In honor of W vacating the White House premises, I thought I’d write about his last night in a place that should have never been his home:
George walked down the thickly-carpeted hallway and marveled at the richly ornate moldings and archways, wandering into rooms he didn’t even know existed. He was hungry and was trying to find the kitchen. He came to the second floor elevator and decided against it. Heh, he thought, I’ll take the stairs for old time’s sake, even though there was never an old time when he took the stairs.
At the bottom of the stairs he regarded one of the Secret Service men and said with a slap on the man’s shoulder, “Hey, Larry!”
“It’s Lionel, sir,” said the man, adjusting his earpiece and tie. “Has been for eight years.”
“Lionel, Larry,” the President said with a shrug, “ya’ll look the same.”
“Sir?”
“Ya know, with the earpiece, the black suit, ya know.”
“Yes, sir.”
George looked at the man’s earpiece and asked, “So’s that thing get FM and AM, or you got it hooked up to one of them pod eye MP2 thingamajiggies?”
“No, sir.”
George walked past paintings of former presidents and wondered who they were. Funny-lookin’ fellers, he laughed to himself. “Hey, Larry,” he said to another man in black.
“That’s John, Mr. President.”
“John, Juan, ya’ll look the same. Hey, Juan, who’s this funny-lookin’ guy here?” George, one hand on his hip, another pointing at a painting asked, “He a president?”
“That’s Mary Todd Lincoln, sir,” replied John.
“He the one that freed you people?”
“No, sir. The husband freed the slaves, and my ancestry is Puerto Rican.”
“What?” George cried. “You mean this feller was married to Lincoln? Heck, I never heard of no gay homosexual president. I’ve heard them people call themselves ‘Mary’, though. Have to look that one up in Ripley’s Believe It Or Not. You ever read that, Juan?”
“It’s John, sir, and I’ve never, ever read that book. Ever.”
“Good stuff. They got this guy with the longest fingernails in the world. Funny-lookin’ feller.”
“Yes, sir.”
After getting lost on the first floor, George found himself in a room decorated in all shades of blue.
“Hey, Larry,” George said to another secret service agent.
“My name is George, sir.”
“George? Your mama name you after me?”
“Sir, I was born many years before you were president. I’m named after my grandfather.”
“So he was named after me? Heh!” George looked around and asked, “So what’s this blue room called?”
The agent took a deep breath and said calmly, “The Blue Room, Mr. President.”
The agent then gave the President directions to the kitchen, which he summarily forgot. After stumbling down the basement stairs and thumbing through an old stack of Nixon’s Playboys, he found his way back upstairs to the front door, opened it, and breathed in the cool night zephyr wafting across the White House lawn. He couldn’t remember when the world seemed so crisp, fresh, and alive. He felt alive. Like a wide-eyed, big-mouthed bass, he was off the angler’s hook that had been in his lip for eight years. Ever since the first inauguration, he’d had indigestion and now he could relax. He also desperately wanted a tumbler full of vodka and a few lines of coke, but that would have to wait.
He walked into the kitchen and found the chef there, cleaning off the counter.
“Hey, Roger,” he said.
“My name’s Larry, Mr. President.”
“I knew somebody was named Larry! Whatchya doin’?”
“Just cleaning up, sir. Can I get you anything?”
“How about one of those famous sandwiches you always used to make for me, for old time’s sake?”
“Yes, sir, coming right up.” Larry reached into the refrigerator, pulled out some bread, and began making the sandwich.
George sat down on a stool and looked around, shaking his head in nostalgia for a place he’d never seen. “Sure gonna be strange not living here anymore after January twentieth.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You’ll be staying, though, I suppose, right?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You wouldn’t wanna come with me back to Crawford, now would ya? We got a fine and dandy kitchen there. Even got me a beef jerky machine.”
The chef assembled the sandwich and placed a pickle on the plate. “I appreciate the offer, sir, but I like it fine right here, and I’m looking forward to working for the new President.”
“You don’t mind cooking for a you-know-what?”
The chef bristled. “What, sir?”
“You know.”
“No, sir, I don’t know.”
“One of them.”
“I’m one of them, sir, if you haven’t noticed.”
“You’re a Harvard man?” George shook his head, remembering fondly the beer-goggled haze of Yale memories, and then said, “I guess my election-day support of Johnny boy didn’t help too much.”
“It appears so, sir.”
“That Tina Fey, though, she’s hot. Woo! And I bet she’ll be back. I’d like to give her a little support, if you know what I mean.”
The chef slid the plate over to the President. “No, sir. Is that all, sir?”
“Yeah, I guess so. Just send Laura the bill.”
George took a bite of his sandwich, chewed, and yelled, “What the heck is this?” He opened up the sandwich and there was nothing inside except a piece of paper. On it was written: Final bill: $7.7 trillion.
“Huh?! I never spent that much on food!”
“No, sir, it’s the amount you owe the American people.”
“Hmm, can I work out an installment plan with ya?”
Saturday, January 31, 2009
Sunday, January 25, 2009
Rock Bottom
Something I recently wrote in my travel journal:
I’m sitting on a bar stool at the Minneapolis Airport’s Rock Bottom Brewery sipping their signature Pale Ale. I thought a beer was justified before the second leg of my journey to Santa Fe to visit my friend and sometimes co-author, Susan. Except for the muted sound of rolling luggage on carpet and a dull hum (was that a cricket?), it’s quiet here.
