The Road Goes Ever On...

I always felt a twinge of anxiety any time someone asked me to write something. It made me feel an obligation to pander to their individual proclivities, or to somehow be complimentary or flattering. But then I had a revelation the other day. Being asked to put words down on a page was a request to see more of me. Yes, in fact, being asked for a new post, or a story is a voyeuristic act on behalf of the petitioner. And I, being a closeted exhibitionist, should be quite pleased to oblige.

Writing is sometimes a difficult task. These words here are a reflection of what makes me me. Left to my own devices with no direction in which to write, the path becomes the sum of sub-conscious tendencies that are exclusively mine. No agenda. No endgame. Just this guy. And to know that this guy is a topic of interest, enough for someone to ask for an unabridged look inside, is a sincere compliment. And the difficulty comes in being honest about what is written. Being unabridged to another, the reader, demands being unabridged with the writing-self.

My life is scary, to be blunt. No, I don't live in crime or poverty ridden areas, but this pervasive fear fills a small oil lamp in the back of my mind. It's a small flicker of dread rather than a blindingly bright horror. But it's always there, chasing away the shadows of certainty. It's enough of a reminder that what I have can be lost that I'm never positive that I have a handle on things. Yes, having been told that I once had the appearance of a man who 'had his shit together', I know that I'm really just an ice skater balanced on a thin edge of relative success.

I grew up in a faith that said my life would end and my knowledge would cease. Perhaps I would be brought back to life by a God that intended me to live forever, but that depended a great deal on what endeavors I sought in this life. Contrary to that faith, I have grown more agnostic as I've gotten older. I do not know if there is a God, let alone one who cares. The religion of my youth has become insufficient to explain many of the things that science is learning. The red shift of cosmic expansion, Higgs-Bosun, habitable exoplanets, and the eventual death of Sol, all point to a system of expiration and renewal. So I ponder frequently an inverse of Pascal's Wager. If there is no God, I have to make this life count. What I do and leave for people to remember will be the only chance I have had. If I'm wrong and there is a God, then a life lived in the pursuit of meaningful contribution can't be a bad thing.

But what is meaningful? Is it love? People inspired to be better? Or is it just a positive influence on others' lives? I don't know what makes me a good person and I agonize over doing the wrong thing with the few years I have. I worry about doing the wrong things for my kid and pursuing the wrong relationships.

The odd thing about life is that it is a series of choices that you cannot go back and unmake. At the end of your life, you are left with the choices that you pursued and the consequences that they rendered. I don't want to get to my twilight years and think that I didn't do the best I could with the time that I had. I don't want to remember old faces with longing. I want to remember them with pride. I don't want any of the paths I take to be ones that I later question.

But I don't get that luxury. My days will march forward, unfettered. In the thirty or forty years to come, each day will be another step in the journey, and I will eventually run out of 'tomorrows'. And each day I will ask myself, "Did you do something worthwhile today?" Each day I will ask myself, "Are you a good man?"

Am I a good man?

The mirror does not answer. And because of that, I am afraid.

When I'm Gone

The words rang out from the radio like a thunderclap. They exploded from the General Motors standard-issue speakers, and had I not been strapped into my seat, they'd have surely tossed me aside like so much rubbish. Only a few simple lyrics from a song so appropriately written could have such an effect.

I had an opportunity recently to go to the mountains of norther Arizona. They are smallish for what I would call mountains. They are rolling hills with many trees. Much different from the harsh and stony hills I knew in Colorado in my youth. The scrub desert became more lush the farther north I went. There was even a remarkable change when honest-to-God trees suddenly became the preferred ground cover. Arizona actually looked like a place full of life.

It took over three hours to reach the little mountain town of Pinetop. But tucked back in a neighborhood off the main drag, there was a cabin that was a little too close to the neighbors for my taste. However, the beauty of the place wasn't diminished in any way that I could tell. The faint scent of pine lingered in the air, lending some legitimacy to the town's name. And one could barely put a hand on one tree without being able to reach another.

