves of energy to build tumultuous waves. No one drifts in that sea of chaos. Aaron House, I told listeners, would one day host Moms, Dads, brothers, and sisters with sons and brothers in peace for holiday dinners. People who did not know if their loved one would be living or dead, lost or wandering lost, would find their way to a family dinner in the tranquility of Aaron House. These people, I explained, no nothing of Aaron himself, but they know their own Aaron. They know there must be an answer. They would pray to God for an answer. They would pray for peace and relief for themselves and their son, brother,...
God does answer prayers. The work is done through other people. Some were angels, others mortal. Aaron House opened. It exists. Last Saturday night I was ate and laughed, and cried, and laughed again with the guys, their parents, their friends at Aaron House. Aaron was not seen in the midst of the fun. He was felt. The story is true. The feelings are real. The healing is tangible.
Thank you for your faith and charity. It is mercy God desires, not sacrifice. Your mercy is a blessing.
Peace
Friday, November 28, 2008
83 Years Sweet
My Mom was 48 in 1975. One night in April she went to sleep a married mother of 4 and the next morning she woke up a widow with three kids under 18 and younger at home. Thirty three years ago you didn't go through the pain of loss of a loved one, you ran from it. Death and pregnancy were whispered subjects--neither happened yet one person would be gone and another grew in secrecy. Maybe that's not accurate, but that's the way I saw it.
She was an energetic 48 year old. The athlete in our family--before me. Mom was the classic 1950'-1970's American Mom. Home running the house. Raising kids in a neighborhood of Moms and kids. Shooing kids out in the morning and rounding them up when the street lights came on. In between there were meals from scratch on the table and on time. She's a great cook. Always has been.
A small tin can on the window sill in the kitchen held loose change. Mainly pennies and nickles, possibly a dime, never a quarter. From that can Mom would pass out a few coins for us. We could walk to the corner store--Franky's for a bag of candy. The real name was Westside Grocery. Franky was the owner--grouchy man who would rather make a kid wet his pants in fear than take a nickle for candy. His wife--Mrs. Franky, was everyone's grandma. Kind and patient. God help you if Mrs. Franky wasn't working. Getting that candy out from behind the glass and into the brown paper bag required collective courage. Better to wait outside for friends than to go it alone with Franky. I know I tried it once. I put a penny in the gumball machine with Franky watching me. I turned the crank and waited for the gumball to drop. Nothing happened. I opened the metal door. No gumball. "Ya stupid kid--you can see the dang things empty! I left Franky a puddle and ran the two blocks home.
My mom is still running the same house. Two little boys and a young lady of 11 get the full dose of sweetness. They are lucky ones. The tradition of Grandmothering runs deep and long in my Mom. It's an art she has perfected.
I was home for Thanksgiving. Grandma Lucy's home is sweet. Peaceful and comfortable. I slept in my old room. Very small, but cozy and warm. Breakfast is always relaxing at Mom's. She cooks and serves. Nice to be treated like family. This morning we talked about feelings and memories. Good feelings.
Next month Grandma Lucy, my Mom, turns 83. Driving home it occured to me that 83 years old is not accurate for her. Mom is energetic and sharp. To say 83 years young is not true. When you have earned your wisdom, to say "young" is to be in denial. I spoke to a friend about my Mom and it occured to me that there is an accurate descriptor --(is it verb, or adjective?)my Mom will be 83 years sweet on December 17th. Those years which included the loss of a young husband, and two young grandsons could make a person bitter, but because she's done the work in the time, she is sweet. Somewhere along the way Mom went through the pain.
I'm grateful for my Mom. Happy Birthday. All your boys love you.
She was an energetic 48 year old. The athlete in our family--before me. Mom was the classic 1950'-1970's American Mom. Home running the house. Raising kids in a neighborhood of Moms and kids. Shooing kids out in the morning and rounding them up when the street lights came on. In between there were meals from scratch on the table and on time. She's a great cook. Always has been.
A small tin can on the window sill in the kitchen held loose change. Mainly pennies and nickles, possibly a dime, never a quarter. From that can Mom would pass out a few coins for us. We could walk to the corner store--Franky's for a bag of candy. The real name was Westside Grocery. Franky was the owner--grouchy man who would rather make a kid wet his pants in fear than take a nickle for candy. His wife--Mrs. Franky, was everyone's grandma. Kind and patient. God help you if Mrs. Franky wasn't working. Getting that candy out from behind the glass and into the brown paper bag required collective courage. Better to wait outside for friends than to go it alone with Franky. I know I tried it once. I put a penny in the gumball machine with Franky watching me. I turned the crank and waited for the gumball to drop. Nothing happened. I opened the metal door. No gumball. "Ya stupid kid--you can see the dang things empty! I left Franky a puddle and ran the two blocks home.
My mom is still running the same house. Two little boys and a young lady of 11 get the full dose of sweetness. They are lucky ones. The tradition of Grandmothering runs deep and long in my Mom. It's an art she has perfected.
I was home for Thanksgiving. Grandma Lucy's home is sweet. Peaceful and comfortable. I slept in my old room. Very small, but cozy and warm. Breakfast is always relaxing at Mom's. She cooks and serves. Nice to be treated like family. This morning we talked about feelings and memories. Good feelings.
Next month Grandma Lucy, my Mom, turns 83. Driving home it occured to me that 83 years old is not accurate for her. Mom is energetic and sharp. To say 83 years young is not true. When you have earned your wisdom, to say "young" is to be in denial. I spoke to a friend about my Mom and it occured to me that there is an accurate descriptor --(is it verb, or adjective?)my Mom will be 83 years sweet on December 17th. Those years which included the loss of a young husband, and two young grandsons could make a person bitter, but because she's done the work in the time, she is sweet. Somewhere along the way Mom went through the pain.
I'm grateful for my Mom. Happy Birthday. All your boys love you.
Tuesday, November 18, 2008
Gratitude
How do I thank God for ALL of my life situations? I can be grateful that I did not get a job, or a career, or a friend that I thought I so desperately needed. That's easy, but how to I say "Thank you God for destroying my son's heart and other internal organs so that his life would end in an instant at the instant he was being his true self?" That sort of a Gratitude is dysfunctional and obscene before even being selfish and sick. Three and a half years after the incident there is clarity.
My first prayer might have been to make this go away. Make it untrue. The closest second was for something God could and would do if he were sought---mercy, grace, dignity. The prayer was always answered. The virtues were always received, and not always accepted. Humanity is a powerful drug--one which I am powerless over. But because of God's mercy I had choices when my mind was a fog, my body was weak, cold, and broken.
The ability to make choices is where my gratitude is with respect to vicious life situations. The ability to make choices and the choices I made brought me to here. Regardless of right or wrong, good or bad, as perceived by how my choices impact the harmony, I am grateful. What happened in the past could be the target of my resentments and angers, or they could be where they are--in the past. My opinion of what was is of no consequence to the past. The choices I make when I form and manipulate my opinion of the past reality are dangerous and hurtful. The choices I make when I acknowledge what is or what is not, opens a door to freedom of bondage. Changing how someone feels is no more possible than changing history. All my actions mattered then, all my actions matter today.
I am grateful for the choices which brought me here today. Right this minute I will accept what is and what is not. I have no promise of accepting tragedy tomorrow, but this instant is not tomorrow.
My first prayer might have been to make this go away. Make it untrue. The closest second was for something God could and would do if he were sought---mercy, grace, dignity. The prayer was always answered. The virtues were always received, and not always accepted. Humanity is a powerful drug--one which I am powerless over. But because of God's mercy I had choices when my mind was a fog, my body was weak, cold, and broken.
The ability to make choices is where my gratitude is with respect to vicious life situations. The ability to make choices and the choices I made brought me to here. Regardless of right or wrong, good or bad, as perceived by how my choices impact the harmony, I am grateful. What happened in the past could be the target of my resentments and angers, or they could be where they are--in the past. My opinion of what was is of no consequence to the past. The choices I make when I form and manipulate my opinion of the past reality are dangerous and hurtful. The choices I make when I acknowledge what is or what is not, opens a door to freedom of bondage. Changing how someone feels is no more possible than changing history. All my actions mattered then, all my actions matter today.
I am grateful for the choices which brought me here today. Right this minute I will accept what is and what is not. I have no promise of accepting tragedy tomorrow, but this instant is not tomorrow.
Wednesday, November 12, 2008
Five Years and Tears and Work
I feel home.
There are few things pure in this world anymore...when I'm with my friends I feel home...chillin outside with the people I know...
Five years ago a decision was made to wisk Aaron away by escort to a thousand miles away. He was 16. The decision process was horrible. The decision is what it is. Not good or bad. Without any preliminary work, Aaron was without home, without the people he knows, without his mother and brother. We decompressed. Aaron did the work. Patrick had tears and fears. Everyone was affected. Aaron did the work.
When the boys were boys I spoke to them about praying for wisdom. I was best at giving direction, poorest at showing by example. They said their prayers and God blessed them. Both are at their best in emotional situations. There are no classes in wisdom at D.A.H.S. but what would it matter, PT speaks fluent english and his grade indicates english is not his first language... may not be even his second. Patrick will do the work.
My work was unknown to me. Or, maybe I knew the work like PT knows english but I chose not to pick up the book? My issues were certainly uncontested until Aaron told me---I don't care where you go, but ya gotta do something. PT added his little hand push with---OK. See you. PT was playing video game, sitting on the couch. He didn't look my direction. Aaron stood firm. It was about an hour ago in the life of time.
The work never ends. Ya gotta do something isn't a one time thing. It's an all the time thing. The something is more than one thing. Time heals nothing. Time creeps up on you, and waits for no one. Old man time is creep. I wanted more time with my boys and at the end of January 05 it looked like our time was here. Three more months and a couple of weeks? That's not time, it's not time. What kind of time is that?
Almost 4 years of work on two things and now I hear what Aaron learned--it isn't one or two things, it's more things and more things need more work this time. Timeless work. I'm tired. Choices. So light I could vanish. Too much feeling.
I had a dream about you,...you saw everyone as an angel, what about the thief, took away from you...if you just kept walking on your way, if you just kept walking on your way...Beyond the archway...a thief...double fantasy...outside the Dakota...everyone has a devil...took away from you. If you just kept walking on your way. December afternoon...if you just kept walking on your way. Just walk on.
Much death. Much work. Much hidden...never walk this way again...not with a passon but a prayer...not what I do but what I be...take these away from me...Time is liar. Everyone has a devil. Just keep walking on your way. I choose solitude. Just keep walking on your way not alone...There is a place I need to be... seeing's not for me. Aaron's it's time to go. I'm not ready to leave. It's time to go. What if you had stayed for just that one more half a day? You wouldn't have took that call...you'd be far far away and we could see you still today. I see you in your music. We know why you loved the sound. A wonderful day is shattered and you've never heard the new songs. I miss you. I'm tired today I saw your sign AJ.
