Half Begun / Half Done

Witness

2011-05-06T13:08:00.001-04:00

I have had friends, some distant and some recent, on whose contact I relied. And even though not all our communications were of great individual meaning, they were a life-line to my own humanity. I don't know if those who have been so pivotal even realize the profound effect they have had on my sanity.

I mourn the promise of friendships I began but that were somehow lost - friendships I thought I had, or friendships I did have, but which faltered in some way. I miss the friendships that will never quite solidify because the window to form a lasting friendship is closing as life unfolds and leads each of us along our own path. Like deeply rooted trees, the old roots having survived their early years have taken hold, but new roots are constantly cut, dug up or damaged - cast away or unnecessary.

I admire the comfortable intimacy between close friends that share their hopes and insecurities without the fear of judgment. Unlike a spouse or a parent whose own path is secured by the predictable direction of their prodigy, friends can embrace the changes in each other without suspicion or consequences. True friends recognize new information even among familiar words or thoughts. They plant seeds of hope and water them with little more than attention or interest, and yet, this small effort is all any plant needs to sustain it. Those who truly nurture friendships expect changes, even encourage them and make them possible.

Perhaps the most important thing that can be gained from a friendship is the acceptance of who we are at any time - who we were and who we've become - a witness to our lives. Yet, "who we are" is a moving target. Like all traveling companions, changes lead to diverging directions and former intimacies are lost, and with those friends, so disappears part of our own history, for better or worse.

I write, not only for enjoyment, but for self-preservation. I send out these electrical pulses through miles of wire and a myriad of random hubs and stations so that somewhere out there, the only physical proof of my life is recorded. Far away in a windowless, sterile, white room, bathed in the greenish tones of fluorescent lights and enveloped in the scent of slowly burning dust, the tiniest fractional percentage of a spinning disk preserves this collection of fragmented ones and zeros - sandwiched between layers of laboratory results, term papers and advertisements.

I will continue to exist as long as the power stays on and for as long as the economic fortunes of the clean room's caretakers are secure until someday, the janitor turns off the lights, locks the door and the hum of the machines falls silent.

Vigilante

2008-12-24T12:46:00.021-05:00

For the past four months, maybe more, this bicycle has been chained to this "no parking" sign. However it arrived there - by ironic joke, social experiment or a hapless rider who forgot where he parked - this bike has been waiting patiently for it's owner's return since the last click of the chain's MasterLock(TM).

Perhaps like many of us whose lives have taken surprising turns into the paths of opportunity, this bicycle has discovered a new purpose. Having lost it's pedals and it's front wheel, it continued to rust so that it's pinstripes and chrome were barely perceptible underneath the city grime of dirt and apathy. Then someone did a simple thing - though perhaps, not so simple - when we consider how often we ourselves think about an action without really considering acting. One cold morning walk, there she was - transformed. Our little urban Christmas tree: dressed in shiny gold and trimmed with garland - her red bow tossing about cheerfully in the brisk wind.

Sometimes hope and indomitable spirit springs from the strangest places.

Tolerance

2008-11-29T20:16:00.010-05:00

I don't usually get on the bandwagon in response to mass-emailed, emotional, point-of-view limited letters, but for some reason, this one seemed to be asking for a response. This typical chain-letter type email was attributed to a 15 year old Arizona public high school student who was voicing a poetic protest of the lack of prayer in schools and the removal of "God" from the Pledge of Allegiance.

Here is the original post:

Now I sit me down in school
Where praying is against the rule!
For this great nation under God
Finds mention of Him very odd.

If Scripture now the class recites,
It violates the Bill of Rights.
And anytime my head I bow
Becomes a Federal matter now.

Our hair can be purple, orange or green,
That's no offense; it's a freedom scene.
The law is specific, the law is precise.
Prayers spoken aloud are a serious vice.

For praying in a public hall,
Might offend someone with no faith at all.
In silence alone we must meditate,
God's name is prohibited by the state.

We're allowed to cuss and dress like freaks,
And pierce our noses, tongues and cheeks.
They've outlawed guns, but FIRST the Bible.
To quote the Good Book makes me liable.

We can elect a pregnant Senior Queen,
And the 'unwed daddy,' our Senior King.
It's 'inappropriate' to teach right from wrong,
We're taught that such 'judgments' do not belong.

We can get our condoms and birth controls,
Study witchcraft, vampires and totem poles.
But the Ten Commandments are not allowed,
No word of God must reach this crowd.

