tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1529699966299323792024-02-20T10:27:38.615-08:00Erics BlogErichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15035985149874889389noreply@blogger.comBlogger34125truetag:blogger.com,1999:blog-152969996629932379.post-90110093979767234612023-05-15T19:11:00.003-07:002023-05-15T19:11:39.293-07:00 Wormholes<p><span style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: inherit; font-size: 15px; white-space: pre-wrap;">My life has been scattered with ‘shoulds’. I rail against them when I find them. My ear is sensitive to the word. A red light flashes at the sound of a “You should…”.</span></p><div class="x11i5rnm xat24cr x1mh8g0r x1vvkbs xtlvy1s x126k92a" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: "Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;">When I turned eighty, something happened to me … or rather… I did something. Something diaphanous, driven by some niggling fear of ‘shoulds’ I’ve never known about, lived under all my life unaware. Like mosquitoes in a dark bedroom you can’t see but you know they’re there. </div></div><div class="x11i5rnm xat24cr x1mh8g0r x1vvkbs xtlvy1s x126k92a" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: "Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;">When <span style="font-family: inherit;"><a style="color: #385898; cursor: pointer; font-family: inherit;" tabindex="-1"></a></span>I turned eighty, I retreated into myself. At least that’s one way to describe it. I set out to uncover and release myself from the dictatorship of ‘shoulds’. It was difficult to distinguish between ones I wanted to keep and ones I’d picked up that have been hitching a ride these seven decades or more. I wound up retreating from many obligations. I let some people down. </div></div><div class="x11i5rnm xat24cr x1mh8g0r x1vvkbs xtlvy1s x126k92a" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: "Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;">I went on a vacation that started at a pagan festival and a hash brownie I thought would be best eaten whole after someone told me, “You should only take a quarter.” Two hours later I was laughing hysterically at how I’d taken on his ‘should’ as a challenge and refused to think he might have been right. And the voice in my head saying, “You should have listened to your mother,” and marvelling at how a ‘should’s’ power to guilt could snake its way out of the past. </div></div><div class="x11i5rnm xat24cr x1mh8g0r x1vvkbs xtlvy1s x126k92a" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: "Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;">I was in that wormhole when it was interrupted by my friends asking if I was OK. I felt surrounded and safe, joyfully stumbling from gathering to meal to ceremony, followed by an entourage of angels picking up after me, glasses, pants, as I sailed deeper into a mystery. Looking back, the best I can say regarding the mystery is that it was perhaps about noticing how hilarious are some of the ways I defend myself and what’s that all about?”.</div></div><div class="x11i5rnm xat24cr x1mh8g0r x1vvkbs xtlvy1s x126k92a" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: "Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;">And so, at home a short time later, I put myself in that same condition and started to dig for worms. Burrow down their holes. See what jewels might be buried. And over the year the wormholes have opened into gardens and a magic castle with mirrors on the walls of the circular stairs where at each landing you could look at yourself and step into another story.</div></div><div class="x11i5rnm xat24cr x1mh8g0r x1vvkbs xtlvy1s x126k92a" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: "Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;">Somewhere along that stairway I realized I had taken myself back in the same way Merlin lived from end to beginning. And once arrived, like stepping from a darkness into the soft light of dawn dancing behind the mist, the Sun revealed to me my story. </div></div><div class="x11i5rnm xat24cr x1mh8g0r x1vvkbs xtlvy1s x126k92a" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: "Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;">Do we all have a story? Mine became clear, the through-thread that connected it all, the… what do they call it? The over-arching conflict. I saw where most of those pesky ‘shoulds’ were holed up, but that was the least of it. </div></div><div class="x11i5rnm xat24cr x1mh8g0r x1vvkbs xtlvy1s x126k92a" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: "Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;">The jewels I uncovered at first were smothered in filth: frustration, guilt, resentment, darkness, betrayal. But during this year of inner journey into the wormholes of time, this chemical journey, spiritual journey, I came to face trauma differently. </div></div><div class="x11i5rnm xat24cr x1mh8g0r x1vvkbs xtlvy1s x126k92a" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: "Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;">Instead of digging it out and throwing it away I took in the old trauma, replaced the broken parts, gave it a fresh face and played out my story on a colourful stage. And I love replaying the juicy chapters. After all, the traumas are mine, and if it isn’t love, it’s fear.</div></div><div class="x11i5rnm xat24cr x1mh8g0r x1vvkbs xtlvy1s x126k92a" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: "Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;">Perhaps all I did was sweep away some of the fear to discover what was hiding. To relax some it, the fear inherited and transmitted down. Perhaps break the cycle by forming a cycle. The fear is ever a yearning, a cry for love, and I will ever return it.</div></div>Erichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15035985149874889389noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-152969996629932379.post-33261542122890749302023-05-09T15:32:00.031-07:002023-05-09T15:55:34.905-07:00Weeding Memories<p> </p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Perhaps it’s
my age.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m weeding out memories I don’t
need.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Memories that bring pain of
missing, of regret, of revenge, of guilt.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>These days mostly of guilt.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I made a
stupid joke to a waitress in Ireland… never mind. You don’t need to hear the rest. The upshot is I made an ass of myself and her
feelings were hurt. And here is the 25-year-old
memory: the chair I sat in; the darkness of the room; why I made the joke. What satisfaction I intended to get from thrusting out with this subtle stab. </p><p class="MsoNormal">I do my best to feel
it all, dive into the muck of it all.
Look at myself in it all, what I needed then, what I feared, what was I
clawing myself out of? Digging deep to expose the root. Hiding nothing. And judging nothing.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">And I
forgive myself, for who I was and the part I still am. Hopefully less of that part of me.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">And I
commiserate with the waitress. Up to
then we had been in friendly banter. Did
she feel torpedoed? Affronted? Did she walk away predisposed to distrust
yanks? I saw her open mouth
where no sound came out that told me she didn’t get the joke and thought it was
meant for her..</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I’m sorry
for the role I played. And yeah it
sucks. </p><p class="MsoNormal">And farewell to you, sad memory, off to a cloudy remote closet somewhere, to rest.</p>Erichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15035985149874889389noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-152969996629932379.post-3951449709015988052023-04-07T11:44:00.000-07:002023-04-07T11:44:09.280-07:00The cat's First Foray<p> </p><p>All winter the cat ignores the door. One unusually warm day I eased her out with a gentle "Here ya go," and watched the window for her scratch to get back in. Other than that, all winter she is an indoor cat. Then there is a not-so-cold day followed by a warm day, and the cat sniffs, but saunters by. Finally, today is the day. I come in and here she is at my feet, whiskers sweeping with each twitch of her nose as she creeps toward the fresh air in her amazing slow-mo Michael Jackson Moon Walk.</p><p>That is how we country folk measure the changes of seasons. The cat's first foray.</p><p>Snow and its inevitable retreat from the sun is another measure. The day we pack up the cleats and the poles. The last hurrah to the snowmobilers. </p><p>It is the melting snow that dictates the river that now threatens to overflow. Every few years it washes out the road, isolating us from civilization. Two days ago, with a lot of snow on the ground, we had a day of steady rain. That's the recipe. If we make it through today we'll be safe for another year.*</p><p>And down south it looks like the death of a long dark winter will not warm quietly into the spring. There may be a messy butchering. But if a bull is running wild, what can be done? </p><p>And the birth of the new season? Will we sail in baring an olive branch to those who were taken in by fear and ignorance? Or will we let our own fear convince us they need eradication? </p><div>*<span style="font-size: x-small;">The cat came in at the end of the day. The river did not overflow.</span></div>Erichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15035985149874889389noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-152969996629932379.post-1819049154553331282023-03-24T14:49:00.000-07:002023-03-24T14:49:04.128-07:00When the Ark was opened<p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p>When the evil Nazi villain, Belloq finally fulfilled his obsession to raise the lid of the Ark of the Covenant, and peer inside, he released a light more brilliant than the sun. His whole body seemed lit by a million-volt current, and for a moment, his complete form was white, then blue, then dropped to the floor of the cave in a cloud of ash. There remained for an instant, the ghostly image of his face, written in air. The face was smiling as if imbued with some kind of sublime, transcendental knowledge. He had peered into the mind of God in the instant of his destruction, and what he saw brought him to completion.</p><p>What had Belloq seen, peering into the Ark, that left him with such a nirvanic countenance of enlightenment? We might never have known, were it not for an archeologist's discovery of that very cave, and a shard left behind, burnt and crumbling, with signs it had survived an explosion, still big enough for radiologists to conclude it dated it to the time of Moses. An examination by a philologist revealed from the scratches and scrawls into the stone, that they had a partial tablet from an ancient tome of Deviltry. And written in an obscure Hebraic tongue, translated as best as can, was engraved: </p><p>FOR THOSE AFFLICTED BY THE HOMUNCULUS WHO REPEATS WITHOUT END THE INCANTATION, "AGAIN", WHICH WHEN SO INSISTENTLY REPEATED WILL DRIVE ITS VICTIM TO AN EXHAUSTION OF CHASING, SEARCHING, FINDING AND THROWING, WHICH IF LEFT UNSTILLED DOES END IN DEATH BY BOREDOM. TO THIS CHARM THERE IS BUT ONE ANTIDOTE. THE AFFECTED SOUL MUST, WITH BOTTOMLESS FAITH, PRAY TO THE ALL-POWERFUL TO KEEP HIM STEADFAST AND FIRM, AND WITHOUT RAISED VOICE BUT WITH THE CONVICTION OF A COMMANDMENT, STATE CLEARLY AND DECISIVELY, "LAST ONE." AND THUS CAN THE SOUL ESCAPE TO SURVIVE.</p><p>So today if you are cajoled and seduced by a homunculus who skuttles up the stairs each day and suckers you into hide-and-seek, smack-the-balloon, chase-til-you-drop…. Remember that when she gleefully shouts:</p><p>"Again!" </p><p>… in heartless disregard for your red, sweating, puffing face… Remember the good news which popped out of the very library of the Ark of the Covenant, and reply, </p><p>"Last one," </p><p>… as you raise your hands into talons that bookend the hungriest, menacing sneer you can muster… and she darts into the hall, shrieking with delightful terror… and you pray, "The last one. Please God, the last one."</p><p> </p>Erichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15035985149874889389noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-152969996629932379.post-47622971290534512462023-03-18T13:04:00.001-07:002023-03-18T13:04:14.170-07:00Violet's Plan<p></p><p class="MsoNormalCxSpFirst">I look up from my computer to see Violet’s eyes on
mine from behind the counter with brows that hold an “I might be about to cry”
curve.</p><p class="MsoNormalCxSpFirst"></p><p class="MsoNormalCxSpFirst"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">“You OK, Honey?”
