Heavenly Michael South Beach

Turtles All the Way Down

2011-10-23T16:43:00.001-07:00

In the history of our species, each and every time we have peeled the onion of our understanding of the universe and the rules that make it work, we have found a deeper layer we didn't even suspect existed. Each time we have found greater complexity, more paradoxical and apparently conflicting rules about how it works, and greater challenges to observing the actual phenomena, though what we can observe tends to more closely conform to the newly discovered rules.

Our mind, collectively and individually, is a wildly inaccurate, unreliable and even reckless instrument. But as our reliance on it gives us confidence, often false confidence, and a freedom from fear and insecurity, it comes equipped with a built in editor. It automatically forgets, fades, marginalizes or rationalizes all memory of it's errors. This includes discounting or forgetting all phenomena that conflict with beliefs to which we have become attached. This is how Aristotle's contorted view of the cosmos with the earth as the gravitational center stood unchallenged for hundreds of years, despite its inability to conform to observation. It is also how we can continue to believe in the existence of money. Or the utility of an abusive relationship. Or that it's possible to achieve peace through warfare. Or that other people control our happiness.

I have a small green parrot, a quaker. She is quite intelligent and intensely curious, as all babies are. I am certain she has an idea, in her parrot way, of what makes up the universe and how it all works. I am also certain that it is as useful to her survival as our more complex ideas are to ours. I am sure of this because from time to time she encounters something new that does not fit into what she knows. It always terrifies her. Then she has to expand her idea of what is, or ignore the phenomena. I can often observe her making precisely this decision. We do no more and no less. We have as much reason to think that we can fit an understanding of the universe and all the forces that move it into our collective bundle of neurons, as she has to think she can fit it all into her pea sized brain. But it is our nature, hers and ours, to try. And that trying serves us in the moment.

So if we think of life as just an astoundingly complex chemistry experiment, which functions on top of a mind bogglingly complex and completely inscrutable system of particle and wave interactions, which we can only refer to as probabilities, is it possible that we are near a complete understanding of the universe and ourselves? Or is it more likely that we still have some layers we haven't peeled? That perhaps we never will?

In his bestseller, "A Brief History of Time," Stephen Hawking relates an apocryphal tale of an old woman attending a lecture by a physicist on the origins of the cosmos. During the Question and Answer period that follows, she chides him claiming that she knows for certain that the world rests on the back of a giant tortoise. He chuckles and asks her what the tortoise is standing on, thinking surely he's got her. She replies that he's very clever, but it's turtles all the way down.

Who is to say it's not? Oh, not turtles of course, but one mystery resting on another, with no origin, no bedrock, not ever. The only thing that keeps us from accepting this is our egocentric notion of a beginning and an end. That everything is finite. To be sure our ego is finite. It begins along with the chemistry experiment called life and ends when the soup stops bubbling. But just because the source of our thought has a beginning and end, why should everything in the universe? We have been discovering the universe for our entire history as a species, perhaps our entire history as life on this planet. The only walls or limits we have ever encountered, the only beginnings or endings, have been the limits of our thought, capabilities or imagination, often only temporary. All of space, all of time, all of the laws that govern either, could be an endless series of Matryoshka dolls, the nested wooden Russian dolls.

How could that be possible? Endless?!? If the universe were unfolding, creating itself as a conceptual construct, as we discover it, in response to our collective imagination, it would be easy. But this would depend on our collective imagination or will, being separate from and superior to our individual ego consciousness, an underlying wellspring not only of life, but of everything. A God.

Massage Therapists?

2011-10-23T09:42:00.000-07:00

In a profession that values intention, presence and mindfulness, I have to opine that we are often reckless and unconscious in our use of words. At some point in our recent history, our profession ran screaming from the longstanding and well accepted terms "Massage," "Masseur" and "Masseuse." Presumably massage didn't sound medical enough for those pandering to get us adopted as the red haired stepchild of allopathy. And some people thought it meant sex. Masseur and Masseuse were gender specific, politically incorrect nowadays and, hey, some people thought Masseuse meant prostitute.

So, rather than claim what was ours, our heritage for hundreds, or more likely, thousands of years, we conceded the field without a battle and set off to claim new terminology. We did this rather without precedent. Dancers have to deal with the stigma that strippers and sex workers also call themselves "dancers," even though "writhers" might be more descriptive. Dancers have not attempted to reinvent themselves as "kinetic artists" to escape the potential stigma.

But let's assume that the remake was necessary and appropriate. I have to wince at the result. Adding the word "Therapy" might have made our work look more appropriate next to a medical billing code, but in the popular mind, it has established connotations. A word's connotation, or the commonly held meaning, is much more important than it's dictionary definition. Ask the people in media, who tell us what and how to think.

Therapy in the common mind takes us instantly to one of two places, depending on the context. "Therapy" might mean psychotherapy to many people, and as we were adopting the term, psychotherapy was enjoying a blossoming of acceptance by the public. I happen to think there are closer ties between massage and Psychotherapy than there are with the other commonly held connotation, Physical Therapy. Physical therapy is universally regarded as something to be avoided, a painful, sometimes excruciating rehabilitative process that one endures to recover function, usually as a result of a serious accident. No one goes to physical therapy simply to maintain wellness.

Neither of these well established terms linked to "therapy" furthers understanding of, or acceptance of massage. But it gets worse. We jettisoned the loathsome term, "Masseuse." That term we left to refer principally to oriental sex slaves, brought into the country under the nose of law enforcement and tolerated by a patriarchal government that on many levels actively works to subjugate women.

We then set off to find a better term. We could not have chosen more poorly. It logically followed, that having decided we did "massage therapy" that we must be "Massage Therapists." Surely this term would give the public confidence about our services and trustworthiness. Arrrgghh! The unconscious mind sees all, even what the conscious mind is oblivious to. In our attempt to instill trust and obtain greater acceptance by the public, this is what we have chosen to call ourselves… "Massage The Rapists"

Sigh.

At the Crossroads

2011-10-23T09:32:00.001-07:00

You're here again.

Here?!? Where is this place?

Ah, Where indeed. No place, actually. It is the crossroads. It is simultaneously all places and all times, and it is no place and no time. It is outside of time and space.

Who are you?

I am. More I cannot say.

Why am I here?

Apparently you are dissatisfied with your current dream.

Come again?

Where did you just imagine you were?

I was on the train, going to work. There was a great pain in my chest. Then nothing.

No, you were dreaming. Your work, the train, the planet, the other people, your body, all a dream. One of an infinite number of possible dreams, or 'realities' as you choose to call them while dreaming. You chose that one in order to learn something. Perhaps you did. You are back at the crossroads now.

Are you saying I'm dead?

I'm saying that you were not alive, or that you will never die. Life, death. There are no opposites here at the crossroads, and there are all opposites.

Why can't I see?

See? What is there to see? Everything and nothing. Fullness and emptiness. They are the same. Infinite sameness leaves nothing to discern.

I don't understand.

You never do. Each time you return from a choosing, you return confused.

I've been here before?

Always, never, before, after. Meaningless, really. We have had, will have, this conversation, or one like it, an infinite number of times.

We? So who are you, again?

I am you. We are all. There is everything and nothing beyond Us, I, You, We.

If you are me, then am I taking to myself?

After a fashion. This is the beginning of another choosing.

Choosing?

You are bored again and will soon choose, by dint of your will, to rend the infinite sameness and enter the dream of time/space. The beginning of that rending is ever the rending of your self. You can not enter time/space, you can not dream, except you first decide that you are separate from everything/nothing.

But you said I was just dreaming. Just now.

I said also that you were now outside of time. Just now, an epoch ago, an eon from now, they are all here, as near as your will. They always are. In the choosing, you limit yourself, deciding that time and place have meaning, that time flows one way and not another, that you are not the architect of your dreams. Without you having chosen, the dream is not possible. Only the sameness, only the crossroads.

Are you saying I am God?

Are you choosing to be God?

No. I suppose not. That would be a great deal of responsibility.

Would it? In any case, being God would not take you from the crossroads, and you seem determined to experience separation.

So you say I am choosing to learn something. What am I choosing to learn next?

Does an infant decide, a priory, what it will next discover?

So I am simply exploring then? What am I exploring?

All that there is. Your infinite self. There is no other searching.

But there were others, in my dream. How can I be all, if there were others? What of them?

To enter time/space, to step into illusion, you must surrender the concept of the infinite. You have already done this. But think, if you split your infinite self once, you can split yourself an infinite number of times. Those others, a few, will share your dream, a little. There will be overlap. You will feel familiar. You will feel a closeness, as you are all one. You will sense you are each in the same dream, but you are as far apart as the stars seem from one another, yet as near as the same breath of the same God. In the end, or in the beginning, you all, we all, everything, returns to the crossroads.

You seem to know how this works. How do I begin?

When your will has rent the sameness into time and space, then you may choose a starting point.

How do I do that?

You must both remember and forget that you can do that. When you remember, your will alone is sufficient, but to enter illusion, you must forget that your will created it.

I don't understand.

Good. Understanding is an artifact of illusion. If you are entertaining the concept of understanding, you are a step closer to illusion.

It's dark, but I feel warmth, and there's a sound, a rhythmic sound. It's a heartbeat, no, two heartbeats. What is a heartbeat? What is a heart? What is sound? I am forgetting so much.

Soon you will no longer hear me, or rather, you will no longer thought dialog with me. But I will never leave you. You are slipping into illusion, into time/space, into the place you called into existence to give you purpose. You are as safe there as at the crossroads, though you will often feel fear. This, too, you called into existence.

I am losing my words.

Do not be afraid, you will find them again.

I am hungry.

You will soon be fed.

When Money fails.

2011-10-23T09:29:00.000-07:00

Hello then, I'm afraid you can't pass.

What do you mean I can't pass?

Well, you got in the first gate, but before we can let you into the city proper, we have to determine that you either have something useful to trade, or can do something useful. These are hard times, you know. Everyone has to pull their own weight.

Well, I'm a rich man. Of course, I've got something to trade. I just happen to have lots and lots of money concealed about my person.

Money? You mean the bits of green paper? And what would we want that for?

What for? What for?!? Why it's the most valuable thing on earth. You can trade it for anything, says right on the front, "This note is legal tender for all debts public and private." The one with the most bits of green paper rules the Cosmos!

The Cosmos, you say? Like the earth and the sun and moon and all the stars, that Cosmos?

Yes, of course, that cosmos. Is there another?

No, no, of course not. I was just wondering one thing.

What? What are you wondering?

I was wondering, if having the most bits of green paper made you ruler of the Cosmos, hadn't you ought to keep all you've got, and try to get more besides?

And, well, I have now, haven't I. I'll bet I've got as many bits of green paper as anyone in this city.

So then, it's not available to trade?

Oh, no, of course I'll trade some of it. Man has to eat, doesn't he?

So that's really all you do? You just carry bits of green paper around until you find someone who'll give you food for some. Is that it?

Well, put it that way, it doesn't sound like much, but it's very important. If it wasn't for people like me, who would circulate your currency?

We don't actually have currency. Got rid of it all. Every scrap.

You… don't… have… currency?!?

No, people trade what they have for what they want directly.

Wait, now how's that going to work, really?

Quite well, actually. So, back to my question. Is that all you do?

Well, yes. Always been enough before.

I see. (Scribbling a note on a pad.)

Wait. What is it you do? I mean besides stopping perfectly fine rich people trying to bring currency to your city, what do you do?

Very shrewd of you, sir. You guessed it, no, this isn't my regular job, just sort of a tangential duty. Mostly what I do is kill things, butcher them, cook and preserve their meat and trade my excess for other things I need.

Kill things. So you hunt game animals, then?

Used to, used to. When game was plentiful. But that was some time ago. There are so many people now and so little game remaining. I'm guessing you see where I'm going with this, don't you sir?

No, No, can't say that I do.

Well, you know I'm charged with being sure that everyone who enters the inner gate has something useful they can do or trade.

So you've said.

And that we don't have any game animals to eat.

You said that as well.

And might it also be true that in making sure that those who enter the inner gate have something useful to trade or do, I am also insuring that those who do not enter, have nothing useful to contribute?

Well, it does seem like the inverse of the other, so yes.

But you have noticed that we let anyone enter the outer gate, did you not?

Why yes, no one stopped me at all.

And it probably hasn't escaped your notice that the outer gate is now closed.

Well, it had until you mentioned it just now. So you are letting me in, then.

No, I'm sorry sir. I can't let someone as important as yourself in through the common gate. If you'll just step right this way to the VIP gate over on the side.

Well, ok then, that's more like it. Why's it so dark in he...

Like No One Else.

2011-04-23T07:51:00.000-07:00

One woman donates a bag of dirty laundry, another offers a house under construction and the land it sits on.

Someone sends a bag of used snow boots to kids who swelter through nighttime temperatures that almost never drop below 80, another sends 12 boxes of new summer clothes, tags still attached, sorted by size and gender.

An unemployed woman writes a check for $20, and a middle aged businessman presses ten one hundred dollar bills into your hand.

You get an opened box of snack foods, and someone pulls up with a trailer full of canned food.

An expert enthusiastically promises to help with an event, and then never returns your calls, while six people spend their own money and use their vacation time from work. buy their own airline tickets, pay for their own meals, transportation and lodging to come help you in the poorest country in the western hemisphere.

You thank them all, and all with equal enthusiasm.

You’re tired, sick, between jobs. You say, “Never again.” You know you don’t mean it. The next time is already marked in your calendar.

Word gets out that you’re helping people, and a sea of perfectly capable grifters and beggars wait outside your door, each with a sad tale that only requires a small donation to set right. You learn to say “Give ME a dollar!” in reply and laugh at their puzzled faces, till they laugh, too.

You get overcharged for rooms, for a car, for gas and for meals, and before the end of the day, the prices go up, again. Then someone takes you into their hotel, feeds you and hauls you across the country twice. Just because you came to help.

You call defeat, “disappointment.” You call not giving up, “Victory.” You feel alone, and empty, betrayed and lost. You aren’t.

You put one foot in front of another, then do it again. It’s harder not to. There’s a wind at your back. If you stop, it will knock you down. There is a point in every journey, when it’s easier and safer to go forward, than to turn back. It’s called the point of no return. Some journeys begin at that point.

You flip through pictures, taken months apart. Bright eyes and smiles. Skin so dark, sometimes the camera just ignores it. Why these? There are 200,000 just like them. Why me? I know nothing, have nothing, am nothing special.

But we are. We all are. Something special. Like no one else.

There is no one like the little boy carrying five gallons of water through the dust. He smiles to see Kelly. He knows her name, but not one other word that she can understand. He sees her once about every two months and every time he does, something special happens, something that doesn’t happen any other day. There’s no one like her, no one he knows. Today, though someone “cares” for him every day, she find that bugs have bitten him on the back of his head. The bites itched. He scratched. Flies came and laid their eggs in the moist places where his dirty nails drew blood. She sees that their larvae crawl in the wounds in his scalp. Though he is washed every other day, the water he carries from so far away is for drinking and wiping his hands and face. There are too many children, and too little water and time to bathe him. She’s busy. She has lots of children to identify and photograph and only the afternoon to do it. But there is time to pick the maggots from his scalp. How could there not be? There is no one like him, no one with maggots in his hair. Not for Kelly. There is no one like Kelly, no one who will pick them out. Not for him. Tomorrow, more flies will come. Tomorrow doesn’t exist.

Another boy gets his toe cleaned. His big toe. The end is black. There is no one like him. No one else in all of Mont Fleury has a black toe. He smiles. He knows your name. It is not dirt that makes his toe black. He stubbed his toe. It bled. That was days ago. Now, after cleaning, the end of his toe is black. It’s clean now, and the loose skin is gone. He has no shoes. There are shoes at the field. New shoes. The rest of your group is giving them to children. You pick him up and carry him down the road to the tarp where the shoes are. He weighs less than the five gallons you saw him carry. Yes, him too. Many carry water, only one has a black toe. You find him the only pair of closed toed shoes that fit. Water shoes. For playing in the water. They’ll do. He stands and dances around. When you drive away, someone may take them from him. They are very nice. No one will clean his toe tomorrow. Tomorrow doesn’t exist. There are toys at the field. He gets a ball and runs, kicking it with his clean toe in his new shoes. Today, his toe is clean and it is covered, and there is no one like you. No one else to come across the ocean to cover his clean toe. If there was, his toe would have been covered. There is no one like him, not for you. No one with a newly clean toe, who could not get it covered. If there were, you would have covered theirs already.

There is an Angel. His name is a question. It means “Who is like God?” The answer, of course, is no one... and every one. There is no one like anyone else. In that one way, we all are just like God.

There is no one like YOU. They also serve who only read and weep. There is no one like you, to be where you are, to read about the boys like no one else. No one but you to see them in your mind’s eye. To wipe, perhaps, the eye that reads. To share the knowing of that moment, when tomorrow was not and everyone was special, like no one else.

Kelly's Surgery tomorrow

2010-12-20T13:57:00.000-08:00

Kelly’s asleep. It’s amazing, really, that she’s not slept through the week. I wish I had her stamina. A little over a week ago, she fell ill, or became aware that she was ill. At that time, she had already lost a lot of blood. Enough to cause her periodic lapses in memory, lightheadedness, some minor errors in judgment, and displays of emotion she might normally have suppressed. She had the good sense to see her doctor, who was quite concerned. The soonest they could schedule surgery was this Tuesday, the 21^st. Instead of opting to remain near Gainesville, her family and her doctor, she returned to Miami, and continued voluntarily, without pay, assisting Iris in the mammoth task of moving the school. She had committed to this several weeks ago, out of pure love and respect for the school, the profession, and out of the deep generosity with which she meets the world. It looks as if the move will happen, on time, before the first of the year. Though it is a close thing still. Those at the office, who’ve seen Kelly every day, know that she closed the gap. Yes, many did a lot, but she closed the gap between what was getting done and what needed to be done, and she’s not even on the payroll!

We don’t know what Tuesday will bring. The procedure is simple enough. The recovery time short enough. But what it is that’s being removed and how it got to be in that state, we won’t really know until afterward. She had planned to be in Haiti, we both had, in about a week. Her doctor told her in very explicit terms that the trip, given her condition, would have been a death sentence. His words. He’s not given to hyperbole. It’s weighed on her that we can’t go back as planned to see the kids or the community that’s raising them. That she’s so easily and so willingly become responsible for 62 orphans in another country, is also a measure of that deep generosity. We’re hoping still, for an April trip. For the moment, we’ve done what we can for them this month- with the help of all our amazing friends. Kelly and I really don’t have anything of our own. But we are blessed to know incredible people, many of them at the school, or of the school.

Last night, as we pulled in after a full day, the end of a full week of moving preparations. Kelly burbled about how she wanted to go to the Haitian Holiday party we’d been invited to last night. She was sure that she would meet more people who could help us with the kids. But I insisted it was too much. We already had two graduations and the school holiday party today and tomorrow, and more work to do at school. Plus she had a meeting this morning that she just had to go to with yet another person active in Haiti. So we had an incredible dinner last night at Hosteria Romano, felt much refreshed, came home and crashed early. I still thought the weekend too ambitious, for me! For her, I just could not imagine. While she tended to her meeting this morning, I did a massage I had cancelled earlier in the week to make room for move related preparations. Before she even got to her meeting, she hit her limit. She felt it suddenly. Disoriented, she could not remember how to get where she was going, though she knew the way and had made the trip plenty of times before. With some determination and some phone assistance, she made it.

It was a worthwhile meeting. One that could have waited. The person she met had some very different, though useful perspectives, on how to be of service in Haiti. When she returned, she was done. Completely wiped out. She seemed to take this new information as some kind of judgment of all the work she’d been doing. She fell asleep, quickly, thinking that maybe the Haiti work had been a big mistake, or so it seemed to me. I didn’t say anything. There comes a point that one is so tired that everything seems futile. I’ve been there. Probably more often than she.

Only one focus now. To be here, to be present and clear, to be able, while she isn’t. To be with her in Gainesville. To get her to Surgery. To see the other side of this mountain with her. The new school building, Haiti, the Massage School Makeover, her job interviews, her apartment hunting are already on the other side of that mountain. When she gets there, they will have importance again. Today, there is only Tuesday. There isn’t much I can do, but hold the space. Four years ago, I had never heard that expression. Today, through the community of love I have been blessed to be a part of, I know that my presence has value, absent all doing. I won’t be coming to graduations or the holiday party. While I will miss you all, and wish you well, congratulations and happy holidays, I have this container, this space to hold, while we tick off the minutes. She will not have to wait alone. For those of you, nearly all, who have been so appreciative of all her generous efforts, thank you, please keep her in your prayers. See you on the 27^th- Moving day!

Why Haiti?

2010-12-13T04:03:00.000-08:00

For me, Haiti was discovering a people who live outside the culture of addiction.

People whose minds are not dulled by television, whose every waking thought is not about finding a substance to render them unconscious again, whose food is not infused with high fructose corn syrup, whose politics are not merely the entertaining flip of a two headed coin, who don't surge like spawning salmon into shops each season to turn their sustenance into landfill stuffing. A people who don't measure their success by how much of their future they're able to borrow. A people who are joyous despite their deprivation, rather than miserable in their abundance. A people who smile rather than scowl when your glance meets theirs. A people who prize education above entertainment. A people who are gracious, courteous, generous and wise.

For me, Haiti is a chance to meet real humans living real lives, not blunted by denial and escapism. It is stoking the dormant fire in my belly. It is a chance to dance with Baron Samedi.

Judge not

2010-12-12T20:03:00.000-08:00

Judge not, and ye shall not be judged: condemn not, and ye shall not be condemned: forgive, and ye shall be forgiven. – Luke 6:37

This could mean that if we don’t judge others, they won’t judge us.

Or it might mean that if we don’t judge others, we won’t carry the burden of assuming that others are judging us. They may be, we just won’t assume they are, and so will be unaware and unburdened by that judgment.

Or it could mean that when we judge others, we are responding to our shadow self, we are offended by characteristics others possess only because we possess them to an even greater degree. To stop judging, is to be conscious of our shortcomings and accept them, forgiving ourselves. This concept is reflected a few lines later in Luke 6:42 “Thou hypocrite, cast out first the beam out of thine own eye, and then shalt thou see clearly to pull out the mote that is in thy brother's eye.”

Or it could mean that we are the ones who judge ourselves. Most of us are certainly the ones who judge ourselves most harshly. If we stop judging, we automatically silence our harshest critic.

Or, maybe, being scripture, in it’s pithy form it manages to mean all of those things, and perhaps others as well. One thing is certain. If we can only refrain from judging, we ourselves will be spared.