I’m told the temperature outside is twenty-six degrees…below zero. On the flight in, I looked out the window across the gray, ice-crusted suburbs and was thankful I’d be moving on. The people who walk in from the cold are wrapped up so tightly, they all look like Macy’s parade balloons about to burst. The guys on the tarmac unload luggage and direct planes into parking spots; they move slowly and their breaths escape their lips in languorous white clouds. Everything and everyone around me seems muted, a bit lackluster, and there’s a sensation I can’t quite name right now; I don’t know how to express it, what words to use. Is it my own ennui? I don’t think so. But something’s missing.
A middle-aged man rushes up to the bar and orders a double Crown Royal on the rocks. I look at the clock. 10:16am. I consider my beer: well, it’s got grains and other stuff that purvey themselves in different breakfast forms of consumption. But a double whiskey that early? It was, like, soooo “Revolutionary Road”.
The man scratches at his moustache; at the waddle of skin under his chin. “I got five minutes till my next flight. Can you believe it? The stinkin’ airline gives me ten minutes for my connecting flight.”
The bartender, a long-haired hopsy vixen, nods and pours. “They’re not very thoughtful, are they?” She’s nice and gives him an extra jigger.
The guy turns to me and downs the drink. “You know the only time I drink this stuff is when I fly.”
“Why’s that?” I ask.
“Because flying just isn’t fun anymore.”
He slams down the glass, pays his twelve dollars, and hurries off. I watch the steam shoot out of his ears when he sees that the moving walkway he'd probably expected to get him to his gate on time is closed – under repair.
My heart’s desire is to travel whenever possible. Take me out of my comfort zone, my safety net, force me to pack up all the things I need for five days into a small carry-on and a backpack, give me a ticket, and I’ll easily acquiesce and go anywhere to have an adventure.
With that said, it wasn’t that flying wasn’t fun anymore. What struck me after that man ran off was that unless you have your own personal jet or $8,000 to fly first class, the GLAMOUR of air travel has shuffled off and left the traveler abandoned in an apocalyptic wasteland where vapid-eyed attendants and insipid remarks from agents like “I’m sorry, sir, that’s not our policy” linger in the air. Customer service used to be at the top of the list, but now it’s vanished. We’ve been written off as cargo, left with curt service, cramped quarters, and hopeless delays on the tarmac. Can I have a blanket, a pillow? Nope. Will the flight attendant happily proffer a two-ounce bag of pretzels or peanuts? Laughter ensues. How about an in-flight movie on domestic flights? A free beer or cocktail? Sarcastic, ribald laughter erupts. Bare bones without a hint of sparkle, that’s where I’m left in a tumbleweed desert of appreciation as I sit here at the Rock Bottom bar in Minneapolis.
Glamour is gone. Packed like lemmings into flying cattle cars, I wonder where it all went wrong. It’s been a slow progression as airlines lose money every year, as the world becomes over-populated and there are more travelers in the air, as gas prices fluctuate; airlines overbook and then redirect people, or simply cancel flights without even offering to put one up in a hotel because of the inconvenience and cost. Security risks and responses to horrendous terrorist acts have driven our governments to create a system that’s based on hindsight, one with important regulations that were a long-time coming, but with most of the new rules ridiculous, pointless, and portentously humiliating.
Three years ago, on a return trip from California, I was randomly chosen for a “thorough” security check. I was escorted to a side room where other hapless travelers turned and greeted me with supplicating eyes: “Help.” I had to stand sans socks and shoes with legs and arms out wide while a gaunt, pimple-addled TSA employee went through every single garment and item in my suitcase. “What’s this?” he asked, holding up a regulation three-ounce bottle. “It’s Eros personal lubricant,” I mumbled. “Why don’t you try it?” I think he snarled and continued through my toiletries. I was then frisked from top to bottom, and not just lightly. It was, as they said, thorough. I felt violated. I was treated like a non-entity with no respect (and no sense of humor).
People once looked forward to the thrilling experience of flying. I, at least, now do my best to smile, read a book, and get through the check-in process, the ludicrous regulations, and the overall heightened sense of frustration that hovers in the air around the security check with the least amount of personal dread as possible. The collective conscious of inscrutable panic contained in a small area is palpable. It reminds me of the uneasiness of cows in line for the slaughterhouse: even though they can’t possible know exactly what’s ahead, their instinct perks up its pernicious head and chimes, “Something just ain’t right.”
I was talking once with my friend Susan and her thought was that the incompetent, not too bright TSA guards (some with questionable criminal backgrounds) had jobs whose purpose wasn’t really security, but intimidation. They’re basically apples that haven’t fallen far from the prison guard vocation tree. The principle intention of the TSA is to use fear, uncertainty, and doubt to influence public opinion by appealing to our fears, a job they do only too well.
