In this season of materialistic orgy, I thought this post to be quite apropos.
Everything you have, have ever had, or will ever have, at some point, will cease to be; nothing is constant except change. In the modern western world we are lucky. We have plenty, more than we can want. All it takes is the drive and the means and presto, you have the item of your desire. While people in Haiti literally eat dirt, a person of average means in the US lives better than most nobility in past ages. From gold plated shower curtain rings to sneakers that light up to plastic novelty Santa Clause’s, ours is a world of things.
However, owning things, while a blessing, is also a curse. Things need to be safe guarded; protected. Other people may covet your items and take them. Things can get lost or broken. Many things require maintenance and updating, such as cars and computers. In addition, you have to have a place to store your things, closets, garages, etc. We may have to account for or track our things, such as the registration for our automobiles.
We also get attached to our things. If something we are bonded to gets broken, we may experience real emotional pain. If we can’t find something we are looking for, we can become frustrated and angry. I know that this is a situation I often face; Where the heck is that special cable adapter thingy to the new black box I just purchased? AARGH!
The more things you have the bigger these problems are. In addition, not only do we have the aforementioned issues, we also have another problem. Many things today are designed to break or wear out. Planned obsolesce, its called. How many of you have records ( LPs, remember them? ), eight tracks, cassettes, VCRs etc, which you can no longer use because you can no longer play them. I am on my 4th or 5th version of Pink Floyd’s Dark Side of the Moon for this very reason.
So now we have to go through the hassle of replacing these things too, beyond just caring for them in life, what happens to them in their “death”? We have to plan for this too. Many pieces of electronic equipment can’t be just thrown away because they are loaded with toxins.
Shopping and the acquisition of things has become a hobby. I often ask people what they do for fun and many people reply “shopping”. It has become a sport. It is what has replaced the hunting and gathering of the past. How many of you have collections? Stamps, coins, etc. I collect shot glasses. At least these are somewhat practical. These items take on a life of their own. Beyond what they are, they also stand for, or represent, something else. Like the collectible silver spoons you often find at touristy type places. These come to symbolize the good times we had and reflect the places we have been. By holding on to these things, it makes the past and it makes us more real… in some way.
But, to return to my opening statement, all of these things are impermanent. The intrinsic value will place upon these items are an illusion, something our mind created. While some things are needed ( like warm clothes ), other things are just “nice to have”. We must realize that while we are indeed fortunate. This can change. If we keep this in mind, that we too will one day be gone and you “cant take it with you”, it will help us see this impermanence and this oppression we experience, but don’t often acknowledge.
I think by acknowledging that there is a certain tyranny inherent in our possessions ( by owning things, they own us ), it will go a long way to helping us be healthier, happier and better adjusted people. Look around and ask yourself, do I need this item, whatever it is? Do I even still want it? And you may find that the answer is often, no. In this way we experience a feeling of lightness, of freedom. And this is the first step on the road towards getting out from under this tyrann... the tyranny of things.
May 2009 bless you with that which matters most… whatever that may be for you.
Wednesday, December 31, 2008
Wednesday, December 24, 2008
One of My Favorite Christmas Memories
This is one of my favorite Christmas memories. It may not appear to be much to you, but it created in me a feeling of utter peace and calm and therefore reflects what I believe Christmas is about.
As a teenager, as many teenagers are, I was somewhat estranged from my family. In some ways my friends became my surrogate family and we were all very close. One close friend in particular, Gabe ( see the previous blog posting of this same name ) often spent important holidays with me and my family, and so it was this particular Christmas when I was about 15 or 16.
Gabe had come over on Christmas Eve and, to get away from the glaring eye of my parents, he and I went to one of our favorite haunts, Our Lady of Mercy School, or OLM. OLM was a small catholic elementary school just about a minute or two from my house. There was a small swing set and some other playground equipment which we would hang out upon and which became the epicenter of our childhood world.