It's scary here I must confess,
When chaos reigns the school's a mess.
So, Lord, this silent plea I make:
Should I be shot; My soul please take!

- Original Author Unnamed

While the poem's plea seems sincere and well-intentioned, this boy is presumably referring to prayer and the pledge of allegiance in his public school. To my knowledge, a moment of silent reflection is still standard policy.

As the original post was in poetic form, I've chosen my prefered poetic form of the limerick to voice my response. So here it is - in defense of my country always so maligned for its curtailing of religious expression in taxpayer funded facilities. This same country granted the most diverse group of individuals under a common governmental umbrella the amazing right to worship as they deem appropriate and to choose the environment under which worship practices should be (or not be) discussed among young immature minds.

Though the pledge is for national pride,
Not once did you mention this side.
     Where is your concern
     For the Governments' turn
To be thanked by her people in stride?

If after thanking your rights' guarantors
It is then God to whom your heart soars
     Why the silence reject
     For each one to reflect
On their own God they worship, not yours?

Would your ire you defend by extension
If instead of God, Allah we'd mention?
     Would you proudly proclaim
     Allah gave you your claim
To this country without apprehension?

We’ve the right to accept or refuse
To honor the deity we choose
     A privilege withheld
     And with violence quelled
For some who’ve lost life for their views

Though the words with which each day you start
Have no sound in the room they depart
     God hears every prayer
     So why should you despair
To hear God on your lips, not your heart?

Youthful minds tempered by education
Transform passion to articulation
     ‘Til we’ve tools to discourse
     And forbearance endorse
God in school will remain a frustration

If God’s name with the world you must share
Is there no other time you can spare?
     Outside of your learning
     The world keeps on turning
Speak of God in the streets if you dare

At the library, courthouse or gym
Private words to God, speak on a whim
     Though you wish to rejoice
     At the top of your voice
It's your thoughts which speak louder to Him

To worship in quiet’s not shame
Nor loudly His praise to proclaim
     But this country’s assured
     By what many endured
That all choose God by His own name

So speak to God all Sabbath days
And for God's glory, not yours give praise
     If you’re giving and humble
     You won’t need to mumble
For we'll know you serve God by your ways

- Anastasia Page

Warriors

2008-03-10T14:00:00.000-04:00

Fierce beasts with wild eyes alight
Poised to pounce or bolt in fright
Clothed in armored robes of glory
Sparkling jewels belie their story

Ever faster in their motion
Serving with steadfast devotion
Under weight of burdens bear
Their riders only know to where

To the end their hosts convey
The masters of their fate betray
The urgency that drives them on
Tireless, endless, thankless spawn

In tones of golds and blues and greens
Hang portraitures of kings and queens
In mirrored halls reflect the zeal
The driving force of beasts conceal

Amid this garish masquerade
Distorted melodies portrayed
Divergent strains of brazen chords
Accompany the fate they move towards

And when this battle scene is through
Another will begin anew
Circular the paths expect
When never are we circumspect

The music fades into the night
Though still the visions sparkle bright
And slows the falling, rising swell
This world, this life, this carousel

Decay

2008-02-09T14:30:00.003-05:00

Somewhere between then and now, the last train rumbled by. Like so many times before, the ground would have complained of its weight and the tracks would have screamed in protest. Without ceremony, an era has ended.

All along the railway path, the acrid scent of creosote hovers low above wooden ties baking in the afternoon sun. Perhaps the gravel bed yet wonders when the next train will pass, anticipating the next crushing assault that will never come. Perhaps the spikes enjoy the welcome respite from their task when, under the great shifting weight of the train, they strain to hold the track steady and true as they have done for more than one hundred years. Do they wonder at the time since the last train passed? Or do none sense the wear fading to rot?

Only weeks ago this path was safe passage for engines of blue and yellow towing their obedient ramshackle assortment of cars, each well-suited for their task though discolored by the unrelenting sun and clothed in ten thousand miles of dust and grime. Emblazoned with rail line logos, the payloads of wood and steel carried with them their tag-along graffiti passengers. Sent into the world like messages in bottles, they rode along with the wind against their faces to wherever fate would deliver them. They will not pass this way again.

Vigilant rail markers proudly proclaim their position to engineers who will never again make note of them in their logs. Once virile tracks, liquid in the sunlight, now forever sleep. Unwittingly, one last train made tombstones of each concrete pillar as she passed.

