The Filler of the Giver’s Well and the Keeper of the Garden

It is a sunny, hot humid day in Niagara.  I am living in a single motel room with amenities (a hot plate, microwave, and a small fridge with a broken door plus my supplemental ice coolers).  It is a far cry from the Hotel California in Sebastian Florida with nary a palm tree in sight.

My journey continues but it has taken a new form and new direction.  I have not felt moved to blog the last few weeks as I have moved into a long term relationship with a woman in Canada who lives 45 minutes from my home town.  My focus has been on growing this relationship and building a solid foundation for the future.

It is clear to me the journey never ends.  It just takes me through new landscapes physically, emotionally, and mentally.  I set out on this journey now almost 2 years ago to seek my real self beneath the massive layers of work experience, troubled relationships, self doubt, and unclear thinking that obscured my true essence as a man.

On that journey I met many people and discovered friends, fellow travelers of the soul, love, and places of great beauty and spiritual power.  On my return to Canada I felt at loose ends.  I wasn’t grounded and my transient life did not lend itself to the calmness and essential isolation for the writer/artist spirit to speak with a strong and clear voice.

Last night as I lay beside my love, Debra it became clear.  Very clear.  Old habits were injecting themselves in my life again.  All I needed to do was go to the keyboard and the words would come.  I can say without doubt or hesitation, that I have never felt happier or more complete in my soul than I am in this moment.  Yes I do not have my own personal space and I am living in a dump but my mind and spirit can transcend this if I remove my feelings about it as a simple roadblock to more happiness.  As I went for more ice for the coolers I banished those artificial constraints and felt a surge of energy and well-being.

My thoughts wandered back to April and a blog I wrote titled “Who Fills the Giver Well”.  That blog addressed the need of those of us who are givers by nature to have our spirits refreshed and replenished as our love, emotions, caring, and physical help flows to those with whom we wish to help or share our energies and skills.  I got many answers from my readers that were all very good and worked for some but not for others simply because our innate human natures make our needs and all us all a little different in how we are replenished.

My journey took a hard right turn upon leaving Florida.  I went through the trauma of closing up and selling the matrimonial home as the law likes to call it.  Then, oversaw the sale of the home and the subsequent divisions of property.

While living in Canada I started reaching out to meet others in the area with similar interests hoping to start new friendships and pick up old friendships that were meaningful and valued.  In my wanderings on line through the social networks I met a woman whose profile was intriguing and her pictures were easy on the eyes.  We got chatting online and found many common interests in the areas of music, aboriginal culture, spirituality, and travel.  Chatting lead to phone calls and soon we were talking a few times a day. 

Then one day, a day of epiphany, I realized my new friend named Debra was the type of spirit that is the perfect fit for a giver like me.  I headed back to Canada cutting short my time in Florida because she was taking off to British Columbia for a couple of weeks to visit family.  I sensed that it was very important we meet before she left.  Thus began the marathon hamburger and fries run from Florida to Canada in 31 hours.

We met.  The chemistry was instant but we both had our personal baggage backpacks over our shoulders.  We started sorting through all the historical dross that was just noise and an impediment to really getting to know each other.  In two short weeks we knew we had found something very special in each other.

The next week Debra was off for almost 2 weeks with her family but we talked and texted at least once every day and kept the contact alive.  On her return, we have spent every possible minute together building a foundation of trust based on respect, care, and ever-deepening understanding of who we are.  The future looks golden.  We have felt those initial seed of love grow and strengthen and blossom into a rich loving relationship that will only grow deeper.

Back to the theme of “Who Fills the Givers Well”.  In my case, affection, physical queues and touch that are pure affection and not just sexual, a listening ear, someone who jumps to my defense when they feel my soft-hearted, giving nature is being abused are the waters that replenish my particular well.  Someone who gives love to me to enrich and acknowledge the person I am and not the person they would like me to be or change to be.  This is no surprise because Debra is a professional caregiver and understands, being a giver herself, the needs of another giver.

My well is full and my spirit is soaring.  Life is good.  The journey ahead is one we will travel together in love, respect, and excitement.

Ye, my well IS full.

Searching for the Maid of the Mist

Tuesday was a gorgeous day in Niagara Region.  I rode to the Fall’s tourist area and did about a 3 mile walk along the river walkway taking about 150 shots of the water and scenery.  I’m sitting in my room now in the Hotel California North feeling good about the day and good about life.

I picked up mail at the post office yesterday and there in the bundle was special delivery notice from the Department of Indian and Northern Affairs (now called Aboriginal Affairs and Northern Development Canada but, I guess they were using up old envelopes).  Inside was a formal letter acknowledging my application for status as Indian, under the new Gender Equity legislation passed in June.  The letter notified me of my file number and stated that my application was being processed.  I spoke to a friend who is Indian and she told me her brother waited over a year for the process to be finalized so now me, Mr. Full Speed Ahead, will get another lesson in patience as the wheels of government grind their way through the approval process.

