Letting Go Of Baggage

 Despite flight delays, crowded airports and TSA I still find vacation travel refreshing. It’s got me thinking about perspective. Glass half full? Hero or victim? Upon landing on one of our flights a middle-aged woman began jostling those ahead of her while talking on her cell phone and loudly saying, “Let me move forward. I’m missing my connecting flight.” Our flight had arrived early! Frustrating, yes! But you can pack that bad behaviour! Missing flights or being delayed is normal (more so post-covid it seems).

Ushered out of the terminal by police a crowd of us waited outside while security in flack jackets marched by with bomb-sniffing German shepherds on leash. This was my experience on another trip years ago. Once given the clear I headed back to the gate where I was told I’d missed my flight! “We called your name,” they said. “I was out on the curb with a hundred of my best friends,” I replied to no avail. Eventually a ticket agent assured me I’d have a ticket out on the next flight.

Travelling encourages me to experience the good in other people. The traveler stepping backward in line and graciously allowing us to take the spot in front of her. The tram attendant that grabbed our suitcases first (probably because we look feeble and in need of help) and insisted we find a seat before the bus filled up. The worker in the parking structure who gave me a ride on his golf cart so that I could get to our car and then go pick up the wife. There are these glimmers of other human beings that give me slight hope for my fellow humans. A very slight hope.

Purpose and attitude; it all comes down to those. Less escape than release and recalibration. The lady trampling down people to get out of the plane; what’s her purpose? One can only guess. Some bring all their baggage with them. Some leave it behind to calibrate and evaluate what to jettison when you return back home.

“Therefore, since we are surrounded by so great a cloud of witnesses, let us rid ourselves of every burden and sin that clings to us and persevere in running the race that lies before us while keeping our eyes fixed on Jesus, the leader and perfecter of faith.”

                     Photo by Tom Barrett on Unsplash

Crash Courses In Connecting

 “Nature never taught me that there exists a God of glory and of infinite majesty. I had to learn that in other ways. But nature gave the word glory a meaning for me. I still do not know where else I could have found one. I do not see how "fear" of God could have ever meant to me anything but the lowest prudential efforts to be safe, if I had never seen certain ominous ravines and unapproachable crags. And if nature had never awakened certain longings in me, huge areas of what I can now mean by "love" of God would never, so far as I can see, have existed.― C.S. Lewis, The Four Loves

Single dads have essentially two vacation choices: their own vacations solo or take their kids. Or no vacation; three options. Here’s what made it easier, we already had laughter as a connection. My child’s lifetime of inside jokes already existed.

She had this stuffed animal that looked like a cross between a bear and a pink pig, aka Pigbear. I’d play the part of Pigbear. 

Pigbear, in squeaky voice: “ One time, when I swam across the ocean…”  

Daughter: “You’re afraid of water!!”

Pigbear “ Right! Last week when I fell into the bathtub…” 

Pigbear was a delusional and grandiose story teller. He’s soft and cuddly which made him quite the travelling companion.

I looked on these trips as crash courses. Though road trips are a great vehicle for bonding this wasn’t my specific aim. I wished for the daughter to catch three things: An understanding of vacation and rest, to apprehend beauty and to glimpse God. If you get those you get me.

Beset by bugs in stagecoach and tent, sharing music, losing camera bags and patience, swimming in cold pools and natural hot-springs there have been plenty of adventures! The kid is grown up and adulting now; setting out on her own adventures. Now I get to glimpse her heart. A rich and delightful privilege for a father!  As Pigbear might say, “One time, I created the greatest meme of all!” Life!” 

 

My Friendship with Jazz

 “I don’t like any jazz,” my ex-wife once said. Both a statement of shallow misunderstanding and commentary on all my friendships. I’ve had many, from short sandbox relationships in kindergarten to life-long ones. Jazz is one of the life-long ones.

We met when I was young; brief encounters. Once, in a childhood cartoon I heard a character singing “Cement mixer; putty-putty.” It stuck. And Disney’s Jungle-Book soundtrack; 'I Wanna Be Like You'; boogie and scat! Jazz was winking at me.

