Let Your Light Shine
Waking up inside your words wrangled,
I notice light careening
from every angle
and that even the sparkles
have a dangle…
Color’s married, dressed in white
Liquid rainbows packed in tight
This world, says my gut
Was clearly by a princess cut
Clarity is looking at what isn’t there
Power of pressure, compressed air
Some people just want to wear it
But to me, knowing their maker is worth more than a carat
Stories bred us.
Stories fell us.
Stories met us.
Stories gave us.
Stories change us.
Stories save us.
Dauntless. Adventure. Endurance.
Surprise. Carousel. Crescent.
Assurance. Orient. Success.
Diamond. Resistance. Flyer.
Penzance. Pandora. Bounty.
Treader. Nightingale. Valorous.
Resource. Speedwell. Lively.
Active. Anglesea. Rainbow.
Victory. Kinsale. Crown.
Magicenne…
When things don’t look great and fear stops for more than a “hey!” it’s time to take to lash and lay and bring that thought’s bow about.
Shouting a list of ship names is always sure to set your heart for sea.
At least, it works for ___.
P.S. try the list again, out loud – your guts will get tight and gird themselves up and fly into a courage so strong your footprints will sound like the clouds in the painting below. (You might think I’m making that up…)
The moon was given as a ring around the sky
while up the glassy aisle we waked
an unstanding repose, still, two gathered.
Borne forward, a greater Power and not our own.
In quietness and trust, breathing the liquid night
and the fragrance of one Fire.
I decided I wouldn’t mind if that River would wind forever…
and see, it does.
“What are you writing little one?”
“Secret.”
Her eyes bright and a familiar glint,
steady delight and a flash of mischief.
His smile split a sun in a far solar system.
“Secrets, indeed.”
Flipping a page in the little purple notebook
her obedient pencil fills fresh paper with gangly letters
sprawling and alive with a new lamb’s steady uncertainty.
He drew his own instrument and began:
“Secrets they are, dear one. And I will reveal them to your precious heart, every one.”
Words written and mailed to years forward,
folded with care into the mind of a future playmate.
“Someone already paid for you. Is that a Topo Chico necklace?”
Me holding two dripping bottles in my hand.
“Really. Huh. Like…”
Spreading smile.
“Wow. That g… uh yeah. I guess I’m kind of crazy about this stuff.”
(from Skagit Valley, British Columbia)
Slopes lay streaked with skeletons where the giants had stood. Bandage white, washed by mountain sun… not the color of woods. Yet wood they fell; still there. Some steel, man, his will; well they just bent wood’s will. Steel will where wood won’t, and man won’t where God will. So all these you see, men brought buckling to theirs. Trees seen to scratch the back of the sky; trees known for whispers, groan… stop. Now men and their screaming claws have fled with the crop. Only remains rotting bones of pine with no box. These woods cannot whisper but look, their story is a plain glare.
But there, with a Poet’s eyes, look. That is, look and be wise. Humble death’s child must rise.
Sparkling needles press through, bleeding green and the ground is a quilt of life, all new.
It is man to wail and steal and make some way.
It is woods to lay and wait and grow another day.
I wonder who will have the final will and say…
Will man hold and stay, or will the Woods?
Born, son of man; but he walked where no man had before.
From another place wholly, his footprints were alien to me.
With a glad tiding, he came in peace for all mankind.
He came to plant over me that flag of victory.
Some say “fake.”
What does it take?
A letter from the moon?
Sincerely,
The Moon
Hope is a tin yellow sun
caught in my throat
burning a hole
in the heart
of my soul
“Been thinking about your loony bottle cap idea…”
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah, maybe it goes with the whole ‘no greater love’ thing. You know, maybe what someone will pay for something, that’s what makes it worth that much.”
Squinty eyes.
“I mean, how do we know when a painting is worth a million dollars?
…When someone pays $1MM for it.”
Light bulbs.
“Yes! Right! And how do we know she’s a princess with virtue and beauty?
…When a prince dares death for her!”
“How do you make everything about a princess?
What are you.. are you writing down our conversation?”
—
If Someone bleeds for you, that makes you pretty precious… right?
Self Preservation is seeking your life.
I thought she would be the best thing that ever happened to me
I thought kids would bring the brightest shine you’d ever seen
But the winces and winks said “just you wait and see”
Well I don’t want to wait and see
I wanna laugh and fight and love and make it be
We’re made for this play not a possibility
I wanna give it all we’ve got
I wanna hold that thought
I thought love could walk you two a whole life through
I thought if you believe too, so would it be to you
But the winces and wags said “really, don’t play the fool”
Well I wanna play like it’s all brand new
I wanna do and teach and believe that word is true
We’re made for faith and flying too
I wanna give it all we’ve got
I wanna hold that thought
I thought it’s time to break and whaddayou say
I thought the light is here and dying is the way
But the winces and whines said “we fear, you should stay”
—
Hey.
You’ll find the rest of the third verse through the links below.
You get to write the end of the story.
Open the one that speaks to you.
What you see is what you will get.
Not everything that is true is the truth.
True story…
…if enough people are saying it, it must be true.
…some things are just plain worth believing in.
NOTE: I was sprinkling in the strange, the lid popped off. Don’t tell anyone, I’m pretending I did it on purpose. Chef’s Special.
—
“Where do we come from?”
The strange boy pulled his eyes from the fire to study his curious companion.
The other boy looked away, quickly. It almost seemed like the fire had stayed in his eyes…
That’s not possible. Boys don’t carry fire in their eyes. Not even strange ones.
The sticks crackled.
“Well,” the strange boy spoke slowly, “when a man and a woman love each other…”
“Whoa whoa whoa. No no I mean like where… what land do we come from.”
The strange boy was off his seat and rolling on the ground.
He came up wheezing “Oh man, my asthma. I can’t… that was…” hack. cough. “That is… so funny. You’re trying to kill me!”
Normally he would run when the ‘I asked another stupid question’ feeling came, and hide until his face shaded from prickly pear pink back to desert sands whiteish. Two things held him this time. First, his friend might die of laughter at any moment, and he had never seen anyone die, of laughter. Second… well, you know. So he grimaced a grin and pressed on.
“I meant where do we come from physically…”
“Physically?” Giggles were bouncing his curls again.
“Can we just converse like adults please?”
“You mean you want an adult conversation?” More life-threatening laughs.
“I mean, I mean… look, there are twigs stuck in your hair that look like antennae and it’s super distracting me.”
“You mean ‘geographically.’”
“Yeah. But also before that, like where did we all originally come from?”
“Oooh. You mean… ‘in the beginning.’”
“You know it’s creepy when you do that with your hands… but yeah. In the beginning.”
“Oh man this is such a good story, one of the best. Actually can’t believe I haven’t told it yet. So in the beginning…”
“Hey we need more sticks.”
“Awesome! We can…”
“Don’t say it.”
“…walk-n-talk. It just sounds fun. Walk-n-talk. Walk-n-talk. Say it with me. Walk-n-talk. Hey, wait for me!”
“Okay, so in the beginning was…”
The desert woods drank his drifting away voice while the fire whimpered…
…and then played dead.
“You know, daytime really is the best time. Sunshine splashes over everything and my song comes like a geyser from my heart.”
“Yes, daytime is nice.”
“But?”
“The night will make you deep and wise. Next time you’re up early, waiting for the dawn, look up and hold the bucket of your heart under that waterfall.”
Light is always there, if you’re lookin.
Here’s to lookin.
Some people leave without saying goodbye.
Some people goodbye for awhile without leaving.
Call me crazy; I’ve always admired the first.
There’s a certain confidence, leaving without saying goodbye.
Con-fidence… with-faith.
With-faith, we’ll be together again.
With-faith, shared between steadfast-hearted friends.
So slip out the side when Time knows it’s right.
Them whose truth is tried will know.
Dying isn’t “goodbye.”
It’s “see you when I see you.”
—
P.S. Flip one page back for a picture of the meeting before the leaving…
July 6th, 1942. A two year game of Hide & Seek begins.
In this game, when you lose, you die.
They first escaped, fleeing to Holland.
But the sun is setting on the free world, and darkness marches on.
So Anne Frank and family are hiding for their lives.
After the war ended, they found Anne’s diary, you know.
Left where she was found. Waiting for the light.
1947 translated her into English and she went the world around.
A 13, 14, 15 year-old girl who knew things some people never know.
In this Game, when you hope, you live.
They say a sailor loves the sea….
…but what does the sea say?
He is hollers and hoots and scopes and charts.
This star and that port and treasure and returning with glory for the court.
She is waves and wallows and winds and whispers.
Everywhere and near and over and under and washing the world with tears.
Trimming and tacking and trading with the wind… does he think only he brought himself to here?
He might… splash over her tremendous deep and step to the con with forgetful feet.
So she rages and tears at his blistered beams,
the tackle and the ties, all to touch his hiding heart, inside.
He scabs his knees and wails and weeps…
“oh god save me from this terrible sea!”
Now sails are tissues and masts are toothpicks…
…you hear the Loveliest whisper “I AM, this terrible sea, is me.”
“What’s the story on the necklace?”
Shifting glances.
“Story?”
“Yeah. That’s new, right?”
“Uh, just something I like a lot. Hey, I’ve been looking at this cool Hebrew word, nefesh, you know about it?”
“Come on, there’s always a story with you.”
Guilty chuckles.
“Alright, I guess there’s a story. And it’s not new, just finally tied it together.”
“Ha! But hold on, I only have like three hours, so…”
Arm punch.
“Relax. It’s a short one. So I was at this little place, first time…”
“What place? Have I been there?”
“Doubt it, off the beaten path. Really cute place, old fashioned, but fresh, lively, and…”
Interruption. “Hey guys how’s it going?”
“Extremely very… fine. We’re fine, yeah. What’s good with you?”
Skipping rocks conversation.
“Okay, so… necklace? Short story?”
“Right. So standing in line a guy tried to toss this cap into a basket on the other side of me, guess I was in the way or something. Anyway he missed and it fell on the floor by my feet, I was like ‘oh I got it.’”
“That’s it?”
“Pretty much. I don’t know, I couldn’t toss it. So I put it in my pocket.”
“Hmph.”
Shrugs.
“Yeah, I think about weird things. In all of space and time, if either one of us hadn’t been there at the same place and time… whatever. My sister says I’m a mad hatter… lovingly… in love.”
“I can see where she’s coming from… so you made it into a necklace.”
