Origins—Texas: Pandemia Chronicles

Hi 😊

Portrait of the Traveler On the Nueces River

I entered Texas yesterday realizing how every time I come here I am different and how Texas, if it were a person probably is too. I would say we’ve grown apart. Or to be more accurate, I’ve learned how very different Texas always was and I am just in some ways catching up.

You see, in my mind I don’t believe I had all the information and went about my youth largely in a fog about why all the animosity? Amid all the genteel southern hospitality and the almost regal Spanish politesse there lay a seething antagonism, antipathy, between Anglo and “Hispanic”. Along with the complete dismissiveness of anything plebeian, otherwise known as “Mexican”. Of course, never ever mentioned was the “Indio “, except in the romanticized version depicted by Tonto and the Lone Ranger or the strong silent type dominating TV shows in the early 60’s who could communicate large messages in a few hand flicks of sign language. It’s not hard to understand why much of Texan society in the Rio Grande Valley tends to operate in two-dimensional caricatures passing for a life. For Anglos, status is not important because, well, they have it and if you’re not White, you don’t. It doesn’t alter all the other class antagonisms that are a feature of society, White or not, if you’re White, you are afforded a little more leeway in most things. For “Hispanics”, everything seems to revolve around status; from how close to White you are to what kind of title you have, from what neighborhood you come. There is a pecking order many seem to be much more clearly aware about than I ever seemed to notice.

The Texas I’ve come to know seems far divorced from its formal history, which of course I received as part of my public schooling. The more accurate truth is that our history began with a lie.

No, everything you probably heard did actually happen, Cortéz did come to Mexico and the “Aztec” empire (another term distortion) was defeated by a few hundred Spaniards and 500 years later, here we are with South Texas “Hispanics” and “Anglos” (what? You thought the problem with terms only applies to one and not the other?) all playing nice and hatin’ at the same time. It’s the problem with the truth. It can hide the lies so well. First, the Aztecs. . . .

You know, before you know it, you start into full professor mode and, well, maybe I’d like to do that sometme but I don’t really want t do book reports about history here. Odyssey goin’ on. It’s more about trials and tribulations.

I’m writing here as I am a bit more replenished (not really refreshed) recognizing that my trials have mostly been about tribulation. And how my origins seem to have deeply affected every way I’ve connected to the world. I don’t mean to impy I’m any different than others, but I do believe that the social context of our existence does affect our personal history. Being a Chicano (yes, a deliberate choice of identity) growing up in the 1950’s and 60’s, I believe, had a profound effect on every way I’ve intersected in the world. Anger and hurt are mostly situated in our core personal experiences. Although such experiences might explan much, the social context of “status” and class and identity, the one foisted onto us by circumstances, has a powerful influence on everything we think and how we walk in the world (I think S. deBeauvior and F. Fanon had much to say about these things). The question is how do we grow beyond it.

That, I think is my quest; for this part of the Odyssey at any rate.

Of Triggers and The Impulse to Expect Rejection

I struggle with the concept of “triggers”. It’s not that I don’t understand how previous hurts can unwittingly guide our responses to new situations where we find ourselves vulnerable. If we have often felt shamed when we were seeking acceptance, it shouldn’t be surprising that we’ll react expecting some kind of rejection. Sometimes actively seeking it out because it is what we’ve come to understand and to expect. It somehow serves us. It can be uncomfortable, but it is more familar than actual or healthy acceptance. Even more so difficult to understand that one can honestly interact with you with no real malice; dislike what you are doing but not necessarily dislike you. As a student of children, I do understand how that is what so many of us have experienced in our early lives. It’s one thing to understand, quite another to learn more healthy responses; especially when you don’t always know what those responses ought to be.

But to call such activating events of learned poor reactions, “triggers”, sounds too much like we are all loaded guns waiting to shoot with deadly force. When you’re a gun, your life is destined in some way to shoot. And kill. I refuse to think that being a gun is all we’re meant to be, even in a world as violent as this one. In any case, if we create methaphors about ourselves as destructive weapons, it seems difficult to make the case for how we should care about each other. Or, more to the point, how we can learn to act differently than to be a gun. . . . .Yeah, I know, still professor mode. Sorry.