There are many reminders of the First Nations here in Niagara.  From the Seneca-owned casino across the river in Niagara Falls, NY to the history of the woods at Queenston Heights that tell the story of Chief John Norton from Six Nations Mohawk who began the rout of invading American forces from the heights, and of course, the Maid of the Mist boats that carry tourists into the waters below the falls to get wet and go oooo and ahhhhh.  This tourist attraction is named after the daughter of a Neuter First Nations woman, the daughter of the chief, who was sent over the falls as a gift to the gods as the legend tells.

My brother has been gathering information about our family and photographs to fill in the gaps of our family history.  He has spent long hours at this work and has established contact with other relatives of ours in the native community so the long concealed history of this part of our family becomes open and accessible to all of us.

This summer and fall I hope to make some rides to the reservations to view first hand, the documentation they have and to embrace this very important part of my heritage.  It is a journey of discovery; maybe not a search for the Maid of the Mist but rather a quest to solve the mysteries of where my family came from and our roots in this nation.

Here are some of the photographs that have surfaced through the hard work of my brother Bruce and the good folks at the Tyendinaga, Deseronto reserve and our distant relatives who have given their time generously to make this story complete.

Great Grandmother with my Grandmother

My great Uncle Barney at Deseronto

Grandpa Morris (English) and Grandma Morris (Mohawk)

My grandparents and their children

Grandma Norah May Bernherdt

Me with the family daschund Lee

Memories of Dad

It’s a hot humid evening in Niagara with the sun beating down out of an optimistic blue sky.  It’s hot like mid summer and I am ready for evening to creep in from the east with its pink paintbrush to touch the sky.

I will start out by saying Father’s Day is a tough day for me to get through.  The huge build-up in the media, the talk radio shows on the topic, and the many BBQ’s going on right now in the neighbourhood in honor of the fathers that surround me. 

There are two reasons for my dread of this day; I don’t have any children so there are no crappy ties that I will never wear coming my way tomorrow or a year’s supply of Old Spice aftershave.  Also, my own Dad passed away June 8 1991.  He is no longer around to call on the phone so I can bounce an idea off of him and he is no longer around to visit this weekend with a card, a chance to chat, and to chew my way through my mother’s very well, well-done roast beef.  His passing is 20 years ago this month in which, Father’s Day falls.

His passing came on the weekend I was running an international yacht race for double-handed yachts racing the length of Lake Ontario and back to Port Credit with some marks roundings along the way.  My father’s living will instructions were clear.  There was to be no caskets, no viewings, no funeral service, and a total absence of “fuss” as he would call it. 

My Mother called me the morning he died to tell me.  I went into my standard response of fixit mode though I didn’t have the foggiest clue as to what I would fix.  Mom just said I should cool my jets, run my race and come down the next week and help with the funeral home papers. 

I did just that.  It was strange to walk into what had been the family home for 43 years and not see my Dad in his LazyBoy recliner reading a Mickey Spillane novel while listening to military bands or Strauss waltzes on the stereo.

After the hospital released the body, he was cremated right away.  Later, my Mother and my sister spread his ashes in one of his favorite places along the Illecillewaet River in British Columbia.

I have not visited this place yet but suspect I will on one of my rides.

So on this Father’s Day’s eve, as I sit here alone my Niagara home, part of me longs to receive a tie with a hideous patter and color combination that I will never wear or a red squeeze bottle of Old Spice that would likely trigger a full blown asthma attack.  But most of all, I would give the world to hear my Dad’s soft, gentle voice again telling me “Well Kim, there’s no future in getting old.”

Here’s to you Dad, on this Father’s Day 2011.

Here is a selection of pictures of my Dad.  I have tried to figure out dates and time but I will let my Big Bro’ the family historian correct any in accuracies.

Dad in uniform before his posting to Kiska, Ak as part of the joint US/Canadian garrison in WW II

Mom and Dad on their wedding day in January 1942

Dad in Yorkshire with his lorry in the training period before the Normandy invasion

Dad in his uniform of the Queen's Own Cameron Highlanders of Canada probably in England

Dad's Bren Gun carrier somewhere in Normandy after D-Day

Dad (bringing up the rear) at Port Loring with the day's catch from Long Lake with a camp guest

Our Family taken in the mid 80's

Mom and Dad with my sister-in-law and their grand children

Of Sunshine and Supermen

It is a beautiful sunny late spring day in Niagara.  I am enjoying a garden salad with salmon while I sit at the patio table in the garden listening to the waterfall that flows into my fishpond.  The fish are gone now to a deserving home as I am wrapping up life here in Niagara, selling the house, and planning another winter in Florida and Texas.

The superman part of the blog title is a little joke on myself.  Last weekend I rode up to Sturgeon Falls Ontario to ride through my old haunts and to see biker friends I have made over the Internet.  The ride is 306 miles one way and by the time I got there, the old bod was telling me I had overdone my current endurance limits.  The month layoff from riding due to my crash-induced broken ribs has left me with some work to do in the fitness department.  As Jim Croce said, “Have you seen superman step on his cape?”  That was me!

