The wind roared all night long the day this tree was blown over in a terrible storm.  Branches were ripped from trees as they flung to and fro in the storm.  The willow above is the favorite climbing spot of neighbor's children.  The wind warped it until it broke and fell onto our fence and the RV parked beside it.  No damage was done to anything other than the tree.  The kids will miss having the tree.  They loved to look over the fence and say, "Neighbor," over and over again until we heard them.

Nature changes the landscape.  Uplift and erosion.  Subsidence and deposition.  Almost as soon as we emerge into the world, we become a target for the elements.  The wind, water, fire and earth of the world buffet us, scour us, shape us and impede us.  Not even lava moves on the surface of the planet as fluidly as do the living beasts that inhabit it.  The crust is bursting at the seems, and a host of protein based organisms crawls along the crust that floats atop the mantle of molten life blood.  As soon as anything, organic or inorganic, moves above the surface, forces begin the process of wearing it down to level, then beyond as the surface itself is carved anew.

The children's voices, my vision of them playing, the snow covering this tree and the thought I am thinking, was thinking, am still "was" thinking, will not be drawn down by gravity.  They are not subject to those physical laws.  Who knows where these concepts go, but gravity appears to have no sway in the domain of thought and soul.   Could the place where thoughts collect be known as heaven?

I will write a word.

Bell.

I choose bell.  The root word means beauty in Italian.  A bell can cover a nut.  The klacker or striker that dangles down from the apex along the inner side of the bell makes noise when you shake the bell.   The shape of a  bell repels water.  Some bells have hickory handles that fit snugly in the palm of one's hand.  The purpose of a bell becomes clear in just one use of it.  The shape and material of a bell produces the tone and the strength of sound.  My grandmother played a tin bell in a bell choir, and I watched one of her performances the summer before she passed on to heaven.  

Bell.  I chose the word bell.

Source: Hubblesite.org

The cloud of gases in this picture taken by the Hubble telescope swirl and twist to create a landscape once  seen only in imaginations the imaginations of artists.  Looking back at the renderings of science fiction illustrators of the fifties and sixties, their visions captured details not yet seen by the human eye.  How were they able to do this without seeing the actual image?

The colors captivate my eye, and seeing them I can begin to build scenes in my head filled with detail and structure.  I can invasion a story with characters to act out the scenes.  Did Andre Norton feel this way?  Was she inspired in this manner to write her incredible science fiction and science fantasy novels and short stories?

I want to write; to put on paper the descriptions of the visions in my mind, but how?  I have many words, and I have the skills to put them together to form a sentence, but how do I release them?  I have always pulled away from labeling concepts, but now I suspect I have been wrong to do so.  Being able to identify a word as an adjective might well be the difference between gibberish and coherency.   I once relished the depth of a word.  I wanted to know the definition, the connotation and the denotation.  I love the way a word could change its meaning simply by its position in a sentence.  I grew up, and those rules became restraints.  I seek the lock to unchain them.

I realize that I do not create.  I see vision, and I attempt to match a word with a picture to build a description that someone who cannot see what I see can experience the image as I see it.  The urge to write can be painful in its intensity.  Years have passed, but the compulsion has not faded.  Compulsions can burn one up if not managed properly.

My compulsion mirrors the Hubble picture.  I sit at the center while my ambitions, feelings and memories whirl and tumble around me.  The heat of my personality, my life force flares and collapses, but the fuel within me has limits, and a will eventually burn out.  What shall I do?  When will I take myself seriously?  What lies behind the compulsion, and how do I learn to co-exist with it?

Finally, this photo captures a mere split second in time.  After the shot was taken, the form changed, the colors mutated.  That, I think, sums up what hinders me when I sit down to write.  I am dynamic, alive, nonstop breathing and moving, and not inclined to stop.  The visions in my mind are equally as volatile.  How does one lay out this running dialogue?

Questions, questions.  This is my dilemma, and my passion.

I have never been able to build from imagination.  Creativity has never been my forte.  Other people provide the ideas.  I tweak them a bit here and there, and build whatever needs to be constructed.  Give me a broken object, and I reverse engineer it back to health.

I am a little disappointed to realize at forty-five that I am not creative.  I always wanted to be, and made more than a few attempts to make something amazing and different, but without much success.

My favorite comedian is Bill Cosby.  My mother had all of his comedy albums, and I could recite many of his bits by heart.  One of my favorite bits was titled "Ashtrays."   Bill would joke that no matter what he was assigned to make in shop it turned into an ashtray.  Very funny.  I think about that joke when I am tempted to be depressed about my lack of inventiveness.

