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.

GOODBYES FULLY REALIZED

There have been losses in my life recently that have set me to reflecting on lessons learned from losses that I have ridden out previously. The following is a meditation on saying goodbye to a dear friend not so very long ago:

In addition to the gaping hole that the passing of loved ones leaves behind, there is also an opportunity to redefine our world. What once seemed true is no longer. What once seemed secure has fallen away. While we accept intellectually that we may never see a loved one again each time we part company, the emotional and spiritual finality of this possibility never reaches our marrow until after the fact; until after we realize that the last goodbye really was the final goodbye. And when “last” becomes “final,” we are left to examine the impact of lives that have come to us, touched us and gone, unexpectedly spinning into our sphere and then, just as unexpectedly, spinning back out. We are left to sort simultaneously through our disbelief at the suddenness of their passing, our regret over words unspoken, and our sheer joy that we knew them at all.

At first, my friend Kim was to me no more than a soft voice on the telephone, calling in as a home-based transcriptionist to the on-site office where I worked in a metropolitan hospital. Our conversation revolved around the usual work-related business. In the performance of her requests, I came over time to hear something beyond business in her voice. As she waited for me to work the technical magic required from within the office, she would often offer comment about a hummingbird lingering just outside of her window, or how beautifully the sun dappled the trees at just that moment in the morning. She would reference her dog, who lay asleep at her feet, or one of her cats as they stretched lazily across the warm surface of her desk in the afternoon sun. As a transcriptionist, Kim spent the majority of her day indoors, her hands repetitively contacting the hard plastic of a computer keyboard and her mind engaged with the serious business of creating an accurate medical record. At the same time, I came to know her as a gentle spirit who, despite her dedication to her mental occupation, still managed to keep her heart beating in time with the rhythm of life that pulsed and danced so seductively just outside her window.

As the weeks went by, Kim and I discovered that we shared a reverence of nature, of the winged and four-legged creatures of the earth, of the earth itself, and of our awareness of our place within that fragile web of life. We both agreed that ours were hands not meant for keyboards, but for thrusting deep into warm soil rich with loam; that ours were feet not meant for hasty travel across concrete in hard-soled shoes, but for deliberate grounding in the sensual and textural landscape of the Earth Mother’s natural mantel.

Through that connection, Kim was the first at the hospital to extend a hand in friendship to me, and she suggested that we get together to walk our dogs. I readily accepted and, so it was that I made my way on a Saturday afternoon to the home that Kim shared with her husband. As I drew near to the address she had provided me, she came into view at the end of her driveway; her face lit up as I pulled in. As I parked, she rounded the front of my van and, as soon as I had stepped foot out of it, I was enfolded in a warm and welcoming embrace, one that is usually reserved for people who have shared a much longer acquaintance. I quickly learned that this was just Kim’s form of shorthand, for when we each then stepped back and regarded one another, I knew that we already were old friends. A consummate and gracious hostess, she invited me back to her garden oasis, where we enjoyed fresh-squeezed lemonade and cookies warm from the oven. There, we set about the business of learning about one another outside the confines of our shared profession. The ripple of her husband's piano practice lifted out of the open kitchen window on the afternoon breeze and made its way into the garden. I recall it as a defining moment that reflected the peace and serenity that Kim was magically able to conjure all about her. Her gregarious mutt, Charlotte, and my then rather high-strung Dalmatian, Flynn, came to be fast friends as well, as they dodged and parried about the cool green of the shaded lawn. Over the ensuing months, we would take them both on long, conversation-infused walks through various nature trails in and around the greater Portland area.

One of those outings allowed me the honor of introducing Kim to Sauvie Island – the beautiful wetland nature reserve and u-pick farming community just outside of Portland along the convergence of the Multnomah Channel with the Columbia river. We first took Flynn and Charlotte out there on a brisk fall day and, as typically thoughtful as Kim was, she had packed a thermos of hot cider and slices of homemade pumpkin bread for us to enjoy along the way. We walked the length of the beach and back, as the sun-kissed tops of the fall foliage pierced the backdrop of a gunmetal sky. The wind brought color to our cheeks as we plodded through the sand, with Flynn and Charlotte gamboling in and out of the frigid water. There would be many walks, but the day we spent on Sauvie was one of the best we ever had, and I will forever hold it close in my heart. Over the ensuing months, Kim and I hadn’t gotten together as frequently as we had before. As is so often the case, daily responsibilities of life intervened and time sped by. Her unexpected death took with it any hope for a meaningful goodbye.

