Aboriginal Innocence

Like most children, Anna had mastered the art of worrying at a young age. Presently, she was studying the art of not worrying. When she was four, she feared that by thinking of fire she could magically ignite one. At nine, she was learning that while worry prepares for fire, it cannot ignite it. But neither can it benefit from its warmth and illumination.

Within the encircling rocks of our beliefs, along with our crumpled daily news and doubts, worry lays on the kindling of faith, yet hesitates to ignite the fire with the reality of experience for fear the fire will get out of control.

Worry is a virus that attaches itself to the site of potential experience, undermining our capacity to reflect and prepare ourself to receive illumination. Worry is wet green beliefs pretending to be true. Worry offers much smoke, but little warmth and little light.

Slowly, over time, in a metaphorical and miraculous way, Anna was learning to ignite her experience with the light of perspective, allowing for the healing of her worried mind.

Meanwhile, back at the blue spruce, the limbs were getting brown. Sharp, dry needles were falling everywhere, poking tender feet. One day, John brought out the shop vac and vacuumed the front lawn. It was an odd sight, and noisier than it was odd. But no odder than the familiar sight of grown men walking about blowing leaves from here to kingdom come.

Molly was at work. Anna’s maternal cousins were visiting. John was spending the day with them. Anna was at her Libra best around her younger cousins. John enjoyed watching her interact in a balanced and equitable manner.

He, on the other hand, was at his Gemini worst. He began teasing Anna, calling her ‘Minnie Mo’ whenever he perceived her behavior to be too controlling. In a self-contradictory and controlling way, he teased Anna to lighten up and stop imitating her mother’s manner of micro-management.

He persisted like a black fly in her ear. He pestered her to be less controlling though she was already demonstrating more balance than he. He got on a roll. She got on a rock. She didn’t get less controlling. She got quieter and more distant from John.

When Molly got home, they walked the dogs down to the river. John held the Aussies on leash. As they approached the river, Anna released them as she did routinely with her mother. John was not so free with the dogs. He was less familiar with their behavior around strangers. He asked Anna to round them up. She insisted it was fine. She did it this way with her mother all the time.

Rather than take her more trusting lead, John went with his general knowledge of Aussies and insisted she round them up. She resisted. He got angry. She got scared and weepy. John left the group at the river so he could simmer down and Anna could gather herself together.

That evening it nearly all came out in the wash. Anna explained to Molly her frustration at being called names by her father. Molly phoned John, slightly flabbergasted. She critiqued his out of character behavior.

John had already repented. He apologized to Anna for being mean. Anna didn’t quite apologize to John for ignoring him. John didn’t quite acknowledge his reasons for not trusting her decision to release the dogs. It did not all come out in the wash. Not quite.

The next day Anna was on the trampoline with her three year old cousin Katie who began chanting softly and innocently, “Minnie Mo, Minnie Mo…” John was present and asked them to stop jumping so that he, might mop up his puddling integrity, so that they, might jump safely.

He needed to heel his dogs to prevent his propaganda from becoming another’s dogma. He needed to prevent his silly outer chant from becoming another’s serious inner mantra. He explained to Katie that he’d been mean to Anna by calling her names, and he’d also been mean to Aunt Molly by suggesting that Anna not act like her.

Before they began jumping again, Anna looked John squarely in the eyes and without meanness said, “See what a bad influence you had on them yesterday.” She spoke her piece firmly. Yet, the humor of the moment had not eluded her. Like a ray of sunshine piercing through clouds, a knowing smile revealed her clarity of mind.

Impeccable in our word, immaculate in our conception, how else to be reborn?

“Papa, can we play the monster game?”
“Not right now, Hon. Why don’t you guys take turns playing the monster for a change?”

Monsters are a part of childhood. Every time a big person acts mean to a little person, carelessly tossing their word or weight about, they become a monster in the eyes of the child. John and the girls had invented a game to make monsters seem less scary, more approachable, lovable even.

The game began when John transformed his normal appearance and behavior in some gross way and then plodded about the house moaning and groaning while the girls ran around shrieking with delight.

“Come on Papa, please. It won’t be as much fun without you.”

It probably wouldn’t be as much fun without him. He was bigger than them, and worked diligently to keep his monsters fresh. Most were variations on the theme of a silly, over-sensitive, light-hearted dim-wit. He wished his less conscious concoctions could be so lovable. Alas, only variations of an over-sensitive dim-wit showed up to play the unconscious version of the game. After ten minutes of pestering and pleading, he relented.

