Sunday Meditation #46: Lost Tribe

In the course of my daily bread earning, I spend much time on the road. I drive a lot. Probably a fourth of that time is spent behind the wheel of a not particularly large automobile. This lifestyle affords me much time to think. This in itself is not a bad thing, but it does lend itself to excessive time spent thinking of things I'd rather not think about.

I am somewhere in Missouri, and even though the sunlight has made the day much more bearable, I harbor this irrational dislike for the state. I cannot put my finger on the way of it, all I know is that my presence in this heartland state is cause for irritation. It is illogical, I know. I cannot explain it. I suppose it is no coincidence that Missouri is not far from misery in pronunciation.

I am driving in between assignments. Par for the course. This drive time affords me a lot of time for contemplation, which is a necessary part of the daily diet for an introvert like me. What makes this different on this particular day is the music I am listening to as I drive.

For the record (pun intended) I have a CD in the car stereo. An oldie and goodie, "Joe's Garage Acts I, II, and III" by Frank Zappa. I have to on CD,  and on cassette. A relic from days long gone by. A relic of my brother.

My brother and I could almost sing the entire album from memory. We knew the lyrics. We could see past the surface of it all, the juvenile lyrics and the obsession with sex. We understood there was a deeper commentary going on, sometimes lost in the double entendres and clever words.

But that did not stop the cascades of memories. It did not hold back on the sadness and the pain I felt at rocketing down the highway and knowing there was no way to bring my brother back to this mortal coil. He has been gone over six years now, and the unreality of it all is persistent. He left us almost seven years ago, yet it seems sometimes that it happened just now.

What does it matter? you may ask. To that I say I don't know. Perhaps it does not matter to you. That would not surprise me nor would it pain me. All I know is that I am hurtling down the road and I miss my brother. He was a good man, in spite of the pain.

It occurs to me, in the watery sunlight of a Missouri afternoon, that I miss my brother. Terribly. He is the lost tribe, and I wander the forest in search of him.

Silver Light So Pretty

Selene smiles on me, her silver radiance coruscating through the leaves of an oak tree near to the yard. The quiet of the night only broken by the muffled laughter and talk from another backyard over yonder. The sky is not quite dark, a darkening blue on its way to indigo and velvet. Selene is a jewel, she is, one I wish I could wear on a chain around my neck.

It is comforting, is it not, this liquid silver light that bathes us all at one time or another? It is reflected fire, containing mystery without the overarching presence of the daytime sun. I left the house this morning in hopes of catching the sun at the right time, down by bridges, trains and the river. Alas, my ignorance of local roadways combined with a special event conspired against me reaching the destination I sought. I spent time driving around in the morning sun, but not walking in it. Not enough, anyway. So I returned home and frittered away a good portion of the day ruminating on dinnertime and what I would eat.

I put aside the notion of light for a few hours, thinking instead of ingredients and menus, entrees and sides. I pored over books on food looking for certain recipes and other ideas. The sun did its thing outside the windows, while the birds frolicked in the grass. Blue jay and starling, robin and sparrow, they all have a fascination for the grass outside the window near my desk. I watched them, I constructed a plan for my culinary adventures, then set out to forage for my eats.

The sun at that point was just background, just another factor in deciding to put on sunglasses or turn on the air conditioning. I was paying very little attention to it as I made the rounds amongst market and store. It grew somewhat warm here today, just enough to crank up the fan and tilt the blinds. The sun and the light slipped from my mind.

Slipped, that is, until I stepped outside this evening, as the sky grew dark and the air began to cool. It was then I saw the moon, or perhaps it saw me. The flash of light through the leaves seemed like a signal, a flare, designed to get my attention. I looked up quickly and a small sound escaped my throat. I drew in a breath. A gentle breeze ruffled my hair as I stood transfixed by the moonlight. It held me still for a few minutes. I lost track of time, my sense of place. I have been so busy lately dealing with change I have had almost no time for contemplation, so this was an old feeling become new.

The silver light, from the crown of Selene, is truly an unearthly beauty. It slowed me down to remind me that it shines on us all. So our hearts are not alone, although miles sometimes separate us. The human beings that we are, woven together by silver light so pretty.

Sunday Meditation #2: On The Problem Of Weeds

I look out my kitchen window at the riotous growth of the crepe myrtle in the corner of the yard, the almost tree-like bush resembling a prideful lion's head with its spray of mane-like branches.  The branches festooned with magenta blossoms.  The wild roses, like lion cubs, crouch at its feet, peeking their little leaves out from the protection of the myrtle.  It makes me smile and remember G-maw, my maternal grandmother.  She had a crepe myrtle in her yard, a large one, and I always remember that one as a tree.