Saturday, November 08, 2008
Coffee
First things first. Coffee is a first thing. On May 11, '05 Steve Larson asked me if there was anything he could bring to the house. Coffee was my suggestion. Steve arrived with a couple of tall Starbucks coffees. I sent him back out with more specific instructions--coffee for the masses. Just this fall we tossed the barely used green can of Folgers Decaffeinated. The full decaffeinated supply didn't survive the initial week I suppose.
Coffee has a role in every emotion--more than one hot cup of coffee has been poured in sorrow, joy, and on someones lap in anger. It's a player in economics and debate. I remember using a comment that went like this: "As for your opinion, that and 10 cents will get you a cup of coffee." Where? I'd like to have a dime back for every Two dollar cup of coffee I bought this decade.
Coffee is the first casualty of the economy. Rise with the tide, you'll be rolled by the flow. Coffee is the first to go. All across America I assure you billion dollar companies are making changes in the coffee room. Business is simple, either make money or cut costs. Light and heat might be gianormous figures on a spread sheet, but coffee is the tallest weed. If it's connected to Seattle, dark as fertile soil, and so strong it takes expensive flavor syrups to be palatable, it's going or gone. The last packets of the expensive stuff is buried in a drawer beneath the rejected bean, "full flavored" package of regular Joe.
Joe's a survivor. He's gone to war for this country. He was there in the depression. Joe was a victim of his own success. Pushed to the sidelines. Relegated to the minor leagues of coffee---the greasy spoons where he built his reputation in the first place. Traded hundreds of dozens of times a day for a couple of nickles, Joe ignited the brain cells by the billions and drowned cigarette butts by the cartons.
From 1948 to... oh about last month, those brains built an economic powerhouse unlike any the world had ever seen. So powerful was the economy industrial coffee/espresso/latte churning machines had kitchens built around them. Not just at the office but at home too. The commute from home to office, no longer counted in miles, but hours spawned the Mud Huts. Little houses on the fringe of parking lots, easy on easy off. "I have to leave now, I'm running late. I won't have time to stop for a coffee." Out the door we ran with our silver, adult sippy cup.
Like the last package of Steep & Brew that I pulled out of the back of the bottom of the drawer this morning, the little white huts will be vanishing. Well, maybe not vanishing, but they will be closing. Maybe best that they don't vanish--they're affordable housing. Coffee's done.
Coffee has a role in every emotion--more than one hot cup of coffee has been poured in sorrow, joy, and on someones lap in anger. It's a player in economics and debate. I remember using a comment that went like this: "As for your opinion, that and 10 cents will get you a cup of coffee." Where? I'd like to have a dime back for every Two dollar cup of coffee I bought this decade.
Coffee is the first casualty of the economy. Rise with the tide, you'll be rolled by the flow. Coffee is the first to go. All across America I assure you billion dollar companies are making changes in the coffee room. Business is simple, either make money or cut costs. Light and heat might be gianormous figures on a spread sheet, but coffee is the tallest weed. If it's connected to Seattle, dark as fertile soil, and so strong it takes expensive flavor syrups to be palatable, it's going or gone. The last packets of the expensive stuff is buried in a drawer beneath the rejected bean, "full flavored" package of regular Joe.
Joe's a survivor. He's gone to war for this country. He was there in the depression. Joe was a victim of his own success. Pushed to the sidelines. Relegated to the minor leagues of coffee---the greasy spoons where he built his reputation in the first place. Traded hundreds of dozens of times a day for a couple of nickles, Joe ignited the brain cells by the billions and drowned cigarette butts by the cartons.
From 1948 to... oh about last month, those brains built an economic powerhouse unlike any the world had ever seen. So powerful was the economy industrial coffee/espresso/latte churning machines had kitchens built around them. Not just at the office but at home too. The commute from home to office, no longer counted in miles, but hours spawned the Mud Huts. Little houses on the fringe of parking lots, easy on easy off. "I have to leave now, I'm running late. I won't have time to stop for a coffee." Out the door we ran with our silver, adult sippy cup.
Like the last package of Steep & Brew that I pulled out of the back of the bottom of the drawer this morning, the little white huts will be vanishing. Well, maybe not vanishing, but they will be closing. Maybe best that they don't vanish--they're affordable housing. Coffee's done.
Monday, November 03, 2008
A Wonderful Day
A positive message and a good time. Young people. Parents. Little kids.
Makes me feel good about myself. Makes me sad. Makes me remember what I lost. I'd fix it if I could. Of A Revolution. O.A.R.
Aaron brought O.A.R. into our home from Oregon. He saw them in concert. His first concert. His last concert. Just when we were getting to know this band and Aaron again, we lost him. Patrick picked up where Aaron left off with the band. He kept the music playing in our house. I'm glad he did. Would like to get back what is mine. But it's not going to happen.
Shattered. Need a change from this burned out scene. Pouring rain. It's always back to you. How many times can I break till I shatter? Turn the car around. The rain still falls. Give me a break. Always turn the car around. Give it up. Over the line. Time that I'm wastin. Find what I'm after. Don't wanna turn that car around. I've gotta turn this thing around.
A Wonderful Day. It was a hot, hot day, in the middle of May...
Aaron would wake up and crank his stereo with A Wonderful Day. You knew he was up and from the sound coming from his bedroom you could tell that day was going to be the best damn day. I liked the way those mornings started. That day, that day, that day was such a wonderful day.
Those days are over. I listen to O.A.R. and feel my feelings. As sad, angry, or hurt that I may feel in any day, at the end of the day it's still a wonderful day.
Love and Memories
Makes me feel good about myself. Makes me sad. Makes me remember what I lost. I'd fix it if I could. Of A Revolution. O.A.R.
Aaron brought O.A.R. into our home from Oregon. He saw them in concert. His first concert. His last concert. Just when we were getting to know this band and Aaron again, we lost him. Patrick picked up where Aaron left off with the band. He kept the music playing in our house. I'm glad he did. Would like to get back what is mine. But it's not going to happen.
Shattered. Need a change from this burned out scene. Pouring rain. It's always back to you. How many times can I break till I shatter? Turn the car around. The rain still falls. Give me a break. Always turn the car around. Give it up. Over the line. Time that I'm wastin. Find what I'm after. Don't wanna turn that car around. I've gotta turn this thing around.
A Wonderful Day. It was a hot, hot day, in the middle of May...
Aaron would wake up and crank his stereo with A Wonderful Day. You knew he was up and from the sound coming from his bedroom you could tell that day was going to be the best damn day. I liked the way those mornings started. That day, that day, that day was such a wonderful day.
Those days are over. I listen to O.A.R. and feel my feelings. As sad, angry, or hurt that I may feel in any day, at the end of the day it's still a wonderful day.
Love and Memories
Wednesday, October 29, 2008
Charity
Four years before I was born, Thomas Merton wrote No Man is an Island. The books were printed, distributed, read, critiqued, put on shelves, packed in boxes, and stored away. One day in 2005 I found a copy on the basement book shelf at The Angel Inn, Green Lake, WI. After reading No Man is an Island, I read 10 or more other books by Merton. I keep picking up No Man and finding more insight.
Charity...makes me an instrument of God's Providence in (other's) lives. I must become convinced and penetrated by the realization that without my love for them they may perhaps not achieve the things God has willed for them. My will must be the instrument of God's will in helping them create their destiny. Chapter I 6
Yesterday I met a 34 year old named Brian, who was preparing to appear in federal court for sentencing on drug trafficking charges. Today was his day before the judge. This young man had been involved in a major marijuana distribution conspiracy moving a highly potent form of the drug from New York to Madison for three years until the fall of 2003. When I met Brian I didn't know the details of his charges and I offered to join others in supporting Brian in the court room. I sat in the audience and heard the Federal prosecutor explain some of the findings. As the story was told it occurred to me that Aaron probably was drawn into this exact conspiracy in the summer of '03. The extreme volume of pot this organization was moving makes it highly likely that Aaron was affected by the operation.
There was a time from 2003 through a good part of 2005 when I wanted to destroy those people like Brian who were killing my son and my family. I hated these people. For a day in the summer of '05 I wanted to kill any of them. Revenge, I imagined, was better than grief. Anger, hatred, revenge. A drug pusher was going to pay. These guys were the pushers, not the teenagers. They just wanted to be like the pushers. They wanted what the pushers had. The pushers tell the great lies. They coach the kids to manipulate their parents and siblings. They're the role models. They kidnapped my son's mind. Parenting doesn't have an instruction manual but drug pushing does.
I'm grateful for recovery. Today I sat in the courtroom without judging. I had a wide range of feelings for all of the players in the drama. The Judge who may have weighed the political risk of leniency on a drug pusher, the defendant who has changed his life, the family who's nightmare won't end, the prosecutor who appeared to have no friends in the room, and the Mother in the audience who just wanted to know if the defendant, or anyone, knew her son Amos. Amos has been missing for 4 years. She feels no one cares and no one is looking for her son. Of all of my feelings today, anger was not one of them. Sadness, contentment, compassion, envy, sorrow, peace, satisfaction, disappointment.
With my head in my hands I breath and know I stood close to what once was part of the evil that claimed the innocence of Aaron and I immediately experienced the Providence of God. In the presence of what once was evil, I was aware that my compassion for this person is necessary for him to achieve what God has willed for him. Only charity can defeat evil.
No man is an island.
Charity...makes me an instrument of God's Providence in (other's) lives. I must become convinced and penetrated by the realization that without my love for them they may perhaps not achieve the things God has willed for them. My will must be the instrument of God's will in helping them create their destiny. Chapter I 6
Yesterday I met a 34 year old named Brian, who was preparing to appear in federal court for sentencing on drug trafficking charges. Today was his day before the judge. This young man had been involved in a major marijuana distribution conspiracy moving a highly potent form of the drug from New York to Madison for three years until the fall of 2003. When I met Brian I didn't know the details of his charges and I offered to join others in supporting Brian in the court room. I sat in the audience and heard the Federal prosecutor explain some of the findings. As the story was told it occurred to me that Aaron probably was drawn into this exact conspiracy in the summer of '03. The extreme volume of pot this organization was moving makes it highly likely that Aaron was affected by the operation.
There was a time from 2003 through a good part of 2005 when I wanted to destroy those people like Brian who were killing my son and my family. I hated these people. For a day in the summer of '05 I wanted to kill any of them. Revenge, I imagined, was better than grief. Anger, hatred, revenge. A drug pusher was going to pay. These guys were the pushers, not the teenagers. They just wanted to be like the pushers. They wanted what the pushers had. The pushers tell the great lies. They coach the kids to manipulate their parents and siblings. They're the role models. They kidnapped my son's mind. Parenting doesn't have an instruction manual but drug pushing does.