I decided to make the drive to North Bend to attend her funeral service not for Kim; I didn’t go for myself, because I have lost enough of my family and friends over the years to know that sustaining and lasting peace does not come primarily from the momentary gathering of remaining family and friends at a funeral; rather, it comes from the gathering of inner strength, faith and fond memories, and from the personal order in which one sorts them to be able to go on. I wanted to attend Kim’s funeral in honor of her family. I felt that it was important that they know how deeply she had touched the lives of all of us who were fortunate enough to know her. I felt that it was important that I represent all of us in the department, many of whom would have gladly made the trip with me, and who were certainly there in spirit, but could not be granted the day off from work; for, if everyone who knew and loved Kim and wanted to attend her service were actually able to, there would have been precious few people remaining to staff the entire transcription department of a major metropolitan health system. Kim was that well-thought of. She was that loved.

I entered the North Bend Chapel into a sea of faces unfamiliar to me. I was soon approached by a small, frail woman, her halting steps supported with the use of a cane held in her right hand, and by a companion who gently guided the elbow of her left arm. “Are you waiting for someone, Dear?” she asked. When I replied that I was unsure of whether to seat myself or to wait for an usher, she introduced herself to me as Kim’s mother. I took her hand and introduced myself as Willow. “Oh,” she exclaimed, “You’re Willow? You drove all that way from Portland?”

If I had questioned for a moment the wisdom or the clarity of taking the day off and making the long drive to North Bend to attend Kim’s service, the look of gratitude and appreciation on Kim's mother's face when she recognized my name and acknowledged that effort erased any trace of doubt I may have entertained. I told her that it had been my honor to do so, and that my presence there was only representative of all of the love and heartfelt wishes of sympathy sent by all of us in this time of their deep sorrow. It was also in that moment that the source of Kim’s own gracious nature was made clear; for, even from the depths of her own bottomless despair, her mother’s courage had forged a place for her to be concerned for my comfort and welfare at her daughter’s funeral. I will forever be grateful that I could share with her my gratitude for her raising such a kind and gentle person and such a nurturing and thoughtful friend.

I felt intuitively after the service that this was a time for intimate family and friends, and that my role there had been fulfilled. I had a long drive ahead of me back to Portland, as well as personal and professional commitments demanding my departure. As I drove down the hill away from the chapel, I turned on the local radio station in time to hear the morning weather report. “Mostly cloudy on the coast this morning,” the announcer intoned, “and only partial clearing this afternoon.” The Universe had other plans. I smiled as I looked out at the morning sun beaming down across the depths of Coos Bay, it’s sparkling water reflecting the blue of the cloudless sky above it. As the sun penetrated the windshield of my rental car and fell across my arms while I waited at the stoplight, I could swear I felt the warmth of Kim’s embrace in an everlasting hug goodbye.

THE GRACE OF FINDING HUMOR IN THE DARKEST HOUR

My "Ordinary Joe" and I were recently discussing what it takes to plumb the depths of despair and to turn a potential conqueror circumstance into a catalyst for change. Most importantly, we discussed the necessity of getting over ourselves, finding perspective and, as he would put it, to "cop on..." To Get Real. To not only find, but to celebrate the humor that resides in the darkest of our days....

My father passed away unexpectedly in the fall of 1993, just six months after I had lost my only sibling, my older brother. At that time, I shared my life with a remarkable man, a T6 paraplegic when I had met him just two years prior, who had already lost one leg to osteomyelitis. He was a Western Cherokee, a painter, poet, sculptor and community activist. He unfortunately developed another bone infection in his remaining hip and was scheduled to undergo his second leg amputation. Concurrently, he had been honored by The Downtowner magazine in Portland as being one of “Portland’s Ten Most Interesting People” of 1993. He and the other nine honorees were feted at a gallery reception, and we had plans to have friends over to celebrate the event at our home afterward. That was on a Wednesday and, on the following Tuesday, he was to check into the hospital.

When we returned from the gallery and friends started to arrive, I saw that there was a message on the answering machine. Pushing the button to play back, I heard the voice of someone who identified herself as being attached to the sheriff’s department of Yakima, Washington, the town in which my father lived. “Oh, great,” I thought, “Dad’s gotten himself into another fender-bender.” I called the number and was not prepared to hear her deliver the news that my father had been found down on the floor of his bedroom. My father was gone from me.

