Happy Birthday!

Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.

I’m outside, watering the newly planted lilac, when I hear a slight buzzing sound that immediately turns into a giant, threatening, buzzing sound. I look up and, before me, is a dark cloud of bees, like some kind of dark static in my vision. There are thousands of them rocketing, somewhere, covering the sky, blocking out the sun, scaring the stuffing out of me, with their bee-ing.

For an instant, I realize the vulnerability of this moment. One bee, no problem. Thousands, I’m toast. Fortunately, they buzz past, their destination a rival hive, a new home, or someone else, like me, enjoying the beautiful morning.

That’s Nature for you. One moment, a soft, idyllic pasture. The next, your last moment on Earth. You would think that me, the lilac, and the fresh air would be enough Nature for anyone. Was I taking it for granted? Is that why it’s so dramatic out there? No! I wasn’t.

We’ve been having a lot of rain, lately. Big, fast storms with lightning, thunder, and rain, in really large drops, as if someone up there is wringing every last bit out of the oversized cloud above us. This dry climate has been transformed into something more like Ireland, than Colorado.

We are not taking it for granted; we can’t stop talking about it. If we could eat it up, we would. We sing its praises, plant even more stuff, and during each stretch of sunshine, we are toasting and admiring it.

The more time we have to spend inside, supposedly working, the more we need to be outside. Monitors, keyboards, and wires may be drawing us ever closer to one another, but our need for dirt, wind, and rain is something more elemental than staying in touch with each other and all that essential information.

I’ve been in hailstorms, tornadoes, blizzards, and places so hot my shoes were melting, but I’d wish I hadn’t. I don’t need extreme situations – killer bees or hurricanes – to get my attention or respect, to remind me of the natural world I’m walking around on. I like it here!

I’d rather stroll through gardens or hike in the hills or float around on the waves than be threatened by something so incorrectly labeled as, Mother Nature. That just seems wrong. Mommie Dearest. That’s not how I want to see it.

This is like so many things. I’ll deal with it, when it goes crazy, but I’d rather think of it as beautiful, nurturing, and peaceful. An illusion, perhaps, but those flowers are so sweet, those hills so green, and those bees so lazy, as they drone between the blossoms, going about their business.

Common Sense

I’m concerned about the Right Wing in this country. Many say that they’ve had their day. Reagan, Breakfast in America or whatever it was, Newt, Cheney, and, The King of Pain, W. However, Cheney has been on all the shows, Newt has been mentioned as the leader of the Republicans, and they even have an entire TV network – Fox – which has risen to new heights of drama, flights of fancy, and inspired improvisation, not to mention sheer entertainment value.

They lost the election. Their membership has been decimated by exposure, death, irrelevance, and well-delivered humor. And, their positions have been seen to have a tenuous connection to reality. All this conforms to what seems reasonable, natural, and about time.

That’s all well and good. A relief. It inspires a belief that change for the better is possible and that all the bumper sticker damage from the recent election was worth it. We can now actually get closer to those tantalizing hopes and goals of our founding fathers.

But what worries me is Amazon.com – the world’s largest bookstore. They cater to everyone and they do it online. By extension, they serve the technologically savvy.

The Amazon bestseller list, today, features Glenn Beck’s book, Common Sense, at the top of, not only the regular bestseller list, but also the Kindle bestseller list.

Yes, that’s the same Glenn Beck who said, ‘I hope Obama fails.’ “We’re not on LSD anymore, we need to make sense.” “If you’re an ugly woman, you’re probably a progressive.” And, recently, “The most used phrase in my administration if I were to be President would be, ‘What the Hell you mean we’re out of missiles?’”

Stephen Colbert has shown us that Glenn Beck is not only an idiot, on the order of Rush Limbaugh, but also that he is channeling messages from the planet, Zorkon. That’s good enough for me.

I knew that America’s educational system was in trouble. I had heard the whispering about the decline of our prominence in world affairs. I had seen the news about the state of our national literacy and readership. But, even taking Harry Potter into account, this really scares me.

Right now, I am on page 203 of a (terrific) book, written for young adults, like myself, called, The Mysterious Benedict Society, and have the latest copy of Mad Magazine by the side of the bed, but these, at least, deal with important issues in a way that, invites serious discussion, ethical participation, and hope for the future.

I admire Mr. Beck’s sales figures, but it is more than disheartening to imagine what this may represent. As much as I like science fiction, I don’t want to go there.

Boys Will Be

I just had a shower and it felt good. I know some guys don’t like it. And, really, they never have. As kids, they would run around all day and their moms might suggest a shower before dinner and Dad might sniff the air and make a comment, but to them it just didn’t make sense. They weren’t that dirty and, besides, they were just going to get dirty again. They weren’t sure that that smell didn’t smell good. That it didn’t mean something. Something important.

The sheets on their beds might be a bit dingy, but wasn’t that a statement, of some kind, about their existence? Their jeans hadn’t been washed in weeks and they had been hid beneath the bed, just so Mom couldn’t grab them and throw them in the wash. This kind of personal grooming was what their sisters were so concerned with; it had nothing to do with them. They weren’t girls and they were determined not to be.

