A Kiss Goodnight

And thus, she’s off to sleep

Serene within her bed

Drifting in a shallow boat

Down rivers in her head

I only hope to find myself

Wherever she is led

Hunting for Patience

"Patience is the companion of wisdom." ~ Saint Augustine

I am becoming more and more frustrated with the pace of the world every day. Everybody is in such a damn hurry, and it isn’t because they are short on time, running late, overworked, or any number of excuses that they will roll off their tongues. We definitely live in a faster world than ever before, but it is one that we created ourselves and we can just as easily choose not to follow it.

More than anything it is a perception. An attitude. A state of mind. As things become faster and easier we become ever more demanding. Waiting for any reason at all is barely tolerated, whether on the phone, in a line, or merging into traffic. Dinners are rarely planned; they are typically produced and consumed on demand. We watch news around the world as it happens, and we instantly decide its historical significance when we barely understand the significance of events long since passed.

I swear, if we perfected the "transporter" technology from Star Trek tomorrow, and people were able to instantly beam themselves to wherever they wanted to go, they would still bitch about having to wait in a line for a minute or two to use it. This "hurry up" mentality is a disease of our modern society, and I don’t see it going away anytime soon.

I consider myself fortunate to be a patient person. There are many reasons that I am this way, and there are many benefits to be had from it. A few of them are a calmer state of mind, a tendency to take time and notice the little things in life, and an understanding that sometimes things just happen beyond our control and nobody is to blame for it. I find that it helps me to accomplish my goals because I am willing to take the time to learn to do things the right way, and to keep trying until I succeed. It also comes in handy with my part-time job, which is working with my cousin who is developmentally disabled.

"If I have ever made any valuable discoveries, it has been owing more to patient attention, than to any other talent." ~ Sir Isaac Newton

I would like to talk about one particular way that I learned patience, and that is through hunting. But before I go on, let me say that I realize some of you may not appreciate hunting - or those who do it. I’m fine with that, and I respect your opinion. In fact, I may even agree with you on some points.

I haven't hunted for years now, and I'm not sure if I ever will again. But for me, hunting allowed me to partake in what I see as the natural order of things, and to learn a deeper appreciation for the planet and its resources. It made me take direct responsibility for my actions, and it brought me closer to nature than I ever would have come otherwise. But I completely respect differing opinions, as long as they are sincere and reasoned. What I can’t respect are hypocrites who criticize hunters for killing their own food, but think nothing of going to the store and buying meat, produce, or any other natural product with no thought as to what it took to get it there.

But I’m not here to talk about hunting. I’m here to talk about learning patience.

You probably think that patience in hunting comes from having to wait for game to come along, and your reward is getting it. Technically that is true, but that isn’t the main reason that I learned patience from hunting, nor is it the main reward.

My dad first took me hunting when I was 12 years old. His father had taken him, and his grandfather had taken his father, on and on as far back as anybody can remember. My grandfather grew up next to an Ojibway tribe, and they taught him everything they knew about hunting, tracking, and living off the land. I only wish I had been able to learn from him directly.

I heard many stories about my dad, his brothers, and his father hunting in an area of the Upper Peninsula of Michigan that is now the Porcupine Mountains State Park. These were some of the happiest times of my dad’s life, and his deep respect and love for nature was plain to hear in his stories. So in that great tradition my dad had me take gun safety class when I was 11, so I could begin hunting as early as possible.

"Patience is a minor form of despair, disguised as a virtue." ~ Ambrose Bierce

In many ways my introduction to hunting was one of the most difficult things I have gone through. If you want to know the epitome of testing a 12 year-old boy’s patience, put him on a board in a tree at 5 a.m., tell him not to move or even twitch on pain of death (except to briefly eat lunch), and then leave him there until nightfall. Looking back, I still don’t know how I did it. In later years the schedule wasn’t so rigorous, but my dad wanted to "initiate" me into the experience when I started and he certainly did.

As that flashlight fades away into the woods you suddenly realize how completely alone you are. The sounds that you hear when you are there in the darkness take on amazing proportions in your imagination, especially when you are not used to hearing them. It is surprising to discover the thoughts that go through your head when you sit alone in the dark, and later the sights that you see when the sun slowly brings the woods into clarity around you.

Staring at the same scenery for an entire day, day after day, your mind ends up wandering to areas of your psyche that you rarely visit. Thoughts that seem confusing or complicated become simple and clear, or things that you never considered before present themselves for contemplation. At times it becomes a kind of meditation.