One thing also is certain, when we, as massage therapists meet someone, and touch them, their entire being: body, mind, emotions and spirit, without judgment, they know it. The absence of judgment is the safety and support they feel and it cannot be faked or feigned. Touching people for a living, and consciously letting go, one by one, of our prejudice, our habitual judgments, is to walk a path of spiritual growth, shedding our burdens, taking up our power. The people we touch on that journey serve to illuminate that path for us. We owe them a debt of gratitude and service for lighting our way.

Rewriting our contract

2010-10-24T12:11:00.000-07:00

As soon as we accept that it's ok for government to assassinate someone, anyone, without due process, in secrecy because in the discretion of some government functionary they pose a risk of some kind, we have altered our own social contract with Government. We have agreed to all the necessary legal, moral, karmic, and logical principles necessary to consent to our own assassination at the whim of government. We have unilaterally, and without any compensation, added a clause to our social contract with government that says "If you, government, or any of your designated representatives or agents, in their sole discretion, deem it necessary, you may kill me."

---------

This is concept expressed in the essence of Pastor Martin Niemöller's famous quote:

"They came first for the Communists,
and I didn't speak up because I wasn't a Communist.

Then they came for the trade unionists,
and I didn't speak up because I wasn't a trade unionist.

Then they came for the Jews,
and I didn't speak up because I wasn't a Jew.

Then they came for me
and by that time no one was left to speak up."

That being the way we heedlessly alter the provisions of our contract with government, by virtue of the actions we suffer the government to commit toward others.

LaFond Orphans -October Trip

2010-10-21T20:55:00.000-07:00

Kelly is here. Magali, Kelly and I just had dinner at Tap Tap to celebrate the upcoming Haiti Mission to get medical relief, art supplies, and sundry other needs and materials to the LaFond Orphans we met in August. My normally empty living room is full of boxes that must somehow be reduced into a small number of checked bags. The 500 PPDs to test for tuberculosis fortunately occupy little space, they are in my refrigerator. We must keep them cold from airport security screening, through the flight, and through customs in Haiti... until they can get them back on Ice in Port Au Prince. They are taking PPDs for TB testing, Scabies treatment, Lice treatment, deworming treatments(very expensive), sterile children's surgical trays for wound care, suture kits, antibiotic swabs, liquid antiseptic, children's vitamins, and more than enough for the 62 LaFond orphans and the 27 Gidon orphans. Additionally, Arts supplies, toothbrushes, etc. Looks like they'll be taking over 300 lbs of supplies, to join the medical mission team from Gidon, who will then go down to LaFond to see the group we found living in the tent city. Sylvie Sassine from last year's Ruby class is already living down there in Jacmel. She and her Brother will meet the group and provide continuity and communication until our next trip in December. Joanne, a local, will also be meeting them, assiting and translating. Jhonkelly and Hermith, caretakers of the children, are expecting them, and Jhonkelly is meeting Kelly and Magali at the PAP airport sunday morning to help translate.

Your support, donations, sharing and energy have transformed the insubstantial promise of two wayward travelers, that somehow we would do something, into a substantial mission to tend to the major and minor medical needs of almost 100 orphaned children living in ragged tent cities. 300 lbs of medical, art and food supplies, two SUV's full of medical and aid workers, will be in the camps several times next week, tending to medical needs and distributing supplies, including additional material being brought in through the Dominican Republic by the Aid workers arriving in advance of Kelly and Magali to service the Gidon site.

We began several weeks ago, posting an appeal for people to book massage appointments with me to pay Kelly's airfare, so she could meet the Gidon Medical team and show them the location of our 62 orphans. We also asked individuals to donate $20 toward supplies, which we envisioned to be a small quantity of PPDs for the team to use in testing for TB. Instead, enough money was raised, through massage appointments, for Kelly's ticket and the baggage fees (ultimately equal to or in excess of the ticket itself). Outright donations far, far exceeded that, with additional donations of medical supplies and hugely discounted pricing from hospitals and supply houses, the nearly $3,000 spent from donations on medical supplies would easily have cost at least $10,000. There is a fair amount left over, and more continues to come in, though it has slowed down after the initial rush. The medical mission next week will be well stocked, though the pharmaceuticals are almost exclusively for the treatment of skin conditions and parasites, widespread among the children. Once the team has done a screening of the kids, we will have a better idea of what other material will be needed to treat specific conditions during the December trip.

The December trip is already in the planning stages and funds continue to be needed to support that trip. Our objectives on that trip will be focused on followup medical care, education and housing for the LaFond Orphans to whatever extent we are able(The Gidon group already has construction underway for a 30 bed orphanage to replace the one destroyed in the quake). Despite the staggering lack of everything, the first priority on Hermith's list for the children is a school. Haitians value education. So much so that underage children will work at anything, including driving illegal scooter cabs, to pay their own school tuition. We hope that God will provide both a plan and the resources to bring them education in December. Many teachers and schools have already expressed interest in helping. That December trip will also include support for the Jacmel physiotherapy clinic and preliminary planning for a massage training program there. Much will be posted throughout the week as Kelly and Magali are able to access the internet and have time to post pictures, video and stories.

Plutonium

2010-10-18T08:25:00.000-07:00

The most dangerous substance on earth is not plutonium. To be sure, plutonium is terribly dangerous. One need not ingest any, breathe it in or even touch it. One only needs to be in the vicinity of an unshielded specimen. Much more dangerous, and more difficult to shield, is scripture: the Bible, Koran, Torah, Bhagavad Gita. Scripture is an energetic key to another dimension, a place outside of space/time, the place where we come from.

Our minds, our ego, is of this world. It is a product of space/time and is bound by it. It can’t fathom the experience of God, or of spirit. The concept of spirit is different, essentially removed from the experience itself. The monkey mind can chatter endlessly about the concept of God, chatter as I am now doing, but to hold the experience, the mind has no vessel large enough.

So scripture is exceedingly dangerous. It’s contradictions and paradox are of another universe, one not bound by the laws of this one. In the mind, scripture produces madness. The return of the spirit to it’s home, is the death of the incarnate form. The ego knows this and so the ego fears more than anything, the connection of spirit to it’s source.

We do have a vessel capable of safely containing scripture, that vessel is the very place scripture was intended to go. In our hearts, scripture slips the lock of separation, opens the portal to the source from which we came. Touching that source, we are awash in overwhelming power and a presence our incarnate form is terrified of experiencing. Simultaneously, our essence, our real self is overcome with an intensity of joy that knows no bodily parallel. The joy of being home.

Wild Sushi Bar- Wednesday Afternoon Happy Hour!

2010-10-13T15:25:00.001-07:00

Damn, if I didn't leave my iphone at home. I went for a walk on the beach this afternoon in the rain (hence left the iphone at home).

I waded into the water on an empty beach. It was warm, but raining steady. I was looking for Pelicans, as I always do, when up the beach, around 16th street, I saw the telltale signs of a large school of fish. Then the water exploded. Lots of fish jumping and a huge tail fin broke the water. I saw scales and a shape and knew it wasn't a shark. Almost immediately, some distance away, it happened again. I noticed that the water was a beautiful turquoise, even under the overcast sky, except for an enormous black shadow. It extended from about a hundred yards up the beach to as far as I could see. Seaward it started about 25 yards offshore and extended about 100 yards. I moved closer, seeing 8"-18" fish jumping steadily all through the "shadow" As I got closer, I saw it was a tightly packed school of a variety of different size and shaped fish. They parted as I approached, staying about 3 feet away, but it was like a wall of stacked fish, moving and seething, as I moved into it, my 3 foot hole moved with me and closed behind me. Patches of the surface continued to explode from time to time at various distances and occasionally, I could see the fish part close to me to allow MUCH larger fish through. Lots of shapes 6-8 FEET, from time to time one would break the water where it had just exploded with escaping fish.

By now, people had begun to return to the beach and the shape had migrated down to where I had started. It must have run half a mile along the beach, moving very slowly. A number of people had gone into the water and you could see the turquoise "cutouts" in front of them scalloping the edges of the dark, shifting mass. The water was boiling all around, steadily. Small fins visible everywhere as the fish crowded into too small a space, lots of jumping, then big areas would explode, sometimes with no visible predator, sometimes just a large fin receding, occasionally the entire length of six or eight feet of massive scales would clear the water as hundreds of fish around it tried to fly. It was absolutely spellbinding. A Pelican had passed early in the process and ten more had come, circling and landing at the edges, periodically, after a fish explosion, one would bank around and pick off one of the escapees. From time to time one would skim the surface for a few hundred feet. No need to look for fish, they were everywhere, but as the pelican shadow passed the water churned white in his wake. Fish know the shadow of a Pelican. They call it the angel of death.

Several times I saw large flat, almost white shapes moving nearby, the fish parting for them. I am certain they were large rays, at least 5 feet across. There were also a number of long predators, covered with golden scales, their bodies shaped like dragon tails, with dark flared fins at the end that broke the water when they attacked. Some of the big fish that broke the surface had huge heavy bodies, shaped like tuna, though I could only catch shapes briefly amid the foam and flying fish.

The wall of fish that constantly churned in front of me, receded another 3 feet anytime I slapped the water or lunged at it. The fish that made it up were contained a number with grey, long, round bodies. They could have been a very small variety of shark. Among them were wide selection of shapes and colors, some with reflective scales, some matte and either dark or light in shade. It was like a selection in a communal tank at the seaquarium, except they were squeezed tightly together, perhaps an inch or less between them at times, probably hoping to blend into the mass and so escape selection by the big cruisers below and Pelicans above. Everyone on the beach and the couple dozen guys in the water were riveted. The lifeguards never let out a peep. They were glued to it as well. One Boucher Brother's chair guy ran to the water's edge and frantically tried to get everyone's attention before he pointed and yelled "shark" There might have been one, but nothing breaking the surface looked remotely like a grey dorsal and nobody moved. The white uniformed BB employee ran back up the beach as if a shark would follow him home and eat his family if he didn't lose it enroute. The rest of us moved among the heaving mass of life and death, like Titans, the frothing, slithering masses parting before us. The Pelicans paid us no mind, and neither did any of the large predators. The mass of fish ignored us except to remain our of arm's reach. I stayed until I felt the temperature in my core begin to drop and a chill I could no longer resist set in. The sun was behind clouds after all, and though the water was not cold, I had been in it for over an hour. That was an hour and a half ago and my hands are still pruned.

I've been in this ocean 3 to 6 times a week, at this spot, at all hours of the day and night for three years. I've never seen anything like this, and apparently, neither had anyone else on the beach. I'm glad it happened during the day. At night, I'm sure it would have unnerved me to stay close enough to see any of it, even though the water is often more clear at night, without the sky's reflection, than by day. Sorry I didn't have my camera.

Judge not, that ye be not judged - Matt 7:1

2010-10-08T04:38:00.000-07:00

Stop judging, and you will never be judged. Stop condemning, and you will never be condemned. Forgive, and you will be forgiven. -Luke 6:37

Judgement is a great lesson. When we catch ourselves doing it, this points to an insecurity or inadequacy we feel in ourselves. When we fail to catch ourselves judging others, we soon feel judged, vulnerable, the center of unwanted attention wherever we go. This is a spiritual prison, and as with all such prisons, we hold the key to our own freedom.

Massage meets a person in their most vulnerable place and withholds all judgement. This is one reason people feel safe and nurtured on the massage table. It is an altar of sorts, a sacred space, where we sacrifice our fears, including our great fear of being judged, and we receive the grace of wholeness.

Sometimes, when we are bold enough to knock upon that inner door, our innocence answers, we feel the breath of God upon our heart, we experience ourselves in our state of divine perfection and invulnerability. We hear a voice intoning, "Be still and know that I am God." We know that voice to be our own, that we are one stream connected to a great ocean, and that we are the ocean also.

Lamond Orphanage

2010-10-05T19:00:00.000-07:00

Jhon Kelly picked us up from the Physiotherapy Clinic where Kelly and I were doing massage. The three of us climbed on his motorbike. He took us through the streets of Jacmel, dodging piles of rubble, truck traffic, hordes of beeping scooters in streets that were mostly washed out stony gullies. We had to get off the back of the scooter several times so that he could work the scooter over a pile of rubble, or through a running drainage culvert. Then out into the countryside. We got off the scooter and followed Jhon Kelly riding his bike up a steep and narrow path through the wilderness.

He parked and we walked down to the river. Jhon Kelly took off his long pants and shoes. Kelly and I wore shorts. I took off my shoes. We waded across the river. It got thigh deep, but would have been much deeper and faster had we tried to cross straight over. We waded about 100 yards diagonally across the river. It was painful in my bare feet. The current was strong and full of huge round stones, sometimes I would step on a jagged one, but the round ones were just as hard on the arches of my feet. On the return trip, I opted to ruin my shoes for the protection they would give. We climbed the opposite bank and walked along the cliff. The path was cut in places where the rains had washed out the path in the past and it had been moved back from the edge. A hard rain would have stranded us, possibly for days till the river went down.

We walked through plantings of maize and banana, then out into a clearing surrounded by three ramshackle tin shacks. Adults sat in chairs in a semi circle. In the center, were the children, sitting on blankets, waiting for us, like we were Obama and his staff. Sixty two children most under the age of seven, none with living parents, or clean water. They drink from the muddy river we waded through, the river we could not see the bottom of. Thirty Boys, Thirty Two girls. All beautiful, all happy, many with the reddish hair that signals malnutrition in people of their genetic makeup. They had us sit down among the children.

Jhon Kelly introduced us to the leader of the community. Hermith Bazelais had planned to be a nursing student in Port Au Prince, before the earthquake. Now she was the leader of this commune that cared for these orphans in a post apocalyptic tropical mountainside. She had been his girlfriend at one time. He has good taste in women.

Sitting in a pulsating pile of 62 young orphans, touching and gazing at me, curious and chatty in creole, is the most alive I have ever felt.

We took their pictures, in groups and individually. As I took the individual pictures, I turned the camera and showed them their faces. They nearly always laughed and they always, always wanted to see. Mirrors are not readily available and we are all curious about how we look. Just now, back at the hostel, I had to stop. I wiped my face and took two antihistamines so I could keep writing.

Kelly asked, what do they do for fun? On cue, they stood up and led by one of the children, sang us a song. Yes, they were playing us like a mandolin. No, I can’t fault them. There was no duplicity, no pretense. We sat and talked. Hermith walked around with a notebook, writing the name of each child for us along with their age. Four roosters stood over near a bucket, legs tethered to a root. Across the bucket lay a machete, the lead rooster sniffed it curiously. He had an appointment with it later. We had passed lots of chickens and goats, a couple cows and a reasonably healthy horse on our way in. A saddle sat on a stump. In the shed across from the children, a cook fire smoldered under a pot, tended by a couple of women.

After we had talked for a while, and asked some questions, Jhon Kelly motioned me to follow. We extricated ourselves from the piles of children, some of whom followed us up the path. The path intersected a deeply rutted dirt road, where oxen were pulling a cart. We followed it to the left, to where the community slept at night. It was a tent city of Coleman tents. The children slept here, adults too, and some older children in the community, some of whom were playing soccer behind thatched screens that marked off their soccer field.

Save the Children had provided the tents right after the earthquake. They were all faded, frayed. Many were torn across the top. Some had collapsed entirely. None were proof against even a light rainfall. We are in the rainy season in Haiti. The hurricane season. This is where they live. Up the hill from a river that flows almost too swiftly to ford in a week with almost no rain. Down the mountain from tens of millions of gallons of runoff from the next major storm. Save the Children did an amazing job. Six months ago. They have provided a lot of aid since then.

They are done. It’s been six months. Emergency aid is six months. Beyond that, it’s not an emergency. Six months is long enough for someone else to step up.

Where are you? You’re late. No transitional aid. No plan. No permanent orphanage. Just a ragtag group of adults who stepped out, or were thrown out, of their lives after the earthquake, committed now to care for these children.

An art Professor with a Ph.D. pulls out his degree from a manila envelope in a plastic bag. He lives in a tent, too. With these children. Many of these too few adults are well educated, articulate and intelligent. Jacmel is a community of artists. In post disaster Haiti, the art market isn’t what it used to be. The plastic bag around his doctorate keeps him drier than the contents.

We came back down the hill, passing through the village again, we stopped and I gave Hermith the $57 I had in my wallet. Also the uncounted mixed coin in my pocket. Five goud coins, quarters, dimes, nickles and a few pennies. They were very grateful. It would not buy clean water for very long, they probably would not bother. But it might help with more pressing things. I did not need to know.

We walked back down the path along the cliff, now surrounded by children and their caretakers. They followed us to the river, watched us wade in and laughed as we picked our way across, ruining my Sketchers. As we crossed, upstream just beyond where we would pick up the path on the other side, women and children from the surrounding villages had gathered to do their laundry. In the distance as we climbed the opposite bank, most were now topless or nude as they washed themselves, their clothes and their children in the muddy river. From the moment we had left the road, this place looked like a remote hillside in Kenya or Rhodesia. Outside the tent city there was little, but the hand me down textiles, to tell you that this village was not in 10^th century Africa... or 5,000 BC.

We are going back tomorrow. We are trying to bring the rest of our group. We need to get a van to take us all as far as the path where it leaves the road. Nothing else matters.

I had become very cynical. I had come to believe that the culture I lived in might destroy itself, and that if it did, there would be little lost. Today I met beautiful people, intelligent, hardworking, compassionate, cheerful, loving people. Survivors. Life struggling to express itself, to continue, to thrive. Peter Son Caesar, 10 years old, sat next to me in the village, plucking the hairs out of my leg and laughing at me. He asked me my name and sounded out the letters on my arm when I bared it for him. M-I-C-H-A-E-L then spoke the name Creole fashion, accenting the “a.”

They have nothing. When we first sat down with Hermith, we asked wanted she most needed. She needs everything, of course, water, food, shelter. What she said she most wanted was a school and medical care. It was the second time she had mentioned that there was no school for these children. It troubles her a great deal.

We find ways to deny or forget things that we don’t have the strength to bear. Our own deaths, responsibility, the suffering of others. There are some experiences that arrive with such force that it shatters our denial. This walk on the hillside did it for me.

The morning after

2010-09-29T04:26:00.000-07:00

Maybe our nation is paying for the sin of consuming 25% of the world's resources with only 5% of the world's population, exporting war worldwide, while preaching human rights, keeping 25% of the world's prison population incarcerated, mostly poor minorities, paying farmers and agribusiness not to produce food while much of the world starves, importing cheap labor to work those farms and forcing them to live under the radar so we can pay them less than the law requires, having the best government money can buy, and through manipulation of international banking, creating many of the problems that exist in third world countries in order to try to create markets for our goods among people who don't need them.

The "American Dream" of the 1950's was an unparalleled orgy of excess, a party that couldn't possibly last forever. We're waking up the morning after with a bad hangover, puke and broken bottles everywhere, wishing we were still having the great time we can hardly remember.

I know you came late to the party, you're appalled by the mess and a little pissed that we didn't save anything for you, but who knew the caterer would take off when we couldn't pay the bill?

But it was one helluva party, wasn't it? Hey, don't throw that out, that's some perfectly good scotch, just fish the cigarette butt out and it's good to go.

Another Ocean Dawn

2010-09-19T05:58:00.001-07:00

Long before dawn, as I sat on the lifeguard stand, the Pelicans flew the "missing man" for me again. I didn't see them as the passed in the dark overhead, but as they headed out to sea, their five silhouettes stood out against the dark but lightening sky.

I sat looking out to sea and waiting. A layer of lumpy grey clouds stretched across one side of the sky like a bed of charcoal briquettes, across the other side, wispier flame shaped tufts of angel hair extended back from the horizon. At 7, flames raced across the sky toward the west, where a big bed of coals caught and glowed bright red. To the north the flames appeared to blaze above the bed of glowing coals. By 7:10, the conflagration was out, and all that remained was the steam… and the sun as it broke the surface of the water. Before it was halfway up, a another Pelican worked his way up the sushi bar, splashing down every 30 yards or so. He was closely followed by a gull, whom he completely disregarded, despite it's obvious intention to steal his breakfast. We don't need to entertain such hangers on with our attention.

The wind was blowing fiercely and the tide was up, so I stayed on the beach, wetting the legs of my jeans to the knees, but no farther, walking in the surf, up the beach as the sun cleared the sea, it's still bright red orb blessing my day. I scanned the sky one more time and high up, saw a lone pelican tacking in the wind. Facing the sea, but sliding sideways, effortlessly in the sky, to the south. I bid him good day, set my wings to the wind and set out to do likewise.

Elements in Haiti

2010-08-03T23:22:00.000-07:00

It seemed like I came to Haiti on impulse and so I did, but I was only following a path laid out for me. Listening to a still small voice. I don’t know if there is anything I can give to Haiti, but my love. Do know what I came to get. I am full of earth and water energy. I have been muddy for a long time. I am afraid of fire and air frustrates me. I came to Haiti to embrace fire and air. I knew this trip would give me that. I knew it would change me. The impulse itself, while fueled by my water, was a step toward those two elements. The fire is Haiti. It is all around. A primal, thriving crucible of life and death. The air, I’m finding, is in my traveling companions. The universe selected them for me, based on my conscious, articulate request. Do be careful what you ask for. Fire challenges me, but air even moreso. In all fairness, they are only a part of the air element that surrounds me. The uncertainty of all things in Haiti, the difficulty of transportation, plans are made nightly and changed moment by moment. Some by whimsy, some by the shifting realities on the ground. My edges are raw. Every day I surrender something else I no longer need. Who would have thought we need so little?

Jacmel, Haiti

2010-07-24T19:30:00.000-07:00

From August 1^st through 8^th, several of us are traveling to Jacmel, Haiti to connect with local organizers, community leaders and to build a model “Earthbag” House in connection with the “Barrels of Hope” project.

In response to the tragedy of the earthquake in Haiti, sustainability-minded citizens have banded together to create “Barrels of Hope” – a Haiti relief project with an aim to provide rain barrels filled with supplies to begin rebuilding permanent structures for the earthquake victims in Haiti. If you donate to the “Barrels of Hope” Project and are supporting the work for this upcoming trip, please let them know it is for Jacmel.

www.barrelsofhope.org

Donations to Barrels of Hope would buy additional Earthbag houses @ $300 plus shipping each.

Donations to “From Gainesville with Love” may be used to:

a) Pay for the extra bag check fees to get the Earthbag homes down

b) Help get Wester Joseph down to record Jacmel artists.

c) Donate to one of the organizations featured “Empowered by Goats” -$50 would buy a kid an education from elementary to graduation.

d) The tree project- $1500 would get 5000 trees planted in the most deforested country in the western hemisphere.

http://www.fromgainesvillewithlove.org/

Currently there is a glitch in the Donate Button at fromgainesvillewithlove.com If you want to donate, you can send them a check, or give a check to me, made out to “from Gainesville with Love” 100% of any donations will go directly to the on the ground relief efforts, the organization is volunteer, with no overhead expenses and with direct contacts in the local community. No funds are being channeled through or to any government sources.