Rail marker number one hundred twenty-six
Born: 1902 Died: 2008
Here lies the remnant of a country's great potential: witness to the growth of her proud cities and witness to their decay. Once the strong backbone of a nation, she now lies quietly forgotten beneath brown, dried leaves. Her contribution to the world was invaluable - her passing - unnoticed.

There is rust on the rails.

RIP

2007-12-19T14:00:00.000-05:00

It seems we are all affected by the passing of others, especially those young and beautiful, because they represent something that has been taken for granted. In their wake, websites and bulletin boards are filled with sweet thoughts of words left unsaid. Invariably, there are warnings and encouragements by those touched enough to leave messages, that we must "say what we feel" lest we lose the opportunity to do so. For a brief time after tragedy takes people whose names we know, we "share our feelings" - send cards, write poems and engage in other public displays of grief.

But while the words offered to the living can be a way of tending to our own circle of human contact, warm sentiment oft doled out to casual acquaintances in convenient single serving portions tend to lessen the impact of sincere disclosures among true friends. Mass mailings of saccharine poems on flowery stationery - indiscriminately reproduced and distributed to the population at large with more whimsy than intent - desensitize us to moments of true vulnerability and obscure the few opportunities for genuine expression.

Say what we feel? Perhaps. But to what purpose? Is our intent truly to offer our feelings to contribute to the lives of others? Were their lives so incomplete because they lacked our participation? Or do we merely wish to make ourselves feel better about our own inevitable end, hoping, as a final thumbing of our nose, that people will be sorry for not having known us better? What testament to our lives is a wall covered in the regrets of others? Do we regret more the passing of this acquaintance we barely knew or our own shallow communications that substitute for the cultivation of true friends and relationships not pursued?

Yet these messages have a depth of their own, even if their authors are unaware. Perhaps these sentimental offerings to those who have died is not so much about mourning or even celebrating the life of the absent individual, but a way of coming to terms with our own mortality. There is an interconnectedness of all humanity, and every time we connect with someone or are affected by the actions of another - even in small ways - we are changed by the experience. To identify with the circumstances of others by the consideration of what might have been, is to change the course of our own lives by the possibility of what could yet be. And unlike sympathy, true empathy expands our understanding, not only of others, but of ourselves.

"No man is an island, entire of itself; every man is a piece of the continent, a part of the main. If a clod be washed away by the sea, Europe is the less, as well as if promontory were, as well as if a manor of thy friend's or of thine own were. Any man's death diminishes me, because I am involved in mankind; and therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for thee...

...by this consideration of another's dangers I take mine own into contemplation and so secure myself by making my recourse to God..."

John Donne (Meditation XVII)

Consolation

2007-12-17T14:00:00.000-05:00

Frozen in time for one brief moment, the simple and familiar scene becomes art on the treasured canvas of memory. Whether by a trick of the afternoon light or a more purposeful reminder from beyond, we are reminded that even the most common of things may hold inside them a magical beauty which is always present and waits only for the right moment to shine.

Encased in their own icy coffin, these sleeping branches await the kiss of the warm sun or the biting axe of cold wind to seal their fate. Is this the measure of how much God values beauty that he would sacrifice such lovely trees to create such a moment? Or is this a testament to his capacity for sympathy - that though the trees must suffer even as we do, he would offer a single remarkable moment of beauty as condolence for that which may be taken from us?

Humbug

2007-12-04T14:00:00.000-05:00

Watching all the television specials leading up to the great consumer Christmas, I've noticed a common theme in many; that our belief in Santa Claus appears to be determined by solely by the granting of petty requests. Whether it's snow in Southtown or an Oscar Mayer Wiener whistle, we justify lack of faith by using the denial of our trivial and fleeting desires as proof that there is no Santa Claus.

The faith of children is remarkable however. They believe in Santa and Jesus and the goodness of human hearts because we tell them these things exist and they believe us. Children do not distinguish the effective reality of things they can and cannot see. They believe their grandmothers watch over them even if they have died. They believe in God and in ghosts. Their imaginary friends are just as helpful as confidants to them than any friends they will ever make as adults.

Perhaps there is something innately trusting and faithful in the hearts of children that we, as adults, work vigorously to destroy after a rather short grace period. "Aren't you a little too old to believe in Santa?" What else have we become too old to believe in? Even though the story of Santa Claus is fairly incidental to the true spirit and tradition of Christmas, it seems that once Santa Claus is dead, the remainder of our appreciation for the holiday lies in the impotent glory of final sales figures.

