Looking Up

 

Many times we don't bother to look up.  As summer draws to a close, I have found myself moving on in many areas of my life.  Change is a constant in my life, sometimes it could appear that I am adrift, just floating aimlessly with my life, but I choose to view my life as going where I am needed and where it fits my needs.  While looking up, I observed the clouds, the total absence of airplanes, the quite, the beautiful sunlight, and the depth of the hues of green in the trees.  I breathed in just contemplating the peaceful scene and watching the children of diverse creeds laughing and playing together.  

I am in a new city, a city that I lived so close to as a child, but rarely saw.  What I saw has been the immense change that has seemed to bring little bits and pieces of the world moving into the city.  Some cultures have brought bits of what they identify with, with them.  That has been the case since this country was established.  We forget, we did not adapt to the native American life, we brought what we knew.  In some cases, we learned from the natives about the land, their culture, foods and hunting.  

When you ask people, why they have come here, many will tell you is they were fueled by a belief.  A belief that they would be able to start a new life, prosperity, a dream of freedom and in a lot of ways I understand the freedom of being a stranger in a new land.  Their politics don't seem to matter.  Their ways don't seem to matter.  Their manner of appearance doesn't seem to matter, because in the end all you can be is you.  In a manner of speaking, you realize the freedom of having to accept who you are.  

It's like looking up at the stars at night in a rural area.  You realize by looking at the immense expanse how it's all meaningless because it's meaningful.  That somewhere out there, some other being could be looking out at their night skies, if they in fact do have a night sky to look out at, and wonder themselves, if their problems, no matter how big or small, and quite possibly wondering the same thing. 

Perhaps that is why I look up at the skies so much, because I cannot get over how marvelous our temporary existence is and resolve to enjoy it more.

Jiddu Krishnamurti: A Reminder

During this lecture, or rather conversation, Jiddu Krishnamurti was 90 years old.  He quickly admonishes the audience not to applaud him.  The Year was 1985, the first night of a two-night speaking engagement in Washington DC.  They were the Reagan years and I was only 19 years old.  The heart beat of our nation was concerned with Communism, nuclear war, and we felt, at the time, that we were not crazy enough to push the button to destroy the earth.  The greatest fear was the cold war with Russia. 

It was still the "spy-versus-spy" days and we had felt, with incredible certainty that we were the ones wearing the "white" hats.  We were good, loved peace and were not in the business of creating war.  We had fought for those who could not speak. 

That was our self perception.  What is our concern?  What is our desire?  There is a saying that where your heart is, there lies your treasure.

As I think about the nature of the days, where we tried not to think about the threat of living under a nation where weapons were pointed at each other, and we tried to understand, as young people, how our parents generation had allowed the bomb contest to grow to such insanity.  At the time we had an inventory that could have destroyed the world several times over, and that was just OUR inventory. 

Like most Americans, I didn't pay attention to the Iran-Contra scandal.  It was "their" problem and we didn't want any part of it.  However, the war in Afghanistan had resulted in the bankruptcy of the former Soviet Union.  It also resulted in the collapse of the Berlin Wall.  It resulted in nuclear draw-down, that I had thought was a miracle.

The world came together and watched with tears as the wall came down and yet, the old Europe was still terrified of a "unified" Germany instead of hoping for a unified world.

At the time, I had thought to myself that I actually could have a family, during the age of one nation pointing weapons at another in some sort of Mexican stand-off, I was not about to bring a child into this drama.

Unfortunately, the drumbeat of war began and continues since 2 August 1990.  When one group tries to dominate another group to do its will, we have terms that have changed our language and our mentality.  To objectify humanity has crippled our hearts and consciousness with bitter seeds of hate and revenge.

Not all are as such, but individually and collectively; we are responsible for the world we want to see reflected in each other.  Is peace really so controversial?   Is freedom without a real meaning when we use the freedom to inflict control over each other.  To rule each other?  Over each other?  To treat each other like cattle?  Our competitive spirit serves not to better each other, but to destroy each other.  What is this carrot we are chasing?  A plaque?  A bit of recognition? 

For a moment, consider what is driving you in this life.  Consider your motivation.  Is it to be free from need, just to preserve your mortal body for as long as possible because life is so much more preferable to death? 

