Lyrics: indecision and frustration, wanting to be different

Which road shall I choose

you think by now I’d have traveled through

But I’m still wondering which road I should take

you think i’ be gone from this place.

Like the spokes on a wheel

decisions spin me around

i’m the hub and i can’t deal

with this force that pushes me down

Maybe this crossroad is my home

i should be content and want to  roam

maybe traveling is for some other day

and indecision will be my fate

Water and time they say can erode

the tallest mountain and the hardest stone

my tears are plenty and time comes and goes

but nothing washes off the filth from this road

Well, i sit here

in this dust and dirt

and often wonder what is my worth

others pass by me and i sit still

some day i’ll show them how fast

i can roll these wheels

Maybe this crossroads is not my home

this grit and grime is not my load

maybe traveling is for this fine day

and this crossroad i’ll leave in a dusty wake

Lyrics: just a short tune ’bout longing for God

I want to know you

like the bluegrass

knows the morning dew

I need you

like the full moon

needs the sun

I am lonesome for you

like a dying soldier is

lonesome for home

why I went to the wintery woods

I stood with my children and shotgun in hand, the gun, a rite of passage bought for me by my grandfather. It was my turn to begin sharing what little I know of the woods, what I know of hunting. I began with squirrels, so will they. In my grandfather’s generation plowing and hunting meant eating, tied to nature for survival. Hunting is sport, but it is much more than bagging game. I hunt little, but when I do it is inevitably a connection to my Appalachian heritage and to nature.

A small white barked tree shivered,  canopy rattling, refusing to let go its now useless cinnamon leaves. Small pellets of frozen rain salted the leafy forest floor. Valley trees reached, limbless  and straight, until they spiked to claim space for the sun. Mosses coveted the north. Ecosystems recycling tough debris, eking out an existence on bark and rocks. They were spiders, sponges, carpets, and scales contrasting the grey with iridescent yellow, kelly, emerald, sage, and crayola greens.

Eyes looking. Mind remembering. Ears tuning. Breath focusing. Energy like an antenna waiting for signs of why I came to the woods: the sound of rustling leaves on the floor of leaves or the squirrel’s bark, the sight of bending tree limbs, bounding puffs of grey fur, or bursts of the quick moving animal on a trunk. Nothing…

Nothing except time spent in nature with my children, passing on tradition. Nothing except seeing the landscape I knew as a boy and the childhood memories which accompany them. Memories like running to the house in a thunderstorm from the woodland pond, fishing pole in hand or looking for crawdaddies (crayfish) underneath the rocks of the stream, mending fences with granddaddy, learning where the old road snaked at the base of the ridge, playing war in the wide channels between the rock walls of the barren iron-ore strip mine.

In the end it was a short trip of an hour. The only wildlife seen were a few birds. We saw deer tracks and droppings. The ten inches of rain over the past two weeks had swollen the usually dry creek beds. A small waterfall rushed. My boots sank calf high in the creek mud. We were cold, the kids were wet. We hunted.

In a world of instant reward it is not easy to come back empty handed. But it is the empty game bags that are the backdrop of the fabled tales. My dad and I reminisced about some of his hunting days, some of ours together. I sat with pride as he told of his favorite bird dog Ace, the dog I had wanted and selected-the best dog he ever owned. Ace was known to be on point while softly holding a retrieved bird in his mouth. Once, while crossing a creek, Ace lost footing on a log he was using as a bridge. He pointed a quail while he straddled the log.

Dad spoke fondly of other dogs, of dove hunts, of shooting doubles and triples, of old hunting companions. All of this inextricably entwined with nature and time spent with animals, in the woods, with fathers, sons, and daughters.

Pride and Prejudice

There is another element of fear, deeper and more subtle. This fear occurs in me when confronted with different belief systems. The essence of the fear is that when my beliefs are challenged I fear they may be in fault: is what I believe actually true or to those of you in a world of relativism ‘true enough’.