In spite of this, you still sit there for hours upon hours doing anything you can to keep yourself from screaming out of boredom. I remember feeling certain that my dad would be coming to get me soon, when in reality I still had hours to go. It takes a little while to learn how to judge how much time is left until it will be too dark to see in the woods.

You learn that it is the wind, and not the temperature, that really makes you feel cold. You come to appreciate just how much warmth the sun can bring when it isn’t behind the clouds. You get so cold that you don’t even feel cold anymore. You receive the most amazing relief from merely shifting your weight a few inches, returning circulation to parts of your body that you didn’t know could lose it. And when there is no wind, you find out that a mouse can make as much noise in the leaves as any deer or human. And at times the silence can be deafening.

"If you would know strength and patience, welcome the company of trees." ~ Hal Borland

Unless you have sat in the forest motionless and quiet, day after day, year after year, you can’t really get an understanding of daily life in the woods. And even then you only scratch the surface. You see the forest in a way that you will never see it just walking through it, or even sitting quietly for an hour or two. You begin to see its natural rhythm.

Squirrels come out of their trees at the same time each morning, make their rounds in the same general pattern, and then return home in the evening. Flocks of chickadees pick their way through the forest in waves off and on throughout the day, inspecting every bush and tree for food. Woodpeckers return each day to the same dying tree, methodically probing it for grubs. Animals hunt and hide from each other, staking out their territory and engaging in contests for mating.

There are many memories – rewards – that I have from my years in the woods.

I have sat in a birch tree motionless as the snow covered the forest and myself under 2 inches of transformative magic. I was rewarded for my patience on that day by being able to watch a Great Horned Owl glide silently through the trees, land on a branch near me, and survey its domain before flying off again.

I have heard the scream of a field mouse, followed by a snow-white mink running along a log with it’s freshly-caught prey in his mouth, pausing to be sure things were safe before moving on into the woods.

I have watched a broken tree branch, hanging on by a thread, twist and turn in the wind and rain without falling for weeks, only to drop silently to the ground on a clear, windless day.

I have had to refrain from laughing out loud as I watched two yearling fawns, directly below my feet, become bored with their mother’s steadfast vigilance and wander off to explore. They failed to notice that she had moved on without them, and had to quickly run to catch up with her. They then repeated the process over again and again.

I have seen a red squirrel and a gray squirrel fight ferociously over their territory, day after day, only to have the red squirrel finally prove that size doesn’t always matter in a fight.

I have heard the incredible drone of the snow melting off the trees on a sunny winter day, followed by complete and instantaneous silence as the sun went behind the clouds, only to hear it start again the moment the sun came back out.

I have had chickadees land on my legs and arms, and had squirrels stare me down for minutes at a time as they tried to figure out exactly what I was before moving on up the tree cautiously around me.

I have sat in amusement as branches and pine needles rained down on me off and on for hours, the victim of a porcupine feeding in the tree above me.

I have watched a flock of crows bring a flying hawk to the ground in front of me, tempting me to scare them off but instead just watching the spectacle unfold.

And there are countless sunrises, sunsets, snowstorms, rainfalls, and sunny days in the woods etched into my memory. The sounds of the forest still make me smile when I hear them on TV, or when walking through a park in town.

All of these things, small though they may be, have been rewards for my patience, and they are memories that I cherish. But in addition to these memories I have learned a lot about the timing of nature. I have learned how everything has its purpose, its place, and its time. I have learned how life can be fleeting, unforgiving, and also rewarding beyond belief.

But most of all I learned that my limits for physical discomfort and boredom were far beyond anything I ever dreamed they could be. And this knowledge penetrates every aspect of my life to this day.

After spending all day in a tree, too cold to move and too numb to feel the cold anyway, you find that waiting in line in a grocery store for a few minutes while an old lady fumbles with her checkbook is not that big of a deal.

"He that can have patience can have what he will." ~ Benjamin Franklin

His Hand

How strong it feels
As I hold it now
Even in illness
Even in death

Shaped and formed
By a lifetime of labor
Seventy-eight years
Of toil and wear

How many times
That hand must have held me
When I was a baby
Helpless and small

How many times
That hand picked me up
Slapping my shoulders
Patting my head

I held that hand
On the way to the drugstore
Counting the cracks
One at a time

Pitching me softballs
And building my bike
Handing me pocket change
Guiding my life

The warmth fades now
But the strength remains
Even in illness

Even in death

Kithara

In my nightmare, I held your broken neck in my hand. I squeezed it tightly and cried, knowing that when I finally opened my fingers it would fall apart forever. But when I awoke you were still there waiting.