Friendship is a funny thing. It can start with a laugh—or a fight. It can go underground for a season only to rise up again after summer. In sixth grade my closest friend and I brawled at recess all fists and fury. We didn’t talk for two months. I wanted companionship for family vacation though. There we were back again. That’s how male friendships seem to work.

That first French kiss wasn’t all that great. Jazz feels like my friendships with women. Mysterious and shallow at first.  A landscape I didn’t know how to navigate Then startling moments when something deeper was glimpsed.

My music collection in school was comprised of rock. On the fringes though there were albums with lots of brass; r&b, Earth, Wind and Fire, Chick Corea and an abundance of Boz Scaggs. Oh, jazz--beyond music, beyond emotion! Can I get lost inside of you?

Life kept drawing us closer. Intro to Jazz was arguably one of the best classes I took in college. There were phone calls and trysts. Still jazz remained on the periphery. But music has all kinds of friends. 

“If the Mississippi River has a musical signature, it’s the blues.” There’s also an app, an historical blues route and historical markers set in place in 2006. When my friend and I set out to do a quick Blues road trip there was no app. It was jazz that found us enjoying a traditional New Orleans band on an alleyway corner; and jazz that took us from Clarksdale to Chicago. There was a fight over jazz too! Both of us wanted to experience a different venue; I wanted a George Winston concert vs. an historic Blues concert. We separated, did our own thing; and came back together. We’re still the best of friends to this day. And the blues and I? We are still getting acquainted.

Photo by Konstantin Aal on Unsplash

Oil of Zarephath

My friend, she says, is sustained day by day,
Just like the widow in Lebanon.
Polio, yes, takes all her strength away,
Health’s not what she’s depending on.
 
The widow, she scrapes, together one last potpie,
Convinced her son won’t go on living.
By famine, true, means they both will die,
Biscuits and oil are life-giving.
 
The prophet, thus says, shall put end to the fast,
With challah bread from oil and flour.
Her only son, gasp, breathes away his last,
Crushed beneath deaths’ dark power.
 
Holy man, I’m marred, sin is brought to light,
Is it your plan to kill or set free?
“Thy beloved, see, alive and alright,”
She glimpses Him from Galilee.
 
Oh Lord, we sing, how long these bitter pains?
Drought of oil while famine breaks and mars,
He will provide, trust, hear the gentle rains,

Oh Lord fill these our earthen jars.

Photo by Roberta Sorge on Unsplash

The Wounds Of A Dishwasher

 How could such a simple chore,

Escalate into a war?

Whines, whimpers and well-reasoned pitches,

Was Sis or I forced to do the dishes?

Not hours and hours breaking our backs,

Just loading them into dishwasher racks.

Scarred I was; I’d learned to hate,

Washing and loading pots, cups and plates.

In my first marriage, might I mention,

Dishes became more than a point of contention.

Her every need stirred with bent of lies,

Wished I’d do that which I did despise.

It so inflamed her every nerve,

Soaping ceramics was not the way that I served.

My dearest one-we've walked 'along side,'

Our rings scriven from Princess Bride.

That travel mug with rings of pink,

Sits unwashed next to the sink.

You rise with the sun, Oh heavy toll,

Not much left in tank, barely in soul.

Might Westley have meant; in his "As you wishes,"

That he would gladly do the dishes?

A Sweet Bite Of Life

 

“I don’t get the draw,” my wife said, quickly biting into a Jordan Almond. How could she understand the depth of my relationship? Jordan Almonds was childhood innocence, teenage sweat and romance with sweet sugar coating. Right up there with Nonpariels. The nonpareil attraction I can blame on my grandmother. I can never eat them without making them into a little chocolate shaped hamburger by bringing the flat ends together. Sitting on that couch in her North Hollywood apartment my sister and I were always plied with sweets. So it was that those candies connected that kid on that couch to my first job as a teenager.

I was twelve year old and every Saturday morning my friend Keith and I worked at our Lawn Mowing service; Barbro mowing (Barnes and Brook). We’d roll that Briggs and Stratton lawnmower and gas-powered edger to our neighbors’ yard. Professional edging and mowing; I think that’s what our business card said. We did a damn good job; matter of fact. Keith doing the edging and me mowing. Collect our money and move onto the next yard. Some weekends we’d reward ourselves with a walk to JC Penney. JC Penney had these large glass display cases, imagine a goldfish tank, filled with every kind of candy. Always part of my lawnmowing take went to the purchase of nonpareils or Jordan Almonds. Because boys like candy…and girls.

