the incredible loudness of small frogs

It is spring and the frogs are croaking in the evenings. Sometimes I housesit at a friends' house; he has a little pond with a few goldfish and a single resident frog. When that frog started croaking, he got my attention. Judging by the sound, that frog must have been big, so I thought. I searched, expecting to find him easily. When he noticed my presence, he shut-up. I leave and he starts in again. So I stayed still and quiet. After a while I was able to trace his location and got a look at him. He was a tiny frog, about the size of a quarter!!
For some reason, that frog reminds me of Harley Davidson motorcycles. All sound, no substance. My brother in law has a BMW motorcycle and the potential for noisy rumbling is converted into performance. Fast and quiet. So, perhaps I should take a lesson from the lowly frog. If I do, what would it be?
How about some homilies. I'm not real sure what that word means, maybe it is the lazyness that sets in when it is time to look-up unfamiliar words. The word looks like what you do when you lie on the couch watching TV at home. Anyway, I think a homilie is something like "the squeeky wheel gets the grease". If that is the case, the croaking frog version would be: "the louder frog gets to polywalk". Heh Heh. Sorry.
So the frogs are croaking in the evening. You can hear them for blocks and blocks. From a distance the sound is comforting, lulling. Good for going to sleep. Up close they can drive you nuts. Makes you want to holler:":SHUT UP". It all depends on your frame of mind. Like if you slept well, the bird chirping is a welcome sound. If you wake grumpy, you want to go outside and holler: "SHUT UP". It just shows to go ya that attitude is everything. SHUT-UP!! ok.

fear of life, fear of death

I have come to love life and it is scaring the crap out of me. I was never really alive, so I never feared death. Now I am at times so overcome with the wonder of this marvel, that I melt inside and overflow. I feel like my time here is so short......so much, so much left undone. It is sweet and sad.
I have come to the point that was told to me in my early twenties: in my fifties I will have arrived. I am not alone. I am coming into the promise. Now I look suspicious at the reaper. I am angry about that absolute reality.
Here is the great quote for old humans: Youth is wasted on the young.
I knew an old man who gave me some advice that I studiously ignored. He said that if he had known he was going to live so long ( he was nearly eighty ), he would have taken better care of himself. He also told me about the dangers of Trans fat, long, long before anybody ever heard about it. Other stuff too, that has yet to come into the light of common knowledge.
The fear of feeling things, be it life or death and so much else, I handled by shuting down my emotions, choosing a form of death over the pain of being alive. Even the good stuff, the fun stuff was too much, too intense. Safety in numbness. I chose security over life.
It was a coping tactic and it worked for me. I didn't have the knowledge, support nor guidance to learn about my emotions. This aspect of myself , I now realize, is OH! so important. Also, if I am to make progress, I need to carefully lead myself to emotional maturity.

seeing in between

There is much more going on than we know. Beyond all the doings of human beings, beyond the world-full content of our brains and body and beyond the possibilities of all the worlds in all the galaxies, forever and ever, there is something very different, thin, hidden, an immense secret, a wonder. This has been hinted at by all the sages of all time. Every one has indicated that we humans have a birthright, a treasure of untold wealth. I don't know how to get at it, but I sense it and have at times experienced profound hints about the "inbetween".
There is a remarkable book, very old, short and useless, called the Tao Te Ching. It was supposedly written by a grouchy old man named Lao Tzu, and if you had a name that sounded like a sneeze, you would be grumpy too. Basically, Mr. Tzu insisted that the way to see, really see, was to unlearn what we have learned so far. He said it is very easy to do this, but very few are capable of this practice. We are stuck in our ways and very, very reluctant to amend our ways. We have become invested and ridgid.
Youst (new word--You + just!) think about how uncompromising people are about their political bent or racism and multiply that by some number maybe like 10 or 100, and there you have it. Beyond all that there is that damn "doing". We get stuck on "doing to get", so when some guy proposes that the way to "get" is by doing nothing, he's got them rolling their eyes and rolling in the aisles. Its enough to make you crazy.
Now, we have that Jesus character to consider. That guy was a radical. Not perhaps as grouchy as Mr. Tzu, but just as weird. He essentially said that to do cool stuff like turning water into wine, or walking on winey water, or raising the dead, all you need is a little bit of "faith". Just a little bit, like a small seed, the mustard seeds' worth. It's so easy!! ....... See those little dots? they are about the size of a mustard seed. .... that was four times more than you need to see inbetween. Learn to unlearn. Practise not doing. Let go and give up. Good Luck!!

