Fried Catfish (Audio) Have a Jazzy New Year

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Many times we look to the coming year with hope that it will be different somehow. Perhaps this year, this time something radical might occur. Perhaps in this moment we might be made new. And the year will morph around the newness that we are. If we would change the world it will happen from the inside out.

“If you would enter the Kingdom of Heaven you must become as a little child.”

Ten year old boy
Slowly carefully, ankle-deep in the water
Cool mud holds his bare feet
The smell of sunshine, and oak, and hay, and red worms, and water, and fish
The familiar sounds of Central Louisiana envelop him, crickets, crows, doves cooing and frogs
He is intent, focused, peering beneath the water’s surface seeking out the places they might be
Predator stalking predator
He is hunter, tan, lean, carrying his primitive tools
Cane pole cut, trimmed, line, hook, can of worms dug from the hill
Worm sacrificed, pierced through with hook
He swings a practiced, perfect arc
Dlop. . . the worms sinks before his prey
His heart pounds, excitement, an eye for any sign
At one with his tools, the cane and line and hook now a part of him
It extends him, makes him powerful, he now can reach into the water where they are
The slightest bump and movement of the line
Wait . . . wait . . . he tells himself, a lesson hard learned
He must succeed
He told his mother that he would provide
His hopes and his still innocent pride hung on that promise
Blood rushing he grips the cane watches the line straighten
Now quickly and with an authority beyond his years he sets the hook
He feels the fierce undulating weight at the end of his self
Cane arched, line stretched, tension but not too much
Give, take, don’t force it, she will come if you are patient, he told himself
The battle raged until she weakened and surrendered
She was glorious
His little heart soared at the conquest
His excitement, his trembling hands claimed her
He turned toward home, quest fulfilled
As he entered the kitchen the fragrance of frying potatoes and onions and pickles filled his lungs
He grinned as he held up his prize to Her
She smiled loving the boy and he was in rapture
Lifted up, hints of manhood pulsing through his veins
She was his world and she believed in him

Peace and Love and Liberty – Plato

A Father’s Province – Audio

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They have eyes of blue and hearts of gold.

Flesh of my flesh, bone of my bone.
They are of me, yet profoundly Other than me.

Their dependence decreases, moment by moment, choice by choice, as personality and character coalesces. Soul becomes known.  Small round bodies, unsure, become angular, strong and elegant.

Hints of the ancestors glimpsed, reflected in appearance,
posture, and mannerism.
Shadows of their mother and I emerge as different facets turn,
reflected in the light of their living.

See the man arise beneath the surface of the boy.
Hints of the woman foreshadowed in the girl.
Each unique and other worldly as a snowflake,
yet familiar as my own breath.

I am startled to recognize their autonomy –
their separateness from me.
And in that sacred space between the roles we play out in Time, flashes of their glory leave me awed.

They are my equal yet better than I.

Recognition of their immortality, the deity inherent in their volition saddens, yet brings strange comfort.  I grieve the blow to my ego.

I have much less dominion over them than I imagine,
yet I am greatly more important to them than I know.

They are neither damned by my weakness
nor necessarily elevated by my substance.

They are free and I am humbled.

I am Daddy to these three souls, at least for now.

And within the bandage of Time they are to me what they can be to no other and I am to them what no other can be.

While inhabiting the boundaries of this dressing we play out appointed roles.
Yet in Eternity we will have had and shall ever be One.

They have eyes of blue and hearts of gold.

Those have been and will ever be constant through the metamorphosis of flesh, circumstance, and experience.

Those same eyes which gazed up to me at the dawn of their journey will look down upon me at the ending of mine.

And yet our hope holds fast that when Time is finally swallowed by Eternity we will then know as we have been known.

We will recognize and finally comprehend the glory
of the everlasting souls with which we have journeyed.

Hearts pure, refined, and utterly alive.

Then together we can all play once more in the presence of the One who has watched over us all.

Your Daddy loves you very much.

But, I love you more.

I Am – Kinda (Audio) A little Southern Mysticism

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Image result for cheap carnival spookhouse image

I am

But who is saying that

This is me

The same one who sucked his thumb

But who is observing the me thinking of the me

I am the same

I have observed the changes

In my body

In my thoughts

My experiences

My beliefs

My habits

My desires

But all of those things are not me

Me is back here watching

Observing

I am beginning to remember that I forgot

I have missed me

I searched for me in many places

I have looked in the reflections and have mistaken me for them

To suck my thumb feels awkward now

Funny how I once was so attached to it

I am guessing there are things I am attached to that are as transient as my thumb even now

It is interesting to have the awareness back that I had as a child

Observing and wondering, separate from the Self, the Ego, at least sometimes

Fear must have created that projection I called me

Well, some of it

Some of it is OK and is part of my groove

I think fear must have built the rest because it seems fear is what enforces the construct and dread guards the exits

But like a carnival spook-house been through several times, I am getting bored with it

I am yawning, its so 1-2-3 now jump and . . . Que the strobes, now crooked mirrors and fog and skeletons and turn the corner where the drug addict Carney jumps out and yells

The fear is getting be to quiet lame, much like the raggedy clown that pops out of the dark place and flops around on worn springs

Turning the lights on reveals the primitive, laughable, side show that has held me hostage

