Human Condition

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How to Write a Letter

Some months ago a young man I know texted me with his thanks for a letter I’d sent. He apologized at length for not writing back because, as he said, “No one ever taught me how to write a letter.” Feeling his plight, I took it upon myself to make an offering and sent him a polished case containing some very nice stationery and an array of colorful postage stamps, all accompanied by the following letter:

_______________________________________

Dear Noah,

A letter is a most remarkable thing. It is very much like a diary that is shared one page at a time. Writing a letter to another person is the most traditional and effective manner of putting yourself out into the world. It is also very personal, which is why I believe so few are willing to risk it.

A Letter need not be a novel. Nor any kind of fiction. A letter will always be your best opportunity to say precisely what you want to say in exactly the way you want to say it. Even if it’s just to say, “Hello. How are you?” Some of the most delightful letters I’ve ever received have been two or three sentences long. But even a letter so brief can be wonderful, and quite revealing of the sender’s personality. Whether offering sympathy for an injury or loss, lending reassurance during a period of turmoil, or simply to share an amusing story, a letter can do many magical things.

As people we are deeply mysterious creatures who rarely catch a glimpse of someone else’s truth. But I encourage you to embrace the act of letter writing. If you keep copies of what you write, they become pieces of your own truth that you can reassemble years from now into a clearer picture—not necessarily of who you were back then, but of the person you were in the process of becoming. We are forever evolving as people. No one ever arrives at being just one person with just one set of values. Good people, inquisitive open minded people, are always in the process of “becoming”. They take in new information all the time and are always absorbing. My father is 102-years-old and is still learning new things every day. He is one of the smartest, most decent, peaceful, and happy people I have ever known.

So please, write letters. When you read them back to yourself many years from now they will give you an amazing perspective of the journey you have taken as a person, a citizen, and as a creature of value. Any letters you receive in return can also be wonderful snapshots of the best people in your life. Most importantly though, the ability to write a good letter is something people will prize in you above all other gentlemanly traits.

HOW TO WRITE A LETTER

STEP ONE: Be Honest

Write your letters in the simplest, cleanest language you can manage. Express your thoughts on any subject that strikes your fancy. But don’t be fancy. And always be honest. My mother told me, “If you can’t say something nice about someone, then don’t say anything at all.” I noticed that when she remarked on someone not particularly pleasant, she found a way of expressing it diplomatically such as, “He wasn’t as social as one might have hoped.” or “We didn’t really get along but I’m sure she was giving it her best effort.”

When people have wronged me and I am describing what they did in a letter, I rely on diplomacy as well. If I’m discussing a third party in a letter (or in face-to-face encounters) I choose my words carefully. I pretend that if the person I’m writing about were ever to see this letter and read how I described them, they would not see me as cruel, but honest. It’s the decent thing to do, keeps me from being a gossip, and inspires me to follow my better angels. If you need to write about someone who has hurt you, by all means tell the truth. But never be mean about it.

And one more thing, if I have made a mistake or behaved badly, I am quick to admit my error and apologize. A letter is good for that too. In this day and age owning your faults is practically unheard of because nobody does that. But if you do it, you will be seen as incredibly mature. I want you to be that very rare exception—the one person people admire, respect and, most important of all, trust. We will always have the highest regard for anyone with the confidence to admit they are human. That brand of courage is in short supply these days. Saying you’re sorry is not a sign of weakness. It is a sign of consideration for others and all the very best people do it.

STEP TWO: Be Brief

Nobody likes people who ramble. Especially when they’ve nothing of substance to relate. Personally, I’ve never been comfortable speaking to people and have become expert at hiding my bashfulness. But at heart I’m still incredibly shy, feeling I hardly have anything worthwhile to say. Another trick of my mother’s was to ask questions: “If you don’t know what to say to someone, ask them about themselves. People always like to talk about themselves.” Of course the secret is to actually listen to what they’re saying. It allows you to engage and even redirect the conversation. Of course when it comes to writing a letter, this logic works by mentioning some event that’s going on and turning your narrative into a query. “I had a rough week. I’m curious what you do to take your mind off your troubles.” Or… “Nobody ever mentions my great grandparents and I sometimes wonder if maybe there’s a criminal in our family tree that no one talks about. Does your family ever discuss your ancestors?”

If you can’t think of much to say, questions are usually a safe way to proceed. At the very least, it demonstrates your interest in them. You don’t have to fill up pages and pages. Everybody (and I mean everybody) loves receiving a letter. That you took the time to sit down and lay a few kind paragraphs on paper, place it in an envelope, add a stamp, and mail it will absolutely make them feel truly valued. If they actually write back, even better.

Be prepared for most people not to write back. But don’t think that means they don’t value you too. It’s a just that a lot of folks, like yourself, believe they don’t know how to write a letter. Prove them wrong. Keep writing. We learn by doing.

STEP THREE: Be Hopeful

Finding a letter in the mailbox is almost certain to generate the biggest smile. Imagine that feeling when you receive a letter from someone else. And knowing how rarely people send actual letters, you can appreciate how an envelope with your return address on it will be cause for them to celebrate. Don’t disappoint them.