The weeds, too, that desecrate the planting beds ringing my house, they remind me also of G-maw.  Not for any direct resemblance, no, but only the absence of weeds in my grandmother's presence.  She was a gardener, with a plot behind her house in which she grew flowers and tomatoes and other beautiful, tasty things to eat.  She had little patience for weeds, mostly.  She often tended the large, impromptu garden that sprang up behind my boyhood home, on a patch of land bordered by the neighbor's houses.  Many good things came from that plot, and G-maw helped them grow.  She was formed in a time where it was necessary for you to grow the things you ate, because if you didn't you might not eat.

The garden of my youth, the flower plot of my grandmother's home, has begun to fade somewhat under the pressure of time.  Fade is perhaps not the exact word, as I sit here and contemplate the setting sun. Blurred or softened is perhaps a better choice.  A view through thick panes of glass abraded by sand on the winds of time, the memories achieve a certain glow on the screen of my mind.

I remember the weeds, also, as I look out the window.  The weeds have grown fast and thick this summer, fattening their stems and fleshly leaves while I wasn't looking, or was distracted by the noise and clatter of the modern world.  I see the weeds, and I feel unsettled, because I know I have let some things get away from me.  Weeds are something my G-maw would have taken care of, right away, as she often did when she was still of this mortal coil.

Me, I dither too much, crow mind distracted by the shiny things.

I stand at the window and sip my glass of tea.  Silently, I send up a prayer, a request, or maybe just an ethereal "hello" to my G-maw, asking her to come visit, offer some advice.

There are weeds around me, G-maw, and I want to know what to do.  You knew what to do, always.

Dog Days of the Soul

I once was possessed of the notion that I was a tough guy.  Not in the sense of looking to get into fights, or crush beer cans on my forehead or any such nonsense.  I thought I was tough that I could take anything the universe could throw at me.  It was a conceit that sustained me for quite a long time in my life.  The shame of it is that it was simply not true.  The universe, as only it can, disabused me of that notion in a manner most violent, then kicked me while I was struggling to stand up.

My Big Bro has been gone two years now.  I thought of him today, and realized what it was that had been nagging me a little since mid-July.

Remembering him reminded me that, really, I'm not as tough as I like to think.

Remembering him reminds me that I am human, as was he.  Beautiful, sad, flawed but ultimately worthy of love.  

This is a gift worth far more than being a tough guy.  I remember you, my brother, and rejoice in being human.

Because Bird is the Word

The night before Father's Day, I was winding down from a relatively busy day for a weekend.  Chores were done, belly had been filled (spicy home-made bean and linguica burritos, if you are curious) and I had the luxury of some quiet moments with no agenda.  As is often my wont, I began to follow the inscrutable exhortations of my soul.

In this case, it meant a session on the interwebs and time in on the good ol' iTunes store, from whence I purchased some music.  What music, you ask?  Well, I'll tell you:

Stone Rollin', the new album from Raphael Saadiq and...the single of "Surfin' Bird" by the Trashmen.

I know, I know...you're probably wondering WTH?  How does that even tie together?

Honestly, I'm not sure.  I hear things and I jot them down on scraps of paper and napkins and stuff, so I won't forget.  The end result, especially when it comes to music, is usually eclectic mental flotsam.

Anyway, Stone Rollin' is an excellent album, Saadiq has talent and skill to burn, and discussion of it is a subject for another post.  "Surfin' Bird", well...it got me to thinking about Father's Day and my Big Bro, and how much I miss him since he passed away in 2009.

When we were kids, we heard "Surfin' Bird" on the radio, and we got a lot of hilarity out of it.  This was long before Family Guy got a hold on it (which, BTW, is one of the funniest things I've witnessed on television).  Big Bro and I could both do a credible imitation of the vocals.  Admittedly, that may not be much of a stretch, but we were good at it.

Hearing it again brought back some of the life he and I shared, so long ago.  It made me a little nostalgic for the silliness we could get into, and thinking of him made me think of what he was as a son, brother and father (to my nephew).  Big Bro was an imperfect person, but he had a big heart and an translucent soul.  He tried his best, straining against his limitations, to be the best dad he could be given the circumstances.

And we loved him for that.  Still do.

