“Our mistakes are the bricks of the paths we lay before our own feet”
Mirror, Mirror
"Who are you?" a wise woman once asked me.
“I don’t know.” I was baffled and saddened. I didn’t know where to begin, where to look, or what questions to ask myself. I did not know how to discover who I was. How long have I lived with myself? I felt certain I knew who everyone else was. I was an expert on solutions for my fellow person.
She asked me to look in the mirror and ask some questions.
Previously, if you’d given me a mirror, I’d turn it towards you to see my reflection. It can be sickening what you’ll tolerate if you don’t have to see yourself in the mirror.
Everywhere I looked I saw mirrors. Everywhere, except inwards. Thus began my safari. My journey. It was time to ink my pens and start writing.
This lady laughed and cried with me. She shared anger and found solace. She Pushed so I could Overcome. She Challenged and I Conquered. She Encouraged so I could Achieve.
She saw a faint spark in me, an ember maybe, and carried with her just the right set of kindling with just the right amount of fuel. She took care to stoke the ember without dimming it, fanning it to become the contented campfire I sit by every night. I dance with the orange shadows, silently, under black moons to the soft pops of the crackles.
I am injured. I am no more or less injured than my neighbor, but I have scars. Some are visible. Some are not allowed to be seen. Mother Nature’s tailors, scars mend brokenness. Fabrics get torn when worn, and the seamstress does her best, but patches and cross stitches will never match the original. Scars of any kind will never match the original. They do become less over time, and learn to blend in.
My scars are fading.
I am recovering. I know my injuries. No longer are they a river chute, launching me towards disaster. I am no longer a victim of their memories. In their stead, I’ve placed mid-river islands that provide rest and sanctuary. I choose daily to pay them respect, make a course correction, and try that bearing for a season.
I am healing. My injuries are no longer cumbersome. They exist, dormant, as we've come to truce. Aware of the other's strength, no longer does a battle prove any providence. They are at peace. Balanced. In unison.
They rest.
My soul is open. My mind expanded. Our imaginary systems are designed to lead us to be capable of extraordinary lives. Once we are unencumbered by social restraints, our peripheral vision comes into focus. We begin to see the world through different lenses, adjusting aperture for just the right exposure.
I have had losses, and a great loss recently. I cowardly wanted to be a martyr. I wanted to be a casualty, lost valiantly on the battle fields of the human heart. I kept waking up, so onward I marched. I continued to forge ahead, repurposing road blocks as stepping stones. Though that season seemed all consuming while in it, it was merely for a short while. All losses are heavy, but only for a season.
I’ve realized the greatest loss of all was myself.
Treasure Hunter
I set out on an expedition last year. I was in search of a treasure. This treasure lurks deep in the shadows of West Texas waters, sheltered by a labyrinth of snags and snares. It is a fiercely fast hunter who lay stealthily among the tangled mess below.
Today, I was the hunter, confidently equipped to outsmart the beasts below.
My journey had barely begun when I became stuck. I was on a slippery slope, losing grip, hope fading... how am I going to get out of this? I’ve been in pickles, but this was extreme. I’d barely started the expedition and was already facing defeat.
Another hunter, on a trail of his own, wandered by. He was aged by time. The brokenness of his body slowed his travels, but steadily, he managed his way to me.
"We'll get you outta this" he calmly claimed, confident that together we'd be better. He hooped and hollered. “Go this way and that. Keep trying, don’t give up. I’m with you through this and we’ll get you unstuck.” The teamwork worked, and with my path cleared, I was on my grateful way.
Time in the waters floated by like the water itself. Quiet. With no treasure found, I was losing my drive. It's been easy for me to stay in the shallows, but this journey demanded a different course. I took a breath and pushed reset, gathered my gear and resuscitated my resolve. I vowed to keep searching. The treasure was calling.