I get up from my work, head over to sit beside her. </p><p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">“I’m feeling scared.”</p><p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">“Scared?”</p><p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">“Scared of people.”</p><p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">“But Grandma and I are the only ones here.” Damn.
I catch myself trying to make her feelings go away, trying to get her to
justify or explain, when that is not what this three-year-old who has signaled
me with plaintive eyes needs.</p><p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">“Would you like a hug? Would that help you to feel safer?” She does not climb into my arms, but stands
and hangs her head, fingers touching pursed lips.</p><p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">“I have a plan to help me feel better.”</p><p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">“A plan?”</p><p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">“Yes, you could play with me.” I burst into laughter. She's caught me in my own trap. If she had just come up and asked me to play
with her I would have said, “No Honey, I have to work.” Apparently, she knows I’ll drop everything
for a child in distress.</p><p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">Now she is dancing and prancing in front of me
like a hula-popper with a Cheshire smile.
What can I do?</p><p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">“OK. One
game of Hide-and-Seek and that’s it.”</p><p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><o:p></o:p></p><br /><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiko5mqdZT_fxxJGgXQVyz7GBIkDHIDTilwOCEmfcitPoi07-jn17DBgxm-DwZ27DID93b2m7GxPXUDy4sqnPMVKYoW3ZdOb6ZarUZb8zTt8FsbvJXMX0zgoxO4hvKTTrQKxf8RYAmiymedLozv4VUK-zC0l7dVeiVWELE-WUcQbzRw4BdyCG1fyv_byQ/s2972/Violet%20pleading.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2972" data-original-width="2945" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiko5mqdZT_fxxJGgXQVyz7GBIkDHIDTilwOCEmfcitPoi07-jn17DBgxm-DwZ27DID93b2m7GxPXUDy4sqnPMVKYoW3ZdOb6ZarUZb8zTt8FsbvJXMX0zgoxO4hvKTTrQKxf8RYAmiymedLozv4VUK-zC0l7dVeiVWELE-WUcQbzRw4BdyCG1fyv_byQ/s320/Violet%20pleading.JPG" width="317" /></a></div><br /><p></p>Erichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15035985149874889389noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-152969996629932379.post-36599135243553760482023-02-03T02:05:00.014-08:002023-02-03T02:17:45.258-08:00The day Aura Celeste died<p style="text-align: left;"> </p><div style="box-sizing: border-box !important; line-height: 1.1; margin: 15px 0px; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: 20px; font-weight: normal;">The Day Aura Celeste Died<br /></span><span style="font-size: 20px; font-weight: normal;">I sat in the battered leather chair on the porch,<br /></span><span style="font-size: 20px; font-weight: normal;">Damp from a careless hosing of the hanging plants.</span><span style="font-size: 20px; font-weight: normal;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: 20px; font-weight: normal;">I heard the Robin clucking his evening song.<br /></span><span style="font-size: 20px; font-weight: normal;">I heard an unfamiliar bird, perhaps babies whining for worms. </span><span style="font-size: 20px; font-weight: normal;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: 20px; font-weight: normal;"><br /></span></div><div style="box-sizing: border-box !important; line-height: 1.1; margin: 15px 0px; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: 20px; font-weight: normal;">As dusk settled<br /></span><span style="font-size: 20px; font-weight: normal;">Two families of coyotes cried to each other across the valley. <br /></span><span style="font-size: 20px; font-weight: normal;">The orange cat perched on his spot on the table, licking a paw and surveying the garden. </span><span style="font-size: 20px; font-weight: normal;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: 20px; font-weight: normal;"><br /></span></div><div style="box-sizing: border-box !important; line-height: 1.1; margin: 15px 0px; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: 20px; font-weight: normal;">Nothing was out of place on this late spring day,<br /></span><span style="font-size: 20px; font-weight: normal;">When the forest displays so many lush, vibrant varieties of green. <br /></span><span style="font-size: 20px; font-weight: normal;">Nothing was out of place on this day that Aura Celeste died.</span><span style="font-size: 20px; font-weight: normal;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: 20px; font-weight: normal;"><br /></span></div><div style="box-sizing: border-box !important; line-height: 1.1; margin: 15px 0px; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: 20px; font-weight: normal;">Only I was out of place… tired, sad, empty, dark. <br /></span><span style="font-size: 20px; font-weight: normal;">A beautiful child who loved to draw, to play guitar,<br /></span><span style="font-size: 20px; font-weight: normal;">on the cusp of her teen adventure</span><span style="font-size: 20px; font-weight: normal;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: 20px; font-weight: normal;"><br /></span></div><div style="box-sizing: border-box !important; line-height: 1.1; margin: 15px 0px; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: 20px; font-weight: normal;">And now<br /></span><span style="font-size: 20px; font-weight: normal;">And now there will be no more nows.</span></div>Erichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15035985149874889389noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-152969996629932379.post-46916647044654273332023-01-27T13:17:00.000-08:002023-01-27T13:17:15.893-08:00Water colour<p> </p><div class="x11i5rnm xat24cr x1mh8g0r x1vvkbs xdj266r x126k92a" style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 15px; margin: 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;">Last August Diana headed a bit deeper into the woods and took a little painting course with her friends. A few days later she emerged with tales of all sorts of trouble and woe. Not having done art, she’d bought some supplies she thought would work, like pencils and pastels, but it turned out everyone was using water colour. So she found herself thrust into water colour with a few brushes and a motley collection of donated tubes of paint.</div></div><div class="x11i5rnm xat24cr x1mh8g0r x1vvkbs xtlvy1s x126k92a" style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 15px; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;">She hated the lack of precision of <span style="font-family: inherit;"><a style="color: #385898; cursor: pointer; font-family: inherit;" tabindex="-1"></a></span>watercolor. In her attempt to perfectly recreate reality, she was being hindered by the medium’s very identity: water. It splashes, it spreads of its own design. It dilutes. “Instead of painting lines, I’m painting little strings of clouds,” she said. “Look,” she said. “How are you supposed to get all those colours?”</div></div><div class="x11i5rnm xat24cr x1mh8g0r x1vvkbs xtlvy1s x126k92a" style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 15px; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;">She started making colour charts. And complained about the foibles. Complained that she needed special paper. And in order to not waste the paint she already had, she needed to buy more colours and brushes … complaining each time that she didn’t like water colour.</div></div><div class="x11i5rnm xat24cr x1mh8g0r x1vvkbs xtlvy1s x126k92a" style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 15px; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;">So that was August. I posted a video of how it’s going now.</div></div><div class="x11i5rnm xat24cr x1mh8g0r x1vvkbs xtlvy1s x126k92a" style="margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word;"><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 15px; white-space: pre-wrap;">Rather than a fish to water, she took to it like a ewe stuck with some rejected lamb. Eventually the fiery Diana bonded, warming herself to evenings of adventure watching YouTube… how to paint a cloudy sky, a tree, feathers, shadows… and it goes on these chilly winter nights. It looks like what will later be known as her avian period is coming to and end. She accepted the challenge to paint a person. Whatever comes next, we know the ewe and her lamb won’t be parted.</div><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 15px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-size: 15px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><a href="https://www.facebook.com/eric.nagler/videos/3049487225353221">https://www.facebook.com/eric.nagler/videos/3049487225353221</a></span></div></div>Erichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15035985149874889389noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-152969996629932379.post-81805054963647832882023-01-27T12:59:00.000-08:002023-01-27T12:59:28.982-08:00Back in the saddle<p> </p><p>I have used this medium from time to time, but more recently put writings on facebook. I want to change that, and use this blog instead. There will be sexual writings, personal, fantastical.... I intend to use this blog as a depository... and I'd love you to stick around to read if you're of a mind.</p>Erichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15035985149874889389noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-152969996629932379.post-23983423966316945282019-10-28T16:24:00.002-07:002019-10-28T18:37:56.254-07:00What Possessed Me?<br />
<br />
<h2 style="text-align: center;">
October, 2019<br /><div style="text-align: left;">
Yesterday I told this story at a local event. I thought you might like to read it.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
"What Possessed Me?"</h2>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;">1999. What possessed me to go to Bosnia,
a country recently ravaged by a devastating war?</span><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;">What possessed me to sleep on iron cots in mouldy
church basements, get bounced around in an ancient rattle-trap truck with no
shocks and faulty brakes on roads pock-marked by bomb craters which the locals affectionately
called Bosnian swimming pools, into regions and villages sometimes so remote
they had not yet been cleared of land mines? </span><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;">You had to walk only where others had
walked.</span><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;">Others had successfully walked.</span><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;">Worst of all, what possessed me to spend a
month where the only coffee was an acrid mud so awful and thick you can only tolerate
it by sipping from a cup the size of a thimble?</span><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;">
</span><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;">Why did I separate myself from my supports and leave behind the love
that showered me at home?</span><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;"> Was it </span><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;">for
