Dean K Miller: And Then I Smiled

A conversation

2012-02-20T23:13:00.000-07:00

A young monk asked the resident lama, “Do I have the key to unlock the door to discovery and growth.”

The Master replied:

“The key is found inside. Is it hidden, or do you have it buried under years of ego and doubt? Each day another opportunity is presented to you. Release that which is blocking you. There are no locks preventing your quest. There is only your path—which offers a multitude of options. Lay down your burdens. Accept the joy. Let your doubts fly away like so many balloons on a hot summer’s day. They grow smaller as they ascend the sky. Soon they are gone, yet you think they are still there. Allow the winds to scatter them like dust. Rejoice in the treasures you have already found. Realize you are a very rich man, even though you own nothing. Spread your wealth wherever you should travel.

Patience is still the key. Jumping too fast won’t solve anything and only gives you tired legs. Be at peace. Be at home. Keep the flames of your heart burning warm and let those who seek share its comfort. Answer the door when someone knocks. Who knows what the next “friend” who enters you home will give you; maybe a new direction.

As there are fields of grain that wave in the wind are there those who will help you. Each is waiting his turn and will arrive only when the time is right.

Stop searching and be…right here…right now. Walking a thousand miles is no different than walking a thousand steps. The journey ends when the last step is taken and no sooner. Learning comes at that time and then it will be time to walk again.

The frustration of silence for you is unneeded. Let things be. Let things grow. Watch with quiet eyes. Listen with a quiet heart. Be that which is required. All roads lead to the truth, which is found in your heart, and is carried by your soul. Focus on “not-being” what you want and see what arrives at your door.

Gifts arrive, disguised in the wrapping. Only when opened is the true gift found.

Asking will get you answers. Answers will get you questions. Step out of the circle and become part of it all, no longer trapped, isolated inside the circle, unable to see outside. What do you see with your eyes closed? Is that the reality? If you look in your heart the truth will be seen.

Remember this and you will know.”

A Moment of Life

2012-01-25T12:09:00.000-07:00

Many live in fear that someone will take away what they perceive to be theirs. An equal number live in fear that no one will give them what they perceive they deserve. The compilation of these fears divides families, neighbors, cities, states countries and continents. The heart of mankind has been cast into a dungeon so dark that its love seldom reaches the light of day.

But it is there, waiting ...for a place to shine.

It is time to break the grip of fear.

I promise, should I find you in a place of need, I will not to ask if you are Democrat, Republican, Independent or Ambivolant. I will not ask if you are pro-life or pro-abortion, if you are for gun control or not; or where your ancestors are from. I will simply offer my hand to help you lift yourself to where you desire to be, and let you move foward on your journey.

And I will be thankful for having found a friend.

Awakenings

2012-01-19T23:00:00.000-07:00

I watched the last hour of the movie "Awakenings" while I worked out on the tread climber this afternoon. DeNiro's performance is amazing, as are several of the other cast members. Near the end of the movie, Robin Williams character Dr. Malcom Sayers, makes a short presentation to attending facility staff, during which he states:

“What we do know is that, as the chemical window closed, another awakening took place; that the human spirit is more powerful than any drug – and THAT is what needs to be nourished: with work, play, friendship, family. THESE are the things that matter. This is what we’d forgotten – the simplest things.” -Dr. Sayers, Awakenings

It is an awesome day when I recognize and capture a small slice of wisdom that's been set before me.

Here's to the simple things in life, the ones that make me smile.

Wrapped in a Smile

2012-01-16T23:54:00.001-07:00

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A step ahead is all that is needed to not fall behind. A step ahead is nothing more than just that. What is the reality that you find there? Is it something you've created? Or is it something you've allowed yourself to be drawn into? Feel the energy of what and who is there. You are never alone.

Communicate with whoever you find along your path. Reaching out is a good. But do not reach out for your own gratification. To enhance your own learning, help others first. The hero may not be the obvious choice. It is often the subtle pieces that complete the puzzle.

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Time has passed but nothing has changed. Looking up brings clouds into view. Looking forward shows where you may go. Looking in teaches you how to get there. Patience breaks down the wall of frustration. Time does not determine how far you've come.

Listen to those around you. There is wisdom to be found. What you are seeing is to be believed. Doubt nothing. Accept that which appears not to be true. But do not doubt that it is. It just may not seem that way. Make the simple connections. One hundred of them put together will appear a complex situation. But it is not. A spider spins its web one strand at a time, though the completed work looks complicated. Spin your web in a similar fashion and the learning will stick as well.

The pending storm is not a concern. A drop in the bucket will evaporate, even when surrounded by a thousand others. It is no less, or more, important because of this. Understand and move forward. How far must you go? How far is the most distant star? Will that deter you?

Do not worry when you feel empty. Accept it and let it go. You cannot be full if at first, you are not empty. The container is not important, but rather the space within. It is unreal and the ultimate reality; an instant, lasting forever.

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Take time to be that which you are now, so that you may become all that you are meant to be. If you never set your foot down, you cannot walk forward. Touch that which is around you and know that it is real. And see the memory is but a dream wrapped in a smile.

A Father's Voice

2012-01-13T22:49:00.004-07:00

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He stood atop a great cliff, a river far below. White water crashed against weathered rocks, muted by the distance. He heard a voice, infinite in its wisdom, loving in its tone. Bowing his head, he listened.

"You know it's about the River, its Path gently worn into place; moving to the point of least resistance---which is equal to the most acceptance. Always with a goal in mind, always partaking in the beauty of creation around you. There may be Dams built, but they collect your potential and release it timely to ease your journey.

The same is true of your soul. You have traveled far, or so it seems. But you are just a moment away from your past---and staring into your future. You know where you must go. You are never alone. Find solitude, rejoice in community.

Do not take this journey lightly, but be light of heart. Strangers will come and you will know them as friends.

In tune with your Destiny, align your energies and release what you accomplish. Humility, Grace and Compassion was my story. Now, it is yours."

Lifting his head, he again looked across the canyon before him. A smile creased his lips. His journey had begun.

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Footsteps

2012-01-11T14:06:00.000-07:00

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Following the footsteps of someone else will only lead you to where they went, and you will not find what they found. Strike out on your own.

Isle of Sint Marteen: Christmas Morning, 2010

2011-12-25T06:00:00.056-07:00

A three-quarter moon floats above the bay, keeping watch as small waves fold themselves along the shoreline. It was Christmas morning, 75 degrees; just a hint of Caribbean breeze wafts into the room.

Last night we watched the Christmas Eve sunset, a blazing orange ornament that slipped into the sea. It belied the feel of season. A fully lit cruise ship crept toward the horizon, with no hope of catching up. A surreal evening after a long day of travel from Colorado.

I was the first one out of bed, something of an anomaly. Here at the resort, Christmas morning may have appeared rather normal. The guests and staff might’ve seen a jolly old fat guy jog past their rooms and work stations. My 25 minute jaunt toured the grounds, then out past the gate and onto the road leading to the port town of Phillipsburg. I paused for a quick, self-guided tour of the shops and casino of a nearby resort, before heading back up the hill and down again to our home for the week.

It was time to settle in to the Island’s pace of life-Christmas notwithstanding. I have no clue how strong Christianity's foothold has found here. But the American Dollar is certainly the local mainstay. At the entrance to our resort I noticed an American flag waving in the warm morning breeze, next to the St. Martin flag. The Stars and Stripes seemed out of place, no disrespect intended. Maybe the weather and locale lent a “Twilight Zone” feel to Christmas on the Island, and influenced my thoughts and experiences.

Smitten with floating dreams of freedom, I watched a small sailboat (only three masts) work its way out of the bay and toward a destination unknown. It is a way of life that I, too, find necessary. Traveling uncharted waters, I “sail” my way with pen and paper, observing and expressing my thoughts, free from grammar and punctuation rules.

It’s easy to reflect on the absurdity of what tourism brings to the island and its people. I knew nothing of what had been here before. Nor can I even fathom a guess as to how the Islander’s lives would’ve been if the Europeans hadn’t arrived. I found it crazy, seeing resort employees sweeping sand off the lounge chairs on this Christmas morning. I understood that my being here is part of the reason why he is here, too.

I would’ve preferred to have given him $50 and sent him home to his family to spend this day, a Christian holiday no less, with them. I quickly caught myself and laughed at my self-centered egoism, thinking that I would be “improving” his day by doing so. I had no right to believe I had that much “power” over his life. Instead I did that which I knew was right—greeting him with kindness and respect—which is due any member of my human family.

Regardless of personal standing, location or historical background, we are,with certainty, all in this together, whether we realize and/or accept this fact. The sooner we do the better off we, and our earthly home, will be. Then every day will be like Christmas morning, whether snow bound or beachfront.

Merry Christmas and blessings every day.

Snow Sweeping Meditation

2011-12-23T23:36:00.000-07:00

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Arriving home at midnight, I found one inch of fresh snow blanketed the earth. The temperature was well below freezing. The air was still; not a breath of wind could be felt. The small flakes drifted slowly, as though they wanted to hang in the air forever, knowing the ground would be their final resting place. I put on my hat and gloves, exited the car, and retrieved the broom from the garage. I thought about leaving the car running, ensuring warmth upon re-entry, but changed my mind without really thinking why.

I started at the top of the driveway, slowly working my way toward the sidewalk. The snow scattered like powdered sugar in front of me. The rhythmic brushing of the bristles on the concrete was the only sound. A shiver crept up my spine. I stopped for a moment, captured by the silence. I kept my breathing quiet, so as not to disturb the moment and listened. Only muted silence, deafening in its completeness.

I began sweeping again, working my way along the sidewalk, past the neighbor’s house, and then the next. The earlier cold gave way to inner warmth, possibly from the light work I performed, but more likely from the tranquility enveloping my soul. Steadily, I swept my way from one driveway to the next. I was aware of what I was doing; however, I was transfixed by the sound of the bristles on the pavement. It carried my awareness somewhere undefined. I do not recall if the journey led to my inner self, or somewhere far away. Standing still, I again listened to my breathing. Its steady rhythm brought me back, cleared my thoughts and defined my being.

I returned to my driveway and removed the light dusting that had since covered my previous effort. I silently hoped the flakes would stop drifting down. But it didn’t really matter. The snow was doing only what it knew, without malice or contempt. It had given itself to me so that I could be aware of the tranquility of its quiet, allowing me to witness its light in the darkness and the beauty of its individuality. I listened once more and heard nothing. Its existence, still peaceful. I smiled and began to sweep again.

Writer's Haven

2011-12-17T20:09:00.000-07:00

Writer's Haven has posted its year end issue, with the theme "PEACE", which includes two short essays of mine. Click here to visit their site and read all six articles they selected for this issue.

Another Guest Post at The Writing Bug

2011-12-17T15:59:00.000-07:00

I've spun another writerly tale that's posted at The Writing Bug. A folk Mass, The Moody Blues, and haunting character voices stir the pot. Stop and by, check it out, and leave a comment.

Words From Somewhere Undefined

2011-12-16T22:01:00.000-07:00

"Knowing is the way. Guessing leads to confusion and self doubt. Watch, listen, learn and grow along your own path. Sense what you know is the truth. Divine light will lead you. The journey will begin to include others- others to receive what you are able to bring. Keep stability in your life. Branch out so the blossoms may grow. Stay rooted in foundation and strength. Honesty and integrity is of utmost importance. Compassion makes many friends. Emotional bonds may be made, but rational thinking and learning will be the way for you.

Separate, but together, the final piece of the puzzle is in your hands and in your heart. Do not doubt what you know. Time is not of the essence. Live in the physical body and see the non-physical through it.

Another shift has begun. Another adventure lay ahead. Your steps are sure-of-foot. Balance is key. Observation is more important now. You will meet others to help you find the way. What happens next is not always up to you. But you will be there at the right place and time. You will act accordingly.

Deep down you have set the path. Many times before you have come this way and known-This is my home."

Enjoy the Ride

2011-12-14T22:42:00.000-07:00

Click Here to Enjoy the Ride. It could very well be the best 3 minutes, 35 seconds of your day.

Dreams and Breathing at The Writing Bug

2011-12-10T16:05:00.000-07:00

Grateful for the chance to post at The Writing Bug, the blog of Northern Colorado Writers. It great to be member of such a supportive organization to writers everywhere, not just Northern Colorado.

An Excerpt from "The River Zen"

2011-12-09T19:05:00.000-07:00

A small piece from my now paused, online fly fishing adventure titled The River Zen.

Brandon: “When you face a new direction, you change your perspective. When you change your perspective, you change the view of what’s before you. And that, my friend, is the direction in which you should be looking. Soon enough, all of this will be behind you and the way you think about it will be different too. Please don’t misunderstand me. You won’t be right or wrong. Instead, your thinking will have changed. You’ll move forward in the direction of your choosing and in the manner which you decide suits you best.”

Alex: “I’m not sure how all of this is going to change, including what I think. I’m still not sure what to make of it anyway. But my only choice is to trust your word and see if I get back to my car. I guess the worst thing that can happen is if nothing changes,then I will just come back here to fish with you. That ain’t such a bad choice.”

Brandon: “My friend, that is a choice you won’t have to make. Your journey continues well beyond this small river and our brief conversation. Change is the one constant truth. Just remember, if you get stuck, change your perspective. Look at what is in front of you in a different way. You just might find what you are looking for.”

Gone Fishin'

2011-11-14T13:04:00.000-07:00

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Time has come for me to move foward and focus on other creative projects in my writing journey.

My goal here was a simple one: to create a place where my words inspired you to consider, or even re-consider a small part of your own life. I depart these pages optimistically, believing in some small way we achieved that goal.

As a final note, I borrow a passage from my favorite read: Illusions; The Adventures of a Reluctant Messiah by Richard Bach:

"Don't be dismayed by good-byes. A farewell is necessary before you can meet again. And meeting again, after moments or lifetimes, is certain for those who are friends."