“All right, all right. Give me five minutes to finish the dishes.”
“Yeah!”

The dishes were never really finished. They kept getting dirty and piling up by the sink. John was easier these days with that fact. He’d become a born-again pre-rinser. It made things easier down the road. Life was always offering something to chew on, to taste, to nourish, to spit out. What he left on the plate was often precisely what he needed. There it goes again. Right down the drain.

Yet life was nothing, if not relentless. It kept serving up the same old meal until the plate was licked clean. Forgiveness was always there on the flip side of relentless, but John often got stuck listening to one side only. The virtue of DVDs and the digital/global age was that now there were fewer sides to choose. Maybe that would lead to no bones to pick, or alternatively, no grooves to get stuck in.

“Girls, clear the table please.”

Even while it coddled a lazy desire for instant gratification, the digital age held out an opportunity to move beyond partisan and bi-partisan bickering towards a genuinely unified perspective. Unified that is, if people moved beyond compact, complacent thinking (i.e. opinion & judgment) by diligently working to synthesize the information that magically lay at their fingertips and learn to honestly and openly communicate their discoveries.

“Girls, please. Clear the table.”
“OK, OK.”

Opinion and judgment are born of failing to clean one’s own plate. Aware of this, John was not one to force Anna to eat everything he served her. That would be hypocritical. Anyway, he knew much of what he served up was unsavory.

Whatever comes through us, we taste. Much of what we serve others is precisely what we spit out. Spam! A strange way to nourish our loved ones indeed. But it was common fare, and so it was understandable that people had all sorts of strange ailments.

Most of the world’s problems are not real. They’re manufactured by the severing of natural ties. In the words of Ken Wilber, “We manufacture abstract boundaries where in nature there are only meeting places; beaches, rivers, mountains.”

“Papa, hurry up.”

Do we meet at the river to celebrate our differences? Rendezvous top the mountain to experience our oneness? Comb the beaches, together finding our way? No. We form beliefs, make judgments and fight over territory. We create gulfs, build bridges, then bomb them.

“Hold your horses.”

John finished his reverie along with the dishes, dried his hands, went into his room and closed the door. The girls witnessed John’s self-imposed time-out. They knew the game was afoot. They scampered about excitedly, shedding any inkling of boredom; preparing themselves for the delicate task of gracefully evading the monster all the while taunting it mercifully forward.

“Papa, what’s taking so long?”
“I’m turning into a monster. Isn’t that what you want?”

With light heart and heavy feet, John opened the door. The chase was on. The girls ran with purpose. Their hearts pounded in rhythm to their laughter. Keeping distance became their mission. As the struggle to stay close or distant evaporated, miraculously it precipitated renewed connection.

Suddenly, they didn’t need a two party system or three branches of government. Suddenly, criminal justice became just. Though touching and not being touched became the focus, the experience was one of being more ‘in touch’ with each other. Perhaps distance does make the heart grow fonder, if bridged with good will.

Life truly was one continuous game of hide and seek. “Oleoleoceanfree!” John, the monster, plodded back into his wilderness. The girls relaxed for a few minutes and caught their breath. John put down the magnifying glass that Magnified monster religiously held to his face and considered his next performance.

How do you explain cold war to a nine year old child? Even one who at six years of age witnessed the Twin Towers fall. By six, most children understand terrorism, because they’ve experienced injustice, unfairness, anger, frustration, the bully, sticks and stones, guns, maybe even death and broken bones. But how do you explain to a child that human beings have ingeniously devised a means for annihilating the entire world?

Can we make a reasonable account for nuclear silos and the spontaneous eruption of mushroom clouds in any sane way? No. When does ‘first strike capability’ become a topic for rational discourse?

“What are you going to be this time, Papa?”
“You’ll find out soon enough.”

Begrudgingly, we must admit, the adult of the species is insane, at least in part. Do we tell our sane children that we are insane or do we struggle to maintain our sanity by denying reality to cold war?

There’s a difference between madness and insanity. War is sticky business because blood is warm and sticky. As we keep the war warm, we remain mad, but not insane. How do we keep the war warm? By dropping bombs from higher up? By planting mines for who may come? By filling silos with ICBM’s instead of emptying them of corn?