the same reason a dog licks his genitals… b</span><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;">ecause he can?</span><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;"> </span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; tab-stops: -43.0pt -15.0pt 0in 21.0pt 57.0pt 93.0pt 129.0pt 165.0pt 201.0pt 237.0pt 273.0pt 309.0pt 345.0pt 381.0pt 5.5in 6.0in; text-autospace: none;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;">Before I left, I asked my wife, “If
you could go to Bosnia, wouldn’t you?” and she says, “Not on your life!”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; tab-stops: -43.0pt -15.0pt 0in 21.0pt 57.0pt 93.0pt 129.0pt 165.0pt 201.0pt 237.0pt 273.0pt 309.0pt 345.0pt 381.0pt 5.5in 6.0in; text-autospace: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; tab-stops: -43.0pt -15.0pt 0in 21.0pt 57.0pt 93.0pt 129.0pt 165.0pt 201.0pt 237.0pt 273.0pt 309.0pt 345.0pt 381.0pt 5.5in 6.0in; text-autospace: none;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;">I say, “But that’s all I have is my
life.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>How rich do you want yours to
be?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; tab-stops: -43.0pt -15.0pt 0in 21.0pt 57.0pt 93.0pt 129.0pt 165.0pt 201.0pt 237.0pt 273.0pt 309.0pt 345.0pt 381.0pt 5.5in 6.0in; text-autospace: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; tab-stops: -43.0pt -15.0pt 0in 21.0pt 57.0pt 93.0pt 129.0pt 165.0pt 201.0pt 237.0pt 273.0pt 309.0pt 345.0pt 381.0pt 5.5in 6.0in; text-autospace: none;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;">“Very rich,” she says.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Garage sales do it for me.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;">I know what I didn’t do it for… not
for karma; not to earn a place in heaven; not to be politically correct.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Certainly not for the money.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And not… this is the most important ‘not’.… I
did not go to try to make a difference in people’s lives.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; tab-stops: -43.0pt -15.0pt 0in 21.0pt 57.0pt 93.0pt 129.0pt 165.0pt 201.0pt 237.0pt 273.0pt 309.0pt 345.0pt 381.0pt 5.5in 6.0in; text-autospace: none;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; tab-stops: -43.0pt -15.0pt 0in 21.0pt 57.0pt 93.0pt 129.0pt 165.0pt 201.0pt 237.0pt 273.0pt 309.0pt 345.0pt 381.0pt 5.5in 6.0in; text-autospace: none;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;">I met humanitarians in Bosnia trying
to make a difference and it drained them like a pond of leeches will drain your
blood.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A humanitarian’s reward lies in
how palpable the change they can effect.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>And like Christ and the lepers, in Bosnia they saw that no matter how
much fixing they did, it would never be enough.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;">Y</span><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;">ou can fix a hole in a road, but how do you fix a hole in someone’s soul?</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;">In 1999 Sarajevo was an absurd contrast of ugly and beautiful,
of destruction and construction. I stood where a tank had stood on the
boulevard, 100 yards away from a 15-story office tower, and with casual
precision lobbed a shell into each floor. Now three years after the war, splintered
furniture, shattered pipes and shredded cables still hung from the gaping holes
left by each explosion.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;">But the first two floors were rebuilt, with a department
store and a little shop that sold that Sirnica, the snake-like coils of pastry
filled with cheese, which we lived on for the time we were there.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;">Outside the shop, dug into the sidewalk about four inches
deep was a symmetrical rosette, surrounded by a smattering of petal- shaped
indentations. Looked like a sunflower. They were scattered
throughout Sarajevo. It's what happens when a mortar round lands on
concrete.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And a lot landed. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;">The Serbs occupied the mountains above the valley in which
this once picturesque city was nestled, mountains that just a few years before
had hosted the winter Olympics. They dropped 3 million shells onto the
city in a 4-year siege… or maybe it was 4 million in 3 years. What difference
did it make? As my friend, Jelinek told me, “You chose not to pay
attention.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;">The artillery men would take up their stations at dusk,
drinking Slivovitz and singing songs of rape and destruction. That was
the ‘air raid warning’. But you sat in your room and read your
book. You heard the whistle of the grenades above. If one landed on
your building maybe it took out the plumbing. Maybe it took out your
life. What difference did it make?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;">After digging holes for water and collecting rain from the
gutters before it escaped into the sewers, after making soup from the leaves of
trees to stave off starvation, after burying your mother, what difference did
it make?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;">Absurd.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s all so absurd.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;">The evening we arrived in Sarajevo
we were immediately driven to a collection centre, a little building in the
woods which I think had housed municipal offices.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But now the desks were replaced by beds because
now, three years after the war in Bosnia, Albanians were suffering genocide in
neighbouring Kosovo.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They c</span><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;">rossed the border as
they could, </span><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;">gathered in whatever shelter they
could find, and sat with whatever they could salvage, looking fearfully at a
blank future.</span><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;">When you look directly into the eyes of someone who’s lost everything,
their home, their family, even their country, it hits you differently than
watching it on TV.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s not any more
gripping.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>TV brings us the horror in its
own magnified way.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is just more real,
this woman handing me a scrap of paper with her husband’s name on it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“I know he got out,” she tells me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Please look for him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Call out his name as you travel through
Bosnia.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Tell him we’re here and we’re
safe.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The fear in her eyes belies the
hope of her words.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;">She is perhaps the only one who can speak English among the thirty
or so folks who crowded into the tiny room for our concert.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Just a few feet from us, sitting, kneeling
behind, and standing against the wall.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;">I’m about to sing, “Ain’t Nobody Here But Us Chickens” and I
gesture for them to join in the chorus.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>A look of concern crosses their faces.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>They don’t speak English.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Now, we
have an interpreter, Edo.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But he can
only translate into Bosnian.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But we’ve
found someone who can translate Bosnian into Albanian and so they line up, side
by side next to me as I say, “Ain’t nobody here but us chickens, in chicken…”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;">Edo translates into Bosnian and turns to the next fellow,
who repeats it in Albanian.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then they
turn back to me.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;">“Is, bocka bocka bok bok bok gock.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;">Edo copies my lilt.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>“Eeai bocka bocka bok bok bok gock.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;">And the next guy, “Eshta bocka bocka bok bok bok gock.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;">By now the room has collapsed in hysterics.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Me, a thousand miles from my home and they
without a home, disparate cultures find a common language in Chicken.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;">So let’s sing it and let me teach you the words in chicken
in case you similarly find yourself in a foreign culture 1000 miles from home.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;">(We sing)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;">Sometimes what works best when you’ve been thrown into the
limbo of losing your foundation, of not knowing what to do or what will come,
sometimes what works best to bring you back to the sense that you are a human being
among humans is to be presented with something even more absurd than the absurd
condition you find yourself in.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;">I remember when I stood </span><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;">on that spot where the
tank had been, suburbans and SUVs were hustling by like ants repairing their
nest, each sporting a medallion advertising their country and particular NGO,
and nearby a high speed trolley with a banner on the side reading “A Gift From
the People of Japan”.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I thought about
what my mentor, Stan Dale used to say to me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>“Eric, there is either love, or violence.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And even violence is a cry for love.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;">There have been times in my life when the evidence of
violence was so pronounced it was hard to imagine where love was.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I guess what possessed me to go to Bosnia was
a faith that love was hiding beneath the rubble.</span><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />Erichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15035985149874889389noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-152969996629932379.post-87494876344459792562019-08-02T13:33:00.000-07:002019-08-02T13:33:39.710-07:00STREET SKILLS<br />
Hanging out in a folder I rarely visit, I happened to click on this. I'll call it:<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
STREET SKILLS</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-CA">I’m standing on the balcony horking up a
good dollop of phlegm, snorting up my nose what I can gather, then hacking
whatever’s in my throat, combining the mixture in my mouth and stirring it with
some saliva into a gelatinous glob. I gaze into the air beyond the
railing, aim at a 45<sup><span style="font-size: xx-small;">0</span></sup> angle to counter the affects of gravity ...