Thank you, dear friend, for making time in your life and allowing me to share parts of mine.

Until we meet again, know that I am smiling...

Waxing Nostalgic

2011-11-09T05:50:00.001-07:00

Word on the street is today’s global society is more connected than ever. Our techno-geeked out world brings news, photos, chat and whatever else we desire to our fingertips in an instant. But the connections are fleeting. Like a fly we touch down in restless fashion, never staying long, sampling the moment and then buzz off to the next connection.

To a degree I’m still old school. I recall with nostalgia my childhood, walking the “new” push button phone the length of the hall, sliding the now, tight cord under the bedroom door, stretching out the curly handset wire and then laying on my bed. There I'd spend the next hour talking with my girlfriend. Somehow, that felt more connected than with today’s cordless IM's, texts and tweets.

My birth in the timeline of history landed me smack in the middle of the technological-generation gap; that nether land of orchestrating between my parents who don’t text, IM, Facebook or tweet; and my own children and younger souls who know nothing but electronic media. Staying connected means spanning the array of snail-mail greeting cards, electronic voice messages, downloading photos to Walgreens to put in greeting cards, and reminding my own kids not to text me while they, or I, are driving, along with other tasks that includes, or avoids, other ornate, electronic gadgetry.

Having my druthers, I prefer the old way. Walking into Starbucks holds so much more potential for personal contact than whirling past in the drive-thru. I've always preferred to shake the hand of a new friend, and give a hug to an old one. We might be more connected, but I think we’re losing contact.

This might explain my deep passion for fly fishing. Breathing the crisp morning air, feeling the cold water against my legs, seeing the hues of an evening sunset, the rhythm of the cast and then being connected, via the tug on the line, to another living creature, can never be duplicated in today's virtual electronic age.

Then again, I’m not completely against electronic measures. One thing I won’t miss is cutting my tongue while licking the gluey-strip on all those greeting cards.

The Retirement Villa

2011-11-05T05:24:00.002-06:00

Many cultures, some we would label as "primative", have a unique perspective on aging in their societies. As members grow older, they are treated with respect and honor. Their wisdom is sought by the younger members.They remain active in the processes of the tribes and/or villages and continue to play an important role.

Many "modern" industrialized societies often take a reverse view, and tuck their elders away from sight, reducing their impact on the world and often robbing them of the very things that energized their lives and gave meaning to each day.

It's long past time to rethink our "modern" practices.

The Retirement Village

There was a time in my life

When old meant 30.

Cares were free, life was full,

And responsibility was a far-off dream.

Then things changed in my life

And old meant 70.

Cares were present, life was full,

And responsibility was an accepted challenge.

Then came a time in my life

When old meant nothing.

Cares were free, life was empty,

And responsibility was a yearning long faded.

Then to dream of youth

And days gone by

Seemed all that was left-

Except

To die.

A Table Setting in Caribbean Grey

2011-11-01T21:36:00.000-06:00

Sitting on the patio of our hotel room, the bay before me was cast in low clouds that spit drizzle and obscured the point in grey dreariness–and still it was 75 degrees. There’d been a change in the weather, but not in the temperature. Solitude was easily found on the beach; weather related I am sure. Did the changing conditions reflect an unseen change in me? I wasn’t sure. I felt the same. Though in my morning pages I noticed my handwriting was smaller. Maybe, like my surroundings, I’d coiled in, snake-like. Was I waiting to strike?

Undisturbed, I waited. No need to exert energy, yet. The curtain of fog eased out to sea. It was an odd scene to observe. At the Oregon beaches of my youth the weather and fog moved inland, delivering its life sustaining water to the interior landscape. Life on the island often proposed a different scenario than expected.

It had been a time of change, mirrored by the transitional elements. Like the seasons, life changes can be subtle, or as violent as a thunderstorm. Should I choose to weather the storm, the clouds eventually part and my mood reflects the changes brought by the warming sun.

Suddenly, the overcast lifted off of the bay. The foreboding sky released its oppressiveness. A sign maybe, that the obscurities in my life could clear out as well.

Pelicans arrived from some unknown hideaway, scouring the small wave tops, looking for breakfast. A steep climb and at the apex of their ascent, a sharp banking turn and a plunge toward the water. A violent, yet graceful splash erupts as the birds dove into the depths. Returning to the surface, their bills point skyward, swallowing their meal whole.

The morning sun eased over the small mountain top, scattering the tension of the earlier overcast. I uncoiled my emotions, eased from the chair and ambled across the small stone path to the sandy shore. My feet depressed into the cool, wet grains. A small wave found the courage to venture forth, covering my toes. The wave receded and I was left alone; the sun on my shoulder, a clear blue sky above and an ocean of dreams stretching to the horizon.

Something Different at The Writing Bug

2011-10-29T09:30:00.000-06:00

I am honored to have a guest post over at The Writing Bug, the official blog of Northern Colorado Writers, my most favoritest collection of supportive writers around. Just because it's Halloween doesn't mean you need to be afraid to stop by, ring the door bell and see what story unfolds.

Working It Out

2011-10-26T21:01:00.001-06:00

Twelve inches of snow was enough to put me back on the stationary bike for the second day in a row. I read a little, sweated a lot and as I finished the last eight minutes of my ride, I put the book down and closed my eyes, enjoying the floating space music in the background.

Exercise often puts me in a meditative realm and today was one of those days. Several thoughts came and went; my attachment to them minimal. Opening my eyes I scanned the workout panel. My attention was drawn to the two speed readouts (the bike is nearly 20 years old.) One is set at 80 RPM’s and the other at 100 RPM's. There is a light next to both numbers. As long as you’re pedaling within +/- 3 RPM's of the desired rate, the light is steady, indicating the appropriate pedal speed. Outside of that range, the light blinks, “coaching” you that to slow down or speed up.

I’ve watched this display over the years and until now, thought nothing of it. But today I realized this piece of equipment is basically a small computer with pedals. It is "non-living and non-thinking"- only making the calculations it has been programed to make. It doesn't care if you are old or young, fit or fat, blonde or brunette. It passes no judgments. The bike simply is.

However, in regards to pedaling speed, it allows a window of tolerance, giving the rider a range of six RPM’s to maximize their training. If this piece of innate equipment has room for tolerance, why can't we as a living, caring and thinking species do the same?

In Balance

2011-10-22T13:06:00.000-06:00

Crisp fall air greeted me as I headed out for a morning jog. Whispers of horse-tail clouds lightly filtered the sun's energy. The only breeze was the one conjured by my slow, methodical effort. Even at such a pedestrian pace my eyes watered from the cold. Dry leaves rustled underfoot.In the distant west the Rocky Mountains stood wrapped in a thin shawl of snow.

Reaching a four-lane street I paused as traffic prevented my crossing. My attention was drawn to a small weight, the kind that is hammered on to a wheels' rim after installation of the tire. Strangely I realized that somewhere a wheel was out of balance. A break in traffic allowed me to cross and I resumed my trek while my mind wafted on the idea of balance and its importance in my life.

Yesterday's trip fly fishing with a friend is balanced by working on the house later today. This early run will be balanced by a soak in the hot tub, followed later by a chai latte. An afternoon walk with my wife and our dog would settle out with some quiet time spent writing.

But it should not be lost that while all of these activities take place in the outside world, it is inside where balance is felt. Doing things, just for the sake of doing them won't bring internal balance. Nor does giving every hot topic currently in your life an equal amount of time. Standing fearfully in the middle of life, though certainly steady, only freezes you in place. It is through reflection about our actions, and how we feel about them, that provides an indicator to our own balance.

I moved through the remainder of my jaunt, sensing my balance was moving into place. A single, small white feather unexpectedly encountered next to my path, was enough to confirm my feelings.

Which direction is your scale tipping today?

Red Perception

2011-10-18T11:17:00.001-06:00

To view the world
through rose colored glasses
stains what we see
the color red.

But what does the man
who has a glass eye
perceive as real,
and what as dead?

Senses of life

2011-10-13T06:00:00.004-06:00

It is grey though not necessarily dark. Foreboding may be more correct. Being right isn’t the concern now. It is the situation. I’ve traveled here on a road where the toll has been paid by decades of choices. There is a smothering feel around me. The darkness is coming, like cascading roll clouds over a mountain top, billowing leeward to windward. I know it is coming. I am powerless to stop it. I’m not sure I even care.

I am alive, because I see it.

There is no need to worry, for light always follows the dark, unless it doesn’t. At which point there is no worry, because darkness will rule the landscape. I’m sure it’s inside me. But outwardly I feel its clutches. There is no need to scream. Sound is energy and there is no energy here. The scream would be silent. The murky edges of my being would swallow it whole. The laughter is fowl, evil and very real; if I were to believe.

I am alive, because I hear it.

A small flame refuses to be distinguished. It flickers in the soft breeze, casting shadows that grow larger than life as it consumes itself and gains strength. Smoke rises from the valley floor. Creatures flee unsure of what is happening, but know now is the time run---or die. The earth is barren. Burning hides litter the blackened landscape.

I am alive, because I smell it.

The season has changed. I saw it coming and still was taken by surprise. The dry, fallen leaves with their caramel-corn crunch underfoot, signals life has expired. It is not meaningless, it is just---gone. The vacant, crisp air is stirred by the whirling of dead leaves in the autumn wind. Why must they rattle so? Don’t they know their time has come…and passed?

I am alive, because I feel it.

And now, the turning of a key, the passing of a friend, and a voice in the darkness offers hope. Moonlight has pierced the clouds; their grip on the night is broken and they recede in fear. The wisp of a memory stirs a beating in my heart. Life courses through my veins. It seems an awakening is on the horizon. Or is it? I bite down on my tongue and blood oozes into my mouth.

I am alive, because I taste it.

I am alive…

Perfection

2011-10-09T05:47:00.003-06:00

Like beauty, perfection is in the eye of the beholder. I've had many perfect days fly fishing, and many days at the beach that where perfect. Oddly enough, each was different, but still perfect.

So what is perfection? Maybe it can't be defined, as moment by moment, everything changes.

Or maybe, just maybe, perfection changes, too, making each moment a perfect one.

Here's one of my favorite definitions of perfect, courtesy of the 1966 Bruce Brown film "The Endless Summer"

The Explorer Returns

2011-10-05T07:45:00.000-06:00

Last night’s fog, which shrouded the street lights, had descended to hug the ground. The sand was damp and felt cold against the soles of my feet. The distant sound of breaking waves, unseen through the brume, cast an ominous mood. Undaunted, I proceeded towards the ocean and quickly lost sight of the hotel. My footsteps exposed dry sand hidden under the thin-crusted top layer. I walked into the enveloping mist, welcoming the solitude and grateful to be heading home.

I was dressed only in shorts and a t-shirt, so the cool morning breeze met little resistance, sending a chilled shiver up my spine. Droplets of moisture collected on the hairs of my arms and the constant crashing of waves grew louder. The scent of oceanic decay filled the heavy air. Looking behind me I saw the sun’s deeply muzzled glow, its heat unable to penetrate the grey. Continuing on I reached the hard pack sand, remnant of the receding tide. My feet sensed another drop in temperature. The sea drew me westward. I was close.

And then I saw her. My pace quickened and the first shallow rush of water, chilled from unfathomable depths, covered my toes. I spiraled back in time, memories washing through me as quickly as the wave receded and another took its place. Onward I waded as the frigid liquid wrapped around my shins, then released its grip and proceeded inland. The brief meeting of old friends complete, we both had more to do. We would meet again, in that I was sure.

With gentle relentlessness the waves continued to oppose my direction of travel. The cry of a lone gull, unseen in the ever-thickening fog, signaled I had ventured far enough. The foaming waves crashed mid-thigh. The morning sky, a pale blue along the horizon, became visible through a small portal in the fog. I was looking into forever, and in that vastness of beyond, saw every possibility of life. I felt what the sailors of yore had felt and possessed the knowledge of their ship’s captains: Another world was out there, waiting to be discovered.

A second cry from the gull signaled my time to return. I retreated from the sea, taking with me what it had taught and also what I’d learned. Each passing wave guided me inland and then returned to its source, accepting its journey as complete and welcoming its new direction.

I reached the hard-pack sand, a traveler from a distant time and yet, from not so long ago, and discovered a new world inside of me.

100 years

2011-10-02T06:00:00.005-06:00

If it takes one hundred years, is it worth it? That was the question in my head as I awoke. I am not sure why that proposal came into my morning grogginess, but before I sat up, a second query entered my mind asking, "What have you got?" A strange start to the day to be sure, but I found myself following these questions into a fully awakened state.

The answer to the first question was easy: Of course it is. Time measures nothing. There is here and there is now. That covers it. My second answer, though longer, followed. What I possess are the abilities to ask any question and seek out any solution. I can interact with anyone or anything I choose. I have the power to believe; I have the power to change; I have the power to love; and I have the power to do nothing.

The last option may be one of the strongest and most effective courses of action one can take. It's how I choose to act---not react---that create the moments in my awareness. It is all around me, laid out like a puzzle of infinite pieces, with an equal number of solutions. With the blueprint of my choosing, piece by piece, moment by moment, I move forward.

But what if it takes one hundred years to settle upon a solution? What then? If I discover I have not changed in that passage of time, was it wasted? Certainly not, as I’ve had a constant reminder of whom I am supposed to be. Nothing has changed me in those one hundred years, so I have chosen my sense of being wisely.

Or maybe I’d found one item, one moment of learning which took the entire century to resolve. If so, I would have discovered that I hadn't missed any of the other moments in front of me. I just didn't need them to complete the being of who I am. That solitary moment was all I needed to define myself. It doesn't matter how long we take to solve the puzzle of life. We always have long enough.

Over the next one hundred years, or whatever time I have left, I’ll continue to lay down the tracks of my life. Who knows, in a future moment someone may be curious enough to ride those rails.

If they find one magical moment, the impact of their discovery will last beyond any physical manifestation they choose.