All this assumes that they even thought about it. It is more likely that this aspect of boyness is genetic. Inherent. Dad was probably the same way, before he was domesticated.

The young male mind is a primitive instrument. Guys are some of Nature’s own creatures, running around in the weeds or in the swamp or sorting through garbage, if they are urban males. Or, racing around on bikes and hitting each other, if they are of suburban origin.

They have a mission. One preordained by ancestors. This mission is to move evolution forward, through exploration and incessant experimentation. They are developing physically. They are perfecting their aim. They are testing limits. They are not big on communication. Or, hygiene. They know, instinctively, that it is going to take more than a little dirt to hurt them. It is going to take something like a T Rex or an attack by aliens to begin to thwart their progress.

Education? Their priorities differ from those of their parents and teachers. The concept of behavior is antithetical to their inner sense of independence and creativity. Sitting inside, in rows, no less, would be laughable, if the consequences for not attending were not so overwhelming. Ire, anger, disappointment, guilt and shame are powerful lessons and, even with their fierce forward momentum, society has somehow decided to impose its own habitual and arbitrary boundaries on them, rather than allow young boys, men, males, to discover them on their own and develop and use their innate powers of judgment.

No cars. No guns. No mind-altering experiences. Not even a minimum of tribal wildness. It makes no sense, but, sadly, they learn that they have no power. This lesson, this discovery, of the effects and limits, and the often violent acquisition of power, turns out to be very important, and, ultimately, tragic. The exercise of parental and societal power insures that each succeeding generation of guys are changed from playful cubs, setting small fires and incessantly jumping and shouting, to calculating, grasping, and, sometimes, devious adolescents and fraternity brothers, who worry about their status and about just how they are going to control the world and its inhabitants, so that they, alone, will be King of the Hill.

It’s frightening.

Time marches on, while evolution moves slowly. The Age of Aquarius has dawned. The age of Oprah is underway. 2012 is on the horizon, and a cosmic consciousness is beginning to pervade the population. Change is inevitable, as is the end of childhood. Soap will always be available and, with age, comes wisdom. Not only that, but a guy’s senses develop and understanding begins to sink in.

To wit: those sheets, actually, are dirty and may be the cause of several unpleasant side effects. Those jeans just won’t crumple to the floor. They stand there in the corner and are, for some reason, a little disturbing. And, without a shower, it’s not just Mom, who is keeping her distance, it’s that girl with the red hair.

Boys will be boys, but what about those girls? I mean, what about them?

Lately ...

Lately… whatever that means. It could mean, for the past several months, or for the last week or so, or for the last couple of days. If one factors in the Information Revolution, aging, and the possible onset of that disease whose name I can never remember, it could be this morning or just a minute ago.

However it may be, lately…, I’ve been experiencing myself in a new way. I mean ‘experiencing myself’ not in the biblical sense, but that my actions, thoughts, and feelings are all in alignment and working together. There is an identifiable sense of self.

This sense of self may strike you as something that should be obvious, or something to be worked out in the second year of college, or something completely incomprehensible. To me, it is something willfully created, struggled for, hoped for, but which can only come about in its own time. I have been looking for the switch, with determination, through the years and have never found it.

I always tried to be whoever they wanted me to be – good son, well-behaved student, businessman, employee, but I could never really get the hang of it. I spoke inappropriately, my biorhythms were out of sync, I worked too much or not enough. I knew I was not fulfilling my potential. I was not buckling down to the job at hand. I was not taking the whole thing seriously.

I tried but, inevitably, each time, I would fail. I was like an incurable alcoholic. I had, with shame, hidden some facet of myself in the bottom desk drawer. I had a couple of those small airplane bottles of longing, stuffed behind my socks. I kept saying I would quit, but never could. The voices in my head were too insistent, too distracting.

I had to face the truth: I was an imposter. A sheep in wolf’s clothing. An Emperor with no clothes. A guy who hadn’t done the laundry. Metaphors popped up unbidden. Bad puns disturbed perfectly reasonable sentences. My visions were not remotely similar to the Strategic Marketing Plan. I was a cause of disappointment to my parents. An object of worry to my sisters. A failure in the eyes of my friends. And, I was unemployable.

This left me with few options. There would be no title – Captain of Industry – for me. I would not figure in the Alumni News column. I could never become a CPA. Somewhere, back there, I had my Occupational Aptitude tested and, though it was exciting to contemplate, I knew, even then, that I would never become a television repairman or an astronaut. I’m afraid of heights.

Now what?! This is a question I have repeatedly asked myself. And, that was exactly the problem. Me and myself were on different sides of the fence. I could not figure it out and, myself, try, as it might, couldn’t make me hear the answer. Time, in general, age, in particular, the state of the world, and the economy, in many ways, wore me down. I gave up all of my ambiguous ambitions. It seemed, as if every possibility had been exhausted or wasn’t interested. To continue the metaphor from before, I gave up and said, dejectedly, “Make it a double. And keep ‘em coming.”

But metaphors are only that. They break down, at some point, and it’s hard to keep things straight. Are we talking about philosophy, psychology, or psychosis? Does drink represent desire or de-opposite?