I suppose I have a niche to fill, but I have not yet stumbled on it.  Maybe I will.  Maybe I can just be happy to be a builder and a fixer.  Builders and fixers make people happy.

Lord, make me an instrument of your peace.

Where there is hatred, let me sow love.

Where there is injury, pardon.

Where there is doubt, faith.

Where there is despair, hope.

Where there is darkness, light.

Where there is sadness, joy.

O Divine Master,

grant that I may not so much seek to be consoled, as to console;

to be understood, as to understand;

to be loved, as to love.

For it is in giving that we receive.

It is in pardoning that we are pardoned,

and it is in dying that we are born to Eternal Life.

Amen.

 Let me be an instrument of thy peace, oh Lord.

I have a rare day to myself.  No one on the ranch today but me and the dogs.  My better half has gone to meet a friend.

I went to a meeting, and then shopping for a bowling ball and shoes.  No luck with the bowling supplies, so I moved on shopped for Thanksgiving supplies.

The simple pleasures are the best.  True, true for me as I let myself enjoy shopping at the local Carr's.  I picked out Christmas cards for my brother, mother and L.    The ghosts of loved ones lost no longer haunt me quite so fiercely now.  I still feel the loss of Jack and my dad, but I can breath when faced with the memories.  I feel better this holiday.  The promises keep coming true.

I have been angry of late, and for me that can be dangerous.  The walls close in on me in the winter; darkness overwhelms, and I feel more than a little lost.  What does one do with oneself in the winter?  I once found activities to get me through the long, cold, dreary months, but those days seem far away and unattainable.

I played hockey once upon a time.  I loved it.  I fell down a lot, and I was never very good at the sport, but I looked forward to the games.

I skated in the parks in the winter.  That was often painful as the weather tends to be very cold, and my feet chilled too quickly.  L and I used to go frequently, but that was in the now distant past.

Many years separate me from the past in which I founds ways to stay active in the winter.  I have blank spots where I cannot remember what I did to get through the darkest days.  I once had the Guard, my work as a mechanic, my goals, and my love of sports, but those days live only as dim memories.

Whatever happened to Shirley Valentine?

I am not unhappy, just restless and irritable, and sometimes lacking whenever I try to find something to do with myself.  I was a mechanic, never creative unless I had a wrench in my hand.  I thrilled at the chase when running down a open or a short in an electrical circuit.  I poured myself into that work.  It meant everything to me.  Where do you go after everything?  I have been floundering with that thought for such a long time.

Groceries are laying on the counter, and the house needs a good sweeping.  I am going to turn on the Eurythmics, and let my mind disappear in the music for just a little while until L comes home and the pace picks up.

Sweet dreams are made of this.
Who am I to disagree.
~ Eurythmics

We are human, social animals who depend upon the cohesion of the group to ensure the survival of the individual.  The cohesion of the group strengthens when the individual reaches its greatest potential.  I try to be the best me I can be,  but remember that I am doing so for the benefit of those with whom I share my life.

My dad is walking on the beach in the picture. I cannot see his face, but I know he is happy. I sense it from his body language. I love the beach. I imagine he loved the beach as well. He and Gloria went to the beach quite often, or at least I believe they did. Most of my father's life is unknown to me. He and my mother divorced when I was about four or five years old. I was devastated as was my little brother. We struggled with our resentments and pain for most of our adult lives. Yet, through all that I managed to have a relationship with my father that helped bring us all together near the end of his life. I had the privilege of being by his side when he died. I held his hand as he drew his last breath. He died with great dignity. His physical death was difficult, but his spirit went softly, and beautifully. I look at myself in the mirror and search for traces of him in my own face. I listen to my brother and hear Dad's voice in Craig's own deep tones. I try and walk with joy as I feel him walking in this picture. I miss dad, but I am more aware of him now than ever.

This is my place to visit and to write. This place lies nestled in cyberspace, unsecured, open for intrusion, vulnerable. Still, I choose to come to this place to share my thoughts as honestly as I am able. I felt good today. I didn't step on anyone's toes today. I avoided my nemesis, anger. I lived in the now. Strange to think of living in the now as a memory. I am not in the now. Is writing just a form of avoiding the now?

The Practice of Patience

I can hardly believe that I have been a home owner for nearly seven years. I tally time by length of each project. On good days, I look back and time seems to have unfolded in an orderly process, and I am amazed at what has been accomplished. But bad days bring melancholy, as I compare the time I have spent working on projects against time spent on family, friends, and recreation. I must guard against these days, or risk being sucked into a whirlpool of regret and self pity as I compare my life to others. This self assassination can cost hours, if not days, and wastes precious energy.