"Oil Can, Oil Can!" - Tin Man, The Wizard of Oz

2010-07-17T09:03:00.000-07:00

You can't save the planet, or a country, or a community, or even a single person who doesn't want to be saved. What you can do, the only thing you can do, what great people have done since there've been people, is to live in the world as you find it, connect with the people you meet, love them and leave the place a little better than when you arrived. That is the only useful definition of a great person. Thank you for being great.

Oil dependency is an addiction. Somehow, we think of it as a collective addiction. As if the entire country or the entire world suffers from it. Suffer they may, but addictions are individual mental disorders. We haven't gotten anywhere treating drug, alcohol, or nicotine addiction as collective disorders. But individual addicts, who want to get better, do succeed, not all, not even most, but many. You can treat oil dependency if the face in the mirror nods yes.

Does this mean that collective action, political action, is pointless? Yes, actually it does. It means exactly that. For nearly 50 years, we have been engaged in passionate political activity around reducing our oil dependency. The last eight American Presidents have committed to do just that, warning of the dire consequences of failure. Still, we have voted our addiction daily in the marketplace.

Political action, as we take it, is all about getting someone else to do something about our problem. It's about shifting the responsibility to someone else. "The rehab didn't work." "momma didn't find all the hidden liquor bottles." "The nicotine patch didn't work." "The government didn't stop me from living 30 miles from my office." It may make us feel good, like going to an AA meeting, but if we drink in the car, before and after, we will not get better.

That said, going to AA meetings works very well indeed, if you don't drink in between. Why? Because at meetings we get the emotional and energetic support for the difficult life changes necessary to support the decision not to use alcohol, or drugs, or nicotine… or petroleum?. When we fall short, we get the forgiveness we can't give ourselves. When we lie to ourselves, we have the truth reflected back to us. Maybe we need 12 steps for oil dependency, or at least a support group.

Defeating our personal oil dependency, as much, or perhaps more than defeating any other addiction, will call for lifestyle changes. These will include many changes which place us outside the mainstream of society. We will have to literally walk past the easy choices and go out of our way to choose better.

Many of those choices will not be obvious, and many of the things we do with the best of intentions, may actually consume more oil than our default choice. We will need knowledge and support, a community. But if we build it, will they come? And if we don't, who will?

Cleaning lady

2010-07-16T05:10:00.000-07:00

The pelicans arrived at altitude today. Six of them, separated by 100 yards in a loose group, as if for safety in the brisk wind. They coasted easily in the wild sky, commanding it with their presence. As stiff the breeze from off the ocean it was but a sweet kiss goodbye from the more blustery night. Many of the neatly stacked and cabled lounge chairs were tumbled into tangled metal haystacks. The concessionaires had much teasing and sorting ahead before they could extract the first day's dollar. The low tide shallows frothed and foamed, notwithstanding the heavy pounding landward, there was a strong and swift undertow. Fresh seaweed in huge clumps, mixed with frothed sand, scrubbed the sunrise bathers. The sun rose like the moon, peeking finally between the dense clouds on the horizon, a dim orange through the miles of mist. It lacked only craters to be taken for it's pale sister. The sand, hard packed and still damp from the last of the night's rain, did not blow. It's Friday. The cleaning lady comes today, perhaps for all the world.

Not a Spill

2010-07-14T08:13:00.000-07:00

It's not a spill. We call it a spill to keep it's horrific magnitude at arms length. It's a geyser. A geyser of poison, more toxic and more abundant than any stockpile of chemical weapons anywhere on earth.

Imagine you spill a cup of coffee. The contents run out onto the table. Then, it's empty.

Now imagine you tip over a cup of coffee. Immediately, it begins to gush. It gushes with such force that the room does not begin to fill. The initial blast of spray blows out the opposite wall. The roof collapses and the rest of the walls are swept away in the swift current. Less than a minute has elapsed, the entire neighborhood is covered. In an hour, the entire surrounding area, several square miles is chest deep.

This is highly toxic, it's not coffee at all. Everyone and everything it touches are dead or dying. Even if they've been "cleaned." In fact, if you've been close enough to smell it, your life has already been shortened. Perhaps by decades.

That's right. News crews, cleanup crews, fishermen, beach goers, BP employees, Coast Guard, local residents, you're all dead. You just don't know it yet.

In a day, hundreds of square miles are covered. The vapors are carried for thousands. The water table is poisoned.

It is beyond anything in the memory of man. It's effects are many thousands of times more devastating than the most determined chemical warfare attack ever launched. It far exceeds even the ambitions of the most demented weapons designer.

It is probable, that in earth's history, more devastating events have occurred, perhaps with some frequency. A huge volcanic eruption, spewing lots of ash into the atmosphere might be such an event. A major meteor impact might rival it. Only time can determine if this "spill" becomes an Extinction Level Event.

All the kings horses and all the kings men are wringing their hands, hoping no one will catch on to the fact that they have no idea what to do about it. None.

The situation is not hopeless, of course. If you have a deep and abiding faith that you are not your body, that you are not your thoughts, that there is a part of you more essential and more you, that is invulnerable and eternal, then you're fine. Really. Such a belief relieves us of the fear of death, because you will die. If not from the oil spill, then because that's what people do. All people, always, eventually leave their bodies behind. Feeling better now? Good. Me too.

Monk of the Sky

2010-07-09T05:38:00.001-07:00

Pelican is the monk of the sky

Serene

Fearless

Strong

Contemplative

He gathers silently with his fellows

To dance and caper on the wind

In mute observance of the martial art of soaring

His teachings are authentic

His temple vast and primal

I need no other guru

Immigrants

2010-07-05T08:07:00.000-07:00

I am an American. I was born here, so were my parents, and theirs, and theirs… after that it gets a little muddled. I am well educated. I hold a BS in Education, an M.Ed. in Education, and in the event you find “Education” credentials contemptible, as so many seem to nowadays, I hold a Juris Doctor. That’s a Law Degree for the uninitiated. I have 155 undergraduate semester hours, many appearances on the Dean’s list and even the President’s list. I score well on standardized tests, in the upper 90^th percentile on most. I scored in the 99^th percentile on the old NTE, above the 90^th percentile on both areas of the SAT, and on the ACT. I even scored in the 97^th percentile on the LSAT, which got me into MENSA.

That said, I am deeply humbled when I stand across the counter from the young man who serves me coffee at Dunkin Donuts, for I am profoundly ignorant compared to him and I have no excuse whatever. You see, he speaks fluent English, as well as his native tongue, and while he seems embarrassed to admit that he is working on his GED, I am ashamed in his lofty presence. You see, like most Americans, despite cursory efforts to learn foreign languages, three so far, I am not only not fluent, but not even conversant in any but English. That makes me more ignorant than much of the world’s population, who learn two or more languages as a part of their basic education. Lest we think that linguistic mastery is a phenomena of the modern, educated, industrialized world, I am even more ignorant than the masses that followed Jesus, many of whom could speak Hebrew, Aramaic, Latin and possibly other languages as well.

As ignorant as I am, some glimmer of intellect tells me that there is something intensely arrogant and oxymoronic about the attitude of many Americans toward immigrants to our country. We seem to regard them as stupid, almost subhuman, particularly if they can’t speak to us in English with no trace of an accent.

Now as I mentioned, I am an American. I was lucky that way, and am profoundly grateful. Not to my parents. I am of course, grateful to them, but not for my American citizenship. They came by it the same as me. It was an accident of birth. We just happened to be lucky enough to be born within what, at the time of our births, was the boundary of the United States. For us, it was accidental. No, I am grateful, and honored for the sacrifice of my immigrant ancestors- only a few generations back in nearly every branch of my family tree. Those people and no others before, or after, did the work that made me an American. I do not believe they spoke English well when they arrived. I suspect some died not speaking it well. Their children learned, though, and those children knew two languages, and were twice as educated as I.

It is and always has been, these immigrants, who smuggle in their often empty bellies all of the ideals that we hold to be what makes an American. They bring us determination, ambition, a powerful work ethic, dedication to family and a burning desire to better themselves and their communities. It is well that they continue to bring it, too. We native born have little need for such things, handed as we were, through the accident of birth, what they most crave and are willing to sacrifice so much for, the desire to become an American! That immigrants continue to come, continually signifies that America remains a desirable place to be. That they stay, and contribute those values they bring in their bellies, is what keeps it a place worth staying.

Soldiers serve, fight, are injured and die, so that America can remain and be secure. Likewise, immigrants arrive, leaving home, relations, friends, much of what they ever knew, to struggle, in the face of great prejudice, that America can continue to be a place worth fighting and dying to protect.

The rest of us are mostly lucky freeloaders, along for the ride. But we, too, have our role to play. It is our prejudice and protectionist fears that insure that primarily the bravest, smartest, most determined and hard working immigrants, and those with the most burning desire to be American, ever make the attempt. It is not so much a melting pot as a crucible. It is the hate and contempt of us, native born, which fuel the flames. Thus with a steady stream of new Americans, tempered by adversity, first abroad and then, here, America is constantly rebuilt. This influx of newcomers bringing fresh supplies of the values we regard as American, but which originate almost exclusively in the burning desire of non-Americans to become American, is the force, perhaps the sole force, capable of opposing the hubris that naturally arises in the native born from that first of all deadly sins, Pride. Specifically, Pride in America. Pride in something that we had little part in making ourselves. Pride in what our immigrant ancestors forged out of their desire and determination that the lives of those that came after them would be different.

I used to think that America might one day become utterly corrupted, decay and fall apart. Not soon, but inevitably. After all, every great empire, built on any ideals whatsoever, has eventually succumbed to their opposite and collapsed under it’s own inertia. All. Every one. How could America be so unique as to avoid that possibility? Now, I think I see it. As long as we remain the worldwide Mecca for immigrants, and as long as we temper them with the fires of our prejudice, we will always have a fresh supply of the values and humility that a couple of generations of complacent living tend to slough off the native born.

So next time you see an immigrant, especially an illegal immigrant, hug them. Thank them. It is their arrival, and what they bring, that allows you to continue to be proud to be an American.

arrivederci, adiós, auf wiedersehen, au revoir, adeus, 再见, さようなら

Americans

2010-07-04T13:00:00.000-07:00

We have to be careful as Americans, when we place our interests ahead of and apart from those of the rest of the world. I say this not because the rest of the world outnumbers us 19 to 1, which of course, they do.

I say this because we are the rest of the world. In every corner of the globe, there are countries who can embrace nationalism with some sort of rationale based on common ethnicity, religion or culture, native to that region for hundreds, or in most cases, thousands of years. For such peoples to believe that they, as a people, are somehow apart from, and superior to their neighbors of different culture, race, religion or ethnicity, who speak different languages, who have not ever widely associated with or intermarried with their “people” may be wrongheaded, bigoted and destructive, but at least one can understand how they come by the notion.

For Americans to embrace such nationalist rhetoric simply goes against logic. For one thing, while many people speak of “real” Americans, they invariably describe what they mean in the negative. They can tell you, if you’ve got an hour or two, and a tolerance for language that would, and should, have most people blushing and looking around to be sure they aren’t being overheard, just exactly who “ain’t” a “real” American. But if pressed, can only really describe what a “real” American actually is in reference to themselves. Strangely, such people always lack what might seem to be prerequisite credentials for such elite status, such as being a full blooded native American, or a direct and unsullied descendant of a Mayflower passenger, or the recipient of a land grant from the king, such as William Penn’s descendants, for example. No, most of those claiming to be “real” Americans are mutts just like the rest of us. Part this, part that, no genealogical chart in the attic, no ancient family coat of arms over the mantle. Just mutts.

There is no “American.” At least there is no “American” culture or ethnicity and in accordance with our constitution, no single “American” religion or race. That we have one prevalent language is both a convenience, and a great embarrassment, as throughout the civilized world, for hundreds of years, one has not been considered educated unless literate in at least two or more languages. To have walked the Galilee with Jesus, a poor carpenter, one would likely have to have been familiar with at least three languages. So aside from the formality of citizenship, there really isn’t any defining characteristic that makes one an “American.”

Good thing, too. That’s really what makes America what it is, unique in all the world.

Oh, we can wax patriotic and talk about all of the great things “Americans” have done. But countries don’t do great things. Great people do great things. All countries have great people. All countries have bad people as well. I will not wear the medals of courageous “Americans” on my shirt, because I did not earn them. Neither will I stand on the gallows for those evil “Americans” whose actions, others are sometimes so ready to impute to us all. There is a futility and pointlessness in weighing the deeds of other people and declaring “I am a better person because others of my nationality have, on balance, done more good than other people of other nationalities,” and if we strip it bare, isn’t that what national pride boils down to. Crowing about deeds we had no part of, labors we did not do ourselves. Is a New Orleans Saints fan a better person because the Saints won the Superbowl? What nonsense! The only part we have of “American greatness”, is the part we play ourselves. Sadly, I think most of us, if honestly asked what our part has been in making America great, would have to walk away with our heads bowed. The fact that many have been heroes, or people of extraordinary greatness, does not lift the rest of us up unless we act greater through their example. Do we?

It isn’t our grasp of democracy that renders America unique, either. There are many democracies where people have a more direct voice in government, and many more political parties to choose from.

It’s not that we invented democracy. We declared our independence largely because we felt underrepresented in England’s democracy.

It isn’t that we invented human rights. We permitted slavery long after it was illegal in most of the rest of the civilized world. We currently have 25% of the world’s prison population, despite accounting for only 5% of the world’s total population. We lead the free nations of the world in executions, though we have long since discovered that scores of persons executed since the reinstatement of the death penalty, may have been innocent after all.

It’s not our abhorrence of weapons of mass destruction. We have the largest extant stockpile in the world of nuclear, biological and chemical weapons and supporting technology. We are also the only nation, ever, to use nuclear weapons against human beings, and we did so twice, against the civilian populations of cities.

What makes us unique is certainly not a common culture, race, ethnicity, or religion. Naturalized Americans come from every corner of the world, every culture, every religion. Native born Americans’ ancestry hails from the same places, often only a generation or two from a branch of the family tree who were not American- not ever in their lifetime. Even “Native Americans,” were, before the arrival of the Europeans, many nations, many languages, many cultures, most at war with one another. They only became identified as the “Indian nation” through their common danger of extermination by the later arriving “Americans.”

What makes us unique, what makes us American, what makes us special then?

Maybe the only thing that makes us special in any good sense, is that in America, people from all over the world, people whose cultures, or races, or religions, or ethnicities, or nations of origin have been warring from time immemorial, whose countries of origin have never been able to successfully, peacefully occupy the same continent, those same people can live in the same apartment building, work in the same office, buy homes on the same street, attend the same parties, eat in the same restaurants, they can argue over whose minister will marry their children, and in what church. Only in America is the human defect of “nationalism” proven to be environmental, and not genetic. Only in America, and never before, anywhere, on such a scale, has it been shown that people are people. It is essential to understand that while many nations embrace equality, democracy, self rule, and human rights, one nation does so without qualification. American means equality, democracy, self-rule and human rights for everyone, not just for ourselves, because we are everyone. We can’t draw the line at our borders, we can’t exclude the rest of the world, because our blood runs across our borders to every corner of the world.

So if we embrace nationalism and expound a philosophy that “Americans” are entitled to more, simply be virtue of being “American” and that others are somehow inherently “worth less.” We deprecate our own stock. We defile our own blood and ancestry. We spit on ourselves.

We can’t defend America by mistreating, abusing or maligning innocents anywhere in the world, because then we stop being Americans ourselves. We repudiate the only values that truly distinguish us from other nations. Who then will defend us mutts, if we are not ourselves Americans?

The chicken and the pig

2010-06-26T17:17:00.000-07:00

Congratulations to all who participated in the hands across the sand protest against offshore drilling. Our elected representatives need to hear where our priorities are.

That said, for the past forty two years, since 1968, the past 8 Presidents have announced initiatives designed to reduce or rid us of our oil dependence, most within a handful of years. Yet here we are today. The 100 Million Barrels under the Horizon Deepwater Platform, the reason they drilled there in the first place, represents only a 5 day supply for our entire country.

We seem to be ridding ourselves of our oil dependence the way a crack addict tries to rid themselves of their addiction, by personally consuming the entire world supply of our drug of choice.

Now, before I say this, understand that I applaud the involvement of everyone who has participated in the protests. Let me also observe, that I am still driving as a matter of personal convenience.

There is an old saw about the ham and egg sandwich, "the chicken is involved, but the pig is committed." Thousands of people were involved today in a positive protest against offshore drilling. What if instead, each of those people had turned their cars sideways on the interstate, set fire to them and WALKED home? I'm not suggesting that, but perhaps you see my point. Involved versus committed.

Not long ago the executives from the three major American Auto manufacturers each flew private planes to Washington to argue that they were broke. It was immediately obvious to all that they were, themselves, a huge part of the problem.

Did you go to the protest on the beach today?

How did you get there?

In your stand against offshore drilling are you choosing to be the chicken or the pig?

Personally, I'm not certain I'm ready to put my bacon on the fire, but I'm working on it.

Ocean 101

2010-06-18T05:52:00.001-07:00

For a little over a week, I've been seeing what I now believe to be the same Pelican. He flies back and forth over about a 10 block stretch of beach (Usually they just keep going in one direction or the other seemingly dependent on whether it's early morning or late afternoon). He skims the water near the shore, dropping in to catch fish in the shallows. He is always accompanied by a small entourage of gulls. The dominant gull in the group flies closest and gets to sit on his head when he lands, waiting to steal his breakfast. Of course, when he brings his beak out of the water, breakfast is already en route to his belly. The futility of the exercise does not discourage the gull, who follows him like a remora follows a shark, and nearly as closely.

I've come to believe he's trying to teach me something. It will come to me.

Meanwhile, yesterday as I watched him fly between me and the shore, I saw a large splash. Curious, I walked toward it. Just under the water, heading toward me, unafraid and undistracted by my presence, were 5 or 6 long fish, in tight formation. They were easily five feet in length and 8 or 10 inches in height top to bottom, exclusive of fins. I thought at first they were sharks. Seeing the size and fins, but they were scaled and speckled, not dressed in the uniform grey of sharkskin. I don't know what they were, but their passing took my breath away. They were so beautiful.

Never used

2010-06-05T05:15:00.000-07:00

We are the crack babies.

Born addicts.

Like Frankie, Dean, Peter, Sammy and Joey

Cigarettes and Highballs, our due

Credit cards and Christmas trees piled to the ceiling,

Jesus Christ! New Year, New Debt.

Fossil Fuel, Suburban Sprawl, Cars like Abrams Tanks

A Second Mortgage in every Two Car Garage

For every sensation, doctor has a pill.

Turn off, Tune out, Drop into line at the pharmacy.

TV, Alpha States, Buy this, Believe that.

Read? Think? Experience? Live? No Thanks.

Moooooving through the long workday, Cubed in Cattle feedlots.

Moooooving through the bars and clubs, to meet and mate.

Moooooving through the long commute to the too big house.

Moooooving from bed to couch, couch to bed, not Monday, again.

Tick, Tick, Tick, Tick. Alarms, Alarms everywhere.

Every house on the Block, Every Block in the City,

Every City on Earth, Time to Wake Up.

Why do my eyes hurt?

You've never used them.

Stinging ourselves

2010-06-04T08:30:00.000-07:00

As a young Airman joining the service in 1975, just after our withdrawal from Vietnam, I heard lots of tales from that war. Some, like any good parable, contained powerful truth, regardless of whether the tale was a "true story" of "actual events." With that disclaimer, I offer one I heard that we can learn much from today.

The FB111 Fighter/Bomber was used extensively in bombing missions during the war. It had a state of the art terrain following radar system that allowed it to fly at treetop level at supersonic speeds. Pilots were not thought capable of reacting fast enough, or seeing far enough to fly safely at that altitude at that speed. It was impossible to target these planes with conventional anti-aircraft measures. The Vietcong, it was said, learned quickly. If they coordinated their defenses, they could lay flak ahead of the plane. It would avoid the flak, of course, but it would do so in a very predictable way. Seeing the low level flak as a mountain or other obstruction, the plane would pull into an automatic power climb, doing what it did best, following "terrain" at high speed. This climb would both immobilize the pilot under the tremendous g-forces of the climb and simultaneously deliver the plane to a predictable point at an altitude where targeting radar could acquire it. It was pretty much inescapable, as it was automatic.

The terrorists of today use essentially the same strategy. Their initial attack is, while potentially horrific and destructive, futile or even counter productive at achieving their political objectives. The entire world rallies against terror attacks. One does not win political support directly through acts of terror. The world stiffens, bristles and dig in to resist. Automatically. In that predictable, automatic response, we are vulnerable. We have done infinitely more harm to our own freedoms, our own economy and our own collective psyche, in our knee jerk response to terror, than any force on earth, even the combined force of all other countries combined, could possibly have inflicted against us.

To employ another metaphor, perhaps the one that brought modern day terrorists to this epiphany about human nature, ants attacking a scorpion can seldom kill it, but in it's defense, it will often sting itself to death.

When I say "terrorists" I refer to everyone who employs terror or fear to further ends they would never be able to advance through rational, conscious dialog. Mostly our politicians, corporations and lobbyists. If you look at who has benefitted from the terrorist attacks, natural and manmade disasters, it is obvious that if we had insufficient angry, disempowered people to take up the banner of terrorism, the system would have to hire, or manufacture their own. A close examination of the last century of world history will show that this is exactly what has happened.

If we were conscious, we would see the folly of these automatic responses and consider other ways that would blunt the effects of terror. But we are on auto pilot, pinned in our seats under the tremendous force of our inertia, wide-eyed in horror, knowing that we are being dragged automatically to our doom, but completely unable to resist the force of our automatic and mindless reaction.

When the pain is bad enough, when we have destroyed the narcotic lifestyle that has brought us to this point, we will turn off the autopilot, take the stick and fly, deciding for ourselves how we will choose to live and die.

Another day in paradise

2010-06-02T08:01:00.000-07:00

Walking in the surf this morning. Scanning the sky. Wished I could see a pelican. Then I glanced out in front of me. I hadn't seen him land, he appeared as if by magic. Head poking around under the water, wings arched up, but not opened.

First impression was that he looked like a turtle, but no turtle could ride that high in the water. There he sat, maybe 10 yards off shore directly in front of me. A gull sat on his head, shamelessly plotting to steal his breakfast. He ignored it. When the long beak emerged from the ocean, it was closed around a large fish. He swallowed it easily. At no time was the gull in any danger of eating.

As I turned, six more banked in loose formation in front of Il Villagio. They spiraled on the heat convection rising from the building, easily, lazily flying together in wide "S" shapes and figure eights, quite obviously for the pleasure it gives them.

As I walked back down Espanola, a pair of doves danced in the street, fluttering together, landing side by side, hopping in unison, and fluttering together again. The dance continued as long as I watched to the soulful italian music that Santino plays in the morning at Hosteria Romano, before the unwashed tourists arrive with their more pedestrian musical preferences.

