The Darkness I Fear You'll Send

 

Nuke Oatmeal for cholesterol, fresh ground coffee, that’s my morning,
Hot shower, clean water, scented shampoo.
Read verses from my monogrammed-leather-bound bible,
Fed-ex drops a box on my doorstep,
Like the shoe I fear will drop,
The darkness I fear You’ll send.

Tension mounting in my shoulders, ever-present, this foreboding,
Storm brewing, rain coming, bad moon rising.
Hear the Ted talks speak to the wounds of childhood trauma,
Unable to trust their parents’ hold,
Locusts will eat up the crop,
The blessed season suspend.

Drink rich beer, a chocolate stout, creamy pasta, what a dinner!
Dish washer, cushioned couch, full-screen TV.
Hope in God cries the psalmist to his despairing soul,
Breakers and waves rolling in on him,
He has made my feet to hop,
To a song thats without end.

Killing Caroline: A Sourdough Story

Moving half-way across the country made killing Caroline 1 an easy choice. Most starters have a name, Caroline was the name of mine (Neil Diamond inspired). Is it a lie if it’s not true all the time? Books and blogs say making sourdough starter, the basis of delicious sourdough, is an easy, guaranteed process. It hasn’t been. Creating sourdough starter for me was an arduous process culminating in a vibrant sourdough, increased patience and desperate answered prayer. Starter is the building block; it’s not even the reward! The reward is a rich, tangy bread, the crunch of breaking through the crust to warm richness slathered in butter.

I’ve never gotten the rise out of Caroline that I wanted. She’s never been bubbly and airy enough. And when I made the bread, the dough was never firm enough for the initial scoring—which is both decorative and helps create rise in the oven. Summer began the creation of the new Caroline. Ideally an easy ten day process. Mix flour and water. Wait three days. Add more flour and water. Those are the basics. Like a failed Frankenstein I could not get my Caroline to come to life.

Caroline teased me with her false vigor. I’d coax her with warm tap water, with wheat flour and rye flour, even lying her down on a bed of warmth. She failed to respond. She went flat. She grew mold. She refused to put out. No bubbly proof of yeast. Week after week I waited. Restarted. Perhaps the tap water contained chlorine. I switched to bottled water. I changed the heat source. I changed ratios. For three months Caroline and I danced. She would not double. She wasn’t looking like any of the online pictures. I was near to giving up.

Making bread is an act of faith. Like scattering seed. I prayed for Caroline, that she would be effervescent, growing and doubling. God is, after all, over the rising of the sun and the fruit of the vine. Certainly, He is over the rising of a starter. After three months of perseverance, Caroline #2 blossomed. I can’t specifically tell you why. I suspect the courtship had gone on long enough to convince her I was serious.

The Moustache I Want

“Kissing a man without a moustache is like eating an egg without salt.” Carlos Fuentes

Wanting a great moustache isn’t like aspiring to walk on the moon. For most men, and some ladies, growing a basic moustache is attainable. But to grow a top-notch moustache one is up against 3 things. It takes time. A great ‘stache is more than hair on a lip. It is Michelangelo’s marble shaped into David. A beard grown, trimmed and shaped.  A culmination of desire realized. Stylized and personal, it’s an external trademark; think Tom Selleck, Salvador Dali, Groucho Marx and Mark Twain.  A superior growth of facial hair requires superior genes. And finally, one must deal with their native culture; and when I say culture I mean my wife.

She says hair on other men’s faces is ‘fine,’ but not on mine. The corollary rule is that all of us must be neatly shaven. No burly-home beer-brewer beards, no ZZ Top like facial hair and your moustache must be clean and clipped unlike that of Albert Einstein or Sam Elliott. To continue to be kissed I can’t keep growing the moustache I want.

My dream is to have a Handlebar moustache. A rich, thick growth of hair that can be waxed and curled on the ends. Of the 12 mainline moustaches this one says rogue and nefarious with a hint of evil cartoon character thrown in, Snidely Whiplash with a swagger. It’s not that I want the ‘stache for the same reason some guys like their Dodge Rams. I’ve had beard and moustache, one or both, since college save for a season when my employer forbade it. There was a week or two when I shaved it off from boredom only to realize that I did not like the look. This I realized from both looking in the mirror and from a constant lust after other men’s moustaches.

