OF CONSONANTS AND COINCIDENCES

Sometimes, something as seemingly inconsequential as an innocently omitted consonant can call up meditation when least expected. This happened to me last Friday in my little corner of Cork, Ireland, when Noel and I were in the village market, picking up a few items for the coming weekend. At the checkout, I noticed that the current issue of the local newsletter was on sale. Noel deposited 25 cent (yes, “cent,” not “cents” here in Ireland) into the “honour box” and we made our way out to the van with our purchases. I scanned the front page as we walked out of the market, and I hadn’t cleared the door before I noticed a typo headlining the last paragraph in the right lower-hand corner of the front page. As its full meaning overtook me, it got me to laughing so hard that I could scarcely make my way across the lane and, by the time we were in the van, tears were streaming down my face… Noel asked me what in the world was so funny, and I could only point to the headline while gasping for my next breath… soon we were both laughing uncontrollably and continued to do so halfway to Cork City…

The brief advert that caught my eye had to do with what is commonly known as “Fat Tuesday” in America, but which the Irish commonly reference as “Pancake Tuesday” or, in religious circles, “Shrove Tuesday.” For those not In The Know (which included me before I did a little research into the subject), this is the day before the Catholic Lent, where fasting and penitence is undertaken in the 40 days preceding Easter. Pancakes, and the butter and sweet toppings associated with them have come to symbolize the fats and sugars in local larders that would be used up in order to meet the rigors of such self-denial further down the line.

The rationing of sensual delights has never been my forte, but not for lack of self-control. I’ve just never seen the point to it, pure and simple. I am the first to delight in the unexpected warmth of sunlight through a bay window, simultaneously releasing my shoulder muscles while it also works to free the peppery perfume of potted geraniums nestled on the sill above the window seat; night music lifted on the warmth of a garlic and jasmine-infused seaside breeze; the sticky pudge of a grandchild's hands in mine following the juicy enjoyment of a late-summer stone fruit, or the startle of sweet, sour and savory on slumbering taste buds; the full awareness of well-worn wood in one's hands, whether it is in the form of a well-employed kitchen whisk or an equally work-hardened rowing oar. It is my humble opinion that these gifts of the senses are, indeed, gifts… as such, they are to be rejoiced in, rather than restricted. Add to this an uneasy alliance with organized religion that dates back to childhood and, in me, you have an unabashed heathen (by definition, “a person of the heath,” or, “of the earth”), who celebrates the immediacy of the gravid sensuality in every aspect of every day. Life is for The Living. Each moment is here and gone in a heartbeat, moments for us to maximize and ultimately memorize. So, for a variety of reasons all my own, I choose to eschew the rigorous rejection of all things sensual in favor of the rowdy rejoicing in same.

Please do not mistake my own choice for a lack of respect for those who do gain a sense of accomplishment, atonement and/or self-defined spiritual sustenance from the practice of self-denial and/or self-discipline. Literally, more Power to you, and good on ya for adherence to a personal structure that works for you. We all have our own path to follow. My personal way forward is mine alone, and it is framed in the support and encouragement of the beliefs of others, as long as the practice of that belief is at no expense or pain to anyone else. Moderation in all things, overall. But I also personally believe wholeheartedly in letting the scales tip in favor of pure, unabashed and unbridled Joy wherever Joy presents itself in our lives, and to share that Joy willingly and without reservation with others.

Thus, when I saw the typo in the previously-mentioned headline, it somehow summarized my inability and unwillingness to embrace self-imposed restriction on sensuality in a beautifully simplistic way. With the omission of a well-placed "r" under flying fingers on a harried volunteer's keyboard as publishing deadline approached, and with the aid of an innocently ignorant electronic Spell-Check, "Shrove Tuesday" hilariously took on new life in laughter as "Shove Tuesday." I couldn't have said it better myself.

So, for some of you, by all means, praise the Lord.... and for the rest of us, please... pass the pancakes... Blessings abound.