and I spit.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-CA">It’s a good shot … out about twenty feet,
then continues its parabolic trajectory for another ten before landing on a
dandelion… dripping… proud … a good spit. An excellent spit.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-CA">Then I hear a high pitched snort next to me
and there’s my four year old imitating me, her mouth open to an exaggerated
gaping maw, making cackling sounds in her throat, her nose scrunched up, a
twinkle in her eye.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-CA">“Go for it,” I say. “Give it a spit
over the side.” She looks and spits, a miniscule whitish sliver quickly dissipates into a gentle spray that disappears before it reaches the
ground. I need to teach her how to spit.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-CA">I remember my youth, some sixty years
ago and Billy Smith who could spit a good three feet further than anyone on the
block, teaching us the finer points of street spitting. He would form his
tongue into a tunnel, thus creating extra thrust the way a rifle barrel directs
the expanding gas of an exploding bullet.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-CA">We’d draw a line with chalk on the macadam
and edge our toe up to it like a basketball player at the foul line.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We’d grunt and hork and snort and bring all
the phlegm we could muster into play, gather it, coddle it up and cup it in our
tongue, take a breath and blow. The pressure formed by the conjunction
of tongue and lips would hold it for an instant and then let the missile go with a 'fathoosh'.
The mass of gelatine would sail into the still autumn air, soar beyond the
manhole cover, and land in a skipping splash on the street.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-CA">We’d mark it. We’d comment on
it. Then call the next contestant to the line.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-CA">Spitting on East 29th Street, Brooklyn was an art. I’m grateful I
can live in the country, in a house with a balcony overlooking a garden that
accepts my bodily fluids without disdain, and a granddaughter to carry on the
tradition.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br /><br />
Erichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15035985149874889389noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-152969996629932379.post-67420050042803461812019-03-31T13:43:00.000-07:002019-03-31T13:44:15.978-07:00You Lucky<br />
This was
back in the eighties.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was living in
the basement of a house rented by my friend Rica... throw rugs scattered on the
cement floor, books in boxes, the TV perched on a milk crate.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>One morning, half awake snuggled in my futon
on the floor, I heard an upstairs toilet flush.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Presently an offensive smell assaulted my nose and water began to rise
from the drain in the floor... not just water... sewage.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I called to Rica as I pulled rugs away from
the edges of the effluent which crept rapidly like a tide on a flood
plain.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Frantically we dragged boxes away
from the flow, threw the futon over a chair, lifted clothes onto the
stairs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>By the time the level reached a stasis
there was a fetid pond some ten feet across and three inches deep.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I sat at the top of the stairs holding my
nose, and wept.<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">The
plumbers arrived in thick pants and rubber boots.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They carried long poles with flat disks on
the end.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>One plumber attacked the sewer
on the street while the other waded into my basement swamp, pulled the drain
cover, yelled to his partner, and<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>commenced to pound his disk-pole into the drain with the passion of a
boy in a mud puddle, making waves and spraying the room with brownish droplets
and little sludge balls.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I ran down and
pulled what stuff I could as far from the advancing swell as possible.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Eventually
there was a yell from the plumber on the street, and the evil fluid sank back
into the hole from which it came.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">As I looked
gloomily around my ravaged room the way a despondent general might survey the
stinking aftermath of a battle won at great cost, the plumber ... and here’s
the point of the story ... the plumber said, “You lucky.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">I’m
lucky?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">“You
lucky.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If it hadn’t come unplugged we’d
have had to dig a big hole in your front yard.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Very expensive.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You lucky.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">That was
some twenty years ago.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Every once in a
while I run into Rica, we look at each other and say, “You lucky.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We remember that disaster, and the day that
followed, in rubber gloves and boots, mopping, sponging, filling garbage bags,
looking at each other and saying, “You lucky.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>You know<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>what.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We didn’t feel lucky.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We felt... well... we felt like the stuff we
were cleaning up.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">On that day
I vowed never to rob someone of their well-earned misery, never to tell someone
with a cast on their arm they were lucky they didn’t break their neck. ...
never to tell someone groaning and sweating with the flu it could be
pneumonia... never to tell someone who opens the fridge and all there is is a
week-old Hawaiian Pizza that people are starving in China.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Never to tell someone whose house burned down
to look on the bright side.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />Erichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15035985149874889389noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-152969996629932379.post-43419262027794033692018-12-01T11:02:00.001-08:002018-12-01T11:06:26.422-08:00REVISITING TRANSFERENCE <br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div style="text-align: center;">
REVISITING TRANSFERENCE<br />
<br /></div>
</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My mother who taught kindergarten was sitting with a friend
in Dubrow’s cafeteria (Brooklyn) when a pupil with his family came in.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The five-year-old ran over.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“You eat?” he asked.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Perhaps he thought she just walked into the coat
closet and hung herself up at the end of the school day.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
That’s transference: attributing inflated or unrealistic attributes
to someone, usually one in a position of perceived authority.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Workshop participants create inflated beliefs about the leaders.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Peter Rengel, hai facilitator, once called Diana
and me the ‘mom and pop’ of the Ontario community.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Yes, we were seen that way.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But the truth is we were not the ‘mom and
pop’, just folks like you, doing our job.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And now that we have left HAI leadership, has the
transference toward us diminished?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
know from some of my interactions that some still see us as the ‘mom and pop’, albeit
estranged.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As a well-known entertainer for most of my life, I was the
constant recipient of transference, and hated it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My fans meeting me on the street treated me
as if I really was that wild guy who loved to play crazy instruments.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>To me those instruments were just the tools
of my job.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I left them on the stage in
the way anyone leaves their tools at work.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>But people saw the instruments, the stage … and not me.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Transference and my relationship to it played a significant
role in my being fired.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As a HAI
producer I pretty much ignored transference, denied it until it punched me in
the face when, as a participant at a workshop, I shared intimacy with another
participant, who later claimed she had been taken advantage of because I abused
my power as a producer.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>HAI’S position
was despite that I was a participant in that workshop, since I was a producer,
I was responsible for the other’s transference.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I learned my lesson from that incident and took on how people might transfer theri pictures on to me, but it was too late.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not long after, minor incidents over the past
ten years were apparently collected and reported, and in the present culture of
Me Too, HAI felt it safer to fire me than support me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
HAI pays obeisance to transference.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Its policies and some of the subtle ways HAI speaks
into the workshop room support it; for example, at the end of the L1 when
facilitators say how participants may have fallen in love with a team member,
as if there is something special about us and not simply people like anyone
else, who have taken some training to help make things run smoothly.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
During each workshop, I would stand up at large group share,
talk how powerful it was for me to see those sitting before me whom I had
affected, who were here because I led their mini, or shared personal questions.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In one way, it helped solidify the value of
their path and how HAI has impacted their growth, but it was also a way of aggrandizing
myself to them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I recognize now that
associating my impact with their growth contributes to their transference.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They saw me as a little bit bigger than
before.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I stopped doing that when I got
that it didn’t serve me.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p> </o:p>Stan Dale insisted we see him as the ordinary person he was. Once, at a workshop a participant kissed his
feet. He accepted that and immediately bowed
to kiss his. Transference was Stan’s
enemy. He recognized it as the
fundamental power of cults, which herds folks into obedience and robs them of choice.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I believe there are many ways in which, without thinking, HAI pays obeisance to the transference god.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>And I would like us to take notice. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Recently I attended an ISTA (International School of Temple
Arts) training.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There, my attitudes
toward transference were validated.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It
was spoken into the room and identified as something we all do and are
personally responsible for.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was
invited to have whatever pictures and beliefs I wished about the facilitators -- and -- they would not take them on.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My
beliefs belong to me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Furthermore, the
relationships among the team, facilitators, and participants were brought onto
the same level.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We were all in this
together.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My week-long training at ISTA was a very powerful experience
for me, this issue of transference being only part.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I will have more to say about it in the near
future.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I highly recommend ISTA to
anyone on a path of growth, and am happy to talk about my experience if you
wish to get in touch.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I felt with some sadness that if HAI had the same attitude
toward transference, I would still be producing and leading Mini workshops. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />Erichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15035985149874889389noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-152969996629932379.post-7936812221576570842018-07-16T09:23:00.001-07:002018-07-16T09:23:44.808-07:00When All of You Have Passed<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
When all of you have passed, you’ll be sitting around, or
floating around, or whatever it is one does after one passes, and someone will
ask, “Hey, where’s Nagler?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And you’ll
say, “He didn’t pass.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“What, he failed?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
No, he just didn’t pass.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>He… I’ll spell it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He D-I-E-D.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“What?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“He didn’t pass.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He
doesn’t exist anymore.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Are you kidding?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Can
you do that?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Apparently.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Well why the hell
did he do that?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Nagler didn’t believe in passing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He believed in … you know … the “D” word.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“He believed in dea…?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“SHUSH!!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Don’t say
that word.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m told if you say the… you
know… the “D” word enough times it will happen to you.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Really?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Come on.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Just like Nagler.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>He… he didn’t pass.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“That’s friggin stupid.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Why would you want to… you know… when you could pass like everyone
else?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I’ll miss him.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Me too.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What is he,
just like atoms in the Universe now?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I guess.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I don’t want to think about it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Hey, what do you want to do tonight?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Night?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Night… day… whatever it is here in this place of transition.
