Writing: The Dream of My Hope

My soul aches with the desire to write.  Not just any hapless string of words, but something meaningful and authentic to me and life.  I’m frequently intoxicated by books and stories, my real life spinning and buoyant with an imagined world conjured via the written word.  The “dream of my hope” is that one day, before my allotment of time this side of life is extinguished, my fervent appeal to the gods of Story will be granted—to experience the blessed fortune of humbly offering a worthy story, a novel, for posterity…but with a condition.  If by some tender caress of grace I ever succeed at wooing one of the ever elusive and ethereal muses to labor with me for a spell to compel this dream to animate with words on the canvas of a blank page, I would allow it to materialize only if it ultimately surrendered to the spirit of Leo Tolstoy’s standard that resonates deeply with me:  “The aim of an artist is not to solve a problem irrefutably, but to make people love life in all its countless, inexhaustible manifestations. If I were told that I could write a novel whereby I might irrefutably establish what seemed to me the correct point of view on all social problems, I would not even devote two hours to such a novel; but if I were to be told that what I should write would be read in twenty years’ time by those by who are now children and that they would laugh and cry over it, and love life, I would devote all my own life and all my energies to it.”

I recently encountered another piece of vintage and eminently practical writing advice in the form of a quote from the renowned author, Isak Dinesen:  “Write a little every day, without hope, without despair.”  Author, Mindy Friddle, proffers a brief commentary on the Dinesen citation that renders a beautiful translation of the adage that blooms with keen insight and glows with meaning:  “Words of wisdom from Isak...a succinct way of advising one should write without expectations, ‘relinquishing the fruit of action,’ in Bhagavad Gita terms. The joy in performing an action is much greater than the joy you get from the fruit of the action.”

All this in spite of the fact that I’m not by any real standard much good at weaving words together in a manner that ultimately is sticky.  Moreover, discovering and grasping a cohesive story eludes me with the slipperiness of a mossy river rock.  But, as even a brief perusal of EAC would reveal, hope-filled belief and Mystery are intangibles that are imbued with meaning when “seen” through the eyes of the heart.  And so, I will go on believing and hoping…and laboring.

Sanctioned Violence - Pacquiao vs. Cotto

 



























Manny Pacquiao (pictured top-right), a southpaw who hails from the Philippines, is the considerable odds-on favorite, both with fans and betting money lines, which is especially notable given his opponent, Miguel Cotto (pictured bottom-right).  Cotto is a proud and esteemed fighter from Puerto Rico, an island with a rich and storied boxing heritage.  Cotto is not accustomed to being an underdog, as his record, replete with legitimate opponents defeated at his hands, attests, but that is precisely where he finds himself in this bout set to explode tonight in Sin City.  In spite of his stellar record and laudable skills and ring generalship, the oddsmakers are favoring Pacquiao because of his matchless hand speed and the fiery assault that he brings to the squared circle.

Both boxers are in peak condition and in their physical prime, essentially at the top of their game.  There is much at stake for both, too.  Only one will move forward with a glorious destiny still intact, while the other will be relegated to a contender status, albeit as an extremely talented one.  The best fighter will ultimately have their hand raised in triumph tonight to savor and relish the spoils of victory.  The victor will almost certainly be paired in a legitimate future match-up against the best pound-for-pound pugilist, Floyd Mayweather, Jr.  This latter fight, should it indeed come to fruition, would be the only one in quite some time that I can imagine being more anticipated and touted than the action scheduled for tonight.  As such, tonight’s fight represents one of the best match-ups in many, many years, instead of being just another largely promoter engineered and hyped event (though no doubt, it is this, as well).

I am a man primarily and ultimately ruled by my heart.  That said, a continual war is waged for primacy within the confines of my psyche between head and heart.  With that as context, I'm picking and rooting for Cotto to win.  His boxing skills are enviable, even among the best of professionals.  He is technically sound and is heavy handed.  More importantly, he is a cerebral fighter, always weighing the strategy of the fight like a chess match.  This is only outdone by his heart.  He is a determined, intense, and internally focused fighter.  His persona is introspective and centered.  His ego is kept in check by close-knit relationships with loved ones.  Instead of traditional ego and bravado, he exudes more of a self-confident resolve. He has intangibles that are at play.  I admire these traits.

My head says Pacquiao.  Even though he is the fighter coming up in weight to Cotto's division (Cotto is the natural welterweight), he is a supremely gifted athlete.  His angles, swift and nimble footwork, speed and quickness are art in motion and beautiful to behold.  He's riding a crest of momentum that seems unstoppable, which may indeed be the case.  Likewise, as with Cotto, Pacquiao seems like a good man, not just a great boxer.  Many stories confirm his generosity and his being rather rooted to his religious upbringing.  Nonetheless, he is by most accounts addicted to the distractions of fame and seeks out the limelight of public admiration.  While his ego is a minor character at best in comparison to Floyd Mayweather, Jr., he apparently is fully at home as the center of attention as a celebrity and surrounds himself with an adoring entourage befitting a star.  Of course, he is a star.  Who knows, though?  Maybe he's just a gregarious extrovert and that accounts for all the hoopla that attends him.  Either way, he poses an ideal juxtaposition to Cotto's demeanor and style (personal and boxing), which will make for a glorious match of skill and will.

"In the brightly lit ring, man is in extremis, performing an atavistic rite or agon for the mysterious solace of those who can participate only vicariously in such drama: the drama of life in the flesh. Boxing has become America's tragic theater."

-Joyce Carol Oates

Your Lies

My fave Shelby Lynne tune. Great vibe!

Absence and Presence: The Threads of Life

Separation

By W.S. Merwin

Your absence has gone through me

Like thread through a needle.

Everything I do is stitched with its color.

Poetry usually eludes me. Poets and poems typically broadcast on a frequency that, in spite of my best efforts at hairline adjustments with the tuning dial, render a reception usually on the order of static with only the occasional breakthrough of clarity. The problem is largely with the receiver, not the transmitter. There are a number of exceptions. One such poem that captures my attention and unveils a vista of meaning is “Separation” by W.S. Merwin.