How much more is learned when we collaborate and share with each other instead of chasing little slips of green paper that we exchange with each other for wants more than needs.  So, perhaps we need to realign our thinking.  To face our fears of each other.  To realize this is not an ugly world, but one that has an enormous amount of potential instead of just passively and blindly accepting that we "have to" be divided through beliefs, race, creed, culture, language or nationality. 

Ponder carefully...why are we afraid of peace?  What wouldn't be needed anymore?  What could that energy be put into.  We live.  We die.  The next generations come and the ancestors hope their knowledge and experience is passed down. 

No matter what is feared, which is the unknown; have the courage to make the unknown...the known. What follows is the second night of his dialogue in Washington DC. If we can ever hope to have peace within the world, we must restore the intention of the word.

Into the Night

Another sunset comes and the night was adorned with a full moon and mosquitoes as I went for a long walk with no particular destination in mind.  Tonight my heart is heavy, my stomach is in anxious knots, and there is a part of me that just can't wait to go out into the world again, but that is my own battle with my desires.  Usually, I have found that when I have my sojourns into a quiet space or place, it is a prelude to a lot of sifting.  It's more stuff that I have to come to terms with in this school of human experience.  Often, the lessons have been about thinking too much or not enough.  Sometimes they have been lessons about trust and how to actually listen to my instincts. 

This lesson was a familiar one, one about the human heart.  Do we often listen to ourselves when we are in our periods of seclusion?  Do we even know what to listen for when we have well meaning people telling us what they want for us and what they would love to see for our lives?

This week I came to terms with something that isn't easy for many people to talk about, independence.  Ironic, because this week was the celebration of our Independence Day and many other nations celebrate the establishment of their countries, more correctly, their governments as well.  Actually, we are globally evolving into Interdependence, but I am running away from my original line of self questioning.

At issue is my lack of interest in establishing relationships.  I, realized that it's a peculiar thing for many people to want to help me, because I keep hearing how I am attractive and shouldn't be alone.  This isn't about giving 'love' a chance, it's realizing I have no desire for that kind of relationship with men.  A friend of mine had once told me, "you know it's right when you can't live without them."  However, the truth is, do I even want that kind of relationship?  The answer is a resounding "NO". 

As I looked up into the night sky, I realized that what I wanted most was to view people the way I had when I was a young person.  I was content to be myself.  I was content with however many people were around me.  I was focused on my dreams and I wasn't focused on 'finding' someone.  Many people get addicted to the dramas that are created, the emotions and passions that get stirred and they call that "being alive'.  Sure, there are people that get excited by others. 

I have known that feeling, but too often we focus on the things that fade out in people.  I have come to a place in my life where I realized what my real desires are.  That is the real pursuit of happiness by finding out that in order to be independent, you must realize that no one can make you happy.  You are the only one in charge of your own emotions.

There are many people out in the world looking for someone to complete them.  The truth is, we were all born complete.  It's just our relationships, at times, we forget it's really a partnership, and the only way partnerships really work is if they travel together.

Nothing in this life works if it is forced.

The greatest fear people have is being alone.  The truth is, I am not alone, not lonely, but that most important part of my life is this journey.  What that will fully entail isn't even important.  What is important is the willingness to learn from it all.

The anxious knot in my stomach finally untied itself the moment I realized that I needed to stop conforming to what other people wanted for me.  It didn't have to make sense to them, it only needed to make sense to me.

Passion is an imitation of living that smolders with an intensity that is often misleading.  Love is consistent and when you follow your soul, it keeps you truthful.

Some Things Old Are New

I have found a strange new obsession with old things and within the past week, the Twin Cities area had a back to the '50s car show.  For some reason it made me remember a place in New Mexico, a small town called Clovis, where there really wasn't too much for the kids to do on Saturday nights except drive their cars up and down Main Street and shout out to the girls.  The guys with the flashy rides, souped up with their hard working hands, would perform this slow crawling ride, that the town just accepted on Saturday nights.  We dubbed it "Happy Days." so for that night, none of the adults drove downtown, "The whole 2.5 miles of it", would be bumper to bumper in a town where there were only 30,000 people.  We had rattlesnakes, tumbleweeds, and "Happy Days".  I used to think Stephen King had based his book, "Desperation" on that little sleepy town, where the weather barely changed during the year.  There was only one thing that set Clovis apart, and that was the need for the young men to show their worthiness by the care and pride they showed in their vehicles, and the girls would smile and wave to the boys. 

