Compulsion to Flee

I often write about my travels and the things I experience while traveling.  The adventure of it. 😊  Particularly getting back to Nature and hiking in the wilderness.  Something I do whenever possible.  And the urge to travel, or to continue traveling once on the road, is always at the surface.

Lingering, like a Tiger ready to pounce on its prey.

Frankly, I like that feeling.  For it drives me to drive.  Gives me reason and purpose.  An impetus to greet Grandfather Sun each day.

Continue reading Compulsion to Flee

My Mom Had Guts!

International Women’s Day was yesterday.  To honor it last year, I made a post about my daughter.  Today, I’ll honor my mother.

My mom grew up on a farm in southern Michigan.  The closest “big town” was Sylvania, Ohio.  As soon as she could, she left the farm and found work in Toledo.  While there, she also sold War Bonds  for WWII and was a “War Bond Captain.”

But this wasn’t exciting enough for her.

Continue reading My Mom Had Guts!

Sunka Wakam

Horses - 1-14-18 + Quote

Indeed, this is a holy spirit.

Many thanks to my blogging friend Supernatural Hippy who turned me on to a book where I found this quote.  You ought to check out her page.

In Metta

Photo:  My daughter runs her own business boarding horses.  A fine couple of renters from the winter months 🙂

New Day

Storms don’t exactly sneak up on you in the Midwest.  Unless you’re sleeping.

They hem and haw.  Fronts drift in.  Stagnate.  Advance.  Stall.  Pick up again.  Sort of unfold in slow-mo.

Certainly not like the Thunder Boomers out West.

Although we do get that occasional freight train.  Those tornadic, counter-clockwise winds that sweep in so fast no one can prepare.   In fact, if you witness them, it is sort of hypnotizing.  Like a snake hypnotizes its prey.

For the average storm here, the wind picks up, the temperature drops, and sometimes, you can see that clearly demarcated line of clouds advancing.  That gray-blue, dark-clouded front-line meeting clear, blue sky, perhaps with its wisps of white cirrus clouds.  But it’s when the temperature drops that you really know it’s about to hit.

Along with that unmistakable fragrance that suddenly permeates the atmosphere.

Continue reading New Day

Open Range – Revisited

Intro:  I wrote this story back in 1993, describing some of my time on the road between 1978 and 1980.  I had packed up and bugged out after a little run-in with the law.

Something sparked the memory, and I dug out a copy of the publication it appeared in at the time – “Out Your Backdoor.”

I found it fun to look back at my writing style then.  Not that much different from today.

I was trying to break into freelance writing and looking for small publications that would pick up an article – payment was usually a couple copies of the newsletter, magazine, or journal, or whatever print media it might have been.

With a few minor edits, here it be . . .

*****

Continue reading Open Range – Revisited

When Mountains Dance on Tiny Feet

I left you all at a juncture in my story “The Club 66.”  So, it’s time to circle back a little.  If you don’t remember, check out the last couple of paragraphs.

Disclaimer:  I don’t recommend that anyone participate in such a ceremony without proper guidance, intent, and knowledge.  Also, since we are all individuals, creatures with complex chemical-electrical systems, there is no way to predict how ingestion of any substance might affect someone.  To either their benefit or detriment.

Nor can I offer any guidance in how to interpret such an experience.  Words fall far short.

Continue reading When Mountains Dance on Tiny Feet

A Little “Tude” Please

Well, as language continues to evolve, or devolve, there’s nothing “cooler” than shortening words for effect. 😊  It also takes less energy and effort.  I mean, why bother with all those syllables and pronunciation, right?

There’s also a connotation that sticks with these phrases.  These monotone soundbites.

Today’s example is “tude.”  The short version of “attitude.”  And it’s usually with the negative connotation.  “So, what’s with all the tude man?”  “Too early in the day for that kind of tude.”

I’m sure you’ve heard it before.

Continue reading A Little “Tude” Please

The Conman

I had finished a couple of beers and an appetizer with a friend at a local pub.  Nice neighborhood.  Quiet part of town.

While he had to leave, the night was still young, and I decided to mosey on over to the bar and have another round before I hit the trail.

I generally like meeting new people at the bar, and I’ve met some fine ones and had wonderful conversations.  Trading stories.  Slices of life.  Different paths in different timelines converge for a bit.

A smiling between souls.

Continue reading The Conman

The Heart of Storytelling

I read a post a couple of days ago stating that the difference between humans and other animals was the ability of humans to tell stories.  And that this ability is what has led to discoveries, inventions (good and bad), art, poetry, war, etc.

Of course, I believe other species have their own way of telling stories. 🙂

Stories have been said to create a special niche where we love to reside.  Fictional worlds that fill our minds, the majority of the time for some of us, with a central plot-line of underlying “conflict.”  There are generally dark forces to overcome, battles to be won or lost, struggles that define the protagonists, to whom we relate ourselves.

It is us that mirrors back as being the heroine or hero.  Whether defeated or exalted.

Continue reading The Heart of Storytelling

Full Snow Moon

 Last night, I tried posting this pic from the WP app on my phone. I had a bit of trouble but I think it did finally come through and I hope you’ve liked it.