Though the anticipation of Christmas begins earlier and earlier each year, it always ends quite promptly on December 26 - not one Christmas carol to be heard in the mall or on the radio after Christmas day. Apparently the public will tolerate the endorsement of religious beliefs and public displays of Christian propaganda only in direct support of consumerism. Polite and even sincere inquiries about the enjoyment of the holidays will typically net a laundry list of travel itineraries, gifts received and hassles endured in the effort of "creating" the perfect Christmas.

"What do you want for Christmas?"

"I'd like to be a better person. Maybe renew my faith in a higher power and my hope for humanity. How about you?"

I truly hope that this is always the answer in my heart. Statements like this are difficult to say out loud - not just because they seem, on the surface, self-righteous, but because they make me responsible for their fulfilment. If I believe in Christmas and truly want to be a better person, how can I explain why I didn't get what I wanted? Better to ask for world peace - that always sounds nice to friends and strangers. No one really believes it's possible and no one will blame me personally if it never happens. It costs nothing to say it, just one wasted wish.

Maybe instead, I'll wish for a bicycle. Someone else might actually give me a bicycle...

Humility

2007-11-09T14:00:00.001-05:00

I often seek out a church or convent during especially difficult times - something about timelessness, forgiveness, acceptance and a bigger perspective. I go to church seeking comfort, but seldom find it. Yet I find that, more than comfort, I need the humility that comes from the realizations that only seem to surface during meditations in holy places. Perhaps it is in these places that I feel safe enough or honest enough to accept the painful truths I already know about myself.

I take my life's goals very seriously; some I have reached and some seem always beyond my grasp. For every accomplishment, I take pride in accepting whatever credit is offered. For every dream that escapes me, I sulk over the loss as if reaching my dreams is an entitlement instead of a gift or just dumb luck. It is so easy to see success and failure, happiness and pain, as a system of rewards and punishments from God that I seldom remember to look beyond the outcome to the intended lessons placed before me by an infinitely patient, benevolent and indulgent 'parent'. Perhaps not all of the tasks put before us are ever intended to be completed, but have been given us because we are made better by their attempt alone. We all wish to become better people by seeking goodness in ourselves and others, yet it is not typically during times of sloth and excess that we build or demonstrate our better character. Most of us require an occasion to rise to.

I struggle through life's challenges and disappointments hoping to find a greater purpose for myself - hoping somewhere there is a specific plan, just for me. I am not God's only child though, and however much I may or may not directly involve myself in the affairs of the world, the lives of its people all intertwine with my own. I'm sure there are people on the fringes of my life, just outside my awareness who are inadavertantly at the mercy of my actions and fortunes. If the good that God may do for someone else may require a small sacrifice from me, who am I to resent it? For every good thing that has happened to me, who else may have had to pay some price without understanding why?

We rely on our very limited understanding of our place in the world to determine the extent of the injustice we've been dealt. We can not begin to comprehend the infinite number of small interactions that contribute to the outcome of each event of every second of every day. We cannot know in which of those events we are central characters or in which we play only a small part, because from our own singular perspective, we are the stars of every one of our own moments. The definitions of failure and worth and justice and faith on the cosmic plane are unknowable.

Faith is difficult to have when we only ask of what benefit is our sacrifice to ourselves. I continually struggle to have faith in faith itself.

Friend

2007-10-17T14:00:00.000-04:00

So much of the control I imagine myself to have over my own life is illusionary and when I catch a glimpse of the strings through the smoke and behind the mirrors, I feel very isolated. Even simple decisions - where to live, what to eat, when to pull the plug - are impacted by so many external forces that I feel like a visitor in my own life. Though I have friends and family close to me, not one other person will ever be able to completely understand how I process the consequences of the decisions I cannot make. Much of what I imagine to be my lonliness stems from a deep ache to be understood in the same way that everyone of us desires some validation for the thoughts and philosophies that make us the individuals we've become.

I think it is this search for ourselves that casts a light on our loneliness, perhaps at times, catching us unaware. As we probe for depth in ourselves, the questions become more challenging and the answers more uncertain: Whom have I hurt? Is there a God? Was I worthy of my life? I wonder how many people have the kind of friends with whom they can ponder these thoughts. I wonder how many people, on discovering the intrusion of such thoughts, find themselves alone.

With new friends, we haven't earned the right to unburden ourselves of deep thoughts, nor have our new friends learned our intricate and complex communication methods for discussing topics that reveal vulnerabilities. With old friends, we've already established a pattern of expectations which we put at risk when we offer up our thoughts from dark places or demonstrate that we've changed in a manner that was unanticipated. With spouses, their personal future and stability of life is tied to our own, so changes that occur, or perhaps worse that have already occurred without our spouse's awareness, are quite alarming.

