La Mar

image © Gabriel Burchman

He was a young man adrift in a small boat twelve miles off the coast of Moloka’i.  The faint outline of Lanai shrunk in his wake as the horizon came to life in the rays of the morning sun, burning a thin line of yellow on the endless waters ahead.  He lay sidelong on the bench, resting his head on a rolled up tarp used in sudden downpours.  His eyes, which shone bright green under his brow, were affixed on the distant peaks of a dormant volcano, the Halekala, off his stern.  He rested one foot on the steering arm of a small outboard motor, keeping it perfectly aligned on a narrow course navigated by no more than tendrils of light through the peaks and the occasionally nudge of his heel.  

            Everything about the man spoke of confidence on the open sea.  His demeanor was relaxed, his actions deliberate and resolute.  At the age of five he saw his first marlin pulled from the deep blue waters off the coast of Havana by his mentor and, in an instant, his love affair with the ocean was solidified.  The wonder and awe of that fish quickly turned to panic as it began to thrash about the tiny skiff, nearly tearing the boat to pieces and threatening bodily harm with ever swipe of the bill and whip of the tail.  With a few smooth and deliberate lashes of his club, the old man had once again brought stillness to the boat, comforting the trembling boy with a wink and a grin.  “This fish is our brother and deserves a dignified end,” he said, a fresh mist of blood coloring his face. “You must steady your mind and act out of love, not fear.  This boat is not unlike your small body; act swiftly when the time comes, otherwise fear will tear your tiny vessel apart, making you ill equipped to travel such vast expanses as the sea…or the many years of a lifetime.”

            The boat reached a point where the sun had chased away the remains of darkness causing the man to stir for the first time since leaving the channels of Lahania.  He sat up, throttled back the motor to a slow crawl and scanned the horizon.  A small plastic hula dancer near the bow cleat swayed gently at the hip in response to the change in momentum.  His cheeks were the color and texture of supple leather and they pushed up against the folds of his eyes as he squinted from the shimmer of the water, creating premature wrinkles that trickled down his face like those of a worn billfold.  Smiling, he cut the throttle and closed his eyes as his tiny boat sliced through the gentle rolls of the waters.  With a deep breath he took in the salty air and exhaled loudly, opening his eyes as he began to set himself up.  

image © Gabriel Burchman

            The first order of business was to pull up a line that been affixed to the starboard cleat and remove the small tuna that had been kept fresh in the rushing water by a line looped in the pointed mouth, out of its silver gills, and knotted off to form a tight noose.  With a few turns of his knife the man carved three chunks of meat, two of which he placed to the side and the largest of which was laced on the end of a crooked hook.  He twirled the meat overhead like a lasso and released it off the bow, sending the spool of heavy line into the air like a bolt of heat lighting chasing across a stormy sky.  The line consisted of two standard lengths spliced together by a blood knot, a technique he had learned from the old man to lengthen the reserve line.  He plunged the rod into a hollow pipe welded to the anchor mount, leaving the rig towering overhead like the mast of a sailboat.  Pleased, he sat back and reached for a small tin can nestled deep in the engine.  With the tips of his fingers he quickly removed the can, which had been kept warm by the heat of the carburetor, popped open the lid and smelled the rich aroma of coffee.  “Fish,” the man said aloud, “today is a special day and I want so much for you to join me!”  The man rarely spoke on the water, as silence was a virtue while at sea; however out here alone he felt it almost rude not to introduce his presence in some way to his fellow ocean travelers.  The smell of the coffee reminded him of home and he smiled as he drank in the warm glow of the morning. 

            As a boy, he would wake up far before sunrise and run to the kitchen, where he would grind fresh beans and brew a pot of coffee on the stovetop, filling the entire kitchen with a wonderful bittersweet smell.  His father had long since abandoned any attempt to take the boy with him to work in the sugar cane fields, as the boy was single minded in his pursuit to become a fisherman.  With a steaming thermos of hand ground coffee and a few ham croquettes saved from the previous night’s dinner in the pocket of his coat, the boy would race through the streets towards the docks, just as the roosters began to wake the rest of Havana.  The same newspaper vendor would smile at the boy in recognition as he made his way through town, darting past the drunks which littered the sidewalk outside of the all night cantina.  Once on the waterfront he would remove a stack of thimble sized plastic cups from his coat and go from slip to slip offering the strong brew of Cuban coffee to dock workers and street sweepers.  For a quarter he would pour a shot; equal parts espresso and sugar straight from his father’s fields, a nickel would get you a second.  No matter how much demand he met, he always left the last few shots for his mentor.  Together, they would load the boat with gear and he would offer the handful of shiny earnings to the old man in payment.  This ritual would make the old man smile and shake his head as they rowed out past the harbor into a golden sunrise.

            “Fish,” he exclaimed, eyes wide and animated, “I hope you have rested and are as ready for me as I am for you!”  He was in good spirits as this was his maiden voyage on the tiny boat which he had purchased from a former employer just the day before.  In his youth he would charge out of the docks and stop just a few miles off shore in eager anticipation to begin the days haul.  But now, older and wiser, he knew to avoid the competition of the shallower waters and head much further out.  The true treasures of the sea, as in life, require patience and faith found deep in the abyss of the unknown.   Now he enjoyed the journey and rested, admiring the company of spinner dolphins and breaching humpbacks as they followed him through the water.  With his line set and the coffee warming his body, he sat looking back towards the faint beacon of a buoy near land, the light blue path of his wake slowly eroding the past and joining it to the present.

            His days fishing as a boy were cut short when his father forbade him to continue learning from the old man, who had gone so long without a single fish he felt him to be truly unlucky.  His father sent him to help his uncle in the fields of a “cafetale,” a coffee plantation where his uncle taught him the hard work involved with picking the beans he so loved to smell.  Conditions were harsh and not meant for a boy with hands as smooth as his, but his father hoped he would learn structure and a strong work ethic as the calluses began to appear on his hands; just as he had gained working in the sugar fields.  The boy worked very hard which pleased his father and, over time, grew to appreciate the work as that which a man must do to provide.  Still, not a day went by that he did not dream how beautiful the sea looked when painted by the midday sun. 

When he was not lending his body to harvest the fruits of the earth, the boy was honing his fishing skills at twilight, navigating to and from port by the glow of Havana.  His eyes became accustomed to night fishing and he felt very happy to live out the rest of his days this way; earning a wage along with his father’s pride by day and rolling in the moonlit tides at night.  Although the cafeteles tired his body, he was revitalized at the onset of dusk with the hope of a big haul which he would bring to his mentor and friend who, now too old and frail for the indifference of the sea, had given the boy his wooden skiff despite much protest and insistence on paying for it.  The man loved the boy as a son and needed no great gesture or fanfare for such an act.  He felt safe and carefree adrift in that boat, every square inch of wood soaked in memories and seasoned from the oil and scales of past bounties; however the social tides of the day were making it hard to ignore the storm gathering on the horizon. 