Why Origins?

Chicanos in Texas have a distinct biological and related cultural characteristic; we are the product of rape, hated in history for neither being “pure” European nor pure Indian, I hope you note the utter contradiction in calling Europeans or native indigenous people pure. It is both a contradiction and a conceit; a way to create and maintain a hierarchy of social status. After all, if you’re a product of rape, it’s not easy for your parents to see you clearly, even in the best intentions. And it is even more complex than one might see at first “blush” (sic). Among us rape children there are those of us actually closer to one or the other progenitor. In some contexts there are even color schemes of dark to light. All of that is written in our psyches if not our DNA. The history of South Texas in particular is marked by usurpation of indigenous cultures, the colonization first of Spanish colonists and then subsequently European Anglos expropriating the land, not from native peoples but from descendants of Spanish colonialism who had colonized the land and its people. Layers upon layers of theft and outright murder, all for the sake of making use of land that others before them hadn’t “productively” enabled its capacity.

There are of course historical landmarks, the wars of Mexican independence from Spain, the war for Texas “independence”, the Mexican War, and, finally the unheralded, barely recorded ethnic cleansing of South Texas from 1915 to 1920 (there are many good works about this history, one is B. Johnson Revolution In Texas). What some people consider the orgins of Mexicans beginning to consider themselves Americans, hence, “Mexican-Americans” or, in my case like many of my youth, Chicano. It is this history that has had its psycho-historical impact on how people of the “Valley” have grown up.

Upon entering Texas this time, I realize that this journey is in truth a journey to a new world albeit ancient in its origins. Marked by its past and only dimly understood by all of us who came from this world.

I am mindful how my travel here is new, but ultimately the most important, not because of a new insight into history but because of a growing insight into myself. It’s tough when your tribulations requre not redemption but compassion for the anger in your soul and empathy for the pain in your heart. That your trials have never been the ones you have experienced but what you have to learn to overcome what they have taught you.

A Brief History of Gravestones and a Dream Awakening: A Chronicle of Pandemia

I left Lawrence (Kansas, don’t know any Lawrences currently) a little bedraggled–emphasis on the “draggled” with very little time to “be” in bed, at least asleep. It seems an Odyssey leaves little time for wanting to if not actually sleeping. It just seems more fun to see a world you’ve seen before with an eye for, well, different detail in contrast to meticulous detail. I didn’t really spend much time through Kansas and Oklahoma, except for the approximately 9 arduous hours of flat and open space. It isn’t surprising to see how . . . .uneven people have become here and how much many, though not all, cling to the ownership of land and privilege so thoroughly wrested from other more original inhabitants, but who nonetheless were migrants and immigrants themselves. I had breakfast at truck stop (takeout to my car) and was struck by the generally Latino/Latina workforce, most serving food, but others taking care of the “grounds” cleaning up the parking lot so that truckers and drivers don’t trip over all the trash they offhandedly throw everywhere but in the trash bins. It was as if I was transported (sic) to a different time; some slaves taken from conquered tribes by Mayans or Aztecs, cleaning the steps to pyramids and markets so that artisans and farmers of the “nation” could do their business without the filth they were prone to create. Here, today, were the descendants of the progeny between Europeans and indigenous people, having mgrated back to what were likely the ancestral lands of their native forbears. Returning to clean the pyramids to the gods paying tolls on a highway and feed the mouths and privilege of the “citizenry”.

Both Kansas and Oklahoma are lands that have special relationship to the Midwestern “Breadbasket” despite just being two among the many with the same kinds of story. As the Kansas Historical Society puts it:

“The land we now call Kansas had been home to many American Indian peoples. The Arapaho, Cheyenne, Comanche, Kansa, Kiowa, Osage, Pawnee, and Wichita are tribes that are considered native to present day Kansas. The area has also been inhabited by many emigrant tribes. Emigrant Indians are those people who have been moved to a new geographic region after being displaced from their original homelands. As non-native peoples became more numerous in the eastern part of the United States, plans were developed to move Indian tribes farther west.”