The house was filled with the celebratory laughter of friends and well-wishers who knew what Tony had in store the following week. None of us were prepared for the news that I would then deliver to all assembled. A hush fell over them, and champagne glasses were lowered to rest on tables when I told them of my father’s passing. Quality friends they were. Everyone in attendance offered to either stay in support or to leave in respect. I thanked them all and said from my heart, “There is nothing that I can do for my father on this night. Tonight belongs to Tony, and we need to concentrate on that. I will do for my father what needs to be done as the coming days unfold.” Our friends honored my wishes and as much frivolity as we could muster under the circumstances ensued. I was so very grateful to be supported in the loving warmth of their presence at such a dark hour in my life.

Many in attendance on that night continued to offer their support when I needed it the most over the coming weeks… trying to sort out my father’s affairs from so many miles away and trying to assist Tony in his physical transition and adjustment to having to realign his body, adapt to a new wheelchair to accommodate it, his skill-set in dealing with maneuvering about our home, balance issues… it was all overwhelming… and I continued to work at my job throughout, following my three-day bereavement leave for my father’s funeral.

Woody, a dear friend with whom I had experienced a great deal of personal growth, stepped up to the plate and offered to go with me up to Yakima to help me go through my father's necessary papers and to make arrangements for the disposition of his estate. It was a four-hour drive between Portland and Yakima and we had been hard at work most of the day in sorting everything out. Yakima is a strongly agricultural and cattle-based community, and there is a large population of Mexican immigrants throughout the valley. They had come to work in the fields, settled, and started their own thriving businesses. They brought with them the rich tapestry of their own culture, no small part of which is their wonderful food. Woody offered to treat me to dinner in one of the authentic Mexican restaurants nearby, and I readily agreed.

After our orders had been placed, we sat reflecting on the incredible synchronicity of Tony's amputation with my father's passing so soon on the heels of losing my brother. There had been so much loss all at once, and the geographical separation between the responsibilities had added to the pressure. When our frosty margaritas were delivered to the table and, in respect to my father, I raised my glass and offered the Jewish toast, "L'Chaim," or, "To Life..." Woody raised his glass immediately in response and added... "And Limb!" We both looked at each other with eyes widened, mouths opened in amazement, and then collapsed into gales of uncontrollable laughter. What cosmic choreography it had taken to corral the ethers in order to coalesce a death, an amputation, and a toast appropriate in that moment and no other... "To Life and Limb..."

We laughed until we cried, our bellies hurt, our cheeks ached and, by the time we were through, the other diners in the restaurant were laughing along with us, clearly with no idea why.... it remains one of my favorite moments in my life, and it serves to remind me of the importance of finding the grace and the release that humor provides, no matter what life may hand to us.

HANDING DOWN WITH HEART

For people around the globe, the sharing of food is at the core of who we are. It creates community within our cultures and foundation within our families. Vivid sense memories, created by my grandmother’s instinctual approach to food, have been indelibly inlaid in the layers of my own evolution. Those remembrances have served well to guide me as a mother, and now as a grandmother, defining the quality of sense memories of my own that I want to impart to those who come behind me.

At holiday time, the first olfactory indicator of coming delights would fill my grateful nose as soon as my grandfather swung open the heavy wooden Dutch doors that he had constructed and hung himself at the entrance to the beach cabin that he and my grandmother shared. His blue eyes twinkled as he welcomed his daughter’s family into their home. The melange of my grandfather’s pipe tobacco, Old Spice after-shave and his ever-present Planter’s dry-roasted peanuts permeated his flannel shirt and I drank it in as we hugged. This scent would quickly be replaced by the spicy pepper of the geraniums flourishing year-round on the enclosed sun porch as we made our way to the back door, and blended even further with the mouth-watering aromas that doors and windows could not contain as they escaped the confines of the kitchen. The metal spring of the wooden screen door creaked as Grandpa opened it. As we walked across the threshold of the open door behind it, the full sensory measure of what lie in store was made evident. There would be Grammy, her wide smile supporting cheeks flushed red by her labors. She would be sporting a colorful apron and holding her arms open to greet us as we filed in with our suitcases. Everything gleamed warm and cozy in her kitchen, painted red, yellow and blue. Her beloved Spode china sparkled on the shelves that my grandfather had built, wonderful things bubbled and steamed in pots on the stove, and turkey sizzled in the oven. Pies, puddings and cakes cooled on the table, and I would have already spied my favorite holiday treat, pastry twists dusted with powdered sugar and colorful sprinkles. Grammy placed them in the glass humidors in which her own father had kept his pipe tobacco so many years before. Now, in full view on her red tea cart, they housed the cookies that she knew I loved, and she always watched my face to catch my delight when I saw them there. When I looked to her to say “Thank you,” she was ready for me with a smile and a mischievous wink already under construction.