When I started yoga I was cautious of engaging in spiritual dimensioned conversation. Instead, I spent time doing a minimal time of research, particularly about kundalini yoga, kundalini awakening, and yogis who spent countless hours in meditation. Honestly, I do not understand any of these things. They are a very foreign concept to this southern hillbilly. After all, I cut my teeth on protestantism trice weekly. Liturgy would have been sacrilege.

When the opportunity arose, I asked my yoga teacher about some of these foreign concepts. I asked what was all the hullabaloo with these yogis meditating for years and then people coming to worship them and seeking blessings. He basically said that Jesus went around talking to and blessing people. Hmmm, he had a point. Then in a facebook post he quoted “Truly, the wise proclaim that love is the only path, love is the only God, and love is the only scripture.” -Swami Kripalu. Great statement, except do I think that “love is the only God.”

The point is not for me to set my yoga teacher straight and argue him into believing my way. Gotta look at myself here. Why am I insecure about my beliefs? I have pleaded with many Christians to take a look at the hundreds of denominations and cultures who practice Christianity. It is mind boggling. When I think about it, how can I feel that my belief system is the one that is absolutely right. Understand, I am not making an argument for relativism. I am simply trying to relay that if I have it figured out, then I should be God, or at least know Him better than others.

So what do I do with all of this? I wait. I let the dust settle. I let God do the work in my mind and in the hearts of other people. All the while remaining pliable to Him, trusting that He is working. Who knows what my job is here? More often than not, when I think I may need to fix someone or join a group because they need my help and wisdom, I find that I am the one challenged. I am the one who grows into a deeper relationship with others. I see the infinitesimal, unexplainable nature of God: I feel God’s grace towards me. I am humbled.

God is love. Does that mean love is God? Is that not Swami Kripalu said? Because he is a Swami, does that make him wrong? Personally, I do not know anything about the guy. I only know that my pride and prejudice wants to instantly discount what he said. Or, perhaps, twist what he said to make me feel OK. To do this, I must search you see! I must unravel what love is. I must unwind who God is.

The older I get, the less I know and the younger old people look.

Livin’ on the edge of fear

Aerosmith sang about livin’ on the edge. FDR said “the only thing to fear is fear itself”. I say that I have spent most of my life living out of fear. Not fear of the boogeyman or snakes or dismemberment; but rather, a fear of what other people might think of me.

Well, that is the way it is with my memory boxes. Fear. What do these people think of me now? Well, praise Jesus who has not given me a spirit of fear! If there is one thing I learned at my class reunion, most everybody’s self-esteem was and is fragile. I suppose they’re a few out there who are OK with themselves.

But, we all got our props. People get bilateral breast augmentation, abdominoplasty, brachioplasty, gluteal implants, botox (botulinum + toxin = botox, nothing like a little flaccid paralysis to rejuvenate the eyelids), lips enlarged, gastric bypasses. Cut on with a knife and implanted with synthetics all for the sake of fear. Yes, I know that their is real psychological benefits. Yes, I am a man and I notice boobs. Big ones pop right out. Can’t help it. So, the male population has been stimulated much by plastic surgery.

This is not what I intended at all. But, I am not changing it one damn bit.

The poignant question  is what am I willing to give up to the slave master, fear? Fear is a safe little hiding place. I can peek around the corner, if I see something that I imagine to be bad for me, I can shut my eyes. I can withdraw and lurk about like Gollum.

Sidebar, my first degree is a bachelors of music in studio music an jazz, intimately referred to as a B.M. I was scared to death of setting foot on the campus of UTK. I kid you not. I made sure that everyone of my classes was in the music building when I migrated from PSTCC to the big time. When I went back to get my nursing degree, I took classes all over the place. I met different people. I changed.

Most recently I stepped into New Moon Yoga a few months ago. Geez, I thought would I step into a room of ultra thin, stretchy vegans who were out to proselytize me, making me sing Vedic hymns or put a lei of flowers on the smiling Buddah. I went.