I'm grateful for recovery. Today I sat in the courtroom without judging. I had a wide range of feelings for all of the players in the drama. The Judge who may have weighed the political risk of leniency on a drug pusher, the defendant who has changed his life, the family who's nightmare won't end, the prosecutor who appeared to have no friends in the room, and the Mother in the audience who just wanted to know if the defendant, or anyone, knew her son Amos. Amos has been missing for 4 years. She feels no one cares and no one is looking for her son. Of all of my feelings today, anger was not one of them. Sadness, contentment, compassion, envy, sorrow, peace, satisfaction, disappointment.
With my head in my hands I breath and know I stood close to what once was part of the evil that claimed the innocence of Aaron and I immediately experienced the Providence of God. In the presence of what once was evil, I was aware that my compassion for this person is necessary for him to achieve what God has willed for him. Only charity can defeat evil.
No man is an island.
Wednesday, October 22, 2008
New Clothes
So the Palins need new clothes. I understand, you can't be running around America looking like you're from Juneau ya know. Maybe everybody who runs for Vice President needs to have their family re-attired and Sarah is being treated unfairly by the media. Or, maybe these people never watched What Not To Wear and their closets are full of problems.
A politician with wisdom would be a nice change. Instead we seem to get politicians with smart mouths. Witty and quick with a quip trumps wisdom. I won't blame the media--we get from the media what we ask for.
If wisdom mattered, Sarah Palin would be wise to take a suggestion to heart: "I say beware of all enterprises that require new clothes, and not rather a new wearer of clothes." Henry David Thoreau
Should she run from the office?
A politician with wisdom would be a nice change. Instead we seem to get politicians with smart mouths. Witty and quick with a quip trumps wisdom. I won't blame the media--we get from the media what we ask for.
If wisdom mattered, Sarah Palin would be wise to take a suggestion to heart: "I say beware of all enterprises that require new clothes, and not rather a new wearer of clothes." Henry David Thoreau
Should she run from the office?
Sunday, October 19, 2008
Fucking Wall
The emphasis is on the first syllable. Say second syllable soft and drawn out. Without intention to be offensive, the word is a capsule of anger, fear, resentment, displeasure, sorrow, grief, love, and hatred. Fucking wall.
Fall is a time I get up early and leave home before even the farmers. I'm fortunate to have permission from some of them to hunt ducks on their property. Driving north a few miles from my house I cross Vinburn Road. Looking left, right, the left again, I look west toward that fucking wall. Aaron would rarely be with me on these morning jaunts but he'd be somewhere if not for the fucking wall. I resent that concrete monster and the decision that placed it there. It took my son.
Walls don't give back, they take. A decision was made to put this manslaughter 20 few feet from the edge of the road. For what reason? To hold mulch--as if it would walk away without a four foot high, two foot wide mass of concrete and steel. The Berlin wall was only 8 feet higher and no wider. Hundreds of people died trying to escape. They died in the death trap in Berlin--shot by the keepers of the wall. None were killed by the wall. Aaron died trying to escape the death trap on Vinburn--who killed Aaron? The wall?
In any year I drive over 30,000 miles. I pay attention to where concrete monsters lurk. With satisfaction I noticed a similar business on Hwy 19 outside of Waunakee took their wall--which was more than 20 something feet from the road, and moved it well away from harm's way. They put it in their parking lot where disasters are avoided. That's considerate. I have never seen another mulch security wall as massive and as close to a road. Fly to it and take a panoramic view on
The view of 4048 Vinburn Road, 53532 might be the view Aaron saw. Disgusting how close this piece of shit wall is to the road. I strongly dislike this wall.
Rebuilding our lives is not reasonable. We do the work that needs to be done, but you can't rebuild a family life without the family. I could rebuild without our home, or clothes, or belongings, but not without our son. The fucking wall was rebuilt though. Nothing to it I suppose. Haul away the broken piece and stack a new half ton block. Business as usual. Gotta keep the shit mulch right there---can't put it behind the barn. God knows you can't sell mulch from a many hundred acre farm unless you display it 20 too few feet from the road. Bullshit. Move the fucking wall.
My son was disgusted by greed. He had sorrow in his heart for the carnage caused by greedy pursuit of more than a fair share. Aaron died because of someones insanely greedy marketing idea. Aaron enjoyed music. They keep making new music. OAR will be in Madison on November 1. Aaron should be there. The wall should be moved. My heart aches. I want to cry.
Fucking wall.
Tuesday, October 14, 2008
It has always seemed strange to me...
There is much to be grateful for in my life. It is just my opinion, not a fact, that things I do require time and/or money. What I be is free. There is nothing I have to do before I die and one thing I want to be. I want to be me. Not the best me, just me as I am. And I am pretty much the same guy who served mass at St. John church at 12 in 1971.
Four days in the clean Canadian air surrounded by clear, cold Canadian water, poured on by rain, and warmed by a wood fueled fire in a 1938 built stone fireplace, sleeping in an uninsulated vintage, running water-less cabin. I wouldn't feel more forgiven had it rained holy water for those 100 hours. Without technology the entertainment was watching a little chess tournament by the fire, lots of laughs at the expense of eachother, and turning in early for a few chapters of Steinbeck's Cannery Row.
Steinbeck wrote Cannery Row in 1945 as a contribution to the war effort. Soldiers in Europe in need of a diversion from war escaped into Cannery Row, a ficticious story with characters from Steinbeck's life in California. This past year I escaped into Steinbeck books and became a fan of his writing. Whenever I see words strung together so perfectly that I hesitate to read on in fear that I will lose the beauty the way a burning sun sets I highlight them, bend the corner of the page, or write the words down somewhere to hopefully find them one day again. This paragraph seems appropriate in this current economy and political season.
Thank you John Steinbeck---
"It has always seemed strange to me," said Doc. "The things we admire in men, kindness, and generosity, openness, honesty, understanding and feeling are the concomitants of failure in our system. And those traits we detest, sharpness,greed, acquisitiveness, meanness, egotism and self-interest are the traits of success. And while men admire the quality of the first they love the produce of the second."...The sale of souls to gain the whole world is completely voluntary and almost unanimous--but not quite...
I'm thankful I had the opportunity to live with less long enough to appreciate more.
Four days in the clean Canadian air surrounded by clear, cold Canadian water, poured on by rain, and warmed by a wood fueled fire in a 1938 built stone fireplace, sleeping in an uninsulated vintage, running water-less cabin. I wouldn't feel more forgiven had it rained holy water for those 100 hours. Without technology the entertainment was watching a little chess tournament by the fire, lots of laughs at the expense of eachother, and turning in early for a few chapters of Steinbeck's Cannery Row.
Steinbeck wrote Cannery Row in 1945 as a contribution to the war effort. Soldiers in Europe in need of a diversion from war escaped into Cannery Row, a ficticious story with characters from Steinbeck's life in California. This past year I escaped into Steinbeck books and became a fan of his writing. Whenever I see words strung together so perfectly that I hesitate to read on in fear that I will lose the beauty the way a burning sun sets I highlight them, bend the corner of the page, or write the words down somewhere to hopefully find them one day again. This paragraph seems appropriate in this current economy and political season.
Thank you John Steinbeck---
"It has always seemed strange to me," said Doc. "The things we admire in men, kindness, and generosity, openness, honesty, understanding and feeling are the concomitants of failure in our system. And those traits we detest, sharpness,greed, acquisitiveness, meanness, egotism and self-interest are the traits of success. And while men admire the quality of the first they love the produce of the second."...The sale of souls to gain the whole world is completely voluntary and almost unanimous--but not quite...
I'm thankful I had the opportunity to live with less long enough to appreciate more.
Tuesday, October 07, 2008
Oh Canada
Kenora Island, Lake of the Woods, Ontario Canada.
The island is a 13 acre rock. The main cabin has a kitchen, one big room with a stone fireplace and a 1950's era white gas heater. A few other cabins in various states of character sit near the outhouse. A decoy and boat shed still looks over an edge. An old boat house - pier system was taken down 10 years ago.
My last visit to the island was in 2001. I went reluctantly. To go meant missing one of Aaron's football games. It was a tough choice but there was to be more games. There were, but not as many as I had expected.
Cell phones were highly discouraged 7 years ago. I broke the ban on contact with the outside world in order to check in with Aaron after the game. I remember standing outside on top of a rock on the rock to get reception on a crystal clear star spangled night. Aaron was excited. He had played well. I don't remember the details but I do remember giving the report to the guys in the house.
Eventually Aaron was to make the trip with us. I have an ache in my heart tonight thinking about returning to a place where I once chose over being with my son. Kenora is one of my Jezebels. How will I feel when I see the spot where I stood to get a clear connection to Aaron? Maybe the rock on the rock can connect us one more time.
The island is a 13 acre rock. The main cabin has a kitchen, one big room with a stone fireplace and a 1950's era white gas heater. A few other cabins in various states of character sit near the outhouse. A decoy and boat shed still looks over an edge. An old boat house - pier system was taken down 10 years ago.
My last visit to the island was in 2001. I went reluctantly. To go meant missing one of Aaron's football games. It was a tough choice but there was to be more games. There were, but not as many as I had expected.
Cell phones were highly discouraged 7 years ago. I broke the ban on contact with the outside world in order to check in with Aaron after the game. I remember standing outside on top of a rock on the rock to get reception on a crystal clear star spangled night. Aaron was excited. He had played well. I don't remember the details but I do remember giving the report to the guys in the house.
Eventually Aaron was to make the trip with us. I have an ache in my heart tonight thinking about returning to a place where I once chose over being with my son. Kenora is one of my Jezebels. How will I feel when I see the spot where I stood to get a clear connection to Aaron? Maybe the rock on the rock can connect us one more time.
Monday, October 06, 2008
Does the Subaru Come with Bumper Stickers?
For 20 years I've driven from east and northeast Madison to the west side. These are my beltline observations:
Traveling east to west the Nascar sticker sporting autos decrease.
Following a Nascar weekend, be aware of excelerating, tailgating, in and out weaving. The beltline is a Daytona without the left turns.
Moms in kid movers never leave early enough.
If school bus drivers drove the way moms drive an SUV, there would be no passengers on the yellow bus.
What happened to the short bus?
The police vehicle that stops behind a vehicle with a flat tire causes a backup from John Nolen to Stoughton Road.
Bumper stickers shout some things there owners would not whisper in public.
Do you need a bumper sticker to tell people you're a redneck?
You were so sure Bush was the one, and now you want me to trust that you know what you are saying when your bumper tells me to vote for McCain?
Subarus are bought on the east side of Madison and taken home to the west side.
Subarus are required by neighborhood covenants on the near west side.
The closer one lives to Lake Mendota the more likely you are to drive a Volvo.
Cars breakdown on the exit ramp at Seminole Highway.
Pickup trucks are larger east and non existent west.
Bumper stickers are a form of passive aggressive behavior.
If there is enough snow to close schools and GEF buildings, maybe riding a bike on the street is not wise.
I know people car pool because I see cars in the designated lots.