For a long time I just stood among the trees and missed. I missed in a way that one misses a lost loved one, or a favorite pizza that is only available in one place. I missed the woods of my home in Missouri. I missed the scent of flora decaying on the forest floor. I missed the dampness of vegetation. I missed long walks along the spines and valleys of hills. I missed wading along creeks. I missed giving snakes and squirrels the respect of a wide berth. I missed, but not in a sorrowful way. I missed in a way that brought the comfort of fond memories that were still bright and vivid.

Every place I looked seemed perfect. Every boulevard I drove down was idyllic. The trees and grasses that lined the road ways were lush and vibrant. The glens and glades that flanked the hills were like those right out of a novel. If there were a more picturesque place to be, I couldn't imagine it.

I've thought about that place a lot in the last three weeks. It's kind of a shame that the weekend was so short. I could easily lose myself in that setting for time indefinite. And then there was this line from a song that made it all seem a little drab by comparison.

It's got mountains
It's got rivers
It's got woods to give you shivers
But it sure would be prettier with you

Would it?

I don't know for sure. But I can surely imagine. And it certainly would not have been less.

The Bygones Wept

Dreams are frightful things. They often are senseless and confusing without ever being meaningless.  The glimpses of our souls that we take from them are like the images we see when looking at the world through a kaleidoscope. They are jumbled, fragmented, without context, but strikingly beautiful and intense. And at times, completely overwhelming.

There are secrets locked away within our minds. Truths we've long forgotten. Lies that we've repeated so many times that we don't remember where they began. Sometimes there are pains that have foundations so deep that they can't be seen for the mountains we've built over them. And yet, they're all there, slumbering quietly until a dream tethered by the last binding thread to an era long past wakes you into a sobbing fit of despair.

Some time ago, I learned that the first girl I ever deeply cared for had died of ovarian cancer. It was years after the fact that anyone I still knew learned of this, but my mom (in a persistent display of brain-mouth filter deficiency) made sure I was notified. As I hung up from that phone call, I told my wife what the purpose of the call was, to which she calmly inquired, "How do you feel about that?"

I know why she asked. She wanted to know if I still harbored any feelings for the girl. But in fact, it has been nigh on fifteen years since my last contact with her. Whatever feelings I had were long forgotten. She had carried on with her life and whatever I knew about it was the stuff of myth and legend. These days, all that I can find is an obituary that tells me that she remarried at least once and had a son. To a casual observer, it is a perfectly forgettable footnote that looks like all of the others on the flimsy newsprint of a small Illinois town.

There are very few days that stand out in my memory as holding watershed moments. The day I met her is one I remember in an unfortunate amount of detail. I was 14 years old and it was a Saturday in very early February. To say that I know the exact date would be accurate, but serves no purpose. I had returned home after staying the night at a friend's house the night before. As soon as I walked in the door, I dropped my things and started getting ready to go to my cousin's wedding that afternoon.

I always took a duffel bag for my things. My dad was due to head to Lincoln, Nebraska on Sunday and decided to use that same bag. Had I known, I'd have been more careful. In the bottom of that bag was a floor panel that provided support. Under that panel was a copy of the February 1978 issue of Playboy. I happened to be taking a shower when my bag was unpacked. My brother stepped in to apply a generous amount of Ralph Lauren's Polo. "Prepare yourself man," he said with brotherly understanding, "Dad opened your bag."

I stood there for several minutes wracked with terror about how I was going to explain it. I did eventually get out and make my mea culpas. And graciously, the issue died without much more discussion. Had there been much more, I'd have had to explain that I'd stolen it the night before from my friend's dad. Many a long conversation would have had to follow.

The wedding would provide enough distraction that very little was ever said about it again. And so, at a church of roughly 150 seats in Edwardsville, Illinois, I watched my cousin marry. At the reception, I would become reacquainted with a girl that I had not seen for a few years, and barely remembered. But that night was mine. We danced and talked all evening and became good friends. In the years that followed, we wrote many letters to each other, went to concerts, and sought each other out at mutual events. As often happens, the relationship was unbalanced and I was not on the receiving end.

There were times that I would sit and look at her graduation picture for hours. The letters that she sent were always kissed with a hint of perfume, and that scent lingered long after the letters stopped coming. One of the last was to tell me that she was seeing someone and that they intended to marry. The words "that probably disappoints you" leaped off the page at me like a gunshot. It was filled with recognition of my feelings, but also the assurance that those feelings would be fruitless. I didn't bother to write back that time.