The weekend was rotten in the weather department.  It rained and rained.  The trip however, was exciting!  It took me back to the car trips with my Dad from ST. Catharines (our home) to the fish camp in Port Loring.  Every road sign was a memory!  Severn Bridge, Huntsville where I stopped for gas, Burks Falls, South River, Trout Creek, the Magnetawan River, Powassun, Port Loring were all associated with a memory of happy days as a kid sitting in the cat bird seat. 

That time in my life was one of privilege.  Although my parents struggled financially with the costs of paying for and maintaining the camp, they offered us such a wonderful opportunity to grow as independent, insightful children fully engaged with the world around us.  The camp featured our house where the five of us (later 7 with two late arrival siblings) lived and it also held the small variety store that was called the Tuck Shop for some reason.  There were 14 cottages with housekeeping facilities, plus a large boathouse to store the fleet of boats that went with the cottages, a recreation hall that featured a ping pong table (pooh to all those that call it table tennis) and an old Wurlitzer juke box that Mom and Dad kept stocked with the latest hits of the 50’s, a laundry, an ice house, and a gas shed.

The property sat on a peninsula jutting out into Wilson Lake, the largest lake on the Pickerel River system.  The land was rocky with big granite outcroppings with beautiful quartz seams, pine trees, and white birches along with oak, maple, elm and basswood trees.  On the down side was the lack of plumbing so every cottage had an outhouse! They tended to overcome the natural scent of the forest on hot, still days.

I recall that we had about 1,000 feet of shoreline and a rather large dock that was permanently installed in the lake plus a number of stringer docks that came out each winter.

My father had to work at his refrigeration business in St. Catharines during the week then he would make the 300-mile trek almost every weekend to the camp.  My mother ran the camp for the most part.  And run it she did with all the drive, the temper, and the energy that seemed larger than her 4’ 11” frame.  All of us older kids had out chores that grew as we grew though my big brother pointed out not long ago that my mother seemed to favor me and I ended up doing less.

Our season there usually started with a quick trip on the Easter weekend.  Sometimes we kids were left behind because the snow was too deep and getting there involved a fair hike over less-than-ideal roads.  The first regular trip up was the Victoria Day long weekend (the weekend before the USA Memorial Day weekend).  That trip was used to assess the damage suffered by the camp over the long snowy winter.  The ice on the lake got thick enough that the logging trucks would cross the lake to deliver logs to the lumber mill!  Every year there was some damage to the large dock and that meant donning our swim trunks to help Dad lever the cribs back into place and to tighten the mooring cables.  A frigid job considering the ice was there but a couple of week’s previous.

Our northern life swung into full gear in June as fishermen from all over the eastern USA and Ontario would roll into town for the pike and pickerel seasons.  Some years, Mom would badger our principal to get us out of school early so we could be there with her.  Sometimes we would not get up there until the end of the school year at the end of June.

Our days were filled with adventure; swimming, snorkeling, fishing, canoeing, sailing, and goofing about in the forest.  We met kids who were up there with their families from places like Kentucky, Ohio, Pennsylvania, New York, and Virginia.  Many of the families would come up year-after-year and great friendship ensued that lasted for years.  We measured our summer by the weeks in which particular families would be scheduled to arrive.

When I think back to those days, I am sure my parents would have been locked up and we kids would have been wards of the state for the latitude we were given to do things.  My big brother would often take me on excursions by motorboat then canoe portage with a plastic sheet as a tent, a few basic food items and our fishing poles.  If you want to eat you had better catch dinner!  He was and is still a master camper.  I remember the day he got licensed as a guide at 16.  I was so proud of him!  That was a big deal to be a guide.  It meant you knew what you were doing and had the skills to take tourists to far places and get paid in the process!

One of the joys of the summer was the weekly wiener roast for the whole camp on Thursday run with military precision by Mom.  Occasionally Dad would take a 4 day weekend or come up for a couple of weeks to spend time with us and to make a few bucks servicing the cooling equipment for the local stores.   Those were special times we kids looked forward to.  When Dad was there for an extended period he would take a large group of guests into one of the back lake systems that could onlu=y be reached via a mile long portage to the boat livery.  We would pick up boats with 3 hp motors and fish these back lakes for pike, large mouth and small mouth bass.  The fishing was great and we would see deer and other wildlife during the day.  We had favorite spots where Dad would breakout the picnic lunch my Mom had made and we would sit among the blueberry bushes eating sandwiches and fighting over the chocolate bar selection he had brought from the Tuck Shop (what the heck is a Tuck Shop anyways???).

These were idyllic times with friends and family.  Perhaps some of my character for introspection was born in those times of hiking and fishing in such a setting.

As I rode north this past weekend, the scent of the pine trees, the rocks and the moss took me back to those distant memories and caused me to reflect on the good fortune that afforded this opportunity for me and my siblings.  I think the experiences of my youth in this wonderful setting helped develop a sense of adventure and a love for scenery and solitude.