While it’s not your job to cheer up the world, and there’s no law that says a letter must only be good news, remember that people get enough bad news everywhere else in their lives. So try to remain curious about what’s going on in their life, how it’s affecting them, and if there might be a positive perspective you can offer. If there is bad news to relate, then be gentle. But for the most part, focus on hopeful conversation. And always end on an uplifting note.

So that’s it.

I know I’ve written a lot to you here. But please don’t be intimidated by all these “words”. They’re just words. You told me that no one ever taught you how to write a letter, which I love. Because it’s something you have no experience with and would like to try. We are at our most genuine when asking for help.

So now,… write me a letter.

Take a page and start at the top with the date. Dates are very important. I like to do my dates in the European fashion: Day first / Month second / Year last. It appeals to my sense of continuity with the smallest increment building to the greatest. However most Americans write the date as: Month first / Day second / Year last—perhaps because we are so used to saying it that way aloud. Use whichever feels right for you.

Next write, “Dear Michael,”.

Then write two or three or four sentences about anything at all that comes to mind. Keep it brief and upbeat. But honest. Remember, I’ll be so thrilled to have gotten a letter—which rarely happens for me—that it really won’t matter how long or short the writing is.

Next do a pleasant sign off. (“Sincerely,” or “Regards,”, or “With hopes that you are well,”.)

And finally, sign it.

Fold the letter neatly, place it in an envelope, and seal it gently. When you address the envelope be sure to print very clearly so there’s no chance they will not be able to read it at the post office. Few things are more disappointing than getting your own letter returned because it was “undeliverable” with the wrong address, or that the post office could not decipher your handwriting.

Your name and address go in the upper left corner on the front of the envelope, my name and address half way down and nicely centered, and lastly, a stamp gets securely fastened in the upper right corner.

Most home mailboxes have a red flag on the side. If yours has one you can place your letter in your mailbox and raise the red flag. When this flag is in the “up” position it tells the mail carrier that there is “outgoing” mail in the box and they will collect it, put the red flag back down, and take the letter with them to the post office. If you do not trust this method or you prefer to mail it yourself, you can deposit your letter in a public mailbox, leave it at an authorized postal center, or mail it at an official U.S. Post Office.

On a personal note, if my letter is going to someone for whom I have great affection, after I fold the finished letter, I touch my lips to it before it goes in the envelope. The recipient will never know that I enclosed a kiss. But I’ll know.

If you decide to take up letter writing trust me when I say it will be one of the most rewarding things you will do in your life. I’m proud of you and can’t wait to hear stories of your continued progress.

With very best wishes,

Michael

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It’s been almost a year since I sent this package and I’ve yet to receive a response from him. I don’t know that I will. But then again, I never expect reciprocation for any letter I write. The joy is always in the sending. Though I do wonder if perhaps my parcel to him ought to have included a pen.

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Cosmic Forces

Someone asked me today what sign I was born under.

I used to make fun of people who gave serious consideration to astrology. It always struck me as somewhat naïve and juvenile that otherwise intelligent people would not only put stock in the movements of the stars and the planets, but also relate those movements to substantial goings on in their own lives. It seemed incredibly silly to me.sundial-8657-1920x1080

And yet, at the same time, I very much enjoyed being asked. Especially when an attractive woman was doing the asking.

It doesn’t have to mean anything in particular, but somehow the question itself delivers me back to a time when your position in the zodiac became an automatic symbol of sexual inclination. Kind of like a foreplay to foreplay. Those three simple words were rife with possibilities of free love. And in the post-hippy atmosphere of the late 70’s your astrological sign seemed to have real romantic currency. That’s the feeling that comes back to me when I hear someone ask, “What’s your sign?”

Any more in polite society, those words are little more than a conversation starter. For me, and for the longest time, astrology had lost its sex appeal, which isn’t really fair since I never gave it its due in the first place. Astrological stuff had always struck me as just plain gimmicky.

From 1983 to 1995 I worked in the space program. Twelve years of my life spent in close quarters with some of most levelheaded, pragmatic, and even-tempered thinkers on the planet. I was in my element. No frivolity, no specious reasoning, no whims of fancy. Everything was predicated on absolute logic. So I find it ironic that NASA is where I started to notice how the mathematics of orbital mechanics might actually affect my daily mood.

Putting mysticism aside, let’s take a look at the purely physical aspects of the question. Consider if you will how the moon’s relationship to the earth directly affects the ocean tides, which by extension affect atmospheric pressure. When the moon is full, the overall barometric pressure of the planet responds accordingly. And when pressure goes up, people’s fuses get shorter. That’s what people do best—respond to pressure. We can’t help ourselves, or our instincts. Statistically there really are more traffic accidents and crimes of passion during a full moon. These are physically demonstrable and proven phenomena.

We all know that a variety of people react in a variety of ways because of our distinctly unique makeups. And still there are unifying elements. For example different people operate best at different barometric pressures, which is probably why women’s menstrual cycles start on different days—but still most every woman’s cycle runs like clockwork every 28 days, which by the way is the exact cycle of the moon’s orbit of the earth—28 days.