I think I’m gonna look outside the mirrors and the cheap carnival and try to remember the one who has been watching

See if he is still around somewhere

The source of all the reflections

I like my Self OK

But I am more than what I have created

And the dude at the exit has warrants

He won’t bother me if I really want to go

 

The Acorn and the Oak

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OH TO BE LIKE AN OAK TREE

Stepping out into a broader space
Leaving behind the familiar comforts of the rut
But, there I held sway, I was the master

Predictable, easy, except for the slow withering of my soul
Did my tricks to get my treats
But the former was confining and I had out grown it

Like a plant in too small a pot
Roots bound, tangled, seeking new earth
But to step out is to become weak again, to let go, to become a child

There was a brief thrill in the stepping out
Really it was a small thing made large by ego’s fear
But there was really no power there

Like a spider’s web it clung inciting primal fear
No power at all to resist a decision
But now the familiar is no more

Where once I was large now I am small, ignorant, and inexperienced once more
Planted in new ground hoping for the water and the warmth and the worms to do their work
The plane is large, expansive, might I grow to fill that new empty space

But the great Oak lives inside the tiny, shiny acorn
Food for squirrels or master of the Woodland
I am the Sower and I am the seed
It is not the breaking through that is the challenge

It is sitting still long enough to put down roots and grow in the new larger place

There are multiple buts in this process

But either way.  Be Groovy! 

Pine Wood Floors – Mama Taylor

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I awakened to the sound of footsteps on the pine wood floors. The cold air on my face. I was warm there underneath the many layers of quilts she had tucked us into the night before. They were heavy and comforting, holding me safe in the warm bed. She always said goodnight with a kiss and a hug, her soft skin smelling of Noxzema. I still love how Noxzema smells, probably because of how much I loved her. The footsteps belonged to my grandfather. Each morning before daylight he would light the heaters. The scrape and strike of the sulfur kitchen matches, the smell of gas and the whoosh of the gas igniting. Soon the fragrance of the rich black coffee and cigarette smoke would drift in as I drifted back out. It was a cold wet Louisiana winter.

We had been outside working in the garden, weeding and planting and preparing. Well, my grandmother did most of the work. The kids were here and there, running, exploring, climbing our favorite trees. She had the best trees. A boy could lose himself in one of those. My favorite was an ancient Holly in her front yard. I would sit at the top of it for hours, suspended there between heaven and earth. The birds would light in the branches just feet away from me and if I was very still I could watch them, unseen. Cardinals, Finches, Blue Jays, Mockingbirds all came and taught me of the world. The smells of spring mingled in the clean fresh air swaying my perch back and forth. I was a king for a little while. She called us in to eat lunch, then set about arranging us on the knotty pine floor. Pallets she called them and we were expected to sleep. The heavy quilts from the winter now laid out for our nap. She turned on her little black and white T.V. and as it warmed up that same song and that picture of an hourglass told us that it was time for silence. She sat in her chair with my grandfather’s belt rolled up in her lap and was quick to use it on us if we stirred. Because her “Stories were on . . .”

One summer it rained fish. Small bass and bream and minnows were flopping in the grass. We asked her how they had gotten there. She explained how during violent storms over water small fish can sometimes be swept up in the currents of the wind and dropped again miles away. She knew everything. How to find worms for fishing. How to fish. How to clean and cook that fish. How to make things grow. How to make us grow. And she taught us when we would listen. One of my favorite memories of her was sitting on her screened porch nestled under her arm. Warm and close without a fear or worry in the world. There was a violent thunderstorm raging around that place of utter calm and contentment. The forked light streaking, splitting the sky. A clap and a rumble and a boom of thunder shaking the earth. The smell of clean ozone and the fresh summer rain. I still love the storms, and the smell of Noxzema, and growing things, and fishing, and understanding how things work. I think God must have a swing like that. Those moments there on the swing and a thousand others like them remain with me even now. She is the picture of grace to me.

One winter day I received a call saying that something was wrong at her house. Rushing there and running inside I saw her laying on that pine wood floor. Paramedics pushing on her chest, breathing air into her, forcing it into her lungs, her belly distended, color a pale gray. She did not move or speak or react in any way to their efforts. I really did not understand what was going on as the men quickly placed her on a stretcher and rushed her away under the lights and the screams and the roaring of the ambulance. I saw her a few days later, laying in her coffin. Her hair was done and she was wearing a pretty dress. There were flowers and many people around. There was that strange funeral home smell with way too much perfume on way too many women. I was not sure if it was right or not, and I did not ask. I reached out and touched her skin. So different than the warm softness that I knew. I kissed her forehead and cheek as I had often done. She was not there. She was still teaching me. She taught me grief and great loss. I cried, and I wailed. I had not learned to hide and bury my pain, yet. Then later that day there was food and many people at her house. I think my grandfather lost his way that day. He sat still amidst the bustle of eating and laughing and crying and the telling of memories of her and of our lives together. I was quiet too and watched and listened, not really knowing what to do. I felt very alone and I missed her so, disconnected and adrift, I had no words. But one night sometime after that I dreamed. I could smell the Noxzema, feel her warm soft skin touch me as she called my name. She told me “Boy I’m OK and so are you. Everything is alright.” She teaches me still.