Wednesday, March 30, 2011

My Grandsons Wish



I have a grandson who is only thirteen years old. I once asked him what he wanted to do after his formal schooling was over. He said, “I want to move to Alaska and live on my own, in a log cabin in the wilderness. I want to hunt and fish and just enjoy nature. I don’t want to live where I can read any newspapers or see any televisions, because it’s the same old bad news every day. I want to live in peace with God and this earth.” Just think—all of that from a thirteen-year-old—but this is what our world today is driving them to.

I wonder how many of us really think this way. I wonder how many of us have had our fill of wars and the stench of politics. Even our level of trust with other people has been immeasurably harmed, and we seem more and more alienated. For us seniors who lived during the good times, and through our indifference to what was going on around us, helped usher in the bad times, it gives one pause. What makes a thirteen-year-old, with his whole adult life in front of him, want to go and hide. Yes, it’s apparent that he sees nothing out there to make him want to live in our world, and that is so sad

I wanted to ask him—why Alaska? It’s cold and forbidding. Life can be so harsh out there on the edge of civilization. But then, I thought for a moment about the differences, and I answered my own question. Americans enjoy the doodads, and an entertaining life, with 3D televisions, the Internet, IPods, cell phones, fancy cars and the like.  Alaska’s wilderness has none of that, but none of the problems that come with it, either. By its own nature it keeps life, for those who want it, pure and simple. Its ground water is not full of herbicides, pesticides and drugs. Its air is devoid of mercury and carbon monoxide. But, you might have to cut your own wood for heat, and worry a little bit more about where your next meal is coming from.

My dad had a brother who lived in the southern part of the United States. He once asked my dad, “Why do you live up there in the cold?” Dad winked at him and said, “It keeps the riff raff out.” Each weekend we, up here in the lake country, see this exodus of people from the urban areas coming up here to get away from the rat race back there. Now, we’re not Alaska’s wilderness by any stretch, but we are something somewhat in-between. Very few of us drive the other way—except for social reasons.

Will my grandson get his wish? I’m not sure, because so much can and will change for him in the years ahead. One cute girl can change all of that in a few minutes. As his body grows, his mind will grow, too. His reasoning powers, that weigh all the good and bad in his life, will show him the harsh realities of an existence like that. But, if things get too much worse, maybe I can talk him into a two-bedroom cabin. For now, I will go for a walk in the woods across from my house. I’ll try to leave what I know behind, and like a thirteen-year-old, maybe for just a few hours I’ll pretend that I’m somewhere on the Klondike and just enjoy this unspoiled land.

Friday, March 25, 2011

love



                                                THE MEANING OF LOVE

High on a mountain slope the rays of the sun warm a tiny piece of ice, and transform it from its frozen dormant state, to the living liquid it once was.  It flows down across the jagged rocks to merge with other droplets, and slowly, one by one they become a tiny rivulet of water.  Despite the obstacles in the way this little stream finds its way in, around, and over them, with one goal in mind.  To reach the end, the promised land, the sea of tranquility where it can finally rest in peace.  It knows not where it is headed; it only has this inherent faith that this is the place where it was intended to go.
Along the way it encourages others to join in and come along. Together it says we will become a mighty river, and there is so much strength and support in joining numbers. So others join in and although it may be just a creek, a brook, a stream, or another river joining in, the momentum of water becomes a crescendo of motion that becomes unstoppable.
It may be held back momentarily from time to time, but it cannot, and will not be stopped for long.  It will rest and pool itself until once more it spills over the top and consumes all the obstacles in its way and then once again, it’s on its way.
Along the way it becomes a vital support system for all who seek refuge in and around it.  They feed from it. They use it to wash away their filth, cool, and refresh themselves.  They seek comfort and shelter in it and they let its current carry them along in the ultimate free ride.

Substitute Gods love for the water I have described above and the analogy is the same.  God starts it all flowing from high above and asks us to join in. God gave us a never-ending supply of love the day we were born, but unless we use it, it dries up and we lose it.  The more we give it away the more of it flows back in.  He knows if we all join our love together, there is nothing that can stop us.  God knows there will be dams of resistance and waterfalls of weak days. There will be arid deserts along the way filled with suffering and pain that will try and consume us, but if we stay together, he tells us, we’ll make it together. God has also told us it’s a one-way trip to his Promised Land, and we will never have to worry about going back to where we came from. Like the river I talked about above, this stream of love will carry us and cleanse us, and feed us along the way

Marianna Williamson wrote,
“Love is what we are born with.  Fear is what we learn.  The spiritual journey is the unlearning of fear and prejudices and the acceptance of love back in our hearts. Love is the essential reality and our purpose on earth.  To be consciously aware of it, and to experience love in us, and others is the meaning of life.  Meaning does not lie in things.  Meaning lies in each of us.” Yes, sometime,somewhere in our waning lives, we all need to find our ultimate quiet pond.

