Cleansing burn

Join me in envisioning that list of excuses tossed into and consumed by this fire. No more excuses, no more reason to neglect my blog. If there are subjects you’d like to see me tackle, please send your suggestions.

See you again soon.

 

 

Reason enough…

Excuses—

No one will want to read it…

I’m tired and unfocused.

What if everyone hates it?

There’s something good on TV.

What if no one even reads it?

I’m probably not all that good…

I have to update my facebook.

I have an attention issue…

Writing is like giving birth, it’s hard!

Everyone will realize I’m a phony.

It’s too much of a risk.

I’m not getting paid for this.

I’m a lazy and talentless hack.

I really am tired, really.

I have nothing of any value to say.

There’s no one dying to read anything I write.

I’m no good and everyone will realize it.

People will laugh at me.

What if no one wants to read my stuff?

It’s safer to do nothing than be rejected.

I’m never going to finish it.

What if they hate me?

—Fears     

Back in print…

Aaaand…I’m back. As my new life settles down a bit, I’m going to try to get back to some sort of regular schedule here. Thanks to all who follow and comment, I look forward to hearing from you again. Keep watching this space….

A New Leaf

Autumn comes a bit later here in Arizona, my new home. But, though it was 90-some degrees again in the Phoenix area today, the Fall is indeed sneaking into the Valley of the Sun as we speak. In fact, the same fall colors you can see out your window in Connecticut, or Vermont, or Wisconsin, have been on display in the northern parts of the state, including the Grand Canyon area, for weeks. So…I’m not feeling as homesick as I expected.

I mean, if I stand at the end of my driveway, I can see an actual mountain; so I’m not exactly starving for gorgeous natural visuals. But I’m looking forward to seeing some gold and scarlet gracing the trees in my neighborhood. But, not the palm trees, I’m guessing.

Seasonal changes are obvious times to reflect on the changes and chances of our lives. especially this year, since I went through more changes than a chameleon hiding out on a Jackson Pollock painting.

Quit a  job, sold a house, went through the intense last weeks of my mom’s life with her, drove all of our possessions cross-country, relocated my family to the middle of a desert. And that was just July. Why did I do it? What was I thinking? Questions like that seem to be reasonably on everyone’s minds. And my answer is, unreasonably,’ I don’t really know.’ Yes, we wanted to get out of the super-high-pressure of the east coast economy. Yes, we’d had more than our fill of humidity and winter. And, yes, it seemed that I came to the point to turn the page and find out the rest of the story. But none of those was a deciding factor.

Regardless of our illusions and desires, we have little real control of our lives. That’s a simple fact. We all get tossed on ever-roiling seas, swept along by the currents of history, driven by random and capricious tides.  Sure we do stuff, build and buy stuff, love, marry, raise children and make our marks, but the world rolls on with or without our cooperation. The most logical forward motion in life seems to be to go with the flow, like corks in the stream. 

Maybe going against the stream occasionally is a way of taking back some small measure of control. Or maybe I’m just going through a mid-life crisis and making crazy choices. Po-tay-toe, po-tah-toe.

But here I am, in a red state, in the west, with 100+ degree summers, scorpions, rattle-snakes and republicans. And, terrific schools, an amazing highway system, great shopping, libraries and public services. And mountain sunset vistas that’ll make your eyes pop.

I’m still not sure how I got here, and I’m still not sure what I’m gonna do with my new life…but I’m working on it.

When I put it all together, you’ll be the first to know.

Don’t it make my blue state red…

So, I’ve moved from deep-blue Connecticut to sunny, hot, red-red-red Arizona. Dear God what was I thinking…?!

Thereby hangs my tale…which I’ll be posting in installments soon. Maybe we’ll discover that it all makes more sense than it seems now. But I make no promises.

Watch this space.

Which way?

