Sing Like A Hobbit

 

 

     

“These Hobbits Will Sit on the Edge of Ruin and Discuss the Pleasures of the Table.”

 A sob sticks in my throat. Images raging on Instagram fill my mind. Winds roar and fires blaze in Los Angeles. Flames flare up on the Getty museum, burning down Moonshadows in Malibu. I took a girl there once. Scorched memories. Seeing the smoke and the ruins reminds me of Mordor and darkness, of Hobbits and hope, of Merry and Pippin enjoying Long-Bottom leaf and the smoke of a pipe at the ruin of Isengard.

When my first marriage burned to the ground I cried with friends. I turned Spotify up loud while singing along with Third Day; ”There’s a light at the end of the tunnel”. Psalmodies of passion, lament and praise kept me going. The Creator has set it up so that these crack open your heart and infuse hope. The act of singing is an act of defiance. Eating and drinking too.

If you’ve never sung from a place of heart-ache and desperate loss take a lesson from Hobbit Sam Gamgee.  Believing the quest to be at an end, he sings, “above all shadows rides the Sun, and Stars for ever dwell: I will not say the Day is done, nor bid the Stars farewell.” When dark pervades, I cry to God in hope. Somehow singing grounds me. As do friends, bread and good ale. Hence the attitude of the Hobbit. May we have the same!

Photo by Sergio García 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

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.

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