In Memory: Richards

2011-09-28T06:00:00.003-06:00

Written long ago, an unrelated event brought these two men together on the page before me. I knew them both. One was a childhood next door neighbor, the other an uncle I only met twice. Both men deserved more.

I
Richard J. Woods
Died on Saturday-
In a field
Three-quarters of a mile
From the airstrip.

“I’ve lost an engine
Was all he said,”
The plane flipped over,
Yet they are not sure
If it was intentional.

I wonder
If he screamed,
Or was he complacent
As the planed tumbled earthward.

II
Today I backed
My car
Into a pole-
Denting the fender.

III
Richard McDowell
Died on Sunday
In a bathroom
Three-quarters of a mile
From the street corner.

“Oh my God, the pain!”
Was all he probably said
To no one listening.

His face, they say,
Had been deeply cut.
Yet they are not sure
If it was intentional.

I doubt he screamed,
As pain raged his body,
Not having time
To reflect.

IV
Today I backed
My car into a pole
Denting the fender.

Then slowly
Drove
Away.

Music

2011-09-25T06:16:00.004-06:00

Music is the rhythm of life, and the music of nature is a major piece of that. When you escape the noise of today’s modern world and find a place of quiet solitude, it is easy to listen with your heart. Taking a few moments to quiet your mind (and your world,) you will be amazed at the music of the world around you. Nature creates its songs so that we can create ourselves as part of nature.

As long as I can remember, I’ve appreciated the music of nature, whether it is the call of the sea gulls amidst the rhythmic crashing of ocean waves, the rustling of dry leaves in autumn or the rolling gurgles of a small stream.

I strain to hear a sound in the hush of new fallen snow, and then realize that if I relax, I can hear the quietness of peace within. The symphony of the morning sunrise equals the deafening silence of the stars at night. All things are in balance, if we let them be.

The sound of a crackling camp fire takes me back to my childhood. Closing my eyes, I easily envision my family sitting on the sand around a large pot of furiously boiling sea water. My mouth waters as I recall the large, tasty crabs cooking inside, which we had pulled from pots laid deep in the salty bay. There was laughter in air and music in our hearts.

Perhaps it is best stated in the closing scene of the movie August Rush: “The music is all around us. All we have to do is listen.”

The Heart of a Friend

2011-09-21T06:00:00.020-06:00

A little more than three years ago I rediscovered my writing journey and decided to follow its path. This path led to a friend for guidance and advice. She works at a faith-based-publishing company and is a published author of several books and aritcles. We first met a decade ago when my wife and I coached her daughter on a city recreation soccer team. Since that time we have maintained sporadic contact, usually by way of casual encounters at soccer matches, chance meetings in restaurants or at the grocery store.

After our initial meeting and a few follow-up emails, I was set free like a bird taking flight into an unknown world. After many months on my own, I felt it was time to return to the nest and learn again.

With her typical grace, she again found time to fit me into her busy schedule. I was blessed with the opportunity to spend another hour with my writing mentor. We first chatted about our lives, our kids, our work…just catching up. Gradually our discussion turned to writing, both hers and mine. I enjoyed listening as she described her triumphs, as well as her struggles. She explained where she finds inspiration and what gets in her way. She, too, has other writers she turns to for help when she gets “stuck.” Now the circle was made whole as I returned to her for help with my work.

She listened intently as I explained my current project, as if I might be the next Pulitzer Prize winning author. My questions became her quest to find the best answers. She volunteered to do some research for me, even though I knew her time was limited. We discussed my first piece more fully and she offered to proof read and edit the first draft, as well as offering to provide feedback about possibly of publishing the piece.

As we talked she mentioned the feeling of exposure she feels when she puts her thoughts to paper, as if she is giving a piece of her heart away. She spoke of the risk and vulnerability that she feels writing produces. She explained how this risk becomes its own prison by preventing her from sharing her words, and ultimately, herself. As I gave her the flash drive that contained my first manuscript, she said I was giving her a piece of my heart.

That was particularly true, given the content of that first piece. However, I am no longer afraid to share my heart. As I have journeyed in life, I have become willing to share what I write on my pages. In doing so, I have learned that if you are afraid to share your heart, you become afraid to love and afraid to live.

This I will not do. I prefer to expose my heart, and reap the rewards in the smile of a stranger, who has become a friend.

My Truth

2011-09-18T06:53:00.001-06:00

I am a simple man.

I live in a world perceived to be extremely complex. Techno-gadgets allow communications to be made across the globe with the simple push of a button. Wires, electrons, satellites and money make it all happen. Navigating the daily commute to work, my car contains hundreds of intricate parts functioning millions of times on the 30 minute journey, often without my interference or knowledge.

But I am a simple man.

The Stock Market trades itself inside out, and then tumbles. Local school boards fight for money. Growing kids head off to college. Day after day the world beckons for another decision to be made. Finding the time and energy to meet its demands overflows the days on the calendar.

But I am a simple man;

Who enjoys a solitary day at a foggy beach, the heavy mist coating my skin with salty droplets.

I am a simple man;

Who relishes the moments of comfort near any lake, river or stream. The water, whether tranquil pond or roaring rapids, has but one purpose: to reach the sea. Everything else is secondary. It will find its way.

I am a simple man;

Who finds his soul refreshed by an afternoon thunderstorm. The heavy rain, brilliant flashes light and rolling claps of thunder teasing the senses to be aware, to come alive.

I am a simple man;

Who will rise to greet the morning sun, until my heart no longer knows the beauty of that which makes me smile.

I am a simple man, and I am alive.

A Return to the Village

2011-09-14T06:40:00.017-06:00

A man had left his village and traveled for many months. He journeyed only to learn of himself, helping those he encountered, asking nothing in return, and accepting with grace whatever he was offered. Upon his return he was greeted by his family and friends who asked about his voyage. As he recounted his experiences the villagers were filled with great joy that one of their own had shared the love and knowledge of their village.

That evening, after the clans retired to their huts, the lone traveler entered the hut of the village shaman. There he expressed his feelings, wondering if he’d made a difference in the world. Was he really an awakened man, learning what he was necessary? Or had he returned with nothing but a foggy memories and stories?

In reply, the Shaman said:

"You see and believe, and still you don’t trust. You watch and learn, and still you have doubts. Every day does not have to be a revelation of knowing. What about the moments? What about the flowers along the path? Fix the leak when it is small and the dam will not break. Ignoring it creates a flood which cannot be controlled.

The wisdom you seek is here; and always will be. The path is meant to be followed. The journey not measured in days, but in boundless joy. Look at what you have received. Is that not enough?

The desire of wanting produces more wanting. The action of receiving produces more receiving. Would joy and happiness within your family not open you to more of the same? You do not create wealth by locking yourself in your hut with all of your possessions. You'd only create a jail of stone and grass.

Continue to open to others. Let their questions and learning provide you the answers you seek. Peaceful are the fish who ride the currents, trusting the ocean knows where it is taking them; confidant they can handle whatever arises on their way. Look at the moment, trust that you know, doubt nothing except all that appears to be real. Only within the confines of your reality does it matter.

Your world is both big and small. It is ruled by this moment of truth and what that truth brings you. All things are to be released. Nothing is kept forever-not even love! That is meant to be shared with everything, in each moment. This is the only truth you need. From there you gain access to all that is–coming from the One–the source of which you are a part, but never apart.

What if tomorrow never comes? Is today good enough?"

The traveler simply bowed and then walked into the night.

Collage

2011-09-11T06:00:00.001-06:00

The succession of hot dry days gave way to a late night rain shower. I sat near an open window and listened to the rain drops lay down their subtle rhythm on pane and pavement. I was reminded of something I'd written---well, pieced together really, back in the mid-80's. Most of the lines are from other poems. Somehow, they mingled together to form the following, which is titled: Collage

I awoke last night,
to the sound of rain.
Falling pieces of cellophane
Disappear upon the ground.

Fog tiptoes over the valley floor.
A seed take root,

begins to grow.

Silence-
The children sleep.

What we know

2011-09-07T06:00:00.004-06:00

And when the sun did rise,

we forgot the stars;

choosing to believe what we saw,

rather than what we knew

in our hearts.

It Really is This Simple

2011-09-04T16:28:00.004-06:00

From "Stillness Speaks" by Eckhart Tolle:

Leave Life alone. Let it be.

(Courtesy of Gino Siller Photography)

A Journey's Song

2011-08-31T07:56:00.000-06:00

I set out on a journey, paved by stones of a golden hue.

That journey was life-taken as I saw fit.

I neared a corner and was called around the bend

By a song calling to my soul.

Absorbed in the moment; consumed by joy.

Nothing else mattered.

I journeyed on and was greeted by a friend.

I readied to sing for her,

But discovered she, too, had a song of her own.
Surprisingly, my soul took pause,
And I, for once, chose to listen.

My friend's words blended into beauty;
the clarity of her soul beamed bright.
I found myself in silent stillness, losing all thought
Of what I had come to share. My gift ungiven,
Had been doubled. My burdens became light.

Then we parted ways, my friend and I.
Both changed by what had happened;
One from giving, the other from
receipt. Two journeys intertwined,

Two friends, their hearts set free.

The Empathic Civilisation

2011-08-28T19:25:00.000-06:00

Received this from my nephew and found it quite interesting. Since I'm behind with my posts this week, I thought I put this in for today. Eleven minutes of incredible animation about an interesting subject.

Today is Eternity

2011-08-24T15:30:00.000-06:00

During an afternoon of sorting and cleaning, I stumbled upon several dust-covered VCR tapes on a back shelf. (Remember VCR's?) I knew most of them contained World Cup Soccer matches from 2004, but a couple were unlabeled. I put each tape in the VCR player (yes, we still have two units plugged in) and watched portions of them to make sure I wasn’t tossing out a family treasure.

One of the tapes contained a program about John Denver. I recalled that my impression of him from this program differed greatly from the public's perception during his life. I watched for a bit and came upon the following quote from Mr. Denver:

"We learn in the presence of other generations. The old need to teach the young and the young need to teach the old. Although I am no less distressed about the earth's needs than when I was younger, I see more clearly now what I can do about it. And I see that it needs doing as I live my life daily and reverently. This isn't the reverence of 'holier than thou', it's the reverence that says 'Do thy self no harm as we are all here together'."

I replayed the scene and realized how true the words resonated in my heart. Over the past years I have learned what I can do about "it." I see the past treasures of youth and now relish the simple joys of life. I have worked to learn from those around me, both old and young. Many people get caught up in today's life, wondering when things might get better, or what they could possibly do to help. Immediately my thoughts turned to the "when" part of the question. My reply is to start today.

As the philosopher Philo said; “Today means boundless and inexhaustible eternity. Months and years and all periods of time are concepts of men, who gauge everything by number; but the true name of eternity is Today."

And what is today? It is the moment of here and now. Today is yesterday's tomorrow, and tomorrow's yesterday; as it is for eternity. Starting today, whatever it is you shall do, you shall start for all eternity.

When enough of us start today, at this place (here) and at this time (now), the Creator will surely smile, for we are all in this together.

A Discovery of Self

2011-08-20T15:21:00.000-06:00

After a day of non-writing, I discovered something new. All my writing has been directed toward a project, or a particular goal; my words have to be pointed at something concrete, like a seawall that stands solid in the face of a storm. I found, too, that I’m not writing to hold something back—as if my non-words on the page were strong enough to withstand the on rushing waves of sentences and paragraphs I knew were coming. But, if those waves were heading nowhere, why write them? Shouldn’t everything have direction and be moving toward completion?

I’ve finally accepted that all things in my life don’t have to lead somewhere; they can be strong in the place they currently occupy. The seawall does not move. It occupies a place. It is simply there. Likewise, my undirected writing can exist just on paper. Someday it may join a future piece or past effort. But for now, it’s okay to write just for the sake of capturing thoughts and giving them a place to be.

After taking a deep breath, well several really, I write without a destination in mind. At first it felt strange, most likely because it was new. Now I’m more comfortable when my writing sessions head off in an unknown direction. Maybe just getting a few words spilled across the page, like an upturned box of Post Alpha-Bits cereal, will be enough to satisfy my writing hunger. Bits and pieces may fall to the floor, but the wonder of writing—and the wonder of words—allow the voice of my soul to sing again.

How about you? Can you let your words decide which way they’ll go, only when they are good and ready? Or do you map out their journey and hold their hand the entire way?

Alone in the City

2011-08-17T22:41:00.000-06:00

I journeyed to a local school for an evening work out. Everyone had left, so the grass field and running track was all mine. The day was sunny and warm, but as the sun dipped closer to the mountains, I felt the first twinge of fall in the air.

After 45 minutes of hard training I plopped down in the center of the field. Ready to call it a day, I sat and gazed at the Rocky Mountains looming in the distance. Their presence, shadowed in the golden hues of the low angle sun, reached to a sky darkened by a dusky blue.

How alone can you be in a city of 68,000 people at 7:30 P.M. on a weekday? Given the right moment, you can be very alone. The solitude, combined with my exhausted, but satisfied physical state, was magical. The quiet of my soul absorbed nature's eternal beauty.

When given the chance, take the moment, savor the peace, and smile.

The Wisdom of Dog

2011-08-10T14:18:00.001-06:00

Kind words from friend along with a hand for support led me to a place I had not been in many years.

The journey did not frighten me even though I had no idea what I might find. Time spiraled away and I found myself in the years of my youth.

I was uncertain of my feelings and unable to understand my surroundings. This place, though neither dark nor scary, felt oppressive and sad. I knew I didn't want to be there.

Then, in a fleeting moment, it felt like a part of me, took leave of the scene. At such a young age it was impossible for me to know what was gone or where I could look to find it.

I returned to the present. Though the ache of that previous time had faded, an inner urging told me to look for it, even though I had no idea what it was.

But like meeting an old friend, I felt assured that after several decades I’d still recognize what had left.