There used to be, and may still be, a series of young reader books called the “Which Way” series. The brilliant idea of it all was to take an adventure story to a point of decision, at which point, the reader would choose the next step from a short list of possibilities. What you’d decide then shaped the story from there–you’d “turn to page 37,” or whatever, and see the consequences of your selection. Of course, since these were kids’ books, after all, and intended for fun, none of those choices were going to lead anywhere too dire. You weren’t going to turn the page to find a convertible plunging into the Grand Canyon.

Well, no surprise, it turns out that life is a which way proposition, without the option of flipping the pages back if you don’t like the outcome. We face those choices, big and small everyday, with the sure knowledge that what we choose can lead to paradise or disaster. Or a little bit of both. And, just to make things even more interesting, the road even to paradise will likely as not rival Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride for twists, turns, spills and thrills. Yipee.

If you’re like me, and I hope you are not, you face the which way moments with dread. I admit without a trace of pride, that I have been known often to freeze in the clutch. Faced with a possibility that might lead to a very good outcome–but might also end in flaming wreckage–I have done the only thing I could think of.

Nothing.

Sure, I haven’t gained much, but, I rationalize, I haven’t lost much either. But I’m dead wrong. I’ve ceded the rewards that could have been mine. I’ve given up a lot of happiness. Let way too many good things slip away. Life is not for the timid, the way forward is a perilous road, but the safe route leads only to a blank wall. What’s waiting for us, be it glory or tragedy, has to be risked if we’re ever to live fully. Happiness is not the payday for a safe trip through life.

Now, as down on me as I can be, I also know that I have taken plenty of real chances, have achieved, have found some small bits of glory. But I am haunted by the things that I wasn’t brave, or smart, or foolhardy enough to try for. I look back and wonder what might have been the reward if I’d zigged instead of zagging here or there. I’m sure everyone goes there, I know I’m not alone. We all have those moments of pondering what might have been if we had chosen wisely when the road diverged in the wood. Who hasn’t found themselves at the end of the less traveled way, wondering if maybe we should have taken a right turn at Albuquerque after all.

Well, once the dice are rolled, once the path is traversed, we can’t replay it–but we’re not necessarily at the end either. There are, I’m starting to see, other roads and other choices always still available. Thing is, we have to actually get moving to see where those will lead. Life, I think, is not a journey, but rather a series of journeys, and the traveling is only over if you stop moving.

All of this springs to mind as I ponder why I’ve been silent here at the blog for a bit. Like a carnival ride, the world keeps spinning whether we’re ready for it or not. Unlike a carnival ride, I pray that the hand on the brake has all of its digits, but I digress. Anyway, in the past couple of weeks, my road has veered into rough country a bit; over hills, through some brambles, and quite a stretch of broken pavement. What can I say, for a lot of us, sometimes it’s a dark ride.

During that time, I’m afraid I misplaced my focus a bit, froze up some, and struggled a little too. Not unique to my life, and by no means my whole story, it’s just some bumps along the way. It happens, it will happen, and I will keep moving. The road continues on, and I’ll get past the rough stuff. Hell, I have to, or I lose even more ground.

I’m rededicating my self to keeping The Confessions more on track from here out. I”ll keep going and keep reporting back from the journey. Hopefully you’ll want to see how things go. I know I do–but I may be a bit more into it.

As Paul McCartney and the Beatles remind us, it’s a long and winding road…but hopefully it leads somewhere good. Not traveling it is really no choice at all.

Stand still and you’ll never know which way things turn out.

Still here…

Even in the desert, life blooms and casts a long shadow–there’s some sort of message–probably an obvious one–in that for me.

Sorry there hasn’t been anything new this week, it’s been a distracted, and maybe slightly dry, time. I’m working away, though, and there’ll be new posts this week.

I promise…

Only words

Almost no one would dispute that we live now in an age of often confrontational and contentious rhetoric. It has never been more true, nor easier to discern that, like certain body parts, everyone has an opinion. With modern technology, everyone also has the means of broadcasting those opinions. Never has the unity of our common humanity seemed more fragile.