You see, as a child I found a yoga book and promptly set about my practice as I pondered the black and white picture of someone in simhasana / bhairavasanawas (aka lions pose, see pic). Tiggering up the shag carpet stairs, my mind was filled with joy as I set about to announce that I would from henceforth be a practitioner of yoga. This was blunted. I was told yoga was hard, a painintheassana. No encouragement to explore. What I heard was that I could not do yoga. I became afraid, yoga went in the box.I missed a wonderful opportunity to grow. Now, I no longer fear yoga. I ‘m not vegan, flexible, or thin, but I am in the mix of it all. I enjoy the practice and the people more than anything I have done physically in the past…and spiritually-no we don’t sing Vedic hymns, but we do listen to PVC didgeridoo! One more bit. I am going to be the most flexible person in my family! Then, and only then, will my greatness shine forth as THE CHOSEN ONE! yyyyeeeEELLLLPPPP!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

“Don’t fear the reaper” (Blue Öyster Cult)

RE: boxes

In a recent counseling session I asked my therapist if the thoughts that are in my head are normal. To this she said,  “F*#$%@’ normal”. I have pondered this-not the expletive, but the idea that I am normal in some ways. The thoughts I have make complete sense considering my past. They are not thoughts about which I should be ashamed.

Yoga, particularly the practice of relaxation in savasana, has taught me something similar. That is to be aware of my thoughts without judging them, to watch them pass before my spirit without critique.

So with an attitude of watching my emotions and thoughts unashamedly, I write further about the box I opened in my previous post. It is not yet completely unpacked.

It happened quickly. It was a whirlwind. It was unexplainable. It was perplexing. I thought I had betrayed someone so I stuffed it all in the box. Taped it. Shelved it. Forgot it.

Now, some of these questions are answered and I am experiencing emotions that, maybe, I should have felt years ago. I am finally grieving. I am joyful in forgiveness and understanding.

It is paradox, sorrow mingled with sunlight. The dirge is ending-misunderstanding is buried. The celebration is begining-understanding is resurrected.

This is the work of Love.

Hallelujah!

fb and boxes on the shelf

I have said it myself, facebook can be a dangerous place. A place where people can reconnect is great, but it can be dangerous. I know I have heard of people leaving house, hearth, and family for someone they have met on the virtual community. Myself, knowing my tendency to get easily emotionally attached, I have avoided old girlfriends. Not the other night.

Her name sat there on the chat list. I clicked. Typed in “hey”, which was met with a big “halloooo”. We chatted for three hours and talked on the phone for another hour. I wasn’t ready to pack my bags. I didn’t have phone sex. What I had was a much needed genuine exchange with another human with whom I had intimately connected in my youth. It was healing, freeing…

I think of memories like boxes on the shelf.  Some, like those of my granddaddy, I’ll open and enjoy the memories. Other boxes? Well they have been taped shut, essentially because there are questions about what is inside the box. What really happened? Did I do the right thing? Was I really an ass to her? I suppose that what is really happening is that I am afraid of finding out who I really am or was. So I live in fear, begging the labels on the box to stay too dusty to read.

I faced my fears, dusted off the label, took out the box cutter, sliced the tape, opened the box, and peered inside. My fears were graciously allayed  and so were hers. You see, intimate connections last (that doesn’t mean you have to act on them). When these things happened to me as a young man, I didn’t know that they would have the ability to pierce me later in life. But they do.

So here’s to cleaning out dusty attic boxes. Cheers!

Knoxville Murder Trial, my opinion/ 2 cents worth.

I do not take too much interest in local news, normally. I find that local news is usually not news at all. I am not a gawker at the unfortune of others. In fact, just yesterday I went to Dick’s Sporting Goods only to find three fire trucks, a couple of ambulances, squad cars, a mother cradling a baby being checked out by a paramedic, a slew of onlookers, and a grey minivan teetering on one of those yellow concrete pillars that protects the sidewalk. I parked my car. Saw that the situation was under control and went on into Dick’s to shop. My help was not needed. So, I went on without asking questions. Technically speaking, I am an RN with my ACLS certification, so I guess I could have entered the scene to see if they needed help. I digress.