It is a wonderful thing to be surrounded by Nature’s beauty and the gifts of the Creator.   Perhaps I will get back to Port Loring this summer and can blog from there with pictures of my places in memory.

Seeking our Roots

Well I did it!  Yes I sent in my application for Indian Status in Canada today.  My brother very recently did some genealogy work on the family tree and found that the branch that had always been described as Irish because the last name was Barnhart was in fact Mohawk and had a history dating back to the Iroquois migration north in 1777 from the USA to Canada under Chief Joseph Brant after the American Revolution.

I understand the motivations of the family in distancing themselves from the stereotype of the drunken Indian and all the other degrading commentary of their day. But, nonetheless, it is hurtful to me that a significant part of my heritage has been denied me and now I am taking positive steps to rectify this sad state.

I have wondered for a long time about my attraction to native spirituality and to the music.  I have a collection of flutes and drums and I have even built drums.  I have spent time in native spiritual centers and have felt such a strong connect.  A friend recently reminded me penchant for dating women of native extraction of native appearance.

A couple of years ago I had occasion to purchase a CD made by a native flute maker named David Maracle from the Tyendinaga reserve at Deseronto, Ontario.  When checking the family tree, a man by the name of Maracle was a great grandfather.  I wonder if we are related.  It would be interesting to find out and perhaps I will venture that way to look him up and maybe take some lessons from him.  My skills can be termed at the embryonic level.

There are some government benefits that will become available to me once my status is confirmed.  But, I’m not sure I will partake.  What is important to me is knowing my roots and understanding some of the energies that run in my spirit that so closely align me with the native way.  Take my last journey.  It was a journey of spirit and discovery.  I left in the Fall at the time of harvest (the direction West) and thanks giving as it transition to winter (the North) the time of rebirth and self discovery to the spring (the East) the time of re-awakening and growth.  Hmmmmmmm.

So this is the time of waiting for the application to be processed and my status as native confirmed.  In that time I will commit myself to learning more of my rich heritage and discovering a whole new world that is now mine to discover and to become a part of.  

Here is a little tune I played impromptu that I made up for someone very dear to me.  I played this on a beautiful high D Raymond Redfeather made walnut flute.

On Little Wings

David Maracle's website

Mary Youngblood ‘s Beneath the Raven Moon is a wonderful introduction to the person who inspired me to play the flute.

Mary Youngblood - Beneath the Raven Moon.

My painting Sacred Circle inspired by the ancient Ojibway sacred site at Petroglyphs Provincial Park in Ontario.  The images are from sketches I made from the stone carvings on this ancient site.

Even In the Quietest Moments

It is raining today.  Not a steady rain but rather the sporadic drizzles and drips of Mother Nature’s head cold.  This is the fifth day of rain and cold.  The wind has blown in from the east for this time bringing the cold off the chilly surface of Lake Ontario.  The sole consolation is the fact that a month ago this would have been a lake-effect flurry.

The last few days have been a trial of the spirit.  The natural gloom of a series of rainy spring days compounded by the after-effects of the crash and the drugs to manage the pain and being apart from a love who is far away, have left me with a case of the blues and a sense of loneliness.  This will pass as I rest today and re-group.

My natural state is one of happiness and a positive attitude.  I suspect with some rest and some phone time with my love, the sun will rise in my spiritual east and the shadows of this recent discontent will be washed away and banished to the shadows of the past.

In today’s world of the Internet, blogs and social networking, it is possible to connect and meet so many people from both near and far.  Those cyber connections can often times, lead to face-to-face meetings that are memorable; some are wonderful memories and some are not so great.  I have been, in my travels, blessed with many wonderful meetings and there have been a few horror shows.  Thankfully I have had not many of the latter experiences.

One impact I never gave too much thought about was the more viral spread of my blogs through the old traditional means of correspondence; the letter.

I have a dear friend who writes letters to the incarcerated as part of the prison ministry.  The people she writes to range from “lifers” to those passing through the system.  They spend their lives within the walls and wire without hope, with anger, with remorse, with guilt, with hope too.  I never realized but my blogs were finding their way into the hands of these folks and they look forward to getting my writing.  What a wonderful thing this is!!  Yes, we all, myself certainly included understand the need for incarceration and for paying dues to society for wrongs committed but, the Christian values of compassion and praying for the redemption of their souls is also there. And, it must be heard and acted upon.

I am grateful for my ability to write and I hope my words and my message of hope and compassion bring some level of peace and insight to this audience I have never met.

I was getting down about writing.  I didn’t seem to be getting the response that me ego wanted (yes it is ego that craves the attention) but upon hearing this story about the following I have in the prison system came to my attention, I felt a shift from “woe is me” to “what a wonderful thing this is”.  And I am grateful to my friend for thinking that my words and thoughts might help those in less fortunate circumstances.

