To want to be loved. To want to be wanted.
To want to love. To want to want.
There is symmetry. There is a give and take.
Somehow in being selfish we are selfless.
Floating out in the middle of a lake.
Free from all tethers.
Buoyed by a powerful force that will consume me
If I cannot surrender to it.
Extend me your hand and let me hold me it.
Can we sit in silence?
Can we extend this moment?
Awaken from a dream on that grey and snowy morning, he laughed at himself - the punchline of his own sick joke. They were in a hotel room and the sun was coming in the window. She was getting dressed and gathering her things. Fluttering about the room talking all sorts of concerns and quandaries about what to do with this and how to handle that. Watching her walk about the room, the rhythm and grace, the roll of corduroy skirt across her hips, the heavy chestnut hair he wished to live in a house of. He wondered if it were more than a dream.
She asks him to pass her the handbag on the bedside table, as he does a photo slips out. It is of she holding twins, one a boy the other a girl, infants smiling that gooey smile that is accompanied by giggles and squeaks. A lovely photo and he wonders who they are. She ceases her efforts to apply makeup and looks at him pensively through the mirror. They are Grace and Patrick she says, their father named them. Their father? Does that make you their mother? Yes.
He was happy for her because the children were so beautiful, and broken because he always wanted to have them with her. And it was here he realized it all to be only a dream. She sat down on the bed next to him and held his hand. She could see the sadness in his eyes and hear it in his breath. She didn’t tell him that it could still happen, that he could share this joy with another somehow, someway. She just sat there and held his hand, listening to him describe, in sobbing tones, the life to be lived.
The grey sky stares back at him. With eyes open he replays each heartbreak, an emotional cutting that gives him something to feel. Can he believe that loving takes this course?
The sounds remain, you are the sweetest boy I know...
"Life is a path lit only by the light of those I love." Johnny Cash said that. Thirteen words that in a moment send my mind a wander with thoughts of places, faces, times and spaces. With this flash of thought I often hopscotch back down my life's path to moments when everything seemed in it's right place.
I was sitting in a group of three, one taller the other broader, and we all of sound mind, body, and soul. There at the base of Al's Run the skies were dark and the sun was hidden, and that was a good thing. Because that meant the snow was falling. It had been falling all day, and maybe even the night before. And with all the hope earnest young men have to hope with, we hoped it would snow through the night. Because, it hadn't snowed like this all season, and we were smiling. There had been multiple reasons to stop out of college in the fall of 1999, but this was the real reason, the only one we needed.
There was a night when we sat on the floor of my bedroom and talked. We talked about what had happened and the empty feelings inside. We talked about how the drinking didn't fill mine and the dreaming made her's hurt only more. When the talk was about what once was, the empty place felt full again. On a piece of paper we wrote down what we held in these spaces. There was the pair of sandals with the mud, rain, and blades of grass that remained from dancing on the lawn. The love letters written and left upon a pillow, in a shoe, the text book by the bed. I held the paper, with flowers dried and pressed, upon which she wrote ovations, declarations, exclamations of desire. The cigarette lighter she gave as a reminder of her distaste for my habits, and her support of my soul. The cork from the bottle of wine we shared the first night we had sex. All these things and others laid out before us. We hurt bad that time and that was the sweetest thing we shared. A peaceful grieving of something as it passes.
I hope this finds you well. As the summer ended, after three months of relaxing, reflecting, breathing, job interviews, and the like, I made the decision to start my own practice. In the simplest of terms, this allows me control over my time to ensure there is time for my numerous therapeutic appointments and lifestyle adaptations. A second development with the changing of the seasons was my acquisition of a power wheel chair. With the help of my physical therapist from OHSU, we were able to petition my insurance company for reimbursement for a fully motorized chair. The chair arrived in early September, and although I parked it next to the bookshelf for a good week or so before first venturing out into the world upon my new lithium powered steed, I have found great benefit in this new tool. From the ability to travel about Portland by side walk or mass transit with little obstacle, and at a pace few walkers can match, to simple strolls, as I have begun calling them, along the McCall waterfront or through the aisles of Powell's, these are things I have not done in years. It makes meeting friends for coffee easier, going to the store for milk and ice cream a breeze, cause who doesn't enjoy a milk shake, and provides me with a degree of independence I haven't tasted for too long. And like many things MS has brought me, it is so bitter sweet. Yes, I am once again in the world of the walking, but still not walking. And though I am still able to stand at times, mornings are best, and use my walker and cane to navigate a space the chair won't go, or engage in yoga and stretching to try to maintain some strength and flexibility, my waking hours are a picture of continued atrophy. My experience asks of me to accept something, a reality, which elements of my soul scream out in resistance to. Yet there are other elements that see the power of my loss, that strength and understanding that will allow me to do things my legs never could.
So today it begins, with my first client at 3:30pm on Tuesday, November 2nd, 2010. I think of you often and all you have done to guide, support, and inspire me on this path...
"Some days I want to scream with the wonders of life, the slice of blue sky, a small brown bird's chirp goodbye, a slim freckled shoulder beneath a pale slik dress.
But some lone, long nights, I want nothing more than to curl beneath the blanket, close my eyes, and die."
My partner
Your approach to romance and partnership is open-minded and
indifferent to convention. You accept me as I come and find no reason to
pressure me to be someone I am not.
You respect my passionate, intense mind and are willing to engage me in my intellectual and emotional explorations.
Anyway
People are often unreasonable, illogical, and self-centered; forgive them anyway.
If you are kind, people may accuse you of selfish, ulterior motives; be kind anyway.
If you are successful, you win some false friends and some true friends; succeed anyway.
If you are honest and frank, people may cheat you; be honest anyway.
What you spend years building, someone may destroy overnight; build anyway.
If you find serenity and happiness, they may be jealous; be happy anyway.
The good you do today, people will often forget tomorrow; do good anyway.
Give the world the best you have, and it may never be enough; give the world the best you've got anyway.
In the final analysis, it is between you and God; it was never between you and them, anyway...
To pull these stories from the well deep in which they lay takes a pause,
A pause in mind, breath, and soul.
Each of these stories is soaked in a pool of emotion,
And so with each reveal the feeling is true.
I can’t say for sure what these feelings are true to,
Then or now?
For, the voice that tells these stories
Is not the voice that lived them.
Had you been there in Cadiz, what would you have seen in her eyes?
When you took that walk on the sea wall, when you ate lunch in the park?
And when the train pulled away,
Did you stay behind, or did you go?
Look how I sit here and fidget in my seat,
Like that nervous boy of twenty
Who cannot tell if you are just being nice…
Or if you really like me…Tell the story of a silence. The silence I do my best to avoid, or fill, shout over, with music, TV, phone calls, every day after work. There is the silence of living alone. It is the reason my cat talks to himself in the hallway, the reason on warm sunny days I open the windows and patio doors so the sounds from the street below can fill this silence.
When the weather changes I first feel it in my feet. Then my calves and hamstrings will tighten up, that is if the rain is coming in and the temperature drops. But if the sun comes out and the breeze is slight enough that in combination with the warm temperatures it becomes a cooling breeze, these are the days my legs want to go to the park and watch the river flow. It is a big river so you have to watch it closely to see it move as a whole. Such a thought dazzles me, this body of water rolling down hill, always.
The song of Hiawatha was that of following the river to the ocean. To surrender to the current of life, and trust the unfolding of experience. To be okay with the thought that a force much greater than myself saw it fit for the river to roll the way it does and might have a purpose or two for the way things go for me. What I fight and what I accept,
Time promised me a favor. I had a hand full of thoughts to share but Timmy and his tyrannosaurus have buried them in the back yard. When I asked him why they did that he told me because he could see these thoughts were only getting in my way, and I would be better served without those thoughts. But they were my thoughts I told him.
When we are younger and time is not such a burden
I will lift you up and carry you home to the place we both began
There in the safety of this womb we will sleep forevermore
We will put away the baggage that we were too strong to give up
And with the levity of forgiveness I will find the words to thank you
The sleep that collects in the corners of my eyes and the sweat upon my brow
Will both be wiped away without appreciation for their inspiration
We do not save these creations our bodies worked so diligently upon
Such things we take for granted that they will appear again
So I ask, what if our tears were finite, if our thoughts were few,
If the pain I felt for the lies I told passed in the night like another forgotten dream?
Would the lessons still be learned, would there still be stories to tell?