I am not permitted to bring a bottle of water through security. Carry-on luggage may not contain anything larger than a three-ounce bottle of liquid. A plastic knife is a definite no-no. All of these rules are absurd. What’s to stop me from bringing a few small bottles of the same liquid? On board I could fashion a deadly sharp object out of a wine bottle or a snapped-off piece of plastic. Blogger Patrick Smith writes: “We are content wasting billions of taxpayer dollars and untold hours of labor in a delusional attempt to thwart an attack that has already happened, asked to queue for absurd lengths of time, subject to embarrassing pat-downs and loss of our belongings.” (I won’t go on anymore about that, because Smith has written about all this better than I could have. Read his entire, brilliant blog entry, “The Airport Security Follies”, at: http://jetlagged.blogs.nytimes.com/2007/12/28/the-airport-security-follies/)
Susan remembers the time as a child in the late 1950s when she flew from National Airport (she refuses to call it Ronald Regan – “it’s just too creepy,” she remarks) to Albuquerque. She told me that she and her parents simply parked in the parking lot in front of the airport door, walked to their gate, and boarded the plane.
Obviously (I’m not naïve), times have changed. I don’t expect it to be that simple, but I’m hoping that the new Transportation Secretary will commence an overhaul of the TSA, replete with a goal of replacing traveler fear and intimidation with an intelligent approach to airport safety that distills a principle of courtesy and respect. I want security checks – we must have them – but they must be purposeful.
Remember the old movies when it was so very glamorous to get on a plane and take a jaunt to another land. Gone are those days when flying was sexy. I long for yesteryear when one arrived at the terminal half an hour before the flight, didn’t have to remove the shoes, and could sit in an elegant little lounge and enjoy a pre-flight drink among elegant people who were dressed so very sharply. I long for the days when champagne greeted one in coach before departure, when the pillow and blanket were waiting for you and all the drinks, not just water, were complimentary because you’d just spent hundreds on a ticket and the airline can afford a few glasses of wine.
Nowadays, like on my flight from New York to Minneapolis, I sit in a tight seat, my knees touching the one in front of me, and the interminable cries of a child who can’t adjust to the cabin pressure permeate the soundtrack of the cabin, piercing the supposed noise-cancelling ability of my headphones. Next to me sits a man reading a knife magazine. This disturbs me more than the cacophonic baby cries. He seems particularly interested in the new “Rambo” beauty. Underneath the knife is a collection of leather bible cases. The incongruity makes me consider asking the man about it, but I should probably let it go, which I do. Next to him sleeps his wife in sweatpants and an “I (heart) NY” t-shirt that are both too small for her. A bit of drool collects in the corner of her mouth as the flight attendant collects my five-dollar bill for the desperately-needed bottle of Chardonnay.
I want to make clear that I don’t hate flying. My nostalgia for it is something that I never actually experienced; perhaps it’s only a romantic yearning for something that’s merely a figment of my imagination fueled by too many black and white movies, but I must contend that air travel used to be a bit sexier.
I think about all this as I sip my beer at the Rock Bottom Brewery and write in my travel journal. The bartender says she likes my accent and the way I said the word “pass”. I tell her it’s a southern New Jersey accent mixed with shades and tints of New York that have slowly worked their way into my vernacular and cadence.
The Crown Royal man, to our surprise, returns to the bar and throws down his coat and briefcase with a huff.
“My flight’s delayed…again,” he groans, reaching into his wallet. “Gimme a double Absolut on the rocks with a splash of cran and no fruit.”
*****
Epilogue: I do want to add that I had a wonderful flight back to NYC on Northwest Airlines. I don’t want this entry to sound curmudgeonly, it’s just what I experienced and thought about during the flight out to Santa Fe. Diminished service and no frills is the status quo for the most part, but now that I have come to terms with this, I came prepared with a delicious Turkey Reuben prepared by Susan, chips, a pear, some Trail Mix, and made sure to have a beer at the bar before departing. After a glass of wine on board, the flight attendant came back around with a bottle from first class. He said they were all out of the usual little bottles and thought I’d like another scorch. He poured and gave me a wink. It was a lovely Pinot Noir and it tucked me into my seat comfortably for a little nappy until I woke up an hour later and heard our captain's words: “Ladies and Gentleman, we’ll be arriving at LaGuardia shortly….”
I’m sitting on a bar stool at the Minneapolis Airport’s Rock Bottom Brewery sipping their signature Pale Ale. I thought a beer was justified before the second leg of my journey to Santa Fe to visit my friend and sometimes co-author, Susan. Except for the muted sound of rolling luggage on carpet and a dull hum (was that a cricket?), it’s quiet here.
I’m told the temperature outside is twenty-six degrees…below zero. On the flight in, I looked out the window across the gray, ice-crusted suburbs and was thankful I’d be moving on. The people who walk in from the cold are wrapped up so tightly, they all look like Macy’s parade balloons about to burst. The guys on the tarmac unload luggage and direct planes into parking spots; they move slowly and their breaths escape their lips in languorous white clouds. Everything and everyone around me seems muted, a bit lackluster, and there’s a sensation I can’t quite name right now; I don’t know how to express it, what words to use. Is it my own ennui? I don’t think so. But something’s missing.
A middle-aged man rushes up to the bar and orders a double Crown Royal on the rocks. I look at the clock. 10:16am. I consider my beer: well, it’s got grains and other stuff that purvey themselves in different breakfast forms of consumption. But a double whiskey that early? It was, like, soooo “Revolutionary Road”.
The man scratches at his moustache; at the waddle of skin under his chin. “I got five minutes till my next flight. Can you believe it? The stinkin’ airline gives me ten minutes for my connecting flight.”
The bartender, a long-haired hopsy vixen, nods and pours. “They’re not very thoughtful, are they?” She’s nice and gives him an extra jigger.