Sounds cold to me. Who’s face can you see? Who’s heart do you touch? The bigger the stick, the more careful we must be.

“Papa, hurry up. You don’t have to be a fancy monster.”

“Pay attention to both ends of the stick,” John reminded Anna in her play. One end was practical, technical, precise, surgical. It served to define the space they shared. The other end was connected to their sense of fair play and ethical conduct.

When we’re not careful and draw blood, we correct ourselves. Right? Why would we want to hurt anyone? We don’t like to get hurt. The Golden Rule isn’t a rule; it’s a principle, a spiritual law governing the unfolding of reality. All acts of violence in the world defy that principle and so reality does not unfold as creation intended. We miscreate the monster of our own free will.

“We, the people,” are Dr. Frankenstein. Prometheus may have been the father of invention, but we are its caretakers. The fact that the world is one bolt shy of inspiration is our responsibility. When we mistake beliefs for truth, progress becomes a thug and we, become its victims.

“OK. I’m coming.”

John slipped on his sweatpants, stuffed a pillow over his rear-end and another one up his shirt. Pillow-butt was the girls’ favorite. They liked to spank and punch him while they evaded his slow but heavy grasp. As he plodded out of his room moaning, the girls scattered with glee.

The monster plods slowly, to jump start the heart; giving it time and energy to open. The monster is everyone and anyone, who has forgotten who they are, while trying to be, what they are not.

There’s a fine line between being alone and together; between farewell and welfare; between conditional and unconditional love. The monster walks that line. The monster is guard, guardian and guide, depending on our condition. For closed hearts, he is guard. For hearts wide open, she is guardian. For hearts opening and closing, s/he is guide.

Now what was her child’s name? Lost it, lost it in the conversation, or the attempt at same. His mother had chased him to the sand circle next to the playground.

I was sitting on a concrete pier watching my five year old daughter play while pondering the source of friction that had been developing between us recently.

The fair-hair, fair-faced woman seemed friendly. Perhaps a little too friendly. Yup, a little too chatty; for a Vermonter, that is.

Turns out she’s been in Vermont for two years. Up from the South where an 18 inch snow fall can crush roof tops and halt traffic. At least, that’s what she claimed.

It took a while, her words were coming out a mile a minute. Finally it became clear where she was going. She hadn’t been talking with me. She’d been stalking a sinner.

Her style of engagement (her manner of placing me in the cross hairs of her sight) had eluded me for a while. I’d imagined closeness where there was distance; warmth, where there was coldness.

I hadn’t been pent-accosted for some time. Yes, we learn to pray and we learn to prey. Oh well, I guess Caleb, that was the toddler’s name, needed for his mother to have a conversation with some long-hair, bandanna-bedecked, fellow in sunglasses contemplating his relationship with his daughter.

It didn’t take Caleb’s mother long to drag a conversation between two people down into her own private hell where love and fear are tangled up in a horrifying web of dogma and gospel.

She simply could not accept the idea of Love without judgment, of Love without the threat of hell as punishment for sin. Love and heaven, to her, were rewards for the privileged, people like her.

She spoke of love as if it were private property or an exclusive club, with violence threatening at every turn to oust one from ones heavenly estate if one failed to play by the rules; love as a police state, where a kind of unkind cosmic homelessness threatened all.

Clearly, this is the confusion of heaven and hell, of love and hate. This manner of thinking is no longer meaningful to me. It amazes me that I still have this kind of encounter.

Perhaps, I’ve yet to learn to be fearless of religious predators. I need to learn to have more patience and compassion for those addicted to the dogma of original sin.

The conversation ended quickly and not as kindly as it began. At one point, we’d even talked about Spencer, Indiana, of McCormick’s Creek State Park, of swinging on vines as children across great ravines.

No. This person suddenly ceased to exist for her. I simply disappeared, as the gulf and the cosmic war swallowed us both. She walked away in a huff, dragging Caleb behind. There would be no more conversation.

If I didn’t entertain her politically motivated brand of gospel where her interpretation of the Bible with all of her ‘confusioning’ of truth is the final word; well, you know what I mean. She could not listen.

Her belief in damnation was too easily undermined. She had to walk away. But I think her teenage daughter was listening.

Perhaps the conversation was for her ears, not the mother’s, not Caleb’s, not mine. This sister of Caleb had given her mother no response on three occasions when her confirmation had been sought to justify the need for threat and condemnation.