So as I have had these sad thoughts about being apart from my love and doubt about the success or good of my writing I listened to a band I first saw about 1976 in Maple Leaf Gardens in Toronto and the lyrics came to me”

Even in the quietest moments

I wish I knew what I had to do

And even though the sun is shining

Well, I feel the rain, here it comes again, dear

And even when you showed me

My heart was out of tune

For there's a shadow of doubt

That's not letting me find you too soon

The music that you gave me

The language of my soul

Oh Lord, I wanna be with you

Won't you let me come in from the cold?

My heart was out of tune.  There are reasons that I know well why we are apart and they are just a temporary situation that will resolve with time and good intentions.  I am not, after all behind the walls without any hope for release or my release dependant on a system over which I have no control.

My friend reminded me of an old James Taylor song and reading the lyrics I saw a little ways inside the walls and behind the wire.  His song Sleep Come Free Me:

Well, I've been lying in this dungeon

Since I was eighteen

Ten lonely years of my life taken

I've been living in the pages of a magazine

It breaks my heart to awaken

(chorus)

Set me free

Sleep come free me (please, please, please)

Set me free

Set me free

Now the state of alabama says I killed a man

The jury reached the same conclusion

I remember I was there

With a tire iron in my hand

The rest is all confusion

- chorus -

More like an animal and less like a man

What they leave you ain't worth keeping

Brother let me tell you

I got a clock with no hands

The only way out is through sleeping

- chorus -

You get to where you used to be

Whoever you claim

It's open to interpretation

Just remember your number

And abandon your name

And hold on to your name

And hold on to your imagination

Oh no no

-       chorus –

I have plenty of reasons to write now.  A multitude of faceless reasons who get a little light into their life and perhaps some insights that may take them to a place where they can be released spiritually if not physically.  Life is good!!!

Even in the Quietest Moments - Roger Hodgson

I couldn’t find a link to the James Taylor song that would play in Canada due to copyright rules.

From my book Songs of Love and Other Improvisations (1999)

The thought of separation is like a punishment

The thought of the distance between us

Pounds at my every breath

How can love so beautiful

Wreak such torment on my soul

I ask these question because I have no answers

I have not been to this space before

It confuses and abuses me

How can love so beautiful

Be forlorn and bereft of hope

Yet if I think of the love that brought us here

How it started strengthened matured

I would have faith and peace

How can love so beautiful

Not transcend time and distance

Me

Malabar Florida

Zion National Park

Even Mother Nature Gets the Blues

Sometimes the rain can get you down.  It has been raining here for a couple of days now.  It seems to fit the mood; Nature’s way of singing the blues.  The blues are all about feeling bad but finding your way back to feeling good.

I have spent the past 2 weeks since arriving back in Canada packing up my house and cleaning up the business affairs of y old life to pave the way into a new life.  This is not always a happy time because as my friend Sin noted in her blog today

“Like relationships, friendships, too, end. And it doesn’t have to be as a result of some major fallout, blow up, or miscommunication, but rather difference—forks in the road that lead people in their own direction.

It’s a loss nonetheless, and for both (or all) persons involved, not just the friend who is learning about the dissolve of the friendship, but also for the friend dissolving it.

The big truth is that some of us will outgrow a friend for whatever reasons: goals, spiritual, behavior, or simply a loss of having anything more in common.

 It happens.

Sometimes we have to choose to walk away from a friendship that is no longer healthy/or drags us down; or ones where perhaps the friend is negative for us — likely to pull you down.

It’s easy to know that we no longer want a friendship, but it is not necessarily an easy task to talk about it with the person. This is why so many people lie and/or start a fight; it’s easier. It’s a solid reason they can point to, it takes responsibility off of themselves, it removes guilt (friendships are forever, right?) it sparks anger that they can nurture and use to shield themselves behind.”

Parting with an old life style or way of life is like the ending of a friendship or relationship.  Leaving the house that I once enjoyed but no longer fits into my lifestyle, is a form of separation.

Nature, in sympathy, has been playing the blues to bring the point home.

While the realtor was here to run an open house, I bugged out and went to get more boxes for packing then stopped in at the local pub (about 3 miles away) to have a pint of Kilkenney Irish ale and a huge helping of their delectable shepherd’s pie.  The regular entertainment on Sunday afternoons is a duo called Vox Violins.  I know them simply, as Mark and Beth.

I have not seen Beth and Mark since I left on my ride through the USA and the winter in Florida and Texas.   It was a good antidote to blues to go hear some good old acoustic Canadian roots music.  Mark plays electric guitar in a local R7B/Funk band called Shift and Beth can be heard playing electric violin in the all-female band Broadband.

It was a pleasant way to spend a wet and miserable Sunday afternoon.  While I tucked away a huge slice of the Irish Harp’s excellent shepherd’s pie, they covered a whole range of traditional Celtic, Canadian, and international roots music classics.  Another Canadian musician friend, Brian Pickell, wrote one of the tunes they played.  Brian is a superb bluegrass banjo, mandolin and guitar player.  His band, the Brian Pickell band, plays the folk festival circuit and specializes in Canadian fiddle and clog dancing music.  Mark and Beth played Muriel’s Walt for me written by Brian.