It was easy to get to too, as we would cut through my backyard, the backyard of a neighbor or two, hop a couple of chain link fences and we were there. Hopping the fence was easy as we had identified several well placed trees in advance. We would jump up, grab a branch, put our feet on the fence, swing over, grab another branch and drop down. With practice we could bop over the fence in one well placed smooth motion. While generally, this was simple to do, I did have several pair of jeans with the telltale “L” shaped tear indicative of the sharp fence top which waited to hurt you if you were the slightest bit careless. We had several secret routes such as this and in the way we traveled about town, using routes closed to adults. I am sure my parents were happy to see us go out this night so that we were out from under foot and never questioned where we were going, what we were doing or how long we would be gone, even though it was so cold out.
This Christmas Eve came upon us cold and sharp, but clear and dark, with the stars bright pinpoints of light like you might see in the movies. A crusting of snow covered the ground, dampening all sounds as snow does; making the world seem small, the white snow reflecting and juxtaposing the seemingly endless sky.
The temperature hovered in the mid-twenties and the chains, bars and rubber seats of the swing sets might as well have been carved from the ice and snow itself. I guess it was about 10pm or so as we made our way over to the school, I guess talking about what all young men talk about, sports, girls, school, etc.
My personal favorite piece of play ground equipment was the swings and it had been for my entire childhood. I could easily swing away an entire day without care, pretending to be a spaceship, airplane, or race car.
While it was cold, the temperature ceased to be a concern and soon I was fairly comfortable as I acclimatized to the evening chill. In this way, Gabe and I swung and swung, gibber gabbing away about everything and nothing. To this day, while this memory remains, the topics of our conversation has since well left me.
I do recall that we spoke less and less, comfortable in the silence that only people who are close can share. We sat there swinging until well after midnight. From our vantage point we could take in people’s house lights and even see in a window or two at trees lit waiting for Santa and presents. No one else moved. No one else made a sound. No cars were on the street. It was as still and quiet as I have ever known. I was sure that everyone for miles around were all snug in their beds, save us.
I swung less and less, as did Gabe, until we just sat there, with our feet drawing meaningless hieroglyphs in the muddy snow. In that moment, in that cold dark night, I felt the sort of Christmas peace and deep serenity that tired old songs such as Silent Night sing about. The world ceased to matter. We were caught between youth and adulthood, with the cares of the latter waiting for another day. It was just me, my good friend and the night. The world about us shrank to a pinpoint and time seemed to stop. It felt like we were in a perfect snow globe, waiting for it to be shaken, but which never was.
Since that night, I have tried for, hoped for and looked for that same feeling to return. It never has, though I hold out hope that it may one day still. May you all know this feeling at least once in your lifetime………….Merry Christmas!
As a teenager, as many teenagers are, I was somewhat estranged from my family. In some ways my friends became my surrogate family and we were all very close. One close friend in particular, Gabe ( see the previous blog posting of this same name ) often spent important holidays with me and my family, and so it was this particular Christmas when I was about 15 or 16.
Gabe had come over on Christmas Eve and, to get away from the glaring eye of my parents, he and I went to one of our favorite haunts, Our Lady of Mercy School, or OLM. OLM was a small catholic elementary school just about a minute or two from my house. There was a small swing set and some other playground equipment which we would hang out upon and which became the epicenter of our childhood world.
It was easy to get to too, as we would cut through my backyard, the backyard of a neighbor or two, hop a couple of chain link fences and we were there. Hopping the fence was easy as we had identified several well placed trees in advance. We would jump up, grab a branch, put our feet on the fence, swing over, grab another branch and drop down. With practice we could bop over the fence in one well placed smooth motion. While generally, this was simple to do, I did have several pair of jeans with the telltale “L” shaped tear indicative of the sharp fence top which waited to hurt you if you were the slightest bit careless. We had several secret routes such as this and in the way we traveled about town, using routes closed to adults. I am sure my parents were happy to see us go out this night so that we were out from under foot and never questioned where we were going, what we were doing or how long we would be gone, even though it was so cold out.
