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!)

Still Rowing, With An Option to Drift

Such a fascinating array of choice in this life, wouldn't you agree? After getting other peoples' responsibilities very unceremoniously dumped on me again (and again and again) yesterday, I consulted (okay, unloaded) with my other half, my most trusted and intimate confidant and guide, and after much consideration and discussion recommended that I remain quiet. HA! Remain quiet?! Why I... Well, that just might work, I thought, and I totally see where you're going with this. Okay, cool.

So quietly I entered today, and finding the whole family awake and ready to begin the day at 7, we decided that it would be a good time to follow up on some unfinished business. Kids dropped off at park program, we headed to Social Services. We've been hoping for (and indeed counting on) assistance, at least for food or oil.

I don't know when the last time you hung out at your county Social Services was, but I can attest to the...the, um...flavor maybe? of the experience. It was exhausting, no kidding, to keep the protective armor manifested around us, Charlotte especially, although she seemed to be having a good ol' time as always regardless of atmosphere.

At any rate, seems like there were quite a few able-bodied younger folks of questionable moral fiber and intention there, and that was discouraging, but the judgement is not for my role, and I'll leave it there, in mind and blog.

When we were finally called in, the counselor reviewed our budget (bills, lease, check stubs, etc) and declared that we, (and I quote) "make way too much money". I was a little surprised (we were just barely over the limit), and Marcy's face actually fell. I queried as to what that actually meant, and she replied that in New York state, the law requires that a family of five not make over $2,110 per month in order to receive assistance. Chagrined, we remained silent, stammering, to which the counselor provided some information about rent being $620 per month, to which I exclaimed, "We'll take that apartment!" Case in point, we lived (a family of five, mind you) in a pretty shitty town (drugs and drunks on the sidewalk) in a falling-apart, spider-ridden, ceiling-leaking broken-toilet wall-cracked mold-emporium hole in the freaking wall for $720 per month...and everyone agreed it was a steal for that cost. Upon leaving, we were a little deflated to say the least.

My beautiful love of my life was actually quite shaken, and it crushed me, kinda winded me, to see her like that. I silently asked for help.

The meditation I had read this morning came quickly to mind. Allow me to share a snippet: "Our decision to give love, then, can be a calculated one - we already know the results. This shouldn't be our motive though. Wondering what we are getting out of giving to others can be a hindrance to our peace of mind because we're missing God's point. If we concentrate on the giving, the receiving will take care of itself. Today I will try to give unselfishly."

I wondered how for only a fraction of a second before the news came. An elderly member of our congregation (and a woman whom I'm a deacon for) was taken back to the hospital yesterday, only days after suffering a mild heart-attack.

My wife, I would like to say yet again, is so remarkably soulful and connected...she got it immediately. We were off to the hospital.

Such a wonderful time. We visited and laughed and Ruth (the woman in the hospital, for those of you playing along at home) held Charlotte's hand and they giggled together. Ruth spoke often of her love for children, and how she would've had many more of her own if they'd had the money to allow it. After a while a nurse came in ane mentioned that she was going to run some more tests, so we once again offered that we lived only about 10 minutes from her house if she needed anything, and that I would stop by again soon if she was still in the hospital.

As good as it felt (and it felt wonderful) to have visited, as though we were there for her, it got extra-wonderful when we decided to stop in and see if Joan and Pam, two nurses who helped immensely with the birth of Charlotte, we in in the maternity ward. As we were opening the door, I mentioned how incredible it would be to see Dr Hines, the man who I credit with not just delivering my Angel Charlotte into this world, but also without question the man that saved Marcy's life. (Didn't hear about the daring and wrenching life-threatening birhting? Still brings tears to my eyes and sometimes makes me shudder still.) Needless to say, he is nothing short of a hero in my book, and I basque like an adherent in his presence, and his presence is radiant and beautiful on its own.

At any rate, who was the first person we see upon entering? You got it, Dr Hines was at the table, and we both said simultaneously and ecstaticallly, "There he is!" Laughing, he came over, amazed at how Charlotte has...well, thrived. I have all the more respect for a man who can let all the guards down and give and receive enormous, warm hugs, and that we did. We spent a while together, yakkin' away and getting his encouragement to have another baby (we'll see about that one...), and left feeling like we were walking on air. What a wonderful day it had become!