“Aren’t I right child? Aren’t I right? Aren’t I right?” Apparently, her older child was not fully on board, not ready to teach confusion. She was still open. Perhaps the idea of love without hate, of love without fear, appealed to her at some level.

Perhaps her investment in her mother’s fundamentalist philosophy had not yet closed her mind to other possibilities.

It seems to me that we all have a choice to make, moment to moment, between condemnation and forgiveness, between the cross and the dove, between crucifixion and resurrection.

One cannot believe in both. Either death rules, or there is eternal life.

You cannot condemn a person to hell and talk of love and salvation simultaneously. They do not exist for one another.

Let us be more vigilant in freeing our children from our confusion and not look to them for corroborating nods to support our fearful beliefs.

Perhaps, in the end, the encounter was for me, the father, feeling friction in his relationship with his daughter. Perhaps this father is not totally free of the belief in condemnation.

Perhaps he needs to get a clearer grip on his own approach to discipline; learning to free it completely of even the slightest hint of condemnation in order to court true fearlessness.

The imagery, the idol of anger as fire and brimstone may not be there, but when that contraction in the heart flares, and the raised voice gropes for control, well, that still smacks of this woman’s confusion.

I must thank this mother of Caleb. If she gave me her name it got lost in the heat of the hellish moment. I must thank her. No, not personally. She would not hear it.

Yet in my mind, I must thank her. She helped to clarify some confusion. I can see more clearly the way to go after seeing more clearly the way not to.

Note: Caleb; from the Hebrew (kalev), meaning “dog” or “heart.” Also, from the Assyrian, meaning “messenger” or “priest,” and from the Arabic, meaning “bold, brave.”

Abandoned, that is what I feel. I her? Her me? It’s unclear.
I abandoned myself to her. That much I know.

As children, we’re told the story of Jonah and the whale.
As adults, we become aware it’s more than a story; it’s our condition.

Integrity,
the original, magic pill
swallowed up whole
by fear and desire
suddenly surfacing
from the depths.

Whose fear? Whose desire?
Hard to say.

Did I love her? Was I devoted? In a way.
Could she live with me? Could I live with her?
Apparently, not for long.

I treated her well enough I guess, but I couldn’t quite give her what she needed.
How could I? Having abandoned my self.

Having no place from which to depart, and no place to which to return.
How could I truly give her what she needed?

She needed me to be present: certain;
yielding with humility; leading with compassion;
saying yes with joy; saying no with conviction;
giving what is true; withholding what is false.

She needed kindness, reassurance, respect.
She needed me to be receptive to her love; grateful,
not intimidated by her generous heart.

That’s why Faith and I aren’t together.
I didn’t know how to be present.

Nothing seems certain in a world where want and need are strategically confused.
Still, reassurance goes a long way.

Church bells ringing out Sunday morn can be comforting. They can also be alarming.

Atone, a certain tone, atonement. What am I searching for? Faith is faith is faith.
Is it not like a rose?

Words, words, words. Quite a collection…No. More like, quite a recollection
we’ve got going here. Perhaps the belly of the beast is in fact a comforting womb.

Besides misperception, what is reborn?

When I was young, I practiced the oral tradition. I’m Jewish you know.
I’d gather four quarters, three friends, and give everyone their fair share.

Two by two, we’d go down to the Royal Blue.
Jawbreakers, sour grapes, sixlets, pixiesticks, waxlips;
ark in the deluge before the ark of the covenant was disclosed.

Gimme some sugar. Come on, let’s go down.
I can’t wait to stuff it in my mouth.
Adolescent oral sex…

“OK, OK. Enough. Stop!” What just happened? There I was
joyfully spreading the wealth and suddenly the memory is twisted
into one of a pimp whoring candy.

It’s been said before Cain slew Abel. If ever I am able and sugar is cane,
it slays me over and over.
What once gave me pep now drains me.

To come full circle and make some sense,
I don’t share life’s sweetness freely anymore.
I hide it, hoard it, consume it in seclusion.
Obsessed, miserly, like an alcoholic and his bottle,
shamefully, I hesitate to share.

The sweetness of my life has turned bittersweet
though fundamentally nothing’s changed.
Life still offers me precisely the strength I’m able to receive.

That’s why Faith and I aren’t together.
I forgot how to share freely.

