A Lovely Gift

Those who pay heed to such things will notice that I have not posted any personal reflections for quite some time. The reason is simple. My Soul had no song to sing.

That changed yesterday.

As I accompanied my sister, Linda, in her quest for Christmas tree ornaments (in a nearby crafts store), a lovely Gift appeared. Her Presence was as that of a visitation by an extraordinary tropical bird. Such an overwhelming loveliness that I was instantly smitten.

And, just as is true of that likened bird, she was completely comfortable with her Being. Her smile communicated a gentle, tender, and totally unassuming harmony with her place in her world.

I made a clumsy attempt at thanking her for that Gift, of her smile. Then wrote, and gave to her, a note (on the reverse of a calling card) expressing my appreciation for her Presence.

Just as is true of that metaphorical bird, I do hope that, in future, she will make an appearance in my life. For, truth be told, I have repeatedly had the thought that nothing could possible be better than to greet each day in the company of such grace and loveliness. And, just as is so with the aforementioned ‘bird,’ I would never want to, in any way, restrain, inhibit, threaten, or discourage the possibility of such an appearance.

I am so happy that I have learned how to embrace Life’s offerings of beauty. To be open to acknowledgement of and expression of appreciation for these marvelous Gifts makes the beginning of my third trimester of life something exciting and inviting.

So, my dear and faithful Reader, today I sing a song of delighted joy as I thank the Author of all that is good, for the exquisite Gift of this lovely person into my little world. Such beautiful Bliss!

(By the way, Linda and I had an absolute blast together! Neither of us enjoys shopping. But, together, we had great fun. She is a wonderful sister. [And she agreed with me in my admiration of yesterday’s Gift.]) [smile]

A Better Man | Playing For Change featuring Keb' Mo'

'Should you notice me singing to myself (which I often do) as I amble through the Market, the chances are pretty good that this is what I am singing ...



I challenge you to try to be "Down" with this song on your Heart! [loving smile]

Sanctuary

Physical necessities insist on attention … but they can be negotiated with. All in the cause of prolonging the playing out of my Mind’s morning exercise. Something akin to Watching an altogether engaging Movie that is filled with distinct Elements ... all having meaning, significance, and relevance to my Life Experience.

For these Elements are all, indeed, bits and pieces of my accumulation of those Aspects of life that have been allowed, by my election, to be part of my personal, individual Awareness. Persons of particular import to me … women and men with even the briefest of influence … celebrities who have nudged a bit of space into my sensibilities (this morning found Steve Martin making a cameo appearance. Top shelf Talent free of any requirement of Royalties or Compensation. How cool is that?!)

Is it any wonder that, from my earliest of recollection, I have resisted the termination of a night’s sleep … in response to the rude demands of a new day … a whole new set of “input” to be processed (under the pressure of unsympathetic circumstances and players.) Be it School, Work, or simply daily interaction with the Stuff of ordinary life, my right-lobe/image–oriented and spatially inclined brain has been confronted with a world that unfolds in accordance with a left-lobe/data, and impulse driven tempo.

The result is that I know, from my first awakening that I am in for another day of frustrated attempts at coping with an insensitive world’s expectations and demands. And my only hope for any opportunity, to gain a safe place to sort it all out, and make some coherent sense of it all … to have some “processing time” … my only respite from the outer-world’s treadmill pace … will be in the sanctuary of my wonderful Chamber of peaceful contemplation ...

my Dreams.

One Picture

One Picture that illustrates all of One's inner sense of Self, Life, and Experience ...

This is mine ...

Winslow Homer (American, 1836–1910). The Fog Warning, 1885. Oil on canvas. 76.83 x 123.19 cm (30 1/4 x 48 1/2 in.). Otis Norcross Fund, 1894.
© Museum of Fine Arts, Boston

My Dialect

When I speak … I speak in the dialect of my Interlocutor.
When I write … I write in the dialect of my Soul.

The two are slowly ... tediously ... becoming one;
That I may know ... and be known.

IMAGE: Through the gracious courtesy of Ian Britton, FreeFoto.com

Portrayals

This time, I have poured myself a tall glass of a very nice (though quite inexpensive [notice the avoidance of the word “cheap”]) wine as a “lubricant to writing.” I say “this time” because many have been the previous times that I have wanted to speak of this matter with you, Dear Reader. But it is just so “unmanly” … this whole subject.

In fact, it has occurred to me, for the very first time, this evening, that it smacks of Nana (God rest her Soul) calling up the stairs to her friend and long-term tenant, “Come on down. Our Programs are starting.” (The programs in question, being the daily, afternoon “Soaps.”) This was in the day of television’s early introduction to our lives, and few had one. So Nana would invite her friend to come down from her apartment to share in the experience of watching actors portray lives and circumstances that Nana would never … and I do mean NEVER! … participate in herself. In fact, would not want anyone to know that she had even the most remote interest in such goings on.