The question of where I should look became most prominent. A special place would call to me, of that I was sure. My mind explored the possibilities. A trip to the river, a hike on a mountain trail, or sitting next to a tranquil lake; all were viable options. However, none of those stirred my soul.

Unexpectedly, the hopeful stare of my dog saved the day. It was time for a walk and she wouldn’t be denied. As simple as that, we began our tour of the neighborhood. We greeted neighbors and dogs we passed along the way.

As we continued on I felt a gradual shift in my perception of the surroundings. At first, stillness settled over me, calming my desire to complete my quest to find an answer. Colors became vibrant and alive. Uneasiness slid into the past. It was time to enjoy the beauty of what was in front of me. Awareness of the present moment brought me home; it was my dog that led the way.

"Walk me now or suffer the consequences!"

The World Within

2011-08-03T09:40:00.000-06:00

I came across the following words, written by Frederick Buechner, in "Telling the Truth".

"You can kiss your family and friends good-bye and put miles between you, but at the same time you carry them with you in your heart, your mind, your stomach, because you do not just live in a world, but a world lives in you."

For many years I lived in a world populated by countless others. It seemed the thing to do. Many came and went, but few left an imprint on my heart and soul. After many years, and much learning, I found a world living in me. Now all who come are welcome, just as those who decide to leave. Each soul brings a gift, sometimes known, sometimes hidden. Discovering the gift finds a friend. Sharing that gift grows the world within.

Every moment is an opportunity to expand that world. Each one of us is "making up a true story." Limitless possibilities are available and in our choosing we create our truths. In living those truths we reveal all that we are.

If we choose to live the next moment "as a lie", then that is the truth we create. Being true to ourselves is our highest nature. In doing so we create the self-love necessary to love those around us unconditionally. Loving those around us, without restriction or judgment, lets us smile at our world within.

(All photos from the 2008 reunion of David Douglas HS Class of '78. Thirty years and thousands of miles has only strengthened our friendship.)

Reflections from Above

2011-07-31T11:33:00.000-06:00

One evening, near the end of vacation, I went down to the beach to do my Tai Chi routine. It was close to eight o’clock and the surrounding darkness was topped by patchy clouds. The ocean waves created the perfect rhythm for my practice.

At one point I looked up at the sky. The clouds had parted, and above my left shoulder was the Big Dipper. Though hardly a momentous occasion, it was a moment that gently grasped my attention. I was over 3000 miles from home, yet that same stellar formation would be viewable there, as well.

At first, it seemed this would inspire a feeling of insignificance for me. I am small and the universe is big. What impact can I really have? What I felt instead, was not the perception of insignificance, but of the vastness of the universe around me. As I viewed the astral splendor above me, I thought how great it must be to be able to show an identical picture of itself, even though I had traveled so far.

Then I understood that I was part of this universe not to be insignificant, but to be grand as well.

In each moment of life we choose to be big, or small. In that choosing, we create the splendor of the world around us. Though we might not have made the original creation, we are free to "co-create" the next moment of grandeur in the universe around us.

Changing in Time

2011-07-27T06:00:00.004-06:00

Time has passed without knowing, creating moments that I may observe. As a back stage apprentice I have watched, and learned. So used to taking the lead, now I find myself watching from the shadows. I am still choosing, but choosing less, and allowing more. I am observing the energy and documenting nothing. Like a leaf upon the river, I am journeying where the flow desires and am satisfied with the destination. It is time to accept, not to challenge.

There is silence in the winter’s night–all sound is muffled by the fallen snow. The breath hangs frozen, and shimmers in the reflected light of the moon. I know something is out there, turning thoughts within–and I wonder; "Is it ever really the same?" The river, from headwater to ocean, is complete in its totality, and yet is always changing.

Changing what is perfect. Perfecting what is changed. Creating purity uncommon that opens my being to release all that yearns to be free. It fills my soul with the goodness you’ve bestowed.

The surrounding beauty has filled the void and winter’s cold is shed away. The warmth of the heart has stirred again. It is time to move forward, time to change, and time to smile.

Solitary by Choice

2011-07-23T23:34:00.001-06:00

The truth is becoming obvious to me and at some point I’ll find the reasons behind it. There are many volumes that point to the "interconnectedness" of our beings. We are all "in this together" even if it seems we are alone against the world. Throughout my life (at least the present one that I can recall), I have relished the chances to be solitary by choice.

Long bike rides, morning and evening runs, and most recently, fly fishing have all been undertaken without human companionship. But I have not felt alone. I have always sensed there was more to it; that being alone did not equate to loneliness. I have, admittedly, felt lonely at times, but if I were to scrutinize those moments, I know I will find that I chose to feel that way, for whatever reasons. And those feelings have always passed.

The human experience is enriched by serving others, by sharing who I am, and by freely offering what I have to give. It is always the others’ choice to receive these gifts. I should never be offended by any perceived rejection.

Yet, how do I know who I am, or understand what I really have to offer, if I do not take the time to find out? Deeming my self-worth or sense of being from the reactions of others gives away my "power of being.” It reduces my ability to shape the world in the way I see fit.

It is through simple acts of quiet reflection that I am able to begin to understand who I am, what I can become, and where I can go. Choosing to go there is an individual decision. Going there alone is a different choice altogether.

I have not found what I am looking for, as I have finally quite looking. Each day I discover more of what I’ve searched for, without knowing that this is what I would find.

I am nothing that I write, and yet it is everything in me. In this cosmic dance we share the lead. Sometimes I give birth to its wisdom and ways, and at other times it leads me down my path, never losing direction and always guiding me home. I will know when I have arrived, for comfort and security will be obvious. I know that I will venture out again into the wild unknown, so that our dance can begin anew…and I will smile.

Have Mask Will Travel

2011-07-20T23:11:00.002-06:00

Inbound to Denver from Houston, I somehow managed to grab an aisle seat in row three. Okay, maybe the four small children in the surrounded rows had something to do with that, but I planted my butt in the seat anyway. I kept my fingers crossed the late hour of the flight would zonk the little kiddies out after take-off.

A fairly smooth flight ensued as we climbed above 10,000 feet. As I settled in, (book, IPOD, tray table down, reading light on,) I glanced about the cabin. Two kids were already yawning and another seemed reasonably happy. I could tell number four was going to be the “wailer.” Then I noticed one more thing; the passenger one row in front, and across the aisle from me, had donned a surgical style face mask. Visions of SARS and post tsunami Japan flashed through my mind. I squirmed in my seat a bit.

Okay, she’s just being cautious, or maybe has a medical condition that requires her to protect herself in crowded areas, especially where the air is re-circulated several times an hour. No big deal. I mustn’t worry.

Shortly thereafter, the cabin crew made the rounds with the snacks and drinks. I chuckled as I observed the “masked avenger” slide her protective face cloth down under her chin for nearly 30 minutes as she enjoyed her refreshments. Yes, we all have our price; hers was a miniscule bag of honey roasted peanuts, a slightly larger bag of pita chips and one-half can of soda.

I was reminded of another similar scenario, this one taking place in my home town of Portland, OR. The year was 1980 and Mount St. Helens was going crazy with ash eruptions. On this particular day, the prevailing winds carried the ash over the Portland area. It was strange to see our city heavily dusted by volcanic ash. Because of this, there was a health alert posted for people with respiratory conditions to stay inside and avoid contact with the ash.

I was at a stoplight near I-205 when I glanced over at the car next to me. Even at the tender age of 20 I knew I had seen one of the most hilarious things of my life. Sitting behind the wheel was a middle aged woman wearing a construction style dust mask, the type with the metal piece that bends and conforms over your nose. This woman had cut a small hole in the mask, from which protruded a cigarette. I just about drove into the oncoming traffic, as I was laughing so hard. It was a Kodak moment.

It doesn't make much sense to me, but I guess it’s the illusion of safety that makes us feel comfortable.

Aloha Kauai

2011-07-17T20:32:00.002-06:00

It was the evening of our departure from Kauai. For a week we explored and enjoyed the island in many ways. Knowing that Kauai contained positive energy, I opened myself each day to the island's mystic offerings. Throughout our visit I discovered bits and pieces of Kauai’s magic. Yet I knew that much remained hidden.

We arrived at the airport and while we waited for our flight back to the mainland, I wandered the small terminal. Posted on the walls were photos of Hawaiian dancers, drawings of ancient kings and other Hawaiian images. Below each placard was a short verse of wisdom related to their culture. Each was printed in Hawaii's native language and also translated to English.

It was on my fourth trip down the walkways that I discovered my most meaningful moment of the trip. I don't recall the specifics of the photo, but underneath were the words:

"O KE`OLA NO IA O KIA`I L OKO."

This translated to: “Look for the life within."

There it was, so simple and eloquent.

The island of Kauai is a tapestry of beauty and grace. When viewed only through our outer senses, it cannot be fully appreciated. Our memories will be like picture postcards, forgotten as soon as they’re out of sight. But if we see the world from the splendor and compassion that lay within ourselves, then the simple moments of joy created in our lives enriches our soul for eternity.

I look forward to another trip to Kauai and the opportunity to allow the island's magic to continue to unfold upon me. Until then, I carry that simple message with me and smile, recalling the wonder that is the “Garden Isle.”

Directions Home

2011-07-13T14:21:00.000-06:00

I found these words resting beside my soul. An evening’s walk is taken, the words becoming clearer. I welcomed myself home knowing I was not lost, knowing I would never be alone.

The time has come to move forward without fear. Know what you perceive to be real. The energy is there, you will receive it. It may take time, but time is not a problem. It’s not even real. Mark your days by your learning and by your growing desire to complete the journey of discovery. Then start a new journey to help others learn for themselves.

A thousand hands reach out to you, not in need (as you fear), but in acceptance; of willingness to guide you to the source. It resounds in you heart. You hear it in the music. You see it in nature. You feel it wherever you are. Now is not the time to fret about feeling incomplete. Now is the time to grow.

Those around you will get on board when the ship is ready to sail. No one will be left behind. All will have a life jacket, that being you. But you will not feel burdened. Your load will be light. Your light will guide them home. Listen with open eyes; hear with your inner voice; see by how you are feeling. A smile will brighten someone’s day.

The tree takes months to blossom, even longer to bear fruit. Patience will be your strength. Love will be your path. Light will guide you home. The moment is now. No one will pass without reason or just cause. Even the blind man knows his way. Your eyes are open. Focus takes time. Be patient.

Move to where you heart needs to go. There will always be someone (many) with you. Share your heart (soul) with anyone you choose. It will help them. You will also grow. Know the way is set for you. Take the moment to smile upon yourself; upon your life; upon your growth. Never fear to hold another’s hand and know a friend is with you.

The Ocean and the Wall

2011-07-10T20:13:00.002-06:00

I sat on a log at the beach, spending 20 minutes in quiet contemplation. I let my thoughts come and go. It was peaceful and relaxing, and much needed.

I returned to the present moment, unaware of what pulled me back. I watched the waves break along the small river jetty and on the sand in front of me. Across the inlet, the waves ran up against a cement wall, built to keep the higher land, and small home, from eroding into the sea. I knew the sea would "win" over time. With each crashing wave, another small piece was worn away. In time, certainly many years, the wall will crumble into the sea.

But the sea was not in a battle with the wall. The waves that appeared to be assaulting it had traveled hundreds of miles, searching their own path of least resistance. Today, those paths ended against the wall. The sea, knowing only its pure self, went as far as it could without fear, without hate, or without malice. Upon reaching an abrupt end to its forward journey, it turned back on itself, neither loving nor hating the wall, only knowing its new direction, only knowing itself.

I thought of my present journey in life, and wondered what it would be like if I were more like the sea. That if along my path, as I encounter my "walls," could I behave in a similar fashion; without fear, without hate, without malice and without attachment? Would I be able to accept the path of least resistance, not in the manner of giving in, but in the functionality of only doing what needs to be done? Could I move on without worry of winning or losing, of poverty or riches, or of acceptance or rejection?

The ocean waves seemed to be rejected by the wall, but it did not change itself. It merely changed the direction in which it was traveling. As I got up to leave, I thought of this and smiled. Now I have a new direction in my life, and will proceed without fear. Upon meeting the walls in my life, I will no longer try to break them down. I’ll change direction and not worry about changing myself.

What direction are you heading, and are you willing to steer a new course?

Staining the Moment

2011-07-05T21:53:00.000-06:00

Often we forget that everything is inter-connected, and that we truly are “in this together.” But the moments are there to be discovered. One morning, some time ago, I found one.

I was in the garage staining baseboard moldings. In this simple act, I experienced a profound discovery. As I rubbed the stain into the curves and creases of the wood, the repetitive motion of spreading and smoothing opened my inner self to reflection. The music playing in the background provided a distraction for my mind, so that my soul was open to interpretation. I worked back and forth along the length of each molding, gently releasing the thoughts of the upcoming day, the worries from yesterday, and my potential fear of tomorrow.

I came to understand the joy in the art of the craftsman, be it in nature, on canvas, in stone, or in this case, on wood. The stain blended into the molding’s design, becoming one with the areas that absorbed it, and moved beyond those that stubbornly said, "I will not be changed!"

(Courtesy of Freefoto.com)

As I observed this interplay, I welcomed the thought that “all will be, what it will.” Therein lay the secret beauty to the inter-connectedness of the whole. I freely accepted that the tree farmer grew the trees in the belief that its wood would be cut into something useful. But was it grown to specifically be molding? Most likely not. It was grown simply to be what it would become.

(Courtesy of Freefoto.com)

And what of the mill man, who cut and shaped the raw wood. He knew what the design would look like, because he gave birth to that idea. But he did not know where the wood would end up, be it business, home, or scrap heap? Possibly. But regardless, he created only that which he knew, and nothing beyond.

(Courtesy of Minh Hoang @ flickr)

Certainly the mixer of the wood stain could not have envisioned that I would blend two different colors to match my desire. She knew only to make each color as it needed to be, so the best result was achieved.

