Stuck In E

Cramped between faux leather cowboy with laptop;

Fragile teen, legs all jitters, has the window.

Stuck in E,

You’re nowhere near me,

As the plane heads to the land of my roots.

Mt. Sinai, the place that they’ll bury dad’s wife,

Fountains gleam, grass so green; where the dead go.

Stuck in E,

You’re nowhere near me,

In that place I spent a third of my life.

Spanish tile, Shadow Ranch, Sycamore calling,

Red brick stair, hot summers there, schoolboy carom.

Stuck in E,

You’re nowhere near me,

As the car radio blares Free-Falling.

Love Field, Myrtle, Pecan tree and lake abound,

Goodbye Mustard grown, foothill and Sierra.

Stuck in E,

You’re not far from me,

The road takes me to where my heart is found.

Reluctant Spring

 If cold glaciers formed here,

Creeks would flow from crack and crevice,

As anxiety and angst flow down,

From sinew and bone,

Flooding pool and tranquility.

Daisy springs up in shade,

Bonnets cower and hide in cold, 

Reticent to unsheathe themselves,

Huddled and aching,

Akimbo embracing the Sun.

Russet lake churned by rain, 
Slogging seething unsettled moil,

The muddled mind seeks clarity,

Aerates and agitates,

Clear and tranquil moving downstream.

Bruno

 Blowing in like the Chinook he was named after; the first Samoyed found us before I’d entered kindergarten. We called him Sam. The second Samoyed, Bruno, magically appeared as a puppy when I was on the cusp of adulthood. Small, oh-so-soft rumbunctious ball of white fur. Fully grown Samoyeds are snow-white (appearing more yellow when actually in snow) sled-pulling dogs like a Husky. Atop that hard nose was soft, smooth cotton. Fur on the back white and wiry; I delighted in petting the soft fur on his head. In the dream it was that warm softness that permeated everything.

Before my first kiss Bruno and I had shared an edible dog chew. One end in my teeth Bruno would grab the other. Like Jackie Paper and his friend Puff, Bruno and I would set out for adventure in my metal Hornet. I was beginning to realize I was wired for solo explorations down beach canyons and through Hollywood hills. Not lacking for friends there remained a dire need for connection with self and fun loving companion.

If you were once a teenage boy you ought understand. Angst and emptiness warred in my not-quite grown-up soul. Grabbing my sleeping bag, I let my mom know I was sleeping on the back porch alongside Bruno. Wondering now if I needed connection with something or someone faithful. Trying to step outside of the emotions inside. Like Odysseus and Argos there is a special connection between man and dog.

In the dream Bruno was being hugged; full bear-hug. In real life I carried a tranquilized Bruenster into the vets; limp body held tightly. 

Photo by Barcs Tamás on Unsplash

Adrenalized Days Need More Than Z’s.

Lord, my heart is not proud, nor are my eyes fixed on things beyond me, in the quiet, I have stilled my soul, like a child at rest on its mother’s knee, I have stilled my soul within me. - Come to the Quiet, John Michael Talbot

My wife awoke in a panic. Trembling. She had this question on her mind, “What’s the name of the guy who starred in Spenser for Hire?” Our nights currently are fraught with these terrors. Our sleep a strange dance; part jitterbug, part swim. Throw in the snoring, his/her alarms plus the occasional amber alert and it’s a wonder we don’t always face our days tired. Daily life pours into our pursuit of sleep. Adrenalized days need more than z’s. There’s a desperate need to find rest.

Like a seal basking in break of day sun, a friend rises early to greet God. Rest of soul and receptivity to God seem to come easier to them (I’m certain that’s not true). A cruciform life posture marks friend Kelly who finds easy repose on the breast of the savior.

Possibly posture. Maybe ebb and flow. Can’t get there most times. That child sitting on his mother’s knee squirms away. My coffee table chair, my Papua New Guinea arabica, blue enamel mug, Michael W. Smith melody, a glimpse, an open window to a place I’ve not arrived.

It’s as hard for me to know rest as it is for me to describe rest. A warm San Fernando summer night Mike and I pulled beach chairs onto his lawn after midnight. We sat feet from the sidewalk and dreamed dreams. Laughing, laughing; so loud the neighbors came outside to tell us to be quiet. As much a picture of rest to me as another summer day in the dry heat of Zion. Fremont cottonwood pollen blowing down atop cold canyon river, orange Navajo sandstone cliffs forcing me ever forward. Into the quiet.