“Yep. I guess somewhere I got bent, I don’t know, I look for the under appreciated thing, the thing someone else thought wasn’t a thing, the passed over thing. What something could be is what is secretly is. Like a seed. I made it special to me and I think that makes me something.”
“That’s either brilliance or we need to put you in a home.”
Laughs all the way through.
“I’m trusting you to tell me when I need to get help.”
“Do I dare ask about the Hebrew thing?”
“Oh yeah, this is cool. Nefesh, usually translated ‘soul’ or ‘life?’ Same word is literally translated ‘neck.’”
“Just a latte please.”
“Okay latte, anything else?”
“Nope that’s all thanks.”
“Okay what’s your name?”
“Robert.”
“Robert?”
“Yeah.”
“Okay cool. Wasn’t sure if I heard Robin or Robert… you look more like a Robert.”
“Well, thanks.”
—
Of the few I’ve received, that’s perhaps my most favorite compliment.
How silly is that?
Sayers of wisdom say…
“Love of one’s country is part of the faith.”
Yes! It is good and noble to die for home and hearth. But steady now soldier. The sayers of wisdom haven’t rested yet. Listen, still.
“Your ‘real’ country is where you’re heading, not where you are.”
“It’s right to love your home place, but first ask, ‘Where is that, really?’”
—
How often am I off and running while wisdom is still standing with words in her mouth..
Drinking and thirsting again.
Having and not holding.
Resting in anticipation.
Sealed and stored.
Bled and bought.
Sunny showers.
Dying for Joy.
Not yet.
Still.
“What’s your favorite poetry?”
“Poetry? You mean ‘poem?’”
“Yeah yeah, what’s your favorite poem.”
“Geez. I don’t know. That’s like asking… I don’t know. ‘What’s your favorite drink of water?’”
“I don’t drink water.”
“What?”
“Too boring.”
“I don’t think we can be friends anymore.”
“You don’t have any other friends.”
“I will cut you.”
“Poetry. Come on, educate me.”
“No.”
“No?”
“I’m not gonna try to explain it.”
“See, that’s the problem. No one knows what the darn stuff means.”
“Look out here. What do you see?”
“Uh, trees, sky, a hill, some cows.”
“How does it make you feel?”
“Uh, relaxed, I guess. I mean, it’s pretty.”
“What does it mean?”
“Huh? What does it mean? It’s just… dadgumit. You always do this.”
“Start with Frost. His famous stuff. He’s crisp and clear.”
“I’m still mad.”
“The foggier ones, not as popular, but usually my favorites. Here listen to this…”
“She would refuse love safe with wealth and honor!
The lovely shall be choosers, shall they?
Then let them choose!”
“Then we shall let her choose?”
“Yes, let her choose.
Take up the task beyond her choosing.”
Invisible hands crowned on her shoulder
In readiness to weigh upon her.
But she stood straight still,
In broad round earrings, gold and jet with pearls,
And broad round suchlike brooch,
Her cheeks high-colored,
Proud and the pride of friends.
The Voice asked, “You can let her choose?”
“Yes, we can let her and still triumph.”
“Do it by joys, and leave her always blameless.”
Robert disobeyed a direct order and rescued much life from waste, though a pig did die.
Lack of clarity about boundaries began the trouble.
San Juan Island squats right in the middle of the Pacific Ocean channel separating British Columbia (UK, then) and Washington (USA).
It was 1859, British and American settlers were both laying claim to the island.
The powers-that-be couldn’t agree and were playing grabby with the territory.
Agreeing to disagree, settlers attempted to share the island, farming and ranching side-by-side.
This reluctant harmony might have continued until today, if not for a hungry hog.
One afternoon in June, a Devon (large black) pig was helping himself to potatoes in a field belonging to an American farmer, Lyman Cutlar.
Tragically, his mother hadn’t taught him better manners.
Cutlar, finding his potatoes so rudely turned up, promptly shot and killed the intruding swine.
Charles Griffin, an Englishman, island resident and owner of several live pigs and now one dead, took great offense.
Lyman, the American farmer, offered $10, in good faith, as compensation for the animal.
The English rancher, Charles, squealed and stamped and demanded $100.
Lyman, a principled man, could not see his charity so far stretched, then refused to pay anything.
“I am in the right. Just defense of my property. Your pig was trespassing, and eating my potatoes.”
“It is up to you to keep your potatoes out of my pig!” Charles huffed.
Seeing that his neighbor had fled common sense and decency, the American retreated to think no more of the matter.
Griffin, on the other side, involved his local government. The British Governorship immediately threatened to arrest Cutlar.
The American settlers responded in kind, calling for their own military support.
Hot-under-the-collar Captain George Picket and his 9th Infantry were dispatched to the island. “We’ll make a Bunker Hill of it!”
The British countered and soon three warships under the Union Jack were sailing for San Juan.
Before you could say “maybe let’s just build a fence,” both militaries were bristling the tiny island.
461 American soldiers dug in with 14 cannons.
Five British warships floated 70 guns and 2,140 Marines, just off shore.
Then came the fate full order.
“Land the Marines and turn those pompous squatters into the mud they so arrogantly maintain!”
Authority is a curious matter. Power comes in submission to higher power.
When authority steps from under the higher order, Good, it ceases to be.
The rules need breaking when they start to break The Rule.*
At least, that’s what British Rear Admiral Robert L. Baynes believed.
He told his superior, the Governor of Vancouver Island, to take a long walk off a short pier.
“Two great nations in a war over a squabble about a pig? Ridiculous.”
So, both sides stood under orders to “defend yourselves but under no circumstances fire the first shot.”
No shots were fired. The blustering continued and the boundary stayed unsolved…
…for twelve years. And no shots were fired.
In 1871 the UK and US signed the Washington Treaty, and the matter was settled.
San Juan Island, Washington, USA.
More than a decade after the pig shooting, both nations finally withdrew forces from their respective island camps.
These camps remain open today, as a US National Park.
Worth the drive, someday.
Everyday, US Park Rangers hoist a British flag to fly over the camp site.
The flag and pole was an English gift, a sign of friendship between the two countries.
San Juan Island is the only place in the US where a foreign flag is principally and regularly hoisted over American soil.
The Pig War of 1859. Real, crazy, history.
The friendship of two great nations saved; no casualties, save one pig…
because one guy named Robert knew when to break the rules.
—
*Rulebreaking is a potent potion. Drink responsibly.
The best writers I’ve ever read can write about everything and nothing, with the same words. She won’t tell you what to think. Just touches you where you feel, up to her wrist in my rib cage, “it’s okay.” I don’t know how it’s done; probably with great care, hard work, lots of practice. From here, it looks like magic.
It looks like by water or wind she swishes the skirts of her soul and words ballet from there to here with a basketful of empathy.
If questions had hands this one would pinch your cheeks
and maybe sometimes slap you in the face.
Like that aunt, lovable but only once-a-year;
intrusive, audacious and unavoidable, this question.
You answer with your life.
All I ask is a small ship and a Star to steer her by…
Do you think that, everything, is too much to ask?
Gazelle eyed princess with a heart like Texas. Cool olives skinned, lava flow feeling just under her skin. Fierce for faith and family. Emerging from mystery, appearing so modestly; no one knows she’s a princess.
Well, almost no one.
A valiant heart. No one tells him but he sees. And he fights. And he falls. Head over heels. Only honor and virtue are his hopes. His bright sword bends evil blood to the earth and his knee bends to Creator and king, only.
His a tribal people, customs are king.
And customs command marrying.
And so the story begins.
Will it be tribe and tradition, his heart be dammed? Or will the spring steel of true love bear the weight of time and recoil to set all things right, in time?
If you hear a distant popping, that’s the universe making popcorn.
All of this is for a true story, after all.
—
P.S. I’m writing about a Netflix show, here. Based on a true story.
It was a grey pickup, like their hair. Same year and single cab.
Some couples sit silently in the car. Not them.
Couldn’t hear their words, but it was friendly on their faces.
They went into a sunset yellow light.
I caught the red.
Don’t worry.
I’m only a little bit behind them.
Look into her too-big eyes… she knows something.
“What is it baby? What do you know?”
Baby can’t talk. So I search her eyes for her secret.
“Your drool doesn’t fool me baby. I will guess what you’re hiding, soon I think.”
Awe and then some.
“A low, thrilling voice. It was the kind of voice that the ear follows up and down, as if each speech is an arrangement of notes that will never be played again. Her face was sad and lovely with bright things in it, bright eyes and a bright passionate mouth, but there was an excitement in her voice that men who had cared for her found difficult to forget: a singing compulsion, a whispered “Listen,” a promise that she had done gay, exciting things just a while since and that there were gay, exciting things hovering in the next hour.”
-F. Scott Fitzgerald, in The Great Gatsby
I’m a sucker for a good storm. It’s embarrassing. I just sit on his tailgate and watch the thunderheads walk straight at me; striking, ponderous steps. “You’re gonna get soaked.” I know. “You’re gonna be miserable.” Silence. “You might even get struck.” Struck. Stricken. Ooh, interesting words to play with… “You’re hopeless.” Thunder. Smile. Rain.
Watch with your ears on…
Two fields crept close, and kept until the wires whined and the fence posts wept. A fence I can’t see. Eyelashes painted giddy green raking the wind and stacking it in piles so the wild grown flowers can gather ‘round and wave and bow down. The other field lays mown.
And neither has what the other wants.
He pinched a glowing coal from the fire, studying it closely. Then he popped it in his mouth and swallowed.
Looking around again, the strange boy slid back into his sleeping bag.
—
“I must have been dreaming.” the cactus boy stared at the glowing horizon, thinking about what he had seen.
The yellow yolks on the fire eyed him and the frying butter cackled.
“It was pretty dark last night, maybe it just looked like he ate the fire…” he thought.
“Hey we gonna eat those eggs or wear ‘em for shoes?”
Cactus boy spun and yanked the pan from the coals. “Rats.”
“Well done!” strange boy was snorting giggles. “My favorite, seriously. I love everything ‘well done.’”
—
“How do you make our fires?” cactus boy asked, lacing his boots.
“Huh?”
“The fire. You always make the fire but I’ve never seen you do it.”
The strange boy looked through a squint for a long second.
“Did you see something?”
“No.” cactus boy locked eyes to really sell the lie, and stepping in a hole on the trail, he fell hard.
—
“So, why… how… you swallow the fire?”
Strange boy stood and lifted his shirt.
Cactus boy was glad he was already sitting.
Hot light glistened from the center of his chest.
“Where I come from, it is never night and fire floods the sky. But here in your world we each have to carry the Flame, inside, through the night.”
