Clupeiforum

I have been playing guitar since I was about thirteen. While high school band and chorus provided me with musical training, a fair ear, and a chance to play a single-voiced trumpet, I never found the time to take guitar lessons, never took time to get some formal training with my favorite polyphonic instrument. I am, as it were, entirely self-taught. And obviously, as a teacher, I lacked certain skills.

It didn’t hold me back. In the small group of friends and acquaintances in which I usually performed, I could hold my own. I played by ear, with the help of the chord diagrams in the easy guitar sheet music, and the fact that so many folk, rock and pop songs are three chords and a bridge. If it hadn’t been for John Denver, I’d've been sunk. But after thirty-some-odd years, I needed to take it to that “next level” people too often talk about. I’ve swallowed my pride, and submitted to the ultimate indignity.

I’ve signed up for guitar lessons.

Some of my friends, the non-musical ones, might be kind of surprised at that. I mean, a few of them have seen me hold forth for six hours straight, never repeating a song, and playing until my fingers bled.

Literally.

My musical friends know it’s what I need to do, however. I need to put my soul into it, into the guitar itself. The songs that I’ve written have withered to nothing because I have nothing new to put underneath the words that sometimes spill out in torrents. I must find more materiel with which to build the musical framework, upon which those words can become something more than maudlin, childish attempts at profundity.

Or so I hope.

So, I’m going back to school, or at least to private lessons. I will finally put my money where my mouth is, take the lessons, and start, as my high school band director called “woodshedding”, by which he meant, “take it out behind the woodshed where no one can hear you and practice, practice, practice”.

What do I want to do with it? Maybe nothing. Maybe write more songs, maybe just learn to play guitar better. Maybe give up all this singer-songwriter stuff, and play “Recuerdos de la Alhambra”, and the guitar transcription for Bach’s “Suite for Two Violins” (yeah, like I’ll ever be that good!). Or maybe I’ll start playing bluegrass.

One thing for sure; in a few weeks, I will have new grist for the mill: new skills, new knowledge, new inspiration.

I’ll have my music back in my life.

I rose early…early for me, anyway…and bustled about my morning routine, working hard to get out of the house before my usual half-hour-later-than-I-should. The cat had been fed and medicated, the dog had been given her forty minutes in the sun before being crated for the day, and I was set to head out.

I unlocked the door, stepped out on my back deck…and it hit me.

I am not the world’s most effective, diligent amateur landscaper. I mow the grass… or the dirt… from the comfortable yellow seat of my green John Deere lawn tractor; I cut the whole yard, bermuda, crabgrass and sandstone disguised as soil, in about an hour; but I don’t usually get the trimmer out to trim the grass under the flowering-whatever trees or edge the edges or trim the boxwoods by the front porch more than once a…month? A year?

Whatever.

And I don’t worry about the vine growing all over one side of my rear deck. The vine that is overcoming the Sky-chair stand, and the wire utility shelf, the deck rail, and slowly crawling up through the screen over the kitchen window. The vine that will probably take over the whole back wall of the house someday.

The honeysuckle vine.

I know. It’s agressive. It’s wild. It’s untamed. It’s getting more nourishment than it needs from its roots in the old compost bin. It will challenge kudzu with its threat to life, liberty and the occasional small animal. It will become a nuisance, maybe even a danger in its moist leafy weight.

It smells like Heaven. Its scent is dawn on a summer day. Its scent is a childhood memory of my brother showing me how to find a drop of candy by gently pulling the stamens out through the base of the flower and putting the nectar on my tongue, and his laugh as he saw my surprise. Its scent turns my overrun, less-than-orderly, more-than-messy old back deck into a little garden, into a little kiss from God.

I have a brown thumb. I have managed to kill everything from azaleas to zoysia. I can’t grow corn, or turnips, or broccoli, or tomatoes. I can’t even grow mold under my house. I will never have a Better Homes and Gardens home and garden. At my age, I can’t even grow taller. But I don’t worry about the bare spots in my lawn, or the failed tub of mint and catnip by the chiminea.