The wife and I have reached some sort of compromise. I can grow it out for the month of November. This is hardly meeting in the middle. To put it another way, Michaelangelo took 3 years to carve David. But relationships always involve some compromise. In The Princess Bride, Westley (sporting a wimpy pencil moustache) works with a vengeful, sword-carrying mustached Montoya to save his love. True love always sacrifices. So I’ll wait for the moustache I want.

Refugee Hope

 I eat lunch with a group of refugees every week. I drive home elated, saddened and burdened. These are brave men facing difficult circumstances. Coming alongside, I feel inadequate.

I can’t know this; what it’s like to be alone in a place, not knowing the language or the cultural norms. Falling with no safe-place to land.  To be a professor in Venezuela but a nobody here. He formulates a plan. He knows somebody who sells him an old car for a couple thousand dollars. Been carrying his life with him in a back-pack, through-country. His identification, registrations, originals of his doctorates and degrees, his whole life. Driving back to his apartment he stops inside a gas station. Leaving backpack—and keys—inside the car. Perfect target in a big city.

There are worse things stolen than cars. Dark stories abound, as if you’d want to dwell on these. One of the men, Henry, having flown from the middle east was put into a hospital for some serious surgery. In the process, without consent they removed one of his testicles. Smaller infractions occur in living situations; with management companies randomly trying to raise rent-rates and evict tenants unfamiliar with the law. So much treading of water that it’s a delight when somebody splashes up onto land!

The agencies working with this population generally come alongside to transition the refugee to life in Dallas. They provide them with housing, bed, kitchen, healthcare and a case-worker to help them navigate. Most are efficient as any big government agency like the post office or DMV. So when we found our Rodger hadn’t had a bed for two months it was a thrill to see individuals team together to find a bed (and a microwave), rent a truck and deliver them. Beyond the basics; Rodger has been able to obtain his permits and drivers’ licenses and to obtain numerous jobs; Uber eats, doing clean-up at a local hospital, then leaving that to clean carpets for a local company. The refugees themselves keep looking forward to these successes seemingly not paralyzed by the failures. Resilient human hope keeps them going, helps them move forward.

Some amazing stories are shared over pizza. Heartbreaking losses too. On a macro scale the odds look overwhelming; from fleeing home to flying here. If there’s a secret to their perseverance it is this. Hope lives in each small moment. Woven through each shared meal, the laughter and the bread are life-giving.

Photo by Alan Hardman on Unsplash

Freedom Of Limits

 "Art is limitation; the essence of every picture is the frame. If you draw a giraffe, you must draw him with a long neck. If in your bold creative way you hold yourself free to draw a giraffe with a short neck, you will really find that you are not free to draw a giraffe.” G. K. Chesterton

In part the hope was that the surgery, cutting my back open, would heal the right foot. It had been getting progressively more useless prior to the surgery. There was a slight healing, but a full healing, they said, could take a year…or more. Or never.  For the next day, or year or however long I live God has ordained this limitation of my strength and of my healing. Weak as I was before, there has been some increase of strength. Strong as I could be, it appears a significant weakness will remain in my foot. The human body as designed is bound by weakness. Theologians (h/t David O. Taylor) make the point that Christ Himself came to us in a limited body.

In Atul Gawande’s book; Being Mortal he says that the end is ‘just the accumulated crumbling of one’s body systems.” At one point he asks a well published gerontologist if we have discerned any particular, reproducible pathway to aging. “No,’ he said, ‘We just fall apart.”  

Wrestling with this framework I can see two sides, one depressing and one positive. The downer is that the body will wear out, break down, fall apart. The upside is that In this clay frame, in this finitude there is freedom. A freedom to lean into God, to love one another and to celebrate what we have.

Photo by meriç tuna on Unsplash

Call Of The Lover

Trembling, I felt unable to move. An eight-hundred foot drop on either side kicked into gear my existing fear of height. Crouching down on the saddle that separated arduous switchbacks from five-thousand-foot peak, fear had me frozen. Having twisted up three-thousand feet of elevation gain I had two choices. Retreat back to safety or finish the climb?