FAUX PAS OF THE PHALLIC PHARMACY KIND

My Ordinary Joe in Ireland today sent me an e-mail with humorous stories of public humiliation, and they reminded me of a time years ago when I had embarrassed myself horribly.

I was only 17 and worked in a drug store while attending community college in Astoria, Oregon. The owner was insistent that I stay with customers as they shopped, directing them to the proper aisle and assisting them in selecting the purchase just right for them. (I knew that his ulterior motive was to have me monitor them to prevent shoplifting, but we dressed it up as "helping the customer"). He always reinforced to me that I should inquire about what product volume they were interested in, and that I should always try to sell them the largest because it was a "better value.." (read, "profit margin").

Not far from Astoria was the Tongue Point Job Corps Training Center, where adolescents at risk were given another chance through vocational training. It had been a residence for boys years prior, but by the time I moved back to Astoria after high school, it had been transitioned to all girls' dormitories. Troop members from Fort Lewis, Washington would frequently make the trip down to the Oregon coast to try to hook up with the girls, and the soldiers could be frequently found in the pharmacy on a Friday afternoon.

So it was that I had occasion to walk up to one very tall, handsome, young African-American man and inquire politely if I could help him. He stuttered and stammered a bit, glancing furtively at the pharmacists behind the counter, both of whom were busily engaged in filling prescriptions. Recognizing that I was his only option, he finally allowed that he was in the market for condoms. (These were the days when all modes of contraception were kept "behind the counter.”) This was my first encounter with such a request and, initially flustered, I quickly collected myself and asked him what brand he wanted. He told me, and when I rounded the counter to where they were kept, I realized that there were several options available, some boxes holding far more than others. Intending to inquire about the number of condoms he wished to purchase, I innocently blurted out, "What size?"

The man's mouth dropped open and the whites surrounding his irises could be seen all the way around as his eyes widened. He was unable to reply. The look on his face immediately informed me of the magnitude of my mistake, as did the roar of uncontrollable laughter that had erupted from behind the pharmacy counter. As my cheeks burned hot with embarrassment, I quickly corrected myself, saying "I mean, 'How many?'" The man replied with his hand covering his eyes, and I hurriedly retrieved the correct box from the peg. We went through the agonizingly awkward transaction at the register with our eyes averted. After I slammed the drawer of the till shut, we made equal haste, he for the exit and I for the employee lounge, both of us clearly grateful to have the experience in our respective rear-view mirrors.

The pharmacists never let me forget it... “What size?” they would ask out of nowhere with a sly smile, just to satisfy their own ability to embarrass me repeatedly. Not that I wasn't completely mortified enough at the time to have never forgotten it on my own. If anyone had told me then that this was a story that I would laugh about someday, I could not have believed them. I could not know then that this was just life handing the young man and I a blessing by way of “trial by humility.” I wonder if he has ever related that story with as much laughter as I have. As Coyote teaches me daily, learning to laugh at one’s self is one of life’s most precious gifts.

INNER GRAVEL

On this beautiful Seattle morning, Flynn and I made our way up to what has become one of our favorite destinations, Greenlake Park. We took our place in the “For Feet” lane of the paved trail that surrounds the lake in a 2.5 mile loop and made our way along the sunny east bank. In the “For Wheels” lane, skateboarders, bicyclists, and in-line skaters whizzed past us as we walked.