I've written well beyond what I had intended for this evening, so I'll truncate the rest of the day by adding that I then helped wash and pack some greens at a friend's farm and laughed until I cried with his 5 year old son, visited some other friends on their farm, then worked like it was the end of days in the office until my incredible love came for me and made me go eat pizza with her. It made the workload and the late night in the warehouse vastly more bearable to say the least, and I may even have enjoyed myself a bit in the process.

I guess when I'm really on it, when I'm really attuned to higher intentions, which is really a long-way-around saying 'when I'm open to hear God' (feel God, intuit God, whatever...), it's like stepping somewhere else entirely on the perimeter of the circle. The situation is the same: we're hard-core, sad-ass broke, and the bills that have accumulated in the past months are still piling up; my job requires long hours for minimal pay and zero acknowledgement; I don't spend nearly enough time with my family and I'm not sure how we're going to make it even before the winter even sets in! No shit! But the perspective changes drastically when I'm open to being moved to another part of the circle. The light is different, the perspective has changed. My family is amazing; I have more in them than I ever thought this life had in store for me. The love my wife and I share is worth many lifetimes. I am clean and sober, and can say that I haven't taken a drink or an illicit drug (still rock the aspirin now and again) in more than 7 years. 7 fucking years! C'mon, man, that is some Grace workin' right there! I enjoy my path back to God and the results of my search are my rewards in themselves. Ya know, it boils down to simply (ha ha) being reminded of what's truth, of what's real, what's actually important in this life. Not that crazy shit-storm of fear and ego and society, that'll be there whenever we want to tune into it. Some pretty crappy shows on the television...doesn't mean I need to watch 'em. Think I'll listen to the radio, take a walk, play frisbee with the kids. I won't be able to do that in another seventy years and time has a habit of sneaking around the backside when we don't pay attention. Bills'll get paid eventually. The present is the time to dance with my beautiful wife in the kitchen, let the kids know what love is all about.

Today was a good day.

I Never Feel Like Chicken Tonight

In a world of odd images, this one gets some caliber of merit in my book. Look at this thing. Just odd.

And so it is, sisters and brothers, that sometimes there arises a strict intercession of credo, a jumping-off point, even when we may be inclined to cognitively feel as though we've traversed said chasm.

And so it is sometimes, too, that the event arises as a dust-dervish: silent and invisible, save for that which it pulls in from without. And indeed perhaps it is in these times of quiet and relative calm that decisions are to be peened into shape for use at a later time, for a later event.

Perhaps.

But that's just covering my ass.

Really the events that transpire at this point are very much like dust pulled up in the vortex of that dust-dervish. Maybe spray hurled from the perimeter of the eye of a cyclone. The sea is basically calm, the horizon obscured by thick fog and darkened skies.

Row row row your boat...

Lightening illuminates the troubled, pendulous clouds and the low, throaty growl of thunder washes over the vessel.

...Gently down the stream...

A furtive glance about the boat. Am I alone? Where am I and how did I get exactly here? Rocks and crags. Serpents and marauders. The mind wanders into dark crevasses, cold and eerily dank, where it knows it should not go.

Merrily merrily merrily merrily...

The night may soon close in, constricting and alien. At this late stage, who will come for me? How will someone find me? This voyage is not what I had envisioned, although to be fair, I hadn't envisioned anything at all. I was sold a ticket when I was quite naive, and now have no choice but to find my may. The sail is rent from top to bottom, the oars have been pitched in the earlier tumult, the rudder is splintered and worn. She creaks at the whisper of gale, and she's waterlogged and tired.

...Life is but a dream.

Life is but a dream.

Profoundly wise and virtuous teacher, as I regurgitated fears upon him one afternoon, asked me if I knew the song. "Yeah? How does it go?"

I sputterred, likely blushed, "Oh..."

But no. He pursued until I indeed sang it:

Row row row your boat,

Gently down the stream.

Merrily merrily merrily merrily!

Life is but a dream!

Smiling at me, he may have witnessed the corners of a veil being lifted.

I have some really uncomfortable decisions to make. I need to provide for my family. I've really got to learn the lessons right now.

I've deleted a billion words and will summarize with this: Things are tough, but God has never forsaken me, and I don't think God will now.

Mohammed reminded us that the sparrows never feared for not being provided for.

The disabled man at the Healing Pool at Bethesda told Jesus he couldn't get to the pool because no one would carry him. Jesus responed, "Take up your mat and walk."

Take up my mat indeed.

Row row row my boat, gently down the stream.......