Perhaps in the larger world, much is awry. But here, now, all is as it should be.

Straw dogs

2010-06-01T20:11:00.000-07:00

We think the earth has infinite patience with our folly and our arrogance.

So it does.

Geologic time is patient beyond the imagination of man.

One plate slides over another.

The errors of man, plowed under to a molten depth.

The Tao is impartial. It treats the people as straw dogs.

Our time, too brief it seems, draws swiftly to an end.

The earth upends it's Etch-a-sketch… and shakes.

That was fun. What next, after humans, what next?

After the pelicans, after the whales, after the shrimp

What next? We will not know.

Perhaps one day the earth will toy with sentience again.

Perhaps not. Knowing was not that useful after all.

And not nearly so much fun as one might think.

Will all Great Neptune's Ocean Wash this Blood Clean from Our Hands?

2010-06-01T08:19:00.000-07:00

"Will all great Neptune's ocean wash this blood
Clean from my hand? No, this my hand will rather
The multitudinous seas incarnadine,
Making the green one red."
Macbeth, 2. 2

We worry about the environment. We talk about how fragile it is, how easily harmed, how it must be protected. It's true that the unique circumstances that allow the earth to teem with life are most unlikely, and occur only within a narrow range of temperature, hydration and chemistry. While individual ecosystems, regions and specific species are fragile, the earth itself is quite robust and self regulating. But there is something far more fragile, far less well understood- even by the so called experts, something totally unappreciated and unprotected.

It is the global economy that supports human civilization. For at least 200 years, since the advent of the industrial revolution, the economy has been accelerating toward ever increasing unsustainability. In the last 60 years, post WWII, bizarre experiments in banking and the creation of money have resulted in a system that is totally incomprehensible and as frail as spider silk. In the past several decades, proponents of this "system" have been aggressively (I mean true aggression- including acts of war and conquest), exporting this economic model to nearly all the countries of the world. We have replaced sustainable economies with addiction based models that pay massive feudal tribute to their architects. In the past 10 years, "disaster capitalism" has feasted ravenously on all the ills of man. War, flood, earthquake, terror, even industrial and bank failures, have drawn the carrion fowl to feast at the public trough under the guise of "Contracting" and "Supplying." That the services that were contracted and materials supplied were of questionable need, of the poorest quality, and delivered, if at all, only to line the pockets of ravenous, politically connected capitalists, has been largely ignored through a complete lack of oversight and an abundance of hubris and apathy.

That our dependence on oil continues to soar, even in the face of a 40 year old realization that we are coming to the end of the world supply, underscores the fragile state of this economy. The estimated 100 Million Barrels in the well now spurting nearly unrestrained, into the Gulf, represents only a 5 day supply for the US- not the world, the United States! But we do represent a huge proportion of the consumption of everything. With only 5 % of the world population (notwithstanding our attempts to reduce the rest of the earth's population), we consume 25% of the world's resources.

Our modern economy is teetering on the edge of an abyss big enough to swallow all the "money" ever in existence, anywhere on the globe. Now comes an apparently unstoppable rip in the earth. We are horrified by the dead workers, the dead and dying fish, birds and mammals, the poisoned fisheries and wetlands, and devastated costal communities. It is possible that man in his entire history has never executed stupidity on this scale. We can liken it to nothing else. If all of the North Atlantic fisheries fail, if all of the coastal cities of the US and Europe fall to ruin, the "Developed Nations" will enter a dark age that makes the first millennium A.D. look like Utopia. Having trained all of the previously sustainable "third world" to follow blindly in our footsteps, there will be no functioning economy left on earth to turn to for rescue.

There is a model, to be found in modern medicine that can illustrate this process. Doctors have likened Chemotherapy to "poisoning the patient nearly to death, and then giving them the antidote." What we are seeing is global chemotherapy. The earth is taking poison, and much of it may die, to rid itself of a great and malignant cancer. Us.

My father, when he's not affixing "Drill Here, Drill Now" bumper stickers to his car, bemoans how fast the world is falling apart. At 80, he seems almost proud to announce that "I won't see it, but you're going to have to deal with it." Um, sorry Dad, got some bad news for you.

Those who scoff at the Mayan Calendar have much to scoff about. Whether by intuition or chance, the Mayan predictions seem now doomed to fail. It is increasingly clear that we don't have that much time.

The indigenous people of the United States, the indians, had a philosophy that we can turn to for comfort in the coming months. Before battle, they would say, with all sincerity, "Today is a good day to die." If we truly love the earth, it probably is.

I spilled that oil

2010-05-19T05:22:00.000-07:00

What we do says a lot about what we believe. Lots of petitions are circulating about the oil spill and groups are praying for the ocean. I won't be doing petitions. I don't believe in our political process. I will be praying.

Very well paid lackeys will be paraded before other well paid lackeys and it will be broadcast by other well paid lackeys in an orchestrated ballet of contrition, justice, concern and accountability, "… a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing." CEOs whose actions and decisions are determined not by their own best judgement, but by the quarterly profit reports that keep them employed will play to the members of congress, whose ongoing need for huge amounts of campaign cash and the donors who have such cash, determine their every legislative move. They will do this for our entertainment, for that self satisfying catharsis we get when we think "something" is being done to "right" a wrong.

Are the people behind this play, the interlocking corporate directorates, evil? Well, of course, though I don't believe they sit around laughing maniacally like Bond villains. I think they truly believe that they are the best and brightest, the best suited to make decisions for the unwashed masses- that's us. I think this belief is sincere. Their evil is our own evil, the evil of the ego.

Today we still hop into our cars, turn the key in the ignition, go to the same places, burn the same fuel and have the same tired conversations about the price of gas being so much higher at one station than it is at another. Politically, we may have opposed offshore drilling, but when we chose to buy a car, why did we eschew the alternatives? How far down the list of important features was the gas mileage rating?

We are a people of entitlement. The monkey is entitled to whatever it wants. Cost is not an issue. Outcomes be damned. Our simian brains deftly twist each and every decision into something nobel and honorable and high minded, but it's all about getting what we want, when we want it. Our egos chattering and screeching, we eat the bananas and shit where we will.

There is a higher voice calling us. It is a quiet voice, most of us never hear it. None of us listen to it often enough. It is the voice of enlightenment, of awakening. It's a voice that assures us that we will always have what we need, and that our needs and wants are not the same. It is a voice that knows it is not the monkey it shares this terrestrial body with. That quiet voice whispers "Evolve." Until we clean the spill within, the spill of egoic want within ourselves, the meaningless drama of the day, whether in Washington, Louisiana, or CNN, plays on, signifying nothing.

The Condo Cliffs

2010-05-18T05:35:00.000-07:00

In the morning the pelicans come from the south, one or two at a time. They reach the corner of il Villagio and spiral upward on the powerful updraft from the canyon wall. Soon they are thousands of feet up. Sucked upward in an invisible pelican elevator.

They do this for fun, because they can.

I would if I could. Instead I stand on the beach, neck extended till I’m dizzy, entreating them to take me along. They would if they could.

Next millennium, or maybe next year, when the condos begin their long sad slide into the sea, windows broken, walls crumbling, the pelicans will start their mornings in that same sweet spot, rising up to the clouds, dancing on the wind. They won’t recall the wingless ones, who flecked the beach, and tried but failed to eat the fish and kill the great blue ocean. Our spirits, blowing in the ocean spray, unheeded, will wish they had taken us with them. They would have, if they could.

Headhouse Square

2010-04-17T05:27:00.000-07:00

Just off South Street in Philadelphia, is Old South Second Street, the historic firehouse now called New Market. It's a long, low, open, brick building that runs the length of the block with two story towers at each end. It's length is a series of open brick arches and brick pavers that cover the ground from street to street. Naturally, it attracts pigeons. Tawney loved New Market. She would run when we got to the block weaving among the arches, flushing any pigeons she saw, sniffing the ample messages left her by the resident male dogs in Society Hill. We would stop at Cosi and get sandwiches and cappuccino, tie her leash out at one of the bistro tables and watch the crowds stroll by. Lots of local dogs would pass and she would greet many, her stump wagging excitedly.

On the drive up, she frequently fell asleep in the back seat when we came up I-95 and continued to snooze as we came up South Columbus Boulevard, but when we turned down Dock Street across from the Hyatt, she was instantly up, paws on the console between the front seats. Dock was paved with cobblestones. She may have known from the minute we left the house where we were going, but there was no urgency till she felt the jarring of the rough pavement. We called it the "bumpy road." It was the "South Street" alarm that woke her to the excitement of the sounds and smells of old Philadelphia.

We'd park as close as we could, sometimes in one of the few metered spots off Old Second, sometimes in the 3rd floor Garage over Cosi, usually on the roof. We never went in the dead of winter, so the warmth and view from the garage roof was a nice way to start. In this section of Philadelphia, dogs were welcomed. Some of the cafes even allowed them inside, and those that didn't had ample outside seating in the limited sunshine of the Northeast. Cosi was frequently shade bound except for a brief period in the late morning. Much of the year, the shade was inhospitably cold for sitting outdoors, so we preferred Chef's Market down the street and around the corner on South. It faced south and so had full sun most of the day. At the apex of summer, when the brick canyons of old Philadelphia radiated like a baker's oven, they always had umbrellas, but then the shade and prevailing wind at Headhouse was inviting. Tawney loved it all. She would get bored sitting at a cafe, but loved the bits we fed her from our pastries and sandwiches, and the people who came and fussed over her, petting her and asking about her. When we walked, she was constantly stopping at every corner, tree, and fire hydrant, to read what I always called her "Pee Mail." It was always spam, but she read it anyway. It slowed us down. We would sit and watch the parade of exotic people, joining the parade and being as exotic as we dared ourselves.

Tawney often wore shirts, or boas, or fancy collars or hats. She didn't mind, she seemed to know that they brought her extra attention and she was both vain and affectionate, wanting to meet everyone she saw, delighting in their attention. When we discovered the pet shop down around 8th on South, she had a landmark. She could go in there and would always get a treat. Whenever we went past 4th street, she would pull to the end of her leash and drag us as fast as she could to the pet store. She never understood why they weren't open on Sundays, nor could she ever distinguish a Saturday visit from a Sunday. Until we went to the Pet store, open or closed, there was no other destination permitted. I miss her.

Mmmm Mmmm Good

2010-04-16T06:48:00.000-07:00

For a long, long time after the Chinese attacked us and tried to kill all of our dogs, we would only feed Tawney chicken and rice that we had cooked ourselves. When we started taking her to the Dog House for grooming, Scotty recommended Merrick. Now Tawney has always eaten like a cat. Not finicky by any means, but a nibbler. Why not? Linda had always kept fresh food down for her 24/7. We threw away lots of food, but there was always plenty. Sort of like the endless buffet on a cruise ship. So Tawney never felt any urgency about eating. She would eat a little when she felt like it, many times a day, never cleaning her plate.

Well, the first day we gave her one of the Merrick cans, I think it was "Wing a Ling," she devoured the entire bowl, then she licked the bowl till I worried about what might be in the ceramic glaze, then she licked a two foot radius of floor around the bowl. Needless to say, notwithstanding the additional cost, she got Merrick daily for the rest of her life.

To Tawney's Breeder

2010-04-03T05:40:00.000-07:00

Tawney had such rich personality. She loved everyone and quickly created "rituals" to share with specific people, animals and to celebrate specific activities. My mother would put out a "special" water bowl, which was the first thing she looked for whenever she went to visit. She would also beg for my mother to throw her cheddar goldfish crackers, which she caught. She would sit next to my father's recliner and insist that he reach down and scratch her head.

When a friend of ours would dog-sit, Tawney would make a dozen trips down the long stairs in her backyard to pee, then run right back in, even though at home she had a cast iron bladder and could easily go 10 hours. One of my clients brought her two dog cookies every time she came, but Tawney wouldn't eat them unless she got to dig them out of the woman's purse herself. She would go into the WSFS branch in Trolley Square and the Tellers would let her behind the counter to get her treat whenever she went in.

For me, she would catch pieces of grilled chicken if I flipped them in the air off my fork. She would also snap at my hand under the covers if I announced the game "Grrr puppy" but not unless I declared it, not for anyone else and no matter how excited she got, she'd stop the second I pulled my hand out from under the cover.

When my granddaughter, Becca, would give her a treat, instead of taking it with her teeth, like she would from anyone else, she would curl her tongue around it and pull it into her mouth so as not to get her teeth too close to Becca's little fingers. In her last months, she would go running with my stepson, John, even though she was one of the most leisurely walkers and would never run for anyone else.

She was always "one with the Racquetball" and after chasing and catching it, would sit motionless with it under her chin, between her paws and then, without Tawney appearing to move, the ball would roll slowly and stop at your feet, wherever you happened to be standing- as if by telekinesis.

The Llama enclosure at the Brandywine zoo borders on the park. Whenever Tawney would cross the road to that fence, all the Llamas would get up from wherever they were and come down to the fence, then follow her back and forth along the fence line. The horses at Bellevue Park stables would do the same thing.

She would discretely collect acorns when walking in the fall, till her cheeks bulged, then spit them out in a corner of the carpet and crack them all open as soon as we weren't looking. She was always a "good dog," but one afternoon schemed to escape from a dog-sitter's back yard to go next door and visit a stranger who had just lost her own Cocker to a long illness.

She loved to chase huge iguanas into the canal when she lived in South Beach, but ignored the chameleons that ran around her by the dozens when she took her morning walk. She loved to flush pigeons off the sidewalks on South Street in Philadelphia, but elsewhere took little notice of them. She loved to chase bunnies and if she got the scent of one, she would sniff so hard her septum clicked like a geiger counter. She never caught one and would slow down if she got too close, but she loved to chase them.

She managed to get our rescued Beagle to play with her. Lyla was faster, but Tawney was smarter. Lyla loved to run so Tawney would chase her around the above ground pool. If Lyla pulled too far ahead, Tawney just stopped and waited for her to come charging around the pool, when ambushed her.

Tawney was all joy, compassion and unconditional love. She had a power of presence and attention that stopped people on the street, pulled them into the moment and connected them with their own divinity. One day on South Street, as we neared second, a girl's choir in matching shirts rounded the corner, caught sight of her with her fluff and the bows in her ears and surrounded her. She immediately flipped over on her back and let them all rub her belly. She was a furry blonde monk. I miss her, but I am at peace. I know I am a better man for having known her.

There is no way to express my thanks for the role you played in bringing her into my life, or for the 13 years she spent patiently teaching me.

Isabella Grace Kissyface

2010-04-02T10:20:00.000-07:00

At three weeks, she's tiny, sleepy, with the sweet breath of mother's milk, and already she reminds us of Tawney. Perhaps she is Tawney in any way that matters. A little furry monk, innate knower of great lessons, a wisdom on her broad fuzzy brows. Life is not hard. Suffering is not inevitable. Happiness is a choice. Love is a way of being.

Being both dog and newborn, she is doubly close to perfection, to the divine. Being dog, she may never stray far from that perfection. Humans quickly grow to believe, in their separateness, in their complex monkey mind, that they are God. How close to the truth. How infinitely distanced from it. Not as we think it, but in our essential being, there is God. In that essential being, there is no I, no we, no they, no you, no us.

This newborn pup, knows nothing. In essence, she is divine. The light is in her. She wears it lightly, this life she passes through too quickly, bringing us back to ourselves. What a gift, to recall we are not this sack of meat and bone, but light and guileless innocence. A puppy's kiss, the perfect koan.

To the Turquoise class at Graduation March 27, 2010

2010-03-27T09:12:00.000-07:00

I tend to get to know students better after they graduate. Perhaps it’s the change in dynamic, becoming peers. It’s also that I take a long time to get to know people. That won’t change.

I loved having you in class, and having you at school. You’re an unusually focused, attentive, well adjusted, fun class. You came, bonded, supported each other, enjoyed yourselves, spoke your truth, and got everything you possibly could out of what we had to give.

I will miss some of you. The rest I won’t have to, because you won’t go away. I invite you not to go away. There is a place at the school, and a place in my life, for you to spread out your beach blanket whenever your life permits.

I’ve had a great epiphany. I’m going to share it. It’s so obvious, you may say, “I knew that.” This will at least give you the satisfaction of knowing you are smarter than me, because I didn’t.

Listen carefully:

“I am the right person, in the right place, at the right time and so are you.”

This is a time for sharing what you’ve meant to each other and to us. It’s warm and fuzzy. But it’s a tiny slice of consciousness. We aren’t given to know all the important ways we affect each other.

I’ve come to the conclusion that who we are matters more than what we do, think, plan or experience. There isn’t time to tell you why. Maybe I’ll write a book.

But I’ll tell you one story. I’ve been here about 3 years. There was a student, I barely knew her in school. I could not say much about her at graduation. Shortly, we were in a workshop together and one afternoon, in the middle of the workshop, she gave me bodywork that blew the top of my head clean off. It took me three or four months to screw my head back on. For most of my adult life, I’ve paid gifted professionals to dig around in my head for something I knew was there getting in my way, but I could never quite get my hands on it. Then one day, bang. The most profound healing I have ever experienced. It could have not happened earlier, or later, it could not have happened anywhere else or with anyone else. I know, because I spent 35 years trying to make it happen.

I’ve come to the conclusion that this happens all the time. Your class would not have been the experience it was without you. Your presence, the being of the person you are, affects everyone you meet, sometimes profoundly, sometimes subtly. The only choice you have about it is to be, or not to be. To be present and manifest your being in that moment, or to think or wish you were elsewhere, in the past or future. My gift to you is my steadfast assurance that no matter where you are, or what you are doing...

You are the right person, in the right place at the right time and so is everyone else.

Thirst

2010-03-23T18:47:00.001-07:00

I love the taste of hose water on a sweltering August day. I remember I used to cut grass for a few dollars and I'd push the lawnmower to the gas station up the street to fill up. They had an old coke machine there, the old, old, glass bottles 6.5 ounces, super cold, sometimes there would be ice on the bottle. 10¢ Even then, ten cents was astounding. It was like walking into a time warp. Nothing you can buy today tastes like a coke from one of those bottles after mowing a lawn.

The pool

2010-03-23T11:17:00.000-07:00

We had an above ground swimming pool. Tawney hated to get wet, but she hated to be left out. So when we’d climb the ladder to get in the pool, she’d try to climb it after us. She’d usually get to the third rung before she lost her footing and fell through the ladder into the grass. Fortunately she never hurt herself. We would pick her us so she could see that it was all water above the ladder, but that didn’t stop her from trying. We tried putting her on a float and letting her drift around the pool, but she was real nervous about that. She fell in once, off of the float. We were right there, but she immediately dog paddled to the side. We lifted her out of course, but it didn’t stop her from trying to follow us up the ladder.

The Dog House

2010-03-19T07:09:00.001-07:00

Spreading some of Tawney's ashes today at her old Groomer. The Dog House on 9th between Alton and West. Tawney hated getting wet, and the sound of clippers bothered her. She dug her heels in at every groomer we took her to, until the Dog House. Scotty and Yuka are such beautiful people. Tawney practically ran in every time, stayed happily and loved everyone there. She always looked amazing and they really looked after her health. Very knowledgeable about pet products on the market, what's good and why and what's bad- read TOXIC and why. Lots of love in that place.

Ashes

2010-03-14T20:18:00.001-07:00

I got the package from Linda with half of Tawney’s ashes, some hair and her rabies tag in a nice buff colored box with a tassel in front. It’s on my dresser in front of her picture. It took me a couple of weeks. I didn’t want to rush it, but I finally started spreading her ashes this week. I filled a small essential oil bottle with about a fifth of an ounce of ashes. Most of them are still in the box. Wednesday, I took it out and spread some at the French cafe across the street. She ate with us there a few times. Just as I finished, I got to Plaza Espanola a few yards up the street and there were at least 10 doves in the wires cooing loudly at each other. Even in South Beach that’s not normal. I spread some more at Tastee Bakery, then had breakfast there and headed to the beach. On the way I sprinkled some in Lummus Park. She loved Lummus, especially chasing immature coconuts and tearing them open. Loved rolling in the grass there too. Then I went to the beach and spread some ashes at the water line from 15^th down to 7^th at intervals. Then crossed over and did Lummus again near where we used to wait for Linda to get off work. Then I walked over and left some at Johnny Rockets- she loved eating french fries there, before and after Linda got off work. People would stop and fuss over her. Then I sprinkled some as I walked through the cafes she liked. Pelican, Milano, Larios, Prime Times, News Cafe, Atlantic Grill, Clevelander, Ocean’s Ten and the Ice cream stand just in front of the Deco Hotel. That was a big favorite. That dog loved an ice cream cone.

Later in the day I walked down Lincoln and left some at Paul and in front of Nexxt and through Ghirardelli’s. Another favorite ice cream place. Saturday, I stopped at Maurice Gibb Park at sunset, like we used to do, and watched the sun go down. I spread some ashes along the sea wall, in the park and at the memorial to Maurice. Then I walked over to the dock and down to the Yacht club, spreading ashes along the docks. Today, Sunday, I went to the beach, then Sandy and I traded bodywork in her pool. After, we went to a grand opening for a yoga studio one of the alumni was opening on Arthur Godfrey. While Sandy hung out at the studio, I walked down and spread some ashes at Provencial Bakery, where we spent time together, and over to the other French bakery across from CVS. They had remodeled and it looked really nice. I had a double espresso and a baguette with butter with her ashes sitting on the table. She loved buttered bread, baguettes especially. We had them there together and when we were in Rehoboth, we would order the day before from Cafe Papillion to get hot baguettes in the morning. She always knew when we turned down Penny Lane that we were going to Cafe Papillion and she would have some of her favorite things to eat.

Finally, I went down to the canal. They landscaped the parking lot. It’s really nice and clean now and the brush near the water has all been cleared and planted. The trees are all still there. I didn’t see any iguanas, but I’m sure they’re around. I spread plenty of ashes along the bank so Tawney can flush those iguanas into the canal when they come down out of the trees. She was always so proud of herself when they jumped off the bank and splashed into the canal. Like she’d saved Tokyo from Godzilla.

It doesn’t feel like she’s gone. I can picture her with me in all the old familiar places, grinning and looking up at me. I’m so glad she lived with us in South Beach. There are so many memories here now. Even down to Key West and up to Fort Lauderdale. So many places we took her.

Tawney's Travels

2010-03-08T20:24:00.000-08:00

She loved going places. Rockford park, Rockwood park, the parking lot of the old library that had a large rabbit warren under the hedge, every cafe with outdoor seating: Catherine Rooney’s, Brew Ha-Ha(several locations), Chef’s Market on South Street in Philly, the Coffee Mill in Rehoboth, Paul on Lincoln, and she’s have most anything she wanted to eat. I was at Ciao Pizza one afternoon and wanted to see if I could find the bottom of the dog. I would flip pieces of chopped grilled chicken off my fork into the air for her. She’d catch 19 out of 20. That afternoon she finished one chicken breast, then two, then three. I gave up when she finished the fourth.