No coincidence. Like it or not, as residents of this globe we are bound by its physical laws. But if we remain conscious of those laws and the cycles in which they run, then we have a bit of an advantage.

I firmly suspect—and if tested I believe it would prove out nicely—that if researchers were to track any number of male subjects over a period of several months, they would discover that men too have a 28-day cycle of their own. And for the exact same week every month, men probably exhibit their own PMS-type symptoms, although not in the physical way that women do. We men experience our own moodiness, short tempers, irritability, and so on—some weeks more so than others—and if you chart them, I am convinced they will map out perfectly in 28-day cycles.

In other words, yes, I do believe men have periods too. Scary, right?

No one can be constantly in top form. For instance, I know I am never at my best in extreme heat. I can’t abide it. My parents on the other hand were born in the Deep South and have always loved Florida weather. I however happened to be born in Ohio in the middle of winter and am convinced the climate into which I first arrived imprinted me with a distinct preference for cool air and a somewhat chilly geography. While my work has me in California for the time being, one day I dream of retiring well north of here.

So, considering the time of year you are born, as well as the physical and emotional environment into which you’re born, all these cosmic and atmospheric alignments may actually have a profound affect on your moods and inclinations. Then add to that mix the crazy cocktail of your own unique body chemistry, and you can really begin to see how the position of the moon, and perhaps the planets and stars, have a not insignificant bearing on how you feel and operate in this world. And perhaps, just perhaps, might it have some small impact on who is likely to gravitate to your personality, and to whom you may be attracted yourself?

A reasonable fellow like myself has to take pause at the prospect of such emotional alchemy.

These days when someone asks my sign, I have to think twice before dismissing its possible significance. After all, who can say when love may finally find me, wide-eyed and marveling at the stars? It’s one hell of a human circus we’re all part of. Why not enjoy the show until it’s your turn in the spotlight?

Somehow lately I’m feeling a little more interconnected with the world around me. Trying to keep an eye out for the rhythms and cyclical aspects of the physical world and how it relates to my moods and my life. And I’m trying to pay some small regard to my good days as well as my bad ones. But despite all this wary enlightenment, I still find myself amused when asked that leading question. Because that’s not the question they’re really asking, is it.

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Play Time

GOIN’ FOR A RIDE
(© 2013 by Michael J. Cahill)

Goin’ for a ride in a shopping cart
And I’m sure Mom will think it’s all right.
I’m goin’ for a ride in a shopping cart
And my brother, Chris, he’s gonna drive.

We’ll take some quick lefts and a last minute right
Then a screech and a spin and a slide.
Then, in the meat section, Chris’ll build up momentum
And hop on to join in the ride.

Now we’ll just miss the canned goods,
Zoom past the vegetables, bargains, and cash-saving deals.
When we get near the eggs, we’ll just hang out our legs
And ’round the corner we’ll go on two wheels.

What a wonderful rush as we pass the Orange Crush
And the Cracker Jacks, oatmeal, and Pop Tarts —
As the customers stare at and point at and glare at
Two grown men… riding aisles… in a shopping cart.

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Shopping.Cart

There’s nothing quite like bending the rules well beyond anything that was intended. I personally consider it a mortal sin to relegate to the realm of toddlers and pre-teens all our youthful, wide-eyed wonder about how the world around us works. When was the last time you saw a truly enthusiastic grown up behaving with truly enthusiastic enthusiasm?

I’m not suggesting you sacrifice your maturity. But some of the most mature grown ups I know are unabashedly blessed with a playful nature despite the strictures of many social standards.

I remember in 1989 when I was Christmas shopping and got thrown out of a Toys R Us in Houston. They had these miniature shopping carts for toddlers. One-third scale versions of the real thing and solid metal. Really cool. I couldn’t resist. I put one on each foot and started roller-skating up and down the aisles. The 9-year-olds who had watched me were grinning as I was escorted out. I could tell they liked the idea and, sure enough, a couple minutes later as I was getting in my car, these same kids were being strong-armed out the front door by security. I gave them a thumbs up and they smiled and fired back their own.

No laws were broken and no lives endangered. Yes, I realized the irresponsible nature of such a potentially dangerous example. But it was a calculated risk on my part. For instance, had my four-year-old daughter been with me at the time, I absolutely would not have set such an example. But adolescent boys — hell, yes. I had been one myself some 30 years before and I knew a fun idea when I saw one. Plus I always had extra energy and used to be a stunt man in my 20’s.

Something I’ve always recognized, especially early on, was that most people just need more genuine fun in their lives. I know everyone thinks they want it, but they truly don’t realize how much they absolutely need it.

To this day, whenever I’m in the furniture section of a department store, I still take a running start, jump as high as I can, and land butt first in the middle of a display bed. If a 20-year-old did that, people would just be annoyed. But I’m 58 and folks are actually impressed. It’s incredibly fun. And it never fails to turn heads. Those mattresses have to be checked out, you know. Who better to do it than a potential customer? If the bedding is soft and the point of impact provides suitable resistance, I might just ask them to wrap that sucker up for me. Hey, you don’t buy a car without test driving it. Furniture should be held to the same strict standards.