This Christmas Eve came upon us cold and sharp, but clear and dark, with the stars bright pinpoints of light like you might see in the movies. A crusting of snow covered the ground, dampening all sounds as snow does; making the world seem small, the white snow reflecting and juxtaposing the seemingly endless sky.
The temperature hovered in the mid-twenties and the chains, bars and rubber seats of the swing sets might as well have been carved from the ice and snow itself. I guess it was about 10pm or so as we made our way over to the school, I guess talking about what all young men talk about, sports, girls, school, etc.
My personal favorite piece of play ground equipment was the swings and it had been for my entire childhood. I could easily swing away an entire day without care, pretending to be a spaceship, airplane, or race car.
While it was cold, the temperature ceased to be a concern and soon I was fairly comfortable as I acclimatized to the evening chill. In this way, Gabe and I swung and swung, gibber gabbing away about everything and nothing. To this day, while this memory remains, the topics of our conversation has since well left me.
I do recall that we spoke less and less, comfortable in the silence that only people who are close can share. We sat there swinging until well after midnight. From our vantage point we could take in people’s house lights and even see in a window or two at trees lit waiting for Santa and presents. No one else moved. No one else made a sound. No cars were on the street. It was as still and quiet as I have ever known. I was sure that everyone for miles around were all snug in their beds, save us.
I swung less and less, as did Gabe, until we just sat there, with our feet drawing meaningless hieroglyphs in the muddy snow. In that moment, in that cold dark night, I felt the sort of Christmas peace and deep serenity that tired old songs such as Silent Night sing about. The world ceased to matter. We were caught between youth and adulthood, with the cares of the latter waiting for another day. It was just me, my good friend and the night. The world about us shrank to a pinpoint and time seemed to stop. It felt like we were in a perfect snow globe, waiting for it to be shaken, but which never was.
Since that night, I have tried for, hoped for and looked for that same feeling to return. It never has, though I hold out hope that it may one day still. May you all know this feeling at least once in your lifetime………….Merry Christmas!
Tuesday, December 23, 2008
Twisted Idioms
This is a fun little game, take an old saying and make to into something new and
( hopefully ) funny….. Try it!
A stitch in time saves….
You public embarrassment so you dont expose a boob
at half time during a foot ball game
God helps those….
Who did not need help in the first place.
To err is human to forgive is…
Up for negotiation
A bird in the hand is….
Lunch!
A thing of beauty is….
Something you have to remember to remove the
Inventory control tag from when you leave the store.
A friend in need is….
An opportunity for a little light extortion.
When the going gets tough…
Its time for new shocks!
Its always darkest…
Just before I a take my Prozac.
( hopefully ) funny….. Try it!
A stitch in time saves….
You public embarrassment so you dont expose a boob
at half time during a foot ball game
God helps those….
Who did not need help in the first place.
To err is human to forgive is…
Up for negotiation
A bird in the hand is….
Lunch!
A thing of beauty is….
Something you have to remember to remove the
Inventory control tag from when you leave the store.
A friend in need is….
An opportunity for a little light extortion.
When the going gets tough…
Its time for new shocks!
Its always darkest…
Just before I a take my Prozac.
Monday, December 22, 2008
Thursday, December 18, 2008
Friday, December 12, 2008
A Dalai Lama Christmas!
A Dalai Lama Christmas
Sung to the tune of Holly, Jolly Christmas
Have a Dalai Lama Christmas
Party like a Buddhist with me
I don’t know if we’ll be reborn
So have some butter tea!
Have a Dalai Lama Christmas
And when you walk down the street
Say namasate to friends you know
And everyone you meet
Oh, Ho the dorje
Held for all to see
Monks chant, Mani Padre Om
Meditate along with me.
Have a Dalai Lama Christmas,
Keep your karma clear
And Oh by golly, lets have a Dalai Lama
Christmas this year.
Sung to the tune of Holly, Jolly Christmas
Have a Dalai Lama Christmas
Party like a Buddhist with me
I don’t know if we’ll be reborn
So have some butter tea!
