Sex on a Bike?

It's here! I finally know it's here...today, 4/6/09, and it showed up. I was on my bike ( I love how most of the best things in life occur while I'm cycling. If only I could figure out how to have sex on a bicycle I could die...right then and there. But if I survived it then I'd know that life would only be a hollow, empty experience living in the shadow of that pinnacle. So maybe it's better I don't looking for that high. Plus, if I really think about it, sex on a bike would probably just be awkward and uncomfortable with all the sharp, pointy bits of brake handles and gear shifters and seat posts and...jeez, this isn't what I wanted to write about today...at all. To think about? Sure. To write about? No, so sorry) when it hit me. I had already limited my clothing to only a pair of cycling shorts and multiple layers up top. No long tights today. For the first time in several months my ghostly white legs were shining proudly with no worries of frostbite. The first steep hill of the day had me pulling over half way up and pulling off my long sleeved fleece sweater when I noticed sweat dripping down my crack (another issue of sex on a bike that I hadn't considered). But that wasn't the tip off as I've been sweating under 4 layers of jackets all winter. It was the smell. I was coming down the backside of that hill rounding a bend in the shadows of a thick stand of fir trees when a faint earth smell insinuated itself into the miasma of thoughts that I constantly try to ride away from. The faster I ride from them the harder I bump into the ones in front of me...like a stiff head wind (get it..."head" wind, HA!). Anyway, as I came out of that corner and into a straight patch of full sunlight the subtlety was gone and I was punched in the nose with a thick rich smell of earth, of budding pine trees, of green growth, and of life...all mixed in with a hint of salty Pacific ocean air. I was hit with the first taste and smell of SPRING!!!!! A giddy laugh escaped me. Not the maniacal laugh that accompanies getting over a grueling pass and racing downhill at 40mph in 30th gear. That is the laugh of accomplishment and congquering known by men like Lance Armstrong or Genghis Khan. I'm talking of that silly slipping-out-of-your-soul-when-you-least-expect-it laugh...more of a giggle really...known by all 1 years olds.
Maybe I'm over-reacting to the sun a little but damn it's been a long and cold winter! And I hadn't smelled warm earth in 6 months and forgot how amazing that smell is. How can dirt smell so clean and fresh? Also, I have been so anxious to get out on the road again and travel to hot, sweltering places. The bug has bitten and all I want to do is RUN (cycle really) for the border where I can ride all day and complain about the heat and rashes and stinky smells and the thoughts that rule my head. And that is what all this sun today has done to me... reset my brain and reminded me that there are other things in life than fluorescent bulbs and sick people and videos on long winter nights and fleece and long fingered gloves and snow covering my gardening tools. Those thoughts are starting to fade and old warmer memories are coming back to me, of Hawaii and Indonesia and Cambodia and Thailand and everywhere else that sweat has rolled down my crack. Like it is right now, sitting outside of Starbucks, drinking one of my favorite corporate created coffee drinks and getting caffeinated before work...and dreaming of travel.

ps As I rode to work from Starbucks I passed a bank that flashed between the time and the temperature. All my excitement and gushing over a 59 degree afternoon. Dammit.