(Courtesy of FreeFoto.com)

Each musician, whose music played in the background, could only release the melody, as it was in its completeness, waiting to become part of the whole. Did they foresee that their creative work would fill the empty recess of a household garage?

And finally, after purchasing the molding, did I envision I would be so moved into openness that I would experience each person's contribution to my efforts, so that I could become what I am? Certainly not, but with awareness of the moment, it was allowed to happen.

Every task holds merit and is important not only unto itself, but also in becoming part of the inter-connectedness of the entirety. It is our choice to open ourselves and observe the opportunities we create. And if we so choose, is it inevitable that we should smile.

What have you connected with lately?

(Thanks to Sandra Pawula at Always Well Within for her post on interdependence that reminded me of this essay.)

My First Writing Sabbatical

2011-07-01T23:31:00.001-06:00

I enter my hotel room in Shenandoah, TX. It is modernized late ‘70s, only because they’ve removed the avocado green from the decor. Orange, gold, and red tones dominate the furnishings and floors. The shower curtain logo says it all: “wake up on the bright side.”™ There is no other option. On the plus side, the slight musty smell is definitely early ‘90s. Regardless, I am full of anticipation, for the next three days this is not only my home, but site of my first writing sabbatical. I plan hours of uninterrupted writing around my daughter’s swim meet, which is why I’m in town.

Finally, I am ready to begin, except the hotel’s Wi-Fi has dumped. That means no access to Hearts of Space, my favorite writing music. As the ever-prepared traveler, I have a back-up plan. Out comes my IPOD and I fire up MS Word on my laptop. Who needs the Internet anyway?

I settle into the orange mesh “office” chair and gaze across the room at the large red lounge chair. Hmmm…That might be more comfortable. Too late; I’ve already set up my writer’s station: Inspirational chips and salsa, enjoyed with a fine 5.5 ounce plastic bottle of Chardonnay that’s chilling in a Styrofoam cup. Can it get any better?

"Workstation Zebra"

But then, Jams from “tech support” calls. Okay, that’s not his name, but it’s short for “Just a minute, sir,” which he states repeatedly. Emboldened by my half-cup of wine (so delectable in a foam cup fresh from its plastic wrapper) I politely end the call. I haven’t time for this. I’m a writer on sabbatical. There are words shouting to appear on screen. If I need Internet service, I’ll get it at Starbucks. I’d been there twice already.

The internet problem did get solved, and over the next 72 hours I enjoyed long blocks of solitary writing time. I used most of it wisely and moved my works-in-progress forward. I also finished off the bag of chips, ninety percent of the salsa, four bags of microwave popcorn and the remaining three mini bottles of wine (thank God for twist-tops.)

Despite my last hour of writing being repeatedly interrupted by the maintenance man trying to shut off the bathtub hot water, I’ve written well and learned several valuable lessons. These include, but are not limited to: (1) long periods of solitary writing time are invaluable; (2) I have the discipline to sit and write; (3) focusing on one project at a time works better (for me) than scatter braining four simultaneously; and finally, (4) that I enjoy wine from small plastic bottles.

I am already looking forward to my daughter’s next travel swim meet. I hope she’s as happy with her results from this trip as I am with mine.

The Musical Challenge Answer Page

2011-06-30T15:27:00.000-06:00

There really was no better place to be, sitting there in the bell tower with Jessie. She was an alternative girlfriend. Well, almost, anyway. She could have anything at all but she let me be myself. A friend had described us as lovers in a dangerous time, but I knew there was no such thing.

Sure it was true I’d had one love which was a thriller, but that burned out after one week of magic with no boundaries. Nobody blamed me for breaking us in two, but I knew it was my fault. I was lucky to meet Virginia, a brown-eyed girl from Twin Rocks, Oregon who did the dirty boogie all the way to China Grove, CA and did it better than Uncle Albert and Admiral Halsey combined. Even the west-end girls couldn’t keep up as we finished the night twisting by the pool.

But after that Saturday in the park, I could see the shimmer in her eyes was gone. I gathered my courage and asked her, “Where do you think you’re going?” She replied, “I said a traveling prayer last night. It’s time I hit the high road and make my way to Tuscon, Arizona.

Before I know it, she’s gone, riding the west wind down by the old main drag. I admit I saw her through the eyes of a fool, but I fooled around and fell in love anyway; on St. Patrick’s Day, no less.

Now here it is, already the fourth of July and I’m still afraid to let my feelings show. How can I be sure the innocent age won’t come full circle, leaving me hungry like the wolf, howling at the dark side of the moon, suffering a night fever not even the trees can hide.

Unexpectedly, I bumped into Mr. Tanner at the old apartment. He, too, was on the run. Actually, it felt like he was never there in the first place. Of course I had to open my stupid mouth, telling him that the moon’s a harsh mistress and that I just had to be free. It was a beautiful day and I could’ve hooked him up with a girl I knew as Dirty Diana. When I told him, he replied, “Once in love, always in love. But then again, you never know, one thing leads to another.” He contemplated the offer while twirling his pencil thin mustache.

I had the feeling he was recalling his one night in Bangkok, where he had a good reason to run to the local Rock Lobster bar, which was right next door to the Love Shack. Not so much as a fugitive, but more like an Englishman in New York. He found refuge at the last resort on the beach, a tiny room in a place called The Hotel California. It was on the sand at Half Moon Bay. It’s hard to say if he could manage to stay in the great indoors long enough to let the

Georgia

rain pass over the gentle forest. The ghosts of his past haunted him, so he lit a candle in the wind and said a prayer for the dying.

Knowing he needed to leave this reach haven postcard-like resort, he followed the rhythm of the rain, allowing him to return to Pooh Corner. Arriving home, he found picture postcards from L.A. stuffed in his mailbox. That was the last straw. He boarded the midnight train to Georgia, all the while hoping he wouldn’t have to punish the monkey once he got there.

Congratulations to Kerrie Flanagan chosen in the random drawing as wnner of the $20.00 gift card. She also had the closest guess at 62.

And The Winner Is.....

2011-06-29T13:18:00.000-06:00

Time is up, pencils are down. The correct number of song titles in the "Musical Challenge" blog is........80.

Since no one was even close to the correct amount a random draw was made by an official, non-blog related entity (a co-worker whose retires today) and the winner is Kerrie Flanagan!

Congratulations Kerrie and thanks to the other 3 people who participated. The entire post with the song titles highlighted will appear later today.

The River Zen-Episode 2

2011-06-27T11:31:00.000-06:00

The second episode of "The River Zen" is now posted. Titled "No Going Back", Alex finds he has only one alternative on his journey. Read about it by clicking here

Moving Foward

2011-06-26T12:22:00.000-06:00

My post for today took a happy detour yesterday and ended up at The Writing Bug in their Saturday Guest post. Thanks to the gange there for allowing NCW members to share their bogs. Hop and on over and enjoy!

The Education Buck Never Reached Here

2011-06-24T11:40:00.000-06:00

I was raised in a home funded by public education dollars. Both of my parents worked for School Districts in Oregon. I've seen first hand the benefits to a community of properly, not wastefully, funded school systems. Today's financial crisis has put a premium on placing whatever limited funds are available into the most efficient means possible.

Maybe we can use the following photo as proof that we musn't loose sight of the most basic elements of education; Readin'---Ritin'---Rithmatic.

Maybe the other 15 stencils were misspelled!

Obviously the sign was made by someone else!

Musical Story Challenge

2011-06-22T12:30:00.003-06:00

The narrative below contains a certain number of song titles, all pulled from my IPOD. Your challenge is to find as many, or all, of the song titles. Leave the number of song titles you find in the comment box, and a way to get in touch with you should you win. All entries have one chance to win. Current followers of this blog, or on twitter get an automatic extra entry if they comment here.

I'll add one extra chance to those who sign up to follow here, or on twitter.

Up for grabs is a $20.00 gift card. You'll have a choice from a few different cards.

All song titles are taken directly from my IPOD directory. There'll be a bonus card given to those who correctly identify the number of titles listed. So you get two chances to win...if you're count exactly right. As always, it's my contest, so my rules are final. A random selection process will be used to determine winners. GOOD LUCK!

********************************************************

There really was no better place to be, sitting there in the bell tower with Jessie. She was an alternative girlfriend. Well, almost, anyway. She could have anything at all but she let me be myself. A friend had described us as lovers in a dangerous time, but I knew there was no such thing.

Sure it was true I’d had one love which was a thriller, but that burned out after one week of magic with no boundaries. Nobody blamed me for breaking us in two, but I knew it was my fault. I was lucky to meet Virginia, a brown-eyed girl from Twin Rocks, Oregon who did the dirty boogie all the way to China Grove, CA and did it better than Uncle Albert and Admiral Halsey combined. Even the west-end girls couldn’t keep up as we finished the night twisting by the pool.

But after that Saturday in the park, I could see the shimmer in her eyes was gone. I gathered my courage and asked her, “Where do you think you’re going?” She replied, “I said a traveling prayer last night. It’s time I hit the high road and make my way to Tuscon, Arizona.

Before I know it, she’s gone, riding the west wind down by the old main drag. I admit I saw her through the eyes of a fool, but I fooled around and fell in love anyway; on St. Patrick’s Day, no less.

Now here it is, already the fourth of July and I’m still afraid to let my feelings show. How can I be sure the innocent age won’t come full circle, leaving me hungry like the wolf, howling at the dark side of the moon, suffering a night fever not even the trees can hide.

Unexpectedly, I bumped into Mr. Tanner at the old apartment. He, too, was on the run. Actually, it felt like he was never there in the first place. Of course I had to open my stupid mouth, telling him that the moon’s a harsh mistress and that I just had to be free. It was a beautiful day and I could’ve hooked him up with a girl I knew as Dirty Diana. When I told him, he replied, “Once in love, always in love. But then again, you never know, one thing leads to another.” He contemplated the offer while twirling his pencil thin mustache.

I had the feeling he was recalling his one night in Bangkok, where he had a good reason to run to the local Rock Lobster bar, which was right next door to the Love Shack. Not so much as a fugitive, but more like an Englishman in New York. He found refuge at the last resort on the beach, a tiny room in a place called The Hotel California. It was on the sand at Half Moon Bay. It’s hard to say if he could manage to stay in the great indoors long enough to let the

Georgia

rain pass over the gentle forest. The ghosts of his past haunted him, so he lit a candle in the wind and said a prayer for the dying.

Knowing he needed to leave this reach haven postcard-like resort, he followed the rhythm of the rain, allowing him to return to Pooh Corner. Arriving home, he found picture postcards from L.A. stuffed in his mailbox. That was the last straw. He boarded the midnight train to

Georgia

, all the while hoping he wouldn’t have to punish the monkey once he got there.

To be continued…in challenge form.

Graduation Good-bye; Hello Life Round 2

2011-06-21T08:21:00.001-06:00

It was four years ago when I first penned this piece. Now we find ourselves in a similar situation with two of our daughters. This month Sam, our oldest, is graduating college. Our middle daughter, Cheyenne, is graduating high school to head off to the University of Oregon in the fall.

Much has changed since that first high school graduation four years ago. But the emotions that accompany a child’s departure remain the same. We’ll worry about if we’ve done enough to keep most of the bumps out of their roads. Are they eating enough? Are they getting enough sleep? All of the things we really have no control over seem to get all the attention. Myabe this is why we worry, because we can’t control those things anymore.

So here’s to round two of Graduation Goodbye, Hello Life.

Safe travels, children

This past fall we bid goodbye to our oldest child, who was heading off to college. Those who know me well would be able to easily guess which one of us would have tears in our eyes.

The morning of her departure started with my daughter’s boyfriend early arrival at the house. Time came for her to leave and they said their lengthy, tearful goodbyes. I experienced a sense of worry, relief, and accomplishment as I watched her pull out of the driveway. She was starting the next chapter of her life.

I was both excited and apprehensive. I wondered if I had done all I could to prepare her for this moment. In the next moment I realized that I had, for she was on her way, and now "Life" would conduct a larger part of her learning. I knew now my job as parent had changed and there was little I could do about that. In that thought I found great peace. We had gotten her this far, and we’ll continue to mold, shape and guide as best we can. But now her path is up to her.

In that moment of letting go, I believe we have both gained new found freedom.

Moments & Memories with Dad

2011-06-19T07:25:00.000-06:00

Dear Dad: I remember---

Fishing for crappies with your Dad on Vancouver Lake.

My unassisted triple play in first grade baseball.

Shooting hoops in the gym with you and my brothers.

Painting the house green.

Buying that weird pickup/van thing and I sat on the floor when a cop went by because there were four of us on a seat for three.

Spring break vacations at the high school basketball tournament (two trips to McDonald’s on Thursday!)

The day the pavement went in for the basketball court in our backyard.

Walking across the farm and putting the dollar in the can at the gate, so we could access the river.

Playing waffle ball next door at the Wood’s house.

When we went to play my first round of golf at the par 3 in Vancouver, WA.

Fishing at the coast, hooking that big salmon the first five minutes we were there. We fought it, and lost it, and then sat in the pouring rain for another 4 hours without another bite.

Camping trips on the John Day River.

Waiting up for you on “budget vote” nights to hear that we’d have Summer Rec. programs again.

Winning second place at the golf tourney at Lewis River with You and my brothers.

Fishing on the Lewis River with you and my youngest daughter and she caught two steelhead in 15 minutes.

Talking with Claxton Welch and how he recalled that you always said, “Don’t get your dobber down.” He said he never knew what a dobber was, but he never let his get down.

Striking out a lot in seventh grade baseball, and deciding that was enough for me.

The two of us going to Lewis and Clark College to apply for grant money for my first year of college.

Sitting with you in Mile High Stadium when my oldest daughter kicked a 27 yard field goal in the 4A championship football game.

Our talk along the river at Wildwood, and fly fishing afterwards.

The day I became a father.