In short, Kansas was home to many native peoples, the originals were eiher eradicated or colonized and were joined by “emigrant” native people removed from their ancestral lands and made to live with the originals of what is now Kansas, a melting pot, emphasis on melting. Some of the people that came, and went, live on in names of creeks, rivers, and state counties. Driving through from Lawrence through to Fort Worth (Texas), you could see some of those that came and went, Osage, Pawnee, Wichita, a town in Oklahoma called Comanche.

Oklahoma is even more special, for much of early U.S. history, Oklahoma was the buddng nation’s open prison house of indigenous nations where people who were defeated and displaced to serve European settling ended up becoming “emigrants”, that is, a Leavenworth Penitentiary for the inconvenient in the way of “American Progress”.

The stories and history are just too numerous to tell here (there are many books on the topic, one very comprehensive one is 1491: New Revelations of the Americas Before Columbus by C. Mann. All I really want to say is that driving through these often barren lands was a bit like driving through a cemetary with only names of the gravestones written on county road signs and highway markers. Perhaps, the land seems more stark in coming winter and knowing how so many nattive people have suffered disproportionatelty in the pandemic. It was not lost on me to remember the effect of previous pandemics of Europe that were brought here by settlers, sometimes the virulents laced into blankets given to native people as part of “initiating” into . . .civilization.

The Kansas and Oklahoma territories were the last stop for many people who tried too vainly to forestall Pax Americana.

I say all this because this now second day in what I know will be a long journey is really a gateway to a history I need to feel and touch, see and hear on the wind, in the heat of day, and light of a moon. It’s also, likely most important to me, a gateway to the anger and despair we all live, but that is meaningful to understanding at the deepest level my own anger, despair, misbelief.

Wakefulness Into Dreaming: A Twist Before Dying

I said at the beginning of this post that today started off a bit bedraggled. I got to sleep very early. In the morning; about 5 am and slept fitfully until about 10 am. Maybe it was because of a strange bed, or because I didin’t follow my well established regimen for sleeping, ‘honed” in my retirement. It’s amazing the things you need that you packed in your car so you wouldn’t have to buy them on the road; my new iPhone charger (yes, I’ve entered the dark side. Blame my daughter for that. ), charger for my headset, mouthwash but in a different bag, some clementines and crackers (don’t ask) to settle your stomach when you take some medications. . . and, oh yes, your favorite pillows from home to supplement the six available in your twin queen bed hotel room (you really don’t want to know). Hence, what you could have brought in one trip upstairs, ends up being three (the distance between room and parking lot in a large, mostly empty hotel will surprise you) . All around 2 to 3 am. And then sleep, perchance to pretend with your eyes closed hiding the fact that you are wide awake.

I finally did get to sleep, woke up to my alarm at 8 and then promptly decided to just close my eyes awakening about 9:43 after an amazingly deep but brief REM (like) sleep.

And here’s the point (and you thought there wasn’t one, didn’t ya?). As, well, some may know, your dreams come to you after a REM sleep in the period just before waking. They sometimes feel like they are longer but they aren’t. And, of course, there are many good and not so good theories about dreams. You can believe of them as you will. My view, is that everything you dream, everybody in it, is really all about you and the parts of you that people in your mind seem to represent (yeah, you may think otherwise, analyze away for yourelf). For a very long time, I have had several recurring dreams. I know they are because many of them I wake remembering only the most general details; some murderer finding ways to kill me that are only effective if he finds a way to saw through my spine–from the front, a house that holds all my family including my deceased mother (but not my deceased father), a young alternatively blond, sometimes brown-haired girl who has become my new love (yeah, there’s lots there, not the point here, pay attention), and a young dark-haired angry, desperate, self-loathing boy. Even now, the images are receding, which tell me that this dream is by no means over for me. But in my dream last night, I struggle with this boy, fighting with him for being such an angry louse, such a petulant, emotionally manipulative child and how he has ruined just about everything including any chance at love. . . I only remember the struggle. And the conclusion. I kill the boy in the most visceral way, taking hold of him and jumping off the building (it’s a building this time) to our common death, a death that somehow I know we will survive, so, just before we leap, I snap his neck so that I know that he is dead.

