Flor y Canto

Gratitude & Directions to the New Spring Garden

2011-04-13T13:16:00.011-04:00

I want to thank you all who have stopped by to read these ramblings of mine as I've rummaged through pieces of reconstruction and restoration the past couple of years - piecing together a new life built upon the strongest remnants of the old one.

When I started writing, it was using the pen as a shovel to move a mountain - one shovelful at a time. I've moved a lot of earth these past years - along with some of you, my companions in shoveling.

Now it's time for me to turn over some new ground. This plot of 'Flor y Canto' will lay fallow now - resting while I plant some new seeds in a new garden. Thank you for listening, following along and sharing the good road with me. All the best to you in this Season of Renewal.

And I hope if you're in the neighborhood you'll stop by and say "hi." You'll find me here:
www.flowerandsongartgarden.blogspot.com
May our paths cross again in a good way.

The End -- and The Beginning

2011-03-15T09:56:00.009-04:00

there's all kinds of roads out there
good roads, bad roads,
smooth ones, rough ones

you can find yourself going
through good neighborhoods or bad
they're all out there
to choose from --

look for me on the good road
hope to see you there

><><><>< This is the final scene from the last of the silent film era. A favorite. See you on the good road. ><><><><

The new patch of dirt el poquito is digging: www.flowerandsongartgarden.blogspot.com

Restoration: The Full Circle

2011-03-08T10:26:00.008-05:00

“Emancipate yourselves from mental slavery,
none but ourselves can free our minds.”
- Bob Marley ‘Redemption Song’

It was a turning point - one of those pivotal moments in a life that remain etched in your mind forever. The elderly gentleman sat across the table from me; others were present, also, but in that moment, only his eyes locking onto mine existed; all else, including the others, receded into a hazy background.

A patch of bad fortune had recently fallen upon me, but as often happens, my bad fortune was quickly followed by good fortune. First, was falling down an unseen rabbit-hole that challenged my mortal invincibility and questioned my immediate survival, then, followed by the good fortune of an older man whom I trusted, just ‘happening’ to arrive --- from 2000 miles away - Mexico.

Tlakaelel, an elder made wise through 90 years of life experience, had befriended myself and my family a number of years before. That was a previous good fortune - that somehow our paths from Mexico to Michigan would cross and a bond forged. His guidance and friendship had meant much to me throughout the years - but it all felt as if it had been leading up to this point - this single moment. His words became a guide to me out of the darkness. Nothing more than this needed saying, and in fact, I remember nothing more than these words from that visit. These were my marching orders. Five years later, they continue to be. Like seeds planted deep inside of me, I tend them daily, some days better than others, but tended nonetheless - essential truth to be embodied during hard and difficult times:

“If you are enslaved, do not be a slave. If you are imprisoned, do not be a prisoner.”

On this day, these words were planted deeply inside me - and thus began the Restoration of one man: body, heart, mind and spirit.

Restoration: Saving Myself from Dinosaurs

2011-01-24T13:31:00.008-05:00

It was an ordinary summer day. Well, an ordinary summer day for an animal feeling cornered. It started the same as all the other days; at 6:45 the ground shook along with my bed from the rumble of giant earth-moving machines as they started their massive engines outside my door. As they trembled the earth, each one sounded off its own high-pitched, ear-piercing, beep-beep-beep-reverse-warning signal that called out with each backing up: “Look out or be crushed!” ---

And “WAKE UP! NOW!”

This was my morning alarm clock every day for months as the street and park near my home were excavated to replace ancient infrastructures. It was my personal view of urban renewal along with my up-close and constant view of my own Inner Reactionary.

Still, in context of: ‘All the things that can go horribly wrong in life’ - it was a small thing. It wasn’t loss of home or health or loved ones. It wasn’t hunger, war or natural disaster. It wasn’t one of the ‘Bigger Things in Life to Be Survived.’ By comparison, it was one of the smaller things, but still, big enough in its constancy to seem HUGE! If there were ever an occasion for feeling crazy with complaint, this was it. All feelings of safety or being settled and comfortable at home were tossed out the door.

A grove of hundred year old willows were clear-cut in a day, ground down into nothing but a giant hill of woodchips - a heartbreaking shadow of what once was lush, green and alive. The Giant Machines tore and ripped at the ground, sending the wildlife fleeing out of the trees and bushes and into the neighboring yards. Every living creature, including myself, felt the squeeze and alarm of being cornered and closed in. Alarm that for me led to LOTS of complaining, moaning and turning music up loudly to try to drown out the constant pounding forces outside my door.

It didn’t help.

I tried ignoring it, but that was impossible starting every day at 6:45, awoken from a deep, sound sleep -- again. And again, and again, and again. This was too big to ignore. It was impossible with the piercing beeps and clawing at the earth all day long, the dirt and dust coating everything and the not knowing how long this could all last. Overnight, home had become a fitfully uncomfortable place to be with an endless timeframe. Irritation greased the already slippery slope, adding fuel for short fuses, curt words and tempers to flare. The choices were limited: be driven out of the house; learn to live with it; or go nuts - and nuts was looking frighteningly close and within easy reach.

William James, 19th century psychologist and philosopher said, “Wisdom is knowing what to overlook.” Simple instructions - all it takes is practice - lots of it. And practice and practice and then more practice. “You can’t chase two rabbits at once,” a Japanese zen teaching also tells us, or as William James implies: choose your rabbits carefully.

A HUGE part of finding ‘peace’ is determining which rabbits to ignore. Unfortunately, we often choose to give our greater attention to the negative ones -- the thoughts and reactions that we’re so good at spinning endlessly. If that weren’t bad enough, we add fuel to this crazy-making fire by gathering all of the bad news we allow ourselves to be bombarded with, unedited, 24 hours a day, making us feel weak in an overwhelming world. We’ll never run out of tragedy. We’ll never lack for worry or fear. The thing is, our lack of ‘paying attention’ makes us miss out on a great deal of the good that lives parallel to that ‘awful track’ - the good that helps to strengthen us so we can meet the challenges head on.

I’ve been here before, feeling cornered by circumstances. My mind consumed by troubles. We all have - and will be again - if we’re lucky.

Yeah, I said it -- lucky.

I almost ‘left’ this place a few years ago [a euphemism for ‘died’]. I got lucky. I got to stick around to smell more roses - and smelling all the roses of life became the most important thing to me. After you’ve been through rough times and survived, you feel easily that you should be given a break, receive a ‘Free Pass’ on trouble - at least for a while when you’re exhausted and recovering. You think you should only have roses in your life. But it doesn’t work that way. Ever. Life continues rolling on same as always with its two rails - the ‘Beauty’ rail right alongside the ‘Ugly’ one, never one far from the other, ours to learn how to ride -- both, together, simultaneously; ours to choose which to pay more attention. So, yeah, despite troubles, frustrations, worries and fears - all a part of the natural landscape - I’m lucky enough to still be here to have troubles.

You see, like most, I’d like to stick around a while to “smell the roses.” Unfortunately, we don’t get to have only roses. There’s no comedy without tragedy, no light without dark, no up without down, and no roses without shit. If we’re still gifted with life here on this messed up, troubled planet, then we’re always traveling on two rails at once, parallel and simultaneously, often with more choice than we believe if we’re not blinded by our own sense of powerlessness. According to Holocaust survivor Victor Frankl, we always have one power that remains -- the power of choice; choice in how we use our minds, what we attend to and our attitude. His intact mental survival of horrific circumstances was summed up when he said: “Remember the leverage point: my attitude.” If he could arrive at that, surrounded by death and destruction, surely so can I. The bar he placed for ‘Responsibility for One’s Own Mental Hygiene’ is a high one indeed, but still, within human reach. He was one of us, after all. He showed us our capability.

The two rails of ‘Beauty’ and ‘Horror’ live side by side - always. Always has been that way, always will be. Such is life here, no? You can’t have one without the other. Not in this place.

So, if I can’t have one without the other, well, I guess I need to accept the fact of having both and get on with the art of living and staying on the rails - both of them.

The months of relentless excavating outside my door, gave me plenty of chances to practice not falling off the rails; to practice keeping my attention constant and steady; to practice managing my crazy, frenetic, monkey-mind. It was this constant source of irritation and destruction that drove the lesson in. Along with a rose.

About a month into living with my new neighbors - the earth-eating dinosaurs, as I came to call them - I stepped outside my door to escape my home by taking a walk. My iPod was securely in place, feeding the calming sounds of Bach’s cello suites straight into my head in an attempt to override the sounds of destruction. The trucks and bulldozers were gnashing and grinding their way through their work - a sight and sound that was impossible to block out. They had been working all day, even through the rainstorm that had just finished pouring down. The sun was reappearing, the water on the streets rose in steamy evaporation. Everything was refreshed for a moment, washed in all of this cleansing rain.

I skirted the edge of the street a safe distance from the giant machines, trying as best I could to focus on the calming music rather than the ripping and tearing sounds. Two rails at once - the challenge was on: could I focus enough on the good one to drown out the irritating one? It wasn’t easy - nearly impossible, but I continued trying as I walked on.

Coming to a quieter corner, I crossed the street to gain more distance. That was when I saw it. There, in the most nondescript place, growing untended under a stop sign, not a part of anyone’s garden -- there it was: THE most beautiful rose I had ever seen in my life! I was stopped in my tracks. Bach’s cello caressed me with calming, soothing silkiness while the last few drops of rain that hadn’t yet evaporated clung to the tips of the petals - fiery, yellow-orange petals kissed with a blush of red --this delicate, boldly strong, perfect rose, born of fire and rain!

Taking it all in, I basked in the awe of this hushed, unassuming beauty that I knew very few would ever have chance to see growing on this curb under a stop sign. I drew in the warm, humid breath of the rose as its perfume ascended in an invisible cloud of what seemed the essence of hundreds of roses. The sight! The aroma! The beauty! The heaven on earth! The moment of ecstasy that can be spoken of, but never really fully conveyed. Rare, ineffable beauty.

In that epiphany moment it all came together: the Beauty and the Horror - and how they live side by side -- always. In the background, the sounds of machinery continued shredding the air, while before me I inhaled the purest, most pleasurable fragrance that lifted me upward. Ecstasy floating me higher while the heavy weight of gravity and irritation tried to tug and pull. Together. Always. Both.

I chose to float.

I floated home, floated through my day, floated into the night and into the next morning when the Giant Machines awoke me again. I laughed. They no longer irritated me - well, at least not as they had for so many weeks before. They no longer had ahold of me by the throat with the power to ruin my day.

That was the day they changed. Or rather, I guess I changed. Instead of the horrible ‘Invasion of the Giant Machines’ they began to look more like curious dinosaurs behind a fence in a zoo. After all, they were as big as dinosaurs, were threatening and made lots of noise like I imagined dinosaurs would, and they grazed all day while stomping on the ground. But they were also comical now, and I could finally laugh more than complain. I decided that I could live with dinosaurs - at least for the remaining warm months until winter would arrive and they would go into dormant hibernation.

That single rose inspired me. I revisited it again and again like an old friend. I took its picture to remind me to gather the good things, too, to not allow my mind to be primarily occupied with complaint and trouble. Keeping my eyes wide open I hope and expect to find more of the Beautiful and Good. It’s out there - in abundance. Or rather, it’s in here, in my mental garden - just waiting to be cultivated.

Cold Michigan winter arrived. The dinosaurs quieted. Things returned to normal. The earth is resting -- healing, laying dormant. The dust has settled, including in my mind. We await a new spring and the return of a new green.

I have a new mental health regime now: I take daily walks. Simple enough, eh? But not just mindless walks filled with my mental chatter of the day, but expeditions with eyes open - to see what I can see, to find what I can stumble upon in my wanderings, unexpected beauty hidden in nondescript places. It’s hiding perhaps under a most ordinary stop sign saying: “Stop! Look!”

It’s a good thing to practice - appreciating Beauty. You just might find it saves you one day from the dinosaurs out there stalking you. Saved, by choosing wisely, what to overlook.

Restoration: Attention

2010-12-11T11:01:00.006-05:00

I picked up the telephone: “Hello?”

“I’m dying.” Those were the first words out of her mouth.

My head scrambled for a thought - fast! Mostly thinking, ‘how do I respond to that?!’

I paused, took a breath and just went for it: “No, you’re not,” I answered without skipping a beat. “You’re talking to me on the phone right now.”

She stopped for a moment. I don’t think she had quite expected that response. The quiet hung in the air, finally interrupted by her reasonably dejected voice: “Well, they gave me a death sentence. They said there’s nothing more they can do for me and I’m gonna die.” It was her turn to let the air hang heavy as she waited for an answer to that.

I decided to go out recklessly on a limb: “Well, we all are aren’t we?” She was listening closely now, so I took the advantage and continued: “Some sooner than others - and nobody really knows when somebody else is going to die, do they? They don’t know that. They’re just saying they’re out of tricks in their bag for you - but you’re not dying - not this second. You’re talking to me on the phone right now.”

Silence.

“Where are you right now in your home?” I asked.

“Sitting in a chair.”

“Where? What do you see in front of you?”

“The window.”

“What do you see outside the window?”

“The big pine tree.”

“Anything else?”

“There’s a cardinal in the tree.”

“Good. Watch it!”

Silence. This time the silence didn’t hang heavily, but was a deep, profound kind of silence one is rarely privileged to hear: the deep silence shared with another.

“You’re not dying. You’re alive - you’re talking to me on the phone, and you’re looking out the window and looking at the pine tree with the cardinal in it. How big is that tree? Tell me about it.”

And she did, describing its height and breadth - how it filled the front yard; its deep green needles and the bright red bird - all cast against the steel-grey, winter sky of northern Michigan.

Over time we had many more conversations where she sat in front of that window and described all of the life she saw before her. She described it in detail throughout the seasons: the birds at the feeder - the cardinals and chickadees of winter, the bluebirds in the summer - the oasis that it became to both herself and the birds - her ‘sitting spot’; her zen cushion of meditation. She never spoke to me again that she was dying - not that she didn't think about it, I'm sure. But she chose to bring all her worries, fears and burdens to that tree - and they were heavy and many. That tiny spot of nature helped her to carry them and it also carried her - not dying, but living clear through to her final day.

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Nature heals. Whether looking out at the vista from the mountaintop, the horizon from the shore, or the view of the bird feeder outside the kitchen window, our senses take in the sights, smells and sounds of nature, helping our minds balance out in the most basic and primal of ways. We might find it in sailing the sea, but we might as easily find it staring into the aquarium in a doctor’s office. Nature heals, calms, centers and restores.

Why?

It’s in the basic wiring.

We’re only beginning to tap into the mysteries of our brains, how they function and why sometimes they don’t. Research by University of Michigan psychologist Stephen Kaplan, has led to what he calls the “Attention Restoration Theory.” This study examines how time spent in nature in relaxed attention has a restorative quality for our minds. A simple enough idea - common sense, really. Easy and within reach.

The theory is based upon the observation that the human brain has evolved through thousands of generations spontaneous response to the natural environment. According to Kaplan’s research, our species has developed the mental wiring to have a natural attraction to green, to trees, flowers and plants, water and wildlife. When we pay attention to nature we use a different, more relaxed, involuntary kind of attention. It requires no effort - which for some can bring its own kind of challenge. But for a moment, if we can allow it, our mind can relax, offering us the overall benefits of rested attention, mental clarity and focus.

Kaplan, in his ‘Attention Restoration Theory’, lists four components in enlisting nature’s help to restore inattentive and poor quality concentration:

1) Being away from your everyday environment -“Away” could be as simple as the backyard garden or the park at the corner. The idea being that interacting with nature in any form helps one to move away from ‘tired brain’. Tired brain zaps us, robbing us of our ability to attend.

2) Fascination - What engages us requires no mental effort. When we are fascinated, watching the colors of the sunset, the flock of geese heading south, or listening to the pounding of the waves, we engage with an easy, involuntary attention. It takes little effort to ‘look’. We’re drawn in by the details. Remember, it's been said: ‘God is in the details.’

3) Extent or Scope - So you’re ‘away’ from the everyday, and fascinated by what you behold, touch, hear, smell or taste, but can your remain there? Will your attention remain without becoming bored or restless? If you're satisfied and able to ‘let down’, i.e. safe and comfortable, involuntary attention comes to the fore; directed attention becomes unnecessary. Now there’s sufficient ‘scope or extent’; attention span increases.

4) Compatibility - “Different strokes for different folks.” Interact with the natural environment in a way that is compatible for the individual. Fish, hike, garden, smell the flowers, play with the dog, sit by the river, pet the cat, birdwatch, collect rocks, watch the clouds, walk in the open air, feel the wind as you ride a bike --- Find your way. YOUR way.

When life throws us the unexpected curve ball - the job loss; health crisis; the loss of a loved one through divorce, death or an empty nest - the ordinary bumps and bruises of life - they take their toll, leaving us stressed and potentially eroded. We become more forgetful and challenged in clear thinking. Our emotions get the better of us and we feel like an exposed, raw nerve ending dangling out there being stepped upon, irritated by everything. Our mental quadrant governs it all -- not only our clear cognitive functioning, but also our emotional and coping capabilities.

The details of the unexpected curve ball don’t matter much; our responses do, however, - how we find our way back to repair and restoration - how we reboot ourselves. We all need to reboot from time to time; a good place to begin is by ‘Restoring Attention’ through nature.

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“Don’t think: Look!” - Ludwig Wittgenstein

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For further reading, ask your local public library for: "Your Brain After Chemo: A Practical Guide to Lifting the Fog and Getting Back Your Focus" by Dan Silverman & Idelle Davidson

Paying Attention

2010-11-18T09:34:00.005-05:00

Attention - Concentration of the mental powers; from the Latin attendere: to stretch toward.

Thousands of images, events and fires, both big and small, demand our attention daily -- everything from the kids, to work, to the next apocalyptic disaster around the corner, all vying for limited mental parking space. The parking lot is usually overflowing with a line backed out to the street -- and still, we hope for a little space left over where maybe we can also 'attend' to some of the things that help us stand strong another day - the rejuvenation and restoration we all need to find, if only in the corners of our life, in order to have the reserves and will to rise again, to not only survive, but thrive.

Four facts about mental acreage:

> What you attend to matters.

> What you don't attend to matters as much.

> There's a finite number of parking spots in your lot.

> We each are the parking 'attendant' of our own lot; i.e. it's up to us to carefully attend to who/what enters - OR if we allow everyone/everything that loudly demands entry "NOW!" to enter just because they're loudly demanding [it's always 'now', isn't it?].

We work the gate. We decide to allow entry -- or not. There's no one and nothing else to blame - even if the cars are circling the block, leaning on their horns, flippin' each other off, demanding 'NOW!' like a three year old's tantrum. Best thing to do with overly demanding children is to ignore their unreasonable demands. Just 'cuz they're loud, doesn't mean they should get attention for it.

Patience, delayed gratification and self-restraint don't get a lot of 'attention' these days. It shows - just drive a car for 15 minutes among your fellow travelers if you doubt it.

Not much time is spent 'attending' to Beauty either, Beauty with a capital 'B', not the trivial kind you can buy, but the awe-some kind that stops you in your tracks as you hustle forward in your busy day.

Walk with a two year old discovering for the first time the world laid out before them and you'll experience it: "That leaf! That leaf! Look!" and you know you are in the presence of a 'high being' in a state of awe and ecstasy.

If we can stop to look, we'll see how the raindrops from the night's rain have settled on the fallen leaf like jewels - an ordinary leaf - the same as millions of others, except this one - it captures the glint of sun rising in the morning sky - it magnifies the light, magnifies Life and Beauty ---

IF

we stop to notice it - an ordinary leaf on a slab of ordinary gray concrete, made Extraordinary by stopping, getting close, and noticing.

Attending.

It takes practice. It's not just for two year olds and crazy artists.

We are the gatekeepers of OUR Mental Parking Lots - and mine has gardens, flowers and vines growing all over it. If I let you in, please park carefully and know this is premium parking space [I don't let just anything in!] and please pay attention to not run over the sunflowers growing along the edges.

To read more, ask your local library for:

'Rapt - Attention and the Focused Life' by Winifred Gallagher

'Restoration' - the Mental: Avoiding Bad Roads

2010-11-04T13:47:00.007-04:00

“The mind is its own place, and in itself can make a heaven of hell, and a hell of heaven.”
- John Milton

Over a year ago, I started writing about the “Wheel of Restoration.” I had an outline laid out and it would only take me a short time to write the basics of ‘whole person wellness’ as I’ve learned it thus far in my observations in a life-long career in the healing arts and navigating my own health challenges. Thing is, when you set out to ‘teach’ something and you also know that you yourself are a life-long student, sometimes life comes along and knocks you upside the head with some new schooling, some more advanced lessons on the subject -- especially if your eyes and ears are willingly open to being schooled.

I should have known better. I do know better, but I forgot.

To me, that right there is the core of healing: usually, a circuitous path of forgetting and remembering -- and as long as we keep remembering, keep reminding one another, not so much by our words, but by our actions, we keep moving forward in the strengthening direction - the direction of healing and restoration - whatever it is one thinks ‘That’ looks like and however one personally measures it.

I wanted to write down some of the things I’d learned over the past years from working with thousands of clients throughout my lifetime, to pass on to others, especially my children, gathered anecdotes, thoughts and reflections on the lessons I’ve been fortunate to have been shown over the years, reflected in the lives of diverse people struggling and working hard to be and do their best, owning responsibility for their bodies, health and lives, and DOING something about them. Often, a writer thinks that they are writing to or for someone; always, to some degree, we are also writing to ourselves.

I’ve met some amazing people over the years; they all had something to teach me. Some taught me what a person willing to take ownership and responsibility looks like, others were an example of other roads - ones I’d rather not go down.

Remember those television commercials where an elderly person falls on the floor and helplessly cries out, “I’ve fallen and I can’t get up!”? Motivated to never be like that, my elderly mother’s response was: “Never lose your ability to get yourself up off the floor!” As an independent widow she knew the importance of this. To her, what would save her if she fell was herself -- her own ability to rise up again.