“Wow. I mean that’s… wow… does it hurt?” cactus boy also saw scars tracing the glow.
Strange boy smiled, and for the first time, seemed tired.
“Why don’t you just put it out during the day and then restart it when you need it, like with matches or something?”
His eyes looked like lightning and his voice came like thunder… but gentler, like thunder far off.
“This was kindled in Death’s Forge, it can never die. It was given to me, special, for our journey. If anyone tries to put it out…”
—
Stoke the fire in your heart through the night, though it burns.
Return it to the Sun, in the morning; well done.
Morning always comes.
“Heard some cranes goin’ south today.”
“Oh?” she filled his plate.
“Must be into March now.”
Clearing the dishes, she said, “Do you think it’s the 12th yet?”
“Don’t know. The preacher hasn’t been around.”
“I think tomorrow is the 12th.” she stated.
“Will you go with me tomorrow to sit with him?” she asked the window.
She was answered by the door. Closed and hard.
Their little house shook from the shake-shouldered roof to the toe-nailed floor boards. She held the counter until the shaking stopped and their empty cradle stood still too.
—
P.S. I wrote this hard-to-read story for you because you are a brilliant reader-of-stories and you deserve it.
Interesting facts: Sandhill cranes frequently give a loud, trumpeting call that suggests a rolled “r” in the throat, and they can be heard from a long distance, especially in migratory flight. Mated for life, pairs of cranes engage in “unison calling.” The cranes stand close together, calling in a synchronized and complex duet. [Wikipedia]
Maybe not going into the place
he most surely may
is the bravest thing a man can do.
Or maybe I’m just a fool.
When a commercial makes you put your sunglasses on in Starbucks so that can’t see you crying…
…someone is doing something right.
“The radio dial is a mood selector switch.”
– highest paid radio ad writer in the world
Want to feel sad? We’ve got stations for that.
Mad? Click, click, click.
Cars have 6 or 12 station presets because we all use the radio
as our “Dial-A-Feeling” machine.
That’s why radio stations only play songs with obvious moods.
Most of us are already tangled up, not knowing what to feel.
We don’t need a song for that.
Or maybe that’s not right.
Maybe the songs that skate some secret line are the truest songs.
The purest songs.
Like spring water for your soul. A clear taste, but what is it?
My ears sip again with a question…
Oh, salty, like tears… wait, no. Sweet! Like triumph.
Wait, hold on….
That’s it. Just “hold on.” Stay with it. Sip and wonder.
Take the ride. Follow the road. Be tied in knots. Be carried off.
Most days I know what I want to feel and hop the train to a favorite station.
Other days, rare days, I’m brave enough to feel something different.
I’ll turn and take some country road that goes nowhere to be found.
There I’ve found feeling that wouldn’t fit in a thousand songs.
I tried to pick it up with words but it fell apart.
It was a preface to knowing.
Now I just know.
And be still.
Open lassos lace the choked arena air.
Lithe and lank and spurs to flanks,
one ring racing, sparkling;
a loop free for the head.
Too, the heeler hopes a bright hoop,
head down to hold the other side.
Teamed ropes racing the torch of time.
Banding to bond a single beast in time.
Steady eyes, running, dust.
Blood. Breathing. Still.
Hushed, heaven and earth looks to the Judge.
Firebrands, standing still.
Heavy, more than weight.
Gold on their soles.
Old in their souls.
Time tastes all claims.
Time licks with flames.
Silver shining threads remain.
Take a five-minute-walk with me and John Muir
through the forests of your heart?
be.thebright.co/shining-in-you
The cold and clear cry
in those first three sentences
splashes me instantly awake.
Five minutes is a serious investment, I know.
Maybe you have big things on your mind today.
In that case, here’s a favorite tiny story,
you can read it in about 15 seconds.
Reading this made me want to go to sleep,
and thinking about it kept me awake.
I think I’ll rest easier once I’ve shared it with everyone I care about.
be.thebright.co/lazy-about-sleep
Ah, see, I feel better already.
Yesterday, I filled my mug and sat in my seat, the usual.
Reaching for my morning Drink, I see something unusual…
This note stuck out like a tongue:
Click the photo to see what happened next…
Here’s something that reminded me who I am…
and whose I am…
and how those are the same, I AM.
be.thebright.co/true-words-with-travis
“Blessed are the beggars in spirit…”
That’s good news.
Why do beggars make the best choosers?
Choosing. We all get to do it.
And not choosing, well…
I would never write about skinny dipping but if I did I would write about washing your heart in the crisp mountain stream which springs from Isolation. If you would shimmy your heart from worldly dressings and let down your cares, you must go to the wilderness where everything lives wild and free from the fear of interruption. Naked hearts are even more alarming and awe full than naked bodies. Better to go alone, mostly. Invite and the Whisper might and the Whisper will come and wash your feet there. Wade and splash and bask and be made new. In quietness and trust is your strength.
Take your heart to the mountain, just the One who Loves and you.
A good man might take responsibility for all his wrongs, stand up right, beat a noble drum and bear his own burden. A very good man, might.
But what kind of man stands quietly while falsely accused, taking the blame for another willingly, even to death, dying under their shame?
What kind of man would give his heart so completely?
Stretching one hand to the east and one to the west… saying, “fire away.”
The cop in the video plays a character whose Name I think you know.
The woman’s name…
…just don’t run away.
Here’s something that scraped out the bottom of my soul.
be.thebright.co/every-little-whiff/
If you’re curious enough, hang on until 1:37, at least.
I think you’ll be glad you did.
You might even watch it twice.
Or ten times.
“It won’t be easy. It won’t be certain.”
But take heart…
Laughter climbed the walls and swung from heart to heart on those steel monkey bars forged in long furious fights for love.
Freedom stained our lips and the white tablecloth where a joke ambushed us mid drink.
Looking around, finding sparkling soul windows all around, mine almost cried.
We fought battles to be here. We got scars to be here.
But not everyone is here.
So we drink, and we remember.
We remember the battle we couldn’t fight and the scars we didn’t get.
We remember the night Death found us covered in blood and not our own.
And we remember the One who doesn’t drink tonight.
We drink a bright living thing trampled underfoot
and killed
and wrung
and flowed into a dark place to rest.
We drink a new thing, living again
and poured out
and blotting out
and knitting heartstrings
in glowing bonds of a forever freedom.
We drink. And this is called Joy.
So I smile while my eyes surrender.
I laugh and taste the salt too.
Because we are here and not every one, yet.
For the one who would believe,
mountains of evidence are waiting
to jump into the ocean of his heart.
For the one who would not believe,
mountains of evidence will not be moved
so that his heart may have a steady place to rest.
This is the humility of the One who Loves.
That this Love would exist
or not exist
in my world,
according to my preference.
As you believe, so be it unto you.
Believe, or don’t, carefully.
You have the power of Creation in you.
Sunlight is popping over the horizon
but a poofy cloud blanket is keeping the bright beams at bay.
Silver crowned, hands scarred and healed and scarred again, a man places his book at the long table and goes to the counter.
“Morning.” A true smile. “Just a regular coffee.”
Other men begin to fill the long table.
“Here you go sir.”
“Thank you. God bless you today.”
In a booth by the door, two women are talking.
Well, one of them is talking. And wiping her eyes.
Her ancestors probably came from a land in the northern hemisphere.
The other woman, somewhere closer to the sun.
Resting on the table next to their water cups, their bibles are closed.
I don’t think their hearts are.
Doors swing open on the SUV that just parked in front.
The buzz-cut is a simple look but the story in his eyes isn’t.
Two miniature versions bounce around from the other side,
half his height and half again.
They could be Russian nesting dolls… Asian nesting dolls.
The boys are scanning through the glass at the menu
before they even make it to the door.
This is a special morning.
Getting up to refill my coffee, an excuse to peek at the book on the long table.
Waking The Dead, by John Eldredge.
Well amen.
Time is a friend I love to hate.
So fanciful and flighty and romantic and… untrue.
Seven hours in a second and seven days feeling every second like an hour.
Time, why are you so timely?
A boy looks through glass thick as your fist
and sticks out his tongue at the lions,
his death grip on daddy’s pant leg
and tiny fingernails let blood
but daddy doesn’t seem to mind.
—
Let this song beat your heart
like the pounding hooves of a Texas Rangers patrol
riding for truth, justice and The Resurrected Way.
Delight all you sons and daughters
of goodness and light!
Good always wins, in the end.
Hiatus comes from the Latin hio, which means a yawning or an opening.
A familiar-looking sister word is portal.
Think: a yawning grave.
Now that is an interesting portal.
Hiatus is also familiar to anatomical language, referring to an opening, especially in an organ.
e.g. the Hiatus aorticus is a hole in your diaphragm.
Your aorta goes through there.
All your life blood goes through a hole in the thing that gives you breath.
How about that.
We make ourselves a place apart
Behind light words that tease and flout,
But oh, the agitated heart
Till someone find us really out.
’Tis pity if the case require
(Or so we say) that in the end
We speak the literal to inspire
The understanding of a friend.
But so with all, from babes that play
At hide-and-seek to God afar,
So all who hide too well away
Must speak and tell us where they are.
—
A poem about the flaws of poetry…
A delight.
And so, He did tell us.
Then and Than were born under a waxy moon.
Brothers, one God loved and one he hated.
One became a stepping stone for others.
A connector of ideas, a launchpad for the future.
The other became a harsh judge of the world.
Knowing always how to bind you to Better, or Worse.
For better or worse,
Then and Than were born under a waxy moon.
Mind which one you call on, and When.
Self-reliance, the height and perfection of man, is reliance on God.
Respect the child. Be not too much his parent.
Trespass not on his solitude.
Our strength grows out of our weakness.
The indignation which arms itself with secret forces
does not awaken until we are pricked and stung and sorely assailed.
Let me never fall into the vulgar mistake of dreaming
that I am persecuted whenever I am contradicted.
A great man is always willing to be little.
Whilst he sits on the cushion of advantages, he goes to sleep.
When he is pushed, tormented, defeated, he has a chance to learn something;
he has been put on his wits, on his manhood; he has gained facts; learns his ignorance; is cured of the insanity of conceit; has got moderation and real skill.
The purpose of life seems to be to acquaint a man with himself.
He is not to live the future as described to him
but to live the real future to the real present.
The highest revelation is that God is in every man.
We are, like Nebuchadnezzar, dethroned,
bereft of reason, and eating grass like an ox.
Yet a man may love a paradox,
without losing either his wit or his honesty.
Be it how it will, do right now.