What one writes about after taking the Landmark Forum

I awoke today with a sense of sadness. A feeling like I was missing something in life...something deeper than what it is I now have. And don't get me wrong, I have a pretty great life. But it is a sense of loss that I can't seem to shake. The unremembered dream I had must have something to do with it. I was walking through the streets of San Francisco and wished I had the sense of camaraderie that the gay community seems to share (and no, I'm still not gay). There was an invisible wavy barrier (like in Star Trek when someone walks into a force field) between me and all the buildings as I walked down the Haight Ashbury and I knew that if I were gay...if I belonged, that barrier wouldn't be there. And yes I do realize that the same barrier exists for the gay community looking out from those buildings at the rest of the world...but this is my rant and this isn't about being straight or gay but about belonging. A sense of being in the tribe. I've looked for it my whole life and even when I'm in the middle of a community I still feel like I'm on its edge. I used to blame the different groups I was in for being too exclusive or too clique-ish. Whether it was an anti-nuclear protest group in college, or a sweat lodge group I attended years ago, or a group of actors working together on stage, or a professional group of RN's I work with in every ER I've been in, I just never felt like I belonged. I never felt comfortable in my own skin no matter what the situation was. Now I get it...I just don't feel that comfortable in my own skin no matter what the situation is! Um...DUH! It's not the group James belongs to but James! I'm not just now coming to this understanding, and there is no 2-by-4 smack-to-the-head moment for me, but there is a light shining in a dark cob webby place in my psyche that has been under-examined and hiding out. It wants to stay dark and undiscovered and unruffled so that I can continue to whine about how no one loves me and no one understands me and no one feels my pain. It's really destructive to me yet feels so right, so normal and it allows me to actually believe in what "I know is real" instead of what is real. What IS real is that the only constant in all of my groups/activities/involvements my whole life is ME and my cob-webby fears and self abusive voice that knows I'm truly unlovable so of course no group would fully accept me (hell, I don't even fully accept me!). So once again I ask the question, "where is that invisible thread I'm looking for?" "Where is that communal fire or drum circle or tribal dance inside that lets me know I belong to something bigger than me and my immediate family?" And through writing in this public journal of insecurity and self exploration I have come out with the answer I already knew of course...that I am that invisible thread. I am that communal fire and tribal dance that must love himself so that I'm able to accept the love of the community that already does love me. What a block-head! I'm kind of altering the quote (without changing the meaning of the quote) "you can't really love another until you learn to love yourself" to "you can't really know the love of another until you learn to love yourself". If I don't really love me then the love I feel from others gets put through my filter of "oh but if they knew the real me they wouldn't love me, or I better act a certain way or they won't love me anymore. Conditional. Fearful. Lonely. Time to remember to love myself and let in the love I feel everyday from so many awesome people in my life from family, to my love Sheryl, to people I work with like Jim Cole and Weyshawn, to people who actually read this blather like Margaret!

The Pro's and Con's of Cycling in Sleet

First of all...THERE ARE NO FREAKING PRO'S OF CYCLING IN SLEET! I know, I just rode in sleet this morning...again. But to be really honest, I'm from California. I'm not even sure what sleet is. I've heard the Inuit people have something like 32 different words for "snow". In the bay area and Santa Cruz area we had one. That word was snow. It was wet snow or dry snow or heavy snow. There was hail of course (not that I ever saw it) but it was kinda like snow only more icy... like a "snow"cone without the neon blue flavored topping. But I digress. Snow pellets were, or sleet was, falling from the sky as I got on my bike and rode downhill for my morning ritual of pouring caffeine into my body before going to work. As I started the steep descent, thinking of my still-warm blankets, the sky opened up and visibility dropped to 30 meters or so. All I could see through my squinting eyes was the stop sign scream past me on my right. I would have loved to stop. Loved to have just turned around and crawl back in bed and not have to contemplate why the hell I put myself in these ridiculous situations. But then I looked down at my body and noticed that the sleet balls were bouncing off of my jacket and pants. Cool. That is a plus, this isn't getting me wet at all! So I started thinking about the pro's and con's of cycling in sleet. The next thought was that cycling in sleet is akin to cycling into a swarm of bees. Even though I had glasses on, the stinging sensation in my face kept my eyes to mere slits as each ice cube from a cold dark hell bit into my cheeks and nose and lips (how's that for subtlety). My mind went back to the "pro" side of the list and faltered in it's search...but at least my legs are dry I thought. My gloved hands were starting to numb at the fingertips and I added that to the negative column. Then I thought of a solid good thing that cycling in sleet affords...a certain smugness. A sense that I'm better than all of these weak people driving by in their #$%*! SUV's staying warm and dry and sipping their lattes and listening to nice music and having warm conversations with loved one's inside. The longer my mind stayed on that tack the more I realized that smugness was just a cover for resentment which is just a smokescreen for envy. So I had to move my smugness from pro to the con side. But at least my legs (which by this time were cold and numb) were still dry. "OK", I thought, "I'll go back to the place I always go when I'm riding and begin to question my sanity or at least my intelligence". NO CARBON FOOTPRINT!! I can feel ecologically smug if nothing else! I am good because I am ecologically conscious and aware and living more in concert with nature than these polluters all around me. Of course I immediately scratch this reason off the pro side of the list as I see the absolute hypocrisy of my thoughts. With my all wheel drive Subaru wagon, with my electric heat at home and my washer dryer and my water heater and my lifestyle of traveling around the world when ever I can and...
And yes, I do see a pattern here for the need to be better than everyone else! There is a smug factor here born of low self esteem, being vertically challenged at 5'7" (calling it short is so politically incorrect), and the continual need to compare myself to Gandhi, Einstein, Lance Armstrong, Verdi, Michelangelo, and everyone else who seems to have grabbed life by the balls and achieved their true potential. So many of us settle for comfort and adequacy, and mediocrity. It feels like a stone in my shoe. It feels like a boil on my ass. It feels like a toothache, that mediocrity. What's worse is that I don't even take off the shoe or lance the boil or go to the dentist. If I did, the responsibility of being pain free, or truly free, limitless to achieve my potential, would be devastating. It IS devastating and so I create limits for myself or blocks or walls or reasons or fears to keep me from reaching some state of grace. Some greater good. Something perfect. I feel like I chose mediocrity or at least if not chose it then stay stuck in some loop that says I can't have it...that perfect state of Grace.
And it's not an egotistical thought, like "I have GREATNESS in me that the world will never know, poor me." No. It is the crystal clear knowledge that we all have it. We are here to live in our fully actualized state. We are here to express our totally unique perspective and to do it fiercely and fearlessly. And so few of us do live like this that it saddens me and freaks me out. But really, I'm not sad for everyone else...to wake up is their own responsibility. I hope everyone achieves it. What an amazing place this planet would be without all the blocks we create to achieve our own greatness. I'm sad that I can see it just in front of me, almost taste it, yet am either too afraid or too confused as to how to get there.
And right now it hits me. On the pro side of the list for cycling in sleet is the amazing opportunity to naval gaze. Not literally of course as severe hypothermia would ensue. But the opportunity to once again go to that place where I can ponder what is the reason for being here. What can I do to achieve Grace. Do I need to do anything to achieve it or am I already there? Am I truly mad in a world I don't belong to? Am I awakening to a new place and realizing once again that it doesn't fit with the paradigm we all seem to have created?