Happy Father's Day, Big Bro.  You still are the word.

Homecoming

Old bed, new boyhood,
Worn wood, white plaster above
Dreams of youthful sun

Spring Poetry Slam #6: Man Up?

Shut your stupid mouth.
My hands have cut cord, buried child.
Yours hold a cell phone.

Emerald Currents

My address is in America
not waterside by the Shannon
My house a bungalow
not warmed by peat

I do have dreams
of the Emerald Isle,
that leave me longing
for hills I've never walked

I do not have
an Irish accent
nor is the auld sod
beneath my feet

But what I have is
Eire in my heart
and in my veins
For now, it is enough

Least of Three Bodies

La·gran·gi·an point (l-grnj-n)

n.

Astronomy - Any of five points, stable with respect to gravitational forces and in the orbital plane of two bodies, one of which is much larger than the other. A third, smaller body placed at one of these points will remain in equilibrium with respect to the other two bodies.

---

Amidst the churches and farms
a country highway stretched on forever
beneath a sky of hammered pewter
past trees of gilded dust and bronze

Car and driver weightless over distance
the tug of one gravity lessens before another,
somewhere between silver river and green rows
a heart fell into equilibrium far from both

What is this gravity called love? he sighed,
the crows had no reply, from their weathered perch,
except to flutter wings of feathered ebony,
bidding adieu to this least of three bodies

Art Thief

I sat down to write something completely different, or rather that was the plan I held from days ago.  But to paraphrase, no plan survives contact with reality. 

I like to to think that we as human beings are works of art, running the full gamut of whatever "-ism" you care to throw at us.  All of us, great and small, beautiful and maybe not so beautiful, abstract and realistic, wondering this interactive art museum we call Earth.  It's amazing and beautiful and complicated, and a lifetime may not be enough to comprehend or understand it all.  We sure can enjoy the effort of appreciation, can we not?  Maybe this is what we humans end up calling "love".

I fancied today that God is a great appreciator of art, too.  This is why every so often He/She/It steals these works of art we call our friends and family, leaving us with empty frames and memories.

In my more optimistic moments,  I picture God as one of those uber-wealthy collectors, who just has to have the beautiful, the rare, the sublime in his own personal art gallery, thus sometimes leaving the rest of the world a little bit poorer.

Be that as it may, if the analogy holds true...I hope when its my turn through the door of the heavenly gallery, I get to see all the art I've come to miss.  That kind of beauty deserves to be shared, just like love.

---

In memory of my Aunt L.

Aerie, Night and Wind

Wind scrubbing the walls,
Train echoes along the river;
Departing voices

River in Our Veins

I have had much on my mind (as usual) since I wrote this post, and my hindbrain was chewing on some ideas for responses to commentors' thoughts on what I should write.  The one that has piqued my interest the most was TaraDharma's (although they all are good) and was what I had planned on writing about for this post.

The universe had other ideas.  I was redirected by small miracles and revelations, profound and terrible, beautiful and sad.  They all had me thinking about love for our families, our kith and kin.

I mentioned back on January 17th in this post that a cousin of mine was due to have a baby in the near future.  That small miracle has come to pass, as of yesterday, and mom and le bebe are doing fine.  She has a little girl, a beautiful little girl of her own.  The pictures I have seen were quite the tonic for the weary heart I have been carrying through this winter that won't seem to pass.

The terrible, sad thing I won't discuss in detail here, but it involves a personal revelation made to me that took my breath away, and granted a clear bolt of insight and illumination into understanding another human being.  The context and the content were mind boggling, and truly altered my perspective on the life I have experienced in the past few years.

In sum, here's what I was thinking, as I drove home from work tonight:  Hold your kith and kin close, don't let them slip away, and make sure they know you love them.  The blood that flows in our collective veins is a mighty river in which we may sometimes not want to swim...but flow it does, into the sea which gave us life, and love.

A Stalk of Grace

I'm sorry, I know I have been ungrateful, frightfully so.  All that time inside my head, driven there by the cold and the weather and general disconnect between my body and my mind and them to the universe at large.

It makes me distracted, distracted I am a walking ball of distractedness.  Crow-mind amongst the glittery things that draw my attention, I let them draw my attention in a desperate bid to draw attention away from myself.  Because I'm tired of thinking about myself.  Look, a bird!

I said to me "I'll allot you five minutes to find some grace, and don't come back empty handed!" ending in a yell.  A quiet yell, but a yell nonetheless.