for the love of money

I have to admit that I have worshiped at the altar of Babylon for most of my life. Mostly out of fear, fear of not enough. That was a gift my parents gave to me. I continue to "buy" into it. So, my attitude toward money has been a love/hate twisted twin joined by the back, two ways to go, relationship. And realistically, money is the woo-woo subject of our times. Nothing is stranger than the abstract "money".
Money makes the world go round, it has been said. Now that is not strictly true, since in actuality it is gravity and inertia, but outside of Religion, nothing will warp human nature like money. It has been said that money is the root of all evil, which I do not strictly believe, I vote for another abstract: "CONTROL". How would I know? I confess I suffer from the effects of control, the promise, the illusion and the disillusion. What a giant glue infected knot this is. I can't think of anything more important for me to do than inspect this cancer of my brain.
Which is what I am doing even as I type, and let me tell you, I am navigating in a thick fog on this one. Thick, thick fog. Of all the reasons to call on "God" for help, this control thing, this mess, deserves a cry for help.
It is getting worse, by the minute. I've lost the pseudo happy-go-lucky early morning lightness and now am deep in the "horror of the situation". I hope to not lose the thread of this thoughtout today.

life in the slow lane

The best way to wake up is to the sounds of chirping birds and the orange light of the rising sun through my window. I like to wake slowly, slipping into the new day, dozing and dreaming, not quite asleep nor awake. I like the smell of coffee, but I never make it at home. I ride my bike to the cafe and get my first cup and sit outside to watch the glorious morning unfold, the change of light as the sun rises higher; the reflections on the smooth mirror of water in the channel. The chickadees are building nests, the cafe dogs are laying about. Seagulls swoop and swerve and seagull talk. People come and go. I observe myself, how do I feel? What will this day bring? Do I want to work? What day of the week is it?
I used to hate Mondays. I dreaded Sunday evening as it ushered in Monday. I swore to myself to change that. Now I am able to quite well ignore the code of the days of the week. Thursday is memorable because the garbage gets picked-up. Wednesdays brings the new edition of the local newspaper. Sunday brings the big crossword puzzle. Those are the three big events of the week.
The cafe dogs, Buddy and Lucy and I, are in a laying about contest. I will lose this one again, as they are the masters of laying about. Buddy especially. I observe his technique. Damn, he is good. I want to get down with his bad self, but I am not smart enough. I assuage my feelings of lack by reminding myself that buddy doesn't have any pockets and therefore no money, no job, no prospects. Lucky Duck.
Towards noon I will get hungry and having had enough coffee to get my kidneys to wave the white flag, I will head home to eat breakfast and then to the couch for siesta. I leave the radio on and allow the talk to fade in and out. I sleep. On awakening, I get the second morning of the day. Back to the cafe, to resume my research. Damn, Buddy is good. What's for dinner? Is it beer time yet?

seven years no winter

About the best way to solve the winter blues is to get out and head south. The winter in Mexico is just like summer in Western Washington; clear skies and not too hot. Winter in these parts is a lot like living in a cold shower with very dark sunglasses on. For seven years I traveled to and through Mexico. I stopped traveling to put down roots in my community. (I had never felt at home anywhere except in one vibrant town in Mexico). I did that because being gone for half a year and out of touch made me a perpetual stranger. I had been coming and going all my life, so staying put was a whole new experience.
It was hard, going to Mexico the first year. I was timid and frightened. I remember tramping through the "jungle" with a machete toting drunk and violent Mexican friend, head foggy from cheap tequila nights and perpetual diahrrea, realizing this guy could chop me to pieces and nobody would know. It was the best year of seven. I began to learn Spanish, at least I could pick out a few words, from sentences that sounded like hundred letter words. Then I became jaded. Dollar bottles of Pancho Villa tequila became common. Green coconuts wore me down. The mystery of a JeJene bite (vicious biting gnats) endured with stoic non-chalance. Nights of barking dogs and crowing roosters, deafeningly loud and bad music, the stench of burning plastic, all a memory faint, far off. Yet Mexico had given me so much, taught me confidence, friendship and community. Showed me the other side of life.
When I went south, I also went deep into my own self. Layer on layer peeled away, I was neither an American, nor a Mexican. With the permission of some very gracious friends, I got closer to my true self, my human-ness. I am deeply grateful for those kind people. Besides, the food was great. I miss the food.

poem: Sunflowers

A favorite poem I wrote:

I lie naked on the cool soil,
Underneath impossibly tall sunflowers
They have large brown eyes
And fat yellow eyelashes.
Swaying in rythm to a tune the wind hums
Dancing agaist a fresh blue sky

I close my eyes and dream

In my dream you lie next to me
Skin cool on this hot day
Your head on my sholder
One leg across my thigh

In my dream I am awake and you are asleep
Breathing deeply and dreaming
You dream of sunflowers, wind
And an impossibly tall, blue sky.