She practiced what she preached, intentionally getting herself down on the floor daily to do floor exercises --- and then getting herself back up again - sometimes by ‘hook or by crook’ - but always, she got herself back up.

“NEVER LOSE YOUR ABILITY TO GET YOURSELF UP OFF THE FLOOR!” - Mom at age 90

That’s what I’ve been busy doing for the last five years, since my personal world went through a revolution. I fall, metaphorically speaking, and by hook or by crook, I work at getting back up, even if it is sometimes frustratingly, two steps forward - a limp and a half back. Still, always forward, thankfully. There are a variety of floors one can fall down upon - and as many ways of rising.

When in a revolution, become a revolutionary. Resist! Fight! Rise up and stand toe-to-toe with the Challenger. Rise Again! And again, and again, and again.

In the summer of ’09 I began writing what was going to be this short series on ‘Restoration’ and Healing. I divided the wheel into four quadrants and was writing on them one by one: the Physical, the Emotional -- and then we came to the Mental....

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! [inside joke for the one or two who know the man behind the curtain]

I thought I could easily and quickly write about the Mental Quadrant - the ‘how-to’ of maintaining quality mental activity and ability. And it’s true, I have learned a lot about that over the years. I’d even recently been studying the subject in my personal recovery from medically-related cognitive issues. Evidently I was going to ‘study’ this from a deeper place; I was swept down the slippery slope, obliging me to “get myself back up” just as mom had instructed.

It wasn’t easy - and in the condition I found myself in, I had nothing to say on the subject -- not until I got back up that slippery mountainside.

When we find ourselves sliding down that mental slope, it’s usually because of a combination of events and circumstances, mixed with lowered ability to ‘spring back’, fueled by a cocktail of adrenaline and other bodily stress hormones. All come together in a confluence with our name on it --- and > SNAP! < .... there we go..... down that slope.

And there I went. Reflections on the Mental Quadrant [which is the governor/determiner of the Emotional, also] are actually all chronicled in these writings of the past year - mostly between the lines, behind the language of poetry: chrysalises and monarchs; haiku, cutting to the bone; and the occasional essay of musings on personal topics such as mortality and endurance. I wrote about sailing high seas, both my young sailing son’s actual waters, and metaphorically, my own personal paddling through choppy seas. I couldn’t hit it directly - straight on - I had to come at it sideways; I had to tack my way forward. I dug my paddle in and pulled hard.

And I’ve been pulling since, digging the paddle into the strong current. This moment of paddling, the only thing of importance. Forward >>> the direction.

When the body becomes not as steadily reliable, when you feel as though your life-long chassis, the old, steady-and-ready vehicle that it once was has somehow betrayed you, then preserving mental ground becomes of utmost importance. It always was important, but it was taken for granted that there was wiggle room. Now, with other parts challenged, mental strength becomes more highly valued. We NEED our rudder of stability and clarity. It needs our attention. Where we place our attention can literally be the difference between life and death and most definitely IS the difference in the ever-fluctuating quality of life.

Where we place our attention is key. A stable, alert, awake, creative, problem-solving mind is what we all want. But how do we create that? Like a fit body, for most of us it isn't just going to happen. It will take work and attention.

We begin at the beginning: WHERE we place our attention.

To be continued....

[Other writings on ‘Restoration’ are archived from July ’09 to present, some under that heading, others hidden in 17 syllables of haiku or instructions from Rumi.]

Stillpoint

2010-10-24T09:14:00.000-04:00

waiting
for the dawn's release from night
for the rosebud's open bloom
all good things: in their own time
without demand or force
even as we wait
ill winds passing by

the long wait of the rose
the perfume that will not be hurried

wash my spirit clean - haiquatro

2010-09-13T00:30:00.005-04:00

my thoughts were angry
holding me hostage again:
they were only thoughts.

Previously, I
held many beliefs sacred:
they were only thoughts.

Yesterday was hard.
I do not remember more:
they were only thoughts.

Today, rejoicing
in lightning, thunder and rain:
my spirit is washed.

Navigation

2010-08-30T00:25:00.003-04:00

haiku for my sons

Never looking back
Fixing on your own North Star
Your sails billow full

Fire in the Sky - Night Magic

2010-07-04T10:05:00.010-04:00

The sun was going down last night and the mosquitos were having a holiday feast. I was providing. I was headed indoors to escape them, when I looked across the road into the darkness of the park across the way, and saw something I'd never seen before. The end of my day echoed the start of my day, a synchronicity of what I had read earlier from Ray Bradbury's 'Zen in the Art of Writing', stumbling upon a 4th of July childhood memory of Mr. Bradbury's. An excerpt:

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A final memory.

Fire balloons.

You rarely see them these days, though in some countries, I hear, they are still made and filled with warm breath from a small straw fire hung beneath.

But in 1925 Illinois, we still had them, and one of the last memories I have of my grandfather is the last hour of a Fourth of July night forty-eight years ago when Grandpa and I walked out on the lawn and lit a small fire and filled the pear-shaped red-white-and-blue-striped paper balloon with hot air, and held the flickering bright-angel presence in our hands a final moment in front of a porch lined with uncles and aunts and cousins and mothers and fathers, and then, very softly, let the thing that was life and light and mystery go out of our fingers up on the summer air and away over the beginning-to-sleep houses, among the stars, as fragile, as wondrous, as vulnerable, as lovely as life itself.

I see my grandfather there looking up at that strange drifting light, thinking his own still thoughts. I see me, my eyes filled with tears, because it was all over, the night was done, I knew there would never be another night like this.

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Now, in the dusk, I looked across at the park and saw a man with three kids building a small fire - then the fire became a glowing orange orb lifting up into the sky. This is it! I'm seeing a fire balloon! Ray Bradbury in 1925 Illinois has come alive tonight in 2010! - and I ran to the street for a closer and better look. It was an incredible sight, just as he said, watching this mystery of fire rising into the air - an unexplainable orb of fire rising, rising, rising --- higher and higher, burning as it rose till it was just a small, distant, orange dot high and far in the sky.

It truly was magical, from the sense of having never seen anything like it before - and only made sense, in light of having just read earlier in the day about such a thing as fire in the sky.

Expect the unexpected.

Happy Fourth of July

love, magic, fire,
el po

~more waking with Rumi~

2010-06-16T00:52:00.013-04:00

~~ gracias, for all the reminders, Friend ~~

Today, like every other day, we wake up empty
and frightened. Don't open the door to the study
and begin reading. Take down a musical instrument.

Let the beauty we love be what we do.
There are hundreds of ways to kneel and kiss the ground.

For You, Sitting There ~

2010-06-12T23:04:00.006-04:00

by Jelal'uddin Rumi

The breeze at dawn has secrets to tell you.
Don't go back to sleep.
You must ask for what you really want.
Don't go back to sleep.
People are going back and forth across the doorsill
where the two worlds touch.
The door is round and open.

Don't go back to sleep.

Revival Haibun

2010-06-05T13:32:00.001-04:00

I’m not so much interested in
learning how to die
as I am in practicing how to live.

If you only knew how the earth
really can open up and swallow you whole,
how a complete universe can disappear
in the blink of an eye
regardless of your nationality,
race or religious affiliation,
despite your status, wealth or a future
secured with a pension and good insurance policy,
equally devouring the believers
and the non-believers alike,
with a ravenous, insatiable appetite.
If you only knew ---

you would live as if
this moment really counted --
as if you counted.

"It's the opportunity of a lifetime, wouldn't you say?"

2010-05-28T09:53:00.007-04:00

My all-time favorite television moment:

Northern Exposures; Season 3, Episode 8: "A Hunting We Will Go"; the conclusion.

On hearing Ruth-Ann is turning 75, young Ed, feeling concern for her mortality, wants to give her a meaningful gift that will last forever. Ruth-Ann seizes the opportunity of a lifetime.

Enjoy.

Seize the opportunity...

Teach Me to Dance

2010-05-24T14:14:00.004-04:00

"A man needs a little madness, or else -- he never dares cut the rope and be free." - Zorba the Greek

A Cinco de Mayo Gift for Arizona - a day late

2010-05-06T10:58:00.005-04:00

Machete!

I'm thinking once again: 'I need to get me a machete.' What can I say? Boys with toys? They're really good for whacking down those overgrown jungle parts of the back forty?

They're cool. That's good enough.

And then this li'l sump'n passes my way...

Synchronicity? Coincidence? Recruitment?

hahahaha! Yes, it's hysterical -- in every sense of that word. And here's another word for ya: Mexploitation. Soon we'll have a movie about it that looks like it's got a little sump'n for everyone - from your basic slasher aficianado to yer Lindsay Lohan fan [as the pistol packing nun!] to your stay-at-home activist [you just never know who your neighbors really are].

Yep. Time to get that machete in time for the premiere. Here's a special trailer to whet America's appetite:

http://www.aintitcool.com/node/44943

This Too Shall Pass -- OK Go

2010-05-04T22:10:00.004-04:00

Enjoy ---

This clip came via a 9 yr old. Personal favorite line [well there's many - this is one]:
"'Cuz when your mind don't move then your knees don't bend"

Flexibility of body AND mind = aging gracefully.

This Too Shall Pass -- by the band OK Go

You know you can't keep letting it get you down -
And you can't keep dragging that dead weight around
Is it really all that much to lug around -
Better run like hell when you hit the ground
When the morning comes, When the morning comes
Can't stop those kids from dancing -
but why would you want to?
Especially when you are already getting yours
'Cuz when your mind don't move then your knees don't bend -
But don't go blaming the kids again
When the morning comes, When the morning comes
When the morning comes, When the morning comes
When the morning comes, When the morning comes
Let it go, This too shall pass
Let it go, This too shall pass
You know you can't keep letting it get you down,
no you can't keep letting it get you down
Oh Is it really all that much to lug around,
and you can't keep letting it get you down
When the morning comes....
(oh you can't keep letting it get you down,
no you can't keep letting it get you down).

No Longer Landlocked!

2010-04-13T10:55:00.003-04:00

Popeye headed out. Enough of this being on land! He's back on the water, so for those of you who like to live vicariously, who also wish they could hit the open water, live on a dime, call a bag of rice a bed and live lightly and free - this is for you. At the moment he's part of a crew sailing relief supplies down to Haiti. Here's a short clip of an earlier trip this year by the same group.

For more info, or to keep up with their travel here's a Facebook page link:
http://www.facebook.com/pages/Miami-Beach-FL/Schooner-Liberty-Fan-Page/257370667691?ref=mf

Vernal Haiku

2010-03-23T09:48:00.005-04:00

spring in the garden
winter survived once again
dreaming Buddha grins

Aman Iman - Water Is Life: Teach Us Endurance

2010-03-02T14:01:00.014-05:00

"Your only obligation is to live and be happy." - Camus

Part ll: Further Explorations on the Trail

Here in the North Country at end of winter, endurance is the quality needed most of all. The snow, cold and months of overcast skies and darkness conspire together, challenging us to rise again as we wait one more day for the spell to be broken by Spring.

Frankly, folks are depressed here in greater numbers; 'checking out' in one variation or another; flirting with the darkness, vulnerable and susceptible to its sway. Some of you know exactly what I'm talking about when I say our endurance is tested daily. Camus' "only obligation - to live and be happy" is tested, also.

So, as I often do, I turn to my favorite text - the dictionary, and ask the oracle to define 'endurance' for me.

Endure:

1) to carry on through despite hardships

2) to bear with tolerance

3) to continue in existence; to remain; to last.

Not an easy task, but a simple one: to carry; to bear; to continue.... Regardless, if you're looking at a long life ahead or have been told by some NOT-omnipotent human that you "have six months left to live," -- today's ability to endure, to remain, is a successful day.

Our obligation to be happy? First, one has to endure and from that ground we stand strong [or as strong as we are able] and aim our daily arrows at what might bring us some happiness - whatever it is our hearts find precious. What is your precious? Strengthen your bow arm, take aim and let your arrows fly....

With that in mind, I wanted to share with you this clip. It may seem long at almost eighteen minutes, but would I steer you wrong?! If at any point this past winter you've spent ANY time reflecting on "my life is soooo hard"; if you've spent one second questioning if all the hard work of facing one more day is within your capacity; if you've spent one dark moment thinking of alternatives to being 'here' - then this 18 minutes will be well-invested. Trust me.

I've watched this myself many times over the recent days since discovering it [thanks, Luis Alberto Urrea, www.luisurrea.com]. I'll let it speak for itself and just tell you that at 14 min. the screen will go black for a few seconds, but then continues and is well worth your last few minutes of attention. All I will say, is that from hereon, whenever I think that my life is too hard, too challenging, when I question my ability to endure longer, I will remember the Touareg people of northern Africa, a tribe who unquestionably KNOW the definition of Endurance; and this group of musicians, Tinariwen, who have used music and the guitar as some of their arrows aimed "to live and be happy" beyond difficult circumstance.

Friday Night Riff: Mortality, Wealth 'n Art

2010-01-29T19:30:00.006-05:00

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Your only obligation is to live and be happy. - Albert Camus

There's that joke about 'if you want to make God laugh, just tell him your plans.' Thought I'd try to give the Ol' Guy a chuckle.

In the year 2010, the average life expectancy in the United States is seventy-eight years old. Seventy-five if you happen to be male. That's AVERAGE. That would give me 20 more years - IF I live an average life span for a US male in 2010. A hundred years ago, I'd be ancient material at 55. Today, through the miracles of medical technology we've managed to extend that span - at all cost, sometimes at a questionable cost of quality. But that's a whole 'nuther conversation about how in the average last year of life, a person in the US will have 10 specialists involved in the care and management of their humble, mortal chassis.

I heard that daunting statistic the other day. Now, being someone who has had daunting statistics before in my doctor's attempts to define my undefinable life, I tend to place statistics out of my reach; they have NOTHING to do with ME - not when you are an Outlier - someone who skews the statistics. Still, average is average, and as non-average as I'd like to believe I am, I also have enough humility intact to know there is nothing special about me. Still, even with irony thrown in to stack the odds, averages prevail. But the complement of 'average' - on the other side of the tracks - is 'Outlier'.

Which brings me to a favorite art piece I saw in the Toronto Art Museum about average mortality statistics. Okay, hang in there with me; this is more elegant than dreary and frightful. In a window like you might see in a jewelry store - a display window - is a velvet-lined case that holds stacks of gold coins; each one representing a month. So 12 months X 78 average years = 936 gold coins TOTAL. Sounds like a lot. It is. Especially when you consider that there are still parts of the world TODAY where you are old at 40. The average life span today in Swaziland is 39 years - or 468 months oF gold coins; exactly half of what we receive in the US.

Each month the artist visits their on-going, ever-changing art piece at the museum; opens the display window case; removes a coin from the neat stack in the blue velvet lined box and drops it onto the ever-growing pile next to the box - another month of their life gone: another gold coin spent. No returns, no do-overs, no exchanges - and perhaps most importantly - NO Complaint Desk; just a gold coin, a token of something much more precious: a month of life - hopefully spent well on things of value.

The artist makes you stop and think about the preciousness - not just in theoretical terms, but in the coins spent, never to be seen again. When I saw this piece, immediately I did the math adding up the 'average' left for myself, if I GET TO have an average US male lifespan of 75 yrs. That's 20 more years X 12 months equaling 240 gold coins of earthly life. A nice amount; a respectable amount; but still, not a HUGE amount. Rather, a FINITE, limited amount, much smaller than the 660 coins spent so far - approximately one quarter of the original total. IF I get to be average. Maybe I have more; maybe less. I could be spending my last gold coin right now and not even know it.

Lucky me! I have a gold coin in my hand today! Lucky you! You have one in yours also! How many more will I get? Where do I want to spend them? How do I want to spend them? With whom do I want to share the wealth with?

It's a precious gold coin in my hands; could be the last one - or maybe there's a dozen or 500 more left. Don't know, but any way you slice it - the one gold coin in my hand right now?: Precious. The only precious one. The rest of the stack is just a 'maybe', 'hopefully', or 'if I'm lucky.'

But luck's a funny, fickle thing. Everybody thinks they want the quantity of a big stack of coins; everyone thinks they want longevity - a hundred years, please. But if there's any chance of my ending up spending those last twelve months with 10 specialist doctors and hundreds of props as the 'average' US citizen with 'artificially induced longevity' will - PLEASE! Let me be mercifully struck by a random, stray bullet to the heart - perhaps while dancing! I'd prefer it.

But then, just as with jokin' on God with MY plans, I imagine my preferences bring a wry grin to the Mysterious One, also.

Bottom line: In the end, it ain't about how much you had in your stack; it's ALL about how you spent it and how much happiness it brought.

Fallow Ground

2010-01-18T02:54:00.004-05:00

I hate the term 'writer's block'. It sounds so purposeless and broken; like a part of me that is important to myself has fallen into disrepair and needs remedy. I remember a favorite author and writing mentor of mine, Luis Alberto Urrea, at one time saying: "Then write about why it's difficult to write." This is my attempt.

At a time in my life when I was very broken physically, a teacher of mine told me I had to learn how to rest 'intentionally'. Up to that point I looked at resting as a necessary inconvenience - a collapse of sorts from my purposeful life. He instructed me to walk out into nature every day, find a place with few people, and sit. Intentionally. Not walk because it's good exercise, but sit, because IT would be good exercise if I did it with intention and purpose. I followed his advice and found myself sitting under a large oak tree every day.

I'd pry myself off my couch or bed, a place I had every right to be collapsed upon due to my condition and force myself to go elsewhere - just to sit there. To make sitting my purpose. To become the best dang 'sitter' I could be. Intentional rest.

It's not so easy. In fact, at first it's quite uncomfortable. The rest of the world seeming so purpose-driven while I was trying to accomplish what really looked like nothing - AND become good at it.

It's the same thing with the rest of my life. I love it when there's lots of energy pouring through me, when the fire is burning high and my only job is to keep up with stoking it. But then there are those times when I have no logs to burn. Limitation can feel painful, confining and imprisoning.

Last week I learned something about that through my own physical limitations - the funky nerves whose electrical circuitry suddenly go into a 'brown-out', the muscles of my legs that follow into weakness and then the joints that won’t operate properly and slide painfully out of place. I was in such a predicament last week; one of the worst episodes I'd had in a while. With that comes lots of opportunity to revisit past 'bad episodes' in my mind and to actively 'awfulize' my situation.

But this time, I refused to go down that road.

You see, I had a plan. I had to drive my son across the border to catch the train so he could visit his friends in Toronto. That meant not only driving - an activity that is difficult under these conditions, but I also had wanted to stop in Detroit on my way home to visit the Detroit Institute of Arts. I've wanted to go there for inspiration for several months. Finally, i was going to go. But then the brown-out happened.

But I'm an ornery ol' cuss - and I was going dammit! I didn't care if all I could do was be there on my feet for only ten minutes. I was going - and NOTHING was stopping me.

Walking from the parking garage to the admissions was a short, painful walk. It looked like I wouldn't be able to be there for long. I paid my eight dollars and stood there staring at the folded up wheelchairs to the side, debating inside myself. Now, I've used the little electric carts before in the stores; those are fun. You can zip around in those like you're in an electric go-cart, but a REAL wheelchair, well, that's a different story - one that I resist. The woman behind the desk noticed me with my cane staring at the wheelchairs and said the most perfect thing she could have to a middle-aged man grappling with ever-changing disability: "Why walk when you can roll?" She made a lot of sense.

"SOLD! I'll take one," and she unfolded it for me. I hopped in and took off. Now, even though this latest hurdle of mine was a challenging one, as it is for most people when they find themselves in the position to use a cane or a wheelchair or some other 'prop' for everyday activity, I have experience.

When I was much younger, I worked in Special Education with kids with multiple disabilities of one type or another. As with all kids, life was playful and you play with what you have. We'd often have wheelchair races - kids against kids, or better yet, kids against staff. I became quite good at 'spinning on a dime', quick stops, ninety degree turns and going fast - really fast! It was a gas! A gas IF you didn't HAVE to be in the chair. Now it was my turn; my turn to HAVE to use a chair; either use it or just go home - AND I WASN'T GOING HOME! Instead, I took off like a madman on wheels! I had art to see. Matisse awaited me along with Diego Rivera and I'd kept them and myself waiting for far too long.

I flew from one room to another, from gallery to gallery, taking in old favorites and new ones I'd never seen. I whipped down the hallways excitedly to the next room, and the next, and the next.... It was a GAS! and I had THE BEST time I've had in recent memory.

Five hours later I looked at the clock and realized it would soon be closing time and I'd spent the day so immersed, so captivated in the Beauty and Creativity that my body with its limitations was nowhere to be found. What normally would have been painful walking to endure, had become a cruise through the best of what humanity has to offer. I'd forgotten my pain, my limitations, simply because I had surrendered to the wheelchair - my cruiser. I'd become so immersed I'd forgotten my body; I'd forgotten to eat, drink water or go to the bathroom. My bodily needs had become nonexistent. There was only art and my creative mind taking it all in. It was a piece of heaven on earth - and I'd only found it by surrendering.

I learned a lot that day about myself and about how art can carry us - a vehicle to somewhere beyond 'here' - especially when 'here' is difficult or challenging. I learned again that sometimes the path of least resistance has its own rewards. But it's also coupled with my ornery will, my stubborn determination that I WILL do it!

It was a strange day; one of the more crappy ones physically, yet mentally and emotionally one of the better ones. It could have so easily been otherwise.

So when the tide of creativity and writing seems to be in an ebb, I try to remind myself that these moments are equally as important as the highly productive ones; uncomfortable, but important. Sometimes we need to rest; to sit fallow and empty. That's the time of taking in inspiration; time to read, to go to the library, to look at art, watch movies and nature - take in - breathe in - INspiration. Later will come the exhalation, the breathing out, the expression. Fallow ground IS productive - as is INTENTIONAL rest.