Flynn had gotten into the lake to splash and to drink and, when he was finished, we continued on. We had nearly reached the boat rental area when I saw something that caught my eye insistently. On this late summer morning, most everyone around us had on as little clothing as law (and only in few instances, good taste) would allow. Shorts, halters, tank tops, sports bras and running shorts were all in abundance. And yet, walking toward us was a woman who stood out in striking contrast to everyone else. She was wearing a black, long-sleeved top that reached her mid-thighs, a lovely persimmon-colored scarf wrapped loosely about her neck, long pants, a black, large-brimmed hat, and large dark glasses. What I particularly noticed about her was that she was not wearing shoes. Not only was she not wearing shoes, she was not even carrying shoes, made even more peculiar by the fact that she was choosing to walk in the gravel on the lake side of the footpath. Directly across the footpath was soft, well-tended grass; but this woman was deliberately striding barefoot in the gravel. From the time I first took notice of her to the time that she passed by us, not more than 15 to 20 seconds could have elapsed. In that time, as we drew nearer to one another, I also realized that she was not wincing as she walked. Her gait was strong and purposeful; yet, on her face there was no sign of the effort that it clearly must have taken for her to walk over those sharp pebbles with bare feet. As we neared to pass one another, I noticed that the hat on her head did not completely cover her scalp and, where it was exposed, I could see that her hair was quite patchy and quite short; perhaps as though she had lost it and it might be just coming back in, or she was on her way to losing it and it was on its way out. “Chemo?” I immediately wondered… and then, the bare feet in the gravel made perfect sense to me.

When circumstance affords us the enormous opportunity to stare down the barrel of our own mortality and we don’t blink, we are inwardly realigned. This I know first-hand from trauma of my own, and I couldn’t help but wonder if my supposition about her was true, that she had been afforded a similar experience in the form of an illness. Having gratefully emerged out the other side of my own peek behind the curtain between this world and the next, I wondered if she wasn’t walking barefoot and steeling herself through that discomfort because the pain of it made her realize she was still alive.

That also led me to ponder something deeper that a dear friend had told me about the years and years of physical abuse they had received at the hands of their parents. This was coupled with corporal punishment relentlessly doled out in the parochial school they had attended. Good deeds went unnoticed, and the only time attention was paid to the child was when they received a beating. I didn’t understand at the time when they told me that, “at least when you received a beating, you knew you were alive.” I understood it today.

As Flynn and I continued our walk and eventually left the park, thoughts continued to flood in about what I had seen, what I had supposed, and what it had led me to further speculate. With as much physical and emotional pain as I have endured in my own lifetime, I realized that I have come to re-imagine pain as a positive tool. As it has relentlessly rolled through and taken me into an excruciating darkness that I feared I may never emerge from again, I learned that I had had a choice. I learned that I could choose to submit to it and allow it to devour me; or that I could choose to stand up to it and allow it to empower me. Pain can be a torturer and it can be a teacher. How we ride out that experience is largely determined by the lens we choose to look through when facing it down.

I also know full well that this philosophy may not always apply… none of us knows what the future holds in store for us, and there may come a time when life hands me a bill that cannot be paid with the currency of hindsight and the placement of a well-turned phrase. I thought I knew all about pain after going through natural childbirth twice. I learned after the bone and vascular trauma that nearly took my life that I knew nothing about pain and how debilitating and devastating it can actually be. Pain with an end in sight is a completely different entity than pain that refuses to leave the room, sits in the corner with a surly smile and watches you dispassionately as you suffer.

Perhaps that woman was walking that gravel barefoot in the joy of the triumph of her ability to stare pain down and win. I realized that perhaps, the hard edge of the joy that I derive from my walking the lake trail on a knee that is throbbing and a calf that is aching with claudication is my own “inner gravel.” I walk now through the comparatively minimal pain of a reconstructed knee because in comparison to what I’ve already been through, this is nothing; and because I take full measure of the now humbly comprehensible gift it is to know that I’m still alive.

OLD FEARS AND NEW FRONTIERS

Let go of old fears disguised as reasons why your new life choices will not work.

As you choose the unfamiliar behaviors that empower your chosen life, embrace the quickening of your heart. It is mistakenly labeled as fear. There is no success worth having that does not contain within it the precarious exhilaration of possible failure. You have fear now in a life unexamined. There is no fear, and there is complete freedom where you are going… to a life examined and lived in the exhilaration of your own personal courage.

These choices are yours. You have earned them, and they are forged in the fire of the chaos that other people’s choices have imposed upon you – but only until now. Now, there is only one voice that rightfully determines your course, and it belongs to you.

