Blood and snow

It's been a year now since I happened across the mangled body of my dog on the road in front of my former abode. A year since blood stained snow proved to me that despite our best efforts, we cannot protect those we love the most. A year since one of my greatest fears had been realized. A year since most of everything that I knew and had grown familiar with changed irrevocably. A year since I promised myself that I'd be better and stronger and more resolute than the greatest of challenges.

It's funny how I thought this year would be better than the last. How I believed so wholeheartedly that come 2009, everything would be a whole lot better.

The potential was there, in so many ways-friendships and opportunities, a burgeoning grassroots community coming to be around kids and rockstars and moments, the seemingly endless days of togetherness, the looking into the hope, the possibility of knowing and being known, the realization of a space in which the marginalized of the community could find a home, the belief that dreams could come true.

But I am seeing blood and snow again, I am driving upon a death scene similar to that of one year ago, where all the things I tried to nuture and develop and keep safe are lying in a mangled heap of steaming guts and blood. Split apart by the inevitable reality of that which I could not control, that which I could not be there for, that which I could not do. That which I could not be.

I know that at some time or another we all go through these times where crimson red splashes against bright white and horrfies us. I know we all have to pick up a mess sometime or another. I know that sometimes we all have the lifeblood of of our love streaming down through our fingers.

Sometimes, though I just wish it were different, that those experiences wouldn't have to be...

This afternoon, I stopped by the river, to think, to believe, to collect myself.

I know I am not giving up on my hope that this year could be better than the next, I can't ever give up on that.

But right now, I can't shake that image of blood on snow, and the look on her face when I said "I can't", or the look on her face when she said "I can't"

I see the red on the white, and I am praying for the melt.

And so it is

As sometimes happens throughout the course of my living, I awoke today to the realization that I am presently mired in quite a shitty situation. Compounding the issue, of course, is the subsequent realization that the only person responsible for making a spate of progressivley bad decisions is, well, me. For as much as it would be nice to point fingers and place blame, the reality of the situation is that I am the only one accountable. In matters of life, love, and pet ownership, I have made choices that have significantly lessened the quality of my life at the moment. And, perhaps, the quality of life for others.

Typically following one of these realizations, I work quickly to change the circumstances. This work could involve anything from a diversionary temper tantrum to an extended road trip somewhere without cell phone service. Its not that I deal with the problem itself, and I certainly don't address the circumstances leading up to it, but rather, I find a way to rid myself of it.

Sometimes this ridding is a good thing. Some things just need to go, be over and done with. But other times, it seems that it would be prudent to take stock of how things came to be, in the interest of developing preventative measures. In the interest of becoming a more responsible and authentic person.

And so it is that I have undertaken the process of thinking about my thinking, and pondering the where's and whyfore's of the decisions I make. Ending up at the same place all the time gets a little tiresome, as do all the apologies to myself and others. It seems its time to try and figure some things out...or perhaps more rightly, admit some things.

There are in particular three aspects of the way in which I think and make decisions that appear to be inappropriate basis for sound, decisive, and right action in most matters.

One of my biggest challenges is that I tend to operate in the moment, and pay little consideration to consquence. If something feels good, looks good, sounds good, then I'm all about having it as soon as I can have it. Doing it as soon as I can do it. The moment becomes all that matters. And while I may give some deference to the next day, more often than not I decide to deal with whatever later. Its kind of like living on credit. Get it now, figure out a way to pay for it next month.

Of course, this inevitably leads to an indebtedness that becomes burdensome. As the multitude of moments grows, so does the impact of the consequence. At some point it becomes clear that there is no way in hell you are going to get out from under the debt without some painful sacrifices, those sacrifices being the moments you had grown accustomed to living in.

Similarly, I also find that despite my ability to recognize that I may live in a moment which will ultimately extract from me more than I have to give, I always think that this time it will be different. This time, things will be different. This time I can trust a little more. This time I will be vindicated. I will believe wholeheartedly, and with great passion, that this time it will be different. This time I will not be vexed in the end. This time, I will be happy. This time I know a little more than I did before. This time...all will be well.