Niacine, thymine, riboflavin; necessary nutrients for a healthy body. Better yet
strong sounding words for an impressionable mind.

Had an iron deficiency once. I refused to be anemic. I also refused to eat liver.
Slipped it to the dog salivating beneath the table. Thanks, Elmer.

Took the shot in the arm instead. Stick the needle in already. Make me strong.
Don’t weaken me with your talk of anemia.
Manufacture your market for iron supplements elsewhere.

Conspiracy! Fire! The sky is falling!
Paranoia, making mountains out of molehills.
I’d hate to meet the mole living under Everest.

Morbid; I get that way.
But I don’t receive that way.
Stephanie calls it my Dybuk.

That’s why Faith and I aren’t together.
I forgot how to receive.

Let’s lift it up a bit. San Francisco is not Chicago.
Clearly, they are distinct dreamscapes.
Chicago has a large body of water nearby.
“Have you forgotten the Pacific?” you might query.
“How could you have forgotten the Pacific?”
Easy; almost never see it.

These three years, I’ve been to the ocean…let’s see?…
there was that day three months ago…
Don’t get around much, do I? This is lifting it up?
“Is that a question or a criticism?”you might jibe.
“It’s vital to distinguish the two you know. To ask a question means
your mind is open to an answer.”

I hear you. I hear you. And it might interest you to know
that at heart I’m a great mover.
I love to walk, run, bike, skip, jump, frolic.
From laying low in murky water I’ve become
frightened of my strength, or at least the shadow it casts.
Oh, anything, B’rer Frisco, anything, but please
don’t throw me into that ol’ motion.

Home. Heart. Thumpety thump. I had a home with Faith.
There was warmth and peace, understanding and vitality.
The reason we’re not together today is because
I lack the courage, the strength, the fortitude: call it
iron rich blood, call it receptivity, call it generosity, call it discernment,
call it what you will, I don’t have what it takes to help make the dream real.

Again I awake; abandoned. Thought I’d rid myself of the pest yesterday.
Thought I’d exorcised it ‘till it keeled over from sheer exhaustion.
My next to best guess is that it sleeps when I sleep and awakens when I awaken.

It seems refreshed, invigorated, eager to take on a new day of
scrapping with my peace of mind, which as of late,
falls from peace to pieces rather readily.

After years and years of repeating the same old responses to life’s daily bread,
it’s gotten a tad moldy. Grandma always said I was a tough nut to crack.

Was Moses performing magic or receiving miracles
when he threw down his rod?

That’s why Faith and I aren’t together.
While coveting my thorny crown, I forgot to go down.

Still, I weep these days as if my heart were a sponge. It must be full now.
Any pressure squeezes buckets out uncontrollably. Not sure they’re my tears.
Not much of a crier, you know. It’s painful crying buckets.
Tear ducts are narrow.

This outpouring is beginning to sound like a poem I wrote
for Faith’s rich wino-friend;
“Bat in a cave, shrieking, mortal terror. Why me? Why me?”

Like Eric, I’ve not led a particularly difficult life.
At least, not on the surface of things.
Second born, upper middle class, doctor dad, glad mom,
never a serious health problem, never a serious money problem.

All appendages accounted for though not necessarily present.
“So what’s all the misery about? Where’s your gratitude ol’ boy?”

You tell me. I wake up in the morning and there’s no breakfast in bed.
It’s aggravating. It’s as if the world was intentionally
not prostrating itself at my feet.
Is it fool enough to expect me to extend myself towards what’s already mine?

That’s why Faith and I aren’t together.
One of us has a lot to learn.

I reached Out yesterday. Oh, I’d say about 5:00 P.M. Pleasant place, you know.
Sunny, warm; used to get over there a lot.
Wonder why I don’t go there more often.
Not enough time, I suppose. Too damn busy. Yes, that’s it, too damn busy.

Reached out to Faith. She doesn’t trust me anymore; terribly guarded.
I failed to be there when she needed me once too often.

That’s why Faith and I aren’t together.
I didn’t reach out enough.

The sound of the foghorn mists my mind.
I feel sad for my brother who lives in asylum
not knowing he has a choice.
Sounds like a poem Faith wrote.

I sit alone in my little room, by choice, and write.
I too am in asylum, in solidarity with my brother.