In 1983 when my wife and I moved to Houston, Hurricane Alisha had us trapped in our 2nd floor apartment for four days with heavy rains and flooding. Our front door faced the parking lot on the inside curve of a horseshoe shaped building and on the third day the wind had died down quite a bit. None of the plumbing or electricity worked and all the residents were out on their porches watching each other try to cool off in the sticky humidity. We were all miserable and sick of the rain.

That’s when I noticed that rainwater was just pouring out the holes in the gutters where the drain pipes had been blown out. I ran inside, stripped down to a pair of cutoffs, grabbed the soap and shampoo, and headed down the steps to the flooded parking lot. My wife at the time knew me well enough to be automatically mortified without any idea what I was up to.

I stepped into the nearest downspout deluge, lathered up and started scrubbing. My wife of course was utterly humiliated with all the neighbors watching me take a shower. She went inside and stayed there.

It wasn’t a full minute before a dozen other residents took my lead and lined up at the other downspout waterfalls to take their own showers. Hey, a good idea is a good idea and none of us had bathed in three days. It just made perfect sense to me. And, damn, that shower felt good!

I’m a pragmatist at heart and if something makes good, simple sense to me then I’m all over it. And if it happens to amuse and entertain the odd passer by, then all the better. One thing I’ve observed with some consistency in my life — people will never cease to be amused by their fellow man caught in the act of simply being their fellow man.

MORAL: Be an advocate of your own fun. Never leave it up to others.

When you get a chance to ride that shopping cart, just be safe, hold on tight, and make the management give you at least three warnings before you thank them with a polite smile and leave. Trust me, even the most humorless and overworked shift manager will be dying to tell everyone she knows about some idiot cart-surfing in the frozen foods section. Plus you’ll have brightened her day a bit as well. Everybody wins.

Or, at the very least,…….. you win.

And that’s all that really matters in the end.

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by

Williker

Confidence acquired is an act of profound discipline. It is developed in the tiniest increments over years of concentrated effort in much the way an oyster builds impenetrable layers around a grain of sand to form a pearl. I have an earnest respect for anyone in possession of the brand of confidence that gives no heed to vanity.

Cat.Feet.Crop.01

Some years back I had a friend named Jerry Rasmussen. The first time he had me over to his house we were sitting in the living room when my eye caught a small shaggy figure stumble past the light at the end of the hall behind him. I didn’t see clearly who it was and I knew Jerry lived alone so it was a bit unnerving. In that brief glance the creature struck me as a fuzzy black pygmy or gremlin.

“WHAT is that?”

He didn’t bother to look. “My cat.”

“That’s not a cat. Someone’s here with us.”

“It’s my cat, man.”

“Cat’s don’t walk upright.”

Unfazed, he called out, “Williker!” The name prickled my spine.

The spindly figure reappeared with a stagger and began scuttling unsteadily up the hall in our direction, leaning here and there into the wall. The light behind him painted this diminutive, shaggy figure in stark silhouette. Long, uneven spikes of wildly matted hair and an incredibly twisted, arthritic frame some 20 inches in height made for an alarming visual.

“What the hell happened to him?”

“He doesn’t like to be touched, has a skin condition, and has trouble with grooming. Plus his front legs don’t work so he learned to walk on his hinds, one of which is giving him trouble.”

This poor creature’s shocking appearance brought me to my feet. What must have been a Persian mix of some kind accounted for the extra long fur and his inability to adequately groom himself. So naturally his greasy hair twisted and spiked in the most bizarre configurations. Two withered and useless front legs curled unevenly, one paw at his side and the other slightly raised, lending his manner something of a prissy affectation. This cat would have made a terrific James Bond villain.

Williker’s stance was never quite steady. Even when standing in one place, his balance on those two husky hind paws was in a continual dance of correction, hips constantly jerking one way or another while his ratty, mostly hairless tail snapped back and forth as a kind of counter balance. The effect was that of a rickety old man who desperately needed the use of a toilet.

A coat that might once have been black had devolved into a greasy gray-brown mass of knotted burrs and patches. His shoulders were bare and calloused from rubbing the walls for support. And sure enough, a glance around the house revealed a series of oily telltale streak marks rubbed into the paint, confirmation enough that no room or hall was off limits to Williker.

“Been this way since birth. Nobody wanted him but his eyes got me. Got great eyes, doesn’t he?”

Clearly, among the most shocking aspects of this creature were the eyes. Perhaps the unruly arrangement of all that matted fur made the skull appear too small relative to the girth of the rest of his knarled body. It would be easy to presume that the smallness of the face tended to exaggerate the size of the eyes, but I decided the eyes were much too buggy to begin with and still inordinately large. The face as a whole was remarkable, but the eyes were startling — intense, unblinking, and far too searching.

Those wide black orbs seared straight into your marrow as if to say, “Don’t move. I just want to memorize your soul.”

While his body forever quivered in a palsied act of two-footed balance, his head was eerily even-keeled and remained smooth and steady. It was almost as though someone had made a fuzzy faced bobble head figure but got the mechanism reversed — the body bobbled and the head kept an even gaze. When it did move, the head snapped to and fro in the manner of a bird of prey.