Have a Dalai Lama Christmas
And when you walk down the street
Say namasate to friends you know
And everyone you meet
Oh, Ho the dorje
Held for all to see
Monks chant, Mani Padre Om
Meditate along with me.
Have a Dalai Lama Christmas,
Keep your karma clear
And Oh by golly, lets have a Dalai Lama
Christmas this year.
Thursday, December 11, 2008
Wednesday, December 3, 2008
Let the Ducks Fly
Let the Ducks Fly
It was a balmy midnight at the height of late summer. A bright full moon glared down, reflecting off the nearby reservoir and making it nearly as bright as day; perhaps day time during a solar eclipse. My friend and I had been partying all day and we had stopped off at one of my favorite spots to take in the chill bucolic scene. A mild breeze blew across the reservoir and tugged at our sleeves. It was still as could be, nary a sound broke the silence save for the crickets and peepers. There were only a few houses nearby in this rural area dotted by apple orchards and protected by windy twisty roads. There were no light, but the few stars which outshone the moon.
We had spent the day at a local fall festival, The Apple Harvest, where we had scored some really good mind altering chemicals from a local radio station’s booth at the fair, of all places, from one of the on air talent. We had waited until evening to sample the wares and things were starting to kick in, thus inspiring our desire to visit the nighted woods.
In the near distance a car drove by and, surprisingly, it stopped. Voices carried across the open fields, puncturing the silence and arriving at our ears. I could faintly discern the words, “thanks for the ride” waft across to us. As we stood watching, not saying a word, the car drove off leaving a shadow where it had been; a shadow in the shape of a man. We continued to watch, struggling to come to grips with what we were seeing, while the shadow made its way towards us. Who is this person? Why were they being dropped off here? Why are they coming here? What…?
We didn’t move. We didn’t speak. Until, the shadow was upon us. “Well, hi there”, said the shadow only slightly darker than the surrounding night. “Hi”, we managed to reply as the air around us turned into a Van Gogh painting, tingeing the night in a pallet of colors.
And that’s how we came to talk to this shadow man. It turns out that his name, or at least the name he went by, was “War Eagle”. He carried a small backpack and a large guitar case. He told us that he used to be married, but was recently divorced and homeless. Well, not exactly homeless, but that he had been living in the woods surrounding this body of water, for most of the summer, doing the occasional odd job, fending for himself and living off the land. I knew the area well and asked him where he was camped, but he avoided the question.
He told us that he was a musician and that he played regular gigs as a one man band, singer, songwriter. Explaining his showing up at this time, he told us that he had just come back from a show in Springfield and had managed to hitch a ride. Its amazing the people you meet in the middle of the night.
He was keen to talk and we were keen to listen, taking in the aura of this strange and wonderful man. Before we knew it, he had his guitar out and was serenading us; right there, just us and the man in the moon. He said that while he was a handy man by trade, music was his passion and that he was writing an album. He told us of a song that he had written for his young son. A son home, warm in his bed, probably wondering where his shadow father walked amongst the midnight fields.
He told us how his son, confusing the words to the recently released “Let the Doves Cry”, by Prince had helped him write this song, “Let the Ducks Fly”, and he commenced to sing this to us. He sang in hushed tones at first, his voice getting lost in the night, barely a whisper as he strummed his guitar with the barest of pressures.
As he reached the chorus, he lifted up his voice, singing more strongly, with more confidence. “Let the Ducks Fly”. By the time he reached the chorus a second time, my friend and I joined in and sang along. There we were, three hatters under the maddening moon. The song was silly, but yet poignant and we sang and we sang for what seemed like hours.
Before we knew it, the night had slipped by and the first wash of day was tinting the sky. War Eagle, made his farewells, to go off and find his slumber hidden amongst the hills and ravines of this precious land and us to return home and crash in our bed; to try and find sleep within the day, if we could. We were coming down.
War Eagle went his way and we ours. I don’t recall turning around to watch him go, but as we made our way to the car, I did make one last look behind me. The last stars of night still hung on and the shadows were going home too, to find their beds. But War Eagle was no where to be seen.