Ahh. Choice.
Finally I realize, I have a choice.
It has little to do with how we take our coffee;
or this preference or that affiliation;
or this glorification or that denunciation.

The choice is between being true or being false,
between being or not being.

It’s not about making the grade.
It’s not about having it made in the shade.
It’s not about winning or losing.
It’s not about heaven or hell.
It’s not about more or less.
It’s not about economics or politics.
It’s not about religion or morality.

It’s about being open enough to receive inspiration.
It’s about being still enough to offer reflection.
It’s about being active enough to do the right thing.
It’s about being mindful enough to know when enough is enough.

That’s why Faith and I aren’t together.
While addicted to my ambition, I failed to exercise my capacity for choice.

I’ve been writing in my head for years.
Writhing may be more accurate. For me, writing is just plain talk;
a way of acknowledging errant thinking patterns
and flushing false beliefs.

Evidently, ever since the advent of object permanence
I’ve had the ability to hide.
Hiding paved the way for withholding.
Withholding obstructed my ability to give freely.

Ever since I developed this Gollumlike ability/disability:
to constrict myself, to live in a bubble, to narrow my vision,
to create illusions, to be unaccountable, etc.,
I’ve filled my brains with images, scenarios,
good guy, bad guy, hero/villain stuff.

Hey, I’m not the one who invented this crazy, mixed-up
world of duality and dualing, where everything boils down to
threats and self-defense. At least, I’m not the only one.

Show me one person who’s sincerely interested in peace.
Gandhi doesn’t count. He’s dead, awaiting resurrection;
within our conviction; within our dedication to the truth.

A TV vaccine would be nice, but a little late.
Can’t remember half of what goes through my mind.
Like bubbles on the wind, thoughts come and go;
potential dialogue going nowhere.

That’s why Faith and I aren’t together.
Like my thoughts, our dialogue came and went.

Pop! Our communication crumbled when I
stopped sharing from my heart
and began sharing from my head.

Mostly judgment, criticism, opinion; dirty old Band-Aids that serve to
protect my wounded heart. She didn’t need Band-Aids.
Her heart was gushing everywhere.
She needed acceptance, not saving.
She needed healing, not fixing.

She needed to be held, not hit on.
She needed me to respond to her faithfulness and to forgive her fears.
I wanted to be accepted by her.
Ultimately she cut me out of her life like a tumor.
That’s how it felt, anyway.

How could she accept me while I rejected my self
or what I believed to be my self.
I wanted her to save me. In a way, she did.
We’re not together. She made it clear why.

It makes a difference to know you can’t be rejected by another.
Like a mirror, she rejected only the parts of me which I reject.
Excuse me. I’m sorry. That’s incorrect.
In fact, she graciously accepted the parts of me which I reject.
She rejected only my rejection of myself. How self un-fulfilling.

So what else is new? Mi, Mi, Mi, Mi, Mi, Do Re Mi Fa So La Ti Do.
Musical cycles begin and end in Do. A cryptic way of saying:
get on with it, go for it, shit or get off the pot, stop fussy pootin’ around,
let it all hang out, and all those other platitudinous profundities
that urge us to place the petal to the mettle.

The point is, don’t get stuck on Mi. And when you finally see,
lift up your heart and let the flower unfold.
Everything’s vibration, transformation.
Everything’s relation, communication.

That’s why Faith and I aren’t together.
I got stuck on Mi.

OY. That must be what you are when you’re not quite OK.
Often wonder what the significance of being Jewish really is.
Clearly, I’m feeling a bit lost in this world.

Maybe that’s what it means to be Jewish: feeling a bit lost, not quite belonging,
always on the go, wandering, wondering. If not in body, then in mind.
‘Nope. I’m not my property or possessions.’ If not in mind, then in Spirit.
‘Nope. I’m not my body or beliefs.’

Always searching for home, for truth, for God.
But that’s human…right? Not strictly Jewish?

Everyone’s searching for Faith in their own way when she is lost.
Are they not?

We all seek rebirth. It’s the legacy of being cast out.
Yet is casting out the problem? Or is what we hook the problem?
Does what we hook not hook us? It’s an old joke.
It isn’t the fall so much as the landing that smarts.

We get hooked on doubt and blame, on hatred and shame.
Yes, I wonder about being cast out: of mothers and pregnancy,
of anxiety and serenity, of heaven and hell.

