The Bear and the Pond.

On a quiet pond somewhere in the rolling hills of Oregon was a pond were three of a certain Bear Clan, father, mother and a small Bear in Diapers. Underneath the shade tree of her choice she attended to the little bear with affectionate concern. While the father Bear in his Man-Cave on top of a nearby mountain. Keeping watch.

The order here is depicted, of a certain setting, Father doing fatherly things, while Mom and the little Cub were fast about doing what they do. Preening and
playing in their quaint little place. There is Love here.

Later on as the dew began to disappear and the Bees begun to gather, the infant Bear began to wander and is the case with Bears, they are inquisitive. The same with the smaller Bear, who happened to know a Frog on a lily pad. Dressed in green, naturally, on the Frog’s croak, gave it away.

Once the baby beast had spotted it’s quarry, it swam with purpose coming very close to the scene where the Frog looked quizzically as this furry marauder, anticipating something a bit unpleasant. Indeed the tiny hunter lifted it’s paw and both Frog and Pad became immersed and was gone.

But the little Bear had another idea. Why not climb upon a lily pad herself and make like a frog. But this plan with a bit flawed, might one say. With a whoosh and a ripple the Bear fell below the surface. However she was persistent and tried many times.

The problem is that the little Bear soon tired and then with no strength left, she like the Frog and the Pad slipped before the surface. The mother had been watching concernedly and roared and made it’s way to where the baby was.

The father bear dropped his remote and came rushing down the mountainside and into the water and saved the water-soaked Cub to their little spot beneath the large Willow Tree. There as a family they reposed. A lesson to all of them and the end of this story.

However in this story, the Bear never sleeps nor watches games of hieroglyphics on the wall. In common terms, “He’s got this”. The mother and baby are safe now as the distraught mother beseeched the Man on the Hill.

The Knocking and our missteps.

When want people to see us, we want them to see us, at our best.    But who is really ‘good’? And problems?  Everyone has those too.  Our goodness is relative anyway and goodness does not assure us of a totally happy existence.  And besides,  what do we really  know about each other?

Have you heard about the person who ALWAYS speaks his or her mind?   Usually they have very few friends and acquaintances who trust them.    And why do we tell people secrets,  as if we already knew they wouldn’t keep them?   Do we really enjoy the excitement of drama that is against us?

And how many times have we presumed to know what would be just a hypothetical?  That we would do such and such and say it always ‘them’?   The truth is,  we are all deceptive to one degree or another and this includes an inherent total depravity.   None of us wants to hear of our own weaknesses and dare I say it,  potential for evil?

Let’s face it,  we do at one point or another covet,  whether it is a person, a place or a thing.  That idyllic little something that would bring clarity and fulfillment and we would also do anything to get it?   I am no better and probably worse.   Though it is probably something that no one knows about.   Maybe some kinky sexual fantasy or an sudden impulse to break something.

It is also hard to accept that God may not want us.   He may simply pass us by and our relative goodness and our accumulated wealth would be for naught.  I believe at the very least we can have some perspective about us and others,  not assuming that our ‘goodness’ was not something intrinsic in us and that make our forever more agreeable.

The only intrinsic beauty is God.  A God who knows himself,  yet at the same time loves us.  He loves who he loves and who he doesn’t for whatever reasons is the way it is.  I am not being cavalier or judging your relative goodness or badness,  except to say,  we should practice good with God’s grace.

My cousin died at 22.  He was a very good man and it seems a shame.  But my opinion could never save him, due to an intrinsic flaw in all of us.   Look at story of the kids on an island.   At first life was harmonious but then human nature began to shape as it really is.   All I can say is be good and be humble and contrite.    And I am not saying be sad and that you cannot be happy most of the time,  but take it from me,  I am okay yet just as corrupt as anyone else, give or take.

Gate Keepers

As we know more about a lot, we master nothing.    We toil and strive and then concede,  ultimately wallowing in the muck and mire of our own personal experiences.   We assume we are patently original,  suspiciously aware of our hypocrisy.    We claim we never lie and if we do then we do.

Sometimes in our youth,  we wish to cheat death or get as close as we can to that.  Impressing others of our bravado and recounting our glory years.    Like the song, ‘Those Were the Days My friend,   we thought they’d never end,   we sing and dance forever and a day.   We live the life we choose,  we fight and never lose,  those were the days,  oh yes, those were the days.’

There was a time in our life, when we romanticized love,  as if we were Romeo and Juliet,  or we might be Bonnie and Clyde.   We would make love as no one else could.   Like a Muse in a Xanadu,  we find our own reality,  as we move gracefully together.

But then something happened.  The Yellow brick road began to crumble and the house landed upon our love.   With a resounding thump and a crash of dishes,  our dreams faded like a late show re-run.

Those songs that inspired us,  were now a requiem,  sad and haunting.   Soon bitterness impaled our hearts and they become like stone.    And instead of skipping flat stones across a florid lake.