I admire this poem for its ability to penetrate the heart and conjure a world of feelings with a modicum of words. Its scarcity belies it depth. It paints, even sears, a tactile impression in the mind’s eye. At first blush, it’s tempting to compare this poem to a terse, bite-sized proverb dispensing clever axiomatic wisdom. But upon deeper reflection, it reveals a manifesto of emotion. Merwin exposes the raw nerve endings of a deeply felt experience and concentrates it into an aching psalm of the heart. Its metaphor is stark, even harsh, yet surprisingly beautiful, as it awakens the heart with neon truth. It’s simple, but not simplistic, allowing for multifaceted interpretations. Its application is broad in scope: lovers, friends, family, adversaries, God, et al.

When I encountered this poem for the first time, I quickly felt and sensed its weight as a parent. I am an active and involved Dad (I have two daughters—8 and 10), and I instinctively perceived the corollary to Merwin’s poem and exchanged the word “absence” with “presence.” In the context of noble fatherhood, absence acquires attributes that can be sharp and cutting to the soul, leaving abandoned hollow spaces that long to be filled and wounds that need healing, whereas presence is nurturing and protective and provides a climate for healthy and hope-filled growth. Absence is more likely to lacerate and puncture, while presence provides a safe harbor and lifts the spirit.

Relationships are defined by presence and absence. While the physical side of presence or absence is the most conspicuous, the more meaningful manifestations are emotional and spiritual. A body may be within an arm’s reach, but the heart of the same a thousand miles away. Of course, the experience of absence or presence is not uniform. Depending on times, situations, and circumstances either can prove positive or negative. Both attach tethers that are far reaching in life.

From time immemorial everything has a season. Most will experience both absence and presence in the course of a lifetime, though to varying degrees and duration. Regardless of station in life, the impact of absence and presence is pervasive, stitching indelible threads in the fabric of life.

“The world breaks everyone, and afterward, some are strong at the broken places.” -Hemingway

Treasures

"The treasure which you think not worth taking trouble and pains to find, this one alone is the real treasure you are longing for all your life. The glittering treasure you are hunting for day and night lies buried on the other side of that hill yonder."

-B. Traven (epigraph from the novel, "The Treasure of the Sierra Madre")

"Old Enough" - The Raconteurs

Check out this cool video and great song--"Old Enough." I watch and listen to this tune frequently.

Jack White* (the guy playing the red acoustic next to Skaggs) is the leader of this group--The Raconteurs. They typically play alt-rock, but retranslated this song into the musical vernacular of bluegrass. Here's the original cut to compare and contrast.

*Yeah--that Jack White--of "The White Stripes"--one hell of a guitarist, though on "Old Enough" he steps into the background to give the spotlight to the two featured artists--Ricky Skaggs and Ashley Monroe. White is a revered musician, although I can't get into most of his music outside of his forays into alt-country and bluegrass. He plays a minor role in the beautiful film "Cold Mountain" (based on the equally beautiful novel by the same name written by Charles Frazier). He does several cuts off the soundtrack which are primo. Here's my fave--"Great High Mountain."

Check out this awesome alt-country tune (I believe it's a remake) called "Portland, Oregon" that White does with Loretta Lynn (yep--the Coal Miner's Daughter).

Here's an old related archived EAC post from early 2006. Funny how certain themes are circuitous.

Rocktober Returns!

Go Rockies!

Movie Matinee Madness - "Inglourious Bastards"

I saw this flick today. Superb!

Click HERE to view trailer.

Real Magic

TAKE AND READ...AND LEARN OF REAL MAGIC...


Select my post title for a link to DiCamillo talking about her new novel.


“A children’s story that can only be enjoyed by children is not a good children’s story in the slightest.”
-C.S. Lewis

Mayweather: Boxing Virtuoso

Floyd Mayweather, Jr., is fighting tonight, and I'll be watching via HBO PPV. He's as close to a sure bet as they come. His boxing acumen and talent is unmatched and a marvel to behold. He offers up the highest order of skill currently (maybe ever) among the practitioners of the Sweet Science. He is without a doubt a boxing virtuoso.

He's coming out of "retirement," which was a joke the moment he announced it given the career life that remained unspent, but he's been away from the fight game for nearly two years, so the "ring rust" may be present early on in the fight, but all indications point to him still being the best pound-for-pound pugilist in my estimation.

He's fighting a very good and seasoned, though smaller, Mexican fighter with enormous will, so he'll need to be on his guard, but Mayweather's win is nearly (I won't say categorically--that's why they "fight the fights") a foregone conclusion. "Pretty Boy" Floyd's speed, timing, footwork, ring generalship, and uncanny and brilliant "shoulder roll" style (a characteristic trait of the Mayweather clan--his family has a prominent and storied, indeed, at times, infamous, history in the annals of the Sweet Science) are beautiful to watch.

He is not a humble man--at least as far as his public persona is revealed. Frankly, he comes across frequently as a prick. He claims to be the best, shouts it often from the roof tops, and the truth is--he is--as far as boxing goes. If he continues to sustain his dominant force as a boxer, he may ultimately garner consideration as the best ever. That remains to be seen, though.

I so wish he would adopt a more humble approach in terms of his attitude and presence. We need noble knights; we need heroes we can admire and model; alas, they are a dying breed. Who knows, maybe his private demeanor is materially different, but he comes across so shallow, arrogant, and narrow that I have a hard time imagining otherwise. If he were to project a more humble and centered personality and lifestyle, many would not only stand in awe of his ability, but would also admire him as a person.

Of course, there would likely be a significant monetary cost to him if he were to adopt something other than his brash, flamboyant, in-your-face, me-centered persona. He likely wouldn't be able to promote himself as successfully as he does now, and, as such, wouldn't make the significant coin he does, and he clearly voices his lust for the greenback. As evidence, among the various monikers he carries, one is "Money" Mayweather. He also has a hip hop record label called "Philthy Rich Records."

Boxing is so like life--underneath and running concurrent with the fight--there is so frequently a grand story behind it all!

Davy Knowles: Guitar god Rising!