 Just before his sixteenth birthday, the tensions of a changing state and the ever present fear of a future under Castro’s regime had driven his father to action.  The boy was awoken suddenly in the night and hurried into the bed of truck, where his father clutched him tightly as they lay amongst chicken wire and wooden crates, which shed tiny white feathers as the truck sped off.  It happened so quickly the boy might have believed it to a dream; the white feathers dancing in front of his face like a shaken snow globe as he looked up at the moon.  He tried to speak, to ask what was going on; but was met with his father’s calloused hand clamped around his mouth and a tighter, more urgent embrace.  After a short and confusing ride, the boy could be certain this was no dream as he found himself alone on a dock watching the truck drive off the way it came, his tattered shirt damp from the cold steel of the truck bed and his pockets stuffed with what little U.S. dollars his father had collected.  The boy stared at his father as the truck slowly absorbed into the darkness of the night.  They held a gaze suspended in time; a moment between them more insightful than all the moments that preceded it.  A short time later he was rushed into a small vessel that sat idle at the dock.  Known as the “Camarioca boatlift,” The U.S. coast guard had guided convoys of private boats wishing to rescue friends and family from the turmoil of Castro’s regime and bring them back to Key West.  A distant cousin had agreed to pick the boy up and they sped away in the night surrounded by the flashing beacons of heavily armored coast guard vessels, making him one of the last Cuban exports to be welcomed onto American soil.  He now traveled at night using only moonlight, so as to avoid the painful memory of his father in the bed of that truck; a stern and hopeful expression on a face betrayed by eyes that could not hold back the sorrow of their circumstances. 

            The shrill cry of a seabird broke his gaze, which had been focused on the quivering tip of his rod. 

image © Gabriel Burchman

“Fish”, he pleaded, “now is not the time to hesitate!  Take the meat and be full!”  His eyes followed the taught line down from the sky where, ever so subtly, it pulsated on the surface of the water like an erratic heartbeat.  He closed his eyes and reached out to put two fingers on the line like a harp player, using his body to resonate the vibrations from the deep and translate them into a mental image.  After a short time he opened his eyes and let go of the line, sighing as he took a piece of the tuna that he had carved and sliced it into thin strips, placing them in a shallow bowl.  “Ahhh, you must be very full or very cleaver to resist something as tasty as fresh tuna!”  He reached in a bag and pulled out a lime, cut it in half, and squeezed it over the raw strips of fish, submerging them in a mixture of citrus and saltwater.  He had found the local Hawaiians made a similar dish called “Pokē,” which substituted sesame oil and soy sauce for the citrus, but he much preferred the acidic bite from the lime.  He felt the sting of the juice as it soak into the small cuts of his palm and he brought the hand to his mouth to taste the bittersweet memories as they dripped down his forearm.

            If Havana was the soil by which the boy had begun to grow, Key West was the hard ground by which he fell onto prematurely.  Just like the small indigenous limes which had a strong bite and thinner skin than the more common variety, so too did the boy become strong and bitter on the inside; his size stunted by the sudden removal from the land which had nourished him.  The town, although limited in its industry and confined to only a four mile square radius, was a place where a fisherman could thrive.  The salvage divers and longshoremen were unlike the noble old man who taught him to revere the ocean and all her treasures; they buzzed around the docks like sharks in a feeding frenzy, setting out to sea with plunder in their hearts.  Although he had more knowledge of fishing than many men twice his age, no boat was willing to give him work, as he appeared much too small and fragile for the labor required at sea.  Time and necessity left him resigned to washing dishes and cleaning tables at a bar in the heart of Duval Street.  Days passed and the harsh smell of bleach-soaked rags began edging out the rich memories of home, sterilizing whatever youthful optimism still remained inside. 

            One of the unfortunate realities of life is that pain, both physical and emotional, acts as the catalyst for growth.  A muscle must be ripped in order to become stronger; our souls must endure darkness in order to see the full spectrum of the light.  Two years had gone by when news of his father’s disappearance reached Key West.  Castro had polarized Cuba, turning neighbors against one another and leaving many families torn apart by the militant regime.  One night his father was questioned about his involvement in the Camarioca boatlift, the next morning he did not show up for work in the sugar fields.   While the boy loved his father and missed him very much, something inside him had dried up, leaving behind a soul too salty for grieving.  He had paid his dues over the years and now worked behind the bar, absorbing the hard-bitten mentality of the fishermen who came in at night to drink and fight like drunken pirates.  Four hours passed before he excused himself out the backdoor and walked down the alley towards the water.  A hard rain caused the shirt to cling against his back and the moon shone bright, illuminating the rain all around him.  He remembered that last night with his father, his back cold and damp from the steel truck bed, feathers dancing around him like snowflakes in the sky.  He sat there on the break wall and, for the first time in a long time, felt the sea calling him to head out from stagnant waters and into her deep unknown.  

image © Gabriel Burchman

            Suddenly, and without warning, the line snapped tight causing the man to startle from his daydream and lean instinctively towards the port side, counterbalancing the heavy strain pulling from the deep.  “Brother,” he yelled, “I thought you had left me!”  The reel screamed as he steadied himself, reaching for the rod with legs set firm against the starboard side.  The line had continued to feed from the eyeholes and he knew in his heart down below was a “grander”; a monster marlin over 1000lbs found only out in deep waters.  He grabbed the rod and arched his back, bearing the strain on his muscles as he and the boat were pulled towards land, as if by a stubborn dog on a leash.

It was with similar determination that he himself had been lead towards the islands.  Although the late hours at the bar did not afford him the harmony of Havana’s coffee fields at dawn and the harbor at dusk, he had been anchored to Key West.  A part of him had hoped that, one day, his father would walk in; suitcase in hand and a smile on his face.  While the news of his father’s fate had pulled that anchor free, it did little to change his disposition.  No longer a boy, he had grown accustomed to his circumstances and made peace with it.  The regulars kept him entertained and their stories of the sea seemed to supplement his dreams of joining them.  His favorite patron; a writer with big broad shoulders and a shock of white hair, would sit at the bar telling stories until empty pint glasses lay before him like bowling pins, in danger of being knocked over by his constant swaying.  The young man would listen to accounts of backyard boxing matches and fishing adventures from the Gulf Stream upon his boat, “The Pilar”.  The stories made him smile and think of his friend, the old man who had taught him to look beyond the vastness of an endless ocean and see the treasures that wait for those with faith.  The thought of his old mentor along with the loss of his father seemed to stir something inside; like the clashing between climates that twist and turn together to bring the wind by which our sails depend. 

            The abrupt downpours of Key West brought diversity to the usual bar crowd, as tourists would rush in to avoid the rain and pass the time with drinks.  On one such night, the young man was cleaning glasses with his back to the door as the old writer recounted a battle with the biggest fish he ever hooked.  Just as he was reaching the climatic ending, he suddenly was quiet.  The young man spun around with the intention of cursing the patron for leaving him in suspense, but instead, stood breathless as he saw the reason for the sudden silence.  A beautiful girl, tanned skin with long dark hair and almond shaped eyes, had walked up to the bar and smiled at the young man, who stood as solid as an oak.  “You must excuse my friend,” the writer said, “for I seem to have bored him into paralysis with my fishing tales.”  She blushed, her eyes jumping from the floor to the young man’s admiring expression.  “Please, take my seat,” he said, as he stood and patted the bar stool, “won’t you sit and breath some youth back into this fine young man?”  She thanked him and sat down as the young man fumbled to pour her a glass of wine.  He set the glass in front of the girl and gave a smile to his friend.

“And you, can I offer you a beer?” 

“Why not,” the old man grinned, tilting his head towards the girl, “between fishermen.”  He took the full pint and gave a deep nod to the young couple, leaving them smiling awkwardly at one another.  Finally, the young man spoke.

