Sight Lines.........seeing God in all of life

Telling True Stories

Sometimes when walking down a sidewalk

inside a book

you look over and see your reflection in

a store window

and the lost pedestrian peering back at you

seems vaguely familiar.

 

-- rLp --

 

 

Resale Value

 

 

I’m still feeling guilty

that I didn’t stop the car

at the kid’s lemonade stand over

on Adelaide. Blonde and hopeful,

I could see his aura begging me

to stop and exchange a quarter

for his elixir—powder & water

mixture with two ice cubes

in a Dixie cup.

 

That was hours ago and if

he was still there, I’d go back and

buy a cup with a crisp dollar bill,

tell him to keep the change.

    I’d ask him how was business today

the way you walk by a fisherman on

a bridge and ask him, “Are they biting today?”

 

And maybe I’d block traffic and frantically

flag down motorists like there was an emergency---

my pregnant wife’s in the house and

her water broke and ironically

the water pump on my car is

broke and we need to get to the hospital so

I need your car sir, RIGHT NOW!

 

And then maybe I’d lean in toward the

open window with a Jack Nicholson grin

and say, “I’m just kidding, but if you buy

a lemonade from the kid there I’ll let you

live and when you get home you can

pour yourself a vodka to calm your nerves

and I bet we both sleep good tonight.”

 

-- rLp --

Grand Re-Opening

 

Snappy’s Pizza is having a ribbon cutting on Thursday.

No, it’s not the grand opening of a new store.

Snappy has been there next to the Kroger for years, but

they got a new manager last week

so the mayor and probably a councilman will be there,

president of the town chamber of commerce of course,

Phil the owner and the new manger--they’ll all freeze

in mid-air with a pair of scissors for the camera.

 

Laura Beth got a new daddy back in June. The first one

quit last October.  The new daddy seems

pretty nice. He drinks too, but

maybe it won’t be as much,

maybe he won’t yell as much and break things, and

maybe she won’t bruise as easily.

 

She made the new daddy oatmeal raisin cookies today,

put them on a Chinet paper plate,

covered it in Saran wrap, and

taking a small pair of scissors with

pink plastic  handles and rounded edges

she cut slender red ribbon

from the spool for decoration.

 

 

-- rLp --

 

 

August 28

 

On this date in 1963 Martin Luther King Jr. gave the "I Have a Dream” speech at the Lincoln Memorial.

 

A few years ago I entered the Martin Luther King museum in Atlanta feeling small and contaminated. I felt guilty of white Southern racism by mere genetic association with my ancestors.  I was surprised the security guard didn’t scowl at me. I was a minority visitor and felt out of place though certainly not unwelcome. I felt unworthy to be here, that I had not earned the right to be here. I had not suffered. Two opposing convictions prevailed within me: There should be more white visitors at this shrine vs We don’t deserve to be let in. 

  Upstairs I waited behind a black man at the water fountain.  I drank deeply after him, drinking in the irony that we shared a water fountain on holy ground when 40 years ago we would have been sent to separate fountains, separate schools, separate neighborhoods, separate seats on the bus, separate seating areas at the lunch counter.

   I blinked back tears while looking at Dr. King’s personal Bible and handwritten notes.  I felt an overwhelming urge to grasp the arm of an elderly black woman standing near me and blurt out, “I’m sorry; I am so sorry that we did this to you.”  The feelings of embarrassment and shame never left me, the desire to apologize profusely never abated.

I wanted to hold a stranger’s hand. I wanted to be forgiven.

But it wasn’t me who hung men by their necks from Mississippi oaks simply because they were black. It wasn’t me who arrested Rosa Parks, unleashed attack dogs on peaceful demonstrators, dispersed crowds with fire hoses and tear gas, clubbed marchers, or firebombed black churches. I wasn’t among the Caucasian mobs spewing venom and holding signs with phrases I won’t even repeat.  I didn’t threaten those frightened students as they pioneered segregation. I didn’t shoot the gun that April in Memphis.  Yet somehow I felt Sunday as though I had done all of that, like some accomplice. But I was so young in 1968. I didn’t know what was happening around me or beyond me. I was playing with Matchbox cars, riding my bike, playing Little League; I didn’t know that you were fighting for freedoms as basic as breath.

