Rocks in my Pocket

Last summer, I was blissfully able to take a backpacking trip in northern New Mexico. The country was breathtaking. We summited two mountains and went about 100 miles over a ten day span. When I went out there, I was kind of in the beginning of my new mindful and contemplative journey. I paid attention to every detail of this trip so that I was in the moment. I could not enjoy the forests and the mountains if my mind was busy in the past or in the future.

We would backpack for hours. It was strenuous and monotonous but in a very enjoyable way, I began to notice the beauty of the rocks. There were rocks everywhere, you know, cuz it was a mountain and stuff. I began to collect the most interesting ones I saw. "Leave only footprints and take only ALL THE ROCKS YOU CAN CRAM INTO YOUR PACK!!!" It got a bit ridiculous, the amount of extra weight I was carrying. Putting rocks in your backpack for 100 miles sounds like some sort of punishment your First Sergeant gives you for not pointing your weapon down range or something. I was doing this to myself. Nobody ever accused me of being smart. The trip unfortunately had to end, as all good things do. We left New Mexico and headed back home where the only rocks we have are sandstone and also that other sandstone.

What to do with all these cool rocks? They were pretty neat, but they would be way cool when they were polished. I went and bought a used rock tumbler and started looking into how to get these rocks polished and shiny. Polished rocks are fascinating and beautiful. There are infinite colors, swirls, specks, and colorations. All of this beauty took millions of years to form and then another million years to break loose and find its way on my path on the trail. The tumbling process takes a pretty long time, about 6 or 7 weeks of tumbling in 4 or 5 different degrees of grit. This takes the rock from this wild and gnarled rough stone into a shaped and rounded gleaming thing of beauty. I ordered a grit kit off the internet and got to tumbling.

If patience is a virtue, then I am not a very virtuous man. I could not hardly stand to wait for the time it took to tumble. You put the rocks in the barrel, put some water in, and then your grit and plug it in for at least a week. You cannot open the barrel and screw with the stones or even look at them because the process produces a gritty slurry. It has to just roll along in the dark barrel while I sit there and watch. It's like watching grass grow, except you are really excited to see how the grass turns out. I would run the batch of grit, remove the rocks and clean them and the barrel spotless and then start the new batch of grit. The 6 weeks finally went by and I had my splendid rocks.

These rocks were amazing. The diversity of color and design and just random beauty. They were all kinds of shapes. Some had pits and crevices, others were totally smooth. The fact that I had carried all these rocks and gathered them quite intimately from such a beautiful place made it that much better. I had this whole pile of amazing rocks. I put them in a cool wooden bowl I had picked up in some faraway land while I was in the Navy and that was that.

This is where I must go on a necessary tangent. When I head to work, I always put a few things in my pocket. Talismans, lucky charms, things like that. I have an Archangel Micheal coin, the patron saint of police officers. I have a few of these actually that have different little prayers on back. Saints are a Catholic thing but I like the mythology of it. The Archangel Micheal, leader of God's army of good versus evil. Legend says Satan got too big for his britches and he and his posse decided they wanted to be like God. The Archangel Michael was totally not down with that and was loyal to his chain of command. He, along with the army he lead, curb stomped Satan into Hell. He condescendingly utters "Quis ut Deus?" to Satan after the beat down and calmly walks away as stuff explodes behind him (probably). It's obvious why he is the patron saint of police officers. "Archangel Micheal, defend us in our day of battle...". I also carry an Eastern Orthodox prayer rope about the size of a string bracelet. This is used like a Catholic Rosary or Buddhist prayer beads. They use it to recite the "Jesus Prayer". The rope has 33 very intricately tied knots, knots that contain seven crosses being tied over and over. The 33 is for the number of years Jesus was alive. This legend says that Saint Anthony would tie simple knots in a rope every time he prayed. Satan would come and untie the knots, so he started tying the intricate seven cross knot that I am quite certain is more confounding then when you get one of those dang knots in your shoe lace. Side note, apparently Satan is that kind of dick that walks up behind you and starts saying "27, 13, 84, 28, 16..." when you are trying to count stuff and keep track. That generally gets you punched in the nuts in my world. My theology knowledge does not specify if Satan has nuts or not so I don't know if that's a viable way to battle Satan and his shenanigans. I also carry this little rope thing I made to remind me of why its important to be smart and safe and get myself home everyday. I must get home to my teenage son, who I am raising completely on my own. I took a button off of his old boy scout uniform he wore for three years but recently grew out of. I took red paracord (his favorite color), tied an intricate friendship knot and then tied two figure eight knots to signify that its just me and him. The button is in the loop made by the friendship know. I also took to carrying once of my aforementioned polished stones as a worry stone and also a reminder of that amazing trip.

