WHAT IS WISE & WHAT IS NOT

  A most rewarding aspect of writing and sharing this blog is that my readership is small. In some ways they are Godlike, at least the forgiving part. We may not agree on issues or beliefs but I have never been harshly judged for it. So I can sit at the computer and beg any question, I can question any idea, challenge beliefs and I can change my mind when I feel the need. God fearing people are uncomfortable with that kind of latitude but then I don’t fear God. I have no reason to believe he is the creator. I would think him a human creation not unlike Zeus and Homer Simpson. The human brain has a peculiar neural circuit that cannot accommodate the full knowledge and certainly not the consequence of our inherent mortality (a finite life span). God is the mental buffer (drug) that diffuses that suffering. It is painless, legal and respectable. Evolution has left us hardwired to Believe something (maybe anything) that gives us a purpose, and some eternal possibility. How we meet that need depends on lots of experience, how we derive meaning from it and who we listen to. I have fallen in with Joseph Campbell who said, “Life has no meaning. Each of us has meaning and we bring it with us to this life. It is a waste to be asking the question when you are the answer.” My little audience has given me license to go wherever the spirit leads and if nothing else, they can wander with me without getting their feet wet. Thank you!
It is Sunday and I went to church today, in the flesh. My vaccination status (2 + Boost)  has been documented, I wear a new KN95 surgical mask and we keep safe distance from each other. The sermon dealt both directly and indirectly with abortion. It was titled, “My Body, My Choice.” Not all of us agree on every issue but our compass needles all respond to a worldly force rather than a Faith based tradition. Still, I didn’t hear anybody defending the rights of a human embryo. We agree to disagree when it serves the greater good and It is very important that we all share the blessings of being embraced together within this community. So a church of unbelievers should not be a surprise, not even to a pseudo submissive, come to Jesus crowd. 
Changing the subject: (Deleted section) I just filled a page with grim stuff that I needed to vent but no one wants to hear. So I select and delete like it was never there. I would rather think about what is wise and what is not? Who knows the difference between wisdom and clever speech that is contrived to meet a self serving bias. If there is such a thing as wisdom it comes from personal experience and you can’t argue with it. You own your own wisdom and if you can’t trust it, what good is it? If somebody else’s wisdom sounds a lot like yours you should be skeptical. After all, it’s a lot easier to see their flaws than to fess up to your own. In any case, difficult as it may be, dredge up enough courage to keep your wisdom file updated. My own personal wisdom has been narrowed down to rules of thumb and they move around like birds in the bush. These are a few: 
#1 Today is the only day you can get your hands around so do something with it that would please your mother. 
#2 Being human makes us unique but is nothing to be proud of. 
#3 Being human is all we’ve got so reread #1. 
#4 Forgiveness is the letting go of a hot rock. It frees the victim by design and the guilty by default. 
#5 There is no universal truth other than; change is nature of nature. 
#6 is gender based if not outright sexist but never the less: Generally speaking, women are better suited and more responsive than men to doing the right (righteous) thing. 
#7 If you love someone then tell them so, tell them again. Then live up to your words. 
Some day I will add to this list but for today there must be something else I should be doing. 