Williker was no doubt one crazy configuration of a cat. While his general appearance was at first shocking, giving the impression of a deadpan drunk, he managed to radiate a distinct sense of purpose that actually made him more creepy than hilarious. And still he was overpoweringly mesmerizing and smart as could be.

Williker’s gaze was so very intense that I was about to ask if he had been born without eyelids. But then he’d had his fill of me and turned back to Jerry with a blink.

“Is this why you don’t date?”

Jerry told me about the last woman he’d brought home. Of course he’d forgotten to warn her about Williker and, at a most inopportune moment of physical intimacy, Williker had wandered into the bedroom and walked right up to the poor girl’s face trying to make sense of her carnal grunts and facial contortions.

Apparently tempers flared and there was some hysterical name calling. After that episode Jerry had determined he would henceforth bide his time and wait for someone of a more delicate and tolerant temperament to come into his life before he would try again. Williker of course had remained unaffected by the incident and the girl had been nothing more than an oddity.

Yet, I actually kind of empathize with the devastated young woman who ran naked from his house that fateful night with only her purse and a bed sheet. She never even came back for her clothes and shoes. Williker was more than an acquired taste — a shock to the system and a blunt contradiction of everything expected in a pet. But Jerry adored Williker.

People love the ugliest things.

In my friend’s cat there was no gamesmanship and no pretending. In the absence of pretense, there is the essence of all that is beautiful. I saw in Williker a stubborn willfulness that frankly staggered me. It’s not that he overcame his shortcomings. This animal was wholly unaware that he was deficient in any way. His life in Jerry’s house was just the way things were and he made due admirably with what he had.

In the end, I went away with the knowledge I had looked directly into the face of dignity and found the most beautiful thing life could display — sheer, stainless steel confidence. Utter, unmitigated and unapologetic.

Every one of us admires the gentle geography of a beautiful creature. It’s the kind of appearance to which most people aspire. We all want to look our fittest. But somehow I still marvel at the kind of inner stamina and self-possessed dignity exhibited by that singular and profoundly hideous feline.

On days when I’m feeling less than stellar, I call to mind my hour with Williker and remind myself that most of us are little more than a jumble of mismatched spare parts. And yet, beyond the body, we are really so much more — a fine mind, soaring spirit, and sturdy heart that, despite our physical limits, always allow us to far exceed our reach.

As Williker, this admirable and beautiful creature, staggered his way back up the hall, my attention somehow gravitated to a spot just below his tail. There, matted in a straggle of long fur dangling between his legs, was a sizable pair of droppings that hadn’t quite found a point of departure. Suddenly I could only admire him more.

A human equivalent to this toilet-paper-on-the-shoe moment could only be a grown man hobbling along with an entire toilet stuck to his foot. And yet this poor, pathetic, twisted hair sack convulsing and twitching his way up the hall still struck me as the very definition of dignity. Even while dragging his muffler, he had more class than any number of grown ups I know.

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Birthday Wish

When well wishers call out the popular greeting “Happy Birthday”, it seems so very common that we cannot help feeling its overuse has become a hallmark of insincerity.

I find it unfortunate that for many the phrase now carries a tone of obligation, when in fact most people want nothing more than to communicate a true and genuine gratitude that you were born. How small must be our self esteem to doubt there are those who gladly declare us a welcome and valuable part of their lives?

birthday-candleWhen we were still new, there was a wonderful novelty to birthdays. Since a kid is so easily enthused by the simplest of things, a day dedicated to an appreciation of you alone is quite the best thing imaginable.

I know more and more grown ups who, as they get on in years, insist they want no fuss, or even attention paid, at the marking of a birthday. And yet, notice how very put out these same people become if that oh-so-unimportant day is forgotten?

It’s a comical dichotomy that possesses more than a few of my friends.

When co-workers and casual acquaintances have been given a community greeting card to sign, the accompanying inscription often comes across as disingenuous. For the many years that I have been on my own, I’ve suffered the sticky ineptitude of those who toss off a quick “Happy Birthday” in the manner of an afterthought. I see the obligatory sentiment forming in the air and cringe. And then it lands with the graceless thud of obligation.

And what’s happy about being an obligation? Small wonder that we’ve become so blasé about it all.

Of late, however, I’ve been rethinking my position on this one day of the year that celebrates me. If I choose to join those who are sincere — or lacking such fans, if I decide to celebrate that I am indeed a delightful and marvelous person — then where is the harm in such good feelings? Taking a moment to appreciate one’s self is no sin. In fact I’m beginning to think it’s healthy.

I remember the light in the eyes of those distant faces in my home movies, both young and old, marveling at the dance of fire on frosting, and I am taken back to my childhood. There were many birthdays throughout the year in my house where ten of us fought and loved and lived together under one roof.

I lament just a little that we have evolved into a populace so easily dismissive of sentiment. And whether there is sincerity behind the words or not, I cannot be reminded enough what a miracle it is to be in this world and of this world.

Life, after all, is but a flicker. And then we are gone. Shouldn’t we allow ourselves to sparkle just a bit while we’re here?

