My Morning Walk...

My Morning Walk

The sun punches through in a 

white shining ball

To the sound of a single 

unseen seagull's call

The sand, sky, and ocean all 

lack clear distinction

Reality fades to a blurred case 

of fiction...

Entry Notes To Self..my hats

Can A Hat Be A Metaphor?

I like my hat,

or hats rather, I have several, you see.

They separate me in my mind 

from someone else I might be,

but the someone without my hat 

is the someone you would not meet. 

You would not find me without my hats...

I won't come out and that's that.

I'm  not a charming fellow, the me, without a hat, 

We are all probably better off 

if I keep some thoughts under my hat.

My summer fedora is the best you see

Shades me from sun and wind and the sea

Keeping in tune to the sound of my heart

Hears my silent applause, for no one to hear

A feeling of gratitude from those who are near

Still no one around, absolutely no sound

But a smile suddenly creeps

While around everything sleeps

The heart always goes

What the eye always shows

My fedora whispers in my ear

Never give up that feeling you hold

Seems my summer fedora always knows...

Entry Note To Self...just a thought

Just A Thought On This Mornings Walk... 

A little cooler perhaps, but the mornings of our lives always yields their little surprises. The sunlight breaking over the ocean casting her spell of shadows. Storms forming on the eastern horizon. The sound of high tide as the waves white with foam caress the sand. The sound of a sea bird lost in migration, or maybe just Jonathan Sea Gull spreading his greetings of another day.

So many things we can distinguish in our thoughts...an idea or opinion produced by thinking or occurring suddenly in the mind.

An idea, notion, impression,

          a theory, and many more.

Deliberate, perhaps.

Or just musing, ruminating, or even brooding.

All the thoughts that make it so.

Try reflection, rumination and mediation,

It all leads to contemplation does it not?

Pondering and deliberation.

Introspection? I reverie that reflection.

Thinking...Is it not language that makes all thinking so?

For some odd reason, out of nowhere, I recite the poem Invitcus in my head, as I watch eight pelicans disappear toward the southern shore. Thank you William Earnest Henley. Great combination of words that made thoughts which one never forgets. First damn poem I every learned. Thanks to Ms. Brumley.

Ms. Grumbly, as I called her. My eighth grade English teacher, or was it Language teacher?  So much wisdom in that lady.  I remember well her thoughts on how I was steering my ship. " Young man", she spoke, "If you don't learn how to spell and use proper grammar , you will amount to No Thing." How smart she was...nope, not a good speller or skilled on the rules of verse...and now I amount to No Thing...but I lived long enough to use this damn Spell Check....

And who sits at your pilots wheel? Some say fate steers us through, but most of the time it's just you, with your cargo of language and yes your fate...

"...just language, sparked in my brain, making a sea of thoughts in my mind, packed and stored away for my journeys."

Press on, the morning still breaks and life is more than just looking for fish heads. As Jonathan would say.

..and so it goes.

Entry Notes To Self...sweet Magnolia

The Scent of the Magnolia

   

“Well, how are you, Magnolia? Looking pretty as ever,” my uncle always greeted a woman whose name he could not remember. (Men were designated “Coach.”) “Magnolia,” of course, speaks metaphoric volumes: It heralds the woman as a flower of the South, as mysterious and beautiful, her skin flawless; it acknowledges her fragrant allure. And that flower of the South knew full well that my uncle had no idea what her name was.

Reflection:

Magnolia grandiflora, a true native. Does any other flower have quite the mystique? The California poppy, the Washington cherry, the Texas bluebonnet? Not a chance. They lack a perfumeas strong as knockout drops, they lack the magnitude of the creamy tight buds that open into face-size blossoms of extravagant beauty, and they lack gravitas. At the first funeral I ever attended, a full-open magnolia blossom lay on top of the gleaming, dark wood coffin. One was enough.

Entry Notes To Self...distinctions

Reflections From The Sand

Memorial Day weekend on the beach...what a sight. The first plunge into summer. What a release to let go of winter past. Young families, hoping to share a moment and maybe establish a tradition. At least that's what I think they hope for. What I notice most are the children. For some their first experience of sand and waves. 