PERFECT PARTNERS

  While volunteering for a local hospice group I once sat with a comatose lady who was near death. Her family was coming in from far away and my coordinator wanted someone from hospice to be there. In later life the lady had written a small book, had many copies printed and gave them away without reservation. Making small talk, her children recommended the read and offered me a copy. It was a rambling collection from her journey with Jesus and scriptures with backstory into her experience. I took it with a simple thank you. Small talk was just that. Most of the hour they spent there I gave them privacy from nearby. They left and with another 20 minutes to clear the building I put the book back on her bedside table and called my hospice coordinator; “Everything went well and I am done here.”
With an ever so short scan of her book I noted that her writing skills were limited but whoever edited the piece knew what they were doing. To her credit, her message was unmistakably clear. The idea that her story was important enough to her that she wanted it to endure even after she was gone, I thought it remarkable. It was her gift to all others and if nobody ever picked it up it wouldn’t be for her lack of effort. Writing a book requires a huge effort. I thought, “I could do that.” My religious odyssey ran parallel to her Belief for a couple of decades but all along the way I was looking for an off ramp. With all due respect and no hard feelings I default to Karl Marx and his view on religion; “The opiate of the masses.” Like a prescribed drug, if you need it you should have it. Like mud on my shoes, religion would have its moment and then be left outside on the porch to dry up fall away. My shoes would go on to serve me well without the mud.
I try to imagine what my autobiography would look like and it’s one of the few times my imagination has failed me. My memory is pretty good and all those years, all those places, so many people; I wouldn’t know how to begin. I have started several large writing projects only to stumble with the outline before I ever got to the story. I probably need an editor to keep track of the big picture. I do alright with vignettes and short stories but anything that needs an outline leaves me at a loss. But failure is not the end-all worst that can happen so I may give it another try. I have always believed that falling down and getting back up are perfect partners. There is something to be learned every time and that repeating cycle is the story of my life. 

I KNOW THE RULES

  Recently I was heating some tomato soup on the stove. I turned to do something else and got distracted for what seemed like only a moment. The burners on the stove are nested under the heavy cast iron grate and above the white enamel tray that is shaped to catch and collect any spills. I noticed the area under the pan of soup had turned the same color as the soup, the fire was out and I could smell gas. You don’t have to be a detective. My distraction took longer than I thought. It had boiled up the sides of the pan and over the edge, run down and across the bottom of the pan, dripping soup at every opportunity, quenching the flame. With the fire out, remaining tomato soup settled back down into a hot pan. I noticed the smell of gas, did the math and shut everything down. 
I hate it when I make a mess but had I known I was making a mess I would have done something different. My soup & sandwich were delayed for a few minutes but I am none the worse off. I have cleaned up that stovetop so many times I know exactly how many paper towels to tear off and when to switch to the big sponge, then to the smaller sponge with the squirt-spray cleaner. The old, familiar self anger had given way to resignation, simply doing what needed to be done. I still hate making the mess but I don’t hate myself for the making. Whatever got short changed in the process, it will get done. Time lost is a metaphor for time spent fixing stuff you should have done better the first time. Whatever I happen to be doing, time is just the bracket I use to frame it.
Still, I visualize the soup starting to steam, little circular currents foreshadow foam-like bubbles that will soon collect on the side of the pan. It doesn’t give any warning, just erupts up and out, down into the fire. My soup mess cleaned up quickly; not the first time. Thinking about the subtle, silent, implied warning; as if the steam were saying, “It won’t be long before I come up out of here.” it seemed to know I wouldn’t bet back in time but still it counts as a warning. I know we’re not supposed to attribute human attributes to non human entities (talking steam) but I do anyway.

        Before the steam went to a rolling boil it was more than steam, it was a sign. When it found its voice it made me think of a Denzel Washington movie, The Equalizer. The polite, peaceful Denzel found himself in a room full of Russian mobster-thugs and their kingpin boss. They insulted and challenged him trying to provoke a fight but he was unruffled. On his way to the door they mocked him as he turned the handle. Instead of walking out he pulled the door closed and locked it. Turning to them he offered, “You still have time to do the right thing.” He checked his watch, set the timer and stepped forward. When he checked his watch 0:28 seconds later all of the Russians were dead on the floor. In his calm demeanor Denzel made a calculated if not condescending disclaimer.  “You should’ve taken my offer, you should have done the right thing.” 
Cleaning up the sauce pan that had tomato soup dried inside and out, I imagined it telling me in Denzel Washington’s voice, “You should’ve stayed close, paid attention to the steam. That would have been the right thing.” The pan is clean, so is the stove top and there is more soup in the pantry. Lesson learned, at least for now. I won’t walk away from hot stuff on the stove again, not soon. 
Writing is usually therapeutic and I finish feeling better. Lately it has been difficult to get back up on the horse (falling off the horse metaphor). The Equalizer was a movie. Everybody got paid and went home happy. In the moment when I plunge into the first paragraph, that's different. My ideas are usually dark and unforgiving. If I want to write and finish feeling better I have to keep unfolding one experience after another until something reboots my compass. I think I’ve been dealing with depression all throughout the pandemic but denial and making believe only go so far. All of the classic symptoms are there. I know the rules, I did a year of guided recovery in 2001-02 and you would think I should have seen it coming. I have some serious work to do, writing will be part of it. The recipe calls for good rest, good diet, structure, vigorous exercise, help others (volunteer) and lean on your friends. Where would we be, how would I get by without my friends.