I'm a guitar freak. Just a fact of life for me. Guitar (admiring the talent of others and playing myself), books and writing (ohh--what a dream!), boxing (admiring and practicing the "sweet science" myself), baseball, though more minor as a fixation, but I appreciate its mythic quality, spiritually-God haunted, and, of course, top of the list, being a Dad--that's me. I wonder what Freud would say? Grin. I prefer Jung anyway.

This past Friday night I journeyed to downtown Denver and listened--in awe--to this "kid" in his early 20s, Davy Knowles (pictured), conjure guitar riffs with a technical wizardry that belies his age. He played and sang with an emotional maturity and savvy of a seasoned bluesman.

His musical talent is a gift to behold. He is a guitar god rising! This I know. I venture to say he will be the next SRV.

His primary, though not exclusive, repertoire is a heavily blues infused rock. He not only has enviable guitar licks, but his voice is nicely suited to this style of music as well.

Listening to him play live was a sublime experience. I pulled a couple YouTube videos below to serve as samples. The second link is from the concert I attended (not recorded by me). Take a listen!

Video 1

Video 2

Marriage: A Double-Edged Sword

"Marriage hath in it less of beauty but more of safety, than the single life; it hath more care, but less danger, it is more merry, and more sad; it is fuller of sorrows, and fuller of joys; it lies under more burdens, but it is supported by all the strengths of love and charity, and those burdens are delightful."

-Bishop Jeremy Taylor (17th Century Anglican Clergyman and Theologian)

Les Paul Departs

Sad news for guitar aficionados around the world. Famed guitarist, Les Paul, died today at age 94. Select my post title for a link to the New York Times obituary.

All blessings to him and his memory.



I mentioned him in passing on one of my earlier blog posts this year: "STRADIVARIUS – Eddie Van Halen."

See HERE for a video clip of Mr. Paul proving he still had chops shredding "How High the Moon."

A Double Barrel Whiskey of a Song

Ahh...this is a tasty song--aged to perfection.

Movie Malaise

Just thinking out loud...it can be cathartic...sometimes...I watched a movie a few days ago--"The Exorcism of Emily Rose"--very disturbing, very depressing, unsettling...on multiple fronts.

The Souvenirs - King of Heartache

This is one album that I return to time and again. Their sound is retro and moody; a honky tonk vibe laced throughout with reverb. A lush Bakersfield sound. As a young boy, I grew up listening to tunes very similar in style and sound. As far as I know, it's their only official release (1999).

If you are so inclined, search for the artist and album name via Amazon.com to hear a 30 second preview of each track by selecting the"Listen to Samples" link.

Kemo Sabe, Where Art Thou?

Kemo Sabe: a term of endearment meaning “faithful friend” or “trusty scout.”

Nowadays heroes are largely absent, real or otherwise, at least the kind worthy of genuine admiration and respect, someone to model at a deeper and truer level.

I recall hearing a speaker many moons ago refer to an observation made by a religious thinker who lamented how the public square has become virtually naked, and how as a culture we are more deficient as a consequence. The ubiquitous statue or memorial of yesteryear that populated most town centers like a sentinel, a standard bearer, have virtually vanished from sight.

In days of old, churches were frequently identified by name with a patron saint. Now, this legacy practice is commonly replaced with the label "community church." This generic, vanilla, and risk averse use of the word "community" is proudly presented and viewed as a badge of honor, as though it demonstrates how as a society we've moved beyond...beyond what, I'm not exactly sure.

Similarly, in the past, it seems to me that children were more apt to be named after those that went before them. Being a namesake carried a sense of pride and honor and was often aspirational in nature. Naming a child for the sake of posterity alone may serve little purpose outside of continuity, feigned or not, but maybe that's not such a bad idea after all and holds some minor merit. Of course, there are those who have experienced sufficient enough family dysfunction who would see naming a child after family to be contrary to their own hope and nothing short of anathema from their point-of-view.

To be sure, doubtless there have been plenty of town center statues erected to honor precisely the wrong kind of person and/or for the wrong reason. Moreover, there are surely saints counted among the various litanies of church history who propagated beliefs and actions that were less than charitable and in keeping with the spirit of Christ.

Nonetheless, I suggest we need--we crave--heroes of the right kind. Not perfect, manufactured automatons, but true, stained though they may be, models to admire and respect. In so doing, we more clearly hear the call to become better ourselves. Consider the fictional heroes of lore: The Dark Knight, Zorro, and Shane. They all internalized the weight of life and carried the burdens of their own mistakes and dysfunctions. They were not tame; they were not safe; but they endeavored to be good and noble (don't read the descriptor "good" as used here as necessarily synonymous with pious or righteous, at least in the way those terms are normally understood). I personally admire and respect much that the fictional protagonist, Santiago, from Hemingway's "The Old Man and the Sea," represents. Santiago projects a true inner nobility, goodness, and grace.

Maybe it’s not about “heroes," as such, but the innate want, indeed, deeply felt need for a “faithful friend.” I'm reminded of the touching film, "The Shawshank Redemption." It depicted at its core a faithful friendship--flaws and foibles not withstanding--that offered and sustained hope. This kind of genuine "blood brother" opportunity is a very rare find in life, especially among men.

Worthy heroes may ultimately be figments of our collective imagination. Kemo Sabe and Tonto may represent too perfect of an ideal. It’s a nice thought and hope, though. Regardless, I miss Kemo Sabe…whoever and wherever he is.

Felina Rising

I remember growing up listening to many of the songs off this very album. "Big Iron," "Cool Water," and especially, "El Paso." Check out the video clip (post title link) of KU singing and playing a small segment of "El Paso" recently at a tribute to George Strait.

Cultivating the Creative Spirit

I encountered this video clip (select my post title for a link) on another generous and insightful blog I frequent. The video stream offered via TED is nearly 20 minutes in duration. I wish it were 3x as long! Elizabeth Gilbert, author of "Eat, Pray, Love," delivers a remarkable "homily" on "Nurturing Creativity."

Considering one of my recent posts (Kate DiCamillo: Vocare), this video seemed a befitting follow-up.

