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.