These things we carry, we carry not out of responsibility to the past
But for hope of the future
There is a silence when I write. A silence in my mind. The kind of silence one finds in an empty room, but then the windows crack and the stories unfold and I am no longer in this silent room but in the place where all the people in all my life are present and I can marvel at the things I’ve done, the things I’ve seen, the people I love, and the man I have become. Revisiting these emotions is like seeing my grandmother. On her wrist she wears a charm bracelet. And each charm is a silver silhouette of each of her children, grandchildren and great grand children. She carries these people with her like I carry my stories. Hoping for a patient ear to listen, to be curious, to ask me how the sun looked on that morning in Taos when we set forth for points south. How Charlie wore his raggedy clothes and sipped from his jug of wine there by the highway in Spain, and what I was thinking when I left him asleep on the beach.
I left him sleeping on the beach
I feared I might never get away
It felt empty there, lonely,
So unsure of the company I was keeping
The weight of my backpack
The stumble of my shoes on sand
The concern he’d awake and see me escape
These troubles followed my back to the road
Miles away my mind saw him dead
The alcohol having pickled his mind
To be the last to see his smile,
Hear his breath, shake his hand
Was I just another in the succession
Of those who have left him alone
Feeling unwanted, unloved, unconcerned
Such thoughts tugged at my heart
The shell I collected while in his company
Was worn and faded by the sun and the sea
Just as life had worn off the luster of his soul
A luster I could no longer see.
I picked up the phone and dialed the long distance number. The voice on the other end sounded cautious and frail. The friendship in my voice tried to assure the frightened girl that I meant her no harm. I asked her for her time and companionship, I told her my story of misspent youth, those words and thoughts lost to empty nights drowned in spirits most reckless and crude.
I listened to the pattern of my breath. I felt my chest rise and fall. I asked Loki to come sit on my lap and keep me company in the quiet of this night. I let the memories wash over me like rain, the fear and distress pass like the wind. My empty hands massaged the tightness in my feet. I counted each breath. Together with my regrets, we discussed the lessons to be learned, we gave thanks for this opportunity to forgive, and we asked for another opportunity to try again. I remember the words she said as the car warmed up and rain began to fall, “it’s when you dare to be powerful, that it is less and less important whether you are afraid.”
I remember the time she asked me to stand with her and watch the ocean. The weakness I felt, in my legs, in my heart, in my soul, challenged me to ask for her help, for her forgiveness, for her faith. I wondered if she knew where I was going and how I planned to get there. There was power in our silence, an assurance of purpose, place, and meaning. The stories we shared as children never prepared us for that moment of goodbye. Months later, she recalled that moment in a letter I received on a snowy day. The warmth of that summer day seemed more than a lifetime ago and I wondered if such stories were still true.
is the act of inserting a radish into the anus. It is reported to have been a punishment for adultery in ancient Athens of the 5th and 4th centuries BC. There is some doubt as to whether the punishment was enforced or whether the references to it in comic plays (such as the debate between Right and Wrong in The Clouds of Aristophanes) should be understood as signifying public humiliation in general.
- Wikipedia
She had a banana peel in her hand
I had a banana in my pocket
We were in the elevator
It was kind of hot
“When I dare to be powerful - to use my strength
in the service of my vision, then it becomes less and less important whether I
am afraid” – Audre Lorde
As
a burgeoning counselor taking my first steps into the professional world, I see
myself as a guide for personal exploration, a sounding board for reflection,
and a conduit for change. I imagine myself to be the expert who is willing to
admit he knows nothing, and the student ready and eager to learn more. I
believe that I am responsible for honoring those who present themselves and
their swollen souls longing for recognition. And to those who give me their
blessing, I accept the charge of helping them to take responsibility for their
own lives, and to no longer be whipped by the forces inside their own hearts.
This entails helpful guidance, tough love, and above all honesty, for them and
myself.
I
see counseling as far more of an art than a science, but like all art there is
science involved, and as with all science, there is art involved. Central to
this art of counseling are the concepts of service and empathy. That is, through genuine empathy we as
counselors are able to provide the greatest service to our clients. And it is
our service to our clients that is the greatest expression of ourselves. I believe humans, by nature, are social
animals and it is the familial and social worlds that provides us with both our
greatest joy and deepest despair.
We, however, do not always learn the best practices in cultivating the
positive regard we search for and in time we can develop certain tendencies
that are reinforced by our familial or social relations, but are actually
destructive or conflict inducing by nature. I believe human happiness can be attained through efforts
engaged in understanding and being understood. In order to do this we must not only respect ourselves but
those with whom we come in contact. It is in the development of these life
skills, this respectful regard with which we hold ourselves and others, that we
can begin to find the strength, means, motivations, and the meaning for
overcoming life’s challenges, failings, and disappointments. In this we can
also find a joy and appreciation for our accomplishments and life’s moments of
serenity that will astound us.
Throughout
this program I believe I have spent more time studying and reflecting upon the
numerous theories and their applications in relation to my own life
experiences, than I have in relation to the numerous theoretical clients and
case examples that have been presented in class. I have tried to process my
experience, my successes, and my suffering through the many lens available to
students of psychotherapeutic theory so as to put myself in the position of an
individual fraught with life troubles who could find salvation in such
perspectives. And like Cinderella, some slippers fit, and others are two small
for my toes, and the same will be true for many of my clients. This, as I
learned in my pursuit of a Masters in education, necessitates differentiation
in instruction. I have learned that in order to carry this off with success I
must not only be disciplined about educating myself as to the numerous theories
and honing their respective techniques, but I must also develop the discipline
to be present with each client in each session. To not grow complacent and
presumptive, but to rather recognize the original and creative moment that
occurs with each interaction.
With
three months under my belt of sharing a therapeutic space with a small group of
wounded soldiers, I have seen both my strengths as a counselor, and my areas of
needed growth. I believe I excel in building rapport, creating a safe and
therapeutic space, and understanding and reflecting my understanding of a client.
The ability to hold the space with a client, to be present with both their pain
and their fears, their hopes and their joys, and to honor their experiences and
their heartfelt expressions are skills that come very naturally to me. I have
also found that when I surrender to the experience of being present with myself
and my clients that I am able to access my intuition as a guide for myself and
my clients. I believe that these skills and strengths can support and engender
a metaphysical connection or understanding that impacts both the client and
myself for the better.
Being
able to foster such a relationship is essential to this work, but it is not the
entirety of this work. Such a relationship serves as the environment in which
therapy can be undertaken, and such an undertaking requires appropriate tools
applied at appropriate moments. It is the manipulation of such tools and the
knowledge of when and where to apply them that I am still learning. It is with
extreme gratitude that I recognize the opportunity I have at the VA hospital
this year, an opportunity to have direct access and training in the tools of
such theories as CBT, CPT, exposure therapy, and other therapies shown to be
helpful with trauma survivors. As I learn more of the differing interventions
that can serve those who are in search of help, I can proceed with confidence
in knowing that I have come to this place in my life not out of accident and
that I possess an innate ability to help those who are wounded to heal.
It
was one morning in January 2007 when I awoke before the sun with lonesome
feelings of dread and hopelessness. I was half way through a masters in
education at PSU and no longer feeling that my place in the world was in a
classroom of adolescents. Although I was fascinated with the finer points, and
disagreements, of world history, I had learned that the role of educator was
not going to serve me in the pursuit of my intended goal when I enrolled in the
program. It was my hope that as a teacher I would be able to serve as a mentor
and guide to young people as they navigated the treacherous waters of American
youth. In the darkness of that morning all I could see in my future was the
frustrations of crowded classrooms, district and state policies mandating
curriculum and limiting creativity, and a degenerative autoimmune disease that
was slowly reducing my strength and mobility. One would say it was a very dark
day, but one would also say it is darkest just before the dawn.
Full
of desperate feelings I searched for a way out. I could not just drop out of
the program, that would solve nothing and leave me with even less reason for
keeping on than I presently had, which was becoming a less and less convincing
reason the more I thought about it. Sitting in this space, in the dark of my apartment
lit only by the screen of my laptop that was at present shuffling though my
music library at random, a song came on that shook me from my forlorn stupor, This
Year by the Mountain Goats. A song
recounting a young man’s fears and frustrations that culminated with a chorus
that rang out, “I’m going to make it through this year, if it kills me.” And
with that it dawned upon me. I knew what I wanted to do; I should probably just
do it. So began another leg of this journey we call life.
In
so many ways, this moment encapsulates much of my belief and perspective on the
goal, role, and practice of counseling. That night, alone in my home, a song
reflected the pain I felt inside, offered me a new perspective on my suffering,
and stoked the fire of hope in my heart. I hope to be this song for those who I
encounter during my career as a counselor.
