Wind

                                                Photo by Mohamed Nohassi on Unsplash

Taut, alert, sensing before sight,
Howl in canyon,
Hint of power, the outstretched arm,
Deliverance or destruction?
Raising a ragamuffin or
Pulverizing Pharoah?

Barely whispering, fingers on cheek,
Catching unaware,
In Tornado,
Shattering idols, scattering debris,
Internal life thrown out
Into countless cornfields.

Water leaves you wet,

Spoken words leave invisible marks,

Unseen where you’ve been,

Impossible to grasp,

Feeling your slightest movement,

Blowing unabated.

Parched, arid, baking hot,

Cooling breeze,

Street signs screech and sigh,

Rain clouds on the horizon.

Awaiting birth,

Listen for the whisper.

Guide For Going Off The Grid

                          Photo by  

                        Craig Whitehead https://unsplash.com/@sixstreetunder

The burner phone is a necessity when going off the grid. Connections are hard to keep.  Use public transportation. Don’t use a Fast-Pass or subway card that’s linked to you. No picture identification. Craving that Mojito or the morning coffee? Reacher enjoys it in a ceramic cup not Styrofoam. Pay cash, tip well—but not so well that you make an impression. Flirting with the waitress, maybe. Relationships are a problem. Unless it’s with another escapee. These sometimes work out. More often than not they’re a double agent and will flip you.

Oh, for elbow room. City living is stifling. Permanent residence worked well for Michael and Fiona. An upstairs warehouse if you have the skills to transform it. Here’s the thing; you can’t escape you. Noir and novel tell us we can’t leave that guy behind.

Deep undercover, deep in the woods, what drove you then drives you now. The poets got to publish, the conservator needs a canvas. Memory; the girl, the disaster, detonation, dad—so hard to outrun. Out run you must. They’ll come for you or you’ll reach out and save some. No more Muirs and Appleseeds.

A relentless rigor is required. Sixth sense, gut guided IQ, the way you interact with art, with people. Captivity keeps you from connecting. Thoreau took trips into the village of Concord while at Walden. Perhaps its wiser to establish levels; deep in the wild in the Dakotas and into town bi-weekly. Maybe messengers visit with news, money and grub. How hard to draw those lines?

Solo and still you bring all your baggage. Mental health can deteriorate in quarantine. Can it be done with dogged discipline? Then comes the knock on the door or the encounter on the street. You step in and offer help. Your certain-set-of-skills and sense of right and wrong call you out. Saving society sucks you back in. The cycle starts again.

A Tunnel Between Two Gardens

“I remember the days of old; I meditate on all Your accomplishments;
I reflect on the work of Your hands. I spread out my hands to You;
My soul longs for You, like a weary land. Selah.”

Tapping me on the shoulder, Google photo whispers, “Perspective, perspective.” “I feel thin, sort of stretched, like butter scraped over too much bread,” Bilbo says. A good description of the feeling these days. A new prescription is necessary for this short-sightedness. Like a person hiking through a tunnel between two gardens; I forget the beauty behind and the glories ahead.

My wife was exhausted. Caring for her mom 24/7. It was time for our traditional 3- day getaway. With guilt and relief, we left her mom in the care of her brother. Sipping Stone Brewing’s Berliner Weiss we were no longer in So Cal. The air is hot and the cobblestones vibrate as heat radiates upward. Aside from the Rhine the only place that looks cool is beneath the umbrellas. The girl in the dirndl dress brings you a stein. That first sip… Then you realize the tour guide has moved on to the next beer in the flight.

Rioting, looting, a global pandemic, school closures and day-to-day stressors had us ready for a road-trip come summer of 2020. It’s California; the only way to book a hotel is as an ‘essential worker.’ We head to Arizona. There I sit on a wood park bench facing Whiskey Row. Book in hand, I stretch out on that lazy summer evening. Reading, resting and intermittently watching a lightning storm shoot across the sky.

The lightning flashes fade too easily. The brushing breeze, the soul-rest and the wonder are forgotten. A dry space inside the tunnel. A parched place, a weary land. The call is to remember that this moment in it’s weariness (oh, wastefulness) is momentary. We have those snapshots from both sides of the tunnel. The marvels that were and the glories to follow.