At your core, you are strong. At your core, you are creative enough to overwrite the false text of all that has been supposed about you. At your core, you know that you have made these suppositions truths only by your own lack of protest.

At birth, we are gifted with a spirit unique to each of us – our ability to celebrate the illuminative capacity of our own personal star guiding us forward can be dimmed only by our acceptance of external, rather than internal definition. If we choose not to run up to the edges in our lives, howl back and announce our intent to the Universe, how can we possibly know what we are ultimately capable of? A warrior knows no retreat from that which they know to be True. Define your Truth and live it every day of your life.

OF MARKERS AND MONTE CRISTO

I took a much-needed day off a couple of weeks ago and Flynn, the Dalmatian and I drove Moby, the great white Jeep out of Seattle and up into the mountains. Our destination was Monte Cristo, an old gold and silver mining camp Circa 1890, way up in the Mount Baker-Snoqualmie national forest in the Cascade Mountain range. I had been there for the last time over 35 years ago with my children's father well before those children were born. We had been accompanied by three other couples, and had stopped for breakfast in a then-wide spot in the road called Carnation. There, we were served whole-wheat and sunflower seed pancakes by a waitress wearing a stoned smile, a peasant shirt and a prairie skirt. Her colorful, hand-made wrist and ankle bracelets tinkled with the soft sound of silver on silver as she gestured, served us, and walked about. She had ready and raucous laughter for everyone seated at our table, and the scent of incense, sandalwood and patchouli mingled with the tummy-rumbling aromas wafting from the kitchen. I remember that the old Victorian home that had been transformed into the hippie restaurant in which we sat had all manner of old farm tools hanging from the rough-hewn cedar paneling perfuming the walls. We all enjoyed a hearty breakfast, and then went on to delight in a truly memorable day together, one that I have thought about now and then throughout all the years passing in between; it was a day that clearly informed my decision to return there on that Thursday last week. A marker.

Only 20 miles from our destination and steeped deeply in mental time travel, I stopped at the ranger station to pick up the now-required day use pass. When the forest service worker stamped the date, "August 20, 2009" I realized that, if my children’s father and I had remained together, that day would have been our 38th wedding anniversary... and I hadn't even thought about it until the date stamp reminded me. Another marker.

I stopped along the way to take lots of pictures because I wanted to share the day with my “Ordinary Joe” in Ireland. As I drove along, I thought about the fact that every single one of the people to whom I was close back then on that trip into the mountains is no longer in my life... through divorce, suicide, estrangement, geographical separation, different life paths... life. All that remains of those days are fading photographs taken with an inexpensive camera, my own memories, and recipes from wives and girlfriends of my husband’s friends. One of those recipes has become a classic in our family, shared with me by one of young women who accompanied us on that day so long ago. Her father was Italian and her mother was Irish, and thus she came to be named Colleen Nardone. She had married my husband’s friend, Danny, whom he had met when they served together as Marines in Vietnam. It is her lasagna recipe that has won over friends and family, colleagues and coworkers over the last three decades at my table, and I think of her with a smile every time I bring out the well-worn, tomato sauce-stained recipe card from my file.

In the winter that followed our summer outing to Monte Cristo, my then-husband and I returned to Bothell, Washington where Danny and Colleen lived, to spend New Year’s Eve with them. I have a vivid memory of waking in a sleeping bag spread upon the floor of their front room. It was barely light outside, and I looked up to see that Colleen had fallen asleep on the couch. Bright, overhead light from the dining room not far away made me squint my eyes, but what completely disoriented me was the noise that had awakened me, the sound that persisted unrelentingly as I struggled to clear my head from sleep. I awoke feeling as if I were imprisoned in an old Underwood typewriter, but the sound that originally resembled metal on metal became clear in my wakening head to be that of plastic on plastic… it was accompanied by much male roaring, light-hearted cajoling and testosterone-fueled threats of mishaps and mayhem to come.