Cultivating a new friend takes time. Ironically, as time passes and with the more personal nature of discussions that make strangers confidants, new friends become old friends and once again, there is something to be lost by revealing too much. These "friends" cycle through my life, some with a very intimate knowledge of certain corners of my mind, but they will never be so close as to see every corner. They will never be so vested that they cannot walk away when the thoughts become too tangled or the shadows become too dark.

This journal has in many ways become my best friend. It is a friend that will be with me always because it is the one relationship that carries no risk of revealing too much. It bears the burdens of all my insecurities. It is the witness to how I see myself, the impressions that are true and those that are false, though I may never know the difference. It cannot give me consolation or encouragement, but neither can it betray me.

And while the words in my journal may never give me the answers I seek, they at least allow me to voice the questions that, just maybe merely by asking them, will validate my existence.

Rebirth

2007-10-12T14:00:00.000-04:00

I woke to the trembling of the beams and the boards of my floor heralding the approaching rumble of a slow freight train. But instead of passing as usual, the train groaned to a stop - her wheels protesting against the shifting and slowing of her heavy weight.

As the dawn rose behind the water towers and smoke stacks, the fresh light gently woke the other colors low on the horizon. The sky seemed as reluctant to wake up to this lazy morning as the train seemed reluctant to pause from its hurry. Or perhaps the train, like me, was simply captivated by the magical birth of one of these last days of summer - at once both the happy welcome of a new day and the somber parting of a season.

Day did not fight her waking long as she stretched herself out above the rooftops, her politely subtle colors wiping the last vestiges of night from her sleepy eyes. As the glow of the morning crept higher, the wheels of the train slowly began to turn again, creaking their farewell to the moment, but once again glad to be about their business. Light danced erratically through the gaps between freight cars as they passed by and warm rays sparkled cheerfully through my window and across my desk like reflections on the water.

Somewhere behind the train as I watched, dawn turned into day.

Unplanned

2007-09-13T14:00:00.001-04:00

If there is something we all want more of, more than money or security or even health, it is time. And yet, if I think about why I want more time, it isn't for new experiences or new friends. It's so I might finish things I had already planned to do, but which have taken longer than expected because of distractions or diversions. And there's the rub. As if I could plan my life around the possibility there might not be diversions. As if I would even want a life without diversions.

Most of the people I have had the good fortune to be loved by have all concerned themselves with my life having a plan. I do think planning is important. It is one way we can make many things fit into a short time or to make things possible which require a complicated sequence of events to occur in a given order. Planning is essential. But planning has its limits. Planning makes its limits.

I talk to people everyday who have plans – their days and evenings are filled with “things they have to do”. I think about the things I have to do. I could make a really long list if I wanted to feel busy or overworked or over-important, but in the end, there is really very little that I absolutely have to do on any given day.

Instead of mastering our lives by our plans, our plans become our masters as we allow our days to become indiscriminately filled with tasks and checklists. From alarm clocks to dayplanners, we have created the shackles which chain us to a particular future conceived in a youthful moment and planned in great detail but with very little reflection. We sacrifice the graphical white space in our days in which the incidental miracles occur, filling every available moment with the tasks which will forseeably contribute to the plan. In the pursuit of our end, the means of our days become chores instead of choices.

Our evolution and technological development have relieved us of the burden of spending the majority of our time gathering and preparing food. We have traded the bond of the hunt and the communion of a love-labored meal for insubstantial nutrition consumed in solitude for two minutes and thirty seconds at a drive through window. Instead of seeking out food, we use this time we have stolen from our family and friends to commute ever farther each day in search of some greater meaning in our lives. Ironically, it seems, the search itself and the constant activity of our “easier” lifestyle, has denied us the very experiences where meaning is most often found.

Our planning and the subsequent fear of wastefulness has not saved time, but rather devalued it. Reduced it to the hours in a day and the minutes in an hour because they are quantifiable. How impractical to mark time by the quality of a conversation or the thoughtfulness of meditation in a quiet moment.

Eclipse

2007-08-28T14:00:00.001-04:00

On this night, the moon, round and pale against the sky, glows softly from within, obscuring the familiar faces and features of its surface within the brilliant perfect circle. And though it is whiter than the sun - illuminated from beyond our horizon and understanding - it's light is kinder. We can look directly into it and wonder about these moments that are the gifts of an uncertain universe.