My hands are frozen. My face is all red and puffy. My eyes can't stop tearing. I can't feel my feet and even though the sleet didn't stick to my pant legs it did kind of roll down onto my ankles and into my shoes collecting there like a mini snow drift of frostbite gnawing at my lower extremities. Those are all on the "con's" side of the equation. On the positive side? Naval gazing and a pair of dry pants. If I were you I'd stick to driving the Escalade.

James vs. James

I am at a loss for words. I know you might be having a hard time believing your luck, but it's true...writers block just as I get back on the horse of writing daily. The biggest problem is that I'm reading an amazing novel called Shantaram. It's too good. And it floors me to read something that good because I go back and re-read my stuff and just get bummed at how banal and pointless it all is. Why do I have to be so cute or so pseudo-funny or make everything into a freaking joke? Hiding my fears around getting married again for instance in the story about buying a wedding ring and being lost in that whole world of diamonds and expectations and layers of cultural baggage. And then again why am I so freaking hard on myself and bother to compare my writing style with anyone else's...as if writing is some sort of contest or penis measuring device to secure my self esteem. It will never measure up...(OK, not the penis, the writing) as long as I continue to look for that sense of self worth from an external source. It has to come from within. Yet how can one build one's own sense of that if you don't have a tool box to use? Ah, the old Mr. Hyde voice crawling through my awareness tonight. Dr. Jeckyl not feeling too well and here comes the mass murderer of self esteem and feeling alright with my place in the world. No, we can't have that. Much easier to own my horrible self as it prevents me from having to move forward and improve my life. Much easier to wallow in the muck that keeps me from soaring. Life is right here in all it's glory and all I have to do is reach out and grab what I want and make this life what I want. But that means I'll have to actually figure out what it is I want. OK my BS meter is now in the red zone. I actually do know what I want and it's mostly to shut the #@%$ up. Buck up. Be aware of the whole Dr. Jeckyl and Mr. Hyde part of my brain that looks for misery in a life that is actually pretty sweet. Get off the pity pot as my friend Steve says and call 911 for the whaaaambulance. Jesus I can make myself sick of myself if I don't watch out. Self hatred is such an ego trip. After all, I get to think about James all the time! James is such a loser, James is mundane, James is insipid, James is...OK, I got the online thesaurus turned on so I could keep going here, but you get the idea...slamming James all the time is just self indulgence. So I'm off the pity pot, just flushed it as a matter of fact and man was that a stinky one. But on the positive side (for me that is), I think I'm over the writers block!

