Thought for the day

Day Seven Continued

So where was I?  Oh yeah, Jackson Hole Wyoming on my way to Yellowstone National Park.  A gorgeous ride with the majestic Tetons on my left, sunny blue skies,  and Old Faithful ahead of me.    Something I had been looking forward to for days, months and years. 

I was surprised that I did not see more wildlife through the valley and into the park.  The park is busy.  When I pay my fees to get in I notice that most of the campgrounds are already full.  There are some in the north part of the park.  Something will work out, I tell myself.

I head towards the geyser basin.  Nature’s own Disneyland.  We have exploding geysers, wildlife and waterfalls.  I have read that the entire park sit atop an active volcano.  Sometime she is going to explode and life as we know it will be change.  Mt. St. Helen’s was nothing compared to this one when it goes.  It will happen, but not on my watch.

They have added a couple of new buildings since my last visit.  More parking as well.  More buses and more people. 

I am sensing a theme here.  So many people find a nice thing and then because of the popularity, they screw it up.

The Old Faithful Inn is a majestic building.  Open to the ceiling with trusses build from logs. An incredible stone fireplace.   A National treasure. 

I know where I am heading.  To the  deck overlooking the geyser.  The countdown is on.  20 minutes or so before the next eruption.  What a great day.

The geyser burbles and makes some small blasts of four to five feet.  Steam seeps from the opening.  Then it quiets down.  It repeats its burbling and small blasts.  Then it quiets down again.  Then we get a sustained blast of four to five feet.  Instead of quieting, it grows and blasts to its full potential, 100 feet in the air.  Old Faithful continues this sustained blast for minutes then slowly subsides.  The water drains back into the geyser leaving steam and an odor of sulfur.  Until the next show.  Well worth the trip.

Do not fall in love with me,a poem

Love leaves scars.  In some respects I am unique. In others not so much. 

This is a great poem. Perhaps I am being pretentious, but I would like to think, and at some level I know, that I am not the only one with scars. 

Full speed ahead. 

So sad

Sometimes I hate it when I am right

My intuition was correct.  It is over.  I knew it was coming.  It was pretty good while it lasted.

My earlier post from July:
https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=7646236209855165689#editor/target=post;postID=3999270097508569843;onPublishedMenu=allposts;onClosedMenu=allposts;postNum=53;src=postname


I have made my final mix tape.  It is awesome as ever, I am real good at communicating in that form.


https://itunes.apple.com/us/playlist/dave-has-the-blues/idpl.3f872501bb394a27baa1a1d4a2edb46d
Help me.  Women are tough to understand.  Sometimes Barb seemed so damned happy and proud to be with me.  That was a recently as three weeks ago.  The smile,excitement and love was sincere.  Barb is genuine.  I never caught her in a lie, perhaps an omission or two.  That is fair and expected. 


Then, it seem responsibilities, obligations, and worries kick in.  I become a chore and unnecessary in the space of a week.    


I have my flaws.  I think she still carries that wonderful Catholic guilt.  Her youngest son is a challenge.  I have been there done that.  Her perfect sister has convinced her that gluten is evil.  I am not into religion. and that bothers her that I will not likely be travelling to heaven.  It is hard to teach this old dog new tricks. 

Here is the main problem:  http://markmanson.net/fuck-yes

Fuck yes.  I only felt it at times from her and it scared her.


The sex was not fuck yes for me. 


The intellectual stimulation for me was not a fuck yes.


Best to move on.


I need a plan. I need some company.

Back to the dating pool.....

Some more thoughts on the final adventure from a rational mind.

As beautifully articulated in the last post by Elizabeth (Betty) Waite, death is the final adventure. It is permanent.  For some it comes much too soon.
I am agnostic.  I find some comfort in the thoughts of Aaron Freeman below.  Energy exists and can be measured but not destroyed.  Where that energy goes and what form it may take after death is the great unknown.  We will all find out in the end.
"You want a physicist to speak at your funeral. You want the physicist to talk to your grieving family about the conservation of energy, so they will understand that your energy has not died. You want the physicist to remind your sobbing mother about the first law of thermodynamics; that no energy is created in the universe and none is destroyed. You want your mother to know that all your energy, ever vibration, every BTU of heat, every wave of every particle that was her beloved child remains with her in this world. You want the physicist to tell your weeping father that amid the energies of the cosmos, you gave as good as you got.
And at one point, you'd hope that the physicist would step down from the pulpit and walk to your brokenhearted spouse there in the pew and tell him that all the photons that ever bounced off your face, all the particles whose paths were interrupted by your smile, by the touch of your hair, hundreds of trillions of particles, have raced off you like children, their ways forever changed by you. And as your widow rocks in the arms of a loving family, may the physicist let her know that all the photons that bounced from you were gathered in the particle detectors that are her eyes, that those photons created within her constellations of electromagnetically charged neurons whose energy will go on forever.
And the physicist will remind the congregation of how much of all our energy is given off as heat. There may be a few fanning themselves with their programs as he says it. And he will tell them that the warmth that flowed through you in life is still here, still part of all that we are, even as we who mourn continue in the heat of our own lives.
And you'll want the physicist to explain to those who loved you that they need not have faith; indeed, they should not have faith. Let them know that they can measure, that scientists have measured precisely the conservation of energy and found it accurate, verifiable and consistent across space and time. You can hope your family will examine the evidence and satisfy themselves that the science is sound and that they'll be comforted to know your energy is still around. According to the law of the conservation of energy, not a bit of you is gone. You're just less orderly. Amen."