My Danish grandmother, Clara, and my Irish grandfather, Vane, loved each other dearly. They had met when my grandmother volunteered as a Red Cross worker in the small community of Oretown, where her family had a modest farm on the Oregon coast. She randomly drew his name from a list of lonely young soldiers to write to during WWI. They initially corresponded as friends, fell in love through the post over one and one-half years and, after he was discharged from the service, he came home to court her formally and ask her parents, Christian and Mathilde, for her hand. They married and built a life together that eventually found them retired in that lovely cabin in Long Beach, Washington.

Many years later, and long after Grandpa had crossed over to The Other Side, Grammy’s fervent wish to join him was granted after she suffered a brief but devastating illness. I was three years younger than my daughter, Karli, is now when she passed. Since I had evolved into somewhat of a self-taught gourmet cook by then, my mother, Betty, thought it appropriate that Grammy’s kitchen things should come to me. I was grateful, and offered no argument. Among the boxes I unpacked was a small, red, metal box containing recipe cards for countless family classics. (Alas, the recipe for the pastry twists was not to be found, and eludes me to this day). As I went through the file one rainy afternoon, something unique about the cards began to emerge… Grammy had written in their margins, “Vane loved this,” “Vane didn’t like this at all,” “Bessie gave me this,” or, “This was awful!” Initially intrigued, and then inspired, I began writing in the margins of my own cookbooks. In my well-worn copy of The Joy of Cooking, Circa 1972, I annotated the recipe that I knew Karli would want to define as “that” recipe for the béchamel sauce that she loves; I went to The Larousse Treasury of Country Cooking to tag the recipe for onion soup Lyonnaise that we have morphed into our own family favorite, as I did to the Greek Islands Cooking book to let her know that, contained within, she would find the recipe for the braided holiday bread with mastic gum that has been a part of our Thanksgiving table for decades. Those notes tell of substitutions made, family and friends served, and lessons learned about following one’s own instincts in the kitchen… as well as in life.

I have continued to make those recipe notations throughout the years, knowing that someday, like me, my daughter will sift through what she has inherited after I pass on. Stories from her own past, silent to everyone else who reads them and heard aloud only to her in her mother’s voice will come to her. Those silently spoken stories will connect her with all of the remarkable women of her family who have come before, left their mark and have shaped who she is now. They will inform what she passes on to her own beautiful daughter, Grace, and I am deeply grateful that she knows the value of the time that they share together in the kitchen. I am now for Gracie who Clara was for me… and I hold that torch aloft, burning bright with gratitude and awareness of the gift contained in that continuity. Gracie and I have created our own tradition in making the braided bread together every Thanksgiving. It occurs to me that, in the doing, perhaps we are giving rise to more than bread… perhaps we are giving rise to Gracie’s own stories, someday to be shared with a child of her own connection. Together, they may shape a braided loaf on a day of thanks that they will define as their own. And perhaps when they do, they just might take a moment in remembrance of Mathilde, Clara, Betty, Willow and Karli, all of whom came before, all of whom left our love behind… and not just in the margins.

FROM HIROSHIMA TO HOPE - 2009

Just wanted to share what I experienced up here in Seattle last week on a deeply meaningful, full-moon, soft summer night...

Thanks again to Noel, who so rightly kicked my big Irish arse outta the house last Thursday... after a brutal billing week, he wisely convinced me to take a breather before jumping directly back into the deep end of the work pool. He correctly pointed out that I have been out of balance of late, working too hard, playing too little and allowing my spiritual side to slide. Duly and gratefully reminded, Flynn (the Dalmatian who kindly shares his life with me) and I hied ourselves up to Greenlake Park to walk around the lake, a lovely 2.5-mile jaunt in the afternoon Seattle sun. The thunderclap of synchronicity that followed was deafening... I had just glanced at and walked on by a flyer tacked up on the side of a building; then, for some inexplicable reason, I walked on back to read the poster, only to receive a call from Noel, checking in for a progress report at that very moment... no surprise... he’s the guy who got me going round the lake, after all, and of course he would call exactly when I found myself pulled in by the poster... “From Hiroshima to Hope – 2009,” it read… it was to be a ceremony of remembrance, respect and renewal, commemorating the first detonation of an atomic bomb in a direct and deliberate effort to wipe out human life on this planet. As I read the list of speakers and performers scheduled to appear, I felt myself responding with relief… a parched spirit in need of hydration… I knew my attendance was mandatory. I had not found my way here through such cosmic choreography only to turn away and ignore what was waiting to unfold…

