Isn't That Precious

"Are you in search of precious metals?" was the question as she came down the stairs, arms full of various shelving pieces. It was delivered with a heavy accent, as if dropped like a quote from a murder mystery. I'd be guessing if I tried to identify the language that the English was draped with. But what the hell-- I think it was Russian? I don't know-- my CIA skill set has never really been steadily developed.

"Unfortunately, no," I chuckled, with atrophied cleverness.

The conversation would end there. At least, between the two of us. But inside my head, it was only beginning.

I stumbled around inside my mind, fumbling with words, wondering more about the accent. Maybe it was French. I reaffirmed that I didn't know. All the while, I was continuing, walking away from her, never to converse with her again.

Then something shiny caught my eye; some sort of clip glistened at my feet, its gold and silver finish sparkling in the sun.

Precious metals. Indeed.

I bent over and picked up the metal object and placed it in my saddlebag pocket in my cargo type pants. A practice that I've replicated a hundred times over the last several years.

"I guess I am looking for precious metals," I thought, wondering why I had told the woman differently.

It was an article about found objects that started me looking at the ground more. And then it was an article on James Hampton, a quiet custodian who collected bits of foil and tin and assorted "refuse" and assembled "The Throne", an elaborate artwork that was discovered only after his death. It got me to start thinking about the hidden qualities in life-- and started me investigating the true meaning of value.

So I started noticing, while I was walking around, through parking lots and alleyways, all of the little things that are left behind, on purpose or by accident. And I started to collect some of them. I have tended to be drawn towards the dilapidated, rusted, and marred. And almost exclusively metal-- bottle caps, wire, shop scrap, etc. I've had the idea that I'm amassing a collection that I will one day assemble into some machine or diorama that brings all of these lost souls together, making it whole again.

So upon further review, I think I am in search of precious metals. At least, I'm trying to define what it is precious really means.

The Search Continues

Still looking for the train engine that I saw whilst riding the A.C.E. train several weeks ago... I've since found several other things. So a short post to show some pictures I've collected (and may I at this time reserve the right to edit/add/delete at a later date...)

Enjoy.

There Is No Greater Love

Continuing with the "found stuff" theme... A scrap of paper found its way into my attention the other day-- something I'd seen before, and so maybe that's why it caught my eye and held it a bit this time around. I don't know. It was a flier for some sort of Bible study or sermon, titled "No Greater Love Was Ever Shown." It talked about the words of Jesus Christ, that the greatest love a person can have for his friends is to give his life for them. (John 15:13) I didn't read further than the title, however, until now. I was struck by the words in the title and found myself ruminating on potential interpretations. That's what we humans do, afterall, particularly when it comes the Bible. Perhaps we are constantly interpreting words, images, feelings, etc., though rarely are we consciously aware of it.

A few days earlier I had been riding in the car with my wife. A song was introduced that reminded me of the anniversary of Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.'s assassination. The discjockey took some time to commemorate the occasion, noting it had been 40 years as of this particular weekend. Then the song started-- it was a version of U2's "Pride (In the Name of Love)" that was sung acoustically by Shawn Colvin. The gravity of the occasion, coupled with the tender singing and accompanying guitar, and the lyrics of this inspiring song moved me to tears. I sat, stone faced, listening to the lyrics as tears welled up and crept over my cheeks.

My wife noticed me crying and checked to make sure I was okay. I explained it was the song. "I love this song," I said, my voice cracking. But being asked to vocalize what I was feeling made me realize it was more than just the song, or the anniversary, or the lyrics, or the performance... And it was more than I could talk about in the moment.

I wept, but not just because I was sad. Not just because I was moved emotionally. There was an overwhelming amount of profundity going on, much of it escaping any vocabulary labels I tried to stick to any of it. But I tried to talk through it anyway-- much like I'm trying to write through it now. I will keep trying, keep reaching for the perfect words, knowing that the words fail. But I will not give up. To try is to walk with God.

So I've heard.