There was, I am sure, a time when people of diverse points of view spoke civilly to one another, even while disagreeing. There must have been a golden era of collegiality where Republican and Democrat (and, Whig) liberals, moderates and conservatives all sat around the big table and reasoned together. It may well have been long ago and far away; perhaps in some hazy, now-forgotten age, but I need to believe there was a shining time when people did not wish bodily harm upon one another over politics, health insurance, or which cola was best.

Oh, I know, I’m a cock-eyed optimist; a foolish believer in fairy tales and just plain hopelessly naive. But I believe in that gilded age where the sound of wailing and gnashing of teeth did not fill the air. Once upon a time, there was a place where wild-eyed shouting was not the norm.

Now, I understand that the folks doing that shouting will forcefully assert several truths. The first is that having and expressing an opinion is a God-given right. This is true, but I believe that God also gave us wisdom, discernment and inside-voices–all of which seem to get far less exercise. Another truth you will hear is that a free society needs all voices to be heard. Again, undeniably true, but I’m sure that society could get even more out of those voices if they could actually be heard over each other’s yelling.

Many will also say that the expression of an opinion is an individual thing and hurts no one. “They’re only words, ” you’ll hear. To those who say this, I have to believe that they are either kidding me or deluding themselves, but they are dead wrong. Words matter. Ideas inspire. Emotion incites. And, more, words and ideas are not necessarily heard and received in the way they were intended.

Once words are in the open, once an idea is absorbed into the public consciousness, we lose our control over them. And, we lose any chance to determine what will be done with what we put into the air. I don’t, however, believe that we cede responsibility for our words and their effect–so we need to be sure.

Even the most sacred and trusted sources can be distorted by the human mind determined to hear what it wants to hear. Everyday, people of all faiths read their scriptures and take away the intended wisdom, guidance and commitment to peace and love that their founders inspire. Many of those readers, though,will read those same words and find hatred and a call to bloody war instead.

I’m not singling any faith group out, either. There are so-called faithful Christians who find support for racial division, exclusion and murder in the diametrically opposed words of Jesus. Muslim extremists find justification for war and hatred truly faithful followers of Muhammad will never find in the words of their prophet. If even sacred words can be twisted, then the words of average people have no chance. Words matter, because we never know how they will be twisted by minds looking for reasons to hate.

It cannot be denied that it is far too easy and common for words to be warped and transformed into something dangerous by those who hear them. We know that far too many people are powder kegs waiting for an igniting spark. We know how quickly an anxious or deranged mind can find the trigger it needs to explode. Words can be spun, ideas can be exploited; sparks will fly, trouble will combust.

I believe in this age of often super-heated, sometimes angry and exploitative discourse, our words have to be used as carefully as any weapon of mass destruction. No world war or militant jihad ever erupted from silence; the fires of conflict burn ideas like dry kindling. And, speaking into a conflict, eschewing reason for reactionary rage, is the same as gushing a volatile accelerant onto an already unchecked conflagration.

Oh, I understand that expressing your opinion is a God-given right. And I know that our Constitution your freedom of speech. I get it. But in this modern age of media multiplicity, everything that is said is captured in a thousand repeated and rehashed snips and clips. Everything spoken lies in storage waiting to be retrieved and reviewed. We will remember who starts which fire. So, think, reason, think again..then engage your mouth. And be sure that you will be held accountable.

More important than discretion and care in the rhetoric of the public square, however, is the absolute need to control our words in the home and within our family. More than any physical harm, more than any other punishment, what we say to each other in intimate situations has enormous potential to cause life-lasting pain. What parents say to children, and how it is said matters. A single word, or the omission of a needed word can scar a child who is loved and cared for in every other way.