I made my way back down to Greenlake on that night and, after nearly giving up for not finding a parking spot, Moby (my Jeep) found a blank stretch of curb at which to wait for my return… I parked, walked to the lake and found the venue.. there was a stage set up near the lake, as well as a tent where commemorative photos of Hiroshima and Nagasaki were on display with narrative text below each of them…there were also calligraphy tables set up where parchment sleeves could be hand-lettered by calligraphers with words of one’s own choice to decorate the lanterns that would be set afloat later... I first encountered the table of Juoti Singh and Sutinder Chawla, who had organized the calligraphers from the Gurudwara Singh Sabha of Washington. It just so happened that Noel and I had discussed that very afternoon my belief that love and hope go hand in hand; we spoke of it with respect to the current contraction of the Irish economy, and my fervent and unshakable belief that things have got to get better as the economic pendulum inevitably swings back, as it always does... so, it was really no surprise that I should see already hand-lettered on a lantern on the table... "Love" and "Hope." I smiled and told the artist that I wouldn't need to be looking anywhere else for inspiration, and he smiled back, handing me the One That Was Already There Waiting for me.

Seattle Kokon Taiko http://www.seattlekokontaiko.org/ drum members played, and inspirational speakers such as Rabbi Ted Falcon http://www.betalef.org/, Pramila Jayapal, executive director of OneAmerica http://www.weareoneamerica.com/, peace activist Esther “Littledove” John, a flautist, healing musician, teacher and composer, offered words of healing and renewal. Roxie Torres, a powerful slam poet, community activist and beautiful spirit contained in a tiny young body, treated us to one of her original compositions. She is a senior at Seattle’s Chief Sealth High School and already completely owns the Presence of One Who Will Go Far. Lummi violinist Swil Kanim and Tlingit/Cherokee/Filipino Gene Tagaban collaborated to tell stories… As Gene narrated, he was accompanied by Swil… together, they spoke of Raven as Trickster... Raven is to the North Coast Indians what Coyote is to the Indians of the desert southwest… Raven and Coyote both teach others through their own mistakes, and do so while laughing at themselves all the while… Coyote has been teaching me and informing my life for the last 20 years, so there was particular meaning for me in that story that I welcomed with full measure. The story that Gene told was of Raven being absent from Creator for a long while, returning, and Creator saying, "Where have you been? I have been waiting for you here to bring the Fire to the People..." Gene told of how Raven recruited Hawk, with his powerful wings, to fly to the sun and bring back a stick lit by its brilliance in his mouth, and how the heat of it melted his straight beak into the curved beak that Hawk has now...

When the beater first hit its mark and found its rhythm on Gene’s hand-held drum, so it also found its mark in the rhythm of my heart… I closed my eyes and felt every strand of connection that the drum has ever conferred on me at every powwow that I have ever attended… the spiritual honor of each eagle whistle… the inner joy of every pagan celebration, every outdoor, fire-lit, drum-driven dance I have ever done; every bonfire I have ever jumped; every barefoot, moonlit run that my feet have made through the cold waters of the Pacific ocean; every time I have leaned down on top of the mane of every horse that I have galloped bareback, wrapping my arms around his neck, feeling his sweat against my cheek and leaning into his power; every grape tomato, warm from my garden in the afternoon sun that has exploded in my mouth; every chicken egg that I have cajoled from the nest of a recalcitrant hen; every sheep that I have ever shorn; every rhythmic movement of my foot on the spinning wheel’s treadle; every toss of a shuttle of handspun yarn through the warp of a loom; weaving my life, weaving my knowledge that I am one with the earth, my ancestors, knowing my place, my gratitude, my awareness, my responsibility to pass that on… all of that passed before me and within me as the Raven story was told… it took my breath at the same time that it infused me with new air to breathe on a cellular level…

I stood there listening with tears streaming down my face, acknowledging spiritual absence from my life over these past few months and, as my eyes moved heavenward in thanks, I noticed a singular bat flying in an upward spiral dance above the crowd, flying dizzily above the unexpected human landscape below him and the thermal uplift from the body heat and the now-lighted lanterns..... once again, as I have recently been given a space to rediscover myself as a feminine being, on that night I was given the space to rediscover myself as a spiritual being, a Trickster, a Woman of the Earth on that Full Moon night, so much in the rhythm and balance that I need to thrive... I was lifted on thermals of my own making and those encouraged by others, equally unexpected at this time in my life, flying dizzily in an upward spiral dance of my own, and leaving me completely enriched by their power and their heat...