The thing done avails, and not what is said about it.
An original sentence, a step forward,
is worth more than all the censures.
Do not be too timid and squeamish about your actions.
All life is an experiment. The more experiments you make the better.
The voyage of the best ship is a zigzag line of a hundred tacks.
Of course, he who has put forth his total strength in fit actions,
has the richest return of wisdom.
It is easy to live for others; everybody does.
I call on you to live for yourselves.
Trust thyself: every heart vibrates to that iron string.
Accept the place the divine providence has found for you,
the society of your contemporaries, the connection of events.
Great men have always done so.
People seem not to see that their opinion of the world is also a confession of character.
To different minds, the same world is a hell, and a heaven.
Truth is handsomer than the affectation of love.
Your goodness must have some edge to it — else it is none.
Speak what you think now in hard words,
and tomorrow speak what tomorrow thinks
in hard words again,
though it contradict every thing you said today.
I hung my verse in the wind
Time and tide their faults will find.
Valor consists in the power of self-recovery,
so that a man cannot have his flank turned,
cannot be out-generalled,
but put him where you will,
he stands.
Despair, never.
Hope is best savored in sips
so that the flavor frolics
and on your taste buds
makes melting mosaics
that behind your eyes
thought does glow, sticks.
Why are your ways so high?
While I am so low?
Why are your thoughts so still?
While all day long we are killed?
It’s quiet up there.
My side is empty,
But my hand is taken.
Forgiveness, can you imagine?
Are: the present form of to be.
-R
“If a good god is real why doesn’t he or she just show up sitting on a cloud or riding a unicorn with wings or something?”
“Did you know Where’s Waldo has sold more than 55 million copies around the world?”
“Huh?”
“Where’s Waldo, the crowd scenes with the Waldo character hiding in every single one…”
“Yeah yeah, I know. Great way to kill time. Super hard to find that guy sometimes. What’s that got to do with anything?”
“How many do you think we would buy if every page was just a giant picture of Waldo’s face?”
—
I waited for a giant picture for a long time. Then I got bored.
What if the point of all this is to get good at killing time?
Eternity is a long time, after all.
“Seek, and you will find.”
Maybe God is a comedian playing to an audience too afraid to laugh…
Excuse me, I’m being serious here, did you just giggle?
If you want to build relationship a lifetime lasting,
it’s good to ask questions that are a lifetime answering.
Only 7% of humans are alive today.
Wise guys guess over 100 billion humans have existed, ever.
7 billion alive today = 7%.
That means you are 0.00000000001% of humans to have life, ever. *
At any point in life, a human is personally familiar with about 150 other humans, on average. **
The 150 people you know total 0.0000000015% of the humans to have life, ever. ***
You are alive today. And the few with you.
Not 1,000 years ago or a 1,000 years from now.
You are here today.
Not in a different galaxy or even a different town.
Who else is here today?
What do you think that means?
Today is the only day.
Is it marvelous in your eyes?
We are here. For a moment.
Will you rejoice and be glad with me?
—
* 1 / 100,000,000,000 = 1e-11
** Dunbar’s Number: Group Size and Brain Physiology in Humans
*** 150 / 100,000,000,000 = 1.5e-9
Certainty is heavy cargo.
And it will be your death.
Storms in life will bring your soul to the place where your lighthouse is, and break you on the rocks.
It makes sense.
It’s the one place you agree is worth dying for.
And Love needs you to die.
Carry light in your hold.
Light rises, in the end.
Today is my birthday.
Spring in North Dakota in 1908 was dragging her feet and taking her time getting ready to dance in the rain.
On mornings like that one when the frost is snapping at her heels you think she might just hike up her skirts and leave us to wrestle with Winter for another while.
So I was born and so I grew up.
My head full of words wrestled from the ground and washed in the water that comes from the sky.
Chapped all day in the burning sun then gently oiled around the fire each night.
My family farmed. And ranched. And read books.
I’ve filled books with my stories, you know that, so we won’t do that here.
We’ll just skip a rock across the peaks of the waves that swelled my years.
High school dropped out of me in the tenth grade.
I punched cows for some years which is a term unfairly used, the cattle did most of the punching.
Baled lots a hay in New Mexico. It’s not all desert and most folks don’t know that.
Tasted dust in Nevada mines, Arizona saw mills and Utah lumber yards.
Did some actual punching on the pro boxing circuit. Won some too.
Hopped more freight trains than you probably should, they were going somewhere and I wanted to.
Hobo villages are somewhere and I lived in a few.
Bummed on the beach in southern California for a few months.
The ocean was bigger from the freighters I rode around the world, working as a merchant sailor.
And I wrote it all down as I went.
Guess I read a fair amount too. Usually around 150 books a year.
1945 found me fighting in France and Germany.
They made me a company commander before it was done.
Went back home, I just wrote.
Sold a story every week in those years.
All the kids always ask how it’s done.
Just write.
Kathy married me in 1956.
Stories came easier in the 60’s and 70’s.
And folks bought ‘em.
Somewhere along the way we passed up old Steinbeck, more than 41,000,000 copies sold.
A few years later it was 100 million.
The awards flooded in.
Golden Saddleman Award, Teddy Roosevelt Rough Rider Award, then it was a Congressional National Gold Medal and a Medal of Freedom.
All for a few good stories.
It was all for learning, really. I just wanted to learn.
“Ask and you will receive” they said. I believed it.
I learned the roughest hands can have the softest hearts.
I learned that saying nothing can be thunderous speech.
I learned the woman will always mystify, bewilder and bewitch a man.
She is both a part of him missing and something wholly other.
I learned to be friendly to a man who smiles at death.
He makes a good friend and a terrifying enemy.
I tried to fill my stories with these men and their hopes and fears and the mysterious woman.
“A dying breed.” they say. Maybe.
Somebody’s buying all these books. I’d like to think they’re finding themselves in that saddle.
I hope the words that spilled out of me over the years are filling their hearts with a bit of wonder and a reminder of how all good stories end.
The good guys win. The gentleman marries the lady. They live happily ever after on a ranch in Texas.
If a story doesn’t end that way, it must not be over yet.
All stories are good stories, in the end, you know.
Just keep reading.
A man always smiles at death, who knows how the story ends.
And I did smile.
—
Louis L’Amour loved life and learning, all of it.
And he put all of it in stories so we could too.
God bless Louis L’Amour.
Grateful to my Papa, for introducing us.
It’s up to me I’m as free as I claim to be!
Claims one as chained himself to a tree.
Be free as a deer and safely under steer my overseer!
Wearies priest and atheist whose closest to god is fear.
A salty sailor answered me best,
Freedom is what do you guess?
One chain deep and one thread high,
Your anchor in the veil your Star in the sky.
If it’s freedom you desire
Bind your self to her
Everywhere you go
There you are
I was exceedingly irresponsible on Wednesday.
I thought I might be turning into a bum.
“…if I keep this up, I won’t have a place to lay my head.”
It’s okay though, I snapped out of it.
Here’s what happened…
Work was stacking up, a real tower of babbling and beeping and buzzing.
Typical Wednesday morning for important people who do important stuff.
Something called me outside for a minute before diving in.
Then I just laid on the lawn and counted clouds.
For hours.
Horrendous, I know. And it gets worse.
I let the baby eat a dandelion and climb on my head and play with a piece of green hose so now he probably thinks playing with snakes is totally fine.
And I did nothing, still.
The dog snored.
The sun shined.
The chimes chimed.
We watched a snail labor for two hours over the fresh cut grass.
He was doing about 12 inches per hour, top speed. Working very hard.
Then our Rock Island Red named Julia came along and ate him.
Snails only live a few weeks, you know.
Even where rusty-feathered chickens aren’t.
Still, something was super important to this silly snail.
Something other than drinking today’s bluest sky and occasionally watering the greenest grass with my eyes.
His imagined destination (probably not a chicken gullet) must have been important indeed, for him to be striving so certainly for most of his short snail life.
Thank God I have a big man brain and not a tiny snail brain.
Everyone knows you gotta have a sense of urgency to get anywhere in life.
Anyway, I’m back to work on my tower now so it’s all good.
It’s a very important tower and lots of people are counting on me I think.
—
“Hey, how do you know the snail was a ‘he’?”
Good question.
Mostly a guess.
When it comes to work, women seem to know better.
But you already knew that, didn’t you? =)
Casual like a hand on your hip their right hands rested on their shiny Colts.
Surrounding the camp they squeezed in and the fire played shadows behind.
An old man with paint on his face just sat there. Was he asleep?
“Come on in boys. Coffee’s on.”
Their eyebrows played catch with question marks.
Bacon curling in a pan tasted his nose and the first boy was off his horse.
Boy Two shrugged and put leather on the ground.
“Where y’all headed?”
“We’re headed west to find…”
“Just passin’ through.” The third one cut in and daggered Boy One with his eyes.
“Thanks for sharing sups and your coffee.”
“Where do you come from, sir?”
The old man produced a few sticks from under his robe and fed the embers.
“I was born under this sky.”
They tossed more eyebrows.
“We’re headed west to find places of our own.” The first boy said.
He ducked as a mesquite bean flew for his head.
“Your friend is wise.” The old man said to Boy One.
“What you don’t speak about can’t hurt you.”
“Your friend is also wise.” The old man said to Boy Three.
“What you don’t speak about can’t help you.”
“Yeah that’s right! So we’re headed west to find places of our own. Have you ever had a place of your own? We all have different ideas about what makes a good place. I think a place should have a nice lake and a meadow. He thinks a hill for the house is most important and Tight Lips over there won’t say what he thinks, believe it or not.”
“So have you… have you ever had a place of your own?” The second one said.
The old man’s eyes went bluer as a mist rolled in.
“I mean, a lake just makes sense. And good grass for the beeves. An then there’s the view…”
All the crickets and a coyote wearing a coat of moonlight wondered how the rambling boy managed to speak without breaks for breathing.
“What do you think, sir?” The third one said.
More sticks.
“You sure you want to know what I think?”
Nodding.
“Truly, all you need is a spring.”
Eyebrows.
“A spring with living water. You can go the distance there.”
“Ha! Come on, I mean springs are great, yeah, but for all the other stuff everybody likes different things, right? You got to pick a place that really fits you.”
“Times change. People change. Even land changes. Pick a place where the water goes deep and you’ll laugh through the dry spells.”
The moon-coated coyote filled up the silence, for a while.
“I’ve passed a few places with springs, I know they weren’t right. How do
I know when I find the right one?” Boy Two said.