How was it that I ended up there anyway? The answer to that question lies inside of another question; where does it go? Where do those roads in every Dr. Seuss book lead? What does that line on a map look like in the flesh? A confluence of events led me to Cub Scouts. Cub scouts led me farther outside the city. Nature led me into beauty and adventure.

There are premises hard wired into us that when pursued lead to peace, ignored they lead to our detriment. Anxious and fearful in my teens, I felt no fear in the outdoors. No fear of snakes, bugs, or bears---and a limited fear of heights. Scouting was the vehicle God used to move me from sea-level walks to glacier high climbs.

My first major purchase; a dark blue, external frame backpack. My second purchase, a pair of hiking boots. The pack leaned against my wall, being filled or emptied, unloaded or made ready.  Short trips every other weekend. Long trips every vacation break. From rolling coastal walks in the Santa Monicas, to craggy climbs in the Sierra. An Easter trek down Hermits’ trail in the Grand Canyon, summer solstice in the the Bob Marshall wilderness of Montana. That backpack fit like a glove, those boots broken-in, part of my body.

Like the gentle feel of a lover’s finger on your cheek, are the feelings stirred by the outdoors. The sense that you can fly when the backpack comes off after an eight-mile hike. Your shirt wet with sweat; spreading yourself out on a large shale boulder for warmth. Feeling the world spin as the sun goes down and that first star climbs into the sky. That first band of sunlight warming the camp after a frigid cold night. A place to sleep that smells of pine and not like cigarettes. Gurgle and crash of ice-cold water over rock as you fill your water bottle for the day. Your lover keeps calling you back.

When friends bid you, come with us to hike the Virgin river and trails of Zion, you say yes. Celebrating your final day in the park you go all in for a day hike to Angel’s Landing. A straight-forward path to the top brings you to the final half-mile portion, bordered by a chain which you can grab hold of to navigate the trail. Hopefully avoiding the steep drop offs into Zion and Refrigerator canyons. This is where paralysis set in. So my friends encouraged and prayed me through the saddle. To the top of the landing where I sat in the middle, far from the edge. Having made it to the top it was easier to make the trip back down the trail. A trip which I would make again some years later. Same trail, same quaking prayers, same positive result. I knew somehow that straddling that precipice was central to who I am. Nature would always be a place I found self. The hard wiring is the call of the lover.

Photo by Gregory Brainard on Unsplash

Louder Than The Cicadas

 I hear the voices. Jabbering louder than the Cicadas do, a thousand little men shaking baby rattles. So much messaging, so many messengers. I’m more aware of them in my life. Stories as pervasive as the cicada in summer.

I hope and wait for the caffeine to flush the sludge of melatonin out from my veins and my brain. I read a couple chapters to remind myself who God is; and try to remember who I am. My coffee mug and I move to my desktop turning on the computer. Sit down to scan today’s news feed; chaos, murder, memes, Hitler, Trump.

 Other voices unbidden whisper negative comparisons; not good enough, not productive enough, not gifted enough. Critical of self, critical of others. It’s an effort to not put others down sometimes. Put ourselves down. Hard to let joy bubble up. Be okay with the losses. They must be a normal thing; cause that’s what every singer sings.

The blanket of summer heat presses down and the Cicadas screech. In the right frame of mind they settle into the background; a symphony of white noise. A strong wind, a passing semi, jars them into a discordant chattering.

There’s a place I go where water cascades over grey sandstone, dripping and bubbling in summer, falling and crashing in spring. Ducks and water drown out the cicada to a low buzz. If I’m intentional, the waterfall speaks to me in its’ own voice, reminding me of who created the stars, and calls them all by name. The voice that knows me by name and called me from the beginning. And the one who, I’m guessing, has a name for each Cicada.

Blog Fodder

Bono says great rock and roll like Petty, Kinks and Stones,

Is best born of a mothers hate and a fathers’ rotting bones,

If mediocre artist or an amazing Jimmy Page,

Creativity can be born from depression and from rage.