The sky was darkening by the time that the prayers of the Nichiren Daishonin Buddhist minister brought the crowd to a quiet and respectful close... he had asked that, once called upon to confer a blessing on all who stood before him on this night, the energy of Those who could bestow that blessing be returned to their place of Rest. We had previously been requested not to make our way to the lake with our lanterns until he had led us to do so and, as fortune would befall me, his path through the crowd found him walking directly past where I stood. He was followed by the venerated, elderly survivors of the actual Hiroshima bombing, itself... now living their lives out in Seattle, now taking part in this powerful remembrance... I was humbled in their presence and allowed the tears that came unbidden to fall uncensored as they walked past me, supported by canes, supported by wheeled walkers, supported by one another.... supported by every person in the crowd who fell silent in recognition of who they were, the enormity of what they had survived, and how truly gifted we were to be in their presence on this night... we all fell in behind them and made our way down to lakeside...

Once there, it became apparent that this part of the lake had a built-up retaining wall and elevated pier docks reaching out into the water... if one was going to set a lantern afloat, one either had to actually get down in the water, or hand the lantern to someone who was already seated on the wall at water's edge.... I found an opening, removed my shoes, sat down on the wall and lowered myself in to find rocky footing in warm, knee-deep water… I set my lantern off into the darkness, contemplating the message of love and hope that she carried as she bobbed away from me. I turned back and saw that there were many hundreds of people on the lawn sloping toward the lake wall who had no desire to get wet, but who wanted to participate, nonetheless. I offered a hand up to take a lantern from one person who asked me to, then from another and, before I knew it, I was launching lanterns.... many, many lanterns… there were smiles and thanks exchanged between us with each hand-off… thanks from them to me for facilitating, and thanks from me to them for allowing me to… the reciprocity filled me, soothed me and filled me with gratitude.

One young girl who looked to be in her mid teens approached the edge of the wall with her father, and he told her to hand her lantern to me… she did so hesitantly and then asked whether it was okay for her to get in the water… “What do you do, is it okay to just get in?” she queried… recognizing the tentative yet unmistakable passion in her face, I smiled at her, offered my hand up to hers and said simply, “I did.” Her father urged her to go ahead and, as she took my hand to take her place in the lake next to me, he and I exchanged smiles shared by elders across eternity, knowing the singular impact that this moment would have in his daughter’s life… my arms were longer than hers and, as people handed me their lanterns by the twos, I handed one of them to her for each one I set afloat… other people soon joined us and, before it was done, there was an impromptu cadre of us standing in the water, midwifing hopes, dreams, apologies and beliefs burning bright, all flickering in the flames of the lanterns moving across the lake...

As the crowd dissipated, I raised myself out of the water, donned my sandals once more, and walked up the lawn to find my way back to my Jeep. My last look back out onto the tranquility and the intent of those candlelit, bobbing prayers reinforced my belief that, 64 years after a horrendous event that carried with it the perceived possibility of a global inability to heal... we were instead all connected on that night. Those who were commemorating this event across the globe much as we were in Seattle, Washington, were all connected on that night. We are choosing this peace. We are choosing this remembrance. We are choosing this understanding. We are choosing our own path forward, paved with our unshakable belief in the triumph of the human spirit to transcend all transgression where a loving heart resides in compassion and forgiveness. We make this conscious choice buoyed by our inherent Knowing that we all possess within us the capacity to learn, to grow, to evolve and to elevate to a higher plane of understanding and acceptance… when our actions are motivated in love, there is no other choice.

We are playing new tapes in our heads... tapes containing songs authored from our own hearts… we know these songs to be True, because we sing them with spirits full to bursting with the courage of self-examination and the unparalleled freedom of unbridled joy…

GETTING THE BOOT: LEPRECHAUN STYLE

Hello, everyone... I've finally been convinced by a certain person in County Cork to write my own blog. Several of you have encouraged me over the years to write a book, but this seems to make more sense, as most of my musings are observational. Since it was the not-so-subtle insistence of this self-described "ordinary Joe" who has finally gotten me off the dime, it seems only fitting that my first post is a story we wrote together, and I hope you enjoy it:

Many people are under the mistaken impression that leprechauns, if they ever actually did exist, are part of Ireland’s past and that they have been relegated to folklore. Those people would be sorely mistaken, for I have it on good authority that, contrary to popular belief, not only are leprechauns still alive and well in Ireland, they are adaptable and thriving. Many have even taught themselves the ways of technology and have changed with the changing world they live in, all the while maintaining the magic that is the mystery of the leprechaun...