Anyway. Levity-- deal with it. I thought about the amazement that this American brother of mine brought to us. The Dream. And so much more. What an orator. A hero. A martyr. A leader. The lyrics in the song, although they "fudge" the historical data a bit, capture the moment of Dr. King's death like so:

Early morning
April 4
Shots ring out in the Memphis sky

Free at last
They took your life
They could not take your pride

In the name of Love
One more in the name of Love

Even now I am writing this with a lump in my throat. Such great strength of character it takes to speak one's truth, and to sustain one's message of hope under the strain of great adversity-- all the while protesting non-violently. He was struck down by a violent act. His message-- The Dream-- lives on.

More than that-- if there can be more-- is that this was another incident in a string of graphic, horrific assassinations that brought the 60's to a close-- JFK, MLK, RFK... so much trauma, it left our nation deformed by the ill effects of post traumatic stress disorder. This is the world I was born into.

More specifically, in the spring of 1968, our country was embroiled in a very unpopular war in Viet Nam. The war was something that MLK had spoken out against very robustly and adamantly. And after he was struck down, my parents were faced with the real life possibility that their lives and their love might be surrendered to the fray of this conflict as well.

My dad was enlisted with the Navy at the time, and it was looking more and more like his ship would be setting sail to engage in the conflict. In the face of this, my mom and dad decided to try and start a family so that, in the event that my dad was called upon to serve for his country, if he were to give the ultimate sacrifice and die for his country, at least my mother would have a child by which to remember him. Out of this love and sacrifice, I was born.

There is no greater Love.

To rethink the decision, it would be easy to label it as foolish, if not naive. How would a single mother survive without her spouse in their fledgling marriage, their nascent family? How could she provide for their child if father were to perish? It was still early in the women's movement of the time, and there weren't numerous career opportunities for women, let alone those with children and without a spouse. So although the decision to have a child in the face of this great danger was a beautiful, hopeful, faithful act, it flew in the face of reason.

As luck and fate would have it, my father would have his ship decommissioned from engaging in the war at the eleventh hour, and so there was never any threat to his life or the struggles of his family due to his untimely demise in the service of his country. For this I am very grateful. But I'm also very grateful for the decision to have faith in something greater than oneself that both of my parents displayed in bringing me into existence. Under the duress and uncertainty of their situation, they chose to hope for something better-- a child to live on through the impossible.

That was me.

Mere months after MLK was brutally killed, a decision was made to try and bring another life forward into this world. And for that I am thankful.

There's no greater love.

No greater love was ever shown... what did this mean, I pondered. Was it the epitome of all love, that which Jesus showed in giving of his life for his friends? Or-- could it be-- that there is no greater Love? There is that which is Love, and then there is everything else. In showing love, one shows the greatest gift that there is to be given. Is that the greatest lesson of Love?

Not that the example spelled out in the Bible is less than perfect. Or that any other display of love is greater. Could it be that Love is the ultimate, perfect, all-encompassing answer? Reminds me of another song lyric, only this time John Lennon's: "Love is the answer. I know it is. For sure." Could it be that what the Lord almighty teaches is Love, in any shape or form, is what we are all meant to do? And that nothing is Greater? Could this be the message, the answer, for which all humanity seeks?

Again. I'm just sayin'.

Kermit to the Rescue

I found a ring a few years ago... long enough ago that I don't remember where. I find a lot of things cast aside, either on purpose or by accident, as I walk these streets in my home town, doing the job I do. Or, should I say, jobs. There could be any number of things I'm working on at any given time. But I digress.

I have started to think that I am part crow. My eyes are keen to shiny things. A quick glean or sparkle and my attention seeks out the position of that which is emitting it. As I walk along the sidewalk, through parking lots, along the gutters of residential streets, I catch glimpses of lights a shinin' and I stop to investigate. Many times something much too small to pick up and analyze closer is shining brighter than it ever imagined it could, just long enough to make itself bigger and brighter and noticeable to my peripheral vision. A speck of dust reflects the sun at just such an angle that a shooting star seems to dance right through my imagination, and is gone before I can figure out what happened.