Ok, back on track. I carry these things in my pocket when I am at work. Since I transferred back to patrol last year, I have become a bit of a specialist in dealing with and connecting with mentally or emotionally disturbed people I encounter or am in a position to assist. I have very specialized training in this from a few years back, but I am now the guy that has actually walked a mile in their shoes. I was on a call a bit back with this young college girl named Monica. She had talked to a friend about killing herself and was found with a large knife sitting next to her in the shower. This poor girl was a mess. I was obligated to get her help for her own safely and unfortunately against her will, She begrudgingly went with me after I explained to her that I wasn't able to leave and do nothing. She was a very sheltered girl from a very small town. We got to the hospital where she would get some help. Procedure is I get there, turn my person over to hospital security and roll. They put them in secure holding with the schizophrenic homeless guy that thinks he's Jesus and some guy that got PTSD from all the rape he got in prison. I knew how this worked. I knew this night sucked hard for Monica. I also knew that sending her off to the crazy lions den would bring the suck to a whole new level and likely turn her away from the process of getting help. I could just see her the next time she was way down, remembering this horrid experience and saying "fuck this attempt suicide shit, I not getting locked up again" and killing herself quite thoroughly. So I told security me and Monica would just chill in the waiting room until a bed was found for her. This took six fucking hours. I really didn't mind. I chose to do this and it was in the best interest of this poor girl in emotional distress. She didn't say much. She was trembling with fright. I just kept talking, busting off jokes and telling her about my own emotional trauma and ups and downs. Slowly, I could see she was becoming less terrified, but she was still scared. When it came time for her to go to another facility that had a bed, I gave her a few parting words. I told her about how I was supposed to just dump her off and send her into the crazy lions den. I told her I was kind of screwing my partners by hanging out at the hospital for six hours. I told her this was not something that any officer would have done. Then I told her I wasn't saying this to make her feel bad or let her know how awesome I was, but that I did this because I wanted something in return. I told her that I wanted her to be open to the process and be open to getting help. I told her that she had a long life ahead of her and she could get on the right track now at 19 instead of living in Shitville like I had until I was 39 years old. I told her it takes a brave person to reach a hand out for help. I told her that is exactly what I demanded in return for my six hours, for her to be brave and take that help. As I was talking to her, my hand was in my pants pocket where I keep all my talismans. I felt the rock I was carrying. I took it out and told her the story behind it, how I had found it on New Mexico, carted it around for 100 miles, took 6 weeks to make it nice and shiny and how it had been with me while on duty as a talisman. It was a part of me. I gave her the rock and told her to remember the kindness of a stranger the next time she was down. I wanted her to remember this night and know she was not in this struggle alone. I later got a call from Monica's mother. This woman would not shut up about how awesome I was and how her daughter told her I was the only reason she didn't totally lose it and run out the door. It was a kind gesture to let me know this and I thanked her. I didn't do all that for a gold star on my report card or something. I did it because I've been in that shitty place emotionally. I did it because there are certain people that brought me back from the brink. I did it because now its time to pay it forward.

I always carry a rock or two now. I've given many away to those in need that I have connected with. I've given some to kids or just crime victims. Its a token of compassion, giving a part of me to those in need of a boost. I was getting low on rocks and needed to tumble a new batch. I ordered more grit and looked up on the internet how to do this again. This website said I needed to discard the rocks that had pits or crevices or were odd shapes. Those rocks will not come out perfect and pretty. Bullshit. My first batch of rocks had many of these so called undesirable characteristics. These rocks are the ones that turned out to be the most interesting. Those were my favorites. Then, because my brain is always looking for deeper meaning, it hit me.

How much is this like our own lives? We trudge along, carrying a burden. After many years, we (hopefully) take this burden and decide to make something pretty or useful out of it. We put time and effort into this long and laborious process to turn this dirty chunk of whatever into something beautiful. Once we process this burden, we have made something beautiful, but also with very interesting scars, marks, crevices and imperfections. We are not perfectly round and pretty and shiny all over. We are real and natural. We embrace these imperfections as who we are. This is life. Parts of it are shiny and beautiful with amazing color and design. Some of it is not shiny, but unique to our journey. These imperfections are exactly who were are. Throw out the rocks with imperfections? Wasn't that Hitler's "Final Solution"? I'm certainly no history scholar, but that get rid of the undesirables shit didn't turn out so well from what I hear. I don't want to be perfectly round and shiny in a world with others that are perfectly round and shiny. That sounds like an Orwellian nightmare. I need my imperfections. My imperfections are exactly what has brought me to the path I am on now. Acknowledging and embracing my imperfections is the only way I can make the other parts shiny and pretty. It is certainly the only way I can share what is shiny and pretty with the rest of the world. My batch of rocks is in the middle of it's second grit cycle as I write this. I cannot wait to see how they turn out, imperfections and all.

If you see a cop walking around and it looks like he has an awful lot of stuff in his left pocket, stop and chat with him. If he seems a little eccentric, he may reach into that pocket and give you a really cool rock. Don't ask for it though. If that cop isn't me, that's going to be really really awkward.

The Man, the Myth, the Midlife Crisis

I am a soccer dad. Except it's anything but soccer. My son is hooked up into just about everything. Cross country running, track (going to regionals!) Boy Scouts (a lot), leadership stuff, and just general teenage boy things. He's a good kid and I am glad he is engaged. I am a single full time dad though, since he was just under two years old. I love him and his passions but I'm always getting that kid somewhere.

Today, I was taking him to a friends house that was going to give him a ride to some leadership seminar. I was sort of meandering my way home in no particular hurry. I happen to live just down the road from the cemetery where my maternal grandparents are buried. I figured I would dip in and pay a visit. It's the Buddhist in me, trying to embrace the concept of death. I didn't really expect the wave of emotions and thought this seemingly innocuous visit would bring.

I am in the midst of what perhaps could be called a midlife crisis. It most certainly an existential crisis and it just so happened to come in my midlife period, as I turn forty years old this month. I found the grave and remember the cold February day that I served as pall bearer for my deceased grandfather, Jackson Eugene. It was a windy, blustery Oklahoma day. I believe it was even sleeting. It was just miserable weather, but I was honored to render such a service. I remember following the path the tractors use to get to the grave site. The coffin was quite heavy. I do not recall who there other pallbearers were. I was eighteen years old and on the eve of adulthood and only a few months away from my Navy adventures. My grandfather had many major health issues that seemed to just pile drive him at the end of his life. There was Lupus, some early stage cancer, and maybe just a bit of Alzheimer's. The turning point was during a routine overnight stay at the hospital to check on one of these ailments. My grandfather was a very stoic and proud man. He was also old and feeble at this stage of his life. During the night he had to use the bathroom. A man like my grandfather wasn't about to call some nurse in to help him do such a private task. He got out of his bed and fell hard. He broke his hip and did some other damage to his hard used and frail body. This trauma made everything that was already going on much worse. He died not too long after. It was a bad deal and a crappy ending to a great life.