The patterns of our own small world - spring into summer, sunrise to sunset - are no less amazing, but seem more within our grasp by their mere frequency. This night though, is a reminder that the place we inhabit is part of something bigger than we can imagine. These events are the timekeepers of a greater awareness – the ticking of a slower clock that marks the birth and death of things much too old and far away for us to know of, much less remember.

On our path to great societal advancement, this odd celestial event has itself been eclipsed by the illusion of our individual importance. The lights of our cities and streetlamps, nightlights and cell phones, have replaced the heavenly bodies that once gave us cause to wonder about a world larger than ourselves. Of what interest is the shadow of the earth on the moon against the prices of corporate stocks broadcast to the world at large and intercepted by our portable telephones?

There was a time when the world was mostly dark at night. And every tribe or village, or pioneer town or budding city would have been alerted by their watchmen and service people who make the night their business. Men and women, old and young, would have woken from their comfortable lives, and the comfortable assurance of their own significance to gather on a clear dark night - to watch the disappearing circle of a perfect full moon and wonder about how much of tomorrow they had taken for granted.

Simmer

2007-08-24T17:00:00.010-04:00

August in the Carolinas

The air is still and the scent of stale earth, garbage and fading flowers seems to collect for days and fester in the crevices between buildings. The colors against a faded sky seem wilted by the constant cycle of musty mornings and torrid afternoons. Big leafy vines that once cloaked old trees and power lines with their puffed up forms now hang limply like worn rags tossed over dead wood and rusty metal skeletons.

The only vibrant color is the strange aqua glow from the nearby streetlamp - always on but whose light never reaches the ground. It’s eerie phosphorescence is out of place; the intrusion of a twilight color on the loose canvas of a feeble afternoon.

Occasionally, the skies darken and clouds gather with the portent of change and promise of rejuvenation. But the rain is warm and salty - wrung from over-tired rags of clouds which hold only yesterday's sweat. The tainted water gathers the residue of grime from the streets in dirty puddles that linger and stagnate under the shimmering haze of heat rising from the pavement into heavy air too saturated to absorb one more drop of the damp.

The evening is apocalyptic. Colorless against a dim, twilit sky, the silhouette of a chain link fence frames the gaping expanse of an empty parking lot where random tufts of grass grow through cracks that have become fissures in the asphalt. Not a car ever passes to leave trails of light or sound, but on the corner, a stoplight ridiculously cycles through it’s garish colors for an audience of silent streets and vacant buildings. Even the shadowy swarms of insects that live in the cone shaped worlds under streetlights are noticeably absent.

Under the shed roof of the porch, red dust from the brick wall stains the concrete floor. The wooden weight of my wind chime sways disturbingly without the hint of a breeze, infrequently striking only a single hollow tube or a discordant pair, and the faint shallow sound is startlingly bright in the dead calm of a lifeless night. A fuzzy moon floats in an empty sky, carried up by the last painful breaths of the dying day.

Faster

2007-08-12T14:00:00.000-04:00

Most people around me are constantly busy, minute by minute, talking on cell phones or sending email from laptops or PDAs - espousing the credo of modern communication by obsessing over the exchange of trifling messages of limited substance that are further violated by the haste and thoughtlessness with which they are composed. Distracted and disengaged from their present surroundings and company, people proudly justify their half-hearted attention to matters at hand as multitasking - congratulating themselves on the eagerness and frequency of their replies rather than on their clear articulation.

Our constant accessibility has devalued our time and our focus. Every petty thought has become so important by the immediacy and wide distribution of it's broadcast that we are plagued by a constant sense of urgency over the superficial. In our eagerness to embrace our importance, we have made ourselves - and our time - inconsequential. If the many noisy interruptions of techno-availability are insufficient to reaffirm one's significance, further reassurance is only an outgoing phone call away.

All of the tools of modern communication would seem to operate as the fast-forward button through our own lives. The moments of our here and now have been mortgaged with voice mail and call-waiting. We need only excuse ourselves from the attention of those we have chosen to be with in order to address the incidental concerns of those we have chosen not to be with to avoid participating in our own lives.

I am not guiltless. I spend much time working, worrying and negotiating. I spend time feeling sorry for myself. I spend time driving or traveling or getting from one point to another, all the while wondering why so many other people are traveling at the same moment. Why are there so many people who aren't already where they want to be? Where are they going and do they wish they were already on their way back? It seems we are all wishing our lives behind us to arrive faster at a destination we will never reach.

