He played that song about a hundred times.
He knew all the words, remembered the rhyme.
Before long he was down to one silver dime
and he couldn’t play it anymore.

You know, they used to dance on this hardwood floor.
They’d sing with the band and yell for more,
but old Red and Bernice didn’t know what was in store.
Lots of water under the bridge since then.

A little older, a lot wiser, I guess.
Lifted up by good times, pulled down by the stress
of trying to live high and always impress
people that didn’t matter anyway.

They had it all in the palm of their hands
and then it was gone like ocean sand.
Nothing worked the way they planned,
and they ran out of courage to try.

He said, “A quarter, please. Just one more play,
then I’ll move on, get out of the way.”
He just couldn’t think of a reason to stay,
so he headed on down the road.

I heard he got sick in Tennessee,
about as sick as a man can be.
Then death came along and set him free.
He had a quarter in his hand when he died.

I don’t know what split them apart.
They loved each other from the very start,
but some time, some way he broke her heart
and he died a lonely man.

Guess I’ll keep that song on the record machine.
When somebody plays it, it will always seem
that he’s sittin’ over there livin’ his dream,
waitin’ for her to come back.

You just never know from day to day
how these months and years are goin’ to play.
I’d be hard pressed to even say
if it makes much sense at all.

But I’ll miss old Red and his Stetson hat.
I’ll lift a glass and remember that
the table over there is where he sat
and cried into his beer.

Red tried too hard and pushed to fast.
Maybe that’s why it didn’t last.
He could not let a moment pass
without tryin’ to impress Bernice.

A moral to this story? I really don’t know.
Maybe….when you love somebody, go real slow.
Take your time so love can kinda’ flow
like a quiet mountain stream.

Well, sorry friend, gotta’ close up now.
There’s an acre waitin’ for me to plow
and I gotta’ tell my Sallyann how
I love her more than she knows.

I sought a place where I could feel
my spirit grow, a place of the heart,
a sacred place where I might drink
from a cup of Grace and feel the
nourishment flow into the recesses
of my soul.

In the early morning hours of this
day, while walking along a wooded
path, I heard the sweet song of a
small, gray bird, not recognizable
by plumage or brilliant color, a
common bird with a glorious voice.

And when I stopped to listen, I was
bathed in the pure tones, so much
that I felt like sinking to my knees
in reverent acknowledgement. And
there I found my altar, not in the
song or the singer, but in my mind.

The rush of faith insight was overwhelming.
I do not have to search for an altar in a
place. No, I carry the altar with me
everywhere I go, the altar inherent in
my humanity, one that awaits only a
signal for it to rise to the surface of
my consciousness.

Now, as I walk the wooded path or the
streets of the city, I watch and listen for
keys that unlock the altar in my mind,
invitations to the Infinite. A smile, a
kind greeting, a man down on his luck,
the stunning beauty of architecture or
autumn leaves.

So many things in life suggest the Sacred.
So many things lead straight to my soul
where the altar waits.

Brilliant orange fills the western sky
reflecting off low clouds, distant mountains,
and tall saguaros. Amazed by the sight,
he stops his walk to stand in the glow.
Wordless prayer, allowing the moment
to saturate the soul.

Knowing that the end is near, he stands quietly
at the bedside of a friend. Their friendship
spans decades, a storehouse of treasured
memories. He weeps as he watches the
labor of death. Wordless prayer, the
intense awareness of a sacred moment.

She stands at the kitchen sink, her hands
dipping into hot, soapy water. Each dish
is handled with practiced care. Without
intention, she becomes aware of the warm
water, the dishes used by her husband
and children, their laughter and their
smiles. A feeling of gratitude sweeps
through her, gratitude in that moment.
Deep consciousness. Prayer without
words.

He pulls a club from his golf bag, looks
down the beautiful green fairway,
pauses to see it as if for the first time,
a momentary portrait of creation…

She hikes often on this trail. She knows
every turn, every steep climb. But
today, an awareness builds in her mind,
joy, her physical strength, the magnificence
of the mountain…

They are both gardeners who share a love
for the earth and all its gifts, a love that
developed over many years of marriage.
This afternoon they stand side by side
looking at the shoots and buds of new
life popping up in the soil. The stand
in wonder…

Each of these has walked into an unplanned
Presence. Each feels an unexplainable
connection to the moment. They stand
in quiet wonder. Mind and heart and
spirit unite, elevating common experience
to a wordless encounter with the
Uncommon.