   I’d like to think that if I’d known, if I’d been older, that I would have been one of the few white people linking arms with you at the front of a march. But I don’t know.

Oscar Wilde remarked that “only the shallow know themselves.”  The truth is I don’t know which white person in which photo I would have been. Maybe I wouldn’t have appeared in any photos. Perhaps I’d blend into the background of other stay-at-home Southerners who protested nothing, silent enablers of oppression and abuse, imagining myself neutral and civilized.  But wherever humans are being degraded how is neutrality a personality trait of being civilized?

   To my brothers and sisters of color, can you possibly accept my pale apology? Could you grant me forgiveness that I, that we, don’t deserve? 

The above is taken from a guest column I wrote a few years ago for The Tennessean, Nashville’s newspaper.  I was blessed by the e-mails of gratitude I received from black readers, mostly women. But I have to say that those good feelings were overshadowed by the shock and the disgust I felt from the harsh and angry letters I received from several white males.  It was a painful reminder to me that racism, both subtle and blatant, still breathes and breeds in the swamps of ignorance and hate.

- rLp --

 

August 27

For Nicole C.

 

 

Hemmed in by two world wars, on this date in 1928

the Kellogg-Briand Pact was signed by the USA,

France, Britain, Germany, Italy, Japan,

and 50 other nations renouncing aggressive war

as “an instrument of national policy”.

 

Since it’s my birthday, I was wondering

if we could call off the war,

outlaw all skirmishes and battles,

quell any riots that might spring up

among disgruntled workers in this relationship.

 

I’d like to go to the harbor tonight, just the two of us,

not as tugboats with children, but as a sleek quiet

schooner that takes the wind instead of fighting it,

and maybe we’ll turn back the sails and lay in them

as sheets of a king-sized bed but waste the

generous space of it by meeting in the middle.

 

-- rLp --

August 26

 

I jumped that summer Saturday in June

from the highest concrete platform at the Bolton pool

before lawyers closed the diving boards at

all public pools, before the monkey bars and

the merry-go-round were uprooted

from the playground.  I rode my bike

without a helmet to the Stop-n-Go for

Sugar Babies and a slurpee after my mother

didn’t wait for me in her car

at the bus stop fifty yards from our house.

 

On this date in 1907 with chains wrapped

like shiny pythons around his body, Houdini

jumped from the bridge, and escaped after 57 seconds

underwater at Rochester’s Aquatic Park to

receive awestruck applause from the gathered crowd,

excluding his mother who was faint, three cops

who lost the bet, and skeptics who can

make no room for love or magic,

or see them as the same.

 

-- rLp --

 

August 25

It was on this celebrated day in 1944 that Paris was liberated from Nazi occupation, the French 2^nd tank division under General LeClerc reaching Notre Dame, while General De Gaulle walked triumphantly on the Champs Elysees.

In my elementary school years I was raised by two single Moms, one my own mother and the other our next door neighbor.  Jacqueline Satterfield was from Paris, a petite and wiry, feisty French madame, who “kept” me at her home during the summers and after school while my mother worked at the law firm.

I know she had a very French sounding maiden name before she met Frank, a GI who was stationed in Europe and brought his new bride to the States, infuriating her parents and shocking his.  Jackie had one grown daughter and one younger than me, clearly a surprise pregnancy.  So I was her only son but she shared me well with my mother.

I don’t know how a Parisian became a rabid Johnny Cash fan or why an excellent French cook always spooned us tasteless Sealtest fudge ripple ice milk instead of good ice cream. I would have welcomed any flavor of the real thing.

Before he died (and I remember the day well--playing in my side yard when the blue Plymouth pulled up in their driveway and people got out crying. Frank had died of a heart attack at the car dealership.) Frank was large gentle bear of a man who dwarfed his wife.  After he died she first seemed to shrink even smaller and then she became tough and grew again.

The thing I remember most is what she taught me about women, that in France women were treated like roses—beautiful and delicate, she said.  You must never be rough or harsh with a woman, she reminded me. If you treat her like a rose she will bloom, she said. 