Everyone loved her, she had such a sweet energy about her. People would always stop on the street and ask to pet or photograph her. We rounded the corner on South Street one afternoon and encountered a middle school girl’s choir. Tawney walked into the middle of them, flipped over on her back and they lined up to rub her belly.

She’s been from the North Jersey Shore, at Sandy Hook, to Rehoboth, Ocean City Maryland, Fells Point Baltimore, Penns Landing, South Street, Fort Lauderdale, South Beach, Key West. One of her favorite things was staying in hotels. Somehow she knew that was a special treat for a dog and she loved it. We’d do overnights down to Rehoboth as much for her as for us.

Red Mill Inn

2010-03-08T20:23:00.001-08:00

One of our favorite places was the Red Mill Inn outside of Lewes, Delaware. It was just a few miles from Rehoboth, inexpensive and allowed dogs. Tawney loved staying there. She would remember and try to head for a room she had previously stayed in, even before we checked in. She was very well mannered and we could leave her there if we were going out to eat or to some place where she couldn’t accompany us. Most of the time, we took her, though, to stroll the streets of Rehoboth, mostly Baltimore and Rehoboth Avenue, where many of the shops welcomed dogs.

I can’t believe it’s not butter

2010-03-08T20:19:00.000-08:00

I can’t believe it’s not butter

Tawney loved olive oil, most oils in fact, and she really loved butter.

She loved butter shortbread, but not shortbread made without butter, if you weren’t sure, you could test by offering her some. If there was butter in it, she’d eat it. If not, she wouldn’t. I used to say she’d eat a slate shingle if it had enough butter on it.

I could pour some olive oil in a plate or bowl and she'd lap it up.

Like a Virgin

2010-03-01T11:27:00.001-08:00

Tawney was friendly and got along well with other dogs. She was, however, not the least bit interested in romance. Whenever a dog would show an excess of interest in her backside, she would tuck her stubby tail and sit down resolutely, turning around if necessary to continue to face the impudent suitor.

Her favorite spot on the couch- Smooshing her face

2010-03-01T11:22:00.000-08:00

Wherever we’ve lived, we’ve had couches with big poofy arms. Tawney has always chosen one end of each couch and made that her bed, resting her head on the soft armrest while she curled up on the couch. Cockers have big floppy jowls, though not as obviously as say, bloodhounds. Whenever she would get up, or even raise her head, it would take several minutes for that plastic flesh to respond to gravity and return to it’s original shape. So her face would be seriously lopsided, one jowl up and sticking out like a wing, the other hanging in place. We’d say she smooshed her face. Sometimes I’d reach over and pull it back in place for her. A couple of those couches were leather, and I was frustrated by her tendency to scratch herself a “nest” as she circled to lay down. One side of the couch was always dirtier and softer, with more creases in the leather. We always had to work them over with leather cleaner thoroughly so the imbalance wasn’t too obvious. Teaching her not to sleep there was just an impossibility.

Snoring

2010-03-01T11:21:00.001-08:00

When she was little, she snored. She snored like a cabin full of lumberjacks. When we traveled, my mother would stay over at our house to watch her sometimes. Tawney would sleep with her. She said it sounded just like my father was sleeping next to her. As she got older, she got quieter till finally she rarely snored at all.

Grooming

2010-02-24T11:42:00.001-08:00

Her first groomer was over the state line in Pennsylvania in an industrial park. The place was called Doggie Style. We loved her work, but had to really book ahead to get an appointment. We honestly weren’t disciplined enough to do that. Tawney loved the way she looked after a grooming and always wanted to show herself off. She would come back with bows in her ears, looking every inch a lady and grinning from ear to ear. The drop off was another story. Both Tawney and Lyla would scoot and back up and turn around when it came time to go behind the counter at the groomer. I figured it was because Tawney didn’t like getting wet and didn’t like high pitched sounds like hair dryers or clippers. Lyla was just terrified of everything and everybody.

Tawney’s first summer came and, feeling for her in the heat, Linda insisted on getting her shaved. It was the only time she didn’t come out of the groomer prancing. She had her head down and her tail between her legs. She was miserable. When she came out of the groomer that time, she was painfully, obviously aware of her nakedness. It was a biblical moment. If she had opposable thumbs, she probably would have covered herself in leaves. She acted sooo ashamed, we never did it again. She didn’t want to be seen. She was mortified. We never did that again, we always had the groomer leave a skirt and some hair on her legs. She liked that much better.

After a while we started taking her to Pet Smart for convenience. Then we found Allison who, among the PetSmart grooming staff, could actually cut a Cocker Spaniel. She never liked being left, but didn’t actually hate it. On the way out, we always stopped and let her pick out some rawhide treats or a pigs ear. She knew she would get this for putting up with the grooming so she’d be doubly happy when we came to get her.

When we moved to Miami Beach she started going to the Dog House. She loved that place and Scotty and Yuca. She would run in the door and not try to follow us out till we picked her up groomed. They did the best job, cleaning up and clearing debris from her paws and shaving the hair around her feet. She loved going to the Dog House for grooming. They were very reasonably priced and loved the dogs. Most of the time she got to sit in the lobby, her leash tied to the shelving. If they did have to put ehr in a cage, it, too, was right in the front. All the grooming was done in the front window. When we came to pick her up, we’d sneak up on the place in case she wasn’t done. If she was us from the window it would be hard for them to settle her back down. I can’t say enough about the way Scotty and Yuca care for the dogs they groom. Tawney loved them and we loved taking her there.

The Ice Cream Vine

2010-02-24T09:01:00.000-08:00

One day when Tawney was still a young lady, we went to visit Main Street, Newark as we often would. The post office on Main Street has a short wall, perhaps two feet high abutting The sidewalk. The ground is level with the top of the wall on the other side. It’s sort of a retaining wall. On one side of the entrance, the lawn is carpeted with a deep growth of ivy. As we walked by that day, Tawney suddenly leapt from the middle of the sidewalk into the center of the Ivy. She rummaged for an instant and retrieved a chocolate ice cream cone, still mostly frozen. Of course, she devoured it. For years, whenever we passed that spot, she would check to see if the ice cream vine had produced anymore fruit. Of course, it never did, but hope springs eternal and she would always check.

Tawney the Exterminator

2010-02-24T08:59:00.000-08:00

She would also chase and catch flies. She was sooo patient. She’d follow one all over the house until it finally got low enough for her to pounce on it. She caught most of the ones she went after. We could call “Fly, fly” and she’d come running from wherever she was in the house, listen for it and stalk it till she got it. Once, she chased a bee. Once. She caught it in the back porch and we heard her yelp. She never chased any species of bee after that. But continued to chase any kind of fly that she saw or heard. There was also a season in Delaware when the cricket population would explode. Our shed would have hundreds of them. We’d open the door and they’d come hopping en mass. Tawney went nuts. Of course once she caught something like a cricket, she’d toy with it. When it stopped moving, she would try to wake it up. She would do this with most any sort of bug. She thought of them as very animated dog toys.

You’re where you should be all the time, and when you’re not...

2010-02-21T18:26:00.000-08:00

Tawney had ways of creating rituals with everyone she knew. Each person would have a ritual that was unique to them. Judie, who often sat for her when we were out of town, had a huge backyard and ran a small manufacturing business out of her home. So she was home a lot. The house was built on a hill and the first floor in the front towered over the backyard. The basement was level with the backyard and a long flight of steps went up to a high wooden deck. Tawney, who had a cast iron bladder and could easily go 8 to 12 hours between walks, decided that it was fun to get Judie up from her desk to let her outside. So every hour or so, Tawney would come get her to open the door. She would then race down the long flight of stairs, run to a spot roughly in the middle of the back yard and pee. Then she would immediately race back up the stairs. Without fail, time after time.

One day, long after establishing this pattern and never expressing any interest in hanging out in the back yard, Tawney went down in the middle of the day for a quick pee. Then she just sat down. Judie called her and waited, and called and waited. Then decided to go back to work. The back yard was fenced. The dog couldn’t go anywhere. She’d come back in when she was ready.

Shortly after that, about 2 hours up the New Jersey turnpike, on the way home to pick up Tawney, Linda got a call on her cell phone. Something about finding our dog. Well, we were very upset, and surprised. Stunned was more like it. We called Judie. Judie thought she was still in the back yard.

After a couple of calls, and trying to hear above the road noise in a convertible going 65 MPH with the top down, we managed to piece it together. There were two gates to Judie’s backyard. They were secured with padlocks and almost never opened. They weren’t visible from the back door, but were from the yard. One of Judie’s employees had left one gate open after taking some boxes out of the basement and around to the front of the house. Tawney, who was very familiar with the neighborhood, having been frequently walked around the block by Judie’s grandson, had noticed the open gate and waited till Judie went back inside to make her break. She had immediately, within minutes, crossed around the front of Judie’s house and over to the neighbor to the left. There she passed the husband working in the front yard and parked on the doormat waiting for the woman to come to the door. She did, and not having seen Tawney on her brief but frequent visits to Judie’s backyard, she didn’t know she was staying next door. She called the number on the tag and that’s how we found out. A random wandering? Maybe. If so, then it was a complete coincidence that the couple next door had just lost their cocker spaniel of many years, were very sad over the loss and wondering if they were ready for a new dog. They were consoled by Tawney’s visit and when Judie picked her up, and we arrived to get her, were leaning toward getting another dog.

Banking

2010-02-21T17:18:00.001-08:00

Tawney, as I may have mentioned, was very intelligent. She was also much more disciplined in her banking habits than I. Whenever we went by the Citizen’s bank in Trolley Square, regardless of the time of day, she would always stop and make a deposit. Naturally, we always cleaned it up. Apparently she had an account there, we didn’t. But she also seemed to have an account at WSFS, where we banked, down the street. Dogs were welcomed there and she would always run in and make the rounds of the various tellers, officers and customers. The tellers would open the door and let her behind the counter so she could make withdrawals of dog biscuits, which we all referred to as “cookies.” Try as I did, I could not impress upon her that the green pieces of paper back there were of much more interest to dad. She never brought me any. She developed a similar relationship with Commerce Bank when we opened the account there because they had a branch in South Beach. But they left the cookies in a jar on the counter so she never needed to go behind the counter at Commerce.

As with most of her “rituals” her banking was all about the love. Much as she seemed to love the cookies, it was really the trip to the bank and visiting all her friends that was important to her. If I went to the bank without her, and brought back bank cookies, often she wouldn’t eat them at all. She certainly didn’t beg and jump for them like she did in the bank. She would just look at me accusingly as if to say, “what, you went to the bank and you didn’t take me?!”

Cat Food

2010-02-21T17:01:00.000-08:00

Dogs love cat food. Tawney always did. From the day after we got her, when we brought home a kitten, she just couldn’t resist devouring any cat food she got close enough to. So, immediately we saw we had a problem. Fortunately, even a young kitten can jump. So we would put the cat food on a low desk at the end of the kitchen. Tawney couldn’t reach it and couldn’t jump, but the kitten had no trouble getting it. The desk was separated from the rest of the counters by a tall set of cabinets, so it didn’t encourage the kitten to explore the kitchen counters. As Tawney grew, she still longed for the forbidden morsels. Then, one day I walked into the kitchen and saw her, paws against the cabinet, stretched to her full height, neck craned as far as it would go. Her muzzle barely drew even with the edge of the counter, but she had a long tongue. Her head was twisted sideways for maximum reach and her tongue stretched out, over the lit of the cat food bowl and actually touched a tender vittle. She could taste it. She just couldn’t have it.

As many owners of both dogs and cats will attest, dogs love cat food so much that they don’t really care if it’s already been through the cat. It’s actually a lot easier to get to after it has been. Few people guard the litter box! When Tawney stayed over at Judie’s house, she would try to raid Misty’s litter box. Judie caught on fast. She had a covered litter box with an opening on one end for the cat to go in and out of. She turned this end toward the wall. Misty, being a cat, was plastic. She was able to squeeze in and out pretty easily. Tawney, on the other hand, was too massive. Problem solved.

Hmmm, but why was the dog so happy? The next time Tawney headed toward the laundry room, Judie took off her shoes and followed her as quietly as she could. There she saw Tawney head-butt the litter box away from the wall and help herself. Ewww. But wait. Once Tawney was done, she head-butted the litter box back into place, so she wouldn't get caught. Our estimation of her cunning, if not her taste, went up several notches that day.

Like a Toddler

2010-02-21T16:39:00.000-08:00

Tawney never expressed an interest in plastic bags and was remarkably good about never taking anything off an end table, coffee table or counter (except cat food if she could reach it.)

That said, one of my law school professors, in a particularly bad week for him (His car was parked next to a car that burned on the roof of the parking garage, he was sick, and lost his dog), came home to find his Labrador Retriever with his anvil shaped head wedged into an empty Mylar bag of potato chips that he had inadvertently left on the coffee table. That story terrified me and reminded me of just how much even the most intelligent dog is like a toddler. To this day, months after Tawney no longer lived with me, and over a month after she passed away, I still catch myself putting any kind of plastic bag away or up out of reach. Same with razors in the bathroom. I never leave them where she could reach them.

You think you know what a dog might do, but they are like toddlers, and no matter how many times they behave, the one time you rely on it, they remind you just how dependent they are on us. Tawney could be trusted to be left in a car for short periods. We could even leave her in the convertible with the top down. No matter what happened, she never tried to escape. Never showed any interest. We could leave the windows halfway down, or leave the top down and she would sit right there waiting for us. Usually it was only a minute while we went into a drugstore or picked up food at a restaurant, or went in the house to put something away or get something. Then, we picked her up from Judie’s one day after being out of town. We were in the other car, not the convertible. We got her, walked her out to the car, put her inside, left the window three quarters of the way down and went back in to get her food and toys. Well, we got to talking to Judie and it was more than a few minutes, but still not that long. We opened the door to go back to the car and there she stood, on the porch waiting for us. Once out of the car, of course, she could have gone anywhere. It taught us a lesson about trusting her.

Another time, after months of sitting out on our front porch with her under foot and off her leash, occasionally coming down off the porch to help me water the plants or move some pots around the front walk, I had begun to assume I could have her off leash in the front yard anytime. Then one day I went to the base of the steps, she followed me and I started watering the plants. They were potted plants and not that many. I had just started and had only just turned my attention from her to the plants when I heard a woman call from across the street, “Is this your dog?” We often walked her to the swale across the street, and apparently she suddenly thought she could answer the call of nature without a chaperone. That, too, taught me a lesson.

Odd Bedfellows

2010-02-21T15:20:00.001-08:00

While we lived in Wilmington, Tawney most often stayed with Judie when we left town. Judie loved her, and Tawney loved Judie back. Tawney also loved Misty, Judie’s cat. Tawney had grown up with cats and especially with Chakara who arrived at our house the day after she did. Misty, on the other hand, was not too keen on having another animal in the house. She would often retreat to the screened porch when Tawney arrived to avoid having to make nice with the unwelcome visitor. She wasn’t overtly hostile, just not friendly in any way. But Tawney had a way of winning people, and even cats, over. As time went by, Misty didn’t immediately run for the porch when Tawney arrived, but still kept her distance. Judie seemed to feel Tawney was tolerated, if not welcome. So it was a bit of a surprise one morning when Judie became aware that she hadn’t seen the two in some time. She looked all around the house for them, in all the usual places, for each of them, and was beginning to get anxious. Finally, in desperation and not really expecting to find them, she yanked back the covers on her unmade bed while frantically looking through the upstairs. There they were curled up together completely covered by the blanket, asleep.

Acorns

2010-02-20T19:29:00.000-08:00

Tawney loved to collect acorns, which she would gather as we walked, as surreptitiously as she could, then once in the house, she would find a cozy spot on the carpet and spit them out. Then, one by one, she’d break them open. She would never eat the nut, they were much too bitter, but she loved cracking them open. She especially looked forward to walks when in the fall when acorns were falling from the trees and littered the sidewalks and parks. She could easily spot an oak tree from the other side of the park and would pull at her leash, making a beeline for it to collect the acorns. At first, we tried to stop her from collecting them. We weren’t sure if she was eating them and didn’t know if she should, and damn it, she always make a mess on the carpet with the shells. But once we were sure she was just cracking them, it became obvious she wasn’t going to stop and we realized how much fun it was for her, we just gave up and cleaned up after her. She still collected as many as she could on the sly. I’ve seen her gather as many as 12 in her mouth at once. When we wanted to get her moving on her walks through the brisk fall air, we would collect some ourselves and throw them ahead of us on the sidewalk. She’d run after them and collect them like a squirrel in her cheeks. She seemed to enjoy that we played that game with her.

Spaghetti

2010-02-20T08:17:00.000-08:00

Tawney loved spaghetti. So did Lyla. I have to credit the Disney animators. They really studied the way dogs actually eat spaghetti for the movie “Lady and the Tramp.” Tawney was often pegged for “Lady” by people meeting her for the first time especially children. They would say “Look. It’s Lady.” She was definitely a lady. But when you saw her eat spaghetti, that scene from the movie would always come back. Of course, we always gave it to her plain, or with some butter. Marinara sauce would have been all over her, the way the end flipped around as she gobbled it down. Inspired by the movie, and because she and Lyla were always side by side when there was food to be had, we would cook the strands whole and offer an end to each of them. Then, just like in the movie, they would eat them toward the middle and end up mouth to mouth.

The Elevator

2010-02-18T18:34:00.000-08:00

Tawney loved to stay in hotels. She thought that was so special. As there weren’t a lot of hotels that allowed dogs, we stayed in some of the same ones over and over. One was the Atlantic Budget on Rehoboth Avenue in Rehoboth, Delaware. It was a nice motel, reasonably priced, and at least in the off season, allowed pets.

Tawney got so that she would try to turn into the hotel lot when we walked by, even if we weren’t staying there. It did turn out to be the site of one of the biggest scares we’ve ever had with her. Linda was taking her for a walk and had stepped into the elevator. Tawney came in with her, she was already on her leash. Just as the doors closed, Tawney decided to step back out. The doors closed on her leash, which was a 16 foot retractable with a large spool on the end. Linda froze, forgetting about the open door button, forgetting about the emergency stop, terrified that Tawney would be hung by the departing elevator. She was screaming, and fortunately some other guests had just walked up to the elevator, saw the dog there, heard the screaming and had the presence of mind to unhook the leash and hold Tawney there till Linda got back. I think Tawney always wondered what all the fuss was about.

Grrr Puppy

2010-02-17T18:35:00.000-08:00

I was the only one she would bite, and then only while playing our game of “grrr puppy.” Tawney was the sweetest, gentlest dog you could imagine. Nothing you could do to her would elicit a snap or a snarl. But she and I shared a game. I have no recollection of which of us invented the game. Probably her. When I would put my hand under the covers, and “attack” her, by poking her, or just moving my hands quickly to cause the lump” to lurch around under the sheet, she would growl ferociously, and pounce, snapping and pawing at her “prey.” We would go on until she was quite fierce and her barks became high pitched squeaks, which they invariably did, when she was very excited... or barking in her sleep.

It didn’t matter how long we played, or how wound up she got, I could abruptly snatch my hand out from under the covers and pet her. The game was instantly over, and you could feel, hear and see the intensity drain from her. Immediately she was docile, sweet and loving, ready to be petted and loved. Normally this sort of behavior would be a good way to lose a finger. Animals can’t just switch gears so quickly, neither can humans for that matter. But for her, the hand under the sheet was not me, even though I clearly controlled it and was attached to it. She had permission to let her inner dog have it’s way with the covered hand. Once exposed, the game was off and it was all love and sweetness. We called this game “grrr puppy” and she knew we were going to play it when I put my hand under the sheet and encouraged her to “grrr puppy.” She never initiated the game with my unwary hand moving under the sheet. I never woke abruptly in the middle of the night to find her snapping at me. It was an agreement to play. She would sometimes drop hints that it had been too long and she was ready, but she always waited till I started the game.

Iguanas

2010-02-17T18:20:00.000-08:00

When we got to Miami, we didn’t find any rabbits. I thought Tawney would love the lizards that ran by the hundreds from the swale to the hedge across the sidewalk in the morning. But she pretended she didn’t even see them. Some would run right under her. When we went around the corner to the parking lot, it was a different story. Iguanas weren’t lizards to her. She loved running them into the canal. They were fast and skittish, but she’d charge ‘em the best she could, then turn with a huge grin after they splashed into the Canal, like she’d just saved Tokyo from Godzilla.

Insects

2010-02-16T09:39:00.001-08:00

She would also chase and catch flies. She was sooo patient. She’d follow one all over the house until it finally got low enough for her to pounce on it. She caught most of the ones she went after. She chased a bee. Once. She caught it in the back porch and we heard her yelp. She never chased any species of bee after that. But continued to chase any kind of fly that she saw or heard. There was also a season in Delaware when the cricket population would explode. Our shed would have hundreds of them. We’d open the door and they’d come hopping en mass. Tawney went nuts.

Fire!

2010-02-13T19:09:00.001-08:00

Christmas day 2006, we were at my parents in North Wilmington doing the traditional family Christmas. It was afternoon and raining hard. We had already finished the present opening and were sitting around talking and eating when we got a call from George, our landlord.

Our dog was safe. Huh, safe from what? The fire. There’s a fire?! So off we raced back home. When we got there, the firemen were everywhere. George had Tawney on the porch holding her leash. The building was over 100 years old with a wooden addition on the back with the kitchen. Our upstairs neighbor had come out to his car in the rain and had seen flames and smoke coming from the tongue and groove wood paneling on the outside of the kitchen. That addition had been needing paint for years had with the heavy rain the wood was soaked. That was good. If it hadn’t been raining so hard for so long the kitchen would have gone up like a tinderbox. It was also leaking. That was bad. If it hadn’t been raining so hard for so long, the water would not have found the 100-year-old bare wires running under the kitchen. That was the cause of the fire. Fortunately, the firemen got there quickly, even on Christmas day. They put the fire out before it did any interior damage to the kitchen. Being firemen, and being thorough, they did all the interior damage to the kitchen themselves. They took out the entire back wall, leaving only the studs. The cabinets that had hung on that wall, the appliances, hell, pretty much everything in the kitchen was piled in a shredded heap on what had been the floor. But Tawney was safe. That was all that mattered to us. Not only was she safe, she was ecstatic. The firemen had broken into the living room long before much smoke had gotten in. She was in her customary place on the couch. Pretty much as far as you could get from the kitchen. She was thrilled to meet all these new visitors and, as we weren’t home, even more thrilled that so many people would stop by on a holiday just to see her. She knew George our landlord, but she went right out with the firemen long before George got there. Fortunately she was never much of a watchdog. I remember being glad she didn’t have opposable thumbs. After that she’d have been dialing 911 all the time just for the company.