I did two classes four years at an adult roots music summer camp with Brian; novice mandolin and tune writing.

We are blessed with an abundance of musical talent in Canada.  The Niagara region and southern Ontario where I am living has produced a wide variety of musicians over the years including jazz musicians like trumpeters Kenny Wheeler and Maynard Ferguson, rock drummer legend Neil Peart, and perennial Grammy polka nominee Walter Ostenak. 

My escape from the springtime blues was a most satisfying afternoon of home grown music in the beautiful setting of Niagara-on the-Lake.  Mother Nature did her best to dull down the day but a great music fix is hard to beat.

Vox Violins website

Brian Pickell's website

A medley of tunes by the Brian Pickell Band

Mark Clifford and Beth Bartley - Vox Violins

The Brian Pickell Band

The Night Inside Me

I am sitting in the open concept dining room of my home in the village of Virgil close to the shore of Lake Ontario.  It is a beautiful spring day with the grass greening up quite nicely and the trees in bud.  Magnolia trees are enjoying their one weekend blast of color.

I am at another one of those crossroads in life.  There seem to have been several of these over the last few weeks as I have made my way though the roads of my life.   

I am back here to fulfill a requirement of the government that ensure the continuation of my heath benefit.  I am also here clearing up the last pieces of my former life including the sale of my home and the storage of all my stuff until I am ready to set up house keeping somewhere.  The road ahead is uncertain.  There are places I know I want to go both spiritually and geographically.  This is still a spirit quest I am on.  Our whole lives are a spirit quest unless we are so self-absorbed that the world ends 3 feet beyond our fingertips or we are comatose.

What am I sure of?  “God is great and the rest doesn't matter” and “We plan; God laughs”.  I am also sure I know who I am.  As noted in previous blogs, I am comfortable in my skin and I happily acknowledge my weaknesses and foibles knowing in these lies the essence of being human.

Reality came crashing home for me last weekend (quite literally) when I laid down my ’06 Road Gide and was injured just a few miles from my home.  I am slowly recovering but at least 4 weeks from being able to manhandle a Harley as my mode of transportation.  It could have been worse.  Death was probably 6 inches away and debilitating paralysis much closer.  Neither of these outcomes transpired so I have much for which, to be grateful.

As I sit here in the late afternoon sun, listening to the suburban cacophony of lawn mowers and weed whippers, I consider these crossroads.  The plan is not mine; just the choices.  To be positive in the face of the recently raised roadblocks to my person vision of nirvana: or to be negative and have a good wallow in the sinkhole of self-pity?  Buy a totally practical car when the insurance money comes in for the Harley or buy another Harley?  Stay here until the house sells or get my work done and hit the road again on another long distance adventure? Move to Florida in the fall, or Texas, or Arkansas, or stay here and count snowflakes.

It is all about choices,, I have not always done well with choices.  I was thinking about that when I wrote my Facebook and BON status updates today.  I wrote:

Our lives get caught up in the thorns of our own bad choices. Sometimes we have to tear free of these encumbrances leaving pieces of skin and cloth behind as a reminder to those who follow

When I look back over a lifetime I sure see a lot of skin and bits of cloth across the landscape.  Will I make more bad choices?  Of course I will!!!  But, hopefully, I will make fewer than I once might have and I won’t add too many more scars of experience to my psyche.

I am listening to music as I work. The Naked Ride Home by Jackson Browne.  The moral lyrics deal with the momentous decision of life and how our focus on the moment (The Naked Ride Home) distract us from the important stuff like the important decisions so we make bad choices as a result or, we fail to hear our conscience (the heart that was beating alone) where the clues to the right decision usually lie.

She gathered her clothes

And ran through the yard in the dark

Up onto the porch like a flash, and inside

Then one room at a time

I watched every light in our house come on

Like the truth that would eventually dawn,

Forcing me to decide

But on that freeway the light was receding

Her beauty, a sight so misleading

I failed to hear the heart that was beating alone

On the naked ride home

The next tune on this CD is The Night Inside Me.  This song paints the message for me of sanctuary and prayer.  Those comforting dimly lit place to which, we retreat at times when we need clarity that can only come away from the clamor of the light of day.

I used to lay out in a field under the Milky Way

With everything that I was feeling that I could not say

With every doubt and every sorrow that was in my way

Tearing around inside my head like it was there to stay

Night in my eyes, the night inside me

There where the shadows and the night could hide me

Night in my eyes

Sky full of stars turning over me

Waiting for night to set me free

I caught a ride into the city every chance I got

I wasn't sure there was a name for the life I sought

Now I'm a long way gone down the life I got

I don't know how I believed some of the things I thought

Night in my eyes, the night inside me

Here where the shadows gather to decide me

Night in my eyes

Out at the end of light and gravity

Waiting for night

It takes the night to clear all of this mess away

The obligation, the burden and the light of day

It takes the night to fall between the world I obey

And a world where I hear angels play

Maybe I should go back to Spain

I walk around inside the questions of my day

I navigate the inner reaches of my disarray

I pass the altars where fools and thieves hold sway

I wait for night to come and lift this dread away

Night in my eyes, the night inside me

Here where the shadows and the light divide me

Night in my eyes

Night full of promise and uncertainty

Waiting for night to set me free

The next several months will be a period of decision and choice as I move from my former life to the new as this new journey begins.  It is my nature to be the infernally optimistic type so I will come at these changes from a positive perspective and from a prayerful stance.  All I know is the plan is not mine but the choices are.