I don't remember the feelings fading, or how long it took. I only know now that they once existed. But my life went on as they all do. I've had my trials and triumphs, and will continue to have more. I cannot recall the last time I went to bed thinking of her. Nor can I think of a time when I will close my eyes and think of her.

So to be roused from my sleep a few nights ago by a dream of her was both astonishing and troubling. The dream was clear enough to feel. We were in old haunts where we would sometimes cross paths. We spoke in the familiar way that we once did. And in a quiet moment, with teary eyes, I told her that I'd heard she was dead. She smiled sadly at me and touch my cheek. And all she said was, "I'm sorry."

I woke from my sleep to the sound of my own struggling sobs. I felt more broken in that moment than I had any right or reason to feel. It wasn't until then that I felt any particular sorrow about her death. And my mourning at that moment was not because of feelings that still persisted. No, my tears fell for my watershed moment that had lost half of its value. I would be lying if I said that I had not longed to see her again, or that given the opportunity I would take it now. But if I were to see her, I would not honestly be looking for a glimmer of the feelings that I once held for her to be suddenly returned.

I grieved for the once heady days when I learned what I wanted to feel for someone for the rest of my days. I grieved for the loss of a teacher that helped me to learn that losing my innocence was not to be feared. I grieved for a son and father that lost a wonderful woman. I grieved for a day and the catalyst it bore being a memory that only one person would now carry.

Those bygone days are long behind me, and the sorrow that belongs to those days shall remain in their stead, the signpost of days that were worth living.

My Red Moon

I sat in the dark of night, caressed by the gentle breeze, and letting soft and loving words bathe my ears. The Balsam of Gilead her voice was to me, as I gazed upon the bloodied moon.  How often these moments will pass between us, I do not know.  Will this be the last?  Perhaps.  But it does not keep me from cherishing what time we have together.

How incredibly rare the red moon is, coming when it’s least expected, and fleeting like a shooting star.  But there it stood against my sky, intoxicating in its own right.  And so I was beholden to it, captivated by its beauty, and unaware of it coming retreat. Even at that I can’t say that I was truly unaware, for as are all things so rare and beautiful, it was bound to last but a moment.

There the moon hung against its darkened backdrop, looking back at me with a familiar but distant gaze, smiling at me one last time in equal parts sorrow and fondness, as the eclipsing shadow overtook my lover’s face.  With agonizing precision and care, she disappeared from me, wrenched from my grasp and leaving a void of blackness and pain.  Inch by inch the veil crept until all was blocked from my sight.

The cool night air no longer felt good to me, but was now chill and heartless, wrapping icy fingers of anguish around my heart.  Desperately I did look to the sky hoping for a glimpse of my beloved.  But there hung a vacuum where once her face had shone, obscured from me, though I know she’s still there.

My moon has gone away, no longer for me to look upon.  Though my love has not yet faded, it is no longer mine to give.

Know When to Hold 'Em

I've always been fascinated by women, often with a healthy measure of dismay. They are full of contradiction and conflicting logic. And at the same time they are manipulative, crafty, devious, and completely innocent. I have trouble remembering a time when a woman didn't hold back everything you wanted to know, but offered brief peeks at all the things you never expected to hear.

A woman will sit across the table from you and ask you to reveal your most intimate secrets, but never tell you why she wants to know them. You may be lucky to find out what she intends to do with that knowledge, but don't hold out any hope of understanding her reasons. And while you sit there completely vulnerable and exposed, you may possibly discern that she is taking something from your revelations, perhaps you'll even call it joy. But one thing you will seldom ever find is reciprocity. At least not without the conditions under which she affords it.

What I've come to understand about women is that they want to know all. Particularly what they mean to you, a man. It may very well be for the benefit of her ego. It could possibly be that she just wants to know how well she's set that hook. The only thing you can guarantee is that whatever her reasons, the cards in her hand will be held very close to her chest.

I have become particularly susceptible to this kind of chicanery. I accept this about myself. I've spent a long time seeking unconditional acceptance and I've looked at complete self-exposure as a mechanism to get me there. Depending on the girl and her aims, this can be disastrous. Speaking from a position of authority, it often is.