A fine example of such evolution can be found in the story of one poor sod who committed the grievous error of betraying a leprechaun’s trust not so very long ago. You see, there was a particular leprechaun who hailed from the County of Cork, and his reputation as a fine graphic artist was known far and wide. Local boat owners and business people flocked to him to have beautiful works of art applied to their boats, vehicles and businesses, and the leprechaun enjoyed a thriving enterprise. Though he was part of the community of The Little People, his honor and integrity were as large as the all outdoors and, thus, he was sought after and trusted implicitly by all who dealt with him.

There was a businessman who believed himself to be above others who lived near this thriving but insular community, and he had heard of the leprechaun’s reputation as a fine artist and a savvy storyteller. The gentleman, who was full of his own importance, was quite wealthy, had several holdings throughout the parish and there beyond, and enjoyed a luxurious lifestyle as a result. He was particularly proud of the car that he drove, a metallic silver Mercedes, and of the boat that he sailed, his pride and joy. It was a large, impressive vessel that he kept at the marina of the local boat club. The man was quite vainglorious about his ability to have acquired both his boat and his car, and he attached great personal importance to himself in having attained such fine possessions and equated same to his position in the community. He made it his business to let everyone know of his achievements in his own tactless and vulgar way.

The man had looked about the marina and had seen the work of the leprechaun artist everywhere, emblazoned on all the fine vessels moored there. Not to be outdone, the man wanted artwork for his own boat, something that would announce to all who saw it that he had “arrived.” And so it was that the man was inspired to contact the talented leprechaun and to engage him in service to provide that statement with the magic that only a leprechaun can. The leprechaun advanced his ideas about a design, the man was thrilled, a barter ensued, a price agreed upon and, as he always did, the leprechaun dispatched the job quickly and professionally. The man had a beautiful piece of original artwork on his vessel by week’s end, and all who beheld it poured forth their compliments to the man for his wise investment. What the people didn’t know is that the man hadn’t actually invested a single coin in the art work for, even though the spectacular results were there for all to see, the man hadn’t paid the leprechaun for his labor. Not a wise thing to do to a leprechaun. Despite billing after billing, the man continued to put off the leprechaun with one excuse after another. Because the leprechaun was a fair-minded, even-tempered sort, he let this go by for a short period of time. But, because he was also no fool, he created the opportunity to approach the man in person at no expense to the man’s personal dignity regarding the outstanding balance, and on more than one occasion, but all to no avail.
Leprechauns have very long and very deep memories; the seed had been set, and this was not over.

Finally, the leprechaun had reached the end of his generosity in the matter and, one afternoon in the car park of the boat club, he confronted the man and demanded fair payment for his labors. The man hemmed, hawed, stammered and backpedaled, and the leprechaun told him this: “Look, you either pay me right now, or I’m going to be forced to take action that I usually don’t, and I am going to have to sort you out!” The man became indignant and demanded to know what the leprechaun meant by such a statement. “You can take that any way you like,” replied the leprechaun, knowing that the man took his full meaning, and yet the man continued to refuse. Without another word, the leprechaun turned on his heel, walked away, tapping the side of his nose, which said, “Wait and see….” The man thought the matter was ended. He got into his beloved Mercedes and sped off, smirkingly convincing himself to his detriment that he had emerged the victor of the skirmish.

Now, not only was the leprechaun talented, fair-minded, even-tempered, dependable and wise, he was an incredibly clever little fellow. When he returned home, he immediately set about to work in his shop, laboring industriously into the night on a very special project. This was a project for which no one had engaged his services, but one that he knew had to be just perfect, nonetheless, as it had a most particular destination. Late into the night he endeavored, carefully designing, cutting, measuring, and working at such a speed that the little strips of gleaming, reflective silver vinyl with which he worked flew all about him as if they had been caught up in a desert scirocco. When he had finished, the leprechaun stood back, folded his arms, assessed what he created and, when he did, he couldn’t help but throw his head back in laughter. He laughed as he turned out the lights of his shop, he laughed as he crossed the gardens to his home, and he laughed as he turned out the lights before taking himself off to leaba. He even chuckled once again as he nestled his head into his pillow before drifting off to dreams. The following day, he dropped round to the car park of the boat club. Since the man spent nearly equal amounts of time in the boat club bar and out on the water in his boat, his car was usually to be found there. He located the man’s car and, working quickly and quietly, he surreptitiously applied the vinyl pieces to the boot of the man’s beloved Mercedes. The color of the vinyl and the paint of the car was such a perfect match that it was impossible to tell that the vinyl was even there. If anyone had watched him, busy at his enterprise, you can be sure that they would have been puzzled, indeed.