Me and Dad, May 2011

Dad, do not fret if, one day, your memory of our moments together begin to fade. I have lived them, and several others, many times over. I know they are the reasons I've become the father I am today.

Happy Father’s Day.

I love you.

Raindrops

2011-06-15T08:33:00.000-06:00

The dark evening clouds provided cooler temperatures and a chance of rain. As I stepped into the hot tub, my gaze was drawn west, to a small area of bright light. The setting sun refused to soften its hues. Surrounded by clouds, its brilliance was isolated against the foothills.

The background ocean music played softly as the water churned in the spa. My mind gently wandered in the solitude. I relished the serenity.

Nearly imperceptible, the rain began. Increasing in intensity, it awakened my awareness. Tilting my head back, I exposed my face to the rain. I could distinguish each drop individually; some big and some small. There was no other sound, no other sensation. Slowly the rain stopped and I exited the spa, happy inside.

In the next moment, a flash of lightening and a sudden down pour. The rain came down hard, sounding like a rushing stream as it battered the leaves of the aspen trees. I paused, listening to the its fury as it hit the pavement. Stepping out from under the eaves, the water beat against my skin and cleansed my soul. Time passed. I am not sure how long. The rain stopped. There was nothing else to do, except smile.

I Am Successful

2011-06-12T10:38:00.001-06:00

Although I’ve been writing since I was young, I've only recently begun to put serious effort into this craft. Along the way I’ve read several blog posts detailing how difficult it is to be a writer. Heck, from the sounds of it, the majority of us struggle to even call ourselves writers. We hide behind a myriad of facades that imply we aren't a real writer. Often it's the "I'm not published yet" moniker, or "Really I just blog" that keeps us from acknowledging our true talent.

So to get back that misplaced self-confidence, here's my challenge to you. Comment below on one thing you've done that you are truly proud of completing, or even something that you've attempted. Your success is defined only by you. Recognize, acknowledge, and accept the wondrous person you are right now and then let that good feeling slip into your writing. Now is the time to declare you, a champion!

Here are the ground rules:

1) Pick something you did. Yes, a supporting cast is acceptable, but this exercise is about you, the individual, that has become the writer within.

2) Try to avoid things like my wedding, raising our children, etc. These are really team tasks. Yes, they are deserving of the highest possible praise, but keep this post about your achievement. Again, this is "ME" time to sing your praises so others can hear them.

3) Take all this positive energy and apply it to your writing world. Believe in your own power to say “I AM” and know it’s true.

Here’s one of mine:

In September 1985 I grabbed hold of the crazy notion to run the Portland, OR Marathon. At the time I was running 20+ miles per week and had completed two half-marathons. I felt it was time to step up and complete a full marathon.

In January 1986 I joined a marathon training group, got my training schedule and started down the road, one step at a time. My weekly mileage gradually increased. My eating patterns improved and I was getting a bit faster, as my occasional 10K races indicated.

An injury in June set me back, but I managed through it. On September 28, 1986 I stood in the pack behind the start line, feeling confident and a bit apprehensive.

The gun went off and a surge of energy reverberated through the mass of runners. I cruised through the first 10K with my Dad running by my side (He’d entered to help me along: like a writer's first reader!) He dropped off at mile 7 and I chugged through the neighborhoods of NW Portland on my own.

Around mile 21 I started to fatigue. My legs tightened and my pace dropped off. Shortly thereafter, my Dad jumped back on the course (remember, he had registered and had a race number). His presence energized me and I completed the 26.2 mile course more than 4 minutes ahead of my goal of 3:30. A year’s worth of planning, training, and execution was complete.

3 hours, 25 minutes, 36 seconds later: I am done!
(Dad is right behind me, a 12 mile day for him)

Now, tell us about your success!

After or Before?

2011-06-09T07:38:00.001-06:00

I read an article about religion in America. Not surprisingly, over 80% of Americans identified themselves as Christians. A large majority of those 80% also stated a belief of some kind of afterlife. However, most people simply did not consider the possibility of a previous life.

Shouldn’t this be considered? If there is an after, there must be a before. But is this current life the only before that exists, or is this current life already an "after" of something previously forgotten?

Have you ever been somewhere new, but felt it strangely familiar? Do you have artistic or musical talent that is not present in other members of your family? Or possibly you’ve just known “something” with really knowing why you do? Where does these “things” come from?

If you consider the possibility of a before, can you be sure that the next “after” is really the end? If it is the end, what does this life mean? How does it fit on the path toward enlightenment? Is this really all there is?

Currently, so many people seem lost in their day to day living, becoming more of a "human doing" versus a "human being". We spend countless hours making a living, chasing kids, etc., when it might be more beneficial to take some time to rest, relax, and then reflect on how we are “living.”

If you believe "this" is really all there is, then how do you not ask, "What is the point?" Maybe the point of this life is to figure out what the "point" is. It’s different in the current stream for everyone. But each path up the mountain leads to the same summit.

Now is the time to live and here is the place to start. Whatever living means, will you take the time to create your life?

A Moody River

2011-06-07T10:53:00.000-06:00

Early in May I planned a morning trip to the Big Thompson Canyon. After three days of snow, followed by two days of rain, I knew the river levels would be high. I checked the river flow report and decided to stay lower in the canyon. This kept my travel time short and put me at one of my favorite stretches on the river. As I entered the canyon, I saw the water was murky in color, but appeared to be fishable. I just needed to take a different approach to the day.

First step rock...every time.

With the faster flows I chose larger patterns. I tied on a size-14 yellow stimulator followed by one of my favorite nymphs, a bead-head, purple and black “Big T” prince. I used a longer piece of tippet, added a small split shot halfway between the dry fly and the prince nymph. To finish my setup, I tied on a size-16 red emerger nymph below the prince nymph. Ready to go, I crossed the highway and made the short walk upriver. Locating the white rock I step on whenever I visit this section of the canyon, (yes I am a bit superstitious) I slid over the guard rail, propelled off the white rock and made my way down toward the river. My descent was accompanied by the loud rush of water as it cascaded over the rocks.

I netted my first trout within five minutes. A nice brown trout had taken the red emerger nymph. A few minutes after that, I landed a second brown, also on the emerger pattern. Given the increased volume of water, I was pleased with my early luck. However, over the next 15 minutes I couldn’t coax anymore strikes. The river was rushing so fast I couldn’t make a decent presentation in the pocket waters along the far bank.
I reached the top of a cascading stretch of water and weighed my options. I could wade across an area of swift water to a large rock embedded in the middle of the river. If I made it there safely, I would be able to cast into a deep pool that often held fish. Or I could skip 50 yards of river to reach the next section. The beckoning of the far pool was too strong to ignore.

The Perch...during lower flows

With great care I entered the river. I made sure one foot was firmly planted before I took my next step. The volatile water pushed hard against my thighs. Half way out it looked like I had made a poor choice. I had gotten myself “cross-legged.” I needed to move my downstream leg; however, that one was supporting the majority of my weight against the current. I figured either direction, back to shore or to the rock, held the same risk. I made my decision. I set my upstream foot against the current as much as possible and plunged my way to the rock. Three quick steps later, I made it, still upright and dry.

I crawled onto the rock and caught my breath. Taking a moment to plan my casts, I realized if I hooked up, the only option to land it would be to guide it to the rapids along the far wall and let the current carry it into a lower stretch of quieter water. That meant a lot of line and a return journey back across the river. But I had perched myself mid-stream for one reason; to fish that pool of water.

My first cast fell short. Though the flies landed at the edge of the pool, the line got trapped under the white water that fed my intended target. The force of the cascading water shook my rod as if I had hooked a fish. I held the line against the rod handle and lifted up quickly. The line slipped free of the rapids but the trailing flies caught an unseen limb. Three shakes of the rod tip managed to free the flies. Lady luck was still by my side.

I stripped line more and more line off the reel and began to cast. Forward easy and then softly behind. With increased momentum, I cast forward a second time and behind once more, building rhythm and distance. I brought the rod tip toward the pool one last time and let the line go. Just as the flies lit upon the surface, a large brown trout swallowed the dry fly. I almost missed the hook set because I was focused on keeping the line above the rapids that had trapped it on the first cast. Lifting the rod up, I gave a quick tug and felt the fish’s energy transmitted into my soul. From this position, I had to guide it into the current that plunged downstream.

It took a few tries to get the fish into the faster water. Repeatedly it swam back toward a submerged plant along the far bank. This one knew how to get free. I pointed my rod downstream which allowed me to use the entire length of my fly rod against his strength. I coerced the big brown away from the vegetation and into the current. From there I let the line fly off the reel as the rushing water persuaded him to follow. Within seconds he was 40 yards down river. Now it was my turn to move.

I squatted and slid off the rock, planting both feet firmly on the rocky river bottom. I knew where I had to go. To get there with the fish still hooked would be the challenge. I steadied myself against the current. The tug on the line provided incentive to get moving. Losing him now could mean a change in my equilibrium. If the current upended my precarious balance, I would be taking a cold plunge down the rapids. Suddenly, he burst further downstream. The line free spooled off the reel. I needed to get after this beast. I held my breath as I took five unsteady strides across the petulant current. I made the riverbank without taking on too much water.

The cold water trickled down my legs as I scampered over the rocky bank. I positioned myself downstream from my adversary and reeled in the excess fly line. He was in the deeper water, and I needed to get him away from any unseen snags. Facing upriver I got a second glance at where I had just crossed the river and realized the potential danger I had escaped. My heart skipped a beat. What had I been thinking? One last run from the trout snapped me back into the moment. I prevented the brown from going too deep and worked him back into shallow water near the bank. He was spent—I won the battle.

In the net he stretched to 17 inches. A noticeable upturn in his lower jaw, this fella had been around for a while. He took a few moments to recover. Then with a flip of his tail, the big brown disappeared back into the depths. I moved up on the bank and into the sun. I sat down, taking a moment to calm my nerves. The radiant warmth, along with the sound of the river eased my senses back to a normal state. The reward had been worth the risk but only because the risk was no longer present.

A typical Big "T" brown

I ventured upstream past ‘the rock’ and returned to fishing. Seeking refuge from unpredictable flows, trout will move to protected stretches of river near the rocky shoreline. Without changing fly patterns I landed nine more trout, finding success in the safe havens of pocket water behind larger rocks and in slower currents. A couple rainbows measured more than 12 inches, but none came close to the big brown I’d landed just an hour earlier.

I exited the river and walked down the road to my car. As I passed the rock where I’d hooked the large trout, I reassessed my actions. From this vantage point I realized I should have chosen differently. But with the episode behind me, I was glad I heeded the call of that deep pool and the large brown trout that resided there.

I know the river will continue to rise over the coming weeks. It is spring, a time for all things to refresh and come alive. The river, moody today, has just begun its annual cleansing process. It will scour the silt that has settled. It will rearrange the limbs and debris that have collected over the winter. It will increase the strength of her flows, which will keep me off her banks for a few weeks. When the process is complete, I know she will welcome me back. Just like old friends we are, we will embrace each other’s spirits and renew our friendship.

Boxing My Soul

2011-06-05T10:27:00.002-06:00

The following was written over a period of 11 months in 1985, and has been recently revised.

She held the golden box
High above for all to see.
Turned it upside down;
out fell different parts of me.

As I fluttered
Down to the floor,
The crowd crept closer
Silently awaiting more.

Violently, she shook the box,
Reached in and gave a pull.
No longer could I resist.
Out slipped my soul.

The crowd fell silent
figuring at their best.
Did that inner spirit fit
The pieces lying at rest?

When no one offered
To make me whole.
She scooped me up,
then closed the lid
upon my soul.

Checking Your Vision

2011-06-03T23:20:00.003-06:00

You’ve heard it before. “Seeing is believing.” “If you can see it, you can be it.” “Creative visualization for fun and profit.” “Ask and it is given,” is another popular phrase from a reputable source. But do you accept these statements as truth and a possibility in your life?

This past week I’ve had two experiences that fit the above scenarios. The first happened in a King Sooper’s. I walked past a display of the "top 20 sellers" and came to a halt. I didn't stop to see what was available, but in response to the feeling that my book would be on a similar display. After the moment passed, I realized how normal it felt to have that happen.

The second occurrence was three days later. I walked into a Starbucks and saw an older gentlemen ready a paperback. I could see the cover, but don't recall the title, because in my mind’s eye, the man was reading my book. A surreal moment indeed, but one I cannot deny.

I'll admit that since the inception of my book, I’ve been aware of this sense of completion. But this "on display" experience is certainly new, and a bit strange.

Do you visualize any aspect of your WIP? Do you see piles of crumpled paper around the wastebasket? Or maybe a stack of printed pages ready to be shipped off to an agent or editor? Can you see your book in the window of your favorite bookstore?

Consider the vision you have of your writing and then jot down a few notes about what you see. Later on, you might be amazed at how accurate your vision was.

Late May Action on the Big Thompson

2011-06-01T20:41:00.000-06:00

A break in the weather and surprisingly low water greeted my arrival on the lower Big Thompson last week. Four hours of solitary casting and catching netted 21 fish, with another dozen shaking loose before I could get them in hand.

The first fish, only 6 casts into the morning

The day's catch included the first fish of the season to take a hopper

A Hopper-hungry brown

and three fish on a size 20 blue wing olive during a small hatch at the end of the day.

At day's end on the tiny BWO

Soul cleansed, heart enlivened, I'm already looking forward to my next trip to the canyon.

The Fly That Flew One Thousand Miles

2011-05-29T20:27:00.000-06:00

As my flight was about to land, I noticed a fly buzzing about the cabin. The flight had originated in Chicago and stopped in Denver before continuing to Portland, OR. I wondered if the fly had been aboard since the start, or if he stowed away in Denver? Either way, the fly was far from home. Did he know or even care? In the here and now of the moment, the fly was going about its business, buzzing around the inside of the airplane, doing whatever it is a fly likes to do.