Midnight Feeding

                                        Photo by Priscilla Du Preez on Unsplash

‘Sleep’ is the one word connecting every new parent. The crash came unexpectedly. Post partum; my baby girl’s mom unable to differentiate hallucinations and reality. None of us slept that night. In healthy situations its hard to come by.  Ours wasn’t healthy. My daughter had it rough that first year. Mom was hospitalized with psychotic episodes. I worked two jobs. Psych meds and the hospitalization meant breastfeeding was out. Coming home at midnight the one a.m. feeding fell to me.

Bottle feeding is a long process. My daughter was more about the sip than the swig. Feed than sleep, that’s the cycle. This night I’d lay her down; she’d start crying. Pick her up, she’d stop. Not normal, she’s sick.

 I lay down on the carpet, Sweet Pea on my chest. She is calm. Her frailty nestles in my arms; my frail self holding her. Both curled up in stronger arms. I speak to myself with a conviction I don't know I possess, “This is what love looks like. This is fatherhood.”

Alzheimer's and Sunrise

Photo by Mohamed Nohassi on Unsplash

Seeing dad hurl his walker left a permanent impression on my daughter. Not an aide he threw it at, or a maid, no, he flung the thing at his wife. He was too cold, or too hot. The thermostat wasn’t set to his liking. Blood boiling, he threw the walker. Emotional responses in the brain are a factor in Alzheimer’s.   

No surprise then when the walker went flying. Haywire physical outbursts wove their way through dad’s story. Still, there were windows of warm openness in his later years. These seemed to be on the increase as he entered his sixties. Full change never came. The demons and dementia kept the edge.

One of those windows of calm opened with my dad, in his home. Watching old westerns on an old TV. Hard the silence when the TV wasn’t on. He said something. I asked something. Years past merged into yesterday. A painful break-up: she dumped him. High-school wound remembered. The window; open.

To get my dad to talk is tough. Casting scattered pics of his life as a teenager to the present day. Jumbling together snapshots from his life and others. He wasn’t in New York on 9/11 but thought he was. He spoke of a bad break-up with a girl in high school. A picture I hadn’t seen, a story I’d never heard.

A lifetime in; still I didn’t know my father. “What kept you going,” I asked. “The sun rises every morning,” he said. God’s mercies brighten the coming day. Bad as it got, could it be, that this tethered to some sanity?

There is a witness to good in the universe, to beauty in creation. Seeking this good enables us to keep at life. For life will throw much at us that is neither good nor beautiful. Basking in beauty; nature, music and the arts opens the heart to hope. Losing sight of these we will find ourselves hurling much more than walkers. 

The Next Step Out Of Anxiety

“Sunrise is a never-ending glory; getting out of bed is a never-ending nuisance.” Chesterton.

I fill the old Procter-Silex grinder with coffee beans. Snapping on the lid I press the lever to grind. The lever falls off. I slide it back into place. It is, after all, twelve years old. The ritual is much older than that. Not my first grinder. Listening I press down until the sound is smooth, steady; like a racing engine, less like an old car when it back-fires. I pour the dark, earth like grind into the coffee maker and add water. The last thing I do before bed. A daily ritual, a nightly expectancy of new morning mercies.

There was a season in which ritual kept me tethered. I had bet on my marriage vows and lost. Character flaws, exposed, insurmountable. Doubt and anxiety were pervasive. I was paralyzed mentally. One thing I clung to was this principal from Elisabeth Eliott, “Do the next thing.” Going to work was a relief. Lawyers, counselling and dealings with the  (ex) wife aggravating and difficult. Pray, breathe, do the next thing. Coffee ritual at the end of the day. In the morning dark drive down the hill; hot coffee in that green unbreakable mug. 

Grinding through a better season now. I grind coffee for two. Footholds feel solid. Anxiety comes but doesn’t cripple. Work is hard. Days off celebratory and restful. Not the ideal---but good. 

My nighttime ritual keeps me connected to big picture life. The expectant morning, the labor of living, the thrill of taste, the feel of heat. The coming day holds possibilities; surprises. Bad and good.  Reaching for the grinder tonight means rising from the bed tomorrow. Waiting for the promise of new mercies.