Part 4. Journeys to Contentment

Contentment is that blessed state of being that transcends one’s circumstances. It is easy to be content when experiencing the wonders and excitement of international travel. It is a lot harder to do when confined in a wheelchair with Lou Gerhig’s Disease or sitting at one’s kitchen table knowing that cancer is going to win soon.

“Bookstore Musings” was an imperative to myself to live life fully and completely in the present. We have no assurances of when our sands might run out. For one evening I was able to live in true magic.

Context can be such an important part of contentment. When we take things for granted we often lose our contentment. Something as simple as an unexpectedly warm day in February can do much to transform our demeanor. “Partly Cloudy” describes a warm happy day during one of my winters.

Sunset has always been my favorite time of day. It gives me the sense of a fine evening spent with dear friends, dining by candlelight. “Love By Candlelight” describes living life fully at sunset 356 days after 9/11

A man sitting at his kitchen table, knowing cancer is going to win, is able to live in contentment. He is able to hold a small kitten knowing that life goes on in good fashion. “Dear Joe” describes how he was bale to transcend his dire situation and live fully for his dear wife and new-found pet.

“Cracks in the Lead” is my experience of spectral radiance breaking forth at the end of a dark dull day. Anything is possible.


Bookstore Musings

I was sitting in the Books-a-Million café Saturday reading a book by a fellow who talked about living life fully after being diagnosed with ALS. It resonated with me as it was thought I might have this fourteen years ago. I found his insights inspiring. He learned that by facing his losses he could now much more fully live. He mentioned hiking the White Mountains of Vermont while he could, since there would be that day when he could not. It came to pass. But he did push his wheelchair to the view spots along the road when he could. He no longer can do even that. He mused that for all of us there would be that last time we would see the grand aureate sunshine of late afternoon. I thought about that as I walked three miles yesterday in that late golden light just before sunset, even though the wind chill was fourteen degrees. I could be in a morgue freezer tomorrow, where it is colder yet. The future is shrouded.

It occurred to me while sitting in the bookstore that I had not been contra dancing since I broke my leg more than a year ago; that something else might prevent me from doing that ever again, perhaps tomorrow, or perhaps twenty years from now. To the best of my knowledge nothing would prevent me from doing so that night. I knew where a fine contra band would be playing and where 200 happy people would soon be in an ebullient state of flow. I had a way to get there. I also recall a friend telling me she had never seen me really have fun except when I was contra dancing. I instantly put the book up and went home, made a fast dinner and headed to the mountains at sunset where I knew there would be happy music wafting from an old rustic dance hall in a small mountain valley next to a tumbling mountain stream.

Listening to a tape set on “Living in the Mind of God” given to me at Christmas while driving to the mountains at sunset was like a mini-retreat. As I was driving northeast, a huge aureate full moon rose in the east, occasionally eclipsed by wispy high clouds. By the time I reached the mountains the moon was platinum and this greatly magnified the numinous wonder of the fresh snowfall covering the surrounding landscape. In but ninety minutes I felt like I had made a journey that far transcended the physical distance between my house and this old weathered dance hall in the mountain forest. The physical world was transformed, as was my temperament.

I did not miss a dance during the first two hours and did not hold back on swinging, stomping, and promenading. My friend was right. I really do have fun when I am out there on that floor, and I had happy reunions with some people I had not seen in too long. The drive home was like another mini-retreat, illuminated by the intense silver orb, now guiding me southwest to a warm bed and a fuzzy gray cat.
I sure am glad I got out of the house that night.

March 11
River Falls, South Carolina


Partly Cloudy

Expectation is a fascinating thing to observe and even more so to experience. I got up this morning and went outside, a full month after the winter solstice, with the expectation of a wintry blast that would chase me back into the confines of the house. My mission had been to drag the city trashcan back into the garage. Imagine my surprise when I found it to be precisely 64 degrees. An expansive sensibility erupted in my soul, and I immediately put up both garage doors knowing I would be “let out” for the day. I was going to be on bonus time, and I would actually be able to glue up cabinets and do painting tasks that don’t fare well in winter temperatures.