Where I feel that having this chat, with you here, in print, is “unmanly” … Nana would have considered her interest in (and, heaven forbid, enthusiastic involvement in watching) such “common” theatrics as unladylike (never allowed, under ANY circumstance), and perhaps even un-Christian (which could never be countenanced!) But I am brushing away my reservations because I want to share this element of myself with someone whom I have comfortable trust in. And let’s face it, if I can’t trust someone who is willing to wade through my verbal excesses, who can I trust?! [appreciative smile]

You see the thing is all about giving myself over to a portrayal. Yes … a portrayal! Every week I look forward to Saturday night (with repeats on Sunday night) so that I can surrender to the portrayal of romance, intimacy, friendship, conviviality, human exchange, and altogether very unvarnished and real relationships. All of this packaged and presented on PBS under the name of “As Time Goes By.”

Each week’s offering of this glorious presentation leaves me chuckling at human foibles, caring tenderness, blunders, forgiveness, acceptance, change, tradition, and on and on with the list of aspects of people loving, living with, and engaging other people. And I laugh, and very often cry. Tears of understanding, joy, empathy, longing, loss, emptiness, and yearnings without hope. All because the program (oops, there is Nana’s word!) portrays so eloquently and with such delicate honesty, all that I have always longed for … never had … and know will never be.

I would not presume to assign any definitions to Nana’s motivations for her enthusiasm for her programs any more than I would be so arrogant as to think myself qualified to explain the boxes of “romance novels” in the garage of one who is an avowed anti-intimacy devotee. (Something that I noticed [with considerable interest] as I visited that person, some years ago.) But I do “discuss” my passion for this presentation of all that I most fervently long for, with myself, each week.

I have a healthy understanding of the life-choices that I have made, and their natural consequences. I do not bemoan my state. I do, in fact respect the legitimacy of my circumstances, and my prospects. And, with equal respect, I appreciate all of the innate desires, appetites, inclinations, and proclivities that are a natural and legitimate part of who I am.

Thusly, I permit myself the weekly Gift of indulgence in “My Program.” Additionally, I invite you, my patient Friend, to give yourself the genuine treat of delightful enjoyment offered through excellent acting performed by outstanding artists (including, but not limited to Dame Judi Dench) on your PBS station (or on BBC, if available.)

Consider this my call up the ‘stairs’ that separate us, “Come on down. Our Programs are starting.”

Lovingly …

Words

Words! Too many of not the right ones.

Therein lies the difficulty. A debilitating insufficiency of the ‘right’ words. Not that I don’t know a fair quantity of words … but I am dismally frustrated by my ineptitude in discovering and implementing the ‘right’ … no, not the ‘right,’ (that’s too easy) … the PERFECT; yes, the absolutely perfect words to convey all of the scope and dimension of what I am sensing. That is what I am in search of. I want to use the very fewest, of the most perfect, words to clearly communicate the full depth and breadth of what I want understood between us. But, alas, I am reduced to a fumbling, awkward, semi-incompetent, in that quest.

I have a precious Friend in Greece (Athens, in fact) who holds a particularly unique place in my heart. I have made several clumsy attempts at communicating the nature of that place to her. I have used the words “romantic,” and “intimate,” in those attempts, hoping that she would respond with a request for some clarification of my thoughts … thereby (in my hopes) allowing me to (in the ensuing dialogue) develop some better means of illuminating what I feel as opposed to what is initially (in today’s vernacular) implied by those terms.

I want her to know that, with me, “romantic” encompasses my perception of all that I see and know around me. I am, in the truest sense, and at my temperamental core, a Romantic/Idealist. So, when I speak of sharing my most intimate, natural, and instinctive awareness of life … I am speaking of sharing my romantic and idealized view. I see, and know, life in romantic terms. All of life. Every element of life. This is my natural state.

Not that I do not have a grasp and understanding of al that is pragmatic and factually based. I am exceedingly aware and respectful of all that the world around me knows as “reality.” The world’s processing of and relationship to life’s circumstances and elements I equate with the PC (personal computer), left-brain, and majority dominant Microsoft operating system view … data-based and driven. I am equipped (by my loving Creator) with the minority “operating system.” My right-brain, Mac/Apple, spacial/image oriented relationship with life is what I live with.

My daily relationship with every element of my world (including each Individual and Circumstance that I encounter) is one of eternal and infinite significance. I, quite naturally, and comfortably, perceive everyone and everything through a “lens” that translates that Moment’s encounter in terms of its possibilities and potentials for a more beautiful, soul-satisfying, and eternally-lasting effect. This is my norm … my automatic, “default setting.”

When I discovered someone who, while very frugal with expression and the use of words, conveys a sense of richness of awareness, depth of character, sensitivity, and tenderness, I was jubilant. Someone who answered a question with a drawing … and in that drawing revealed an intricacy of emotion and expression that surpassed volumes of verbiage. As is my nature, I responded with my customary enthusiasm and passion. Uh-Oh! The “P” word! Yes, I know that our world has relegated passion to a narrow niche of application. But not me! I live all of my life with passion.