I noticed this little one, about three years old, I suppose. I guessed at her age based on the age of my granddaughter, but a good guess never the less. Red candy striped swim suit, blond hair and in her own world. That age where they explore with their senses one moment and the next just run in circles like a child possessed, or like the feeling of the greatest freedom. I think she felt free. Who knows but she was a delight to observe as she splashed her feel in the surf filled holes as the tide rolled in, paying little attention to the cries of her parents to be careful. Such beauty as she played with the waves lapping at her feet then retreating.

Then there was this father with his young son, dipping in the sand with one of those nets and  sharing the capture of a sand crab...will they remember that moment? I hope so, I will reflect on it often.

Then I noticed this small, independent one. Still wearing diapers covered by one of those Micky Mouse swim bottoms. He would not let his father hold his hand to make it to their resting spot. Very insistent  to make his way on his own. About two years old, still a little wobble in his walk, teetered with every step, especially in the depressions of the foot prints. Almost falling with every step and when he reached the incline of the beach, his little body speeding much faster than his brain. How funny as he struggled between the line of balance and face down in the sand. Pausing occasionally to do whatever his body needed to keep it all together. It suddenly dawned on me that he was experiencing what I experience. You see as you age, there is a point where one experiences the same feelings as my little friend, teetering on the  edge of balance or face down....it's so nice to be two again...

Then my eyes happened upon this young lady, under her umbrella, reading a book, then pausing and staring into the sea. Could be many souls trying to find a moment of peace but her mood was different. Behind that stare was a loneliness. You know it when you see it, but it was not her loneliness that captured my attention, it was her special power.  I realized what power she had... in the magic of hiding her loneliness as she smiled and bid me a nice day...

Wishing my family and friends a happy Memorial Day Weekend...

"If you attend to what annoys you, you are giving it energy and keeping it alive..."

In a small bar in Algiers

I remember well the moment I heard those words. It was a warm and muggy afternoon as I walked into a small bar in Algiers.  He looked up from the corner table and asked, "Are you lost?" 

I told him that I had been that way most of my life and I kinda enjoy it. "What about you?" 

"Not lost, but ugly. Born that way and I kinda like it." He quipped...

He spoke with a mixed gumbo French accent, much like the half bowl of mixed seafood gumbo he was caressing. An old grey hat pulled over his eyes making each remark a surprise. Said he was from up around St. Landry Parish. Part of the Chanier clan but has lived in Algiers for over thirty years. 

"Just call me Horace, named after one of them Roman poets," as he reached out his experienced hand.

We had a beer or a few before it was all over...along with some good laughs, lies and stories he shared of life along the Mississippi. He works a tug boat on the River, and has for thirty two years. Lost his wife in the Katerina flood waters. Said his wife was a fine woman and a blessing . Two grown children, that in his words "never amounted to much..."

I asked him if he gives much thought to Katerina and his loss, and his answer was my lesson for that day...

"You know Doc, I did for several years, but after one of them sleepless nights, I decided that if you attend to what annoys you, you are giving it energy and keeping it alive." 

Strange how in those little moments of our lives we remember the smell, the visual, the arrangement of words strung together in a way we can easily draw from our memory. How our mind works to hold onto painful memories and how it works so we can finally make peace with ourselves. In those moments we realize that peace has always been ever present in our Being and always resided there...just waiting...and completely available through all our experiences. 

Photo By: Dado

Entry Note To Self...

My Morning Walk

The ocean was fairly calm this morning. Calm before the storm as they say as I keep a watch on the dark western skies. Seems there is a storm brewing in the gulf. One of those tropical cyclones as they call them. I had to smile this morning. Before a storm in  this part of the world they remind you to upload your insurance policies to iCloud. You know, we need a storage like that for our dreams.

I noticed this young boy building a sand castle. He was at that age where his two front teeth seemed to big for his face. Very precise he was.. building his dream in the sand. If the wall was not just right he would take his shovel and repack the sand in the plastic mold and place it just to his liking. As I walked by I complimented him on his efforts. He smiled showing those two large front teeth. 