I seemed to have been inevitably thrust into the Lamaricus Davis trial for his involvement in the murder of Chris Newsom and Channon Christian. At lunch today one of my coworkers started going over the gory details of the murders explicitly. I left while they were mid sentence. I had heard enough. Then, when the jury was rendering its sentencing recommendation, coworkers were in the break room watching the TV waiting for the news. I went into my patient’s room and heard “four death penalties” come from my patient’s mouth. I knew what they were talking about. Some offered up opinions as to why justice was served and why the family needed this for closure. I sat mostly quiet, offering up a few ambiguous questioning remarks.

You see, I think in times like these-when a community gets hit with tragedy-open dialogue is good. And, that is why I am writing my 2 cents worth here. Not to be right. Not to be cross-examined or harassed. But, rather, to look at the big picture from my own point of view. I offer this only as spring board of thought and conversation.

First of all let me say that I think the murders were as heinous as they come. Despicable, depraved, nasty, evil, hellish, ghastly, unfathomable, inhuman, inconceivable and simply wrong are other words that come to mind. The pain, indignity, suffering, etc. that the victims were put through is mind wrenching. They did not deserve what happened to them. The family does not deserve the pain of trying to imagine the last thoughts and emotions of their children. Moreover, the families of the perpetrators do not deserve the terror wondering what happened to their children, imagining what could possibly be going through the minds of their own relatives that would cause them to engage in the flagrant mutilation of other humans.

If my kids were the victims. I would want to carry out the punishment myself. If I were the perpetrators family, I would want my children to live and have a chance to change their lives, even if it meant they spent the rest of their lives in jail. As a member of society, I want a statement of justice that clearly demonstrates that this behavior will not be tolerated in our community; where boundaries are crossed, expect justice. I want justice. I am just not sure what that means.

Some tout the benevolence of Jesus, yet others lean towards his “eye for an eye” statements. I have read the philosopher Mortimer Adler say that if life is an inalienable right endowed by our creator, then who are we as humans to take it. Meaning that even though someone may take another person’s life, the perpetrator does not forfeit their inalienable right to life. It is not tit for tat, so to speak. I have read and thought, have yet to come up with conclusive answers that can be blanketed and applied to every situation.

As a Christian I believe this “[It is of] the LORD’S mercies that we are not consumed, because his compassions fail not”. Lamentations 3.22. We are all guilty. If I the parent lust for the death of my son’s or daughter’s killer, then I am a murderer too. If I fantasize about killing them in the same horrific way, then I wonder if I am better. Today I thought that when this most horrible of crimes occurred that all heaven weeped and all hell rejoiced. I imagined that tears were shed for the victim’s pain and also for the depravity of the poor lost souls who committed the crimes. Hell rejoiced in the depravity and the pain. It is all so very sad and sickening.

The last thought I have is about the victims’ families. If I were in their situation, I too would relish in what I could. Each death sentence would be a moment of luscious enjoyment. But, because of mercy, I am today blessed to not be in their shoes. From a distance I know they want retribution. I can only hope that they do not believe that any sentence received by the guilty will fill the emptiness that has lunged into their lives. I do not believe that they would feel better if, like one of my coworkers suggested, the guilty were subjected to a similar daily torture until they committed suicide. Only God can heal this wound. It will not be when the verdicts are rendered and punishment is meted out. (It can be a couple of decades before a person on death row makes it to the end). It may be a life time. It may be never. But healing will never be without God.

Thanks for reading. Again, this is my humble opinion. I do not want to argue.

The NFL and me.

Like many people, I find that I am entertained by watching football. The older I get the more I appreciate the NFL, mostly for the level of play. The business portion of the league, primarily player’s salaries, seem gratuitous to me. But that, my friends, is a debate in which I do not wish to engage. What I want to convey is my personal feelings toward the game and why I am a fan. That is all. Then again, I like razzing the Steelers fans at my work as much as the next person.