While many are intent on crossing life’s pond without making any ripples or disturbing anything along the shore: to arrive at the other shore having made no “waves” … I want to stir the waters. I intend to leave a wake behind my life’s little boat … and everyone in that wake better, perhaps happier, maybe even more hopeful and loving for having been “splashed on” by my passing. The “other shore” is not my focus. That is where the trip ends and all opportunity ceases. Oh no! My interest is in making every lily-pad, along the shore, bob joyously, and wave their blossoms in exuberant appreciation of the Moment. So, Dear Reader, as you may have surmised, my passion level probably exceeds the level of my proficiency in communicating. [smile]

Hence, when I tell this particular Friend that I recognize her as a Romantic Intimate, I am feebly trying to say that I know her as someone with whom I can celebrate a view and perception of life in the romantic terms that I so-uniquely know. And we can enjoy a shared vulnerability to the intimacies of an unguarded and free appreciation of the eternal, ethereal, and transcendent qualities in what we encounter in our Friendship’s journey.

Now! Do you see what I mean when I speak of the insufficiency of ‘right’ words that I am vexed by?! Look at how many of them (words) it has taken for me to try to convey this seemingly-simple concept! How I do long for some linguistic tools that will enable me to more efficiently and comfortably peak my Soul’s desired messages. I know … I know … patience! But that is so hard to come by when you are afraid that what you have spoken could be totally misinterpreted.

I thank you, my Dear and oh-so-patient Reader, for your tolerance in indulging me this soul-venting. I am truly grateful for your kind attentions.

Lovingly …

A New Awareness

So, My Dear Reader, here we are. The opening pages of a new chapter … in a book that has just closed the preceding chapters. Two thirds of the way through what we can reasonably expect to be our individual contribution to Life’s ongoing story. Mom was the last of the forgoing generation … and I (as the eldest of the next) stand in line for the present in succession to the role of most senior of our family.

There is an uncertainty to this position. Prior to Mom’s passing, last Tuesday (the 4th of January), there was an unrecognized barrier between me and the threshold of mortality. Even after Dad passed, in March of 2006, Mom’s presence kept me in the role of one of ‘the kids.’ That is now gone.

Though I was never before aware of it, I rested in the unacknowledged ‘safety’ of my parents as a natural buffer separating me from the altogether usual and natural happening of my own physical impermanence. The absence of that unconscious buffer has brought an unexpected set of neither unpleasant, nor uncomfortable, feelings and sensations.

Though no one will say it, I am now in the position of the “next in line” to go. My sister, Linda, at two years younger; my brothers, Steven, at eight years, and Tracy, seventeen years my junior, are logically expected to survive me. I am the “lead domino.” [silly grin] And I am aware of a whole new sense about life. I am actually engaged in a rather exhilarating moment. I feel really, really good. How’s that for weird? I know! Me too!

I don’t share this for any meaningful or purposeful reason … just to do as I have always tried to do … remain completely open and vulnerable to you, Dear Friend, for whatever benefit there may be in it for you.

I am working on a several bits of reflection that I will post when I have digested their individual ideas sufficiently to regurgitate them here. [smile]

‘Til then, I send my heart’s truest affection for You, Dear One, and thank you for your kind and generous companionship in my life. I do, truly, love You.

"The Human Touch" revisited

In this day of applied Programs, Plans, Initiatives, and Systems, there is a void that is all too often left wanting. That want is addressed by this work of Spencer Michael Free. He (from his perspective as a practicing physician) spoke to an elementary requirement of the Human Spirit.

In response to a sweet reminder of this post (thank you Maria), I ask that we consider the power and potential that awaits each of us… if we will but offer our own personal provision of “The Human Touch.”

The Human Touch

'Tis the human touch in this world that counts,
The touch of your hand and mine,
Which means far more to the fainting heart
Than shelter and bread and wine;
For shelter is gone when the night is o’er,
And bread lasts only for a day,
But the touch of the hand and the sound of the voice
Sing on in the soul alway.


Spencer Michael Free (1856-1938)
Free graduated from the College of Physicians and Surgeons of the Johns Hopkins University in 1880, and practiced medicine and surgery for some fifty years thereafter. In addition to some one hundred medical papers, he wrote many poems.


IMAGE: Maria Brandstetter, BBC

Rum-Raisin Ice Cream

It was in May of 2008 when I last shared, this bit of perspective, with those who honor me with their attention. Since then, I am blessed with new Friends, and Readers, who have not read it. So, with apologies to those for whom this is a 'repeat,' Here is something that I still have strong feelings about.


I do not like Rum-Raisin Ice-cream.

There, I’ve said it.

There is nothing more to say on the matter (yet you and I know that there will, most assuredly, be more said.)

You see, Dear Friend, I do not begrudge anyone else their preference for Rum-Raisin Ice-cream. I hold no grudge against that flavor. There resides no bitterness in my soul toward the combination of elements that constitute that particular blend. I would never counsel anyone to disallow themselves the opportunity to sample that product nor would I undertake to undermine that dessert’s place in the universe of food products.

It is, quite simply, a fact that my own, personal, individual, particularly unique taste buds do not enjoy Rum-Raisin Ice-cream. And that is perfectly all right for there are myriad other choices offering themselves for my delight.