Jacqueline would have been a little girl in Paris during the Nazi invasion, occupation, and liberation. It never occurred to me to ask me her about it. By the time I connected those dots I was in high school and was self-reliant at home after school and during summer breaks. I never asked her what it was like to live with sirens and hear bombs in the distance, see a mild resister shot down in a bakery while holding her mother’s hand, see the strange uniforms and hear the strange accents yelling and mocking.  I didn’t get around to asking what was she was doing when she heard that De Gaulle was marching on Paris or what tears of joy look like in a stoic father’s eyes.  I might have asked her when she remembered going back outside alone for the first time to be gentle with the roses in the garden.

-- rLp --

August 24

 

On this date in 2006 Pluto was demoted by scientists to ‘dwarf planet’ status.  My first thought was how humiliating this must have been to be defrocked in front of the other planets.  But then I realized that Pluto is 3.6 billion miles away and thus because of its much wider orbit around the sun, 248 years pass on Earth during one Pluto year. 

 

By my calculations the news of the layoff won’t even reach Pluto for another 244 years.

 

Then again, what if the galaxy is a just a big cesspool of planets, stars, and gossip?

Lord knows the moon can’t keep a secret.  Mars probably found out in early 2007 and couldn’t wait to blab the news to Jupiter, who naturally did the you-didn’t-hear-it-from-me routine on Saturn, who in turn confided in Uranus who couldn’t wait to spill the beans to Neptune, knowing that Neptune had always resented Pluto for reasons we don’t have time to go into, and that Neptune would delight in relaying news to the unsuspecting planet of his pink slip. So there is a good chance that Pluto is already feeling the shame.

 

It reminds me of a short-run television series in the mid-60’s, a western called Branded, starring Chuck Connor as a U.S. Cavalry captain unjustly accused of cowardice.  The opening scene of each episode was memorable http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DKmJPnAGUJk  depicting Connor standing before the troops inside the fort, his captain’s hat pulled off by the ranking officer, the epaulets torn from the shoulders of his uniform, the buttons pulled off, and his saber  broken, while a drum played over the theme song ("All but one man died there at Bitter Creek ... and they say he ran away... He was innocent ...not a charge was true ... but the world would never know"). Connor was then sent out of the gates of the fort which were then closed behind him in a manner that made me think of the gates of Eden slamming behind a banished Adam and Eve.  

 

And then the lyrics like a Western version of The Scarlet Letter:

 

“Branded, scorned as the one who ran.
What do you do when you're branded,

and you know you're a man?”

 

So, the orbit gate of recognized planets was shut in the face of Pluto, now removed from textbook graphics and the posters in 4^th grade classrooms.

But Pluto keeps making its faithful loop around the sun every 248 years

because it is certainly the right thing to do,

but also because after a couple million years

it’s gotten to be a habit.

 

-- rLp --

August 23

 

I don’t really care what happened

on this date in 1674 or 1733,

or what made news on August 23

in any year of the 1800’s, 

like the 1866 Prague Treaty,

Britain’s 1939 taking of Hong Kong,

or even Mexico declaring independence in ’21.

 

I don’t care about Beeldenstorm reaching

Amsterdam in 1556 enough to even mention it.

The crowning of King Philip VI of France in 1328

doesn’t interest me in the least.

When Count Gyula Karolyi became premier

of Hungary on this date in 1931 I’m sure it

garnered attention in some circles but

it didn’t even register on my radar.

 

It’s Monday August 23, 2010

and that’s what matters,

but the day is three quarters over

and I haven’t done anything that

would make headlines in an anthill.

I’m tired. I have bruised ribs I hope

aren’t cracked, and having to breathe

made last night a fitful sleep. 

 

Chicago Cubs outfielder Sammy Sosa once

fractured a couple ribs during a violent sneeze.

    No, it wasn’t on this date and even

if it was, I would not care.

 

-- rLp --

 

 

August 22

On this date in 1911 the Mona Lisa was stolen from Louvre.  Mona Lisa was the wife of Francesco di Bartolommeo di Zanobi del Giocondo.  I think going with just her first name in the title of the painting was definitely the way to go. The painting was recovered in 1913.

Ever notice that no one has a framed reprint of the Mona Lisa in their home? There’s really not much going on in the picture, not compared to other famous paintings, like the one by C.M. Coolidge of dogs sitting around a table playing poker. 