And this dream has been recurring for a very long time. It comes as no surprise to me that it occurs during a time of what has been emerging resolution, especially in exposure of a “core hurt” (a word borrowed from a friend) that has resurrected itself for yet one more time in my all too not so young, but very youthful (that is to say, immature) life. I’ve been struggling for a while with fear of acceptance that often manifests as coming on too strong in connection to relationships that are promising but really only just beginning; the fear that you will lose out if immediate full gratification doesn’t show itself right away. Or, when gratification comes but then you wonder if it isn’t real, or you’re not “ready” or a myriad of other ways that some people call an issue with “object permanence”. When you’re a smart guy, you can fool a lot of people that you have it all together. When you’re a caring guy, you spend a lot of time wishing you could be better. And it can be . . . .enlightening when you meet some caring and very smart, loving people and they call you on all of it, sometimes in soft ways where their unconditonal positive regard humbles you and sometimes with a clear rejection of your hurting and emotional self-manipulation, which to them is just manipulation.

I am here on this journey knowing the very real danger that is out here in a pandemic that is running rampant. I only recently became clear that I face another danger, one that is not a problem of acute mental health (at least I don’t think so), but because while I have tried, often with apparent success, “killing off” that angry, distraught, emotonally stunted little boy (sure, you can insert dad issues, mom issues, whatever. But I’m a grown-ass man, so, you know, no) , I think that killing him off has been exactly the problem. Last night, or rather, somewhere between 8 am and 9:43 am today, I sensed something a little new. At the very moments just before waking, I heard myself say something, not to problem child, but to me directly. Only one word, and it has blossomed into ever growing thoughts around, Compassion.

I’ve made lots of emotional errors, and, if today is any indication, I will continue to do so. But I think that what I might try to do more is show myself compassion as I try to do better. I think it is best to be self-compassionate instead of seeking to eradicate a part of me that likely serves other purposes, my anger at the historical injustices of the world we inhabit and species we represent, my disbelief that just because you’re “smart” means you can be complacent in not learning more, and the recognition that just because we’re old, doesn’t mean we are completely mature. Smart is as smart does and mature does as mature is.

Well, like I said, it’s a long journey into this dark night fueled apparently by sharing, really baring, deeper recesses of your soul. I’m not sure it’s what I’d counsel anyone to do. Hell, I’m really very tempted just to set this off permanently into “draft” mode. But I think I have learned one thing about myself. I’d rather choose honesty and truth. We may not know the entire truth and we may not always succeed at being completely honest (some people may argue that hiding some is a good idea, ’cause, you know, creepy otherwise). I do know that I’d rather all of you within the “sound” of my voice hear me being honest and as truthful as I currently know to you. You deserve that and I no longer wish to have you like me without this rather unendearing transparency.

If I walk alone. It’s ok. I’ve been so fortunate to know, some a lot, some too precious little, such wonderful humans. I believe that our problems, certainly regarding me, are not that we are men or women, but that we are humans. We often say something similar in the positive, that “we’re only human”, so, we can’t expect perfection. That is true, but it is also true that because we’re human, we make such terrible mistakes. . . I almost said “unimaginable” mistakes, but you know that isn’t true. We imagine horrific mistakes, make them, and then chalk it up to being human, so, “do over”.

And still, I think our greatest tool out of all of that is for us to be gentler with ourselves, with each other, compassionate. Because in our compassion for ourselves and for others, there is the chance that we can imagine, and then do, better.

I’m gonna try.

Maybe tonight, a dream, perchance to sleep.

Chronicles of Pandemia: Story City

It begins.