Yet... when my Friend of many years informed me, some time ago, that she is hesitant to allow herself to openly and publicly be my friend because of her children’s (all grown adults) reservations about me, I was disappointed. My big old twenty stone (sounds so much better than the equivalent in pounds) of feelings got themselves hurt. Why? Because ... (here is where I identify with Rum-Raisin Ice Cream) ... I am who I am. She doesn’t understand why I can’t mitigate myself to accommodate the sensitivities of her children. “Aren’t you denying them the opportunity to know you by insisting on Being you?” she asked. “Why can’t you soften up your presentation of yourself?” “They think that you are being ‘phony’ because you come on with such gusto.”

But who will they know if I present another image to them? Will the presentation of a ‘moderated’ me be an honest portrayal? Yet my friend persisted in the idea that we must ‘respect’ other people’s ‘space’ by adopting behavior that accommodates their sensitivities.

I lived the first four decades of my life in the daily practice of ‘accommodation.’ I was never relaxed. Every encounter was a ‘performance’ for the benefit and to gain the acceptance of, or create comfort for, my ‘Audience.’ This was as true with an Audience of one, as it was with a large gathering in some public meeting place. Consequently, no one (including myself) knew Me. I had no intimate relationships. There existed no place where I could go to, firstly, know who I was for my own knowledge and, secondly, to be that Person in comfort. The accepted social norm was that this was (and is) proper. I now reject that norm (for myself.) I also embrace the consequences resulting from that rejection.

One of those consequences is the reality that I will be (and am) sometimes rejected as a Person. That too is absolutely OK. For my Dear Reader, Rum-Raisin Ice-cream is not for everyone. But it is there for the individuals who have a preference for it and find enjoyment in indulging in its particular delights. And the Friendships that I now enjoy, I enjoy without reservation, in all of the intimate, passionate, and exuberant freedom, that is to be found, in Being the genuine ME.

(Don't you just love all of Life's available Flavours!?)



(NOTE: If You have been reading my stuff since February of last year, first,thank you for your kindness! Secondly, Yes! you have, indeed seen this piece before (March 2007.) But I like it! And I like to "run it up the flag pole" around this time each year (ice cream season is upon us!) So, if nothing else, maybe it will inspire a visit to your favorite ice cream parlor. [smile])


IMAGE Through the gracious courtesy of Ian Britton, FreeFoto.com

I Must Sing

I must sing.
Sometime in Solo … a cappella …
In Chamber of silent solitude.
No bell, chime, or chord to establish a tone.
Neither harmonies of support nor Unison Partner.
But singly … solely responding to my Soul’s demand.

I must sing.
And fly on wings, of celebratory currents.
Rejoicing in Choir, and sustained by Orchestral might …
A chorus of like-spirited Souls …
And Orchestra of harmonious circumstance.
Glorious, yet so rare, these moments of oneness with others.

I must sing.
For silence is no option.
I will not be stilled, by absence of support …
Nor will I allow the pressings of life, to silence me.
My world cries for an elevating theme …
And each life encountered, longs for a song.

John-Michael
22 October 2008

A Two-Year-Old's Morning

To satisfy my current appetite for simplicity and openness ... what could be better than a look at life through the eyes of a sweet, and completely receptive, child? So, I revisit a Bit posted in February of last year ...

A Two-Year-Old's Morning

Through the prism of one tiny Dew Drop,
She discovers the spectrum of a new day’s Sun.
Her perspective … the same height as the Plant’s,
She is perfectly focused on Wonders unseen to me.

Introduced, by my Dad, to the ‘Night crawler’ Worm,
She boldly takes its wriggling, squirming Form in fingertip hold.
Then, to the shock and disgust of all of the ‘Grown-ups,’
She examines it further … with a bite.

Made aware of the individual character of Leaves,
She touches each, in turn … Plant by Plant.
Noting; some jagged, some smooth … rigid, soft.
And the Nursery becomes a Place of diverse wonder.

Such is a day’s exploration of Life and her World.
Such is the opening of awareness and consciousness.
In the eyes and sensitivities of this delicate Beauty …
As this two-year-old embraces Living ... and Life.

Alone

Her sweet message read, “You are never alone,” and I accepted it in the generous spirit that it was intended. I am truly grateful for her intention that I know she is with me … though we have never shared physical space together. Yet, her words have had me replaying her message over and over for the past couple of months. And I am continually reminded that, if there is any one word that could define my life experience, it would, in fact, be “alone.”

I am recognized by many … known by a few … intimate with far fewer … and, ultimately, alone. This, for one whose core Being is inhabited by an eternal yearning for intimacy, is not a happy estate. Thusly, I have disciplined myself to live in a contented acceptance (no small feat,) and deal with the aloneness by willfully numbing my dominant senses.

Though I desire no more moments of this existence … I do succeed (most of the time) in creating happiness and even satisfaction in each day that is served up by Life. But, at the end of each of these days, I rest my head with no appetite for another.

I speak of this with no wish for any sort of response … however supportive or encouraging they may be in purpose or intent. But merely to convey the workings of my mind … that you may know me better. See … there I go again … doing that ‘intimate’ thing. [small smile]

One Word

It may be that I am vastly different from others. I really do not know how the putting away of feelings and impressions is accomplished by those around me. But I do know that I have a need to place the stuff of my life in order, with something akin to the systems that we employed in my 5th and 6th grade classroom. Our class was housed in the school library. Each day was begun by the checking in and shelving of the library books returned by the school’s student body.