Some of the Twin Cities locals loaded up their folding chairs and tailgated in a shopping center parking lot last weekend to see the cars drive by instead of going to a show to see them on display.  They would extend their hand in the parade style wave and cheering when they saw or heard a car they liked.  The deeper the throaty rumble, the louder the cheers from the young boys at the stop light, begging them to 'punch it" when the light turned green.  Some drivers humored the boys by revving up their engines, which only made them scream louder.  

I was just amazed by how many cars seemed to survive long past their 'expiration' dates.  The bodies seemed to have new life breathed into them.  Many of these vehicles were on the road long before I was even thought of, let alone my mother being legal to drive. 

And I thought to myself, wouldn't it be wonderful to convert these cars to alternative energy?  That's a kind of repurposing that I would have the heart to be a part of.

There is a strange love affair I have with old things, and I think it's because people used to love making things.  That's the signature I am looking for.  I also believe many look for that signature...some spend a lifetime looking for it, but when you find it, you know.

It's rare.

Poetic License

Gaza Shield

While cleaning out my email, I received a request to enter a global poetry contest through the "World Poetry Movement".   Sometimes you just go with it and let the words flow and get out of the way.  That is movement.  Since this is a "World" emphasized "Contest", I placed special emphasis on the world.  The real movement comes from within your heart and getting honest about what we want to change.  These words do not apply to a specific nation and yet they apply to all of us when we do nothing when we can do something.  Empower your voice against the apathy of the world in whatever medium you choose to use.  I remembered the movie "Gaza Shield", a short movie about how a video game was used to send a response to an Israeli on-line video game that promoted the killing of Palestinians.  Well, in that same spirit, we have to know when to call out our leadership in whatever nation we may reside in...because we all know, it's not OK.

Oh, and a note about the "Contest".  The goal for me isn't about winning anything...it's about the message and I hope that you pass it on.

Picture: Güven Mendi

Wall of Words

Crushing bones of war kissed with words of peace
Sounds of bombs exploding in the air
as the aid packages turn the food into blood
River run dry as the oil flows
another swollen dark belly
with skeletal frames crawl in the dirt
Throwing money at problems
leaving ill fated leadership to cut up the pie
sinking another immunization into a frail arm
with tongues swollen for thirst
and eyes that have only been blackened
by a heartless earth, laying barren and dry
soaking up the lifeblood of a native soul
no concern for the words,
no concern for the wishes
only want something on the dishes
No threads to pull together
No crops to sow
Just another body to bury with their plastic smiles
as long as its not their child but mine
The shadows of aid in a wasteland
with flowers in one hand and bullets in another
Is my skin not the right color?
Are my words understandable?
Would you have me hate my mother for giving me life?
Would you have my kill my brother just for a slice?
For a tank of gas...I cannot breathe.
For a diamond bracelet...the blood flows.
For your life, you demand my life.
For your peace, you give me war.
Behind the smile is a wall of words.

Please Do Not Touch The Sculpture, But Let It Touch You

 Touch.  To touch and not to touch.  Please don't touch me while I touch you.  As I was going through my pictures of my time in Washington DC, I found some shots that I hadn't edited yet and simply wanted to post for those who would appreciate them.  The raw humanity of torment captured in these faces conflicted with the sounds of laughing children in the background.  The story of the Burghers of Calais that Auguste Rodin captured in Bronze has moved me for sometime.  To see this version and the other in Paris, is a treasured memory for me.  I know that Rodin is quite possibly most remembered for "The Thinker", but for me, "The Burghers of Calais" whispers something new with each viewing.

There are many reasons artists 'go into' art.  One artist has mentioned that perhaps this is the only compensation received.  In troubled times, I beg to differ, after all, with art, when applied to any vocation, that imaginative touch becomes something more.  A skilled hand only remains so if there is life in its utilization.  As with anything that is not used, it withers away into oblivion.

In viewing Emile-Antoine Bourdelle's "The Great Warrior of Montauban", I have wondered if it was only the physique that was called great.  A raised sword, an outstretched arm, surely is this not greatness?  However, destruction of life is easier than preserving life.  Death is easy my friend, living is where the challenge is.  Where is his foe?  Whom is he protecting?  But that is art, that essence that makes you mentally explore the pieces that are rendered.  And when each person has the opportunity to do that instead of having it told to them, they find their truth as to what makes art real in a world of illusion.  You are free to be touched by the work only if you allow them to touch you.