That night with Mike, that day in the Narrows echo that famous line, “God made me fast and when I run, I feel His pleasure.”  Getting caught up and letting go; being safe and carried away. Rest is Kellys’ cruciform posture, the sea lion on a stone, a quiet canyon, a child on her mother’s knee.

Photo by Alex Azabache on Unsplash

Let Us Be Deliberate

 Getting sliced open for spine surgery is much like Adams’ experience in Eden. You both are put to sleep not knowing what waits for you post-op.  You both wake with less bone. Adam gets the perfectly paired partner and you got eight titanium screws. The big picture outcome for both operations is a flourishing life.

No nature or nurture debate for these two. The opportunity for Adam and Eve was for exponential development. Basking in God and nature the world was theirs. They could be their full selves. We on the other hand (thanks in part to those two) struggle to integrate soul and spirit. Increasing in soul formation and personal flourishing is always a battle.

“We plow the fields and scatter the good seed on the land,’ is a chorus from Godspell. The ground for growth is always available. The internal decision to flourish or atrophy (life on cruise control is an illusion) is one made minute by minute. I’m entering into a season of that choice now. Some days I don’t work the croft and the crop suffers.

In the face of death let us be deliberate. The seasons come with challenge; children, money, sickness, depression, celebrations, birthdays and weddings. Flourishing means showing up for surgery. Searching for openings and walking through them. Per Pressfield,  “We have a job to do, a calling to enact, a self to become.”

Photo by Wim van 't Einde on Unsplash

No Running Around The Pool

 No Running Around the Pool, a painting by my sister (denisebrookstudio.com), is ‘an homage to mom, who forever yelled those words at us while she sucked down vodkas and made us lunch.’ Such rife symbolism. The San Fernando valley is blazing hot in the summer. A swimming pool is a magical escape. Splashing and laughing with friends. Soaking in soothing, invigorating womb-temperature water. That forty-thousand gallons of clear liquid was space to go all out, stretch, scream, play. Then lemonade, sodas and melon under the shade of the patio overhang. The safest of places. And yet.

The pain is palpable in the room---twenty, thirty, forty years later. Talk of patriarchs turns to tales of parents. Eight of us sharing life over warm gooey chocolate chip cookies. Tales of father wounds rendered physically by hand, emotionally by absence. Parent betrayals. “You have to make space for forgiveness in your mind or it’ll eat you up.”

If my mom had a love language it was food. Watermelon slices and snacks in abundance after swimming. Showering us with Michelin star morsels from Sunset magazine recipes. So we had that. There was no hugging, no personal contact and we never heard, “I love you.” Not even years after I’d been softened enough to say it to her. As for the vodka drinking---that left other marks; some visible in cigarette burns on the linoleum.

Growing up I wanted everything black and white. Easier to hold to artificial absolutes in a childhood that didn’t have many. “The line dividing good and evil cuts through the heart of every human being. And who is willing to destroy a piece of his own heart?” says Solzhenitsyn. As I see more gray in me, I realize this: the rule, no running around the pool, applies to everybody. It’s easy to slip and cause harm. Forgiveness is similar. A rule to heal us from harm against us. Freeing us to get back into the swim.

Januarys' Promise

 She emits five sighs that once were beeps. The Cuisinart brewer breathes out letting me know the coffee is ready. My wife on the other hand grabs the carafe before the beep. Forcing the cycle, trying to get that thirty-second jump on the day. I’ve never been a fan of mornings, preferring to unfold into the day slowly. Morning feels like the friend in Proverbs shouting, “Rise and shine!” It’s a curse not a blessing.

January feels like morning to me. A slow, cold start to the rest of the year. I choose a favored coffee cup for the morning brew. We have fifteen but I prefer about five. Generally journalling or reading a devotional and a brief Bible passage. Too much lately I reach out for Instagram. Going to try limit that this year. The cold provides an easier excuse for vacuity.

January is the jump-start for the year. The life calendar eases up providing windows to look forward and back. Fortunate enough to be able to envision hopeful dreams for the upcoming year. We’ve seen wrecks in the rear-view but not as bad as some. Set some personal goals. Martin Luther King weekend the wife and I escape town for marriage inventory. I have a list of questions pulled from another author: If the last year could be summed up in one word, what would it be? What new territory needs to be explored spiritually, physically, emotionally? What are some things that MUST be done in order to move my life forward? What could I do to make you feel more understood? It’s still early morning in January though; hard to know what God will allow as the days warm up.