Life is a staggering mix of bounty and of blight,

Rain and shine find me scribbling down notes to write,

The locusts have eaten and the stock market is toast,

Friends tell me that it makes a good story to post.

Beating drums and my son perched on an elephants’ pate,

Flying Quatar to India to see him wed his mate,

Dark news on returning of a friend’s loss of a daughter,

If nonfiction is your thing then it all makes for blog fodder.

None of us get through this life without mar or scar or stain,

The fellow traveler does best to resonate not explain,

Mortal pilgrims can all relate to the book of Job a bit,

So God in His blogging put it in the Holy writ.

Meteor showers blaze in a warm desert sky,

Beauty and insanity and we can’t say why,

For eons of time mankind has been smitten,

One more idea for a blog post unwritten.

Summer Rhythms

 Roll in the dirt, chest-to-chest, elbow flying, fist to face fighting. Outside the family I’ve had two physical fights. If you include fights with my sister in the mix the number goes up astronomically. Keith and I had plenty of time to argue, standing on the blacktop during recess. We were always the last ones picked; the first ones rotated out. Hot on the tarmac the week before summer vacation. Surrounded by black; the metal backstop of the baseball diamond too hot to lean on. Don’t know who said what or who touched who. There we were scraping the blacktop with each other until the teachers tore us apart. We stopped fighting. Stopped talking too. For that day, that week, that month of summer vacation.

It may have ended that way if it weren’t for the cabin. The stereotype cabin in the woods-sans Freddy K. Walking distance from a lake, short downhill hike to the downtown arcade where a roll of nickels buys you hours of Skee-ball with winning tickets that entitle you to the toy of your choice. Cool night-time sky filled with stars. My sister and I each get to bring a friend. But my friend and I weren’t talking.

That is an uncomfortable strange place for a teen to be in. Mom encouraged me to call; less for reconciliation and more to find out if Keith was going with us or not.  Saturday morning we loaded up the car; one large dog, six-plus suitcases, sleeping bags, ice chests and six human beings. Classical music on the radio, windows mostly closed, mom’s cigarette lit up; mom’s friend (she got to pick one too) sitting shotgun. Keith and I talking for the whole trip as if nothing had ever happened.

There’s an important place in life for summer breaks, Sunday sabbaths and daily rhythms. Allowing rest and assessing reality. That trip to Big Bear made me aware of a valued friendship. Mom was able to send the kids off to the arcade while she played tennis. Sister and I were able to step out of the ring and into a different space. Pine-filled fresh air for a week, sweltering summer temps left down in the valley. Decades later summer’s still a time to step-out of the work and weight of a normal crushing cycle. A hint imprinted of what peace, rest and wholeness can look like.

Longings In Present

Rhythms of past, longings in present. In the heat of summer; when the space between mountain ranges turns pressure cooker. Or early Fall, when the Santa Ana winds blow hot and dry, cracking lips and emptying souls. Throwing backpack with book and sweatshirt onto the seat I’d head north in my white AMC Hornet.

Fernweh is the German word for hungering; for distant lands, new horizons, and experiences. Could it be that the longing is for place; a stake where heart is whole, mind is still and God is present?  I drove to a place I already knew. A place moisture crept in from the ocean, where mist welcomed morning. There was a smell; unique enough so that anyone who’s ever been to the central California coast; if it were bottled and opened you’d know the place.

Strangers and exiles of the Earth we’re called in Hebrews. Those who seek a country. A far country as Peterson puts it and that U2 is still searching for. I’d set out knowing it was a place that imperfectly satisfied. Where wrestling and upheavals were brought to God in a spot that touched on my longing.

Along the way there was a restaurant. God met me there too. Always the Chili Omelet. Over the years the menu went through a series of name changes but; always, at heart, it was a chili omelet.  Accompanied by fresh ground coffee and a glass of cold, squeezed, orange juice. God meets His people not only in place, but in wine and water, bread and manna.