I suddenly stopped and grabbed my friend who looked at me quizzically and I looked at him and said……….. “what if we just imagined all of that”? My friend did not answer, but he let his jaw drop a little and I could see by the light in his eyes that he grasped the immensity of what I had said. We went home in silence.
Let the Ducks Fly.
It was a balmy midnight at the height of late summer. A bright full moon glared down, reflecting off the nearby reservoir and making it nearly as bright as day; perhaps day time during a solar eclipse. My friend and I had been partying all day and we had stopped off at one of my favorite spots to take in the chill bucolic scene. A mild breeze blew across the reservoir and tugged at our sleeves. It was still as could be, nary a sound broke the silence save for the crickets and peepers. There were only a few houses nearby in this rural area dotted by apple orchards and protected by windy twisty roads. There were no light, but the few stars which outshone the moon.
We had spent the day at a local fall festival, The Apple Harvest, where we had scored some really good mind altering chemicals from a local radio station’s booth at the fair, of all places, from one of the on air talent. We had waited until evening to sample the wares and things were starting to kick in, thus inspiring our desire to visit the nighted woods.
In the near distance a car drove by and, surprisingly, it stopped. Voices carried across the open fields, puncturing the silence and arriving at our ears. I could faintly discern the words, “thanks for the ride” waft across to us. As we stood watching, not saying a word, the car drove off leaving a shadow where it had been; a shadow in the shape of a man. We continued to watch, struggling to come to grips with what we were seeing, while the shadow made its way towards us. Who is this person? Why were they being dropped off here? Why are they coming here? What…?
We didn’t move. We didn’t speak. Until, the shadow was upon us. “Well, hi there”, said the shadow only slightly darker than the surrounding night. “Hi”, we managed to reply as the air around us turned into a Van Gogh painting, tingeing the night in a pallet of colors.
And that’s how we came to talk to this shadow man. It turns out that his name, or at least the name he went by, was “War Eagle”. He carried a small backpack and a large guitar case. He told us that he used to be married, but was recently divorced and homeless. Well, not exactly homeless, but that he had been living in the woods surrounding this body of water, for most of the summer, doing the occasional odd job, fending for himself and living off the land. I knew the area well and asked him where he was camped, but he avoided the question.
He told us that he was a musician and that he played regular gigs as a one man band, singer, songwriter. Explaining his showing up at this time, he told us that he had just come back from a show in Springfield and had managed to hitch a ride. Its amazing the people you meet in the middle of the night.
He was keen to talk and we were keen to listen, taking in the aura of this strange and wonderful man. Before we knew it, he had his guitar out and was serenading us; right there, just us and the man in the moon. He said that while he was a handy man by trade, music was his passion and that he was writing an album. He told us of a song that he had written for his young son. A son home, warm in his bed, probably wondering where his shadow father walked amongst the midnight fields.
He told us how his son, confusing the words to the recently released “Let the Doves Cry”, by Prince had helped him write this song, “Let the Ducks Fly”, and he commenced to sing this to us. He sang in hushed tones at first, his voice getting lost in the night, barely a whisper as he strummed his guitar with the barest of pressures.
As he reached the chorus, he lifted up his voice, singing more strongly, with more confidence. “Let the Ducks Fly”. By the time he reached the chorus a second time, my friend and I joined in and sang along. There we were, three hatters under the maddening moon. The song was silly, but yet poignant and we sang and we sang for what seemed like hours.
Before we knew it, the night had slipped by and the first wash of day was tinting the sky. War Eagle, made his farewells, to go off and find his slumber hidden amongst the hills and ravines of this precious land and us to return home and crash in our bed; to try and find sleep within the day, if we could. We were coming down.
War Eagle went his way and we ours. I don’t recall turning around to watch him go, but as we made our way to the car, I did make one last look behind me. The last stars of night still hung on and the shadows were going home too, to find their beds. But War Eagle was no where to be seen.