I sat there at the grave of my grandparents, honoring them. For without them, there would not be a me. I asked my grandfather what he would do or how he would feel if he were dealing with the issues I am very much struggling with these days in my life. Then I began to think deeper. There is no simple thought process in my life. I began to realize that my grandfather was almost a mythical character. A hero of a Greek epic. He was born in 1915 in a very rural part of Texas. His abandoned him and he was raised by his mother and family. He married young and had a son. He wife abandoned both him and his son, and Jackson became a dedicated single father much as myself. His son went on to win two Grammy Awards for music in the late 60's, so he had to have done something right. He worked his was through the Great Depression. He was never without a job because he worked his fingers to the bone in whatever crappy job he could find. He was in construction by trade and was a master tile setter, bricklayer, concrete man, and carpenter. His level of craftsmanship was second to none. He would always do the longer and more labor intensive version of whatever his work was because it was the best and strongest. He made less money so that he could know he did it right. He was honest to a fault. He once stole and orange to eat during the Depression because he was starving. His conscience ate at him until he went to the boss and confessed to his crime. He was fired, but his soul was restored. He was an Army veteran of World War II, serving in the Pacific Theater. I believe he used his construction skills there. He did not see combat, thankfully, from what I am told. The story of his service is even better than a combat tale. My grandfather was the only one in his unit that could be trusted to guard the beer shed. You see, my grandfather was a life long teetotaler. He never once tasted a drop of alcohol his entire life. This quality along with his fervent honesty made him the ideal soldier for this job. Everyone else would skim out the of the beer supply or give it away to his buddies. My grandfather would never dream of doing such a thing. Jackson returned from the war, and like much of the "Greatest Generation", sucked it up and made America great with speed and great haste. He continued his work in construction and had parts in many important projects in my large city on the prairie. He was a devoted husband to my grandmother. He almost babied her. When he died, a lot of my grandmother died with him. People don't love that hard anymore. he continued to raise his son, raised my grandmothers son as his own (her first husband died in the war), and together they had my mother. They were good, salt of the earth, middle class people. He and the family walked a block to the Methodist church every Sunday without fail. He was stoic but also hilarious in ways that only he knew about. He used to always wear some tee shirt with something funny on it under his church suit, probably giggling inside at this joke meant just for him. He helped out his friends and neighbors. He knew right was right and wrong was wrong, and by God always did what was right. My grandfather was such a noble figure in my life, I named my son, my one and only child after him. Jackson is a name that I associate with a greatness that few can achieve or maintain, Not greatness in fame or wealth, but greatness of character and integrity, This is the greatness that really counts in the end. I pray that my own son can achieve part of this by virtue of carrying this great name of his ancestors. These are the stories I was told by my mother. These are the ideals that I longed to emulate in my own manhood. I have fallen quite short in about every respect, though I feel.

Here is the catch. I hardly knew this man. He was of course around until my eighteenth year, but he was a man of few words. His health had left him due to some injury or something that I am not quite clear on. It seems to have robbed him of his vitality though. He was an old feeble man that I remember interacting with, but don't think I ever even approached bonding with. My grandmother I bonded with greatly and I certainly loved her. Why is it that the myth of a man I barely knew is such an integral part of my life? My mother worshiped this man, as you should for such an honorable and dedicated father. The myth of Jackson Eugene was given to me by my mother but I never knew of this man myself.

This of course leads me to another mythical man that has influenced my life. My own father. My dad's family is dysfunction junction. My dad ran away from home early to join the Army, be and Airborne Ranger, and go to fucking Vietnam. How bad does your home life have to be that jungle combat in an unpopular war is the better alternative? Probably pretty rough. My dad is legit. He earned a combat infantry badge, did all kinds of secret squirrel shit that he probably still can't talk about even if he were willing. He would not be willing, however, because legit operators (as they call them in our current wars) don't brag, they just get shit done.There are likely untold numbers of Vietcong bones in a jungle on the other side of the world with my dad's bullet wounds on them. When I got into my shooting as a rookie ( http://nobodybodhi.blogspot.com/2015/09/the-rookie.html ), I called my dad and asked him if he'd ever killed anyone. I shit you not, his response was "Well not here". This had the inflection of "You've killed one guy? WHOOP DE DOO!". Holy shit, that's hardcore. My dad is one of those guys who could have gone good or bad. He's a 5'7" pile of pure badassery. Luckily he went with good. He was briefly a fireman and then got hired on the police department, the same department in which I currently serve. He served with distinction as an officer and then a lieutenant for thirty three years. He was twice decorated for bravery in the line of duty. He was that boss that would take a reprimand to cover his troops on something he told them to do or even just agreed with their decision. This actually happened. He was old school. If you needed to be dressed down or told you were an idiot, he would tell you. If you were a troop, an asshole citizen that got all butt hurt over nothing, or even the Chief himself, he would let you know when you were out of line. He was respected for this. They don't make officers and especially lieutenants like that anymore. The "man-ginas" I've worked for are more afraid of covering their own asses than taking care of their troops. Officer will literally die for a man like my dad. I even got to go on a call once with him. We were both on day shift, in different divisions of course because you can't work for your dad in a paramilitary organization. They had a guy run into one of the metro malls just south of my division and in my dad's. They thought he was armed and were worried about an active shooter type situation. Everyone rolled to that. I get there just as my dad arrived on scene. We formed a contact team and went it. It turned out to be nothing, but damn was that an adventure to be under the command of my own legendary dad on a contact team for a possible active shooter. I had about nine years on when my dad hit thirty three and retired. He was able to bring two years of Vietnam era military service over to his police pension so technically has 35 years on the books for maximum pension benefits.