In my mornings now and in this new season of hunger I’m trying to capture that sense of place. To find a locale, a routine, a spot that I can venture too or model at home. Nowadays the heart seems full of anxious jitters. To find a spot to settle it; quiet it and calm it down is my desire. To sense God or reawaken my awareness of His presence. A spot where I feel less a stranger even if it’s in fifteen-minute increments with my raisin toast and coffee. I suspect it’s more about finding routine and being present with my hungering heart. In Hebrews it’s written, “If they had been thinking about that country from which they’d went out-they could have returned.”

I always returned home from the central coast. I could have moved there but it wasn’t home. It was a slice of Heaven, a shadow of things to come. That’s the deal with being a pilgrim; you’re always searching for that place to land. Living with present longings; looking to future hope.

The Pleasure of Breathing

 “As easy as breathing,” it’s said. Is it really? We understand the saying, take it at face value. We see the movie scene of the newborn, swat on the butt and baby’s breathing. That doesn’t mean it will do it right. Or that it won’t stop (God forbid). The American Lung Association says we take 20,000 breaths per day. Twenty-thousand times a day we do something wrong or inefficiently---maybe.

I was shy of ten years old when I learned I was breathing wrong; terribly wrong. Half-filling my lungs without involving stomach or diaphragm. With asthma, amazing that I got air at all. A friend of my mother, a visiting physical therapist, spent one summer training me to breathe correctly. I remember him placing a book on my stomach so I'd move it up with each breath. Difficult to do it correctly, To do it efficiently; not for most of us. Especially if we’re a singer, swimmer or brass player.

Swimmer Michael Phelps is said to have a lung capacity of twelve liters; twice that of the average human. Still he requires oxygen. In most sports the typical respiratory rate is between 50 and 70 breaths per minute. In swimming, the typical respiration rate is anywhere from 16 to 30 breaths per minute. To swim one has to breathe differently. The same is true for singers and brass players who must learn to use the full body, from cheek to diaphragm, to produce quality sound.

“Breathing,” says Alexander Lowen is “easily and fully is one of the basic pleasures of being alive.” Have you known the terror of not breathing? Cast down under an ocean wave; choking on a piece of food? Contemplating a discussion with God Job says, “He would crush me with a storm, He would not let me catch my breath.” In the love song, All of Me, Legend sings “I’m underwater but I’m breathing fine.” Our breath so wrapped up in our passions and physical bodies.

As easy as falling in love I’ve heard people say. It’s really not. Maybe it’s like breathing. Breathing is delightful. Lowen says breathing has a sexual quality. Breathing involves all of me. To do it right is quite difficult. To be deprived of it; deadly.

Photo by Brian Matangelo on Unsplash

An Excuse For Syrup

 My dentist took her young daughter to work with her one day. After a couple of hours her daughter said to her, “Mommy, I didn’t know you get paid to hurt people!” According to statistics, “by the age of sixty, “people in an industrialized country like the United States, have lost, on average, a third of their teeth.” I am currently on track to meet or exceed those stats!

Something’s burning! The adrenaline kicks in. Then the realization that the smoke and the smell are coming from the drill inserted into my mouth. Not to worry though. They will put out the fire with tons of water, “Spit, now spit.” Thank goodness for that small bib strapped to the chest! 

Before the torture of Dustin Hoffman’s teeth in Marathon Man, I imagined myself as James Bond being tortured in the dentist chair. The bright light, the sharp instruments and the mask on the hygienist. Planning my escape kept the mind off the discomfort. Oh to be back home eating breakfast!

Pancakes are an excuse to have syrup! French fries are one reason for catsup. Lessons I learned as a child and regret now as I sit in the dentist’s chair. I regret my weakness for glucose. A childhood eating Nestles chocolate from the tin, Frosted flakes, Sugar Pops and Captain Crunch. Hot cereal with brown sugar (lots of brown sugar). My parents penchant for rewarding me for finishing dinner with dessert. To this day I can’t eat a meal without something sweet at the finish.

Crushed under the cost of replacing another cracked crown I ponder these things. Do these curses come from bad genes, bad habits or bad brushing? Another cast for the new crown and another partial payment at the front desk. Will this one sit right? Is this the last one? Will these teeth last? Hoping this crown won’t crack. I’ve got some Cracker Jacks sitting on the counter.