We all carry these scars. We have all experienced the casual scorn, disapproval or disdain spoken in a flash of unguarded emotion. Sadly, many of us have in turn passed along painful little moments to our own children. Words have the power to destroy and once uttered cannot be recalled. They careen like jagged shards of shrapnel, in countless directions, tearing holes in the esteem of our victims.

I know I am as guilty as any. As a clever person, proud of my quick wit and possessed of an unfortunate instinct for the jugular, I may be more guilty. Scoring the point has often been more important than considering the outcome. Getting the laugh overruling the price someone else will have to pay. As with many aspects of character seen with new eyes later in my life, I’m not proud of what I see. I am trying harder. I am attempting to be more conscientious. I’m not near to perfect, but I am trying. All part of the slowly evolving show of me.

Let’s strive for open communication and a forum of shared ideas without recourse to venom and conflict. Let’s live in a world where we respect ideas and the people who have them. Let’s create a golden age of getting along.

Words matter. They can be dangerous things. Use them wisely.

Up

I’ve been thinking of my writing here as a sort of work in progress about a work in progress; that is to say, my life. It’d be nice to say that everything is as zen and under control as I sometimes pretend, but it ain’t. Despite the fact that I invite the readers to see the things I write about from my point of view, I know that view is not singular or rarified in any way. I have no claims on expertise, let alone right answers. Life is a process, I’m just here to report from the road.

Life, in fact is a jigsaw puzzle with a gajillion pieces and no picture on the box. And, a whole bunch of those pieces seem to be nothing but sky blue. Let’s have at it, shall we?

There are good days and there are bad days…and there are days express mailed directly from Hell. In no particular order. It used to be that I’d find myself so deep in the hole that all I could see was dirt–and I’d ask, ‘why me?’ I’m trying, in slow baby steps, to change the question to, ‘what next?,’ or maybe ‘what else?’ But on Hell days, it’s hard to remember to be clever and positive and sunny. A mostly inexpert work in fitful progress is my life.

My tendency is to assume the worst and look for the way in which it is all my fault. A lot of times I had help finding the blame, but I never really needed it. My conscience is like a truffle sniffing pig for guilt. Thanks to that background noise, I had two choices, basket case or king of denial. I chose the latter…mostly. Over the years, I’ve focused forward and hoped. And done my best–and given myself no credit.

So now I find myself older and not particularly wiser. I look back and find that I’ve wasted time and given away things I should have kept. Having reviewed the trip, I see that I’ve taken many right roads and quite a few wrong turns…but I have survived. And have finally come to realize that you shouldn’t settle for just existing, but in fact need to actually live. That you don’t have to lower your expectations, that you might really find happiness somewhere out there. This is merely a theory so far–I haven’t proven it yet. But I believe in it–though it is new.

I am trying to believe more, hope more, and fear less. And, it’s a work in progress–with lots more work before you’ll notice any progress. I’m trying to look up, past the top edge of the hole. I’ll keep you posted.

So, it’s probably obvious that if I’m preaching to anyone, it’s to myself. You’re not finding me dispensing wisdom and clarity to the world, you’re catching me mumbling desperate encouragement to myself. Listen in, if you want. Maybe we can find the next steps forward together. I hope so.

So…on days when I find myself wondering what cosmic entity I’ve managed to piss off so blithely, I’m going to make every effort to breathe calmly and see hardship as a human condition and not my due. I’m going to try my damnedest to move toward the light and stay positive.

And I’m going to keep on trying till I believe it. Then I’ll try some more.

And we’ll see if I ever progress…

City Boy

I grew up in a city neighborhood in Chicago. Built after World War Two, our streets were neatly laid out in grids of Streets and Avenues that intersected at right angles; each one pretty much like the block before and the one after. Mostly new, single family homes sat on smallish lots, separated from one another by narrow walkways we all called gangways. Alleys ran behind our houses, allowing access to garages, and a place for garbage to be left and then picked up by the city, without disturbing the placidity of our picturesque facades.