Old friends won’t be surprised she was a red-head (years later this trend would yield to some catastrophe; but that’s a story for a different day). There’s the one that got away and the one you never had. She’s the never had. In junior high Keith and I named our imaginary consulting company after her. Always elusive, she may not have ever known she was my crush until we told her at reunion. Her name was Jordana. Like the candy.

Of course she didn’t get the draw. It wasn’t just the Jordan Almond. It was youth, laughter, wonder, innocence and puberty. No quick crushing bite of life. It’s that rich coming into fullness, savoring that sweet sugar coating and the reward of that final almond crunch.  

 

Pheremones and Home Invasions

                           Photo by Michael Milverton on Unsplash

I vacuumed up two more ladybugs this morning. One with dotted bright red-orange that one expects to find on a ladybug. One with a color bordering porcelain and parchment. A scattered few seeking refuge but finding their demise. No colonies setting up camp; thank goodness! An internet search states they’re seeking winter warmth. Funny how nature is wonderful and stunning when outside your house but frustrating, annoying and frightening when she invades it.

Tar-like brown oozed from the air vent and dripped into the bathroom in my old southern California house. A mystery this! Perhaps there were issues caused by the new roofing? Only years later when bees were becoming an issue outside the house that the apiarists addressed the problem. A large beehive had been built in the attic! So they were removed with a catch. Bees, like ladybugs and myriad other pests leave a trail of pheromones. And so they returned. To be removed again.

We’ve all seen the industrious ant in some nature documentary. Fascinating and fearsome in their subterranean tunnels; fierce in flood and forest trees. We had a flood of our own in the form of a burst pipe in our neighbor’s apartment. The water itself would have been trouble enough. Then came the ants. A square outline as they marched around inside our closet. Streaming from the baseboard in bathroom and hallway. Trails of pheromones, ants on conquest. Perhaps, as I write this, the pest control has succeeded in shoring up the walls. I expect a breach at any moment.

There is a wonder in it all. The myriad types of ants; crazy ants, fire ants, carpenter ants. Fortunately, these tiny ones in this invasion aren’t fond of sugar. The kitchen holds out thus far. There is the beauty of the ladybug. The mysterious way in which she finds entry into our place. The ants are militaristic, sending out scouts, scouring wood, enlarging territory. Ladybugs are gentle as though they would ask permission to alight and winter with you if they could. My answer would be no. I am grateful for the diet of the ladybug which protects my rose bush. Happy to have the ants aerate my garden. Ladybugs stain, bees sting and ants bite. There’s a reason for the words ‘inside’ and ‘outside’. Inside home, a haven. Outside, the garden, in all its’ fear and perplexity.

Pursuing Your Giftedness. We Got This!

 “Risk is essential. It’s scary. Every time I sit down and start the first page of a novel I am risking failure. We are encouraged in this world not to fail …  We are encouraged only to do that which we can be successful in. But things are accomplished only by our risk of failure. Writers will never do anything beyond the first thing unless they risk growing.”---Madeleine L’Engle

“I’m not good at this; Why bother?” Before butt hits the chair and fingers start typing the thought is there. All of us have heard the whisper. It’s not specific to writers. Every artist, counsellor and teacher is familiar with it. Comparing my craft to others makes it obvious I’m not the best. But I am unique. Is that a reason to do it? Why pursue art? Here are some convictions to quiet the clamor.

You may as well rip off one of my arms or legs. I can’t not write. This is a parameter not a proof. I’ve no desire to be the zoo gorilla flinging feces. You need not venture far to find samples of people without gifts that think they have them! I once wrote 50 Sydney of Australia* stories and sent them to a tour group anonymously! The burning is an indicator.

Hear what the voices outside your head are saying. And yes, could be everybody’s too nice to tell you the truth (see gorilla analogy). Are there objective comments? Early evidence of giftedness? (thanks for the encouragement mom!) All art connects the artist and the aesthete.