Last Night: At the Altar of a Guitar God

KEITH URBAN

Kate DiCamillo: Vocare

Vocare (Latin): To call or name; to invoke

Kate DiCamillo travels the tributaries of the heart. She divines the voice of the soul. See HERE for her June '09 Journal entry. Oh!...how I wish I had dreams analogous to what she describes! Her entry summons a sublime, if somewhat haunting, tale of wisdom.

I’ve long been mystified by the magical manner in which DiCamillo speaks of how some of her stories were conjured to life. In a matter-of-fact way, as if it were commonplace and nothing less than expected, she describes "visits" by certain characters who strike up a conversation with her and pour out their secrets, joys, and sufferings. This, apparently all in a day’s work.

Her descriptions have an unusual, almost séance-like, quality that rings authentic. Listen to how she evokes the inspiration for her deeply life affirming debut YA novel, “Because of Winn-Dixie”: “One night before I went to sleep, I heard this little girl's voice with a Southern accent say, 'I have a dog named Winn-Dixie.' I just started writing down what India Opal Buloni was telling me." She similarly describes the impetus for her sophomore YA novel, “The Tiger Rising": “Rob Horton showed up in a short story I wrote and then hung around the house driving me crazy. I finally asked him what he wanted, and he told me he knew where there was a tiger."

Wow! Maybe for her this is standard fare and quotidian, but to me that's one helluva encounter with a Muse! Maybe she’s engaging in hyperbole or a figure of speech.......

Regardless of the source of her inspiration, I deeply enjoy and value her heart-infused wisdom. A cursory search of my blog would confirm my admiration and appreciation for her keen insights. She is a talented and gifted and inspired (inspiring, too) storyteller.

She artfully reveals in her June '09 Journal entry that our task, our charge, nay, our hidden hope, is to seek out and release the "scroll with the story on it" in our own life and that of others. To do otherwise is to remain inanimate, a shell of a life.

No matter how arduous the voyage or what trepidation we may hold, we must endeavor to set out on our journey, to be intrepid, for it is a quest of self-discovery. In so doing, I venture a worthy wager that along the way we will encounter the “Old Man,” nodding and saying, “Yes, that is good.”

Cocktail of Life

It’s late, and I have something of a buzz working while I listen to my blog's music ‘playlist’ (currently playing Debussy’s "Clair de Lune" at the moment). I’m drinking--more like already finished--a rather potent concoction called ‘Gin and Sin.’ I, of course, poured the gin portion of the recipe sufficiently strong with none other than Bombay Sapphire, or what I like to affectionately call “Blue Bottle Elixir.” Yummy!

Anyhow, I decided to post a brief quote from Rabbi Lawrence Kushner (*not* to be confused with the more famous Harold). It comes from his beautiful book of short essays, as I would label it, anyway, “Invisible Lines of Connection—Scared Stories of the Ordinary.” He reminds me of a Jewish version of my fave spiritual thinker, Frederick Buechner, who happens to come at life from a more nebulous Christian perspective. The quote below from the good Rabbi is somewhat disturbing to me at one level and at another level comforting.

“Look, I don’t think God made a tumor grow in that girl’s mother's brain or that God has anything to do with the choice of careers or where I used to shop for bargain basement clothes. But I can’t get it out of my head that somehow God is mixed up in the whole horrible, holy and joyous goddamn thing.”

Soul-Full Living Redux: Deeper, Not Wider

"Humans are not ideally set up to understand logic; they are ideally set up to understand stories."
--Roger C. Schank

Logic is linear and rational. It adheres to facts and formulates the norms of existence. It is deterministic and mechanistic. Its vantage point is wide and surface level. In spite of lip service to the contrary (I'm including moi here in numerous respects), many folks perform a "motion of existence" under such an umbrella of logic. If you doubt this, then pause for a moment and consider how many people you know (yourself?) that are fully engaged in a marathon maze “rat race.”

Being logical and rational are good attributes, but limiting. Utilization of logic should be kept in check and on a short leash. Its limitations can be severe as it serves to keep the stories of life at bay. Since when has love and passion ever been logical or rational? Or van Gogh's "Starry Night"? Or a Chopin Nocturne or Prelude? (Yes, with these particular examples, or "stories," there may be a semblance of order, but I'm talking about how they arouse the soul. LISTEN
to Chopin's Prelude, Op. 28, No.6 in B minor.) What genuine logic is there in Salinger's "Catcher in the Rye" (no, I'm not a loon)? What's rational about Holden's concern for the ducks in Central Park in the winter? These examples reveal stories of life that illustrate a break from a normative, day-to-day lifestyle.

I'm not saying a simple, uneventful life is shallow. Indeed, the opposite may be the case more so than not. Deeper living is meditative by nature and seeks to reflect on the simple joys of life instead of changing lanes at rapid, breakneck speeds because that's what's in vogue or expected a la the style of Corporate America. (Of course, not all that is the business life is distasteful, one just needs to exercise authority over your life if you play in this arena, lest you find yourself trapped). Even aspiring to take on more adventure, to taste and breathe more of the robust and colorful, requires a concerted slowing of pace and tempo in life. If you desire to "Run with the Bulls" in Pamplona (an act that unfortunately, even sadly, many would label useless, serving no utilitarian purpose other than to feed a bloated ego--they miss the point!), then out of necessity, you must off-ramp from the automaton rat race of "motion."

Stories are about life. They are organic and holistic and mysterious. They are deep and penetrating, potentially lacerating. They may or may not be utilitarian, and thank God for that! The "more" that is fomented by a life of "motion" is not necessarily more!

"Soul-Full" living demands a deeper dive into the well of life. It's more risky and scary and dangerous to be sure, and, yes, potentially opens the door to additional pain and suffering, and, as such, leaves us more exposed and vulnerable, but it also fosters a more rich and vibrant experience of living. It's about being alive to life and not just existing. It represents a migration of the mind, the intellect, into the heart. (Notice I didn’t say elimination of the intellect.)

The logic, the approach, if you will, of existing, which if done habitually over time is readily confused with living, can be summed up by the axiom: "A mile wide and an inch deep." To live a more meaningful and purposeful life requires a frequent reversal of the logic of existing. We need to allow for, even engineer or carve out, if necessary, space and time for immersion into the realm of the heart.

