Lactose Intolerance and the Weight of Touch

What a week. No worries, I'll barely scratch the surface here.

I will add that I keep dreaming about my old truck. It's been quite pleasant, really. I visited her a few weeks ago...still sexy. Too bad she's a drunk.

Anyway, I drove much bigger trucks in NYC for a few years a while back. It was tough, and I really wasn't the epitome of driver I think, given my interactions with the many I interacted with. Not to be construed as a perjorative judgement, mind you, just a different lifestyle with numerous other lifestyle choices, that's all. At any rate, I've been...well...bothered by one of the drivers at work, and perhaps this outlet is a letting go. Okay, I'm hoping this outlet is a letting go.

Here's a guy, mid-20s, hates life and thrives (and I mean Thrives...yes, capital T thrives) on misery. Bitches about everything. Everything, no hyperbole. I know full well, after having the opportunity to observe this character, that most of this, likely all of this, comes directly from his parents, probably imitating his father; if his father was the only role model for this male, it logically proceeds that he would be heavily imprinted as his father. And it's too bad folks have to live like that. I mean, I'm of the opinion that God has given us this opportunity to learn, and we ain't learning much by repeating, much like we won't get much out of "Gimme Shelter" off the original vinyl pressing if the record skips. skips. skips. The woman singing backup so deftly steals the song from any of those guys, and it only really comes through, filthy and grungy and nasty, on the vinyl. CDs and even cassettes were remastered to eiiminate the soul, er, I mean the background noise.

But I digress.

If the record skips, and the repetitive loop keeps playing and playing and playing, one would never have the opportunity to have their hair on their arms bristle upon hearing it. On vinyl. So it is with us, and with enjoying our gift from the Great Mother/Father, the Universal All, the Big Love. God gave us this life, here, now, as an exquisitely generous gift. I think it was Sogyal Rinpoche who recollected a brilliant teaching from the Knowing Buddha: to live as a human (to be incarnated as such) is an opportunity much like a turtle blindly swimming through the center of a life-ring cast in the middle of the ocean. I think of that one from time to time and it still resonates. And such is my belief on the creation of one's own life: I am here to live a life of my own making, based on my own book of experience, footnoted with gratitude to my teachers along the way.

Long way around the park, but now back to the driver.

Poor kid. He's never just left. Drove. Gotten in his car and driven out of state. Far away. Alone. You know the kid. Just almost zero life experience, and it's pitiful. Not in a sarcastic or deriding sense, in the sense of the ease with which I and others conjure pity for his plight. It's life-myopia, and it's a dead end, he just has no idea. And I bear pity in mind to a point, and that point was reached quickly just the other day when he pulled in with his six year old son (yes, he has a son). First of all, as a heavy smoker, he had just pulled a seven hour run with his young son in a cab of thick gray cigarette smoke. But to be honest, that wasn't even the saddest part. He later explained that since his son is lactose intolerant he and his "old lady" feel "a little guilty sometimes" when they go out for ice cream and he can't have any.

Am I alone in feeling put off? Really put off?

I'm currently human, so I ask for guidance, ask to become a bigger vessel. I'm trying.

I have an experiment for you kids at home to try. Go more than a week with no human touch whatsoever. At all, no brushing past, no handshake, nothing.

Then receive a hug. Hold hands with a dear loved one. The touch is as expansive as the universe and probably as powerful as well.

When I was an impatient greenhorn, thinking I'd had all the tutelege I needed, I built this wall. In a day. The guy with the excavator who was to come and back fill and grade the area behind the wall was going to be two days later than we had agreed on, leaving me...well, impatient. I finished building the final four feet on a seven foot height in remarkable time. It was beautiful. Imposing, straight as an arrow's flight. One of the blocks at about knee-level was a fraction of an inch out on one corner, so I tapped it with the back of my fist.

What you see above to the right is the result of impudence, impatience, wanton disregard for what I knew all along was haste, and yes....what you see is also the result of touch.

My baby daughter continues to be a profound teacher of extraordinary merit to me. She has lately been working with me on touch.

The lesson only began to break through the cloudy skies of my waking consciousness when I was, well, half asleep.

My most beautiful and exalted wife had just about had it a few nights ago. Our little angel has gotten into the interesting habit of waking every hour or so. All night. Vociferously. I wake most times and try in vain to help, but my wife does absolutely take the brunt of the waking and the labor of nursing and coddling and all else. I've begun to become a modicum more helpful in that I take the baby for early morning walks down the road, or scoop her over to me and coo and such to quiet her. My wife, my Iron Woman, has taken to sleeping on the sofa at some point during the night between wakeful jags.

That said, I just couldn't get that baby to relax and go to sleep the other night. Exasperated, I laid the down pillow over her from the chest down...and she stopped crying immediately. Interesting. From then on, I've been laying my arm across her while curling her little body into mine, and it most certainly soothes her, although it's as of yet far from infallible (the blanket still on the sofa, bags still under all adult eyes). At any rate, it got me thinking about touch, and the incredible power it holds. What Grace, that we wield such power for goodness, for love. The blessings of touch are divine, and I hope to not forget this lesson.

What a great baby.

Of course, I may be a little predisposed to a certain opinion.

Wow. There's a babble. Feels nice, though, and I certainly appreciate getting it out of me. Zee, assuming you'll feel this even if you don't read it, thank you for your wise words. The blog is like an old friend, always there and a great listener to boot.

Hope your vessel is growing exactly as quickly or as slowly as you're ready for at this point, brothers and sisters. I do firmly believe that God will never give us more than we're ready to handle, and that we can hope for and acheive great things for ourselves and those around us...if we just ask.

"Do not think so much.

Surrender. Believe.

Unprepared, move out to the world and testify.

The words will come. Serve.

From now on service is kingly.

There are no more kings."

-excerpted from a poem by Barry Hannah, inspired by the Good News of

Mark.

And verily I say, there are no more kings.

Service. Touch. Smile and laugh with.

What a wonderful gift, this life.

Thank God.

(Thank you, God!)