All is just as it seems to be
Everything happened for no reason at all
We believe in the light from above
That will reign down and carry us away
The silence in your shouting
It topples this house of whimsy
Built on faith and reason
Built from childhood hopes
Forget about your mouth full of words
Focus on the heart made of stone
Melt it with the touch of human flesh
Soothe it with tumbling tones
Tonight is the last chance we have
Tomorrow it begins again
You can run away, you can try
You’ll only come back home again
I’ve got the feeling I’ve found it
The mystery of my soul
I’ve got a feeling you’ll find it
The broken piece now whole
She carries a happiness on her lips and hips
She sleeps with the windows open, no socks on her feet
The summer breezes envy the lightness of her ways
Sunlight can only hope to reflect the beauty she beams
She is Aphrodite in the flesh, rising from the sea to meet you
Laughter like raindrops collects in your ears
She dances a dance of steps you do not know
Your heart calls out a song in recall of her tune
You think her forever the child, but never she was
Such beauty strikes fear in the hearts of timid men
A beauty that conjures violence in the souls of the weak
She launched a thousand ships bent on bringing you back
Such murder for love, such a love of murder
Laughter like raindrops collects in your ears
She dances a dance of steps you don’t know
Your heart calls out a song in recall of her tune
Who will be my sacred servant, prostrate on my bed
Send her to me with your western winds Zephyrus
Prick me with your golden arrow, deep in my flesh
Fire the passion of Eros in my heart
These petitions in your name daughter of Dione
Laughter like raindrops collects in your ears
She dances a dance of steps you don’t know
Your heart calls out a song in recall of her tune
I dreamt last night we were driving
We were driving down empty roads
I dreamt of the fire in the sky
The fire we pursued
You told me the story again and again
I drank your words like wine
We grinned with the devil of it all
We lifted the veil she hides behind
My friend we chase these dreams
We chase our secrets too
Living for a tomorrow that runs away
Wishing for yesterday’s return
Hold my hand as I prey
Remind me I am real
I will strive toward the light
Fight through the dark of night
Hold onto my stories
Tell them to all who will listen
My friend we chase these dreams
We chase our secrets too
The road beneath our feet
Steams from the heat of the moon
The stars like matches burn
Fading away too soon
Life lights up and consumes this heart of mine
Love in my hands burns the palms
Whisper to me these dreams
Whisper to me your secrets
My friend we chase these dreams
We chase our secrets too
It’s the morning and there are three men standing outside my tent. I can hear them talking, kind of pacing around the tent. They don’t seam threatening, more like I’m in trouble for something. I’m in a grove of pine trees along the back of a dune. This grove of trees is maybe two miles outside of a small ocean-side town called Topolo-Bompo. In Topolo-Bompo the central source of income for the inhabitants is the Caspian carp. This fish was brought to Topolo-Bompo, and the Bay of Bompo that shelters Topolo-Bompo from the Sarceian Sea, one hundred and fifty year ago by travelers from Portugal. I read that in the lonely planet.
The gentlemen outside my tent, if I had to guess, either own the land that I am currently laying down upon, or they are people of official business. Sometimes you just have this feeling, as you close your eyes and drift off to sleep, that this spot upon which you rest, that you found off the side of the road, might not be the absolute ideal spot to pitch a tent and go to sleep. But hey, sometimes it’s dark and sometimes you’re tired. Besides, my land is your land, your land is my land, lets all bake a cake.
I sit up and they stop their hushed murmurings. One man speaks up, asks me to get out of the tent. I crawl out of the tent and am greeted by three men in green fatigues and mustaches. They are wearing white tennis shoes with white tube socks peaking out below the cuffs of their pants. They are not smiling, and they are not wearing hats. I tell them my story, how the night got dark and then the night got late, and the sound of the ocean and this soft pine needle floor was just too inviting for a weary traveler, and that I’d be on my way right quick. The man with the thickest mustache and the shortest legs interrupted my rather well conceived story with a request for my passport. I told him it was in my backpack in the tent, I’d have to into the tent. He told me I couldn’t go back into my tent. He turned to the man with the thinnest mustache and longest legs to go into my tent and bring out my backpack. The thin long man climbed into my tent and retrieved my bag. He also dragged out my scattered clothes from the night before and my sleeping bag. I thanked him for that.
After the thick short man copied down my information and told me to pack up and move along, away from Topolo-Bompo, he handed me my yellow copy and told me to start packing. My first thought was, does he rally expect me to pay this? Where do I mail the check? Will they take a check? Are they going to let me out of the country if I don’t pay it? The youngest of the three officials who are forcing me from my oasis approaches me at this point and speaks to me in my native language and asks me if I have ever been to Los Angeles California. Have you ever been to Hollywood? Yes I have, actually. I am a bit startled at this point. Thick and short and thin and long are now smoking cigarettes and talking about their boats. It seems they are not going anywhere until I do. I start at my sleeping bag and the youngest asks me where I am from. Colorado, in the mountains. Is that close to Los Angeles? Not really. It would take you fifteen hours to drive from one place to the other. My brother lives in Los Angeles I tell him. This is when he squats down on the ground with me and says, really? My brother lives in Los Angeles too.
Dear Colin,
I am sorry for doubting you. For thinking that you couldn’t do it. That you weren’t strong enough. That you weren’t good enough and that your life wasn’t worth it. I am sorry for thinking about giving up.
I want to take a nap. Can I take a nap? Maybe some milk and cookies and a nap. I’ll turn on some soft music, something that might drum up some interesting dreams.
This dissolved into, maybe dissolved isn’t the right word, something akin to falling apart. Thesaurus, dictionary, why wouldn’t a student know how to use these things, and if we knew a student who didn’t, how could we allow this to continue?
Stay away from downed power lines, particularly during rainstorms. Look both ways before crossing the street and when at all possible, use the cross walk. Always remember a towel, and to try to bring a bag lunch, maybe a flashlight too…
Don’t beat yourself up over the things you don’t have and the things you think you aren’t. It’s okay to move slowly. Nothing that is truly important will be lost because of the pace at which you move, and if it is lost, it probably wasn’t as important as you thought. We can lose many things and it really doesn’t change what matter. Although, I like chocolate ice cream and if I lost that I’d be rather disappointed.
“Evol is just love spelled backwards.”
Sunrise
He awoke to the sound of bagpipes
In a mountain meadow surrounded by pines.
The white chapel with the gravel road
All in honor of St. Philip.
Like all children, Godlike in his simplicity
Stories of father and son, he the third of three.
A mother whose faith was passed from her father,
A father whose faith was passed from his mother.
A family of five living on the mountainside,
The quiet of Colorado winters would pass.
A move from nature’s serenity, and proximity to the lord,
Into a land where the idols were plenty, and the lost were many.
This exodus cost the family its’ peace,
This exodus turned son against father.
And as the bonds were stretched thin,
Wounds inflicted that only time could heal.
Morning
Once an infant, now a boy,
Left free to wander and decide on his own.
Adventure was his in backyards and wooded streams.
Imagining a world where he was king.
As brothers fought, and father steamed,
Mother cried, with child left to wonder why
The peace of the lord had left his house.
A family sailing into the storm.
In time the losses mounted, brothers departing,
Grandparents onto other worlds.
The child saw these passing spirits as memories,
Their ghosts in his mother’s eyes.
Alone in the home of his father,
The child seeks refuge from the parents’ dispute.
To a city on the Hill, to a home for boys,
Looking for the brothers who had gone, the peace he could remember.
Afternoon
The growth of his soul, through books and youth’s trials,
Is encouraged through the guidance of surrogate fathers and brothers.
The spirit grows, as the boy becomes young man.
The spirit finds reflection in art, music, and history; his success and his failure.
A baptism signals transition, setting out on his life’s path,
Back to Colorado and the memories it holds.
The falling snow calls him, the reckless adventure he thirsts,
Soul mates found in both man and woman.
With each powder shot he finds his God.
The hard lessons love teaches, he has to learn more than once.
The struggle inside between communion and agency,
Is played out on the nation’s highways and the back roads of the Southwest.
A brother he has found, devoted to one another.
Apostles of their own doctrine of compulsion in deed.
To believe in one another above all other, sustains them on their way.
They find the unknown in all but themselves.
Evening
Love lost sets him adrift, to points northwest.
Cursed is he who trusts in man, his heart departed from the lord.
This deceitful heart he thought he did know,
He drowns in spirits most reckless and crude.
With his body turned against him, he struggles to find himself.
The mind begins to wander and hide in the fog of forget.
But the soul tugs the heartstrings, fighting the desire to give in.
Mindful of his inner world, he begins an ascent out of the hole he is in.
Attention to the troubles of his past, and recognition of the help he needs,
He turns to sobriety and salvation in the service of others.