This is an incredibly dangerous way of thinking, to be sure, and even more so because it so clearly requires a healthy level of complete denial in order to maintain functions. Even though the pattern of behavior has been firmly established, and even though a rational part of me can acknowledge that there is no difference to be had, I will still choose to act in ways that lead to disappointment and frustration, believing quite foolishly, "not this time"

And I do this, I think, because I have misunderstood hope, mistaken need for truth. I do this because I need something, whether its a sense of comfort or whether its to feel loved, or whether its to make myself believe that everything to this point has not been a failure. Maybe its to convince myself that I can participate in my life meaningfully, rather than just have it happen to me. Maybe its because I don't really ever believe in myself enough to not do it.

Whatever the case may be, I altruize my decisions and actions. I believe that what I am doing reflects a greater purpose, a hopefulness, secures a happiness. But the fact of the matter is that I am trying to make wrongs right, I am trying to convert falsehoods into truths so that I don't have to feel hopeless, so that I don't have to wonder what the hell I am going to do. So I don't have to deal with the debt of consequence.

The irony of course is that I more frequently than not DO end up wondering what the hell I am going to do, I DO end up disappointed and frustrated, I DO end up hoping a little less, believing a little less. I DO end up burdened by the consequence. I DO end up missing out on the thing I was looking for.

And so it is that now, in this state of realization, I am compelled to contemplate another decision-to decide when enough will be enough. To decide when, exactly, I'll give myself a little more deference than what I have been. To decide when, exactly, I will grow the hell up and do the right thing.

For Linda

Having successfully cajoled our friend Linda into keeping a regular blog (http://lindaunderground.blogspot.com/) it is incumbent upon me to respond in like fashion to her request for a blog about the inauguration of Barack Obama, where I know she would have rather been...maybe...probably...

I will forego the intricate details of travel, and crowds, and long ass coffee lines and attempt to get to the heart of the matter-that matter being the very clear possibility that perhaps we do all share a common hope, a common vision, for what we can be as a society and as free people. And that maybe, possibly, there is the strength in us to demand what is right and good and honest, rather than just acquiescing to the lie that has become comfortable.

Standing amidst the millions, there was an undeniable energy, a palpable sense of promise for who we can be as a people and for who we can be as people. There was a renewed joy in participating in the civic life of our society. There was the very real sense that many who have been marginalized now have not only a voice, but a reason to believe that their voice is powerful.

I recalled on Tuesday, a brief conversation I had a few days before with a friend who wondered if everyone had the same opportunities in life. At the time, my answer was no, not everyone has the same opportunities, whether by blood, or chance, or geography, not everyone has the same opportunity. And I tried to imagine what it would be like, to know that my opportunities were limited, that all I could ever want would be dependent upon the will and power of someone else.

Then, standing there, in the National Mall, watching as Obama took his botched oath, it occurred to me that now, everyone does have an opportunity, that the power hierachry has shifted significantly...and those who have felt to be at the whim and last thought of another are now able to see their power and their privilege.

Though some may doubt, I believe that great and good change is imminent, that government as usual, life as usual, will not be the same. That spirit of hope, that belief in the possibilities and the opportunities, coursed through the moments and persons on the Mall-it was felt collectively and individually-that change was afoot, and no matter how difficult, now matter how hard the process, no matter the cost, this change will be for the better.

In this, we can trust.

Breathless

There are moments in life, moments we have all experienced to one degree or another, that take our breath away. How and when these instances occur are rarely foreseeable, almost never predictable, and always awe inspiring. Which makes the fact that they happen at all even more significant, more worthy of our consideration.

Maybe this breath-taking moment occurs when we are in the presence of that beachfront sunrise. Maybe it's in the mutual and unexpected glance from across the room, or the long anticipated contact of skin on skin. Maybe it's the cry of your firstborn nephew, as he leaves the womb and makes his entrance into the world and your life. Maybe it's the way the river flows or the waves crash. Maybe it's the way you witness how one person cares for another, or the way in which a memory can't quite be shaken.

Maybe it's the way someone walks into a room.

Or leaves a room.

Maybe it's a song, or the way a person stops, turns to you, and says, "this is amazing", and you can't help but agree. Maybe it's the conversation, or the space between two people. Maybe it's the way someone says you are welcome. You are wanted.

Maybe the breathtaking moment is in the realization that everything you've ever known or believed to be true could be questioned. Or maybe it's in the way your daughter can take initiative, or your son can be so giving. Or maybe it's in the way you suddenly realize that your parents are fallible. Maybe it's a moment of decidely undeserved grace.

Maybe it's a million different things, at a million different moments. You never can predict...