But sometimes, I stop, stoop closer, and I find something interesting. And so I pick it up, look at it a bit, and if it continues to be of interest, I put it in my pocket. And at the end of the day, when I empty my pockets, I rediscover what's been secreted there and find it yet another resting place. I've been collecting small scraps of metal-- bottle caps, wire, etc.-- as part of some idealistic art project that I have yet to fully comprehend for several years now. And that's a story for another day. So, for now-- the ring.

Found it a long while ago. Initially looked at it and determined that it wasn't worth much, but I held on to it for some other reason. It found its way into a dusty corner in a small jewelry box that I got as a gift a few decades ago. And I forgot about it.

But then I had that trip to Santa Cruz, and I wasn't sleeping very well, and I was transitioning to a new set of medications for my Bipolar disorder, and I had another manic episode that landed me in the hospital for a week... so there was a tendency for me to look back, rethink, retool. I started looking for clues as to what may have brought on this latest episode, but also looked for things that could ground me where I was at the moment, kind of like setting a spike in the mountain as a foothold, so that I could manage the climb up and not fall back farther.

Part of this tendency brought me to action; I started sorting through things-- not just in my mind, but actual things, possessions of mine. I sorted through boxes and shelves and piles of this and that-- opened drawers that hadn't been opened in so long that I'd forgotten their contents. I moved furniture around, dusted things off, took stock of my things, tallied and prioritized importance and value. And this action brought me to the ring I had found.

I looked at it as if for the first time. I remembered I had found it while working, somewhere in the city... I remembered its design, its tattered finish, its bent-out-of-round shape that made it sort of difficult to wear... but I put it on my right pinky finger, and it seemed to feel... well, right.

Many years ago, at a Weight Watcher's meeting, I learned about a thing called "anchoring." It's the skill of reframing a tendency, a "nervous tick" of sorts, into a reminder of the behavior that you're trying to change. It's also referred to as "grounding" by some. I had identified my unconscious tendency to fiddle with my wedding band, and associated my focus on my weight loss/health goals with it. So after a few conscious efforts at noticing when I was playing with my ring, and immediately thinking about my weight loss goals, I soon "anchored" my ring and my tendency to toy with it as a device to refocus my attention on the new behaviors I was working on in hopes of attaining my weight loss goals.

Now I am wearing this other ring, and it has anchored me in the moment. When I fiddle with it, I am reminded to be mindful and relax. And it has led me in some interesting directions.

For instance, I've contemplated its design. The face of the ring is blue with globules of green mixed in. These colors are metaphors to what I've been going through. Sometimes I'm feeling kinda blue, while other times I'm feeling green. Little down, little sick. Little raunchy, or a little jealous or envious. But even when I'm blue, I'm still a little green. It's kinda hip these days, anyway, trying to be green. Go green, save the world. Or at least, save life as we know it.

And that's where Kermit came back to me. It's not easy being green. Kermit T. Frog has been a part of my life as long as I remember. I grew up with him-- I loved Sesame Street as a child, and again when I rediscovered it during my college years. One of my college roommates and I were strongly sobered by the early death of Jim Henson. I always loved the Muppet Show. My sister and I sang every song from the Muppet Movie soundtrack long after it was "cool" to do so. The Muppet Christmas album with John Denver still moves me. For whatever reason, I've always felt a kindred spirit with Kermit. Never met him, but I've got a lot of respect for him. Again. For whatever reason, and for what it's worth. I like Kermit the Frog.

And now, Kermit's with me, anchored in my right hand, to assist me with living.

Interestingly enough, I received a book from my sister and her family last year by Kermit, called "Before You Leap: A Frog's-Eye View of Life's Greatest Lessons." I've moved it to the front of my reading queue.

I don't think Kermit has been in the running for any Nobel's or Pulitzer's. But I think I'm going to enjoy this read nonetheless.