Hence, we had to know the classification and sequencing system of each book in order to shelve it properly. So it is with my thoughts and feelings. I must identify, with an appropriate ‘label,’ each experienced emotional happening, in order to ‘file it away’ comfortably. So, you can see why those ‘labels’ are important to me.

Thus it is that I have been vexed for a number of years by my inability to affix a word to a couple of significant happenings in my life. I have long-known that the process of thought ... the management of impression, emotion, ideas, and the like ... is made possible by the ‘tools’ of thinking. Namely, words. Without those words … those tools … no processing of ideas, feelings, or emotions, is possible.

This awareness is what motivated me to devote every possible moment to the enriching of my son’s linguistic abilities. I would converse with him about totally inane subjects … matters of meaning and import … concepts of vague or abstract impression … specific linkages and/or sequencing of elements of life ...anything that would enable him to better engage in, his own private and personal, experiences of thinking, and sorting out, his mind and spirit’s workings.

I am pleased that I can rest in my knowledge that his abilities, in those areas, developed far beyond the most optimistic of projections, offered by specialists, in disciplines devoted to the treatment, and development, of persons with disabilities. He excelled over any projections presented in estimations of the long-range effects of his cerebral palsy. So, you see, I have a keen understanding of the import of those critical tools of language.

So a word … just the right word … is vitally important to me. And I never relent in my quest for that particular word … as I seek to define, and better understand, and respond to, my life experiences. That one word … that will enable me to place that experience in its proper place on the shelves of my experiential library.

Now, that’s a hell of a lot to say as a prelude to today’s happening. The light-bulb over the head moment when the perfect word presented itself to me. The word that identified, with absolute exactitude, that look that was in my daughter’s eyes when I last saw her. The word that explained all of the depth of meaning being transmitted by her words, demeanor, and spirit, as she dismissed me from her presence. The word that speaks of the volumes of understanding that was present when I was similarly dismissed from my mother’s presence as I, at age 20, left home. One word that I have not for all of these years, been able to find … that I might be able to affix an understanding that would satisfy (and bring resting comfort to my groping for closure.) At last I have been given the wonderful gift of that specific word … it is 'contempt.'

Now, at long last, I can rest in an understanding of what was being conveyed by those two individuals, in those happenings of five years ago (in the instance of my daughter’s presentation) and over forty years ago (with my mother’s indelible look.) I had not encountered that sensation outside of those two experiences … until last week. It was then that I was revisited with the flash-back recall of all of the feelings and emotions associated with a confrontation with contempt. In that instant, the clock of history was spun back … and I, again, saw that look in my mother’s eyes. I relived all that was still fresh from the archives of my recollection. I, afresh and anew, saw utter contempt in the face of my mother.

But now, unlike the previous time, I can simply, and quietly, label it for what it is … and shelve it … with determination to never check that volume out again.


Oxford English Dictionary

contempt
noun
The feeling that someone or something is worthless or beneath consideration.

Prelude to "The Magician's Blanket"

My wife asked me (more than once) why I felt compelled to tell my world about all that was most personal and private in my life. I remember, quite clearly, responding with something closely akin to “My experiences are the only things that I am the authority on. Only I can speak of the intricate details and elements that surround my experiences. And if any part of what I have lived can be used by anyone to make their life easier, less painful, better understood, or more enjoyable or happier … then I will not exercise some sense of protective selfishness in denying that person, or those persons, a gentler, more satisfying, or joyful moment in their pilgrimage. This is all that I am capable of giving … and I will not hesitate in giving it.” My answer did not assuage her desire to cloister her life from the knowing of others. But that is her choice. You, Dear Reader, know mine.

That said, I am responding to the urging of Lady Muse … and giving, here, some of the details surrounding my earlier “The Magician’s Blanket” post.

Breakfast at our favorite Diner had been previously planned … and (after my morning run) it was there that I went (still wearing perspiration soaked sweat-clothes) and found my business Partner in a booth with two young ladies.

“Here we go again!” I thought. Knowing my Partner to be the most charismatic and accomplished “Gamer” that I had ever met (and he still, to this day, holds that ‘distinction’), there was no shock at seeing him fully engaged in his favorite sport.

He introduced me to the two … one, the glamorous and finely turned out woman who was obviously accustomed to being the center of attention … the other, a very pretty young woman who was the filling the role as “companion to the Looker” that I too was familiar with in my social and business engagements with my associate and friend.

So, here we were … the two of them happily playing their well-rehearsed, and finely polished, game with each other (something akin to two creatures strutting their finery at the peak of mating season … determining whether there would be a conjugal conclusion that would be chalked up as one more on their sizable scorecards) … and the two sidekicks who had heard and seen it all far more times than could be tallied.

She and I said little … quiet looks exchanged … smiles and rolling of eyes that said volumes of understood knowing.