The Naked Ride Home - Jackson Browne

The Night Inside Me - Jackson Browne

From the untitled book:

Sunlight sleepy warm on yesterday’s burn

It is the silence that woke me

Two wine glasses on the drain board

It was white served in flutes

The music is still there

No CD but a cosmic residue of Puccini

A sensual shiver of a memory touch

And a deep sense of knowing

Fills my being as I see your reflection

In the window looking out on yesterday

In your blue eyes

I see the reflection

Of a field I love

Wild flowers and soaked in sun

Quiet

The serenity of a peaceful bliss

Who Fills the Givers Well?

I am sitting in my friend’s house in San Benito, Tx staying out of the mid-day heat and nursing a back that is telling me I need a long rest from distance riding and is telling me it is time to care for me.  The break is good in many ways and being relatively inactive (a form of torture for me) gives time for thought and reflection.

I have written my last few blogs on the theme of Love because it has come into my life and it was important and felt right to celebrate the joy of its light.  My thoughts turned to matters of character and spirit.  I guess some of this contemplation comes as a by-product of wondering as we all do in our human way, about where the future will take us as we begin and new road in life as I have at this time.

I have been blessed for much of my life to be surrounded by givers.  Givers come from the heart with their generosity the same way we all breathe.  It is a natural part of the essential being. .  My friend Ed is a giver.  He has opened his home to someone he did not know three weeks ago because that is his way.  I chuckle about an incident in the grocery store the other day.  We picked up some steaks to cook on the grill for dinner.  At the cashier, I said, “let me pay for these”.  He said, “No man, you’re my guest” to which, I responded, “Yes but I am living in your home and benefiting in many ways from you’re generosity and I amt to do this as a gift to you”.  He looked and me then smiled (he sees the humor in life all of the time) and said, “I need to learn to accept a Blessing when it comes my way”.

I am a giver too, so I knew what he was talking about!  Many givers find it hard to accept benevolence, praise, and blessings when they come their way.  It raises the question though, if the giver gives from the well of their benevolence, how does their well get replenished?  Who fills the givers well?

We feel good when we give freely and without expectations of what we will get back.  In the normal course of our interactions in life, we get back.  Not just the good feeling that comes with the act of giving but also, the givers among us, once we get past the awkward moment of getting something in return, are replenished by the thanks of gratitude or some small gift.  You provide the sanctuary and I will buy the steaks.

Givers by their nature can also end up in the chains of captivity through their own sweet, generous spirits.  There are people who are wired to receive and to take.  They are missing the DNA code that triggers an authentic gratitude response to the kindness they receive.  They are like the gas thief with a siphon in a gas tank.  The flow and energy is in one direction; out.

Giving takes a lot of forms.  We can give a friend or a complete stranger some cash or a warm coat.  We may give of our time to help the neighbor build the new deck.   We can give of our compassion and emotions listening someone’s issues or serving on a humanitarian mission.  Of all the means of giving, when we give of our soul, our love, our innermost energies, it is the hardest to replenish and the most vital to our wellbeing.

Every giver I have talked to in my travels has experienced a giving relationship that is one way emotionally and spiritually.  My own experience is with negative thinkers and with needy folks who have no spiritual grounding and seek externally to fill the hole in their souls.  We all know them.  Our energy flows out to fulfill our innate desire as givers to help but there is no progress because the lack of self-awareness and spiritual ground in the receiver prohibits effective use of our help.  I know from experience that the red flags go up when the flow is out, out, out and there is no energy coming the other way.  In a normal, balanced give and receive situation, I as a giver get my spiritual well filled by seeing someone make steps to help themselves with my assistance and I take joy in their successes.  And, oftentimes, we are rewarded with their gratitude for our gift of ourselves.

I refer to those receivers who sap my energy and go nowhere with their gift from me, Spiritual Vampires.

As givers we need to ensure our well being by avoiding encounters with the Spiritual Vampires and focus on giving into relationships and friendships where the water in our wells is replenished.

To all the givers out there, you make the world a better place.  I know who has given of themselves to me and I remember and appreciate them all.

Just some thoughts on giving.  Music is always good when I write.  From today’s play list.