Again, books and community carry him through a land of distress,
To a place of Evergreen that asks in him of surrender, trust, and fidelity.
These first steps burdensome like each day’s movement,
The tightness in his feet begins to fade, the levity will light his way.
To hold close the fear, to find the truth in the unknown,
Seeing the Lord’s love as love of self.
Sunset
To believe, to belove, to belong to God, and love that which God loves.
This radical trust leads to forgetful-ness of self, forgiveness of self.
His prayers no longer in service of change in the world outside him,
But prayers to change the world inside.
No longer in a rush to make sense of things,
But to live in the paradise of inward tranquility that is faith’s reward.
He brings those around him closer,
Seeing life as a path lit only by the light of those he loves.
Surrender, trust, and service, essential to the spiritual life.
Through surrender to the universe, he trusts in the universe.
His trust in the universe encourages his service to the universe,
Seeing services to others as the greatest expression of self.
Loving himself fully, no longer entertaining the voices of doubt,
That break his heart and strip him of the compulsion to live.
Seeing fidelity as being always in love, with a heart full of hope,
Sleeping soundly in the arms of benevolence.
...they are not departed or gone.
they were waiting for me when i thought that i just can't go on.
and they brought me their comfort and later they brought me their song.
oh i hope you run into them, you who have been traveling so long.
there is something in the night that won't let me sleep. is it the six months or more of words that are feeling neglected, like a small child whose calls for attention fall on distracted ears? am i that parent whose self concern denies the mess at my feet?
i've read that moses was on drugs. that up on mount sinai he dug up the bark of the acacia tree and, like many before him, crafted a potion of sorts that helped him parse out the unknown and doubt, and discover the simple truths that would serve us best.
what have i learned in these days? something to hold onto, something to believe in? sometimes it is just better to not ask so many questions, they only lead to more. here we are and what we have is right here in front of us. but does this help me sleep, does this make each step any easier? too often it feels as if my feet are tied to the floor. as if the ground loves the sensation of my souls upon the soft soil that it does not want to let go. do you notice the ties that bind me? does the sparkle in my eye belie the fatigue inside? it is a lesson i am still learning, that of how to impart the burden of my experience. how to share without feeling as if i am foisting my pain upon those who i care for. a strange conflict despite the knowledge that they would do any and all for me...
i can hear myself asking for help, but what kind of help i am not sure. there is the obvious, but impossible, request to make it all go away. would i return the lessons learned and perspective gained in return for a steady pirouette? it is tempting. like i have said before, the unknown is not just out there wandering the city streets, something i talk about over coffee or drinks, but my good morning and good night, a whisper with each step that you just never know.
"look now... it is good. look now... it is gone. well i don't know what you are waiting for. look now. look now." so easily the agony blinds me to the ecstasy. i must not forget the gift that is the present. it could always be worse, and do i really know that it could be any better than this. here in my hand, i hold the gift, a perfectly wrapped present with a bow on top. inside is most anything i could imagine, most anything that could make me smile. it is upon this that i should focus the attention of my heart. it is here i will find grace...
... the grace one finds in the eyes of a young mother, in the hands of an old man, the swift feet of a young boy on a grassy field, the movements of a young couple in the dance of love, a grandmother's words of advice, the path of an autumn leaf as it descends from a tree, the silence of strangers on a park bench, the breath of a sleeping child, and the labored movements of a young man, cane in hand, crossing the street under starry night...
Love is patient; love is kind; love is not envious or boastful, arrogant or rude. Love does not insist on its own way; it is not irritable or resentful; it does not rejoice in wrongdoing, but rejoices in the truth. Love bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things. Love never ends.
-Paul’s First Letter to the Corinthians
Anya and Matt, today you stand before family and friends in demonstration of your love, a love that gives us all cause for celebration. The love you have for each other is a source of joy, will lift you to soaring heights, and leave you feeling blessed beyond expression. This love will also confound and frustrate you; give you reason to holler at the stars in exasperation, and leave you wondering whose crazy idea love was in the first place.
Yet, this is love, and love will believe all things, hope all things, and dream all things. Love will persevere, for love is a promise. It is a promise to listen, even when you can’t find the words, a promise to hold your hand when you can’t find your way, a promise to whisper sweet motivations as you follow your dreams, and a promise to trust, to trust in love. The glory of today is also found in the knowledge that not only have the two of you promised to love one another from now until the last star light’s twinkle, but all of us who love you join you in that promise.
One morning, in the not so distant future, you will awake and remember this June afternoon and remark how forever ago it seemed. How the days have run away from you and all your plans and thoughts for the future have become more than you could have ever dreamed. You might even mention how Little Larry doesn’t seem so little anymore. Well, maybe not. He will always be little. But I have no question that, just as this orchard in which we now stand is not big enough to contain the love you share, a hundred lifetimes lived will not be enough for the love I see before me now, and that is beautiful.
I grace you with all the love I have to give and thank you for the blessing of joining you in this celebration.
June 9, 2007
Mr. Nathaniel Deines,
It has come to the attention of this office, an office that has no name, that you and a woman, who shall remain nameless, will be relocating to the north western corner of this fine nation. Nonesense nonesense nonenesene
In the days of malaria we would wear masks whenever we left the house. My father would remove his jacket and hat in the mud room, and sister and I never brought our shoes in the house. My friends never came from the east side and more often than not I just stayed home and played with dolls and a three foot length of rope.
Timothy always forgot what time he was supposed to be home for dinner. Or he just never paid attention to what time it was any how. He figured the best time to eat dinner was when you couldn't see any more on account of darkness.
She is one of those women that you fall in love with like you walk through a door way. Often you don't realize where you are gong until you have gone there. I found her like a gift under the street light. Smoking a Parliament and staring at the moon. She asked if she was going my way, and I said if she had any sense about her.
... is a rather fabulous place on the atlantic coast of spain, costa de la luz. the city sits on the slimmest of peninsulas that broadens like a rain drop hanging off a leaf, tempted to slip off into the ocean. a train from seville brought me here in the summer of 2003.
the week previous had been spent in seville eating tapas and drinking cañas. i met a medical student named tim from wisconsin. that's how he introduced himself, "hi, i'm tim from wisconsin." he actually wasn't a medical student, rather soon to be, and this trip to spain was his last hurrah. each day we'd wander off into the city, each our own way, and then in the evenings we'd find one another back at the hostel and venture out into the night, looking for more tapas and cañas. one taverna to the next, olives and cheeses and breads all gave new meaning to 'drinking your dinner'. all our evenings ended back at the hostel bar, perhaps because it was the only one left open, perhaps because it was closest to the bed, but jorge would attend to us with slices of jamon and bread to soak up the alcohol in our stomachs. jorge was maybe sixteen, maybe older, and he spent most of the evening clearing glasses and plates, sweeping up after negligent travelers and catching glances at the pretty foreign girls, whose words he never understood. so tim, and jorge, and i would sit up until the wee hours finishing bottles of wine and talking of the pretty girls we never had the cajones to ask for a kiss, and laugh, lots of laughing. i think wine even came out of tim's nose once.
a week came and went in what seemed like a day and jorge put me on the train to cadiz. his family went there when they took a holiday. he told me, "como un sueño." that's all i needed to hear.
the train station in cadiz was on the south end of town, a town whose street layout had not changed in what one might call forever. read in a book once that it is the oldest city in all of western europe. i followed the words in my lonely planet through the old city, past the cathedral, a side trip to the ice cream stand, and found myself a roof top hammock at la casa caracol. when i arrived there was a french kid playing guitar on the roof, three spainards laughing and smoking a joint, two americans asleep in their hammocks, a cute english girl pouring over her travel guide, and miss gitte kobbernable lounging in the hammock next to mine. gitte was danish, with long blonde hair. she reminded me of my sister in law, who wasn't my sister in law yet, but would be by the end of the summer. they both smile alot.
i settled in and took off my shoes, thinking a siesta was in order. gitte had a better idea and skinned up a smoke for the two of us to share. she asked me all sorts of questions about california. that's why she had come to spain, "because it's just like california!" i told here how california had a lot more concrete and billboards, and people in a hurry. but it was a huge place and she would find whatever she was looking for if she went there. maybe even more danes. the both of us ended up nodding off at some point, the smoke having done its job. it was when i awoke that i found the dream jorge was talking about.
her hair was dark and thick, dark and black like the night. when i opened my eyes she was hunched over tying her shoes. rather confused i wondered what had happened to gitte, if too much time in the sun had warped my mind and i'd imagined the whole thing. i tried to sit up, but the hammock had other ideas and i spun around and sprawled out on the floor at the feet of maya benainous. as beautiful as she sounds. she giggled at me and gave me a hand getting back on my feet. i said something silly that i have forever blacked from my mind, blushed, and then excused myself to the bathroom. i splashed some water on my face and chastised my reflection for being so clumsy.