Guys car pool midday in groups of five -- some of the vehicles have tinted windows.
People would rather stop at Starbucks on their way to work than brew a pot and pour a cup before leaving home.
Guys from Illinois drive black cars Volvos, wear white shirts, ties, Blue Tooth headsets and drive like moms on a Nascar fix.
The further west I go the more wrong I am about life... according to the vehicles that pass me.
Cars with multiple stickers on their backsides makes me think of the one I would glue to my vehicle: They're called BUMPER stickers.
Traveling east to west the Nascar sticker sporting autos decrease.
Following a Nascar weekend, be aware of excelerating, tailgating, in and out weaving. The beltline is a Daytona without the left turns.
Moms in kid movers never leave early enough.
If school bus drivers drove the way moms drive an SUV, there would be no passengers on the yellow bus.
What happened to the short bus?
The police vehicle that stops behind a vehicle with a flat tire causes a backup from John Nolen to Stoughton Road.
Bumper stickers shout some things there owners would not whisper in public.
Do you need a bumper sticker to tell people you're a redneck?
You were so sure Bush was the one, and now you want me to trust that you know what you are saying when your bumper tells me to vote for McCain?
Subarus are bought on the east side of Madison and taken home to the west side.
Subarus are required by neighborhood covenants on the near west side.
The closer one lives to Lake Mendota the more likely you are to drive a Volvo.
Cars breakdown on the exit ramp at Seminole Highway.
Pickup trucks are larger east and non existent west.
Bumper stickers are a form of passive aggressive behavior.
If there is enough snow to close schools and GEF buildings, maybe riding a bike on the street is not wise.
I know people car pool because I see cars in the designated lots.
Guys car pool midday in groups of five -- some of the vehicles have tinted windows.
People would rather stop at Starbucks on their way to work than brew a pot and pour a cup before leaving home.
Guys from Illinois drive black cars Volvos, wear white shirts, ties, Blue Tooth headsets and drive like moms on a Nascar fix.
The further west I go the more wrong I am about life... according to the vehicles that pass me.
Cars with multiple stickers on their backsides makes me think of the one I would glue to my vehicle: They're called BUMPER stickers.
Wednesday, October 01, 2008
Calculate This
I bought a Michael's Custard, single scoop cone last week. $3.65 I paid. Change for my five dollar bill was a buck and a few coins. In 1975 dollars, the price of the cone would buy $15.00 worth of groceries and an ice cream cone at the Fairview Dairy--really good stuff was $.25 for a single dip, $.75 got a tripple dipper.
Here's some crazy talk--A slice of pizza, a soda, and a trip to the salad bar at Rocky Rococo's, $7.00. A Culver's shake is $5.00--and I think it's smaller than last year. A bottle of water from a tap at a bottling plant, delivered in a warm truck to a gas station convenience store, $1.39. A pack of gum, $2.09. A tank of gas is $57.00 and that's with gas at the recent low price of the cost of a scoop of ice cream! A nickle candy bar is a buck. Next Tuesday Culver's has $1.00 butter burgers. Cool, but take me back to 1972 when cheeseburgers were $.26 at Sandys across from the Sport Marine on Highway 45 in Antigo. What is 26 cents in 2008 money?
My Dad would be stunned. I'm stunned. Is this inflation or just plain crazy? Probably dysfunctional. When we decided that our parent's way of saving and only buying what we can pay cash for was not for us, we got what we deserved. We opened the door to our vaults and told everyone to come and get it. If you got what I want, name your price because I can't say no. I won't say no. I want it. You got it. The higher the price, the better the product, the fancier the label, the smarter I look. Sign me up! I need it today. It'll make me happy. You'll like me. Somebody will like me if I have what you have. I'll buy it today, I get paid next week. I will gladly pay you Tuesday for a hamburger today. Garshgh Olive, we've become Wimpy!
Sunday, September 28, 2008
Think Ahead. Don't be a Rum-Dum.
Saturday was the annual Northern Duck Hunting Season Opener in Wisconsin. Every SUV, duck boat towing vehicle on the road was heading to my secret spot in the flooded rice of my mind. In hours of driving I exchanged friendly, resent filled smiles to the dozens of guys who jockeyed the highway with me Friday afternoon. Special disdain is reserved with a nod to the fellas from Illinois with their CUBBY 1 and CUBS WYN license plates. Of course the 30 +/- counties of Northern Wisconsin have a bizzillion acres of public land open to waterfowl hunting so the chances of anyone going to the same lake as me, much less the same 3000 square feet of marsh, is a statistical improbability but an attitude of scarcity drives a guy to get up at 3:30 AM on a perfectly good fall morning.
Come December I'll hunt 5 minutes from my house with a half a dozen decoys, and a handful of shells, but opening day is for the boat motors and gadgets. The truck and boat are loaded. Doc is too fat and happy in his kennel in the back. O.A.R. from Aaron and assorted CD's from Patrick keep me company in the truck. Wisconsin Public Radio is on almost every two digits of the radio dial from 80 something to 94 "up north". I caught an interview with a Rabbi which drew my attention from "It's a Wonderful Day" and the guy with the Go Devil rig racing me to sunrise. The Rabbi was talking about the economy.
I liked the Rabbi. He simplified the solution to the economic crises and he wasn't likely a duck hunter. This is what I heard: Until we each look at our parts, we are not going to resolve the mess. We can continue to point fingers and discover blame, that's easy, but the road out is not found by hints of allegations and labeling incidents of accusations. The road out is for each citizen to look at themselves and ask the question, "What's my part in it? What did I do to add something to the problem." Sure Wall Street, corporate greed, government sell out, and the seven deadly sins played are the usual suspects, but the Rabbi asked me to look at me and ask, "what about me"?
OK, I heard him. The Rabbi had me thinking over my actions of the past 20 years. How many credit cards are reasonable? One for every additional 20% off of the items we bought at the mall? Just because someone said my house appreciated 100% in 15 years doesn't mean it did and even if it did, how much of that appreciation should be spent rewarding myself or reorganizing my debt every few years. I may have earned a reward, I didn't appreciate it or I wouldn't have squandered some of it. The more I owe the more I have to earn until the process consumes itself. Many of us are guilty of running our own little AIG. No bail-out will put a dent in recovery the way self evaluation, personal change, and humility will. Compassion, starting with compassion for others and humility for me is the answer. Time and blame will keep us mired. Compassion and humility over time have a lasting promise. A trillion dollar bail out may stop the pain, but is avoiding pain the way to healing change?
Our Dads--your's and mine, were good guys and wise. They thought they were smart. If you lost your Dad before you were old enough to know he was wise, you're not alone. My Dad died when I was a rebellious 16 year old. He was younger than I am today--a youth at 47. Just wondering, am I his elder? Simple advice he gave me over and over. I can hear it going back to middle school days. "Think ahead. Don't be a rum-dum." I know what "think ahead" means--consider the consequences or your actions, make a plan, be responsible. Don't be a rum-dum is a little more complex but, if my memory of the phrase connected to my actions in the 60's and early 70's is an indicator, a Rum-dum blames others, sherks responsibility, and makes excuses. I think the guy who fools around until things get broken, and then wonders how it happened, is a Rum-dum.
My weekend was superb. I hunted with my Dad, both of my sons, the Rabbi, my friends, my emotions, and Doc. It's a 14 ft boat but all fit comfortably. My waders leaked, I'll patch them not replace them. We left the ducks in the freezer at Timmy Bunkport. I came home with all my stuff and an old answer to an older problem. The Rabbi got me thinking, now what am I going to do about me? Starting last Friday I'm Thinking Ahead and I won't be a Rum-dum today. I'm not in line for a bail-out and that's good. I'll go through the pain and come out scarred with more humility and compassion. That's one of life's promises I believe.
Probably my Dad would say what Aaron once said to me, "Sounds good. Sounds like you're getting better." I'd say to him, "Diet and exercise will do more for your heart than any pill." My cardiologist told me so.
Come December I'll hunt 5 minutes from my house with a half a dozen decoys, and a handful of shells, but opening day is for the boat motors and gadgets. The truck and boat are loaded. Doc is too fat and happy in his kennel in the back. O.A.R. from Aaron and assorted CD's from Patrick keep me company in the truck. Wisconsin Public Radio is on almost every two digits of the radio dial from 80 something to 94 "up north". I caught an interview with a Rabbi which drew my attention from "It's a Wonderful Day" and the guy with the Go Devil rig racing me to sunrise. The Rabbi was talking about the economy.
I liked the Rabbi. He simplified the solution to the economic crises and he wasn't likely a duck hunter. This is what I heard: Until we each look at our parts, we are not going to resolve the mess. We can continue to point fingers and discover blame, that's easy, but the road out is not found by hints of allegations and labeling incidents of accusations. The road out is for each citizen to look at themselves and ask the question, "What's my part in it? What did I do to add something to the problem." Sure Wall Street, corporate greed, government sell out, and the seven deadly sins played are the usual suspects, but the Rabbi asked me to look at me and ask, "what about me"?
OK, I heard him. The Rabbi had me thinking over my actions of the past 20 years. How many credit cards are reasonable? One for every additional 20% off of the items we bought at the mall? Just because someone said my house appreciated 100% in 15 years doesn't mean it did and even if it did, how much of that appreciation should be spent rewarding myself or reorganizing my debt every few years. I may have earned a reward, I didn't appreciate it or I wouldn't have squandered some of it. The more I owe the more I have to earn until the process consumes itself. Many of us are guilty of running our own little AIG. No bail-out will put a dent in recovery the way self evaluation, personal change, and humility will. Compassion, starting with compassion for others and humility for me is the answer. Time and blame will keep us mired. Compassion and humility over time have a lasting promise. A trillion dollar bail out may stop the pain, but is avoiding pain the way to healing change?
Our Dads--your's and mine, were good guys and wise. They thought they were smart. If you lost your Dad before you were old enough to know he was wise, you're not alone. My Dad died when I was a rebellious 16 year old. He was younger than I am today--a youth at 47. Just wondering, am I his elder? Simple advice he gave me over and over. I can hear it going back to middle school days. "Think ahead. Don't be a rum-dum." I know what "think ahead" means--consider the consequences or your actions, make a plan, be responsible. Don't be a rum-dum is a little more complex but, if my memory of the phrase connected to my actions in the 60's and early 70's is an indicator, a Rum-dum blames others, sherks responsibility, and makes excuses. I think the guy who fools around until things get broken, and then wonders how it happened, is a Rum-dum.
My weekend was superb. I hunted with my Dad, both of my sons, the Rabbi, my friends, my emotions, and Doc. It's a 14 ft boat but all fit comfortably. My waders leaked, I'll patch them not replace them. We left the ducks in the freezer at Timmy Bunkport. I came home with all my stuff and an old answer to an older problem. The Rabbi got me thinking, now what am I going to do about me? Starting last Friday I'm Thinking Ahead and I won't be a Rum-dum today. I'm not in line for a bail-out and that's good. I'll go through the pain and come out scarred with more humility and compassion. That's one of life's promises I believe.