It was then I met another man, tall and strong. His posture was leaned, as if holding a shield in front of his army. He stood, defiantly anchored against the headwinds and swells of life. He saw my defeat and turned my way. Adjusting his dusty and tattered cowboy hat adjusted my spirit. Both felt better now.
"Son,” his voice subtly firm, aged by the sands of time. “I've been through it a time or two. At least three,” he smiled. The hardness of his leathered face instantly smoothed like suede, rubbed the proper direction. Amused by his own joke for a moment, he refocused. “The world is tough, but you gotta remain gentle. The harder I fought life’s currents the stronger they pushed back. Fighting life will end you, as it nearly did me.
Ease up on the reigns a little and loosen your grip. Let the ole horse navigate. I promise she knows the way. She’ll show you the most beautiful views.”
We parted ways with a handshake. I kept a part of him with me. He’d shared his heart, bolstering mine. He’d shown me a map and gave me new tools, hoping he’d helped in finding my treasure. I raised my shield, positioned my sword, and off I charged.
Unfortunately, the new tools posed new obstacles, and the map led to treacherous grounds. I closed my eyes and heard his words. "Let go of the reigns, son.”
I dropped my shoulders and loosed the sweaty leather reigns from between my fingers. I let the current lead, and minutes later success! My trophy had been caught and successfully landed. “Yay!” I whispered. It was beautiful.
However, unsettled, I remained. Why was happiness so difficult to achieve? The missing piece was something not seen. It couldn’t be caught no matter my pleas.
The wind picked up, carrying words for me. From voices past, floating in the breeze, quiet encouragement ruffled the leaves.
"Enjoy your life. Go on, be free! Go see what the world can be."
I stowed my weapons and gave to the winds. I held my head high with tears in a stream. I leaned in strong and sang out heartily, "This is me!” I yelled and exclaimed, "I am Me! I am Free!", but only inside because out loud isn’t me.
I’d found my treasure.
Reflection of Shadow
A Boy and his Shadow are born at the same time. From the first peak into their new world, the Shadow is by the Boy’s side. He holds his hand as the nurses tend to him. He sheds the same tears of confusion. They huddle together in the cold. The mother’s cradle brings solace, and her gentle whispers wrap them in warm blankets.
The shadow feels as the boy feels. Copycats, they play tag and hide and seek. Occasionally, The Boy believed he was invisible. He would sneak up, tag the Shadow, and run. His Shadow was more skilled, though, and always tagged him back. Sometimes, when the boy wasn’t looking, the shadow would stealthily tag the Boy. He never ever knew he was always it.
Later in life, a time came when the Boy would try to evade his Shadow. He hid behind trees and crawled between rocks, but he was unaware that all the Shadows knew each other. They can move between each other without being detected.
The two did everything together. They built a bike ramp in the hot sun and flew high, tandem in the sky. They sat on the hot sidewalk and cried over scraped knees. They both shook nervously as the corsage was fixed on their prom date’s dress. The Shadow even danced with the Bride and spoiled the grandchildren.
He held tight when Love Found was Lost.
He loosed his grip when Love Lost was Found.
As Boy matured, he noticed the shadow’s positions were changing. Shadow had leaned ahead of Boy initially. Later in life, Shadow walked in step with him. Now Shadow was lagging, as if distracted by something from before.
Boy also noted he could not change the position of Shadow. Bowing and stooping and swaying only made him giggle at Shadow’s playfulness.
One day as they walked to a secret fishing hole, Boy asked Shadow, “Why do you change positions? In the morning you looked different than you do now in the evening.”
Shadow had been anxious for this day. Boy was self-aware, analyzing, searching.
“I have had certain roles for certain seasons,” Shadow replied. “In the beginning, the sun rose at your back, casting shadows on places not seen - wisdom not yet earned. You cannot see in the shadows, but I can, as I am one of them. I go before you, to stand where your footsteps will be. I am your guide, teaching you to look ahead, even in the dark.