she was still there when i came back. i asked her if, a few hours ago, she happened to be a danish girl with long blonde hair. she said no. she had always be a french lebanese girl with long black hair. i told her i was just checking. we traded stories, where we were going, from where we were coming, where we thought we wanted to be. the sun began to set and she said i should follow her for dinner. i told her if she weren't careful, i'd follow her just about any where. she smiled. that felt good.
maya had been in cadiz for the last two weeks. living on the roof of casa caracol, walking the city and dancing with its people. she had joined a troupe that would be performing in the end of summer carnival celebration, and most of her afternoons were spent with fellow dancers, playing music and shaking in rhythm. she was to return to paris soon though, in the morning. a train to seville and then on to madrid and beyond to the north. when she told me of her pending departure, we were eating oysters and french fries. i thought to myself, i've seen this movie...
a romantic walk along the sea wall that rimmed the north end of the city. park benches and palm trees, old men fishing in the dark, the sounds of the sea, the rhythms were sweeping me away. we stopped and took a seat to stare at a toenail of a moon hang above the horizon. she was talking about her little brother, how she worried about the trouble he got into, the drugs he found. at first i wondered if my brothers had ever worried about me like that, but then the light of the moon reflected off the sea and collected in her eyes. she drew quiet. i took a deep breath and asked, "can i have a kiss?" i listened to her breath. she held back a smile and replied sweetly, "no..."
"... but you can have a hug."
i held the embrace, and inside i danced a jig beneath the moonlight...
we spent the rest of the evening telling stories of our travels, the strangers we'd met, our friends back home. i'd forgotten how nervous i'd been hours before, full of aspiration. how quickly we are strangers no more. i shared with her dreams of cowboy boots and photographs, and she told me how fridays are the best days of the week, hands down.
didn't get to sleep till late that night and we promised to say our goodbyes over coffee in the early morning light. hours later, i was able to snap a photo as we sat sipping from warm cups. she sits with her back to the window, the city waking behind her. she holds her pink coffee mug up in a gesture of salud, her hair still frazzled from the previous night's dream. and each time i look at this picture, i see a twinkle in her eye. as if at that moment she changes her mind and it is me she wants to ask for a kiss... quisas, quisas, quisas...
I'd rather see movies with a glass of lemon pie in the dark.
I'd rather fall asleep to the sound of coyotes yelping in the dark.
I've found myself enamored by a smile.
I've lost myself in the sound of the sleeping night.
I hold in my hand the fire that Prometheus stole from the gods.
It lights my soul and gives me the incentive to stumble 'bout blindly.
Here, taste it.
We dare you.
Today there are things I have forgotten.
Tomorrow there will be much to remember.
When I have more than I need, I will remember you,
The empty places I filled.
Shuffling through the snow by the pond.
Dancing with a snowman in the dark.
Proposing to the stars of a marriage made not in heaven,
But here on earth.
The presence of the present.
Today's gift that tomorrow will bring again.
I will hold in my hand.
Will give it to you, as you pass it back to me.
Over and again, over and again, over and again...
here in the blue valley the weather is always perfect. it never gets any better. when the sun comes, it is met by the chatter of little birds who've been up pecking away at the mud. there are three things a man does when he wakes up in the blue valley. he washes the sleep out of his eyes. he pours himself a cup of black coffee. he stands barefoot in his backyard.
i stole the car that i drove through the mountains that hide the blue valley from the rest of the world. i was running away from a woman who reminded me too much of my mother, and i was starting to like it. i'd gone out earlier in the day and rented a movie. a story of two people who fall in love through a collection of simple mistakes, and i told her i needed the car to pick up the thai food. i just kept driving.
there were days when i thought that i should just turn around and go home. that this whole thing was a mistake and the only reason i was so afraid was because it was exactly what i needed. i'd been driving for six or seven days. each morning i'd pick a direction other than that from which i'd come, and just drive. i was wondering where i might end up.
first it was baltimore, then knoxville. columbia, south carolina, fayetteville, arkansas, memphis. i always tried extra hard to smile at the women behind the counters, the ones serving me my breakfast. like i owed them an apology.
i woke up one tuesday and was convinced that i should just keep driving west. till the car broke down. till i reached the end of the world. i imagined myself to be chasing the sun. icarus. i knew i would never beat it to the horizon, but at least i could try. it was a tuesday two weeks later that i relented and let the sun go on without me.
deciding to drive north was a disorienting event and soon i found myself off the interstate eating fried chicken at marv's cafe in del monte. marv's also had jo-jo's, which are good with ketchup. i ate with my fingers and drank a glass of milk helen had poured me. licking the grease from my fingers, i figured this place was as good as any to start again.
i sold her car. thought about writing her a letter and sending her some cash. but i didn't have much left and where would i begin. i rented an apartment above the drugstore. i took a job washing dishes. i drank beer and looked at the stars, so many stars. and every tuesday night i'd have chicken and jo-jo's with helen and a glass of milk.
sleeping here in the blue valley...
more often than not, it does not feel real
more often than not, i'm sure it is a dream
the movie is only in the first act
the director is taking his sweet time
what is it about
why should i care
these questions do i consider
in a room full of furniture
windows open wide
the sun blows in on the breeze
the afternoon comes lazy
on the floor i look for the things i've lost
in the shadows and sunshine
i'm believing they are still there
Why I write…
I write so that you will know what I’m thinking, I write so that I know what I am thinking. I write to remember and sometimes to forget. I write because she is beautiful and he is my hero. I write cause it hurts not to.
I’ve written things I am not proud of, or rather the things I write about I am not proud of, but somewhere in the writing I accept those things and my regrets are no longer lessons I haven’t learned yet.
I write because on that summer day there was sand between my toes and the salt of the sea on my skin. My father and I stood by the shore and watched the pelicans fish. Listened to the rolling waves carry the sand away. There was so much to say, but we let the silence say it for us and it was understood.
I’ll write so that you will write too, and we can write together in the back of a truck rolling down the interstate headed south to Mexico… that’s one way not to write…
I write for the sake of convincing someone of something. Sometimes that someone is me. I’m writing now because the eight minutes is not up and, and, and, and, and I am writing…
Sometimes I write someone else’s words
Because every artist is a cannibal and every poet is a thief
They will steal their inspiration and sing about the grief…
Bury me in wood and I will splinter
Bury me in water and I’ll geyser
If you bury me in fire I will phoenix. I’m gonna phoenix, I’m gonna phoenix…
I’ve built a house with my words, and sometimes I want to move out.
I’m really not that lonely. I just feel this way.
‘Cause I want for too much. ‘Cause I can imagine so.
Don’t let me scare you off.
Looking for a hand to hold, an ear, a shoulder, something.
In this big room, the emptiness is eager to be full.
Is this fact not fiction,
For the first time in years?
What is left for me to reveal?
I’d take my clothes off if you asked me,
Not cause I have anything to show you,
But ‘cause there’s nothing to hide.
I’m on fire
Please don’t put me out…
we met on the bus one sunday evening. i was on my way to trevor's to watch a movie and drink wine, smoke cigarettes and talk about whatever it is single men talk about. we got on at the same stop. exchanging glances while waiting impatiently for the bus. there were two other men there with us at the bus stop. they could have been brothers, they could have been strangers. they talked about the weather and how the bus would show up as soon as they lit their cigarettes.
she looked tired from work. a bag of groceries by her side and a restive foot tapping, her curly dark hair beneath a brown and white skull cap, i wondered what her name was, where she was going, why i cared. the bus arrived and she climbed on first, followed by the brothers, who i can only guess weren't brothers because they sat at opposite ends of the bus. i boarded and handed the driver my dollar. the bus wasn't full, but the empty seats were scattered, none looking more inviting than the next. she had taken an aisle seat in an empty row half way down, and as i approached she looked at me and slid over to the window seat. i said thank you and sat down.
this is always the most difficult part. the ice breaker, the hello, the okay i'm gonna draw attention to that thing that we both know is here but is perhaps a bit awkward to draw out into the open. the bus rolled down burnside and i noticed the distinct smell of salt and vinegar potato chips. this was too easy. it also felt a bit lame. would it be embarrassing to remark upon what may be her breath from the snack food she's been munching. but why not, she'll get off at the next stop and i'll never see her again.