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s just an expression.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What do you want to do?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I don’t know.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What
do you want to do?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“We could go down to the Tomato Ballroom.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“You wanna?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I don’t know.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You
wanna?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>When I was young they didn't
used to say 'cancer'. They said 'C'. It was a way to hold off the fear. I've
been taking workshops that suggest it's OK to welcome fear. "Hello fear". And
when the fear goes to say goodbye to it. Some of that fear is just energy, like
the fear at the top of a roller coaster. Some of it can be transformed to Feel
Everything And Rejoice. And some can be F**K Everything And Run. But whichever,
it's a real emotion and I'd rather feel it than 'pass' on it. My two cents. As
I come closer to it I become less often afraid to die.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />Erichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15035985149874889389noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-152969996629932379.post-8004027683225719452018-07-16T09:13:00.000-07:002018-07-16T09:13:59.125-07:00Summer Storm<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
A brilliant lightning strike just across the river made me
scrunch up my face at the impending clap which exploded a second and a half
later.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I started to breathe again, marveling
from the dry safety of the porch at the torrent which descended upon the yard,
the trees bending against sheets of water and wind like soldiers forbidden to abandon
their posts in a storm.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Earlier today in the muggy morning warmth I’d slipped out of
bed and strolled naked to the shower in the woods – a portable
hot-water-on-demand affair Ishwar had created some years before among the cedars
south of the house.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If you walk at a
certain pace the deer flies can keep up but have trouble landing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And then I’m protected within the force-field
of the warm spray.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Afterward I alternate
drying off with whipping the towel about like a horse’s tail, imagining I’m a ninja
holding the insects at bay.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Now I’m at the kitchen table listening to the receding
thunder and peering out at the now more civilized downpour which creates a
curtain descending from the roof, reminding me of that tunnel where you can witness
The Falls from the inside. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It is Summer, and the green surrounding the house has lost
the fresh brilliance of Spring, still lush but beginning its slow progression
to dullness until the burst of fall colour like a firework whose flash heralds
the barren sleep of snowy winter.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I muse that perhaps it is witnessing the perennial rebirth
of nature that leads to the foolish belief the same will happen to us.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But I, with only one life to lead, feel conflicted.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Part of me wants to break out, explore, find
new adventures in other realms.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But I am
seduced and tethered by this beauty; and fear that none who leave Shangri La
can ever find their way back.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />Erichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15035985149874889389noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-152969996629932379.post-49070399227405536092018-06-11T17:32:00.001-07:002018-06-11T17:32:16.758-07:00The Hummingbird<div style="text-align: center;">
The Hummingbird.</div>
<br />
<div style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; margin-bottom: 6px;">
The wire that hangs the hummingbird feeder broke. I found some string to hang it back up. Tied one end to the feeder and as I am tying the other to the hook, I hear the loud humming and freeze. He eyes me, flies from my left side to the right, and then around to my back. I feel him staring at my back with wings buzzing and tiny little, singular chirps. Peeps really. Then he floats to the feeder and decides to do it. Drinks and peeps, 10 inches from my face as I stand frozen, my arms above my head. I see a brilliant green back and a ruby red throat. I see the grass below him, shaded by the blur of his wings. I see dark brows that make his eyes look menacing. He takes his time. After 30 seconds of drinking he's done and whirs away. I finish tying the feeder.</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; margin-bottom: 6px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px;">
I remember one hot afternoon several decades ago living in a primitive log house in the Ottawa Valley. I stepped out the back and headed to the outhouse. Along the fifty foot path, bordered with plum blossoms, there were bees and wasps and mosquitoes and black flies. But then I heard a buzzing so loud it had to be the father of all bees, speeding right for me. I fell to the ground fearing the sting to end all stings. The hummingbird passed me by, ignoring my curled body as he swooped to the plum blossoms. I picked myself up and dusted myself off, grateful there was no one to witness my embarrassment.</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; display: inline; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; margin-top: 6px;">
E</div>
Erichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15035985149874889389noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-152969996629932379.post-86063231962097844902017-02-14T17:36:00.000-08:002017-02-14T17:36:51.330-08:00Orange CatI'm proselytizing. You don't have to listen. <br />
<br />
When a train stops at a station we don't usually say it has passed from motion to motionless. We don't tend to think of stopping as a transition. <br />
<br />
What things stop? A song. I might say the song stopped, or the song was over, but I don't generally say the song passed.<br />
<br />
A bullet entering a cat's skull eventually stops. We don't say the bullet passed. When the beating of the cat's heart stops… it stops. It doesn't pass because there's nothing for it to pass to. Actions don't pass into inaction, they simply stop acting.<br />
<br />
And so when the cat's heart stopped, when his consciousness stopped, his consideration for his sister, his insistent desire to be petted, his creature presence as a member of this family stopped, I don't say he passed. I say he died. He stopped being.<br />
<br />
What did pass? My dread passed to grief. The dread of what I was about to do, the dread of how his life would stop passed to a state I can only describe as 'out of heart' -- when I picked up the rifle like an automaton and told myself, "Do it." The one shot was enough but as I'd planned I fired a second time according to a script, that, once set in motion, I couldn't stop. But with that, the script ended and my feelings flooded back in overwhelming shock. The shock at having so suddenly lost a dear friend, a brother. I sat and put my head in my hands. And the shock passed into sobs of grief.<br />
<br />
I returned to the cat's body. My knowledge that this cat had died, had not passed but stopped, did not keep me from resting my hand on his stomach and saying goodbye as if there was a cat to say goodbye to, as if it was the same cat who, every time I let him in would mrrow with closed mouth and I would say, "You're welcome."<br />
<br />
Yes that cat. That cat is dead. <br />
<br />
When will my grief pass into a wistful regret, a poignant memory? Or perhaps it will transform into a cold resentment at the finality of death. Or perhaps there will always be a touch of grief until I stop.<br />
<br />
<br />Erichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15035985149874889389noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-152969996629932379.post-91296932959250027052016-12-22T18:20:00.001-08:002016-12-22T18:20:51.058-08:00The New Room<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "inherit",serif; font-size: 10.5pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Today Di and her mother went to
see the room she's going to. Now they're packing and unpacking, discussing
chairs and bureaus, what to do with the window etc. Rather Diana is asking the
questions and answering them as well. I don't hear Shirley. What I kind of know
but can't really get hold of is that this move is as ... if not traumatic...
monumental for Diana as it is for Shirley. It is astounding her connection to
her mother, the love and caring... sometimes exasperation but never resentment.
