Climbing Free

I look up from the base and I see my own weaknesses, my errors.  I see the cracks and clefts the jagged edges and somewhere up there on that slope lies relevance......The mountain draws me out it is my proving ground......It's not that I disregard your uneasiness, it's just what I need to do.

I cling here to the side of the stone considering my route, contemplating my grip, examining the rugged cold of mortality.  I am alone on the cliff, no ropes, no heavy gear, no second chances.  I let my fears pass over me and through me,  heightening my awareness, forcing me deep into now.......It challenges me, tests my strength my mental fortitude and stamina.......Every foot I climb, in every pounding heartbeat, you are my goal.

I stand here on the summit surveying my victory, tired, out of breath and sweaty.  I have a new vantage point a higher perspective........It has pushed me, stretched me, consoled me...... I rush down to return to you a stronger man, having truly lived.  Knowing more about who I am and knowing how to love you better.

Last Leg

Today I witnessed one of the most sacred, humbling events I have been exposed to in some time. While boarding my Delta flight from Atlanta to Washington National, I witnessed two fallen soldiers in their draped caskets being saluted by another servicemen as they were loaded onto the plane. The soldiers were embarking on the last leg of their trip to their final resting place.

Most everyone who boarded the plane saw what was going on below and the cabin took on a solemnness. The soldier who stood at attention also flew with us to D.C. When it came time to deplane, the captain asked that all the passengers remain seated so the soldier could exit first and resume his duties to those who had fallen. We all sat in silence.

I am deeply sorrowful for the families of the fallen and sorry they were called to pay the ultimate price, but I was most moved by the soldier who was doing his duty to honor his fellow soldiers and staying with them on their long journey to their final resting place.

Soldier, thank you for your service to those young men, thank you for taking on such a difficult duty. Thank you for showing me what it means to honor a hero.

Same Path, Different Destination

Family is a funny thing.   There is an inertia that comes with the customs, culture, and expectations that feels like comfort and captivity at the same time.  Here are the people who have spent your formative years with you, have shared chicken pox, bathrooms and endless meals with you.  But how is it that when it comes to sharing dreams, we are so far apart?  How are my dreams unique from the overiding family mindset when my humanity is just as predictable as the next?  How is who I am so much different than who they are?  Of course, the nature vs. nurture debate topped off with the free-will component makes for interesting mental gymnastics. I can easily turn the thoughs in upon themselves, fruitless, empty and in the end coming up with no real answers.  But for the sake of this little entry, I will side step the "why" and just focus on my observations.

When I gave my mother that goodbye hug as we left Gulf Shores, I could see compassion and sorrow.... Just as all really good mothers express when their children leave, but when I look into her eyes, I see the path I am on as so foreign to her and to the rest.  It is as though I have found the energy to break inertia's hold and head into a new direction.

Again, I am not extolling any so-called uniqueness I possess.  I am not unique, nor is my different direction similar to those who go through outright familial alienation.  If it were, the divergence could easily be explained through personal pain and self-protectionism.  For me, there was no alienation.  My family is made up of people who would come to my aid.  They express and even show love for me, my well being and my future.  That's what is so puzzling.  How can 36 years of seemingly similar events.... the same vacations, same scalloped potatoes and ham, the same private school lead to vastly different dreams?

The answer could lie in the "seemingly" similar experiences.  I don't really look at the situation as the apple orchard where their limbs grow straight and my limbs grow crooked.   It is more like they are the orchard - similar, in neat rows all aligned and pruned; whereas I am an animal moving through the orchard; enjoying it in season then moving on to make my way.

Their dreams are composed of consistency and rooted with steadfast uncompromising values.  My dreams are comprised of adventure and far off places.  They value close proximity.  I value the freedom to be close or distant.  They want stability at the cost of happiness if needed.  I want happiness to magnify my highs and temper my lows.  To me sameness is stale and they see variety as unnecessary or even reckless.

I love these people an my critical lens shines on the issue to shed light on the anatomy of my dreams, not to look down on their path.  I have lived it, I know how comforting the orchard can be.  They are good people raising amazing kids.  In some ways I admire them.  In fact for those 36 years, I wanted to be them, but no matter how long I sat in the orchard, I had not roots.  My aspirations didn't hold me there, just fear, just my conformity.  When I breathed deep, put my fears aside, stood to my feet, my legs had a rhythm they needed to meter out; an internal momentum of their own that moved me on towards my true destination.

The hair has grown back, but the self estem is another story.