The guy turns to me and downs the drink. “You know the only time I drink this stuff is when I fly.”
“Why’s that?” I ask.
“Because flying just isn’t fun anymore.”
He slams down the glass, pays his twelve dollars, and hurries off. I watch the steam shoot out of his ears when he sees that the moving walkway he'd probably expected to get him to his gate on time is closed – under repair.
My heart’s desire is to travel whenever possible. Take me out of my comfort zone, my safety net, force me to pack up all the things I need for five days into a small carry-on and a backpack, give me a ticket, and I’ll easily acquiesce and go anywhere to have an adventure.
With that said, it wasn’t that flying wasn’t fun anymore. What struck me after that man ran off was that unless you have your own personal jet or $8,000 to fly first class, the GLAMOUR of air travel has shuffled off and left the traveler abandoned in an apocalyptic wasteland where vapid-eyed attendants and insipid remarks from agents like “I’m sorry, sir, that’s not our policy” linger in the air. Customer service used to be at the top of the list, but now it’s vanished. We’ve been written off as cargo, left with curt service, cramped quarters, and hopeless delays on the tarmac. Can I have a blanket, a pillow? Nope. Will the flight attendant happily proffer a two-ounce bag of pretzels or peanuts? Laughter ensues. How about an in-flight movie on domestic flights? A free beer or cocktail? Sarcastic, ribald laughter erupts. Bare bones without a hint of sparkle, that’s where I’m left in a tumbleweed desert of appreciation as I sit here at the Rock Bottom bar in Minneapolis.
Glamour is gone. Packed like lemmings into flying cattle cars, I wonder where it all went wrong. It’s been a slow progression as airlines lose money every year, as the world becomes over-populated and there are more travelers in the air, as gas prices fluctuate; airlines overbook and then redirect people, or simply cancel flights without even offering to put one up in a hotel because of the inconvenience and cost. Security risks and responses to horrendous terrorist acts have driven our governments to create a system that’s based on hindsight, one with important regulations that were a long-time coming, but with most of the new rules ridiculous, pointless, and portentously humiliating.
Three years ago, on a return trip from California, I was randomly chosen for a “thorough” security check. I was escorted to a side room where other hapless travelers turned and greeted me with supplicating eyes: “Help.” I had to stand sans socks and shoes with legs and arms out wide while a gaunt, pimple-addled TSA employee went through every single garment and item in my suitcase. “What’s this?” he asked, holding up a regulation three-ounce bottle. “It’s Eros personal lubricant,” I mumbled. “Why don’t you try it?” I think he snarled and continued through my toiletries. I was then frisked from top to bottom, and not just lightly. It was, as they said, thorough. I felt violated. I was treated like a non-entity with no respect (and no sense of humor).
People once looked forward to the thrilling experience of flying. I, at least, now do my best to smile, read a book, and get through the check-in process, the ludicrous regulations, and the overall heightened sense of frustration that hovers in the air around the security check with the least amount of personal dread as possible. The collective conscious of inscrutable panic contained in a small area is palpable. It reminds me of the uneasiness of cows in line for the slaughterhouse: even though they can’t possible know exactly what’s ahead, their instinct perks up its pernicious head and chimes, “Something just ain’t right.”
I was talking once with my friend Susan and her thought was that the incompetent, not too bright TSA guards (some with questionable criminal backgrounds) had jobs whose purpose wasn’t really security, but intimidation. They’re basically apples that haven’t fallen far from the prison guard vocation tree. The principle intention of the TSA is to use fear, uncertainty, and doubt to influence public opinion by appealing to our fears, a job they do only too well.
I am not permitted to bring a bottle of water through security. Carry-on luggage may not contain anything larger than a three-ounce bottle of liquid. A plastic knife is a definite no-no. All of these rules are absurd. What’s to stop me from bringing a few small bottles of the same liquid? On board I could fashion a deadly sharp object out of a wine bottle or a snapped-off piece of plastic. Blogger Patrick Smith writes: “We are content wasting billions of taxpayer dollars and untold hours of labor in a delusional attempt to thwart an attack that has already happened, asked to queue for absurd lengths of time, subject to embarrassing pat-downs and loss of our belongings.” (I won’t go on anymore about that, because Smith has written about all this better than I could have. Read his entire, brilliant blog entry, “The Airport Security Follies”, at: http://jetlagged.blogs.nytimes.com/2007/12/28/the-airport-security-follies/)
Susan remembers the time as a child in the late 1950s when she flew from National Airport (she refuses to call it Ronald Regan – “it’s just too creepy,” she remarks) to Albuquerque. She told me that she and her parents simply parked in the parking lot in front of the airport door, walked to their gate, and boarded the plane.
Obviously (I’m not naïve), times have changed. I don’t expect it to be that simple, but I’m hoping that the new Transportation Secretary will commence an overhaul of the TSA, replete with a goal of replacing traveler fear and intimidation with an intelligent approach to airport safety that distills a principle of courtesy and respect. I want security checks – we must have them – but they must be purposeful.
Remember the old movies when it was so very glamorous to get on a plane and take a jaunt to another land. Gone are those days when flying was sexy. I long for yesteryear when one arrived at the terminal half an hour before the flight, didn’t have to remove the shoes, and could sit in an elegant little lounge and enjoy a pre-flight drink among elegant people who were dressed so very sharply. I long for the days when champagne greeted one in coach before departure, when the pillow and blanket were waiting for you and all the drinks, not just water, were complimentary because you’d just spent hundreds on a ticket and the airline can afford a few glasses of wine.