Probably my Dad would say what Aaron once said to me, "Sounds good. Sounds like you're getting better." I'd say to him, "Diet and exercise will do more for your heart than any pill." My cardiologist told me so.
Tuesday, September 16, 2008
Clear Moon Morning
We live in a rural subdivision. There are no street lights. Most of the area was once corn and bean fields. The hill where our house sits was woods. Oak, Hickory, Elm, some Maples, Cherry, and assorted other hard wood trees. I counted 112 trees on our 1/2 acre. Two of them hold the hammock. All of them have a tenuous hold on a zillion leaves. I like the leaves right where they are today and not where they will be next month. The canopy is a thing of beauty in the spring, summer, and early fall. Leaves, like addicts, should not be enabled. Picking them up after they fall only encourages them to repeat the cycle.
At 4:30 AM I could not see how bright the moon was this morning and I'm on duck hunting time already so I was wide awake. Doc and I are a week and a half ahead of the season with our natural clocks. We took a walk. At the end of the driveway the moon lit us up. Not a morning for thiefs, but a morning not to be missed. This is the bright where you can see better without a light. Everything is lit, not just what you shine a light on.
I've been lost in the dark and I know better than to try to wander in the dark. In the woods a flashlight really only shines on where you are not where you need to go. The impressiveness of the woods in the day is a cluster of confusion in battery powered light. Light generated by Eveready is measured in candle power and a million candle power won't do what one moon can do for your vision. Artificial has nothing on nature.
Death is a natural experience. Maybe it is so hard to navigate in grief because of the unnatural light we shine on death. Nothing is more artificial in death than the funeral. We wore suits and ties when we wanted to curl up and cry. A feast was prepared when we couldn't swallow water. Plans were demanded and we wouldn't admit the truth. I remember the confusion clearly and the day barely. The hearse left in the dark. The red brake lights flashed as the white vehicle turned right and disappeared around the church. The driver could see where he was going. We stood and wondered. Wandering in the dark is dangerous.
Fall is crisp. Some days are clear others cloudy. Even the cloudy days of fall are not gloomy when I'm in nature and fall is the time I spend mostly where people don't go. I'm grateful for the fall. This is one I almost missed.
At 4:30 AM I could not see how bright the moon was this morning and I'm on duck hunting time already so I was wide awake. Doc and I are a week and a half ahead of the season with our natural clocks. We took a walk. At the end of the driveway the moon lit us up. Not a morning for thiefs, but a morning not to be missed. This is the bright where you can see better without a light. Everything is lit, not just what you shine a light on.
I've been lost in the dark and I know better than to try to wander in the dark. In the woods a flashlight really only shines on where you are not where you need to go. The impressiveness of the woods in the day is a cluster of confusion in battery powered light. Light generated by Eveready is measured in candle power and a million candle power won't do what one moon can do for your vision. Artificial has nothing on nature.
Death is a natural experience. Maybe it is so hard to navigate in grief because of the unnatural light we shine on death. Nothing is more artificial in death than the funeral. We wore suits and ties when we wanted to curl up and cry. A feast was prepared when we couldn't swallow water. Plans were demanded and we wouldn't admit the truth. I remember the confusion clearly and the day barely. The hearse left in the dark. The red brake lights flashed as the white vehicle turned right and disappeared around the church. The driver could see where he was going. We stood and wondered. Wandering in the dark is dangerous.
Fall is crisp. Some days are clear others cloudy. Even the cloudy days of fall are not gloomy when I'm in nature and fall is the time I spend mostly where people don't go. I'm grateful for the fall. This is one I almost missed.
Wednesday, September 10, 2008
Pummeled
Memories are soap bubbles. You can look at them, watch them float on air, but try to touch them and they pop. Make the sound with your lips--poup. Gone. Bubbles leave a soapy wetness on your finger tips. Memories leave their trail in drips and splashes of salty tears. Many of these blog entries started with dry eyes and ended with sopping wet front of my shirt, tears splashed on the inside of my glasses, and tissues in and out of the trash can next to the desk. For my most heart wrenching sobs, a Kleenex was no where near and my shirt tail or sleeve worked just as well. Disgusting, but grief has no etiquette.
Good grief uses every ounce of energy. Pummeled by grief. Pummeled is a fine word. You know you've been pummeled by grief when you are on your hands, or forearms and knees, with snot running from your nose to the floor. Aware of the clear, watery mess, I've actually stopped crying to laugh at the spectacle. A grown man reduced to a quivering mass of flesh. Sad for sure. Funny, probably not. But when all emotions are getting their shot at you, laughter can take a turn too.
Bubbles, snow flakes, rain drops, memories, there's a limit to how many you can hold--the limit is zero. At first memories were more like apples, I thought I could hold a bushel of them in my arms, and a few in my pockets. I didn't need my arms or hands for anything. Sitting still I could hold them. I wear the same pants everyday. When I had to move, I lost small apples then another then another. They kept falling out of my arms. I squeeze my arms to close the gaps, but the apples on top fell over the sides. Eventually I was left with two in each hand, four in my pockets. It was hard to free my hands. I'd have to come back to these. Eventually opportunities required a change of clothes. The old pants were put away and all of the apples were left to be attended to another day.
It has been a long time since I've been pummeled by grief. That's OK. Small incidents of eye burning, temple throbbing, tear streaming, air gasping emotional bursts fill the void nicely. They don't make me laugh, but they do their job. They clear my head and center me. I wonder about the memories. Will they be there when I want them? Maybe. But they won't be as crisp.
Good grief uses every ounce of energy. Pummeled by grief. Pummeled is a fine word. You know you've been pummeled by grief when you are on your hands, or forearms and knees, with snot running from your nose to the floor. Aware of the clear, watery mess, I've actually stopped crying to laugh at the spectacle. A grown man reduced to a quivering mass of flesh. Sad for sure. Funny, probably not. But when all emotions are getting their shot at you, laughter can take a turn too.
Bubbles, snow flakes, rain drops, memories, there's a limit to how many you can hold--the limit is zero. At first memories were more like apples, I thought I could hold a bushel of them in my arms, and a few in my pockets. I didn't need my arms or hands for anything. Sitting still I could hold them. I wear the same pants everyday. When I had to move, I lost small apples then another then another. They kept falling out of my arms. I squeeze my arms to close the gaps, but the apples on top fell over the sides. Eventually I was left with two in each hand, four in my pockets. It was hard to free my hands. I'd have to come back to these. Eventually opportunities required a change of clothes. The old pants were put away and all of the apples were left to be attended to another day.
It has been a long time since I've been pummeled by grief. That's OK. Small incidents of eye burning, temple throbbing, tear streaming, air gasping emotional bursts fill the void nicely. They don't make me laugh, but they do their job. They clear my head and center me. I wonder about the memories. Will they be there when I want them? Maybe. But they won't be as crisp.
Saturday, August 30, 2008
Insight Into Attitude. My Circle of Friends
Viktor Frankel, Thomas Merton, C.S. Lewis, Saint Paul, Dali Lama, Eckart Tolle, Bill W. and Doctor Bob. For over three years these people have been my circle of friends. I've never been alone. In solitude, yes. But never alone. They've sat with me. Walked with me. Hunted and fished with me in fact, but never bagged anything we could eat. Of course, man can not live on fish and fowl alone and these people, these friends, provided what I needed to survive: Insight into attitude and what attitude means to life.
Now that this has happened, what am I going to do about me? That's the question I ask myself repeatedly through each day. What do I mean to life? What do I mean to this life situation? Frankel and Tolle gave me those nuggets. They changed my habit of reacting in ways that add chaos to carnage. Where I thought life owed me dividends, I discovered I had gold to give. My dark past is my greatest possession. In God's hands, it can be the key to avoiding misery and even death for others. Interesting that there is no self promise in that knowledge. The teachings of all people with awareness included the insight that our life is not for ourselves to take all that we can get, but to give all that we have so that others may live. Where have I seen that lesson in the New Testament?
Native American way of life was almost wiped out. By the survivor's decision to "Be" in an environment hostile to their mind, body, and spirit, today we their key to avoiding misery and death. These people lived their way of life accepting and flowing with life situations the way a river flows with ease from its source to the ocean...always with nature.
Better to remain humble like the Valley, than arrogant like the Mountain. All life moves easily through the Valley avoiding the Mountain. The ego wants the mountain. It's there waiting to be challenged, but I don't have to accept. The reward of moving the mountain is compensation to ego. The return of the Valley is the treasure we give to others. I can't take my ego with me, and I will leave everything that matters for life.
Sunday, August 10, 2008
A Story in the Trunk
Open the trunk of your car and you'll see a story. The one in Cathy's car stopped me cold yesterday. Curious how the words arranged themselves without an author. A short story of tragedy, hope, and sadness. I took a picture to keep the memory.
Pediatric Intensive Care Unit. April 26. Cathy and I received the passes to join Brad Bella and his family in his daughter Courtney's hospital room. Courtney, was on life support. Her Mother, Jen died at the scene. Her unborn sister died with Jen. Courtney was kept alive by technology. Jen is our friend. Brad is our friend. Courtney is a Godchild. Her big brother Zach survived the crash and he receives our daily prayers.
The passes were to be returned at the time we left the hospital, but Courtney died that afternoon and we walke out without thinking about the final procedure. Eventually the passes ended up in the trunk. Somehow they edited their way next to a bumper sticker for K-E-Y-E-S. Keep Everyone You know Safe, a charity started by Bonnie Stamm and friends to help people think about driving unimpaired. A simple key with a flourescent green cap designed to be one last thought provoking symbol. Stop. Don't insert your key into the ignition if you are impaired. Bonnie's daughter was killed by an impaired driver. Bonnie gave me the sticker. I'll give it Brad and Zach one day. I wonder if the time is right today.
I remember Courtney laughing and talking. Walking with me. Accepting a present from Cathy. Smiling. The images of Courtney in the hospital are final. They should never exist. Courtney was going home. She was with her Mom, her brother, and a friend. It was a Friday. A sleepover was underway. A cake for her Mom's birthday was to be baked. And then the impaired driver roared down on them.
The PICU passes worked their way through the trunk and found their place on the page next to the KEYS sticker.
Sunday, August 03, 2008
Cathy's Gardens..an artist with a spade
Scrape the paint off of a the works of Michaelangelo, erase the ink and lead from the pages of Shakespeare and Mozart, you'll have canvass and paper. Clean and clear, it is the artist who makes the slate say art. Art will inspire emotions for as long as we can hold the image or idea in our brain. Cathy writes and paints with a spade, Wolf tools, and her hands. She makes the hard, dry, almost sunless yard say, Peace and tranquility.