I think I will leave the honeysuckle vine to grow for a while. I think I will wait until the deck starts to sag, and we have to dive into our savings tearing it down and building a new one. I think that when that happens, I will see if I can plant a new vine by the old compost bin. I don’t need a garden, I need a honeysuckle vine.

I need a little bit of Heaven outside my back door.

Gutzon Borglum, the sculptor who created Mount Rushmore, knew that those hundreds of stonemasons and laborers working on the details of the huge faces of four great Presidents carved into South Dakota granite, might miss the whole scope of his plan. So he carved models of the great heads and set them up at the sculpture site, and every day the workers could see the scope of the whole work, and stay interested as they bent over jackhammers and chisels and slow ground cold stone into art.
We work and trudge through our days, working on seemingly trivial details, hammering, chiseling. We occupy our free time dreaming of what we’ll do if we win the lottery, or if some previously unknown wealthy relative leaves us a million dollars. We lose ourselves in immense dreams of glory. And we miss the masterpiece that we’re working on every day; the real life that we began while we were busy dreaming.

Dreams are powerful things. They can motivate. They can inspire. They can be romantic, extravagant, wild, fanciful. But often, too often, they can betray us. They can distract us. They can break our hearts. Dreams they are, but they are not hopes, for hopes are what allow us to endure.

Each day, we climb a mountain of The Same Old Thing. We are bent over our desks, our computer consoles, our hammers and our chisels. But the mountain we climb is the sculpture upon which we work. The granite we carve is being crafted under our hands with every day we live, every hope we summon, every friend whose hand we take, every kindness we share, every little moment of happiness and beauty we carve from our mountains. And when we are done, when we reach the point where, finished or not, the work we are doing comes to its inevitable end, we hope to find that when we finally step back to view the whole scope of our work, we will see that the Great Artist has created a masterpiece…even if some of the gritty details aren’t quite so perfect.

Even if the model was….

 I was reading beholdthestars blog this evening, and wrote a comment there, and…well, it just started me off, so I will continue it here:

A commonly-used expression in my part of the country (and probably also in yours), in discussions of rights, is “Your rights end at the end of my nose.” I would have more faith in those who use that phrase if they didn’t so often act upon this aphorism as though their rights begin at the end of MY nose.

There’s an old movie that runs every now and then, Sam Elliot in Travis McGee: The Empty Copper Sea. In the midst of the movie, Sam/Travis is sitting at the bar as his voice narrating, says something about how the world is “full of people that are like bowling balls, always looking for someone to knock over.” As he finishes his narrated observation, the bartender gives the waitress a hard time. “Another bowling ball” growls McGee before taking the bartender to task (with suitably gleaming private detective eye). That movie was made in the eighties, the novel it was based on…in (at least) the seventies if not earlier. Apparently there are still a lot of bowling balls in the world.

We each have a great power to do good in the world…and a corresponding power to do great harm, if not great evil. The difference lies within the choices we make, and the obligations we have, and the rights we recognize. And upon never forgetting that we have the power to make those decisions.

Each day we encounter situations in which we can decide to follow the rush of our emotions and say or do something that might be at the least harsh and at the worst, hurtful to those with whom we interact, or to step back and consider a better way to express ourselves, or to act with or upon others. How often do we…do I…jump into our reaction with both big flat feet, and stomp all over the spiritual and psychic health of those with whom we work or live?

In my case, far too often. Oh, I could blame the steroids…with some little truth…but long before I was on immunosuppressants I was a bit…short…with people at times. And all too late, I come to realize it. As I have aged, I’m not sure that I’ve gotten any better about it, but it isn’t through lack of trying.

One thing I have learned through the years is that there’s no such thing as “I can’t help it.” There may be “I can’t control it”, but “I can’t help it” is a no-go. We can always help it; we can always make it better, if only by apologizing sincerely.  And then fulfilling our obligation (thanks, Stars…and Ms. Weil) that our initial callousness has brought upon us.