You’re always waiting.

Waiting for my palms to trace your curves, and for my fingers to stroke your tendons. Waiting for me to warm your body against my chest. Waiting for me to pour my passion into you, and to make you sing a song that only I may hear.

Waiting for me to give myself to you, completely.

I thought about when we met. At first you didn’t stand out from the others, but when I placed my hands upon you I felt a deep vibration in my soul. And even under the noise of the room, your voice was magical.

The next morning I found myself doubting what I had felt, so I went back to find you again. You were still there, and it was the same as it had been the day before. Later that week I took you home with me.

I wish I knew what happened. I still remember the excitement of my discovery. I still remember the renewed hope of fulfilling my childhood dreams. I still remember my resolution to unlock the music in my heart, and to create something new with the remainder of my life.

I still remember the promises that I made to you. I swallow them each night before I go to bed.

It isn’t fair to keep you waiting. There are others who would treat you better. There are others who would appreciate you more than I do. There are others who would give you the attention that you deserve.

Yes there are others, but you still belong to me.

And I’m not ready to give you up just yet.

Cession

Toilsome creation

Engraving emotions
Casting thoughts
Constructing words

Words that say nothing
Words that mean everything

Sculpting emotions

Cragged
Unhewn
Unpolished

Forming thoughts

Flexuous
Malleable
Amorphous

Framing words

Green
Misshapen
Unseasoned

I grow weary

Chiseling my emotions
Stamping my thoughts
Shaving my words

If you want them

Fashion them yourself

The Last Day of Summer

It begins like a typical summer Sunday.

I get up around eleven, and I lounge around in my sweatpants for an hour or two. I play around on the computer, and then I gather my dirty clothes into a pile so I can do laundry when I get home from my workout. I make a light lunch, do some more on the computer, and then I shower and take off to the gym.

After I finish my workout, I head for the book store. This is also part of my routine. On the way there my path takes me past a duplex that I used to rent, and I spontaneously decide to divert from my course and drive past it.

For some reason, I’m feeling very nostalgic today.

I park on the street and I soon find myself drifting back fifteen years, to a time in my life that I often revisit. It was a time when I was experiencing a lot of extremes; a crucial time where a slight deviation one way or another would significantly change the arc of my life in the years to follow.

I shared the duplex with two women, in a quiet residential neighborhood of St. Paul that has big old houses with well-maintained flower gardens. A mile or so in either direction and you will be downtown in one of the Twin Cities, but here it is a place of small-town grocery stores and quaint little gift shops.

I worked at a popular health club in downtown Minneapolis, and my regular acquaintances included night club owners, musicians, strippers, and policemen -- among others. I had an “in” just about any place I went back then.

It was also a time when my oldest and dearest friend died from cancer, and the first woman I’d fallen in love with since college ended up marrying another man and moving out of state.

After exhausting all the memories that I care to dredge up, I drive back to the highway and continue on to the bookstore. I find a parking spot right next to the door, and I go inside.

While browsing around, I find two books on the clearance shelf that catch my attention. One is a book of Zen poetry, and the other one I’m not familiar with but I decide to buy it on a whim.

I pay for the books and walk back out to my car. I start the car, planning on going home. That is what I normally do after my Sunday bookstore run. But today being the way that it is, I’m just not ready to go home. School will be starting tomorrow, and deep down I’m not ready for the summer to end.

I remember a warehouse job that I used to have at a place just up the road, and nostalgia once again compels me to re-visit my past. The building is owned by a different company now, but it still looks much the same as it did when I worked there. As I drive past, I suddenly remember how I sometimes used to drive over to a nearby lake to eat my lunch. I decide to check it out.

Even though it is early evening, there are still quite a few late summer beach goers trying to enjoy the last rays of the summer sun.

As I park my car I don’t plan on getting out, but it isn’t long before I feel the urge to do something unusual. Something to further prolong the summer. Something I haven’t done in a long time.

I decide to join them on the beach.

My workout shorts and t-shirt are close enough to beach wear that I won’t stand out, so I’m okay in that area. I pop the trunk of my car and grab the leopard-print beach blanket that I keep in there, and I decide to bring along one of my books to read as well. Normally Zen poetry would be an ideal pick for a lazy evening on the beach, but today I’m too unfocused for that. I grab the other book instead.