This is a transcript of a speech given by writer and performer Aaron Freeman on NPR News "All Things Considered". You can listen to it here.

Gone too soon

A beautiful post from my friend and writer Elizabeth Waite. 


Too often we see people choosing a permanent solution for a temporary problem.  I have seen it in my life. I see this in some of the school claims that I manage.  We have all been touched by this. 


Pain passes if you are patient.

My son's friend, Stephen, killed himself a week ago Friday.  His funeral was yesterday.  I hadn't spoken to the parents since I'd heard the news. They were neighbors of mine for 18 years. 

I was never close to the parents.  My ex husband got them in the divorce 15 years ago, and although we were always friendly, we were not bonded neighbors.  Our political and spiritual differences were stark and divisive. When I approached them, their child lying with folded hands in a coffin two feet away, my heart broke in half for them.  I clutched the mother to me, tears streaming down my face, saying the only words I knew to say.  "I'm so sorry this happened.  I can't imagine your pain."

I hugged all of my son's friends, hugged Stephen's brothers, hugged a few of the parents who came to be supportive.  When it came time to listen to the memorialization of Stephen, the tears continued.  Vague references were made to how Stephen died, but mostly, the stories were about his helpfulness, his industriousness, his intelligence and problem solving abilities.  I know his parents were proud.  I was proud.

The congregation in the church was mostly divided, with the pews on the left side occupied by Stephen's friends and the pews on the right by people his parents' age.  I debated whether or not I should step to the podium. 

Public speaking has never frightened me.  But this was different.  This was not about Betty, this was about those kids on the left side of the church, the young ones who I knew struggled, some with the very issues Stephen struggled with.  I pulled out my spiral notebook, always kept in my purse in case of inspiration.  I decided that if I jotted down notes and could mentally put them into a form that might be useful, I would speak.

I remembered a poem I had written when I was in the depths of despair 12 years ago, my heart broken, my spirit crushed.  That poem might work.  I made a list of the things I remembered about Stephen, things that fit with the tragedy lying in state three pews away.  This is what I said, speaking almost entirely to the left side of the room:

 

"My life is an ocean

with waves of tears

and spaces of glassy calm.

My happiness radiates

evaporates

and fuels the cloudy storms.

The salty sorrow of my tears

rains down with deep delight

replenishing, renewing

the ocean of my life.

The pain is stark, searing my heart.

I stumble on my path;

Eviscerates, capitulates,

and then, in time, does pass.

Pain passes.

Stephen chose a permanent solution to a temporary problem.  Pain passes, if you can just be patient.  When you are young, everything feels so permanent.  You feel lonely and it feels like you will be lonely forever. 

You won't be. 

You fail a test and you feel like you will fail at everything forever, but you won't. 

 
You will find success. 

You drink too much and do something you regret and you feel like you will never learn, but you will. 

You will learn. 

You get your heart broken and feel like you will be alone forever, and the pain will never leave. 

But it will. 

Pain passes. 

If you can just be patient.

Stephen spent 18 of his twenty years a block away from our house.  The Quigleys had three boys of the same age as my three sons.  Their phone number was 1 on our speed dial because if I couldn't find my sons, chances are they were at the Quigleys, and vice versa.   Saturday mornings involved wading through half a dozen little boys draped all over my family room furniture, with one, two, and sometimes three Quigley boys.  My sons often stayed at their house, too, accompanying them to this very church on Sunday mornings.

Stephen was industrious and polite.  I think he shoveled the snow in my driveway more often than my own sons, because he would actually do it and not whine about it. 

When I moved from Wyoming 6 months ago, his brother was one of my helpers.  Stephen had broken his foot, and Facebook messaged his apologies.  He stopped by with a bunch of Kevin's friends to say goodbye to the Waite estate after the last of the boxes were loaded onto the truck.  I hadn't seen him in over a year.  He had grown so tall, towering over me.  His hair was blonde, his face had filled out to the face of a young man.  A beautiful young man.  I almost didn't recognize him.  I hugged him when it was time for them to go, told him I was proud of him.

Stephen has now tasted the fruit of the tree of knowledge.  He knows now what we can all only wonder about.  Stephen never shared his troubles with me.  I hope that the fruit of that tree has finally brought him peace."

Afterwards, I was throwing my plate away after sampling all of Stephen's favorite foods, lovingly prepared by the ladies of the church, Stephen's mom pulled me aside and hugged me.  Her speech had been a thank you to all of the other women of the church who had been a mom to Stephen. 

"Betty, thank you for sharing today.  You know, you were one of Stephen's mom's, too.  I didn't say it earlier, but I should have.  You were there, all these years."


I hugged her, fighting back the tears again, nodding.  "And you were another mom to mine.  It takes a village.  Thanks for being part of mine. And my children's."

And now, life goes on.  That's the hardest part to figure out how to do.  Life goes on.  And there but for the grace of God, go I.