I leave you with two pictures here. During the Depression, Diego Rivera was commissioned by Edsel Ford to paint a mural in the courtyard of the Art Institute. Rivera lived with Frida Kahlo for several years in the hotel next door while he painted what he considered to be his life's masterpiece: four large, towering walls of murals depicting Nature, Technology and its uses both positive and negative. There are hundreds of stories on those walls. The one at the top of this post is one small frame high above the floor. It got him in a lot of trouble with the Catholic Church in 1932: How dare he depict a baby coming from the earth! To me, it's a wonderful depiction of 'fallow ground' - purposeful, intentional incubation.

The other I just add for fun and interest; an honoring of the spirits of Diego and Frida that resound within those walls. Look closely to the right side and you'll see the two of them stealing a moment of 'love on the scaffolding.'

Here's to Diego and Frida; here's to fallow ground; and here's to surrendering to the creative fire and how IT wants to burn.

December on the North Sea

2010-01-04T13:58:00.004-05:00

Come aboard. This is Popeye's ride - crossing the North Sea from the Netherlands and arriving into Copenhagen. He makes an appearance at 2:09.

Now he sits in our living room watching television, catching up on 'pop culture', asking: "who is so-and-so?" some pop icon he's never heard of. He's been blissfully ignorant of such things while passionately engaged in others. Now he's recovering, regaining his bearings for 'the next thing' which still is yet to appear on the horizon.

His Love is a Tall Ship

2009-12-09T17:53:00.013-05:00

Somewhere out over the North Sea our son sails tonight. Just as here, it's windy and cold; the first wintry days. Out on the North Sea tonight, both the air and water are around 45 degrees; the seas are fairly calm - as are his parents; both are subject to change!

After almost a year of building this brigantine tall ship, they set sail this week, beginning their journey as a green cargo ship. They are heading to Copenhagen to the Climate Control Conference for their 'unveiling' as an eco-friendly form of shipping, relying entirely on wind, sail and strong hands on deck.

His labor of love of this past year is complete. He says: "She sails great! She's fast and smooth!" This year he's lived in the Netherlands as a volunteer working/living with a team of 15-20 international, mostly young people. Everything you see has been cut, carved, varnished, sewn, rigged by their own hands - everything. His work has been as assistant rigger, learning to construct from trees, build masts and yardarms, blacksmith metal parts, sew sail, string lines, shrouds and ratlines - and now, she's complete. Now, he gets to enjoy the fruits of his labor, test her strength and his own.

This will be some of the toughest sailing he's ever done. He knows it - as best as anyone can know what awaits them in an unknowable adventure. It's not easy watching your child go off into the unknown, particularly a large, serious unknown - one serious enough to have life or death consequences. But then they all are, really; life lived fully is full of risks. As his parent, I remind myself he's a man, a man who must find his own, and I find comfort in Joseph Campbell's words about "following your bliss":

"The adventure is its own reward - but it's necessarily dangerous, having both negative and positive possibilities, all of them beyond control. We are following our own way, not our daddy's or our mother's way. So we are beyond protection in a field of higher powers than we know. Trials and revelations are what it's all about."

And with that, we place our trust in our son and in his higher powers that any trials he meets lead him to more and more revelation. At this point, the son is teaching the father; I watch with awe and try to have just a little rub off on me - that courage to leap forward into the unknown, to face the night with little more than the strength of will to remain standing through trials and storms and the exuberance to find joy in this adventure of living life to the fullest!

Godspeed, Tres Hombres.

Good luck, son. Tiahui! Follow your bliss!

And Happy 21st birthday! It's official! It's December 10th - your 21st birthday in the middle of the North Sea!

Blessings on your journey; our love goes with you - always.

Best viewed full screen: Tres Hombres maiden voyage.

MY LOVE IS A TALL SHIP

by Jimmy Crowley

My love is a tall ship and a sweet brigantine,
One of the old girls seldom now seen,
And she heaves to the wind, boys. See how she flies
With stars in her hair, boys, and mist in her eyes.

My love is a tall ship. No finer was seen,
For many's the ocean my true love has been,
And the wind in the rigging it whispers her name,
While brace on the bows watches over the main.

So blow your breezes; blow a fair wind to the Asgard,
And see that lady go o'er the dark rolling sea.

Haul on the sheets, boys. Make up the downhaul,
And step on the oars, lads, and mind you don't fall.
Stand by to brace, boys. Unfurl the topsail,
And we'd soon make her home on the watery main.

So blow your breezes; blow a fair wind to the Asgard,
And see that lady go o'er the dark rolling sea.

My love is a tall ship and a sweet brigantine,
One of the old girls seldom now seen,
And she heaves to the wind, boys. see how she flies
With stars in her hair, boys, and mist in her eyes.

A Place at the Table

2009-12-02T14:48:00.008-05:00

My recent absence was partly due to my attention being elsewhere with four folks I know passing over these past few weeks. Grief and loss being a large part of navigating the emotional seas, I offer this in honor and memory of Tom, James, Ann & Robert [and many others].

A Place at the Table

how did this come to be?

that you would cross my path

at this particular time -

this time like no other time

entering as an old friend walking through

the back porch screen door with the tear in it

that the cats go through.

and there you are standing in my kitchen

looking for your favorite coffee cup

the one with The Incredible Hulk on it -

and your seat at the morning table with the view

overlooking the side yard.

it’s all so neighborly familiar

only thing is usually the neighbors aren’t

that friendly here but you

you’re another story with your

1970’s gigantic glasses still worn by

you and Carol Channing only

your odd quiet ways both comforting and discomforting

at the same time

your powwow hat with the chemo sucks button challenging those

who’d rather not talk about that cancer of yours

that cancer that never could own you

but in the end hovered over you and whispered

in the night that it would not be going away -

not until you went away also

and when that night finally came

and your breath exhaled:

one

last

time

coyotes wailed

owls hushed.

we didn’t realize that you’d gone

and would not be coming back.

but you are gone

gone gone

gone.

but still

when we set the table

we try to remember to give you the cup

with the Incredible Hulk on it

and the seat with the view

of the side yard

and the peony

garden.

A Little More Delusional Optimism

2009-11-30T21:06:00.006-05:00

Excerpted from "Quantum Psychology" Chapter 7 - Taking the Mystery out of "Miracles" by Robert Anton Wilson:

According to Brain/Mind Bulletin (May 1988) John Barefoot of Duke University has found a negative correlation between suspiciousness and longevity. In a sample of 500 older men and women whose health he monitored for 15 years, Barefoot discovered that:

(a) those who scored high on suspiciousness, cynicism and hostility died sooner than all others;

(b) this high mortality remained constant when compared by age, by sex, by previous health, by diet and even by "bad habits." [Those who smoked and remained generally optimistic lived longer than those who smoked and worried about it.]

(c) those who scored highest on hostility had a death rate more than six times higher than others.

In a related study (Brain/Mind Bulletin August 1988) Shelley Taylor of UCLA and Jonathon Brown of SMU refuted the conventional idea that those who score high on "mental health" generally have a fewer number of illusory beliefs. Among the most common illusions of the mentally healthy:

(a) overly positive views of themselves;

(b) convenient "forgetting" of negative facts about themselves;

(c) illusory beliefs about having more control than they do have;

(d) "unrealistic" optimism about themselves;

(e) "unrealistic" optimism about the future in general;

(f) "abnormal" cheerfulness.

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Kinda puts a different spin on what might be viewed as mental health; this might be called Survival Emotional/Mental Health.

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"The greatest discovery of my generation is that a human being can alter his life by altering his attitude." - William James; 19th century pioneer of psychology.

Please Pardon the Mess - Under Reconstruction

2009-11-29T01:15:00.005-05:00

This is a sign I've felt could be tattooed to my forehead in recent years. As I told someone the other day who was warning me with concern about the Great Armageddon coming in 2012 [or a theater near you]: when you've survived your own personal Armageddon you tend not to fret over possible 'End of the World' scenarios. I've fought bigger battles. I'm still standing. I'm not special. I know others just like me.

The 'end of the world' can come in many forms: death, illness, divorce, job loss, estrangement - collapse of the world as we knew it. In this world of the temporary, we've all experienced and will experience many more endings of the world as we know it; that's how this place runs - endings and beginnings. Cycles. One era ends just in time for something new to begin. In between the ending and the new beginning is difficulty and challenge; it's messy. There's debris, old and new boards, nails, tools and a film of construction dust covering everything. It's not attractive or even of sound construction - yet.

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el poquito is a trickster. He'll say 'yes' when you expect 'no', 'goodbye' when he greets you and 'hello' as he leaves. Since the day he arrived at my door he's been playing his tricks on me. Most recently was when I was writing here about 'Restoration' - a conception of healing. I thought this would be written quickly. I had it all mapped out 1-2-3, a project that after having spoken most of it hundreds of times in various ways, I thought I could complete with ease.

I was in the midst of writing about the Emotional quadrant of the Restoration Wheel when teaching became learning from deep inside the lesson; lessons that I thought I already knew well. Hah! Guess I was going to be given a review -- boot camp style.

Life lessons are never easy, especially when they involve endings. Without enumerating my own recent ones, I'll just say it's been challenging times and I had no words to express emotional restoration. I was in the midst of being buffeted by various storms and felt I knew absolutely NOTHING about emotional balance; to write on the subject seemed fraudulent, misleading and arrogant. Plus, all I could do was to try and keep my eye on my own road. The best I could do was to document for myself and for you the miracle of transformation - the Monarchs.

It's all metaphor: the endings of one stage; the leap forward into the unknown chrysalis into the dark; the waiting and the more waiting; the restless waiting, the anxious waiting, waiting for things to change, to get better, to be something different than they are - and then finally, the birth of something completely new and different. The monarchs say it all, everything that I have no language to express about the journey we all must walk, the emotional labyrinth of being human. In some ways, when in the midst of the throes of emotional upheaval, worries and fears, we seem as fragile as a monarch butterfly. But then the metaphor continues. The beautiful, gorgeous, newborn butterfly that seemed so fragile, makes this huge act of courage, flying thousands of miles; a ridiculous act of delusion, a delusion their very survival depends upon.

All I can give you is metaphor and the concept that much of my navigation through is also the result of a delusional optimism that my very survival also depends upon. Perhaps oddly, my emotional navigation has two flags I sail under: Delusional Optimism and a tough, no-nonsense Pragmatic Realism. The QUALITY of the survival is dependent upon that: Delusional Optimism joined with Pragmatic Realism - a tough match - a bridge between the heart and the mind. Emotional restoration, it doesn't happen without the pragmatic tool of the mind at the helm. As best as I know, wielding the power of the mind is the surest way to add ballast in the emotional storms. More on that as we enter into the next quadrant - the mental.

More lessons, courtesy of el poquito: Yes means no; no means yes. Goodbye, it's nice to see you again. Hello, I'll be going now. ; )

Kings of Optimism

2009-10-24T02:24:00.012-04:00

The kids went out on a sunny day last week to release the last of the newly hatched monarch butterflies. Gathering around the aquarium, they lifted the screen top off of it, the breeze tickled the fresh wings, and for the first time they flew into the open air.

To catch a glimpse of a group of children freeing a flock of butterflies on an autumn day in Michigan - well, it doesn't get much better than that.

Hopefully, the brilliant, regal Butterflies will make it south before the north winds push down upon them from Canada.

There's a lot to be learned watching monarchs grow through all their changes - transforming into an ultimately beautiful, and both strong and delicate creature. They're vulnerable to the cold, the rain and wind. Their odds aren't necessarily the greatest. That something so delicate flies thousands of miles through adverse conditions homing in on a place its never seen before is nothing short of amazing - worthy of being called a miracle. From a 'reasonable' point of view, the hope and optimism such a journey requires is beyond the imaginings of most. Yet year after year the journey continues - and many do make it. But of course, some do not.

Such is life.

One chrysalis of this group never hatched. Perhaps a draft got to it, but then why did the others hatch? The little caterpillar died before its final transformation. Of those that did hatch out of their chrysalis' to stretch their wings, some sat on the bushes, not ready to make a move; others took to the skies immediately, quickly lifted up and flew higher and higher above the treetops.

You can imagine which ones will make it to Mexico and which ones will eventually end up covered by the falling autumn leaves.

There's a lot to be learned from these ambassadors of change - fragile, yet strong and persistent. Delicate fierceness.

what is hope?

what are wishes?

what is a prayer?

a monarch flies south against the odds

defining optimism

or delusion

or both.

My friend Marco called today from Texas. A big ol' monarch was in his flower garden gathering nectar and resting as we talked. It had been a long flight from the North. He was one of the ones that made it - that little delusionally optimistic creature. How does he even come to think such things are possible? How ARE such things possible?

I guess it's one more mystery to add to that Big Ol' Pile of Mystery a.k.a. 'The Great Mystery'.

I want to be a good student of the monarchs. A creature that has earned a royal moniker probably has something to teach us. I try to cultivate their internal compass of delusional optimism. I'm pretty new at it; kinda clumsy sometimes. Too easily, with a knee-jerk reaction I revert to old habits of doubt, worry, fear and a boatload of other useless pursuits that don't aid my journey south [or forward] one bit. It seems a worthy challenge to try to emulate their innocent trust in the instinctive process - the bold transformation whose outcome is partially beyond our control. They show us the persistence required: that with will, consistent hard work and not giving up - that maybe - just possibly, with a defiantly, delusionally optimistic and unrealistic attitude, I might one day find myself also in a southern flower garden for the winter.

Seems worth the effort, yes?

Pleasure Haiku

2009-10-12T01:09:00.006-04:00

first taste of flower

first wind under her fresh wings

nectar on the tongue

>!< >!< >l< >l<

tender monarch feet

mariposa newborn breath

ever so lightly

>!< >!< >!< >!<

flower nectar joy

fills ecstatic wings lifting

now levitate home

>!< >!< >!< >!<

Emergence: spreading wings

2009-10-10T09:35:00.009-04:00

As the monarchs come close to emerging, the chrysalis darkens, turning quite black like they're sapping the last juices out of it; remember, they haven't eaten in a couple of weeks.

And then....

Suddenly they emerge in their new form. This one has just stretched his wings out for their first time. He hasn't pumped them up strong yet; the wings hang limply as he still clings to what once was his secure protection where his transformation took place.

The rain has broken here finally; sunny skies and fair winds prevail; they're eating nectar and exercising their wings getting ready for the long journey south.

Soon, open skies.

Metamorphic Magic

2009-10-05T00:39:00.014-04:00

Harvest Moon.

Figured you're all some folks who'd appreciate this not only as the extremely cool window into nature that it is, but also that other window of metaphor of the chrysalis.

Today we went up to la po's 'home for shorties' to check in on the monarch butterflies her class has raised from tiny larvae to plump and juicy, big-time poopin'-machine caterpillars, to pupae hanging in chrysalis'. They start out feeding on exclusively milkweed leaves - and lots of them, hence, the immense quantities of poop. They fatten up big, then attach themselves hanging upside down in a 'J' shape.

Next, the really trippy stuff happens: they split their backs open. They don't manufacture their chrysalis like a cocoon, they SPLIT THEIR BACKS OPEN!!! Somehow the chrysalis emerges from out of their big ol' juicy backs and wraps around and encloses them. The bright green chrysalis' then develops gold drops decorating the edges. They are truly one of those golden-magical corners of nature:

metamorphosis.

They've been growing in there around two weeks now; you can see in the single chrysalis below, the butterfly wings faintly showing through the stretched surface.

They will emerge this coming week, pump their wings, pumping fluid [butterfly blood?] through the wing frames. The wings stiffen up and then take flight.

YES!

more info: Journey North Monarch Butterfly Migration http://www.learner.org/jnorth/monarch/

RiverSpeak

2009-09-30T02:23:00.005-04:00

Sitting by this river, my mind slows; spirit follows. Jaw unclenches; breath eases, deepens, and becomes full.

The rivers speak - the Kalamazoo, the Huron, the Rio Grande - waters moving through, pouring their wisdom of time and patience - their never-ending song, into me.

Quietly, my mind unwraps itself from around the every small thing it thought was important, crucial and urgent.

None of it was.

None was more important than this quiet peace and solitude I too easily give away.

Turning away from your screeching, screaming, self-important machinations of nothingness, I turn toward true Nothingness - the one that fills me with rushing river, scent of dry autumn and touch of warm breeze, carried here to me from somewhere more fully aligned with human soul; soul no one can define or describe, but that is felt rising above heaviness like the lotus rising above mud.

I am the mud. I am the lotus. I am the rising.

Those secrets the river spoke?

They are mine.

Now go - --

find yours.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

“Hushhh,” the river said,

“leave your fretful, worried mind

here among the reeds.”

Aniversario

2009-09-22T10:24:00.015-04:00

Four Circles Around the Sun:

Four Haiku

First Year: YaY!

precious, precious life

no one will turn down the light!

not ever again!

><><

Second Year: Admission

autumn chill falls hard

memories flooding the ground

life never the same

><><><

Third Year: Fighting

live strong, viejo

build the new man from within

your labor's not lost

><><><><

Fourth Year: Redefinition

write a new story

paint a color not seen

recreating 'here'

><><><><><

Estuary: A Haibun

2009-09-17T08:33:00.004-04:00

Twenty-six hundred years ago, Old Lao Tsu passed the gatekeeper of northern China on his way to the desert to die. He was finished, sickened at heart over the ways of the world.

Before he passed through the gate, the keeper persuaded Old Lao Tsu to put down in writing all that he had learned in his long life. In very few words he left his instructions to his children, and his children’s children, and his children’s children’s children: how to live in prosperity or equally in misfortune; how to yield without fear or clamor of the soul; how to accept, without giving up; how to find peace in the heart.

All these many years later, that are only a blink of the Universal Eye, I ask you Old Lao Tsu, how long does it take for water tumbling over rock to turn boulders into fine grains of sand, traveling the river to the sea? Where is that Ocean Old Lao Tsu? Did you ever find its estuary? Does it exist, where the fresh water flows into the salty sea? Is there a beach born of boulders of our sorrows tumbled down into fine, sugary sand?

I hope you made it through those cold desert nights – and kept going till you found that shore, that restful place of peace.

We hear the distant lapping of waves and smell the salt of that Great Ocean on the breeze. It carries hopeful knowing deep into our souls, that all rivers flow to that peaceful shore where the hardened stone of our hearts breaks down into fine grains of sand - small, insignificant and common - sand on the shore.

hardened memories
softening as they are washed
turning stone to sand

Inspiration in Unexpected Places

2009-09-13T03:10:00.003-04:00

There are folks who appear in life from out of nowhere unexpected. I came upon one the other day while shopping for a new computer. The last thing I expected was to be taught life lessons from an angel disguised as a computer salesman, but I'm grateful my ears were open enough to hear him. This one's for you Michael S. Thank you.

"How Light Shines Through Cracks"

My life is being devoured,
yet I remain whole.

I will not feed myself on scraps;
I am an invited guest to the banquet -
to the feast.

I who come
with fruits and flowers
songs and poems

I who come to the banquet
bringing you gifts,
I beg you --

Do not linger in the suffering.
Do not be reduced to scraps.

The Future

2009-09-09T21:10:00.002-04:00

"We didn't come here to fear the future. We came here to shape it."

President Barak Obama - 9-9-09

A Song of Being Empty

2009-08-31T00:39:00.003-04:00

by Jelalludin Rumi; translation - Coleman Barks

><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><

A certain sufi tore his robe in grief, and the tearing
brought such a relief he gave

the robe the name faraji, which means "ripped open," or
"happiness," or "one who brings

the joy of being opened." It comes from the stem faraj,
which also refers to

the genitals, male and female. His teacher understood
the purity of the action,

while others just saw the ragged appearance. If you want
peace and purity, tear

away your coverings. This is the purpose of emotion, to
let a streaming beauty

flow through you. Call it spirit, elixir, or the original
agreement between yourself

and God. Opening into that gives peace, a song of being
empty, pure silence.

Ripples - clarity and disclaimer

2009-08-24T11:46:00.005-04:00

Clarity is something el poquito lacks at times - a constant piece of work for me; more on that when I get to the 'mental quadrant'. Meanwhile, I wanted to clarify something about working with the wheel. Of all the suggestions, or ideas you come up with on your own, pick one thing - just one, to maybe nudge that barometer a tiny bit. We're not going for overhaul here. We're going for loving kindness toward self. What's just one thing in the physical area and one in the emotional that you could easily implement [if you want]?

Which leads me to the disclaimer. Get your salt shakers out. Take it all in, add a few grains of salt, consider, use as your own IF that is what resonates in you. Something that may be useful for me might be totally useless for you. Put bluntly: this is not Jonestown; there is no kool-aid - oh, and uh, there are no 'answers' - sorry - other than your own.

Why do I write all this then?

I dunno.

I write because I have to write. I'm writing THIS because it wants to be written. It's really nothing more than a travelogue of sorts of one man and then his allies who comment, offering their points of view. Turns out there seems to be a few more folks following this travelogue than I realized. They're coming through, quietly sitting at el poquito's table. That's fine and I welcome that. Truthfully, it kind of surprises me, but then, I have wanted to write more than just to myself - although I do recognize writing to myself as a big piece of this 'Restoration Project'. I also recognize the responsibility in having readers - which leads me to again say, "take it all with a major grain of salt." Use what works, toss the rest. It's only ripples on the water - my thought ripples crossing with yours.

I appreciate any and all feedback. You help me hone in. You help me find the ever elusive clarity. <--- guess that could be the Loch Ness monster hiding out with Bigfoot. Thanks for helping me find better clarity and thanks for coming by.

Good day to you all,
el

Restoration: Emotional Flexibility

2009-08-22T21:20:00.004-04:00

The next quadrant of our Restoration Project is the Emotional. How’s your nervous system? How’s your wiring? Frayed? Solid? Feeling at peace or ready to behead the next idiot who wrongfully crosses your path?! Or does it depend on the day and where the mood swings are at?

Our emotions aren’t as simple as good or bad feelings, but rather a complex series of interrelated events and the co-ordination of hormones, brain chemicals, nervous system and mental/cognitive functioning, or lack of – taken all together, leaving us with the experience of our perceived feelings of good or bad; happy, sad, angry or whatever.