"Listen to your life. See it for the fathomless mystery that it is. In the boredom and pain of it no less than in the excitement and gladness: touch, taste, smell your way to the holy and hidden heart of it because in the last analysis all moments are key moments, and life itself is grace." --Frederick Buechner

Shelby Lynne

I’ve been listening to this gal belt out tunes since the early 90s when I was still a relatively young man (I'm 41 now) and when she was still primarily singing C&W (that's Country and Western for the uninitiated). I’ve also been listening to her younger sister, Allison Moorer, sing since her first album was released back in the late 90s. Both are great, but the elder sister’s music has made deeper inroads into my soul, such as it is. Their life story is achingly sad and broken. It’s reflected in their music, too. They were raised in the Deep South, down Alabama way. Believe me, when you hear either of them speak outside of their singing voices, there’s no doubt.

I know a thing or two about the South myself and its ability to influence in unusual ways. On one of Shelby's albums she has a song entitled "Iced Tea" and one of the lines from the lyrics says, "You’re the cornbread and iced tea of life." I understand that. I would suggest you have to have some roots from the South to really get the gist of that sentiment. I was born and raised in the South—deep, deep South Tejas that is—literally 20 or so miles from the Mexican border. Later I moved to a small town outside of San Antonio. During my high school years, I moved to Arkansas and eventually found my way to Oklahoma where I graduated from OSU at Stillwater. I now live out West in Denver and have for the last...geez…18 or so years. Yes, indeed. I know all about the South—its good and its bad side. My wife and others say that my "Southern Drawl” becomes more pronounced and evident after a few rounds. I take that to mean that under "normal conditions," I tend to speak more or less in a regular cadence.

Anyway, back to Ms. Lynne. She’s also had a rather unusual up and down rollercoaster ride of a musical career. From performing Country to more of a bluesy--actually, maybe more R&B laced--lite rock sound to winning a Grammy and then falling off the map to something of a small resurgence now with her latest entry. Truth is she’s never quite caught on among the masses. That may be a good thing because the curse that often follows substantial notoriety hasn’t had any real chance to entangle, erode, and erase who she really is at core.

I had the marvelous opportunity to see her perform last April here in the Mile High City at the Bluebird Theater—a shit hole old time converted movie theater (all the seats have been removed—essentially a standing only venue ). When I say shit hole, I mean shit hole. It’s situated right next to a porn shop. The theater has something of a retro feel that was befitting for this particular concert. Indeed, I was quite intoxicated during the performance—due to my consumption of more than my fair share of Maker’s Mark bourbon on the rocks, but also by the magnetic presence of Shelby on stage. I had a funny moment at the concert when during a slight pause between songs, while the audience was still hypnotically hushed in a mesmerized state, I yelled out while raising my glass in a toast, “God bless you, Shelby.” She paused for a moment and looked my direction (I was probably all of 25 feet away from the stage) and responded, “That’s a sweet thing to say; I hope you don’t mind me saying this, but this next song, I wrote after having 13 margaritas.” That got the whole crowd riled and cheering. Grin. I intuit she drinks quite a bit. Of course, I didn’t and don’t mind, especially given that I was plenty polluted myself at the time. I don’t know—kind of a funny and good story—at least to me. Moreover, I meant what I said, too! I do indeed hope that God blesses her. Knowing her life story, it’s hard to imagine a wish for her or her sister otherwise.

She is a tremendous musical talent. Her music is richly authentic, raw, and emotionally moving. Her most recent album (2008) is called “Just a Little Lovin’” (this was the album tour I was fortunate enough to catch and experience). It’s a real gem. The cover art notes it was "inspired by Dusty Springfield." Indeed! It seems as if Shelby channeled Dusty's spirit on this collection of songs.

Note: Click my post title "Shelby Lynne" for a link to a music video of “Anyone Who Had a Heart” from her latest album.

Soul-Full Living

“Motion is the lotion,” or so I’ve heard it said. I’ve encountered this expression in the context of applying bodily movement as a remedy for when you’re ailing from physical soreness or stiffness and as a means to avoid atrophy. No doubt this axiom is often situationally true; I’ve experienced it myself. But what of its application at a deeper level—the level of the soul? To my chagrin, I’m afraid the same concept has taken root as the key methodology for how life among the modern masses is generally or broadly lived out. It’s become an almost lemming like impulse or habit. By default, pause and solace and contemplation have become subliminally profane. To be sure, I’m no exception. Mea culpa.

“Never mistake motion for action.” Sagely words of wisdom from one of my favorite authors, Ernest Hemingway. He was speaking about the craft and art of writing, but my contention, my instinct, is that his sentiment offers insight and guidance that’s equally apropos for how we should endeavor to live a more holistic life.

Much of contemporary society is obsessed with staying busy. I readily acknowledge and accept the wisdom that there is a time for everything, including a time to be busy. Hard work, long hours and executing against plans to achieve goals have a genuine place in the order of things. But when this becomes the modus operandi in life and seeps into the pores of our culture, it can digress de facto into an end unto itself, a mindless skipping on the turntable of life where there is a cacophony of static and noise, but no music. When the needle of our place in time and space gets stuck in a monotonous groove of motion, our bearing relative to establishing proper priorities that sync up with our deeper self goes awry like a compass needle in the Bermuda Triangle. We become captive to a matrix of motion. Time and vitality can be cannibalized by a faux life--an imposter life hiding in full view. Its camouflage? An insidious insistence that staying busy is somehow meaningful. It seeks to confuse success with significance. It frequently promulgates acquisition as the prime mover of a fulfilling and satisfying life. If you don’t exercise caution it will vector your energy, your life force into an ever maddening rat race. This faux life insinuates that if you occasionally seek out opportunities to “be still” or to “unplug” and just breathe, you’re engaging in anomalous, eccentric and wasteful navel gazing behavior. You become an outlier by extension, an exotic specious to be avoided and observed from afar.