DaVinci began work on the portrait in 1503 and finished four years later. That’s a long time for Mona to sit. Most of us have never set for a real portrait. The school photographers told us to sit really still, told us to look this way, tilt our head just a little--no the other way, before walking over and taking our tiny chin between their thumb and forefinger as though it were an olive and positioning our head at some ideal angle. On picture day my 1^st grade teacher, Mrs. Queen, was concerned about a large strand of my hair that wouldn’t lie down and I remember her saying, “Now, don’t tell your mother I spit in your hair.”

Our parents bought the portraits in sets—wallets, 5x7s, and an 8x10. Enough for grandparents and aunts to all get a picture. At one time my mother had my 1^st thru 12^th grade in her wallet, a slide show of childhood and adolescent evolution.  I think she still does. I’m considering finally ratting out Mrs. Queen the next time she pulls them out.

I’m having a photo shoot on Tuesday to take pictures for a book jacket and website.  For most people, me included, seeing photographs is a lot like listening to their recorded voice.  Our initial thought is… I hoped I looked/sounded better than that.  We are the ones most critical of our packaging.  Perhaps that is why Mona Lisa never took possession of her own portrait.  Perhaps that’s why I’m not really looking forward to Tuesday—I’m rather fond of my delusions, like the ones a picture breaks.

-- rLp --

August 21

On this date in 1959 Hawaii officially became our fiftieth state when President Eisenhower signed the statehood proclamation and unveiled Hawaii’s new state flag.  Not everyone was excited, especially many Polynesians who feared the loss of heritage and tradition, a panic which proved to be unfounded because just look at the native customs still intact: luaus at every hotel, hula dance classes, and pina coladas sipped from ceramic pineapples by tourists wearing plastic leis.

I’ve never been to Hawaii, but I want to go. It feels like everyone has been there but me. In the book 1001 Places to Visit Before You Die I think Hawaii is number 1, 27, and 998.

They say that Aloha means hello and good bye. That’s confusing to me. I don’t know how that could work unless aloha really means, “Hello, I’m leaving,” or “Hi, sorry you can’t stay.”  Then again, men are accustomed to being in a foreign land where the language of the natives is confusing. 

Fortunately I’ve designed a Berlitz language translator for men:

When a woman says “It's your decision” she means “The correct decision should be obvious.”

When she says, “Do what you want,” she means, “You'll pay for this later.”

When you hear “We need to talk” that’s female for “I want to complain”.

If she says “We really need to talk” that can best be translated as “You are in deep doo-doo, pal, so listen close and don’t say a word.”

In case you hear, “I’d like to talk about our relationship” that is estrogen for “Your midterm grade is a C­­­- and you have a week to bring it up.”

When a lady says “I'm not upset” it means, “Of course I'm upset, you moron.”

If you hear “Hmmm, that’s an interesting idea” that means “You have GOT to be kidding!”

When a wife says “Look at this kitchen design I saw in Southern Living” that means “You can kiss that bass boat goodbye.”

When she says “Do you love me?” she means “I'm going to ask for something expensive.”

If she says, “How much do you love me?” that can be translated as “I did something today you're not gonna like.”

When a woman says “Are you listening to me?” that actually means “Too late, you’re doomed”.

Bi-lingual men know that “I don't want to talk about it” is translated “I’m still building up steam and gathering ammunition.”

When she says “That’s cute”  she means “You’re not really going to publish that, are you?”

In fairness I think I should offer a translator to bewildered women seeking to decipher the strange language and mixed messages of men.

When a man says “Relax, I’ll take care of it” he really means “I’ll forget as soon as this conversation is over”.

When he says, “Is this a new recipe?” that is best translated “Don’t make this again”.

When he asks, “Is that a new dress?” that is man language for “How much did it cost?”

When he says, “Honey, let me watch the kids for you this morning” the literal translation of that phrase is “I want sex tonight”

When he says, “I was thinking about playing golf this morning, is that OK?” he actually means “I planned this 3 days ago, have a foursome already lined up, but I like springing things on you.”

If he says, “But I won’t do it if you don’t want me to” that is male for “If you don’t let me do this, I will pout all day…unless we can have sex tonight.”

-- rLp --

August 20

 

(for Robert Youngquist)

 

It was 1804 on this date that Charles Floyd died,

the only member of the Lewis & Clark

expedition to perish.  Clark wrote in his journal,

“Floyd died with a great deal of composure.

Before his death he said to me, ‘I am going away so

I want you to write me a letter.’