I guess this is all a part of that “doing unto others”-thing, and all part of that “being part of a community”-thing, that too many of us have forgotten, along with the simple fact that our rights end at the end of our nose, too. Beyond that are our obligations, to be free and to take notice, and care, of others.

Thanks again, Star.

Sysiphus was an ancient Greek king who for his crimes against the gods was banished to Tartarus to endlessly roll a huge boulder up a hill, only to watch it roll back down again, throughout eternity.

On every Monday morning, we know how the old king must have felt. There at least are no dark shadows and moaning shades in our brightly lit offices, and no three-headed hound to prevent our departure at the close of the day, not counting the noisy sales group in the conference room, and that guy from accounting with the annoying laugh.

But our work is never-ending. We create a report or build a database, or process forms or handle the needs of the public, and when one day ends, the next will await us with more of the same. Unceasing drudgery.

But is it really? Oh, it can be tiresome, it can be the same old thing every day. And if we bring none of our own joy to it, it can be cheerless. But it pays our bills. It feeds us, and when the day is done, we can take to our home and hearth a sense that, whether or not it was the most enjoyable way to spend our day or the most glamorous of vocations, it has given us a sense of purpose, and some sense of accomplishment. These are not trivial things.

Our work does not define us; we define our work, or at least we should. So let Mondays be a little less dreary, and let us welcome each new day’s chance to do our work just a little bit better. If we do it well, then we have placed our own stamp upon it, and we can take some comfort in the knowledge that the world perhaps was made a little better by our unsung exertions.

But then again…it is Monday….

My wife and I will be celebrating our sixteenth wedding anniversary on the 29th of February. It has been a good sixteen years.

It’s been a good sixteen years despite my illness, despite my being on Disability for nearly four years, and despite my often being underemployed in the early years. It’s been a good sixteen years despite our families each having their own trials and tribulations, illnesses and surgeries, disputes, disruptions and divorces. It’s been a good sixteen years even though I drive my wife absolutely crazy in any number of ways.

In my youth I was always looking for fireworks and symphonies. I looked for the thunder crash and the artillery barrage, the big time, the big top. I thought love had to be epic and overwhelming. I have learned a better way in sixteen years of marriage. I’ve learned that the most powerful feelings are the ones the poets don’t write about, the ones that have the power and immensity, not of a storm crashing ashore, but of the long swell of the deepest sea.

What I have really discovered in the last sixteen years is that the years haven’t paled our marriage, that there are new discoveries every time I look into my wife’s beautiful brown eyes, that there is delight in the curve of her lips when she smiles, in the tilt of her head when she’s engrossed in something on her laptop. I have found that Andrew Marvell was wrong to fear the “deserts of vast eternity” when “beauty shall no more be found”.

Beauty is in my wife’s every movement, in her every breath. In sixteen years, there is no diminishment, only new facets to be discovered. And tomorrow, I know, there will be new delights.

I am a very fortunate man.

I came across Mike Ratliff’s blog “Possessing the Treasure” today, and walked into the middle of a huge exchange between conservative and liberal Christians, each side trumpeting their own view of what true Christianity is. To those who participated in those discussions, if by some chance you come my way, I have some comments to share. I will open by saying that I do not wish to offend anyone, nor am I taking any sides in your discussion. I have only expressed my view of the nature of the discussion, not my view of anyone’s particular opinions.

So…

Why is it that when people begin discussing faith and politics it always descends to name-calling, self-righteousness and mutual disgust?

“In My Father’s house are many mansions. If it were not so, I would have told you. I go to prepare a place for you, that where I am, there you may be also. I will not leave you comfortless, but will come to you.” -John 14

Christ said that there were “many mansions”; He did not say that those mansions would all be painted the same color, nor furnished in the same style.