So maybe we find a church ,   with a choir and we sing staid old songs,  as lifeless as a still-born dream.  We are reverent and judging,  but we judge others for their specks,  while redwoods roam in our eyes.

We can’t wait to leave and try to depart as soon as we can and we claim a god of opportunity to an end with no life,  like that old abandoned church.

We hear a knock from above,  wistful vapors of the unseen but our spirit consists of seeing images in an office building and tying meaning to a ship that never comes back.

It need not end this way.   In spite of unrequited love snatching us too early.  the knocks push upon us harder and the message is clear and unwavering.  Though all around are the indignant,  honest, godly church going people who flick ashes upon others.

We cannot find what we assumed was there until our hearts melt for the needs of forgiveness of our own missteps.   The harrowing nightmares we perpetrated on others,   while claiming some kind of victim-hood.

When we realize that we are there,  we will know we have arrived.   Our pretentions are like tumbleweeds drifting on a dusty road.   Yet in that abyss of faith,   we find ourselves trembling but more free.

Remember good is never good enough and if it will be,  it definitely be.  with no further side-slips on that precarious path.

 

’12 Years a Fraud’: #ElizabethWarrenMovies

The Paralytic View – Ismology 101, -Isms and their political intent.

I was reading where George Will was recently fired because of what he said, by basically saying that certain individuals enjoy a kind of sanctuary. Victims to him include those who hide behind that issue, whether it is an ailment, skin color and social orientation.

Those points are debatable but our society has deemed this off-limits. The sad part of that is the fact that free speech is being cut off and it is being done maliciously.

Like George Orwell’s’1984′, “more is less” and the combatants are growing exponentially and they change. The Washington Redskins are a perfect example. The leader behind all of this is decrying the name as racist and it might just be. As I have mentioned before, rape of the reservation is staggering and of course, many blame you and I.

Why isn’t that a bigger issue than a sports teams name? Politics! A putrefied dish of in your face. Like the little kid who provokes others and his big brother bails him out, all the while enjoy the fruits of his labor and finding a codicil in darkness.

It is time we take action. Stop marching and picketing as if this is civil rights. I bet most people do not even consider American Natives(Indians) in their daily prayers and ablutions, rather more a convenient excuse to harass and maim other people’s perspectives. Grow up America! Stop being the world’s arbiter of what is acceptable and what is not.

Stop hiding behind your big brother and fight this battle on an even basis and stop assuming that you are always right. I am wrong often but I do not use my party as justification for my deeds.

There are a myriad of social issues and I think we need to be kinder to one another. Stop trying to be that big brother who seems to be lurking, waiting, like a totem bowl with a ball point pen and easel. That easel is a book of life by people with no clue.

Another Silly Love Song of a Kind

We are like those leaves, once green seeking out the sun and a rich bounty of rain. The cycle goes carelessly on, as the waning sun departs dejected…. disconsolate. What troubles it’s soul? Little by little the changes appear but the problem is not the end, but the here and now.

Do you know what I mean? Kurt Vonnegut quickly deduced our primal stripes and the Freudian yearnings of yesteryear, where our own dominion seemed assured. Protecting a meager pot of Gold, we are like treasure seekers in a Pawn Shop. Desperate to feel alive we draw paintings on our skin in the vain hope of an extension of some kind. The wind does not abate, the scars are etched like the heart of hope of young lovers on a tree, their destiny uncertain.

We try delaying the onset of Autumn not knowing what leaves might fall. Instead we clutch hope as elusive as water in our hands. The imprint we make depends upon us. Now think about it, just before the wind stops and the leaves turn different shades like rainbows in the forest. Meaning that maturity is not a curse.

Meaning that we, as older adults are not unappealing. We live as we are and if anything we are frank and so is our beauty, like the embrace of a mature mate, our hands fitting like Cinderella’s Slippers.

But many of us close the book assuming the end is rather near and why bother anyhow. The larger question is do we sit at home as the walls consume us or do we relinquish of our false notions and bare our souls to a compatible one. Like Eagles nested upon a towering rock we prevail in peace.

I cannot bring flowers to a deserted road and expect them to flourish. I can’t open your door and treat you like the angel that you want to be. Secure not in the number of rooms and a legacy of cash, but the heart-warming togetherness of a single one undivided. Or a Thanksgiving Dinner, when afterward we muse about the dinner but pine for each other.

So, is this you? Are you over 50 and not trying to over deliver? Do you want what you think is missing? I am here, in my late 50s, a songbird flapping my wings to garner your attention. Steadfastly I crave to know you. Plump is cool and wrinkles not a curse because the Princess and the Pea are just fairly tales like skinny waifs and bulimia. Beauty lies deep within our soul and the travesty is not to share it. With you my destiny.

I am not an angel but I will do. The measure of this man is counted as much but the nails I have driven and the tears shed silently behind a wall of frosted glass.

Romance is not dead and passion burns until we let the pilot light go on it’s way. We still have moments to share and places to be, together. So, if you are middle-aged and want a person who is relatively nice and as a generous as I can be, then I am that guy.