Post-op

As I curled up on the gurney last night in room 6 of the ER (if one can curl up on a rock hard gurney) and started to doze, I laughed thinking, who in their right mind goes to an ER for some peace and quiet so they can sleep? But after what I've just endured, sharing a sleeping space with screaming trauma patients and vomiting drunk teenagers is positively serene. But this tale of insomnia has its beginning much earlier in the day. That morning my mom had cataract surgery on her right eye. I was to be her designated driver and all around support system if she needed anything. (Samantha, you're on board for the left eye!) It turns out that cataract surgery is about as easy as getting one's prostate checked. A few minutes of discomfort and some post procedural blurred vision is about there is to it (and I'm talking about the prostate exam here!). Except for the potential of being a menace behind the wheel while driving blind, my mom didn't really need the help. For 80 years old she doing amazingly well. Not one known for missing out on the opportunity for some good shopping or a good meal, my mom and I were having a big breakfast of huevos rancheros an hour after surgery. Two hours post op we were strolling down the cavernous isles of COSTCO shopping for massive quantities of over packaged stuff we can all live without. When I usually go to COSTCO I get a cart and start loading it with all the really cool and really cheap stuff that is at least half the price back home in Friday Harbor. Then about 2/3rds of the way through the store I start unloading the cart, realizing that even though it's all cheap, I really don't want it. Things like an 8 pack of Britta water filters, or a case of motor oil, or a 24 inch pecan pie. Fifty pounds of C and H sugar? AWESOME. Then over in the sock isle, seeing the diabetic coma in front of me, I strain to lift that indiscreet pink bag out of the forklift sized shopping cart and tuck it in amongst the 12 packs of gym socks or the cases of Hostess Twinkies. But COSTCO isn't what I wanted to write about today...at all. I wanted to talk about the fortitude of my 80 year old mom power shopping through the madness mere hours after having undergone surgery. It was great to see although I have to admit that she looked a little goofy wandering around aimlessly with a normal appearing left eye while the right eye was sporting a pupil the size of a basketball. It was disconcerting as an ER nurse to look my mom in the eyes. Not the disconcerting feeling you get when you are talking to someone with a lazy eye and one or both of their eyes wander around and you're never sure which one to look into while you are talking with them....switching furtive glances from eye to eye, afraid they'll be thinking that you're staring at their imperfect gaze. But the other disconcerting feeling...the one that feels like you're talking to someone who has just suffered a major head injury. When we teach new EMT students to assess trauma patients for brain injury, performing a pupil check is essential. It's important that the pupils are equal and reactive to light. That's the reason we are always shining bright lights in your face at accident scenes. (And here begins our tangential medical lesson for the day: Once your brain begins to swell after experiencing a traumatic event be it baseball bat to skull, or face vs windshield, or...well you get the idea, the pressure inside your skull increases and thus begins the process of herniation. This is when your brain gets pushed out of the big hole at the base of your skull. This of course happens right before you die. But before you die and after the brain swelling occurs all that pressure pushes on the optic nerve and that causes one pupil or both to dramatically widen...otherwise known as a blown pupil. A blown pupil is a late and ominous sign of a devastating head trauma. People with blown pupils tend to die. People with blown pupils don't tend to shop at COSTCO for 96 roll mega-packs of toilet paper.) So all that was to explain why I only looked in my moms left eye today after her surgery. It helped that she had this huge clear plastic shield taped ridiculously over her right eye that, while preventing her from rubbing the wound kind of magnified it at the same time. It was sad in that way that you get sad for dogs who wear big cones around their necks when they get stitches or hot spots.
But I started this entry with insomnia. I had a flashback last night of when I was back in Malaysia in the oldest virgin rain forest in the world. Leaches and brown rivers come to mind when remember that place. That and trying to sleep in a rotten shack of a building with a rat gnawing in the wall a few inches from my head. I remember that so fondly as it was kind of a turning point for me as I came to accept a crappy situation I was stuck in and just BE in the discomfort of it. I had this flashback while lying in a hotel room last night just a few feet from my mom in the other bed. I was yearning for the peace I found with the rat. I was yearning for lots of things while lying there...an ipod, the sunrise, death. You see, my mom snores. Not just snores but saws a mean log. Not just saws it but chainsaws it...with a jackhammer. I mean, there was a sound emanating from a woman just 5 feet tall that seemed to utterly defy physics. I was visualizing her vocal cords (I've been seeing a lot of vocal cords lately while intubating patients with a breathing tube) snapping under the pressure of such a force. I wondered if the vibrations could be damaging her healing eye wound. I first heard the preliminary sounds as she dozed off while I was still awake watching CNN. I thought it would be a good idea to stuff toilet paper in my ears before I turned out the lights. Useless. Pillow on top of head and plugged ears? Futile, not to mention uncomfortable. As the night wore on it seemed to get only louder until I could actually feel the vibrations through the air shaking my bed. I am not exaggerating here. The room actually shook. Mini earthquakes rhythmically driving me mad. A rat, a rat, my kingdom for a rat! I have traveled the world on a shoestring and have stayed in a lot of sketchy places and slept in a lot of crowded hostel and dormitory rooms. Groups of smelly, scratching, farting, snoring drunken men I've shared quarters with and none of them hold a candle to my short, little 80 year old mom.
About a half an hour before we fell asleep my sister Samantha stopped by the hotel room on her way to Seattle and to save money she stayed with us that night. She slept in the same bed as my mom. This is where the story gets even more bizarre. This is when I knew I had to blog about this night. This is where it all comes together and makes the pain almost worth it...nah not really even close. Samantha was married to a snorer. My grandmother was married to a snorer as well and gave my sister some sage advice when confronted with snoring...just whistle. Apparently my grandma figured out that the frequency of a whistle could stop a snore cold yet not awaken the perpetrator. But whistling takes a lot of energy apparently, as Samantha later told me, so she has devised a way of sort of moaning at a high frequency that is supposed to mimic a whistle and quell a snore. Well, I can tell you that whistling and moaning in a sing-song voice does not in any way stop an eruption of wheezy roars. What began as annoying and quickly became exasperating snoring took on a whole new flavor with the whistles. I got that creeped out feeling that none of this could be real and that I was actually going crazy a little bit and hallucinating. I mean really. And this is what did it. This is what drove me to sleep in a busy ER where screams of pain and retching seemed like sleep aids.