When my eyes were at last accustomed to the light, I propped myself up on my elbow to look into the dining room. Seated on the edge of their chairs at the table, my husband and Danny were fully engaged in a rousing rencounter of “Rock ‘Em, Sock ‘Em Robots. ” Danny, at that point a 27-year-old man, had requested and received this toy for Christmas from Colleen. Danny and my husband sat in opposition to one another, furiously punching the buttons manipulating their respective plastic pugilists with all the abandon of eight-year-old boys. I noticed that my husband’s long, twine-wrapped bamboo bong was nearby, and it went a long way to explain a great deal in that moment.

I was all of 19 years. Their antics were endlessly annoying to me at the time, and yet when I looked back on those days as I drove up into the mountains so many years later without the company of all who had accompanied me before, I realized how much that memory typified my innocence in those days. Danny and my husband were both still steeped in the horrors of Vietnam. That toy was a harmless way for them to reconnect with each other and, at the same time, to let go of a great deal of enforced aggression and personal agony heaped upon them by the circumstance of their drafted service into a war they did not believe in. Before PTSD was part of our lexicon and post-war counseling was mandatory, they were simply coping in the best way they could. I get that now. A definite marker.

Later that day, the four of us had all piled into our four-wheel-drive Chevy Blazer. We returned to Monte Cristo in the deep, soft quiet of mountains couched in snow on the first new day of 1973. We arrived in late afternoon and gamboled in the snow as only the young can do. We drove back out in the dark, completely unaware of the enormity of the gifts that we held in our hands: our health, our strength, our youth, and our relative naïveté. I realize only now the richness of having experienced that country in both its summer and winter extremes while in the company of the same people. More markers.

I carried all of this forward as Flynn and I made our way up the gentle grade over the 78 miles from Seattle. There was spectacular scenery all around us, just as I had remembered, as well as comical, whimsical and rather sad slices of American rural and mountain life. I caught glimpses of the riverbed through the trees. I couldn’t help but notice that in the shallows of the river, all of the rocks had been smoothed and shaped in the down-river direction by the full force of the spring runoff coursing over them. Not far upstream, after just a couple of bends in the river, deep green pools and flat rocks invited late summer bathers to spread out towels, dip babies in pools, and to languish in the low-hanging fruit of a pre-autumn afternoon. It made me think about the river as a metaphor for our own lives. The shallower we are, the more the force of life running over us shapes us. The deeper we deliberately carve out our own pools, our own areas of quiet, solace and self-examination, the less impact the impending surge running by ultimately has upon us. Our footing in the riverbed remains constant, something we Know because it is of our own design; it provides us with our own self-examined stance and, for those with the courage to examine it outside of ourselves, that stance serves to instruct others. It is those deep-pool people who become teachers for the rest of us.

I was disappointed to reach the end of the road and learn that Monte Cristo, itself, is now a four-mile hike in. The road had evidently suffered extensive damage and it is no longer feasible to drive it. I could have pushed this reconstructed leg to walk four miles round-trip, but eight miles seemed foolhardy and I had no supplies.

Flynn and I instead headed back down the trail and did a little hiking, we found a mountain pool to bathe in, and spirits were replenished. We dawdled back down the mountain, taking pictures and stopping at a fish ladder and at a farm stand along the way. As we entered back down into population, I found a classic rock station, and it served well to underscore the nostalgia of all that I had experienced on that day. The first song that popped up on the “seek” search was, appropriately enough, Van Morrison’s classic “Moondance.” One of my favorite contemporary Irish musicians, and one of my all-time favorite songs. A body smile ensued, and replaced the sadness and deflation that I had felt beginning to creep back in while driving back down from the mountains to the city. Steve Miller’s “Space Cowboy,” The Eagles’ “Heartache Tonight,” and, most importantly, as I continued to mull over the current status of my life in general: The Stones’ “You Can’t Always Get What You Want (But If You Try Some Time, You Just Might Find… You Get What You Need”)…. I chuckled to myself as traffic began to choke up around me, two lanes were replaced by eight, and strip malls swallowed up farm stands. I had learned what I needed to learn on that day, and I was most grateful.