Our emotional well-being is complex. It works intimately with what we think of as our physical and cognitive selves. It’s difficult to separate it out from the others as they work synergistically as a whole. But through the workings and expression of our emotions in our day to day activities we can see a barometer, a window into our whole being.

So what does that mean? And what the heck IS emotional well-being and while you’re at it could you please describe your experiences with Bigfoot? In this day, emotional well-being looks just about as elusive and your guess is as good as mine, but here’s some thoughts to get you started.

What I imagine emotional wellness might look like would be a free and full expression of ALL feelings and emotions, appropriately expressed in the moment; engagement in daily activities and relations; a sense of being ‘present’ or ‘awake’ in the moment; and a resiliency and flexibility. But that’s just my take on it.

I do know that there’s an intimate link with our frontal brain cognitive abilities and our emotions, including the ability to apply the brakes to strong emotions. Otherwise, we are all too easily swept downstream by a runaway torrent of feelings. Our emotions don’t stand alone. Our frontal lobes apply the brakes to our mouths and actions when we are under the influence [of our emotions], operating a complex network of chemical actions and activity that have a lot to do with how well or poorly we feel. The level of endorphins and neuro-receptors in this brain-soup of ours makes a difference in whether the glass is perceived as half empty or half full.

One way that you might evaluate your emotional well-being is by answering this one question: How flexible are you?

Flexibility and resiliency in attitude, in our response to challenges and the veers on the road of daily living, are a very good barometer of our emotional quadrant of our being. Think about it: when you’re feeling rigid, threatened, like everything is out of your control and you’re freaking out, is your emotional range full and flush, or are you ready to snap, have a breakdown or climb a tower with a gun? How flexible is your emotional body?

One to ten; pick a number for your self-perceived level of emotional well-being. If choosing a number to assess yourself is difficult, picture holding a branch in your hands. This branch is you. Bend it. How much bend does it have? How brittle and dried is it? At what point does it/you snap? This is only an honest self-assessment to place you within context of yourself and your history of ‘feeling good or bad’. Write it down in the ‘emotion’ corner of the wheel. Try to be honest with yourself; nobody else will see. If you find yourself on the lower end of the scale – don’t despair – any tiny, small bit of improvement will soon feel like huge gain. And it is.

I could go on and on about brain chemistry and emotional well-being; or how isolation aggravates our deficits in the emotional quadrant; or how a sense of hopelessness over our lack of control in situations damages our health, emotional and otherwise; or how fear and worry slowly erode our emotional foundation, but I think I’d rather end this thinking about the remedies.

Simply put, what are some of the things that bring you a feeling of being relaxed – not under threat? What helps you lower your hackles? What puts a smile on your face? [primate code for pleasure] That one bears repeating: What puts a smile on your face – what can help you budge that number up a half a degree? or eight? Here’s a partial list to get you started:

Music
Laughter
Exercise/Sports/Movement
Sex
Connectedness
Good food
Sleep/Rest
Massage/Touch
Pleasurable Sensory Experiences: smells of cooking; art; song; poetry; dance; creative activity. Think pleasure in sight, sound, smell, taste and touch.
[add your own]

We are living as human mammals in a sensory, animalistic, earthly experience. If we feed and nourish the biological animal of ourselves, we in turn feed and nourish ALL parts of ourselves, including our emotional bodies. One of the gifts of being human is knowing and experiencing that full range from biological animal to Creative Intelligence. We humans ARE the whole range – and perhaps moving just a tiny step closer toward recognizing and becoming that, we can discover, explore and enjoy our HEALTHY emotional selves – so far as ever elusive as Bigfoot.

Haiku For the Gym-Rat and more....

2009-08-18T09:03:00.002-04:00

'Rat with Torch' by graffiti street artist Banksey

Haiku For the Gym-Rat

we plug along babe,
march or die! are the orders;
living strong, we rise.

><><><><><><><><><><><><

Yeah, it's that clear-cut for me. "Use it or lose it," has become more than 'in theory' and over the past year I've officially become a gym-rat. Weird. I never expected to ever be one of those folks with cartoon legs spinning fast, going nowhere. But here I am, sweatin' for my life. It's worth it.

It's time to wrap up this quadrant of the 'Physical' so we can move ahead to the next corner of the Restoration Circle - the Emotional. In remembering and cultivating the Physical Quadrant, the simplest way to remember is to attend to the four basic elements that make this place and body: earth, water, fire and air.

Earth - nutrition; building; grounding; gardening and being IN nature,

Water - drink plenty; sweat; keep the lymphatic waters moving [which they only do through either exercise or massage, having no pump on their circulation, but rather, dependent upon muscular contraction or manual manipulation to move the lymph along]

Fire - exercise [burns energy, creates heat]; sun; digestion [inner fire transforming fuel to energy]

Air - Breathe! Fully inhale and exhale - oxygenate. All the body's systems are dependent on this. Air feeds fire.

It's all right there in the four basic elements, so basic, so simple, we can easily overlook these that are free in our search for physical cures to purchase. The lack of expense doesn't reflect their value - these are the same building blocks that have grown our species for thousands of generations. The basic plan remains unchanged. We still need decent nutrition, water and air; our bodies still need to move and be used. Despite our evolution into the modern homo-sapien, our bodies still run on the original, basic plan.

Speaking of nutrition, on one last note here, I'd like to direct your attention to the blogroll at the bottom of this page where you'll find Diana Dyer's blog. She describes herself as: "an organic gardener, Registered Dietitian, author of the book 'A Dietitian's Cancer Story' and the website CancerRD.com. In between all that and more, I am a multiple-time cancer survivor. My website focuses on nutrition information for cancer survivors, thoughts about life as a cancer survivor, food and nutrition, gardening, recipes, our environment, and the urgent need for developing food systems that promote health not disease, ecological sustainability, and social justice."

Her info isn't just for cancer survivors, it's for everyone, and seeing as approximately 1 in 3 women and 1 in 2 men will develop cancer in their lifetimes the preventative information she provides is pertinent to us all. She's easy to read and learn from; not a 'food fascist' by a long shot. Check her out. http://www.dianadyer.com/

Ah, the physical realm! What a challenging, lovely, frightening, exciting, worrisome, pleasurable and painful place to be. No place quite like it and this physical body with its five lovely senses - our sensual, temporary residence. What a wonderland! Enjoy it! There's no place else like it with its sunrises and sunsets....

Restoration

2009-08-13T06:36:00.030-04:00

I mentioned to y'all in the last post, creative pursuits as a tool for 'Restoration' - how the theme or idea was born out of poetry shared between two 'strangers' on an on-line forum for folks trying to find their way through. The word 'Restoration' struck a nerve over there, some good, some not so good. Art should strike a nerve and stir the soul - and sometimes it brings surprises such as forging bonds between like-minded souls trying to move a mountain. These are the two original poems of forging 'The Restoration Project' between myself and the 'unknown stranger' who is now my close compadre and ally, shoveling side by side on the mountain of Restoration. This is where it all began.

><><><><><><><><~ RESTORATION ~
by el poquito

Do you know which way I went?
I remember seeing me the other day
talking with the homeless woman
about her missing child -
the auto accident -
and the curse...
and noticing how she
folded and unfolded
the origami change purse
she held nervously in her hands...
telling me her story,
that was my story too,
about the tragedies that had
broken her,
and broken her again
into a pile of human shards
scattered across the land...
unrecognizable from the fine
strong vessels
we once were
before.

Yesterday I was high in the mountains
crossing a dangerous pass -
Dead Man's Pass...
It was too long a journey.
I was so tired...
Last I recall I was looking out the window of the train,
looking out upon the savanna --
The light and heat were beating down upon us
and the gazelles were running swiftly away
fleeing from the hard-breathing animal
that snaked it's way through the plains.
Did you see me come by here yesterday?
Do you know which way I went?

Later I remember seeing me
methodically shoveling the dirt.
How do you move a mountain?
One shovelful at a time...
Restoring hope can take time that way -
like moving a mountain
with a shovel.
It can be done.
I've seen it happen
many times.
But renewal does not birth easily.
Did you catch a glimpse of me?
Do you know which way I went?

~>>>> <> <> <> <> <> >><><><><><< <> <> <> <> <> <<<<~Variation on a Theme

~ RESTORATION ~
by mark-shark

It's not brand new,
but not that old
either:
I moved here as a baby.
I crawled on this floor.
I stared at the ceiling on my way to dream.
I barely remember now.

I try to forget the earthquake
that rattled the pictures in the hall,
broke glass,
shook the foundation,
cracked the walls.

I survived.
I picked up, swept, cleaned,
defended.

I try to forget the flood
that washed away my flowers,
left snakes under beds,
carved the carpets in mud.

I survived.
I picked up, swept, cleaned,
defended.

That time
I thought I wouldn't make it.
But I did.

I try to forget the storm
that swirled a black cloud overhead,
ripped the roof,
shocked the shingles,
roared with rain,
and carried away
my precious hair.

I survived.
I picked up, swept, cleaned,
defended.

The neighbors heard my tools
and looked the other way.

No matter.

And Now, I plan a new addition,
And Now, I make drawings,
call for quotes,
touch samples,
consider colors,
wood, marble, granite, oak.

And Now, I stretch string
to define a magic garden,
think about Art
for that old cracked wall.

I plan for the future...

despite the rough location,
despite the unusual weather,
despite the fragile shell
and the history of damage
and things unplanned...

Because Someone Lives Here.

And plans to continue.

Everyday Restoration

2009-08-09T13:51:00.010-04:00

One year ago was a big turning point for me in my healing awareness and education. It began with a poem titled "Restoration" that I posted on an on-line forum for lymphoma patients. Someone I'd never met before responded with his take on the same word. It was a good word/theme/idea to bat around in such a place with others who were also trying to rebuild the fractured pieces of their lives - folks who'd found themselves in very serious circumstances and were trying to find their way through also. This 'stranger' and I became fast friends. When one finds a like-minded soul, especially under such conditions, all cards are quickly laid on the table. We had work to do and quickly became the best of compadres, shoveling partners, side by side on the mountain. There are others here who come to visit who know very well the constancy it takes. We're not shoveling just for today. We get up every day and do our best to reaffirm Restoration; to reaffirm our healing, which in my mind isn't an event that takes place as in "now I am healed', but an affirmative action that needs daily renewal. In other words it changes daily. Our attempts need to keep up.

My attempts here in this patch of the blog is to share with others some of the things that have helped myself and others through. I hope it never sounds 'preachy' or pedantic - just sharing some thoughts. And as I've always told folks who would come to see me for consultation, "Take anything I say with a big ol' grain of salt." You know best. Claim it. It's yours: Restoration

When the idea of sharing some of my thoughts on Restoration arose, it began with some notes to myself. Every day, some more so than others, I need to remind myself and reaffirm my intention. My personal situation has the challenge of 'outsider voices' who predict my outcome - they even have scores, charts and projections to map out my unknown future. Heh! That's what I say to that! And in order to have a somewhat defiant attitude with 'them' I have to remind myself repeatedly. Sometimes I'm worn though. Sometimes I struggle to keep myself aimed in the right direction. Writing helps. Sharing ideas with others helps. Remembering where to aim my arrow of intention helps. But some days are harder than others with the challenges that I walk with.

I believe that what you teach you learn; what you give away you receive. For me to share some of all this with all of you makes me have to go deeper - and I thank you for that.

The sharing of all this began with a note on a day that I needed to remind myself of all the various things I could do to find "Restoration". I felt fried - and this is what came to me to help myself with falling down again.

><><

EVERYDAY RESTORATION [the bullet points reminder of that particular day]

- Dial it down: the volume; the frantic, hyper, scattered pace; the chaos.

- Defray the nerves; unruffle the feathers.

- Respect my limits - and the world's.

- When facing limitation don't attempt to beat it up, but rather, spar with it playfully.

- Nourish myself with food, water, exercise, sun, air.

- Remember: I am NOT the body or its limitations, but I AM the tenant/resident. All upkeep is mine.

- Create. If I make it with my hands and mind, it counts, whether that creation is a poem or dinner. All creation is the language and expression of the self [soul], of life, of Restoration.

- Affirm my place on earth daily; take responsibility for the space I occupy.

><><><><

That was "Everyday Restoration" on that day. Today's might be slightly different. Yours will be different. Yours will be an expression of you and your needs. We each shovel our patch in our own way, with our own style.

As I've said, writing is part of my Restoration path. Here's one of my spots where Restoration tries to prevail over Chaos. Good luck with yours.

Planting My Feet - part ll

2009-08-04T12:33:00.005-04:00

The young man sent to me sat seated on the opposite end of the couch. The meeting had been arranged in response to a request I’d put out that I was looking for a chi kung teacher who understood using the ancient Chinese martial art with cancer patients as a tool for healing. Chi kung [or chi gong] is the mother of all the other Chinese healing disciplines such as tai chi, acupuncture and all the many martial arts. In my stereotypical expectation I thought I’d be meeting an elderly Chinese master [my stereotype based on the reality of having studied previously with an elderly Chinese master, but he was now deceased and could no longer directly help me]. Instead, there sitting across from me, was a young, blonde guy who looked as though he could be ‘another college student’ in this sea of college students of the university town I live in. My ‘expectations’ were thrown.

My expectations were further thrown when after only about two minutes of light introductory conversation he looked me deeply in the eye and said, “Okay, so you could live or die,” [this wasn’t in the abstract philosophical sense as I looked the part of someone attempting to keep their feet from being dragged down into the grave] “… you could live or die. You say you want to live. Why?”

“Ballsy,” I thought as I sat there shocked by this young man. I liked that. He knew we were on serious ground and at the start he was letting me know he took the situation seriously and we weren’t fooling around. My life was at stake – and he got it. Still, he stopped me in my tracks with that question – particularly since it was being asked with all seriousness. So far since my diagnosis, NO ONE had asked this most pertinent of all questions. We easily take our everyday life for granted, until one day it’s no longer just a given. Tomorrow is looking questionable and there sits someone wanting to know why I want to live; wants me to justify my allotment of air I breathe and how I use that life. I respected him immediately just for the courage it took to say to a stranger whose mortality was center stage, “Tell me why you want to live.”

At this point in my story I dare you to do the same - answering to yourself “why do I want to live another day?” This may seem like a silly philosophical exercise, until it’s not one day. My day had arrived.

I don’t recall what my answer to him was. I would hope it was something halfway intelligent that would make him interested in working with me, but considering the high amounts of morphine and other mind numbing drugs I was on, not to mention the chemo-therapeutic battle zone taking place inside my body – I’d be pleased if I simply didn’t drool.

What I do recall is my ‘homework’ for the following week [there was always homework].

As he prepared to leave he said to me, “I want you to list twelve things you love. – And then another list of twelve things you want to learn.” I thought this was odd; no martial arts exercises to practice, no special, secret, therapeutic movements to discover, no special meditation practice or breathing techniques to raise my ‘chi’ – simply list twelve things I love and twelve things I want to learn.

Okay. I was used to teachers throughout my life who taught in unconventional ways, in fact I often preferred them – and already I respected this man, despite his unconventional, conventional appearance; I couldn’t let my rigid stereotypes stand in the way. I was willing to play.

Twelve things I love; that was easy. And over the course of the following week I came up with many, many things I loved; so many I had to keep refining the list to limit it to the everchanging top twelve. As I worked with this list, over time I realized that these people and things that I loved were my links to my life here on this Earth: my wife, my sons, dog, home, nature, the beach, my work… All the things that if I were to die I would leave behind here on earth. It began to become clear to me that the twelve things I loved were twelve anchors – tethers connecting me to this place called earth that I had such a tenuous grip on.

“Brilliant!” I thought, “These twelve things that I love are the things that I need to keep foremost in my mind and in my gratitude if I hope to remain here.”

But twelve things I want to learn? That question just annoyed me. I didn’t feel as though I was exactly in a good spot to take any classes or take up any new hobbies. I wasn’t really looking to learn anything new in the midst of my crisis – and what the hell kind of question was that? What did learning something new have to do with my healing?! But still, I pondered that second question over the week also. Was there anything I wanted to learn?

Well, yes, I needed to learn about lymphoma for one thing, pronto! I wasn’t wanting to learn about that, but I certainly needed to familiarize myself with my opponent. I also had a lot I needed to learn about chemotherapy and how to survive it. And nutrition – I wanted to know more about nutrition and especially was there anything I could do to help in the cause: cancer eradication. Oh, and chi kung, I definitely wanted to be a student of the martial art applied internally for healing. There were four things right there that seemed imperative that I learn. By the end of the week I easily had twelve things to report to my chi kung teacher that I wanted to learn, many of which had to do with surviving cancer and cancer treatment, but also included gardening, writing and painting.

While reflecting and revising my lists one more time before I sat with my teacher again, I suddenly saw it! Again, he was brilliant! The twelve things I loved easily were seen as the anchors that tied me to this earthly home. The twelve things I wanted to learn connected me to a Future – something that had been looking kind of questionable. To attempt to learn new things gives yourself the message that you’ll be sticking around a minute to apply that new knowledge, to develop that new skill. To want to learn new things connects us to an unknown future in a very real and grounded way – connecting us to ‘here’ and to what we love.

This was the beginning of my training in chi kung practice as a healing practice for myself - and an auspicious start it was; a simple exercise really, but one with profound and deep effects.

So I offer it to you as the next piece of the physical quadrant on the Restoration Wheel:

What are twelve things that you love that connect you to ‘here’?

and

What are twelve things that you’d like to learn?

Enjoy the buffet.

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A special thanks to Ryan Wilson of Black Dragon Gyms

Haiku of Old Earth

2009-08-04T00:12:00.003-04:00

Planting My Feet - part l

2009-07-30T14:08:00.005-04:00

photo: collaberation of mark-shark & el poquito

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Earth, it ain’t for sissies. Showing up takes strength, stamina and courage. The road traveled can be riddled with fear, worry and doubt, in fact guaranteed – you will walk the earth with those three companions at one time or another.

Everyone wants a long and happy life. Lacking that, most will be satisfied with simply a long life. Longevity appears as a gift on the horizon; something to achieve, thankfully. What remains hidden is the price of longevity: the longer you live, the more experiences you gather; more milestones and equally, more losses.

This is a world filled with loss. We keep our focus on the gains, the achievements of a lifetime, but along with gains come the losses; there’s no escaping it. Occasionally life throws us a big one: the loss of a loved ones life; the loss of health; loss of work, home or marriage. The big losses sweep through our lives like a storm knocking us down.

I was swept away in such a storm. The details of the storm I’ll spare the repeating. The back-story is in the archives of the blog; see the three-parter from September ’08 called “Autumn Equinox Triptych”. It’s all there.

In a nutshell – when the rug is pulled out from underfoot quicker than a heartbeat, first we spin out. Shock can shoot us out of our bodies, leaving us feeling ‘not quite here’; and when ‘here’ is excruciatingly painful then shock mercifully escorts us off the premises. But ‘here’ is where the problem is. ‘Here’ is where the problem-solving must take place. ‘Here’ is where the work is to be done. Abandoning the premises of the suddenly crappy building that is burning down looks mighty tempting - understandable too, until you realize there are no do-overs; this is NOT a dress rehearsal. This is the real thing and it’s going up in flames!

Do you stand by passively immobilized and watch? Or do you call the Fire Department and get out the hose?

When I was swept off the planet and out of my comfortable life a few years ago, I was incredibly fortunate to know people who attempted to tether my feet as I floated away from the trauma, shock, cancer and morphine. We all knew I was sick enough to easily die – to simply float off. It really would not have been difficult to die; remaining here was the challenging part. Equally important as the cancer-fighting medications were the loving individuals who tethered me to this earth as my body attempted to slip out from under me.

Grounding was necessary.

Whenever shock is involved, grounding is the remedy. I’ve been taught that when I'm in need of grounding to do exactly that – walk barefoot on the earth; sit down on the ground, or best of all, lay the whole body out, prostrated to the earth, letting her carry me, hold me, ground me. We do call her Mother after all. Commit to the relationship with her! She has supported us all these years.

Within the first few days of flying off the planet, I was surrounded in an intentional healing circle of my wife, children and four elders, led by my spiritual elder and advisor, a humble man of power who knows a thing or two about healing, living and dying. I lay in the center of the circle as they ‘planted my feet’. I felt myself called back into my hurting, crappy body that I wished only to escape.

The first step: stop escaping. Plant my feet on the ground I truly stand on now – the frightening ground it would take courage for me to continue to stand upon.

I will be forever grateful for their loving call to return into my body. I lay there, my body drenched in sweat as I tried to slide back into it, while my elder-teacher taught my youngest son where to place his hands on me – how to continue ‘planting my feet’ after my elder had returned to Mexico. I am incredibly fortunate and grateful to this kind circle of folks who helped me remain here on earth a little longer. They called me. They planted my feet.

When life becomes circumstances of spinning chaos and we are smacked in the face with our own powerlessness, often, all we can do is try to be as grounded as we possibly can. If we become the eye of the storm we are more effective in the storm for ourselves and for others.

Sometimes this is about all we can actually do for another in the storm - we can call out, motivated by our love not fear, and help to plant another’s feet. We don’t need a special someone – an elder, a healer, a medicine man, a doctor; we all have this power to call out to one another, especially when it’s fueled by love and care.

We have been conditioned to look for an answer outside of ourselves, while all along, WE ARE the medicine.

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We are the medicine
We become the chorus
On earth
Calling the lost one to return
Planting their feet
On the earth
Once again

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The first step to 'Planting the Feet': Stop attempting to escape!

Muchas gracias Tlakaelel, Celia, Bert, Dora, and my wife and sons for calling me back.