“Hi,” he managed, “My name is Manolin.”

The fish below was unwavering and the young man fought furiously with the rod to keep control of his small boat, which had been pulled through the water for the past three hours like a matador snagged upon the horns of an angry bull.  His muscles were fatigued and sore, but his eyes remained bright and optimistic.  “Fight all you want my brother,” he growled through clenched jaws, “I many not be as strong as I think, but I know many tricks and I have resolution.”  The sun beat down on the water setting it ablaze, causing sweat to pour from his brow.  Just when he felt the struggle was too great, he heard the confident voice of his old mentor beside him; “What is to give light must enduring burning.”  He ignored the pain and smiled wildly at the impending showdown.  

image © Gabriel Burchman

            They talked until the rain had long-since stopped and all the drunks had spilled out into the night.  He locked up and they walked arm in arm down the back alley away from the crowd and lights of the strip.  The sidewalk was dark and wet, and they walked along it to the break wall at the edge of town, passing street lights which poured an amber glow onto the black, wet brick of Mallory square.  They walked out across the wet grass and onto the stone break wall.  He spread a newspaper and they sat, looking back across the dark water of the marina where they could see the faint outline of a great cruise liner. She had been at sea for two months before arriving that morning on the cruise ship, where she performed nightly as a hula dancer.  The wind was high up and took the clouds across the moon, causing the ship to loom ominously in front of them like a mountain silhouetted against the amber backdrop.  He stared out at it for a long time, imagining her on it, sailing away.  When he could no longer stand it, and tears began to gloss his vision, he turned to her and was met with her lips.  She kissed him sweetly, and he put his hand to her soft, wet face.  He sat with her there until her early morning call to board the ship and then watched the boat slip away into the grey sky morning. 

            The next evening he went about his duties behind the bar.  “What’s the matter with you?”  The writer asked, noticing the defeated look on his face.  The young man told him of their evening, how alive he felt when he was with her, and ultimately how circumstance had once again knocked him back down to the hard ground.  The old man studied him for a beat before getting up and leaving, not saying a word.

            “Thanks for nothing you old drunk!” He shouted, angry at his indifference.  Hours passed and the crowds came in and went out like the tides, until he was once again alone with his sorrow. The door opened and the old man slowly made his way to the bar, set an envelope down and stood there, his eyes searching the weathered grain of the wooden counter.

            “There is a thin line between an old man and an old fool,” he said, his voice low and measured. “I lost the Pilar six years ago in a poker game.  I haven’t been on a boat since; much less chased any marlin out in the gulf.” The young man gave him a confused look.  “There was a time when I came close to the man from my stories, fearless and hell bound.  But time has a way blurring the boarders between aspirations and actions.”  His head tiled slightly towards the stack of empty pint glasses.  “And those don’t help much any!”  The young man smiled, hoping to see his friend return the levity.  He looked up, his eyes heavy from years of regret.  “The truth is they all got away…all the big fish I’ve ever hoped to catch.  I’ve resigned myself to this stool right here, re-writing the past in my mind, night by night, pint by pint.”  The young man stood breathless as the writer smiled, got up and walked away, stopping at the door.  “When the time comes, let your actions be guided by love, not fear.  Act swiftly, or the latter will have you seated next to me someday.”  Before another word could be said he walked out into the night.  The young man watched him slip away before finally noticing the envelope before him.  Inside he found three crisp $100 bills and a handwritten note which read; “have the boy report to work tomorrow at Mallory square upon the SS Leeward, 6am sharp.  I have secured a spot for him as a deckhand until his replacement arrives on board in Maui.”  His eyes went wide, jumping to the bottom of the page with excitement.  “P.S., let me know when you want to play another game of poker!”

            The tension on the line increased exponentially, showing the erratic stirrings of a fish ready for its final stand.  The reel moaned with every swift jerk from below, unspooling itself inch by inch until only a few yards remained before reaching the blood knot connecting it to the reserve line. “Come now, fish,” he shouted, “You are in good company! Let us meet eye to eye, brother to brother!”  The line went out parallel to the water as the fish swam out towards the sun, which had fallen just above the horizon. 

The salt air filled the young man’s lungs once again as he stood on deck watching his last sunset on the Atlantic.  His sail was full and pushed him further out into the vast expanse than ever before, his past receding in the fading wake of the cargo ship as it neared the Panama Canal.  He sat and wrote a long letter to an old friend until the crimson canvas of the sky faded subtly into the dark blue palette of night.  The letter went out with the bulk mail on its way to Cuba just as his journey crossed over into warmer waters.  After arriving on Maui a few weeks later, he spent nearly all his time aboard a local charter boat, re-training his hands to tie precision knots and learning from the rich local traditions.  His captain, a stout and jovial Hawaiian man, had hired him on the spot; recognizing in the young man an invaluable reverence and understanding of the sea.  The captain spoke in short, jab-like sentences, his voice soaring high above the roaring engines in a singsong tone.  The first mate, a native of Moloka’I, protested that the young man’s presence was forbidden, or “kapu,” as the ocean and religion were all but synonymous in their culture.  They worked in silence, except for the occasional sidelong glare from the native, which was quickly broken by the captain’s sharp tongue.  The young man’s expertise and skill eventually earned him a mutual respect on board; creating a successful dynamic between men raised by the sea and respectful enough to behave in her presences.  

Four months passed before, one afternoon, the captain surprised the young man with a small brown package addressed to; “Manolin – c/o the SS Leeard port of call – Lahaina.”  The young man read the attached note and, before the captain could say a word, repaid the surprise by offering him a week’s pay for his old wooden skiff, which had been tied up and neglected at the end of the dock for months.  The captain saw resolve in his eyes and, although not sure what to make of the overly generous offer, shook his hand firmly with a smile.

His past and present had converged like the tides to bring him to this moment; adrift in a small wooden boat under the same golden sky he remembered as a boy, indifferent to our measures of time and distance.  He set his feet firmly against the bow and arched his back with a grunt, the rod digging into his ribcage causing every ounce of the great fish to resonate thought his whole body.  They fought back and forth like two brothers with opposing goals, tethered together by a mere length of line.  The water began to churn ahead, brief streaks of silver and blue glinting just under the surface as he struggled to close the distance between them.  With his left hand gripped firmly on the mid-point of the rod, he leaned back in an attempt to pry the fish closer, coaxing him to jump from the water and fill the air sacs along his back, making it all but impossible to dive back down into the deep.  He was now twenty yards away from the whirlpool ahead, when the water became suddenly still.  With eyes wide in anticipation he watched the glassy surface for the breach, but instead felt the rod jerk violently downwards; the reel a blur as the spool of line went out once again.  The boat dipped towards the starboard side and he stood straight up with one foot on the bench, shifting his weight towards his back leg for balance.  Just as quickly as it had dipped, the boat recoiled suddenly and rocked to the port side, sending the young man through the air and landing on his back in the bed of the boat.  All around him the water had become a sheet of golden glass, peaceful and serene.  He looked towards his hands, cut and bloody against the rod, and notice the reserve line still coiled in the reel; the blood knot connecting the two lines frayed just at the end where it had given way.  

image © Gabriel Burchman

He lay motionless looking up at the sky, relaxing his body and mind.  The cool water relieved tense muscles in his back and shoulders and caused a mist of steam to arise from skin like the smoldering remains of a fire.  The sun had slipped beyond the horizon, painting the day’s swan song against a gilded sky, and he sat up to take in the serenity all around him.  He took a deep breath and exhaled loudly, turning his gaze to the small brown package tucked away under the coil of rope used as the forward spring line.  With a careful hand he opened the box removing its contents; a small coffee canister, a framed picture of the sacred heart of Jesus, another of the Virgin of Cobre, and a letter. He unfolded the letter and read it slowly to himself, as he had done the day before.