Women are guarded, and rightfully so. They are almost in constant danger of being exploited physically, emotionally, or any other way you can imagine. I'd almost describe them as skittish. But it all ends up being part of the game we play with each other. You can take the chance, as I did, and share everything against your better judgement. Or you can take the chance in holding your own cards close. That may be enough for her, and you may get what you want. Honestly, odds are slim either way.

I've been sitting across that table more often than I'd like to admit. Each time I am amazed at my willingness to share. Every time, I find that I am holding onto the hope of reciprocity. I'm not a bad card player, but holding those cards close at times gets to be very lonely. For me, the chance of getting hurt by sharing too much and never knowing what it means to her is worse than folding the cards and never finding out if I had a winning hand.

Mourning Star

In southern Missouri, there is a two lane road that stretches south. State Route 63 winds quietly through the hamlets and townships of rural America, occasionally passing through relative population centers. It passes churches, farms, VFW posts, and countless county roads. Twelve miles south of the town of Rolla, Missouri, and a rifle shot past the Little Piney River, 63 will bring you to a sign for the Philadelphia Baptist Church. You have found County Road 7490.

A few miles down this gravel road you will drop in to a deep valley where the air is cooler and the trees are greener. In this valley is a little patch of property that has been in my family for the last thirty years. Here, I have grown up, grown old, been lost, and been found anew. It is the place where my family gathered throughout my youth to be a family. The sandy soil is rich with sweat of our brow, stained with our blood, and renewed by those of us that are buried in the hill across the creek.

Sometimes the trip down Country Road 7490 was taken in the impenetrable dark of a rural summer night. The headlights of the family van only cut the darkness a few dozen yards, and beyond that the world may have dropped off into an endless void for all I knew. The gnawing anxiety of the unknown stirred in my belly in those moments and sometimes I would close my eyes and pray that we would make it safely to the valley. It was a childish fear, I know, but one I had all the same. We'd skid and rattle down the road, with rocks pinging off the undercarriage and the tires hopping along the washboard hard pack.

On one of the blackest nights I can remember, we made our way down what is locally know as Corn Creek Road to the valley. I lay curled up on the rear bed that my parents had built into the van. I looked out the back window of the van, watching the dust swirl in the wake of our travels. The dust was illuminated red by the tail lights of the van and looked like angered ghosts reaching out to drag us into their collective damnation. I rocked in uneasy time with the van and listening to the loose rocks hammering away beneath me.

There was a sudden drop in my stomach as we crested the last hill and sank into the valley and I felt relief. After a few more moments, we slowed and I felt the van turn onto the property. When I felt the brrrrap of the tires crossing the cattle grate that marked the entrance of our family's land, I sat up and prepared to get out. When the van came to a stop, I pulled the latch on the door and stepped out onto the dew covered ground. The cold, humid air fell over me like a wet washcloth, and I let out a long foggy breath. Craning my neck, I looked up into the night sky while my family scattered about to mingle with the clan.

I looked into that night sky and felt the awe and wonder of something I'd never seen before. I climbed onto the roof of the van with a blanket and pillow to lay under the brightest and clearest views I've ever had of the Milky Way.

I lay there for an amount of time that I cannot define. I stared at the bright band of white that reached across the sky and felt infinitely small. Before me lay the entire universe, with millions of stars, and countless worlds across immeasurable distances. But as distant as they were, I felt as if I could simply extend my arms and caress them with my fingertips.

I dozed off sometime later and awoke in the very predawn hours to see only a few of those stars remaining. Assuredly, they had been there before, and yet I had not seen them. I knew that they had not been so obvious simply because they'd been drowned out in the sea of stars that I'd been looking at just a few hours before. I lamented that it had taken me so long to see them, even though they'd been right in front of me the whole time. Something so beautiful and distinct deserved recognition sooner. I dozed again, and by the time I opened my eyes the sun had peeked over the trees and my stars were gone. I have not seen them again so clearly since.