Then the two leading characters in our little play decided to move the production to the apartment that the two girls shared. It seemed that they planned to move to a new address in the near future. Mister Mover (pun intended) suggested that he and I (my participation was an easily assumed given [in his estimation]) wanted to survey the size and scope of the proposed move (the furniture, and etcetera … not the unspoken, but well understood ‘move’ that both he and she were sparring around). Thus we left the diner. Mister Smooth and Miss Glamour in his new, sporty, and very trendy car … and (by default) the two attachés in the second car.

Much like two ‘Seconds’ at a duel or sporting event, She and I accompanied our ‘Star Players’ as they continued their jocular joust.

But this time … something new and unanticipated was happening ... the magic of a drawing bond between us. It was first evidenced by our gently, quietly, and quite naturally taking each other’s hand as we walked to the car. We attributed it to the cold and our need to share some warmth. It was so appropriate and right that we continued holding each others' hand throughout the ride to the apartment.

Then, as The Two continued their ongoing sport, the two of us sat next to each other on the earlier-mentioned sofa … and talked. I still remember (these 30+ years later) what we talked about. This unassuming and delicate creature enjoyed her weekends driving a huge, four-wheel-drive pickup truck in “mud-boggin” competitions. I was amazed! And appalled. The thought of people purposefully abusing and misusing equipment and/or machinery was something that I could not countenance. My Dad had programmed me to respect, care for, pamper, and always protect all things of mechanical or technical nature. I could not fathom someone going into a deep mud-filled swamp with a beautiful piece of finely engineered machinery and, with intent and forethought, try to see how much abuse and challenge they could get their truck to survive. So, we talked, at length, about every aspect of this avocation. She was as amazed at my concern for her truck … and for her personal safety and well-being. An invisible chamber, of private seclusion, formed around us, as we shared perspectives.

It was quite cold in the apartment … so we employed the blanket spoken of in the earlier post. Then, after a while of celebrating the silent, yet eloquent, communication that can be known in holding hands (something that I will yearn for ‘til my last breath) ... without words, a kiss.

The noise of silliness coming from the others became almost an embarrassment … so we pulled the blanket up … over our heads … and formed the magical cocoon that I have spoken of. The rest I have already shared. (Save our, eventually, agreeing that we should go upstairs and “survey the bedroom furnishings” in keeping with the advertised purpose of our being there.) [conspiratorial grin] The Two were so wrapped up in their game that they assumed that their sidecar parties were simply attending to the mundanities that fringed their superficial frolics. (And we quietly giggled our appreciation of their self-absorption.)

So there, Dear Friends, is what is oft referred to as “The Rest of The Story.”

When I received an unexpected invitation to be a Friend (on a social networking site) to a lovely young woman, who I met recently, I happily agreed. She had made a very notable impression on me at our meeting. Beyond her obvious beauty, there was an evident depth of character … and something that rang familiar about her. So, I visited her profile … and was moved by a stirring that was profound and not understood. This 'stirring' kept me awake all night, with a powerful force that was beyond my understanding. It was most unsettling!

Then, in the stillness of early morning … with my first pot of coffee … it all came back. It was a bit over thirty years ago … this moment in my past … but crystalline clear. And I began to understand the similarities in my new friend, which brought that past treasure into my present.

I had met the young lady in question at a gathering of a group of friends … in a place that was very active and energetic … and she was a still pond in the midst of an active sea. There was a depth that was neither presumptuous nor disattached about her. … just as that precious woman had quietly and oh-so-beautifully displayed on that morning … so long ago.

And, on that morning of my recollection, as I recognized who my new friend reminded me of, I was engulfed in the the tsunami of recall that washed over me. It was overwhelming! And, at this writing … four days later … I am still dealing with tears welling up in waves of tender emotion and remembering. Sweet tears that taste of delight and peaceful joy. What a gift!

So, there you are, Dear Reader and Friend. I know not what benefit may be known, by some unknown Individual, from these revelations from my Library of Memory. But, trusting in the wisdom of my unfailing Lady Muse, and in keeping with that life commitment expressed to my former wife, I lay it all out there for the use of whomever may find some encouragement, insight, understanding, or even entertainment, in it. For, ‘tis still true that “My experience is all that I have to offer this world that I live in.”

And I do so … in love. [smile]

An Afternoon With DaVinci

I didn’t get to enjoy seeing Dav and Heather in Florence, whilst they visited there in ’08 … so I will just ‘pretend’ to do so at the “DaVinci Shop and Café” at the end of the marvelous DaVinci Exhibition, presented at our Museum Of Science and Industry, Wednesday. They are so very cool! [smile]

Can you imagine my delight when Samantha (one of the MOSI Staff Members) asked me to share some philosophies beyond the “If, for the short while that we are in this Place, we don’t leave it better for our having been here … we will have wasted our time. And you, Dear One, have wasted nothing.” That I wrote on the back of one of my calling cards, and left for her on the table where she was demonstrating and explaining some of the wonders of optical innovations experienced by DaVinci.