Photo by Quang Tri NGUYEN on Unsplash

Dark and Life In Contrast

 My father gave me wondrous gifts wrapped in emptiness and loss. The pachinko game caught this teenage boy’s eye. Bright lights, clanging bells, silver balls bouncing off a thousand pins. Can’t tell you if I told him I wanted it once or a hundred times. My birthday came and with it came the pachinko game. A gift which brought hours of joy. Seeing the desire but not understanding the heart.

Pachinko is gaming at its core. Pulling on a lever shoots a metal ball into a field of pins. Much like pinball (except the Pachinko game stands upright) there are paths the ball bounces down; entering a cave where a little man stands at guard. Knocking him over sets off a mad clanging of bells followed by the sound of ten or twenty ball bearings crashing down a tube into the little ash-tray of winnings. A celebratory cacophony of clanking steel! In Korea you’d cash these winnings out with the house at the end of the night. In my house my friends and I kept a piece of paper where the highest score was scribbled in pen and taped to the door jamb. Hundreds of hours spent pulling that lever. Dad’s hand never touched the game.

The camera is awkwardly received. A gift more transactional than heartfelt. Motivated by a hidden heart. A gift for graduating high school. Hence this failure to receive love no matter how it came wrapped.

Taking pictures is as central to me as breathing. I carry around an inhaler for asthma attacks. I’m never without it. And never without a camera. Then the SLR (single lens reflex), now my Samsung. Photography was enjoyed by my father as well. Yet it was my cousin whom he took under his wing to teach photography on a field trip to a Sequoia National park. As if he were extending to me pieces of his heart then walling them off so they could not be accessed.

Like breathing in those gifts give life. In the stream of bouncing balls and clanging bells I spent hours thinking and meditating. When friends visited, we played the game. One person pulling the lever, leaving room for chatter. Pachinko was for a season; photography is for life.

Through this gift of a lens life is viewed differently. Nature and beauty in crisp contrast. Friends and family caught forever in different poses, stages of life in freeze frame. Millions of memories I’d have forgotten. These gifts are like a Cibachrome print. Dark and grey frame and saturate the picture. In contrast the rich colors of life; the cyan, magenta and yellow astonish with their richness. What a wondrous gift!

Photo by Ethan Hoover on Unsplash

The Art Must Win

 It’s a kind of madness. My writing is. Could be your garden, your watercolors, the woodworking. We temper it. There’s the Poes, the Van Goghs, the Pressfields that don’t. Pressfield wrote out of a Chevy Van forsaking family. What to do with the gnawing?

Close friends and spouses eye us dubiously. Still, they lend support. Greater success, greater support—till you go over the edge. I started experimenting in high school. Constantly scribbling. Journaling to let the ideas out of my head. To put something down for when fame—and death—found me. Notes to girlfriends and poems about waterbeds (“Lie with me,” it whispers and it sounds funny for you see, it talks without springs.). For an “A” grade I wrote a poem a la Alice in Wonderland about an onion ring. Notebooks full, typewriter pounding then word processer purring.

That girl in the sundress, that man in the pink shirt with the stutter—would they fit into a story? All the while the wheels spin. Like the Roald Dahl poem made famous by Gene Wilder, “Yes, the danger must be growing, for the rowers keep on rowing, and they're certainly not showing, any signs that they are slowing.” If drugs or drinking enhances the writing; is it worth the try? You’ve never gone down that road? Never wanted to abandon it all to bourbon and writing? The monomania grips you. The question is what to do with it?

The art must win. Some suppress, some bury it, deny it, kill it. Never flourishing as artist, never seeing the great gift they can provide their audience. We don’t tamp the art down. In full (‘normal’) lives let the madness motivate us to discipline that the art might shine forth. In the words of Madeleine L’Engle, “A life lived in chaos is an impossibility for the artist…. It is a joy to be allowed to be the servant of the work.”

Photo by Jené Stephaniuk on Unsplash

Stuck In E

Cramped between faux leather cowboy, shiny boots;

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.