There is no house, building, or bridge designed and constructed by man which ads one bit of perfection to earth. Every man made object seperates man from man and God. Every garden uses God's grace to invite man closer to God and others. Cathy does God's work by mixing his colors and life into pictures, stories, and songs. The stories Cathy tells about where the plants came from, who's life they touched and who touched them, where they came from, how she got there, how the plants came to be here, and what the plants need to surivive, are mysteries, novels, romance, and tragedy. The music is from the birds who live in the paintings and stories. Cathy knows their names, their habits, their voices.
Through the summer of 2005 Cathy watched her gardens suffer with her. The pain of her broken heart was felt by her friends in the gardens. They cried with her. They cried for her. The gardens cared for themselves and waited. Cathy watered her gardens with tears that summer. Maybe 2006 was worse. The shock had worn off, and the reality cut deep. Painting a garden takes strength. The garden gives back in energy but the first action is picking up the tool. When the work appeared to great, Cathy collected herself and started over by lending a hand to Patrick as he took over for me on the pond garden I started in '05. I'm an earth mover, Patrick is a fine tuner, Cathy is the artist. She has the heart and compassion to give life and encourage mercy.
Spring of '07 brought Cathy back to her art. She started over by cleaning the weeds and debris. On her knees, by hand, in the dirt, she sorted through the good and evil. Devil mosquitoes where waiting for her. Tiny swords and knives, summer heat, humidity drained her. But, Cathy did not quit. Little by little she did what she could. The gardens responded with gratitude. They gave energy to Cathy. Vibrant lives of God's creation have power. Plants listen. They never give advice or condemnation. Flowers only smile and give hugs.
What once was dull,broken, sad and gray is now bright red, yellow, deep purple, brilliant green, sun burnt orange, perfectly formed by God. All in the image of God...The art and the artist.
Friday, July 25, 2008
Observations on Turmoil
Turmoil leaves nothing worth saying.
Finding fault everywhere. Peace sits out the storm.
Criticism is never constructive... unless you're doing the construction.
Expectations are the source of my disappointments.
Turmoil depletes creativity.
Ego burns the waste of expectations unfulfilled.
Finding fault everywhere. Peace sits out the storm.
Criticism is never constructive... unless you're doing the construction.
Expectations are the source of my disappointments.
Turmoil depletes creativity.
Ego burns the waste of expectations unfulfilled.
Monday, July 14, 2008
Books Choose You--Music Speaks
John Edwards, the Medium, not the politician, was a favorite of Aaron's. More than a few times Cathy would find Aaron sitting in the dark watching a show with John Edwards telling people what their loved ones on the other side were communicating. In the last weeks of his life, Aaron was tuned in to Edwards. He believed in Mediums. Cathy had an agreement with Aaron: who ever died first promises to send a message to the other. We have reminded Cathy that Aaron didn't promise to appear and draw a picture for her. I think she's being stubborn accepting nothing less than a full blown appearance, where she can then snatch him back.
Regardless of my opinion of Mediums, Mr. Edwards said something that I've felt to be true. He said, you don't pick a book, books choose you. I say I felt that because my experience in January and February was exactly that, a feeling. I wanted a new book after Christmas. I needed a new book, something to fill the hollow of the holidays Nothing felt right to me. I tried every book store and the 1/2 price stores. Nothing. Until the day The Power of Now and The New Earth found Cathy and me. My head was ready for what Mr. Tolle had to say. The message of the author evaporated into me. I've re-read both. I was so interested in what Mr. Tolle wrote, almost nothing got in my way of reading. I was sitting on a Doctor's table waiting for the results of an eco cardiogram on March 5th and I pulled The New Earth out of my coat pocket. I was out of surgery for just a few hours when I picked up the book again. The message was as clear as ringing a bell to me. It's not what we do that matters it's what we be, and there is no future to be in. What I think is good or bad is because I make it so. What I call good and bad are just illusions.
These two books are favorites. They fit perfectly with all of the other books that have chosen me on this three plus year journey. Merton, Emerson, Thoreau, the research books on life and death, Chopra, Mathew, Mark, Luke, John, Paul...all of the messages are the same: life is a paradox. Life situations are experiences which give us choices. The choice is always simply, What am I going to do about me? The experience is not for the good of me because God's plan is not for me to have or not have, but for me to improve life for another. My dysfunction is when my ego gets in the way and confuses God's will for me to share with my will for God to share more than my share with me.
I lived through days of too much good credit and sufficient money. Nothing I acquired brought happiness more than fleeting. No place I visited did much more for me than give me something else to resent about life. In my best days, I would never have agreed to live life as if I am capable of choosing what I bring to life. Oh no, life was responsible for making me happy and life had better keep trying, because I'm hard to please and I won't accept life quitting on me.
The mysterious paradox in my life is coming clear to me. I love this observation: and I cling to the thought that in God's hands the dark past is the greatest possession (you) I have--the key to life and happiness for others. With it (you)I can avert death and misery for them. That's paraphrased from the book Alcoholics Annonymous p. 124. How about that, no promise of life and happiness for me. The gift I receive is for somebody else. Imagine that.
Today I committed to writing a book. There is something in these last five years that is meant for somebody. Jackie Bradley, a writer is taking on the project with me. The time is right. The messages are clear. Meeting with the writer in Starbucks today, the messages from the other side came through in the music playing. First the song Allelujah came over the system. "Oh, I love that song. That's my favorite song." A few minutes later, the Beetles' Blackbird played. "That's Aaron's song." At MBA they did an exercise where Aaron and the other students would have to figure out their work from signals the counselors gave them. Aaron would use the line that he often heard--"You know your work. You know what you have to do." Today Aaron said to me "Allelujah!! You got it!! You know the work you have to do."
Regardless of my opinion of Mediums, Mr. Edwards said something that I've felt to be true. He said, you don't pick a book, books choose you. I say I felt that because my experience in January and February was exactly that, a feeling. I wanted a new book after Christmas. I needed a new book, something to fill the hollow of the holidays Nothing felt right to me. I tried every book store and the 1/2 price stores. Nothing. Until the day The Power of Now and The New Earth found Cathy and me. My head was ready for what Mr. Tolle had to say. The message of the author evaporated into me. I've re-read both. I was so interested in what Mr. Tolle wrote, almost nothing got in my way of reading. I was sitting on a Doctor's table waiting for the results of an eco cardiogram on March 5th and I pulled The New Earth out of my coat pocket. I was out of surgery for just a few hours when I picked up the book again. The message was as clear as ringing a bell to me. It's not what we do that matters it's what we be, and there is no future to be in. What I think is good or bad is because I make it so. What I call good and bad are just illusions.
These two books are favorites. They fit perfectly with all of the other books that have chosen me on this three plus year journey. Merton, Emerson, Thoreau, the research books on life and death, Chopra, Mathew, Mark, Luke, John, Paul...all of the messages are the same: life is a paradox. Life situations are experiences which give us choices. The choice is always simply, What am I going to do about me? The experience is not for the good of me because God's plan is not for me to have or not have, but for me to improve life for another. My dysfunction is when my ego gets in the way and confuses God's will for me to share with my will for God to share more than my share with me.
I lived through days of too much good credit and sufficient money. Nothing I acquired brought happiness more than fleeting. No place I visited did much more for me than give me something else to resent about life. In my best days, I would never have agreed to live life as if I am capable of choosing what I bring to life. Oh no, life was responsible for making me happy and life had better keep trying, because I'm hard to please and I won't accept life quitting on me.
The mysterious paradox in my life is coming clear to me. I love this observation: and I cling to the thought that in God's hands the dark past is the greatest possession (you) I have--the key to life and happiness for others. With it (you)I can avert death and misery for them. That's paraphrased from the book Alcoholics Annonymous p. 124. How about that, no promise of life and happiness for me. The gift I receive is for somebody else. Imagine that.
Today I committed to writing a book. There is something in these last five years that is meant for somebody. Jackie Bradley, a writer is taking on the project with me. The time is right. The messages are clear. Meeting with the writer in Starbucks today, the messages from the other side came through in the music playing. First the song Allelujah came over the system. "Oh, I love that song. That's my favorite song." A few minutes later, the Beetles' Blackbird played. "That's Aaron's song." At MBA they did an exercise where Aaron and the other students would have to figure out their work from signals the counselors gave them. Aaron would use the line that he often heard--"You know your work. You know what you have to do." Today Aaron said to me "Allelujah!! You got it!! You know the work you have to do."
Saturday, July 12, 2008
Aaron Gets a House
Aaron found a house for himself last night. Kind of a big place. He chose to set up his living space in the basement. Complete with a fireplace and all of the previous tenant's junk, Aaron was as happy as could be. One man's junk was Aaron's treasure--broken toys in one area, old orange couch in front of two TV sets, broken tools piled on a work bench, a battery operated lantern. Instead of removing the junk, Aaron organized it. Goodtimes.
Cathy and I had dinner with some of Aaron's childhood friends this past week. As parents we all knew this was a special group of kids from the earliest days. Almost brothers and sisters, they stayed close through typical good times and shockingly bad days. Beginning their fourth year in college and world travelers their adolescent personalities have matured but not vanished. Maybe that's why my dream last night saw Aaron excited and happy with rummaged stuff in his own house--you can take the boy to heaven, but you can't take the boy out of the angel.
In my dream Cathy and Patrick had loaded PT's car with firewood for Aaron---first indication this was not reality would be PT letting anyone put a dirty log in his ride. I'm as practical asleep as awake--"You don't even know the fireplace works and you're giving him all of my wood???" I go to the house with them to check the fireplace and then pretend I know what I'm looking for--that would be real. Aaron shows us all of his cool stuff that "came with the house". Lucky guy, owner of new junk.
Now that he has his own place, Aaron is ready to take up deer hunting--he's asking for a deer hunting rifle. I told him Uncle Todd has a huge selection. "When could I pick one up?" Anytime Air Bear. Anytime.
With my back to the dream I slowly rise to awareness. The image of Aaron in my dream fades and I'm standing alone sorting out what is from what is not. The pieces fall into place as my brain reorganizes dates and days and tragedy. Dreams are framed and placed on the shelves with the photographs--the only proof that yesterday happened.
The past closely resembles a dream. We remember what can of yesterday. We can tell about it, write about it, but we can't go there. We say the past is real but it is only real to the extent that we remember, and we remember only some of the past. Maybe dreams are real. Maybe the true self of people who have passed can visit our true self in a higher level of consciousness we call dreams. Cameras are a tool to record the past. Maybe one day Kodak will snap images of dreams. Aaron will be smiling.
Tuesday, July 01, 2008
Good Friends
John Steinbeck is my current favorite author. You remember reading Of Mice and Men and the Grapes of Wrath or the Cliff Notes of those works. Maybe you saw the movie version of Cannery Row--Nick Nolte and was it Debra Winger?? In June a friend suggested Travels With Charley. Fun book. Next I picked up America and Americans. Steinbeck observed that a book becomes a good friend to the reader. I relate to that. We say "I like this book. This is a good book. I can't put this book down." Same as our friends--we like them. They're good--we wouldn't put them down.