So, I happily explained that I live in accordance with the personal imperative that states “Never leave any person or circumstance offered by Life, with the potential for a “Wish-I’d-A.” That is … the inner thought that says “I Wish-I’d-A expressed to that stranger how they touched my Heart as we passed.” or “I wish-I’d-a demonstrated the feelings of my heart to that individual whose presence moved me just now.” “So,” I explained to Samantha, “I clumsily, awkwardly, and sometimes haltingly (for I have had no teacher, guide, or mentor to demonstrate or instruct me in examples of practicing this business of reaching out to passing strangers in my world) verbalize my emotions … or demonstrate my convictions … thereby avoiding the possibility of ever having to reflect on the regretful awareness that comes with belated ‘wish-I’d-a’s”

She had to wonder “Just what kind of strange Person is this man who invites me to visit his Blog … and invites me to inform him of my progress in following my life’s dream?”

She doesn’t know that I spared her the added discomfort of having to deal with the “I love you Samantha” that was living just beneath the surface of my Being. That, I knew, would have been too much for her to process at our first encounter. [smile]

So, my Dear Reader, there you have a quick glimpse into an afternoon in the life of your John-Michael. (Who, because he knows that you know him well enough to accept and embrace this Truth from him, feels no hesitation to remind you …
“I love You!”) [tender smile]

(Thank You Dav, for the wonderful Photos!)

Romantic Lunch ... Sidewalk Cafe'

“If you could wave a magic wand toward here, in Ontario, from there, in Florida, and grant my fondest wish … I would wish for a romantic lunch at a sidewalk café … with You.”

These were her words to me over the telephone. We knew each other in only a strict business relationship. We had met in person on the one occasion that brought her, and her husband, to my city on holiday. They had come by my office in response to my offer of hospitality when she told me (in the course of our routine business transactions over the phone) that they would be in our area for their vacation.

I was so smitten with her grace and beauty that I locked an ironclad focus on her husband during the entirety of their visit. I knew that my overwhelming attraction to her would be unavoidably obvious to him if I allowed even the briefest of glances in her direction. The thirty minutes of their stay was excruciating. Upon her return to her post as a contact person between my office and the Head Office of our employing company, no mention was ever made of her visit.

Then, after the passing of several weeks with no reason for contact, I phoned the Head Office, in Ontario, to resolve a technical problem. I did not notice, when I placed the call, that it was the noon-hour, when the majority of staff could be expected to be taking their lunch break. After she answered her phone I apologized for the inconsiderate timing of my call, and offered to call back at a more convenient time. Whereupon she insisted that I stay on the line with the statement “No … please continue with this call. I haven’t any special plans for lunch today.” My response (hoping to demonstrate my appreciation for the generosity of her personal time given) was “If it were in my power, and if I had a magic wand with which to accomplish it, what special ‘lunch-wish’ could I grant you?” Then came her aforementioned reply.

I telephoned her later that afternoon (after scooping the scattered elements of my emotions into some semblance of order) and said “Please know that I live my life with the major part of me sealed in a vacuum. This is how I survive daily life. I must ask that you not toy with the seal on that vacuum, lest you be pulled into something that is far more powerful than anything that you might want to deal with.” This was the first time in my life that I had ever attempted verbalizing something that I was acutely aware of but had no definition for. She then indicated her desire to remove the ‘seal.’

Herein lies the importance of this story for you, Dear Reader. You, I, we all have unexpressed; yet vividly real feelings and convictions lying deep within the core of ourselves. These are far too frequently pushed aside, discounted, ignored, and even rejected outright because we haven't a comfortable or serviceable forum for the healthy consideration and honoring of them. I had not been introduced to the understandings available through “temperament” or “personality styles.” I had yet to be introduced to myself by the words of David Keirsey in his Please Understand Me II;

“Idealists are looking for more than life partners in their mates … they want soul partners, persons with whom they can bond in some special spiritual sense, sharing their complex inner lives and communicating intimately about what most concerns them: their feelings and their causes, their romantic fantasies and their ethical dilemmas, their inner division and their search for wholeness.”

And here I was, for the first time in my life, verbalizing (in the wholly inadequate, yet only terms at my disposal) the most powerful Force at the most central part of me. And I knew that the person who brought this recognition to the surface of my awareness was the single person in my world with whom I could be totally honest and unabashedly candid in the exposure of this aspect of Me. What a moment!


Note: This is an abbreviated excerpt from Chapter 5 of a book in progress.

How Real?

There is always the remote chance that someone reading my thoughts, or engaging me in a bit of a chat, focused on our responsibility to the Moment, will question "How Real" my actual practice of what I profess, might be.

I am sharing today's living demonstration of just such a happening. (Mind you ... I would never offer my personal response as any sort of 'standard' ... only my own individual choice of "Muse satisfaction." [smile])

'Twas upon seeing a very familiar name on a list of fellow graduates from my high School. Good ol' reliable Muse whispered her conspiratorial "Lest she never know!" And I clicked on the "Send Email" icon.

The message speaks for itself ...

Hi [name withheld],

It has taken these many years ... and Life 'nudging' me through Mom's reminding me of the instance (she was always very fond of you,[and knows how much I cared about you]) ... for me to muster the courage to confess what caused me to allow our budding relationship to wither.