If the fly decided to exit the aircraft, what would it think? Does it panic at being in an unknown place, far from what it knows? Would it realize what had happened after being transported far away from the comforts of its home? Does he accept his fate and set off on a new adventure? If so, will he get back to his original fly heap and tell all his friends about the strange new land he had seen so many miles away? And if he does, will his fly friends start to worship him as the "Lord of the Flies" for his supernatural powers and amazing tales?

Which possibility or reality will the fly choose? Or is the fly's destiny that which we choose? If so, then the fly's destiny is not unlike our own. I choose to believe the fly will land when it wants, accepting that moment for what it is, and then take off to explore its next moment, as only a fly can.

I exited the airplane, chose another moment to experience and smiled. Then I was off on my next adventure.

So how about you? If you were untethered by societal standards, and ended up on a wrong flight, would you get off there and let life take you where it desired? Or would you return to your safe haven and start over?

The Stanley Hotel: Part Two

2011-05-27T09:52:00.000-06:00

After a brief introduction in the downstairs office, the tour kicked off in the lobby. We moved through the billiards room, the music room and the Macgregor room without incident. The tour guide provided some haunting stories and I took photos in each of the rooms. For me there was nothing noticeable or extraordinary.

The Music Room

After a brief stop on the lobby stairs we moved up to the second floor and the infamous room 217. The room was occupied so we were unable to go inside. Again the guide described more haunting events, including the Stephen King and Jim Carrey episodes.

Though I didn’t feel or see anything, there is a couple of interesting side notes. I took three photos of the door of room 217 and all three came out blurry. I can usually do better than that. Just down the hall from room 217 is one of the hotel’s original writing desks. Again, I took three photos of the desk to see if I could capture something. Surprisingly, (or not,) all three photos came out blurry. Not a clear one in the group. I started thinking that maybe I should’ve had a glass of wine with lunch to calm my nerves.

The best photo of Room 217 I could get.

The mysterious blurry desk photo

The tour proceeded up to the third floor. I lagged behind a bit to let the group move to the fourth floor. When I was alone, I aimed my phone’s camera down the length of the third floor hallway. Looking through the view finder, I saw a bluish-white light emanating from the left side of the hallway. I moved the camera away from my face and looked down the hall. I couldn’t see anything abnormal. I re-aimed the camera and took a photo. Looking through the view finder I saw the light again. I snapped another photo and then looked down the hall without the camera. Nothing weird seemed to be there. I checked one last time through the camera, and the light was visible billowing from the wall.

Curious about this, I walked down to where I saw the light. In the general vicinity was the elevator, which was closed off by glass doors. The strange light might have been a reflection off of the glass. Except what I saw would be better replicated by natural, outdoor light. This was not possible and the hall’s ambient artificial lighting was yellow in contrast.

Hallway on third floor

I rejoined the group on the landing of the fourth floor. We proceeded down the hallway past room 401 (The Dunraven Room), also occupied and then around the corner to room 421. This room is reported to be active with children’s energy. We were able to step inside this room. I took couple of photos which came out clear, but failed to capture anything of interest.

Fourth floor hallway

The tour began to file out and headed down the stairs to its conclusion in the basement. Before leaving the fourth floor, I repeated my experiment and took a couple of photos down the length of the hallway. Twice, as I looked through the view finder, a shadow profile was visible from the second door on the left. Each time I looked without the camera I did not see the figure. I took a couple of photos, but neither one revealed the shadow profile.

Fourth floor looking down...thankfully no one pushed me.

I snapped a couple of photos in the basement, but without a flash there is very little to see. Nothing is revealed in the photos that would have me scratching my head.

At the end of the tour I can say that I definitely felt something prior to the tours beginning, but can’t make any specific claims as to whom or what it might have been. On the tour, the non-focus photos are most likely my responsibility, though I find it interesting that the second floor photos were the only ones that were constantly out of focus.

I enjoyed the tour and would like to participate in one of their “ghost hunts”, as well as the additional tour of the theater house, which is said to be more active than the hotel rooms. Until I can book my own room and have my own experiences, I’ll reserve final judgment on what really happens at the Stanley Hotel. Until then I'd like to hear from others who've stayed overnight, taken the tour and have witnessed or felt anything unexplainable.

Making Lemonade

2011-05-24T10:16:00.001-06:00

(Note: This post was originally displayed a couple weeks ago, and disappeared when blogger hiccuped. Here is it again.)

After a long day, my afternoon workout whittled down to time on the stationary bike. It was a good choice though, as I could get some reading in, which I have been ignoring lately. I picked up Patricia Stoltey’s book “The Desert Hedge Murders,” which I had purchased a couple weeks prior. As one of my mentors and a wonderful friend, I owed it to myself to see her craft in action.
Unfortunately, I have the paperback version and the print is too small for my tired, aging eyes to read without my glasses. I didn’t want to wear my readers while working out, so, sorry Pat. I promise I’ll get to it soon.

My second choice was Stephen King’s “On Writing: A Memoir of the Craft,” which was highly recommended by another mentor, Kerrie Flanagan, who runs Northern Colorado Writers in Ft. Collins. (Hey Pat, at least I picked you ahead of Mr. King.) A larger sized book, the print was big enough to read unaided.

Pedaling along and going nowhere I enjoyed Mr. King’s wit and storytelling. Round ‘bout page 39 there’s a blurb about his submission to Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. The piece came back with an “unsigned jotted message” that read “Don’t staple manuscripts.” Instantly it donned on me; I had just done the same thing.

Yes, it’s true. Just three days prior I mailed an essay to a literary contest. As I read the above tale from Mr. King, I saw the offending staple in the upper left hand corner of my submission. At the time I didn’t even think about the inappropriateness of my actions. My only recall is that possibly I had printed out a submission from my critique group prior to printing out my entry. I stapled the critique piece so I wouldn’t misplace any pages and must’ve followed through with the stapler on my entry.

Now the following scenarios are looping in my head:

1) The judges roll their eyes, laugh, and return the entry in the requested SASE.

2) They overlook “the staple” and use the enclosed disk to print off as many unstapled copies as they need.

3) The piece earns positive comments, even a potential placing, but isn’t chosen due to its obvious lack of professionalism.

4) Though chosen as the contest winner, I receive second place due to “the staple incident.”

5) Heck, it’s so good they can’t ignore it and I win anyway.

All I can do now is wait and see. Until then, I’m hedging my bets on the fact that after committing the same grievous error as Mr. King, I, too, must be headed for fame and fortune in the writing world. Heck, if it worked for him, why not for me?

My Stanley Hotel Ghost Tour

2011-05-23T18:33:00.038-06:00

A mini Stanley Hotel on site

I stood in the lobby of the Stanley Hotel, watching the rain soak the exterior landscape. Snow blanketed the surrounding mountains; at least what was visible beneath the layer of heavy clouds. I’d wanted to take the Hotel’s History and Ghost tour since moving to Colorado in 1999. The previous day’s phone call got my parents and I booked on the afternoon tour. Now we had ninety minutes to kill before the tour started. It was then I realized that I had forgotten my camera at home. Armed with only my phone, I wondered what kind of pictures I might capture during the two hour tour.

Despite the desperate, gloomy pall cast by the weather, the mood inside the hotel was light and friendly. Guests and staffed moved through the open areas, though no one seemed to consider that we might not be alone. However, one young girl around the age of 8, said it best as she walked by our table during lunch; “This place gives me the creeps.”

Her father smiled, sat her down at their table which was next to ours, and told her to eat her chicken. His lack of reassurance didn’t seem to bother her at all. It’s been said that children are more receptive to energies around them, as they’ve yet been taught how to filter that which doesn’t make sense in the ‘real’ world. I, for one, took her word for it. If anyone was going to pick up on anything, it’d be a child. I wanted to ask her why she felt creeped out, but knew that wouldn’t happen.

After observing that, I excused myself from the table to use the restroom. At this point I’ll only say I didn’t think I’d be sharing the facilities, but I was not alone.

Back in the lobby after lunch, I chatted with my father. My step-mother had stepped away to make a phone call. I sensed someone behind me, but knew there was no one there. The back of my head began to vibrate lightly, as if being inflated with carbonation. The sensation crept down my spine and settled near my waist. I was buzzing internally from my hips to my head.

I mentioned this to my father.

His reply; “What does that mean?”

“Someone’s here, a male, it seems.” Yea, this is why I came.

“Really? How do you know?”

“It just feels like it, I guess. That’s all I can say.” The conversation halted for a moment, but not in an uncomfortable manner. The carbonation went away.

Dad and I wandered over to the opposite end of the lobby and sat in the comfy leather couch which was in front of one of the large picture windows. Placed near the music room, which is rumored to be a favorite haunt of Mrs. Stanley, we continued to catch up on each other’s lives. While sitting there I experienced a second bout of spine tingles.

East end of Lobby near Music Room

“Someone else is here,” I mentioned to him.

“Okay,” was all he said, more curious than doubtful.

“Yeah, another male I think, but it feels a bit different than the last.”

“Huh. That’s interesting.”

If he only knew.

I took a photo from where I sat and got up to look into the music room. The tingling had subsided by the time I reached the velvet cord that blocked the entrance. I’d previously read that music has been heard emanating from this room late at night. As you'd expect, when checked, there never is anyone in the room. I glanced inside, and hearing or seeing no one, returned to the couch. I hoped we’d get a performance later during our tour. Time had come to assemble downstairs. With twenty other curious folk, we sat in the small room awaiting our introduction to F. O. Stanley and his infamous hotel.

Next post: Let the tour begin.

A Second Day of Grey

2011-05-22T23:51:00.000-06:00

Inspired by two days of rain.

(courtesy of Gino Siller Photography)

A second day of grey.
More rain; more solitude.
My senses are soaking up
what the droplets offer
nearly as fast as the thirsty ground.

Standing outside in the deluge,
its another chance to look within.
My system has been in overload mode.
Now the rain; a steady beat on my face-
A welcome respite,
a chance to learn, to wash away the fear.
To join the flowers of spring,
planting our roots firmly and deep
into the enriching soil.

That is where we find our strength,
the flowers and I;
to express ourselves on the next sunny day,
with confidence, beauty and grace.
Welcoming all who seek
what they think we may hide.
Only to find we truly are
what we appear—
And so much more.

In Meditation

2011-05-17T22:06:00.002-06:00

I crafted this around one line which popped into my head. It came unannounced and would not leave until I surrounded it with friends.

I have left this place
to journey away from
here and now.
Only to find
I am still here, but
time has not followed.

Like walking into
a different room;
knowing I am
somewhere else,
but in the same location.

Never leaving, to go
someplace new.
Senses are heightened,
but none are needed.

All is alive. All is known.
Where vertical and horizontal
never intersect.
Where infinite beauty
is only felt.

I am not alone.
Not in this place.
Feeling home,
Away from home.

My heart rests. It's beating
too loud in my chest.
Voices not heard.
Knowledge isn’t found
in their words.