The rub is that in all of these moments there exists another possibility: that you can be suffocated, unable to catch back the rhythm of your breathing. You can choke and gasp for air. The rub is that in being so moved, that in being rendered so short of breath, you may be unable to ever be the same corpeal personage you were the minute before.

Because in every second that we stop breathing, in every instance that our breath is taken away, we in some way stop being who we were just a second ago.

We instead begin to change,. We are altered. we begin to become.

It is not easy, being suffocated by our breathless moments.

It's not easy to change, to become.

Whether we like it, want it, need it, or are ready for it, the fact and the hope is that every one of these instances brings us closer to who we really are, who we can and perhaps should be-our authentic selves. Every one of these moments allows us to move towards a truth. A truth we sometimes don't want to acknowledge. Can't acknowledge. Won't acknowledge.

But it is a truth nonetheless, this we know.

And that truth...well, it can take our breath away.

And give it back to us.

It's not easy being green

A friend and I were talking today, and she announced that she is sick of the "green movement". This proclamation quickly redirected me from an obsession with finding some good fettucine alfredo to a concern for her state of mind. This particular friend happens to be pretty darn earth/health/everything conscious. I thought maybe something real bad was happening, and the next thing she'd tell me was that she was embarking on a diet of beer and apple seeds, just to see what would happen. I had to intervene.

The best response I could muster in this instance, though, was a wide-eyed "WHY?!"

I tend to cave in sensitive situations.

She explained, and I was relieved to learn that she was not abandoning her long held ways. Instead she was lamenting that others have seemed to join the "green movement" as they would any popular new trend that has a corresponding television show. Her whole life she was taught to do the things people were now just discovering, and it was frustrating to her.

Once I determined she was not in fact abandoning her ways, and that she was going to be ok, I resumed my quest for fettucine alfredo, and having concluded my quest I set to thinking about what she had said. And eventually, I too became annoyed, but probably for different reasons. Or, maybe not.

Like any new cultural phenomenon, the green movement has profited from an unbelievable marketing campaign. In a sense, this is a really good thing. People at least have some consciousness about the ways in which their behaviors can impact the environment, for good or evil. There is an incredible amount of peer pressure being applied all over country to buy Prius's, use renewable shopping bags, and cut out processed foods. Everyone, it seems, is doing it. Like wearing Jordache jeans, eating at Friday's, or driving a BMW, there is a certain status associated with being as green as possible. Or, as green as you can comfortably be...

Generally I take issue with fads and trends, because like Brett Farve's retirement, they tend to start enthusiastically and end very quickly. I also take issue with them because they are only as popular as they are comfortable. When a movement starts to exact a toll on a person's comfort level, nine times out of ten that person will move on.

Being green isn't easy. Like most good and right things, it requires setting aside many of our luxuries, our "entitlements", and learning to live without, to live responsibly. And being responsible means that we have to spend an awful lot of time thinking about something other than our own comfort, our own wants, needs, and desires. We have to not care about what people think about the things we don't do and don't have. We have to let go of a whole way of thinking and living that tells us more is better. And we have to do this in a deeply real and authentic way.

For me, lots of people are claiming a concern for the environment as if it were a new thing, something they can pioneer until the next thing comes along. (Kind of like when everyone thought Bono discovered Africa, and everyone became an expert on the plight of her inhabitants.) I suspect that for many, spending an afternoon at Whole Foods using recycled bags that are then shoved into the back of a prius is a feel good moment. Remembering to take the Nalgene bottle and filling it up at the closest water fountain...another feel good moment. Composting? The darkest hue of the contemporary bourgeois' green-ness, and utter nirvana. Be sure to tell people about it...

For people who have lived their whole lives bucking the culture of want and trying to live the life of should, I would imagine this almost adolescent glee over the green movement would be frustrating. It is your way of life, turned trendy. It's your deepest beliefs and understandings about how we should be in the world slickified.

It's stopping the car to take a picture of the Amish family in their buggy.

There's something terribly depressing about that, because as has been mentioned, trends come and go. What was once the object of the trend becomes passe and dated. Laughable. Ignorable. Once the audience has tired and is clamoring to move on, demanding something else to spend their money on, looking for something else to satiate their need to be in and cool and hip, the marketing machine will work its magic and who knows, maybe in a few years paper mache will be all the rage.

For those who were green before green was cool, and for those who are truly transformed by their participation in such a movement, this is yet another storm to weather. The best that can be done is to keep on doing what you have been doing, help others to do the same, and hope that this particular social epoch ranks as the longest lasting trend in the history of the world.