He was in a race against the tide to finish his dream before it was washed away. A lot like all the dreams in our mind. Just perfect before they are washed away by the tide of reality. I am sure he will rebuild his dream again. Maybe tomorrow, next year or even thirty years from now when he brings his children to the beach and shows them how to build a castle in the sand. His name is Hayden, enjoying his dreams in the sand...

Wind blowing out of the southeast as I feel the heavy air of the low pressure streaming its way to the north. As I made my way against the wind there was a poem that stuck with me like the salt was sticking to my skin. I came across it in my reading last week and it seemed fitting for this day...

And what is so rare as a day in June?

Then, if ever, come perfect days;

Then Heaven tries earth if it be in tune,

And over it softly her warm ear lays;

Whether we look, or whether we listen,

We hear life murmur, or see it glisten…

―James Russell Lowell

Enjoying my dreams in the calm before the storm.

From The Sea...Sea Legs

Sea Legs...

From time to time I enjoy extended periods of sailing at sea. The periods of aloneness, 

periods of earthly delight and some periods filled with just enough fear to make you attentive to your task. Some feelings I carry when I leave the shore but when packaged with different sensations makes you perceive those feelings a little differently. Your being needs those moments for better footing as we make our way through our life journey. Each trip always brings its own surprise. Something different.

For me,  the one sensation that always remains the same has been the first few steps I take when I  touch solid ground after the adventure. Sea legs, I think they call it. A step or two and it's gone, and then there are other times it lingers a spell. I like it when it lingers a spell.

I step off the boat at a place called Oyster Creek. Not much there, really. Just a small hut for the Harbor Master, lots of crab traps, netting and a few deck hands unloading their catch and preparing for another run at the shrimp this night. There is a small bar at the head of the dock...it's called Molly B'S.  One small burned out neon light announces her presence. As best as I could tell it once said "welcome." I point my sea legs toward her opening and make my way in to be greeted by an ole' lady behind the bar.

"Good evening Carl,"...seemed she called everybody Carl. She was leaning on a horse head cane and wearing a mischievous look. "Need to wet your whistle a bit?" She asked.. "It's Ale, don't serve no beer here. I have two kinds, dark or light."

She made me smile and we told each other a few of those  get you in trouble stories. Seems she had out lived two husbands...said "you know two is enough and three would be too many." 

She asked what I was doing in these parts? "Just trying to change my latitude a bit dear lady," I responded. 

She smiled and asked..."Going to save any of those changes?" "You know as we get older I don't think we develop more patience, I think we just don't give a damn about the pointless drama."

We continued our friendship for a couple of Ale's. I hated to end our conversation, as I always do with a person of strong character. 

As I departed, I heard her say, "Doc, never look back, it might distract you and them sea legs from the now."

I never looked back, but I did tip my hat to Molly B. and from somewhere in my mind remembered a little tune by John Prine...

The last time that I saw her

She was standing in the rain

With her overcoat under her arm

Leaning on a horse head cane

She said, "Carl, take all the money"

She called everybody Carl

My spirit's broke

My mind's a joke 

and getting up's real hard

Come back to us Barbra Lewis...

Somewhere from the sea...

Entry Notes To Self...What might life bring?

A Simple Sit

While the day

 chooses it's colors

 and night releases

 it's silken scarf

 A simple sit

 amidst transitions

 with thoughts

 like fallen stars

 Wishes made

 upon memories

 who listens

 from afar

 Like a voiceless question posed

 to passing strangers without ears

 what might life bring

 today?

 Until this one -

 that faced me to say, 

 Today what will you bring Life?

From Inside The Sane Asylum...by chance we meet

The Old Man With A Red Cane...First Encounter 

I had heard stories of this old man with the red cane and how he walked daily along the shore near Matanza Inlet. Always at the same appointed time. Some just called him the Hermit, while others spun their own tales of fantasy and intrigue. Regardless of the tales, he captured my imagination and I made it a point to pass by that stretch of coastline on many occasions just to get get a glimpse of the old man with a red cane legend. 