The Ring

I'm getting married! You might be shocked to know that I even have a significant other as 1) I almost never write about Sheryl (in the interest of staying in a relationship with Sheryl) and 2) I can hear you wondering who would tolerate a guy so seemingly lost in the dark lint of his own belly button. But it's true and the big day is later this year in August...the 29th to be exact. So now, six months ahead of time, comes the inevitable planning process. Which leads me to today's rant about wedding rings. Not hers, that was planned last summer when I proposed. I wanted her ring to be as beautiful as possible and very traditional. Sheryl, you see, is anything but traditional. It's one of the many things I find so damn attractive about her. But she has lived an "on edge" and "alternative lifestyle" for many years of her life. We wanted our wedding (even though we plan on getting onto a large boat and waiting for orca whales to appear before we exchange our Buddhist inspired vows) to be more traditional. I know it doesn't sound that way but it's true. We have both been married before. Sheryl in jeans and a flannel shirt in front of a justice of the peace...and me in the woods wearing what can now only be described as neo-Baltic, gypsy inspired Indian chic. Sheryl's previous $20 gold wedding band, long since resold and melted down, always seemed to be a sore spot with her so I wanted this ring to be special...and traditional. After looking at a million rings that all start to blur (I mean, really...how many ways can a metal ring with rocks on it vary) I found one I really liked. The sales woman explained that there was a little "ppf" stamp on the inside of the ring. When I looked at her inquisitively she sort of sighed at my ignorance. "Past, present and future" she smiled. Like, by saying those three words a deep meaning was transmitted and understood by those who are (or about to get) married. "Oh, right, right. Yeah, past, present and future" I nodded back to her and scooted out of the kind of retail shop I try to avoid every other day of my life. "Past?" Damn, we've both been married before AND DIVORCED! So it's not as if we want to go dragging up the past as a guide for marriage. "Present?" We're doing well in our relationship right now and staying present to problems that arise and are still in love and the sex is, well, none of your damn business gutter heads, and we love raising two teenagers, so CHECK...the present is good. "Future?" WTF??!! Who the hell knows? I could get whacked by a bus on the way to work tomorrow or Sheryl could fall down our stairwell? As I was walking back to the car I wondered If I could have one of the 'P's and the 'F' scratched off but thought it might be kind of tacky and look kind of 'pre-owned'.
She picked out her wedding dress last night and it's a far cry from a flannel shirt. The 1920's style crepe-over-satin, cap sleeved dress (I know that description makes me sound gay but I'm still not) is also pretty traditional but it won't really cover most of her tattoo's so it's not as if we're going all Ronald and Nancy Reagan. I'll be sporting a new tux however, shiny shoes and all, so I'm hoping to get away from that Bosnia meets New Delhi bit I had going for me last time. In staying with the whole traditional thing I need to get Sheryl a matching wedding ring. I kind of forgot about that part...until she reminded me the other day. It turns out the ring before the wedding is called an "engagement" ring... only to be followed up with another ring (matching of course) called the "wedding" ring. Who knew? I do, now...and will plan accordingly. Then came the time to pick out my ring. In my defense I will call it ring shopping fatigue (or just plain frugality)but it seems that all the silver colored bands that I prefer look EXACTLY alike. Whether titanium, white gold, silver, stainless steel, or platinum they are all shiny silver and kind of boring and perfect for doing the job of saying "Hey pretty ladies, sorry, this hunk of a man is taken!" So I was surprised at Sheryl's response when I said "Hey look, here's a ring on E-bay for $14.95 with free shipping! A discussion was had, let's say, about the relative quality of different precious metals...value...money...quality...money...value...quality. In these matters, my grandfather Temple taught me, it is better to let the women's prerogative prevail. So it looks like along with my shiny black shoes I'll be wearing a shiny silver (scratch that) white gold wedding band. It's funny what comes up when discussing something like a wedding. Something as pragmatic as where to plan the reception becomes super emotional. What one wears becomes of the utmost importance. Emotions wear thin and ...Oh, God, we haven't even approached the subject of invitations yet!