Guess what? There's another catch. I don't really know my dad either. My parents divorced when I was six. Back in 1982, dads got every other weekend visitation. He also worked like a beast, week on/week off like I do. They were paid like crap back then, so you have to work a ton of "extra jobs" just to survive. He went on and married this mega bitch and was with her for like eighteen years. That bitch hated me and my sister. I cant stand my sister either, and neither could you, but I'm cool so WTF? It got to where as i got to my early teen years and had other things to do, I would do them. Who wants to willfully put up with some bitch that hates you? (wait, I guess I do because I basically just divorced the same kind of woman, CRAP!). This was on top of the fact that my dad has the personality of a pile of firewood. He was graced by the hand of God to be a soldier and cop, but I think some of the other ingredients were left out. Engaged fathering? Nope. Emotions? Whats this crazy talk? I feel the one thing I have always done well at and can be proud of is my role as a father. I also feel I became this father because I did not have one and did the exact opposite of what my dad, or mother for that matter, did for me.

I followed in the exact footsteps of my father. I served in the military (OK, Navy, but fuck off. It counts), then got on the police department to serve my community. I did this partially because i always feared the concept of living a life without meaning. I would hate to be on my dead bed and my see that my years of labor and work only contributed to a companies profit margin. Screw that noise, I want to make a difference. I am pretty certain I also did this, at least subconsciously, to earn the love or be recognized by that father that I really never had in my life. He still lives here in the city and is only about a forty minute drive away, or a phone call away. I have tried to connect. I have primed the pump left the valve open for communication. I have desperately needed that connection in the last terrible year, the year of the breakdown. It's just not there. He does not have the capacity. Nor does my mother, but that's a different blog for a different time.

This last year and a half has been the worst of my life. It has caused me to question the very nature of my existence. It had caused me to question the entire course of my life. I question the thoughts and foundation I have based my life on. I am beginning to realize I have based the entire course of my life on emulating mythical men that I don't even really know and that honestly have never known me. I am chasing the ghost of this noble idea of what I think manhood should be. I don't think I even once stopped to contemplate what man I needed to be based on who I am as a person.

I have leaned an awful lot about the person I repressed or didn't even know while in pursuit of the myth. I love to write. I am artistic. I am compassionate and loving. I am open with my feelings (now, after the breakdown at least). I often think of what life would be like had I embraced or tried to at least find who I was in my youth. What else could I have done with my life? What path could I have taken? It would have been meaningful because I will always need that. I do like my career most times. It seems to be more meaningful now after my breakdown and having been at my lowest point, I have a compassion now that I could not have before. You cannot know true pain and strife until you yourself have been face down in the mud, battered, bloodied, and bruised. You have to get that low to get that different perspective. I have found my niche with the emotionally disturbed, the downtrodden, and the outright crazy. I have been in those shoes and can feel true empathy. I have what seems like infinite patience with them. I leave them with a deep sense of pride, knowing that by showing compassion and true understanding I had a chance to really make a difference. But this macho man, Type A bullshit culture is toxic. I get made fun by my peers for trying to connect and show compassion. These people have not seen what I have seen. They have not come to terms with their own demons. We mock what we do not understand.

I question my life as though I had based it all on some silly Hollywood stereotype of The American Male, which is essentially what I did. I don't even know who I am. I also turn forty this month. Half a life wasted on chasing the equivalent of the Loch Ness Monster? The good thing is that at least I was awakened. What a shame to have never found this realization. I have to do at least eight more years in my current career to get my pension. I am over that hump at twelve years, and to leave now would be idiotic. In these remaining eight years I well set myself up for Life V2.0.

If I can only convince my own son to not chase the myth and be who HE wants to be.

Take care and be well, my internet friends. Go visit your grandpa's grave too. You never know what he might have to say.

Back to the Beginning

On September 25th, 2010 I was married. It retrospect, this was not a good decision. The problem is that I knew this was a bad decision. Psychology, codependent, something psychology I did it anyway. Today, my divorce was mercifully finalized more than a year after I initially filed. This was confirmed by texting my attorney. It was a year of many, many delays, filings of contempt, and her absurdly fighting, lying, hiding assets, lots of money spent to bring this all to light. In the end, she settled on the exact same deal I offered her they day I left her, and screwing myself out of many joint assets. The rational then, just as it is now, is that I can make more money but I cannot make more sanity. This is nothing profound or deep, this story happens again and again every single day. 

The deep and profound part is this. I write this as I sit at anchor about a mile off the Florida Keys, about 5 miles south of Key Largo by road. I am about an hours drive south of Miami Beach, Florida. I live in the Lower Midwest. I have been to Key Largo and Miami Beach just twice in my life. Once this week, and once during the long weekend I spent down here with my wife because we were married here. 