Restoration: the four directions

2009-07-27T15:52:00.004-04:00

I sat down to begin outlining some of my thoughts that have been floating around regarding healing. Once I began, the floodgates opened and much more than I expected began pouring out. Because there’s a lot that I’ll be touching upon and I can feel a fire burning in me, these will be coming out at a faster pace than usual. If I could, I’d have y’all over for some morning coffee or such to bat around some of these ideas. I just want to reiterate: I have no corner on any special knowledge – I just happen to have gone around the block a few times. I still have plenty to learn and that’s also why I’m here writing – to learn more. [By the way, life-long learning is one of those building blocks of wellness.] These are my own personal observations and knowledge passed on to me from others. If something rings true for you – great! Explore it more, or ask me about it [I probably have 5 or 10 other leads along that line] If something doesn’t ring true [ever! anywhere!] Don’t drink the kool-aid! Honor your intuition. I try to remember that myself as it has saved my ass innumerable times - and my not listening to it has burned me innumerable times also!

Often when clients in the past came to me asking for help or insight into their health problems I would take a prescriptive course with them. Now, when we are in trouble we have a kind of knee-jerk reaction to look for an answer or a prescription to make us well from some outside authority. Truth is, if we’re honest with ourselves we can usually self-prescribe with a high success rate and improve our own well-being. It’s simple and it really only takes a little effort.

First, draw a circle. This represents the wholeness of yourself. Divide the circle into four quadrants or pieces of the pie. Each quadrant represents an area of our being. Together, they interact, interrelate, make up our well-being or lack of. Over the weeks here we’ll touch on all the four aspects: Physical, Emotional, Mental and Spiritual. (oh-oh, did he say spiritual? Don’t worry, no dogmas here – at least none that can’t be kicked to the curb, if you so please)

Each of the quadrants is an important piece of our wellness, health and well-being – not just the physical. I’m not dismissing the physical, after all it’s the realm we’re all hoping to stick around in as happily as possible for a while, so yeah, the physical is basic nuts and bolts to the whole picture.

In looking at the physical quadrant it’s real simple to grasp: the four elements. That’s what this place [earth] is made of; it’s what our bodies are made of: earth, water, fire and air. It’s that simple. It’s what your Mom told you – or somebody’s Mom told someone: “Eat your fruits and vegetables, get plenty of exercise, fresh air, sunlight and plenty of water.” Mom’s were right all along, dammit! The only other thing I’d add to Mom is to get on the earth. Nothing more earthy and physical than the Ol’ Mother herself; garden, dig, plant, lie down on, sit upon, walk barefoot on – all these activities are grounding.

If you were a client of mine seeking help, I’d ask you to give yourself a number between 1 and 10 rating your physical well-being. Be honest with yourself and write it down in that corner of the wheel – The number one being: I can barely lift my head; with10 being: tip-top physical health. Now here’s the crux of self-prescribing. Instead of thinking of how horribly decrepit your physical condition is and how could you ever have allowed yourself to become this blob disguised as flesh and you decide you need a major overhaul the likes of which belongs on television’s Extreme Makeover; before you totally depress yourself and go looking for chocolate to assuage your feelings of shame and horridness – find one thing – just one, tiny, little thing you could do to budge that number 4 to a 5, not all the way to a 10 by Wednesday. Set your sights within reach. One thing. Anything. Drink water. Can you do that? One small thing that if you succeed with, might nudge your well-being one degree in the right direction. The only way we get to where we might want to go is one degree or step at a time. We all like to succeed and if you set yourself up for; “I MUST exercise for one hour every day for the rest of my life,” although a noble idea, most likely it won’t last long and will quickly fall by the wayside as if it had never been mentioned, thus avoiding feelings of failure. None of us likes to fail; we’d rather quit. So, for today, make it easy. What’s your number and what’s one thing you could ADD to your day [not take away, as in: “I will NOT eat chocolate anymore.” Add to, don’t take away. What’s ONE thing that will nudge your wellness physically that you could successfully incorporate into your life today? Write it down in the 'physical' corner of the circle.

And there you go. There’s step one of your self-prescription. Who’s going to be more honest with you than yourself? Who’s going to be more invested in your well-being than yourself? I recommend placing this circle somewhere where you’ll see it and read your own reminder to yourself daily of the one thing you’re adding to your life. We’ll add to this circle as the weeks go on and we take a look at our other aspects of ourselves that can help create a holistic web of wellness.

Next – “Planting My Feet” on the earth.

One Year Later....

2009-07-23T16:20:00.006-04:00

Still Here.

Still painting graffiti on the wall - poems of survival, prose of finding my way, and making a few friends along the way. el poquito came to me one year ago, arriving with 60 kokopelli dancing up my driveway. He arrived with fire and being the pyromaniac I am, we became close friends. Very close.

When I began tossing my words out to the world all I knew was I needed an outlet - a place to express myself when my world was becoming more and more limited. And as the physical limitations mounted my mind and spirit raced. Or as Rumi said to me yesterday:

"Like the moon without legs, I race through nothingness.
See how fast I can run without legs?"

Please don't feel sorry or think me inspirational or brave. We do what we have to - and anyways, those last lines of Rumi's poem made me laugh hard with recognition: See how fast I can run without legs?

And in case you're confused and wondering, I do have legs. They're just kinda crappy sometimes. But I love 'em, crappy or not. They're still here too - well, at least one and a half of them.

Yep, still here; still ornery; still laughing; still working the Restoration Project, now along with the Delusional Optimism Project. [Guess I like projects.] More on the D.O.P. at a later time.

So at the close of the first year's cycle and in beginning the next one I want to bring the focus back to my original intent here. Tizitl means healer. To me, 'healer' isn't someone out there who will fix us and make us better, but rather the healing energy that runs through and around all of us at all times. No one has a corner on it. Lots of people, practitioners, professionals, religious and health dogmas would have us believe otherwise, but in all my explorations into healing over a lifetime, with these past several years being in intensive study, I see no definitive answers - only more questions.

The Great Mystery still rocks. And as far as I know is still going under the name of 'Mystery' - a name and concept that covers 95% of the universe according to quantum physics.

So in exploring healing we are stepping directly into the world of mystery. It's a fun playground - mystery, if you can be satisfied with humbly not knowing. But when we face the fact that 95% of the universe is of unknown 'dark matter', then it's perhaps a bit easier to say, "I dunno," since either do the very smart scientists, the doctors included. Yes, we've made great advances, but still, mostly it's a mystery how healing takes place and how one procures it, or if one can. A mystery that is worthy of investigation; just expect no definitive answers.

These next few weeks I hope to lead us on a little exploration. I'll try not to be inspirational or brave - in fact I'll most likely go out of my way to undermine those positions. I don't need admiration. You don't need a cult. But I do enjoy fellow travelers and explorers. So please feel free to jump in here with your thoughts, opinions, dreams, aspirations, hopes, fears, worries, or just to say 'hey'. This is your table too. It's really quite easy to leave a comment: you can either register a google account or simply post your comment under the 'anonymous' tag. I'd love to hear from your point of view.

By the way, because this will NOT be inspirational and will raise more questions than answers, I imagine I'll make some folks uncomfortable at one time or another. Sorry. I don't intend for that. Seems raw honesty has that ability to make others uncomfortable sometimes - but then I did say this was going to be an exploration into healing, not comfortable ways to be a lazy-ass slacker in life.

Get your shovels out folks. Here we go.

xo
el poquito

"Longevity"

Also In the News

2009-07-18T03:27:00.005-04:00

Beyond mainstream media are some wonderful, insightful writers and thinkers. Roberto Rodriguez is among my favorites. This article of his from this week's news is an example of the ethnic viewpoint that doesn't get much air. Roberto's commentaries appear twice a month in the New American Media: Expanding the News Lens Through Ethnic Media.
http://news.newamericamedia.org/news/
Also under "Links of Interest" to the right of this page, his articles along with his wife's, Patrisia Gonzales are archived under "The Column of the Americas." Very good writers with vision. I respect them both highly.

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Wake Up GOP: Sotomayor is This Generation's Jackie Robinson

Roberto Dr. Cintli Rodriguez
Jul 15, 2009

Nine years into the new millennium and conservatives and Republicans -- with straight faces – insist that it is they who should define the nation’s racial debate and that it is their views that are fair and objective and part of the U.S. mainstream. Nowhere is this fallacy more evident than in their incomprehensible opposition to Judge Sonia Sotomayor’s nomination to the U.S. Supreme Court.

In their upside-down world, extreme conservatives, including the entire right-wing talk show universe, have gone from defending racial supremacy (by opposing integration and the precepts of “equality and justice for all”) to appropriating the right to define the very words and terms of this debate. Interestingly, Senate Republicans, who espouse virtually the same views as those of their influential talk show brethren, minus the most incendiary language, have failed to denounce their hate and ultra-nationalist demagoguery.

For instance, Sen. Jeff Sessions’ questioning of Sotomayor regarding her supposed biases, and the Republican demand that she be neutral, is mind-boggling. Lest we forget (aside from his own documented extreme racial views), it is “objectivity” that permitted the U.S. Supreme Court for nearly 200 years to uphold legal segregation and discrimination. Implicit in their arguments is that the decisions by white male Supreme Court justices have always been fair and infallible, while the continued attempts to right the nation’s wrongs – by activists or judges – constitute bias and even racism.

In addition to a history refresher course, many of these Republicans and conservatives are in need of an English dictionary. They also need to pay a visit to the Southern Poverty Law Center’s website to learn who the racists are and what kinds of supremacist ideologies they espouse and carry out.

None of those that have denounced Sotomayor as a “racist,” such as Newt Gingrich, are in line to win a Nobel Peace Prize for their work on race relations any time soon. And yet, more incredible is that the mainstream media continually turn to extremist talking heads for their opinions on the topic, virtually granting them an imprimatur of impartiality and fairness.

The Republican conservative effort to keep Sotomayor off the bench seems like a bizarre murder-suicide plot. Regardless of the obstacles put in her way, she will be the next Supreme Court justice. If there is to be any casualty, it will be the GOP, not she. She is a twice-Senate-confirmed moderate judge with 17 years of judicial experience, not the flaming radical they project her to be. She is boricua or Puerto Rican, part of a demographic (Latino/Latina) that is growing and has the potential to lean either Democratic or Republican.

What GOP leaders haven’t figured out is that, symbolically, Sotomayor represents this generation’s Jackie Robinson. If they had wanted to broaden their political tent, they could have celebrated her nomination, thereby projecting a welcoming party. Instead, they have questioned her impartiality and more important, her integrity. By opposing her these past two months with inflammatory rhetoric, they have poisoned relations with this expanding demographic group, ironically ensuring that the GOP will be remanded to the status of minority party for at least the next generation.

GOP leaders have the right to oppose her; the problem is that they have failed to do so respectfully. Many Republicans/conservatives have not simply defamed her, they have also unjustifiably denigrated both the Puerto Rican Legal Defense and Education Fund and the National Council of La Raza (NCLR) – respected civil rights organizations she has been associated with as a professional. In the case of the NCLR, the anti-immigrant ex-Colorado Rep. Tom Tancredo has likened it to the KKK. This is beyond intellectually dishonest.

This attempt by extreme conservatives to redefine the meaning of terms such as “racists” either reveals an Orwellian strategy to upend the meaning of words, or it reveals complete political illiteracy and/or lunacy. The consequence is that the GOP continues to send off the message that it is the party of the past, the party of greed, permanent war, hate, intolerance and racial supremacy. Also, because many conservatives equate 'illegal alien' with Mexican (or Latino) and view both as vermin and subhuman, the GOP already has a huge [recruitment] problem among these groups.

The failure of its leaders to disassociate from those extreme views means that this is the way the GOP will be perceived, long after Sotomayor dons her new Supreme Court robes.

Roberto Dr. Cintli Rodriguez, an assistant professor at the University of Arizona, writes for New America Media, including Arizona Watch. He can be reached at: XColumn@gmail.com

Haibun on Visiting an Uneasy Place

2009-07-14T23:32:00.001-04:00

I don't know how to explain it; how to capture something so large and reduce it to a gesture. You remind me of the places I never want to see again; of frightening roads and being alone, lost in the dark. Traveling through to the other side of destruction I see light in what once was your mind, spreading like a glistening pool; serenity in the eye of the storm. I see homelands and prairies, the cottonwood's shade, the river and resting on its shore. Some things there are no words for.

Kali with her sword
lopping off another head
while she smiles at me

Birthday Haibun

2009-07-11T23:17:00.003-04:00

Suction! Push! Now! -- PUSH! He's stuck! Turn him! Heartbeat's dropping! We've gotta get him out NOW! PUSH!

And with the strength of the hundreds of women of generations before, in one magnificent effort, she pushes him out, birthing our son. Out flops a dark purple, limp infant boy - tiny, without breath or movement - only a faint, slow heartbeat.

You're not dead.

As you're whisked away to neo-natal intensive care, "Go with him," she insists, and I leave her bleeding to follow you in search for air while over and over again I call you to earth by name:

"Elijah.... Elijah.... Elijah...."

after many days
and promises to help you
fear gives way to Life

Shadow Secrets

2009-07-09T01:13:00.002-04:00

If I have no shadow
what does it mean?

I claim my shadow
just as I claim this life itself.
If I have no shadow falling
behind me, falling
before me, falling
next to me, attached
to my feet - never separated
from this bucket of bolts,
this hooptie I call home -
If I lose my shadow,
if it loosens and flies away
free, unfettered by mortal chain,
then, also,
this bucket of bolts with its
rusted wiring, worn parts and clanking machinery
sputters and chokes
steam rising from every orifice
yawning wide in desperate gasps
for air and freedom.

Sometimes, reaching for freedom
instead, it finds release,
becomes obsolete, no longer
needed
to walk the dog
to tend the garden
to hold a loved one....
shocked, I recoil
watching the shadow
as it makes a break for it
escaping the fleshly prison
decorated so nicely.
[a pleasant place to be really, until it's not]

Until that final moment
of ultimate release
I claim my shadow
as mine - all mine -
as few things truly are.
I wrap it like a warm blanket
over my body, wrapping
around me its
delicious secrets
about my living or
lack of.

It whispers in my ear
secrets,
knowledge for no one else -
the secrets of this life
this mortal frame
this bucket of bolts
and fancy wiring
and pregnant dreams.

Poetry of Daily Life

2009-07-01T20:39:00.008-04:00

When I was a kid, my Mom would buy used furniture from the Goodwill, bring it home, strip it, then repaint the piece of furniture. As a kid, I really thought it was kind of weird. Nobody else's parent painted most of the furniture of the house with folk designs depicting roses and grapes and bringing in of the harvest; cowboys with lassos and all the family cattle brands that had at one time been part of los ranchos of some far, distant place called New Mexico. It was very strange this brightly colored furniture with designs of daily life - somewhere - where there were gardens, fields, harvests and cowboys.

Tonight I'm writing you from my front porch in the North Country. My new writing table was purchased on sale from K-Mart, manufactured in a factory in Viet Nam, put together on my deck this morning with carefully chosen design painted on the table, underneath. It was a tradition of Mom's. On her pieces of furniture she would paint a poem, or a saying, on the back or underneath, somewhere where it would only be seen very occasionally, like when cleaning or moving. Following In her tradition, one day when someone is moving this table, or cleaning underneath, or on their hands and knees looking for a lost something, for a moment they will see this and remember one of the odd things 'he used to do' - paint words on his furniture and on the walls of his house.

The other day I spoke to my youngest son, Popeye, living on the North Sea, building a tall ship in the north Netherlands. He's being put up in abandoned nurse's quarters of a former hospital [fancy squatters]. He says to me, "Dad! You'd love my room! I've painted poetry all over the walls!"

He's come by it honestly. We come from a lineage of graffiti artists - a family tradition.

Leave your mark. Leave it Beautiful. Leave it Strong.

Dangerous Truth -"How Does Tomorrow Dream?" by John Trudell

2009-06-27T11:52:00.008-04:00

"He is extremely eloquent, therefore, extremely dangerous."
FBI dossier on John Trudell

John Trudell has fathered more children since 1979 when three of them, his wife and his mother-in-law died in a fire. But he
doesn't like to talk about them. "All I will say is that I have many children and they're not in the same place. Nobody's going to come in and kill all my kids at one time ever again. It's just not going to happen, it's not going to happen."

Prior to this tragedy, John Trudell had been the spokeperson for the Indians of All Tribes occupation of Alcatraz Island for 19 months, 1969-71; he was the national chairman of AIM (the American Indian Movement) 1972 -79 including being an AIM leader during the occupation of Wounded Knee in 1973.

His activism drew the attention of the FBI, which compiled a 17,000-page file on him.

Then, in February 1979 -- a few days before his 33rd birthday, he led a march to the FBI headquarters in Washington, D.C. He had received a warning against speaking, but instead, he delivered an address from the steps of the FBI building on the subject of the agency's harassment of Indians. Less than 12 hours later, Trudell's pregnant wife, Tina, his three children, and his wife's mother were burned alive in a fire that destroyed their home on the Shoshone Paiute reservation in Nevada.- the apparent work of an arsonist.

"Murdered," Trudell said. "It's very simple. They were murdered."

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I've had the pleasure of hearing John Trudell a few times. He's an extremely intelligent man, a bit of a loose cannon, someone with little to lose. After the murder of his wife and children to 'influence' his leadership within the Native community, he came forward as a man with nothing much more to lose - stripped bare. To me, he's always appeared as a very free man, making him quite dangerous.

Out of this experience he found his words in poetry and songwriting. He hooks up lines of truth. Dangerous truth. This one is a recent one of his and it comes with the usual warning to the sensitive: This is a hard one. Truth often is.

"I'm just a human being trying to make it in a world that is very rapidly losing its understanding of being human."
- John Trudell

We Can Do Better

2009-06-16T03:42:00.007-04:00

I 'stumbled upon' these photos back in the survival days of March, when the Michigan winter had already been cruelly endless. I decided I would hold off and post what I considered to be important, historical photos on April 26th, the 23rd anniversary of the worst and most expensive toxic disaster in our short history as humans creating toxic disasters - the nuclear accident at Chernobyl. Well, come April and spring flowers, and finally relief, these photos and the subject seemed too 'dark side of humanity' at a time when I and many others in Michigan, were simply trying to not be washed down the drain before the days lengthened with sunlight. So I waited. First the mass depression needed to lift.

Then, North Korea began making some noise testing newly-found toys of war and destruction - of the nuclear type. It seemed timely to raise these photos as reminders, but I still couldn't bring myself to it. It made me recall Sunday mornings back in 1982, our baby boy strapped to my back, riding high in the baby backpack. We would go to Williams International, a company not far from here that made engine parts for nuclear cruise missiles. The cruise missiles were relatively new back then; refined nuclear warmaking destruction that some of us weren't keen about being manufactured in our own backyards. People cared about such things back then. It wasn't unusual to be worried about nuclear destruction. It was a time before the term itself became an artful joke with that wild and crazy, tongue-twisting caricature we called a president.

"Hmmm... How are we ever going to get the people to lighten up around the idea of nuclear proliferation?"

"I know! Let's have him say it in some whacky way - over and over again - like nook-yu-loor! And let's make it so he never can say it right! It'll be a riot!"

And so we stopped thinking about it much, the cruise missiles, the earthquake fault lines, the old equipment, the highly disturbed world leaders with their finger on the button, the toxic waste piling up with no proper storage. It was a bit overwhelming to consider I suppose, and anyway, the way he said "nook-yu-loor"! That shit was too funny!

I'm not sure what was so different in 1982 that people would gather on their Sunday mornings in sun, rain or snow to protest at the front gate of a tools of war facility. It was better than any Sunday morning church I'd ever attended in my life. We felt like we were putting 'faith in action' or some such ideology filtered down from the likes of the outlaw priests - the Berrigan Brothers. I remember a bright, crisp, Sunday in January, my baby bundled in his snowsuit, just a bit of pudgy face peeking out from under his hood, hat and scarf. He was having fun, smiling and laughing, looking down at the people. (He always loved to ride high above the crowd, peering over his Papa's head and shoulders.) We were out there for him; we were out there because of our complicit guilt: we had so recklessly and selfishly brought him into this world of ours - maybe, just maybe, somehow, we could make a difference for his life, for his future.

Who knows? All we can do is to try our best; do what we can do for the next generations coming up. Hopefully they'll get a chance to have a crack at it, and maybe do it a tiny bit better. I place a lot of hope in evolution.

But not if we forget. Or never even look in the first place.

Here's a look. Time froze in Chernobyl on April 26, 1986. Twenty-three years later, it still stands there, exactly the same as the day they left the schools, hospitals and homes abandoned. These pictures are very eerie. They need to be seen. They need to not be forgotten. Just as Williams International was in my backyard in 1982, so is Chernobyl in 2009. In the end, there is no good time to share pictures such as these. They've haunted me long enough, nagging at me to put them out there. Flor y canto is about inheritance. Unfortunately, this too is a part of the inheritance we leave behind.

I have to believe, we can do better.

Deserted secondary school near Chernobyl, Illinsty, Ukraine
(Image credits:misterbisson via:villageofjoy.com)

Chernobyl Today: A Creepy Story told in Pictures
By Village Mayor

In the 'Zone of Alienation' in northern Ukraine, Kiev Oblast, near the border with Belarus. Its population had been around 50,000 prior to the accident. Today, the only residents are deer and wolves along with a solitary guard.

Prypiat used to be proud for being home to the Chernobyl Nuclear Power Plant workers. But something happened on 26 April 1986…

It took three days before all permanent residents of Chernobyl and the 'Zone of Alienation' were evacuated due to unsafe levels of radioactivity. People from around the Soviet Union were forced to come and work here in order to liquidate the danger and evacuate the residents. Many of the workers died or had serious illness from radiation. My father was also recruited for this operation, but he bribed corrupt local officers with some good sausages which were rare and a valuable item at those times, so he’s fine and alive today.

Let the story be told by these magical pictures taken ~20 years later after the accident.

“The sign on the road to Pripyat, the town where the workers of the nuclear plant lived.”
(Image credits:Pedro Moura Pinheiro via:villageofjoy.com)

The bridge of death (Image credits:Vivo (Ben) via:villageofjoy.com)

“After the explosion at Reactor 4 the people of Pripyat flocked on the railway bridge just outside the city to get a good view of the reactor and see what had happened. Initially, everyone was told that radiation level was minimal and that they were safe. Little did they know that much of the radiation had been blown onto this bridge in a huge spike.” They saw beautiful rainbow coloured flames of the burning graphite nuclear core, whose flames were higher than the smoke stack itself. All of them are dead now - they were exposed to levels of over 500 roentgens, which is a fatal dose.