Mindful on a Train

I recently had the occasion to ride the Altamont Commuter Express (A.C.E.) train from Santa Clara to Manteca/Lathrop. It was an incredibly enriching experience. I rode with my mom, who had packed us a lunch of ham sandwiches, apples, and bottled water. My Aunt Laura Jean assisted in the lunch packing, it should be noted.

Anyway, we spent the trip sharing thoughts, and me in hypo-chatty mode (it feels like a conversation, but I'm predominantly doing most of the talking...), noticing the things so easily taken for granted. We left the driving to the engineer and were free to notice the scenery as we leisurely sauntered across the rails, snaking through the "back country" of the Bay Area. We started off going through Alviso and the desalinization plants along the bay/delta that flows into San Francisco Bay. We noted large white mounds, guessed and hypothesized as to what they were and what sort of manufacturing was occurring there, and then we saw a water tower with "Leslie Salt" painted on it. We snaked along with a river through the towns (cities?) of Newark, Union City, Sunol, and Pleasanton-- all the while noticing things that outdated much of what we see in our everyday lives in the bustle of urban living. Somewhere between Newark and Livermore, I noticed an old railroad engine-- possibly a steam engine-- that had been sitting dormant for many years. It is now a decomposing heap of hazardous waste; rusting metal entwined with weeds and vines and surely other wildlife. Noticing it made my mind reel with possibility. And oh, the questions! How long had it been parked there? How old was it? When did it make its last run? Were there any plans of renovation? How many people, places, and things had this engine assisted with its service?

I talked and talked with my mom, inspired by our surroundings and the unique perspective with which the train rider is provided. With no distraction from other drivers, safety concerns, controlling a vehicle, etc., one is allowed to pay more attention and notice more about the scenery, and more time is allowed for undistracted reflection. We rode the train for about an hour and forty-five minutes. It took me almost that long to eat my lunch, I was so embedded in the experience.

So I was inspired to drive the backroads, in order that I might find some subjects for my photography and writing. Suzy and I embarked on a little jaunt that attempted to recreate the experience I had on the train. We drove on paths less taken than the freeways and highways, my intention being to find that steam engine and take some photos.

We drove through Niles Canyon, but stuck to the "main" roads due to time constraints (and because we needed gas...), so I didn't locate my steam engine. But we did see many a wildflower, including countless California Poppies, and found gas in a side of Pleasanton that we had never realized existed-- it felt so small town friendly, we almost couldn't believe it was Pleasanton. But then, when you take Interstate 580 through it most of the time, that's what you miss. You see the big ticket, fast this-and-that, cookie cutter stuff that has homogenized the American sense of place. Mass corporate culture masks reality, placing products and brand names in front of the soul of small town America, all in the name of "progress." But I think I've typed about that before (see last entry. I know I'll be going back to re-read).

What I did get to see instead of the good ol' steam engine, was some good old-fashioned train crossing signals. We pulled off the road so I could snap a few quick shots of poppies and the guardrails and signals. (Suzy sat quite patiently in the car while I indulged my muse. She even took a couple photos. But that's for her blog, not this one...) I'm reminded of the importance of trains in general-- from my experiences in Grinnell, to childhood memories of trains on Lake Shasta and in Escalon, to my mom's memories of the train ride that brought her and her mom and sister from a small town in Georgia to California when she was five years old.

But that's for mom's blog.

Catching Up with Mike

We went to Santa Cruz a few weeks ago, even though there was a storm brewin'. One of Suzy's co-workers had said he would be there because it was the best time to go-- you can watch the waves roll in and pound the pier, and there's hardly any people there. All the weather wimps stay home. So we went, packing lots of layers of clothing and raingear, for an overnight stay in the city where we like to spend a lot of our leisure time-- a place where we're comfortable, and where we've considered living, if we could find some way to make it work.

We headed over on a Saturday, early afternoon, well before the storm was to start to hit. We took Saratoga Avenue, which turns into Hwy 9, through the Los Gatos/Saratoga hills, passing through small towns like Felton and Ben Lomond, places that still have businesses with names like "Dottie's Diner" and "Jim's Bar," and not a fast food restaurant to be seen. Nary a Starbuck's or Jamba Juice, either.