I am on a trip with my son. We are on a sailboat at sea for a week. It's a very peaceful and amazing experience. We have gone snorkeling and seen all the beauty that the reefs of the Florida Keys have to offer. We have see the sunset in the special way that only happens along the Keys, with brilliant shades of every color delighting the eyes as the sun sinks slowly into the Gulf of Mexico. We have see a galaxy of stars that you can only gaze upon at sea and miles away from a single man made light. It's a place of amazing beauty alone, but every since my navy days, the sea has always had a special place in my heart. This trip was set in motion 13 months ago and I am quite glad we did it. 

The divorce was set in motion almost a year ago today, this very day my divorce became final. There were so many twists and turns it made my head spin. There was game playing, postponing of hearings, hunting for phantom hidden accounts, a pointless arbitration, delay after delay after delay. This divorce should have been finalized a month after it began, and again every further month it dragged on. It was even postponed for a last few days to fall into the week I am on this trip in this place instead of the Friday before we left. 

All of this escaped me somehow. On this day the divorce was to be final. All my responsibilities had been taken care of prior to leaving. My blessed attorney handled the rest. I did not think we would have any communications this week and I was ok with that (prefer it even, smartphones tend to be a ball and chain). We happened to anchor at Key Largo this evening and I was able to check in with my jewel of an attorney just to hear that all had went well today. It surprisingly did, and thus the chapter was closed. 

There are mixed feelings of course. I'm glad it's over, but it should have never began in the first place. There was a profound emotional breakdown because of the trauma of the emotional damage, but from this breakdown I was reborn. There are thoughts of failure, of loss, of dreams that died, of mistakes made, of love misplaced and lost. When my reborn self has such dilemmas, I meditate. What better place to meditate while sitting on the bow of a sailing ship, anchored in a cove near Key Largo as the sun sets in it's most beautiful way?

Then it hits me. It hits me like a punch in the stomach. This beautiful sun I just watched set is the same sun that I and my new bride watched set from a dock not 5 miles from where I set anchored on the day after we were married, married on the same beach I had visited just a few days before. We were married on the sandy beach at Miami Beach. We then drove along the highway on the Keys specifically to see this sunset. It was a cherished memory, one of the rare ones from this tumultuous relationship. 

What does this mean? It is too much for me to contemplate at this moment. It is all too fresh, all too raw. The emotions are too confusing. How can this be? How can this fall together with such perfect timing from two different events with so many variables? How can this happen just so? I don't know, and I can hardly process it. 

I had a bit more time to reflect on this as the sky grew dim, and the stars began to glimmer. Perhaps this is my chance for a do over. Perhaps I can start again from the very place I went awry almost 6 years ago. Perhaps I can set this trauma aside. 

Early in the process, I decided to tie my wedding ring to a few balloons and set it to the winds. I watched it float away, not knowing where it would go, how far it would travel, or where it would come to rest. It was a typical windy spring Oklahoma day, so the possibilities are beyond comprehension. I thought it was quite poetic, and still do. What if I had kept the ring and cast it into the sea at the same sunset where this tragedy of errors had begun? I never could have dreamt I'd be in this place on this very day, but oh, what an opportunity missed. 

The Magic of Fire

It's been a bit since I've had a chance to write. It's not by choice, I assure you i am clogged up with good blog post ideas. I've just been busy and preoccupied with the pesky think called "life".

Friday before last one of those days where an awful lot of information get dumped on you at once. It was like trying to drink from a fire hose. Some was good, some was bad, some was neutral. It was just a lot of data at once. I knew I was in for a contemplative night.

There are many ways to handle such a night. I could have sat on the couch and watched my beloved Star Trek TNG and enjoy a beer. I could have visited friends. I could have worked on one of my never ending woodworking projects. I decided to take another route. In the spirit of my meditation practice, I went for a walk in a large pasture near my home in the dark of night.

It was a crescent moon so ambient light was scarce. I had a flashlight but wanted to just make my way without it. There was a path were the cattle that graze the land travel quite often and I decided to see where it would take me. There was no plan, just a walkabout. I went along this path for a good distance until I came upon a large tree of some sort. It was the only tree around for a bit but had been here for many years judging by the size. It was right next to a man made pond for the cattle to drink from. It was a peaceful spot and on the crest of a minor plateau. I decided this was a nice spot to sit. There was much dead fall around this tree. I just so happened to have a lighter with me and began to gather some dead tinder and fuel for a small and peaceful fire.

Fire has always fascinated me. I doubt I am alone in this. I imagine fire has mesmerized humans ever since Ook The Cave Man first brought it into his cave. The ground and wood was damp but I used my boy scout skills to get a very small and intimate fire going. I watched as the flames danced and curled, brightened and dimmed, and consumed the fuel that I fed it. I set my meditation timer for twenty minutes and decided to just stare into the flames for this time. I wanted to see what answers the ancient wisdom of fire could give me. I cleared my mind and just observed the mesmerizing beauty of the flames. At almost the exact moment my twenty minutes of meditation was up, the last bit of flame died and left only glowing coals. I continued to gaze into the orange coals for what seemed like forever until they too died away.

My eyes were quite adjusted from sitting so long in the dark and I began to observed what else was around me. To the south, I could see the glow of the city and could just barely make out the largest tower downtown. I looked to the sky and could see an amazing amount of stars. The crescent moon was still there, but not I could make out what I am pretty sure were planets in close vicinity to it. I believe it was Venus, Mars, and Jupiter. It was breathtaking. I had been out here for quite awhile and was starting to get cold. I made sure my fire was dead and out and started to make my way back to civilization.

I don't know that I gained knowledge from the fire as I had hoped. What I did do is get a chance to contemplate life in the same way people have since the time of Ook up until that very night. The brotherhood of humanity throughout time gave me much perspective on all I needed to absorb and process. There has always been fire and stars just like there with always be days that are a bit overwhelming. That idea is comforting in its permanence.