                                                                                    Mike

Sunday, March 20, 2011

Sunshine



Today, even though it’s fifteen degrees below zero, the sun is shining brightly outside my office window. It’s a proven fact that we feel much better on sunny days. Maybe it’s because we can feel the sun’s warm rays on our faces, no matter the ambient temperature. Maybe it’s because it’s just brighter outside on sunny days. Doom and gloom are always portrayed in some stage of darkness, hope and happiness in a stage of light. But the sun does more than warm us or light us—it tells us when to get up and when to go to bed. We often think of heaven as being high in the sky, above the hovering clouds where the sunshine is unimpeded all the time. We use it as an analogy for happier times, and we have written numerous songs and texts about it.

As I watch my wife suffer with her lingering illness, and I think of all the sunny days we had together in life, I can’t help but think of the words to an oldie but goodie called “You Are My Sunshine.” Yes, how many times have we sung, “You are my sunshine, my only sunshine. You make me happy when skies are gray.”

So many people vision old age as a time when the sun shines perpetually, and we lounge on sun-drenched beaches, with all of our cares and troubles behind us. But then something like this comes along, and our hearts grow heavy because that happiness—that sunshine—that you worked so hard for, and shared so willingly for so long, is threatened, as is your whole way of life. It shows you how fragile life and happiness really is. How much we take for granted—that sunshine in our lives.

One of the things that happens when you are seriously ill is that treatment and doctor visits bring you both together, with many other people, who are suffering just like you are. You can’t ignore it because it’s all around you and the deep feelings that are so prevalent are so infectious. It encompasses you and you feel their pain and their suffering up front, and see it in their sad, longing eyes. You sense the fear that has crept into their lives and their hearts; and they no longer seem like the strangers to you they once were, but brothers and sisters of the disease, reaching out to each other in a time of need. You can almost feel the prayers and hopes they have—for more time to get it right—dear God, at least for a while, you pray.

As caregivers, friends and family, you pray to be strong—not necessarily just for you, but also for her or him, so you can bring back some sunshine into their troubled lives. So you can be that pillar of strength that they, your friends and family, need so much at a time like this. But, try as you may, sometimes the tears and grief take over, and you look anywhere you can for that ray of sunshine that will make it all better. I have, in my travels, talked to many people who have lost a loved one. For a while, it’s hard and words don’t come easy. But gradually, all the sunshine they brought into your life trumps the grief that came along, and brightens your day once more. We take the good that comes from those who we loved and emulate it into our lives and it makes us far better people. It’s their way of giving back some goodness and a little sunshine.  Now it’s up to us to keep that sun shining, like they did for us. “You’ll never know dear, how much I love you. Please don’t take my sunshine away.”

Springtime



It begins in a subtle, but seemingly fickle way. One tentative step forward, then two half hearted steps back, and then a bolder step forward, followed by another, and another, and then there is no looking back. Winter never gives up its cold icy grasp without a fight, but there comes a time when it has run its course, and quietly succumbs. To paraphrase the Gaelic songwriter, “The valleys are no longer hushed, no longer white with snow.” The days grow longer and soon they outlast the clement sunlight, and our warm stars rays grow even more radiant. As young women wait for love, the entire world waits for springtime.

Green grass appears once again, and the slender, tender blades are prominent on the sides of sun basked hills and roadside banks, slowly overwhelming autumn’s and winters forgotten clutter. Crocuses, tulips and daffodils poke their colorful fragile heads out of long neglected flowerbeds, still littered with last seasons decaying leaves and grass. The trees and bushes of the forest sense the change and conceive the swelling buds that will slowly ripen into another year’s protective leafy canopy. Their rough trunks glisten with running sap as they prepare to add another ring of life, and once more their branches are alive with a menagerie of colorful birds; back from their winter retreats, and now carefully weaving their nests.  Acrobatic squirrels show off their aeronautical skills and pent-up exuberance, leaping from tree-top to tree-top in their new found freedom.

Out on the ponds, lakes and streams, wood ducks, golden eyes, and green headed mallards once again forage in the muddy bottoms that were long locked away under winter’s frozen impenetrable barrier. They preen their feathers while nosily and enthusiastically readying themselves for spring’s annual courtship. Deep in the woods, does, heavy with fawns, lie wearily on the warming hillsides.  They appear gaunt from the long winter siege, but for now they revel in the rebirth of the land, and know that food will once again be plentiful and that their time is near.

Everywhere swollen wombs empty with tiny replicas of their parent species, hungrily searching for nourishment and a chance to survive and carry on in this new world.  Eggs are laid and hens settle in for their long lonely vigils in their nests. Fish crowd to the same sandy shallows their parents once came to spawn, their belly’s now ripe with roe. Cubs and pups, and all of the newborns emerge wide eyed from their darkened dens, presenting themselves at nature’s altar. Enduring their species yes-- but more than that, doing their part in the rebirth and the cleansing of mother earth.