Even though it's meant driving her to her day program every day, bringing her
to the store, giving her 'jobs' to do, keeping her entertained in the
evenings... and on and on. Attention and love. Attention and love. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "inherit",serif; font-size: 10.5pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br />
<!--[if !supportLineBreakNewLine]--><br />
<!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "inherit",serif; font-size: 10.5pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I have to say she is frequently
exasperated with Shirley's inability to remember things from moment to moment,
or when Shirley hides her soiled underwear in the closet, producing a stench
Shirley is unaware of and totally denies, as if Shirley were to her daughter
still a 'real' mother who should be expected to accomplish the normal day to
day activities we all do without thinking. It's hard for me to grok that Diana
still sees her mother as a mother, even as she herself has become the mother.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "inherit",serif; font-size: 10.5pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br />
<!--[if !supportLineBreakNewLine]--><br />
<!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "inherit",serif; font-size: 10.5pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">For years in Florida, and then in
Smithville where Shirley and Gord lived, there was a crockery dog who stood
sentinel on the front lawn, its leg now broken. In my world we would throw it
away. In theirs, I spend a half hour finding the epoxy, the clamps, the counter
space, the newspaper, to cobble the thing back together so Shirley can take it
to her new place, put it at her apartment door, maintain the tradition, the
memories to help her feel at home.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "inherit",serif; font-size: 10.5pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br />
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<!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "inherit",serif; font-size: 10.5pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">They will spend the evening
together checking out this and that, packing, arranging, thinking about decor,
until Shirley needs to sleep.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "inherit",serif; font-size: 10.5pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br />
<!--[if !supportLineBreakNewLine]--><br />
<!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "inherit",serif; font-size: 10.5pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">When I'm ready to go, my children
won't do this and I'm glad. Oh... they'll drive me and make sure I'm
comfortable. But I don't have the tradition in my bones. Who am I? Where did I
come from? It's not all that important. Should I bring a banjo, a fiddle? Will
I still be able to play? What pictures should go on the wall? Will the room be
done in blue? It won't matter.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "inherit",serif; font-size: 10.5pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br />
<!--[if !supportLineBreakNewLine]--><br />
<!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "inherit",serif; font-size: 10.5pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">What will matter, I think as I
age I would like to see a familiar face from time to time ... coming to my
room... wherever I am... as long as I can recognize a familiar face.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "inherit",serif; font-size: 10.5pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br />
<!--[if !supportLineBreakNewLine]--><br />
<!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "inherit",serif; font-size: 10.5pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I'm 74 years old. There are
people my age living in those homes. And I'm still making love to beautiful
women. I still coach people,. I still run a workshop program. I'm still living
in this world, not that one. Although there are words I can't find when my mind
goes blank. But I still muddle through. I still stand on stage and bring people
to tears. I still find succor in the exquisite nest of human connection.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "inherit",serif; font-size: 10.5pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br />
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<!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "inherit",serif; font-size: 10.5pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">The new year is coming. Where
will I be in a year? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "inherit",serif; font-size: 10.5pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br />
<!--[if !supportLineBreakNewLine]--><br />
<!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
Erichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15035985149874889389noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-152969996629932379.post-86484116608269486922016-07-13T16:16:00.001-07:002016-07-13T16:23:14.657-07:00THE BULL IS DOOMEDA bull fighter died last weekend... gored to death by the bull. Scenes of a bull being killed by a matador would not have interested me, but there was something about a primitive desire for revenge that motivated me to google the videos.<br />
<br />
The first ones were of the running of the bulls in Pamplona... a three minute stampede of 6 bulls where people measure their defiance of death by how close they come to the ten tons of angry beast hurtling by. Some get a vicarious thrill standing on balconies above the street. Others run into alleyways or press against the doorways. There were 15 injuries. The worst: two who were upended unceremoniously and landed on their heads. One bull turned into an alleyway and gored the few who, I guess, thought they'd be safe.<br />
<br />
The way I see it, dashing across the 12 lanes of the 401 in Pickering at noon would be just about as death-defying and dumb. Only the centuries-old tradition would be lacking.<br />
<br />
The bull fight was much more sinister. First the bull was taunted and teased. The matador, with chest puffed and shoulders back, stood like a peacock in heat behind his magenta cape. He egged the bull into a charge, and got the beast to whiz by as close as possible while avoiding being stabbed. He did this a few times and then lowered the cape which confuses the bull, turned his back and strutted away as if fearless of a charge from behind. Then he got on his knees and repeated the ritual, making a fool of the noble beast and of himself: little more than a schoolyard bully.<br />
<br />
Then came the real torturing of the bull, with picadors to weaken his haunches with lances so he couldn't raise his head, and banderilleros who snuck up on his blind side, pierced him with spears, and pranced away. <br />
<br />
Then the matador returned for a few more passes before the applying the sword which would come from above, between the horns, slice alongside the backbone and pierce to the heart. Except this time the wrong character in this lurid drama was killed. I watched it from several angles. Instead of standing straight and tall as the bull circled him, he bent his knee and it got caught in the bull's horn. Down he went and the bull stabbed him in the heart. <br />
<br />
In seconds they were there to distract away the bull and surround the dying man. After that there were no pictures of the victor in this medieval debacle. The bull was killed off camera. Maybe shot, maybe stabbed, we don't know. But what we know is the bull is doomed... doomed from the day it is born... doomed from the moment it is pushed out onto the street to the moment the fight is over. Victim or victor, it is doomed to die. My desire for revenge was hollow.<br />
<br />
Love,<br />
EricErichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15035985149874889389noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-152969996629932379.post-75425637078461010462016-06-13T13:26:00.127-07:002023-02-03T03:37:43.154-08:00Workshops Save My Life<div class="MsoNormal">Workshops save my life.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">Years ago Diana and I were going through very difficult times. Family members were spitting hateful venom of greed and fear. Our darling Ava had moved out. Then there was a terrible morning that involved a car crash and some very
painful strife with someone I love. With
everything weighing on me that morning, I broke into tears.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A half hour later I was to drive to the city to lead a workshop. A voice in my head said, “If
you call and cancel, people will understand.” My bedroom beckoned seductively for me to retreat and isolate. But I realized that putting myself in a room of love was where I’d rather be to counter the hatred and
judgement we were receiving daily, compounded by the present emergency.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The workshop was about being intimate, and how could I be a modal,
sitting with this lump of pain in my heart? If I reveal myself they’ll want to hear
more; they’ll
look upon me with pity; they'll suggest solutions I should do... all responses that don’t serve me.
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">To be authentic this afternoon I knew I needed to express
the pain in my heart. So I decided I
would also tell people I didn’t want to be fixed and didn’t need them to hear
the story. I remembered a simple question I counsel folks to ask rather than take over with suggestions, “Is there anything you need?” I shared that little tool with the
group, and let them know I needed hugs, caring and love… and that’s exactly what
I got.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">The One-Day workshop on Connection is essentially a nurturing of compassion
among folks who may never have met before. We create a room of love where people can let
go of issues, guilt and judgement, and just notice who they are as human
beings. The workshop includes a very loving exercise where folks have the opportunity if they choose, to stroke each other’s face and share the connection of being
human without agenda, where the event simply equals the event, and all there is
is love. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As I led the exercise, surrounded by that compassion and
intimacy, warm waves of love washed over the icy pain in my
heart, melting it away. I was left with
a sadness that the folks who strike out in fear and hatred don’t get connected
to the love I do. And I felt gratitude
to our mentors for leading Diana and me to the work of witnessing the beauty of
people’s humanity.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Do workshops save my life? OK, that’s a clickbait exaggeration. But they are certainly one of the many ways I
hold myself in love in this world. <o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">Here's a link to the workshop we're holding on March 18th, 2023, at The Log Home.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">https://www.facebook.com/events/874137650307739/</div>
Erichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15035985149874889389noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-152969996629932379.post-3225229401108308512015-07-18T12:44:00.000-07:002015-07-18T13:33:42.927-07:00OUR WEDDING<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<div style="text-align: left;">
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Why, after 30 years of knowing each
other, leaving our spouses, adventuring in HAI, sharing a songwriting career,
excavating the tunnel of sex and desire together, discovering a cave of ancient
soul where we huddle around the fire of passion in wonder, … why now after
thirty years to decide to get married?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">The simple answer is we’ve done it
all except the celebration, the party, so why not treat ourselves to one? But the more complex answer has to do with putting
aside the old stories and exposing our hearts to our community. Diana never wanted to get married because, I
think, her first one was such an affront to her inner self. Dictated by family, expectation, commitment
-- buying into the picture of the standard husband, succumbing to the mythology
-- it served to bury more deeply the free spirit who lived beneath, the little
girl who dug in the dark earth for worms on her way to school and so arrived
always late and dirty to be chastised and reported.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">By the time she met me, she wanted never
to smother that independent creature again. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">And then there’s me, married I don’t
know, four-five times, a traditional wedding, a romantic wedding, a hippy one,
a wedding of convenience. I like
weddings really. I think everyone should
do them until they get it right. So why should she marry someone so cavalier
about weddings?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">But one evening after a day of
licentious sex, lying exhausted among the crumpled bed sheets, I think she
realized we were in fact married and she just hadn’t admitted it. I was already proclaiming our marriage to
everyone. At the bank they’d want to
know marital status and I’d respond, “It depends on who you ask. I say yes.
She says no.” Perhaps it was time
to stop confusing people.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Or perhaps she was reacting, as I
was, to the fact that the time-honoured edifice of marriage is in process of overhaul,
its ownership wrested from the church and redecorated in rainbow colours by the
new tenants. Damn. What self-respecting reprobate wouldn’t want
to reside there? You know of course
that once this recent dust has settled and mixed-race-same-sex couples are
unremarkably BBQing on the balconies next door, a poly trio is going to come
knocking and once again there goes the neighbourhood. Obama will be gone by then but some president
is going to have to remove the ‘two’ from the phrase, “two people who love each
other.” I hope I’m alive to join that
struggle. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">In any case the die was cast. We would marry and of course do it at HAI Tea
in July among our extended family. HAI
Tea, however is for workshoppers only, and when neighbour folks got wind of it
they wanted to come too, so we decided to get married twice, two weeks apart. For neither event did we send out invitations
but instead just spread the word, told the folks we ran into. No written invites, everyone welcome. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">One exception to our
workshoppers-only rule had to be the minister, David Howes, whose relationship
with us began as my banjo student and morphed into close and dear friendship. As the date(s) approached David asked me if
we were writing our vows. I recoiled. “Vows,” I said “smack of commitment. They are promises and promises can be
broken. I have spent a good portion of
my life eschewing commitment and instead prefer prediction. Based on the evidence of the past thirty
years,” I pontificated, “I can predict to Diana with some confidence that our
marriage will last, but to promise that, to commit to it, to make a vow of
forever… that would be against my principles.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Instead of arguing principles with
me, David simply said, “I hear you’ve been hurt by broken promises.” That’s why I love David. He also asked that we think about who these
guests are, these witnesses to our wedding, and what we might want to say to
them.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">One thing I wanted to say to my
community is why I think our relationship has lasted thirty years, has not
burnt out but in fact grown stronger and hotter. It is because rather than a desire to mold to
each other’s needs, to do everything together, we both have a fierce dedication
to independence. Although thrown
together by work, by home, by community, each of us has always lived by the
credo, “I am my own person, true to my own inner core.” So I was amused when I mentioned that David
wanted us to write our vows and she said she assumed I’d write them for both of
us. But I knew what she meant. Being independent doesn’t mean being
unfamiliar. She didn’t intend for me to
decide for her what her vows should be, but rather to already know what they
would be. So yes, she jotted a few notes
and I wrote the vows. Here they are:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Eric: “Diana, when I met you love was a feeling
that rose and fell with the lightness and darkness of my heart. Love was a commodity that could be stolen or
used up, or given more to one than another. Love was an appreciation, not
unlike appreciating my VW’s gas mileage.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“And I guess love still is those
things to some extent. I appreciate the
mileage I’m getting out of you. But over
these years our relationship, and my experience of HAI has pointed to a deeper
meaning to what Stan dubbed the room of love.