“The Great Spirit will tell you. She will still everything.” His eyes were closed again.
The first boy touched his temple and twirled his finger.
“Yes, I am crazy.” The old man said without opening his eyes.
“Crazy enough to have found my own place.
“Crazy enough to be happy, even.
“Crazy enough to be loving life to death.”
Then he tested the boys with his gaze.
“Are you crazy enough?”
“I think I found my calling.”
“Is it saying random things?”
The strange boy tossed his head back and bunches of bluebirds burst from the tree to speckle the yawning sky.
“That was a good one. You got me.”
Flinty steel in his eyes betrayed the glimmer playing around his mouth.
Whatever he said next was likely to set something on fire.
“Love is like cliff diving.
“On a trail you might turn back at anytime. You might see another trail more fair, more appealing and turn down there.
“On a path you might find great pleasure in each whispering fork you pass knowing your way is only yours, to split or not to split.
“Truly you may follow your heart to top of any mountain but the truest way to the bottom of your self is found when your feet leave the ledge.
“There are no off ramps in cliff diving.
“No take backs, no tap outs.
“After the toe tip it’s all out for the all in.”
I don’t know how I know that.
But… I do.
—
Love leaves the overlook of heaven without any wings.
Fallen to the bottom of my shattered shoreline.
Collided at the crossroads of eternity.
Perfectly laid beneath the waves of my curse.
Until bursting forth the Island rises.
Even salty death gives way to molten Love.
Come to the Island, oh my soul, and be melted.
Robert H. Cantley.
He is a great grandfather.
She drove north every young summer to visit him and the woman with him.
He’s like the dad she didn’t have because somebody ran a red light.
They shared homemade dinners and wine and would wind miles of stories at the stove every night.
They moved their lives over for that bright-eyed girl.
They believed in seeds and a harvest they wouldn’t live to see.
Sun up, top down he drove a 1953 Chevy Corvette, baby blue, shiny and cool.
He sold it with light in his heart when the heavy bubble burst.
He rolled right over the worst months in a 1994 pickup painted like raw milk.
He found the 4×4 far better for first-time-fishing in the mountains with great-grandkids and when they weren’t looking the lake shiny and cool would fill his eyes bouldered and blue and make him cry like a baby.
“He drives me crazy.” His wife will say.
He won’t argue with his lady. And he never says why.
He just makes music with his eyes.
“He loves like heaven does.”
He’s a stake driven in the ground his family goes around.
The bright-eyed girl gave his name, to her first boy.
They sent her boy to pick up his old fashioned Ford, last year.
Single cab stick shift saddle blankets on the seats.
Pneumonia hit him in the chest like a cement truck.
Death is one helluva red light.
So I sit in his seat and drive.
—
Did you know Randy Travis wrote a song about my great-grandfather?
“I see bright beams begin to feather the air, fluttering and floating and tickling the stars to death.
One by one they give their twinkling rays to the gaze of the one testing the horizon.
His warm fingers of light find the cold locks of night… the door to the day is here.
There’s certainly something sacred in the sun’s gentle way.
Warblers wait rooted in the treetops, for that moment.
Seeds stay their wrestling in the earth, in that moment.
Even time trembles and takes a breath at that threshold moment.
I’ve always wondered why he hesitates. What is he waiting for?
Maybe waiting for us to feel the waiting…
Then it’s crossing over and riding on the clouds, peeling back the robes of night and washing clear the cold black blight.
Naked fire fills the sky and the full glory is harsh light.
The beauty in all the earth is seen as she newly is. As she truly is…”
They sat and stared awhile, wearing the heavy light.
“I’m glad you asked me that.” said the strange boy.
“What do you see in a sunrise?”
Valentine’s Day celebrated everyone knows but I’m not very sure I have one of those so I’m writing to you to celebrate red.
Red is good for many things.
Keeping the robin warm in rain springs and telling the tomato how to make a burger look yum and making barns less boring and Texas tourists call the fire department when they see fields on fire with all the Indian paintbrush.
Red is always reminding us where we are.
A red dot in a crowded mall or a red blot on a cursed tree.
Red is good for knowing where you are.
You are here.
Are you glad you are here?
I am.
Glad you are here.
He stared at the German anti-aircraft gun, his mind filled with flames, remembering.
The starboard wing had snapped off just before he jumped.
Then swimming in ink.
His parachute inhaling the night.
The muddy lights of occupied Paris pulling him down, through the exploding sky.
The boy at his side was pointing and saying something.
His thoughts were pulled into the present.
Today was Sunday, and Paris was sunbathing.
August 13th, 1944. A holiday, Assumption Day.
The City of Light was pretending especially well today.
Pretending they had enough to eat.
Pretending they didn’t mind the Crooked Cross streaming blood-red from every monument top.
Pretending they weren’t hiding an American pilot.
They had drawn him in as a breath.
Quietly holding their secret as Nazis paraded in the street.
His defiant host, Louis Berty, was a local pork butcher.
For 10 weeks he’d kept the gangly American pilot folded away.
Today was different. All of Paris was breathing today.
The German jackboot wasn’t pressing her throat, at least.
A good day to walk the wrinkles out.
“You can’t visit Paris with you not see the sights! Today we tour, Wehrmacht scum or no!”
So Berty the butcher, his seven-year-old boy and the leggy American sought the sights.
The pilot stretched his full frame to six feet and three inches.
The sun and the Seine filled his eyes.
Dressed as a local stone mason, Lieutenant Bob Woodrum almost didn’t fit in.
Gawking at the anti-aircraft gun crews wasn’t helping.
The would-be incognito sightseers sought a less supervised scene.
Near the place du Trucadéro, the French Naval Museum yawned a casual welcome.
Inside, Lieutenant Woodrum shrugged off the gun crew and his blistered memories.
Waves of timeless talent washed the walls here, a good place to loosen your mind.
Then an officer stomped in.
His Iron Crosses glinted angrily in the timid light.
Faces and furniture twisted in reflection.
The German officer took special interest in the American sculpture wrapped as a Parisian mason.
His interrogating eyes prodded the pilot, measuring the blond hair, blue eyes, towering form…
A painting there by Claude Joseph Vernet became frighteningly, critically interesting, to Bob.
Woodrum stared straight, trying the melt the colors with his gaze.
He wanted to wriggle through the oil and join the smiling subjects in the painting.
Then he could stand on the rock and wave, happy as they.
Together they would watch the liquid tricolor follow her ship to sea.
The sun would drop through the sky and all would be well.
The boy at his side brought him back.
Louis Berty’s seven-year-old son was staring at the canvas too, and silently slipped his small hand into the large American one.
Lieutenant Woodrum held the boy’s hand and poured his face into the painting.
The brown uniform barked a sparkling question in German. Then French.
The American stared ahead and breathed with those souls in the image, not at all.
The boy twisted around to look into the German face.
“My father is deaf and dumb.” He said.
—
On August 25th, French and American forces wrested from Nazi control, the City of Love.
On August 26th, Lieutenant Bob Woodrum greeted the champagne sunrise wearing his American uniform and carrying on his shoulders Louis Berty’s seven-year-old boy.
Intrigue for this story provided by a friend.
The king’s daughter needed rescue.
One problem: It was a suicide mission.
The Scots remember everything in this brooding ballad.
I offer my translation.
Note: Reading this will feel like washing the dishes.
You’ll have a warm, fuzzy feeling when the work is done.
And softer hands, guaranteed.
Sir Patrick Spens: A Ballad
The king sits in Dumferlin town
Drinking the blood-red wine:
Oh where will I get a good sailor
To sail this ship of mine?
Translation: Alcoholic king in a church says “I need a brave heart, is there any who loves me with all of his?”
Up and spake an eldern knight,
Sat at the king’s right knee:
Sir Patrick Spens is the best sailor
That sails upon the sea.
Translation: A wise guy says “I know of one, and worthy is the man.”
The king has written a broad letter
And signed it with his hand,
And sent it to Sir Patrick Spens,
Was walking on the sand.
Translation: The king’s word goes through all the earth, and does not return empty.
To Noroway, to Noroway,
To Noroway o’er the foam,
The king’s daughter to Norway,
’Tis thou maun to bring her home.
Translation: “My beloved is lost, only in you may she be found.”
The first line that Sir Patrick read
A loud laugh laughed he;
The next line that Sir Patrick read,
A tear blinded his eye.
Translation: For the joy set before him, her savior would suffer.
Make haste, make haste, my merry men all,
Our good ship sails the morn.
Oh say not so, my master dear,
For I fear a deadly storm.
Translation: His followers said “Master, do you not care that we will perish?”
Late, late yestreen I saw the new moon
With the old moon in her arm,
And I fear, I fear, my master dear,
That we will come to harm.
Translation: They guessed “we will be killed all day long.”
They hadna sailed a league, a league,
A league but barely three,
When the air grew dark, and the wind blew loud,
And growly grew the sea.
Translation: They guessed right.
Oh who is this has done this deed,
This ill deed done to me,
To send me out this time of the year,
To sail upon the sea?
Translation: “My king, why have you forsaken me?”
Oh our Scots nobles were right loth
To wet their cork-heeled shoon,
But long ere all the play were played
Their hats they swam aboon.
Translation: Hats float. Humans don’t.
Half o’er, half o’er to Aberdour
It’s fifty fathoms deep,
And there lies good Sir Patrick Spens
With the Scots lords at his feet.
Translation: And darkness was over the face of the deep.
Some say, fifty fathoms is the end of the story.
Others say, it’s only half o’er.
What do you say?
11 Union Jacks snapped to the attentive wind.
Captain Arthur Phillip glassed the beach.
772 men in zebra uniforms packed the 10 decks behind him.
300 bloody red Royal Marines dotted the herd of convicts.
Arthur refitted his tired tri-corner cap.
For eight stormy months, he had carried the dross of England’s society.
Wretched men, unwanted. Men wasted by law breaking.
The Crown commanded him to forge a colony in the vicious Outback.
He decided to grow a garden of humanity instead.
“In this new country there will be no slavery, no slaves.”
1786 Britain thought he was nuts.
The perfect guy to take 10 boat-fulls of bad guys to the edge of the world.
Captain Governor Phillip was crazy enough to believe the convicts were capable of becoming a community.
And they were crazy enough to believe him.
Arthur sailed from Sydney Cove in 1792.
Every position of leadership was filled by a formerly fallen man.
The heart of New South Wales was full of farms, families and the dawning future.
If you’ve read this far, I’m pretty sure you are crazy.
Crazy enough to believe in a few law-breakers.