Reading has become my hobby more than any other activity. Books are my friends. So is the author--although they don't know it. Some do. With the internet you can find just about any living author. I once tracked down--not stalked, and wrote to Jacqueline Mitchard, although not to compliment her. I didn't like what she wrote in her syndicated column--so I told her. She wrote back. We are not friends and I am even more adamant Ms. Mitchard--- JFK Jr is not to be admired for flying blindly into the night and killing two innocent people along with himself. I don't care how nice he was on Martha's Vinyard--playing reckless with the lives of people who trust you is criminal. Don't get me started again. That was years ago. I should put that load down finally. I wrote complimentary things to other authors and got nice replies. We all felt better for being nice.
Cathy's gardens are her friends. She has an arboretum of gardens. Amazing what she can make grow in the shaded yard with hard soil. Cathy can make the ground say flowers. Doc makes the ground say muck and he eats some of her plants. Just a little kid at heart, Doc likes to lounge in the dirt and walk through the plants. Cathy loves her gardens and they respond with affection. The poison ivy doesn't love Cathy... It's her Jacqueline Mitchard.
Patrick is a Honda Civic gear head. I mean that in the most endearing way. Cars are his friends. His friends are friends of cars. Patrick and his friends more than tinker with cars. It's good to see my son doing something useful with his hands. I played with basketballs and footballs. Lot of good that does me today. My Dad, PT's Grandpa would be proud. He'd finally have the boy in the family who shares his enjoyment of motors. And Hondas too!
Last week I started in on something over my head: converting a 1978 Evinrude outboard motor from a long shaft to a short shaft. I knew nothing about this process when I started. The internet proved it's worth. I found a great diagram and step by step instructions for just what I wanted to do. A few emails to a mechanic from my Dad's long departed Sport Marine, and I had the expert advice I needed--as long as I read all of the directions and listened to what I was told. When I was a little guy I spent my time in the Sport Marine polishing the Hondas and Evinrudes, not tinkering with them. Should have been tinkering.
The more I worked on this motor, the more it became my friend. The more I tinkered, the more I found myself reading the directions. Eventually the tinkering and directions merged into understanding. Patrick stepped in last night to give me the hand I needed. We almost got the motor together and working last night. I needed one more night of pondering. Fascinating what can be accomplished pondering in the night. Apparently all day clutter is put to rest and the subject at hand gets full brain power.
Tonight we picked up where we left off and click click, snap and everything slid into place. The drive shaft slid into place and engaged. The shifter moved down to forward, back to neutral and back to reverse. When we connected the gas line, water muffs, and started the engine water went in where it was supposed to and emerged where it should. I'm a gear head.
I like that motor. It's a good motor. It's my friend...because Patrick and I made it go together.
Wednesday, June 25, 2008
Post Lake Snapping Turtles
Snapping turtles are the angry cousin to painted turtles. Forty years ago I learned the difference between the two. Frogs, snakes, and turtles, along with the ocassional chipmunk, were to be caught, held, carried, boxed, jarred,or coffee canned, and then released when I was nine. How they were released didn't matter. Throwing a frog or turtle from shore to the lake was standard practice. Frogs don't claw at the air, they spread their wingless legs and tumble a bit. Turtles flip when launched overhand by the average garden variety 9 year old, the hand is too small to get a good grip.
The big fish I caught as a skinny little kid turned into an armored alien when he got to the boat. At nine, I had handled a fair number of turtles. For a city kid I did just fine catching turtles and frogs out of sewers. We had smart contraption. A semi-flattened coffee can on a string could be lowered through a grate. A long stick was extended to nudge the frog or turtle toward the can. Once inside, a quick yank and pull got the can up to the grate with a hopping mad frog, or a an upside down turtle. Turtles in the city never had horns or spiked shells. They were colorful and smooth.
This monster I landed was neither colorful or smooth. If the turtle wasn't disturbed by his lunch skiing him across Lily pads, out of the water and into a boat, he was opposed to being launched by a grubby kid.
For a nine year old sitting in a boat,(Don't stand in the boat!") wearing an orange life jacket, to toss a pound and a half turtle there is no graceful motion... especially when the thrower is only marginally more heavy than the throwee. I pulled my arm back so my turtle filled hand was even with my right ear. He spoke violence and stretched his neck for my ear. I know he did because I heard two sounds.
"Tommy, don't..."
"Haahhhhhhh"
Now I don't remember if the creature got a nip of my ear. That's surely a memory that could have been suppressed. But, I know when the snapping turtle left my hand, I never touched another. Gosh, I wonder why they're so pissed off. The painted turtle lolly gags around and appears to care less if you pick him up and cart him around in your bike basket for a day. The snapper gets vicious if you try to nudge him off the road with a long stick. God forbid you try to pick him up. He's spin around on you in an instant and take your finger off at a nuckle. He'd apparently rather get crushed by a Firestone than get a nudge.
I was in the boat that day with Bob Teipner. Bob is a friend of my Dad. His family owned the cottage. Bob was twice my age, but I liked him and he didn't mind taking me fishing. I didn't mind fishing ever. In fact, I think I only stopped fishing to go in for lunch, use a bathroom, learn math, english, and spelling, play a game or two, get married, have a couple of boys, and occasionally make a buck or two. Seems to me once you start fishing, you don't stop but for major life events.
Bob is selling his cottage now. In the photos the house looks as perfect as it was in '68. I hope the cottage stays a cottage.
As Bob wrote to me the other day, life goes on.
Saturday, June 14, 2008
A Big Idea, Too Little Life
His friends are turning 22, Aaron is 18 forever. They're moving on to be what they will be, do what they will do.
When Aaron was growing up, from his earliest days in school and on, Cathy and I encouraged Aaron to know that his imagination was a blessing. Traditional classrooms, courses of black and white answers of right and wrong were difficult places and subjects for Aaron. His mind sparkled in philosophical discussions. Why, if, and what about, are the language of people like Aaron. Big picture people ask "Why not?" and put out big ideas. The detail people make those ideas happen. Aaron was a big picture person with a big idea. McGyver, a hero of his youth, was a problem solver. The problems he solved saved lives, got him out of trouble, and tight spots. McGyver would be proud of Aaron's big idea.
Five years ago Aaron's world spiraled out of control all summer into the fall. Marijuana became his obsession. The uniformed are perplexed by the idea that "just pot" could be the culprit. This is not the recreational drug of the '60's and '70's. It's a highly addictive, powerful chemical. As a gateway drug, it's a gateway to death all by itself. In 2005 Aaron knew he needed a plan to live with his addiction. Aaron was in a tight spot and he knew it. The troubles in the world related to drugs and abuse of addictive substances were not Aaron's concern. What was he going to do about himself in the world was his concern.
I know what I want to do. I'm going back out to Oregon. I'm going to go to Bend Community College and live with some friends from MBA. We'll get a house, get jobs, go to school, and keep each other sober. Our counselors are nearby. It'll work because no one knows what we go through like we do. The plan seemed reasonable to me. Back then, I didn't know the plan was clinically sound for the recovering addict. Living with peers in recovery, working, seeing counselors, and building on education make up a powerful solution to a deadly problem.
Aaron didn't live to live his idea but other people are living his vision. The Aaron House in Madison, thanks to Aaron and many smart people, is home to young men who like Aaron know living is better than dieing and peer support is better than going it alone. My son wasn't blessed with long life. A high grade point average and college were beyond his reach. By being as Ghandi said, "...the change you want to see in the world", Aaron showed his wisdom. There is enough knowledge in the world to combine with big ideas to solve problems.
Aaron was a fun guy who wanted to know "why not, and why can't". He was good for the earth. Aaron's idea is good for anywhere. Aaron House doesn't solve the problem. It is part of the solution and that's enough.
Sunday, June 08, 2008
Frozen in Time, Found Pictures
Aaron at MBA, 2004. Seventeen years old. Aaron would be 21 now. His friends are graduating college, starting careers, getting married. Becoming parents. They look older. I wonder what adventure Aaron is on today.
Saturday, June 07, 2008
Dysfunction of Bucket Lists
I didn't see the movie Bucket List but I've heard the question. "What do you want to do before you die?" The answers are simple, regardless of the size of the desire or person. Aaron was asked the question as a youngster. His answers are on a piece of paper in his closet. Looks like the assingment required 15 to-do's. Aaron gave nine answers,... and five were marked as accomplished.
The paper looks like this:
Things I wanna do before I die
1. Get a bug (slug bug) (beetle)
2. Get a techniclick pencil from SHOPKO
3. Get to Guniess (Book of world records)
4. Get a new colored computer mac (see thru kind)
5. Get to be a pro football player
6. Face my fears
7. Travel out of the U.S.A
8. Get a DVD
9. Get a dog or cat when moving out
Numbers 10 through 15 are blank. He either had nothing else he wanted to do or tired of the exercise. Probably both.
Numbers 2, 3, 4, 6, and 8 are checked off as accomplished. I don't recall him obtaining a mac computer or getting to Guiness book of world records, but I'm glad he feels he faced his fears.
The question of what to do before we die is the product of a belief that life is filled by what we do. That belief is wrong. Aaron and Patrick taught me to look at life different. Doesn't it make sense that our children teach us to live healthier than what they observe? Of course. They don't care what we do or where we go, they want us to be. My sons taught me the question isn't: What do I want to do?, but rather: What do I want to be before I die? Regardless of what I do, what do I want to be? To me that means, what do I want to be as a Dad, as a husband, as a friend, a member of communities, etc...
For years I was busy doing and trying to do, what I wanted before I died. In that puruit I neglected being what I could be. When Aaron said, "I don't want to be like you." He wasn't being disrespectful---but that's what I thought. Before it was too late I got it. It's simply this: Happiness is a choice. Happiness can not be found, because it has never been lost. We always have happiness, yet at times we choose to be unhappy. The dysfunction then grows when not knowing we already possess happiness we go out looking for happiness. Our doing things, or attaining objects is how we try to acquire what we have not lost. Doing and attaining takes us away from being. Being what I am is enough.
I can not find what is not lost. I can not attain what is unattainable. I can not buy what is not for sale. I can bring joy to what I do by being who I am.
The paper looks like this:
Things I wanna do before I die
1. Get a bug (slug bug) (beetle)
2. Get a techniclick pencil from SHOPKO
3. Get to Guniess (Book of world records)
4. Get a new colored computer mac (see thru kind)
5. Get to be a pro football player
6. Face my fears
7. Travel out of the U.S.A
8. Get a DVD
9. Get a dog or cat when moving out
Numbers 10 through 15 are blank. He either had nothing else he wanted to do or tired of the exercise. Probably both.
Numbers 2, 3, 4, 6, and 8 are checked off as accomplished. I don't recall him obtaining a mac computer or getting to Guiness book of world records, but I'm glad he feels he faced his fears.