I wish to touch
the Creative Divine.
My search begins now,
and lasts until
the end of time.

~~~~~~~~

I find meditation helpful in many ways. The journey is never the same. Another place I find peace of mind is fly fishing on the Big Thompson river. The flowing water soothes my soul to places I've never been. Occasionally I'll find new words to bring home.

Where do you go to find peace and give your self a chance to breathe?

Another Rainy Memory

2011-05-12T10:53:00.000-06:00

With the last two days of constant rain, I am reminded of the days of mist and rain growing up in the Pacific Northwest. Don't get me wrong, I love the sunny, dry climate here in Colorado. But the cleansing rain is good for the earth and my soul.

In those younger, wet days, I would go for a run in the chilly rain. If I dressed appropriately, the time spent moving through the elements was magnificent. I would return home soaked, tired, invigorated and happy.

The rain touches all your senses: 1) you feel the wet; 2) you smell the earth and the clean air after; 3) it tastes of nature; 4) it is seen as drops in a puddle or streaks on the window; 5) and you hear the plops in puddles, or the constant beat on the roof as it creates its own rhythm. It gives life to those that are open to receive it.

I found the following Haiku the other day. It took me back to many hikes we often took in the woods on those wet days.

Leaves falling

Lie on one another;

The rain beats the rain.

I wait for the next rainy day, and knowing what it brings, I smile.

Appreciating Expressive Freedoms

2011-05-11T08:54:00.000-06:00

If you have not heard of the trials and tribulations of Chinese writer Liao Yiwu, take a moment to Google his name. Here’s some of what you will find:

Since 1999 he has applied 17 times with his government to travel abroad for writers conferences worldwide and has only been granted permission once, which was to a conference in Germany last year.

He was also jailed for four years in 1990 after writing the poem “Massacre” to commemorate the students killed in the Tiananmen Square protests.

According to Liao, he is unable to publish any of his works in China, and says he will be strictly punished if he does. He claims no interest in political issues and states his focus is on literature. He vows to continue to apply for visas abroad.

Think a moment about being in this position. Would you have the conviction in your writing to stand up to your own government, even at risk of personal harm or imprisonment?

What if the government offered you a job which would provide for a higher level of living standards than most of your countrymen, if you would write what they approved? Would your conscience allow you to write with restricted creativity?

I am grateful that I live in society that allows the high level of freedom of expression that it does. What a challenge it would be to take the above proposed government offer and find the means to weave your personal edicts in the government documents to try and reach the masses without being caught.

I’m not sure I’d have the courage to do so.

Observing Outside

2011-05-10T11:41:00.000-06:00

(courtesy of adimage.com)

It was late and I was on my way home from work. The moon was peeking in and out of the clouds, just before tucking behind the Rocky Mountains. It had been a warm spring day and I enjoyed the cool night air as it flowed in the open windows of my car. The contemplative music from my IPOD eased my mind down the empty highway. The day cycle of nature had ended and night’s hallowed longing again ruled the world. Serenity accompanied my journey home.

(Courtesy of GinoSiller Photography)

The next morning, as I headed back to work, the sunrise was edging above the horizon. The same mountains, which hours earlier had hidden the moon, were now aglow in the pink hues of the rising sun. Transcendent in its beauty, it belied the upcoming whirlwind of the day ahead.

Cars zoomed past, their occupants already on their cell phones, drinking their morning jolt juice, oblivious to the beauty around them. It was time to take a breath, relax, and see the splendor in life. I am grateful that I did.

Moments like those are fleeting.So many people miss them. Will you?

A Mother's Patience

2011-05-08T12:48:00.002-06:00

A mother’s patience is one of her most underappreciated traits. It starts at the moment of conception. She is the first to know that life is being created inside her. Though her love for the unborn child is strong and the bond of motherhood already formed, she must wait nine months to hold her new bundle of joy.

Patiently she waits, through sleepless nights, stuffy noses, tantrums, and the scrapes and bruises. Someday her child will become aware of the love, the nurturing, the guiding, and finally, of the letting go. But she knows it is on his schedule, not hers.

As her child spreads his wings and explores the world, the mother continues to wait. Whether it’s late night phone calls, listening to girlfriend troubles, the lack of money or the feeling of not knowing where to go in life, she is there when called upon. Patiently she watches her child, knowing in her heart that the choices are his, and sometimes wishing he would choose differently.

But wisdom, learned perhaps from her own mother, has taught her that the child’s journey is not hers to take. Patiently, she watches from afar, understanding that life will teach her son the lesson he needs at the exact moment he needs it. When he calls to express his frustration, she doesn’t try to undo the lesson, but instead helps her son capture the learning.

Then, the moment she has waited for arrives. The son has discovered the true source of his inner-self and joyfully returns to her door step. With patience she listens to the moments of his life that brought him happiness. Subtly, she encourages his story to unfold, laughing silently at the folly of his ways and smiling brightly at his courage to face his fears. He tells her things he has told no one and knows his words are protected and safe.

Though it has taken decades, the bond of mother and child has grown to include a friendship which knows no equal.

Now they walk through life together, knowing the love between a mother and child transcends all boundaries. It is everlasting and it makes them smile.

One of my favorite photos of my mother

Thank you, Mom, for allowing me to grow into myself, for patiently waiting all of these years for it to happen, and for accepting me each day along my journey. You are the magic behind the story of my life.

Happy Mother’s Day.
I love you.

A Poem

2011-05-07T23:06:00.004-06:00

It's time I post a poem or two here. Though I don't write as much poetry as other works, I enjoy it the most. So I'll start with this one.

The following piece is one of my favorites. Written over 20 years ago, I don’t recall what prompted this. It was untitled until this afternoon.

Naked

And they with balding heads,
their half-dollar spectacles,
and beards that almost touch
the floor (when they lie down).

With smiling metaphors
and metaphysical similes,
and insights of all that’s nuclear,
I find it more–unclear.

Maybe it’s because I work
for a living–A real job
that pays real money,
which is always enough
to be starving,
but not an artist.

A love found by the oceanside,
or with the girl next door,
seemed foreign to me.
Maybe it just didn’t happen.
Or I blinked
at the wrong time.

And sure I thrill at
the sight
of an exotic dancer,
and see the statement she is making;
Except that she is naked.

A Good Day

2011-05-06T22:44:00.001-06:00

A wonderful reminder, a chance to renew, no reason not to smile.

An Evening on the Big Thompson River

2011-05-06T20:14:00.001-06:00

A favorite stretch of the upper Big "T"

Watching a soon-to-be-friend work a drift

A beaver dam in the evening sun

A different friend I had just met

A Big "T" "bow

A Book Give Away

2011-05-05T11:29:00.001-06:00

Just a quick note that Paul Joseph is giving away a copy of J.M. Tohline's debut, The Great Lenore at his blog site found at: http://bit.ly/mcsNxd. Good Luck!

An Unnamed Memory

2011-05-05T07:58:00.006-06:00

I read about an unnamed beach the other day, though I knew which one it was. Setting aside the moments of the present, I left the now and spiraled back to the moments in my past.

I saw an angry sea lash against the rocks and cliffs along the shore, and a setting sun that wasn’t sure if it should hasten its descent amidst the fury. Then, it was a new day—the sea and waves were gentler. With their anger now dissipated, they caressed the coves and tidal pools that had given life to the creatures who had sought refuge from yesterday’s passing storm.

Another sunset ahead provided the back drop against a younger me flying a kite in the off-shore breeze. It was a simpler time; a time with less responsibilities. My choice then was whether to go home or not. Deciding to stay another day to surf, another day to hike the rainforests, or another day to build sand castles, it was my time to choose. Life held all its promises, but I was happier to push them toward the future.

Maybe I’d head into town, pointing my desires at the bakery which stood amidst the trinket shops along the main thoroughfare. Its delicious aromas wafted down the narrow street, drawing me in like a moth to a porch light. Fluttering around the display cases, I eyed the treats contained within. Finally, to avoid deciding, I chose several different selections.

Or maybe, on rare occasion, I would pick just a single donut. Dipping it into a steaming mug of hot chocolate, I’d watch the rain beat against the window and observe trees straining to hold their ground, defying the strong wind. The ocean was dark and gray, barely visible through the falling drops.

Braving the storm and finding the right spot, it was possible to taste both the salty mist from the sea and the fresh water of the rain, as they soaked me from head to toe. In the background a lighthouse and fog horn worked together, each adding a touch of dramatic atmosphere in their routines of guidance to safe passage.

It was there, amidst the chaos of weather and waves, I felt alive. It was there I found tranquility. It was there I would smile.

Inspiration

2011-05-04T14:28:00.002-06:00

In an unexpected moment, my mind quiets. A spec of tranquility and all I can hear is my breathing. I return to my soul, my true home, and know there is peace. Inspired, I write to share the song of my heart.

Looking at the night sky, knowing that untold mysteries are waiting to be discovered, I am inspired to bring the beauty of that moment to the lives of others.

Standing along the river’s edge, knowing that it is always changing and yet complete; knowing that is perfect in every moment that I partake in its journey, I am inspired to reach across the page, so another may know the joy I have found.

Hearing the laughter of a child, I am taken back to my encounter with the young Mexican girl in Cancun. Standing in front of her very “humble” dwelling, her bright eyes and shy smile belies her situation. I find hope in her smile, which inspires me to bring that feeling of hope to the world, one word at a time.

I am inspired by life. I am inspired by love. I am inspired, simply because, I am.

What inspires you?

(Photo courtesy of Gino Siller Photography-www.ginosiller.net)

Adrift to Return

2011-05-04T07:46:00.002-06:00

Each day calls to offer its blessings. What determines if it is a day of progress or stagnation? For me, it is the amount of awareness I place in the moment at hand. When I move through the day without focus, I am operating on autopilot. My “daily routine” becomes redundant action without thought, which prevents me from moving forward.

I’ve missed many moments. Even though I was absorbed in the details, I wasn’t aware of the importance of the matter at hand. Due to obstructions in my life and my body, I haven’t been able to grow. As soon as one component seems to clear, another drops in its place. I’ve been treading water, focused only on where I am. I’ve kept my head above water and never feared drowning, but felt as if I won’t reach the shore. I have allowed too many external activities to interfere with my internal self. Being busy is just that…being busy. Awareness has not left me, but it has wandered from my center.

Outside distractions have drained my time and energy. Those detours, along with the physical breakdowns, have drawn attention to the areas of my body that need healing. In that highly focused mode, I have vacated the awareness of my total self. My soul needs the enrichment of peace and detachment. A journey started with complete attention has become a pathway of futility. However, I am learning patience and am battling complacency. I’ve begun to view things from a new perspective.

The recent rain brought clarity and cleansing. Effort is still required to continue on my path as nothing is automatic. The most important thing is this moment. When it passes, it is gone. But the learning is available in the next, most important moment in my life.

A book recommendation from a friend began a slow reprieve back towards center. I stopped by my favorite book store and made the purchase, creating movement in a positive direction. I have a chance to refocus my awareness and keep frustration at bay.

I stepped outside and looked at the night sky. The storm clouds had passed and the stars were in full view. A single cricket chirped loudly. The only other sound was a water fountain in the neighbor’s yard. I felt a returning sense of peace, knowing that recovery was near.

I do not grieve for moments passed. They continue to circulate in the web of the universe and return to my awareness when I choose. A deep breath and a moment’s quiet was all I needed to reclaim that which I have misplaced. It is time to smile.

Seasons of The Big Thompson Canyon: An Angler's Journal

2011-05-02T19:12:00.001-06:00

Six years ago I took my first winter fishing trip to Colorado’s Big Thompson River Canyon. Finding myself on the river’s icy bank, standing next to a15-foot rock wall, I listened. The sound of the river melded with the gentle breeze that rustled the trees just beyond the riffles. The sun was bright on the high canyon walls and snow reflected the energy from above. I was captured by the stillness.

Breathing quietly so as not to disturb the tranquility, I realize that fishing at that moment would only take away from the transcendence beauty. So I stood for a few minutes, closed my eyes and allowed it to be. A shiver crept up my spine.

In that brief moment, I realized that the canyon had become part of my soul. I moved further upstream, made my first cast and introduced myself to winter fishing on the Big Thompson. Although I found I had much to learn about this place, I quickly discovered that the canyon, the river and the seasons were willing teachers.

Winter
Here in the cold grip of winter, the setting—though often brutally cold and windy—is magnificently beautiful. The snow on the walls provides a frosting effect and helps define the various crags and rock outcroppings. Occasionally a herd of Bighorn sheep will be roadside foraging for food.

On sunny days the snow reflects the warmth, which is penetrating and welcome. At times the sky is cast in passing clouds and with each changing moment, remains perfect. When the wind stays down, the snow muffles all sound, except the soft gurgles of the river, which has quieted due to the lower flows. The surrounding silence is so incredible that it’s almost deafening.

Teaming with life, the river moves with less energy, succumbing to the winter season. The fish are present and are usually willing to play. On many days there are hatches of tiny bugs that keep the fish satisfied and remind me that no matter how small, nothing is insignificant and that each has its place.

Winter also keeps the crowds down and although there are only a couple of miles of open water, it is easy to find solitude. When there is company along the frozen banks, most are willing to share. A fellow angler landing a trout brings smiles to all.

Spring
As winter slowly releases its hold on the river, the water begins to flow freely. Early spring brings more hours of sun, slightly warmer temperatures and the reminder that the cycle of life above river will soon begin again. Wildlife return to the canyon in earnest and the sound of nature becomes a welcome addition. The snow that still hugs the rock walls melts during the day, and then refreezes at night, creating ice forms which, like life, change from day to day.

Activity in the canyon increases as both people and nature welcome the slowly warming days. These early days of spring provide some of the most enjoyable times in the canyon. The river flows are still minimal as spring runoff has yet to begin in full. With the melting ice, favorite stretches of water become available, and yet the angling pressure remains low.

The fish are awakening from their winter doldrums and are more aggressive for the flies being offered. The cold days of winter with fewer fish give way to larger catches and even bigger smiles.

Summer
Early summer begins with heavy runoff and for a time much of the river is not fishable. The annual event helps move debris and sediment out of the river to provide an ecosystem where the fish can thrive. Though I miss the rhythmic interludes of casting and catching, all things must cycle, so I lay my rod to rest. The reprieve lasts a few weeks, sometimes longer, but the warming weather and longer hours of daylight give me hope that my time off the river will be short lived. But the river knows only itself.

As I re-enter the canyon I find that what was old, is again new. Although the basic shape of the river has not changed there are new wrinkles carved along the shore. A logjam creates a new holding spot and a shallow riffle has been created where deeper, smoother water once flowed. It is here that old friends meet again and though we see the changes, we recognize the original spirit that drew us together.

The first few trips of summer are about rediscovering the joy and the experience of learning. New moments remind me of the old moments. Later in the summer, the "hoppers" return to the banks, providing high-energy food for the fish and constant companionship for anyone who wanders by. The spiders have spun new webs, which are full of the bugs that escaped their watery homes and the fish that try to eat them.

The weather is warm and the fishing fun. Short sleeves, cutoffs and river boots (without waders) provide a freedom not enjoyed during the bundled winter and spring trips. The cold water against my legs brings relief from the stifling temperatures as well as from the bustling city routines. The flowing water reminds me that each moment is different, that change is the normal rhythm of life.

Fall
Early fall fishing brings a decline in "tourist anglers." The shared moments of the previous season with fellow anglers begins to give way once again to the solitude we all seek and need. Colors in the canyon come alive, signaling that winter’s return is not far off. River levels begin to drop. Areas not easily accessible during summer’s high flows beckon a cast or two. The fish are still looking up, aggressively snatching dries off the surface, gorging in preparation for winter.

The sun radiates its warmth and early evening sunsets paint what is visible of the sky above. As the fall cycle nears its end, trees become barren and the greenery soon fades. Again the river changes as rapids become riffles, small riffles become dry and fallen leaves move slowly down stream in the flows that still remain. The fish begin to pool up, just prior to moving into their wintering holes. As the river awaits the first snowfall and impending ice-up, we welcome the return to the quiet, the cold, and the solitude, knowing that below the surface, life and its source will still be found.

Winter’s Refrain

With the onset of winter in Colorado once again, much of life heads to warmer climates, or pursues activities indoors, protected from nature’s cold. And once again, the Big Thompson River and its canyon becomes a beckoning place of solitude and beauty.

On this day, I arrive to find nearly an inch of fresh snow has blanketed the banks of the river. The temperature is well below freezing and not a breath of wind can be felt. The small flakes are falling slowly, as though they want to hang in the air forever, knowing the ground will be their final resting place. I stand and breathe easily, my breath hangs in the still air, melting a flake or two. Out of the corner of my eye I see the first rise of the day and smile, knowing each fish I land is as unique as the flakes that are drifting down around me. Laying my first cast down on the water I am again grateful for this river, and what it has given to my soul.