How could something as benign as 64-degree air seem wondrous, nearly numinous in nature? I grew up in Southern California, where 64-degree air in January was as ordinary as the dense smog that sealed off the stars and sun from view. I expected it be mild in California every day. It rarely was otherwise. We denizens of the stucco jungle never gave the weather a thought. The only “weather” we ever thought about was the kind that caused waves to pass along fault lines during earthquakes.

In the South we think about weather often. It is highly variable. I recall May 8, 1993, when 68 inches of snow fell just north of here on Mt. Pisgah. This blue white wonderland was absolutely unexpected, and it brought out the child in thousands of us. In May in the Deep South, we start thinking about the advent of feisty Asian Tiger mosquitoes and humidity. A blue white wonderland was a big-time bonus. I celebrated it by taking a hike up Mount Pisgah and having a picnic lunch with friends on top, where we enjoyed stewed fruit in stemmed glasses along with hot ham croissants. Dinner was shrimp scampi in the Pisgah Inn on the Blue Ridge Parkway. A rumor of hot water problems caused cancellations of room reservations, so a friend and I were actually able to get a room, at a discount no less! Mind you, this is one of those places you book a year ahead.

The next day, we ate a picnic lunch under a sunny sky on the grounds of the Biltmore Estate outside of Asheville, not thirty miles away. Air temperature? Almost 75 degrees.

We think about weather in this part of the world. Sometimes it is rather frightening such as when a three-inch crust of ice takes down half the trees and all the power lines. We have already done a four-day stint without electrons in December. I always marvel at how the incredible beauty of a world that looks like it is clad in Baccarat crystal on a clear morning can be so deadly. Looks are deceiving.

Wind? An F5 tornado will instantly suck the tranquility right out of your world. It might actually suck your world out of existence. I don’t want to do one of these again. Hugo and Andrew are not names often given to newborns any more in this part of the world. I’ve “done” a category 4 hurricane (Lenny in November ’98) at sea; it makes me glad this water world we live on has some solid parts.
We think about weather in this part of the world. Sometimes it is magic. Today the air is calm and warm. There is no golden sunshine today but you won’t find me griping. I’m going back outside to “play”. The forecast is for snow and ice tonight.

March 11

My garage


Love By Candlelight

I seem to be on a roll with Sundays having become the colorful highpoint of my week in literal and figurative dimensions. I had to venture just a bit further a field for today’s magic – 1.7 miles vs. last week’s .3 mile – but I got a bigger bang this time.

We just had one of those rare evenings where late afternoon sun combines with absolute clarity of air to give everything this impossible aureate cast. I wonder why the world can’t always look golden and serene, but for several hours today it did.

Wanna guess what I did while basking in this aureate wonderland carpeted with rain-renewed emerald grass? I waited for the air currents to stabilize so that a 90,000 cubic foot red wonder could be inflated to afford a higher perspective on what was proving to be a grand sunset. There is little like balloon glow at sunset – a bit like an eighty-foot cherry gum drop in a piece of indigo velvet. Alas, the currents never permitted an ascent but you haven’t seen a sunset until you have seen one through 900 square yards of rip-stop red nylon. Yes - I’m learning to keep my camera with me all the time now as hot-air balloons are habit forming, and pop up at the most unexpected places. That’s part of their magic.

A hundred yards to the west of our inflated wonder, a community stage was lit up in shimmering purple and cobalt flood lights as an orchestra filled the air with strands of classical and patriotic melodies. The patriotic melodies are certainly different this Labor Day than they were last year – it seems that people were singing a bit louder and with more feeling. For two hours some 10,000 others were getting in on my Spectral Sunday. Many things multiply and get better when they are shared.

As soon as the incandescent solar orb took its last light below the horizon, the infamous Zambelli family filled the fresh darkness with its own special kind of light. Synchronized to the orchestra, these pyrological Wunderkin detonated hundreds of their heaven-bound delights, transforming all 10,000 of us into gleeful little children. If we could but be such all the time, there would be war no more. I’ve had the good fortune to attend international fireworks competitions,and the Zambelli family is right there with the best of ‘em – but a mere mile-and-a-half from home. Getting to the last competition required my spending five hours doing nearly Mach 1 in one of those silver-winged denizens of the sky.

