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.