You see it all started when my court appointed psychologist recommended I get out and become a productive part of society by becoming gainfully employed. He said it would improve my shattered self-esteem and take my "lifestyle burden" off of the shoulders of American taxpayers. Unfortunately, my parole officer agreed and they recommended that I cut my haggard beard and pony tail and try to present myself as a respectable "completely reformed" citizen.

So I set off to clean up my act in the thriftiest way I knew how, by begging. I fashioned my "need haircut" sign out of the best malt liquor box I could find near my residence for the evening and headed off to the nearest busy intersection. Looking back I might have worded my calling card a little differently as the reaction I received wasn't quite what I expected. You see in my line of work the most convenient means of procuring goods and services is to obtain currency rather than good will. I may ask for a job, but deep down what we really want is cash. I expected little handouts here and there but I received something a little different.

The first person who noticed my sign stopped and began to ask me just how I planned on "earning" my haircut. In fact, he asked a lot of questions, like was I good with controlled substances, just how much "stuff" I could carry at one time, if I could use a pistol in a pinch and whether or not I knew how to identify the authorities from a distance. Being a man of reduced liberties, firearms are something my parole officer warned me to stay away from. So I thanked the kind stranger for his interest, but declined his charity and he went on his way.

The second person who displayed interest in my predicament pulled to my side of the road on a tricked out Vespa; stopped and introduced himself as Perry. He was about 4'-8" tall and spoke in a high voice with a southern accent. The part I found most interesting about Perry was his attire. He wore a red scarf, western denim shirt and black leather chaps (no pants). After circling me a few times in an intense stare, he told me he would be happy to get me all lathered up and that the shave and haircut would be his “delight”. That all sounded good until he began to rub his hands through my hair and repeat over and over “yeah, this feels so right”. I began to feel a little uncomfortable and so I thanked Perry for his offer and he left in a huff.

At this point, my spirits began to sag and I began to wonder if compassion had completely gone out of style like my braided locks. Just when I couldn’t have gotten any lower, a brightly decorated van pulled over and out popped 8 slender men in orange robes with shaved heads. A beacon of light in the midst of utter darkness. I thought to myself, these guys look like they know their way around a razor... so off we went to their compound in the happy van. The haircut was the first matter of business, but these guys insisted I discard my clothes and adopt their fashion. After I put on the new digs, we had lunch. The food was great but those people really know how to chant… wow I was beginning to wonder if we would ever get around to eating. Time and time again I explained that I do not play the tambourine, but again this group was persistent. After lunch we all joined hands for meditation and they would just not take no for an answer. It was then that I began to wonder just how long this “haircut” was going to last as they did not seem interested in returning me to my temporary domicile. In fact, the more I asked, the more irritated they became so after the dancing and chanting the sun went down and I bolted. I thumbed my way back to civilization as quick as I could.

Now I am not one to complain, they say everything happens for a reason. The cut was a little closer than I would have liked and the 30 mile hike was more than I expected, but I have this awesome new robe and I have learned a little bit more about my tolerance for succumbing to social norms.…

Rufus

Things are a little quiet at home, but I don't have to worry about him, or look him in the eyes as I leave him behind.  I don't have to see the disappointment in his face as he comes to understand that he won't be joining me on the adventure called today.  I made the right decision, but I am not sure if he understood it was his time.


I wish you could have met him.  I wish you could have seen his grandeur, his confidence.  He liked everyone he met, but he was MY dog.  As much as I chose him, he chose me too.  He bound himself to me and was my unconditional companion.  Even though he did not speak with words, we had so many conversations.  He could sense my mood and I his.  I have had other dogs in my life, but nothing like him.  They were never as regal, never as loyal and never ever as committed.

He took great pride in giving me all he was, in showing me the tremendous animal he had been breed to be.  I was often amazed by his instinct and his generosity; in the same way he accepted me and gave me his all, I took great pride in receiving him for all he was.  We would sit on the bed and just grin at each other, contented to exchange the best of what we could offer each other and overlook everything else.  Life was good and that made our place feel like home.

For those of you that do know us, for those of you who knew him, you know that there was a time that he desperately needed me. He knew he belonged with me and that whatever had happened to separate us didn't matter to him, he knew we needed to be together.  You also know that there was a time that he helped pull me through;  that he and I would go back and forth depending on each other, traveling down the road together.  Many times we were all we had.

I know Rufus was an animal, I know he was just a dog, but to whatever capacity his spirit could reach out, it reached out to ME and we understood one another.  We were at ease with each other.  We were connected.  Whenever we were apart, we were anxious, but together we were comforted.  Wherever we were, whatever uncertainty we faced, together we had our place in the world called home.  Today home doesn't feel the same.