I’m not suggesting that seeking material well being is an ignoble pursuit, quite the contrary. It can empower and ennoble. But it should be pursued with prudence. It should be labeled “handle with care” and “proceed with caution,” lest you inadvertently become a rat in a maze chasing cheese that ultimately doesn’t feed your deeper motivations and longings. Again, I’m in no way equating indolence and sloth with serenity. In my estimation, living life with a healthy measure of intention is essential. Industry and a dose of ambition are good attributes. Being deliberate, embracing responsibility and sacrifice for a purpose and the love of others is noble. Laziness--not relaxation, which is a very different thing indeed—is essentially the same contagion that I’m lamenting here, only the inverse, an upside down version.

My observation and experience is that we can easily fall prey to the mad pace of generic expectations, the sometimes warped consensus of mob psychology. We incrementally become automatons, zombies of motion. We lose our ability to just “be”; to discover, cultivate and nurture a life where joy is natural (happiness and pleasure are not always synonymous with joy). Hard work and long hours that are in alignment with an intrinsic joy really isn’t work, but a calling. I’m not advocating that when a perceived ideal in life is out of step with the realistic necessity of being responsible, that we should tumble into an existential crisis and use that as an excuse to abandon accountability. I espouse the notion of noblesse oblige. But I also believe that one should, must!, hang on to dreams and aspirations (be careful not to confuse these with fantasies), especially the ones that persist and won’t let go. The desires of the heart that persist do so for a reason. They are tenacious because they are attempting to alert us to something. We should take heed to the counsel offered by my favorite spiritual thinker, Frederick Buechner. He repeats almost ad nausem, “listen to your life; pay attention!” Dreams and obligations need not be different or at odds with one another. But if they are for a season, even a season that seems to exist in perpetuity, a blistering, scorching summer that burns delicate and fragile hopes and dreams and moves in slow motion, don’t despair, but believe. Pursue excellence and labor indeed for that which inspires your heart and lifts your spirit. Enjoy, taste, and savor the gifts of life. Never stop excavating your soul for that which connects you to your true vocation. In so doing, you become more alive!

Hemingway said, “When writing a novel a writer should create living people; people not characters. A character is a caricature.” In life I believe we can become so busy that we set aside meaning and “being” and become lost wayfarers wandering in a morass of motion. This is our clarion call: That we stop and reflect along the journey to keep at bay the risk of becoming a caricature in our own life.

God help us. God help me.

Well…enough “homiletics” for the evening. I’m preaching to myself, of course—a choir of one. Time for a quick nightcap and then off in search of slumber. I have a long and very busy day scheduled tomorrow (hmm…that would be today as I look at the time). Grin.

Another Guitarist Par Excellence - Keith Urban

As a segue from my previous post where I mentioned that EVH (a true Stradivarius in terms of creativity, originality, and technical skill) was one of my two favorite guitarists, I'm compelled to share my other fave--Keith Urban. The difference between the two is that KU brings additional substantial talent to the table by way of a really good singing voice and great overall songwriting (music and lyrics) ability and style. His music is a spiritual food of sorts for me. It carries and projects a kind of golden aura, an infusion of light that lifts the spirit. I truly can't get enough of this guy’s music. It injects my soul with a positive and healing verve. I need that, too, given my propensity toward "life noir."* Urban can play like nobody's business! It's a joy to watch and to hear him play.

Check out the post title link for a fantastic live video performance. Enjoy!

Note: Forgive whatever brief "commercial" may play prior to the actual live performance video clip when you select the link.

*Sorry, I digress, and badly, but by way of example, anyone that appreciates the classic "Of Mice and Men" by Steinbeck as much as I do will know what I mean by the term "life noir." If you are so inclined, see the beautiful 1992 film adaptation of this Steinbeck classic directed by Gary Sinise. And, of course, read the novella.

STRADIVARIUS – Eddie Van Halen

One of my two fave guitarists turned 54 a couple of days ago. I saw him play last year when VH came to Denver and his playing was nothing short of phenomenal. He still has amazing chops and tone. He looked healthy, too—clean and sober.

Believe me, I like fine Scotch as much as the next guy, but if it’s about to take you out for the final count, you gotta change your “tune,” so to speak. It appears that Eddie has, changed his tune that is, where substance and alcohol abuse is concerned anyway.

He still seems to have a penchant for cancer sticks in the extreme. In spite of being diagnosed with serious mouth cancer a few years back, he smoked throughout his entire solo on stage when he was in town. He has a beautiful new custom guitar for sale out this year (named after his son, Wolfgang) and many of the advertising video clips and pictures show him smoking. This could be a play on his “image,” but I highly doubt it. I remember reading somewhere that his former Mrs. (Valerie Bertinelli) waited until his treatment for tongue cancer was complete before finally leaving him. You can hear the years of smoking in his voice, too. I wish the guy would cut out the coffin nails for his own good. I’d love to still hear him play into old age. Chet Atkins did. Les Paul does.

Anyhow, I wish him all the best. Happy Birthday, Ed!

Note: Click HERE for a clip of live footage from Seattle in December 2007 of Eddie playing his famed "Eruption" solo in a more improvised manner.

Measuring Life: Just Leaves or Fruit?

I’ve long been fascinated by the subject of NDEs (Near Death Experiences). I have several books that recount numerous said experiences by people of all walks of life. I remember my mother once saying that an elderly neighbor who had apparently died and was eventually resuscitated mentioned later that he experienced traveling through a tunnel of light. Some of the stories I find remarkably persuasive, especially those of children. Others, nothing short of self-delusional at best, or worse, a con man’s hyperbolic pandering in an attempt to confirm very narrow religious notions. I’m also aware of the various scientific debunking of NDEs, but I find many of these “answers” limited and even contrived, essentially a disguised effort to present any answer other than the one offered by those who have had an NDE, lest there really be a world or life beyond the purely material and physical.

I recently came across a recounting of a NDE that described the experience as one where a Being of Light encapsulated the newly arrived “dead” person’s life as “just leaves,” as juxtaposed to a life that had yielded fruit. If I recall the story correctly, the person was sent back and endeavored to live a different way—a sensitive life, one marked by genuine caring and love.

