Memories

In the garden of my dream

I looked through all the many windows

And saw faces of long ago,

Smiling from their compartments,

Of place,

And time,

As if waiting

For reunion.

Aging and Attitudes - A Little Randomness

Why is it that the more I learn, the less I know?
Why, with knowledge, do certainties become uncertainties?
How does youthful optimism become the skeptical old man?
Is experience about learning, or about attitude?

There was once a young man named Roy
Who wanted to be a cowboy
He headed out west
In spurs and a vest
And that is the end of my story.

If I follow my dreams to the end of the earth
In pursuit of riches and fame
Will I lose all the things that truly are worth
The price of my good name?

Life is a series of blusters and blunders
That lead us ever on
With fits and starts and various arts
We look up and find it is gone!

I once thought I could be President
Then found out I didn't want to be.

I never quite had the world by the tail
But, I found the Golden Rule:
Do unto others as you would have done
By them to little old you.

It's about the journey, not the destination.

Re-purposing

When do you throw it out?
When it's scratched and battered and worn?
Or, do you find utility
After the luster is so long gone?

We like to have things
All shiney and new to decorate our home
But, sometimes it is better
To keep tried and true where value is well known.

We've become a people
Who just throw it out upon the garbage pile
When there is so much use
Still there you see if we'd just keep it awhile.

There may be a need to repurpose
Instead of just pitching it out
There's lots of life left in that thing
Though it may require thinking about.

It's not just things to which this applies
People get treated the same
As they age and are replaced by somebody new
They just need a new spot in the game.

Patience and Persistence

It's hard to keep an open mind
As one begins to age;
Accumulated knowledge
Makes one feel like a sage.

Experience informs our thoughts
About the way things work;
We hear of some strange new idea
And reject it like a jerk.

But, sometimes we should stop and think
Of how when we were young
We often sought a different path
Along the ways unsung

And in the journey 'cross the sea
Of trackless wilderness
We learned about so many things
That God would often bless.

Persistence paid us dividends
And patience brought us luck
Though failing on our journey
We rose above the muck.

With just those two to lead us
Upon our merry way;
Patience and persistence
Made what we are today,

Which is a form of wisdom
Filled with the things we learned
As we travel on this journey
To the rest we've dearly earned.

Sweat and Rocket Power

Some mornings I look at the blank page before me and have nothing that seems worthwhile about which to write.  You might think that would occur during the slow times, those times when there isn't much going on, but instead, it is mostly when my mind is preoccupied with something.

Usually when I go to bed, before I fall asleep, I remind myself to come up with a subject for my morning post.  I have found that my mind will work on it without me being fully aware, although there are times I awake at night with a "eureka" moment and realize I have been inspired.  That isn't usually the case -- especially if there are other things that are taking up the "processing time" that is the realm of REM sleep when our mind is actively sorting through events and organizing them for later retrieval.  It is the time we recognize as dream time, even though we don't usually realize we are dreaming unless we awaken directly from that state.

I find dreams fascinating.  I know it is just my brain trying to make sense of things and to organize itself into patterns but, it intrigues me to think about the dream when I become aware that it is one, and to try and figure out just exactly what events, or minor piece of trivia, triggered it -- to what is it related.

Last night I had rather strange dreams in which I envisioned myself rotting -- at least my skin was deteriorating and falling apart.  To some, I can imagine it would have been a nightmare, but I just found it interesting.  Was it my mind dealing with aging?  I suppose that is possible, but I actually think it was stimulated from the fresh bread that filled our kitchen with pleasing aromas yesterday.

It was sourdough bread -- my wife makes excellent sourdough bread -- and it releases an aroma that is distinct.  Bread is associated with yeast which is a fungus.  Fungi are part of the natural cycle of breaking down dead things into their component and reusable compounds.  Dead trees in the woods are often covered with fungi -- especially those which are still standing.  The tiny filaments of the fungi penetrate the pores of the wood and slowly break it apart -- much like I dreamed was happening to my skin in the dream.

The entire episode reminds me of what I wrote about a few days ago -- we all are made of the elements of this earth and someday will return those elements back into the earth.  It is part of the cycle of life on this planet.

Carbon, hydrogen and oxygen are the most common elements in our bodies.  They each are part of cyclical patterns that have existed since the earth was formed.  The carbon released from our breath may have once been part of a Tyrannosaurus which roamed the earth.  The oxygen we breath may have once been a part of some ancient Chinese Emperor.  The hydrogen in a drop of sweat may someday help power a rocket to the moon.  Whether we like it or not, we are physically "one" with the earth.