By middle of your season, you’ve grown strong. You’ve acclimated to the Shadow’s darkness and learned to bring your own sources of light. I am proud to walk next to you, as your equal. You are Brave.”
The boy breathed deep through his nose. “What about the dusk, when the sun sets, as it is now? You are stretching away from me.”
“As the Sun gathers its final thoughts of the day, your walk is slower, and so is mine. Your body aged, and our eyes are tired. Now, in the Fall of our Life, the shadows also grow tired. Forgive me, my friend, for we lack the time for me to teach you how to see Shadows Past.
Stop now and turn to me. I am not just your Shadow.
Without you, I do not exist.
I am You. You are Me.
We are One.
This dusk, I lag behind to remind you of where we’ve been. How far we’ve traveled! Marvel at the mountains above and rest in the valleys below. Close your eyes. Hear the waters ripple as the ravine funnels them through the trees. Breathe the air and let the musty crispness refresh your spirits.
This is the landscape of your life. Mountains stood guard, watching you figure out their valleys below. The canyons are your design, filled with colors, all the colors. Every stroke is yours. Made with your paintbrush.
I stay behind and take your stories where you cannot.”
Boy and Shadow turned, as One, and continued their walk. With each step trudged, Shadow stretched thinner across the foothills. Boy watched as it softly joined the others, disappearing in the dusk like thinning fog.
Shadow was gone.
Boy squared his shoulders to the narrowing trails ahead, adjusted his hat, and squinted in the sun’s last surge of light…
and followed it until there was no more.
Salute
The earth is alerting us to winter. If you pay attention, she’ll tell you what’s coming. Palpable energy is floating into this region. Winds have changed direction. Squirrels are frantically foraging. Geese are gonking their way south. This is my first ‘true season change’ as they say in the north, and the shift is more definable than Texas. Instead of being teased by four consecutive cold fronts over two months, only to tease Texans with temperatures sub 80, the changes here have a quick onset. The locals predict about three weeks’ notice before a quick left turn into winter. Old Man Winter is waking up.
I am not prepared to winter in the bus. Frozen pipes and holding tanks have no appeal. I had a meeting with the dogs, and they agreed. Southeast sun is our destination.
I marvel how a lifetime of experiences fit into the last two months. I leave fond memories of music under a domed night sky, knee-buckling laughter, a well-placed fart, desserts of lemon-meringue with blueberries, a thousand bends of a river, and lifelong friends. A well-kept secret, hidden behind potatoes and irrigation systems, Idaho has been the perfect backdrop for the first two months of my new life.
Idaho, thank you for receiving a box-of-broken. The soft fields provided safe landing, the valleys cradled my cries, the mountain peaks berthed inspired perspectives, and fast flowing waters washed away troubles.
Thank you for teaching me how to fish.
Fast Lane to Oregon
I have a modular kayak that hasn’t gotten wet yet, so I decided to try it out on a freaking fast flowing river. This was a bad idea, poorly planned (none), and comically executed.
I was made to take oars even though this is a pedal kayak. I grumbled that I looked like a sissy carrying a set of oars when I clearly have a pedal system, but conceded and told myself I’d use them to push off the shore.
When you paddle in a canoe, do you prefer the right or left paddle?
For me, it’s either oar….
I had no ropes. No anchor. Just my typical “Jump right in and figure it out” attitude I’ve always had. Right out the gate, the pedals didn’t work. Thankfully I always carry paddles with me, because you never know when you might be up that creek. I made my way upriver a bit and decided to start fishing. I got a backlash that looked pretty easy to untangle. I untangled the mess, but then the two lures decided to do a square dance, twisting up quicker than a West Texas dust devil. Without looking up, I started untangling them. Without looking up…
Did I mention I’m on a river?
Suddenly I’m in a chute, Flying in the Fast Lane to Oregon, at fifteen miles an hour. Trees blurred. I passed birds flying the same direction. I swear a fish swam by and gave me the side-eye. My only chance to avoid “Next Stop: Oregon” was to aim for the back of the island I was flying past.