Today I began a journey through the middle of the country often known arrogantly as “America” but which in 2020 is more accurately, Pandemia. As I expected, the beginning of this journey seemed as nondescript as the farmland-tamed prairie of the Midwest. The strip and outlet malls beyond the Twin Cities proper gave way to towns that may sound exotic to some, Owatonna, or characteristically pioneer-settler such as Northfield or Farmington, Lakeville. And then again, Albert Lea, exotic in a settler-colonial kind of way.

As I entered Iowa, the land was very much the same. Except, if one can imagine, even more mundane. The Ames’ juxtaposed with the Des Moines’. But what really catches the eye are the highway electronic billboards crying “Mine Protects You, Yours Protects Me, Mask Up Iowa!”. I found it interesting knowing that even as late as October, Iowa’s State administration had been resisting the demand to support use of masks and social distancing to evade infection from the COVID-19 virus. To be sure, it was a welcome effort. On numerous COVID websites, Iowa has been a particularly hot “red zone” where infections have been rampant. So, you can imagine I was quite motivated to rush through Iowa opting to fill up my gas tank even at half full just inside Minnesota so that I wouldn’t have to stop in Iowa.

I was doing quite well, using a rest stop on the Minnesota border (well-fashioned to be as contactless as possible) and, well, not quite “speeding” through the state, but, you know . . . maybe.

And then, I ran into Story City. “Story City, Iowa”? Here I am traveling into a disease-ravaged land to see its history and reveal it in a story, doing my best to avoid my natural inclination to explore, and what do you know? Story City. I had to stop.

Was this some magical place for telling tales; literary cultures? An American Ireland of written traditions that somehow I had missed in my blind disdain for a state that wreaks in usurpation of the tall grass prairie for the sake of . . . .corn and soybeans? Another “field of dreams” writ into a blandness, some sort of camoflauge of dull to hide a gem of lettered splendor? It even has a carousel!

I think that probably should have given me a clue. It turns out that Story City isn’t at all about books and words that draw pictures in your head. It is named after Judge Joseph Story a supreme court justice in the mid 1800s. He is known as a conservative defender of property rights, which is deliciously odd as he is also and best known for having written the U.S. Supreme Court’s majority decision in support of the kidnapped slaves aboard the Spanish slave ship Amistad.

Story City, while not a place of story, did indeed have a story.

My brief fruitless drive into the city, however, does have an interesting twist. While I was driving by Carousel Park trying to take photos from my car–I didn’t want to get out unless I could get into see the carousel, unfortunately closed, due, you know, to the pandemic–there were some children sliding on a snow bank. It was, I thought, an idyllic piece of Americana that might serve as a nice photo of the times with all the pandemicing–solitude, isolation, in the cold. But in my reverie of vicarious photo-chronicling, some parents standing by a rust-bottomed red pickup truck, a man and woman, began eyeing me. I didn’t pay it much attention as I left the parking lot. I decided to look at the same scene from a farther view across the park and turned down the street across the way slowing down to lower my window and start shooting . . . photos with my phone. And then behind me, red rust-bottomed pickup. I swerved over to let it by. . . no, it turned to come behind me. Hmm?

I decided to head out of town. Rusty Red Pickup following me onto the ramp . . . . I wondered what was happening here and began, as one might do, to think about events that led to this . . . unlooked for adventure. Did the parents think I was photographing their children? What would make them want to follow me? Was I being particularly suspicious to them? Were they people who had kidnapped kids and didn’t want to be exposed? Were they a family in some witness protection program and I inadvertently caught them on camera? As notorious RRP (Rust-Red Pickup) kept following me I envisioned all the sheriffs SUVs I’d noticed at the local truck stop by the freeway just before my little Americana jaunt into storyland would be following behind red (and white and blue) lights flashing, me spread-eagled on the hood of my silver Elantra or, you know, worse. In between the bad episode of “COPs”, I also thought, would the little-red-rust-pickup-that-could just be some Proud Boys couple enjoying playtime with their kids before they, you know, begin marching around looking for somebody they think looks like a Black Lives Matter supporter or a CDC official “forcing” them to wear masks and I just happened to fit the bill, the BLM supporter , that is, ’cause I’m pretty sure I don’t come off as the CDC. For about 30 seconds, that and the whole my past life flashing before me, filled my thoughts while, well, trying to drive the speed limit in as much a record time as I could.

