Rabbit! Rabbit!

During the 2016 Presidential campaign, I felt a bit like Cassandra warning people of the fall of Troy. No one listened to Cassandra. And she went mad.

The predominant argument I heard during the campaign was vote for Clinton, or else! Or else we get Trump! And he will destroy everything! He is racist, sexist, a xenophobe! We can't have someone like him in charge! He will get us into another war! He will get us killed!

I warned Democrats that all their anti-Trump rhetoric would create the opposite effect desired: he would be elected. And here we are.

Rather than focus on the obvious errors of the Democrats, I would like to focus on a more subtle one. This involves the lesson of Rabbit in Native American traditions: the lesson that we draw fear to ourselves.

By actively fearing a thing, this thing will manifest wholly in our life. It seems counter-intuitive. It seems like we need to hold an awareness of potential detrimental circumstances. While that may be true, that we may need to understand the possibility of nuclear annihilation, for example, we need not embellish this awareness with imagined scenarios and reactionary jargon.

This is a hard one to fully grasp since fear sinks its venomous hooks into our psyches causing us to spiral out of control through its labyrinthine corridors. Fear grips us. It controls us if we let it. And for some reason, fear is the current specter haunting our collective consciousness. It is at the forefront of many news articles, and many interactions on social media. We perpetuate our collective fear by sharing posts that others have shared which tickle the fear nerve.

Why do we choose to do this? We have the ability to interrupt this process. And we must.

Imagine if, during the campaign, we had perpetuated the concept that our economy can serve everyone, not just the select few. What if we had perpetuated the idea that healthcare is everyone's right. Or the idea that the First People will be respected. Their land will be held sacred. We will honor our treaties. We will care for our planet by ending our reliance on fossil fuels. We will invest in our infrastructure and bring jobs home. What if we had experienced excitement and hope rather than dread and fear?

Why bring all this up now? Because we have the option every single day to choose fear, but we have the responsibility to choose love. It sounds complex but it's really simple. Here's how it works. Let's say you're standing in line at a supermarket and someone starts talking with you about the insane things the president said and how he's going to get us into a nuclear war and we're all going to die. What if, instead of simply going through the corridors of fear, you were to respond, "Well, it is a good day to die!" Or, "I guess I better water my plants before the apocalypse." Or, "Has anyone ever told you that you have the most remarkable brown eyes?"

Similarly, when people share posts via social media that stir the fear nerve, pause. Notice that the fear nerve has been hit. Corresponding physical sensations to look for include rapid and shallow breathing, a furrowing of the brow, a tight sensation in your throat or your stomach. Recognize that your fingers are about to hit the "share" button. Remove your fingers from the keyboard/screen. Inhale. Exhale. Look at the sky or at the silly statue on your desk. Find something wonderful that you want to share with others. Find a moment of peace, a moment of contentment, a moment of joy that you can record and share instead. If you feel stuck, contact me. I can throw you some inspiration. It's one of the things I am actually capable of doing.

Peter Gabriel made a song with this line: "Fear is the Mother of Violence." Please contemplate this idea before you go spreading fear. Recognize that you are contributing to the violence in our society simply by being afraid.

You can do this. And you need to do this. You have the power to alter the collective psyche in this country by simply Being Peace.* Do it!

*This is a link to the entire text of Thich Nhat Hanh's book "Being Peace." Take advantage of it.

` For Cassandra `

To Bounce

On a Saturday recently at Planet Care, I ran into an old boyfriend. We had both become head over heels stupid crazy about each other very quickly. And we enjoyed a couple of weeks of sweetness. But then his banjo was stolen from his car when it was parked outside of my house on Crack Row in Winston-Salem.

He had built this banjo himself. It had accompanied him on many adventures, including his participation in making music for the "Cold Mountain" soundtrack. He needed it to take with him to New York for a recording project in a week. It had been "like a family member" to him. And now, it was gone. He didn't exactly blame me. But he disappeared from my life at that point. And he needed to. He had to build another banjo in a week. Then he had to go to New York. Then England. And so on.

So there I was, standing face-to-face with him after all this time. I managed to propel myself to hug him. He introduced me to his wife.
"Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world, she walks into mine."

Yeah, Bogey. I feel ya.

After the initial shock, we played catch-up. And it was truly nice conversing with him. I felt happy and excited that I'd seen him. But after he left, a strange melancholy set in. And I realized, I'm not over him.

Good God. I'm 50 years old. I'm too old to be consumed with heartbreak.

Well, there's nothing for it. There are still pangs in my heart for this dude. Nothing to do about it. I loved him. That just doesn't go away.

That night, I went to The Garage - a music venue which I used to run. During that time Richard Emmett, the owner, called me the Head Mechanic. I liked that label. It suggested somebody who tinkers with the inner workings of a complicated machine. That's definitely what my stint at The Garage felt like.

Going back there is always bittersweet. The Garage gave me some of the best times of my life. There were hard times, too. But the good times far outweigh the bad. I wasn't quite ready to end my involvement with it when I did. But I understood that the time had come to do so. Just like a love affair, there is still a bit of heartbreak connected to the end of my stint at The Garage. And going back there brings that heartbreak to the surface.

On this particular night at The Garage, I ran into another old flame. We had enjoyed an even briefer affair that also had ended abruptly and unsatisfactorily.

And then I ran into a woman who had the bad habit of going after the same men I was interested in. She had been the cause of the abrupt and completely bad ending to a third affair.