            Manolin,

I am writing on behalf of your intended recipient, Santiago.  My name is Domingo and I own the small shack which my former tenant, and your old friend, resided at for many years.  I regret to inform you that Santiago passed away some time ago.  He had very few belongings, of which I have included in this package for you.  Santiago was an isolated and quiet man, but when he did talk of a friend, it was your name he spoke.  I run a small newspaper stand in town and remember you as a boy; running through the streets of Havana on your way to the docks, do you recall?  It was your coffee that I looked forward to every morning, so rich and smooth!  If only Santiago could see what distance your letter has traveled, it would surely make him smile, as only you could.  Your youth kept him going for many years.  I cannot speak on behalf of our friend, but if I could I would say this; continue to chase what it is you seek out there in the deep, but keep an eye on the horizon.  A man makes his own path in life, each course leading towards a different ending to his story.  May your journey be filled with memories far too abundant for the confines a small box, your story remembered as more than that of our friend; an old man, and the sea. 

-Domingo

            He placed the letter to the side and took the canister in his hands, removing the lid to reveal the dark, ashy powder inside.  He studied it appraisingly, taking stock of all it contained; the memory of a man betrayed by a weight no greater than a handful of sand.  He thought of his father, and how much he wished to hold something tangible of his in order to say goodbye in this way.  But life is like water; we cannot control its currents, but instead must adjust our sails to navigate our way between storms.  “I had hoped our friend could join us,” he said, looking out towards the horizon. “But I am rusty, my hands cannot tie the master knots they once could…the way you could.”  He looked down towards the rod, its bloody handle surrounded by a nest of frayed line spilling from the reel.  “You taught me much about life; to have faith on the lonely journey out to deep waters.  I want you to know I have found my fish, and set my course accordingly.  Tomorrow I will go inland, towards the coffee fields of this valley isle and set down roots.”  He held the canister over the bow and emptied its contents overboard, creating a floating patch of ash contrasted against the shimmering water.  “Go now and be with your brothers.  Don’t worry old man, I will visit often.  With enough luck I will bring with me that which I chase…she returns in 84 days.” 

He watched the ash dissolve on the surface, on its way down into the deep.  With a final nod, he started the motor and circled the boat around, aligning his bow with the faint outline of the island in the distance.  Once again he lay sidelong on the bench, his head rested on the rolled up tarp, his eyes focused towards the faint glow of Lahaina visible just beyond the gentle swaying of the small plastic hula dancer on his bow.  The surface grew still in his fading wake, except for a small patch of churning water where the ash had vanished towards the deep.  The young man sat straight up, alarmed by a sound heard over the motor and turned back towards the horizon, just in time to see a splash of water reaching high up in the air.  Something big had breached. 

 original oil on gold leaf © Gabriel Burchman

 

 

 

 

 

Images by Gabriel Burcham are original oils on gold leaf.  For more info on this Maui based artist and his work visit http://www.gabrielburchman.com/php/bio.php

My keeper

It is somewhat difficult to pin down the particular memory that I can claim to be “my first”.  Like the other “firsts” of a man’s life, I find mind myself trying to separate fact from glorious fiction as to the origin and details of the event.  When it comes to my early childhood in Vegas, there are quick glimpses of places, sounds, and smells that I can call up to piece together a rough collage…like walking through the editing room of my mind and finding my life a few frames at a time.  There are the short adventure clips of the desert lot across from our home where we would search for snakes and scorpions, the sight of red mountains dancing on the horizon from the heat of the midday sun, and the steady buzz of cicada bugs sounding the alarm that dusk was approaching.  But, no matter what memory I pick up from the back room of my mind, there is one unifying theme that has caused me to earmark an event as “memorable”; I was with my big brother, Paul.

The early years of our life are somewhat of a blur.  We lived in Las Vegas, had a home in Sun Valley Idaho, and a very nice boat in the O.C. (don’t call it that!) California.  There are snapshots of all these places but, in the mind of a youth with no reference point, they all seemed to be “home”.  I have fond memories of trying to seek out and destroy red ants in the neighboring lot by our home in Vegas, searching for small critters in the mud at our Sun Valley, Idaho place in order to wretch them from their muddy homes and toss them at my brother, and finally combing the docks of Newport Beach for crabs that I could snatch with my dinosaur-shaped grabber and smash against the docks…and no, I did not go to therapy, why do you ask? Regardless of where I was, I think at an early age I realized I had a partner in crime that was strong, much stronger than I.  In times of distress, it was clear that Paul would always be a pillar of strength to lean on and the person in my life who I could count on no matter what.  There are many examples of his strength thought those years, but one sticks out among the rest as “memorable”, probably because it rides the coattails of my mind as the first time I heard the verbalization of the “F” word.  You know it, I know it, but 6 year old Jock knew it only as “that word which shall not be named.”

 It happened on a typical weekend; no school, just a couple days filled with as much adventure as the adjacent desert lot had to offer.  Paul and I were doing our perimeter check of the lot, making sure the red ants had not staged an offensive against our home-team black ants, when all of a sudden a group of neighbor kids appeared in the distance.  Our block had a social hierarchy that would make Sun Tzu proud, and this day raised the red flag of newcomers that had not been a part of our past military etiquette, leaving us vulnerable and defensive.  We tried our best to reason, but when push came to shove, these heathens did not accept our olive branch and an all-out dust battle was waged.  We were frantically hurling stones and slabs of dried earth comprised of rocks and sand, which lay at our feet like peanut brittle baked in the scorching sun.  Between offensives, we hid behind stationary bulldozers and backhoe’s, laughing and reveling in the somewhat entertaining war game between neighbors.  And then, it happened.  A rock the size of a holiday ham hit me right in the temple, knocking me to the ground and sending a stream of blood into my eyes.  Before I knew it I was being dragged across the street from the desert to the tall gates of our home.  With dirt and blood caked to the side of my face I remember looking at my brother who was desperately leading me to safety and seeing a fire behind his eyes that I had never seen before. He had a look that did not belong to a child having fun or playing a game…this was a look of a protector with both compassion for me and utter rage towards my attacker.  When I finally asked him what they did he looked at me and, with hellfire in his heart, said; “FUCK them!”  It was that reaction that made me realize what it meant to be his little brother. 

                Paul and I were left to grow up under my fathers’ reignited hope to raise a doctor and a lawyer.  He was a great man, our father.  A graduate of Columbia university, he was a captivating man and arguably the hardest working and most revered general surgeon in Las Vegas.  He held a presence wherever he went with his infectious charm and obvious intelligence.  When I look back at a prized memory of him; such as lying on the couch in his den while he sat at his empty desk telling me stories, I have to pause and wonder if such events happened, or if my imagination simply filled in the gaps I had as a result of his all-consuming career.  Perhaps my memory betrays me in an attempt to protect the young boy who would sit in an empty den staring out at the driveway or lay on that couch while the best doctor in all of Las Vegas sat in silence at a cluttered desk wading through stacks of journals and papers.  Maybe these memories are an unfair representation of the truth and, as a result, are more likely to be among the first examples of a rich imagination rather than memories.  It is fair to say, however, that even those blurry and unclear events are memories I would not want to forget, whether they be fact or fiction.  All parents are teachers; they bestow knowledge and character on us through all sorts of lessons and events…some are pleasant and some sting.  But, in the end, the piece of armor tempered in fire comes out stronger than that which has not felt heat.