As I walk towards the sand, I remember the last time I went to the beach a few years ago. There were three twenty-something women sitting close to me, and at one point I overheard one of them tell her friends how cute she thought I was.

Since I plan on doing some reading, I don’t want to be in the middle of the action. I notice a spot on the far side of the beach where there aren’t many people. The sun is low enough in the sky that the shadows from some nearby trees are threatening that corner of the sand, so most of the people have chosen spots closer to the center of the beach. I walk over and lay out my blanket. I kick off my tennis shoes and socks, take off my shirt, and lie back on the blanket.

I tan my front for a while, and then I roll over onto my stomach. As I do, I notice some younger women on the edge of the crowd nearest me. Remembering my last beach experience, I watch them from behind my sunglasses to see if I merit a glance. In my mid-life desperation, it becomes a test for how well I have aged.

The test is returned with a big red "F" marked on the top.

It isn’t that I’m out to attract the attention of twenty-something women, although I’m certainly not against the proposition. But in spite of how ridiculous it is to make an assessment of how well I have aged on one chance encounter, today their complete indifference to me is more telling than words. It is a tangible reminder that no matter how young I feel or how well I take care of myself, I have crossed a threshold. I have passed an invisible barrier, and there is no return.

I have become an anonymous old dude at the beach.

Before depression at this thought completely sets in, my dark Irish humor kicks into gear. I remind myself of the ending to my previous encounter at the beach. After the one girl told her friends how cute she thought I was, one of the others (after looking me over) said back to her “do you know how old he is?” A wide grin splits my face.

Still on my stomach, I reach over and grab my book.

I read the cover. “The Garden of The Prophet”, by Kahlil Gibran. I’ve never heard of it before, and I’m not even sure why I bought it. I had skimmed across some interesting passages in the bookstore, but holding it in my hands on the beach I’m not sure what to expect. It may have simply been the unique illustrations that attracted me, for all I know.

I read a bit, but my mind isn’t able to hold a train of thought for very long. Nothing I read grabs my attention, and my eyes begin to wander.

I glance over and notice the shadows of the trees creeping closer. In my mind they become a sundial, counting down the end of summer. Counting down the end of my summer. When they reach my feet, it will be over.

I sit up and face the water. Kids are splashing and playing in the shallows, and water skiers are making lazy circles in the center of the lake. Teenagers flirt with each other while throwing a frisbee, and mothers catch up on conversation while keeping one eye on their toddlers.

After taking in the surroundings for a while, I pick up the book again and flip it open. When I do, my eyes immediately fall upon a paragraph that hits so close to home that it takes the breath from my lungs. It resonates so deeply with my mood that I cannot help but wonder what power put it in my hands this day. If the entire book consisted of this single paragraph, it would more than justify my purchase.

“And what are the seasons of the years save your own thoughts changing? Spring is an awakening in your breast, and summer but a recognition of your own fruitfulness. Is not autumn the ancient in you singing a lullaby to that which is still a child in your being? And what, I ask you, is winter save sleep big with the dreams of all the other seasons.”

A bedtime song for my youth...

I close my eyes, and an unsettling feeling of acceptance washes over me.

When I open them again, the shadows are almost at my feet. Deciding to cheat the clock with one final act of defiance, I reach over and grab my socks and tennis shoes. I quickly put them on, and then I put my shirt on as well. I stand up and gather my things together. Shaking the sand from my blanket, I fold it up and tuck it under my arm. People are still playing in the water, but there are steady streams of families heading back to their parked cars.

I toss the book through the open window of my car as I walk past, and then I put the blanket back in the trunk. I climb in the car and start the engine. As I pull out of the parking lot, I contemplate visiting another place I used to live when I was younger. But something has changed now. Something is different.

Instead, I just drive home.

Intermission

I give her a kiss. One long kiss, and then I stop.

She wants more.

I press her back against the wall, and my hands go to the buttons on her shirt. I undo two buttons, and then I wait. She stares into my eyes, daring me to continue. Daring me, and begging me at the same time.

I undo another.

She begins to speak, but I quickly silence her with my lips.

And then I undo another.