Racquetballs

2010-02-13T16:39:00.001-08:00

Tawney loved racquetballs. She found one on the street when she was a puppy. We had an empty room in a large house we’d just moved into. I threw that ball for her till I thought I’d killed her. She was grinning and chasing the ball, but she couldn’t stop. Finally she just collapsed. After she caught her breath and took a nap, she was fine. But she had a serious racquetball jones. She developed a real relationship with the ball. She was “one with the racquetball.” She would catch them, and bring them to the edge of the step into our sunroom. Set the ball down between her paws and rest her chin on it. Then, without her seeming to move at all, slowly the ball would roll over the edge of the step bounce once and roll to your feet and stop right in front of you. It didn’t matter where you were in the room. It was like a magic trick she did. Like a good magician, she never explained it.

Adoption

2010-02-11T06:12:00.001-08:00

We brought her home in a shoebox. The whole family had driven downstate almost two hours to the breeder’s house. He wasn’t home when we got there, but his daughter let us in and showed us the garage. There were large cages and four cocker spaniel puppies. Two were males, all black, less expensive, excited and jumping all over us. I quickly lost interest in them. They seemed like trouble. Then two buff colored sisters. One was sedate, moved slowly and seemed a little lethargic. Maybe she was just tired, but she seemed like the opposite end of the spectrum. Too much and too little. The other sister was just right. Affectionate, but not hyper. Calm, but not comatose. She was the one I wanted. No one else seemed to have a strong preference, but I did.

This was my dog. I think the rest of the family was still in shock. Dad had finally agreed to allow pets and, it was his idea. We had had pets before, but then we lived in apartments and always something came up and we had to give them up. Maybe it was a move to a place that didn’t allow pets or in the case of a pair of cats, a sudden tendency to see the entire apartment as a litter box. Probably just reacting to their environment. Things back then were very stressful. Dad still drank and mom, wife one, wasn’t much help of any kind. It didn’t feel right, taking in animals we couldn’t keep. Now Dad was sober 9 years. Wife two, Linda, was a keeper. We both had good jobs and were in school. Her in college, me in Law School. We had just bought a big four bedroom house with a fenced yard. One day Dad finally owned how different life had become. Very abruptly, and without any warning, I had announced that I thought it was finally time we had a dog. I knew at the time what I wanted. Oh, we talked about it, but I was already set on a cocker spaniel. My parents had one when I was born. He got jealous of me and had to go before I got to know him. My grandparents had one when I was very young, and his picture, painted by my aunt hung in their house long after he had gone. I remembered Finnegan. I remembered the stories my mother told about him. I wanted a cocker spaniel.

We looked in the paper and saw some ads. Found a breeder with some pups in Greenwood, Delaware. Walter Millman. We drove the long ride down one night in the rain. It was cold. Well, pretty cool anyway to be rained on. We picked her out and by then Walter had arrived. Tawney was a purebred of champion stock. We filled out the AKC papers and took her home. In an uncovered shoebox. We stopped at a Dunkin Donuts on the way back, the only place that was open that late and left her in the back seat.

She was too small to climb out of that shoebox. I can’t remember when we picked a name, exactly. It was after we got her, and before many days had passed. Probably within a day. We went through a book of dog names, I think it was a booklet we got from the breeder. We settled on Tawney Ginger Kissyface. The first two names were her color and somewhat redundant. The third was clearly her personality... and the sprinkle of tan freckles on her white muzzle. She had an adorably kissy face.

The next day, we went to the pet store to get her a buddy. We got a small, grey stripped kitten that cost a small fraction of what we’d paid for her. They were best friends from the start. They slept and played together. The kitten would curl up behind Tawney on the cushion they both slept on in the kitchen. Once in the “spoon” position, the kitten would clean Tawney’s ears, head and face. Her whole life from that point on, Tawney would lick her paws and wash her face like a cat.

We had that kitten only 3 months. It was a sad lesson that put us off pet stores forever. She, and all of kittens on display that day in a communal cage, shared a very contagious and deadly disease specific to cats, Feline Infectious Peritonitis. One day, she suddenly could not draw a breath without pain. It was a weekend and we took her to the emergency vet. We didn’t know them. One initially wanted to run thousands of dollars worth of tests. The more senior vet took a look, after it became clear we could not do that, and after some more simple test, declared it FIP and that she had had it most all her life. Contracted probably when she was in the kitty pen at the pet store. Nothing could be done for it. We buried her in the back yard. Tawney went straight to that spot in the yard several times to offer her own eulogy for her friend. Naturally, we replaced the kitten immediately, this time adopting from a family advertising a kitten. Tawney was a loving big sister to that kitten as well.

That kitten, my oldest daughter named Candy. Within 48 hours she gave us a scare. We couldn’t find her anywhere in the house and with so many people coming and going, we assumed she must have escaped into this strange neighborhood and was lost. We immediately put up posters throughout the neighborhood. Then, as I sat in the office that afternoon, she walked out from behind a picture frame on my bookshelf, stretched and yawned. Kittens can sleep a long time.

Goodbye Tawney

2010-02-09T05:32:00.000-08:00

At 5:24 pm, January 27, 2010, Dr. Kevin Coogan, her lifelong vet, inserted a catheter. At 5:25 pm, eyes still open, she was gone. Linda and Virginia were there. I was in Miami Beach, connected by phone, talking to her. Thanking her. Nicole, Stan and Rebecca had just arrived for a week long visit the day before. At 5:00 pm, we had just gotten to Bayside and ordered food at The Knife. Tawney was due for her appointment at 5:30. I got the call and excused myself. The kids would fend for themselves for a while. I sat overlooking the bay, looking at pictures of her on my laptop, making notes about things I remembered. The second call came. They were in the examining room running a few minutes early. I talked to her, thanked her for all our time together. Then, it was over.

She had spent that last couple of days being taken to many of her favorite places, seeing as many of her family and friends as time allowed. She had her own T-bone steak and a porterhouse bone the night before. Chased acorns in the park that afternoon, visited my parents, had her habitual “special water from her “special bowl” and caught as many cheese goldfish crackers as she could eat. She had a forbidden treat of chocolate right before she went. We owe her so much, she was such a joy. This is the picture I was looking at as they told me she was passing, as I thanked her. It is how I will always remember her.

The story of a dog is the story of your life. It can’t be otherwise. A dog becomes such a part of who you are, where you go, how far you range from home and what time you get back. Most of all, a dog is the one who makes you glad you came back.

Dogs see you for who you are. Not ego, thought forms and attachments, they see the part of you that always was and will be long after the you that you think you are has turned to dust.

It’s easy to lose ourselves in this world of form, to forget who and what we are. To become unconscious, insane. Most of us are, most of the time. When we adopt a dog, we care for their bodies, their forms. They return the favor by caring for our souls. This is why dog owners intuitively gravitate to the word “angel” when describing their dog.

Dogs bring us into the present moment. They are presence. Dogs know no future. The treat you promise a dog tomorrow, does not exist. The walk you promise after TV is vapor. Dogs live in the now. Likewise, dogs forgive all trespasses. True, they can suffer wounds, they can remember the past and form neurotic defenses, but they are infinitely forgiving and eternally hopeful that their humans, and all humans, will someday embrace compassion and live it as they do. In this way, dogs are monks. Spiritual teachers.

When I go home, when my time comes to leave this world of form, it will be a great comfort to know that Tawney will be waiting, eager to see me. I know that if I hold the intention, while I am here, to do for others what Tawney did for me, my life will be well lived.

Of the making of laws there is no end, and much legislation wearies society.

2010-01-28T08:01:00.000-08:00

“Law is scar tissue on the body politic.” – John Wladis

The idea of solving social problems by the enactment of legislation, or lawmaking, has at it’s core an element of magical thinking. Few laws enacted are ever preceded by any sort of feasibility study on whether or not it’s even possible to enforce them, much less what resources would be required, what their cost would be or what the collateral costs or consequences of the law would be in society. We simply propose an incantation, set committees of representatives on it, hold a ritual affirming it (a vote), another ritual to put it into effect (a signing), and voila, it is so! Reality is changed by the collective will of the people, Huzzah!

That this incantation is then filed dutifully away with burgeoning body of similar incantations to be recited at appropriate times by the priesthood of police, administrative enforcers, attorneys and judges, already too few and too poorly funded to properly chant the existing incantations is as conveniently disregarded as was the connection between sacrificing live animals, or humans, and whatever way ancient societies wanted the gods to alter reality on that particular day. Whew. But having made a law, or having ritually slaughtered an innocent animal, we can at least rest easy, knowing we have taken action to redress a wrong.

It is said that “Justice delayed is justice denied.” Justice randomly, unevenly, or worse, selectively applied is not justice at all. This is at the heart of the profiling controversy. Officers who can’t possibly handle the massive amount of enforcement society has tasked them with, seek ways to become more efficient at finding likely violators. But no matter how they base their expectations, it is always upon on lawful external attributes or actions of people who aren’t necessarily, or even likely, violators. To hold such expectations, increases the likelihood that this class of people will be arrested for these crimes while decreasing the likelihood that others will. Essentially the expectation is always self-validating because the target group is on the receiving end of the bulk of limited enforcement resources.

Because the entire “justice” system is already tasked at many times it’s capacity, all new laws automatically degrade the enforcement, and consequently the justice, of all laws.

Society’s ability to resource law enforcement is finite, limited by the economic burden that can reasonably be borne by the people to do so. Further, many laws, by their nature, create a drag on the economy, inherently throttling back economic productivity, reducing profits and wages, and thereby reducing taxes, or the revenues necessary to enforce the law.

Society’s capacity for lawmaking, on the other hand, is virtually infinite. Each legislative session can be counted on to produce new laws. Each administrative body continually promulgates rules and regulations to further their legislative mandates. Appellate court decisions each establish a precedent that acts with the force of law to guide the future actions of society. It can’t be otherwise, this is what these institutions are created to do. One can only suppose that they will continually attempt to do it.

We could, I suppose, operate in some fashion to limit the expansion of law. This is seen in practice by so called “sunset provisions” in laws, which limit the length of time they are effective. These are seldom used in proportion to the total body of new law created. So we have to look to repeal. The same emotional arguments that cause legislation to be enacted in the first place, tend to limit our ability to repeal it. Take for example the poorly conceived felony rule that provides an absolute bar to the issuance or renewal of a health care license to anyone with a felony adjudication in a broad class of crimes for a period of 15 years. Many otherwise eligible people with skills in short supply, nurses, for example, are barred from working, long after their penalties have been completely satisfied and they are, arguably, completely rehabilitated. It is widely agreed that this does not serve society, but professional associations, advocacy groups and the Health Department itself can hardly be heard to say they favor the licensing of convicted felons. It’s a most unpalatable sound bite.

So how do we depart from this obviously ill conceived magical process of “lawmaking.” I suggest that we go back to the priestly practice of ritual slaughter and forsake the making of law altogether. I do this for the simple reason that it is, if not more effective, at least less harmful. I propose that in place of passing additional unenforceable laws, we revert to the ritual sacrifice of humans to the gods. Human sacrifice has always been regarded as more potent juju than the mere sacrifice of small animals and humans are the ones who tend to create problems in human society.

In ancient societies, the efficacy of an animal sacrifice was measured in part by what you were willing to “give” to the gods in exchange for the favor sought. Basically, the value of the animal being sacrificed. Since in our society, we value people based on their accumulation of wealth, their celebrity or their power, it makes sense that if we want our requests to be properly empowered, that we sacrifice only the very wealthy, celebrities and those in positions of power, specifically, politicians. In addition to being much more effective magic than the idle (idol?) passage of legislation, there are some practical benefits to be gained.

In the case of the very wealthy, we have repeatedly seen that the theory that wealth is amassed in proportion to social good accomplished is just plain rubbish. While there are undoubtedly a few remaining adherents to the doctrine of Noblesse Oblige who engage in philanthropy and the advancement of social good through the use of their largess, this invariably occurs after such largess is amassed. The continual and unrelenting ritual of lawmaking has so corrupted the natural order that more often than not, to amass great wealth one must do great social harm, to become a brigand of sorts. So, wealth becomes disproportionately concentrated in the hands of people who take from, rather than contribute to, the well being of society. Sacrificing them on a regular basis, would redistribute the stagnant pools of wealth, invigorating the economy, while bringing to a halt the evil such people work in society. Think bank CEOs, think Oil Company Boards of directors, think automakers.

As for celebrities, who are the majority of our celebrities nowadays? Who do we as a society celebrate? Drug addled socialites, gun toting professional athletes, gangsters (yeah, I know that’s not how they spell it), and whiny, petty, vapid actors, “news” personalities and “reality” “stars.” C’mon, ritually sacrificing, for example, Glen Beck, on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial would arguably accomplish more social good than the sum total of all legislation passed in the last forty years. Burn Paris Hilton at the foot of the Washington Monument and you immediately save the taxpayers millions in future police and prosecution expenses. Crucify the BP Board of Directors along L’enfant plaza and you instantly alter a culture of corporate debauchery that kills and maims countless people and devastates wide swaths of cities and economies annually.

In the case of those in political power, there would be no surer route to the cessation of continual lawmaking than to regularly sacrifice those inclined to this practice. Don’t tell me you haven’t wistfully contemplated it, or even dreamt about it. I won’t belabor this one, it sort of speaks for itself.

In conclusion, if we are to engage in magical thinking, we need to return to time honored methods for their potency as well as their practical benefits. The magic of lawmaking is easily discredited and has failed to establish its efficacy despite it’s long and extensive practice in modern society.

Absurd? No more absurd than the idea that law solves problems. Law creates problems. We suffer these problems for the relief we get from discomfort with our impotence in the face of complex social problems. Law is a laundromat where we wash our unfulfilled societal duties from our consciousness. When we encounter an intolerable social condition, rather than take whatever inconvenient personal action we can to alleviate it, we collectively pass a law. This magically transforms the responsibility from our own, to our government's. That these are one and the same in a democracy is a clever slight of hand that saves us a world of personal suffering. It's magic and like all good magic, it's an illusion.

Understand

2010-01-04T10:32:00.000-08:00

"Do you think there are things that can't be understood?" I asked him.

"You mean by humans?" he replied.

"Well, yes, of course by, humans."

"Hmmm. Let's see." He pondered for a moment, then said "If you look at the vastness of space, and time, all 13.7 billion years that we know about so far, maybe more, and you took all the humans that ever lived, everything they ever created, as well as all the humans that will ever live, all they will create, and put it all together in one place and time, it would all completely vanish in that vastness. But what you're asking is, if everything in that vastness, including the vastness itself, can be placed inside a human mind? Is that what you asked?"

"Well, when you put it that way, it seems kind of silly." I offered sheepishly.

"Ah, then I can definitely answer your question. But the only thing I can say for certain is that there are an infinite number of things that YOU will never understand."

I stared at him for a long time. As he dumped out his pipe, stood up, buttoned his coat and wished me good day. I stared as he disappeared around the corner at the end of the block. At no time could I find any indication that I either had, or had not been, insulted.

California Rebels Strike Back

2010-01-04T04:34:00.000-08:00

May 16, 2017, Washington, DC

Rebels from the breakaway Republic of California today executed coordinated attacks throughout the US capital. Explosions at the Forrestal Building, the FBI headquarters, and the DC Metro Rail station near the Capitol rocked the early morning hours as sirens sounded and troops took to the streets to ring remaining Government sites. Another attack near Foggy Bottom was disrupted when a roadblock discovered a truckload of explosives, the occupants were killed by security forces before they could detonate.

The whereabouts of five US Senators is currently unknown, but the Department of Homeland Security denies they are being sought as persons of interest, rather that the search is "a routine inventory of political assets triggered by any attack on the capital." Meanwhile, a growing number of Representatives and Senators have complained that the mandatory security details make them feel as if they are under perpetual house arrest.

Rebels quickly claimed credit for the blasts as retaliation for Government forces burning yesterday of several state buildings in Sacramento. The Federation of New England States, through their UN ambassador, again expressed support for the Republic of California while urging all sides to find a peaceful resolution to the months long conflict. President Palin again expressed her resolve in a radio address to the Nation. "I am determined that under my watch, this Union will not further shrink from the 31 states I inherited from President McCain. We have drawn a line in the sand. Our resolve is unshakeable. We are reloading. Read my lips- No More Secession!"

Meanwhile, delegates from Great Britain, France, Russia, Italy, and Germany met in Zurich with US Secretary of State, Dick Lugar, to receive assurances that the US nuclear arsenal was secure. The European Union has expressed deepening concern since the successful bid for independence by the Democratic Coalition of Great Lakes States early last year that weapons stores at known and unknown locations throughout the former US territories would fall into the hands of separatists rebels. This fear was supplanted with the Election of Senator Palin to the Presidency, by growing fears that Government forces might actually use nuclear weapons to subdue the breakaway Republics and perhaps even attack former territories already granted Sovereignty. A delegate to the European Union's Commission on Nuclear Security commented on condition of anonymity, "We are gravely concerned about the direction of events in the former United States. There is no longer any predictability in the course of this once mighty global power. They have fallen on desperate times and we very much fear the use of ultimate force in their ongoing civil wars. They must demonstrate stability, or it will be up to the rest to the world to impose a solution."

Or maybe, we could return to more civil political discourse?

Coastal Communities Secede from the Union

2010-01-01T09:39:00.000-08:00

Reuters, April 1, 2010
In a surprise move today, barrier island communities from Key West, Florida to Martha's Vineyard, Massachusetts, seceded from the United States. Citing International Law and the commonly accepted 2 mile limit, the communities asserted that they are outside of the jurisdictional limits of the US. A spokesperson said they plan to name the new country after the fabled continent of Atlantis. Attorneys for the group filed in Federal Court today to free residents from all jurisdictional exercise by the US federal government, and the various states, including taxation, regulation of commerce and seek to relocate Coast Guard Installations further inland.

One seaside community Mayor Jim Barnes of Ocean City Maryland said of the move, "We're just really tired of all the nonsense and political bickering on the mainland. People should just chill. We don't wanna work, we just want to bang on the drum all day. What's wrong with that?"

Attorneys for the Federated Oceanic Organization of Localities (FOOL) say that this civil war will be fought in the courts and not in the streets. "For one thing, the people we represent are a peaceful bunch, they mean no harm to anyone. Also, they really can't be bothered to arm themselves. Then there are the Mojitos. Peace out."

And so this is Christmas

2009-12-18T22:29:00.000-08:00

Just about 2000 years ago, a teacher, a Jew by the name of Yeshua, a carpenter by trade, shared a number of profound spiritual teachings.

He exhorted us to remember that we are children of God.

That our divine nature, even though we had separated ourselves from it, would greet us with open arms and give us all of our hearts desires, the moment we recalled who we really were.

He reminded us that the kingdom of God was within us. That if we believed this, even a little, we could move mountains, that our prayers, our requests, all that we desired would instantly be ours. That the world was our own creation, being ourselves divine.

He told us we didn’t need a bunch of rules to live by, we could simply remain present and in each moment come from love and compassion. If we did this, we would be free to do anything we wanted. He called this the “Good News.”

Tolle

2009-12-11T17:43:00.001-08:00

I am intensely grateful to Tara for introducing me to the works of Eckhart Tolle. An unconscious day begins in blind terror wondering how everything that MUST be done, will be done. A day of presence ends in total amazement at the number of people who were loved in so short a time... and the realization that that was all that was important.

one twist

2009-12-11T17:42:00.001-08:00

Twist one electron a quarter of a turn ad unlock the entire universe.

Screams

2009-12-11T17:40:00.001-08:00

The scream and the face of deepest despair are the scream and the face of the most exquisite ecstasy. In either and both, we are narrowed to such a sharp focus that we pierce the veil of impermanence. Both are the sound of the presence of God knocking the air from your lungs.

Chasing shadows

2009-09-01T06:23:00.000-07:00

I had been in longing, chasing what I did not have. Stood in my ocean, looked at the exquisite clouds filling my sky, drank the cup of this moment and laughed loud and deep. Then two of my brothers flew past looking for breakfast. What folly! To lose my ground and wholeness chasing shadows of desire.

Lurking

2009-08-25T04:42:00.000-07:00

The big thing lurking, the thing you sense, is a paradigm shift. Old patterns, old cycles will be broken. Then, just as in your dream, as if gravity were suddenly switched off, you will step up, but your foot will not come down and you will fly, full of amazement and wonder, to places you never dared imagine. At first it will not be as comfortable as you might suspect. It is a great test of faith to soar on wings we don't yet trust. Just as we trust our heart to beat, so we can trust our wings to fly.

Condominium

2009-07-29T19:20:00.000-07:00

A condo is 100 people who agree to be chained together at the waist and thrown into the ocean, without ever asking if the other 99 can swim.

Twelve Pelicans

2009-07-22T08:28:00.000-07:00

Twelve Pelicans

A squadron of twelve pelicans saluted me as I crested the dune, flying in classic “V” formation. They swept out over the sand where I stood, banked and turned back out to sea to hunt. A friend from the Saturday sunrise beach meeting had commented one morning on the approaching flock of “penguins.” We all laughed and now, whenever I see pelicans aloft, I visualize a wedge of flying penguins wiggling their stubby wings.

A hundred yards further, at the water’s edge, I saw that the stiff wind had grounded the less majestic birds. The terns and gulls waddled around the beach in loose mobs. They faced the incoming wind like hundreds of black and white weather vanes striving mightily not to become airborne. Their tiny webbed feet had embossed the sand in a wide band stretching from the water’s edge nearly to the dune. The whitecaps roared in, beating the shore furiously. It was hot and humid, but the sea breeze made it comfortable on this side of the dune. I trudged down the water line southward, eyeing the ocean. It was nearly high tide and the waves were churning viciously. I would stay dry this morning. I love my morning habit of a dawn skinny dip, but I did not want that morsel to lead my obituary.

I came up nearly even with the 10^th street lifeguard stand and turned away from the sea. The sun had reached the shore before me this morning. I came off the beach at 11^th street and crossed Ocean Drive, stopping a patient cabdriver at the crosswalk. I got to Washington and as I turned right, began saying a clear and smiling “good morning” to everyone I met. It soon became an experiment to see if I could get a response. So many of the strangers that speak to you on the street, do so only to slow you down so that they can tell you their tale of woe and ask what spare change you might have to give them. At least that’s my theory as to why greetings are nearly universally ignored as people shuffle down the street. Women ignore them more than men, and men busy at some task seem to respond most frequently. Painters, delivery people, power washers. I encountered no women working this morning, so I can’t make a generalization about women workers. I crossed at Espanola and stopped at the Cuban bakery. I ordered a cafe cubano and a grilled cuban bread. It was $2.75. I pocketed the quarter, always in short supply, and dropped a dollar in the tip jar. “Gracias!” “ De nada.”