SKIP-SKIP-SKIPPING

  Once upon a time; there was a time when talking about the weather seemed to me like such a waste of time. We’ve got weather today, yes, and we’ll have weather again tomorrow. I’ve got things to do either way, wether or not. I suppose that “What do you make of this rain, eh?” it offers a convenient way into a conversation and that is fine. It is certainly less contentious than “Do you still beat your wife and cheat on your income taxes?” Maybe the weather dialogue is; maybe it has always been relevant and it was just me finding fault when it wasn’t there. Judgmental hubris and youth go together without much planning or effort. After all, weather is always a major factor in both what we do and how we go about it. 
I was always content leaning into the moment and that includes the weather. Make hay while the sun shines, take a nap in the shade. At the time I had more things to do than I had time to play with. Now that equation has gone upside down, not that I can accumulate more time just not too many demands on it. Long-story-short, winter is really wearing me thin. Playing outside in the snow used to be fun but I was strong and fast. Time has a way of undoing that equation as well. My mother was a strong voice for making the most of today, the day that the Lord had given us. When I wanted to be older she cautioned me not to wish my life away. Still, looking over my shoulder, wishing time to come back around comes easy, a rerun of busy-busy youth. 
Thank you Mom; I am so happy for today but when those first spring buds open up on the redbuds and the willows I’ll have  all the more reason to be smiling. When the furnace stops running all night and I can open the window, I will have another something to say ‘Thank you’ for. If and when Covid gives us a break I can think about timely travel to warmer climes. Susan Tedeschi (Tedeschi-Trucks Band) my favorite band, easy to find on YouTube. She sings a wonderful song, ‘Everybody’s Talkin’ and it tells us; “I’m going where the sun keeps shining, through the pouring rain; Going where the weather suits my clothes . . .” I catch myself humming, even mouthing the words. “Banking off of the northeast winds, Sailing on a summer breeze; skipping over the ocean like a stone . . .” 
I remember a February not so long ago in a little beach town down in South Baja with sea turtles, fish tacos and fresh avocados. That winter felt more like a reward than an assignment. I’m not feeling that right now but hope is a great motivator and I can always spend from that account. 

“Skip-skip-skipping over the ocean like a stone . . .”

THE LIFE WE LEARNED WITH

  Movies used to  be the exception and not the rule but Pandemic has changed that for me. My DVD library is small by others standard but it takes up several book shelves. I also hooked up with Netflix and their shelf is endless; not very good but what they lack in quality they make up for in volume. Whenever I have exhausted the Netflix offering and come up empty I turn to my DVD’s. Last night I went back to my DVD’s, watched a 1984 film made when Robert Redford, Glenn Close and Robert Duvall were young, set in the 1930’s, revolving around baseball, as close to a perfect pairing as I can imagine. I’ve watched it several times, many times and it doesn’t get old. 
I’m not about to review the movie. If you haven’t seen it, go see it. But near the end Redford (the ball player) is trying to explain to Close, (his boyhood sweetheart) why he never came back to her. The best he could do was to tell her, “My life just didn’t turn out like I thought it would.” Her reply was the hook line for the movie. She told him, “I think we live two lives; the one we learn with and the one we live with after that.” In the movie, the good guys win, the bad guys crash and burn. The separated lovers reconnect. Redford meets his teenage son who he never knew existed and all the bittersweet turns to sweet. 
I think we live two lives; the one we learn with and the one we live with after that. When I hear great lines like that in movies I want to give a big thumbs up to the writers. This one captured nearly two hours of struggle and last chances, compressed into a single sentence. It spoke to me personally: some things need to be let go and other things need to be nurtured and kept safe but still, who has a crystal ball? All you can do is all you can do. You hope the learning was sufficient and the present is clear. The idea presumes that you know when you’ve bridged from the learning to the living. You pray for the power of hope and a shred of courage. There it is: if you can just muster some courage. I don’t think it comes with a handle. You can’t just grab hold and hang on. Courage isn’t easy, somebody has to move their feet. 
The life you learned with and the life you live with; one line made the difference between a good movie and a timeless life lesson. With Robert Redford and Glenn Close you knew it was going to end well. That’s what movies are for, to leave you feeling good. But tomorrow the sun will come up and I will have to improvise my own script and recruit a cast of characters. My movie has no guarantees and the ending, happy or sad, will be just a springboard into the next episode. 