High Sierras - Dolly Parton, Emmylou Harris, Linda Ronstadt

Take This Rain - Jackson Browne

I Forgot That Love Existed - Van Morrison

From Songs of Love and Other Improvisations (1999):

I look to the morning

And the promises of the day

Hidden behind the streaks

Of an orange and blue dawn

My captive heart breaks free

Of the chains that time and neglect

Have skillfully bound

Holding me to the barren plain

The ingenious padlock

Of my actions past and thought

Springs open with your touch

My spirit soars to meet the dawn

From the untitled book:

The sun burns yellow

Circles in my mirror

Reflections of the fires

In my soul

I feel the warmth

On my back

As I turn south

Down the uncertain road

Alive In The World

I am sitting in my friend’s carport with my trusty MACbook in my lap and a cold beer beside me.  It is 98 in the shade and the wind moves through the palms with a sound like ocean surf.  It is the third day since I discovered that my quest was done.  I feel this great sense of peace and contentment yet my heart is alive with tumultuous feelings for my new love.  They are good feelings and I am alight with joy.  That is as it should be.

I look at my cell phone and I have 18 messages today from her.  I count them like pearls on a string.  Each with their own story and the feelings we share; lustrous and multi-hued and full of the mysteries of love.

I have some quiet time now.  My friend worked on his truck today and is having siesta time out of the heat. This is perfect!  I need to time and space to put into words the last few days of this new life that is starting.  I am listening to Jackson Browne’s Looking East record that he wrote after his break from Darryl Hannah and his re-emergence into a new life with refreshed creative energy and insights.

“Alive in the World” is one of his overlooked songs but the message within the words is so fitting to this time for me.

I want to live in the world, not inside my head

I want to live in the world, I want to stand and be counted

With the hopeful and the willing

With the open and the strong

With the voices in the darkness

Fashioning daylight out of song

And the millions of lovers

Alive in the world

I want to live in the world, not behind some wall

I want to live in the world, where I will hear if another voice should call

To the prisoner inside me

To the captive of my doubt

Who among his fantasies harbors the dream of breaking out

And taking his chances

Alive in the world

To open my eyes and wake up alive in the world

To open my eyes and fully arrive in the world

With its beauty and its cruelty

With its heartbreak and its joy

With it constantly giving birth to life and to forces that destroy

And the infinite power of change

Alive in the world

To open my eyes and wake up alive in the world

To open my eyes and fully arrive in the world

To open my eyes and wake up alive in the world

To open my eyes and fully arrive in the world

The third verse in particular takes me from where I was a year ago and to the realization of where I am; “Alive in the World”.

I want to live in the world, not behind some wall

I want to live in the world, where I will hear if another voice should call

To the prisoner inside me

To the captive of my doubt

Who among his fantasies harbors the dream of breaking out

And taking his chances

Alive in the world

What a journey it has been from low self-esteem and doubt to a place of joy and spiritual completion after finding my way back to God and His Love and after finding a woman who accepts me as I am warts and all and who has opened her own heart (long a captive of caution) to me.  It was all about taking chances and having faith in myself that I could ride the road and find the answers from the lessons along the way.  Freed from the prison of my own doubts and fears, I found the heart spirit connection that allowed me to live from the heart and be open to the call.  And, that call did come and I answered ready and willing to face what the future will bring.

All my roads have led me here to this place.  It is a good place and is rich and bountiful with the Blessings of friends, family, the beauty of this world, and the richness of love.  I think the song All My Roads by Collin Raye is a good one to cue up now; such a beautiful heartfelt song.

Looking back from where I stand tonight

I wouldn't change a thing about my life

Wrong turns I had to take back in those crazy years

Could not have been mistakes if they brought me here

'Cause all my roads have led me to

This night, this love I share with you

And though the road was never smooth

Life has made me someone who

Could be the right someone for you

I don't regret a single broken heart

That taught me what love is and what it's not

Someone must have planned our two paths would cross

I couldn't see it then but I was never lost

'Cause all my roads have led me to

This night, this love I share with you

And though the road was never smooth

Life has made me someone who

Could be the right someone for you

Detours, dead ends, endless explorations

You were my only destination

'Cause all my roads have led me to

This night, this love I share with you

And though the road was never smooth

Life has made me someone who

Could be the right someone for you

So now, a new journey begins, but no longer solo on my Harley but together.  We are not together at this time because that is how it must be but we know our path and time will soon pass before we can be in a state of grace and love.  In the meantime, life is good.  God is good. And, love is wonderful!

Alive in the World - Jackson Browne

All My Roads - Collin Raye

From my book from 2000 Songs of Love and Other Improvisations

There can be no talk of yesterday

When our future is spread before us

No looking backward

No questioning of what might have been

No autopsies of the spirit

From the new untitled book

The gift of my love

Is the first good soak of spring

That brings green to the fields

And colour to your garden

The gift of my love

Is the great red tailed hawk

Always there on the edges

Of your perception soaring

The gift of my love

Is the aroma of the forest

Tangy with moulds and earth

Redolent with the scent of pine

The gift of my love

Is a sharp edged knife

That cuts your bonds of strife

Setting you free to soar

The gift of my love

Is a soft moment a caress

To say you are not alone

The light on the path before you