How does one avoid this form of self assassination? Gratitude. Gratitude is the only way I know to ward of thoughts of regret, or shut down the slide show of "my life versus your life." I am grateful for what God has given me today.

The Beacons We Set Forth...

Children are like little beacons. Their parents create the miniature vessels within which are ignited tiny, delicate flames, and those tenuous fires are tended until such time as the flame can sustain itself under all but the most extreme conditions.

Importance...the light itself. This is the important thing. That the lights be made strong. We forget and sometimes are disappointed in the vessels that harbor the light. These beautiful lights sustain us as we sustain our creator. They sustain others as well. Perhaps the vessels lacked perfection or even functional fortitude. The fuel feeding it determines its vigor and texture of its heat.

When we cannot journey ourselves any longer, we can sit quietly on shore and watch the lights we set forth continue their journey. We are happy.

Growing or Shrinking... Seen from a Distance, It's Hard to Tell

Source: Hubblesite.org

If one looks at this picture without reading the caption, one might conclude that the two lines are coming together on a collision course. Perhaps these are two comets the paths of which are about to intersect spectacularly. Then one reads the description, and finds out the thin tips of the lines are the furthest edge of debris moving outward from the explosion of a dwarf star.

How are we seen in life? Who will take the time to read our caption? Can the life of anyone be understood with any accuracy when seen from a distance? How do we write the captions to explain the snapshot that people see? Do we bespeak ourselves, or do we wait for others to be our witness?

Patchwork Patterns

When I was young...er, I pursued my dreams in an attempt to complete some pattern I envisioned for my life. My dream was not cohesive and lacked defined edges, milestones and compass points. My pattern appeared to me in patches, and remnants like the fabric for quilts that women search for in thrift stores and yard sales. Yes, the building of my life has taken the form of a quilt pattern. The individual pieces have been sewn; some are very nicely crafted while others can barely be recognized as man made. They have yet to be attached one to another, pinned to the batten and the final product presented in its classic form.

One of my favorite plays was a little locally produced piece titled "Quilters." "Quilters" was, is an historical play composed of several short stories based loosely on real accounts of women who pioneered on the prairis of North America in the eighteen hundreds. The stories are all based on the different classic quilt patterns that emerged from that time period: the Wedding Rings, the Lone Star, the Butterfly and several others.

I haven't found my pattern yet, but I certainly have compiled a wide variety of individual pieces. How then do I decide into what pattern will they be assembled? Does it matter? Can a pattern be found in the random stitching together of each piece?

Cleaning the Windows to Let in the Light

How does one find happiness? I have been told that you go and find it, but where do you find it? I have gone to a place to find happiness, then sat perplexed when happiness vacated that spot.

Sometimes when I am sitting in my living room, I notice that the light has dimmed. The sun emits no less photons, and there are no more clouds than there were yesterday, so why does the light seem less today? If I put on my glasses, and take a close look I generally find hundreds of nose smudges on the glass. Photons do not seem to be able to penetrate nose smudges, at least not the sort produced by two wily dachshunds and one, three legged, coon hound / rottweiler mix. They love looking out at the sunshine, unfortunately they cannot stop themselves from sliming the windows as they crowd each other for the best view.

The obvious fix would be to get up, grab some vinegar and a piece of newspaper, and clean the windows, but generally, when I get a moment to sit down in the living room I am tired from chores. I do not want to get up and clean the windows, so the light remains dim, and the view gets progressively more obscured as the dogs happily nuzzle the panes.

Weeks might go by before I finally find the energy to wipe up the canine nasal sludge. When I do, I am amazed at how much light pours into the living room. I enjoy it, and wonder why I did not clean the mess sooner.

I think happiness is like the light coming through the windows, which our souls. The happiness never really goes away. We just can't see it for the discoloration on the windows to our soul. We could wipe away the dirt and the grime, but we get tired, and put it off until one day we finally find the energy to grab a rag and wipe it away. When we do this, we are amazed at the brightness that fills us.

God's love is happiness. We remember the happiness and wish to seek it, but occasionally the time in between cleanings is so long that we forget how good happiness feels in our lives. When we do seek the happiness out of desperation, we find it a bit more difficult to clear away the crud that blocks God's light. If we can remove even a tiny spot, the light will pour in, and we will be rewarded with the beauty it provides. That tiny ray of light will inspire us, and renew our strength until we can tackle the remaining soil that clouds our soul. It is a worthy effort to make, and well worth the time. We need light to illuminate the world around us.

I am always much happier when I let in the light, and I do not have to travel to another place to find it.