Months went by, still no payment was forthcoming from the man, and the leprechaun went quietly about his work, dependably filling orders for people who paid, delighting them with his talents and not letting himself even think about the man in the Mercedes, as he had written the man off as a bad apple and the unpaid balance as a bad debt. So it startled the leprechaun somewhat when he answered his telephone and heard the man’s voice at the other end of the line. “How dare you!?” sputtered the man, “Who do you think you are?!” The leprechaun asked the man, “What are you talking about?” to which the man replied indignantly, “You know exactly what I’m talking about!” Yes, the leprechaun did, and he had to stifle a laugh, as he could picture the steam curling out from under the man’s collar.

You see, the man had discovered quite by accident what the leprechaun had actually done to his Mercedes. As the man came out of the bar of the boat club one night, full of drink, he noticed two young men standing near his car, doubled over with laughter. He asked them what they were laughing at but they were at it with such effort that they were unable to reply, only to point at the boot of the car. The man looked at his car and, in the dim illumination of the parking lot, he saw nothing to inspire hilarity. Perplexed, he inquired again but, still, the two young lads were able only to stagger about holding their bellies and to sag into each other in gales of laughter. Just then, the headlights from a passing car illuminated the boot of the Mercedes. To the man’s horror, as the headlights hit the vinyl, retro-reflective words seemed to appear from out of nowhere: “The man driving this car is a wanker.” The man had driven his Mercedes for nearly four months with these words emblazoned on his car, visible to anyone who would have been driving behind him and illuminating his car with their headlights! With a full head of steam from this discovery, the man now called upon the leprechaun, demanding satisfaction. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” the leprechaun insisted, “but now that I’ve got you on the line, how about that money you owe me?” And before the man could even respond, the leprechaun rightly hung up on him.

Days went by and, when no payment was received, the leprechaun decided to up the ante. Once again, he could be found working late into the night in his workshop, this time designing, cutting and measuring day-glo, cherry-colored pieces of vinyl. And, once again, when he stepped back to assess the end product of his labor, he threw his head back and laughed heartily, laughing all the way across the gardens, into the house, as he turned off the light and as he nestled into his pillow.

As I have mentioned previously, the leprechaun was a clever fellow and, as is the want of all leprechauns, made a study of people as a hobby. He knew that the man went sailing every Saturday and so, waiting until the next Friday, and working under the cover of night, the leprechaun took his punt upriver to the boat club where the man had his luxurious cobalt-blue boat moored. This particular slip had the businessman boarding his boat from the dock on the port side. Pulling up quietly next to the vessel on the starboard side, which faced the river, the leprechaun set about the business of applying his vinyl to the boat, the second of the man’s two most-prized possessions. When he had finished, he quietly pushed the punt away from the boat and turned around to assess his efforts. Satisfied, he engaged the motor, headed out into the dark current, and laughed all the way back down the river to his home.

Sure enough, the very next day as the leprechaun had predicted, the man took his beautiful boat out and sailed it down the river, her starboard side in full view to all structures and personnel on the shore on the way down, and the starboard once again in full view to all the passing boats out in the river on his way back up. He always felt grand while he was aboard her, because she really was a lovely example of yacht design, but he couldn’t help but be immensely proud of her that day. Everywhere she went, he noticed, she drew the particular attention of everyone who beheld her. ”I’ve never seen so many people quite so enthralled with the look of her,” he thought proudly to himself, and allowed himself to be even more puffed up than usual as he rather smugly considered the grandeur of his boat and the reaction that she was engendering.

He sailed all about the harbor, returning the smiles and waves of the people he encountered on the water. As he neared the marina, however, and distance no longer separated him from the people who were looking at his boat, it became apparent that the people who were waving and pointing were, in fact, not cheering him on. No, to the contrary; they were laughing. Laughing! Flustered, the man docked the boat into her slip and, immediately upon having done so, a man in a rib passed by and asked the man why he had all of that lettering plastered on his lovely hull. Hurriedly, the man leaned over the starboard rail. There, against the beautiful, sleek blue of his hull, he read upside down in cherry-red, day-glo letters the words: “This bastard doesn’t pay his bills.” The prat had sailed for over four hours throughout the river and the harbor amongst his peers without a clue as to what he was advertising.

So, as you can see, leprechauns do exist, and you have been warned: Don’t mess with The Little People.

The leprechaun received a check in the next day’s post; and he laughed all the way to the bank.