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.