Along those lines, I have set down this observation:

THE LIFE OF A BIRTHDAY CANDLE
(© 2013 by Michael J. Cahill)

A darkened room, a spark alights
A wick is set ablaze
And so begins the best of sights
On this, the best of days 

The flicker dances all aglow
Far merrier than any
Illuminating lightly so
The merriment of many 

How brief is but the tiny flame
That reaches high above
To those who’ve come to sing your name
And shower you with love 

And in your eyes it’s plain to see
The candle reaches high
As all are waiting patiently
For you to draw a sigh 

There in that breath lives well and strong
A dream with light imbued
From out that breath is born a song
That sings to be pursued 

And in that moment, fleet and deft
After the prayer is spoke
Do not believe that all that’s left
Is but a breath of smoke 

A birthday candle gladly burns
A life that shortly lives
For all the happiness it earns
Is from the joy it gives 

Snuffed out to make a wish come true
A prayer for things to be
Alive for but a precious few —
And for eternity

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Maps

This image was selected as a picture of the we...

This image was selected as a picture of the week on the Malay Wikipedia for the 22nd week, 2010. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

When I was young and studying to be an artist one of the most common training tactics was to draw still lifes. These static renditions in graphite and charcoal were merely academic and provided little more than a lesson in line and shadow, which is fine and necessary for any budding draftsman. But the term “still life” has always troubled me — at its very core it is the penultimate contradiction in terms.

Nothing in this world can remain breathless in one position and be considered truly alive.

In much the same way, I know too many valuable people who are living a still life. Most have been beaten down by experience, robbed of any sense of wonder or imagination. The hunger to remain curious is one of our most essential vitalities. Without it we are little more than a static plate of fruit — a mere lesson in line and shadow from which someone else may learn to draw.

So much of my life has been spent with both hands out in the dark, finding my way to a better place. I know many with a similar uncertainty in their footing, each step taken in trepidation and still knowing it will always be better than standing still.

Every day I draw a new road to follow on the map of my life. The path we each chart is unique to us alone and is well documented.

The permanence of my path is set down in ink on the landscape of my experience. The wonderful thing is that I am allowed to choose which way to go and chart an utterly original course to get there. In the corner is my legend — the key that tells me true north and the increments of my journey.

The cartography of a person’s life can be seen in their face with every mile laid out in stark relief for anyone to see. If you want to understand the kind of life you have lived do not use a mirror. Instead look into the eyes of someone who knows and respects you. That will always be your finest reflection and the truth of your experience.

When I express enthusiasm for anything, it is clear in both my gesture and expression. That behavior is a steadfast part of my countenance and anyone who sees my face reads my map clearly. The geography of my good and bad experience has led me straight to this point and no better guide is required than my own exuberance. When someone else’s face lights up, I see so many rushing rivers and thoroughfares of dynamic experience, either already lived or yet to come.

For many people, their smile is the biggest part of that enthusiasm. But a smile is no mere curl of the lips. For me the eyes are the smile. They project a magnificently subtle intensity and give tremendous context to a sparkling face. In much the same way we are drawn into the smile of the Mona Lisa.

The atlas of my life is neatly folded, kept close and well-worn from over use.  As tattered and stained as that map may be, it remains a beautifully rich and flawless portrait of a life well traveled.

In my darkest and most desolate times the cartography of my past experience has always been a guide, a reference for the positive direction in which I have been journeying and the roads I long to chart.

It is not now, nor will it ever be, a still life.

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Zombies

There is much in the world that horrifies.

Many people consciously seek out those things that frighten them most. It can be cathartic to face down these fears in order to work out the wrinkles in our emotional fabric. Witness the accelerated enthusiasm of late for the horror genre.

Still the most horrifying things are those outside the realm of fiction and film.

I know that in Japan there is a reverence for the elderly. This Asian culture relies on a deep and abiding respect for the mature and the aged.  Not so much here in the west.

I know any number of older people — energetic, vital, personable people — who have told me time and again that when they walk down the street they are invisible. People look right through them as though they didn’t exist. In the busy-ness of my own day, I have been guilty of this as well.

The same is especially true of the homeless and indigent who humbly implore us for help. Or food. Or work. Even a bit of acknowledgement or recognition. We have become quite practiced at avoiding these animated walkers, shufflers and stumblers — the breathing dead.

Many years back, my daughter was being annoyed at school by a boy who simply wouldn’t leave her alone. When she asked for my advice, I told her to ignore him. She said that wouldn’t work because he never stopped. And then I told her something I probably shouldn’t have.

“Sweetheart, there’s something you need to know about boys — and men, for that matter. Nothing, and I mean nothing, is more humiliating and soul-crushing than to be utterly and completely ignored. Trust me, this boy is pestering you to get a reaction. Deny him that reaction, and there’s no payoff. No payoff, he’ll go elsewhere and annoy someone else.”

She took the advice to heart and it worked. She can be a fine actress and she simply behaved as though he truly was completely invisible. She looked right through him. Cut him off mid-sentence to laugh and talk with her friends. Total and complete blackout. The kid ended up feeling so foolish he avoided her for the rest of his school life.

The problem — once we realize we actually have the ability to make people invisible, it opens the door to abuse.