To me, Love itself is a room, a room I prepare where I can be myself and
let you be yourself. This is a wedding
ceremony so I could ask you to be true to me, but I’d rather prepare a room
where you have no need to be false. I
could ask for your intimacy, but I’d rather invite you to a room where you
don’t need to hide. I could ask for your
love, but I’d rather share a room where you need not fear.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“So if I have a vow for you, an
intention, then let it be that I vow my love, and by that I mean my intention
to care for and nurture that space where I can be me and you can be you.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Then Diana said, “This is an
unconventional wedding at an unconventional time. Instead of getting married and then living
together for decades, we’ve done the reverse, and raised our children in the
process. At times I’ve worked for you
and now you work for me. We’ve taken
life as it’s come to us without flinching.
We’ve reached out for the opportunities that have called to us without
hiding in the shadows of security.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> “I first heard this Helen
Keller quote at a HAI workshop:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.5in;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br /></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.5in;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Security is mostly a superstition. It does not exist in
nature, nor do the children of men as a whole experience it. Avoiding danger is
no safer in the long run than outright exposure. Life is either a daring
adventure or nothing. To keep our faces toward change and behave like free
spirits in the presence of fate is strength undefeatable</span></i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“So if I have a vow for you, an
intention, it is to continue to take life without flinching, and keep that
flame of adventure burning, to see that our room of love is kept hot with
passion.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">To tell the truth, although I wrote
her vows according to her notes, I did take some license and added the “hot with
passion” part. Hey, who could resist the
temptation to get her to declare that in front of witnesses? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">The first wedding was an amazing
collection that ranged from Diana’s family friends of 57 years, to the guy who
serves us at the hardware store. There
were HAI friends, family from California, neighbours, old folkies and some
store customers. After Isaac, Diana’s
son shuttled folks from the parking lot and ran and found his camera, we were
ready to start.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">As the minister and I with my son
and best man waited under an apple tree in the front yard -- one whose branches
I had pruned into a canopy, a sort of chuppah -- Ava stepped out of the forest
carrying a bouquet of flowers, followed by Lauren and Sarah in dresses of rich,
exotic colours. Then a moment later
Diana descended. It was all so lovely
and pristine, like a covey of nymphs emerging into the afternoon sun. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Everyone loved the ceremony, stayed
for tea (at a string of tables stretched across the veranda to seat all 50) and
a BBQ later that evening. We visited, met
new people, sang songs and sat around a bonfire. I was left with a sense of wonder at the
disparateness of this group coming together from different walks of our life, intersecting
and luxuriating in the joy of celebration under the aegis of a loving day.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Two weeks later we repeated the
event for our HAI friends, about 70 folks gathering from Ontario, Michigan,
Ohio, Massachusetts and as far away as Germany.
They were dressed in their wildest regalia as we are wont to do, and my
eyes watered over in gratitude as I looked down from the veranda to a waiting
crowd that resembled a scene from Fellini yet the most functional family I
know, our chosen family. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
</div>
</div>
Erichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15035985149874889389noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-152969996629932379.post-12830173447981979652015-03-27T15:36:00.000-07:002015-03-27T15:36:00.765-07:00Pathways Comes To Toronto<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
NOTICING</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The very first HAI workshop to come to Toronto back in the
90s was a one-day ‘Pathways to Intimacy’ led by HAI's founder, Stan Dale. Since then the Ontario HAI community has
steadily grown until we are now up to five weekend workshops at the Ecology
Retreat Centre in the verdant Hockley valley. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And last week another Pathways held in Toronto was a
milestone of sorts because for the first time no one flew in from the States to
lead it. Led by myself and Mardie
Serenity, we were, all 40 of us, Ontarians.
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
For me it was a special milestone because Stan Dale was my
dear friend and mentor. And after years
of sitting at his feet, I now sat in his chair.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
At that first Pathways pretty much the first thing Stan
asked was for us to close our eyes and call out words to describe love. Folks responded with words like, “exciting”,
“Warm”, “Sexy”, “Safe”, “Connected”… And
then Stan asked, “Why would we take ourselves out of that feeling?” We had basically one answer: fear. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
That exercise, which I've done several times in workshops
over the years, never struck me as very significant, a rather rhetorical
question the answer to which I already knew.
But more recently the question has gained dimension as I’m gradually
discovering the many disguises fear wears in my life. Judgment, insecurity,
rejection, superiority, jealousy, blame, shame… to name a few… all have roots
in fear. And I've been noticing that whenever
these negative aspects of me begin to fade, the space they leave just naturally
gets filled by love.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And the question, ‘what takes me out of love’, is gathering a
different, deeper significance. Yesterday
my partner went through a difficult day having received an angry blaming
letter. In pain and frustration she spent
hours trying to construct a response that explained her actions. She was in a conflict between being above it
all, and needing to defend herself. I
got involved, trying to help her through her process. But she wasn't resonating to my invitation
that she notice how she was giving her power away by needing to be right. I felt my own frustration with her, and
exasperation rising. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Then I heard a voice in my head, “Are you in love right now,
Eric? What’s taking you out of love?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
O.K., the clouds didn't open and the sun didn't burst through
with a shining epiphanal beam of light. But I
did pause. I saw the futility of the
situation, and much of my frustration turned to to sadness. I became free, or at least freer, of the
conflict. And much of the jangled energy
in my body calmed. I became
aware once more of the love I have for my partner, which had never really left
but was just ignored for a bit.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So what’s helping me is not so much to seek an answer to <i>why</i>
I take myself out of love, but more to notice <i>when</i> I have, and then see if that
noticing changes anything.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Well, the Pathways we held last week was very successful,
very much appreciated, and so Mardie and I will be checking our calendars to
see when we can schedule another in Toronto.
Stay tuned. And for those of you
living in Michigan, there’s a Pathways coming up. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
Erichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15035985149874889389noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-152969996629932379.post-49817714303007876022015-02-26T14:05:00.003-08:002015-02-26T14:05:51.391-08:00I CAN'T<div class="WordSection1">
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Last week I
wrote a store owner at which I have some instruments on consignment, asking if
he would consider taking a 20% commission instead of his usual 25%. Here is his response:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span lang="EN-GB">Unfortunately - I am unable to deviate
from the 25% commission, as all instruments on consignment are subject to this
rate - In the interest of fairness to other sellers we cannot make adjustments.</span></i><span lang="EN-GB"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">What irks me is not the percentage,
although I think 25% is too greedy, nor the curious idea that equality
corresponds to fairness. What gets me is
the way he abdicates responsibility for his decision, claiming, “I am
unable...” and “we cannot....” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">I call these people ‘accountably
challenged’. They haven’t the gumption
to take responsibility for their decisions.
And isn't that “we” part a nice touch?
Spread the focus so, like watching a gaggle of geese taking off in an
explosion of flapping and honking, you don’t know which one to aim at.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">I sometimes think not owning our
behaviour is THE main dysfunctionality of our culture. Prisons are filled with people who will tell
you it wasn't their fault… couldn't help it... had no choice.... We are a self-victimizing society.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">I’ll never forget years ago when Washington
DC mayor Marion Barry was asked why he lied to the press about being hooked on
cocaine. His reply: "That was the
disease talking. I didn't purposely lie
to you. I was a victim." Yes... a victim of his own mouth.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">And what about me? How often does the “I can’t” syndrome creep
into my own interactions? “I can’t go to
the movies with you. I have to
study.” “I can’t afford to buy that
shirt.” The truth is I make
choices. I choose to study rather than
go out. My priority is to buy something
other than that shirt with my money.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">I notice that paying attention to my
language helps me identify my attitudes, my needs. So these days I’m paying particular attention
to “I can't.” It helps me identify when
I’m avoiding and why. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">And I’m looking at
alternatives. “Come to the movies with
me?” “No thank you. I plan to study.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
</div>
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"><br clear="all" style="mso-break-type: section-break; page-break-before: auto;" />
</span>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">On the other hand I’ll forgive Flip
Wilson, prancing on stage in outrageously garish drag, and defiantly
proclaiming, “The devil made me buy this dress.” You go gal. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
Erichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15035985149874889389noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-152969996629932379.post-10225014316901040162014-07-29T10:43:00.001-07:002014-07-29T10:43:59.636-07:00Love or Violence<div class="MsoNormal">
I heard Stan Dale once say, “There is either love or
violence. And even violence is a cry for
love.” I heard him say that, but what
the heck does it mean? What was he
talking about?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
You have to understand, this guy was my mentor, my
guru. The things he did and said, the
workshops he created, the experiences he fed me… they changed my life. I am content and calm in my old age because
he showed me how.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
By the same token this was a guy who would put his foot in
his mouth. He messed up often and when
he was called on it he’d always own up: a humble man who had no compunctions
about eating humble pie when called for.