Crazy enough to believe in your Captain.
I like crazy.
The white wind tumbles and the sails flip and fly like a rebellious summer dress likely to unstay except for the proud tapered masts standing still while the wind walks her keel through the adolescent waves.
Nikolina Vucetic always made it home on time but today she wouldn’t make it home on time.
Today a bloody attack would break every heart in Pancevo.
—
“If heaven exists, it’s probably a giant park.” Leo thought.
“Leo, all you do is watch. Why do you love the park so much?” Biljana said.
Leo avoided people, mostly. He loved his family. He didn’t need anyone else.
Something was different at the park. People played at the park. Little children laughed. Grown ups traded grins. And he loved taking it all in. A part of him was part of all of it.
So he watched.
—
“When you’re nine you can be scared but when you’re ten years old you’re not scared anymore.”
That’s what one of the boys at school had said. He was ten years old in the nine-year-old class so he knew more things.
Nikolina was trying to be brave. She looked over her shoulder again.
She walked faster. That large dog was still getting closer.
She ran.
He charged.
—
Her scream liquefied Leo’s heart.
Her anxious blond hair flagged for help as the beast razed her footing.
Leo drank in the scene.
“That thing is going to kill her.” he thought.
—
Witnesses at the park that day say they “heard a scream and then saw a brown missile streak across the park.”
“Leo saved the little girl?”
“Yeah, that little dog that always watches from the hill, he just jumped in, and, and… man, there was a lot of blood.“
—
When Leo rocketed into him, the bull mastiff let Nikolina free.
15 pounds of sacrificial love versus 150 pounds of malevolent muscle.
The dogs tumbled and snapped and snarled.
Nikolina held her bloody arm and ran.
—
A little girl’s smile broke every face in Pancevo.
A little dog died and broke every heart in Pancevo.
They built a statue for Leo the Fearless.
They planted flowers and watered them with their tears.
“To all small heroes with big hearts.”
Why is he always telling stories?
Why doesn’t he just say what he means?
A full moon smile rose on the strange boy’s cheeks.
“Here’s a good one. Once, dad fired one of our orchard managers.”
“Okay. What happened?”
“Before he cleaned out his desk, the manager called a meeting with all the orchard people.”
“No, I mean why did he get fired?”
“And at this meeting he says “Alright everyone, I’m feeling generous today. Everyone who owes us anything, get our your bills, mark them down by half. I’ll sign off.” Just like that he cut all their debts in half, on his last day!”
“What!? He was already fired. He can’t do that, right?“
“He figured his little display of generosity might win him some new friends. It worked too. They loved him for it. He couch-surfed with some of them until he found steady work again.”
“Well, what did your dad do, wasn’t he mad?”
“Hah, no way! He almost rehired him.”
“But the guy cheated! He basically gave away your dad’s money!”
A laughing stream broke their path.
“Here, I know the way across. Watch where I put my feet.”
“You still didn’t tell me why he got fired.”
“Oh. I guess he got afraid. He got stingy with the orchard, anyhow.”
On the other side, the strange boy drew some numbers in the dust.
“How much is $1,000 worth? Or $10,000? Or $10 million?”
“How long does any wealth last?”
He looked up and the sun filled his eyes.
“How much is a friendship worth?”
“How long does a friendship last?”
Daylight was courting the horizon now.
The confident path sped their steps.
“Still, I don’t think your dad should let people just give away his stuff.”
“If you owned all the stars, how many would you give away?”
“Can you waste something that never runs out?”
Something in his chest sprung.
“It’s like I always say, little brother…
…the only way to lose your life is to try to save it.”
Moonbeams are quite soft underfoot, you know.
So they went on silently, for a while.
Everyone tells a story about themselves inside their own head.
Always. All the time. That story makes you what you are.
We build ourselves out of that story.
– Patrick the Rothfuss
What story do you tell yourself?
It must be a good one… 🙂
Our world needs a good story.
Keep telling it, would you?
The world would be fine if you never existed. Don’t sweat it.
The world will never be the same because you exist. Sweat blood.
Nothing we do changes anything in the end.
What we do is all that matters in the end.
All of this collapses to dust.
All of this sings for eternity.
Life’s greatest pain is in giving yourself to another.
Life’s greatest joy is in giving yourself to another.
If you commit you will probably lose everything.
If you don’t commit you will probably lose everything.
Losing isn’t everything.
Winning isn’t anything.
Being together is painful delight.
Being alone is delightful pain.
Death is a bitter pill in the end.
Death makes every day sweet.
You are born and then you die.
You live.
“So what else does your daddy do?”
The strange boy smiled.
“I remember this one time he painted a sunset, all purple and orange, using only his toes. And he laughed the whole time.“
The evening crickets chortled too, as the boys walked along.
“So he just gives apples away? For free?”
“Yup. He gives to everyone. Not just apples, all kinds of fruits.“
They passed a blue-bellied owl spreading his wings to catch a moon tan.
“One of my favorite stories is about a boy who grew up with nothing. Daddy gave him a whole kingdom.” The strange boy giggled. “He made every mistake you can think of. He didn’t always follow the rules. He didn’t always think things through. But he loved Daddy. A lot. One time he was so happy about knowing our Daddy that he danced around in his underwear. In the street. True story. When he came home to live with us, everyone danced in the streets.”
“Another cool story is about a boy who was born to trouble. Daddy gave him a clever mind and big ambitions. This boy messed it up and down 40 years of his life. But he always loved Daddy. We sure rang the bells when he came home.”
They halted to watch a few tears of fire fall across the face of the sky.
“Tell me another… please.“
“One boy was especially bright. Daddy gave him royal position and wealth. He kept it pretty well. He tried to get all he could and he was careful to keep everything he had. When he came here to live with us, the sparkle that once lived in his eye was gone. He had saved a lot, but he hadn’t loved anyone.”
“What happened to him?”
The strange boy breathed.
“He said ‘I thought you were a hard master so I saved everything you gave me! Here, I bring it all to you!’”
“Then Daddy said to him ‘Yes, you have returned it all. You’ve made it as though I never gave it.’”
And a tear of fire fell.
“If I am fear to you then fear I am to you.”
“If I am love to you then love I am to you. “
The way you receive a gift, defines it.
—
2018 packed her last bag this week.
I asked her to leave me with a bit of her wisdom.
Here’s what she said. I thought you might like it…
If life is a game, we’re playing with our hearts and fear is our only adversary.
Fear shows up in a sharp suit with a pretty checklist.
Fear is reasonable.
Fear works.
For a while.
Eventually fear has me stalled, sidelined, sidetracked, derailed, detached, bench warming, Netflix chilling, grounded, high and dry, pigeon holed, on the shelf, on ice… asleep.
No one has ever been paralyzed by love…
What if not playing is the only real way to lose?
He was born under the shadow of a cactus.
He was born walking.
Independent from birth, like all desert creatures.
Desert life is perfect. Perfectly fair. You reap what you sow.
Cactus cultivation is primary business in the desert.
Drink cactus to feel quenched. Eat cactus to feel stuffed.
Life is full for desert people.
One day while walking and plucking thorns from his lips, he saw a strange boy perched on a fence post.
He had never seen a fence post in this spot before.
This boy was eating a strange fruit.
It looked like a sunset in his hand.
Pink and orange and yellow all at the same time.
Juice melted into his fingers, pooled in his palm and made tiny streams down his dusty arm.
“Is that…. an apple?”
He stepped closer.
Just saying the word made his mouth water and run dry.
An old traveler spoke of apples once.
All the cactus people said the old man was crazy.
“Yup! Want one?”
Reaching into his bag, the strange boy presented another pink fiery apple.
Streams of apple juice were dried on both of their arms when the sunlight began to swoon.
“Where do you get the apples?”
“From my dad.”
“What’s a ‘dad’?”
When the strange boy smiled it looked like the moon was in his mouth.
“Come with me. I’ll show ya.”
Must we always make music, may we sometimes play?
An English Earl knocked on the front door with a battering ram, but Patrick Dunbar wasn’t home.
The enemy Earl believed this castle kept by women would be easily swept from their keep.
He learned hard that a Scotswoman doesn’t sweep easy.
Earl arrived at Dunbar Castle early in 1338, February.
Marching up from Edinburgh, his army encircled the entire fortress.
They petitioned the mistress of the manor, Mrs. Dunbar…
“Surrender, or be sieged!” they said.
The lady of the lair rendered the following response…
“Of Scotland’s King I haud my house,
I pay him meat and fee,
And I will keep my gude auld house,
while my house will keep me.”
Did you know Scots invented the “rap battle?”
The English were much better at old, less fashionable forms of battle.
So they began battering the walls with mud-caked boulders.
When the trebuchet slings hung still, even the proud top parts had not cracked.
The damage was so nil, Madam Dunbar marched her damsels across the walls.
Dressed in their Sunday best, they faked fear and laughed and feigned tears.
They made a show of dusting the ramparts with their handkerchiefs.
Blustering, Salisbury staked his final assault.
“Get ‘The Sow’ to the wall!!” he ordered.
The Sow was a two-story siege machine, soldiers up top, miners down under.
Why was it named like a mother of pigs? We have no idea.
“To the wall! That’s it!” he said.
Mother Dunbar and her maids promptly dropped a wardrobe-sized rock on the porcine machine.
Their gravity powered pile driver had been delivered air mail, courtesy of the Royal Catapults.
That soggy stone squished the squealing structure completely.
The Earl of Salisbury “sallied forth” shortly thereafter.
That’s fancy English for “he gave up and went home.”
Agnes Dunbar held her own.
Some have said this story is too wild to be true.
If you’ve known a woman who carries the spirit of Scotland in her heart…
…you know this sounds about right.
Easy going hard knowing looks safe cracking smiles easily strong castle keeping Sunday best dressed down river heart over head out of town squared shoulders brushing boulders off… flint face on, smiling, knowing, holding her own.
She lives and loves on her own two feet.
No sweepy sweepers need apply.
—
P.S. Two ancient words suggest that this special spirit lived in the first lady.
My friend wrote about it. Some think he’s crazy. He’s definitely not sweepy.
Only click if you like ideas that surprise. =)
Do you know about The Scarecrow?
It’s a short story.
This story is haunted by a song from Willy Wonka.
…come with me,
and you’ll be,
in a world of pure imagination…
Wonka was a lovely, crazy bird, wasn’t he?
An albatross in the land of Light, Willie was.
Speaking of giants…
Chipotle made themselves delightfully small
with this animated story, The Scarecrow.