The saddest part is that we all possess the power to deny another human being the precious acknowledgement that they exist. As a socially-dependent culture, this crucial connection to other human beings is a lifeline. This fearsome power we hold over others is abused all too often.

The sluggish, dispirited shuffle of a homeless person reaching out to us on the street can feel zombie-ish and may be one of the reasons zombie films have become so outrageously popular in the last 40 years. Our secret, subliminal wish to do away with this broadly expanding portion of the populace could easily have manifested itself in a fever to erase a similarly unattractive group of creatures in horror stories and film.

Have we really become so disconnected with our fellow beings that our blank stares and dismissive behavior of them has turned us into some of the walking dead as well?

As we navigate our lives in the world each day, there are heartbeats and heartbreaks moving among us. A simple and inexpensive antidote to this epidemic of apathy is a bit of a smile to a face that clearly needs it. Lest we forget that the smile we force for another originates on a face that likely needs it most.

Zombies are real enough. I see them everywhere. And the best way to end the epidemic is to kill them with kindness.

I have always found genuine humanity to be quite infectious.

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Yet

Up ahead, through the forest, behind the mist, and beyond the darkness… is the future.

It is very much in the province of optimism to believe that whatever comes along, it will come with opportunity. It’s as natural to rely on that certainty as it is to trust that when we draw breath there will be air to fill our lungs.

We count on opportunity, otherwise we would have no reason to live. And yet…

I love the word “yet”. It is utterly aromatic with possibility. It can turn a conversation in any number of directions.

The simple use of it twists the intent of a commonplace remark toward the dark abode of disappointment or the luminous realm of noble intent. There is no tedious middle ground with “yet”. It’s a conversation turner.

Literally taken, it can mean so far, despite, up to now, eventually, or in time. While it has been employed with negative connotations, my favorite use of the word “yet” represents an optimistic outlook:

“He wrecked his car, and yet he walked away without a scratch.” Or “Healing is a matter of time, yet it can also be a matter of opportunity.”

“Yet” is no mere literary device — it is the magical moment when steel meets flint and a single microscopic spark ignites a conflagration. It introduces a turn of fortune or lends a positive spin to any situation. There’s a promise of emotion built into it. Grammatically speaking, I can think of no single syllable brimming with more promise and more hope to fuel the drama of our imaginations, which are always inspired by challenge.

Were it not for our challenges, there would be no opportunity for us to overcome them. Exceptional innovations have sprouted from the nastiest of difficulties. To me the word “yet” will always represent opportunity — the door still unopened, the adventure not quite begun.

In its best usage it can be the sunny signpost on the path to everything hopeful.

The fine Russian novelist Boris Pasternak touched on the subject most eloquently — “When a great moment knocks on the door of your life, it is often no louder than the beating of your heart, yet it is very easy to miss it.”

Too many times have I reacted to that heartbeat of opportunity with trepidation. I try to remind myself that every uplifting consequence in my life blossomed from a decision to go for love instead of fear. Fear is the scoundrel here. Always will be. How much in my life have I missed out on simply because of the fear of missing out?

“Yet” is the briefest of adverbs. A very small word. There is real power, yearning, and magic it its grasp when utilized by a master raconteur or writer.

Without the shining optimism and promise of expectation this little word adds to my work, I think it would be an effortless thing to drift into despair.

And yet, …

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X Marks the Spot

Left center breast, heart thudding in a panic.

However many saddened souls decry its effect, there is no defying the truth of its power when love comes to call.

Whatever I say here is high grade, raw and unretouched experience. And still I know not a damned thing about it. I’ve come close to love a couple of times but not like the advertising promotes.

The negatarians push their crusty philosophy that it’s not a lack of affection, but a lack of friendship that makes unhappy marriages. While both are quite necessary for pheromones to play power politics with the heart, they remain two halves of the same whole. To imply that either friendship or affection alone is responsible for a happy outcome is to discount a vast combination of additional variables. It’s like saying carbon and hydrogen alone make up the earth. But there are 102 other elements involved here, guys. And those are just the ones we know about.

In other words, it’s way more complicated than just two emotional elements — I’m talkin’ to you, Mr. Nietzsche.

There is as much charm as foolishness required for love. As much reason as whimsy, stupidity as sex appeal, grandeur as groveling, and as much patience as rage. Every single blessed one of these gestures of insecure pride are mandatory for the fully realized romantic encounter to take flight.

And what a glorious defiance of gravity it can be. The first blush of love is the thunderous and showy confidence of a roman candle responding to a single desperate flare gun sending a stream of sparks through the night.

Love defies reasonability itself. That’s why the term “romantic comedy” is itself the redundancy of the ages.

I personally am nothing special. I am a singular, unattached mass of intuition who bears no more evidence of these beliefs than the tightly clenched knot of scar tissue in my torso.

And yet it beats.

With hope.

Hope that one day very soon these throbbing little beats of expectation will be met with a perfectly reflective drumming — the sympathetic pulse of another. Yes, dear ones, unlike love, optimism is a more definable, defendable virtue but I’m not prepared to get into that here. Let us simply agree that hope is a happy, healthy puppy and love is a multi-tentacled mythical creature that would confuse the hell out of Medusa.