"i'm sorry, but do you happen to be eating salt and vinegar potato chips? they are my favorite." she was, an open bag in her grocery sack, too hungry to wait until she got home. had to stop at the store to pick up food for her cats, loki and budokan, would i like some. chips, of course, not cat food. "must say this is the first time i've ever had someone offer me food on the bus." am i crazy to accept such offers from a strangers, she wonders. "i've accepted odder things from strangers before." i can't figure if the look she gives me is one of concern or admiration.
we small talk about her cats, she's on her way home from work, how i spent my afternoon in the park reading about phoenicians and sumerian's, the tower of babylon, and the hot dog vendor who gave me a root beer for a quarter. she offers me some more chips. she has a nice smile, the line of her lips makes up for her crooked teeth, but maybe it's the crooked of her teeth the makes me smile. we both look away and i wonder if she's looking for something to say the way i am, if she is wondering if the next stop is mine. "i think that salt and vinegar chips go best with a nice esb." she doesn't know what i'm talking about. "it's a type of british ale." i feel like an idiot. she pulls the yellow cord to let the driver know she wants the next stop. i stand up to let her leave and introduce myself, her name is eleanor. should i extend my hand, what else do i say. the bus comes to a stop and i have to hold on with both hands. she reaches the back door and turns, "you wanna help me finish these?"
i followed her home that night and after a couple of beers, the rest of the bag of chips, and a box of annie's mac and cheese she tells me that we should lay on her bed and listen to music. i'm still not sure if it was all a dream. she bit my finger with her crooked little teeth. she told me she liked the stray black hairs on my chest. her cats sat on her dresser and watched us make love, every now and again making these low urggling sounds that ended in a high pitched mouse like squeak. she told me to pay them no attention.
i left that night before the sun came up. she wouldn't sleep well with someone else in the bed and needed to get up early for work. called trevor to share the adventure as i walked home and he told me that she sounded like fun, wacko, but fun. i wasn't sure if it was she or i that was wacko. wasn't like she had to carry me away kicking and screaming. when i got home i realized we hadn't exchanged numbers.
the next week i waited at the same bus stop around the same time. no luck. i put an i saw u in the mercury. i crossed my fingers and toes, wished on lucky stars, and asked the patron saint of lonely desperate fellows for a sign, something. i finally ran into her at the grocery store. she was buying cat food and salt and vinegar potato chips. i walked up behind her in line and told her that i'd buy the beer.
for three months we shared evenings together. i'd meet her at her house after work and would leave before the sun came up. loki and budokan always on top of the dresser. she'd complain about her job as a photo processing tech, how photo freaks of all kind would come in to drop off their film and then pepper her with all sorts of technical jargon, leaning over the counter, starring at her breasts. how she could feel them watching her when she turned to walk into the back room. i said i couldn't blame them. she would steal people's photos, the raunchy ones, the interesting ones, the beautiful ones. they formed a collage in her kitchen. somehow the art of it all made the crime bearable she said.
i could never get her to come over to my house. we never went out to dinner, or to see a movie, and she never asked me to stay the night, or come over on the weekend. i was afraid to try and get any closer, even though it's what i wanted. no matter how many times trevor said she seemed like more trouble than it was worth i kept expecting things to come around and for her to fall asleep in my arms one night.
i never asked why, never been one to look a gift horse in the mouth. one thursday, a month ago, she told me she didn't want me to come over on friday, and when i said, "i'll see you on monday, then?" and she just looked at me as if she didn't know who i was, i figured it was best to just collect my things and go find trevor.
last night i saw her at the triple nickle. she was throwing darts with a tall guy in a white baseball cap. never thought she'd talk to guys like that. i walked up to her at the bar when she was ordering another round. i think she recognized me but maybe she didn't want to admit it. she turned around with drinks in her hand and we stood looking at one another for a moment. i couldn't find the words, and when she said nothing, stepping around and past, i, for a moment, could smell salt and vinegar.
Commodore’s Log. 31.8.06
Yakutat Bay, the Hubbard Glacier. By sunrise we found ourselves floating quietly through gentle waters. It is cold and rainy but all are on deck to marvel at the blue ice all around. A periodic crash startles you to see ice sliding off into the water, and I wonder, will I be warm enough when we begin to sink? I wonder if Holland America forbids the showing of Titanic on any of its cruises? Still have yet to see a whale, and this is most likely the last opportunity, alas no whales to be seen.
The MS Statendam does a half dozen laps about the bay, giving all plenty of opportunity to take in the walls of ice, and also one more moment to relieve all of any spare cash floating about in their pockets. You see the weather is perfect for a cup of something warm to drink, and the staff has been nice enough to bring large containers of hot chocolate and coffee on deck. However, you can have a cup of hot cocoa in a paper cup for free, or you can purchase a 16oz travel mug for eighteen dollars to put coffee in, but you can’t have coffee in a paper cup for free, perhaps the coffee is so strong it will melt right through the wax paper. The work of scoundrels if you ask me.
The sail into and out of Yakutat Bay is the only portion of our voyage through completely open ocean waters, and I am quick to understand why such travel has been avoided. For despite the over sized nature of this boat, it is but a rubber ducky in the bathtub, tossed here and there, or so it feels. With the rocking of the ship it was difficult to keep the water in the pool, and me on my feet. I spent the better part of the afternoon in a deck chair along the promenade, keeping my eyes to the horizon. The promenade that circles the boat makes for good walking, however on this day, determined as they were to keep a straight line, most stumbled about as if they were three sheets to the wind. A nice giggle it gave me. I was also blessed with a vision of Halloween and the Pagosa Pirate. A perfect guise to assume that would allow for merrymaking in excess and perhaps a bit of informal skirt chasing.
As evening came the seas grew stronger and having to retire to the cabin was not the best of options. If my face was green, I did not know for I tried my best to remain on my bunk and think of a place like Kansas, feeling a bit the landlubber.
Commodore’s Log. 1.9.06
We have arrived in Seward, our final port of call. As was the day we departed from Vancouver, today is blue sky and sunny. This small town is surrounded on all sides by soaring mountaintops with snowfields tucked away here and there. The early morning light helped me forget last nights troubled sleep, yet when I awoke I still felt as if I was rolling over the ocean waves despite being tied securely to the dock. I will admit that I will not miss the MS Statendam. Though she is a fine, sea worthy vessel, the exceptional age of most of my fellow passengers and the rather stuffy nature of this floating hotel leaves me yearning for the comforts and camaraderie of The Rose City I call home. I have, over whiskeys in the evening, imagined this trip in the company of those I look forward to returning to, and if that were the case I might never wish to leave.
‘Tis true what Dorothy said that day in the Emerald City, ‘there’s no place like home, there’s no place like home…’
You can’t farm sorrow; it is dry as a bone. I spent a season toiling in the fields of judgment and doubt. Beneath my fingertips the dust of despair collected as I dug deeper for the answers I thought would feed me for the days to come.
Looking for something that was just right here. Stuck in a dream. Missing the reality that was kissing my forehead softly, trying to wake me to the honor with which I had been blessed.
Thoughts of yesterday and tomorrow clouded the visions of today that were sunny and blue. The soil in which I rooted was fertile and deep, but I longed for a land of escape and amnesiac.
They say to love is to bury the demons from which we all hide. To love my demons and myself, sip from my cup of sorrow and be assuaged of the thirst for meaning, here I find that with imagination and heart I am sustained in triumph.
Commodore’s Log. 28.8.06
Today the MS Statendam dropped anchor in Icy Strait, a home to the indigenous peoples that has seen industry in the form of logging, fishing, and now tourism, come and go. A splendid yet somber day, the heavy clouds hang about the tops of the mountains and hills that surround the calm narrows of water. We boarded a launch, which first Captain Miles declared to be ‘My boat’, and visited a now defunct cannery that functions as a museum/gift shop/place to eat lunch and walk around. Locals dressed in traditional attire smile for all the white folks and are more than happy to stand for photos. An old dog, looking a bit lost, wanders in and out of the crowds. Keeping enough distance so as not let any one pet him, but always on the look out for any scraps of food that fall to the boardwalk beneath our feet.
It is a difficult thing to swallow, the good and bad of a place such as this. The people who direct us about the cannery, man the cashiers at the gift shops, and serve up the fish and chips; these are not their ways. The passenger ships come and go. Spending money in ways that perhaps belittle the culture that is indigenous. As we climb out of the launch and onto the dock they hand us cedar chips that are to be placed upon a fire at the end of the point beyond the beach. This fire represents a history and connection between the people of this land and the nature all around them, and for a brief moment we outsiders perhaps fool ourselves that we too may have some connection to it all with such a simple gesture. We fools can be so good at fooling ourselves.
