A time of decay

There is decay everywhere

Beneath the trees in our rain forest are trees in decay.

Politics and politicians have decayed beyond belief

Schools, countries, churches, all in decay.

Do you see?

My mind is decaying: dementia, I take pills for it and wear patches.

My heart is decaying, laboring up the hill, losing loved ones, no longer ‘necking’ in the car as I did in my teens.

My body is in decay as I notice my legs, hips, and feet suffer the slightest incline, not to mention internal organs.

My spirit has decayed. Once Interested in liturgy, ceremony, church, now its meditation, mandalas and medicine wheels.

It’s a fact of living: as we get old we decay, yes!?

But I have studied systems and cycles.

Decay is only part of a cycle.

A cycle, especially in the rain forest, that includes birth, life, decay, death and rebirth.

Also in my life.

Nurse logs provide the perfect place to start a new forest, in a straight line even.

Mulch is going on everywhere, death feeding the living.

The purpose of decay is to feed the next ones, and the next.

Decay brings obligation, to offer sage wisdom, comfort, and encouragement to the new growth.

My wife is great at this, nurturing children (ours and other’s), grand children, and great grand children. And me.

So what am I to do.

I think I’ll go mulch.

There’s still a lot of me left to decay, recycle, repurpose, reuse.

I still carry all the love they have given me, and it’s stronger everyday.

Peace, love and life.

– Small town boy

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Live in the moment

I subscribe to Lauren Ostrowski Fenton

Who does deep meditation and

Life counseling on YouTube.

She, and others, tell me to live in the moment, not the past, not the future.

As part of the work I’ve been doing with myself and meditation over the past few years, this makes sense to me.

But,

I noticed this morning, as I drove back from the grocery,

My moment is moving,

Through time and space!

When I try to focus on a moment, to enjoy with all the senses the delight therein,

It is gone, and replaced by another.

So I start again, quieting my mind,

Relaxing (not too much as I am driving),

I smell the smells of the moment,

I hear all the sounds of the moment,

I taste, I feel, I see !

And then poof,

It’s gone

And I find myself in a new moment.

This one’s a little different from the one that just went past.

I’m beginning to get a little giddy.

I find delight in greeting each new moment.

I await without expectation what the new moment will offer.

Just this moment I’m filled with love for you.

Just this moment I’m filled with love for me too!

Oh God! What a moment I’m having!

-Small town boy

Waiting

I’m waiting in the garden.

For what? For who? For when? For where?

I don’t know.

Like Waiting for Godot.

I’m beginning to see

Not what I’m waiting for,

But how I wait.

I wait with more presence,

I’m more here here.

I wait without expectation,

But I’m not disappointed.

When I’m not waiting I feel edgy;

I have to find something to do with myself.

By when I’m waiting, I have purpose,

And intent, and focus.

Wait with me won’t you ?

And we’ll see what turns up.

-Small town boy

Somebody else

I’m not writing this.

Somebody else is.

I’m not thinking, I’m just writing, typing for her.

Monica.

My spirit guide, one of them.

I told her I would let her write.

She wants you to know that it will be alright.

(Do you know what she’s referring too?)

She knows it will all work out in the end.

(Got that?)

In the mean time don’t fret,

Look inward. What do you see? Turmoil?

Calm your turmoil and the external turmoil will dissipate.

Sit for a moment without electricals.

Be self sustaining for a moment.

If you want something, ask for it.

Do good deeds.

She wants you to know she knows that it isn’t easy. It’s hard. And you think soft is weak.

She says it’s the other way around.

It is easy, and soft is hard.

Give up those thoughts that have gotten you and everyone to this point,

And listen without words.

What do you hear?

My heart is filling up as I do this for her.

Mine is not the only spirit guide, you have one too.

Where did I meet her and learn what her name is and what she looks like?

On YouTube!

Try it.

– small town boy and Monica

If you were me

I'm stymied, I guess.
I haven't written for a while,
After criticism and censorship.
The problem I have is this:
Each word, each thought has been dug up,
Dug up from the internal (and eternal) junk pile that is my recollection.
These thoughts are mine, I own them, and yet…
I permit the criticism of others dear to me to destroy my writing; my decision.
And so I approach each new thought with their censorship in mind; don't dig too deep.
Ok, so maybe I didn't think through enough the offending thoughts.
Maybe they were right, but still I must admit a stricture on my thinking.
And so now I begin again to write.
Unable to keep these thoughts buried, I must present them to you.
You have a right to your opinion.
I have a right to mine.
But should I publish for all the world to see?
Do I needs/must take into account the effect on others,
Or do I only have obligation to my Self to write what I feel?
Who reads this stuff anyway?

– Small town boy

In my grief

I grieve.