As Robert Fulghum asserted, “We’re all a little weird. And life is a little weird. And when we find someone whose weirdness is compatible with ours, we join up with them and fall into mutually satisfying weirdness — and call it love — true love.”

Scripture speaks of love being patient and kind. I believe this is true but also radically truncated. For love is many, many more indefinable things. It is cruelly timid, embraceably wicked, fearless, cunning and vain. Love is the substance of so many contradictions that it is impossible to define it singularly for any two people. But for each of us we know too well its powers over us personally.

As the years accumulate I hear more and more loudly the ticking of my watch. I readily wish for complete vulnerability and the absolute fabrication that is romantic alchemy. I secretly seek the unreasonably impossible, with much the same confidence that a six-year-old child trusts in the truth of buried pirate treasure. Fool that I am, I will always invest myself in the mystical belief that X marks the spot.

Now if only I could find a reliable compass.

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Wit

I love it when people speak of things about which they know nothing. My heartiest laughter comes from the commentary of those who are most hilariously mistaken.

It’s rather like looking in a mirror.

In 1984 when I was working in radio, I had the great good fortune to spend one illuminating hour interviewing the acclaimed author of “Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy” Douglas Adams. He was a supremely tall, large-boned, baby-faced gentleman with a quiet sort of unassuming demeanor who spoke in a tone of comradely mischief. He thoroughly enjoyed the lies he told for a living and relished that so many held them dear.

He was kindly tolerant of me in that, at the time, I was wholly unfamiliar with his work but not his reputation. Once again, it was I who was speaking of things I knew not and, as it turned out, I was doing so in the company of a man who felt very much the same about himself, the difference between us being Mr. Adams made a handsome living doing so, and with confidence.

We hit it off well.

We found kinship in our mutual backgrounds in radio. It was his original work with BBC Radio 4 that led to the “Hitchhiker” books. He agreed to turn his original radio series into a book . And then another, and another, and another. And, after being hounded by his publisher for many months to deliver his latest volume, was finally commanded to “Just send what you have.”

Adams described how he had been writing this last manuscript on his Mac computer and had laid it out himself with a font and format of his own devising. In total compliance he simply stopped typing in mid chapter and shipped the little floppy disc off to his publisher. This fellow promptly and unceremoniously sent it straight away to the printer who set, bound, and shipped the book without so much as a how-do-you-do or a spell-check. “And that’s why the book ends so abruptly”, he said almost apologetically.

Apparently Mr. Adams had set down enough of the story to warrant the continued adulation of his followers, who are no doubt still legion. This being the fourth “Hitchhiker” book in his series, and another two-book series behind him, he vowed, “One day I shall try to write a three-book trilogy.”

Although he did manage a few years later to add a fifth volume to the “Hitchhiker” series.

He possessed a delightful even-tempered confidence that comes only from success mixed with shrugs of genuine humility. A more pleasant, personable, and good natured fellow one could never hope to meet — at least I never hoped to.

Here was a person of immense popularity, upon whom his considerable celebrity appeared to have little or no import. Rather his most sincere interest seemed to reside in people. The man simply wanted to share your company and had more questions about you than you might muster about him. He treated me as more than an equal; in fact I was almost as a guest. What a charming and amiable host he became.

When I am offered definitions of the word “wit”, to this day I cannot summon any image before that of this dearly deft Englishman who happily welcomed me under his umbrella of celebrity that day some twenty-nine years ago.

I have read the works of many pithy writers, and some with nary any pith at all, but none holds so fond a place in my heart as the wit of Douglas Adams.

Guided solely by prejudice, I am only left to offer you the wit and whimsy of the great man himself in the form of his considerable quotations:

“Human beings, who are almost unique in having the ability to learn from the experience of others, are also remarkable for their apparent disinclination to do so.” (Douglas Adams)

“He hoped and prayed that there wasn’t an afterlife. Then he realized there was a contradiction involved here and merely hoped that there wasn’t an afterlife.”  (Douglas Adams)

“He felt that his whole life was some kind of dream and he sometimes wondered whose it was and whether they were enjoying it.” (Douglas Adams)

“Nothing travels faster than the speed of light with the possible exception of bad news, which obeys its own special laws.” (Douglas Adams)

“I love deadlines. I like the whooshing sound they make as they fly by.” (Douglas Adams)

“The ships hung in the sky in much the same way that bricks don’t.” (Douglas Adams)

“Time is an illusion. Lunchtime doubly so.” (Douglas Adams)

“You live and learn. At any rate, you live.” (Douglas Adams)

And finally, a quote I am happy to say he unleashed on me during the course of our interview:

“I refuse to answer that question on the grounds that I don’t know the answer.” (Douglas Adams)

At the conclusion of our 60 minutes together I declared that this had been the most delightful six hours I’d ever spent and Mr. Adams laughed out loud. He gave me his home address in London and asked me to write. I regret that I never did since I always felt I would have nothing noteworthy to report.

In 2000 I moved to Los Angeles and had no idea Douglas Adams had moved stateside and was just an hour and half north of me in Santa Barbara. On May 11th the next year I cried when I heard he had died.

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