Don the Steinbeck Tramp

John Steinbeck is probably my favorite author. Of Mice and Men, Cannery Row, Tortilla Flat, all wonderful works of art. These stories paint a picture of down and out men that are poor as dirt and homeless. They are happy go lucky though in their situation and seem to always come out of things OK (except for when George blows Lennie away after he accidentally kills Curley's wife, that's kind of a downer). These guys have no home, no money, and most of the time few worries. Was this a real way of life for depression "bindle bums" as Curley's wife called George and Lennie? I don't know because I was not there. I like to imagine it is, because this dovetails nicely with my fantasy world of running off and being a nameless and wandering nobody (see my earlier post titled "The Wandering").

I had to get my post from yesterday out about the nameless homeless woman I spoke to before I wrote about Don. Don is a homeless guy that hangs out in the park near my office that I meditate at most days. I had spoken to a few other homeless people after my first encounter with the nameless woman. Most were awkward and not very fruitful in finding a connection. Some of the people were quite insane, not in a dangerous way but certainly in a way that hinders a deep and meaningful conversation. Then I happened upon Don.

I had observed Don several times in the park as I would sit and meditate. He looked like an older guy, with gray hair and a bushy gray beard. He was certainly homeless with the required shopping cart full of his possessions, but he looked well kept. He did not look to be filthy and dressed like a normal older guy of meager means. Don would also just sit at the park like me. He seemed to just enjoy being there. Many people would pass Don, but I never once saw him ask for a handout or anything. He did greet a few people kindly, but it never looked like the beginning of the normal routine with some people where "hello" quickly turns into "can you spare some change". Don just wanted to offer a sincere greeting to a passersby. Don seemed to me to be the very model of a Steinbeck tramp.

After observing Don a few times and sharing the park with him, I decided to go over and say hello. Don was very friendly and I asked him if he minded if I sat down with him for a chat. He said sure and looked to be grateful for the company. As before, I did not tell Don I was a policeman because that always changes the dynamic of the conversation. We talked about simple things and I asked him questions about his life. I did not want this to be an interview, but just a conversation where you get to know some things about a person.

Don seemed to be completely mentally sound and was not drunk or high on anything. He said he is 57 years old. I asked him where he usually stays and he told me he has a good overhang he sleeps at. I asked him how long he had been on the streets. He told me since 1982. I exclaimed that this was quite a long time. He says the only time since 1982 he has not been a tramp what when he did ten years in prison for a stolen car and weapons charge. This actually blew my mind. Don seemed like a good guy. I would love to know the story behind that but I did not press. I was content to know the Don sitting beside me now, not the Don that got himself locked up in prison. I asked Don what had caused him to be homeless. He told me nothing caused him to, he just decided this was the life he wanted. He said that he enjoyed the freedom. He had no wife or kids. He worked when he needed or wanted to work. He seemed genuinely happy with his life. There was no woe is me story. No destructive drug use, no mental illness, just a guy that wanted to live his own life his own way. I asked Don if he had it to do over again, what would he choose? Would he chose a life like mine with a good career, steady pay, a good home and a son or would he live his life as it is now. He said without a moment of hesitation that he would be who he is now. He liked what and who his was. He enjoyed the absolute freedom to be his own man, and he seemed to be getting by just fine.He asked me what kind of work I did and I told him. He was only a little surprised because I had already spent time showing him that I was genuine and compassionate and was not defined by my career. We chatted a bit more in a way similar to how you would chat with a neighbor. Small talk with just enough familiarity and connection to make the chat worthwhile. We talked until I told him I should probably get back to my office. He joked that they might start looking for me if I don't. As I stood to go, I reached into my pocket and handed him a five dollar bill. Don had not asked for or expected this. I told him to go have a nice lunch somewhere and he thanked me with genuine gratitude. A five means almost nothing to me, but Don could enjoy a nice burger or something and reflect on the kindness of a stranger as he ate it.

I see Don every few days and always go over to say hello to him. Sometimes I give him a few bucks if I have it on me, sometimes I don't. I ask how he is doing and make sure he is staying warm and dry somewhere. He assures me his two sleeping bags are quite cozy. He asks me about my work and when we are going to move into the new building across the street. It is always a good conversation both directions and well worth the time. He never expects money but seems to really enjoy the chat. He is a human being and a man, and I imagine few people talk to him as an equal. I like to think that by chatting with my friend Don, we both gain something meaningful. I get to gain perspective on those much different from me and show compassion. Don gets to feel like a neighbor and maybe get a few bucks to spend on something.

Some may look at Don and be disgusted. Get a job, they may think. He is loafing on my tax dollars they may think. I think if the government can pay for all the ridiculous pork barrel politics or to fly IRS employees to Las Vegas for a week of "training", we can help Don along a bit with some warm soup and clothes from charity. I honestly envy Don. He was sure of what he wanted his life to be and was brave enough to take that leap of faith. He sticks with his decision and is OK with who he is. I envy his freedom and his willingness to walk his own path. Goodnight Don. Stay warm out there, you bindle bum.

A Dollar for Your Thoughts?

A month or two ago, I was reading this book about Buddhism. The name of it escapes me, but it was a simplified crash course type thing mean for us scatter brained Americans We need our information processed and simplified like a chicken McNugget. Regardless of this, It was a good book with some pretty good thoughts and concepts on how to me more human from a Buddhist perspective.