Naked

"Hey boys, settle down or I'm coming down these stairs AND I'M NOT KIDDING!". I was standing stark naked in the locker room of the local fitness club the other day and my friend Margaret was shouting down the stairwell like a mom who has been in a cramped car too long with too many kids. She was yelling at a bunch of little boys who were totally out of control. In Margaret's defense being in the club after school during kids swim time feels exactly like being in a cramped car with too many kids! A shot of fear ran through me even though I knew it was a bluff. In thinking about it now, safe in my home in the middle of the night, with clothes on, the fear came from one of two places. Not wanting my naked ass to be exposed to my friend Margaret OR, hearing that voice triggered memories of my own mom yelling that same exact phrase at me when I was an out of control little boy. It's kind of amazing what will randomly rock me from my normal ho-hum brain activity and give me a little jolt. All those little kid neurons that are still up there in my brain will get fired off when I least expect it.
So now, as a 46 year old man, I'm looking back and trying to find out what programs still run this old computer. What garbage-in garbage-out routines are still running through me and confounding me as I try to put new, healthier programs into my subconscious not to mention the boys I'm helping to raise now? Because I sure don't want these awesome kids to be run by the low self esteem paradigm that has chewed its way through my life. The programs that run just under the radar and often over the radar and loud and clear. The "you're too lazy, too unfocused, too spacey, too sensitive, too insensitive, too 'whatever I want to slam myself with today' voice that rarely if ever shuts the hell up. Why. Why ask why I guess...it's there so deal with it and be aware of it and don't let it run my life. Is it just me or does anyone else out there hear the constant chatter in their own skull...and if you do what strategies do you employ to quiet them...drugs, alcohol, sex, running from event to meeting to chore to event? Band aids. I'm thinking death might cure it but who knows. No, I'm not suicidal...far from it as I'm not even depressed today. I'm actually feeling great. It's just that I awoke last night at the way too quiet hour of 3am and felt my heart as it pulsed in my ears. I started to watch my mind actively search for things to fret about and chew on. Old dusty corners of my brain were peered into looking for dust bunnies of guilt or regret. The flashlight of awareness was brought out to search under the furniture of past relationships or hurts or awkward situations where I have embarrassed myself. Looking to highlight once again all those times when I have screwed up so I can feel terrible all over again. The visceral gut punch of a memory is just as strong each time it is relived. That well worn road still hurts my feet every time I walk it. Why? What need do I have to search for places and feelings that make me feel bad? Are they unresolved situations or emotions that need to be sifted through until the murky water is clear and the silt is gone? Or is it that I don't think I deserve to be happy and just enjoy this life...and when my calm/rested mind can't take the incongruity goes hunting in the darkness. BLAH, BLAH, BLAH. I'll stop whining now and just put some clothes on in case Margaret comes down here into the murky depths and wants to kick some out-of-control-little-boy's ass.