Sometimes I find myself inside my own head, reflecting on fragments of a memory and desperately trying to piece them back together.  Most of the time it is to reconstruct wonderful events such as playing with my old dogs or places like the secluded stream we named “Stoney corner;” a peaceful little refuge where Paul and I would skip stones as our mother would sit on the exposed roots of a giant willow tree, watching us with eyes filled with pride and love.  I never subscribed to the image of heaven as some floating pillow in the sky, a white and sterile place amongst the clouds devoid of the color and life with the ability to form tapestries in my mind from a single visit to the waters edge.  There was no need to supplement the idea of heaven in my heart…not after spending those many afternoons at Stoney corner.

      There are, however, times I seem to dwell on a memory that is less than divine.  Just like that scab you can’t help but pick at, these memories are scratched to the surface in an attempt to see just how red and angry they can get.  Shortly after my parents divorced we celebrated our first ever Christmas abroad.  Our mother had fixed up her cozy flat on the outskirts of Edinburgh with all the holiday comforts.  Decorations adorned the living room and the soul embracing smells of spiced teas and sizzling breakfast meats woke us on Christmas morning.  There was a rustic feeling to that place which cannot be recreated without the brick roads and quaint village down below our drive which captured all the simplicity and beauty of an old impressionist painting.  Under our tree were a mound of gifts, spilling out from the corner of the room and covering the floor like a big, shiny throw rug made of ribbons and bows.  Our mother was a master of the “Norman Rockwell holiday;” she has always had the knack to make every holiday feel like the most important day of all time.  Paul and I began ripping into the shiny sea like sharks on a feeding frenzy.  Our mother sat back in her chair enjoying the only gift she wanted; spending time with her boys.  We finally came to the gifts in the corner our dad had sent us.  Paul opened his to find a build-it-yourself model rocket or building kit…I can’t remember exactly.  All I know is he looked a little confused as this was not on his, nor any kid his ages’, list.  Attached was a note: “To my future architect!”  I remember being nervous as I peeled back the paper to my gift, hoping it was not do-it-yourself tax worksheet or a stack of graphing paper.  What I found instead was the one and only Nintendo Gameboy!  Oh, how happy I was and teased Paul for his dud gift as games like “paperboy” and “Metroid” were spilling from my tiny hands like square silver bullion.  The bittersweet lining came much later, as an adult looking back.  I had no note attached, no lofty ambition present in the subtext of my gift.  I pick at this memory because I wanted to see our reflection in his eyes; two sons…the doctor, and the boy who plays games.  Two boys; Calvin and Hobbes.

It is easy to let a memory like this twist and fester in your side. My conclusion was routed in a self-deprecating mood I happened to be in when I decided to call the memory up.  That is the dangerous thing about memories; they are objective…we are not.  The truth is, I got exactly what I asked for, and Paul got something very similar to his usual box of Legos.  I seemed to always get what I wanted, even on Pauls’ birthdays our parents would also get me a gift, so as to be “fair,” leaving him convinced I got the better gift and thus I was the “favorite”.  I was, but that is beside the point.  The close proximity of his birthday to the holidays would also result in the occasional single gift with a note that would let him know “this also counts as your birthday present”.  A more accurate account of what those two gifts represented would be an example of the pressure put on Paul at such a young age and the freedom I was given to follow my own path.  Paul had the grades and study habits that would surely lead him to big things; such as being a doctor…which he is.  I, on the other hand, would drawl all the wrong kind of attention from my early teachers and boarding school administrators.  There are plenty of stories and examples I could go into, the best of which is “the boards.”  At Loretto, the boarding school Paul and I attended while in Scotland, there were two boards posted in the common area listing everyone’s name next to a grid.  One board had red marks filled in next to the names which were awarded for outstanding academic achievements or an act that exemplified the conduct of a young gentlemen, which Loretto prided itself on producing.  The other board was reserved to make an example out of trouble makers…those who did not make their beds in the morning, argued with the teachers or would sneak out after dark.  The two years we went to that school Paul and I were constantly at the top; he lead the red board, and I the black.  You could put that board up at any point through our adolescent life and it would tell the same story.  Two young men; Apollo and Dionysus. 

                          Last summer I had a chance to look back on our past and spend time with memories such as these.  It was just a few days before Paul and Jamie, his amazing fiancé and wonderful sister in law, were to be married. Being the A type personality that he is, Paul was busy combing over the many details involved with the wedding.  In front of him lay a seating chart made of construction paper and color coded name tags which he was shuffling and evaluating with the concentration of a military general.  I sat on his couch and watched as he poured what seemed to be 100% of his energy into ensuring all these names sat at the ideal table based on their relationship to one another, their age, their interests…ect.  He always seemed to pour his entire being into small details like that, a trait I admire in him, although, judging by the stress and anxiety it caused him, he surely saw as a curse.  My only duty was to give the best man speech.  Any attempt to fit my words on note cards or in bullet points was quickly abandoned, as I have no problem recalling memories or positive words about my brother.  I thought about the journey we have been on together and how lucky I was to have his guidance through life and, when the time came, I spoke from the heart.  Standing there at that table looking down at my brother and sister-in-law, then across the room at all the smiling faces brought together to celebrate their future, I felt overwhelming pride for the life Paul had led.  His worries for a little brother with a star gazing personality that might impede a fulfilling career were no longer needed, as I had found my stride in life.  My worries that he would work and study his way through life and miss out on the more important things were long gone as we all watched he and Jamie take their first dance.  The night left me with a memory that I will surely call on for the rest of my life.  Two men; equal in fortune and fortitude.  

Also, today is his birthday…so this counts as his gift.

Holding Hands In the Mall

HOLDING HANDS IN THE MALL

The first girl I ever loved, deeply and with my whole being, was Karen Johnson.  I remember my mother letting me dress myself for kindergarten, a policy she probably kept for self-amusement as I would walk to the bus in a tiny white linen suit.  Perhaps it was due to my suave and ultra-cool genes kicking in prematurely, or maybe because I had seen Michael Jackson’s “Moonwalker” about 500 times, but I knew I had only one shot at true love.  Just the night before I had wandered down the toy aisle of the grocery store and pleaded with my mom to buy the plastic gold colored heart chain that would surely demonstrate my feelings for dear Karen.  My mother smiled and asked “what do you need this for?”  “For a girl, momma.  I love her.”  She laughed, “Oh you love her, do you?”  I fell to my knees, pleading to her “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to fall in love…it just happened!”  It was clear to her, although I had no thoughts other than pure terror and exhilaration, that I had reached a milestone.  A new and very powerful piece of software had been installed in my brain, one that would help govern decisions and drive actions for years to come, despite its’ unfortunate habit of crashing from time to time.

Hi Karen, it's me again...pick up!