The question of what to do before we die is the product of a belief that life is filled by what we do. That belief is wrong. Aaron and Patrick taught me to look at life different. Doesn't it make sense that our children teach us to live healthier than what they observe? Of course. They don't care what we do or where we go, they want us to be. My sons taught me the question isn't: What do I want to do?, but rather: What do I want to be before I die? Regardless of what I do, what do I want to be? To me that means, what do I want to be as a Dad, as a husband, as a friend, a member of communities, etc...
For years I was busy doing and trying to do, what I wanted before I died. In that puruit I neglected being what I could be. When Aaron said, "I don't want to be like you." He wasn't being disrespectful---but that's what I thought. Before it was too late I got it. It's simply this: Happiness is a choice. Happiness can not be found, because it has never been lost. We always have happiness, yet at times we choose to be unhappy. The dysfunction then grows when not knowing we already possess happiness we go out looking for happiness. Our doing things, or attaining objects is how we try to acquire what we have not lost. Doing and attaining takes us away from being. Being what I am is enough.
I can not find what is not lost. I can not attain what is unattainable. I can not buy what is not for sale. I can bring joy to what I do by being who I am.
Tuesday, May 27, 2008
Eight hundred and one
Three years ago eight hundred and one people lost their lives on Wisconsin road ways. There must be over a million people who like me see the and one as their loved one.
An even seven hundred fatal crashes killed 801 sons, daughters, fathers, mothers, sisters, brothers, aunts, uncles, nieces, nephews, grandparents, friends, relatives, god children. The and one looks oddly out of place. As if it's an after thought. One for good measure. One for the road.
Maybe it's a typo? A fat finger struck the one instead of the zero. Tomorrow we may see a correction in the paper. "Correction. January 7, 2008 issue of the WI State Journal incorrectly reported in a story on traffic fatalities that 801 people died in 700 fatal crashes on Wisconsin roads in 2005. The correct numbers are 800 deaths in 699 crashes. We apologize for the error. You may go on living your life as if nothing happened. Sorry folks."
Ah, it's not going to happen that way. It is what it is. I offer no resistence to what is.
An even seven hundred fatal crashes killed 801 sons, daughters, fathers, mothers, sisters, brothers, aunts, uncles, nieces, nephews, grandparents, friends, relatives, god children. The and one looks oddly out of place. As if it's an after thought. One for good measure. One for the road.
Maybe it's a typo? A fat finger struck the one instead of the zero. Tomorrow we may see a correction in the paper. "Correction. January 7, 2008 issue of the WI State Journal incorrectly reported in a story on traffic fatalities that 801 people died in 700 fatal crashes on Wisconsin roads in 2005. The correct numbers are 800 deaths in 699 crashes. We apologize for the error. You may go on living your life as if nothing happened. Sorry folks."
Ah, it's not going to happen that way. It is what it is. I offer no resistence to what is.
Wednesday, May 21, 2008
Everything Happens...But Not For a Reason
An idea that there is a great plan in works and we are pawns in the play of God is summed up in the well intentioned cliche: Everything happens for a reason. That is disturbing to me. Who is this God of reason who supposedly then has a reason for blue m&m's and a reason for crushing little kids to death? The big plan could certainly be improved upon by eliminating murder and mayhem.
I'm not buying it. Free will is acceptable to me. I can accept that God created a world where people are free to make choices and suffer the consequences. In the same world people are free to make choices which doom other people. That seems fair and humane to me. Throw in Guardian Angels and God answering prayers, picking who lives and who dies-- by any number of horrific attrocities -- and things get sketchy. What God says no to the prayers of starving children and yes to pleas of gluttons?
But it's part of a plan which we are not meant to know-- we're told. Maybe not. But maybe we knowing too difficult. Maybe the answer is simply that God created the world, and Man is free to live and learn. Our lives are our own. You may live, you may die. The more we have, the more ways we have to live and die.
Everything does happen. Things happen because of an action--not for a God reason. I don't think God causes the trigger to be pulled, or the intoxicated driver to run over a family, or a car to go off of the road at the worst possible spot. All those things can happen, and they have. God was not part of the reason--in my opinion. God is there to give Grace. Not to cause havoc or despair.
I'm not buying it. Free will is acceptable to me. I can accept that God created a world where people are free to make choices and suffer the consequences. In the same world people are free to make choices which doom other people. That seems fair and humane to me. Throw in Guardian Angels and God answering prayers, picking who lives and who dies-- by any number of horrific attrocities -- and things get sketchy. What God says no to the prayers of starving children and yes to pleas of gluttons?
But it's part of a plan which we are not meant to know-- we're told. Maybe not. But maybe we knowing too difficult. Maybe the answer is simply that God created the world, and Man is free to live and learn. Our lives are our own. You may live, you may die. The more we have, the more ways we have to live and die.
Everything does happen. Things happen because of an action--not for a God reason. I don't think God causes the trigger to be pulled, or the intoxicated driver to run over a family, or a car to go off of the road at the worst possible spot. All those things can happen, and they have. God was not part of the reason--in my opinion. God is there to give Grace. Not to cause havoc or despair.
Thursday, May 08, 2008
Stand By Me
The movie was made in 1986. Stand By Me. A story about being 12 year old boys and being friends in the 1960's. Aaron and I watched it together when he was younger than 12 wishing he was 12 and I was much older wishing the same.
Being a Dad in the 90's was different than being a Dad in the 60's, at least from my perspective. My Dad friends and I,looking back over the generation agreed dads of the 60's didn't get down on the floor or grass and play with the children like we did. A three foot high barrier existed in our child hood. Dads could bend over to look down at you or crouch to look close to you, but that was the limit. As if they might never get up again, dads of the 60's kept the soles of their shoes firmly planted on the ground when interacting with us. Picnic tables were invented for dads lest they have to stand and eat while Mom's and kids ate on the blanket on the ground.
My friend Tim described it perfectly when Aaron was four and his daughter Claire was five, "Liz scolds me like I'm Claire's brother." I think once our knees touched the ground we became "My Dad-Friend" to our kids. That was OK by me. Playing Peter Pan, Swords, Johnny, Pirates, Green Bay Packers, World Heavyweight Boxing Champions, was fine by me--not for the days without end way that Aaron approached make believe, but long enough to get dirty. I could still play.
The movie Stand By Me ends with Richard Dreyfus keying a story. He ends it by writing, "It's been over ten years since I last saw him. I miss my friend."
Today is three years since I saw Aaron last. In fact, I wrote about him at the time I was hearing his voice in the other room for the final time. You can read that memory in the archives May 8, 2005. Three years. I miss my son-friend. I'm grateful to have my surviving son-friend.
I said his name over and over today. All the different names I called Aaron. Air-Bear. AJ. Air-foil. A-GEE. AGE. A-Ron. Aaron John. Aaron Johnny. I miss calling out his name. I miss our conversations. I remember watching movies with him. I remember. Stand by me Air-Bear. Ben E. King Sang Stand by Me
Love you.
Dad
Monday, May 05, 2008
Happy Birthday Air Bear
Mom is baking your coconut cream pie right now. Three years ago she baked two for you. You ate half of one before leaving to give your friend a ride that terrible day May 10, 2005. May is bitter sweet. Coconut cream pie was my favorite. It tastes better without tears.
Miss you. Love you.
Dad
Tuesday, April 29, 2008
Connectedness
Books on the night stand and shelf sit ready. They have so much to say. Eager to offer up advice and insight, they look content. That is, if you judge them by their covers. Most aren't extra thick but they're deep. I'm judgmental by practice. Fat books don't appeal to me. They're heavy. What takes one author 1000 words to say could be said in 235... or in a picture.
Friday nights are not too exciting around our house. Chelsea says we have to get out and "get wild". Cathy stays up and waits for Patrick to get home. He's always on time. We can hear his Civic vvvbbrrrrrmmmmm vvbbrrrrmmmm as he comes up the hill, down shift, around the corner, down shift, vvbbrrmmmm vvbbrrmmm, back up into the garage. Garage door closes, door opens.."Imm owhmm", teen age for "Hi Mom and Dad, I'm home." With Patrick safe and sound, off to bed, Cathy continues her ritual. She stays on the couch waiting for Aaron to come home. I suppose his curfew is well after midnight by now. Eventually she falls to sleep. I've put the book down hours ago and sleeping soundly with Molly tucked in where ever she's most comfortable. The bed is big on Friday nights.
Last Friday I went up early. Tired, I looked at the books on my stand. Reaching for one, I picked up another. The Bible. Purchased in 1984 to select readings for our wedding, the Book was first read in 1998. A book mark is the Tyme card receipt--a half-size heavy paper computer punch card looking relic-- for the $10.00 I withdrew to buy what would become our family Bible. King James Catholic version. From 1984 to 1998 our Bible stayed pristine. More dusty than read. Since the summer of 1998 when I heard our priest tell a joke about Catholics not reading their bibles, mine has been read black and blue. The broken back is surgically repaired with duct tape of course. We are connected in brokenness.
On the surface it appears books wait for us to pick them up so they can pick us up. On Friday night, this book must have selected me. I flipped through reading highlighted paragraphs and sentences. Wisdoms and words which guided me over the years through the mountains and valleys. Children appeared to be topics relavent to my past as I had circled and underlined, starred and commented, on verses where Jesus spoke of innocence and importance of children. Mourn with those who mourn appears in several books of the Bible. The house of sorrow is more sacred than the house of joy because in the house of sorrow we are closest to God. A concept I came to know intimately.
I closed my book, turned out the light and slept until 7:30 am Saturday, when Cathy came into the room. "Tom, Brad called." she was crying and stumbling over the words and to the bed. I couldn't think of who she was talking about. My mind was running through the archives to find a connection. "Jen and Courtney and Zach were in an accident. Jen died and Courtney's not expected to make it." My mind caught up. Jen is a dear friend. She and Cathy shared a passion for learning about challenges facing Zach and Aaron. They became the best advocates they could be together. She and her ex-husband Brad had asked us ten years ago to be Courtney's God Parents. Zach is their son. Brad and I have a bond I value tremendously. He was a very young guy when I was a younger guy. They live in Oconomowoc. We left home within an hour. Courtney died later that day. Jen was seven months pregnant. Her unborn baby is Sophia. Zach and a friend of Courtney's survived with injuries. Zach's at home. Courtney's friend should be home this week. A funeral is set for Friday.
Mathew 18-5 Whoever welcomes one such child for m sake welcomes me.
Ecclesiastes 7-2, 3 It is better to go to the house of mourning than to the house of feasting, for that is the end of every man and the living should take it to heart. Sorrow is better than laughter, because when the face is sad the heart grows wiser.
God bless Jen, Sophia, and God bless the girl who blessed us as a God Child. You are God's child, Courtney Bella.
Prayers for moments of peace and contentment for the families.
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