Here’s how I interpret this “Just Leaves” story. It’s about the internal or inside life, the intrinsic bearings (how these arrive and develop is another post altogether) that guide your life, that are your life. Of course, all this ultimately translates “inside-out” to the world of the external. It’s not about perfection or how one lives a “holy and pious” life—saying the right prayers, following all the exactitudes of religious rules, rites and orders, holding fast to all the correct doctrines and dogmas and petty moral dictates. It’s not so much that doing all these things are wrong or bad, indeed, they may serve to foster a better life, and, as such, be good. But for the most part, all this “stuff” is about the “outside” or the “leaves.” The “Just Leaves” encounter is about spirit—what is nurtured inwardly and, thus, ultimately projected outwardly.

So what does this mean in terms of a life lived true and good? Here are some of my thoughts, or questions of juxtaposition really, that are meant to reveal the "inside," as to what behaviors may eventually, when practiced over time, lead to or resemble either leaves or fruit.

Do you embrace life with gusto and a gracious spirit, or hoard up envy and gnaw away at yourself and others with God only knows what? Do you pause in gratitude to notice the small and simple joys of life, or continually seek out in an excessive manner superficial and numbing stimulus that ultimately keeps real life at bay? Do you embody an attitude of hope, or relish apocalyptic scenarios? Do you cling to a broken, resentful, even angry, existence, or do you seek out moments of healing and restoration, however small? Do you harbor a cynic’s view of the world, or allow for the possibility of renewal? Do you ignite glimmers of hope, or incite fear? Do you seek to ennoble others (and yourself), or are you disrespectful and indifferent to the dignity of life? Are you arrogant and pretentious, or humble, carrying yourself with a sense of spiritual sobriety (humility doesn’t preclude confidence)? Do you value and appreciate moments of stillness and quiet and deep breath, or remain in a constant state of flight and frenzy and busyness? Do you wear a smile, or frown most of the time? Does your presence promote and exude a sense of light and ease, or darkness and dread? Do you harp, nag and nitpick, or grant appropriate space and freedom? Does your voice carry joy and calm and poise, or harshness and bitterness? Is your touch affirming, gentle and tender (this doesn’t mean weak, passive or absent of confident self-knowledge), emanating a caring spirit, or is it selfish and forceful? Do you harbor a spirit of criticism, self-righteousness and judgment, or do you seek to understand and practice kindness?

I’m not ignoring the very real shadows of life here. There are plenty of very good reasons for being pessimistic about life. Some of the felt heaviness in life is justifiable given what the world can happily dish out. There is awful and unbearable suffering. There is evil. It’s easy to understand why some can’t fathom the notion of forgiveness given what evils have been and can and will be perpetrated. I’m not endorsing a happy, shiny people approach either. I’m not talking about a “hippy” or “Woodstock” or commune approach to life—actually the very opposite, as these approaches all too often seem to me to abandon the world. I’m talking about the spirit you imbue regardless of position or place, status or stature. No matter who you are or where you are, choices about the course of your life are ever present before you. It’s a process, a “slowly, but surely” way of life.

As for me, I suspect I’m a combination of leaves and fruit. Alas, maybe more leaves at the end of the day, but there are moments of grace where I seem able and willing to labor for something noteworthy—a berry or flower that represents something lasting and true.

Kinetic Confession

My youngest daughter, Grace, participated tonight (11-13-08) in giving her "First Confession" as the penultimate act in route to receiving the eventual pinnacle Sacrament of First Holy Communion (Eucharist). To what extent she really comprehended the whole ritual and exercise is hard to say, because as her father I don't overemphasize (though I don’t entirely ignore it either—though close, I suppose) the need for such a practice. As part of the initial instructions given, an offer was made by our Priest that parents could participate as well. My speculation is that he perceived this afforded an opportunity for parents to model a practice and behavior that is largely lost among many lukewarm, but nevertheless practicing Roman Catholics, or maybe he was inclined to consider this moment as one of the few remaining clandestine strings at his disposal that he could pull that could possible rope in a recalcitrant parishioner into approaching God unexpectedly. It could be that many parents were prepared for such an invitation by way of an “examination of conscience,” but I for one was not. That presented no problem though, as my sins are many, so even a cursory or stream of consciousness confession from me would likely be enough to make the uninitiated squirm. I indeed accepted his invitation, but not so much as a means to "model the way," because by the time I approached the “confessional box” my wife and daughters were in the reception hall enjoying cookies and conversation. I initially joined them, but then absconded back to the sanctuary to stand in line with some other adults/parents who decided to do the same, as the children were largely already done for the evening. I accepted because it seemed right and good, even needed. The atmosphere or environment, the spirit of the moment, if you will, prompted me to action. In candor, I must acknowledge that my willingness is in part due to this particular parish--my "home" church, if you will--which is rather open and projects a welcome and accepting aura.

Here's what I learned from my experience tonight. The Sacrament of Reconciliation can be a source of kinetic (as in active or activating or energizing) power. The Rite, if imbued with the gentle and discerning Spirit of Christ, puts in motion the blessing of forgiveness (and I do mean here blessing, not the forgiveness itself, though I don’t entirely deny in some small way the “releasing” or “loosing” powers associated with this exercise). Forgiveness has been there all along and already ultimately granted*, in my estimation anyway, but the interaction of human connection, priest and penitent, if done with sensitivity and grace and not in a forensic manner, allows the confessor to appropriate more intrinsically the intent and nature of forgiveness. Penance (not the stereotypical concluding priestly instruction prior to granting absolution to say five “Our Fathers” and ten “Hail Marys”) in this vein becomes healing and restorative instead of punitive. The oft heard and quoted expression, "we seek progress, not perfection" rings true to me in general, but in considerable fashion tonight. It may fly in the face of Holy Writ given what the Gospel according to St. Matthew tells us, “be ye therefore perfect, even as your Father in heaven is perfect,” but in the end my ultimate and final authority is not Scripture (though I'm thankful for it as a record of the experiences of God’s people and as a guide, but I’m cautious with it as well), but the felt intuition, if you will, that is "written" on my heart, however imprecise it may be throughout life.