None of us can know the entire mind of God, so how dare we presume certainty in the arrogance of our own opinions? The men and women closest to Jesus in His years of mission were often confused by His words, because they were mere humans trying to understand the infinite wisdom, mercy and power of Christ. How can we, who must rely only upon that “still quiet voice” and our best but necessarily human and therefore incomplete understanding of God’s Word, be so proud as to berate one another with the ascendency of our own interpretation? Pope Gregory the Great and St Thomas Aquinas listed Pride and Wrath (anger) among the seven sins most deadly to the soul. It is wise to remember that alignment when entering into theological or political debate.

All of us seek assurance of our salvation. Christ assures us in John 14 that where He goes, there we will be also. That is our only assurance, all we need. Why then need we constantly strive among each other for the winning of an argument over who is most right, who is closest to God’s throne? Do we think our righteousness shall gain us heaven? We cannot earn heaven; we may only be gifted with it by the mercy of God.

Christ said that He came in fulfillment of the Commandments. He said that the two greatest commandments were “Thou shalt love the Lord thy God with all thy heart, and with all thy soul, and with all thy mind. This is the first and great commandment. And the second is like unto it, Thou shalt love thy neighbour as thyself. On these two commandments hang all the law and the prophets.” (Matthew 22:37-40)

These were not the commandments of Moses; they fulfilled the commandments of Moses. These commandments were not a matter of chapter and verse. These commandments were not the law of the Sadducees, nor the customs and traditions of the Pharisees. These commandments were the living words of Christ, of God. So why do we quibble with each other over trifles of politics and law, and argue over who is more righteous and who is less? Who is right and who is wrong? We are ALL wrong; we are ALL sinners, and never moreso than when we rise in pride and wrath to assert our righteousness, whether that be branded conservative or liberal, Fundamentalist or Secularist.

Righteousness, faith, salvation; these are not part of some spiritual football game; there are no strategies, no cheerleaders, no halftime shows, no crowd to thrill, no final score. We do not push the ball across the goal line; we ARE the ball, and we are carried across the only goal line that matters by the mercy of God. The ball doesn’t coach the team. The ball doesn’t call the play. The ball should take no pride in being taken over the goal line. If it feels at all, it should only feel gratitude that the play is over.

So the next time any of you get into an argument over the relative merits of conservatism and liberalism, or Fundamentalism and Secularism, take care that you forget neither the first nor the second of the most important commandments. You may be right in your opinion…or you may be wrong. Your certainty is salvation through Christ; this is your only certainty. All else is your best judgement. And your judgement, no matter how careful your study, no matter how cleverly you debate, no matter how impressive your biblical quotations nor your sheer intelligence, should always be tempered by the knowledge that you may be wrong. You may only use your best judgement, that which God gave you, and hope that you don’t make too many mistakes along the way. And remember, that if you would lead someone to Christ, you must lead them with love. You cannot drive them with anger, nor with fear. And you need not take pride in your righteousness.

You have not earned it. You cannot earn it. You may only strive for it.

Every moment we live is a miracle. Every moment we feel, every moment we see, every moment we experience our world is a miracle.

At this moment a life is reaching a conclusion, and someone is discovering whether there is nothing, or everything, beyond the world in which we live.

At this moment a child is opening her eyes for the first time.

At this moment a cow is mooing.

At this moment a tire is losing adherence to a wet road surface.

At this moment a foot is striking a ball.

At this moment old friends are sharing a laugh.

At this moment a snowflake is falling on a hillside.

At this moment a wife is being struck by her husband.

At this moment a prayer is being said.

At this moment sunlight is peeking over the edge of the world.

At this moment a foot’s asleep.

At this moment a breeze is stirring through a lion’s mane.

At this moment a man is snoring.

At this moment a child is losing his innocence.

At this moment a whale is sounding.

At this moment a traffic light is changing.

At this moment a kitten is purring.

At this moment a pilot is flying over Iraq.

At this moment a woman is looking into the eyes of the man she’ll marry.

At this moment a sun is moving into eclipse.

At this moment a farmer is spreading manure.

At this moment a doctor is prescribing a sedative.

At this moment a wave is breaking on a tropical reef.