After I returned from the mountains, lighthearted, appreciative and full of joy, a dear friend shared the story below with me through e-mail. Receiving this on the heels of what I had just experienced in the mountains, I had been gifted with perspective that I may not otherwise have had... once again, Synchronicity was alive and well, and I rejoiced in it. I set about the business of editing and sending photos to my loved one in Ireland, the internet providing me with the miracle of sharing every moment of the day with him pictorially, much as I had in my heart all along.

I found myself wondering…. what would happen if we were all to go through our lives, even on what could be the very mundane commute to work and back, with the idea that we are looking for something special to share in every moment with someone else in order to tell a story? Perhaps in the doing, the real pictures of our lives would become clearer to us, both visually and in our hearts. Presence in the present. Stories that we could carry with us for all our days to come… irreplaceable markers with which to measure our own evolution and growth.

http://www.snopes.com/music/artists/bell.asp

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=myq8upzJDJc

GIVE AND TAKE

While out on an afternoon ramble with my family in the Fremont district of Seattle, I had an encounter that filled my thoughts throughout the remainder of the afternoon and inspired my writing here tonight. I had brought my Dalmatian, Flynn, with me on the walk, and manners prevented me from taking him into the different shops, though I did notice that other dog owners were doing so quite freely. As I waited for my daughter to browse inside, I was aware that a woman whom I had passed earlier in foot traffic on the sidewalk had made her way back and now sat down heavily on a chair outside the door of the upscale little shop.

I had initially seen the woman as a subject for a powerful photo in my own mind’s eye. Years ago, I was gifted with accompanying my brother on his photography adventures. He was a brilliant human interest photographer, and he had taught me to look at people and faces with an artist’s eye. However, I immediately dismissed the idea of taking this woman's photo, because she was clearly suffering. Her eyes were rheumy and appeared to be out of focus, secondary to…what… stress? Substance? Sickness? All three? It didn’t really matter for, as she slumped forward in the chair, breathing shallowly, she seemed clearly in distress. I leaned down, placed my hand gently on her shoulder and asked her if she was alright… she shook her head no, and I asked if there might be some way that I could assist her, someone that I could call for her. Again, she shook her head, which I took to mean that she preferred to be left alone, and I respected her wishes.

Having backed away, it was then that I spied a woman who looked to be about my age, crouched down on the sidewalk and hiding behind a sandwich sign that had been placed out near the curb, advertising the boutique that I stood in front of. She was furtively taking photos of the woman in distress, shifting on her knees on the hard cement to get a better angle. If the woman on the chair knew that the photographer was there, she was too ill to care. I watched the woman with the camera intently and pondered the politic of what I witnessed, and I found myself wondering: What makes one woman’s conscience come down on the side of compassion and another woman’s conscience come down on the side of the camera?

After witnessing the uneven exchange between the two women on the sidewalk earlier today, I thought about the American Indian approach to hunting. Before a hunter goes out to stalk sustenance for his family, he sweats, prays, and smudges in a gesture of respect, honor and reverence for that which he would make his prey. If the hunter is successful, then it is understood that the animal that gave its life was prepared to do so and, in the doing, a “giveaway” has occurred. Balance is present, honor is preserved, and reverence for the sustenance provided by the animal’s body is received in gratitude, fully mindful of the magnitude of the gift that has been given.

It was that exact balance that was missing in what I witnessed today. The woman hiding behind the sandwich sign and pointing her camera surreptitiously was taking, to be sure… what was given in exchange? Nothing that I observed, and I watched for a very long time. Perhaps something occurred after I turned my attention back to my family and we made our way down to the market, something that would completely change my perception of what I witnessed. But the picture in my mind is the one I have to carry forward, the one that has engendered these observations here tonight.

Interestingly, I found this quote by Henri Cartier-Bresson, one of my all-time favorite photographers, as I was researching this subject further on the net. I was struck by how similarly we described the moment of exchange between photographer and subject. Cartier-Bresson said:

“The creative act lasts but a brief moment, a lightning instant of give-and-take, just long enough for you to level the camera and to trap the fleeting prey in your little box.”