Those facts and measures defined our world as children. That geography expanded over time to include schools, stores, ball fields, etc. But basically, our few square blocks were the whole universe.

Children, as they will do, used everything to their own advantage. Auto lined streets were perfect places to play baseball, or football, or hide and go seek. Our sidewalks existed as places to chalk in hopscotch patterns, or batters’ boxes. The concrete front steps and lawns of our houses were where we played stoop-ball (called “3 Outs”) with pink rubber Spaldeens.

The trees, gangways, porches, shrubs and cars were outfield walls, hiding places, goalposts, boundaries and clubhouses. Our alleys were basketball and volleyball courts and testing grounds for bicycles and go-carts. Our neighborhood was a kingdom, and we were all princes of the realm.

And, since we were the children of the post war baby boom, there were plenty of us. We never had to work to get a pick-up game going, if anything we had to devise elaborate fair-play rules to make sure that everyone got their turns. All circumscribed, but designed as well so that no team could get stuck with too many hopeless cases. If not for those rules, many of us would never have gotten off the bench (or the curb we used as a bench).

The realm was, for the most part, sacred and safe. Sure, many of us scraped knees, elbows and chins every time we went outside. Lots of sprained, banged, bruised and cut fingers, wrists, ankles and toes–but we were tough and not terribly bright. As if sensing how soon the time to grow up and get serious would come, we grasped and held every second of our childhoods in vise-like grips. We spent time like misers. We savored and stretched and strove to find and live the perfect moments of play.

Looking back, there are moments and memories that remain so crystalline pure that they retain the power to summon whole the experience even now. Running at top speed, often shouting in exultation, a sweeping summer wind at our backs ruffling our hair. All to be the first to take that almost sacramental drink of cold water from someone’s garden hose. Even with that vague rubbery taste, was there ever any sweeter or more quenching drink?

Finding the perfect hiding place and settling in with absolutely motionless patience. The anticipation and agony of immanent discovery, the thrill of the hunt, the feel of coiled young muscles held tightly in tension–living right at the edge of potential explosion.

When hot summer days transitioned to warm summer nights, I recall laying absolutely still on the cooling front walk of our house. While running, laughing children zigged everywhere like the fireflies they were often chasing, while the adults talked over their grown up days. I lay and stared up at the billions of stars arrayed above me in the clear, blue velvet sky. My eyes and my mind would focus outward, trying to take the enormous vastness in, to understand what the universe was. Almost always the sounds of life around me would fade, and I’d feel a pull inside as if from the stars themselves.

In those moments of unknowing transcendence, I would become lost in that forever moment–only to come out of the reverie in a start, a delicious shiver still panging through me. I was six, I had no idea what I’d just experienced. I was frightened by it, and yet also drawn to it. In the slightest way, I was touching infinity and being touched in return and it changed me forever. I revisited that experience often over the years, and guarded the secret of my communion with the universe jealously. Not least because I knew whatever it was that I was experiencing would only sound crazy if I attempted a stammering, uncomprehending explanation. I had no words for this glimpse of eternity, nor anyway to translate it for anyone else.

Were the times so different then than they are for children today? Did the simplicity and innocence of that time make us more open to wonder? Life buzzed through us with the sound of telephone wires singing their electronic arias overhead. We lived and moved and had our beings in this envelope of Eden, however briefly, and however eternal. Paradox in paradise.

At that age, in that era, there were no plans, but we were ever on the right path. No clocks, calendars or expectations, but everything important got done. Bees were counted, dogs were taught to roll over, broken bats were given second lives in sheaths of black tape, snowflakes were tasted, wars fought, dragons slain, frontier towns made safe. We touched the universe everyday, stretching time beyond any Einsteinian limitations.

And, the universe touched us back. Called us forward, promising all the treasure that we could hold. And hold it we did.

We had the whole universe, the world, the city–everything before us on the streets where we lived.

Paradise.