I took to the kitchen as I often do, because cooking good things to eat gives me focus and a way to slip out the back door and let go for a bit, focus, focus.  You know, like the Zen monks do when they chop wood, carry water.

Grace.  Grace?  Where in the world was I going to find grace?  I haven't had grace in the house since...well, it feels like just shy of forever.  Remain calm, no freaking out, just breathe, cut, stir, simmer, taste.  That's all I needed to do.  While leaning against the counter, in a lull between stirring and adding the next set of ingredients to the pot, I found grace.

It consisted of a stalk of celery, slathered with some peanut butter.  Just like my G-maw used to make for me when I was a kid, at her house for dinner.  It was simply good.

I hadn't thought of that particular taste treat in years, don't know what made me think of it then.  All I know is, standing there in the pearly north light coming through my kitchen windows, I felt warm and content, and I was thinking that, somewhere in this universe, someone wanted me to be happy.

Grace, stay with me.

The Brighter Side We Also May View

Reading over my previous post, it struck me straight up that it was not the post I meant to write.  I don't know quite how that happened, other than to say that I sat down to write what I thought was in my head, and that story is what came out instead.

I have mentioned recently some episodes of unbloggableness.  Or unbloggability.  Or something like it.  I have been dealing with more of it lately than I care for.  Any amount is bad, really, but it has been piling up.  Events like the shootings in Tucson only serve to make it worse, external stressors added to an already high-temperature internal environment.

Something that happened Saturday afternoon was the trigger for what I was going to write about.  When I say 'write about' what I really mean is an attempt to deal with the triggers, not a description of the triggers themselves.  The ways I have been attempting to deal with stuff lately is through writing and photography.  Listening to music is a big part of it, too, but listening is passive in comparison to the other two.

So this is what was going on that afternoon.  I had woken up that morning in a bit of a funk, felt the walls closing in and the beasts stirring in my mind.  I have been writing every day now for a long time, but it had been some time since I had gone on a photo safari, so I reckoned the antidote to the Funk was an excursion with my digital and film cameras.  After breakfast, I bundled up in some warm layers, loaded the cameras and tripod into the car, and headed out the door.  I went to a favorite photography spot of mine, and set to.

My intuition was correct.  A few hours traipsing around outside, chasing trains and cool shadows, did wonders for my mental outlook.  Didn't make everything disappear or bloggable, but it eased the pressure.  At home, while listening to some Uncle Tupelo on the stereo, I happened to look in the mirror at my plaid-shirted, scruffy bearded self, and it hit me:  Things have changed tremendously for me in the recent past, more so than I have been able to handle gracefully...and things are still in flux.  I don't do well with flux.

Of the many things in my aching headbone, two in particular stand out, primarily because they are proof that things aren't all heavy.

First, a cousin of mine is due to have a baby real soon.  Second, my nephew is getting married later this year.  Out of all the 'rocks in the pond' of my mind, these two have created the biggest ripples, and I'm sort of at a loss to explain why.  They both have affected me more than I expected, and mostly to the good.

There is a bit of the "Well, how did I get here?" to all of this.  Both my cousin and nephew are young (ha! They are 20-somethings, yet I'm thinking 'kids'...yikes!) which has left me wondering here did the time go.  I think that is because the calamities of my own life, losing my twin babies and the disintegration of my marriage, have made me cautious and cynical about new lives and new beginnings.  Achieving grace is the exception rather than the rule, and the risk of heartbreak is tremendous, as I so well know.  When I think about my cousin and her baby, and my nephew and his bride-to-be, I do get scared.  So many things rush to my lips, things I don't say, because they are grounded in my own harsh experiences.

But, then, I see there pictures and read their messages and hear their voices...and something melts.  Something finally penetrates that lump of stone I call a heart, and I understand that good things do happen in this universe.

So I stared at that jaded fellow in the mirror while Jeff Tweedy warbled life lessons in the background.  My mind was clear and bright, in a stolen moment when I contemplated that brightness remains, and there are few things more optimistic and joyful than creating a new life, or uniting two existing ones.  Especially when those lives are your kin; no sweeter music than blood music, than love.

---

"So open up those curtains
And drink up the daylight
Just by the brightness
Open your doors wide
'Cause things don't get better
but some people do

There's darkness in this life,
but the brighter side we also may view
There's darkness in this life,
but the brighter side we also may view."

---

Lyrics quoted from "Flatness", on the Album No Depression, by Uncle Tupelo