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. 

Cyanide, Socialism and Freedom

           Photo by Danilo Alvesd on Unsplash

Mom kept a vial of cyanide in her jewelry box. Perhaps it was a powerful reminder of her family’s escape from Latvia. Or she just wasn’t sure what to do with it. Its original purpose was clear; if bartering border crossings with soap and cigarettes went terribly awry---swallow the pill.

As a kid I didn’t understand the backstory. Pieces I never learned. My grandfather, Augusts Mitrevics, his wife Lidija and two children fled the Latvia they knew seeing the Latvia it would become. He was a famous theatre actor. Even has a page on IMDB. 

They erased him. A visitor to Latvia up to 1991 would find no record of my Grandfather. Though he appeared on postcards. Though he was a leading actor. He turned down their offer of summers in Siberia (and springs, and winters…) for the freedom of another country. For that he was shunned.

It’s hard to live with a boot in your neck and a gun in your back. They said that in Latvia, in 1978, as the freedom movement bubbled. When you don’t have freedom, you appreciate it. When its the air you breathe, you take it for granted.

I am next in line in a chain that escaped cyanide and socialism. Seeing life and liberty taken and given away jars me. Governors barring people from working to meet their needs is morally wrong. To tell people where they can go (shop, drive, celebrate) puts people in chains un-American. Yes, one says, ‘but these are only little links for your own good.’ No matter the size of the chain it’s still bondage.

The poison was a reminder. Pilgrimage to a new land. An imperfect place not fully home. A free country. Mom would have fought to keep it that way; grandparents too. The path forward is clear. Don’t swallow the pill. 

Hard Seasons and A Hidden Hand

                                                    Photo by James Wainscoat on Unsplash

“So I will restore to you the years that the swarming locust has eaten,
the crawling locust, the consuming locust, and the chewing locust…”

 Driven from my home I drive round it in circles. Threatened with a TRO (temporary restraining order) I am forced to leave. Numb and confused I call a friend for advice. Checking into a cheap hotel that boasts a pool---a plot of dirt, avoiding the hotel boasting rooms by the hour. “How long will you be with us?” Hotel to hotel, one night grows to three weeks. 

Our life calendars are marked by cataclysmic crisis; pre-Covid, after the divorce, before the baby, during the cancer.  Life is lived segment by segment, season into season; childhood, college, that first job, first love, that fast (impractical for a family) car.

Memory is achromatic. Seeing experience as only black. Perceiving periods as pitch-dark. Not seeing ‘the strong hand of love hidden in the shadows.” That period was less a punch to the gut than it was a hollowness of the gut; feeling numb—which is no feeling at all.

 It was the zenith of the locust plague. Devastation cleared the ground for restoration. The locusts destroy what you’ve built with heart and hand. They overwhelm so you see no way out; only dark, only wing and leg. 

From the detritus of crystalline wings springs new life. A new season. Grasshoppers gnawed the first marriage to the root. A season of singleness and necessary soul work. Separation from the daughter burst into rich relationship that continues into her adulthood. New friendships and enriched older ones. Then the greatest surprise; the friend that is my wife ten years into these healing years.

God’s heart for us is that we are not depressed and distressed by the swarm. Life isn’t always driving circles in the dark. The grasshoppers will move on. The air will clear. Soul and seeds survive. In the light we will see what the strong hand of love was working in the shadows.

Too Quiet For The Cowboys

No clopping horses or ladies to the nines,

No corner saloon, or chop houses to dine,

Not dressed up to go to meeting,

No bear hugs or back-slap greeting.

The boardwalk is oddly without noise,

Sundays are too quiet for the boys.

Moon rises, dudes thirst for what’s not water,

Heading for places you wouldn’t send your daughter.

Lace and taffeta revealing leg and thigh,

Many are the barmaids, few customers are nigh.

Oh coquettish sway, each move, she cloys,

The bars’ too quiet for the boys. 

The dust and smells, Old Garth lists well, make your blood run hot,

No cowboy competition, the Fairgrounds an empty lot.

No lassos sailing over calves, no sequined girls waving flags,

Hand loosed from the saddle, saved by wags.

Not just weekend showmen, they’re the real McCoys,

Rodeo’s hushed and gone too quiet for the boys.

Aspens white and dark-green pine down the trail a-ways,

Water’s flowing hear it roaring like the waves.

There’s a quiet and a speaking heard in Gods wide open space,

So you can keep a going; take a step, run the race.

The wildness of life brings these many joys,

But its gone too quiet for the boys. 

Catgut Strings and the Music of Life

                                                          Photo by Jie Wang on Unsplash

The feel of the smooth, cold, black wood in the crook of my neck. The smell of pine; amber clear rosin encased in a block of wood. Fingers comfortably resting in the ‘frog’. White horse hair, the stick growing taut as screw increases tension. I lift the violin again, cheek in place, fingers on board, my back straight against the back of the wooden chair that every public school student is familiar with.

I played violin for seven years beginning in junior high. I was third string. This due largely to grace and that there weren’t enough violin players in orchestra. The principal violinist was a musician. He could arrange music in his head. Saying things like, “What if we played it half an octave down in the lower staff?” I was out of place. I played by rote. I learned where my fingers fit on the violin according to the stave. Half an hour every day after school I practiced. I learned to listen. I learned to play. Always by rote; mechanical.

Rimsky-Korsakovs’ Scheherazade, Mussorgsky’s Pictures at an Exhibition; Miss Craig had us play current and classical music. Each section playing its own part. For it to work everyone had to play well together. Erik the first violin, Nancy the second violin and I had to sound perfect together. So too the percussion section, the woodwinds, all of us together. I felt out of place. Til bow landed on string.

The instrument becomes part of you. Calloused fingers fit catgut strings. A position that once felt awkward now flows. The novice can make beautiful noise. The true maestro makes melody come alive. The instrument is part of you. You are part of the whole.

The violin case remains closed somewhere in storage. Tempted to pick it up again. Do I miss sculpted beauty held perfectly close? So much I don’t remember. Is it the oneness I miss? 

Daily life is all kind of hit and miss. I feel out of place. Most days I miss the mark. Anxiety climbs out of bed with me. Feeling like I cannot do it. Until that horsehair bow hits the string.