We paused to snap some pictures of the beautiful moss covered forestation. We even grabbed a couple of fliers advertising some of the properties on the market, which included a log cabin, built in 1920, that had been reduced to a bargain basement asking price of $469,000. Mature landscaping included.When we arrived in Santa Cruz, we checked into our hotel and got dressed in layers so we could walk into downtown and have lunch at one of our favorite hangouts, 99 Bottles, a beer haven with pub grub that touts, literally, 99 bottles of beer on the wall, several of which are offered on tap. Suzy and I have both completed our first tour through the beer menu, consuming 99 different beers and earning our free t-shirt and our names & short quotes added to the Wall of Fame. I finished first, having started several years before I had even met Suzy; and incidentally, when Suzy finished about two years after I had, her name was added to the wall-- in the same booth as mine, so that we are just a few name plates away from each other. We couldn't have planned it better if we had tried.

Lunch was good, and we talked with some of the locals who patronized the pub on that day about some of the goings on around town. It's these sorts of conversations that Suzy and I treasure; it's a favorite sport of ours to frequent establishments and "serve and volley semantics" with the patronage. Some of the most interesting conversations and people have happened into our lives as we have bellied up to the bar. And although we arrived at a time when all stools at the bar were occupied, we sat at a table in the southwest corner of the front dining area and spoke to a mother and her son about the clam chowder cook-off that was occurring that weekend down at the wharf, and had gone on despite the foul weather. Yet another reason for us to return on another day and experience a festival of fun and food. Like we need reasons...

After lunch, we did some shopping and then headed back to the hotel to make plans for dinner. As we were walking up Soquel Avenue towards Water Street, I saw the following scene and paused to take a picture:But as I first looked to take the above picture, Suzy remarked that there was someone on the porch. I looked closer and asked if I could take a picture, but couldn't hear the response of the individual talking back to me. So I moved closer. And I met Mike. Here's the first picture I snapped:

Mike, Suzy and I talked for awhile about this and that, and he told us some stories about how this was his campsite, that he was just gonna hang out here, out of the rain, until the storm had passed.

He told us how he tried to live his life, always cleaning up after himself, using garbage cans how they're supposed to be used. He spoke of how he had some sleeping bags that were on their way, as promised by some earlier folks that he'd visited with. I took another picture of him, at his request, as he said-- "How about another one without the hat?"

I asked if he was here at this particular location often (not as a pick-up line, by the way), and that was when he talked about how this was his campsite. We exchanged some life stories, and he extolled the virtue that is life. "Life is great!" he preached, playfully and yet somberly. No joke. He wasn't being flip. He was being honest. And we honestly believed him.

I thanked him for his time and his stories, and asked him if he'd like a copy of the pictures I'd taken. He said that would be really nice. So I said I'd print them out and bring them by to him the next time we were passing through town. He thanked us, and we bid him well. Suzy gave him some money and he thanked her and said "God Bless You." All the while, with a smile.

We made it back to the hotel (after I paused to take the picture I had initially intended) and farted around, somewhat literally, until it was time to make a decision about dinner. By this time the storm was starting to whip up quite a ruckus, and so our plan to walk down to the wharf was receiving some serious 2nd and 3rd reconsiderations. Ultimately, we opted to gear up, bundle up, and walk on down to see what we'd find down at the wharf. Of course, this took a bit of time due to the fact that I was in Chatty Kathy mode, blathering about like some talk-radio personality that had miraculously awaken from a coma just minutes before "going live"... So we made it down to the wharf, decided on a restaurant, and proceeded to have a wonderful, peaceful, fulfilling meal and conversation. I took my leftovers to go, and after opting out of dessert and finishing a stellar after dinner cup of coffee, we began our walk back to our hotel.