Buddhism is all about compassion. I think most peaceful religions are if you really study them. Jesus hung out with the whores and tax collectors because he had compassion for what their lives had become. Through this compassion, he changed lives and attitudes. I cannot give a specific example of a Buddhist version of this because of the McNugget nature of my meager reading thus far. More studying is needed. 

One of the concepts that stood out to me in reading this book was a statement about how humans can only see about a hundred people as human beings. This was based on some study the author referenced and has something to do with the fact that our brains evolved from the perspective of a relatively small band of monkeys (a herd? a gaggle? a flock? I don't know the proper term). There were no monkey metropolises, unless you count that one from the Planet of the Apes movie with Markie Mark where he goes somewhere in time and crash lands at the monkey Lincoln Memorial. That movie was actually considered torture under the Geneva Convention and therefore does not count. Our chimp and caveman forefathers were in smallish groups of no more than about a hundred, and I guess our storage capacity to know more people than that did not get upgraded as we learned to be what we are today. According to this study, our family, our friends, our coworkers or classmates, our neighbors, and so on, fill up this one hundred person capacity. Beyond that, the people we interact with are just objects. They are that thing that gives me my Big Mac, that thing I give my dry cleaning to, that thing that drives the bus, or that thing that checks me out at the register. Homeless people have it even worse. During the study, peoples brain activity was monitored as they interacted with different people. When they saw or interacted with a homeless person, the brain reacted in the same way it does when it sees or interacts with trash. To the unenlightened human mind, a homeless guy is the same as a discarded candy wrapper or a dog turd that was not picked up by an inconsiderate pet owner. Holy crap! How can that even be? It shocks the conscience to think of such a thing, but deep inside you know it to be true. It might not be like that for all humanity, but I bet it is close to the way it is for most.

After my brain explosion and subsequent spiritual healing, I found this to be wholly unacceptable. I decided I needed to try and interact with those thought of as garbage as actual human beings. On my first encounter, I had just left the courthouse downtown to drop off some paperwork. There is every sort of humanity you can imagine around the courthouse. As expected, there were several homeless people. I passed a dirty and smelly woman that was likely younger than me, but with many hard miles on her. She mumbled something half hearted about if I had some change to spare. Usually I politely decline and am never rude or hateful to such requests. I kept my walking pace and began to speak whatever my polite refusal would be and stopped dead in my tracks. The thought of this woman being perceived by most as a piece of garbage shot to the front of my thoughts. When I walk downtown, I hide what my profession is for many reasons related to safety and wanting to me part of the invisible masses. This woman did not know I was a police officer because she would have never asked such a thing from a cop. I did not reveal myself and took a seat beside her.

Sitting beside her took her by surprise. I was also quite surprised I had actually done something so foreign and out of character. We were both quite uncomfortable with this odd situation but I decided to forge ahead. I told her I did indeed have a dollar, but that she would have to earn it. The look on her face was priceless. I'm sure she was envisioning giving me a handie behind the dumpster or something. I quickly explained that I just wanted to have a sincere conversation with her. This also seemed to surprise her, but we both just rolled with it.

I asked her what her name was and she told me. I explained to her my little idea of talking to people as a way of recognizing their humanity and the one hundred people thing. She wasn't really getting it, and I struggled to connect. I know how to talk to people, I know how to pry conversation out of the most unwilling of people and went to work. I remember her odor and knew she was legitimately homeless and living on the streets. I asked her where she stayed and she said she had a tent over in the woods by the highway. I knew this place to be a regular area for the homeless. I tried my best to not be condescending or make her feel like some sort of experiment. I ask her what put her on the streets and she tells me its from being stupid. I press a bit and she says its the meth. I, of course, know this from her appearance and condition before I even asked but I wanted the conversation to gain some momentum. We continue to chat in somewhat sincere small talk. She mentions her struggles and her dreams and I just listen or comment enough to keep her chatting. She becomes a human being to me, someones daughter, someones lover, someones friend. Someone with hopes, desires, and fears just like all of us have. We sit and chat for several minutes. The talk begins to drag and I know its time to move along. I stand up and dig into my pocket for my dollar. I give her a five instead for going along with my need to connect and her effort to be genuine. 

I decide there is one more thing I want to share. I say, "you want to hear something that will blow your mind?' She is interested and says "yeah". I reach into my pocket and pull out my badge and ID card with my picture in uniform. Her eyes get wide and uncertain. I tell her I am a cop and then say "have you ever had this kind of interaction with a cop before?". She chuckles a "no" that means her normal interaction with police is not kind or human at all. I say something about how we both learned something today with her having a five dollar genuine chat with a police officer that would usually be telling her to get lost unless she wants to go to jail. She seems genuinely amused by this. I tell her goodbye and walk on around the corner. I feel good about this encounter, but I cannot remember her name. I am very bad about remembering names and it is quite important this time to know who I just spoke with. How can you be human without a name?

I quickly head back to where I had last seen her but she is gone. She has faded off into the city, slowly making her way down some street like a discarded newspaper in the eyes of most that see her. This connection was made and lost in only a few minutes. I like to think that she got more than just five dollars from this deal. Hopefully she felt like a real person with value, someone worth listening to. Even if just for a moment, I hope I gave her a bit humanity and a meaningful existence this day. 

I'm a Lumberjack, and I'm OK

So I think I have already covered this, but I worked an awful lot of overtime these last two weeks. Today was the beginning of the intermission until I start working myself silly in December. Anyway, it was glorious. I slept late, but not too late. I read a bit. I relaxed in general. I considered doing some house work or unpacking (we moved in a month ago), but ultimately did a load of laundry and called it good. My biggest indulgence of the day was devoted to my new woodworking and bowl carving hobby.