I quickly grabbed my oars and caught calmer waters behind the island. From there, I collected my stomach from my throat, then plotted my own rescue. If I could snake my way up the inside of this two-acre island, I could walk across the fifty-yards to shore. I’ve been told over and over it’s only three feet deep.
I began working the shoreline, but the current kept flinging me out into the main channel. I dug in deep with the oars, but the river effortlessly, silently, treated me like a like a toy boat in the sea.
The currents of my emotions begin to swell as well. Am I going to Oregon after all? I pictured having to climb a thousand-foot cliff, showing up on some family’s back porch looking like Swamp Thing. Things became more difficult, and I felt fatigue gaining ground. I channeled that energy into determination to overpower nature, but the river’s flow was relentless.
Moments later I remembered a poem I wrote in the nineties:
I am a seed, floating a river
Such wonder to see, here on This River
Stories to tell and people to meet
Where will I land, where will I flee
When floating this river, please take care
River’s get tricky with lots of snares
Avoid the rapids, choose your lane
The slower the better, it’s much more tame
Don’t fight the currents, don’t be hurried
They’ll string you out, make you scurried
Seek Wisdom, be Strong
Enjoy the View,
Write a song.
This River, is just for you.
As I approached shelter on the north side of the island, the overhanging shrubs lunged out and grabbed me, devouring me as I crashed into them. Leaves and berries rained down. I swallowed a spider and snorted a moth at the same time. I can tell you that it was a white moth with green veins in its wings paired with a sunflower-yellow crab spider. I gagged and snorted but it was too late for both. As they tumbled to my tummy, I imagined they met halfway down and the spider captured the moth.
I took a deep breath and decided to fish. No catch.
I put my gear back together on the kayak and reached for the oars….
Next, I continued to walk myself and the kayak upstream. My oars were on their way to Oregon.
The current was so swift that the water felt as if it was a million oscillating fans blowing in my direction. The river is clear and I can see the riverbed’s soft sand mingled with loose multi-color pebbles. Dotting the watery landscape are large thick clumps of river grasses. They look like giant hula skirts dancing to the same tune.
For at least an hour I leaned into the river, begging my feet to gain solid purchase. Every few feet forward were followed by a few more lost.
“A game of chess!” the river insisted.
“I’m not that good,” I sighed.
“Don’t die!” was its reply.
“But seriously,” I wanted to know. “How do I win?” I urged the ole man.
“Learn from before, but you must explore. Mistakes are the bricks of the roads we lay.”
Another attempt to move ahead was met with more strife, and now my fishing rod is heading for Oregon. If this keeps up, I might be reunited with them on the West Coast.
I finally surrendered for good and waived my flag. “Help with a boat!” I called across to a john boat with two guys. “Help with a boat!” I hoped and prayed. They answered the call, but wouldn’t let me in their boat, so I clung to the side and held on to it and my swim trunks. Ten mile per hour waterflow means the boat had to do at least eleven to gain ground. This means I was literally being drug between a john boat and a kayak, at fifteen plus miles per hour. As I floated on my back, I could look straight up the nostrils of one of the fishermen. After ten minutes of being baptized, the guy leaned over the edge, looked down at my waterlogged self, and said, “So, what happened dude?”
Moose Hair
As I left the lake, climbing the trails
I hadn’t seen a moose - no telling tales.
I’d climb a few feet, look back to see
What was that? Could it be?
Just a moose-bush or antelope tree.
On I went, looking back more than front
What was that? A moosey grunt?
I swung around, only to see
A dirty brown rug, whooshing by me.
His antlers cradled high, they dwarfed the east.
If I’d had a gun, what a feast!
Dust and grime then spattered my cheek
I think I sprung a little leak.
Alas he stopped, just up the hill.