“Pripyat Funfair was due to be opened on May 1st. The Chernobyl disaster happened April 26th. No one ever managed to ride the ferris wheel. It remains one of the most irradiated parts of Pripyat since the disaster, making it still dangerous today, 23 years on.” (Image credits:Vivo (Ben) via:villageofjoy.com)

“Nursery in the creche/kindergarten”. (Image credits:hanszinsli via:villageofjoy.com)

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I took these photos from a link I couldn't link directly to here, but if you'd like to see the complete portfolio of photos go to this webpage (which includes many other fine artists): http://www.stumbleupon.com/s/#6sJQYe/villageofjoy.com/amazing-graffiti-art-by-bansky//
and scroll down a very short way - under '10 Most Commented' on the right hand side you will find the link to more of the Chernobyl photos.

Renewal

2009-06-10T01:46:00.002-04:00

again, the blossoms
open, fade, die, no hurry.
come, sit next to me.

Revolutionary

2009-06-03T22:56:00.011-04:00

i stagger
falling forward over
arid
brittle desperate ground
wondering how far
to the next oasis
to the next watering hole
wondering
can i last
that long
when I do not know
how long ‘long’ is
can i last
can i go that far
can i go the distance
what is the distance

when suddenly
it begins

clouds gather in the distance
the bank of low gray
comes closer
lower
darker
heavier and
overwhelming
(in the best sense of the word)
it rolls in
cloud on top of cloud
sky breaking open
hitting my skin
sweet cold drops
moisten me
taking me away
far away from arid deserts
and all that is painful
brittle and unholy

it lifts me
body and soul
soul and body
lifted
spirit lifted
all wounds closing
wet silky mystery
life’s nectar
pouring
primal honey
all upon me

I am
lifted up
drawn in
surrounded by
there is nothing more
than this
this wonderful

from here sprang
rumi’s rapture

from the darkness
that shadowed over him
before the light found
his feet spinning
on the earth
and the earth met
his feet
kissed them
felt his weight
and accepted him
as he pressed his
flesh in

yes

when I open
my breath sings
across the fields
through the trees
with the birds
all praise
all praise
I find myself
in a reverie
while those
who speak my tongue
sleep
not knowing
a few perhaps
but most
they sleep

I receive
this mercy
this rain
gratefully crying
you can’t bless me enough
I can’t take you into me
enough
I can’t be taken into you
enough
all other taking
pales to this
my love

would it frighten you
if I were found
spinning in the park
singing with the birds
in the rain
would it frighten you
if I were found in a
rapture
of spinning
of spinning myself
a place on the earth
would it frighten you
if I were overcome with joy
if I were fraught
with happiness
would it frighten you

this world of misery
it is not mine
it is not of my making
it is not of my doing

would it frighten you
if I relinquished misery
if I took a vow of poverty
to live without its abundance
would it frighten you

would I trouble you
would I be too free
would you want to lock me up
because I’d lost touch
with reality
or
chose joy
rather than misery
would you lock me up
if I were found this way
spinning in the park in
the rain

life is winding
life is unwinding

round and round and round
and round
spinning faster
the world spilling
all that is
becoming what was
now
for a moment
and
gone
now for a moment and gone
now for a moment and gone

and i spin
finding myself
alone
in a world
of
non-spinners

the children know
the children know

to touch this world
is not to touch poison
it will not harm you
it will not cause you
to be a sinner
damned to hell

to touch this world
is to to feel
like a newborn
warm love
giving us our very breath
living us
in magic
while we touch it

the poet Giovanni says:
I know that touching
is
was
and always will be
the true revolution

in this frightened world
I know she saw
something bigger
all poets always
see things much bigger:

touching
is
was
and always
will be
the true revolution
a revolution
takes place
a revolution takes place
with every moment
passing by
a revolution takes place
with every song of the bird
a revolution takes place
with every step that I walk
a revolution takes place
with every breath that I take
a revolution takes place
a revolution takes place
a revolution takes place
a revolution takes place

I am a revolutionary
I spin
in the rain
in revolutions of mercy
in revolutions of water
fire
and spirit
in revolutions of earth
the earth is a revolutionary
the sun is a revolutionary
the planets the stars
all revolutionaries
a galaxy of revolutionaries
spinning
I find my place
in this revolutionary universe
I am one
with its magic
this revolution
rising up inside of me
it seeps into every corner
finding no place it cannot fill
and I become the container
until it overflows me
and the container dissolves
and
I and I are one
the ground watered
the drought passed
the revolution
of
living
begun

'touched'

2009-05-26T00:56:00.008-04:00

The goal is to live
with godlike composure
on the full rush of energy,
like Dionysus riding the leopard,
without being torn to pieces.

-Joseph Campbell

->>><><<<-

Touched

A bit of madness?

Perhaps.

Falling,
crashing, careening,
drunken abandonment;

swooning I fall;

I must -
down to earth
always, down to the earth
falling
again and again.

That wheel of rebirth?
That fucking endless loop of frustration?
Just slit my throat!
Be done with it.
What? It makes no difference?!
Always was, always will be?
Takes the rip out of a
rippin' good suicide.
shit! a man can't even kill himself anymore.

a "bit-of-madness"?
~ perhaps ~
but I wear it well,
don't you think?

Who's that outside the door --
peering in the dark
through the window?

I hear your voice calling
my name; or a voice
calling a name. Voices.
I hear them. They're calling.
Don't be alarmed.
They always do that.
Ask the others.

A bit of madness:
perhaps,
the ghost talkers.

They keep secrets: about you,
whispering whispers
late at night
whispered secrets
once
most are

suspended

in sleep –
dreaming mysterious worlds.

I watch this one -
a guard
in the middle of the night
in a really good game of cards,
talking with ghosts,
sharing tequila
and secrets
with ghosts --

my ghost,

who stays up all night
painting the sky orange for morning.

All Storms Pass

2009-05-19T12:21:00.011-04:00

[this is the fourth in the series on water and the Great Lakes dedicated to the Water Walkers]

All Storms Pass

It’s a beautiful spring weekend in Ontario. My family – my wife, oldest son and his girlfriend and myself have come to Toronto for the family sail; a day when the teenagers who comprise the working crews of Toronto Brigantine take their families out for a sail on Lake Ontario. This is my youngest son’s passion and he has spent the past 4 years devoted to this boat that is the first serious love of his life, apparent when he refers to her as ‘she’, with a look in his eyes usually reserved for a ‘girlfriend’. He is a loyal and devoted young man, filled with a young man’s single-mindedness about the object of his love and passion. Her name is Playfair - a brigantine tall ship – a reproduction of days gone by. She is a rare beauty, especially when her sails are full out and she skims silently along the Great Lake’s blue waters with only the sound of wind and the snap of the sail to be heard.

The young, all teenage crew have spent the previous winter breaking her down, laboring hard over her, repairing, maintaining and doing all the work necessary to keep such a gem afloat. A winter of every weekend living on the unheated boat in the icy harbor, sewing sails, tarring shrouds, varnishing wood and other tedious time consuming labor is rewarded on this day with the first official sail of the new season. Soon they will be back out there doing the thing he loves the most: sailing the Great Lakes. The ‘Family Sail’ is the initiation of the season, where parents and families are taken out into the open waters of Lake Ontario with the young crew in command. They work as a well-oiled machine, listening for their next directives shouted out by those in command – the captain and the first mate. Having worked his way up from the bottom as a trainee four years before, my son has worked and earned his way to be second in command: the first mate. I’ve watched him grow through the years from young and green, to confident and seasoned. As we begin our family sailing venture out into the beautiful waters I watch him closely, proud of how he takes charge and leads by example, how he constantly is watching for a teachable moment to help one of his crewmates tighten their sailing skills and become even better sailors.

This is a culminating moment for us as a family. The previous two years had been spent navigating our own personal storm of crisis of Dad being laid out with life-threatening circumstances of stage IV cancer. Throughout the harsh winter of fighting death back, it was all the more important to maintain this island of sanity outside the turmoil at home for him. During that time I had two jobs only: to heal, and to get him to the train station an hour away so he could take the four hour journey to Toronto each weekend to be with his love. Both were proudly accomplished. I got stronger and so did he. There’s never a good age to face the mortality of one’s parent, but a teenage boy facing the loss of his father is one of the harder ones. Playfair saved him. She loved him strong and he loved her back, traversing the storm at home. Now, two years later, here we all are celebrating all of the hard work of the journey taken, the healing I’ve been able to find and the manhood he has found. I couldn’t be prouder, happier or more grateful.

Now he stands as the first mate of this fine sailing vessel, looking like an old salt; feet planted widely in a stance to keep balanced as he steers the ship with its large, spoked, wooden wheel, over the waters.

The wind carries the ship high, the bow reaching upwards as it heels its way forward. I stand with my cane in hand, grabbing anything that will help offer support with my other hand. I lean into the wind to keep from falling down.

Dark gray clouds that formed a bank across half the sky when we started out, now sit heavily upon us, completely overhead. The air is thick; the pressure pushes down heavily. Lightning and thunder begin to scatter across over the cold, now gray water, made grayer and colder by the blanket of cloud. Small boats, birds and people head to shore to take cover. But not us. These kids are tough. This is what they’re made for - to meet Nature and her forces on her terms.

The sails are full; the wind is high and full of life. Electricity floods the air; you can feel its crackle. The rain begins and we continue on unfazed. Then, the rain begins falling harder and everyone but the essential crew takes cover down below. I remain. I’m mesmerized, unable to remove myself from this moment, watching my son steering the wheel of the ship, over the waves, with the wind, with the powerful invisible forces he’s come to know well. He works confidently, carrying his precious cargo of families through the storm. It rains and blows harder; my face is pelted with hard spray flying at me horizontally. Quickly, I am drenched – my face, hair and clothes – thoroughly drenched, to the core, but what do I care? All I know, see and feel with every cell of my body and every corner of my soul is that I am alive. I am here to see this – to reap this reward of all the hard work. The hard journey is forgotten and all that remains is this:

I am ALIVE!

Riding high on this sea, I am being steered through this storm by my young son and I am alive and strong – and so is he!

The thunder cracks. In the same split second, lightning bolts shoot to the water, slicing the air with electricity from the heavens. The sky opens, pouring out its contents. Again and again, lightning pierces the dark sky, the thunder cracking it open, encouraging the clouds to release more and more of their contents. Sheets of water are hurled down from above.

I am here to witness one more storm; to be as alive and electric as the storm itself; to feel the wetness fiercely blown, hitting my face. Huge drops crash harshly in the wind – there is no hiding from it. There is only immersion – being drenched by the holy waters; blessed straight from their Source above, straight from the sky and the providers of all that is good, holy, moist and ALIVE! I am drenched thoroughly - every inch of flesh - living, breathing flesh - nourished, watered, renewed and alive!

The exhilaration and ecstasy are so intense, lightning is no threat to my aliveness. There is no fear or worry that can find me. I am protected by the sheer vibrancy and power running though me. We have survived our own greater storm in our lives and there is nothing here on the water that can endanger me more.

I am in a very ecstatic state of mind and body when suddenly through my reverie I hear my son’s sobering, yet gentle reminder: “Don’t touch anything metal,” and reality quickly makes its appearance as I appreciate the danger of being on a boat on a Great Lake in a powerful thunderstorm. I do a quick inventory looking around cataloguing what is metal and what is not; what’s safe to touch – and what’s not. It doesn’t lessen my ecstasy any; it can’t. Instead, the danger heightens all the more the ecstasy of being alive – in this moment – ALIVE! - More than ever – ALIVE! The wind, water, waves, rain and danger all mix with this being alive in all its rawness – in all its spectacular Beauty. It is all that exists.

I smile. Down to the core of my being, I smile. Taking all of this in - reflecting on all we’ve been through, how far we’ve come, and what I’ve learned today from my young son the sailor. First, in a hard, ripping storm – to face right into the storm - lean into the wind; and if lightning is involved literally or metaphorically, don’t touch anything metal: don't flirt with disaster. But most importantly, remembering every moment of every day – to live full out, as if my life depended upon it. It very well might. And lastly, in the midst of all the storms in life to remember:

All storms pass.

>>>> <+> <<<<

for more info on Toronto Brigantine's Youth Sail Training Program: http://www.tallshipadventures.on.ca/

Storm From the Mountain

2009-05-14T11:32:00.002-04:00

A Nahuatl poem, read at the beginning of the Zapatistas Fourth Declaration of the Lacandon Jungle:

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Now I have arrived
Now I am here, present,
I am the singer.
Now is the time to celebrate,
Come here and present yourself,
those who have an aching heart.
I raise my song.

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From out of the jungle communities they caravaned to Mexico City - to the seat of the government. Campesinos, farmers, poets, artisans, activists, they gathered in numbers as they crossed from Chiapas to Mexico City, a storm gathering. They entered the city in peace, yet strong. They made their statement about peace, justice and dignity. Tlakaelel, mi maestro (teacher), was one of the elders to receive them and offer his blessings when they arrived. I had wanted to be there physically; I was in spirit. They made their statement: they are a force to be reckoned with; they are survivors; they are not going away.

After their peaceful appearance in Mexico City in 2001 they returned home. They are quiet now. They are patient. They are not gone. It may be many years before we hear from them again. They move in indigenous time; they know how to wait. Meanwhile, the forces of oppression continue at work. Meanwhile, the resistance continues. We, safe at home, unaware, have no idea of what really goes on with our closest neighbor. Here? They keep us busy thinking and worrying about swine flu, illegal immigration, drug cartels - and Mexicans. Really? Do you not believe that their well-being is our well-being? Do you really still believe that there is a border that separates us and keeps their troubles there, and our safety secured here?

There are fathers and mothers - forces in the mountain jungle: villages of farmers. What lengths will they go to for their children? What lengths would you go to for your children?

Exactly.

The fight continues. Quietly and patiently, it continues. Listen to the winds. Their voices carry. A revolution takes place, every day, quietly - right under our collective noses. They disappeared back into the jungles of Chiapas, but they are far from gone. Do you see how strong they are? Quiet strength accumulating, gathering. Zapata lives. There is not one Subcomandante Marcos; many are Subcomandante Marcos. Behind every mask another Subcomandante lives. Do not fear the mask that protects the identities of fathers, mothers and children. We are many under one mask. Zapatismo will never die. Dignity is never out of fashion.

Peace, justice and dignity - all rights of EVERY individual, and every community. Nice words, but how do we make it so? Listen; keep your eyes wide open. Do not be afraid. Do not be afraid when instead of from the jungles of far-off Chiapas, the call for dignity and justice comes from the streets of Chicago, Detroit, L.A. and Nueva York. That would be a start. And then, if you want to do something really radical - maybe show a Mexican some love.

Yeah, that would be a start.

[As I finish writing this, coincidentally (?) the music in the background is the great American songwriter Steve Earle singing] :

The revolution starts now
When you rise above the fear
And tear the walls around you down
The revolution starts here
Where you work and where you play
Where you lay your money down
What you do and what you say
The revolution starts now
Yeah the revolution starts now
in your own backyard
In your own hometown
So what you doin' standin' around
Just follow your heart
The revolution starts now

god is alive; magic is afoot

2009-05-09T20:46:00.007-04:00

This is my fourth spring of renewal; a commitment to healing and whatever that means or brings. Healing - too many words have been spoken and written on a mystery we all would like solved, but that will forever remain a mystery. Perhaps it's more about what can't be contained in a word. I like how in the old Jewish way the name we know as God is spelled G-d - the reason being to show there is no one word that could possibly contain the concept or name of the unnameable; no defining of Mystery. I like that. To me, they're saying: "We don't know.... It's too big for us to 'know'."

But I digress...

Each of these four springs, at one time or another, this old song of Buffy Sainte-Marie's [Cree Nation] has come to mind. As we break out of the looooong winter and Michigan is abloom with flowers and every flavor of flowering tree, as the air is perfumed with the scent of apple blossoms and lilac, at some moment of reverie this song will float into my head.

It just popped in again. This spring it arrives along with well-wishes for writer - friend, teacher - mentor, Luis Alberto Urrea, whom I dedicate this to. His latest book, a novel: "Into the Beautiful North", has just been released with good and strong reviews. If you've never read any of Luis' books, I highly recommend them. I mention him with this song because he is one who understands how and when magic is afoot - call it god, God, G-d, or nothing at all; he weaves magic with words, be they about immigration, border-lives and crossings, stories of his ancestor, Teresita the healer, in the days of the Mexican Revolution, or being the chicano haiku-master. He is a kind and generous person; and the highest of compliment in the indigenous world: a good human being. And, he tells a good story. Check him out. Look over here -----> under Links of Interest. Click on his name; it will take you to his website. Like I said: good man; worth checking out.

Lastly, this video contains much artwork of Huichol Indian artists. Their work is visionary; each painting ceremonial in nature - full of magic and mystery.

Enough said about the unspeakable.

Enjoy the blessings of Spring and Renewal.

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Song: Buffy Sainte-Marie
Lyrics by Leonard Cohen:
Video by gewajega@yahoo.com

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Nibi

2009-04-30T23:25:00.002-04:00

As the Water Walkers arrive to the end of their journey I offer this found poem written by Sue Erickson. It's a hard poem, reflecting their hard, arduous journey taken with strength. This is their mission, as the 'keepers' and educators. I thank the people of the Mother Earth Water Walk and send a healing balm your way for your feet and legs. Strong as they may be, they've worked hard.

Also, there's some new photos at their website listed again at the bottom of this post. This is the third of four posts on water here at Flor y Canto. These three have had a hardness, I know. Hang in there. The last one will be a little different take on water. But for now, in honor of the Water Walkers, one last difficult one.

NIBI – by Sue Erickson

Anishinaabekwe, the Daughters,
You are the keepers of the water.
I am Nibi…water…the sacred source,
the blood of Aki, Mother Earth,
the force filling dry seeds to green bursting,
I am the womb’s cradle.
I purify.

Nibi, the lifegiver…
forever the Circle’s charge
I have coursed through our Mother’s veins,
Now, hear my sorrow and my pain
in the river’s rush, the rain…
I am your grandchildren’s drink.
Listen, Daughters, always,
you are the keepers of the water.
Hear my cry,
for the springs flow darkly now
through the Heart of Aki.

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www.motherearthwaterwalk.com

Canary In the Mine

2009-04-29T01:59:00.006-04:00

I think of myself as a rather large canary in the mine.

When I was a kid we would play daily on the Kalamazoo River that flowed near my home. The town was one of those small industrial towns that had many factories and a couple of foundries. Upstream, was one of the foundries. We would follow the river on long summer days. There were lots of adventures there: critters to discover, animal prints in the mud to follow, frogs to catch - river stuff. There was one spot outside of town that we'd stop at. What caught our attention about this spot was the warm water that came down from the rear of the foundry property. I'm sure very few people saw this part of the countryside except for maybe the occasional hunter. But us, being kids, we weren't just walking through the area - we stayed; we explored. The water was warm. It was intriguing and fun because if we waded in past the bright orange colored shore and into the warm water, we would sink down into the sand below, past our knees. We thought it was quicksand and we could spend hours splashing in the warm. orange water and pretending we were in a Tarzan movie (our only reference for quicksand).

Recently I found out that this site was cordoned off by the EPA in the late 90's as a toxic waste site. The earth of the property is contaminated with a long list of carcinogenic chemicals. This area drains down to the river. The EPA document shows this spot on the map as the same pool of orange, warm quicksand water we played in years ago. The waters were poisoned along with the earth and my young body also. Back in the early 60's there wasn't much thought given to the dumping of toxic wastes. Today, the foundry sits empty, the land considered "brown land" - land that must sit idle because it can't be sold or built upon. The land, the water, the animals, plants and myself have all been the recipients of the dumping.

My body reflects the earth's; the same tracks cross both. One of my responsibilities as a resident of the Great Lakes region, is to be a guardian of the fresh water - your grandchild's drink. This is the only water we get. Did you know that there is no new water? It's the same finite amount of water that's been recycling on the planet for hundreds of millions of years; the same water a dinosaur drank was then pissed out to the ground, evaporated and eventually fell as rain, re-entering our water cycle. This process has been going on and on for eons without problem, and now, look what we've managed to do in just a few short years of industry.

What can we do? Gratitude is always a good place to start; appreciating the fact that over 1 BILLION people TODAY do not have the right of clean drinking water. If we appreciate this gift we won't squander it; more than that, we'll protect it because there's a high probability that the 1 billion without clean water today will grow to be many more tomorrow. We are the lucky ones; we are the privileged; we share a responsibility to our children, and to our children's children, and the children across the world who today will walk many miles with buckets and jugs to a dirty watering hole, to carry some filthy, precious brown fluid home to their families.

Again, I send a 'shout out' and a 'megwetch' to the Water Walkers (see previous post) calling attention and raising awareness with their feet.

The Water Walkers

2009-04-25T22:46:00.012-04:00

I often think it was a very big mistake that this body of mine, made of generations of high desert, chile-fired blood, was born in these wet lowlands of the Great Lakes region. But here I am in this land of abundant water. Whatcha gonna do? Best to be thankful for what one has; it's a good place to start. We are fortunate here in the Great Lakes region to not have to worry about drought like many places of the earth. You see, we sit on twenty-two per cent of the WORLD'S fresh water. It's a great privilege and even greater responsibility.

In 2003 a small group of Anishinabe women and men led by two Anishinabe Grandmothers began the Mother Earth Water Walk to raise awareness of the responsibility we carry as caretakers of almost one quarter of the world's fresh water supply. Each year they have circumnavigated on foot, one of the great lakes. This year they are walking along the St. Lawrence Seaway as this precious water makes its way to the ocean. They are out there walking right now, through rain, cold, sun or heat; daily they continue their walk, praying, honoring and awakening people along the way. They do this for their children, their grandchildren and the next seven generations. They do this for all of us, from those of us who live near these great bodies of water, to those of us living in some urban setting far from any fresh water resource. In the most basic sense, they pray with their footsteps, each one a step of gratitude - for water.