Red Rusty took the next exit ramp.

Yes, my new adventure has begun. I can’t wait to see what comes next.

But then, you know, as I’m sitting here in a safe hotel room, hoping that it is indeed safe and not some virus-saturated kill box, I begin to see how stories come into their own. I’m traveling because I know I need the space to face the dangers that have often traveled with me in my life. Stories actual and the more dangerous kind, the ones perceived. I have said this journey is an odyssey, replete with sirens luring you to mental rocks that kill your chances for any happiness, trials in threading through the danger of virus particles in some human air and those equally dangerous thoughts infecting you inside your mind for feeling unworthy, monstrous, overly emotional in your desired attachments. It is a story of unlooked for adventures, real places inhabited with the ghosts of the past, and real trials in finding clarity within yourself. I am glad I’ve started now. Regret nothing about how it’s taken all this time. It is the best time. Because I’m here.

Indeed, I am begun. You can guess for yourself what’s behind the mask, a smile, a frown? Elation or great sadness? I think you know


Epiphanies are rare, which is to say that they are common in a world with chaos masking Truth and so much of living is the wading through distraction. . . Imagine how the universe may be rife with them.
You awake to learn that all your life you’ve sought some hoped for other and the hope was just the chance to find another
logical path
from like to love, love to connection, connection to commitment. . . to a sameness perceived as comfort.
. . . . and then you really do awake. It is not what you’ve sought, but what you thought you wanted. And how that thought has led you to a desire for acceptance. When you always were and never needed to enclose anyone to find it. . . . Epiphany
When you live in between the worlds, past and present, loved and lost, wild and . . . modern, Chicano and Latino (which is to say Hispanic), you awake to realize that your heart was not as wild as youth, but as wild as Texas scrub beneath a Comanche moon, dictated by your ability to adapt, mitigated by the fact of birth from two irreconcilable natures.
That where you came was written with horses’ hooves and arrows shot at breakneck speed. A history made from the failure to understand that all of Life’s victories were possible if you’d simply kept riding.
That your strength lay not in gambles but in never stopping. And to learn. To find your time.

To wheel and turn.

I have understood my nature, but not the path it sought to take me.
It is not for me to wait, not to seek, but to ride and in my travels I shall find. And ride on.

She will come. Alongside. If she can.

But that is. Was. Will be another tale where hooves have not written.

Walking the Uncertain

Divergent threads make a loose and unforeseen tapestry. The ancient heart of a future cloaked in wisdom inlaid with traumas deep and painful.
We may see what happens next, but we may not know the outcomes . . .
It’s the problem with the future. There are no guarantees. No confidence that what we do will bring us joy or just further lessons learned to continue walking uncertain paths.
And what of Joy? Is it warm and tender love? Or just friends sitting over breakfast laughing, talking, over things familiar. Or over things uncomfortable yet held in common?
There seems so much history unknown in an amiable conversation. Or in the heated storm of a night with hungry passion. . .
The future is not the only undiscovered country. We Each cannot always know ourselves completely. Nor our nearest hearts adjoining. Not with the minds we meet.
Nor with the breasts we kiss.
All we can but do is walk the ground before us, meet the souls who wish us, touch the hearts who’ll let us.


There are beautiful souls in this world.
If we just look. And accept what they brought you.
The world has no more need for judgment.
Just your smile for the sunlight and the winter you endured to get there.
I forgive . . . .me . . . .You
And will remember . . .
The auburns of you that came to me in Fall. The silver of you when you came to me in Winter.
The golden glow I’ve come to find in within my Spring.
Sunlight, All.
In the bright of day and reflected in an Island moon.
Summer’s future’s pass before me
In a twinkling set of happy eyes,
Hope inside a passionate kiss
Sunlit hair, youthful in her promise
Like the dancing smile looking back at you on a dusty bike from a dusty past,
hot as a Texas summer,
Warm as a body connected with you inside your covers . . .
as Spring turns to a better day.
Soon coming.
It is not here. But you see your Shine.