If you’ve already seen it,
then you know you want to see it again.
So watch it.
Watch out for the cow,
sometimes that part gets blurry…
Watch “The Scarecrow” (exactly 202 seconds)…
Okay, who’s chopping onions in here?
Chipotle made us cry and get angry… by drawing a cartoon cow?
How? Facts?
Zero. Figurines are the hero.
Why did people love to watch a three-and-a-half-minute advertisement for a virtual farming game?
Why did you watch a three-and-a-half-minute advertisement for a virtual farming game?
I asked some of my friends – Jerry, Roy, Steve and Wiki.
“There is no such thing as an attention span. People have an infinite attention span, if you are entertaining.”
— Jerry of Seinfeld
“Entertainment is the only currency with which you can purchase the time and attention of a too busy public.”
— Roy H. Williams III
“We’re trying to bring people in through entertainment…”
— Steve Ells, Chipotle Founder
Let’s cut to the check and chase the bottom line…
When it’s a big idea you’re selling,
it better be a mad story you’re telling.
Once upon a time, three magicians rolled into town.
“We’re looking for a baby who is a King.”
Everyone laughed at these kooky Eastern guys.
“Seriously folks, the stars are telling us he’s around here.”
But everyone in town pretended they didn’t care.
The magi went a way, following their star.
After many days, said star stood still in the sky.
This star parked right over a little house.
When the wise guys saw this, they went nuts.
They went into the house.
They saw the boy with his mother.
They fell to the ground and worshipped Him.
Then, opening their treasures, they presented to Him gifts of gold, frankincense, and myrrh.
Later in the story,
the king of the town tried to kill Him.
But He lived.
Later, later in the story,
the people of the town did kill Him.
But He lived again.
Lovely, crazy, and bright.
…and so are you, right?
…if you want to view paradise,
simply look around and view it.anything you want to, do it.
want to change the world?
there’s nothing, to it…
A movie is a collection of unique photographs.
A film features 158,400 unique frames.
Have you ever wondered which frame is the most important one?
A silly question, I know.
The dark frame needs the light frame.
The waiting one needs the coming one.
The trembling one needs the holding one.
Every frame is the best one.
Perfectly placed in time.
Telling a story.
A life is a collection of unique moments.
You are perfectly placed in time.
This moment needs you.
The Story needs you.
Promise of gain sells The Truth too cheap to reason.
The Way has always been Love, beyond & above reason.
A 90 second story, served warm and foamy.
– To those who serve.
“Not one stone was left upon another.”
Hehe. That’s a polite way of saying it.
They named his building “Washburn’s Folly” in 1866.
It was “too big.” No one would buy that much flour.
Then the flour market exploded.
Just 10 years later his mill was “justly, the pride of Minneapolis.”
Central Minnesota wore a necklace of boxcars
streaming for Chicago, Omaha and New York.
Two million pounds of flour every day
were streaking the pounded rails.
Minneapolis was “Mill City.”
Minneapolis was on the map.
Then the flour mill exploded.
It was 1878. May. The 2nd.
The sun was honey-dipped
and sticking gold on the windows.
The day shifters would be home by now
finding their chairs heaving a dusty sigh.
The mill inhaled welcoming the night crew
breathing flour and sweat.
The millstone ran dry,
sparking tongues forked
into the hanging flour fog.
The building breathed fire and brass
licking the sun and lighting the sky.
The first floor traded places with the seventh floor.
“Smoke in dense volumes leaped
hundreds of feet heavenward.
The word went from lip to lip
almost with the rapidity of lightning.
The Washburn mill had exploded and was destroyed.
It was a night of horror in Minneapolis.”
— St. Paul Globe, May 4, 1878
14 millers working for Washburn-Crosby
that night died without flinching.
The flames burned out
five neighboring mills.
One third of America’s flour milling capacity
disappeared in whispering smoke overnight.
Cadwallader Washburn arrived as the sun reclimbed the sky.
The hot and hellish pile poured into his steaming eyes.
He planted his heart there
and spoke three promises.
1. He would honor the men who died here.
2. He would rebuild. And bigger.
3. He would make sure this never happened again. Even if it meant reinventing the milling industry.
As you might expect, a man with a name like Cadwallader keeps his promises.
3. He did reinvent the milling industry.
And he openly shared his advancements with all his competitors.
2. He did rebuild. And bigger.
Washburn-Crosby became General Mills.
1. He did honor the men who died there.
He personally cared for their families,
established the Washburn Center for Children,
and commanded plaques and markers bearing their names.
A marble memorial still watches over the entrance
of the rebuilt Washburn mill.
It reads…
The Washburn Mill “A” was totally destroyed
on the second day of May 1878
by fire and a terrific explosion
occasioned by the rapid combustion of flour dust.
Not one stone was left upon another,
and every person engaged in the mill instantly lost his life.
The following are the names of the faithful
and well tried employees who fell victims of that awful calamity.
E.W. Burbank
Cyrus W. Ewing
E.H. Grundman
Henry Hicks
Chas. Henning
Patrick Judd
Chas. Kimball
Wm. Leslie
Fred A. Merrill
Edwd. E. Merrill
Walter Savage
Ole Shie
August Smith
Clark Wilbur
“Labor wide as the earth, has its summit in heaven.”
The end.
Did you enjoy the story?
You don’t need to keep reading.
You might not want to…
I found a few questions hiding under flour sacks
in the bashful basement of Washburn’s mill.
These questions are not bashful.
One of them punched me in the eye.
Caution: Shadowy Questions Beyond This Point
Here’s the door. Your call.
What do you think?
Will sparks come for you?
Will your first floor ever touch the sky?
Will your insides be burned out and blackened?
When your heart is planted there,
in that fatal tomb, that fertile womb,
when not one stone is left upon another,
what promise will you speak?
Whose promise will you seek?
—
Bonus Bit: because apparently you know how to take a punch.
Finishing that letter written in marble is a quote from Thomas Carlyle.
“Labor wide as the earth, has its summit in heaven.”
He said several curious things about work
circa 1841 in his book Past and Present: The Modern Worker.
Read page 115, where the above quote was originally penned.
also…
“…sweat of the brow, and up from that to sweat of the brain, sweat of the heart… up to that “Agony of Bloody Sweat,” which all men have called divine!”
“To thee Heaven, though severe, is not unkind. Heaven is kind – as a noble mother, as that Spartan mother, saying, as she gave her son his shield “With it my son, or upon it!””
I told you he was curious…
and he was a Scot.
A redundancy. You don’t mind, do you?
Her shiny gold balloon jumped to greet a patient blue sky.
She let the green nylon ribbon slide through her hand.
If you find this balloon, please write to:
Laura Buxton at 18 Fourth Ave, Stoke-on-Trent, UK ST2 8NF
“Papa, are you sure someone will find it?”
“If we’re lucky, kiddo. Sometimes special things happen.”
Her brown pigtails bounced back to the orange stuccoed farmhouse.
10 days later…
A white card tumbled through the tired bronze mail slot.
Red crayon writing says…
To: Laura Buxton at 18 Fourth Ave, Stoke-on-Trent…
Blue crayon writing says…
From: Laura Buxton at 63 Havering Ln, Pewsey…
Dear Laura Buxton,
My name is Laura Buxton too. I found your balloon.
I live in Pewsey. I am 10 years old.
My mum says if you are real you can ring our house.
+44 1672 596148
LB
Laura’s balloon flew more than 140 miles,
and found another girl with the same name.
Laura Buxton phones Laura Buxton.
“Do you like animals?”
“I have a dog, a rabbit, and a guinea pig.” Laura said.
“I have a dog, a rabbit, and a guinea pig too!” Laura said.
Then things get weird.
Both Lauras have blue eyes.
They are both 4′ 7″ tall.
They both wear their brown hair in pig tails.
They are both in Year 5 of primary school.
They both have a grey rabbit.
They both have a three-year-old black Labrador.
They both have a white guinea pig with orange spots.
Their parents decide to all meet in person.
They meet at Caffè Nero in Birmingham, UK.
Both Lauras walk in wearing a pink sweater and blue jeans.
Some folks use the cold hand of Coincidence to grasp mysteries.
Laura Buxton2 uses the hand of Synchronicity…
“…there must be some reason…”
What is the difference between Coincidence and Synchronicity?
How do you grasp Life’s mysteries?
P.S. watch this clip from Pi if you want to nerd out about synchronicity…
“When I first saw children’s television, I thought it was perfectly horrible.”
Mister Rogers didn’t pull any punches.
In 1968 he waded into the “vast wasteland” of television.
He made a simple invitation… “Won’t you be my neighbor?”
For the next 30 years he beamed light and love to young hearts everywhere.
He believed Love is at the root of everything, all learning, all relationships.
This 94 minute chronicle of his life is a deep tissue massage for your heart.
It’s rated 4.7 stars on Amazon, 8.6 on IMDB and Certified Fresh by Rotten Tomatoes.
That means a lot of people think you should watch it.
You don’t want to let them down, right?
This is quite a story we find ourselves in…
Question is, how do you want it to end?
Man flints his face to the wind,
But the love crashes over and in.
Lacking his heart one sees this cruel fate,
Digs out his soul and sits back to wait.
One loses his head and sees instead, destiny.
There is some being more prepared for me.
For two his castles are all churned to sand,
In one his eternal estate never burned so grand.
When was the last time you felt this way?
Every good thing and every perfect gift is from above, coming down from the Creator of light…
James (brother to Jesus of Nazareth) wrote that around 45 A.D…
Kinda fits the photo, don’t you think? =)
P.S. Do you like words that go with photos? Me too… here’s s’more for ya.
“Dagnab you Cruzatte, you have shot me!”
Moments earlier, Meriwether Lewis had been kneeling in the black mud, watching tawny elk weave through a stand of willows.
Sunlight splashed off the nearby Marias River, blue and sparkling.
A breeze rippled the green leaves as the elk halted.
BLAM! The impact knocked Meriwhether flat.
The .54 caliber lead slug had struck him in the behind on the left side, exited on the right side and lodged in his buckskin breeches.
“Dadburnit, you flinchy, one-eyed son-of-a-gun! You shot me!” Lewis said.
On August 11th, 1806, Meriwether Lewis learned that Pierre Cruzatte, an excellent fiddle player, made a very poor hunting partner.
Pierre, blind in one eye and nearsighted in the other, had mistaken Meriwether’s backside for an elk.
Lewis survived the ordeal, traveling face down in his canoe while the wound healed.
Cruzatte forever denied that he was the one who shot Lewis, even though the slug matched his rifle exactly.