It’s a time for all of us to renew ourselves too, and to look forward to those carefree lazy days of summer. It’s a special time to plant the harvest and welcome the warm April rains that softly fall and germinate the seeds, replenish the lakes and ponds, and wash away winters dirt and grime. Mankind knows that when the years of our lives are finally finished and tallied, they will most often be measured by the summers of our life, and spring is the great precursor to all the summers.  It sets the stage with this remarkable reincarnation of life itself. It is a fresh new beginning for nature, and for all of us. Each day we wait in breathless anticipation, as if every spring will be our only spring.


                                                                                               


Moonlight

 I went down to the end of my dock on a quiet summer evening and sat down, dangling my bare feet in the tepid water. There was just a hint of a breeze blowing softly across the lake. Just enough wind breathing to make some miniature ripples, but not enough to ruin the calmness. It was cloudy and quite dark when I walked down there, but suddenly the clouds parted, and the light from an almost full moon shown down as if to say,” let’s put a little light on the subject.” That light that had me so mesmerized, shining like an illuminated pathway from the distant shore, and across the lake, was culminating at the end of my dock like a heavenly beacon. It was almost as if its glow was beckoning me to just slip into the depths and follow the yellow brick road. I thought of the words of Kurt Vonnegut when he said, “The very edge of anything from a rivulet to an ocean says to me: now you know where you are. Now you know which way to go.” 

I had gone down there to clear my mind, as all of us have to do from time to time.  Sometimes our thought process needs to search for solutions we sense are there, but are hiding just beyond our grasp. The only way we can effectively do that is to shut out the rest of the world for a brief time, and focus on whatever it is we are trying to understand. My grandfather was a minister and he used to always say about the people he brought into his flock, that they saw the light. I was never sure what light he was referring too, all I know is that night on the dock that celestial light was so comforting, and so peaceful, and it helped me find my answer and more. Had I found the light?

I think our lights and quiet places come in many shapes and forms. It may be in prayer in church, it may be in quiet reflection walking down a country lane. It might come on the end of my dock and it may be at a quiet place in a wood’s or a park. It could be at a special time when you sit in a rocker and bury your nose in your sleeping newborn, grandchild’s hair, or when you just take your wife’s hand and give her that little smile that says, “ After all of these years, you know all to well what I’m thinking don’t you?”

Whatever the place or the time, we all need a quiet pond from time to time. We are so lucky up here in the lakes and woods, because that calm seems to be inherent, and not that hard to find. That is if you can just take time out of your busy life to look for it. There needs to be a part of every day that’s set-aside just for you. That’s how we find ourselves, and that’s how we get to know who we really are. As families and friends, we need to recognize how important this is to each of us, and learn how to help each other find peace and happiness in our lives. We need to remember that happiness is found in who you are, not what you do, or how much you have. Happiness my friends is a state of mind.

Fishing


Well It’s that time of the year when you see this mass exodus from the big cities, and in case you don’t read the papers, or you’re living under a rock, its not a terrorist attack, but the opening of fishing that brings them all up Hwy 10 and 94, heading for the lakes. Boats with enough electronics in them to make Microsoft blush will hit the water and three hundred dollar fishing rods with equally expensive reels will try to entice some wary walleye to a lure that looks good enough for even me to eat. I know when it comes to the fancy boats---I’m being a little facieses and it’s not true for everybody-- but some of the rigs I have seen, left me with my mouth hanging open. When you have to have a super duty truck to pull the rig—Lets face it; you got a lot of boat. The Vikings came from Norway, four hundred years ago in smaller boats.

My dad never owned a boat, but he and I, and maybe one other brother would go out to Wilders Resort on Sylvan Lake and rent one for a dollar a day. We had an old three horse Johnson motor that had the gas tank on top and if you wanted to go backwards you just turned the motor around. Dad would have a pocket full of White Owl cigars and it was hard to judge who smoked more, him or the motor. His old rusty lunch box would be full of liver sausage sandwiches and maybe some pickled herring, No beer or pop for him, just an old Mason jar full of well water to drink. But for us, as meager as it sounds, it didn’t get any better than that.

Fishing together with him is one of my favorite memories. It wasn’t the fish we caught that was important to me. The treat was I got to spend a whole day with my dad without working. My wife fills that niche for me now and outside of the fact she usually catches more fish than I, it’s still a good time. That’s what’s missing in so many peoples lives now days.  A time for fathers and sons, or daughters, or the whole family to sit down and fish together. I have a thirteen-year-old grandson who loves to fish but I’m not sure he will this year. You see his father and mother are both working two jobs just to keep their heads above water financially. It’s a hundred and fifty miles away to his house, but I might just have to go get him, it’s that important to me.