I suddenly stopped and grabbed my friend who looked at me quizzically and I looked at him and said……….. “what if we just imagined all of that”? My friend did not answer, but he let his jaw drop a little and I could see by the light in his eyes that he grasped the immensity of what I had said. We went home in silence.
Let the Ducks Fly.
Monday, December 1, 2008
How I Know That the People in My Town are Idiots
I had been working in T-Town before I lived there. One day on the way to work my car started to act funny. When I got to work I called a garage and made plans to drop my car off there after work. After work, I began making my way to the garage, but the problem became even worse. The car began to cough and chug and eventually broke down. I had been really hoping to make it to the garage and hadn’t expected the problem to become so acute.
Unfortunately, I broke down on a main road in town and near a very busy intersection. The car had given up the ghost right in the lane of traffic. I tried pushing it, but it was a Ford Taurus station wagon and quite large and heavy. I turned on my emergency blinkers, opened the hood and looked to see if I could figure out what was wrong. I couldn’t, so I had to walk to a nearby pay phone to call for a tow. When I returned I had some time to kill, so I sat in the car. Shortly thereafter, another car pulled up behind me. It paused a moment and then flashed its lights. I wasn’t certain what they were doing so I just sat there. A few seconds later they beeped their horn. I rolled down the window and motioned for them to go around, which they did after yet another pregnant pause. As the car went by me the driver yelled, “Get out of the road”. “Well, duh, Brainiac, if I could I would” I said to myself.
Another car pulled up behind me and we went through pretty much the same charades. This activity was repeated several times. Each time I was yelled at, swore at and told to “get out of the way”. What was wrong with these people? Couldn’t they see I was broken down? I got out of the car and began flagging people to go around me. This did not help. Finally, the tow truck came and got me out of there, but not before dozens of people had stopped, honked and yelled at me.
I have had clunker cars for many years and have broken down in my share of intersections, but I had never had this happen. In my past experience, someone would eventually come and give you a push. Not only did this not happen in T-Town, but I was also the butt of many a derisive remark. I didn’t expect anyone to help me, but at a minimum you would think that they would have sized up the situation and figured out that I would have moved if I could have. Then it hit me; an epiphany like a light from heaven. A revelation came that has stuck with me ever since and has been reinforced in the years that I lived in T-Town. That is, the people here are a bunch of F*ing Idiots!
Unfortunately, I broke down on a main road in town and near a very busy intersection. The car had given up the ghost right in the lane of traffic. I tried pushing it, but it was a Ford Taurus station wagon and quite large and heavy. I turned on my emergency blinkers, opened the hood and looked to see if I could figure out what was wrong. I couldn’t, so I had to walk to a nearby pay phone to call for a tow. When I returned I had some time to kill, so I sat in the car. Shortly thereafter, another car pulled up behind me. It paused a moment and then flashed its lights. I wasn’t certain what they were doing so I just sat there. A few seconds later they beeped their horn. I rolled down the window and motioned for them to go around, which they did after yet another pregnant pause. As the car went by me the driver yelled, “Get out of the road”. “Well, duh, Brainiac, if I could I would” I said to myself.
Another car pulled up behind me and we went through pretty much the same charades. This activity was repeated several times. Each time I was yelled at, swore at and told to “get out of the way”. What was wrong with these people? Couldn’t they see I was broken down? I got out of the car and began flagging people to go around me. This did not help. Finally, the tow truck came and got me out of there, but not before dozens of people had stopped, honked and yelled at me.
I have had clunker cars for many years and have broken down in my share of intersections, but I had never had this happen. In my past experience, someone would eventually come and give you a push. Not only did this not happen in T-Town, but I was also the butt of many a derisive remark. I didn’t expect anyone to help me, but at a minimum you would think that they would have sized up the situation and figured out that I would have moved if I could have. Then it hit me; an epiphany like a light from heaven. A revelation came that has stuck with me ever since and has been reinforced in the years that I lived in T-Town. That is, the people here are a bunch of F*ing Idiots!
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