When I first saw him approaching I could not restrain the passion in my voice..."Good day sir," forced its way out. With a hint of disparity he said, "What do you want."  I politely, as best I could, responded, "I did not intend to disrupt your peace." He quickly quipped, "and what would be the point in that?" 

"Well sir, the legend of the ole' man with a red can lives on you know?"

He smiled, " I guess you are one of them seekers here to ask me about the meaning of life?" I laughed and then we both got a good laugh together when I told him I was to old to be looking for secrets. The experience of life showed in his face, but not in his eyes.

"People think what they want to think, and it's none of my concern," he said. 

I asked him if I could see his cane, it was one to be admired. It was a twisted vine in shape, with a carved Eagle appointing the head. It was a fine cane. Made from the Elder Wood vine. He showed the markings where smaller vines left their markings and how he carved animals around its core. He makes canes, not to sell but just for his own pleasure. Said he probably had over 200. Some with so much meaning he looks at them everyday.

About midway in our conversation I teased him a bit and asked, "Well, when you going to tell me the meaning of life?" It was as if time stood still in that moment. He never looked up and quietly responded. 

"But why do you ask the meaning in life...does it exist?...yes it exists. Life has meaning because it exist. We do not ask the meaning of a rose, or a sunset, or a birdsong...and surely you agree that human life is more wondrous than a rose. Why should we demand that a human life be justified by some meaning?...By just existing we matter."

By its mere existence it is meaning.  Nothing more needed to be said. We sat in silence a while watching the sun dance on the waves and the tide filling the tide pools once more. Not long, for I had invaded his privacy.  Odd thing though, he gave me a final farewell by saying, "I'm sorry if I disturbed your peace sir,"  then smiled and made his way down the beach.

Is It By Chance We Meet Again?

This was my third encounter with the ole man with a red cane. On the second sighting I watched him from a distance and recalled a poem by Yeats, Old Men Admiring Themselves By The Sea. There is this chilling line that haunted my spirit, "all things beautiful must fade away"...  

This is a cool morning for June, but bright with hues of sunrise peering from the horizon.  There he was...sitting on the shore by the sea on the small inlet. I approached him quietly and found my space not far from his and sat in silence as we both felt the sun on our face. The silence between us was like an old friend. 

I felt his brief glance and in his familiar voice, he asked, "Are you the pilgrim that disturbed my peace?"  

He remembered me and our first awkward encounter as I apologized for my intrusion of invading his quiet moment of grace. "I am that pilgrim, kind sir," I replied. "Seems another apology is in order."  

"Found your peace pilgrim?", he questioned.  

"At times, I am honored by its presence, but always looking for its return. I would even go and visit if I knew where It resides." I was not pleased with my response and felt I may have put him off a bit, but he quickly responded. 

"Seems it resides in thin places for us all, like where the visible and the invisible comes to their closest space...where the sky meets the ocean. To seek such places is the vocation of the wise and the good and for those that find them, well...the clearest communication between the temporal and eternal."

"And sir," I asked, "do thin places reside in other than the temporal, for I sense the beauty of peace in this space?"  

Resting his arm on that red cane, he turned and through the gleam in his kind eyes he replied, "But perhaps the ultimate of these thin places are in our human condition.  The experiences we are likely to have as we encounter suffering, joy and mystery? Maybe pilgrim, just maybe."  

He gave me a glance and a smile, silence between us as we watched the sun break the horizon, felt the gentle breeze as the tide changed its course. The sound of the sea birds as they made their morning search for mooring and the distant sound of the bells at St Mary's. Without a word he stood and made his slow walk down the beach and I heard him say, " find your peace with it all pilgrim." 

I watched until his frail figure disappeared around the bend from my sight.  All things beautiful must fade away...There was a thin place between us this morning. Where the sky touched the ocean with its color of blue. The kiss on my face as the sun cast its warm glow, and yes, the the thin space of our conversation as his words transformed my visible peace to the experience of invisible peace we all share in our human condition.

  

You are not really gone from this earth, until the last time a person speaks your name...

Be well. See you soon!