We buried him on the top of the bluff,

above a small river to which we gave his name.”

 

Turning 50 in June did not disturb me.

Instead it was today that

age arrested me where I stood

with the thought of death, knowing

that good health and safety can be temporary as  

a full sun and a cloudless sky.

 

It was the hinting which deafened me,

that death is the great Interruption,

the grand Cancellation, that one’s expedition may

be in mid-route when it is halted.

 

It is not the journey of books and prose

that I fear being clipped,

but the poetry. I have hundreds of poems

floating in a pond known as a blog,

and nowhere else.

 

They are neither bound together, nor

even printed alone in isolation.

They’re saved in clouds, with

volumes more inside me.

 

But this truth haunts me: that so many

of us die with our collection incomplete--

an anthology of pieces never printed,

with even more verse yet composed.

 

And thus we die

atop a bluff above a small river that

won’t remember our name;

and with much poetry lodged within us,

we plead for a scribe to take a letter.

 

-- rLp --

August is Butterfly Month

 

butterfly jaywalking

through a busy intersection,

oblivious to traffic,

 

and I wondered

if she was lost or

just felt really free

 

-- rLp --

August 19th

On this date in 1982 Renaldo Nehemiah of the United States set the world track record for  110-meter hurdles (12.93 seconds).  I’m assuming that 110 meters refers to the length of the run and not the height of the hurdles.  If that were the case, Superman would have an unfair advantage over Renaldo and any superheroes (“leaps tall buildings in a single bound”).

As a kid, I wasn’t into Superman. I liked Batman and Spiderman, especially Batman because he was dark & mysterious and had really cool gadgets plus the bat mobile. Superman and Spiderman both worked downtown so I guess they didn’t need a car. They could walk, run, take a cab, fly, or swing from skyscrapers.

They both worked for newspapers so I imagine they knew each other, maybe met at a journalism conference.  I wonder if perhaps when they were introduced each secretly thought, “There’s something not quite right about this guy.”

I think they could have been great together. Unstoppable. Watch each other’s backs and lift each other up like Ecclesiastes says. But professional jealousy could have been a problem. Maybe conflict over assignments and crime falling through the cracks.

“I thought you were stopping the bank robbers from drilling into the vault. You’re the one with x-ray eyes!”

“Gimme a break, I was across town lifting a train that was racing toward a trestle bridge that was out. You were practically right next door at the time. Were your *@#^! spidey senses not tingling?!”

“I don’t believe you actually have x-ray vision. I think you’re blind as a bat!”

And at that moment, out of the shadows would step a caped figure in black. “I take issue with that statement,” the masked man says.  And from there things would get really complicated.

So, I’m thinking Renaldo Nehemiah had the right idea. Run in normal clothes and spikey sneakers and jump over tiny fences. Enjoy the applause, collect your medal, get your check, and go home to a woman who doesn’t nag you about wearing tights and working late.

-- rLp --

August 18

 

On this date in 1955 Hurricane Diane arrived ashore

near Wilmington, NC and drove toward New England

on a killing spree.

 

I wonder how women named Diane felt about having

a murderous storm named after them. I’m guessing fewer

babies were named Diane in 1956.

 

In 1979 the first male hurricane was born. I don’t know

how they tell the difference, but it only seems fair

that men share the blame.

 

I have a step-brother Andrew who suspiciously

shares the name of the hurricane that tried

to wipe us out when I lived in West Palm Beach.

 

Now a sheriff’s deputy in North Carolina,

Andrew lives with Elaine who

has a 1974 hurricane namesake.

His mother Marie (2008, no landfall)

married my Dad (Richard, 2010 pending)

in 1987 (see Hurricane Emily, my step-sister).

 

I’ll be in trouble if I don’t mention my other step-sister

Rebecca (1968, off the coast of Mexico).

She battles MS and refuses to evacuate when

the storms come, and they come often.

 

My Dad married Frances (2004, Category 2, Florida)

in 1957 (see Audrey, Category 4)

and in 1960 (Donna, holds Category 3 duration record)

I was born Ramon (1987, winds up to 120 knots)

 

The internet says and I quote, “After peaking,

Ramon turned to the northwest and steadily weakened.”

I find myself feeling a little defensive about that statement.

The report goes on to say that the heaviest rainfall

was confined to southern California, the post ending with,

“Ramon's impact elsewhere, if any, is unknown.”