But he made no apologies for saying there is either love or violence,
and even violence is a cry for love. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I cannot wrap my head around it. What is love?
And for that matter what is violence?
Interestingly, the workshops Stan created about love don’t tell what it
is. Instead they offer a series of
exercises so I can explore what love is for me.
Thanks a lot.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And regarding violence… the workshops don’t explore that at
all.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So here I am in this place of confusion. My head says this is ridiculous. Whatever love is, whatever violence is, there
must be more to human existence than just these two. And violence as a cry for love? What about rape? What about war? What about hate? What about greed? How can it all be reduced down to love like
some kind of binomial equation?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I don’t know the answer to that. But my problem is this guy was not some naive
airhead. His life experiences took him
to profound places. I’m not going to
dismiss him just because my head says this is absurd. Instead my plan is to create space to notice
who am I and what happens in my life? <i>My life</i>… not other lives on the other
side of the world; not who’s killing each other in the Middle East and
why? (By now, who knows why?) </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
What is violence for me?
What is love for me? Is there
anything else? I just want to open my
heart and see what shows up.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’ll keep you posted.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Love,</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Eric</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
Erichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15035985149874889389noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-152969996629932379.post-56567366112646718092014-07-22T10:42:00.003-07:002014-07-22T10:42:41.504-07:00HAI Beliefs<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
HAI Beliefs</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Sometimes when I get mad I'm criticized for being unHAI-like. And I respond, “Who
says?” Where is it written that HAI tells
me not to be angry? And I’m left with
the question, what in fact does HAI tell me to do or not do, believe or not
believe, be or not be?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Stan Dale, HAI's founder used to boast that HAI is without
Dogma. Dictionary.com defines “Dogma” as<i>
an official system of principles or tenets concerning faith, morals, behavior,
etc.</i> So Stan was saying HAI isn't going
to tell you what to believe in… God, atheism, chakras, an intelligent universe,
the law of attraction, etc. etc. HAI
doesn't care. And it’s true that at workshops
I've mingled with Catholics, Buddhists, gays, lesbians, trans, polys, monos,
what have you. And HAI had nothing to
tell any of them about how they needed to change. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So what <i>does</i> HAI
believe? What are its basic tenets/rules? There’s no Bible to refer to and I’m no more an expert than the next guy,
but I’d like to put down some ideas I think HAI believes in.<a href="file:///C:/Users/Eric/Documents/HAI%20CANADA/HAI%20Beliefs.doc#_ftn1" name="_ftnref1" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">[1]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></a> And I’d like this blog to be a sounding
board for others. Write and tell me what
you think HAI principles are.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list .5in; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Webdings; mso-bidi-font-family: Webdings; mso-fareast-font-family: Webdings;">Y<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;">
</span></span><!--[endif]--><b>CHOICE.</b> At
some point in every workshop you’ll hear a facilitator ask, “What is this
workshop about?” and the group will answer, “Choice.” HAI believes we are at choice. Some folks take this idea to an extreme, saying
that everything you do or happens to you is a choice… miss a bus, get hit by a
falling piano, be gay… your choice.
That’s not a HAI belief. But HAI
does believe at least some of what we do is automatic, actions without thought,
old learned habits that might no longer serve us. And HAI offers us tools to help identify why
we do what we do, and ways to expand on the number of choices we have.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list .5in; text-indent: -.25in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list .5in; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Webdings; mso-bidi-font-family: Webdings; mso-fareast-font-family: Webdings;">Y<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;">
</span></span><!--[endif]--><b>LOVE.</b> I
think it’s a HAI tenet that we are born in love, born as love, and that love is
our natural condition. But what is
love? It’s HAI's practice to let each
person discover and decide. Love,
Intimacy, Sexuality… it’s not for HAI to dictate, but rather to provide ways to
improve our path of self discovery. Stan
Dale once told me there is either love or violence, and even violence is a cry
for love. Wow. Is that true?
How do I wrap my head around that possibility?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list .5in; text-indent: -.25in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list .5in; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Webdings; mso-bidi-font-family: Webdings; mso-fareast-font-family: Webdings;">Y<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;">
</span></span><!--[endif]--><b>SELF DISCOVERY</b>.
HAI believes that the person in charge of your path of personal growth
is you. HAI doesn't say you need to align
your chakras, balance your energy or integrate your id with your ego. Your goals are up to you. HAI does have a lot to suggest about how to
get there, wherever ‘there’ is. Noticing
is one of those powerful helping tools… noticing guilt, shame, where you’re
loving yourself and where not, noticing your old stories… lots of skills to
help turn the path of growth into a more and more exciting adventure. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list .5in; text-indent: -.25in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list .5in; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Webdings; mso-bidi-font-family: Webdings; mso-fareast-font-family: Webdings;">Y<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;"> <b>
</b></span></span><!--[endif]--><b>RESPONSIBILITY</b>.
Some folks say it means, ‘ability to respond’. Very cute but I don’t think that describes
HAI's relationship with responsibility.
I think it’s very important to HAI that I know what belongs to me and
what belongs to you. If my father tells
me I’ll never amount to anything, HAI wants me to know that that’s what he
thinks, and I can choose to take it on or not.
If I think anal sex is disgusting, HAI wants me to know that judgment
belongs to me, and its major value is to inform me a bit about who I am, not
who the other person is. Sometimes we
use the word, ‘responsibility’ to mean blame or fault. That’s not what HAI is talking about. Who am I?
How am I influenced by others?
How does that serve me? That’s
what HAI means by responsibility.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Wow. This got a lot
longer than I planned. I hope it was
interesting to you. Those are four
tenets I can think of at the moment, and I hope you’ll comment and suggest additional
ones. Be in touch and I hope I see you
at a workshop soon. I’ll send a schedule
out and some suggestions about attending.</div>
<br />
<div>
<!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><br clear="all" />
<hr align="left" size="1" width="33%" />
<!--[endif]-->
<div id="ftn1">
<div class="MsoFootnoteText">
<a href="file:///C:/Users/Eric/Documents/HAI%20CANADA/HAI%20Beliefs.doc#_ftnref1" name="_ftn1" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">[1]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></a> I
realize I’m treating HAI as if it were a person with thoughts and
beliefs. HAI is really a collection of people and ideas with a history. We’re all a part of HAI. We all contribute to its form and
function. </div>
</div>
</div>
Erichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15035985149874889389noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-152969996629932379.post-43095937539666232802014-04-08T08:11:00.000-07:002014-04-08T08:14:38.372-07:00<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
“Tales” is evolving.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When I conceived of “Tales from the Attic” I thought it
would centre on the many musicians I've jammed with, reminiscences of the
tumultuous <st1:place w:st="on">Greenwich Village</st1:place> in the '60s, on
the road with Sharon, Lois and Bram … the folkie stories.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There is some of that, but three of the stories are about <st1:country-region w:st="on">Bosnia</st1:country-region> and
Kosovo at war. Another is about a dark
journey into Cocaine; another about anger and sexual repression; and I’m
developing one about jealousy.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There are stories about love, connection, and how music
creates a harmony not only of chords, but of hearts. And scattered among these tales are humorous
misadventures.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Themes of conflict are emerging, personal, interpersonal and
social; some loving conflicts and some not.
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Taking shape for me out of the exploration of these tales is
the discovery that there is either love or violence, and even violence is a cry
for love. The first time I heard this
from my mentor, Stan Dale, I found it a very hard saying. How could it be true? Rape, murder, war… is the Universe driven by
two opposite forces or just one? I
question it to this day. And yet the
more I revisit the memories of war torn <st1:country-region w:st="on">Bosnia</st1:country-region>
and Kosovo, or the conflict of love and hate in <st1:state w:st="on">Mississippi</st1:state>… the deeper I dig into the guts
of my own soul, the more I find it to be true.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And other themes are emerging as I develop this show… meta themes. When I was a teenager music was about
impressing, getting girls, being admired... in other words, a way of masking the
insecurities that lay within. Now my
music is less about putting up a front and more about sharing what’s
inside. I seek out my inner
vulnerabilities and wear them, inviting my audience to experience the deeper me,
even though I know there will be judgment.
We tend to spend our lives comparing our insides to other people’s
outsides. I don’t want to continue showing
up that way. I rest in the faith that
the deeper we look into each others’ eyes, the more we see ourselves. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Stay tuned for the next installment of discovering who I am and
what I’m doing here. I think “Tales from
the Attic” will soon be coming to <st1:city w:st="on">Shelburne</st1:city>, <st1:state w:st="on">Ontario</st1:state>, and after that, <st1:city w:st="on">Toronto</st1:city>.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Love,</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Eric</div>
Erichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15035985149874889389noreply@blogger.com3