Please take a moment to stop by their website. Visit their daily log of their journey for water. Leave them a note of gratitude and encouragement in their guest book. They need the encouragement as they are ordinary folks with ordinary feet, with legs and backs that ache. They sacrifice their comfort to offer this prayer so we all may benefit. Let them know that we care; that their poetic prayer with their feet is heard throughout Turtle Island (the Americas); give them a "megwetch" - a thank you.

At the very least, the next time you pour a nice, clean glass of water, take a moment to notice and recall how fortunate those of us who have clean drinking water are; much of the world does not have this most basic need satisfied. For this, we must not forget, but instead, remember and be grateful.

For more information: www.motherearthwaterwalk.com

para mijo living on the north sea

2009-04-21T12:17:00.005-04:00

When you tell me of all the history in the streets and buildings when you leave the comfort of your North Sea harbor and visit Amsterdam, I can see you, young man, full of life, vigor and strength, walking tall. Carry your ancestors with you. They too, walk those streets with you; they will walk with you down every road you go throughout the world, and every sea you cross. But you knew that.

Although we've all heard her story before, this video brings Anne, the writer, across strongly. This is one answer as to why we write. Keep writing mijo.

And may All Love surround you - always.
You know ours goes with you.

Music by Jochan Pachelbel-Video by Teodor The Glass Man

"I've found there's always some beauty left in nature, sunshine, freedom, in yourself; these things can all help you. Look at all these things, then you find yourself again, and God, and then you regain your balance." - Anne Frank

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Info for when you visit Amsterdam again: www.annefrank.org

spring morning haiku

2009-04-18T01:45:00.001-04:00

morning birds calling:
wake up. greet the day. it waits
for no one, old fool.

Today's Message brought to you by The Rats

2009-04-16T09:30:00.010-04:00

by London Street Artist - Banksey

I have a special fondness for public art, especially art in the public domain - here today; gone tomorrow. Here's a link to Banksey, who I just discovered, along with a lot of other good stuff at stumbledupon.com

www.stumbleupon.com/toolbar/#url=http%253A%252F%252Fvillageofjoy.com%252Famazing-graffiti-art-by-bansky%252F

Banksey's website:www.banksy.co.uk/

When I was a kid I used to pray every night for a new bicycle.
Then I realised God doesn’t work that way, so I stole
one and prayed for forgiveness. -emo phillips

Ghost Dance: We Shall Live Again

2009-04-11T23:47:00.005-04:00

In the 1800's, as the population of the First Nations people was being decimated, a Paiute medicine man by the name of Wovoka had a vision. During an eclipse of the sun he fell unconscious and remained so for several days. When he returned, he brought with him the vision of the Ghost Dance. This was a vision, a message to the people that they would rise again. Despite the death and destruction that had fallen upon them - through the spreading of the dance and a dedication to righteous living, the people would live, the buffalo would return and the old ways of life before the conquest would return. The People would live again; a resurrection of a different sort. This message spread throughout Indian Country, lifting the People with hope for a return of the old ways in a new day. As the message of hope spread among Indians, the same message struck fear in the new inhabitants and with an equal zeal; the Ghost Dance was outlawed. When several hundred cold and hungry, unarmed Lakota dancers were surrendering to the Seventh Cavalry in December of 1890, they were massacred at Wounded Knee, South Dakota. Thus ended the Ghost Dance Movement. But not the spirit of the Ghost Dance or the determination to live again.

You can kill my body,
You can damn my soul,
You don't stand a chance against my prayer,
You don't stand a chance against my love....
We shall live again,
We shall live again.

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In this video of Robbie Robertson's song "Ghost Dance", we see some of the history - along with some of the hope of the future: young shawl and fancy dancers. My youngest son (the sailor whom I call Popeye in these blog-posts) is a fancy dancer. The dance came to him also in vision, in prayer, in hope. My other son also knows well the determination to live again, to rise above the Death-Wishers. We are not a dead people. We live, and we shall live again!

Ometeotl.
Muchas gracias Tlakaelel for helping plant my dangling roots back into the red earth.

Michigan Spring Renewal

2009-04-06T15:49:00.014-04:00

Yesterday at my home, it looked like this:

... and today it looks like this:

FLEXIBILITY!
I was always taught by the elders who knew, the folks who were elders, not just old folk, that flexibility is the #1 skill for aging successfully, for livin' on an insecure planet. Michigan spring gives one opportunity for that. Don't get too stuck, 'cuz life will come along to unstick you. Sometimes it's two steps forward, one step back; sometimes it's two steps forward, a hundred back; sometimes it's an unexpected leap forward. It all takes a certain flexibility - not holding on to what was, yesterday.

One week ago, I was busted. Not by the law, I'm talkin' in my soul. Bad health challenges keeping me down with pain and hurt; bank account slippin' down lower and lower; hole of debt gaping larger; discouraged from shoveling the mountain of social security disability process/cruelty machine for the past two years; and then as we laid our heads down in bed to listen to the thunder of the first spring thunderstorm, through the thunder we heard: drip-drip-drip as the water broke through the old tired roof. Talk about your low moments. After a half day of allowing the luxury of wallowing, it's either let yourself go down or get to working, which in my metaphorical world means get the shovel out; call on the folks who remind you that you're not a worthless piece of shit running down the gutter with the spring rain into the sewer. Get to work.

And be flexible.

Remember who you are, what you're made of, who's got your back.

Three days later....

In the early morning of April Fool's Day, a special day for all clowns, sacred or otherwise, such as el poquito - the Social Security Easter Bunny dropped chocolate eggs into my basket, i.e. all the hard work of enduring a cruel, cruel process and not giving up or dying from frustration, fear or worthlessness - outlasting them and their 500 flaming hoops - shoveling endlessly till finally I can claim the money that i have put into their insurance program all my working years, just in case, someday, I might find myself living with disability and just might need some insurance to survive; it finally paid off. Did you hear the sigh of relief over your way? Aaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhh........ The sound of financial relief.

And if that wasn't enough...

Three hours later at my door arrives my eldest son - "The Lowrider" with five other young men, bundles of shingles, tools and equipment and all their strong hard labor for free. That's how these young men roll. Now, if you saw them on the street, you might, like some others, judge them on appearance, cross the road, maybe even be a bit afraid. Why, you ask. Simple. It's called prejudice, or pre-judging - big, strong, slightly rough guys -with hearts of gold. So there they are, six men throwing a new roof on my house, donating their beautiful sunshiney day to the parents of one of their own, and by early afternoon the job is done, they're eating pizza and I'm lavishing praise and gratitude for what they've done and for who they are.

They're the ones who give me hope. They're the living demonstration that sometimes being challenged under the weight of trouble can be endured when people band together, give the best of themselves with no strings attached, out of pure love. They restore and give me hope.

They remind me to keep it flexible, not just because I might need to brace myself for the storm, but also so I can be open to receiving the gifts of so many good things, good will, good intention. And when I thanked Lowrider for him and his friends he simply said, "Dad, you know we wouldn't let you go down." And they mean it.

Sometimes it's the elders teaching the young, sometimes it's the young teaching us.

Flexibility. Don't ever lose it. Practice it. Remember it. You remind me and I'll remind you.

in the spirit of love and renewal,
gratefully,
el poquito

Free Money (a re-do)

2009-04-06T14:24:00.002-04:00

For Gerta and Neese, a little Patti from when we all were young and raisin' other people's children (oh, so arrogant and without tread on the road), raisin' 'em up on Patti and the Ramones; Children's Community Center and all its crazy inheritance - from the Weather Underground folks to the Rainbow People's Party folk to Sherry and Neal-Neal Banana Peel and down to us. All those baby-childs that we raised up on Patti are 35-40 years old now! Yowza! Where are they now?! What a place! What a time! A moment of history. And we were there. Love ya still.

The Gift

2009-03-30T01:53:00.001-04:00

My Father came to me --
visited me in the early morning.
He appeared as a young man,
hair: black and full,
face: clean-shaven,
a big smile, a hearty laugh.

There was joy in his voice;
an aliveness I'd never seen before
in life.

Arriving now, from the Land of the Dead,
he stood before me
with a young man's
heart,
vital and fresh as a new day.
He was happy to see me -
happier than I ever remember
seeing him before.
He brought gifts.
But more than that,
he brought himself - fully;
showing up in Death
unlike he ever had in Life,
as if to say:
it was all
an act:

a performance
of violence and rage,
of neglect and lack;
forcing me, his son,
to dig
deep -
and then
deeper,
and then
deeper
still -

to find
the man
I would become one day,
honoring my family,
my children,
my wife.

It was as if he said,
"All that before?
It was only to get you to
here -
to the Love."

He handed me a gift
and added,
"This is for you."

How Do We Forgive Our Fathers?

2009-03-27T01:29:00.006-04:00

Father, I barely knew you. And when I knew you, you frightened me. Mostly you showed me what not to do, what not to be. With your reign of terror, the fever of alcohol and violence that held our home and family hostage, you taught me. You taught me how to destroy spirits and lives including your own. You shone a light on the path not to walk.

Thank you.

A good buddy and I have recently been talking about raising our boys and the path to manhood; a path not necessarily walked with tremendous consciousness, but a path every single boy must find his way upon. With or without guidance, every young boy will one day wake up and find himself a man. With or without consciousness, we will each of us find ourselves trying to 'be a man'; trying to discover what that means. We fumble our way, sometimes never knowing that 'being a man' is nothing more than fully becoming a human being - a human being who is flawed, who knows love as well as fear; who knows both courage and weakness; who is vulnerable and yet strong - a being, fully human in all its shades, nuances and inconsistencies. A man.

Raising a child is one of the most valuable and basic ways to affirm life, to leave this earthly place a little bit better - or not. Almost anyone can reproduce. Big deal. Not everyone takes the job seriously. Not everyone cares about the fine art of growing a human being. After all, human beings are almost a dime a dozen, what with 6, soon to be 7 BILLION of us on the planet. It's easy to forget. It's all too easy to forget that each one is precious. We too often are imprinted with the opposite message - that we are disposable. Disposable humans fill the landscapes of wars and prisons, mental hospitals and the streets, third world shantytowns and middle american families. We treat others as disposable when we ourselves have been treated as disposable and have come to believe it as truth and fact. We've unquestioningly been bought and sold - all too easily tossed aside and discounted. Just turn on the TV. There's hundreds of messages telling us we're not good enough, and if we just purchase the next latest thing, the new and improved thing that we lack, THEN we will be someone, something, a person of worth that can be measured by a material yardstick; someone worth more than the 'disposables'.

It has nothing to do with being a good human being.

Our fathers are supposed to be one of our strongest signposts along the way. Sometimes a sign points the way. Sometimes it warns "Do Not Enter".

I am fortunate. Before my father died in his eighties I was able to have an honest talk with him. I told him how the violence I'd grown up with had damaged me. I wanted him to know before he died, before we no longer had a chance to sit down together face to face, how his actions had hurt me as a child. I also told him that now, as a man, I could forgive him, knowing that he himself had never been shown better, knowing that he also must have had great pain and hurt shown to him. Others in my family were alarmed that I would speak so frankly about things that there was an unspoken family agreement that such things should remain in the shadows of silence. Somehow it was believed that if we didn't speak about these things, then the pain would touch us less. Instead, I spoke. And my father spoke in return.

He was an old man getting ready to die. He had a conscience to clear. He apologized. With total sincerity he told me, had he known any better he would have done better - simple as that. And a lifetime of pain and hurt was washed away. He was free to move on and so was I.

Years later I saw the movie "Smoke Signals", a favorite movie of mine written by Sherman Alexie. It's about fathers and sons, pain and the convoluted yet simple path to forgiveness and redemption. It's a movie about becoming a human being - a man in all his flesh and spirit. The movie ends with this poem by Dick Lourie, as Victor, the main character, tosses his father's ashes into the river. it's a powerful scene, a powerful moment in the journey to becoming a man.

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Spring Equinox Meanderings

2009-03-21T01:24:00.005-04:00

Happy, blessed Spring! We made it – and none too soon! Those of you who are from these parts of Michigan know what I mean. You others who winter over in an easier part of the world, I’ll just put it this way: we’ve survived the long, grey, hard winter with little light and little warmth once again. Today, on the equinox, the length of the day equals the night, and from here, the balance tips; the days lengthen, the light increases. Hopefully, in our lives also. The light-starved and depressed need the wheel to turn.

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It was midsummer last year when el poquito made his first appearance. He was born out of frustration and limitation back then. He’s been clowning with me ever since. It was a low tide moment; my legs and back were pulled out from under me once again. The pain in the nerves was hard to live with. I was scared. The little bit of ground I had recovered since lymphoma had moved into my life, felt as though it were crumbling out from under me. I was in a lot of pain and with little mobility. I was chained to the couch, needing crutches to travel off of it. I was going to need something extra to get through this; el poquito began to run through the interior lands inside of me. If I can’t run in one realm – a part of me will in another.

A spark was awakened with the arrival of el poquito. He leads my way; takes my spirit by the hand and runs with me. el poquito also shields me in the very public forum of blogworld, protecting my identity, my family and any innocent bystanders. There are some of you who know who the man is ‘behind the curtain’. That man has temporarily disappeared once again, gone into retreat of sorts. It’s time for an explanation, as best as I can.

A couple of months ago, the leg and back had another one of their ‘episodes’. That means a flare-up of the same ol’ pain and limitation scenario. These usually take a couple of weeks to move through, where I become my sole bodywork client, working on my body most waking hours to free it up. I fall down, but I don’t stay down. I’m stubborn and willful, if nothing else. During this period of slippage and taking care of myself, I developed another body problem – a new one. This time my upper back and right arm were crapping out on me. My strong arms had never betrayed me before. Now, I seemed to be developing new nerve problems – in new body parts; and the hole of limitation deepened. For two months now I’ve been trying to wrap my brain around losing the use of my arm. The pain, numbness and weakness have rattled me. Of course I work on it a lot. I also have gotten a lot of help. The impact of various remedies has been minimal and any progress or improvement has had to be what I can muster in my own mind. Don’t worry. I haven’t given up. I don’t do that. I can’t afford that luxury.

I’ve tried my best to keep my arm strong; at the same time I grieve its loss. Most recently I’ve come to think of how we identify so with our work. Especially when one loves their work, and others give you lots of kudos about your work, it becomes a large part of your persona and your place in the world. And mine was a good place in the world. In my recovery from cancer I’ve erratically tried to maintain what I could in the area of my life’s work with my hands, still helping others here and there, where I could. I haven’t been this strongly challenged since being in the midst of cancer and treatment. It takes me places I’d rather not visit. But then, nobody asked me.

Working with my hands with other’s pain was a calling. I now realize that I was given a gift. My hands and being were given an ability – I was able to sculpt human flesh; softening cold, hard clay into something warm and pliable. I was given a gift to share with others, and in addition I was given the gift of being able to make a living doing that work. I’ve been fortunate.

My life has also been rich with irony.

As a gift is freely given, likewise it can it be taken away. For now, it has been taken away. I don’t know what tomorrow brings, but I do know the arm has weakened and muscle has been lost along with ability. I hope not permanently, but still, it will take some time to recover and find its way back.

Meanwhile, as the back and arm heal, el poquito takes the lead. As el poquito I can run, leap and climb mountains; I can write, paint and spin tales of survival. I can take crap and reshape it into something new. I can grow spring flowers in the compost of the winter’s pile of shit.

Or like any good gardener, I can at least try. That’s all any gardener can do – try. No guarantee how the garden will turn out. Gardening is an act of hope. So is stubbornly rising above the crap.

Viva el poquito!

And Happy Spring Equinox - celebrating the returning Light.

love,
el poquito (and the man behind the curtain)

Anticipating Spring in Michigan

2009-03-18T00:35:00.002-04:00

the breeze is painted
with a remembered canopy
of honeysuckle and lilac -
a sistene chapel invisible to the eye
known only by its delicate breath
whispering its name

Songbird

2009-03-16T00:18:00.011-04:00

Stuck.
A frightening place.
A terrifying place, to me.
A place of no hope,
no spark, no breath -
just stale air,
a cabin closed
for too long, all summer -
that 'hot, August, steal the air from your lungs'
kind of stale air that
has not passed over
a living thing.

That is the odor of stuck:
stale, without breath, without
the touch of any living thing.

Passivity suffers
upon itself.
It empties its pockets, turns them
inside out,
and waits.
Endlessly.

Outside this place,
the birds are praising.
Praising no one,
no thing.
Just praising.

Perspective - Down Here Below

2009-03-08T01:12:00.004-05:00

But life goes on down here below
And all us mortals struggle so
We laugh and cry
And live and die
That`s how it goes
For all we know
Down here below

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for more on pale male: www.palemale.com/

Hanblechya

2009-03-01T12:18:00.008-05:00

I wait for a sign:
a movement, a rustle - a stirring in the air;
a bird's call in the distance,
a cry for a vision.

I wait for a sign:
a word spoken, a dream remembered,
a conversation overheard -
one about freedom:
about the jail doors flinging open
and the prisoners set free;
about the hospital beds emptied,
and the patients all healed;
about hunger ending tomorrow
because we decide it so.

A dream about freedom
is only that: a dream.
A leap into the Unknown
is always that: a leap.

Standing at cliff's edge,
wings ready to take flight,
I wait for a sign -
the right cross wind
to climb
to the top
and
soar.

Invisible Mystery
stronger than fear,
I leap into
your current
carried on thin air
and trust.
"Do not look back
or give harbor
to doubt."

La Acequia

2009-02-22T15:55:00.011-05:00

How do I call the rain?
How do I tell the sky
in a way it will hear -
of the need for water,
for mercy.

The dry river-bed,
cracked and fissured,
aches
in its longing;
stream-beds lie empty;
las acequias - without
life-blood,
filled instead, with brittle memories
of what once was
lush and green.

There are milpas waiting;
verdant fields wanting
to rise
above the withered husks
again.

I place the seed
into hardened earth
with a prayer
and a song -
and a dream
of the rain's
return.

Mickey Goes to Pow Wow

2009-02-17T00:18:00.006-05:00

This one takes me back to a pow wow in St. Ignace, Michigan where I first heard it; a sunny, warm September day a dozen years ago; standing next to the drum under the cedar arbor; surrounded by the blue waters of the Straits of Mackinaw - Ojibwa country. If you've never been to a pow wow, get yerself there. If you've never stood next to the drum and felt it pound its rhythm into your body - go stand next to it. If you've never seen an Indian child dance, you've missed a chance to smile deep.

Go. Eat good food. See good sights. Feel good music. Dance. Everyone is welcome. Step into another world; a world of tradition that is still strong today. You'll be glad you did. In fact, how did you ever get to be this old and never have gone to a pow wow? Go! Get yerself there. Take the kids. Take Grandma and Grandpa. There's room and respect for everyone. Have fun -- tell 'em Indigenous Mickey sent ya. (listen closely - One of the Best Cultural Appropriations in reverse)

for more info on pow wows: www.powwows.com

Late Winter Ice-break

2009-02-11T00:39:00.003-05:00

Last week was the cross-quarter - the halfway through winter moment; the light increasing; the snow and ice melting. Ice flows breaking apart carrying ice fishermen into Lake Erie, reminding them of their very small stature. Spring surges beneath the surface. The pressure pushing, breaking apart the old, the frozen; breaking free.

Y'all hung in there with me through this last three part poem: the dictionary. It's a hard poem about hard work among other things. It's not comfortable. The pressure builds.

And then the sap rises. The ice cracks. The waters get troubled. And the release begins.

Here's a little something to soothe the way:
Eva Cassidy - Wade In the Water
Striped icebergs of Antarctica

the dictionary: malignant; malevolent

2009-02-07T22:08:00.016-05:00

malignant - showing great malevolence; actively evil in nature

malevolent - having or exhibiting ill will
from the latin
malus - bad
and volens - to will or intend.

an evil force outside of myself
evil invaders who break into my home
tie me up
make me helpless
as I watch them rape my wife and kill her
slit the throats of my children
steal my belongings
torture me
in my powerlessness
to this great ill will
that leaves me to burn
in the rubble
of what once was my home
until all that remains
is
smoldering
ash.

i do not know this malevolent force
that wishes my undoing
it is an inheritance from
the rapists murderers and pillagers.
they want me to believe.
they need me to believe.

instead i have a wolf
same as francis' wolf of gubbio.

when the villagers of gubbio cried out for help
the holy man
came to the rescue
but instead of driving the wolf away
that had murdered and eaten children
and hunters alike
that had struck fear into all the villagers -
he went into the forest to talk to the wolf
and the villagers cried out
"oh no! don't do that! he'll kill you!"
but francis walked into the dark woods
unarmed except for invisible protection
and when he found the dangerous matted stinking wolf
he reached out his hand and said
"bless you brother wolf"
and having only been cursed before and never been blessed
and having never been called "brother" before
the wolf stopped to listen
and francis continued
in intimate conversation.

from the darkened woods they emerged together
walking toward the city gate
and the villagers screamed to kill the wolf
to hang him as was the custom
but francis said, "no."