I began to wonder at the mystery of the current planetary alignment.

I love. I love a bit too fully at times. And when I do, my heart lies open and vulnerable to any and all unfavorable consequences of loving too fully. You would think that I'd learn. But I don't know any other way of being.

I danced furiously that night at The Garage and enjoyed myself immensely.

~~~
My son just moved to Brooklyn. Before leaving North Carolina, he was hit by a car while riding his bicycle. This was the second time he'd been hit this summer. His cuts and scrapes were still healing when he left for New York. He called me today, happy and excited to announce that he had just gotten a job - as a bicycle courier.

Jairus has already learned the value of picking yourself up when you've been knocked down by the proverbial cars of life, of climbing right back onto the seat of that bicycle and pedaling with abandon.

I am happy for him.

~~~
I still think of Melchior: my best buddy, my soul mate. Melchior was a cat that lived with me for fourteen years - through my failing marriage, my divorce, my various bizarre living situations, my single mom years, my ITP, my cancer. September 26 marks the one year anniversary of her death. I still miss her terribly. I cannot think of loving any other cat like I loved Melchior. I don't even want to try.

Still, I have a buddy whom I call Ghost Cat. He hangs out in the lovely sanctuary that is my front yard. There's a shed that sits on the border of my yard and the neighbor's, under which Ghost Cat retreats from the harsh elements of weather. At night and in the early morning, he can be seen lounging around the yard. I feed him. He sometimes lets me pet him. He keeps mice away. It's a good arrangement. I find myself looking forward to his greeting when I arise mornings and when I return from work at night.

I find that my love for Ghost Cat is growing.

~~~

A few women I know are thinking about having a baby. Part of me wants to talk them out of it based solely upon the mistakes I made with my own children - mistakes that hurt my heart. And I look at the state of the world and wonder why anyone would want to bring a child into this mess. At the same time, I realize that making a decision based on fear is a very bad idea. I remember the loveliness of it all and the immense power and hope that comes from truly loving another being. It is transforming. 

I am reminded of the Alistair Cooke quote which was read on an episode of "All in the Family," "In the best of times, our days are numbered anyway. So it would be a crime against nature for any generation to take the world crisis so solemnly, that it put off enjoying those things for which we were designed in the first place: the opportunity to do good work, to enjoy friends, to fall in love, to hit a ball and to bounce a baby."

Life is about living after all. It is best not to linger in the pain of the past very long. There is beauty in the art of Bouncing Back.

Joe

B.B. Russell shot himself in the heart. His wife found him in the back yard before he'd fully died. Joe received a call and went straight over. He arrived to a circus of emergency vehicles, police officers and Laurie standing in the middle of it, in shock.

Another of Joe's friends slit his wrists this week. He was found lying in a pool of blood on the bathroom floor. He survived his attempt to end his suffering. If you can call that survival.

Joe's Dad is in the hospital. Whatever he's got, it's serious. Joe's family is waiting. Waiting for test results. Waiting for a diagnosis. Waiting for a prognosis. Waiting for some certainty.

Certainty never comes.

In the midst all this, Joe was abandoned by the woman he loves.

Joe is my friend. I love him beyond measure. He writes songs that pierce your heart and sings like it's his last day on earth.

Joe and I have a lot in common. We constantly fuck up. And then we spend a lot of time and money trying to recover from our bad choices and depression-induced avoidance of material world obligations. We are both too sensitive for our own good. We perpetually try to make sense of senseless matter and drive ourselves mad doing so.

The first night Joe and I hung out together was the sort of all-night excursion that takes on epic proportions. I worked at The Garage back then and usually wrapped up my evening around 4 a.m. Joe tended bar across the street at a joint that happened to have a pretty nice coffee machine. I would often stop in to grab a cup of coffee to help see me home. One night, Joe needed a ride home and so I offered my services.

That night I learned that something as simple as a trip from point A to point B turns into a labyrinthine adventure with Joe. We wound our way through the countryside surrounding Walkertown, dropping by this place, checking on that, talking til dawn.

A silvery mist rose in the predawn light as I navigated curvy country roads. The asphalt's mundane aspect took on a mystical sheen. And suddenly, we came upon a magnificent hawk standing motionless in the middle of the road. I slowed my car nearly to a halt and inched ever closer to this creature. It stayed fixed atop its fresh kill - a large rodent. I finally stopped my car completely. Joe and I stared in silence at this tremendous bird, standing so close we could see its eyes, its talons, the texture of its feathers.

Joe finally broke the silence.

"It's a hawk!"

I corrected him. "It's a magical hawk!"

Joe agreed. "It is a magical hawk! I wonder if it'll let me pet it!"

"I don't know, Joe. He might think you're after his food."

"I want to touch him!"

Joe reached for the door handle. And as soon as he did, the hawk flew away, carrying his kill in his talons. Joe and I sat in stupid silence for several minutes. There. In the middle of the road. At the break of day. We had just seen a magical hawk.

I reminded Joe of this story tonight as I tried to comfort him. I told him that in the Native American tradition, Hawk carries our messages to Great Spirit and Great Spirit's messages to us.

Joe feels abandoned by God. I told Joe that he doesn't have to believe in God. But the magical Hawk is real. He can hear Joe. And he can carry his messages on his wings as he soars through the sky.

I don't know how to help my friends when they've reached their limit. I know how it feels to reach that point. And still, I don't know how to help others once they've reached it. All I know to do is hold them, either in my arms or in my heart. Just hold them.