get simple

When I ride my bike to the cafe, I have two choices. I can go up a hill or I can skirt the hill and go by the water. I prefer the way by water, it is scenic and feels expansive. Also a bit less taxing, not that the three block petal qualifies as a road trip. The water is a channel but it looks like a river. Across from us in La Conner is an Indian Reservation for the Swinomish tribe. They talk real slow. I find that when I talk to one of them, I tend to match their tempo and delivery. I am learning to talk slow and soft, also.
I am a packrat, by nature. In short time, I will fill any available space with all sorts of crap. Throwing stuff out is traumatic. I need help, someone to stand by me and urge me to get rid of stuff, ignore my pleas of mercy and "it might come in handy". As a carpenter I own several saws that don't work or that I don't like (keep them just in case). Some might say that as a carpenter I don't work or don't like to. I would have to hang my head and grit my teeth. Damn.
So what does talking slow and saying "NO" to crap have to do with simplicity? I will explain shortly; first lets add another ingredient to this verbal dish. Dogs. Dogs are, if not my heroes, at least teachers. They are simple and yet sophisticated. Or, lets say that their simplicity lends itself to a subtle sophistication. Dogs know what is important and they are not easily fooled. I have observed them very carefully and I have noted a few facts: Dogs do not have pockets. They do not naturally watch T.V. nor pay taxes. They do not put on airs though they at times do pout. Mostly they are concerned about immediate things, like food and the indescribable softness of a concrete sidewalk. What magic, to convert a hard concrete slab into a fine bed! What sophistication! With some neccesary exceptions, dogs live in the moment, do not concern themselves with what ifs and should-haves and just .................... trust.
There is a word for putting human qualities onto animals and nature. I think that word is "anthropomorphise", and it implies a tendency to see patterns where they do not realy exist. So some would say that I am just anthro-po-something or other the deal with dogs and stuff. Yeah, yeah, yeah. That is true. If I were real simple, I wouldn't be blogging, I would be fishing or better yet, drinking. Fishing while drinking! I am getting thirsty, what a long day, it is nearly noon. I forgot why I started writing this.......

the wild, wild turkeys of La Conner

Last year the turkeys came to town and some stayed to raise a family. The mom and dad had a bunch of boys and one girl and the dad got wanderlust. The tale gets a bit sordid with all those virile toms and only one hen and I think there might be the making of a fowl Oedipal theme, but it is best not to judge the cuss toms of other cultures. Heh Heh.
I write about the turkeys by way of introducing what I love about life. I love wildness. I love it in the cracks of asphalt where weeds grow; I love it in the smiles of loose, roaming dogs; I love it in the exhuberant cries of playing or protesting children and I love it in myself, when I ride my bicycle and am transformed into my hidden eight-year-old. I love the wildness of a shrub growing on the side of a cliff; of a clump of grass growing on a pier post; the tenacity of lichen on rocks; the lazarusity of dandylions that refuse garden control and eradication.
We are all gardens and gardeners. Every garden should have a wild place and that unruly place cherished. Order is important but it needs a touch of chaos to bring out the flavor. I admire those that will allow, live and let live and engender rebellion in others. I, myself, love to corrupt others. I love to sow the seeds of discontent to a plastic life, to becon the child in the stoic adult, to waste time and do nothing but daydream. The useless is OH SO IMPORTANT to us all.
So, in a place where the plague of gentrification and progress elbow aside the the real reason for life, the wild turkeys arrived. They do not get out of the way of cars; you can honk your car to horseness, shake your fist and fret that time's a wastin', yet the turkeys will just be themselves.

i live in a small town

There are less than a thousand humans, a handfull o wild turkeys, a plague of squirrels and i don't have a clue how many dogs and cats and at least one fish, Bruce, that lives in a glass "condo" on the counter of Gretchens Cafe Culture. Whew, long sentence. I sort of live at Cafe Culture myself. The cafe is my lifeline. It keeps me sane (well, reasonably sane). I don't know what I would do without it.
We are exraordinarily wealthy here, in this small town. Some people have a ton of money, but that is not what I consider "real" wealth. We live on the edge of a very fertile valley. Lots of food everywhere. Water, too. Western Washington gets drenched with rain from the Pacific Ocean. The area is resource rich. More than that, we here in La Conner have a legacy that subtly hangs in the air and mitigates the rush-rush side effects of modern life. Even though the town is about a dozen blocks across, it can take an hour (or even a whole day, for me) to get from one side to the other. Community. You get to talk to people, get close and be open. Or, if you feel grumpy, someone will be concerned and allow your mood. I love this community. I am so fortunate to be loved by so many people.
The legacy, a history, a remaining tendency that "hangs in the air", was created in the past and colors life here. La Conner drew remarkably creative and talented people into her arms. Artists, musicians, scolars all came and lived here. It was vibrant and alive. I stumbled into town at the tail end of that era and benefit from that.
As I said, I live at the cafe. I don't sleep there, but I might as well. It has been soothing to me, healing. I was and still am a walking wounded, scared(healed wounds) and scared(fearfull), sensitive, forelorn, lost. I am getting better. I have undergone a remarkable internal renaisance here. I am gratefull.