Nowadays, like on my flight from New York to Minneapolis, I sit in a tight seat, my knees touching the one in front of me, and the interminable cries of a child who can’t adjust to the cabin pressure permeate the soundtrack of the cabin, piercing the supposed noise-cancelling ability of my headphones. Next to me sits a man reading a knife magazine. This disturbs me more than the cacophonic baby cries. He seems particularly interested in the new “Rambo” beauty. Underneath the knife is a collection of leather bible cases. The incongruity makes me consider asking the man about it, but I should probably let it go, which I do. Next to him sleeps his wife in sweatpants and an “I (heart) NY” t-shirt that are both too small for her. A bit of drool collects in the corner of her mouth as the flight attendant collects my five-dollar bill for the desperately-needed bottle of Chardonnay.
I want to make clear that I don’t hate flying. My nostalgia for it is something that I never actually experienced; perhaps it’s only a romantic yearning for something that’s merely a figment of my imagination fueled by too many black and white movies, but I must contend that air travel used to be a bit sexier.
I think about all this as I sip my beer at the Rock Bottom Brewery and write in my travel journal. The bartender says she likes my accent and the way I said the word “pass”. I tell her it’s a southern New Jersey accent mixed with shades and tints of New York that have slowly worked their way into my vernacular and cadence.
The Crown Royal man, to our surprise, returns to the bar and throws down his coat and briefcase with a huff.
“My flight’s delayed…again,” he groans, reaching into his wallet. “Gimme a double Absolut on the rocks with a splash of cran and no fruit.”
*****
Epilogue: I do want to add that I had a wonderful flight back to NYC on Northwest Airlines. I don’t want this entry to sound curmudgeonly, it’s just what I experienced and thought about during the flight out to Santa Fe. Diminished service and no frills is the status quo for the most part, but now that I have come to terms with this, I came prepared with a delicious Turkey Reuben prepared by Susan, chips, a pear, some Trail Mix, and made sure to have a beer at the bar before departing. After a glass of wine on board, the flight attendant came back around with a bottle from first class. He said they were all out of the usual little bottles and thought I’d like another scorch. He poured and gave me a wink. It was a lovely Pinot Noir and it tucked me into my seat comfortably for a little nappy until I woke up an hour later and heard our captain's words: “Ladies and Gentleman, we’ll be arriving at LaGuardia shortly….”
Saturday, January 10, 2009
The Three Brothers
(I’m happy to say that on Saturday I received word that I’ve been awarded a one-month writing residency from the Ledig House International Writer’s Residency program in upstate New York. Room and board included, I’ll have the opportunity to work on my next novel and commiserate with other writers from around the world in the Fall of this year. As you will read below, manifestation of one’s dreams is, I believe, a product of setting the intention, doing the work, then letting it go and grow like sowing a seed.)
There were three farmer brothers who each had their own farm. One day, a stranger visited them and gave each one a seed. To each brother he said, “Plant the seed, nurture it, give thanks for it, but let it grow as it’s supposed to grow, and you’ll have abundance for the rest of your life.”
The oldest brother shook his head. Where other farmers had green thumbs, he had too many useless brown pinkies. In the past, everything he tried to grow never grew to fruition. He sat down, looked at the seed, and thought about everything he had done wrong as a farmer. He relived all his mistakes until winter came and it was too late to plant the seed.
Like his older brother, the youngest shook his head. He was also a bit lacking in the agriculture department. He worried about planting the seed. If he planted it the wrong way up, would it grow? He fretted about all the possibilities of what would happen if the seed didn’t germinate and grow. And, like his brother, he worried so long that winter came and he never even planted the seed.
The middle brother smiled when he received the gift from the stranger. He planted it in the ground immediately, covered it with rich soil, watered it, then left it alone. He watered it every few days, but other than that, he listened to the stranger’s instructions and gave thanks for the seed and the abundance it would bring. By the end of summer the seed had grown and filled the entire field with a hundred different kinds of grains, fruits and vegetables – all from one seed. Autumn came and he harvested his crops and when he was done, he invited his brothers to his home in the winter to share his abundance.
I’m not trying to be Jesus here and write in parables, but I dreamed this story one night last week and thought I’d write it down. The story addresses ideas and beliefs that I’ve been meditating on for several years, principles and teachings that most spiritual teachers, philosophers, sages, avatars, and theologians espouse. That’s why it seems to me that the more I read and find similarities in traditions across cultures and time that are still relevant to our contemporary world, the more I perceive them as universal principles that transcend any differences one might try to espouse. They aver that our lives are ours to live so that the Source, God if you prefer to call it that – or simply, if you’re a scientist, the energy – can know what it is to be human, making mistakes and reveling in supposed failures and accomplishments.
When I woke up I thought about the dream and this is what I wrote down that morning in my journal: Living totally in the present, while honoring the past and not fearing for the future, is the gift of the middle brother. The oldest sees nothing but the past, the youngest only obsesses about the future, but the middle brother takes what he’s learned as a farmer in the past, plants the seed, and then lets it go, not worrying about the future, giving thanks for what will be based on the work he has done. It’s an allegory for our dreams and aspirations in this life. The seed is a desire, a goal, something we want. We do the work to nurture it, to make it happen, to create that reality, but there comes a point when we need to simply trust that we will be taken care of and let it go so that magic can be worked. It’s about trusting in that seed and the forces that make it grow, whether you call it God, Buddha, or the Wizard of Oz.
