A Winter’s Companion
When I was young, we did not have central air or electric heaters. So in the fall, we would gather wood for the winter. My brother and I would collect twigs for kindling, cut down trees with either a handsaw or a bow saw and split logs.
My father never said how much wood we had to bring in. We felled and gathered and chopped and cured what we thought was sufficient.
There was only one contingency. If we ran out of wood, we had to go out in the snow and gather more. Our winter clothes were minimal and most of my jeans were pretty torn up, to varying but significant degrees. Needless to say, we learned quickly to gather more wood in the fall.
When I would complain that it was painful, my father would tell me that pain meant that I was getting stronger.
In this case, “stronger,” was a euphemism for, “arthritis.”
But it significantly influenced my values in a lasting way. I learned the value of contribution, tenacity, hard work and a unbreakable will. Epictetus once wrote, “You may shackle my leg, but my will, not even Zeus could overpower.”
And at the end of the day, that is all that you have.
The difference between fortitude and fragility lies not in physical strength, but strength of mind and strength of character.
There two credos that I live by.
The first is that it is never truly possible to take out of anything more than you put in.
The second is that a person must first do what is necessary-- Then do what’s possible.
To Fly
I once had a long layover in Russia, on the way to Cyprus.
The airline was Aeroflot.
The plane was an '88 Camry of the sky.
A regular trashcan on wings.
None of the flight crew spoke English and neither did their newspapers, but given the increasing agitation of my flight attendant, when I didn't comprehend the sounds emenating from behind her scowl; I felt compelled to find a common language.
Clearly, there is an expectation that those who fly out of New York's JFK, into Cyprus, speak Russian.
I read Greek and Cyrillic reasonably well and decided to peruse the paper. As I browsed it, line by line, I realized that I knew a lot more words than I had thought. I felt the information returning. As my competence was affirmed, so was my confidence.
When the flight attendant returned, in a state of preemptive exasperation, I asked her in Russian for coffee and a glass of ice water. Her eyes brightened and I thanked her, in Russian.
I did not have a responsibility to sharpen and recall my language skills at that moment, when I had a big book of cryptograms I could have dealt with instead, but I realized that the knowledge would in no way harm me and would even be to my benefit.
I also realized that the problem here was not exclusive to here.
Fundamentally, the greatest failure in human interactions is catalyzed by a failure in communication. Her frustration was irrational, in that it is never rational to be upset about what is out of your control. But it was also human.
One of the most frustrating things wont to affect the human condition is an inability to communicate. To feel voiceless or unheard or uninformed because there is something so unfathomably intangible and abstract beyond your grasp.
It's been 5 years since I took that trip and I've learned a lot since then. But what I learned then is of lasting importance.
Sometimes, it serves one more to be kind and thoughtful, than it does to be right.
A Joke is a Very Serious Thing
Laughter rings like a bell
Resounding loudly in the night
The solemn evening, cold as hell
Illuminated by moonlight
In the distance
Hark the ringing
Abject persistence
Ecstatic singing
Of all the gurus, saints and shamans
Of all the yogis, swamis and brahmans
None can match the soulful might
Of the joker and his sweet delight
Quiessence
It seems as if it took moments
For blue skies to turn grey
Summer's sweet, sacred sun
Fell into shadow
Leaving only saturated autumnal silence
Winter's breath sends its bracing sigh into the days
Ephemeral, but omenous
Radiant leaves of bright orange, yellow and flame
Turn to brown
As I shiver and rattle
And turn pale
Without the sun's loving, warm embrace
The embers of the sky smolder into ash
The brumal days march closer
I close my eyes
Open my heart
And repose in slumber
Waiting for Spring
To rise like a phoenix
That we all might take wing
And soar
Beckoned by the loving gaze
Of blue skies once again
Don’t Think
Don't think I don't trust your words, babe
I just trust your actions better
Don't think our love's run dry, babe
Though you know it sure ain't wetter
Don't think my heart is bare
It isn't anymore
Don't think you have to care
Like you never did before
Don't think I've been set reeling
Full of hatred, grief or spite
Don't think about how I'm feeling
Just melt into the night
Memento Mori
I stopped screaming long enough to look around
And asked myself, "What if you're all alone?"
"I am." I replied.
The rage within me turned into twisted, tormented grief that tore and tortured and transformed me
I felt myself begin to mutate into a contemptible, pernicious creature
Destined to always be alone
Destined to never have love
Destined to destroy anything good
Doomed to attract all things bad
My hands, raised to the sky
Ran over my face
As a tear ran from my eye
I found that there was no escape
Nowhere to go
Nothing to become
And I sobbed and pounded the floor with my fists
Fated to live forever as I am
Until I die forever the same
A Brief Trip
I believe in courtly love
In wishing on the skies above
In chaste affection from afar
In chasing down a falling star
I believe in solitude
In a fortress called, "my mood,"
In isolation from the pain
In scars washed over by the rain
I see myself within a room
Within a world within a tomb
Encrypted, hidden, safe from time
Soaked in whiskey, water and lime
I know that I can shut it out
Fear of failure, shame and doubt
If I never try I'll never fail
In the quiet ether of my tale
I believe in second sight
Which wanders wanton in the night
I believe in love restrained
Which lies there cuffed, prostrate and chained
I believe that I will disappear
If I don't keep people near
So I send them far away
And ignore the wretched day
Hoping one day in my sight
I'll be gone by blessed night
People always said that heartbreak gets easier as you get older. They said that you get callouses and learn to move forward.
Maybe I can understand that defense mechanism a little better, now that I’m older. You get numb. Love is a little less rich and vivid. Like a painting, clear as day, of a sunrise over a magnificent open sea, in time and with age, warped into a pale, abysmal distorted image.
A sort of calm chaos that looms and whispers in your ear, “Don‘t love, don’t trust, don’t feel.” Everything‘s nice and easy and pointless. Stasis.
When you transgress and find only failure in love, the little fucker is always there to lean in and gently hiss, “I told you so.”
What they don’t tell you, is that you’ll always be vulnerable. Even the most invulnerable person and especially the rest of us. It will never cease to hurt, your past will never cease to make you question yourself. All that you’ve seen, experienced, done, will hang above your head like a piano hanging on a wire.
Your past becomes a harbinger. A reminder. An omen.
A lens that dims tomorrow. A cloud that darkens today.
There‘s nothing you can do about it. But to build the light.