Please know that I was totally enchanted with you. And on that night (that you have probably completely forgotten by now) when I was taking you home in our family car, I stopped and told you hurriedly that I had to "check on the strange noise coming from the rear of the car." What I did not then ... and it has taken 'til now to ... have the courage to tell you, was that I had an undiagnosed problem with my bladder. I, in fact, had to frantically get out of the car and hide behind the open trunk, to deal with the fact that my bladder had failed me. Yep! I wet myself. Hence, when I got you home, I could not get out of the car and walk you to the door. My pants were wet. (Believe me, this is still painful to recall.) I was humiliated beyond words.

When I heard later that you Dad forbade you to see me again because of my demonstration of poor manners and disrespect, I was despondent. But it was too much for me to speak of. Even after the doctor diagnosed what he called "spastic colon", and remedied the temporary condition with some pills, I could not overcome my humiliation, and sorrow, to tell you how devastated I was at the loss of whatever our relationship may have held the promise of being (and have revisited that loss with remorse many times since.) I was truly in love with you. There! At long last, I have told you.

I have lived, for a long time, with the guiding life-navigating star of "if it holds the possibility of ever being an 'I wish I had' ... do not let the moment pass without doing or saying whatever holds that potential." If I had not let you know the truth about that miserable night ... it would forever remain an "I wish I had."

I truly hope that this strange and unusual note finds you basking in the fullest of this Christmas Season's joy and happiness. I remain, forever, your admiring Friend and Servant,

John-Michael

There ... now You, Dear Reader, know that I do (even in the most awkward and challenging of circumstance) honor my Spirit's claim on me. As bizarre and odd as this example may seem, (and I know that you cringed [with me] as you read it) I cannot deny Life's claim on me. Responsibility to the demand of the Gift of each moment is what drives me on. And I promise You that it is a joyfully satisfying and fulfilling path to follow.

Just listen ... then trust the result or response to the omniscient power of Life's unfailing Love. It NEVER blunders.

I love You.

Our 4th Visit to an IDEALIST Neighborhood Card Shop

We Idealists are, if you will, the “Neighborhood Card Shop” of life’s market place. We do not offer the “necessities” of life … the lumber or nails … the motor oils … the bread or butter, nor the wine or cheese. We offer, instead, the reminders of the ideals that make all of the essentials worth their pursuit. Meat and potatoes we do not present … but we do offer the bouquet, the candles, the card that expresses the sentiment that You might wish to convey over the fine dinner prepared from the meat and potatoes. We do not provide essential nutrients for the sustenance of the Flesh ... we offer the reminders of the Spirit and Soul, the Emotion and Desire that inspire the Heart as well as the Mind. We provide the ’soundtrack’ that adds dimension to the ’movie’ of life.

There are far fewer "Card Shops" than there are other merchants. There is good reason for their infrequency. Life’s day-to-day requirements have material need for far more of the providers of ‘basics.’ It is also true that The Almighty created a fewer number of us Idealists in life’s mix. (Providing evidence of obvious 'Divine Intention' in this design ... fewer 'spices' are necessary in the 'recipe' of living.)

I know my place. I do not offer myself as your provider of your day-to-day material requisites. But, My Dear Friend, I ask that you grant proper acknowledgment and acceptance of … respect and care for my place in the “shopping district” of your world. I will serve you happily and faithfully.



(Those of you familiar with this blog will recall having seen this message before. I replay it here, once every year or so, to allow new Readers to know me better. I do hope that this little 'window' into my Person serves that purpose well.)




IMAGES [top]Silvia Doberti,
[center] Ian Britton, FreeFoto.com
[lower] Jon Sullivan, PDPhoto.org

Our 'Youthful' Choice

I was QUITE resolute in my determination to NOT watch (yet AGAIN) the presentation of that well-worn (and recreated twice) film, The Bishop’s Wife.

Then (don’t you know) there it was … playing on the television when I concluded one of my many delightful telephone conversations with Mom. (Today is her birthday.) So, YES! … I am watching it even as I type this little note to You … My Lovely Friend.

‘Tis through eyes moistened by tears of awareness of all that my Spirit and Being are, that I write these words of loving encouragement and endearment to you. This precious bit of a movie awakens all of that in me. It always has. (Which is why I had determined to not open all of Me, by viewing it again.) [smile]

Please allow me to share a bit of my reflections motivated by one little line spoken by ‘Dudley’ (the angelic character in the film [played by Cary Grant].) He said, "The only people who grow old are the ones who are born that way." And I must take exception to that statement. (Those who know me best can easily understand how I can take exception to [and even involve others in my reflections on] a statement from a 1948 movie.) [grin]

I tell You, Precious Reader, that the only people, who grow old, are the ones who make the choice to be so. Happily (for us all) some are mindful of … and choose to stay in touch with … the glories and richness of their youthful Selves. The opportunity to remain forever fresh in our perceptions; to maintain the giddy joys of curiosity; and to glory in newly realized sensations and experiences, is at the disposal of each of our individual Spirit’s.

I lovingly bid each of us (yes … me too!) a constant renewal of those joys, glories, and freshness.

I love You (I REALLY do!)