Whenever I doubt this, I often return to different moments in my life when decision and my life’s path coincided. One moment was when I decided that I wanted to write curriculum and lesson plans for the educational book market. I meditated on it, asked for guidance and help from people I knew, and within two months a parent from the school I taught at hired me to write ninety-eight lesson plans with a paycheck of $5000.
Manifestation of dreams isn’t always instant, but it does happen if we make a decision, send it out to the universe, and give thanks that the goal will be met. There is always work to do to make it happen. We can’t sit on our proverbial laurels and just wish our lives were different; there is necessary action and for me it's a matter of asking what needs to be done, and then being silent to receive the answer. We also have to remain open with faith and trust to let it work itself out.
Does that mean I always get what I want? No. And it’s in that that I learn a lesson of balance in my life to ask, do everything I can do to manifest my dreams, and also find a moment of silence in which I give it over to destiny. It’s a matter of accepting the grace and beauty of the possibilities of life.
There were three farmer brothers who each had their own farm. One day, a stranger visited them and gave each one a seed. To each brother he said, “Plant the seed, nurture it, give thanks for it, but let it grow as it’s supposed to grow, and you’ll have abundance for the rest of your life.”
The oldest brother shook his head. Where other farmers had green thumbs, he had too many useless brown pinkies. In the past, everything he tried to grow never grew to fruition. He sat down, looked at the seed, and thought about everything he had done wrong as a farmer. He relived all his mistakes until winter came and it was too late to plant the seed.
Like his older brother, the youngest shook his head. He was also a bit lacking in the agriculture department. He worried about planting the seed. If he planted it the wrong way up, would it grow? He fretted about all the possibilities of what would happen if the seed didn’t germinate and grow. And, like his brother, he worried so long that winter came and he never even planted the seed.
The middle brother smiled when he received the gift from the stranger. He planted it in the ground immediately, covered it with rich soil, watered it, then left it alone. He watered it every few days, but other than that, he listened to the stranger’s instructions and gave thanks for the seed and the abundance it would bring. By the end of summer the seed had grown and filled the entire field with a hundred different kinds of grains, fruits and vegetables – all from one seed. Autumn came and he harvested his crops and when he was done, he invited his brothers to his home in the winter to share his abundance.
I’m not trying to be Jesus here and write in parables, but I dreamed this story one night last week and thought I’d write it down. The story addresses ideas and beliefs that I’ve been meditating on for several years, principles and teachings that most spiritual teachers, philosophers, sages, avatars, and theologians espouse. That’s why it seems to me that the more I read and find similarities in traditions across cultures and time that are still relevant to our contemporary world, the more I perceive them as universal principles that transcend any differences one might try to espouse. They aver that our lives are ours to live so that the Source, God if you prefer to call it that – or simply, if you’re a scientist, the energy – can know what it is to be human, making mistakes and reveling in supposed failures and accomplishments.
When I woke up I thought about the dream and this is what I wrote down that morning in my journal: Living totally in the present, while honoring the past and not fearing for the future, is the gift of the middle brother. The oldest sees nothing but the past, the youngest only obsesses about the future, but the middle brother takes what he’s learned as a farmer in the past, plants the seed, and then lets it go, not worrying about the future, giving thanks for what will be based on the work he has done. It’s an allegory for our dreams and aspirations in this life. The seed is a desire, a goal, something we want. We do the work to nurture it, to make it happen, to create that reality, but there comes a point when we need to simply trust that we will be taken care of and let it go so that magic can be worked. It’s about trusting in that seed and the forces that make it grow, whether you call it God, Buddha, or the Wizard of Oz.
Whenever I doubt this, I often return to different moments in my life when decision and my life’s path coincided. One moment was when I decided that I wanted to write curriculum and lesson plans for the educational book market. I meditated on it, asked for guidance and help from people I knew, and within two months a parent from the school I taught at hired me to write ninety-eight lesson plans with a paycheck of $5000.
Manifestation of dreams isn’t always instant, but it does happen if we make a decision, send it out to the universe, and give thanks that the goal will be met. There is always work to do to make it happen. We can’t sit on our proverbial laurels and just wish our lives were different; there is necessary action and for me it's a matter of asking what needs to be done, and then being silent to receive the answer. We also have to remain open with faith and trust to let it work itself out.
Does that mean I always get what I want? No. And it’s in that that I learn a lesson of balance in my life to ask, do everything I can do to manifest my dreams, and also find a moment of silence in which I give it over to destiny. It’s a matter of accepting the grace and beauty of the possibilities of life.
Sunday, January 4, 2009
What's It All About, Alfie?
The crowd counts down, the music swells, the ball drops, and it’s a new year. There’s the build-up to New Year’s Eve after Christmas and Chanukah, a vociferous voice of hope inside ourselves determined that this next year will be different, better, and that all the things we wanted to accomplish in the previous sojourn are going to happen in this next one. Did you do everything you wanted to do last year? I didn’t, but it was a sad, strange, and beautiful ride, one of walking a path with choices along the way.