What has happened is one of those ironies, upon which many major religions have been founded: Surrender to what is and peace will follow. Stop looking and you will find it. Wherever you go, there you are.

The only thing to do has been to take the advice of the masters – Turn off your mind, relax, and float downstream. Go with the flow. Turn, turn, turn. Keep on truckin’. It seems those guys in the 60s were onto something.

Lately… I’ve just been trying to do my best.

The Blossoming

Overnight, the cherry tree has blossomed.  Next year, I would like to, somehow, know the night that this will happen and set out the Adirondack chairs, with their accompanying table, near the tree.  The sun will be setting and ML and I will take our places and await the grand opening. 

The light will be changing, deepening, and all the birds will be saying goodnight to each other.  The shapes of the trees and the houses nearby, and the mountains to the west, will be taking on new meaning and character.  My car, outside the garage, will begin dreaming of long, curving stretches of blacktop, with the radio fulfilling its purpose and the air rushing by, as it exercises all cylinders.

ML and I will toast each other and quietly discuss the day’s events and thoughts.  We will review the conditions of the children and our friends.  We will count our blessings, as the moon rises behind us, and this new light will allow a different type of observation to begin.

The first star will introduce itself and give us a minute to compose our wishes.  For a while, we will both be lost in our own thoughts, a quiet review, and an anticipation of things to come, a silent thank you, radiating outwards from our soft hearts.

Down by the road, a coyote will warble or call or howl or however you want to characterize it.  In fact, it isn’t any of those, but simply his sound, his expression, just like our conversation, but his is intended for a more widespread audience.  The owls in the neighborhood will exchange the who-whos that signal the beginning of their day.

Like a tide, immeasurable and inevitable, the light will change, the night progress, and all the rushing around, the activity, the competing thoughts of the day will settle, slowly, and a calm will come over everything.  This calm will feel like an almost tangible addition to the darkened, quieted, yet incredibly alive moment, near the tree.  Our patient hearts will begin to fill with anticipation.

As the moon finishes its glide, to a point almost directly overhead, an overture, like the buzz before a show, will begin.  There will be a slight breeze through the warm night.   And, then, all of us – ML, myself, the flowers at our feet, the stars shining down, from above, on all of us, animal, vegetable, and mineral – will be able to feel the moment when it begins: that first blossom.  There, on the left, about halfway up.  Or, no, near the bottom, over there.   Before we can decide which was actually first, it ‘s happening all over. 

A song, part lullaby, part hymn, part love song, is being sung.  The blossoms swell the chorus.  This is a performance, but also an experience of exultation for each blossom and, ultimately, for the entire tree.  It is a living, breathing expression, a celebration of its own being, its history, its future and its innermost existence.

Everything is hushed and attentive.  The blossoming continues until completion and, then, in a rush of emotion and appreciation, ML and I rise out of our chairs, applauding.  I hear the coyotes and the owls adding their praise.  A noise bursts out of my mouth that takes me by surprise, an inarticulate sound of connection.  ML begins to whistle and stamp her feet.  It’s a beautiful moment.

First, one and, then, two windows light up in the neighbor’s house.  I look across the street and see one there.  ML and I hug, beam at the tree and its individual decorations, alive with purpose, out and about for the season, and turn toward the house and our beds.

Invisible Tibet

It’s a time of give and take. A time of growing pains. (Always true. Always.)

One of the great things about the present moment is that we can be aware of what happens on the other side of the globe. And, instantly. News travels fast. And, not just the headlines.

We now have the ability to become aware of a new development, the creation of an idea, a poem, a melody, and we can instantly comment on, add to, and/or be inspired by these. There is a cyber-democracy that is settling, like a light spring rain, on all of us, the participants of life.

In today’s New York Times, there is an article about a woman, Tsering Woeser, living in China, who is half-Chinese and half-Tibetan. She is blogging her views of the situation between her two countries. The headline is, A Tibetan Blogger, Always Under Close Watch, Struggles For Visibility.

http://www.nytimes.com/2009/04/25/world/asia/25woeser.html?_r=1&ref=world

As has always been true, the visibility (and availability) of truth has always been its best defense.

It is becoming much more difficult for someone to silence the opposition. Now, both sides, and everything in between, can be heard.

We can support this by placing our attention on those who are threatened, allowing for the safety of individuals, the education of others, and a chance for democratic change, rather than control by those in power, or those with the larger stick, or those, through their control of the media, who twist the dialogue of the moment to their own ends.

Ms. Woeser and countless others like her, are out there, shining a light on actions that may pass unnoticed by a busy, chaotic, and often resigned and overwhelmed world. They are inviting us to pay attention to and become aware of what is happening around and to us. They are bravely speaking out and hoping we will listen.

Exercise your independence by your act of attention. Each computer hit moves Ms. Woeser and our future closer to real communication and responsible movement forward in time.

The Times article - http://www.nytimes.com/2009/04/25/world/asia/25woeser.html?_r=1&ref=world

Ms. Woeser’s blog, Invisible Tibet - http://woeser.middle-way.net/