The Usual Questions

Familiarity breeds, what, boredom...comfort...um, brain death? It must. How else to explain the group behavior I saw today (and everyday) while riding the ferry home from work today? As I've mentioned before, I live on a small island in the Pacific North West. It's a pain in the ass, it's inconvenient, it's dark all winter, it can be claustrophobic and can be oppressive when the clouds pile up in November (and stay until June!) from their rain gathering campaign across the North Pacific ocean. Pile up like a traffic accident. Cloud after cloud speeding through the air, crashing into one another and crying constantly at the loss of blue sky and light. The carnage continues until there are no more clouds to be seen but only a flat gray cloak of a sky with no definition and no hope of ever going away. Only a cloying blanket of dim moisture hanging above and weeping.
(OK, today is actually stunningly beautiful without a cloud in the sky. Hoar frost clings to the shadows on the ground and the water we are sliding through looks like the window pane of an old Victorian bay window. Not a perfect invisible reflection but textured just enough to be pleasantly interesting.) I couldn't actually write about the flat dull gray skies while they occur because it pushes me a little too close to the "What's the point of it all" side of the BIG QUESTION. The other end of that scale, and the one I am pondering today is, "Oh my God, how can this planet be so perfect and integrated and so damn beautiful?" It's not that I've begun a prescription of antidepressants this week...it's just that the sun is out and the sky is that perfect cold winter blue with no brown haze of summer. How can that not make the funk in my head go away? You know, the moss that builds up under one's eyelids like plaque or the lichen that grows in the sulci (google it) of my cerebrum. Which brings me once again back to where I started (in my own twisted head anyway)...familiarity.
It is a mind killer. As the Washington State Ferries ply these waterways they pass pristine islands. Trees carpet them fighting for light and space all the way down to the rocky shoreline. Not like the planned forests of recently logged tree farms to the east...like bad hair plugs on a bald mountainside. These are rascally and diverse and dense. I just saw a bald eagle sitting on a rock next to a buoy eyeing the kelp-draped low tide outcropping. Seals and river otters swim through the dark green waters. It is an amazing part of this planet to be able to call home (yes, even on a rainy day). But I wouldn't have noticed any of it had it not been for the ferry captain. He or she must have been bored enough to try an alternate route today. Normally the ferries stay on a fixed route. And even though beautiful, the same sights seen too often can become routine. Even when I consciously look for the more subtle details, familiarity kicks in and I end up reading a book as magic floats by just outside the salt sprayed window. Today, instead of passing by the south side of Blakely Island we slid through Peavine pass to the north. Books all around the ferry were put aside and the people were up and about quietly staring at a rarely seen part of our own county. Snags overhanging a low cliff ready to fall to a watery grave...a bright green meadow leaning at an impossible angle...a steep mountainside packed with fir and cedar trees. We were mesmerized as it slid slowly east. It's not as if it were that different from the south side of the island but it was just the fact that it was different at all. As soon as we passed through the narrow channel the sights were once again familiar. The looks of interest and appreciation were soon enough gone as books and magazines were once again raised and we all went back to wherever it is we go that is not here...right here. Now, I'm not preaching...or if I am it is only to myself and have dragged you along for the sermon. But how do we stay awake and alive to all the amazement that is always right in front of our freaking noses? The smooth cool feeling of the keyboards under my fingers right now...the beauty of all the love that is given and received constantly...the pain and suffering that surrounds everything there is...the power of our kids asking us a question and trusting our answers...our spouses constancy/sexuality/support...the taste of a carrot pulled from our garden...or even the fact that it will grow at all! My friend Margaret likes to quote the Bob Dylan line "Those who are not busy being born are busy dying". It's a good line...makes me wonder how much of my life I spend dead. But that's a rabbit hole I'd like to avoid going down today...it's too beautiful outside.
CONGRATULATIONS TO BARACK OBAMA!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!