The Morbid Curiousity of Prostitutes, redux

In a recent email, I was asked to share more catholic school stories, so here is a re-post from another site:

I grew up on a farm that's been in our family since the mid 1800's. My great-great grandfather arrived here from Germany, bought a hundred acres in 1847,built a few houses, and the family has been there ever since. Growing up, my brother and I had free reign of pastures, streams, ponds, and forest. We had more than a lot of people could ever dream of.

For the first several years, before my formal schooling began, I took it all for granted. It just was. But then I was enrolled in catholic school. It was there that I learned that God had made everything. The trees, the deer, the fields, the lakes, the sky. Everything.

I was very, very impressed by God.

One day, after school, I remember running through the fields, rolling down a hill, jumping up, and breathelessly yelling "I love God!". I was seven, and many would interpret this as my first religious experience. However, during a recent existential crisis, while questioning everything I knew and believed to be true, i told my mom this story. She recalled that was the day I had led my toddler brother into the hayfield and left him there, stranded, in yet another one of my many attempts to regain full control of the household. So, she didn't see it so much as a religious experience as it was a victory dance.

They did eventually find him... just for the record...

In addition to learning that God made everything, you learn other very important things in catholic school, especially as you approach the time in which you will be making some of your first holy sacraments. I took this incredibly seriously, because I loved God and everything he had made very very much. So, when anticipating my weekly visit to the confessional after receiving sacrament #2 (confession), I made sure that each week I would have something to talk about. If it made God happy to forgive people, I wanted him to be giddy with joy over forgiving me.

Next came the sacrament of first holy communion. While all christian denominations consider this sacred, Catholics take it to a whole other level. They believe that the bread and wine actually become jesus' body and blood. Now, when you are learning about this as a third grader, the first thing you learn is that the sacristy is sacred, and only the priest can go into it, because that is where jesus' body and blood is.

Whoa! The one thing you should NOT tell a defiant, god loving, farm raised 9 year old is don't go in that, jesus is in there.

I HAD to get in there.

For about a week I considered my options, and after carefully obeserving the playground monitors each day at recess, I settled on the "distract and run" tactic. With proper speed, I could detach myself from the group fight i started, run across the playground, and get into the church.

It was flawless in plan and execution. Trembling with awe and anticipation, I approached the darkened altar, (which was immense when you are four feet tall.) It was so quiet, and so holy feeling. Mary staring at me from one corner, St. John from the other. They were encouraging me, I could tell by the look in their painted eyes. The lingering incense made me dizzy, and there was an extra special lightheaded feeling because in mere seconds, I was going to see Jesus!
I approached the never-to -be -opened -by -a -non -priest sacristy, slowly pulled back the curtain, closed my eyes, and opened the door...

...i could hardly wait!...

Eyes OPEN!

WTF!!!!

EMPTY. Completely freaking empty!

At this moment, as I stood speechless, trembling now not with awe but with full fledged 9 year old rage, Sister Rosalia and Sister Alice Marie entered the church. As they pulled me from the alter, I informed them that Father Bartley was a liar, and that I was in no uncertain terms pissed about the divine betrayal I had just experienced. OK, I did not actually use the words "divine betrayal" but the words father, liar, and pissed were used.

I was taken to the principals office, where now several nuns gathered around me, looking very, very stern. The lecture began. The nuns were just flabbergasted at my disobedience.There was talk of hell. There was an emphasis on the direct relationship between hell and morbid curiosity, which apparently I had demonstrated.

Sister Alice Marie asked, "How could a child of such good catholic parents do somethign so vile?"

"MY MOM IS NOT CATHOLIC" I screamed, because i was really pissed now,

"SHE IS PROSTITUTE!!!"

Dead silence. Stone cold silence.

Of course, they knew she was not a prostitute. She was something worse.

She was Protestant.

She was one of the ones that had undermined the authority of the catholic church with their morbid curiousities. Like science, and astronomy, and physics. She and others like her did not believe in the same sacred laws and rituals, yet claimed to believe in god. But they did not believe in the real true god, theirs was a false god. they were misguided and doomed to hellfire. Plus, she was in a lot of trouble for posing as a catholic to get me into the school...

