Otto: Cosmic Collie

As I was driving Hmm to work this morning, he leaned over to kiss me. From the backseat, Otto deftly stuck his snout between our faces and got a kiss from both of us. Not sure if he does that kind of thing to make me laugh or to see Hmm red faced and screaming. k

Saddle Up Your Antelope

The death of a dream is only slightly less tragic than the death of a child. Yet dreams do die. They wither, fade and drop their petals to the ground sometimes for no apparent reason. Sometimes the seeds of our dreams follow those petals into the dust and are reborn. Yet other times those seeds mutate into nightmares that chase us down the slopes of sanity and into eternity.

This blog is dedicated to Marshall; a tall, all-American, Marlborough-man-type hunk and a most poignant prisoner of war who died alone in Viet Nam many, many years after he came home to embrace those who loved him. He’d been a munitions expert; dropped into battle to repair weapons and ‘troubleshoot’ under fire. But once on his way back to camp, he sat down alone on a stump in a strangely tranquil rice paddy. There he inexplicably slipped into a catatonic state and lost three days of his life.

He was never able to shake the confusion, fear, embarrassment and doubt that grew out of that beautiful, peaceful place to haunt his every moment. He came home to the anti-war movement and got spit on at the airport. But he had a wife and kids whom he loved. They needed him. He got a job and tried to put the war behind him.

Then they saw an anti-war movie that lit a match to the pyre of his homecoming. What if he flipped out again; if the rage and horror of war that still smoldered within him suddenly exploded at home on his family? Those doubts and fears became the goons that stalked him on the way to work each day. Then it happened again at work; he sat down and got ‘lost’ for three days, just like he did in that rice paddy back in ‘Nam.

He couldn’t take any chances. He kissed his kids goodbye and divorced the wife he loved. He struggled on alone embracing meaningless, endless work while craving the intimacy he feared until he finally took his own life with his own gun; the gun he’d built in ‘Nam; the same gun he’d unwrapped from a cloth in a fragrant Florida twilight and showed me so lovingly, so proudly.

Frank was a New Yorker and a ‘Nam vet. I had the audacity to ask him about it; he’d been to hell and I wanted to know how it was. I was young, sweet and innocent back then so he said, "Well, I’ll tell you what I learned there." He paused as if sighting a target then dropped his load; "Life is like a purple antelope on a field of cream cheese."

He looked into me for a second, evaluating, then asked, "Know what that means?" I lowered my eyes. He’d humiliated me so gently. I looked to him, an older man, for a taste of philosophy and he’d foisted a puzzle on me. Shrugging I confessed, "It doesn’t make much sense." He smiled and reassured me; "You’re smarter than most."

Then he told me a cute story about how he and a buddy decided that no trip to ‘Nam would be complete without a water buffalo ride. Eventually a water buffalo lumbered down the road driven by a tiny boy with an even tinier stick. One of them climbed onto the beast while the other tried to make it go. Pushing, shoving, shouting, slaps, kicks; nothing.

The boy stood at the side of the road watching, wearing little more than a smug, amused smile. They appealed to him through a formidable language barrier until he finally obliged. He stepped up to the huge animal, tiny stick in hand.

They wondered what on earth he could do with that thin twig that they couldn’t with all their brain and brawn. The boy rubbed the inside of the buffalo’s tail with his stick and to their delight, it immediately ambled forward.

When life doesn’t make sense, you can drive yourself nuts trying to understand or you can try to appreciate the wonder and whimsy of it all, even in a hell-hole. Even in ‘Nam. His name might not be on the wall in Washington, but if there’s a rice paddy made of cream cheese on the back roads of eternity I like to think Marshall is there riding a purple antelope. Today I am his memorial.

...Dreamin' on such a winter's day

Gardeners
Dream

Bigger

Dreams

Than

Emperors.

kkkkk

Happy Valentine's Day

YYY The next kiss is always better than the last word. YYY

Get Ready

Therefore you also be ready, for the Son of Man is coming at an hour you do not expect.