 

Well damn, how would you like that

etched on your tombstone?

I know hurricanes are violent, 

and as selfish and uncaring as it may sound,

I want a second chance.

 

-- rLp --

August 17

 

Today is Robert DeNiro's birthday.

It sorta snuck up on me

and I didn't get him a card.

 

He wouldn't remember me anyway.

The movie theatre was crowded

and dark, and Leonard was actually

catatonic in Awakenings for much of the film.

 

But I urged him to come to life; it was more me

than Dr. Sayer or the L-dopa meds. I helped him

catch the ball, walk, put on that suit, and smile for

the first time in years. I taught him to hold the

flowers and like the girl.

 

But he started slipping away again, fading,

burning away like morning fog, and I felt

responsible that I had teased him with hope,

but couldn't hold the line that I myself

threw him from the ninth row.

 

-- rLp --

 

August 16

 

On this date in 1962

Ringo Starr replaced Pete Best

as drummer of the Beatles,

a year before their first album. 

 

Twist and Shout, Love Love Me Do

were on that record.

The concerts with layer upon layer

of screaming, crying girls soon followed.

I’m a guy and I was only three

so I wasn’t one of them

 

I’m not really sure how it happened.

Maybe Pete thought the band wasn’t

going anywhere. Maybe the rent was due on

the flat he was renting in Essex,

the one near the pub on Davonshire where

some of his old classmates and

some of the iron workers with bad teeth

kidded him about his sissy friends.

Perhaps the textile factory was hiring.

 

I think it worked out for the best because

Ringo Starr is a much cooler name. 

I think you’d have to be in show business

with a name like that. No one would take

you seriously as a priest or an accountant.

 

But still I wonder about Pete.

We all know what it’s like to disappear,

to watch a new employee or new lover

take our place. We’ve all come down

with some flu of regret that

made us sick to our heart.

 

Which one of us has not been forced

to watch replays of our misplayed fold and

the smile of the opportunist who

swept the hand and cashed our chips.

 

I hope Pete had a good life, I really do,

that love followed him where

fame begged off, and that drumming

his fingers on a satisfying glass of dark ale

was music and riches enough, knowing

that celebrity is just obscurity

biding its time.

-- rLp --

August 15

 

 

On this date in 1954 Alfredo Stroessner

named himself president of Paraguay.

I don't know if it was only for that day but I

suspect that it was longer.

 

I've got a lot on my plate this upcoming week

so I'm naming myself president of Paraguay

just for today. All government offices

in Paraguay are closed on Sundays so

I don't suppose anyone will mind

and I don't think I can mess things up too badly. 

 

I would like to have a parade through the capital,

maybe encourage the national soccer team,

play a military joke on Uruguay, and

after a supper of asoda, chipa and boiled yucca ,

get my portrait made for a postage stamp.

--- rLp ---

 

Staying Cool: Understanding Anger vs. Frustration Part 1

(This is my current newspaper column)

A dip in our neighborhood pool is not all that refreshing lately.  No, the water is completely clean. The problem is that the pool is sitting on a stove of concrete and with recent temperatures hitting 100 it feels like lukewarm bath water.  Instead of a floating lounge chair I’m inclined to bring Irish Spring soap and a loofah sponge. This week the newspapers have been running daily warnings about the heat index , how to avoid overheating your body’s own radiator, and tips for staying cool.

Regardless of the season and the outside temperature, staying cool in our emotions is always a challenge.  There is much to say about the subject of anger but today I want to make a distinction that has been helpful for many of my clients.  The words “anger” and “frustrated” are often used interchangeably but they are not the same.  It’s helpful to know which one of these we are actually experiencing as well as understand which one our friend, spouse, or child is feeling.

Anger is a response to a perceived injustice. (We’ll talk more about this next time in Part 2.)

Frustration is the response to a blocked goal.   You don’t want to be in the car with me if I’m late, in traffic, and have poor directions.  My blood is boiling and I’m strangling the steering wheel because my goal was to get to a certain place by a certain time and that’s not happening.  Like many men I can get ticked at lawn mowers that won’t start, instructions that don’t make sense, parts that don’t fit, and technology that can sense urgency and will malfunction just when it is needed most.

