Lavish Libations

 

Once outlawed, always American with a tinge of sweetness! No single sip started our pursuit. The adventure began on a couch. Streamed, not sipped---Neat, the Story of Bourbon. Novice noses already used to experiencing rich nuanced flavors of coffee, wine and beer. As the saying goes, ‘If life’s not a great olfactory experience, then it’s nothing at all.’

Sonic slushy sweet it isn’t. I once grew corn in my backyard. Fresh corn isn’t like grocery store corn. Flavorful but still corn. Bourbon isn’t only corn, it’s 80 proof, maybe 100. There’s a burn, a bite that bursts in the mouth and coalesces in the gullet. Corn is the key to bourbon, but whiskey is a wider road.

The wife’s becoming connoisseur of the Old Fashioned. I’m finding I lean toward a rye. Friends, waiters and whiskey flights are good exposure. So came my introduction to Skrewball’s peanut butter whiskey! As a man addicted to all things peanut this had to be in the arsenal. Water or no water? Cocktail? Or neat; pure and at room temperature.

What about that whole Christian and alcohol thing? Say ‘speakeasy.’ I’ve fallen off both sides of the horse. Christ followers walk in this tension. Legalism is a list of rules and regs, do this and don’t do that’s. Liberty is an emphasis on freedom in everything. Grace is the over arching principle that we are all screw ups and Christ alone has covered our sins.

Upon dedication of the temple Hezekiah called for whole-burnt-offerings and lavish libations (2 Chron 29). One author aptly states that Israel celebrated with whiskey and barbeque. Paraphrasing the Poet Preacher, “Enjoy bourbon! This is your reward in life and in your toil.” Enjoying the piquancy of whiskey adds accent and highlight to this life. For mood or season, straight or on rocks it flavors life. For the rest of life’s course, always grace, always ‘neat.’

Photo by Edgar Moran on Unsplash

So You Are

 For her and Him who gave her

Not one to dive in I wade in slow. The water is always too cold. Slow step by slow step. Easy misstep on green fungus or teetering stone. So you are. Jagged rocks had left a scar. Still you beckon. Slow swirl outside the mainstream. Wooing. Escape from the summer heat. Selah.

Sliver sun betwixt Birch. Rustling wind, shining silver. What’s around the bend? Quiet? Snow topped granite grandeur? So you are. Moving forward; both impetus and reward. A biting wind blows. To be alive!

Salt burns eyes. Burgeoning heat; the monsoon builds with no release. Heart pounding. Tympany beat on tympany beat, body jarring.  So you are. Breathing escapes me. Air-won’t-satisfy. Gasping. Rock steps pound knee and drive hip upward every stinking step. I’ve been here before. Reward will come.

Time tried, water formed, forged in fire. Standing white; river sentinel. Elements have etched a hammock in igneous. Shelter from biting wind; heat that’s been borrowed from the sun. Stretching out, safe and secure. So you are.

Pursuing Passion

Central to Blue Bloods main character, Frank Reagan, is a poster of Teddy Roosevelt on his office wall. Frank’s key strength, affirmed by Blue Bloods 12 seasons, is conviction that, “The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood…” Its 6.11 million viewers give nod to the quote. To find your life you must lose it.

“Courage starts with showing up and letting ourselves be seen,” as Brene Brown shares. Scary stuff being seen; being known. I have caverns that conceal all kinds of dark. Fantasies I don’t share. Arrogance always. Ah, Pharisee. Funny thing: when I am vulnerable it deepens relationship. 99% of the time when sharing a struggle others admit their own.

The one percent? My previous marriage. Being seen was used for blackmail. All of us have wounds. Hence the call to courage. We desire depth. With God, with friend. All of us yearn for passion. We won’t get there without pain. “From silken self, O Captain; free thy soldier who would follow thee.”

“Who strives valiantly; who errs, who comes short again and again, because there is no effort without error and shortcoming…” I get in the way. There are days that my love and passion for my wife are blurred by selfish acts and stupid detours. My daughter tells me I didn’t hug her enough growing up. Don’t give up-press in! Do what it takes; get counselling, cry out to community, cry to Jesus, cry period.

The story is told of a man who hired a guide to get to the top of a beautiful mountain. The guide told him he could take little to the top; only himself and his courage. But the man said, “I am bringing with me blankets, I am bringing chocolate. I’m bringing fear and shame.” Along the way to the top were scattered all these things. The man never made it to the top. He stopped in the plain half-way up and pitched his tent. Many pitch their tent on the plain. And the plain is so very full of tents.

“if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly, so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who neither know victory nor defeat."

Jagged Scar On The Perfect Face

That Dodge Dart was everything wrong with my childhood. Powder blue, almost muscle, vintage 70’s. Not blocking garage or front door, parked on the cement driveway under a sturdy, old Pine tree. Ladder for those branches you couldn’t reach when climbing. An easy way up. Sap stuck to your hands wash after wash. Season after season it sat. Dad didn’t drive it. Mom couldn’t abide it.

Pine needles piled up on it in the fall; fine yellow dust falling on her with every Spring breeze. Sitting silent in the periphery. Was it ever discussed? “Hey, what should we do with that car?” I’m guessing dad meant to get to it ‘one day.’ Take her to a mechanic maybe? One day. Money was tight. One day. 

The black mark on the white wall, jagged scar on the perfect face. Deep green dichondra lawn, winding white cement driveway bordered by berry and bush. Mom spent hours in the front yard; mowing, mulching, mending, pruning. Beauty from chaos. Eye is drawn to the scar, the entropized car in the corner.

It wasn’t about memories of family trips in the Dart. No recollection of sis breaking it in with barf on a road trip. I wanted to drive that car. It wasn’t a Camaro or Chevelle sure. More muscle in it then the white AMC Hornet I ended up with. It disappeared with a small chunk of me.

They cut down the pine tree. Too tall, old and close to the roof. A hazard to the house. The Dart vanished. Undiscussed when under the tree, no discussion upon its sale. Obvious in the driveway but not talked about. Hazard to the home. My childhood motif. 

The Cure For That Deep Dry Ache

                                                        Photo by Nikolay Dukov on Unsplash

An internal ache. Same as when I threw my body, rocking self to sleep as a child. An awareness that tangible physical reality can’t  touch the deep heart of me. Propped on a pillow as a teenager I searched books. Of men praying peyote prayers that held no hope. Some self-proclaimed prophets with poetic prose that increased hunger but provided no spiritual bread.

The foray into the spiritual oft meets with meditation. Trying to connect with the jumbled perception of who I thought God was. Damaged and trying to get repaired. Unaware of that at the time. Sitting in quiet with crucifix as focus. A short phase that brought me no closer to satisfaction. Understanding crashed in later.

Driving through the canyon, to find solace at the ocean. How strange to find comfort in that contrast between a sea so immense and self so small. For You fit the oceans into the palm of your hand and hold heaven in Your fingers. Those same years taking long walks on the track at a local college. Praying as Canadian geese fly overhead. Prayer soaring, prayer heard.  

There will always be this hurt for heaven. “Hunger stays,” as the song goes. Bodies ache for water. The hidden face of God is normative in season and circumstance. “I stretch out my hands to you; My soul longs for You, as a parched land.” The spiritual and mystical need not be cracking hard soil. We are promised streams in the desert. Lovingkindness whispers to us in the morning. There is always a deep dryness. It can forever be filled from an everlasting fountain.

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.