And that is prayer.

I asked a passing cloud, where is the
brilliant rainbow?  Where are her
colors that spill over the distant mountain
and paint the valley with vibrant joy?
And the cloud’s despondent voice replied:
“She is not to be seen.”

I inquired of the desert dwellers:
Where falls the sweet rain, the drops
that satisfy earth’s anguished thirst
and transform all that is barren into
all that is beautiful?
And all the desert dwellers sighed
in their reply:
“It is so long since we tasted such sweetness.
So long ago.”

Sister Moon, my eyes yearn to see twinkling stars
dancing through the night sky, tumbling and rolling
and streaking from universe to universe.  But the
celestial canvas is bare, untouched by creative artist
or sacred breath.
And my sister was silent, alone in the darkening night,
surrounded by the nothingness of emptiness.
She spoke not a word.

I sat by a motionless stream whose surface was
unmoved, deserted by falling droplets that, in happier times,
had created little watery rings that linked together
to form playful patterns and resilient ripples; a stream
unable to reflect lovely ribbons of purple and
yellow and red, a somber stream robbed of
laughter when the last star in the last flickering canopy
faltered and faded.

Into this nightmare of nature, a sharp sound
fell, like a stick snapping under the pressure of a
footstep.  And when I turned, there you were.
You smiled, not with exuberance, but with a
profound serenity that caused reluctant waves to
rise in the oceans, rainbows to fling themselves against
mountainsides and burst into pulsing color, stars to
push their way through resistant blankets of dense
grayness, and rain, sweet, delicious rain, to
fall in all corners of the languishing land,
droplets of life splashing into the almost death
of a desperate day.

You smiled.
All because you smiled.

The 16th of August in ’41,
a memorable day,
some might say,
well, I do.

A new house:  $4,000
Gallon of gas:  12 cents
New car:  $850
Average yearly wage:  $1,750
And me:  minimal cost

No candles:  fire hazard
No gifts necessary:  I’ve got you
A slice of cake:  strawberry, please
Indulge an old man a story or two

Lovely sunrise this morning:  thank you
Hummingbird stopped by with kind greetings:  thank you
Cards in the mail:  thank you
Surrounded by love:  best of all

The 16th of August in ’41,
in the midst of a world at war,
in an unremarkable little Texas town,
born to everyday folks,
a memorable day,
some might say,
well, I do.
I was there.

In these heavy days of uncertainty,
days that redefine reality and
relationships, I wonder who I will
be when, like the butterfly breaking
out of its chrysalis, I emerge from
necessary confinement.

In my musing and wondering, a revelation.
On my desk, at this moment, are pieces of
who I am, descriptive, defining.
Two books partially read; car keys:
instruments of adventure; reading
glasses: print is blurry these days;
a pencil and a pen:  writing is live-giving;
a coffee cup, hot to the touch:  my
4 a.m. friend; a small, black journal
with a ribbon marker: the home of
memories and magical moments.
my wallet with a clear side pocket that
displays my driving license: who is that
person in the picture?  A small gold frame
embracing the loveliest picture of my beloved.

Like interlocking jigsaw puzzle pieces, each
essential, so I am defined by my cluttered
desk.  No matter how I arrange them,
the parts create the whole.  I am.

Sometime in the future, these heavy days of
uncertainty will vanish and life will emerge
into a new normal.  And we, like Punxsutawney
Phil, will poke our heads out to see who we
are in relation to the new environment.  I
suspect someone will say: “Look at that fella
over there.  Why is he carrying those books
and all that other stuff?”

And I will lift my cup…It’s me.

I opened for business at 5:18 a.m. today.
The window blind went up, revealing the magic
world that never changes and always changes.
Almost golden clouds, still and placid, suspended lightly
in the eastern sky, prepared to explode in color as
soon as the sun decided to climb over the mountain.

The large, white-bloomed oleander just outside my window,
barely moved in a very discreet breeze, the happy sun face
with three little bells attached at the bottom, smiled from
its place, suspended from an oleander branch.  Beyond
the face, two hummingbirds argued over the same
purple penstemon blossom, and the street was empty.

It was peaceful.