Somehow my when my brain broke this past spring, I came out of it with a strong desire to be creative and artistic. This blog is one of the results. I have built things, got into collecting and polishing rocks and gems, have plans to paint and sculpt, and then the woodworking. I have many plans for woodworking, but I am currently focused on bowl carving. The idea is to take a log, and carve it into a beautiful bowl using only hand tools. No lathe to turn bowls, where you can make a pretty awesome bowl in an afternoon. No chainsaws. No electric sanders, no power anything. My one and only concession to this is an electric drill to use when I build my bowl carving horse. I need to drill four inch and a half holes into a eight inch diameter log for the legs and then its back to the 18th century tool wise. The hand tool aspect is what appeals to me most. This takes commitment and patience. It is very zen like to work this way, very good for the soul. I have ordered all the tools and am only waiting for my adze and bearded carving axe to arrive from Europe. I was so eager to get started, I carved a wooden mallet to use with my chisels and gouges because I didn't need special tools for that. It just needs some finishing touches and its ready to go. My next project is the most important, the bowl carving horse.

A carving horse is basically a raw log that is about 8 inches in diameter and about 36 inches long. It stands on its 4 legs just below waist level. Right in the middle you cut a section out that is about a foot and a half long and halfway through the log. You wedge the log into this part while you are hacking all the non bowl parts away. There is also an "L" cut into one end for when you don't want your piece so tied down. The legs are made from a single log that is quartered, with its four parts shaved into legs. It is primitive and also a working work of art.

Today I ventured out into the creek and wooded area behind my neighborhood to find my carving horse. I needed a tree to be the right size and straight. It needed to be a hardwood tree that had enough straight section for the carving area and legs. My added problem is that I didn't want to just chop down some majestic tree and use only a bit of it. I had to find the right tree, hopefully one with a good sized side branch so the tree could continue on living but donate a bit of itself to my art. I searched and searched and could find no such tree. The candidates were either not straight or not thick enough. I wandered in these beautiful woods and along the peaceful creek, listening to the ever so calming sounds of gently flowing water from the recent rains. I was not discouraged or frantic, because I knew the right tree would find me. I tend to think most things are less about the destination and more about the journey, and this journey was what I needed after the arduous month I have had.

I had followed the creek for a good distance when I came upon an area just ahead that looked different. I scrambled up the embankment and walked into this most amazing group of trees. They were all elm trees and they were all growing parallel to the ground towards the south. There were at least a dozen of these trees, all together. They were mature trees, twenty years old at least but likely older. It was hard to tell because of the odd way they had all grown. I had so many curious thoughts about how on earth this had happened. I could see no damage, like a tornado or wind storm and blown then down and they tenaciously kept growing. It was just like they all sprouted, grew a bit, then decided to head south. I also thought about the wicked awesome fort I could make around these trees, since I'm basically a boy at heart. Each tree was perfectly straight and more than thick enough for my needs. I could not cut a single one of these amazing trees down though, that would be an abomination, a selfish indulgence that would rob the forest of this amazing display. I knew all this the moment I saw these trees so I just enjoyed them for awhile as the daylight began to fade. I decided it was time to head home, refreshed with my journey when I happened upon "my tree".

My tree was similar to the others I had marveled at. It had been damaged thought. The damage was not very old but it was evident that the tree was dying. It would be soil again in the not so distant future and I could see the insects doing their work at the damaged area. The wonderful thing was that there was a perfect straight and thick area from the ground and to the damage. It was more than what I needed and the best part is that I wasn't ruining a healthy and interesting tree. It was like an organ donation, though it was dying, it would live on through my art. How perfectly poetic.

I went to work with my tools. I had brought all I would need, my large axe, my hatchet and my crosscut saw. They were all purchased from Home Depot and not vintage. Side note; Would I be some kind of weird hipster if I used vintage tools? I would if I could find them, but I have been unsuccessful in finding what I need. The Home Depot tools have no soul, but certainly get the job done.

The work was hard, but I knew it would be so. This is the journey I enjoy. I sawed and a chopped and down came my tree. The sunlight continued to fade but I wanted to accomplish my goal. As dusk came and turned into evening, I just finished cutting my two logs to size. I left them where they lay since I have yet to figure out a creative way to drag them home efficiently. I will return to this enchanted spot in the forest sometime this week to bring them home. I may quarter my log that will become my legs in the forest for ease of transport, and for the opportunity to just be there and work surrounded by natures beauty.

I packed up my tools, tired but satisfied in a way that only comes from fruitful hard work. It was quite dark by this time. I went to the edge of the forest and followed the edge of the farmers field along the tree line towards the main path home. I am quite sure I was trespassing during this entire adventure, but that just makes it more interesting. I am an outlaw lumberjack, a loose cannon who plays by his own rules. Maybe one of my rules needs to involve bringing a flashlight next time though.

I trudged through the early night. I was in not hurry, for I enjoy the night. I savor the night and its peace and quiet. I have never feared the night, but embrace it. I let it surround and envelop me until I become part of the night. My mind was clear and my stress was gone as I made my way down my dark path. I could see nothing but the night guided me as a friend would do.

When I was nearing my home, my son called me to make sure I wasn't dead. I love that boy with his thoughtful and responsible nature. I assured him I was quite alive but was just enjoying the night. I got home and entered through the garage so that I could remove my muddy boots and dirty work clothes. I sat in my garage in the quiet and let the events of the evening sink in and become part of my ever changing story. I am grateful for today, for the creek and forest that someone unknowingly allows me to wander, and I am grateful for my donor tree. My mind is at peace and tomorrow will be another chance to find the beauty in this life I live.