We are 356 days past 9-11. The most poignant images I have of that terrible time were the hopeful images from candlelight vigils taken all over the world. Thousands of candles tonight reminded me of that terrible time. They also reminded me that the magic and enchantment of a child’s face under a heaven full of fireworks is one of our greatest assets for the future and they also reminded me that the very best awe-inspiring goodness in people is to be found in the deepest darkest places we can go as a people.

Look up and enjoy the genius of the Zambelli family or the magic of eighty hot air balloons in mass ascension, but perhaps more importantly, look in the face of those you love by candlelight. 9-11 didn’t come with an engraved announcement.

September 2
Floyd Amphitheater, South Carolina

Dear Joe

When I came by to see you after I heard the really bad news from Edith, I was very much surprised at what I found. There you were sitting in a kitchen chair with a tiny obviously contented micro tabby cat stuffed down between your rear end and the chair back. You seemed so, um, normal, occupied with the things than non-dying people are occupied with, things like further education, the economics of Europe, potty training this new fluffy companion. Somehow the whole scene struck me as really “normal,” happy, full of life, and new possibilities for the future. It sure didn't reek of unspoken nasty things like cancer, pain, loss of function, and salvage therapy. The dear friend sitting there in happy repose couldn't possibly be fighting this giant monster in his body.

I sat there three hours with you, your wife, and daughter, and that utterly contented self-confident tabby, and lived life to the fullest. It really doesn't get any better than what we shared there at your table. We shared good friendship, rich memories of foreign travel, savory delights of a fine meal, and the life-giving antics of your new feline.

Just yesterday that becoming-magnificent cat was a throw-away in a Styrofoam culture that throws away its forests, historical buildings, ethics, marriage vows, and its potential to lead the world into transcendent living. Today that minuscule fluff ball is basking in her great fortune as the reigning princess of her Kingdom. For this kitten, an almost certain early death sentence on the highway where she was discarded was commuted. She was given new life by a stranger who has a heart for those that can't help themselves. This is all the more amazing to me, given that you are facing so much uncertainty yourself.

I would imagine that you feel like you are playing five-card draw, knowing the deck is loaded in favor of the house. Humans are in a similar predicament as that cat. We can most of the time get ourselves off the highway and avoid being run over, but it seems there is at least one time in life when we are going to get hit by the inevitable.

Yesterday, that micro cat wasn't purring. Today, I noticed that your cat could purr. I hope that as you progress on your own journey that your soul will be able to purr in Eternal bliss. There is One willing to show you the Way, if you will but take His hand. I sure hope you do.

July 10
Anderson, South Carolina


Cracks in the Lead

Yesterday was a dark dull day with a bleak leaden sky. Even so, in this kind of day, radiant possibilities can colorize the moment.

While out walking in the morning and the temperature being about 49 degrees I saw a large viceroy butterfly in the road, struggling to gain lift. It could not get off the cold asphalt. I reached down and as I reached for it, it found enough lift to flutter up onto my upper thigh. I put my hands down and it immediately was drawn to what little warmth was in them, a bit more than the asphalt I suppose. I carried this magnificent creation for about fifteen minutes in cupped hands. I probably looked like a Buddhist monk carrying an alms bowl. I am sure the fellow walking with me was in wonderment about this. His dog did not seem a bit interested.

After this quarter hour had passed this brilliant orange, black, yellow, and white butterfly had gained enough warmth to make a take-off, and it flew steadily and surely to the top of a pine tree two hundred feet away. I wondered how it was that such a magnificent creature had once been a crawling worm and only moments before looked like as though it was in its last moments of life. Amazingly, these beautiful fragile creatures can fly six hundred miles without taking a rest.

At 5:50 PM, I was on the phone when I noticed the lead-colored sky suddenly turned the color of ruby. I told my neighbor to look out her window. She did, and exclaimed that there was a complete rainbow visible from her vantage. I instantly hung up and went out with a digital camera. How there could be a rainbow with a solid pink cloud cover, no direct sunlight, and virtually no light left to the day was beyond me.

Wonders do still happen when least expected – like worms turning into delta winged rainbows that can fly six hundred miles non-stop.

October 29
Anderson, South Carolina