Snow Ends

Snow ends and the light goes down.
Frozen water, Crystalled, lying like a blanket protecting the life of a tree.
Crystalled thoughts of music–“alleluia, alleluia . . . .alleluia”–warm my broken heart.
Keeping tears from leaving me . . . and keeping my memories intact.
Sorrow, regret, the pain of love too deep. Flowing like a river hidden in the buried canyon within my lost soul–“dwell forever …in the house . . . alleluia!”–sad, alone; for reason, and remaining true to who, and whom, You are.
Despite your sorrow, the song continues . . .The notes diminish to a minor key juxtaposed in sunshine–“a-le—lyuue–ya”–signifying the light that comes in a still too distant Summer’s afternoon, through the leaves, and brings the promise of joy to a darkened, snow-covered world. . .
The wind whistles–“al le luuuuuu—ia”–swaying the branches of the Tree of Life: You know the one, the one that stands just outside your window, bedecked by crystalled cold. Quiet in her cleansing breath. Leaving no promise. Just the time and its uncertainty. And the knowledge that,through it all, there will be music. And, therefore, the call to remember Hope. Always Hope. . .and, therefore, Always . . . love
I lift my eyes. I lift my voice. . . . and I. Will. Turn.

Yellow Glass

Yellow glass, golden sunset. Deep green hues, bluish brush strokes
He is here twixt light and darkness, hidden suns in time-strained memories. Reddened streaks where tears once ran.
So very far away, there dwelt an angry boy. Large as life. Lonely left on emptied playgrounds.
How he wished to be included. Just a boy, Just a man. Just a heart.
Driving miles. and years, to deep blue bedsheets and butterfly kisses. A heartfelt youth riding peaks and valleys in a quest for true belonging. For aqua walls and a chamber in a loving mind;
And now, he walks in meditation. Releasing anger like letting go of fear. You will be alright.
Breathing in the light, Breathing out the fear.
Breathing in the scent of radiated passion, Breathing out despair.
Breathing out your kindness, breathing in her acceptance.
At least or so I’ve heard. At least or so he’ll see.

Precious Tender Moments

It’s so painful when you realize that you’ve lived inside a virtual world of your own making.

The pictures in our minds when someone meets you . . .
Flights of fancy, idealized tender moments,
Led you from those very moments 
You go inside a virtual world. Created not by codes and pixels, but by wishes, what we dreamed of long ago.

We kiss–you’re there, She smiles and you leave dreaming
We dance–our scents fill you. Your heart screaming, you recall a song–inside your head
Imaginary music to replace a fulsome, sensuous silence
More precious wordless than any lovesong. Ever

It’s when you lost her. When you left. What you missed when you did not see.

I can’t replace this lost past. I’ll find new tender presents.
Don’t be deterred by pain from lost refrains, felt not spoken, tasted, not sung.
The real world of love is more beatiful in what you see and feel right there.
It’s what you’ve always sought. It’s where she’ll always be.

If You Walk Long Enough in the Wild, Will You Run Into Yourself?

The great thing about life is you can always start over. You can remake yourself, you can think about what you’ve done, really think about it and you can either change or do the same.

And, neither of those is the best choice.

The best choice is to understand WHO you are and BE that person.

Thank you to all of you for how you influenced me, to take me toward my best self, even if you led me away.

Both were/are important. We can’t find ourselves if we don’t intersect with the world, if we don’t search, if we don’t test our boundaries, which are just the edges of our connections with each other. A boundary is not a border. It is a gateway to the hearts of each of us. We can’t give of ourselves if we don’t know what we have and who we really are.

Most important, breathe. Start with love.

One more time.