So, to all of the fisherman out there this weekend, whether it’s in a launch the size of a small house or an old tin boat with a leak in the stern. Whether it has a motor bigger than most cars, or an old Johnson like we had that smokes like a steam engine and has about the same power as my wife’s mixer, I wish for you a good catch and a safe trip, but most of all I wish that you make a memory that will have your son someday sitting down and writing about it-- and you know what? He’ll not remember the size of the boat, or if you caught any fish at all that day. He won’t remember if he fished with a Zebco, or a Garcia, or a cane pole. He’ll just remember the time he and his dad went fishing.




About writing


 I remember a conversation I had with my English teacher back in high school. We had all been asked to write an essay on anything of our choice for an assignment, as long as it was about something that was legally and morally right. As a teacher you actually could lay out some ground rules back in those days without the fear that some student would go find the Civil Liberty’s lawyers, who would sue you for infringing on their right of Freedom of speech. That’s not what this is about however but I just thought I would throw it in as some delightful sarcasm as to how things have become in today’s world.

My teacher asked me on the day we turned our essays in, to stay after class because he wanted to talk with me. I used to get this request quite often because when you thought you were the appointed court jester of Staples High School as I did sometimes nerves get rubbed a little thin with the faculty. But this day was different because when the last student left and he gently closed the door instead of slamming it and was actually smiling at me, I was very confused. He came over to me and gave me my essay back and said, “Did you write all of this?”
“Yes,” I stammered. Not sure who I had offended and why.
“This is awesome,” he said. “This is the best essay any student has ever wrote for me in class.  Now I was truly at a loss for words because I wasn’t used to getting praise for much of anything. My father used to sign my report card while he was shaving and paid little attention to what was on it. He once signed my card with an bad grade on it and handed it back to me, while asking me if I had finished shoveling the driveway. To be fair I knew enough to catch him without his glasses on. But back to my teacher.
“You my friend,” my teacher said, “Have a gift here, and I want you to know it. I want you to also take this conversation seriously, for one time in your life. Your passion for writing is what I am talking about. It shows through in every sentence.”

I’m not sure if Mr. Johnson is still alive, but if he is I would like to say to him. “I never forgot what you told me sir.” It was many years before I was able to find the time to take it seriously but always those words would ring in my ears whenever I would write. If I could see my old teacher, Mr. Johnson today, I would say two things to him. First, thank you for encouraging me and thank you for caring. You were a teachers, teacher my friend and although it took a while, you made a difference in my life.” Secondly can I have that paper back? I could probably use it in next week’s column.

I think all of us at one point or another have a similar mentoring story.  Yes, someone who made a difference in our lives, but only because we paid attention and as Mr. Johnson said so eloquently to me. “Shut your trap and listen for once Holst.”

Saturday, March 19, 2011

GIVE LOVE A CHANCE



Last week I sat and ruminated one afternoon, and I’m not talking about chewing my cud, but rather contemplating about how the world has changed since my wife and I set up shop some forty-seven years ago. I thought about how people’s values have changed when it comes to the commitments we made to those we once pledged our love and fidelity. My parents, and my wife’s parents, gave both of us good examples of how to live our married life, and I think our children received those same examples from my wife and I-- but for the generation now going out into the world, it seems to have been compromised-- and I’m not sure why. Maybe the outside pressures of this fast changing world have just become so great, that all of that helpful mentoring has been lost in the rush. Soon I fear, it will be lost forever.

I’m not trying to be anybody’s moral compass here, and I realize that some marriages were never meant to be, but we seem to have an epidemic of broken hearts, broken promises, and broken marriages. Kids caught in the middle, are torn between moms and dads who seem to find it easier to start over, then try to fix what has gone wrong. It’s become almost a socially acceptable thing to do and can only lead in the long run, to more of the same. In effect, it’s a sort of me first attitude

I remember a song that B J Thomas sang a while back called “Whatever Happened to Old-Fashioned Love. I quote a verse from that song because it says it better than I could ever say it.
 “Whatever happened to old-fashioned love, the kind that would see you through? The kind of love my Momma and Daddy knew.
Yes, what ever happened to old-fashioned love, the kind that would last through the years? Through the trials, through the smiles, and through the tears.”
Kind of makes you take pause doesn’t it.

As a small boy I used to see the twinkle in my Grandfather’s eye, whenever he would talk about Grandma. I guess I never fully understood back then why he was so proud of what they had together. But as the years passed, and my feelings deepened for the one I chose, I understood all to well where he was coming from. I found that looking out for number one didn’t always mean me, being number one. To those of you who are having problems, I say this. If there was love to begin with, give love a chance. It’s the most powerful emotion the human mind possesses and not something you want to miss out on. If you have children, isn’t that really what you would wish for them someday?