 It pains me to say it, but Karen and I did not last.  I saw her coloring with my backstabbing friend Richard after nap time. She was stuck up anyway.  I’m willing to bet we have all felt this puppy love at one point or another.  Every few years came a new lesson.  Why do I want to throw things at the back of that girls head on the playground and pinch her until she cries?  Isn’t this how you show affection?  For some girls, this may be just what they want, but as a general rule it shouldn’t be carried out past the playground years.  For all my effort I was finding my understanding of these long haired creatures sparse, let alone the confusing feelings I suddenly was forming for them.  When you find something or someone has the ability to enter all parts of your mind through the poorly guarded heart, you cannot help but admire the power of their beauty…it also wouldn’t hurt to develop a healthy fear of playing with such power.

While enrolled at Loretto, a boarding school in Edinburgh, I developed a crush for Jill Ritchie. She was an older girl who went to the neighboring all-girls school.  If you have ever seen the movie “flirting,” with a young Nicole Kidman and Thandie Newton, then you have a pretty good idea of what boarding school is like for a lad such as myself.  We lived in a self-sustaining community that is designed to promote education, physical fitness, proper manners, a thirst for life and a hunger for knowledge!  All the while, staying within a campus surrounded by 12 foot stone walls.  Life on the inside was relatively civilized, after all we were brothers in arms, fellow classmates and warriors on the rugby field day in and day out.  However, as soon as Mr. Dickenson’s young blonde wife would stroll across campus we would club each other over the head with our heavy bounded copies of Macbeth in order to get a better glance, fleeting as it might be.  The notion of “love” was bound to evolve as we noticed girls develop physically, causing us men to devolve mentally into chest beating apes.  Perhaps the school, with its fortress like barricades, was designed to prolong the mental development of us little nippers before we hear the inescapable tune of the sirens song and spend puberty drifting towards their rocky source. 

Me looking cute. Paul looking..smart

The school could not keep us caged up and twisting in the wind forever.  From time to time they would bring in a group of girls from the neighboring campus for a social gathering like a dance.  This wasn’t you’re typical “throw the kids together and hope they don’t get pregnant” kind of school dance, this was a proper and respectful waltz. The waltz is a closed dance style, which meant hips would brush hips as you glide across the floor and, if you’re lucky, the shoulder area might brush against something that would be the highlight of your week.  It is funny to think now that this dance was banned by Missionaries and early settlers of the US for its sinful closeness…if I ever go back in time I want to show them a twerking video and see if their heads explode.

So anyways, this dance had all the awkward tension of any other organized dance.  Boys stood on one side of the room, nervously joking with one another while trying to size up the visiting team, and then had to take the steps across the dance floor with full knowledge that everyone’s eyes will be upon you as you extend your hand to the chosen debutant.  Jill just happened to be the shortest distance.  We danced and talked about school or whatever and then it was time to leave.  I asked to write her, this was pre-cell phone days after all, and so we became pen pals.  She was one of my best friends, always remaining nothing more of course as we are talking third grade here people, and my letters from her were like a glimpse inside the wolf’s lair of a totally foreign regime.  Her handwriting was aesthetically beautiful; round and bubbly, like the kind I would stare at in later years as girls would write their names over, and over, and over again in their notebook margins surrounded by hearts and stars. Her worries and concerns were unlike mine, likewise her goals and outlook on life was also refreshingly different.  You can never imagine the joy of receiving a letter from a girl on the outside with funny stories and Garfield stickers on it unless you had been there…or maybe if you’ve been in prison.  It is also hard to describe the pain felt to move away, it was astonishingly Shakespearean for a young heart such as mine.  I guess I was always drama king.

What I had found was a kind of pain that was almost perversely enjoyable.  Gradually, after the tears for Karen or Jill or whoever I loved for that three day stretch in grade school were long gone, I was left with this overdose of affection and sympathy from my parents.  I could get away with things which normally would get me in trouble.  If my brother tried our usual cat and mouse routine at the table and I happened to let an F bomb slip out I could not be held accountable, I was a man apart!  And shame on him for picking on poor, sweet little ‘ol me. I was drunk with power.  Later however this was not so much a chance to get Paul in trouble as it was an opportunity to show that part of myself I had spent so much effort to cover up.  Sometimes feeling sad and crying is a huge release, like releasing a steam value that was set to blow.  Not that I ever cried, I work out and hang up drywall whenever I’m sad.  Theoretically if I had, the only witnesses I would allow to my laments would be my faithful Australian shepherds Matildia and McGregor.  Try being sad or upset around a good dog and they will come lay their head in your lap to absorb your sorrows.  Cats on the other hand…well, cats are assholes. 

Me reflecting on a lost love

Fast forward through the pimpled, awkwardly dressed and baby fat days to the prime years of college; a time when you are actually responsible for holding down real commitments and relationships on top of juggling roommates, multiple jobs and of course keeping up with social circles.  It’s a wonder there’s any time for schoolwork at all!  But relationships were formed and I found I had learned to importance of being a friend first and foremost.  Not holding grudges about personal differences so that in time, long after we break up and start separate lives, we can still call to catch up and remember that something special is exchanged through connecting with another human being.  My first college girlfriend and her husband just welcomed a daughter into the world and I am so happy to know them both and be able to share in their joy as a friend who will always be there.  I remember sitting with her once at a coffee shop and noticing two kids awkwardly walking through the mall holding hands.  His face gave away his giddy sense of accomplishment and she had a smile that breathlessly spoke: “this was her man, they had chosen each other.” I smiled and told her that I would one day write about what I had just seen, what exactly that was I wasn’t sure, but I knew I recognized something universal.  Making a connection with anyone these days is hard enough, you might as well fight for the people you have cared about past and present.  Sometimes you need to get outside your own head and just enjoy the human connection.

There is no “One person for everyone”.   I used to pull my hair at this thought, how could I know if the one for me was in Ohio or Iceland?  Do I have to meet everyone in the world first before I give my heart to someone?  I think the proper approach is to stop weighing options and searching for excuses and flaws, cause guess what…you’ll find one.  But that’s ok, God knows you got plenty of your own (you, not me!).  My new understanding of love is seeing a flaw in someone, or at least a perceived flaw they might be self-conscious about, as an opportunity to show them how beautiful they really are.  It’s the human condition to feel flawed and lacking perfection.  This is why we fit so well together, we can fill the void in one another's soul and feel complete.  The Greek Gods Apollo or Aphrodite, the ultimate symbols of beauty and perfection, couldn’t be capable of such feelings as they have nothing left to attain, and nobody they need. I think a force of nature that can cause your knees to weaken at the mere sight of that special someone or launch the entire Trojan War is a force which deserves reverence.  Love should itch in your veins like an addiction, something that flows through you and polarizes every ounce of your being to gravitate towards someone who makes you feel good.  Your confidant, your best friend. 

Migration

    There are black and white forces in nature that can influence our inner being the way gravity introduces us to the ground when we try to venture out on weak branches.  We can look to the water and see salmon swim with unwavering determination upstream, or look above as geese hold a steady formation on a journey that spans whole hemispheres.  This is migration; a calling that drives life to fulfil a destiny.  For some that journey is necessary to reach a place where they will live out their days, while others must travel away from home only to close the last chapter of their life.  It can be easy to define these journeys amongst birds and fish, a clear path from A to B, however labeling the actions of man as a migration can be almost too easy, a cope out of sorts.  Surely our purposes, our dreams and goals are not governed by such baser instincts...we are evolved!  While there is truth in our “higher calling,” I feel the basic drives within us are no more than primal forces that have been dressed up and re-named to distance ourselves from our animal past.  Sometimes it is hard to know what stage of the journey we are in, or where our trajectory is carrying us, but we can always look back and take stock on the past in order to gain a perspective to our future.