Diane Arbus said: “I really believe there are things nobody would see if I didn't photograph them.”

That is certainly true with what I witnessed and subsequently photographed myself today. And now, having done so… what, if anything now, separates me from the woman who inspired my scorn in the first place?

Where is the line between camera-ready and compassion? One single photograph possesses the power to help to end a war: Who can forget little Phan Thi Kim Phuc as she ran naked down a road of Trang Bang, Vietnam, just after being burned by napalm? AP photographer Nick Ut captured the horror of the moment and earned a Pulitzer in the doing. A photo can work to bring a bullying power structure to its knees: The defiant man who stood alone in 1989 in Tiananmen Square facing down a row of tanks, preserved and projected onto the world stage by the lens of Patrick Witty. And a photo by Albert Eisenstaedt became one of the most iconic images of the last century as a sailor grabbed a nurse and kissed her in Times Square on VJ Day. Photos can connect us all with the immediacy of perceived presence as history unfolds in a shared moment that only a camera lens can confer upon us.

The camera speaks with a powerful voice and invites the world in. But, at whose expense? Today, I felt that the woman taking the photo was no more than an uninvited voyeur into the world of the woman on the chair. Today, I felt that it was passage paid by the woman in pain to a place she did not sign up to go to… and therein lies the imbalance… therein lies the insult… no respect... no reciprocity.

Any photographers out there with a different lens to look at this through? I would love to hear your opinions.

CHOICES & CHANCES, CHEECH & CHONG

I’ve had my Stella scooter parked out in front of my daughter’s home with a “For Sale” sign on her for the past couple of weeks. I have finally come to terms with my orthopaedist’s firm assessment that my traumatically compromised and valiantly repaired left leg is no longer adequate to kick start her when needed. After having her garaged for far longer than she should have been in the hope that I might ride her again, I am conceding that, since she was built for fun, she needs to be out having it.

I had a hilarious encounter with a couple of stoners who were interested in Stella last Sunday afternoon... one of them called as I sat working at my desk in the back bedroom. He informed me that he was sitting out curbside in his VW van and that his battery was about to go dead... he wanted to know about Stella, so I talked as I walked and, when I reached the front porch, I found him already seated on her. He was clearly baked, as was his compatriot, and the two of them were straight out of every Cheech and Chong record I have ever laughed my way through hysterically.

"Dude," asked the one in the bandana, flannel shirt and cargo shorts, seated on Stella, "you think I could ride this cross-country?" "Oh, yeah, man," offered the tall one in the Carhartts, his dreadlocks rowdily escaping the confines of a baseball cap. "You could totally ride that cross-country..." Bandana Boy asked how much I wanted for her, I told him, and he replied, "Ohhh, wowww....” (anyone familiar with the West Coast of the USA recognizes that slow, stoner “Ohhh, wowww” that rolls forward simultaneously guttural and yet somehow out of the high back of the speaker’s throat), “I was thinking about spending, like, $700.00 for a scooter..... man!" “Yeah, dude,” offered Captain Carhartt, “You can get one of these for about $1,500, I’ve seen ‘em on line…” “So have I,” I quickly offered, “and they have far higher mileage, little or no maintenance and/or body damage… this one is in pristine condition…. and you get what you pay for.” Captain Carhartt bobbed his head and rubbed the thumb and forefinger of his left hand on the soul patch of his chin thoughtfully. His large, dark eyes were downcast in heavily-lidded agreement…

“Man, I don’t know,” said Bandana Boy, heaving a heavy sigh… I felt badly for him because, out of all of the people who have expressed an interest in her thus far, it was clearly he who understood her heart… it was evident in the reverence with which he looked at her and in the way that he gently touched her. I could just see the visions of his highway dreams roll across his face like a late summer storm moving across the desert southwest… exciting, powerful, full of potential danger and possibility… freedom.