I like the NFL because it can be art. It is art just as any profession becomes an art when a gifted person works to take their God given potential to a level of transcendence. Drawing from another sport, remember Michael Jordan. To this day I am in awe when watching documentaries of him play. He was created to play basketball, he worked hard at it, and the result was beauty. Watching him play was like watching dancing-power manifested effortlessly. Watching him play is inspirational. There are a few football players that I have turned on the tube to see them play: Lynn Swann as he soared for a reception, Walter Payton, Barry Sanders, Reggie White, Brett Favre, Mean Joe Green, Dick Butkus, Peyton Manning, et al.

That’s why I watch the NFL. I am not a fan as in “fanatic”, where I am consumed with stats. I am simply an enjoyer of the game. Of course I have my favorite team and it is not because they are known for winning or show-stopping players. Honestly, I think I picked my team because my grandmother’s favorite bird was a cardinal. I have a picture of me as a child at Christmas wearing a ¾ jersey sleeve St. Louis Cardinals football t-shirt, white with red sleeves, and a cardinal helmet on the front. I guess I have never found a reason not to like them. I like underdogs, which they perpetually are. I like it when people play for the love of the sport not necessarily winning. Obviously, some long standing Cardinals like Adrian Wilson and Roger Wherli must have. Of course Pat Tillman deserves an honorable mention as a Cardinals team member because he gave up football to serve in the military. For the life of me it does not make sense to be a Cardinals fan. No one from the Vols currently plays on the team. They do not have any geographic connection. Although, I did visit the St. Louis Arch when they in Missouri. I simply like the mascot (as ferocious as it is), the color, and the fact that Me Ma had a woven basket purse with a porcelain cardinal on the lid. I guess there are cooler answers, but that is mine.

Last year I decided to come out of the closet and finally bought an article of clothing from the Arizona Cardinals. As an adult I have only owned one item from a professional team and that was a St. Louis Cardinals baseball cap. I bought it because, again, I had one as a kid. I have absolutely no interest in pro baseball. One day, while wearing it out some “real” baseball fan tried to strike up a conversation about the team I was representing. It felt kind of strange not having any answers so I rarely wear it, even though I like the hat and logo. So it was a big deal for me to buy these shirts. [Oh, for the record, I bought the shirts before their 2008 playoff run and appearance in the 2009 Super-Bowl.] Of course after their loss (a fluke! They were robbed, damn it! I hate Rothlisberger and Holmes for that play) in the big game, the clothing I had purchased became an emblem of shame which I dared not wear beyond the purpose of a pajama t-shirt. But today, I am proudly wearing the Cardinal t-shirt hoody in Panera.

Go Cards!

Softball Single

As I push-mowed under the blue late morning sky, soft cool winds confirmed that summer had waned into fall. Soon the roar of my small Briggs & Stratton would be replaced by the quieter swish of leaf raking. My mind wandered as I methodically paced the lawn. I began to think about my eight year old daughter and her batting skills in softball.

This fall I replaced her 25 in/15oz tee ball bat with a slightly larger 27in/17oz youth fast pitch bat. Would the two inches and two ounces make a difference in her batting? She is not the star player on the team. She is deep on the batting charts and usually plays backup behind the short-stop. However, she manages to get on base on most of her at bats. In one recent game she scored 2 of the 3 runs. She reminds me of my dad when I watched him play in a church softball league.

Being a preteen, I was too young to play with the grown men, but I went to practices and watched all the games I could. My two older brothers played in the local church league. I think they were down a player or two for the team and asked Dad if he could play. Dad was probably in his early forties at the time, but had been an active athlete through college where he played intramural sports. After college he coached my brothers and me in baseball, football, and basketball.

Though he was out of shape and had not played any kind of ball in a while, he was an asset to the team. I remember being amazed at his ability to get on base with seemingly every at bat. While some batters tried for home runs or deep balls, Dad go on base with a simple line-drive or grounder. He realized his limitations and did what he knew he could do.

I guess I feel the same way about the way I approach things, except that I want more recognition that I get. I am usually not the most outstanding performer, but I am solid. I show up to work on time and work hard while I am there. Maybe I should learn that batting singles is not such a bad place to be.