I walked out to the sidewalk, found a small round table with a lightweight aluminum chair and sat down. It was angled sharply by the sidewalk beneath it, but not enough to spill my coffee. I faced the mouth of Espanola Way. Momentarily, the 50 something, sun baked, white guy in filthy surfer gear and dreadlocks down his back came bursting around the corner, cartoon style, reeling on one foot as if he’d just been thrown out of the hotel. A not improbable event. He righted himself and walked casually down the sidewalk toward me as if nothing had happened. From his appearance, one would expect that anyone who did not know him would immediately throw him out. I did not know him and I suspected that anyone who did, might eject him even more quickly.

I finished my colatta and bread and walked down Espanola to Drexel. As I passed the Italian place, the old proprietor sat in a chair, back to the wall, arms folded, head back, eyes closed, mouth agape. His workers were inside readying the place for the day’s business. I thought to say “buongiorno,” But part of me did not want to disturb him, the other part of me, fearing he was dead, did not want to discover the body. I rounded the corner and at Drexel and 15^th passed a group of middle aged hispanic women, about seven of them, right in front of the tailor shop. They were hugging. One, an older, shorter, blonde stood in the middle crying, the others were smiling and encouraging her, “You must go” one said. I heard “Puerto Rico.” I could not tell if they were friends or co-workers, or both. Nor could I tell if she was being urged to visit relatives or take a long overdue vacation, but it was plain she would be traveling, most likely to Puerto Rico. Her friends were happy for her, and she was happy enough to cry. I crossed 15^th and Drexel diagonally and spotted an approaching woman with a small white dog and two chidlren, an older boy, maybe 11 and younger girl, perhaps 8. I said “Good Morning” They all stopped their conversation long enough to reply, and off they went. I thought, had I grown up in such a place, I could never have left.

Intention

2009-07-19T15:15:00.000-07:00

Well, I really embarrassed myself tonight. Embarrassed a student and maybe lost some credibility with a class. To my way of thinking, it all had to do with intention, and expectations. I’m not blaming anyone but me for this. But I chose how to respond to some postings on the Blog. I responded out of ego, deviated from the expectations I normally hold when teaching and the result was a mess.

I had an exit interview today with Garnets. With my own experience as a guide, and with the many blog comments, I was fully ready to put them in their place if there was any texting or sleeping or weird Eric energy. Sure enough, while he hadn’t done it with me before, as I tried to get class started, Luis sat on a massage table 3 feet from me texting. I snapped “ Put that away, in a tone that let everyone know I was serious. Mike was lying down on a massage table on his side, facing away from me. I snapped, “Get up.” “This is important, you’ll need to know this.” Both complied. I patted myself on the head for good classroom management skills. We got the job done in record time with fewer than normal questions and less class participation that I am used to. There was a blank, stunned look on most faces.

Then, tonight, I taught Florida Law. First time. Ed usually does it. Though I’m familiar with the material, I haven’t made it my own, and haven’t yet found something apart from the brutal lecture and Q&A. Still, it was a large class. Emerald and Topaz. I was a stickler for time, chastised even a minute’s lateness, and began promptly at the 5 minute mark on the return from break. They returned much faster from break that I was used to, had lots of relevant questions. Still there was an energy in the back that felt distracted and distracting. I walked back there several times to have it melt as I arrived. I was in control. Yes! I had most of the class hanging on my every word. We were getting the material covered, I was making it relevant and I was really scaring them about what could happen if they made a mistake or disregarded any provision of the law.

Still, in the back, in one corner. Dee always seemed to be enjoying himself a bit too much, and the people around him as well. He disintegrated into a coughing fit at one point, went to get water and was then quite for the balance of the class. But the two in front of him, Sondra and Jen, were constantly talking to each other smiling and even laughing. It seemed distracting and I became fixated on it. Finally, I snapped. “What is so damned funny over there and does it have anything to do with this class?” Sondra teared up immediately and I felt badly. They explained that she was having trouble with some of the things I was saying and that Jen had been helping her. They both seemed sincere and Sondra was visibly shaken. I apologized, said that I hadn’t known and that I was sorry. I spoke to her after class as well and answered her questions.

I walked in with a different expectation and a different intention and the class played out exactly like the script in my head. Unfortunately, it was the wrong script. I owe them a killer wrap up Thursday, and a new attitude.

Linen

2009-07-16T19:12:00.000-07:00

Life is a comfy linen shirt.

Love is a mirror that says "Damn, that looks good on you."

God is your tailor.

Icarus, me

2009-07-15T18:10:00.000-07:00

This morning, I saw a pelican dancing and laughing in the sun. He was thousands of feet up and only his ten-foot wingspan and characteristic soaring marked him for a pelican at that great distance. He caught an updraft near the top of a column of cloud of positively biblical majesty, far out over the ocean. I could tell his unseen partner danced and laughed as well, as he spiraled up and tumbled down and spiraled upward again achieving an altitude far beyond any conceivable utility.

Icarus must have danced and laughed with God as well on his maiden and terminal voyage. I have the Herbert Draper print, “Lament for Icarus” in my office. Broken and singed on the rocks, nestled in his burnt plumage, the sea nymphs curiously sad around him, there is yet a peace and deep satisfaction on his lifeless form that seems to cry out, “Let’s go again!”

It’s different, but somehow the same as a gift my daughter gave me many years ago. She gave me this gift, but I’m sure has little recollection of it herself. It happened this way. I had taken her, and her sister to a huge water park near my brother’s home in Chesapeake, Virginia.

She was about seven and tall enough for most all the rides in the park, but she spent the day in the ankle deep toddler pool, afraid to mount the slides. Finally, about half an hour before closing, she agreed to ride the shortest, straightest slide in the park. I went first so I could greet her at the bottom. Down she came, splashed in, and sunk like a stone. Up she sprang, sputtering and shivering. Water cascaded down her face. As soon as I got to her, I was sure it had ended badly. So urgently was she trying to speak that she would not let the water run from her face. She sputtered and stammered through it and her soaking long blonde hair, which now clung to every contour of her face. “Ca, ca, ca....ca, ca” Finally, it tumbled out almost as a single syllable. “Can I go again?” And there it was. Her gift to me. That ecstatic joy, uncontainable, tumbling out of her, in that instant, fearless. In the next half hour, she went again, and again, finally riding the tallest, steepest, fastest slide in the park.

This morning as the pelican tumbled, then spiraled, then tumbled again, I could see him sputtering to God, “Ca, ca, ca... Can I go again?” On such a morning one steps off the beach fearless, ready to mount the tallest, steepest, fastest slide the day has to offer.

Ralph

2009-07-10T20:36:00.000-07:00

Some mornings, I sit on the beach with my grandfather. He loves it here. He has a wild heart, like his father, and, I’m sure, like his grandfather and like my mother. When he was still a young man, he broke it. I’m not sure he healed in his lifetime. Now he is whole. He is also sober. He hasn’t had a drink since he died, many years ago. We sit in silence mostly. I hope one day he will speak to me. For now, it is enough that I know he is there.

In the sunrise and the surf is something he chased in his youth. To Wyoming from Texas, Colorado to Louisiana. A sort of Hemmingwayesque life of sport and travel, hunting and fishing, the outdoors. A free spirit, not boxed or bounded, unlimited by his meager education, not chained to any expectation. Never owned or controlled by a MacJob, but never quite fitting into the machinery of life. Ground more by the cogs and gears than enmeshed with them. Perhaps that is what broke his heart. It has nearly broken mine many times.

I will never know him in the way we know a friend or a sibling. In life, for me, he was a loving man who intrigued me. Smart and funny, he was yet solitary. He woke in the afternoon, stayed up till the early morning. Watching baseball games on TV, old movies, drinking Lone Star and chain smoking. The wisdom, the vitality, his essence was inaccessible. In my youth, I did not even know to look for it.

Today, I am growing to know him, perhaps in a way that he was never known by anyone in life. Reflected dimly, darkly in the dank pool of my own soul. I believe I may be unraveling the path, teasing apart the threads of a life my family has been seeking for generations. Or perhaps I am mad. There will be no way to tell. It is a solitary path. One eschewed by most. There is little affirmation and no signposts. The only sign that it may right are the laments of my children, and siblings and the loving puzzlement of my parents and my wife. It is the road less traveled. In the dark, the path is broken and unclear. It is slow going at times. The destination quite uncertain. It is a great comfort to sit upon the steps of the lifeguard stand, turn to my grandfather and see him smile.

Private Gift

2009-06-29T04:38:00.001-07:00

You can see your own art, hear your own music, read your own writing. Bodywork, on the other hand, is a private gift you give to the receiver alone. Even you can not know what it is that was given.

Both Dogs

2009-06-27T09:24:00.000-07:00

At one time, we had two dogs. Tawney, our Cocker Spaniel had been with us her whole life. She had never known a moment when her bowl was not full of fresh food. She ate, or she didn't, with no urgency at all. She took her time, usually leaving lots of food for later. The sound of the can opener meant nothing to her. She savored what she had, not rushing. There was always more for later.

Lyla, we rescued a year after Tawney came into our lives. She was at least two years older. Lyla had never known plenty. She had been kept in a filthy, cold fenced yard, her only shelter an open wire cage with a light bulb for warmth. She shared this space with other dogs. They shared a meager and erratic supply of food. We had Lyla for years. Whenever we put food down, she ran straight to the bowl and, using her lower jaw as a shovel, would clean the bowl in three bites. Left, center, right. She devoured her food as if there would never be any more. She wanted it all, right then.

In time, I have come to know this about myself.

I am both dogs.

Innocence

2009-06-19T06:03:00.000-07:00

People marvel that I go into the Ocean at night, and somehow, especially that I will do bodywork there, late at night. They ask why I'm not afraid. I don't know how to answer. I can't hold any thought of any thing to be afraid of. Innocence protects me. If I allowed myself to play with fears, then I would be vulnerable indeed. In nature, blood in the water attracts sharks. Limping attracts the big cats. Erratic breathing causes carrion birds to circle. Innocence glides among the sharks, belonging to their world. Innocence strokes the mane of the big cat and draws back all it's fingers. Innocence watches the carrion birds in the distance seeing the beauty of their magnificent wingspan. We think our innocence is weak and fragile, so we protect it. We swallow deeply and bury it beneath a mountain of neurosis. But our innocence is the greatest power we possess. When we let it out, the world parts for us, making way, encircling us, shielding us, protecting us, nurturing us. This is the root of my work. To hold my innocence, to beckon that of my client from the deep hiding places, to turn them out into the world wrapped in it like a warm blanket, like blazing bronze armor, like a beloved child of God.

Longing

2009-06-16T09:06:00.000-07:00

Longing is the appetite that gives flavor to our lives. Cleanse the palate often and take a bite of everything, and everyone, you encounter!
Salud

Baptism

2009-06-09T04:12:00.000-07:00

Floating naked in the placid ocean at sunrise, the fullsome moon preparing to set in that same broad arc the sun is embarking on, I stretch. First this way, then that, my breathing resonating through the bone- the only sound to reach my ears. My open eyes watching the clouds shift and dance across the radiant blue sky. God whispers, "This is my son, with whom I am well pleased." Thus begins another day, renewed.

Love

2009-06-04T02:13:00.000-07:00

Love Summer

Forty years, faded flowers

Does the love endure?

Trust

2009-06-02T05:17:00.000-07:00

Trust is a powerful ally. When you trust deeply, easily and innocently, it is impossible to be wounded in conversation. Words cannot hurt us, hurt is a chosen response, a response to meanings we give to words. When we refuse to believe that someone is trying to hurt us, we never go there. Sometimes this is naive. But the fact is, that even if we are wrong about the intention, we are still unhurt.

Educating Hands Haiku #2

2009-05-31T04:36:00.001-07:00

Wise hearts seeking

Wholeness, dance, engage

What is their song?

Educating Hands Haiku

2009-05-31T03:12:00.000-07:00

Deep love speaks

magical touch, souls bloom

Why not yours?

Bad Hair

2009-05-23T06:27:00.000-07:00

While both my daughters are beautiful, it is my youngest who has always danced with the camera, romancing it, cajoling it, persuading it to treat her kindly. I think the rest of us have simply accepted it's sometimes harsh verdict as an immutable truth we were powerless to change. Virginia, on the other hand, knew she could win it over. From very early there are pictures of her mugging and posing.

Alas, each year as school picture day rolled around, tragedy always struck. In early elementary school, she could not resist the urge to rearrange her hair immediately before the photo session. It didn't matter if we had known it was picture day and taken great pains to prepare her, or she had neglected to relay that information and she arrived with bedhead (she was a notorious sack hound, sometimes requiring the application of icewater to her face to revive her for school in the morning). Regardless, she would "do" her hair right before the picture. The results were always disappointing, to her more than anyone.

One year, she came home with a positively brilliant picture, to this day, one of my favorites. She hates it with a passion, and would surely have destroyed all copies, if I let her. In it, she had collected her hair, by herself, in a ponytail holder, coming straight up out of the top of her head. Her hair was impeccable, her smile perfect and broad, no trace of sleepy rings around the eyes. I love that picture. She hates it. I think it looks a bit too much like Pebbles Flintstone for her liking. But I don’t believe she has taken a bad picture since.

She chose cosmetology in high school, went on to modeling school with Barbizon, and while she’s never pursued modeling as a career, she has definitely made friends with the camera. They have a pact of non-aggression that has endured unbroken.

Her experience, and her struggle, reminds me that it is our pain, and our frustration, that sculpts us. We conquer that which opposes us. It is uplifting to, in the current moment of angst, see and recognize the seeds of future victory, instead of endless, futile struggle.

We are made to master ourselves, to apply the chisel, however painful, to that which we dislike in ourselves, to that which does not resonate with our longing. It is a lifelong commission to bring the god and goddess from the stone. It is often solitary work, never to be admired, appreciated, or even noticed by another. Do it we must, nonetheless. We have no other task on earth, but to manifest the divine within, whatever countenance it wears.

Thanksgiving

2009-05-21T08:23:00.000-07:00

It was a morning of birds. I grabbed the green beach towel and draped it around my neck over my gray paint stained sweatshirt. I left the beach bag by the door. I had not expected I would go into the water, but wore my suit under my jeans. The air was crisp and almost uncomfortable at 59°. There was a very slight breeze. I was encouraged that perhaps the surf would not be rough. I strode straight down 16th toward the cylindrical tower of the Loews Hotel. I wanted to walk down along the beach. At this hour the cafes on Washington would not be open in any case. If I hurried, I would beat the sunrise by half an hour and maybe swim nude before the sun was up. I knew the water would be warm, or warm enough. I just did not know if the chill in the air would discourage me from stripping, or more importantly, if I would dread leaving the embrace of the Atlantic to stand shivering on the beach while I toweled and dressed.

I took the brickwalk between the Royal Palms and St. Moritz, stepped through the gap in the sea wall and out onto the beach. The eastern half of the sky glowed a light pastel blue. Pink clouds hung in a thin band just above the horizon, and some swirls of thin haze had begun to glow pink and orange overhead. The birds were working their way up from the south as I walked down from 16th to 10th. As I got to the water’s edge, an osprey snatched a surprisingly large fish from the surf just ahead of me, not three feet from the shore. As he winged his way north along the shore, dangling his catch beneath him, two gulls struggled to catch him and share his breakfast. Each time one of them got too close, he banked and flew faster. As they disappeared in the distance, he was still ahead and still gripping his prize.

Flocks of gulls, interspersed with the odd albatross and freely mingling with some yellow beaked, black tufted terns, swooped low over the water. When one would find an interesting morsel, they would all spiral upward, each trying to wrest a piece from the lucky lead bird. The squawking would rise and fall and they would sweep again out over the ocean.

As I approached the tenth street lifeguard stand, the round pink one, a gaggle of Japanese tourists settled on and around it, slightly more colorful and every bit as animated as the flocks of gulls. I passed them, keeping an eye toward the brightly glowing horizon. The gap between the thin, purple band of clouds was blood red now. I stopped and waited. The crimson sunburst over the horizon and in less than a minute it was up, it’s ascent captured on a dozen digital cameras. It was still too chilly to attempt a plunge, and I was hungry.

I headed off the beach and up eleventh street, intending to stop at the French bakery on Washington between 10th and 11th, but as I passed Collins, and had to walk around someone washing their car in front of David’s Cafe, I noticed that it was open. The car washer and I exchanged greetings, wished each other a Happy Thanksgiving and spoke hopefully about the looming tourist season. His name was David, coincidentally. He worked at the Laundromat on Washington. I ordered at the window, asking the clerk the difference between a colada and a cafe cubano, I had thought they were the same. They were, she said, just the size, a colada was bigger. I had a cafe cubano and a beef pastelito. As I walked toward Washington, I wished an old man Happy Thanksgiving. He was the white bearded one I have often seen on Lincoln wearing an old Santa’s hat. We talked for a few minutes. He never asked for anything and was cheerful and pleasant, but managed to let slip that he was homeless. I was not surprised. I offered him a couple of dollars and suggested he have breakfast at David’s a few paces away. He said he often did, that they were very nice there. He would put his money on the counter, order what he wanted and the lady there would make it, never picking up the money. We talked some more about what wonderful people Cubans were and how the food was good and reasonable. He talked about how he wore his Santa hat year round and how his beard was full of the fingerprints of all the young women who had to be sure it was real. He grinned when he talked about posing, a girl on each arm, for pictures several times a day. We agreed that there was much to be grateful for, even in these times. He asked me to stop and say hello when I see him out in his santa hat, and I, in turn made a note to buy him a new, clean one, anticipating that next meeting.

By now the sun had cleared the dune and it’s warmth was proof against the cool breeze. I turned around and headed back to the beach. The birds were still rejoicing over breakfast as I got to the water’s edge. I managed to approach a motley mob of gulls, terns and albatross without flushing them. I stood watching as an albatross caught a small disk shaped fish. He shifted it in his beak as if to swallow it whole, but it was too wide by double. He put it down and began tearing at it with his beak. It was a very durable fish. After a few pecks he would always position it in his beak again and try to swallow. Always it was too big. He seemed to be focusing on the center of the fish as if to weaken it so it might fold as he swallowed. This took some time. An old man walked toward me in old green and gray sweats, this one looking as if he lived indoors. We exchanged “Happy Thanksgivings” and together we watched the albatross try to perforate the fish lengthwise. As he did this, two gulls would periodically wander over from opposite sides looking as innocent as shoplifters in trenchcoats on a Miami August afternoon. They would meander around, getting closer and closer to the fish side of the albatross. When they got too close, he would flap and rush at them. They would jump back a foot or two and the process would repeat.

The fish was beginning to wear thin, at least around the head and it looked as if the albatross would soon swallow it when a family, led by a boxer puppy came ambling down the beach. The birds en masse, flew beachward, arched around them and flew out over the ocean. The albatross with them, his fish clamped in his beak. I bid the old man farewell and he continued on down the beach. The sun was warm now, the air still nippy, but the water was lapping so gently I could no longer resist. I carefully stepped out of my sandals, peeled off my sweatshirt, folded it and laid it over my sandals, keeping the towel around my neck. I didn’t want to towel sandy even if everything else ended up that way. I stepped out of my jeans, in turn folding them on top on the pile. Then folded the towel and laid it on top. Folding is essential. A loose flap of fabric, even in a slight breeze can tumble all the way to Ocean Drive. I padded out into the water, which seemed colder than I expected, but much warmer than the air. It sloped off sharply which I was grateful for. I was quickly chest deep and bent my knees to bring the water to my neck. Now I was warm. The water was clear. The angle of the sun cast a harsh glare but I could still see bottom. I stood there watching the sun on the water, the birds fishing and the barren beach in front of the row of Art Deco hotel facades. I stayed long. The old man passed wordlessly back down the beach. The Japanese tourists were long gone. In the distance, some runners moved along the dunes. Down the beach a hundred yards or so, a couple of women did Yoga greeting the day. I stepped up the steep beach to my clothes and began to towel off. When I was nearly dry, I draped the towel over my back, hunched forward. The breeze coming from the west kept it plastered to my back as I pulled my suit off, toweled off the rest of my body and pulled on my sandy jeans. I draped the wet towel across my shoulders, pulled my sweatshirt over my head and held the towel in one hand and then the other as I put my arms into the sleeves. Nothing messier than a wet, sandy towel. Then with the towel around my neck, sandals in one hand, suit in the other, I walked back across the dune. Midway down the dune crossing, sitting in the sand, was a seagull. It didn’t move as I approached. It was so perfect. I was sure it was alive. I nudged it with my sandal. It yielded, but did not move. The body was not yet stiff, but it was definitely dead. I put my sandals down and my suit on top of them. I reached down, cupping it’s soft winged sides in my hands. It was still warm. I wondered if it weren’t alive after all. There was no movement. The eyes staring. The body soft and light as a dream in my hand. I reached over the snow fence that bounded the walkway and dropped him gently into the sea grapes.

I hoped I would have the grace to die as well. I hoped my death would come to me with the same stealth. Then briefly, I envied him his simple life. Knowing I was simpler now than when I woke, I gave thanks.

No Towel

2009-05-06T08:14:00.000-07:00

It was tragic. I had brought no towel. I had worn my royal blue down jacket over my grey paint stained sweatshirt. I didn’t need it. It was 64. But I had brought no towel. Nor suit. I had simply pulled my jeans on commando, prior to racing the sunrise. It was 6:37 the sun would be up in 15 minutes. I was closer than that, but I knew how time could evaporate and make you late. I walked briskly up 16^th street, and cut diagonally across Collins in front of the St. Moritz. I swung down the brickwalk where I was overtaken by a couple of young Hispanic men, a slightly older one, nearest me as they passed on the right, wore a short beard. His companion was clean shaven.

“I”

“don’t”

“speak”

“very”

“berry”

“No, no, not berry, VERY.”

“berry”

“No, vuh, not buh, Very.”

“berry”

“Hi.” The older man said as they passed me, they both grinned sheepishly as if I’d caught them at something slightly personal, and maybe a little embarrassing.

“Very, now say it.”

“berry.”

“No, listen. Vuh....”

They trailed off ahead of me, also racing the sunrise. Completely engrossed in their English lesson. It was my turn to be embarrassed. I wished I had applied as much work to my halting efforts to learn Spanish.

As I reached the water, I saw how calm it was. There was no breeze, none at all. The gentle lapping on the shore could only have been the remnant of the wake of ships long passed. The sky glowed bright blue, the sun nearly up. There were clouds on the eastern horizon and a thin band overhead. There was a slight orange glow, but there would be no red sunrise. When the sun cleared the clouds on the horizon, it would be yellow and bright. Still it was 64. There was almost no one on the beach. It was Tuesday. I could have peeled and gone in, suit or no. It was tempting. I had no towel. I plodded along the water’s edge, southward, berating myself for my hesitation. I soon came upon the next beachcombers, two young black men. One, in long braids a beard, and a dark blue Nautica jacket was staring down at the line of shells and stones at the edge of the incoming tide. His friend, in a tan windbreaker, a knit cap and short beard, laughed, “You not gonna find any sharks teeth here.” “Why not, mon?” He answered, a serious, almost hurt look on his face. His friend laughed again, shaking his head.