As I've grown older, the darkness has sometimes become figurative. With the inexperience of life sometimes come the trials. And in the blackness of those trials, sometimes innumerable  lights appear. They may only be pinpoints in the dark, but you can see them. And sometimes they seem close enough to touch. In my own times of darkness, I've reached out for them and found them beyond my reach, just like the stars that painted the sky of my valley.

And one by one, those stars disappeared.

The people that come into our lives in those dark times can seem beautiful for a time. But I've found that they are only around when things are the darkest. And then there are the ones that persist into the dawn. They hang there, waiting, watching over you until you find the light once again. The are the brightest and most beautiful stars in your sky, but it is not until all of the others who, too dim to be of consequence at any other time, have faded away that you take notice.

I know that I have often failed to acknowledge those who hold vigil with me through the dark, but I feel their light upon me constantly. Feeling weightless and infinitely small is a lonely time, to be sure, and having a star to defiantly twinkle when all others had gone their way was a blessing. And when the night falls, as it often does, know that star will be there, waiting out the darkness until we are once again a light of our own.

Moral Imperatives

Taking the middle ground can be trying at times. It is the no-man's-land of political and moral debates across which everyone with an opinion will launch their attacks. And squarely in the middle I sit. I wonder sometimes if choosing a side, be it Democrat or Republican, Right or Left wing, would at least offer me some variety of protection. At the very least, I could add the strength of numbers, but it would require me to adopt party-line politics which I could not stomach.

One of the many issues with occupying popularly unclaimed territory is that it appears lazy and lacking conviction. Those who are not choosing a side are often referred to as "neutral", when I am in fact anything but neutral. Neutrality requires disinterest. My interest runs so deep that I cannot hide behind a banner of any political party because the issues on which we DO agree are sufficiently countermanded by other, unfathomable, policies that I cannot in good conscience accept the status quo that accompanies the affiliation. No, the middle ground takes a great deal more effort than just picking a side.

During a recent discussion about the decision by Girl Scouts of America to allow a transgendered child who identifies herself as a girl to join a Colorado troop, I was called a "narrow-minded Republican". I earned this title, not because I disagreed with GSUSA (whose decision I vocally supported), but because I supported the right of three Louisianan troops to disband in protest. My detractors, and be sure there are many, had quite a few things to say on the topic, but one caught my interest.

"Bigotry and prejudice, especially when they manifest in ways leading to inequality and economic oppression, are not merely differing opinions... we have a moral imperative to stand against them." - J. W.

Moral imperatives are a variety of 'categorical imperative' first proposed by Immanuel Kant. By his definition, an imperative is a necessary action, and a Moral Imperative is one which does not consider consequences in its grounding. In other words, Moral action must be done for its sake alone, and not to support a desired outcome. To stand against bigotry and prejudice BECAUSE they lead to inequality and economic oppression is not moral and denies free rational action.

The moral imperative, in my humble view, is to preserve the free will of all parties, no matter their view point. As detestable as it may be for persons to demand the exclusion of anyone for any basis (as the three Troops in Louisiana did), it is more so to oppress the free will of any party by nature of their dissent. And this is the conundrum of middle-ground. For me to demand respect, I must first give it. And even though I don't share the imperative of the Religious Right, I must protect and defend their right have it, because without it, my own free will must be sacrificed.

This does not mean that I support discrimination. No, it is a vile and poisonous thing to me. But Sir Isaac Newton's First Law of Motion may be brought in to play when it is inevitably encountered. There will be times when persons of deliberate ignorance will do hateful things, and in those moments we must be deliberately open. When those people who would turn away a little girl by virtue of her genetic manifestation push, we must not push back. No, we must absorb.

Imagine for a moment that you are trying to push yourself away from a brick wall, but every time you extend your arms, the wall simply gives. Your action is absorbed and rendered completely impotent. So, in my view, must it be with bigotry and prejudice. An ineffective crusade will be soon abandoned, and the only way to defeat one of hate is to give it no purchase.

We often refer to this country as the "land of the free". For it to be so, all viewpoints must be allowed to exist, for if one is stamped out because it fails the imperatives of perfect duty, our own imperatives fail as well.

So here I sit, in the middle ground, not because it is comfortable or easy. I occupy this space by informed choice, because the slings and arrows may be sufferable, whereas the alternatives are not.