HITCH YOUR WAGON

  Winter Solstice is observed on December 21 but to be honest, the shortest daylight day of the year (in actual hours and minutes) can happen sooner or later, give or take as much as a week either way. There are several variables that affect timing Sunrise to Sunset and if one does not enjoy or appreciate the study of astronomy/meteorology there is no reason to dig in that hole. But I do, and I do. The most notable (variable) is Wobble, an unsteady, rocking motion. Ever so slightly, our Mother (Earth) wobbles on her axis, back and forth. At any given moment, anywhere on the planet, we are wobbling toward or away from the sun itself and that can (and does) affect when we first see and when we lose sight of the sun. Add to that, other lesser forces that act in concert with the wobble, (we measure in milliseconds, even microseconds 1/1,000 of a millisecond now) making exact, precise timing nearly impossible. 
It has been almost a month to the day since I celebrated Solstice which is just over 8% (that’s a lot) of the year. But yesterday at my house the sun rose at almost exactly (within a couple of minutes) at the same time as it came up on December 21. Sunset was over half an hour later, from 5:00 P.M. to 5:32 P.M.. My daylight time is increasing but not uniformly at both ends of the day. It seems illogical and there is nothing I can do about it but like Druids of old, I marvel at what seems miraculous and mysterious. Over time; telescopes, calculators, science and its growing body of knowledge have lifted that cloak of mystery. But it doesn’t diminish the sense of awe and wonder; it only adds to it. This would be a good place for a Carl Sagan quote. If you aren’t already privy to his thoughts you might think one of his quotes sound like something I would say but he shapes my thinking, not the other way around. 
So for the past month our days have been getting longer at the end of the day rather than spreading daylight out evenly, like butter on toast, morning to dusk. It will balance out  before long and there is a good reason I just don’t have it. I’m sure it stems from those variations in the wobble and other combined forces. By mid March daylight and darkness will be nearly equal, 12 hours daylight and 12 hours day-dark. Some people will hate it but never the less, we will go back on Daylight Savings Time. I don’t care one way or the other. It seems they (haters) need something to be angry about and waking up to a slightly different rhythm is sufficient to their displeasure. You have jet-lag for a few days twice a year but you don’t have to fly or unpack luggage. In any case, there is nothing awesome or mysterious about either the switch from daylight to standard time or the switch back in 5 or 6 months. 
I am attracted to if not hooked with the wonder of baffling, natural phenomenon. Somewhere in the mix there are keys to unlock those mysteries and I can put my hands on some of them. The others, I’ll keep looking. I would recommend the same awe & wonder solution to any and all skeptics, even to short sighted, self-consumed, wannabe thinkers who piss and moan over every little ripple in the flow. I suppose I am no different, but pissing into the wind seems self defeating so I aim downwind and I do my moaning in private. I’m not blaming anyone and in this case, angst against human folly is a dead end. They think you are a fool too. 
Check the charts and the forecast for a clear morning and get up early to watch the sun rise. It is empowering. Some people prefer sunset. You are already awake and it is great for peaceful, settled reflection. Sunrise would be more about new beginnings and expectations, a kick-start. Find a high place with a long view, listen to some of your favorite music and watch the red ball clear the horizon and turn to orange, then creep up above trees and go to gold. When it gets too bright to look straight at you know it is time to hitch your wagon to that rising star. It is good for the soul and I recommend it. 