At this moment billions of people are living from moment to moment to moment totally unaware of the miracles around them. At this moment some of those billions realize that in this one moment we are all alive and the universe is around us. At this moment, just as immensity is about to overwhelm and sanity teeters on the edge of the infinite, a soul is finding its place, and the universe is regaining its balance.

Every moment we live is a miracle. Every moment we feel, every moment we see, every moment we experience our world is a miracle. Every moment we are is a miracle.

And the next moment….

I have a lot of spare time. Well, not really, but I do waste a lot of time wondering about things that have no effect upon my own life, and over which I have no power or authority. For example:

I wonder if there are aliens on a planet in the Greater Magellanic cloud wondering if there are aliens on a planet in Andromeda wondering if there are aliens on a planet here in the Milky Way wondering if there are aliens on Earth. Woo!..I’m a little dizzy.

I wonder where they get the chintzy prizes they put in Cracker Jack boxes.

I wonder if we would have brought the perpetrators of 9/11 to justice any faster if we had engaged in a pursuit of criminals rather than in a “war on terror”.

Just why is Lou Holtz on television?

Are Archer, Daniels and Midland family farmers? And if not, do they get all those government tax breaks and subsidies anyway?

I wonder why I yell at my dog to get out of the trash when I know she can’t understand English.

If Cialis works so well, why is that couple always sitting…outside…in two separate bathtubs…behind an umbrella.

Is “evitable” really the opposite of “inevitable”?

I wonder if I will actually kill the next person I hear asking why we park on a driveway and drive on a parkway. It was funny exactly once.

I wonder if the NBA season will ever go so long that a baby born at the opening of the first game of the season can play power forward at the end of the season. And truly, aren’t ALL balls roundballs? Well, spherical, anyway, but still….

Do they always put the woman on the Fox News morning show directly in front of the camera in a short skirt?

Where are my darn car keys?!?

On an interstate highway, “merge” means “merge”, first one car from the merging lane, then one from the through lane; it doesn’t mean stop! WHY CAN’T YOU GET THAT?!?

Why is Gilbert Gottfried? And no, that’s not a typo.

I wonder what Mark Twain would think of Will Rogers?

Those are the things I wonder about. What do you wonder about?

I wonder if you’ll say….

There’s a new movie out, with Morgan Freeman and Jack Nicholson, called “The Bucket List”. In it, two elderly men make a list of all the things they want to do before they “kick the bucket”. I don’t like the fact that I’m identifying with elderly men, but lately I’ve been thinking of my own bucket list.

Some of these are pretty mundane. Some of these are downright dangerous. A few are ludicrous. A few are sublime. And most I probably won’t get to do. But what the heck; at least I’ve made a list. These are not in any particular order of precedence or importance. It’s just the raw list.

1. See the sunset in the midst of a tropical sea. I don’t want to do it alone. I don’t want to do it on a cruise ship with five thousand other people. I just want to do it, with friends and an experienced captain, a sail boat and a very good radio.

2. Fly in an F-16. Or maybe an F-18. I’m not particular. I just want to get in the backseat of a very, very fast aircraft and ride along as the pilot winds it out to maximum.

3. Learn how to use a very good telescope.

4. Write my father’s story.

5. Return to Yosemite.

6. Build a Swiss Family Robinson treehouse…and live in it.

7. Meet a Swiss person named Robinson.

8. Step into Nelson’s cabin on HMS Victory (without batting my eyelashes at the sailor/tourguide, Trish!)

9. Fly on Virgin’s commercial space shuttle.

10. Not have to take immuno-suppressant steroids anymore…without having to lose my grafted kidney or die to do it.

11. See another Major League No-Hitter. (I’ve seen TWO…with WITNESSES: Derek Lowe’s at Fenway, and The Big Unit’s Perfect Game at Turner Field.)

12. Do one good thing that will be remembered.

13. Try one of those new Wendy’s fish sandwiches for lunch tomorrow.

14. Live to be 100.

There it is, my Bucket List. I wonder which of them I will do before I leave our present space/time continuum. I wonder if I will do any of them.

Okay, the fish sandwich is probably pretty certain. One down!