To our surprise, the rain had stopped; Any wind left had been tamed to a whispering breeze. We had a very pleasant saunter back to the hotel. We happened upon the "Alto house" on our way, and so I decided to stop in again and see how Mike was holding up. He spoke much more slowly than he had earlier, his speech quite slurred, and I wondered if he had spent the money Suzy had given him on a bottle of medication of some sort. I asked him if he liked seafood, and handed him my leftover halibut when he said that he did. I told him what it was, and that he should probably eat it slowly or it might make him sick. He thanked us with a few simple words, but said them in a way that seemed to gather all the warmth in his heart and shower it gently over us. He spoke of his Guardian Angels that kept watch over him, and helped him through the rough patches in his life. And he said that he always tried to do right and that he had five dollars in his pocket and it was ours if we wanted it. I thanked him and said that we didn't need it.

I think it may have been the five dollars Suzy had given to him earlier.

He snuggled up to the leftovers, adjusting the welcome mat draped over his lap to keep his legs warm, and settled into eating. As we left him to his meal, he blessed us again. And we felt it.

The night was calm and soothing. I felt almost as if we were in the eye of the storm, so to speak. We got back to our hotel and peeled off our layers of clothing and prepared for sleep. Within minutes of returning to the sanctuary of our room, the wind kicked up, and the rain returned, and the storm once again began its assault upon the night. It was like we had been sheltered from it for our walk back from the wharf, and upon securing ourselves in our hotel room, the hounds had again been released.

I would not sleep much that night, thinking of all things poetic, symbolic, and monolithic. And inspirational.

Plenty to Talk About

I've been a veritable Chatty Kathy doll lately. Lotsa brain activity coupled with an enhanced interface with my vocalization and communication skills. But still I be pausing short of writing things down. Beyond the dry erase board by the phone, at least...

Every now and then, things catch up with you. You're going along, thinking things are just fine. You're driving down the road at a comfortable speed, feeling good and adequate about your driving skills, trusting in your ability to make the journey even though you can't see beyond what is being lit by your headlights (how about a little shout out to E.L. Doctorow for that spicy metaphor?)... you keep driving, even though you're tired, even though things seem to be getting increasingly "hairy" and your self doubt, or your "spidey sense," is tingling... You think you see, in slow motion, something in your peripheral vision darting around and jutting in and out of your headlights, and so you kinda swerve a little, and the back end fishtails, but you're still in control-- right? Still barreling down the poorly lit road... Nevermind that you've long since driven through several warning signs-- you turn on your windshield wipers to clear the debris from the countless barriers you've plowed your vehicle into and beyond, splinters and sparks exploading like fireworks--road closure and other numerous signs to slow down, turn around, or just stop and check your road map...

Uh, I sure can obliquely rant and rave through extended metaphor. God forbid I get to the meat and potatoes of where the rubber hits the road-- Er, get to the bare-naked facts of my story. Okay, so it's not God's doing-- it's mine.

Long story short? I've been parked for awhile here, doin' some routine maintenance. Long overdue tuneup. Change the oil, check the plugs, bleed the break lines... rotate the tires... adjust the mirrors... renew registra-- Okay, enough already.

What happened is that I had another episode. Mania strikes again.

Got me some new support classes, new meds, new options. And a new outlook, new perspective. Optimistic, dare I type.

Lots of thought crystalization. Things making sense. Enjoying everyday experiences and noticing the beauty that life seems to effortlessly eek into existence everyday, everywhere... or should I say anywhere? So many things that have been right here in my back yard that I've taken for granted, or not allowed myself to see, or maybe just forgot how to look outside myself to be able to notice...

So I gots me some writin' to do, mmm--hmm. Lots.

But I must take my time, do it well, and do it healthfully; Nurture the nascent, budding blooms inside my imagination by mindfully attending to their needs without ignoring needs of my own.

Hence the hiatus. "Down for maintenance" for unknown time period. And this is O. K.

I'm good with it. Hope you are, too.

Again, enjoy the ride-- maybe you should take the wheel for a bit? Lemme know what you think.

I promise to return the favor.