I have spent much of my own life driving down the highway at top speed, always looking ahead, occasionally glancing in the rearview mirror. When life moves so quickly, it is difficult to make the time to pull off the road to look for a longer time at a smaller piece of the world while the other cars rattle past. What might I be missing while I'm stopped? What if a more interesting place lies only a bit further ahead? But what can one see from the driver's seat looking through the windshield at 60 miles per hour? I seem to experience the most of life only when the car breaks down and I am forced to stop unexpectedly. I sigh and complain and pout, and only then do I appreciate the stranger who stops to help or notice the view from beyond the shoulder of the road.

I'm considering how I spend my time. Staying up all night in the hope of completing one more task, hoping that, like a winning lottery ticket, it will be the one task that wins me the next project that will consume my all of my time and energy. If necessary, I will borrow more time from my future... from sleep, meditation and pleasures. I borrow it knowing it cannot be returned.

I spend every minute.

Life is precious and short. Every day is filled with the possibilities of small miracles - chance encounters and meetings between old friends. I regret every time I have impatiently waited for a conversation to end or avoided someone altogether. These moments happen by divine intervention and we can find something to appreciate about each one - even if it is only that life is precious and short.

Rain

2007-07-28T17:00:00.000-04:00

From a distance, comfort rumbles in through my open window. Aluminum flashes punctuate the lavender sky and hazy lamplight silhouettes the slanting rain that, for a brief time, connects the sky to the earth with silvery threads.

It’s harder for me to cry when it rains. The storm outside seems to absorb the storm in me, taking the burden of my tears upon herself and shedding them on the ground giving new life to small things.

Even me.

Familiar

2007-07-20T14:00:00.001-04:00

People constantly compare me to my mother - so many commenting that I become more like her every day. Perhaps it is vanity that sees youthful offspring as a reflection of self removed from time or perhaps the reassurance of generational immortality. For whatever reasons, most people don't seem to find the differences between me and my mother noteworthy.

While I will concede that my mother and I have many similarities, I am very different in some essential ways. Throughout my childhood, I constantly faced the wide sea between my mother's point of view and my own. At some point, after my life became my own, the sea became a lake - navigable in spite of the deep water.

In spite of my admiration for my mother, I do not wish to become her. Friends hold up a mirror to my personality traits and physical attributes and point to my mother's reflection - a crystal ball into the future. While I may have inherited some of her traits, other similarities are taken out of context in the way that small phrases are pulled from lengthy books in order to illustrate a relatively unrelated point. The things I share in common with my mother are hailed as inevitability and the differences, if recognized at all, are attributed to the distorted mutations that come from making a copy of a copy of a copy.

Ironically, those who seem to fear most that I will become my mother because of our similarities are the least willing to accept our differences. It is as if our similar superficial traits provide some proof of a pattern in our lives - allowing us to project into a future where our companions remain, if not unchanged, at least predictable. Acknowledged differences inconveniently contribute a margin of error to calculations of a foreseeable future and jeopardize the confidence we have about how well we think we know those who are close to us.

I love my mother. I respect her, largely for what I observe as our differences, not our similarities. I believe that she appreciates me for the ways I am different as well. We find our differences somewhat fascinating because there is no attributable cause for many them. It is the affirmation that we are, in fact, born as unique individuals.

Promise

2007-04-23T17:00:00.000-04:00

Life is a short and temporary thing and so fragile. People can be damaged so easily by so little. And while some can endure a great deal and find themselves stronger for it, others are completely destroyed. I think one of the most destructive human offenses is neglect; insidious because it comes in such well-intentioned disguises; busy lives, other priorities, life getting in the way of life. It is only made worse by our willingness to forgive others for it because we desire the same mercy from others for our own infractions.

Nurtured by inaction and inattention, neglect seeps little by little, every day, into the lives of people around us in the same way that people get fat. Without our being aware of the differences between one day and the next, we suddenly look in the mirror and see a hideous reflection of something that may be too difficult to change because we have not developed discipline enough to maintain our image much less reverse the damage.

It is easy to take care of those we love when their needs are great or temporary. We nurse our sick and we comfort those who mourn. We grant fantastic wishes to the terminally ill, play radio dedications for the tragically wounded, create foundations in the names of beautiful lost children. But what of those whose wounds are less obvious? Whose pain is great but whose appearance is plain? Did I truly encounter no one today that needed encouragement or empathy?

How often do I sow neglect with my impatience? How often do I let myself wallow in my own small injustices and miss seeing the holes in others that I could fill with a few words of encouragement. Language is so important to the human condition. It is largely words that inspire us or encourage us. And it is words also, that chip away at our confidence. And a lack of words that starve us of our connection to the people around us.