Seeds of Faith or Little Things DO Matter

This year was the year that I thought about the fable of the grasshopper and the ant.  As children, many a story in varying versions are told about preparation and the value of hard work.  Growing up in the midwestern states of America, this story had a very tangible feel, because of our winters, being generally very unforgiving and bitterly cold.  My grandfather hunted deer in the northern woods of Minnesota, no so much for sport, but because they actually ate what they killed.  I heard stories of the "old country" and it always puzzled me, what was this "old country" I had heard so much about. Though I was surrounded by multiple European and Scandinavian languages we weren't encouraged to learn those tongues, but to stick with our assimilation into American culture.  We were the new generation and old ways were for other times, or so was the thinking of that time.  Whether I wanted to think of it or not, my existence was produced by war.  The emigration of my maternal great-grandparents was the direct result of the encroachment of the Russians into Finland.  My grandmother's family had emigrated from Sweden.  Meanwhile on my father's side of the family, they had steadily migrated towards the mid-section of the country after initially settling in Pennsylvania coming from France and Ireland with many a passionate love story in the mix as I traced my family tree all the way back to the 1500s.  My father had been traumatized during the Vietnam war, the sixth child of 13 children, yet, he was the first born son, and a spoiled child, he was used to being the center of attention.  That somehow did not translate well into military service for him.  The odds of my parents meeting seemed almost astronomical to me.  However, that is the nature of life.  For my son, when he thinks about it one day, his own story, it gets even more bizarre that his American parents would come from two very different backgrounds to meet in the United Kingdom, where he would himself be born where a miniature version of the Statue of Liberty resided in from of the hospital.  Significant only because his father was born in New York City where the larger version resides.  None of it planned in some sort of self aware fashion, but seemingly purposeful, as if each life is no accident, no matter how random it appears.

So this year, in a very random fashion, I planted my first garden.  In a chaotic rendition, I started with just seeds and started seedlings in April and nurtured them, watered them and bravely started to set them out as winter faded away, covering them at night and wondering if I knew what I was doing, but trusting my instincts along the way.  I trusted the earth, the sun, the rains, and pulled up a lot of weeds to prepare the soil to receive these new children.  I gently removed them from the garden boxes and transplanted them and still, I felt like I didn't know what I was doing, only vaguely having an idea that if I just did it, it would just happen.  The roots took hold and the soil was turned and I would just have a go at it.

 There wasn't a real plan.  I grew a little bit of this, that and the other, mislaid my labels and finally felt that I was just at the mercy of the fates.  There was an orderly chaos of rows of this, that, and the other to just became a garden that I visited every morning and sunset to take stock of how they were doing in the elements.  I wondered at times if they were receiving too much rain, if the hail was killing them, if the sun was scorching them, and if they were being devoured by pestilence.  Still, I was determined to run a course of non-interference with pesticides.  No traps for gophers or rabbits, and I pulled up weeds and moved some of them around with some measure of hesitation.  I realized my not having any idea of what I was doing was quite possibly my greatest asset because I wasn't afraid to try.

They are flourishing.  Lush bean stalks, peas that flowered and have vines that formed arms to link up to each other to grab life.  On days that I watered them, I noticed how they just bounced with life.  Whereas if you have seen a wilted plant that was devoid of life, the leaves seem flatter, something is lacking and in spite of its greenness, you could tell that life was no longer within those plants. 

This season has been a pleasure to explore and create something tangible as the broad pumpkin leaves spread.  I think about the journey, and it's not that I can't wait for the harvest, it's not really what was the important part of the lesson.  The important part of the lesson was that all life is really about the small things that grow into the larger things.  Oh, it was just a seed, placed into soil.  A seed, that doesn't seem important at least not until they are given favorable conditions to grow. 

Somehow, my garden, this little plot of land, has made me think about the miracle of life, it's fragile points, and it's durability.  In some ways the chaos that I look at, made me appreciate the act of just doing without premeditation, yet trusting all of my imperfect actions.  Perhaps that is what a real organic garden is; a mere reflection of the type of person I am. 

"Mary, Mary, quite contrary...."

How does YOUR garden grow?