Soon, though, the gentle morning will be overwhelmed
by wave after wave of life’s necessities.  Dogs will scratch
and sniff, pull at their leashes, irritated that their owners
would stop for conversation.  Exercise walkers, shoulders
back, heads up, will stride into physical excellence.  A
woman on a three-wheeled cycle will come barreling around
the corner, her large black dog pulling her around the block.
Next the serious cyclists, helmets and tight fitting jerseys
atop $1,000 bikes, will come rolling down steep driveways
and be off to a 20-mile challenge.  And, finally, an
assortment of cars will roll out of garages and
putter off to places beyond this little world.

Morning is magic.

It comes to life the same way every day, but
no two days are exactly alike.  Looking through
the magic window is a challenge to spot the slight
variations, uniqueness among the sameness.
Perhaps that’s the key.  I fear the day when
the score card lists only sameness inning after inning,
the disappearance of difference.
No runs, no hits, no errors.
Grab a hotdog and go home.

The game is over.

“The same great power that moves the stars, that
orders the seas and sets the winds in motion,
that gives birth to all that lives and makes the
Moon rise in pale beauty, this same
power stands by your side.”
Steven Charleston    Hope As Old As Fire

 

The mystery that I know as God is hard to pin down.  This God can’t be put into a box, or a book or a particular way of believing that has to be defended.  So, I was struck just the other day when I became conscious of the Mystery practical in the moment.

My friend and I were exercise walking when I asked him if he could give me some advice.  He agreed and I began to lay out my dilemma that was producing some confusion and uncertainty in my mind.  He listened.  He’s good at that.  Then he made a couple of observations, a suggestion or two, and stopped short of telling me what he thought I ought to do.  He listened, understood, gave me thoughtful comments and then gave it back to me for deliberation and finally a decision.

Now, my friend would not claim to be God, and I would never burden him with that load, but upon reflection, that walking conversation represents what Steven Charleston says in the quotation above.  I choose to believe that in ways I cannot explain, the conversation came about as close to a sacred encounter as I will ever have.  My friend may disagree, and you may not see it as I do, but very honestly, neither he nor you has to validate the moment.  I do.  And that’s the way the Mystery rises from the deep incarnation that I know and steps into the light of a practical moment that I experience.

My encounters with the Mystery, therefore, are unexpected, unpredictable, unplanned.  We happen to show up at the same place at the same time.  Sacred surprise in hindsight.

There’s a common phrase all optimists say,
“Where there’s a will, my friend, there’s always a way.”
No calamity, crisis, or evil curse
can cause humankind to set in reverse
our determination to finally succeed,
our passion to help in the face of need.
There’s always a way to make things right
in the midst of even the darkest night
when all seems lost, no one cares,
and complacency marks the state of affairs.

The Will and the Way, two sometimes friends.
Isn’t it sad that our efforts end,
sometimes before they even begin,
when the way is clear but the will can’t be found,
and need cries out, an inaudible sound,
that pain and misery are present still
for the lack of a common, human will.

I fear we’ll look back and sadly say:
“It could have been a different way.”
If only we’d had the courage to stand
and confront the source of evil’s demands.
“If only…” we’ll say in the chaos and strife,
how did we let the grandeur of life
succumb to the forces that finally  kill
the desire and power of human will.

“Where there’s a will, my friend, there’s always a way,”
but that truth seems lost on this sad summer day.
Little by little all virtue’s been lost
and for that we now pay a very high cost.
Like children lost in fantasy play,
we will awake and rue the day
when we feel the cold and bitter chill
of who we’ve become for the lack of will.

 

If ever there was a time for we,
a time to forgo the I and the me,
a time for every human to see
if we’re all to be authentically free,
the moment is at hand.

If you are enslaved by power and greed,
if you can’t obtain life’s basic needs
and if there’s nothing left to clothe and feed
the innocent ones who cry and plead,
then I’m affected, too.

No longer can I look the other way.
I can’t avoid the words you say.
I’ve tried too long to walk away
but now I know I have to stay.
Time is running out.

Justice insists that we must stand
hand in hand across this land,
no longer plead but now demand
justice for every woman and man.
It can be no other way.

If ever there was a time for we,
a time to forgo the I and the me,
now, my friends, we are called to be
examples of courage, people who see
the gifts of human diversity.