I was born and raised Roman Catholic. I remain so to this day, though, of course, with some reservations and reticence. Though I've had some very powerful detours in my faith journey--e.g. a comparatively short, but very intense diversion into the quagmire (a very apt description!) of Calvinism, my path continually leads me "home" to the See of Rome. Not so much because of her claim to be the One, Holy, Catholic (universal) and Apostolic True Church (though I suppose that distinction holds some minor merit with qualifications), or because I'm somehow being guided mystically to such an end, but because of nothing more mysterious than for the sake of propriety and the idea of continuity. I'm 41 years-of-age, and I think that today was the first time I ever experienced "Confession" as it should and could be. I'm not saying it was perfect or ideal or not in some way even a bit awkward still, but the spirit of it seemed to me to be in keeping with faith, hope, and love. And for this, I'm truly grateful. I’m keenly aware (a residual from my bygone Calvinist tendencies) that “feelings” or emotions are not always a reliable barometer of an encounter with the numinous (though they shouldn’t be dismissed offhand either). As such, perhaps the best description of my confessional experience tonight would be my awareness or sense of the caress of the Holy.

In summation, my final conclusion is this: Engaging in this particular Sacrament, or any other for that matter, in a manner that is “true” or more genuine and authentic is ultimately a function of spirit. I don’t mean some “holy roller” type of spirit (though I should be careful not to judge, frankly, in spite of my rather very deep antipathy to this persuasion of expression of faith), but spirit as in a breath of life—animation of the moment by a quite, still and gentle, yet Divine and authoritative reality, that condescends to work through imperfect agents and structures.

*Note: God's final judgment for all will be mercy in my humble opinion, as I am an adherent of the heterodox belief (some, if not most, would label this doctrine heretical) in Apokatastasis--essentially a belief in the final and ultimate restoration of all and everything to God, although, of course, in His own sweet time and way. Here’s how an early Church Father, St. Gregory of Nyssa, says it: "When, over long periods of time, evil has been removed and those now lying in sin have been restored to their original state, all creation will join in united thanksgiving, both those whose purification has involved punishment and those who never needed purification at all."

A Winding Path: From There to Here

For the few that know me, fewer and fewer it seems these days (grin)—I essentially work all the time (my colleagues at work know at best only a thin slice of whom I really am, or at least the deeper self that I am) and what little time is left is by and large devoted to my family--it will come as no surprise that I’m posting yet another blog entry connected to Frank Schaeffer (the son that is, not the father). Case in point, he is the subject of one of my more "recent" postings on 10/3/07, (“Frank Schaeffer's Memoir"), which is Schaeffer’s more explicit memoir. Of course, my blogging is hardly prolific as of late, all of one entry in 2008 prior to this one (although I have several drafts in queue requiring additional editing that I’ve yet to piece together in a manner that “speaks” as I desire—I suppose I need to finalize these entries and publish them, if only for myself), but when I do blog, a few subject matters or individuals of personal influence seem to repeat like a needle stuck on an old scratched record. Namely, Frederick Buechner (a titan influence on me), Frank Schaeffer, Kate DiCamillo, Mark Helprin, boxing, Gibson’s film, “The Man Without a Face,” and Hemingway’s, “The Old Man and the Sea.” What’s a bit surprising is that Salinger’s “Catcher in the Rye” only makes a brief oblique appearance on EAC, in spite of the fact that its influence runs rather deep in me and has for a long time. I quickly scanned through most of my old entries searching for past Schaeffer references to confirm my suspicion that he was more than not a frequent subject matter, and found among them significant references on 2/4/07 (“Jesus and the Monkey Blood”) and again on 1/2/06 (“Meet a Friend of Mine—Calvin Becker”). Indeed, the “Meet a Friend of Mine” blog entry speaks of my heartfelt love and connection to a literary creation of Frank’s—Calvin Becker, who in so many ways is a kindred spirit to me. You may take note that my profile picture is but a “cut-out” of none other than a representation of Calvin Becker from one of the highly stylized covers of Schaeffer’s touching and hilarious novel, “Portofino.”

So why the long, rambling introduction to this post? Well, I’d be hard pressed to say it offers much of value other than to articulate my ongoing connection to, nay, eerily similar “evolution” with Frank. This is precisely the crux of this post. As you will see (hear, if you select "Listen Now" to the 39 minute audio clip) from the link provided in my post title, Frank Schaeffer has slowly moved from being a right-wing, Christian conservative, even at times, fundamentalist Christian, to being a person more solidly grounded in the “gray,” all the while still strangely remaining a committed Christian, even if riddled with certain doubts. As evidence of his (and ironically my own as well) evolving self, he voted for Senator Barack Obama for the highest office in the land, which would have been unthinkable to him many years ago, as it would have been with me. I also voted for Obama, with a combination of deep pride, but also reservation (he’s a bit too Pro-Abortion for my taste). Overall, I believe that President-Elect Obama is the most amazing personality of historical significance since President Lincoln that’s entered the arena of politics. He’s a hopeful light in my humble opinion. I had no idea that Frank voted for him until tonight when I happened upon this fairly recent NPR story, but it only reconfirmed that his journey is my journey in many similar ways.

So for those that may have an interest and know something of either me (not very likely) or Frank Schaeffer (more likely), please take a brief detour by selecting the link (from the blog entry title) and listen in to an interview of Frank Schaeffer by NPR’s Terri Gross. His spiritual journey is long and battle scarred, as is mine in so many ways. I personally remain a committed believer in Jesus the Christ of Nazareth. Even through the recurring crucible of doubt, and, at times, personal anger, sadness, and disappointment with God, I nevertheless trust in Him, too. There are for me some parts of my Christian faith that are very explicit and others that represent something more of an aimless wandering. I also happen to be quite the willful sinner. For me, as it was with some of the disciples who were apparently just as confounded at Jesus on occasion as I am, I say, “Lord, to whom shall I go?” Truth be known, I don’t want to go anywhere else, but I remain a wayfarer, a lonely pilgrim. The Mark Helprin quote that serves as my blog description within my blog header essentially sums up what I'm attempting to convey about my personal journey. As my virtual mentor, the good Mr. Buechner, says, “a Christian is one who is on the way, though not necessarily very far along it, and who has at least some dim and half-baked idea of whom to thank.”