When I think of Faith’s mother and that Faith
was once developing inside her massively worried mind,
I shudder. I’m amazed that Faith’s still alive today.

But what garden doesn’t have its share of gnats, flies and mosquitoes?
Life must be a womb in which we’re all falling in love.

That’s why Faith and I aren’t together.
I’m still falling.

Left the café without engaging anyone in conversation.
Sat there writing, talking to myself; critically aware
that I wasn’t making an effort to communicate.

After leaving the café, I walked around in circles for awhile.
I do that. There’s nothing wrong with walking in circles.
In fact, if we’re honest with ourselves, even when we’re
most driven, we’re just walking around in circles;
large circles, which allow every step we take
to appear linear in nature.

What am I circling? I don’t know.
Perhaps myself, or the truth;
piece of pi or peace of mind.
Perhaps someday I’ll find out.
Perhaps when I learn to listen better;
when I become a kinder soul.

That’s why Faith and I aren’t together.
I’m waiting to become myself.

Sitting in my room. My house mate is taking a shower.
He’s been back from New York for a couple of days now.
Seems we avoid each other. I know I avoid him.

He pounds away in the basement on ‘installations;’
what he calls his sculptured salvage.
I’ll not go down because I know how angry he is.

I don’t need it right now. I’m learning to discern that
he brings out the worst in me.
Which is all right and necessary if you’ve yet
to see the worst in yourself.

But I see it. I see it already. I’m trying to do something about it; not wallow in it,
not waste time. I’m not strong enough to be with him right now.
We can be weak wonderfully well together. I’m weary of being weak.

Anger makes me feel powerful for one moment.
But like too much sugar, it weakens me the next.

When I’m more together and less sympathetically aroused
to anger by anger, less addicted,
I’ll spend more time with him.
He is my friend after all.

That’s why Faith and I aren’t together.
I’m too sympathetically aroused.

What am I angry about? Doesn’t matter.
They’re only excuses anyway.
Basically, I’m angry because, forgive me,
I fail to creatively share me with you.

Afraid and repressed, you and everything out there:
a group, a government, an idea, a blade of grass,
anything can trigger me into blame.
“Stop it, you’re doing it to me. Stop it, you’re killing me.
Why me? Why me?”

I’m wise to all that now. Thank you, Eric.
We teach without even knowing we teach.
I realize now that nothing and no one
does anything to me that I don’t allow them to.

Without that realization, there’s no meaning to growing up.
There are no adults of God. We remain but children.
Created in His/Her image we create our own reality.

While I weaken myself creatively, I allow others
to create reality for me.
How self un-fulfilling.
Nobody does ‘it’ to me, save myself.

That’s why Faith and I aren’t together.
I forgot to save myself.

Miracles do happen. I’m at the beach.
I’ve been here for five minutes.
Haven’t seen or heard the ocean yet.
It’s there, I know it’s there:
waves breaking, the foam, the fishermen, the foghorn.

I wasn’t seeing or hearing the ocean.
I was thinking about being saved.
I was also thinking about writing about being saved
so I could conclude with something profound like
“I won’t be happy with anyone until I’m happy with myself.”

That’s why Faith and I aren’t together.
I think too much.

“A plane buzzes overhead. A gull glides by.”
As I take the time to look and see,
“A helicopter buzzes overhead. A gull glides by.”
Just doesn’t make it as well in print.
That’s probably why I didn’t take the time
to see what was really happening.
The salesman had his foot jammed in my doors of perception.

To be honest, it was more of a cutting sound than a buzz.
The first half of the image is pure fabrication.
Now then, composed, discerning, as accurate as I can be,
“A helicopter cuts the air overhead. A gull glides by.”

Say… I like that better than the other version.
But let’s move on and up out of the bog.
Or perhaps I need to move on and down
to get out of this particular bog.
Where’s the Pacific? Oh! There it is.
Looks about as peaceful as me.

Can’t stop thinking about Faith. Have an urge to call her.
That’s why I’m writing. I don’t want to call her.
Whenever we talk, there’s an undercurrent of my
desire for her to reach out to me.

I don’t like it. Lacks integrity.
Very needy, demanding, not caring, not giving.
Ends with my being disappointed and
dumping on her angrily, feeling deprived.
Tricky stuff this undertow.

So I reach out to myself through my writing.
If I’m successful, I find myself again.
Writing agitates and integrates.
It helps me to understand myself better.
It keeps me honest, more accepting.