So, what sets us apart?  Perhaps it is simply the ability to recognize a dream for what it is, the assimilation of data into informative patterns.  Those informative patterns reveal a masterful hand of creation.  By recognizing our limitations as part of the cyclical nature of this planet, we are able to see God and to know that He is not us, but much, much bigger.

A Bowl of Oatmeal

With slow steps the old man shuffles through the door and eyes the room for familiar faces.  He's early so he takes a seat at the end of the long table where his friends will soon gather.  The waitress brings him a heavy mug filled with steaming black coffee and he smiles and says, "the usual," as she asks what he'll have to eat.

He thought how for 65 years he ate the same thing every morning; oatmeal with a couple of strips of bacon and steaming black coffee placed before him by loving hands that were up and about cooking his breakfast while he was getting ready for the day.  She would hand him his paper and kiss him on the head as she placed it on the table there before him before sitting down with her slice of buttered toast, apricot jam and her own cup of coffee.

It was their morning ritual.  They would sit quietly, him slowly turning pages as he read the news and her catching glimpses of the headlines from across the table....

The salty moisture beaded on the rim of his eye as his mind wandered while waiting for the waitress to bring his breakfast and the other old men to come and sit and joke and talk about their ailments and complain about Washington and the weather.

Read to Me?

Grandpa in his easy chair
Hears all the kids around
And smiles inside at all the sounds
Of happy feet and games
Until one with bubbling laughter
Says, "Grandpa, read to me!"
Then goes to fetch her favorite book
And climbs into his lap
Joined by others
Until the chair is full
And more gather around
To hear the story told
Which excites imagination
And remembered words
From something heard so many times
It has become a part
Of memorization.

As pages turn and years go by
Those same, once small ears
Who learned to love
The written word are often found
With book in hand
Absorbing
That which other hands have written
And imagination
Grows and grows
Until one day shares
With their own children
The stories of waking years
That brought so much joy
To young hearts.

Then children grow and move away
But, joy of reading never
Leaves and often
As time allows a book is found
In hands no longer young
But, who wait for
Generations new to come
And visit and sit upon their lap
To hear the stories once again
Of favorites and new
And imaginings of others
Written there upon the pages
As they turn to reaching hands
And wiggling bodies
Enthralled.

Dimly, tired eyes
See blurs where once stood
Words upon the page
And silent tears slide
For what was lost
And memories rise
Of happy laughter
And tiny bodies squeezed
Into the chair and on the lap
Until is heard the quiet
Sound of youthful voice
Asking what is wrong
Until is heard,
"Would you read to me?"

Reality Check

Nothing is real until it is experienced and even then we have our doubts.

Experiential knowledge surpasses "book" knowledge.  Once we have done something -- seen something -- then knowledge moves from head to heart.

Sometimes, from the same, or similar experience, we learn different truths.  Sometimes what we thought we learned was incorrect and must be re-learned.  From repeated mistakes comes a different view of reality.

We are weak and fallible creatures who are faultless until experiential wisdom proves otherwise.

Never accept what you think you know as truth.  All things in this life are tainted by corruption from "the fall." -- Genesis Chapter 3


I've no idea why my thoughts have taken this direction this morning.  Perhaps it is because today is an anniversary.  It is a signpost along the pathway of aging, of maturity, of the passage of time.  It is a day to remember overcoming shortcomings and struggles and remembering joys and victories.  It is a realization that there is an end ahead which marks the termination of the temporal and a heightened awareness of the eternal.  It will be an awakening of true knowledge.-- 1 Corinthians Chapter 15

Forgetfulness

It seems occasionally I
Have flashes of inspiration.
Insights worthy of saving
For some future generation.

They frequently seem to happen
At times most inopportune,
Like two o'clock in the morning
When I should be snoring a tune.

You'd think after all of this time
I would have learned to prepare
And keep a pad and pencil
On my bedside table there.

But, no, I think I'll remember
Anything worthy of claim
But, when I wake in the morning
I can barely remember my name!

Rough Transition

Spring sprung,
But winter hasn't given up yet.
Blossoms bloomed;
The freeze tonight will turn them brown.

Dust rises
As southern winds bring warmth.
Tumbleweeds roll
As northern winds bring cold.

Seasons change
But none transition smoothly.
People age
Few can do so gracefully.

Aging

Activism
Turns to apathy
And then remembrance.

A cause
Becomes a lost cause
Until it is an "if only."

Restless energy
Replaced by patient endurance
Rests in tales of past exploits.

Dreams
Fade into reality
Merging to memories.

Youth
Grows to middle-age
And finally the wisdom of the elderly.