A MEASURE OF CONTENTMENT

  I sit down to write with, if not optimism then at least a measure of contentment. Feeling good is its own reward even if you have to talk yourself into it. But this is a true story. My dad never thought of himself as a storyteller but often he was the story’s instrument and it would channel itself through him. He was like our lawnmower, touchy and difficult to get started but once running nothing could turn it off. He was at his best when retelling stories from his childhood, either from his own experience or those passed down through oral tradition. Like the lawnmower’s first putt-putt-putt, those stories always began the same, “In those days . . .” 
In those days: we didn’t have refrigerators, no ice in the summer, no need for it in winter. What we had was a root cellar that stayed cool year-round. Milk from the cow was warm and frothy in the bucket. It was set aside and covered until the cream rose to the top. They skimmed it off and transferred it to a glass jar. Then the milk was strained through a linen cloth and both stored in the darkness of the root cellar. It may be hard to imagine a kitchen with a cast iron, wood-burning cook-stove and no refrigerator but this story was hatched on a small farm around the year 1920, over a hundred years ago. My dad (a little boy then) would have been about 9 or10 years old. A late night snack would be found in the root cellar.
In the darkest dark he knew exactly where the cream jar was and it was his favorite treat, thick, rich and sweet on his tongue. He had a favorite long handle tea spoon, just right for scooping deep into the jar. On his way back to the house he might stop at the well to wash the spoon and no one the wiser. Of course they knew what he was doing but as long as it wasn’t a problem, it wasn’t a problem. If it was too cold or too wet he might settle for a leftover crust of bread and butter from the breadbox on the table. But a spoon full of sweet cream from the root cellar was his first choice. 
One night in the dark, spoon in hand, he made his way down to the shelf where milk and cream were kept. Unscrewing the lid on the cream jar he dipped to the bottom and drew up a mounded heap of white delight. Without a second thought he popped it in his mouth. Before his lips could close over the spoon he froze, his breath taken away and no way to escape what must have felt like a mouth full of stinging bees. My father though he would die then and there. Instinct kicked in, spitting out the painful concoction out of his mouth made his tongue burn all the more. Surprise, surprise. 
What he didn’t know was that a neighbor from the next farm had ground fresh horseradish that day and given a jar to my dad’s foster parents the Coles from Sheldon, Missouri. Ida, my surrogate grandmother had put it in the root cellar on the same shelf, in front of the cream jar. Their economy was as much share and barter as it was cash money. Times were hard and they were poor and that calls for creative cooperation. Even if there had been ketchup or mayonnaise on the shelf at the store in town they wouldn’t spend precious pennies on it. They seasoned food with home grown herbs and spices. Horseradish is related to radishes, mustard and other tangy seasonings. It has a large, white taproot with no odor or taste until it is broken or crushed. Freshly ground it rivals jalapeños for burn, enough to make little boys think they will surely die. Over time it loses its bite but as long as it is kept cool and sealed away from the air, you only put a very small portion on your plate. 
My dad got over the burn and started breathing again, lived to be 90. A few years after my mother passed away my son and daughter were with me, stopping to check on their granddad. They went ahead, banged on the kitchen door but didn’t wait to be received. They walked straight into the kitchen. Before the door could close behind them they came scrambling back outside, coughing and fanning the air. Granddad was grinding fresh horseradish. Even if you know what is coming it may be too much for the mucus membranes of eyes and sinus to bear. The old man’s legacy for hot, spicy foods goes all the way back to an old root cellar in 1920. 
That is a good story but in fact it is the back story. The here and now story is that in my kitchen, in a drawer there is a long handle tea spoon. The handle end is still silver plated but the spoon end has been worn thin by friction and chemical reactions. Its brassy color and patina speak to a century of spicy, dicy food and four generations of people who stirred and spooned with it. Stories never end. They just shuffle their feet and change direction; this one is still unfolding. Maybe someday one of my descendants might tell their friends and family about their great or great-great grandpa’s horseradish spoon. They might even reach in a silverware drawer and pull out the family heirloom. By then it could span five or six generations. Right now I have that good feeling, maybe not joy or bliss but certainly content with a long lived, much loved story and that is good enough.