Frustration is often not about people, but about things, events, and circumstances that seem to conspire against you and your goals and deadlines.  The raw emotion and energy of it feels like anger but it is different than anger.  Yes, people can frustrate you also.  A co-worker’s procrastination blocks your ability to complete a task.  A client doesn’t return your call.  You finally schedule a date night and the babysitter gets sick and cancels. A spouse forgets an appointment or takes your cell phone by mistake.  Just as you finally sit down to relax with the newspaper and a cup of tea, your child tells you 15 minutes before Target closes about supplies she needs for a school project due tomorrow. It feels like anger but it’s frustration because you are blocked from meeting an obligation or goal or from fulfilling a desire.

Note that people who have a high need for control will experience frequent frustration.  Note that I’m not talking here about trying to control others (i.e. manipulation). A high need for control is really just about needing everything to go as planned. All of us desire for things to go as planned but some people get really out of sorts if the cosmos doesn’t cooperate and Plan A doesn’t work. Life will remind you daily that control is an illusion. You have influence but you never have control. When have you ever had one single day go completely according to plan and schedule?  I cannot recall ever saying, “Wow, I got so much more accomplished today than I planned!”

I’ll tell you the one thing that has helped me acknowledge and feel my frustration but not be ruled or immobilized by it:  Realize that neither Stewing nor Spewing changes anything.  Imploding or erupting does not locate my keys, get traffic moving, or unfreeze my computer.  If my goal is being blocked by an obstacle it will not be removed by explosion, but navigated by patience and negotiated through wisdom.

-- rLp --

Solitary Refinement

 

Deep in the cave of a thick night,

no one can find me, and

I'm hidden from all demands

and the only questions posed to me

are the ones I ask myself.

 

-- rLp --

Guidance

 

Be slow to hush the voices

irritating you from the corner

because the thoughts, feelings

stirrings and longings spoken there

may just be the tenured faculty

appointed to instruct you

about your heart.

 

 -- rLp --

Anonymity

 

 

I welcome this, my shift

at the wheel, guiding

a willing boat

by compass and by stars

in the middle of the night

while the others sleep.

 

Out here alone in deep silence,

atop the black cold soup and swells, 

no one is impressed with me,

and I feel no need of it,

 

feeling justly small under

a diamond studded sky of

such expanse and depth

that the full sea is

too small a box for it.

 

--rLp--

 

Rise

 

They say we have become

soft over the centuries,

that we are no longer

knights and warriors,

 

but I know people for whom merely

getting out of morning's bed is heroic,

for the day itself is the dragon which

opposes them and the urge

to give up is the giant

who must be daily slain.

 

-- rLp --

Restless

I know how to work, how to

earn my salary and praise,

how to hold the lease on

this life that is mine and

pay the rent for my place in it

 

But I wonder if I know how to rest.

 

I know how to sit comfortably

with a writing tablet, how not

to be at odds with a book,

how to be unproductive, even

lazy. I know how to surrender

to a nap and rob the night

of sound sleep, yet still

wedge in a dream or two

before sunrise, before the day

lists its demands.

 

But I wonder if I know 

what it means to rest.

 

--- rLp ---

 

Saturday Morning in Suburbia

Cardboard and poster board

yard sale signs at every intersection

and subdivision entrance

from here to the Maury County line,

 

these are the driveways where

we the middle class

set up our flea markets

and let total strangers

rummage through our belongings--

 

the discarded clothes, toys,

strained furniture,

books, music, and outdated lamps,

the artwork, dishes, and kitchen appliances,

clock radios, brass decorative items,

electronics, plaid throw pillows,

VHS movies, and exercise equipment

we couldn't live without and

MasterCard said we didn't have to.

 

Now other suburbanites, like homeless people,

are going through our trash and asking

does this work, and how much

will you take for this cutlery set

when the homemade sticker with the price

is right there on the damn thing

 

cause everybody wants to talk you down,

as if you should give a further discount for

something that is already on 

your entire life's clearance rack

 

and you want to say, hell just take it, cause

you know she don't want it that bad, but

she's addicted to mediocrity like everyone else,

 

like the lady there in the aqua warm-up suit,

the one with board games in her arms

who said "I Do"

 

in the church to a guy she didn't really

have any use for, but was a bargain and

she had a place for him

next to the curio cabinet.

 

-- rLp --