Took this one off the back porch with a 400mm zoom lens and cropped it to enlarge it more.

The phone app doesn’t allow you to post a feature pic, and now that I’m back on the lap top, I’m making a few edits. I’ve also tried WP’s new editor with this one. Can’t say that I like it.

Have a wonderful Sunday!

In Metta

Neural Roadmaps Revisited

Revisiting the past seems to cycle in our lives.  If not physically, mentally.  But it seems there are times when the physical odyssey is unavoidable.  It may even be unconscious at first.  We embark on a journey just to realize midway we are circling back in time. Perceptions have shifted, aged, but we are retracing routes gone by.  “Treading trodden trails,” as the saying goes.  Neural roadmaps.  Highways of memories.  Echoes of day dreams.

The roads might be slightly different.  And the faces we see this time around may be new to us, drawn together, in passing, by a transitional event.  In this case, it was my mother’s final breaths.

I saw the parallels as I was driving by the home where myself and my brothers grew up.  A small town now a burgeoning suburb of a major city.  When the family moved there, the population was around 250, plus a lot of corn fields.  When I left, there were little more than 2500 people.  It’s no longer a rural community and the population has passed 30,000.  The corn fields replaced with structures.  More boxes for storage, of categorized life.

My old home is now a dental office with the yard paved over.  A parking lot for tooth repair.  The vacant lot across the street, a playland of the imagination where mythic battles raged in the jungles of weeds, now a motor bank.  The majestic apricot tree on the corner by the park, gone.  Not even a seed to carry its memory of the sweet fruit it offered free for the taking.  The lake we fished in, fenced off, imprisoned.

The historic downtown, an outward reflection, a mimic of time, but the core has transformed.  The library is office space.  The hardware store, an art gallery.   The feed mill, a microbrewery.  The old school is torn down.  Time and places evaporated.

But all of my memories are intact.  The pleasure and the pain of growth.

Every summer this home was a launch point for the family reunions.  First with my dad’s family in Indiana, and then my mom’s in Michigan.  Those were times of active voices.  Of laughter and play.  The excitement of seeing cousins, of family card games, and mysterious old homes to explore.  Spiral staircases to dusty attics, and coal furnaces in the basements.  We mined for treasures.  And we found them in shiny objects unearthed, planted by the generation before.

And there were haylofts in old barns, where we leaped into the sky, hay piles lying beneath to break our fall.  Flying for instants that lasted forever.  A shirt was a cape, or a parachute.

An old hand pump still brought water from the earth.  A hidden aquifer of life.

An electric fence for horses, and a dare to feel its pulses.  Grab hold the wire and zap a brother with the other hand, before mom or dad would shoo us away.

Pulses, pulses, I feel my heart beating as I drive, wandering back in time, shuffling though images not matching the roadway.  Highway hypnosis.

I’m retracing that reunion route again, but this time, the nuclei of both families are gone, having passed on to the Blue Road of the Spirit.

My father passed in ’09, and after revisiting the ground where I was raised, I stop to pay my respects to him and my paternal ancestors.  He was buried in the family plot in the town where he grew up.  A few miles down the road is “Stearleyville,” or its shadow, founded by my great, great grandfather.  The reverse of my hometown.  The small village is gone, fully reverted to farmland.

The cemetery is filled with generations, back to the original immigrant couple.  Two stones eerily bear my own name.  One my grandfather, and one his second son that died as an infant – born on my same birthday, passed 30 years before my birth.

I remember my dad’s funeral.  Full military honors.  Steeped in tradition.

He taught me the meanings of honor, integrity, loyalty, strength of character, and hard work.

We talk in silence.  For a while.

Then it’s on to Michigan.  A small town on the border of Ohio. My mother also to be buried in a family plot.  Similar small town and farm family roots.  The memories of both homes blurred.

She’s outlived the rest of her family so we have a small ceremony.  A few cousins, whom I’m meeting for the first time.  It’s a nice service for a well-lived life of a good heart.

She taught me compassion, empathy, and self-sacrifice.

My parents’ bodies lay some 300 miles apart.  Their spirits united?  Their soul contracts complete?  And the particles of consciousness they helped bring into the world are scattered about the Midwest. Such is the stardust of which we’re composed.

Family plots.  Family traditions.  Traditions I will not follow.  My ashes are to be released into the wind.  No name carved in stone.

I wonder, when I leave, what neural roadmaps my daughter’s memories will travel.  I hope that she too has flown wearing a magic cape.

***

 

Photo: I didn’t actually take this image, but it is an image of my brain from an MRI . . .

And if you didn’t see it earlier, check out my intro to this post in my Daily Musings – Rotation.

Rotation

A number of things were swirling in my head as I woke from my slumbers.

For one, Kirk Douglas died yesterday.  And as I read off the list of his many accomplishments and movies I was reminded of the film “Lonely are the Brave.”  Now I saw this film a long time ago, loved it, and when I watched it oh so many years ago, I had no idea of the connection with Edward Abbey, whose work I’ve also come to thoroughly enjoy.

It’s strange how things can circle around in our lives.

Continue reading Rotation

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