As I grow older I find that I can only measure my life, if I must, by experiences and relationships. I was going to end that sentence with “good or bad”, but then I thought, who’s to say that there are bad experiences or good ones? I’m not trying to posit that bad things don’t occur in life, that some relationships don’t fall apart at the seams and unravel into a mess, but the meanings distilled from them don’t have to be considered in opposition to our lives.
This year, I’ve attended too many funerals and know more people whose loved ones have died. Are these events bad? It depends on how you look at them. Yes, they’re awful, gut-wrenching moments, but they happened, so there it is. F.’s nephew killed in a car accident is bad. My two aunts dying, one from relentlessly aggressive cancer and one from a stroke after walking out of her dentist’s office, just seems wrong. The saint that was my mom being killed by cancer, gurgling out her last breaths as her body shut down, was an experience for me that reached down to almost unfathomable depths of horror.
Those are only a few of the events that were part of 2008, and although I haven’t fully processed them, they were part of my life, and vital for that matter. I don’t have to look at them as bad because I didn’t know those people’s paths and what they had to do while they were here on earth. It would be selfish of me to assume that I did and that they shouldn’t have died, but all matter in the universe ceases to be eventually, even the stars, but their energy isn’t lost, only transformed.
I don’t resign myself to a belief in total chaos in the universe. For centuries, physics had averred that there was a connection between cause and effect in nature, and because of this, accurate long-term predictions could be made. With the discovery of chaotic systems in nature in the beginning of the 20th Century, people began to think differently, but the implication that everything in nature is part of a chaotic syst¬em doesn’t seem likely to me.
The more research and reading I do regarding quantum physics, the more I find out that yes, there is unpredictability in the universe (subatomic particles disappear and reappear through space and time without any apparent rhyme or reason), but that uncertainty is connected to a larger framework of purpose (the particles know what they’re doing, but the scientists don’t), and it’s towards that gorgeous point of creativity, the collective soul of the universe, the Source of life that I focus my intentions. It makes me want to write, create, and grow beyond myself in this new year.
I could give many examples of events in my life, moments with friends, experiences that at the time may have seemed mundane, purposeless. Some did, however, later evoke a spiritual meaning to me; seconds-long encounters with strangers have proven to me that there is order and purpose in each and every one of our lives.
But I’d have to say that I believe we have destinies with choices, and the two work hand in hand. Life would be boring if there wasn’t a little chaos thrown in, and that comes from our choices. Brahms, Van Gogh, Dickinson – artists who would never have created their sublime works if it hadn’t been for both a yearning for balance and an acknowledgment of chaos from which they found creativity. More and more I want to open myself up to that chaos, which may be more aptly called possibility.
I don’t feel there is a complete and absolute plan for my life, but a constantly fluctuating tapestry of experiences that are meant to come to me and it’s only my reactions and choices that will move me forward, or take me backward, in my own evolution. I think that’s the chaos of possibility that I’m talking about. And that’s not to say that moving backward has a negative connotation. Sometimes it’s necessary, as much as moving forward in order to learn more about who we really are.
I say all that to pose this thought: there is no good or bad. There is only what is, and for me, I feel that I need to stop judging experiences as good or bad and simply ask the question, “What can I learn from them?”
My most significant resolution this year is to stop thinking of things in terms of dichotomy, but rather as experiences that are part of the whole of my existence in relationship with everyone else in the world. That’s all I’ve got to work with right now; it’s a gift. Life to me is more and more about relationships and interactions with others so that we can learn more about ourselves and all arrive at the same question that countless singers across myriad piano bars have asked: “What’s it all about, Alfie?”
Well, what is it all about? I have no idea. I’m still working on it. I’ll get back to you in a few millennia, but I find it fascinating that nobody really knows and we never stop seeking. Certain preachers and theologians would like people to think that they know the truth, and they’ll tell them as much so they don’t have to think for themselves. They love to dispel the mystery of God, but my reaction is: what’s wrong with a little mystery and chaos? I’d rather have a few glimpses now and then of the inestimable mercy and grace of the Source of our being then think I know the entire truth of the universe every Sunday morning from eleven to twelve o’clock a.m.
Whenever anyone tells me he’s got a handle on truth, I quickly excuse myself and run away. Rather than listen to a sermon, I’d like to see a pastor jump down from the pulpit and ask the old woman in the first pew, “What do you think it’s all about?” and then listen to her ideas and discuss them.
A student once asked Madeleine L’Engle if she really believed in God with no doubts at all. The response was: “Oh, I really and truly believe in God with all kinds of doubts.” L’Engle based her life and work on this belief and it’s something I resonate with. My Source, or God, doesn’t want me to sit around all day worshipping and singing glory hallelujah, but rather it wants to be questioned, denied, excoriated because if it wasn’t, it also wouldn’t know itself.
I may be full of hooey. I’ll find out soon enough, but it’s worth a try to make an intention each morning to live a life of choices that are married with my life’s path, to accept the chaos as it comes as neither good or bad, but as what is. That doesn’t mean I’m not going to get angry and rage against events in the next year, but I think I have a new perspective on it, one that’s been growing over the past few years and it took this blog entry to attempt an expression of it.
Right now, I feel like I need to at least make an effort and think about my life differently this year. There’s always room for expansion. If the universe is truly constantly expanding, and we are a reflection of the universe (so above, below), then the sky is not the limit, it’s only the beginning.