"good people of gubbio" he addressed them
"this is your wolf."
"what? this isn't our wolf! he's not ours! he needs to be killed!" they protested.
francis countered "he is your wolf - and he has been very hungry
he has agreed to stop killing you to fill his hunger
but you must agree to feed him
and keep him from starvation
this is your wolf people of gubbio
and you must feed him."

from that day on
the skinny hungry wolf
would travel each morning from house to house
looking for scraps left by the door
by the woman of the house.

and there was no more killing.

i live with a wolf.
he's not a malevolent force
that wishes me evil.
he hungers for my attention
i do not know why
but every day he shows up
at my door
hungry
wanting
and i choose to invite him in
for something to eat
a cup of coffee
or green tea
and conversation
and listening
about life as a wolf
and being
so
misunderstood.

the dictionary: cancer (the crab)

2009-02-07T02:31:00.007-05:00

Since the shovel is out, and since I'm riding a steroid rocket right now (prescribed), and I have more energy in my mind than I've had in some time, well instead of taking this 3-parter slowly, I'm going to plow ahead, shovel firmly in hand.

i can no longer call you cancer
after finding out your name is greek for the crab
with its many legs
creepy-crawling
here and there
under this rock
or shoal.
i shall call you by your formal name -
lymphoma
or your fully baptized name -
follicular non-hodgkins lymphoma
or your nickname -
my annoying roommate mr L
but I will not have creepy crawlies
trying to creepy-crawl their way
through my waters.

cancer goodbye.

i shall see you written as c-answer when i hear your name
and think of you pointing to
an answer
within -
the one I may never find.

my own holy grail.

the dictionary: on hate

2009-02-06T01:07:00.005-05:00

very smart book that dictionary
with all its words and meanings and definitions
with its roots and etymology
always looking for the center of a thing
a feeling
an idea -
the defining essence in as few words as possible.
very smart book that dictionary
one of my favorite guiding scriptures
that contains all that is holy and sacred and blessed
without excluding the unholy and mundane and cursed.

the word holy and whole and heal
all from the same root -
and if one is the same as the other
or cousins at least
then the holy is the wholly
from the sacred to the profane.

i like that all-inclusive dictionary
and wonder what kind of a guy that webster was.

i look up "hate" as in "I hate cancer"
and learn it comes from the greek via the german word
"kad"
the old word for hatred
and
sorrow.
hatred and sorrow
living side by side
children of the same parent word - kad
and this is one of the deepest and most profound things
that i've heard in a long, long time.
because underneath any hate I have
i also have great sorrow
or "kad".
i have great kad -
hate and sorrow.

and the greatest is the sorrow.

Fear - You Choked Me - But I Gave You the Leash

2009-01-29T02:26:00.000-05:00

It's the long, deep winter here. No usual January thaw; just endless winter; cold joints; limited mobility. The long winter does interesting things with the mind and to the body. As we wear, as our toughness and hardiness begin to erode, with February still ahead of us, we pull out the St. John's Wort, the Vitamin D, the happy light boxes as remedies to help get us through just a little longer. We wait for the sun to return.

Poetry and music are more remedies. Music helps carry me through. Poetry helps me keep that shovel in my hands (still moving that mountain). So once more I have a gift for you: a clip of poet/musician Joy Harjo (Muskogee Nation) with a teaching poem of "How to Get Rid of Fear". And who couldn't do with getting rid of more of their fear right now - here - today. After hearing her (and I hope you can take the time to hear her through), I hope the remedy of her words helps your load be just a bit lighter. It's a radical, revolutionary act: getting rid of fear - taking off the leash. Time for me to kick fear to the curb - it's already taken too much of my life, kicking me to the curb instead.

I invite you to come join the revolution.

How to Get Rid of Fear

more medicine music - Jim Pepper

2009-01-25T02:46:00.004-05:00

Water spirit feelin'
Springin' round my head
Makes me feel glad
That I'm not dead

Jim Pepper (Creek and Kaw Nations), was a jazz saxophonist who brought us a blend of jazz with Native American music. i've always loved this song, and tonight it came to visit me once again. Found a clip of him performing it to share with all of you. It's to the point, eh? "... glad that I'm not dead." Ironic song for me personally; I knew that he had died relatively young - age 50, but never knew until tonight it was from something I know well - lymphoma. Thank you for reaching out to me Jim; I hope to carry the gladness forward.

Witchi-tie-to, gimee rah
Whoa rah neeko, whoa rah neeko
Hey ney, hey ney, no way

Witchi-tie-to, gimee rah
Whoa rah neeko, whoa rah neeko
Hey ney, hey ney, no way

Water spirit feelin'
Springin' round my head
Makes me feel glad
That I'm not dead

Witchi-tie-tie, gimee rah
Whoa rah neeko, whoa rah neeko
Hey ney, hey ney, no way

Witchi-tie-tie, gimee rah
Whoa rah neeko, whoa rah neeko
Hey ney, hey ney, no way

It's A New Day

2009-01-21T10:32:00.006-05:00

Easy to say, "Yeah, sure. We'll see." Yep, hang around long enough and we'll see; whether we're talking politics or health - we'll see. And until then, I don't think I can afford the luxury of cynicism. It's a new day - today, and everyday - a new day.

It's A New Day -by will.i.am

It's a new day
It's a new day
It's a new day
It's a new day
It's a new day

It's been a long time coming
Up the mountain kept runnin'
Songs of freedom kept hummin'
Channeling Harriet Tubman

Kennedy, Lincoln, and King
We gotta manifest in that dream
It feels like we're swimming upstream
It feels like we're stuck inbetween
A rock and a hard place,
We've been through the heartaches
And lived through the darkest days

If you and I made it this far,
Well then hey, we can make it all the way
And they said no we can't
And we said yes we can
Remember it's you and me together

I woke up this morning
Feeling alright
I've been fightin' for tomorrow
All my life
Yea, I woke up this morning
Feeling brand new
Cause the dreams that I've been dreaming
Have finally came true

It's a new day
(it's a new day)
It's a new day
(it's a new day)
It's a new day
It's a new day!

It's been a long time waitin'
Waiting for this moment
It's been a long time praying
Praying for this moment

We hope for this moment
And now that we own it
For life I'm a hold it
And I won’t let it go

It's for fathers, our brothers,
Our friends who fought for freedom
Our sisters, our mothers,
Who died for us to be in this moment

Stop and cherish this moment
Stop and cherish this time

It's time for unity
For us and we
That's you and me together

I woke up this morning
Feeling brand new
'Cause the dreams that I've been dreaming
Have finally came true
Yea, I woke up this morning
Feeling alright

'Cause we weren't fighting for nothing
And the soldiers weren't fighting
For nothing
No, Martin wasn't dreaming for nothing
And Lincoln didn't change it for nothing
And children weren't crying for nothing

It's a new day
It's a new day
It's a new day
A new day
It's a new day
It's a new day!

Music Medicine for an Outlier

2009-01-16T01:41:00.009-05:00

Outlier - any person or thing that lies, dwells, exists, etc. away from the expected place. It's a term used in statistics to note that which falls away from the average; that which falls to the extreme edges, skewing the statistics. Outlier - what I aspire to be.

There are many voices of the 'norm': the voices of authority, parents, culture and beliefs. In my personal life some of these voices of authority have to do with my health and well-being, my prognosis with cancer, my prognosis in life. These are the voices of averages. I do my best to not listen to these voices that attempt to predict my unknown future, and instead I try to cultivate the outlook of an outlier.

Music helps. A defiant attitude helps. This song by Los Lonely Boys gives me a raucous beat to move my body to, plus some lyrics with attitude. If I could tell them, I'd let these young guys know that their song here has helped me many a day, to feel a little stronger when I'm feeling weak, a little tougher when I'm feeling soft, and a little stronger in my own voice when the voices of conformity start squawking loudly.

Turn the volume up and get up and move - strut across the room with some bad-ass attitude. It's good for you. If not now, when? Enjoy....

My Way

I don't need no fortune
I don't need no fame
That's all just an illusion
To me it don't mean a thing

You can try and deceive me
But I see right through your skin
And what you're trying to tell me
Is something I don't believe in

Don't tell me how to live my life
Don't tell me how to pray
Don't tell me how to sing my song
Don't tell me what to say

Cuz I believe that miracles
happen every day
I don't care what you say,
I'm gonna do it my way

You say you have all the answers
And I should do it your way
How many times do I have to tell you
I ain't no puppet on a string
Listen to me...

Don't tell me how to live my life
Don't tell me how to pray
Don't tell me how to sing my song
Don't tell me what to say
Cuz I believe that miracles
happen every day
I don't care what you say,
I'm gonna do it my way
I'm gonna do it my way
What'd you say

Ohhhhhhhhh
Ohhhhhhhhh
Ohhhhhhhhh

Don't tell me how to live my life
Don't tell me how to pray
Don't tell me how to sing my song
Don't tell me what to say

Don't tell me how to live my life
Don't tell me how to pray
Don't tell me how to sing my song
Don't tell me what to say

Cuz I believe that miracles
happen every day

I don't care what you say
I'm gonna do it my way
I'm gonna do it my way
Ohhhhhhh I'm gonna do it my way

Orale!

Winter's Dream

2009-01-10T14:07:00.016-05:00

for Turtle-Woman

This old oak tree put its roots down several hundred years ago not far from my home. It helps me to put things in perspective, having been here since long ago, when only the Potawatomi people walked through here. Perspective. It's an easy thing to lose, but not in the presence of elders, whether human or oak. I visit this tree often, and its kin that are the remaining trees of a very old oak grove. Long before I came along, these old oaks were here, and will remain here long after I'm gone. They remind me of my smallness. They talk to me about endurance and standing strong over time. They tell me that even their existence here is temporary; that they too shall pass – so of course, so must I, and you, and everyone and thing that I love and hold dear. This isn't a dress rehearsal. Every day counts.

And they teach me that from a tiny acorn a great tree is born.

When I fell seriously ill a few years ago, they took me under their shade to teach me. As the shade of their canopy was stripped bare, so was I. They told me about standing exposed against the bitter winds of winter. They told me how to stand strong; how to endure; and how to wait for Spring.

I wrote this during that time of extreme schooling:

"When I step outside and walk through the park, I feel the Winter unlike ever before: the stillness, the darkness, the quieted landscape, yet underneath all of this "silent night, holy night" lies another world; a world of regeneration and potential awaiting to emerge. I think perhaps the winter doesn't irritate those of us who have the luxury of plenty of sleep and rest, the luxury of not having to rush, the luxury of not having to stress over the small stuff. For the first time in my life, I get to live in synch with Winter and it's quieter ways, and the only thing I really busy myself with, is that other world of regeneration and potential: seeds that appear to be quietly dormant waiting for the returning sun."

It's not easy to slow down; to move at winter's pace; to appreciate the light changing through the course of a day, living in the quiet of regeneration - the seed lying dormant, waiting for Spring. Quiet regeneration is hard work. It looks similar to 'doing nothing'. It looks like waiting. It's not. It's hard internal work; the hardest ever; letting go of the 'doing' and embracing the 'being', and waiting for the coming Spring.

Refuge

2009-01-08T01:04:00.010-05:00

Roasting chile, that’s how it began; my nose, full of the smell of the burning skin of the long pale green chiles as they scorched on the fire. As they roasted, the scent carried me away to childhood memories of my parents doing the same. I roasted enough to put into the corn chowder, with plenty left over for the next morning’s eggs. I remembered how my Dad would always like to have fresh roasted chile for his breakfast eggs. Smells have the power to take us to distant and familiar places as they awaken our memory.

With the smell lingering in the air, that night, I dreamed myself back to New Mexico.

Mom had passed away a only a few months before; now it was time to return her memoria to the land of the saints and the spirits that had followed her throughout her life. We followed the scent of the roasting chile.

In the dream, upon arrival, New Mexico was under attack. I’m not sure who it was that was after us, but I knew I was one of the “us” and had to remain on the run and hidden. Those who were caught were rounded up; worn, tattered, beaten, all resistance gone, people were being loaded up and carted away by the busload. Others were being slain in the streets. I knew to survive I needed to be clever, and lucky, and have friends. I ran, hiding close to the ground, pressing snug against the walls of buildings to hopefully go unnoticed. Running from place to place I sought refuge and safety from the round-up. ‘They’ were a powerful force, with extraordinary powers to root us out; to find, enslave and kill us.

My refuge? It was the library. I ran inside where there were children waiting for the story hour. A young chicana came out with her books and stories, and we sat on the floor, children and adults together. She began weaving her stories, spoken in English, while on the other side of the room another woman translated the stories into Spanish. A large aquarium stood between the two of them. There were no fish in it. Instead, there was sand that would rise to the top, then float down, landing at the bottom mysteriously in columns. These pillars of sand she said, were miraculous forms of the saints manifesting. While we listened, I watched the sand rise up and then fall, drifting through the water, forming these aqua-saints she spoke of. I cried.

I realized how the saints and spirit helpers were a constant in my mother’s life; how they had followed her from the southwest, to our new home in the north; how she had made sure they would never leave nuestra familia, by the building of small shrines and altars - on a table top, a shelf, a dresser. Paintings and statues of the good ones watched over us. They were our friends and allies: Francis, Joseph, Mary, Jude, Therese the Little Flower, and of course Jesus in his many forms - crucified, resurrected, and as the small child Prince of Peace. They were always with us; and here they were again, reminding us in the miracle of an aquarium with santos of sand. Only in New Mexico -- the land of enchantment, where the milagro of the face of Jesus can be found scorched on a tortilla; where the plow of a farmer reveals a cross hidden in the earth, and the dirt becomes a miracle, sacred and healing: the miracle of sacred red earth.

Here, in the library, we were safe; no aberrant destroyer could find us. Outside, our world was being destroyed, while here, we were protected by a young chicana storyteller and her saints.

Suddenly, I was no longer in the library, but instead was transported to the safety of the home of friends. The siege was over: we were safe. I was looking at the family photos on the wall. One of the photos was of three dogs. Inside of the frame, the photo began moving. The dogs romped, playing in the foreground of the photo, while behind them, many white horses were running; and as they ran, their hooves rumbled like thunder, kicking up dust and sand that swirled in a white cloud storming the land -- sand that would rise and fall again to the earth as saints or healing dirt.

~ Storyteller sculpture by Beatrice Loretto

a lighter side of the holidaze

2008-12-30T01:48:00.000-05:00

Send your own ElfYourself eCards

The Longest Night

2008-12-22T01:12:00.010-05:00

Tonight, the longest night of the year is also the coldest and we begin to live in winter again. After the big snow, the deep chill has arrived – and now the darkness.

It’s time for reflection, for staying warm, for staying safe from the bitter cold. The longest night, the deepest reflection, these are the messengers of winter solstice.

This year, tonight also begins the first night of Chanukah, the Festival of Lights.

After marrying into a Jewish family, I clearly remember my first Chanukah, each night another candle added to the menorah, the candleholder. The first night beginning with two candles: the shamash – the helper candle and one other candle representing the first night of the 8 day Jewish Festival of Lights. The light from these two candles filled the darkened room with their small glow. The next night another candle was added to total three, making it a little brighter. The following night - another, with each night growing brighter as a little more of the darkness was lit. Finally on the eighth night, the room was ablaze in light.

This dark and bitterly cold night my family gathers around the table once again to light the menorah. A Christmas poinsettia shares the same table. We sing the song in Hebrew for the growing light. We sit in the darkness of the longest night and listen to the biting wind outside. We lean close, relying upon each other to get through this time of darkness till the light returns, until the warmth returns – as it always does. And we wait.

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This Little Light of Mine - Mavis Staples (she sings it with a lot of heart)

Survivor

2008-12-16T03:12:00.010-05:00

Survivor - from the Latin: supervivere; super – above, vivere – to live.

Survivor: Above to live. A place I can aim for that is somewhere above this worried, fearful, stressed world that we’ve come to accept as normal. When truly pushed to the edge, still, we usually meet the challenge. That thing you’ve heard mention of? Survival instinct? It’s real. Been there, done that. As they say, I can ‘testify’.

I can testify that we underestimate ourselves. When push comes to shove we instinctively rise to meet the occasion. It’s not courage… it’s not bravery. It’s instinct.

I can testify that we are capable of so much more than we believe we are. As Mexican artist Frida Kahlo who lived with much pain and limitation said, “At the end of the day, we can endure much more than we think we can.” She painted her way through her survival. It helped her ‘above to live’ the circumstances of her life.

There is a Chinese teaching riddle from the chi gong healing tradition:

How do you move a mountain?

One shovelful at a time.

We stand at the bottom of that mountain feeling overwhelmed, feeling doubt, feeling where do I even begin? You begin when you decide to pick up the shovel. You begin when you determine that you will do all it takes, regardless… You begin when you decide that no matter how long it takes, no matter if your undertaking is successful or not – that it’s not the outcome that matters as much as the journey taken - that shoveling matters.

That mountain might be a life-threatening illness, an abusive relationship or an addiction. It might be an ill child, the loss of a loved one, a natural disaster… It might be the terror of living in our own minds, or our own nations at war… It might be poverty. We each have our own mountains, things that call us to rise - above to live…

Some say of cancer survivors that the moment you receive a cancer diagnosis you're a survivor. Others say they don't like the word for a variety of reasons.

Above to live: survivor - I can not only wear that word, I’m thankful to be able to wear it. It's lovely to be a survivor. Truly lovely. And it's a horror. A horror of circumstance. That's the part I've had to live above. Survivor isn't a new word to me. If it were a coat, I've worn quite a few of them throughout my life. I'm sure most of you have also.

There was surviving my alcoholic Dad, the beatings my Mom endured and that I powerlessly witnessed. There was the electrocution of my brother and my family’s survival as the loss brought grief and depression. There was a lot of human damage, and unhealed, damaged humans create more damage… I'll just leave it at that.

As a young man I married into a Jewish family - survivors of the Holocaust; not that they were in the camps - they were the part of the family who left in time. But others in the family did not get out in time. It's all the same... here, there.... Jewish holocaust survivorship is a huge shadow over the shoulder. Kind of like cancer for many of us - frequently looking over the shoulder – hyper-vigilant. Is that it? Is the shadow closing in once again???

Oh yeah, and the cancer... and the treatment! I survived that! Can't forget that- although I almost did! Caution: Chemo-brain At Work!

In light of the shit in my life, Survivor has been a good place to land. I don't object to the word. In fact I've taught my kids to feel strong in the knowledge that they come from two lineages of survivors: the Jewish side and the Mexican/Indian side. We wear many mantles of survivorship between us. Many coats. In these times, when so many people are living in fear of an unknown frightening future of their imaginings and a matching powerlessness, it can be strengthening to remember all those many surviving moments in a lifetime - our own and others.

We all come from survivors really. There are strong, hardy stories in EVERYONE'S families... Those were the folks who lived to reproduce, and their hardy babies survived - sometimes terrible odds. The hardy survived... and gave birth to the next generation, and the next, and the next.... and here we are: Survivors... from the moment we are born.

Above to live.

Especially when I was in the throes of cancer and treatment, back when the journey felt like I’d been plunged into the third ring of hell, I thought of holocaust survivors. Their stories spoke to me loudly. Victor Frankl especially:

"We who lived in concentration camps can remember the men who walked through the huts comforting others, giving away their last piece of bread. They may have been few in number, but they offer sufficient proof that everything can be taken from a man but one thing: the last of the human freedoms—to choose one's attitude in any given set of circumstances, to choose one's own way."

That was a powerful reminder to me and still is - "to choose one's attitude in any given set of circumstances, to choose one's own way."

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Sometimes I am uncomfortable with the word though. I wish it weren't part of my story. But ain't that just the major bitch of this whole cancer thing and every other survivorship, including the life after and the after-effects: It is what it is. I find myself arriving at this conclusion repeatedly. "It is what it is." But that's only after I've pitched a royal fit, screaming and crying, railing against it all, raising my fists.... raising hell and then in exhaustion giving up and collapsing, giving in to a new level of acceptance that "it is what it is" and attempting to move forward from there.

And I continue to seek: Above to live.

In context of ‘surviving cancer’, I'm only recently becoming dissatisfied with the word. It's not big enough. I want more. Sometimes ‘survivor’ can sound like the bare minimum. We made it. We're alive… and I want more than that bare minimum of ‘I survived’. And for that sometimes I feel guilty, as if maybe I want too much, but not so much guilt that I stop thinking I deserve to be worthy of more and that the pursuing of it is worthwhile.

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My local YMCA received a grant from the Lance Armstrong Foundation to start a LiveStrong program training cancer patients; helping us recover our de-conditioned bodies. I've been going to the gym working out under the trainers' guidance. It’s been extraordinarily hard work for me and usually I’ve felt worsened with my post-chemo nerve condition in my back and leg. Often I was laid up after in extreme pain. I pushed through. Many days I hated it, didn't want to go. I'd say, "Fuck Lance Armstrong!" I hated and resented him with his Tour de France, race winning, testicular cancer survivor shit. Show-off. I hated him. My body was broke down in so many ways. Recovering it seemed futile at times. I wanted to give up many times, but didn't. From the beginning I committed that I would show up. I would consistently show up. No matter what, I would show up. After some experimentation I found my proper challenge level which was at a much lower level than my male psyche wanted to recognize. I stopped hurting myself repeatedly and started making some progress physically. The biggest strengthening? This one caught me by surprise – my mind, the result of making the commitment; pushing through despite wanting to quit about 30 times a day; showing up, regardless...

I look down at my wrist and this little funky yellow band of rubber from China with the word LIVESTRONG written on it that I received for completing the program. It represents a lot to me. I earned that word I'm wearing - LIVESTRONG. I'm not somebody who has ever worn any of the little rubber bracelets before. This one is special though. I think maybe I'm doing it - I'm becoming more than a cancer survivor. I hope so.

Yeah, there's been some crap in my life. I have no corner on crap. I know y'all have had your share also. And we're here. Still here to tell the tale. Still here to write the remainder of the story - at least as much as we are allowed to contribute to that story line. And as Victor Frankl would remind us, no matter what, nobody can rob us of our dignity or the last of our human freedoms – to choose our attitude, to choose our own way. That's the part of the story line we actually do have control over: how we respond to the crappy circumstances of that moment; we always have the Power of Choice in our response.

Survivor: I can live with that word. I just want the chance to really live it from its roots in Latin - Above to Live.

LiveStrong y'all, (and I apologize to Lance and all for cursing him!)
el poquito

"After all, man is that being who invented the gas chambers of Auschwitz; however, he is also that being who entered those gas chambers upright, with the Lord's Prayer or the Shema Yisrael on his lips." - Victor Frankl

Redemption Song by Bob Marley