I thought, “Why not? The ocean washes up everything. There is nothing you can’t find, no unwanted thing you can’t lose, at the water’s edge.” I silently wished them luck as I passed. Slowly there were more people, even as I debated laying my new jacket in the sand, stripping and wading in. I had no towel. It was tragic. I turned, the sun well into the sky, and headed west toward Lummus Park and my waiting workday. I walked to Washington and turned left past the pair of orange vested Miami Beach sanitation workers preparing to power wash the sidewalk. I heard the compressor come on behind me. A rogue cloud came in from the east. I looked at the tower at the end of Lincoln Road Mall. It was 65 and 7:33. Then there was wind. From nowhere. A spitting rain. Next time, I thought. I would bring a towel. I turned down Espanola way and then north on Drexel.

A loud voice drifted over from the other side of the street. I saw a grizzled, old black man shouting for anyone who would listen. “He crazy. He ridin around. He lucky. He crazy sayin that shit!”

I thought someone had driven too close to him at the intersection he had just crossed. Maybe they had exchanged words.

“He ridin around with a ROOSTER. He love that rooster. He crazy.” He had caught me looking at him and these last words were for my benefit, an explanation. Then I knew. He had seen the man. The man on Lincoln on the blue bike. The old one speed kid’s bike, recently painted a sky blue. He was in his forties, black, short hair, cut like a Roman emperor’s, short curly bangs. He always wore blue farmer dungaree overalls. The ones with the built-in suspenders. He rode up and down Lincoln Road. In the square basket on the handlebars he always had a huge, well groomed, white rooster. He reminded me of Mr. Greenjeans from Captain Kangaroo. Some people laughed, some greeted him, some swore. On he rode, pleasant, calm, at peace. I laughed at a random thought. Of all the poseurs and personalities strutting and preening their way through South Beach, he had the biggest cock of all!

I sighed. I knew what I lacked was audacity. I knew some would wash up someday and then I would have it. I would not bring a towel, but I would not bring excuses either. That day I would dive in, regardless of what I had to put down in the sand.

Teaching

2009-04-29T07:29:00.000-07:00

Teaching is deciding to never stop learning. It's about beginner's mind. It's always finding a fresh perspective, always being humbled by what you don't know- which is pretty much everything.

Teaching is sharing a spark and a desire with another human being. It's riding someone else's wave onto the beach, then laughing with them about how exciting, and scary, it was.

Teaching is kneeling down to give someone a boost up. Teaching is staying behind to help the next one.

Teaching is doing the same thing and getting different results. Then doing something different, even if it hurts.

Teaching is going home late, knowing more than you did that morning, awed by how much more there is.

You let me teach you. We both learn. Tomorrow, I get to do it again. How cool is that?

Gulls and Pelicans

2009-04-26T08:13:00.000-07:00

If you want to see the effect of competition on human populations, you need go no further than the beach. Watch the seagulls. Amid endless abundance, they wander in loose mobs, generally disregarding the prodigious bounty of the sea, and equally indifferent to the jetsam of human excess, they keep their jealous attention upon one another. When one stumbles upon a tasty morsel, and one must eventually, they all converge, tearing, rending, squawking and chasing as if there were no food left on the planet, but this one miserable scrap. So it is with people. We raise them up extolling competition, training them in competitive sports, creating conditions of artificial scarcity, whereby the best athlete on the team, only marginally better than many of his fellows, is compensated with exponential excess, beyond all understanding. As with the gulls, this puts a target on his back and he is pursued relentlessly for his position. The risk of death, disability, and the inevitability of cheating, actively encouraged- so long as you don’t get caught, increase proportionally as the stakes are ratcheted up. In business, CEOs and directors of corporations scrap and tussle for wealth beyond the dreams of avarice, more than anyone could spend in a lifetime of wanton living. All this while the constituencies they serve, stockholders, employees, customers and the public, lose everything, including their faith. In politics, the parties create an artificial rift in public thought and ideology, polarizing everyone on all issues merely for the sake of endless strife. Our public institutions decay, our laws corrode, our public coffers become the private toys of the well connected. Yet we can’t help but feed them, like gulls, they are amusing to watch.

Pelicans are another matter. As Lao Tse observed, they do not compete, and do not meet with competition. When you see them together, they fly in a wedge, the leader slicing the air for those that follow. Cooperating. When they hunt, there is no panic, no frantic hustling. There is only pure grace. They soar above the abundant ocean. Never do two pelicans converge on the same prey. They have complete confidence that there is and always will be plenty for all. Most of their day is spent gliding on the stiff ocean breeze high above condo or cliff, indifferent to the makeup of the beachside landscape. When hungry, they simply scan the ocean from whatever height seems optimal. Once a likely fish is spotted, they fold up their wings and plummet, heedless into the brine. They rarely fail to come up with a meal. They never suffer want. They know they never will. Pelicans know no fear, no want, no jealousy, no envy. They each have all that every pelican could ever want. None want what they don’t have. They are creatures of spirit, of pure faith and reliance on a greater providence. You don’t usually notice the pelicans among us. They soar, silent and content, above the wild cacophony of the gulls. They have all they need, sometimes in great abundance. But it does not have them. They remain humble, confident and majestic. Bernie Madoff is a gull, so is the drug dealer in cuffs on Washington Avenue. Warren Buffett is a pelican, so is the homeless preacher stretching in the doorway across from the police cars on Washington Avenue.. Pelicans seldom make the news. The gulls find them uninteresting. They almost never notice them. They rarely bother them. The gulls and the pelicans live in different universes, separated by an infinite gulf not of time or space, but of spirit and faith.

Like most children of the 50s, I was raised a gull. Scrapping on the beach, eating gull food, watching the other gulls, wanting all they had. It never suited me. I was a failure as a gull. I was not hungry enough, mean enough, fast enough. A part of me had always rather gone hungry than live the gull’s life. Today, after many years of looking skyward, I see it. My soul is a pelican. Daily I am becoming a part of the pelican world. One day, when I am gone, seek me in the sky, near the ocean. There my spirit will soar. Wanting nothing, taking from no one, trusting completely, floating on the breath of God.

Appearances

2009-04-22T08:57:00.000-07:00

I was at Gold's Gym the other day and I weighed myself in the locker room. Then I reported that the scale was broken. I knew it had to be. I had weighed 178 two days earlier on the same scale. That night it said I weighed 129. I haven’t weighed 129 in 30 years. I knew I couldn’t trust it. My mirror is like that, too. I can look in the morning when I’ve had my coffee and I’m all charged up to start the day, and I see a lean, fit, good looking man of, let’s say, indeterminate age. That same mirror later the same night, when I’m tired, frustrated and feeling overwhelmed by everything I still have to do, shows me some old, fat guy with dry, sagging skin, lots of wrinkles, and an increasingly mousey gray mop of hair- and by that time of night, a salt and pepper beard.

I didn’t trust the scale for a second, even though it was telling me exactly what I’ve been going to the gym for years to hear. But I’ll trust that mirror every time. Am I really that different 12 hours later? How much can you age in half a day? How much weight can you put on? There’s definitely something broken. It isn’t likely to be the mirror, but I doubt it’s my body, either. When my emotional state is broken, my thinking and my perceptions are distorted. I often say to myself, “my brain is broken right now, so I’m not going to use it.” Then I’ll try not to think about anything important, or if possible, anything at all. It’s easier said than done, but the hardest part is just realizing that something is wrong in the first place. It’s so easy to accept cruel and fallacious judgments about ourselves, even when they conflict with everything we know to be true.

The Season Had Started

2009-04-22T08:54:00.002-07:00

The season has started. As I walked down Washington Street, there were more people and more traffic. The Miami Beach Sanitation Department seemed better staffed and more determined. A triad of workers was coming down the street toward me, the first using a leaf blower to gather the trash from the gutter and push it toward the inner half of the sidewalk, the next, close behind was driving a sweeper which then collected most of the trash. Behind that a worker used a broom and shovel like dustpan to catch the remainder. It was too early for the pressure wash crew, but the sidewalk was clear, if not clean. The debris from the previous night was everywhere scattered across sidewalk and street north of the trio, but south, all was clear. The little rivulets of beer piss that remained were the task of the pressure wash crew, scheduled far enough after the trash tenders to not overtake them.

I turned down 12^th street and walked past the Palace Bar, a taxi waited on 12^th to turn north as I crossed Ocean end entered Lummus Park. There were tail lights in the park near the Beach Patrol Headquarters construction at 10^th. After a moment I could make out a dumpster truck emptying a construction dumpster. I was glad there would be no headlights on the beach from this truck. Once I crossed the dune, I could see in the distance, maybe around 2^nd, headlights from a parks and recreation truck. They would be picking up trash. At that distance, they might not arrive before sunrise.

I walked south down the hard packed sand nearest the dune and shielded my eyes with my right hand from the bright neon glow of Ocean Drive. This was the best vantage to try to pick out people on the beach. I wanted solitude, if there was any. I could only discern one dark clad person, probably male, walking south, past the beach umbrella storage boxes and concession stands, about even with the lifeguard stands. He was walking fast. Same direction as me, but would be long gone before I got to the water. I could not see anyone who might be on the other side of the lifeguard stands or lying on the stacks of beach chairs. I would have to look as I passed to see that. The beach is so dark at 6:00 am, even with the glow from the Deco buildings on Ocean. I could see whitecaps, from back at the dunes, but a person, whether dressed in dark or light was almost impossible to see unless they moved. I wondered if it would ever be useful to get infrared goggles, but having priced them before, I knew that would be a ridiculous extravagance. I also wondered what Miami’s finest would think of a nocturnal beachgoer with his own $700 night vision binoculars. That could be a long and uncomfortable conversation. I remembered that even standard binoculars collected light well in darkness. They were very cheap down here and I’d wanted a pair for a long time. That would make more sense. I resolved to get a pair.

The Dog Was Having None of It

2009-04-22T08:54:00.001-07:00

The dog was having none of it. She raised her powerful neck and pushed the crown of her head into the back of the red leather sofa.. I forced the issue and managed to get the leash around her anyway. She leveled her head, looked at me and relaxed. I saw her body shift and knew she had just done that thing that raised her weight from 33 pounds to something over 200. The leash would break before I could pull her off the couch now. I gave a test pull with no visible effect, except possibly a deepening contempt on her face. I walked back, unhooked the leash and tossed it in the bin by the door. She stretched, closed her eyes and laid her muzzle on her folded forepaws. I stepped through and closed the front door gently behind me so as not to wake my wife. I stepped off the porch turned left at the sidewalk and soon I was crossing Pennsylvania. From that corner you can see the clock tower in the building on the end of Lincoln. 5:53, 71°. I smiled. Perfect weather for a pre-dawn skinny dip. I turned down Washington, no need to rush. The sun would be an hour rising. I strode past Club Madonna, the strip joint. They had turned off the flat screen TVs in the window. A woman stood with her arms folded in the doorway modestly dressed in a black T shirt and long black slacks. The cashier, no doubt. They would be closing at 6. She wasn’t anxious for anyone to delay that. She stared off into the distance, into her day. There was no one else on the neon lit street. I took Espanola toward Collins. A young guy ran past me, as if talking to no one in particular he nearly shouted, shaking his head. “Clay Hotel. Where’s the damn Clay Hotel?” I was puzzled for a minute. He didn’t look like he was checking in, and if he was already a guest, I thought sure he would recognize that he was staring at it. It was really quite distinctive, there at the head of Espanola way. It’s Spanish architecture defining the entrance to that narrow alley. “Right there.” I turned halfway around and pointed, my arm outstretched behind me. First door from the corner. He ran on heedlessly, across Washington. It was safe at this hour. As I watched him, I realized my error. It was two doors in. Sure enough, he got there, turned and shrugged impatiently in my direction. “Two doors, it’s Two doors in.” He trotted to the only lighted doorway and in he went without a word.

As I moved down Espanola toward Collins, I felt it. The wind. It amazed me how 3 blocks from the Ocean it could seem calm, but actually be quite blustery at the water. As I turned onto Collins, it became evident that it was very windy on the ocean today. I saw two patrol cars with their lights on, one half blocking Collins. Four cops stood around their cars. A young woman sat at the wheel of the stopped car in front of them. A third patrol car rolled up, lights flashing, passed the woman, pulled across, as if to block her. A young female officer stepped out and walked up to the driver’s window. They hadn’t been waiting for a female officer, one of the waiting cops was a woman. I guess it was just her turn. I lost sight of them as I rounded the corner onto 14^th. I stopped at the sea wall, looking for a water fountain. There were 3 shower heads set into the post, each at different heights, but no fountain. I cupped my hand and sprayed the middle shower into it. It was about chest high. After 3 attempts, I managed a mouthful. That was all I wanted. The exercise class was assembling in front of me, just at the mouth to the dune cut. The leader told one of them to run some more and off they went parallel to the dune, into the darkeness.

This particular class always mystified me. There were always plenty of people showing up shortly after dawn to run or do yoga, but always on the ocean side of the dune. This group worked out on the park side, in the sand, oblivious to the sun rising in all it’s splendor as they sweated. I always had to restrain myself in order not to say something to them. I passed them and angled into the right hand dune cut. As I came to the crest of the dune, I saw a glow on a row of white caps ahead. It was dark on the beach and the light from the hotels would not have illuminated the ocean at that point. I heard the sound of machinery and turning toward it, saw a strange pattern of headlights in the south. That was what had lighted the surf. I wondered how far into the northern darkness I would have to walk before they would not illuminate me, if I were to strip for a dip in the ocean. As I walked they seemed to follow me at a great distance. I doubled back, thinking we would pass each other. The lights turned around as well. When it seemed clear they were committed to go south, I turned back northward, only to have my shadow cast on the sand before me a moment later when they spun around. I looked back. Finally I could make out the shape of the vehicle. It was a smallish beach sweeper. I stopped and waited to see what they would do. The ocean was at high tide. The wind beating the waves ashore. Periodically, one would crest the rise in the sand and pour out into the flat area behind the seaweed line that marked high tide. I knew it would get deep abruptly. The wind was churning the water. I could see the clock tower. It was still 71, but it was quite cold. I walked down past the orbiting beach sweeper toward the 11^th street lifeguard stand. I passed a young bearded black man sitting cross legged, facing north. He asked me if I had a lighter. I said no, but I doubted it would be much use in this wind. He smiled and I walked on. I sat on bottom two steps of the lifeguard stand, facing the ocean. I partially unzipped my sweatshirt, tucked the ends of the pale green towel around my neck, into the shirt and re-zipped. Then, for good measure, pulled it up into a hood. I was facing the wrong way for it to be much help. The wind was strong out of the east. I would not turn from the rising sun until it was up. The sky glowed faintly. There were no clouds, except for a line of small broken ones at the horizon. I waited. I had arrived quite early. I sat and waited. Random thoughts arrived and departed. I wouldn’t go into the ocean today. It seemed the wind intensified and I pulled my towel around my face for warmth. I found a point on the horizon where the broken clouds had begun to glow faintly. Jagged lines of red, spreading and deepening. Finally they began to blaze and one could discern from the pattern of redness in the cracks the outline of the rising sun. I picked up my sandals and walked back over the dune toward the park. As I crossed the hard packed sand near the dune, I saw a tiny, delicate conch shell. It was unbroken. I wondered how it had come to be there. It seemed unlikely, even with this wind that it had tumbled the 100 yards or so from the ocean. If it had been here long, it would have been crushed. This was the vehicular lane, where the beach vendors and Ocean Rescue drove too fast, and the tractor trailers full of huge tents, sound systems and beer made their way to various events. There was nothing here that had not been crushed and packed flat. Nothing but the conch. I put it in my pocket.

I swiveled my hips over the sea wall and walked down the sidewalk toward the Cardozo Hotel. Gloria Estefan’s hotel slumbered. The cafe tables were out, but still cabled together along with the tables. Someone had power washed the sidewalk, and patio leading to the side entrance and little plastic yellow “A” frames announced a wet floor. The workers were long gone, however. As I got to the corner of Collins and 13^th, I noticed that someone had painstakingly stenciled the “black spy” from the “Spy vs. Spy” cartoon from Mad Magazine at the base of a streetlight. Half a block further, A sticker of the same figure adorned the side of a phone enclosure. I wondered if the artist lived here, and if not, who would be motivated to promote him this way. Between Collins and Washington, I passed the “Sea Hag” she ignored my “good morning” but did not shout and curse at me as she normally does. I could not tell if she was in a good mood, or just could not be bothered. Her scowl remained unchanged. The lights went out in the corner sandwich shop and I stopped to marvel at a restaurant that closes at 7 am on a weekday.

Only on South Beach. As I walked up Washington, at 14^th a beautiful black woman in a short skirt and long blonde wig turned in front of me and headed down 14^th. I stopped to look, she got to the other side, stopped turned, smiled and waved. I smiled and waved back. Then I knew she was a man. Not because of anything I could see, she looked every inch a woman, and quite a woman at that. But a woman would not have smiled, and a woman definitely would not have waved. Half a block later, he turned to see if I was still looking. He smiled. I turned and walked up Washington. As if to confirm my theory, I passed a short oriental woman carrying a gallon of water in one hand and a plastic bag of groceries in the other. I smiled and said good morning. She looked down, then away and shuffled past me. The blonde had definitely been a man. Only on South Beach.

The Sun Rose Twice

2009-04-22T08:51:00.000-07:00

The sun rose twice this morning. I sat on the steps of the 12^th street lifeguard stand. My sweatshirt, towel, sandals and book were stacked on the corner of the stand in a space free of sand. As I had turned from placing my things to climb the steps, seven pelicans, flying in the “missing Man” formation swept toward me, banked in front of the lifeguard stand and flew back out to sea. A hundred yards further north they joined a larger group. It was only in the mornings that they gathered in such numbers, the rest of the day you would see one or two together. I wondered if it was part of their spiritual practice, to congregate that way in the mornings. I sat, a good ten minutes before sunrise, watching into the lightening eastern sky. A low sharp band of clouds hung over the horizon, but did not obscure it, there was a gap beneath them. Thoughts came. I tried to stay aware, to refocus on my breathing, to let the thoughts go. Most were mundane. Work. Money. Holidays. Linda. Linda’s work. My day ahead. They came. They went. I prayed. I was distracted by the arrival to my right, of two Japanese tourists. One in a white long sleeve shirt and long black pants. His short hair sticking straight up, a thick, black, bushy two inches above his head. He had a small digital camera. His friend was similarly dressed but had a black cardigan sweater over his white shirt. It was opened down the front. His hair was longer and thinner and lay flat on his head. He was older, perhaps, old enough to be the father of his companion, but it was hard to tell. He carried a much larger camera, with a large black lens. When I turned back to the horizon, a tiny sliver of bright crimson had snuck over the ocean. I watched as it rose, blazing and deeply red, an orange glow cast on the underside of the clouds that framed the ocean sky. The Japanese took pictures of the sunrise. First of the sky and ocean alone, then taking turns posing with it. Finally one thought to pose with his hand outstretched as if holding the flaming ball. They both got shots like that. I wondered about the significance of the rising sun in a culture that chose that image as their flag. I would have to Google it later.

I continued to watch as the newly risen sun rose behind the band of clouds over the horizon, Beams of sunlight were visible in the water vapor radiating upward above the clouds and downward toward the Ocean, but the sun itself was obscured. I spat upon my hands and held them down, outstretched and open, facing the sunrise. “Into thy hands, I commend my spirit, oh Lord.” I prayed, the gesture being a primordial one recounted by Jung from his visit to Africa. The book I carried was “There are No Accidents” A Jungian text on synchronicity. I noted the color of the lifeguard stand, the purple and green one, an oddly pleasing combination. It was only then that I noticed they were the same purple and green that look so good on our website. As I watched, the sun rose again from over the top of the clouds. An altogether different sun this time, A brilliant yellow, nearly white, and so bright I could hardly bear to look at it. When it was up again. I collected my things and walked up the dune toward Twelfth Street. At Collins, I realized that Dave’s was on 11^th and I turned down Collins to get there. I was famished. I had arrived just at 6:00 in the dark and had walked down nearly to 12^th before placing my things on top of my sandals and wading into the shallow water naked. It was 72° when I arrived, the clock at the top of the black tower on the east end of Lincoln was visible from most of south beach. I had noted as I approached the beach that the air was still, humid and I was sure my sweatshirt would be a burden, but as I stepped onto ocean, the wind was gusting. It amazed me how it could be so windy at the water and so still a block away. I was glad of the sweatshirt, but I would have been comfortable without it. Once in the water, I began to exercise, working my upper body, arms and shoulders, twisting my torso, bending my knees to keep me low enough to keep my shoulders submerged. I wanted to use the resistance of the water for my workout. I kept it up as the sky lightened, peering back from time to time to be sure I had no company on the beach. At around 6:45, I decided to get dressed, finished my workout and just as I walked toward the shore, a woman in a track suit walked down to the water’s edge several dozen yards north. I could have retreated back into the Ocean, but the sun would soon be up and with it likely more spectators. I trotted out demurely covering myself and snatched up my towel. She glanced over, ignored me, looked out to sea for a moment and returned up the beach to the “runner’s lane” of hard packed sand near the dune. Off she went to the south, running again. I finished toweling, dressed and headed for the lifeguard stand.

This morning as I worked naked in the surf, I encountered a jellyfish. I wasn’t sure of the exact moment, but I can pin it down pretty closely. It was a moment or two before my scrotum, glans and inner thigh began to sting and itch. Fortunately, I am only slightly affected by Jellyfish venom, so little that I can seldom be sure I have been stung. I was sure this time, but not especially distressed. The end of my urethra was the most sorely afflicted, but it, too was a mere inconvenience. I marveled at how terrified some people are of Jellyfish stings. Maybe they are much more allergic than I. I noticed the stinging again as I walked up the beach and over the dune. A homeless guy was showering in his underwear, he had some possessions in bags nearby and would have been indistinguishable from your average bather, his underwear looking like a navy speedo, except for his use of shampoo and conditioner. I passed him silently and headed up toward Collins. When I got to Dave’s, I ordered a grilled Cuban bread and a cafe cubano. Almost all the tables were taken in the patio formed by the two sides of Dave’s cafe & Market and the adjacent building, still under construction. I found one and put my things down while I ordered. While I was waiting for my food, someone sat down there, taking the last space. Then the homeless guy sleeping with his head down on a table closer to the street, decided he had worn out his welcome and left, so I gathered my things and sat down there. I made some notes from this morning’s walk in the only space I had, a semi blank page at the beginning of my book.