And to add insult to injury, the Alaskan Native Heritage Center, here on the MS Statendam, is a folding table set up next to the hot tubs with some fella stringing together beaded necklaces while the same Chinese couple play ping pong, morning, noon, and night. To thing they came all this way to play ping-pong on a boat. Boggles the mind…
Commodore’s Log. 29.8.06
Miles has made friends with everyone on the ship. From the older ladies and gentlemen who are always curious to know how old he is, if he is having fun, and why he keeps jumping up and down waving his hands in the air and proclaiming, ‘BIIIIG SHIIIIIP’, to the stewards who are more than happy to provide him with all the ice cream he can eat, be it ten o’clock in the morning, five minutes before bed, or because he just finished the last cone they gave him. His favorite flavor being ‘banilla’. Many of the staff aboard come form the Philippines and Panama. They spend many months aboard traveling through the same waters week after week, and when the seasons change they follow the weather to any place but home. Some are mothers and fathers who have not seen their children in six months or more, yet make this sacrifice in hopes of a tomorrow where they are making their own children fat on ice cream. It melts your heart, like the ice cream on Miles’ chin.
Today we visited the capital city of Juneau. There were three other cruise ships in port, in total increasing the population of the city by over four thousand people for a day. As far as I could tell they were all within four blocks of the dock and once again the man or woman who patented the Alaska t-shirt with a wolf on it is smiling. Grand Mother spent her dollars a bit more wisely on a stuffed moose for Miles to cuddle with as the boat rocks him gently to sleep. The best part is, however, is that in naming the moose Miles was able to verify his fellowship as a member of the clan McCrudden by naming the moose, Michelob the moose. It is to be noted that this was at the suggestion of his Grand Mother…
Commodore’s Log 30.8.06
Sitka, Alaska. Originally the Russian capital of this northwestern outpost, though is it northwestern to the Russians? Seems it might be more of a northeastern outpost, is it even northern? The day began, as all good days do, with a nap. The most wonderful kind, the youngest amongst us, Sir Elton, did not sleep as well as one might hope the night before, and being it the day for mama and papa to enjoy time on their own, I welcomed the task of entertaining the little one. After some time bouncing about to music and playing peek-a-boo, the young man fell asleep upon my chest. We should all be so lucky. Anyhow, a wonderful tiny city, Sitka, that was again inundated with visitors from the floating hotel, only three boats this time, but with only fifteen miles of road to begin with it did not take long to feel as if you were still walking the same hallways bumping into the same old folks who did not know if they were on the verandah deck, the upper promenade, the navigation deck, or lost about the multiple stateroom hall ways, be it aft or stern, port or starboard. Took the opportunity to visit the first Russian Orthodox Christian Church on American soil, a fascinating reminder of the place religion holds in the lives of most of the people of this world, past and present. The doors of the building were the same ones that were brought over in the late seventeen hundreds. I can understand bringing cattle, or perhaps a loom, maybe a mill to grind wheat, but doors to a building that had not been built? Such faith and devotion, perhaps this is what is needed to board a ship for the unknown to begin with.
For the evening’s festivities the family McCrudden had cinematic hopes, a screening of a Salvador Dali, Walt Disney collaboration entitled Destino, and the film Inside Man, starring Denzel Washington. The first film one would think might appeal to the children amongst us and the latter, well, who knows, disco night in the Crow’s Nest did not seem to hold much in the way of excitement considering most of the passengers on board had hung up there dancing shoes by the time doin’ the hustle was all the rage. As it turned out, however, the children in us all got the better and dinner time was proceeded by a couple too many at cocktail hour and the family McCrudden was left wondering how the boat could be rocking so, considering the lack of wind and particularly calm seas… It is always nice to be among family, to feel you belong, to be understood, to be looking in the mirror and see yourself in mother, father, and brother, and laugh. Oh, to laugh, it is nice to laugh at yourself…
Commodore’s Log. 25.8.06
Boarded the MS Statendam today, bound for waters to the north. The wind was calm, the sky was blue, and the air smelled of leisure. The majority of passengers are blue and grey hairs alike. If they all make it to the land of Seward’s Folly with their dentures and hearing devices intact, one could say our voyage would be considered a success. First Captain Miles was determined to take his clothes off and go swimming despite the fulminations of the one matriarch. As usual, Captain Miles had his way and was nude and submerged in water before we got underway. In the meantime, Ensign Ian and myself sampled the galley’s libations and took in the views of the port city of Vancouver. Many a fine Canuck wished the MS Statendam and its’ curious crew a bon voyage, waving handkerchiefs and all….
Commodore’s Log. 26.8.06
Awoke this morning in a soup of fog. The low groan of the foghorn brought this to the attention of Captain Miles and he was quick to alert me that yes, we were on a boat, and there were waves outside, and that this was fun and he wanted a banana. The night’s sleep did not come peacefully, with a head full of thoughts of yesterday and tomorrow, and a belly of Scotch shared with the Grand Mother of the family, I tossed and turned with the rolling of the waves. The sun broke with the coming of lunchtime and we were blessed with a glorious day. We sailed through the British Columbia Intercoastal waters, eagles fishing from the trees, harbor seals barking like dogs, and every man woman and child armed with a digital camera intent on capturing every moment.
Later in the afternoon I encountered a rather heated BINGO competition. Upwards of fifty or the more of the white and blue hairs engrossed in the letter and number callings of a cheery fellow who worked to encourage a call and response from the attendees. “B-75, the big daddy of bingo, Gentlemen. Lets hear it, guys.” Then all the men in the room would call out ‘Big Daddy’. To say the least, the Commodore was more than tempted to call out BINGO, and then dash for the door. But the Commodore does not do much dashing these days, so this could be an operation for the quick-footed Captain Miles.
After the Bingo adventure, Grand Father and myself spent time pouring over the sea charts he had saw fit to bring along. Even with the clear weather, and a generally functioning sense of direction, neither of us could quite put together where we were, but we did sample a fine ESB ale made by Alaskan brewery, and in the end concluded we were better suited for the pool deck than the navigation deck. All was right in the world you could say.
Commodore’s Log. 27.8.06
Ketchikan, Alaska. Alaska’s first city. Looks more like Alaska’s first tourist trap. The real shame is that this place was once a frontier outpost of fisherman, hunters, trappers, and adventurers alike. Yet, today it is a shopping stop along the passage of a floating hotel full of folks who are better suited to read of Ketchikan’s first inhabitants and collect the ceramic trinkets and t-shirts than to engage in the adventure itself. Sometimes the Commodore’s sense of history makes him a bit sad. Such is the good and the bad of life.
We left the fine weather behind in Canada, and the rain soaks the MS Statendam. More than enough reason to retreat to the crow’s nest and reflect on the last few days with a cup of coffee and a kiss of the Irish. There is no lack of folks on the ship waiting and ready to take your drink order, extend you a ‘good morning’ and a smile, and see to whatever it is you may be in need of. And if you are hungry, you can eat, at all hours, all things, and they’ll bring it to your stateroom, or your lounge chair by the pool, or perhaps if you are deep into a brotherly match of shuffle board and the need for a margarita is the only thing that will shut his yap, then you will have it. This, like much of our great western culture, falls into the category of the absurd, and I am grateful to have seen it with my own two eyes, and tasted defeat while enjoying an otherwise unimaginable vantage point from which to enjoy the wilderness of the American North West.
And so is the splendid times when we wines and dines and forget of all the troubles tomorrow may bring...
For today is our forever...
"like a hysterical woman who will make unmeasured accusations and believe insensible things because of some logical deduction from a solitary thought which has turned her mind to stone."
when you wear your guns outside your pants, for all the honest world to see, you often find yourself in precarious positions, places where you see the error of your ways.
these moments of learning, i hope i can admit to them.
sometimes i need to bite my own tongue, but i don't know this until the time i should have, but did not...
all the federales say, they could have had him any day.
we are not alone. we just often act this way because we don't want to bother others with our inconveniences. it is difficult to share your mistakes, not because you want them all to yourself, but because in sharing them we share so much of ourselves. and sometimes we don't always want to own up to who we really are.
but why do we think there is something wrong with who we really are? is it this judgment that is really wrong, or rather the ill feelings as associated with such judgments that spoils the stew? in becoming acquainted with myself i have had to address the judgments and expectations i often worry myself with. much of it comes under the guise of thinking i know how things should be. what the fuck is should and why do i march it out as some kind of authority.
'i should do this' or 'i should've done that' or 'if this happens i should do this because that's how things should be'
it is all a pile 'a bullshouldshit, but i can't scrape it off the bottom of my boots.
yes or know. i yes or know. can you ever yes or know? is it yes or know?
you could probably give a shit...