Transitory

Cloud upon cloud, piled on high
An ethereal mountain in the sky
I fix my gaze and begin to climb
But it dissipates before my eyes

Moon’s reflection on a stream
A silver disc; a frozen beam
I reach my hand to feel its sheen
But ripples end my wishful dream

Hope for things I only dare
Fears I can no longer bear
I lift my pen, my thoughts to share
But find they are no longer there

Guest House

As we stood there talking

facing each other through the screen door

Her sleepy eyes tight in the morning sun

A breeze from the lake tugging at her hair

A large gray sweatshirt down to her bare legs

She never looked more beautiful

And I found myself wondering

why we never

Classroom Girl

She has a pretty face

But she never smiles

I’ve never seen her smile

She has an exotic look

Her skin is creamy white

And she has beautiful almond eyes

And full, sensual lips

She sits at the far end of the row

Tucked up against the wall

Hair pulled up tight on her head

Streaks of blonde in brown

I saw her earlier in the day

Walking in the Commons

Her hair was down, and it was beautiful

I wish she would wear it that way more often

She always looks tired

Her eyes seem baggy and worn

Does she just have a busy schedule

Or is it a secret life?

She sits there at her table

Only speaking when she must

Staring at her computer screen

Typing and writing, doing her work

But she never

Ever

Smiles

Another Day

Clothes are piled up on the foot of my bed. The left side of the pile is mostly clean clothes that have recently been removed from the dryer, while the right side is stuff that I have worn over the last few days. The pile has become mixed up enough that the distinction becomes difficult to make, however. There are a few books sticking out from under the pile as well, and at least one DVD. I threw them on the bed when I got home from the book store the other day, and they haven’t moved since.

On the floor next to the head of my bed are even more books and DVDs. The end of my desk nearest the bed has a pile of neglected paperwork sitting on it. In various locations around my room, more dirty clothes are piled on the floor. Each pile contains the remains of one outfit, complete with socks and underwear.

You can always tell when I’m depressed by the state of my bedroom.

I pull off my sweatshirt and toss it on the floor next to the closet. I unbutton my pants, letting them drop to my ankles. I kick them next to my sweatshirt, pull off my socks and underwear, and add another outfit to the floor.

I grab a pair of sweatpants from the pile on my bed. I think they are clean, but I can’t say for sure because they are in the center of the pile. I throw on a pair of bootie socks from the clean side, and I grab a t-shirt. After I finish dressing, I sit down at my computer.

That pile of stuff desperately needs attention. There are forms to consolidate my student loans in there, and I know that I am behind at least two payments on one of them. For that reason, there is also a form to apply for a hardship deferment. I also have some long-neglected financial statements to go over from my bank, and a few other bills that are due any day now.

I try not to even think about the website I was supposed to start for my cousin almost two months ago.

Instead I surf the Internet. When I tire of doing that, I play a game on my computer. When I’m finished with the game I grab a late-night snack of peanuts and a few cheese sticks. I also pour myself a tall glass of iced tea. An hour or more of surfing the web, and I’m ready for bed.

After I brush my teeth, I stand in the middle of the room and look at the pile on my bed. I’ve been meaning to clear it off, but I’m too lazy to fold all of those clothes. Instead I just pull back the covers, crawl underneath, and bury my lower body beneath the pile. As I lay there in bed, I ponder the image of hiding under a pile of clothes in my bedroom. Hibernating, like a bear under a brush pile in the winter.

I’m tired. Tired of fighting battles with invisible demons that only I can see. Tired of being judged by external appearances, or a lack of physical accomplishments. Tired of keeping myself going, when all I want to do is quit. Tired of moving forward, when all I want to do is stop. Tired of waiting for something different.

Tired of hope.

I turn on my portable DVD player and slip into another world. Tonight I am on a 19th century sailing ship, waiting to see if young Horatio Hornblower will be able to get us through the Spanish fleet he has mistakenly sailed through in the fog. I checked out a box set of the A&E series from the library, and so far I’m enjoying it.

At some point I realize that my eyes are closed, and that I’m just listening to the dialogue. Shortly after that, I realize that I’m not even listening to the dialogue anymore. I open my eyes long enough to turn off the player. I slide it next to me on the bed, and then I roll over and go to sleep.

I dream about the past... non-specific images, but they leave an aftertaste of that old feeling of being at college when I was 18, living on my own for the first time and realizing that I have a whole life ahead of me to create...

I wake up in the morning and sit up in my bed, stretching my back for a few moments. I get out of bed and walk over to the master bathroom. When I finish I walk back and stand in the center of my room, surveying the carnage around me. I try to remember my dreams, but I can’t. I just have a strange, subtle feeling stirring deep inside of me.

I slowly bend down and start picking up my clothes.