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Finches and butterflies seem to be of the same mind.

They startle you with the softness of their arrival 

and lift off from their perches

just as you seek to form what you know will be even less than a temporary bond.

And their departure leaves you with a profound sense of loss that they’ve left you 

rather than the feeling of gratitude that they’ve graced you with their presence 

and contributed to your happiness 

even if they were just temporary beauties.

Cowardice is my constant companion always arriving in delicate disguise.

He appears humble to avoid humiliation,

Or restrained to avoid rejection,

Or private to avoid exposure,

Or intelligent to appear capable,

Or angry to try to scare away real or imaginary threats.

He can appear pragmatic and balanced when he is afraid his opinions will be criticized,

Or worse, be proven wrong.

He can appear accomplished, but limited his risk and only pushed as far as he could with low to no chance of abject failure.

I don’t completely know what I carry.

I don’t want to know badly enough to go to a hypnotist or otherwise re-experience what I don’t remember.

Because, really, why would I want to go back

To that which is too scary for me to remember?

Cowardice begets cowardice.

Clearly there are things that can happen that can throw off my whole afternoon or evening,

Or even my whole day,

Or my whole week or month,

Or my whole year,

Or haunt me my whole life.

But why give that “thing” that power over me?

It was and is in the past, as soon as it happened.

It is old news just as quickly as it was new.

Why let it linger like a dark cloud over every day, week, month, year, or my life?

That which hurts, cuts, damages, and ravages is real.

I do not deny its effect.

But I owe it to myself to look to the next bright spot and

Recognize that every year is a new beginning,

Every month is a new beginning,

Every day is a new beginning.

The very moment I breathe again, is a new beginning,

A fresh start,

A chance to begin anew.

I remember Bozo

The Beatles

And Baseball…

That in the ramshackle reality of my life at the age of 5,

With bad stuff and separation shattering my sense of safety and security,

That my father and I rebuilt a bond whose formation had barely begun.

Things got gradually better from there and I was too young to even know what went wrong.

But I knew that Bozo and even Captain Kangaroo and Miss Jean loved children.

I knew the Beatles were my Elvises and my Dad watched Ed Sullivan with me and refused to admit his admiration.

But Baseball, that is where we landed.

Hours and hours and hours, we watched.

In black and white.

We shared.

In 2004, I danced.

He was long gone.

But not alone.

I danced with my 11 year old son.

I thought how Dad would have to surrender his sarcastic term of endearment.

They would be the Red Flops no more,

The team he loved to hate.

A love we shared.

And share.

I sit here and
I attempt to contemplate the simple and complex beauty of the sea,

The sun on my face,
The incessant lapping of the waves on the rocks.
But I am disturbed by my lack of feeling settled with all aspects of my life,

And these thoughts interrupt my peace.
Then I realize that I always, seemingly no matter what,
Feel this way.

I take stock of all that is beautiful in my life despite a lifetime of feeling
This way.

Then I sneeze loudly twice and instinctively
Say “God bless you!” to myself.
And I am struck by the
Sweet Irony.

Blessings

I sit here and
I attempt to contemplate the simple and complex beauty of the sea,

The sun on my face,
The incessant lapping of the waves on the rocks.
But I am disturbed by my lack of feeling settled with all aspects of my life,

And these thoughts interrupt my peace.
Then I realize that I always, seemingly no matter what,
Feel this way.

I take stock of all that is beautiful in my life despite a lifetime of feeling
This way.

Then I sneeze loudly twice and instinctively
Say “God bless you!” to myself.
And I am struck by the
Sweet Irony.

They said during the tour that tics are essentially a new thing for Canadians.

It is seen as a sign.

Species proliferate in climates suitable for their survival.

And I thought, “Wait, where will I go?”

The tics have increased flexibility.

The tics have increased options.

More warm places to go.

But when the patterns shift,

What are my options?

When the wind blows harder?

When the dust storms are common?

When the floods come?

When the droughts come?

When the fires rage?