Temple Grandin’s book represents a point of access for understanding autism, and the ways in which it influences the lives of individuals like herself. Through her writing she not only strives to show the many ways in which an autistic mind is different from what one might consider to be the norm, but how this mind can be especially qualified or capable in understanding the world and its many puzzles. Temple shows us how autism, in certain cases, is more a gift or talent than a handicap.
Like all things in life, autism can present itself in many forms and it can affect the lives of the people it touches in many ways. Language, cognition, and social behavior, are the three areas most often affected by autism. In the case of Temple, she struggled with language as a child and as a result of these frustrations encountered even further difficulties in her social world. As an adolescent, she began to better understand how her mind worked and the importance of her associations with specific images. Though she may not have been aware of how her mind was cataloging the images, she took the initiative to not let her differences hinder her.
Temple’s ability to notice the little things and her strong sense of empathy for animals has been her strongest assets in her work as an animal scientist. In designing the tools and holding pens used for slaughter and veterinary purposes, she was able to revolutionize the methods for both and also introduce more humane practices. The success of many of her designs was the fruit of her autistic mind. Her ability to not only visualize the specifics of her designs, but to also see them work in her mind before they were built, is a tremendous talent. Combining the technical strengths of design with a respect for the natural behaviors of the animals involved, Temple utilized her autism to the benefit of herself, the livestock she worked with, and the meat industry as a whole.
From a future educators point of view, the lesson I take from this book is to be conscious of any assumptions with regards to perceived limitations as a result of a noted handicap, or difference. Often it seems in our attempts to recognize and accommodate the struggles of individuals with ‘differences’ we only hinder their ability to harness such ‘differences’ as tools to build upon. The challenge for teachers is to help students understand themselves and their particulars, or 'differences', and in turn use these particulars to their advantage. However, before we can do that we must recognize that most of the perceived limitations of any handicap are just that, perceived. With an emphasis upon creativity and flexibility, any such handicap can become an invaluable strength the individual can utilize to achieve success.
and all of my friends have gone to sleep
who is left to talk to
you
who is left to tell of the nice conversation with the pretty girl
the one i respect
the one i could only have hoped to be saying goodnight to
who do i tell about an evening of confrontation
confrontation of self
how i sat before a collection of people
some i consider to be colleagues
others monkeys with a good haircut
but i bore a bit of what one might call my soul
that i shared with them my worries
how i was unsure that a trust fall was in my best interests
how i didn't know how to talk about myself when i was talking about myself
she told me that she thought i was the reason any of us should be teachers
she told me that we'd all be so lucky to be able to bring the real life experiences to the class room
it is these kind of situations that my mind is so adept at running away with
you see it as i do
this perfect
romantic
situation as created by my oh so nimble mind
but i haven't made any of this up
i've just put the pieces together in such a way as to create the image i'm looking for
and this image makes me smile
and smiling makes me smile
miles makes me smile
all is full of love
The truth is that I have not read. In my attempts to procure the text book at a discounted price, I waited to go to the bookstore until Friday, only to find it closed for inventory. Makes sense, it is the middle of the summer. But to have an opinion with regards to the experience of one with disabilities, I believe I have more than a few.
In April of 2005, I was officially diagnosed with multiple sclerosis. The year previous had seen an increasing in difficulties with the strength and coordination in my legs, particularly my right. My hands and feet begun telling me different things, or not functioning in the ways I intended them to. As the changes and difficulties accumulated, I sought professional help, only to learn that I may have a condition that has no end, or cure, only debilitation.
To say the least, the last year, and some, has been an interesting time. I have learned to walk with a cane, to ask for help, to take things slowly, and most of all, to be understanding and compassionate with myself. I can only imagine, should I encounter exceptional learners during my experiences as a teacher, that this is exactly how I should approach such students, with patience, compassion, and understanding.
We begun our first class with a discussion of the language used to describe the handicapped, the disabled, about how we should put the person before the disability. That someone is not lame, but mobility impaired. And I could not help but look around the room and feel like the pink elephant no one wanted to talk about. This obviously had more to do with myself than anyone in the room, but it got me thinking about how I regard myself.
In the last year, I have gone from Colin, to Colin with MS, to MS with Colin, back to Colin with MS, and slowly finding Colin again. And this is the struggle for us as teachers, to see the students, the child, through the affliction or disability, that they are no different than Johnny, they only have darker hair. I don’t mean to belittle any particular situation, however, as I have learned, no mountain is insurmountable.
Our goals as educators might be distracted by standards and expectations, however I believe that it is in recognizing the humanity and the potential of each student, and in providing praise, as you emphasized, that our success will be found. I am humbled by my own experience and the imaginable circumstances of my potential students.
P.S. I will submit a proper opinion paper regarding the first few chapters with Wednesday’s assignment…
the sun had yet to show itself,
but the sky knew it was coming.
we sat and waited, as the shadows grew and the morning stirred.
in the first light, the wind grew warm and slipped in through the windows.
i could smell the hesitation.
the day was not ready to rise.
yesterday had not said goodbye.
as if the unknown has touched you
in such a way
that you remember
i have a million things to think about
but can think of only one
thirsty for relief and return
so i get here and i don't know what to do with it. this feeling. this sadness. this i look at a picture of something and i all i can think is that it's gone, it's not that way any more. that sucks. i was enjoying that, that made sense, that was what i was working towards, you see, and now it's not, now i'm doing this other thing and, well, it's really not what i want to be doing right now.
butterflies drowned in wine
stolen dreams left on your back porch
to be slipped in with the refuse
to be given away as door prizes
to be soaked in the rain of tomorrow's promises
she shares my bed
but i cannot speak her name
she leaves kisses on my pillow
the scent of friday nights
with my head in my hands i wait
thinking the sleeping figment
will leave more than a depression
on the pillow beside my head
Can never believe the lost night
Asleep
Next to me
She whispered thoughts
Forgotten
Never heard
I’m here watching you drown
Not moving, passively waiting
For the wheels to come
Off
A sleepless night alone
Waiting for phone calls not to be made
Digging about in the holes in my pockets
A handful of something to hold on to.
i set out that morning unsure of what i was looking for. i awoke before the sun, still high from the night before. the restless dreams i dreamt asked me to continue to wander.
there is that feeling in my throat, a tightness that makes it difficult to swallow. i want to ask you for help. i want to be the eight year old boy who is afraid he can't do it on his own. but after all these years of being an adult, it is easier to smile and believe i can do it on my own.
my father sits alone in his office. he watches the humming birds fight over the sugar water, the clouds collect along the mountain ridge to the north. he's hoping i'll call. talk about who won the game last night, ask me if i'm having fun, if there is anything he can do?
a simple song for simple feelings. like a nursery rhyme. it ticks over again and again in the back of my mind. i'm tempted to mouth the words to myself, tap the rhythm out on the floor, disappear to the day i first found the melody. she was only nineteen, not yet twenty, not yet confused, not yet skeptical.
with hands full of easter eggs on a rainy afternoon in april, i was wearing a second-hand sear-sucker suit. she brought the baskets with the green plastic grass. we filled the baskets with grass and eggs, tied ribbons of blue and green, and waited for the rain to stop.
on the porch, at the house, on lemon grove avenue, you could smell the oil being washed off the streets. watch it puddle and pool in a swirl of colors. she took off her shoes and stepped out into the rain, tilted her head to the sky and opened her mouth wide.
i don't feel like a child anymore. no matter how hard i try. she opens her arms out to the side and spins slow helpless circles in the grass. unsure if it is she or the world about her that is spinning.
i want to do the same. i want to feel silly. squeeze the mud between my toes, let the rain collect in my hair until it streams down like tears. i stand up quickly to join in, but the rush of blood, the wobble of my legs, and the thought that i don't know what i'm doing asks me to sit back down. to reconsider such things, to ask again, why?
lips, hips, toothpicks, and cigarettes
my hands search for such things
timeless notions,intentions, and expectations
my mind mulls the manners of the man in the mirror
my mind makes the good
my mind makes the bad
and somewhere behind this mind
a little boy would like some chocolate milk.
they sit alone, next to each other, reading their books, learning their words, sipping from the cup of nonsense.
they've got two choices, to learn to forget, or to forget to learn. one leaves them free to do as they please and the other tells them what to do. and do nothing they will.
my hands are looking for yours, to hold them.
slipknot, cross eyed, tuck toed, and helpless. dangling over a chasm of good lucks and so longs.
lift your head up, lift your head up tom dooley. lift your head up and cry.
throwing bottles off the roof of my building. a case or more, all bound for the pavement below. a fine mess i am making.
each smash and pop echoes down the street, a shower of rolling glass. i wonder how long i can keep doing this before someone stops me...
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