"Well," I finally said, "You give it some thought and let me know. You can certainly find something cheaper than a Stella, but you can't find anything with more style, class and sturdy engineering. But, look at it this way," I continued with a smile, "If you do decide to go cheaper, what you undoubtedly will have is an engrossing epic with which to entertain all of your friends.... all about what happened to you when you inevitably broke down somewhere in Podunk, South Dakota, on your $700.00 scooter!"

There was dual Dude laughter in response, and he asked what my bottom price would be... I told him that I couldn't let her go for less than $2,500... "Cash in hand?" he asked, all the while pulling in the clutch and working the twist shift on the handlebar. I said, "Yes, cash in hand and you drive her home today."

He reluctantly dismounted, and he took a look back before he alit the blown-out upholstery of the passenger seat of the VW bus that had brought them here. As Captain Carhartt took his place behind the wheel and pulled away from the downsloping curb, the bus backfired in ornery disapproval. As I watched them go, they inspired a smile in me, and I stood there chuckling and measuring their progress down to the intersection until the van hiccupped and lurched out of sight. I had little faith that he would be able to come up with the cash. But, we shall see... in any case, I would now have a funny story of my own to tell, and I thought at the time that this, on its own merit, might be the end of it.

A couple of days later, however, other thoughts have begun to emerge about the encounter…. Thoughts about all of the “small” choices that we make in life, the “small” chances we pass up unknowingly as a result, and how all of them are ultimately interwoven in what eventually becomes the tapestry of our lives. The kid clearly wanted Stella, but he had placed his money and his energy elsewhere, maybe in the “small” habitual choice to take another toke… that adds up and, over time, might perhaps have manifested for him his new scoot instead of his next toot.

It also got me to thinking about the experiments in the early 1980s conducted by a psychologist who created a “Rat Park.” Half of the “park” was comprised of confining cages, and the other half was set up like a laboratory rat paradise with places to run, play, stimulate the mind and interact socially. All rats were given a choice of plain water or a cocktail of water laced with sugar and opium. The rats in the cages became instant addicts and the rats that had healthy options available to them refused the drugs. Even when they changed places, the formerly free rats that were then confined went to the opium, while the formerly addicted rats gradually weaned themselves off the drug as their options became more stimulating.

People can spend entire lifetimes trying to be something they aren’t because they feel they “should;” but, as my wonderful Mendhi artist, Wendy Rover http://www.rovinghorse.com/ recently shared with me while she was working her henna magic on my hands, “I’ve learned in life not to “should” on myself!” Or, we defer our dreams because we somehow believe that we lack the ability to turn them into reality. So we enter into unhealthy patterns of behavior only to repeatedly realize that the illusion of security that we hoped that behavior might bring was fleeting at best. Ultimately, these experiences just serve to reinforce everything negative that we ever suspected about ourselves in the first place.

Again, I am drawn to the wise words that I am unable to source, but the impact of them in my own life has been acute:
Watch your thoughts, for they become words.
Watch your words, for they become actions.
Watch your actions, for they become habits.
Watch your habits, for they become your character.
Watch your character, for it becomes your destiny.

Or, as my self-styled “Ordinary Joe” puts it in simplicity: “Be the best that you can be.”

I may be reading a great deal more than necessary into that young man and his motivations, and I sincerely hope that I am… perhaps he just happened to be high on that Sunday afternoon. However, having come up in the ‘60s and ‘70s, I believe myself to be more keenly able to discern the difference between drugs as recreation and drugs as a lifestyle. Sadly, I believe that he fell into the latter category. That kid has a road trip in him. We all do at some level and, as I know from having taken my own road trips when I have needed to, if we don’t take them when opportunity knocks, we can only look back on our lives with a great deal of regret. I hope with all my heart that he will make a way to manifest his, and that he comes back with “cash in hand.” If he does, I will stand on the corner as he drives away on Stella, smiling and waving as they leave my sight, off to their adventures… and so grateful and happy to be proven Dead Wrong about him.