      A good deal of who you will become depends on what you are exposed too and how you choose to deal with change.  I was lucky to have been well traveled at a young age. I experienced climates from the deserts of Nevada to the rainy hills of Scotland.  Most importantly, I recognized how tough it can be adjusting to new friends, different cultures and the restructuring of a family dynamic.  While my mother and father were not destined to remain a couple, they were still a team whose goal of raising two boys would be realized no matter what personal issues got in the way. It is from their example that I learned a journey does not end at the first sign of bad weather, but rather that life requires a willingness to jettison that which is not working in favor of reaching your ultimate goal.

    When I look in the mirror I think of my own parents who spent many years swimming upstream in order to make me the man I am today.  It is a signpost of growing up that you come to realize how you have been guided, nurtured and cared for in ways you might have overlooked.  A good portion of my mother’s life was spent carrying my brother and I along, while the mere memory of my father’s life and career continues to be a guiding star in my journeys and my understanding of what it is to be a man.  Some lessons are learned by mirroring their lives, and yet others come from recognizing missteps and learning from their mistakes, however few they might be. 

    My most impressionable years were spent in the mid-west amongst good hearted, honest and caring people.  I remember finding an escape from small town USA in the books of Roald Dahl and Michael Crichton and the attraction of New York through the films of Woody Allen.  My journey felt insignificant amongst the corn fields and calm shoreline of Lake Erie.  Now, having been gone from Ohio for ten years I can imagine no better place to grow up.  There is an honesty in the land and a genuine character to the people which I learned to appreciate fully after being away and seeing my past in contrast.  Like the Georges Seurat painting “A Sunday Afternoon”, up close it all appears to be static noise, just a bunch of dots on canvas…but as you gain some distance from it you see the dots all merge together, blending seamlessly into something beautiful. 

    I do not mean to speak in generalizations.  There are always exceptions to this rule and I certainly do not mean to place all of my best times in one area.  I have met some of the best friends I have ever known in recent years, people that have become like family to me.  If Ohio was my more or less my safe harbor, Miami would serve as the place in which I “cut my teeth” on independence.  Although I had spent the better part of five years away from family in Toledo for college, I was still an hour or so away from a good hot meal or a place to crash when I needed to get away from it all.  Miami is the antithesis of Small town Ohio.  Miami is like a party you think is going to be very fun and exciting, but it turns out to be all marketing and no substance, but you stay even though you don’t really want to because you came with a friend who really wants to meet the girl that works at Segafredo’s down on Biscayne cause she mentioned she’d be there after work.  So you wind up sitting in the corner listening to techno while some dude name Arturo talks about how brilliant Swedish House Mafia is and you politely nod in agreement even though you are counting the cornrows in his hair and wondering how long it has been since he has had his teeth cleaned.  At least, that’s what it felt like to me after spending five years working a job that placed me in the heart of South Beach and Downtown Miami lifestyles.  On a positive note, I spent many days with my fellow ocean travelers swimming in the warm waters of the Atlantic and some great nights with friends who will remain with me until the end.

    If there is one migration that is tends to lend itself to popular culture and, amongst my friends, seems almost an inevitability, it would have to be the migration west.  Although there is no more frontier to conquer, I find friend after friend following the call to California.  One of the hardest things about life is having to answer that yearning call to move on, take to the wind and leave what you have come to know as comfortable.  I have felt that nervous excitement many times and now, as my good friend prepares to make the move to LA, I romanticize over living the lyrics of Led Zeppelin’s “Going to California,” or Neil Young’s “Out on the Weekend “ and once again I am reminded of my own journey and wonder what is next.

    Leaving a place you have come to know as home or watching a friend answer his call to flight can be bittersweet, but there is a kind of joy that comes from closing a chapter or being part of someone else's life story.  Our drives, while different in shape and form, can be linked to an overall goal which cannot be explained in equations, theories or long winded blog entries.  It exists primarily as a feeling, one that must hit you at a per-determined time.  For the creatures of the land and sea that might be governed by a change in temperature, the position of the moon or a shift in the tides.  Man, however, has lost our tuning and must focus in order to hear that call which has become distorted by social constructs and can be easily overlooked as mere daydreams. 

    I do not mean to glorify the act of travel as the overall means for change.  My journey is my own and I would not recommend anyone try to blindly follow another's path but rather to define their own.  In a way, travel has afforded me the ability to run away from responsibilities of growing up, in other ways it has given me a broader understanding of who I am and where I fit in the world.  It is a balance.  I have great friends whom I consider weathered navigators of their own inner journey.  I see friends grow exponentially by becoming fathers, businessmen, doctors, ect. while staying in the same geographical location.  They have answered their own call to change and the ones whom I respect will forever be a part of my own story.  I have amassed many close friends from different times in my life, all of whom make up constellations in my night sky.  When I need them to navigate through a dark night they are there to guide me.  Some are brighter than others but they all help illuminate my path.
 

    As I sit on the beach on this remote island in the pacific, I think of Herman Melville’s words in Moby Dick: “Meditation and water are wedded forever.”  While I am sure this is where I am supposed to be, I cannot avoid taking stock of my short and brief time on this earth while standing on the shores of something so vast and smile as I see it alive with travelers.  I feel connected to all the creatures that stir and jump out of the sea, following the warmest current while patiently moving forward into unknown waters.  Birds pass above; some use this oasis as a resting point, others sail right past, and still others see it as the final destination.  All life is motion, even when it appears I have landed in stagnant waters, there are currents swirling inside that will one day set me on a path, part per-determined and part decided by the tide.  I think viewing that migration not as a finish line but an overall journey is something we have forgotten and perhaps can re-learn by watching those travelers of the wind and sea. 

The essence of flight

       Most birds don’t bother to learn more than the simplest fundamentals of flight – how to fly from bluff to sea, food to tree and back again.  Along the way they might pass by other flocks doing similar birdly duties - scanning open meadows for dots of food, shiny threads or small sticks to upgrade their treetop homes, all while keeping within proven flight paths and formations.  These birds have learned well the act of being “a bird,” and for all their days they will fly to meet that definition within the best of their abilities.  The hummingbird will hum, the crow will cackle and the sparrow will chirp.  But once in a while we hear a bird sing for no other reason it would seem than to cheer us up.  Once in a while a bird will fall out of formation to ride an updraft and show us how he can turn open air into a ballroom dance floor for no other reason than to dance.  Once in a while we see a bird that seems to understand being “a bird” is, from wing to tip, an unlimited idea of freedom.  