Foundations to Final Coat, Sadness to Sanity

The project to remodel the master bedroom and to rebuild of the entryway began in the spring of 2009. There was a hot tub to dismantle, the subsequent hole in the floor to repair, single pane floor to ceiling windows that had to be replaced, dilapidated French doors to upgrade, electrical line to lay out, lights and outlets to install, and billions of square feet of dry to install, mud and paint. Well, not billions, but close. Although my partner of thirteen years and I did have plans to remodel both rooms sometime in the future, our decision to do so was not necessarily voluntary.

The entryway had begun to shift noticeably during the winter months; so much so that major drywall work had to be done each spring. This addition had been built without a permit by the previous owners, and it had major defects. A foundation specialist evaluated the addition, and informed us that only one pillar was holding it up. The problem was solved after several foundation supports were augured into the ground beside the foundation, and a clever system of brackets installed to support and level the entire structure.

The French doors in the living room were flimsy, poorly shimmed in the rough out and leaked air in and out in enormous volumes. The floor to ceiling windows in the master bedroom were literally on the verge of falling out of the casings. They too were inefficient as insulators against the cold in the deep winter. Twice the baseboard heating pipe froze and burst. We had no choice but to take immediate action to correct the problems that were rapidly building year to year. We dug in, tore out, and pressed forward with as much enthusiasm as could be mustered after having just finished a year long remodel of the main bath and the kitchen. Two smaller bedrooms had yet to have floor installed, and the work to be done quickly became overwhelming.

The projects might have been finished much sooner had I not had to put down the tools, and take a prolonged break to deal with an overload of emotions stemming from my dad's death, my brother's struggle to find a new job in Virginia, my mother's breast cancer, and my own sense of helpless frustration. My partner maintained a cool disposition, but each week brought me closer to a physical and mental state resembling that of someone on the verge of a nervous breakdown. I needed to walk away from the work and let it rest, or risk my sanity. For four months I barely stepped foot into the master bedroom room, and a year passed before I could think about tackling the final but complex touches. My partner was patient and understanding. I doubt if I could have coped without that support and the love of family and friends.

I tend to be an all or nothing kind of person, but that year I was left with little choice but to abandon that strategy for one more attuned to the reality of my age, skills, resources and ambition. It finally occurred to me that to succeed in life, I did not have to design and complete massively complex projects to be successful. I could scale a project down to suit me, and not constantly drive myself to meet my all to often grandiose and unattainable aspirations. I also learned to ask for help. Two concepts that had no place in my philosophy prior to 2009.

The day came when I set to work to complete what my partner and I had started, and for a while, I was confused as to how to begin the work. Normally, I would launch a massive assault on the project buying gear, making lists, organizing tools and hardware until everything was just right, my partner was insane with impatience, and I was beyond the point of frustration. I was able to grasp that this approach would not be in keeping with my new found philosophy. I called a friend, consulted with the love of my life, and came up with a reasonable game plan: do what I can each day, and take each day one day at a time. If caulking a window seemed appropriate on a Monday, then I caulked. Leveling the floor might be the task to complete on Tuesday. I didn't have to plan weeks in advance, or stress over endless lists. If I mistakenly purchased the same item twice, I simply set the duplicate aside with the receipt to deal with later. If I lost a receipt for a particular item, I put it aside with a note to handle another day.

Days passed, tasks were accomplished, floors were leveled, drywall taped and mudded, primer applied, lights and outlets installed, tested and brought on line, and a host of other steps were taken to bring to a close the remodeling of the master bedroom. We have baseboard trim to apply, shelves to install in the new closet and final coats of paint to lay down, but the furniture is in place, and the dogs have given their approval. I am satisfied with the results, and with my attitude.

The entryway awaits completion with no threat to my sanity. I have new tools that cost me nothing more than the time it took to pray, meditate and let my mind relax. I can look upon the past, and enjoy it without injecting the mistakes made into the future. The past always made me angry, and the future too often paralyzed me with fear. I never gave the present its full due, nor allowed myself to submit to the pleasure of just being. I submitted to the project before me, and the future became the present, and the present unraveled peacefully without all the pain and drama. Projects no longer threaten my sanity. In fact, each coat of paint, mud, flooring and primer acted as a healing salve.

My problems have not disappeared, but my preoccupation with them has dissipated along with the myths within which I enfolded myself. My false sense of security was shattered with my father's death, the onset of my mother's cancer, and my own exhaustion as I vainly pushed myself to adhere to unrealistic standards. I am reborn today. I can live with the goals I set, and enjoy the outcome.

The journey from foundations to final coat has paralleled my emergence from unimaginable sadness to blessed sanity. I am grateful for this gift and I thank God, my family, friends, and my partner. I am blessed, and for the first time in several years, I am eager to embrace all that life and God has to offer.