The sun setting, we both stood still.
A snort from him and a sniffle from me,
The sun said good-bye… so did we.
Then I woke with such a sneeze!
My eyes now open, asleep I’d been.
There was no moose.
‘Twas only a dream.
I’m Off…
To Utah for a month. Idaho has been good to me, and quietly portrays the iconic “America” we all seem to yearn for. Mountain lake views give purchase to expansive farms stitched together by iconic rivers.
The farming community has taken root in me as well. A sunset drive through miles of corn, hops, onions and potatoes, as their stalks and branches stretch to get bathed by giant, shimmering arcs of water, shows a purity of life. Every inch of dirt has been carefully worked to maximize output. Backyards are not manicured with sidewalks, stone edging and black bark mulch. Instead, they are filled with melon-laden vines, stuffed stalks, and shaggy carrot tops. McDonald’s bows to fruit stands, and multi-story tech buildings don’t exist. Instead, twenty-thousand square foot hay barns and rocket-sized grain silos are constantly bustling with round-the-clock activities. The science and dedication the farmers utilize to feed the country is humbling.
I’m learning the lingo. We visited a real farmer’s market, and, when at the register, the checker asked me how many ears, I said “Two”. She looked at me, puzzled, but I held her gaze with my own steely-eyed stare, waiting for it to hit her… I snuck one in and I wanted to see the glimmer in her eyes, her soul brighten, when she got it.
I finally gave her a nudge and pointed at my two ears. It washed over her in waves. Her shoulders dropped, complexion colored, and then it happened - her eyes twinkled and her face smiled.
Uncontrollable laughter from a ‘caught-off-guard’ moment is our purest expression as a human. And sneezes. If you want to truly know someone, study their sneezes and their true, unhindered laughter. There is no pretense. There is no caution. Simply, our true self is exposed and it’s as uniquely beautiful as each individual expressing it.
Let’s make the world laugh.
Teach a Boy… yeah, right
I frequent a fishing pond near some baseball fields in Burley, ID. It, as well as many bodies of water in Idaho, is stocked with rainbow trout throughout the year. Evenings beckon an audience of anglers anxious to bag their limit of six rainbows, which is fairly easy to accomplish. The locals are more than open to helping newbies learn the techniques, and I have learned enough to act as one of the local ‘guides’, helping a handful catch something. I have added to my catch a rock, refuse, and recently a rainbow in rigor mortis.
Several of us are regulars and have had the pleasure of ongoing conversations. One man brought his dad, who sat with his oxygen tank and cursed the fish he caught and missed. He shared his life story with me while he caught and I didn’t, and several times his son said, “I didn’t know that”. Glad I could be a conduit for his son’s deeper understanding of the family’s history.
A slight touch of cabin fever fueled my afternoon visit to the pond today. A dad around thirty-years old showed up with his mom and six-year-old son to fish. They didn’t have the proper bait or techniques, so I offered for them to follow me to a spot usually loaded with fish.
I was soon regretting my offer, as the son wanted my rod and reel in trade for his. He would NOT sit still nor hold the pole the way it needed to be done, so I resorted to holding the rod still for him, promising a catch if he followed my steps. A minute later, he landed his first rainbow. Photos were taken as he yelled across the pond, “Grandma! I caught one, I caught one!”.
“Dad, can I go throw rocks now?”
First Sight
A boy, all of nine
With his boys all the time,
No girls in future’s space.
But then at the park
He saw her spark
When nearly clashing face to face.
He Clutched his heart
He’d Been shot by a dart
From Love's amorous bow.
His soul felt funny
His friends called him dummy
But only he saw her glow.
He froze like a board
Fell back, not for’d
His heart opened like a dam.
Retreat she must
For the chase maintains us.
It's all part of the plan.
Their secret’s out!
It’s her he’s about.
Her giggles gave her away.
She felt it too,
And then she knew
She'd marry him one day