Moral of the story: Hunting with a one-eyed, nearsighted guy can be dangerous. Make sure to wear your orange safety vest.
Want to read Lewis’ personal account of the escapade from his journal?
You would probably be a British citizen today, except for one letter written on July 24th 1775…
A few weeks earlier, the Continental Congress had dispatched a petition to the King.
Dripping with patronage and reassurances of loyalty, the petition asked for reconciliation, for peace.
“…our breasts retain too tender a regard for the kingdom from which we derive our origin to request such a reconciliation as might in any manner be inconsistent with her dignity or her welfare.”
The letter basically said, “Hey, we’ll drop the whole ‘independence’ thing if y’all will just negotiate fairly on taxes and trade. We can be a big happy British family!”
The diplomacy of this Olive Branch Petition was good. Maybe even good enough to harmonize the two continents.
Until John Adams scratched a private letter to his friend General Warren on July 24th.
In the personal letter he revealed his disgust with the Petition and remarked on preparations for war.
British forces intercepted his letter. It was immediately published in every British newspaper.
In August, when Lord Dartmouth tried to bring the Olive Branch Petition before King George, he was rejected.
There would be no reconciliation.
Formally rebuffed by the King, the heart of the colonies began to turn.
Abigail Adams spoke for the people on November 12th 1775 when she wrote in a letter:
“Let us separate, they are unworthy to be our Brethren. Let us renounce them and instead of supplications as formerly for their prosperity and happiness, let us beseech the Almighty to blast their counsels and bring to nought all their devices.”
Exactly one year after the colony leaders signed the Olive Branch Petition, they signed the Declaration of Independence.
A lot can change in a year…
The key to genius is a little bit crazy…
An instrument pregnant with the fate of the world…
That’s how Jefferson described the Declaration of Independence.
The pen is mightier than the sword, but the sword spills the blood that flows from the pen.
Mr. Jefferson always kept his pen sharp and his inkwell filled with blood.
In 1826, on the 50th anniversary of the signing of the Declaration, Thomas Jefferson graduated from life school.
10 days earlier, on June 26th, he penned the last letter of his life.
His body failing, he declined an invitation to attend the Independence Day celebration, and gave these words…
“After half a century of experience and prosperity, our fellow citizens continue to approve the choice we made.
May it be to the world, what I believe it will be … the signal of arousing men to burst the chains … and to assume the blessings and security of self-government.
All eyes are opened, or opening, to the rights of man. …For ourselves, let the annual return of this day forever refresh our recollections of these rights, and an undiminished devotion to them.”
You have been given the blessing and security of self-government.
Everyday you wield the pen of choice to scribe your lifestory into the scroll of time.
Remember, the freedom that fills your pen was purchased at death’s door.
What will the letter of your life say?
The sun had been wrestling with the horizon for an hour.
Now gracefully rising, beams shot across the Rappahannock River.
The steady stream of light caught axe heads twirling through the air.
Each razor edge was glinting, hungry for the tree.
Cleaved at each bite and spit into the sky, snowy white wood chips blanketed the ground.
Orange, yellow and brown, leaves tumbled to rest, adding a fiery carpet.
It was 1781, the millstone of war had been grinding the land and her men for six years.
And now, burning for a moment, hope of victory and peace – Lord Cornwallis made a mistake.
The Continental Army was ready. The march began.
A bridge was needed and Corporal Edward Wallace and his men were charged with dropping the trees.
There were more trees than men, and the trees fell slowly.
Wallace, shouting and urging his men, surveyed the field from atop a large stump.
A rider galloped into the expanding clearing and hailed the officer.
Edward puzzled over the man’s uniform first, it was sharp but plain.
Then he noticed his face, gentle and full of weariness.
“You haven’t enough men for the job, have you?” the older man said.
“No sir. Reinforcements have been called, but no answer given.”
“Why don’t you lend a hand yourself?”
“Me? Why, I am a corporal…” he said, straightening his uniform.
“Ah, yes you are…” the rider was on the ground with a bounce, suddenly looking much younger.
Gripping an axe, the older man joined in razing the trees.
After the last stand was tumbled, the visitor returned the tool, wiped his hands and head, and mounted his animal.
“Corporal, the next time you have a job to put through and too few men to do it, you had better send for the Commander-in-Chief, and I will come again.”
He heeled his horse, and was gone.
Corporal Wallace was statued on his stump, staring to the woods where the hooves had disappeared.
Finally, containing his shock, he climbed down.
General Washington humbled a number of trees that day with an axe.
But he humbled a man when he humbled himself.
A thoughtful question sparks delightful conversation.
Kindled this way, conversation can burn for hours.
Even when things cool down, a smoldering of thought is often glowing beneath…
What’s the difference between who you are and what you do?
Is fibbing alright if it’s to preserve someone’s feelings?
Where do you think beauty comes from?
Do you have a favorite thoughtful question?
I’d really like to hear it.
Have you ever watched a candle burn?
Smaller than a cigarette and spiraled with pink or blue, birthday candles are my favorite.
Poked into snow white frosting and crowned with an orange flame.
We serenade the drops oozing down the stem, molten paraffin usually splashing onto the sweet plaster before the last “…to you.”
Most icing tastes waxy because we have this silly habit of melting wax on it before we eat it…
Larger than a cigar and gently white, fancy dinner candles are also nice.
Mated with a polished silver holder, rising eight inches over the table cloth the wick holds a tiny sun while evening, food and conversation revolve.
Pressing its orange glow into inky space the yellow outer flame dances with the night.
Dark becomes light by traveling an imperceptible transition to the center.
Burning white and clear at the same time, at the center.
Pure and still. Bright and invisible.
Here’s another thought full of wonderment…
The Center is a point. You can miss it in every direction.
Mr. Frost put it this way…
We dance round in a ring and suppose,
But the Secret sits in the middle and knows.
I’m guessing he spent some time staring at candles.
What is something your children have taught you that you never anticipated learning?
Flames from a soldier’s torch rolled across the porch and lapped at the pineboard siding.
Another house nearby was already swallowed in a blaze of heat and light.
April 26, 1777. The British were coming.
Leaping astride the family horse, one brave patriot galloped into the night.
There was no moon that night, torrents spilled from the sky and the roads turned to rivers.
Soaking in the saddle, flying from farm to farm, pounding from door to door and shouting in the streets, one rider raised the alarm.
“The British are coming!”
Before morning sunbeams began to stab at the sky, Sybil Ludington had loped over 40 miles and roused over 400 militiamen.
She was 16 years old.
Later, the two armies tangled at the Battle of Ridgefield.
The Redcoats retreated and we rankled them all the way to the sea.
Cool, right?
“But why hasn’t Sybil’s story been more regaled?” you ask?
Great question. Also, you sound very sophisticated, using a word like “regaled.”
One historian’s theory suggests Sybil’s story isn’t especially Revered because maybe it never happened.
That’s right. Maybe 16 year-old Sybil never rode all night in a rainstorm.
Huh. Do you suddenly feel a bit sad? I did too…
Why do we really want this heroic tale to be true?
This is a little embarrassing and you’ll probably think I’m crazy, but…
I’ve decided to believe Sybil really did save the day by riding that night.
I know, I know. I can’t prove it. I can’t prove that she did. But I still believe.
You see, when I think about what she did, I stand a bit straighter.
My problems seem lighter and the day gets brighter.
If she did something that courageous, maybe you and I can too.
That’s what a story can do.
Do you know any other stories that are too good not to be true?
Some folks like to sing and dance, “Perception is reality!”
Others, often less musical, say, “Hey Flowers, facts don’t care about your feelings. Reality is reality.”
Who has it right?
The answer might be in your refrigerator…
When you pop open the door, a light blinks on.
Actuated by a mechanical switch, the bulb that brightens your butter is only bright when the door is open.
Right?
Is your lettuce lamp on or off right now?
Sometimes switches break. If your fridge flood was lit when the door was sealed, how would you know?
We need to crack the door to see if the beam is burning or black.
Swinging the door moves the switch, which may bump the light, on or off.
We can’t check without changing things.
This is what science people like to call the Heisenberg Uncertainty Principle.
(Awesome name, btw. It sounds way better than saying “we have no idea what’s going on.”)
Best we can tell, the very act of measuring a physical reality causes that reality to change.
And by “we” I mean this cool guy at MIT.
Professor Adams uses just a few boxes and four simple experiments to make his point.
The results?
Logic cracks like a Stone Table…
Following “the rules?” Apparently, Quantum Mechanics didn’t get the memo…
Electrons are doing everything except what they’re supposed to do.
Protons are everywhere except where they’re supposed to be.
Everything is anything – until we try to define it. Then things becomes relatively real.
i.e. A thing defines itself relative to the way we approached it.
I call it the Theory of Specific Relativity…
Right now, if you’re like me, your brain is white-knuckling the lap bar on this roller coaster of thought.
Some of you, brighter than me, have always known this.
Only a brightly burning heart can know something this big…
“Your eye is a lamp that provides light for your being. When your eye is good, you are filled with light. But when your eye is bad, your whole being is filled with darkness.”
The way we look at something changes what a thing is, in a way.
Phew, the ride’s almost over. We’re nearly back to where we started…
Perception or Fact?
Subjective or Objective?
Color or B&W?
Music or Math?
Heart or Mind?
Which one defines “reality?”
The way you ask the question might change the way you are answered.
Rivets were popping like firecrackers, exploding from their holds.
The skin thick as your fist screamed and twisted, now gashed wide open.
Then silence.
Except for the horrible sound of water. Water where it shouldn’t be.
Named “Unsinkable,” but no one told the iceberg.
Certain survivors did tell of other, warmer sounds... “Many brave things were done that night, but none were more brave than those done by men playing minute after minute as the ship settled quietly, lower and lower in the sea. The music they played served alike as their own immortal requiem and their right to be recalled on the scrolls of undying fame.”
Theodore Brailey, Roger Bricoux, John Clarke, Wallace Hartley, John Hume, Georges Krins, Percy Taylor, John Woodward…
Eight bright souls played until the lights went out.
When everything is still, if you listen gently,
you can hear the song
that was in their hearts.
All ships sink, eventually.
What song will be in your heart, when the lights go out?
—
Pondering this musical mystery, Gavin Bryars composed The Sinking of the Titanic circa 1970.
Here it is, an arrangement performed by the Trinity Laban Conservatoire.
Careful, this song can tear you up.
Buckle your seat belt for the first two minutes…
You might need a lifeboat, for the last two minutes.