As I grow older I find that I can only measure my life, if I must, by experiences and relationships. I was going to end that sentence with “good or bad”, but then I thought, who’s to say that there are bad experiences or good ones? I’m not trying to posit that bad things don’t occur in life, that some relationships don’t fall apart at the seams and unravel into a mess, but the meanings distilled from them don’t have to be considered in opposition to our lives.
This year, I’ve attended too many funerals and know more people whose loved ones have died. Are these events bad? It depends on how you look at them. Yes, they’re awful, gut-wrenching moments, but they happened, so there it is. F.’s nephew killed in a car accident is bad. My two aunts dying, one from relentlessly aggressive cancer and one from a stroke after walking out of her dentist’s office, just seems wrong. The saint that was my mom being killed by cancer, gurgling out her last breaths as her body shut down, was an experience for me that reached down to almost unfathomable depths of horror.
Those are only a few of the events that were part of 2008, and although I haven’t fully processed them, they were part of my life, and vital for that matter. I don’t have to look at them as bad because I didn’t know those people’s paths and what they had to do while they were here on earth. It would be selfish of me to assume that I did and that they shouldn’t have died, but all matter in the universe ceases to be eventually, even the stars, but their energy isn’t lost, only transformed.
I don’t resign myself to a belief in total chaos in the universe. For centuries, physics had averred that there was a connection between cause and effect in nature, and because of this, accurate long-term predictions could be made. With the discovery of chaotic systems in nature in the beginning of the 20th Century, people began to think differently, but the implication that everything in nature is part of a chaotic syst¬em doesn’t seem likely to me.
The more research and reading I do regarding quantum physics, the more I find out that yes, there is unpredictability in the universe (subatomic particles disappear and reappear through space and time without any apparent rhyme or reason), but that uncertainty is connected to a larger framework of purpose (the particles know what they’re doing, but the scientists don’t), and it’s towards that gorgeous point of creativity, the collective soul of the universe, the Source of life that I focus my intentions. It makes me want to write, create, and grow beyond myself in this new year.
I could give many examples of events in my life, moments with friends, experiences that at the time may have seemed mundane, purposeless. Some did, however, later evoke a spiritual meaning to me; seconds-long encounters with strangers have proven to me that there is order and purpose in each and every one of our lives.
But I’d have to say that I believe we have destinies with choices, and the two work hand in hand. Life would be boring if there wasn’t a little chaos thrown in, and that comes from our choices. Brahms, Van Gogh, Dickinson – artists who would never have created their sublime works if it hadn’t been for both a yearning for balance and an acknowledgment of chaos from which they found creativity. More and more I want to open myself up to that chaos, which may be more aptly called possibility.
I don’t feel there is a complete and absolute plan for my life, but a constantly fluctuating tapestry of experiences that are meant to come to me and it’s only my reactions and choices that will move me forward, or take me backward, in my own evolution. I think that’s the chaos of possibility that I’m talking about. And that’s not to say that moving backward has a negative connotation. Sometimes it’s necessary, as much as moving forward in order to learn more about who we really are.
I say all that to pose this thought: there is no good or bad. There is only what is, and for me, I feel that I need to stop judging experiences as good or bad and simply ask the question, “What can I learn from them?”
My most significant resolution this year is to stop thinking of things in terms of dichotomy, but rather as experiences that are part of the whole of my existence in relationship with everyone else in the world. That’s all I’ve got to work with right now; it’s a gift. Life to me is more and more about relationships and interactions with others so that we can learn more about ourselves and all arrive at the same question that countless singers across myriad piano bars have asked: “What’s it all about, Alfie?”
Well, what is it all about? I have no idea. I’m still working on it. I’ll get back to you in a few millennia, but I find it fascinating that nobody really knows and we never stop seeking. Certain preachers and theologians would like people to think that they know the truth, and they’ll tell them as much so they don’t have to think for themselves. They love to dispel the mystery of God, but my reaction is: what’s wrong with a little mystery and chaos? I’d rather have a few glimpses now and then of the inestimable mercy and grace of the Source of our being then think I know the entire truth of the universe every Sunday morning from eleven to twelve o’clock a.m.
Whenever anyone tells me he’s got a handle on truth, I quickly excuse myself and run away. Rather than listen to a sermon, I’d like to see a pastor jump down from the pulpit and ask the old woman in the first pew, “What do you think it’s all about?” and then listen to her ideas and discuss them.
A student once asked Madeleine L’Engle if she really believed in God with no doubts at all. The response was: “Oh, I really and truly believe in God with all kinds of doubts.” L’Engle based her life and work on this belief and it’s something I resonate with. My Source, or God, doesn’t want me to sit around all day worshipping and singing glory hallelujah, but rather it wants to be questioned, denied, excoriated because if it wasn’t, it also wouldn’t know itself.
I may be full of hooey. I’ll find out soon enough, but it’s worth a try to make an intention each morning to live a life of choices that are married with my life’s path, to accept the chaos as it comes as neither good or bad, but as what is. That doesn’t mean I’m not going to get angry and rage against events in the next year, but I think I have a new perspective on it, one that’s been growing over the past few years and it took this blog entry to attempt an expression of it.
Right now, I feel like I need to at least make an effort and think about my life differently this year. There’s always room for expansion. If the universe is truly constantly expanding, and we are a reflection of the universe (so above, below), then the sky is not the limit, it’s only the beginning.
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