Maybe when I’m more adept at reaching out to myself,
I’ll find it easier to reach out of myself.
Perhaps then, she’ll meet me half way.
I’ve heard it said that reciprocity goes a long way.

That’s why Faith and I aren’t together.
I’ve yet to meet her half way.

Working, walking, writing; the 3 W’s.
The 3 R’s helped me to tear the world apart.
The 3 W’s help me to put it back together.

Just heard a wave crash. And over there, the Marin headlands.
Simply beautiful. Wonders never cease.
A helicopter cuts the air overhead.

“Trust me.” Saw it blazoned on the front of a T-shirt
of a woman I passed on the street.
Wonder what she wanted.
Wonder what I wanted.

Faith is fast, too fast. I lose her all the time.
I used to think I was fast. Sometimes when I’m with her
I feel as if I’m standing still.
It becomes a feeling of inadequacy, like I can’t keep up.

Wish we could sync our pace.
She’s the most lively, colorful,captivating woman I’ve ever met.
I think she’s killing herself.
She doesn’t know how to rest.
God she needs rest.
I hope she learns how to rest.
I get lost trying to keep up with her.
I love to lie by her side.
We don’t do that any more.

That’s why Faith and I aren’t together.
I can’t keep up.

I like to write alone, walk with another, and work with many.
They are my keys to intimacy with myself,
with you, and with the world at large.
Oops. Lost my sixth sense of humor again.

Too much writing. Too much solitude.
I have to meet someone; talk, walk, laugh, play.
Self-reflection only goes so far, then it turns into narcissism.
Before you know it, I’ll be morbid again.

Humor. Comes of opening up and connecting internally.
When I’m internally connected, I can connect with you.
Having fun and good humor are not the same.
People often have fun while being mean.

What is mean if not our ability to deny who we are.
What is mean but to be normal, stripped of our true sense of self.
What is mean but misperception.
What is mean but blind ambition.
What is mean but the struggle for more, for new, for better.

In truth, are we not infinite, eternal, perfectly created?

And if we are infinite, then ‘more and less’ are nothing but
the denial of who we are.

And if we are eternal, then ‘new and old’ are nothing but
the denial of who we are.

And if we are perfect, then ‘better and worse’ are nothing but
the denial of who we are.

All lies in the truth…

Faith died long ago, very young (old?)
from complications.
She was a serious alcoholic.
Today I found the Kahlil Gibran diary from 1983
that she gave me as a gift.
She’d inscribed it with this message;
‘May this year bring you
the joy, love and faith
that are already planted
in your heart and soul.
May your sorrow and confusion
be used as stepping stones
to growth and happiness.
With all my love.’

Kahlil Gibran’s mirroring message is entitled
The Present Need; it reads:
‘Be not heedful of the morrow
but rather gaze upon today
for sufficient for today
is the miracle thereof.
Be not over mindful of yourself
when you give,
but be mindful of the necessity;
for every giver himself
receives from the Father
and that much more abundantly.’

I made one entry in the diary on Dec.30th.
‘Dear Faith, thank you
for this wonderful gift
and thank you for your
wonderful love and patience.
The errant child in me
has wasted 15 years of todays
lamenting the past and
fearing the future.
Today I feel new hope.
I believe in us.
My behavior has not expressed
to you the truth.
I love you and wish
to share my life with you.
I pray that as the days pass
my ungrateful ways
pass with them
that you may come to know
my constant heart.’

…Of course she may claim I haven’t lost her.
It’s just that I don’t know how to act responsibly around her,
always exhibiting a minimum of tact and grace.
So, she moves away from me.

My presence, or lack of presence seems heavy for her; burdensome.
And I thought I was the light weight!
Honestly, I get confused and lose my mind.
I guess that’s when I do my dirty work.

There are times when I observe myself
destroying a peaceful moment with an outburst of anger
and catch myself holding back a smile
while Faith recoils and struggles
to recover from the shock.

Playground stuff.
Picking up the pieces is time consuming.
Usually, I do it by myself; without
all the king’s horses and all the king’s men.

Where the threat of violence lingers,
peace cannot be found
for peace does not exist
where protection is our partner.

Reminds me of a joke.
What’s the longest word in the English language?
Smiles. There’s a mile between 2 S’s.

That’s why Faith and I aren’t together.
My smile is not always genuine.