Going on five cups of Arabica I still want to crawl back under the covers. Cold world, cold January, cold morning. Goal setting is the little ember lighting my fire. The thing with feathers, as Emily’s prone to say. Caffeine kicking in, undeterred by the draw of the comforter, January holds promise.

Photo by Boshoku on Unsplash

Comfort Earns Its Recompense

The fear for me,

Is complacency,

Being cast into the fire.

Pharisees and scribes are told parables as a goad,

Let not the scattered seed get crushed upon the road.

There is a list,

We’d all agree,

Acts that bring God’s ire.

Violence to humans, derision and scorn,

Others say drinking, gambling and porn.

To make one free,

Takes eyes to see,

That I’m walking on a wire.

Middle road, comfortable, no active sword I wield,

Comfort earns its’ recompense a place in Potter’s Field.

Keyed up at three,

Quite anxiously,

The kiln in which I’m fired.

Scared to take the noble road, uneasy to lead or track,

To follow Him who lived for God, my sins upon His back.

The seed that’s sown,

Oft surreptitiously,

By men who work for hire.

Fertile soil, stretching out, resting in such grace,

Yielding fruit a hundred-fold, behold the Master’s face.

Photo by Vince Veras on Unsplash

The Knife and the Lilies

 A minute from here there’s a place where tree leaves are fiery freesia; cement sidewalk a blaze of yellow, calling into a canyon of color. I made a mental note last year to capture it on camera this Fall as I’d missed the narrow window first time around.  A simple supposition not quantified with a ‘Lord willing.’

It’s never good news when the neurologist calls you at home after the MRI. The nerves from the spine impinged on their way down like good seed falling among thorns. An urgent but planned surgery; not like a heart attack or cancer.

The therapy for the back surgery has been to walk. A blessing because it gets me out of the house and slows the spinning of my mind. First of course there were the ‘what ifs?” Post surgery now I’m anxious about recovery and return to normal life and work. Walking has been good. Glimpsing the last fall colors, taking in the neighborhood, praying about the lilies.

“Consider the lilies,” Jesus said. That’s the struggle. ‘Incurvatus en se,’ turned in on myself and minor concerns. Barely out from under the knife I worry about new burdens. Those tree leaves will burn yellow again next year. Come spring they will bud anew. Flowers will burst forth everywhere. Therefore do not be anxious about tomorrow.

Heavens' Honing; Heroes and Outliers

                                                           Photo by Clem Onojeghuo on Unsplash

"He is no fool who gives what he cannot keep to gain what he cannot lose."

"And through everything we've learned, We've finally come to terms,

We are the outsiders."

All my heroes are outliers. The Cambridge definition of outlier is “a person, thing, or fact that is very different from other people…” That could mean a whole hell of a lot of things. To help clarify here’s a shallow skim-of-a surface list of mine. They are: A poet to the Yukon, a photographer of the Sierra, a martyred missionary to the Waorani, a writer of a nonfiction narrative about the fields near Roanoke, and a Parkinsons afflicted writer grappling the problem of pain. Prophets pointing us to a ‘better country,’ while showing us present beauty. Writers whom, in the words of Annie Dillard, wrestle with this question,  “Why would an omnipotent, omniscient and merciful God allow natural evil to happen?”

Perhaps I am mistaken in my choice of heroes. My failures are not a result. Nor my triumphs. My decisions may have cost me what the Jones’ have and I don’t. In a world of tangibles it’s hard to see the value of intangibles. To quote Madeleine L’Engle, “What would have happened to Mary (and all the rest of us) if she had said no to the angel?”

To anyone choosing a hero I would give this advice; wait. Wait until you are in your forties or fifties so as not to choose the wrong one. What if you were to choose as your hero one who enjoys freedom? Then one day sitting at breakfast in Dallas with a specialized accountant for the rich, and an executive for BHP among others you realize your choices, fate and living quarters don’t compare well to others. Those insecurities rush in. Perhaps you should have chosen that money-making, fitting-in archetype instead.

Having heroes is like the back surgery I just had done. The world pushes hard against our spine. We are unaligned. Realignment is sometimes as easy as a crack from a chiro. Picking up an essay from a role-model keeps us on track. Other times gotta hideaway with that Spofity playlist, some journals and tattered tomes.

Choosing a hero is easier than becoming one. Maybe we choose them according to our souls wiring. Do the chords resonate because you’re attuned to them? It’s not always comfortable being an outlier. If that’s who I am then that’s who I should be shaped to be. Heaven and heroes honing me to be my best.