Oh, how the joys of religious abandon can be so quickly dashed. Mere moments earlier I was blissfully ignorant of hell, protestants, false gods, prostitutes, and science. There was one thing and one thing only: god who made everything and who eventually led my parents to find my brother when i left him in the field.

I can say with some certainty that i have never recovered from that day, from that disappointment. But every now and again, at the oddest yet most appropriate time, I'll get that feeling of awe, and I'll catch a whiff of frankincense that comes from out of nowhere, and I'll think to myself, "maybe I was looking in the wrong sacristy..."

You're never sure if the illusion is real...

The holiday weekend passed with it's usual series of non-events, save an unintentionally long and Blair Witch like foray into the wilderness, despite having in our possession a fairly sophisticated gps device. But that is another story for another time. Today I will focus on the will to live, and why living things appear to have it.

Thursday evening, july 3rd. was the annual "jolly july 3rd" celebration hosted by the Oil City Arts Council, of which I am a board member. That being the case, it was my responsibility to be present at said festivities should there be any need for my assistance. Given the deluge, the afternoon events and the first concert were pretty much a washout. Thus un-needed, I went home, changed into dry clothes and headed back for the second concert and the fireworks. I sat on a small hillside that abuts the park and spent the dwindling daylight hours watching the hundreds of people mill about the park as they too, waited for the fireworks display.

At times like these, when I lack sleep and am in the midst of hundreds of people, I tend to obsessively "people watch " rather than, say, nap like I should. My mind wanders all over as I wonder about the various individuals I've got a bead on, and invariably before they pass from my sightline I have created a whole series of life events for them. How joyous or how harrowing these life events are usually depends on the hasty judgment I have made about their overall character and personal disposition.

It is not easy being me.

This particular evening, though, I couldn't quite fixate on one individual or group long enough to make up their story. Instead, I was kind of taking in everyone all at once, and couldn't shake the question that kept running through my head: "why do they get up in the morning?"

Now, I was not asking this question because I felt there were reasons why this or that person shouldn't get up in the morning, I was asking because I think the human will to live is fascinating, and sometimes when you see all these different types of people in one place, and you know each of them has a story so spectacular you couldn't even come close to making up a better one, you just have to wonder, why do all these people choose to get up in the morning? What drives them to face each day and prepare for the next? What is their reason?

Viktor Frankl, a noted psychotherapist and Holocaust survivor has written several works that address, from an existential perspective, the "meanings of life" people create in order to choose life over death. One of his most intriguing works, Man's Search for Meaning, was written shortly after his liberation, and recounts the various experiences of his and his fellow prisoners in the Terezin Concentration camp. It's important to note that he considers living a choice that one makes when one has sufficiently created a "why" for which to live. He found that in the camps, for some the "why" was revenge, for others it was love, and for still others it was hope. But inevitably the "why" that created the illusion of meaning would be deconstructed by the reality of the circumstances. In the end he found that it was only the belief in something beyond themselves that led people to consistently choose to get up each morning despite the overwhelming odds against any form of happiness.

We, each of us, cannot fathom a life marked by the horrors of time spent in the Nazi camps. Or any such camp before or since. So, it is difficult to try and make any comparison when considering what it is that compels you to get up each morning. But, if every conceivable answer (i have to make breakfast for the kids, I have to go to work, I have to watch "Ellen", I like mornings, I have to check my ebay auction, I just have to...) were to become invalid, to just be stripped away, why would you get up in the morning? Would you get up in the morning? What reason for living could you not part with?

I couldn't help but think that I don't really think about it that much, why each day I choose to get up and go through my various routines. Day after day, getting up and going through the motions of living, for reasons that could so very easily and quickly be stripped away. What is underneath all of that, though? What would be my breaking point, if any? What would be the reason I would say "no more..." Admittedly, it's not very fun to think about, but the reality is that there is quite possibly an unwavering reason each of us has, even if we can't access it through our immediate faculties of intellect and reason.

I think there is within each of us some connection to something other, something beyond, something that keeps us glancing in the direction of divinity and compelling us, usually, to choose to keep going forward., keep getting up in the morning. (Some don't make that choice, a reality of which I am all too painfully familiar, but most of us do, and that is what I am talking about here.) It is this connection, recognized or not, that ties us not only to something outside of ourselves, but also to each other.

At the end of the day, regardless of our differences, most of us are going to choose to get up the next day and face life to the best of our ability.

In that way we are connected-in our belief that the illusion is real, and therefore we will go forward.

Fascinating.