I ache with it.

My heart is broken.

I am at a standstill,

Unable.

Unable to think.

Unable to feel ought else.

Unable to breathe or swallow or sleep.

How must my daughter feel, my son-in-law, my grandchildren?

I grieve for them, with them.

I weep, in spurts .

When I think I’m safe again,

I am over whelmed with grief.

I long for wellness;

I am heartsick.

Where is my recovery?

In you? In You? In solitarity?

In time?

In activity?

I die with Christ this weekend in hopes of my resurrection,

From this terrible grief.

– Small town boy

Horses

My father was a vetrinarian, but

I don’t remember him treating horses,

Just piglets.

Though I never owned a horse,

I rode.

I rode at church camp and scout camp in the Colorado Rockies.

The wranglers often gave me the hard to handle riding horses, because I could handle them.

Except for the one who tried to brushing me off by going under a low hanging tree.

Although he was unsuccessful in this attempt, I had to eat Jello for dinner because of a bloody mouth.

We were charging, like wild Indians, and I couldn’t slow him down.

Five years later I worked in the kitchen of the Rawah Dude Ranch in northern Colorado, where the help was not permitted to ride the horses. Mostly they were work horses uses to pack into Rawah Lake in the Rawah Wilderness area, or as log pullers when timber harvesting was done.

He had a pair of horses, one black and one white to pull the logs.

But they had to hitch up the black one first and get him started, then the white one.

As she (the white) worked up the hill passed him, he would come to life and struggle to beat her to the top.

One of the largest pack horses, Tom, many hands high, was nortoriously spooky. One day as I was holding his reins after he was packed with camping and fishing gear, he spooked and tore off through the brush destroying the fishing gear and spreading camping gear everywhere..

The owner of the Rawah Guest Ranch raised Arabians, and provided stud service to interested mares from nearby ranches.

However, all the college kids on the ranch were required to be in the bunkhouse, so as not to see the stallion do his job.

It was thought by the owner that he didn’t want his employees behaving in a manner like those college kids in Estes Park, who came from all over the country to party.

The owner had bred his own Arabian mare, with the result being a beautiful colt, named Rawah.

However, Rawah got into the barbed wire and cut himself badly, but since the owner was a Christian Scientist, he would not call the vet, and the colt died.

Thirty years later, my wife and I decided our ten year old bossy daughter needed something large to boss around, so we signed her up at a nearby stable in Portland, Oregon, where she rode and cared for her horse.

I decided it looked like fun, and since I only knew how to ride western, that i would learn English as well.

When I fell after a stirrup broke, it was a soft landing in the bark feathers in the arena.

My instructor said that it takes twenty falls to be an expert.

Words to live by.

– Small town boy

Fitness and Resistance

Each morning I go to Fitness Over Fifty to work out. One half hour of cardio, and one half hour of weights.

You can adjust the level of resistance on each machine.

As you increase resistance you and your heart become stronger.

There is no improvement without resistance.

You remain flabby.

But as you modify the resistance you see and feel immediate benefits,

To your body, your mind, and your heart are strengthened.

On the stationary bike I select “Random Hill.”

The resistance goes up and down and lasts for longer and longer times;

The higher the resistance, the longer it lasts.

I note that there are also others who are setting their level of resistance.

If you don’t set your level of resistance, you are simply “spinning.”

There is great camaraderie in resisting. Each person working on his or her health.

At home, I prefer to ride my bicycle over hiking because on a bike you only have to climb up one side if the hill.

Not so here at the gym. Like a unicyclist I met once riding from Colorado to Oregon, you must exert yourself on both sides of the hill. No coasting.

Now that I have finished my workout my body feels better.

Stress is removed, and my heart rate is up.

Resistance is good for me.

Set your level, work at it, with others, and feel the results.

– Small town boy 

Listen

I may have mentioned that I have been advised to listen.

It is against my nature.

I don’t like to listen.

Being alone at the beach in stormy weather has allowed me to work on it.

Prayer as listening? I have even practiced what I used to teach, active listening.

But I hear nothing.

So I tried listening the same way I meditate.

Not bad, good meditation, but still no messages.

As you may also have noticed I am working on jigsaw puzzles.

And I found something.

If you get your mind to quiet, Other skills come to the fore.

Pattern recognition kicks in and instead of actively looking, I’m passively looking, and it works well. All of a sudden I recognize that piece for that place.

One of my heroes is Walt Longmire (by Craig Johnson).

When he goes on alert he soft focuses his eyes so as to make them motion sensors.

It’s like that.

There are other factors at work if I just be quiet and let them work.

I still haven’t heard anything, but I’m learning.

Shh, listen. Hear that?

– Small town boy