I will take responsibility for the fact that, in some small ways and some large, I help make the people around me who they are.

I promise to tend my garden better. To find better words.

Fabric

2007-04-21T14:00:00.002-04:00

The neighborhood here is, at best, transitional. The tall brick smokestacks of the power plant cast late afternoon shadows onto the loft lot. Across the side street from our building is the sister loft development. Next door are four enormous abandoned tobacco warehouses - huge white elephants connected to the factory across the street by great big steel intestines. Water cascades like a fountain down three stories of corrugated louvers on the side of a large building which towers over the railroad tracks and waits for trains that never stop.

On the corner opposite our building and across from the power plant is the block that is home to Krankies, the farmer's market, two bail bondsmen, one abandoned storefront and a corner restaurant that I've never seen open, but through whose tattered curtains, you can see red flowers in white vases on shiny plastic tablecloths...

Further along the street are several restaurants and the arts district tucked into a neighborhood of older brick buildings 3 or 4 stories high with storefront windows and punctuated by the occasional stone department-store type buildings. Scattered throughout are several large pawn shops housed in newer, blocky buildings, which squat mid-block like fat, tired prison guards.

The dog and I just came in from our twilight walk by the train tracks. It was very warm here today and a very light rain has begun to fall. I smelled the wet pavement before I felt the drops. Looking up, the world is divided in two - the gentle afternoon light leaving and something else coming with questionable intent. The clouds hanging under the approaching storm are a distorted mirror image of the ones over the spent afternoon - like an angry oil painting made from the paint colors that don't seem to belong on the palette - or the canvas - but, from a few steps back, seem to just exactly capture the moment.

I leave you now just as a freight train rumbles by.

Cartoon

2007-04-20T14:00:00.002-04:00

This morning the sky was an incredible shade of comic-book blue and the air felt like fresh laundry. The train tracks were almost liquid under the morning dew and the industrial buildings across the way wore so many shades of silver, grey and rust that the entire scene was like an exaggerated animation of itself.

I ventured out to the local coffee bar - a warehouse building with wide plank floors and brick walls. A cacophony of postings for poetry readings, militant women's support groups, farmers market hours and gallery openings hung on a crooked cork board just inside the door. Across from the bar, the lamp with the long strings of rattling white plastic circles strung together fit in quite well opposite the rusted gear clock and along side the little Japanese gold-gilt hanging figurine. The place appeared to be furnished from old town diners and suburban attics. The people at the counter were an odd assortment of beatnik weirdoes and though I didn't know any of them, I liked them all immediately.

Outside on the coffee bar porch, my dog and I sat in a corner and watched people begin their daily routine. They drank their coffee and debated politics under the dining room chandelier, hanging paper lantern, exposed bare bulb and string of 1960s Christmas lights which surely provide an appropriate atmosphere come evening.

I was sorry to have to begin my own day. My furry companion and I sauntered home in the unhurried way of the very young and the very old. As I settled into my tasks, the blue sky and birds mocked me from outside enormous steel windows.

Beachwalk

1995-06-15T17:37:00.000-04:00

I walk along the edge of the waves at twilight - about the time of night when small distant lights seem especially bright and colorful against the fading hue of evening. Endless horizon stretches beyond me reaching out to chase the sun around the earth to the other side. A light breeze blows the fine salt mist up to my face and the air smells of summer and life. My feet tingle as thousands of tiny broken shells slip out from under my toes with the waves that roll back and disappear into the sand.

The sandpipers and gulls that, in the day, dart about the beach so quickly, now stand motionless but watchful as I pass. I imagine they can hear my thoughts. Like the waves that wash the sand from my feet, the coming darkness cleanses my mind of all but the firmest memories and the twilight colors fade to shades of grey.

Porchswing

1995-06-01T17:39:00.000-04:00

On an old wooden swing built for two, I sit alone and watch the tiny blinking light of an airplane disappear into a hazy night sky. I can hear the sounds of the world breathing as it sleeps - rustling leaves, a train whistle, 10,000 crickets. The warm air lays thick and heavy on my skin like morning dew on a spider's web.

Slowly rocking back and forth, the chains of the swing moan softly, musically, ignoring me. The night creatures are already preparing for the coming of shorter days as the roses and marigolds wait patiently for the return of the morning sun. Only the fireflies playing tag with the night breeze seem unaware of the relentless passing of summer into fall.