Art is (per L’Engle) the small stone tossed into a lake. We contribute beauty to a world in desperate need of it. The biblical picture of donating the widows mite; the talent invested and not buried. Sure, I want “fame and fortune and everything that goes with it.” Conversely though, my soul, and hopefully yours, is fed through every small pebble I skip out onto the water.

To quell the whisper I entertain these other voices. The shout of my writing heart. The satisfaction of the perfect skip of the stone on water; fulfillment of my giftedness. At small risk to self, beauty framed and displayed.

*superhero very loosely (the women especially) based on the Batman genre

Photo by Y S on Unsplash

How Bad The Fall

                                                  

How bad the Fall must have been. If the first cut is the deepest; how great the gash that severed all flesh. Angel and flaming sword separating us. The tale sung in aeons. Angel Eve, can you bring us back to Eden? So sweet and simple we were. Freely tasting all we were offered; unashamed by the wetness on our lips. Flowing as one.  

Why call it a fall at all? Simple bite of the forbidden? So it’s portrayed. No, rather a spit in the face; fist flung in the air. As lovers encompass one another; so we were encompassed by our Lover. Was it the flesh of the fruit I wanted so badly? Oh to know good and evil! How did we not know how safe and secure we were?

Though I love my fellow man it is easy to see the cracks and fissures emanating from that first fist flung high. Broken at every juncture. It’s genetic or it’s the way we were raised. Self-soothing every way. We can barely connect with ourselves. Our children at war to find their selves. The line of good and evil flows into our progeny. Children born bereft of innocence. In search of the perfect meme.

The voice of Abel’s blood crying out, “Can you bring us back to Eden?” the line stretches down the ages as another cries out. How great the fall that even perfect blood in perfect sacrifice didn’t set all right again. Certainly death the most horrible. Yet how harrowing the expulsion.

Aching pain, unrelenting emptiness and a reaching out only to grasp nothing. This is the pain of the first break up. Producing the fear of ever giving yourself away again. Not surprising then how difficult to let ourselves be loved. Though the destination is future we fight healing in the present. We are scarred visibly from that first encounter. No wonder that we do not give to the Scarred One unreservedly.

How bad the fall must have been. Eden awaits. We have run from Eden even as Eden was wrung away from us. Now we are living in this present place. How easy that first laugh; embrace, and release of self. Bending to believe it was all about me. How much work to learn to love. To give of self to another. To come out of darkness. To be loved by The Lover. The fall was great. The adventure into fulness; reclaiming what was lost; the greater adventure.

Photo by Andrik Langfield on Unsplash

Beauty Saves Me

 I am going to tell you a dark secret. One that’s touched my sister, my daughter and myself. Through us it’s probably touched you too though you may not be aware of it. We have a bent toward depression. By grace we don’t meet the full clinical definition. Often it hovers. Some days it lands. “With a shiver in my bones just thinking about the weather, a quiver in my lips as if i might cry, by the force of will my lungs are filled and so I breathe.” I dislike mornings. Daytime motivation comes hard sometimes.

My dad was 5150’d. Late in his life, angry seventy-plus years of it. When he was released, I asked him if he’d thought about God. “No,” he said. “I thought about nothing for the whole time. Nothing.” That darkness, that ‘nothing’ wasn’t ever talked about. Seems he would just disappear. I think it would be easy to spiral, spiral, down. Beauty saves me.

It's why Spotify is a constant stream I drink from. I suspect it’s why I’m an extrovert. I seek your companionship. Call it selfish. It’s your beauty I choose to bask in. Your laughter that brightens the dark. Your shared Instagram memes crack me up. Your insights, crafted-ness and God-given perspective that cause me to gasp in wonder and awe. Silly and authentic. My sober guard comes down and darkness flies afar.  

“I not only have my secrets, I am my secrets. And you are your secrets,” wrote Buechner. Authors asking questions of the human condition. The Buechners, the Dillards, the Yanceys and Mannings whose anchor chains and mud hooks keep me moored to hope. “Our secrets are human secrets, and our trusting each other enough to share them with each other has much to do with the secret of what it is to be human.”