But wait…

Are we stupider than tics?

As I took this photo

Just now,

I realized that the sound of the wave as I clicked is what made the moment beautiful.

But, that moment, would always have to be mine alone.

My camera could not capture that beautiful microsecond of beauty.

But then I hoped you all, all of you, each and every one of you,

And, indeed, for myself as well,

That all of you and I get to have moments like often enough

Which are beautiful enough for us to fully grasp,

Even if they pass as quickly as they came.

Let beauty touch us.

Even should it leave,

Let it touch us.

I am fourteen and I have my hair combed nicely with my best sport jacket on and a red bow tie and I know I am the best looking shy, insecure boy at this my first high school dance.

In the distance, I see Carole and I start thinking I must muster enough courage to walk over there and ask her to dance.

I start sweating as I stand there and think of what I should say, how I should say it, and then again, what I should say and how I should say it.                                                                                                            

Song after song plays and I procrastinate. I freeze.

Then I feel myself walking towards her and I think that Wild Horses couldn’t drag me away.

I ask her to dance and she says “no” and she turns away.

My face reddens and I lose control and I blurt out, “Why don’t you like me?”

She stops and turns and says, “Because I love you!”

and she kisses me in front of her friends and says I know a place we can make out every day after school if you want.

And then I woke up…

Fourteen years go by and I am working in a city on my first “real” job in the next state over.

I am at lunch and I glance over at the next table and there is Carole.

We talk and we are surprised to see each other.

We are both single.

Me, from a short failed marriage with my college sweetheart and her having been married to her academia.

Our romance is what is usually described as whirlwind and we eventually settle down to enjoy a wonderful marriage

with three wonderful, now fully grown children and two extremely energetic grandchildren.

Our interests in the arts and social justice are apparent in the social workers, musicians and sculptors, all in various combinations, which are evident in beautiful ways.

And then I woke up.

It is 30 years since high school.

My hopes of a brighter future are dashed.

A thing of the past.

I made some bad choices.

I made some mistakes.

A car crash. I was driving. I had been drinking.

It wasn’t really all who I was or who I am or who I aspired to be.

I was hard working.

I was married at the time.

I don’t know how the alcohol got to me, but it did.

One horrible night it left my drinking buddy dead and I paid for it with a decade of my life in prison.

I got out and could not find a job. I was a pariah.

I gave up. I drank more.

Here I am. I thought I was gonna be somebody.

I thought there’d be a Carole out there for me somewhere.

“Now I lay me down to sleep,

I pray the Lord my soul to keep,

Watch and guard me through the night, and wake me with the morning light”

As I lay out my sleeping bag under this bridge

And then I woke up.

An angel visited me and spoke to me in two voices

I was the appointed listener and what was being said was not about my life at all.

I was the guide. That was my role.

But I allowed myself afterwards to envision myself alone,

But not alone,

And speaking to myself about the need for forgiveness,

Compassion,

Understanding,

And put some of that stuff back into my damned,

old, cast aside,

tool box.

The band played loudly and I was fascinated.
My son and I sat there and were taken in completely.
Blues with swing.
Two grinning guitarists grinding blends of rhythm and leads,
supported by swirling swaths of organ magic,
and melodious bottom from the bass, with the snap of snare and high hat.

And the old man got up from his seat.
He straightened his back as much as he could to twist his short frame into nearly an upright position,
and he began walking towards me, as I sat not far from the door.

The noise had gotten to him, I thought.
He’d eaten his Chinese food, and was not staying for this bothersome racket, I thought he thought.
He was followed closely behind by a woman, and she was followed by another older man and a woman.
They are all getting the hell out of here, I thought.

As the old man approached my table, he took a quick left turn away from the exit.
He’s disoriented, I thought.
The pace of the two women and the other man quickened and I nearly got up to help this man.
He now hurried to an open space to the right of the stage.
He reached out his one good arm and twirled the lovely woman with him,
and proceeded to dance like there’s no tomorrow.