Matthew 24:44

911

"If dreams were lightin' and thunder was desire; this old house would'a burnt down a long time ago." John Prine (Angel From Montgomery)

k

"Therefore whoever hears these sayings of mine and does them, I will liken him to wise man who built his house on the rock: and the rain descended, the floods came, and the winds blew and beat on that house; and it did not fall, for it was founded on the rock." Jesus (Matthew 7:24-25)

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Curse or Blessing?

Cursed is the ground for your sake; in toil you shall eat of it all the days of your life. Both thorns and thistles it shall bring forth for you, and you shall eat the herb of the field. In the sweat of your face you shall eat bread till you return to the ground, for out of it you were taken; for dust you are and to dust you shall return. (Genesis 3:17b-19)

k

I've heard it said that hard work is good for the soul. I also heard the lyrics of an old folk song; "Work your fingers to the bone; what do you get? Bony fingers, bony fingers!" In this age of labor-saving devices and outsourcing, we have learned late some of the obvious benefits of work (besides the paycheck.)

k

Statistics show that those who yield their bodies to physical labor live longer and enjoy better health. Strangely, they have less fatigue and anxiety. Other known benefits to hard work are; respect, strength, thoroughness, endurance, and a certain persistent, "can do" attitude formerly termed 'work ethic'.

k

What activity other than working toward a common goal evokes both the sense of community known as team spirit and the creative drive we call a competitive edge? Yet we shun good, hard, honest work like the plague. We all want 'something better' for our children. Even if she's too fat to get up from the couch, we buy Mom another labor saving device for her birthday and Christmas. We hasten Dad to his grave with remote control, electric screw drivers and riding lawn mowers.

k

A few still embrace work if it's carefully cloaked as recreation. But for everyone working to make a basket or a touchdown, there are at least a hundred spectators. Even sex, for many, has become an effortless, impersonal, electronic sceptical. Call me old fashioned, but I'm beginning to suspect that there might be a correlation between work, ethics and morality. Maybe there are spiritual benefits to work.

k

From Eden to Gethsemane to New Jerusalem's trees; the Biblical saga of God and man begins and ends in a garden. It's almost as if God said, "You want to be like me? Get your face down here close to the earth. Reach in to the dark earth and tuck in a seed. Now breathe. Believe..." It's not the effort or accomplishments of work that can make us acquainted with the meek and lowly heart of God. It's the source of every virtue and the part we dread the most; humility. Heed the wise advice of an ancient King:

"Live happily with the woman you love through all the meaningless days of life that God has given you in this world. The wife God gives you is your reward for all your earthly toil. What ever you do, do well. For when you go to the grave, there will be no work or planning or knowledge or wisdom" -- King Solomon (Ecclesiastes 9:9-10)

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The Sidewalk Song

While out walking one autumn afternoon, I noticed that the sidewalk had changed color. In front of a certain house, it was a strikingly rich, even, dark pewter-grey. Then I saw three small golden leaves that had fallen onto one section of sidewalk. The pattern of their placement and the angle of their stems seemed to suggest musical notes.

k

I laughed to think that I had strolled into some cosmic musical score. The next section or 'bar' of sidewalk held three 'notes' as well. Smiling at the novelty, I closed my eyes to see if I could hear this music. I was astounded at the surrounding symphony; car engines, wind rushing through trees, birds singing, horns honking, insects buzzing and barking dogs.

k

Why hadn't I heard it before? Or had I? Would I be able to hear it again? Had I uncovered the 'Music of the Spheres,' or was it just a serendipitous gestalt experience? Surely the great works of classical music are an inherent resonance of this ongoing score. I would even dare to speculate that all music has descended directly from the pulse of this stirring, eternal, primal aria.

k

I was able to repeat the experience by temporarily dropping the filtration process of perception that enables us to survive and function in our complex world. The music was always different, always delightful and always there. Our own hearts keep time with it. Do we learn to hear the song, or do we learn to tune it out?

k

It's still there; everywhere. I dare you to take a walk, alone, and listen, really listen to everything all at once. Watch, as every thing you see joins the dance. But please don't get hit by a car or anything. Stay out of the percussion section.

kkk