          Once there was a songbird who would sit a top her apple tree and sing her song.  Her feathers were a little brighter than other songbirds and her song would always turn heads.  “Look down there,” a goose would say to the flock “it looks like a songbird but she doesn’t sing their song”.  She sang not because she was a bird, but because she found her own song in her heart.  One day her song carried to a far off redwood where a great bald eagle had taken residence.  The eagle had heard a number of songbirds in his days, but the score that came across the wind that morning stirred him like no other had before.  As the hummingbird hums and the crow cackles, so is the eagle concerned with eagle-like business.  However, unlike all other birds in the sky, the eagles’ business is to do everything with majesty and pride.  No eagle goes unnoticed as he gracefully cuts jet streams through the midday sun or silhouettes himself against a harvest moon, nor does he intent to.  So, it should go without saying that something like a song dancing through the trees from a far away songbird should draw no more than a glancing ear from a creature with such a noble purpose.  But this particular eagle, like the songbird who sang a different tune, found himself outside the margins of what defined his own kind.  And so, high in his purchase above the forest canopy, the eagle stretched his wings to the horizon, stiffened the silver feathers atop his head and soared towards his noblest of purposes.

         Together, the songbird and the eagle built a great nest lined with the finest down feathers, the freshest of forest kindling and only the best of natures’ bounty.  And there, nestled in their redwood overlooking a bowling green, they tended to their two chicks.  The eagle would teach them to hold their head high and keep the eagle majesty in their heart.  The songbird would teach them to open their eyes to nature around them, see the song inside all living things and help them find the voice to sing it themselves.  The chicks learned that, while a birds duty is to fly, their calling is to sing.  As the chicks grew they would draw attention from flocks flying across their open field on migration.  “Look at how they dart through the air, spiraling skyward with no fear of stalling,” they would cheer to one another.  And for a brief moment the flocks overhead shared an understanding of what they were witnessing and flew a little higher than their formation required.  For years they grew together as a family, sharing the highest of highs and learning to deal with the lowest of lows.  Nothing, it seemed, could ruffle the majesty from their feathers nor dull the pitch of their song.

          One might find it a sad turn in the story to lean that the great nest which overlooked a bowling green was thrown down from its redwood foundation one summer.  Passing flocks, which had come to look forward to their brief aerial view of the family over the years, were saddened to see the open meadow overgrown and quiet.  No longer was the morning fog carved into tapestries by spiraling wing trails.  No longer could the songbirds’ melodies be heard from the skies above.  The meadow had been reclaimed and overrun by nature, sparing only the fallen nest which had been left at the foot of its redwood, abandoned and forgotten.  And sad it was to the casual onlooker, the passerby who saw only the brick and mortar of the nest.  What a shame it was to the bird that values such bird-like things as shiny thread and down-lined twigs, the highest of redwoods and the widest of meadows in which to fly.  And what a shame it would have been if this noble family had let that storm rock their foundation.  

However, unlike the trees and the grass that surrounded the family, no storm could sway the quality of their character.  No storm could touch the nest that the songbird had built in her chick’s hearts, their true understanding of ‘home’.  What other birds did not recognize was that they carried that great redwood with them in their heart, a tall proud ideal of how high one must perch to see the farthest goals in life.  The family rose from that patch of land like a phoenix rising from a pile of ashes, intact and reborn.  Their path led them to different lands, new learning grounds and even a stony stream brook for which they could practice their ever evolving song.  And, while they never took their surroundings for granted, they knew that no plot of land or towering tree would replace the comfort they felt from knowing they were a family.   

Many birds are taught to look just beyond their beak to reach their goals, not to loose sight of their mission from bluff to sea, food to tree and back again.  But they rarely take the time to enjoy the freedom their wings afford them.  Some birds will leave their nest to find their own song and become disheartened by the distance and effort it takes to seek it out.  It takes the pride and determination of an eagle along with the artistry and understanding of a songbird to truly make the most of life.  We are masters of the sky and only when we look down do we remember we are suppose to fly lower.  The air gets thin, the wind gets cold, but no bird flies too high if he soars with his own wings.  And no bird is ever truly lost if he remembers that; from wing to tip, we are all the essence of flight...the definition of freedom.

Black eye Blues

When I was a kid I could imagine nothing worse than being punched in the face. If I could avoid the absolute horror of knuckles smashing into the soft tissue and cartilage of my beautiful head throughout the day, then I won. It was the worst thing that could happen, even considering the knowledge of pain such as charlie horses, footballs to the groin, dental instruments, hornet stings, baseballs to the groin, my brother's fish hook shaped finger lodged under the armpit, beneath the jaw or behind the ear (anatomical knowledge which surely helped lead him to be the doctor he is today...your welcome Paul!), along with broken bones, compound fractures and even more sports related groin attacks. It was becoming apparent that simply having the name 'jock armour' did not translate into literal protection.

So why then was a relatively quick and fleeting pain like a hit to the face so terrifying? I had surely done more damage to myself on a daily basis when something like the ring of a doorbell meant cutting my brother off at his room, doing a spin move to avoid his kung fu grip, bounding down the stairs 5 at a time, slipping on the wood and landing face first at the stoop...hungry, beaten, and hopeful that Papa John hired paramedic drivers as delivery men.  Even the gash I got from sliding around the ice in my backyard with my hands in my pockets was more damaging than any 14 year old kid could cause. If my many past injuries taught me anything, it was that most pain would be diluted by the gallon of adrenaline sent racing through my bloodstream, leaving me dizzy and staring like an idiot at a protruding bone with little more than a cool tingly feeling and the worry that "mom's not going to like this one".

In a time of my life when was I was discovering just how resilient and tough my body could be, something inside was still in its infancy; the idea that I was more than just the sum of my physical flesh but part of a "social collective." The definition of who I was out there in the world did not depend on my own knowledge that I was awesome, but how well I could convince everyone else of this fact. All of a sudden there were motivations and meanings behind the things I did and the words I said...why the hell was I wearing this blanket around my neck like a cape? Was I "special?" The innocence of my youth was evaporating into the cloud of self-awareness brewing inside me. In a flash I knew that I had things to prove, reputations to uphold, people to impress, fears to acknowledge, and a body that would one day wither and die and be eaten by worms and...Oh, the horror! But for the time being, if I could avoid being punched in the head then I'd be happy.

There are few things uglier than a group 13 year old boys. The discovery that a clever nickname or the pointing out of some minor flaw could inflict major psychological damage was like trading in water balloons for napalm. There is a saying that "the nail that sticks out gets hammered down", and in the early days of school we all feel like a nail from time to time. Its a cold war where your best defense is to convince everyone you are quicker and better armed than anyone else...and hopefully avoid the hammer.

Upon meeting me or hearing my name, you probably made a number of connections and thought up some pretty funny names to throw out in conversation...let me stop you now, I've heard it. "strap?" Come on, how unoriginal! It was a blessing to have such an obvious target and I would hone my acting skills and grimace, playing possum to protect the many deeper and more tender flaws I saw in myself. This was just part of the social process, a necessary torment we all go through...unless you were home-schooled, which only meant you were a juicy piece of veal waiting to be thrown to the wolves come high school. "Jock itch? Damn it all, you got me point blank!" I would agree, "You'd think a clever guy like you would know enough not to rub pizza all over your face or whatever your doing to cultivate that acne garden." Game, set...match.

But this was not the real threat. There were rules of engagement; no low blows or kicking once on the ground. And even when things went too far and the animal rage inside bent through the bars of social restraint, we were aware of our limitations. In all the times my brother and I would get into it, over whether we would be watching X-Men or Double Dare for example, the face was off limits. Sure the ears, hair and throat were fair game, but no knuckles were allowed to hit soft tissue. It wasn't even an option. In fact, the only time Paul could ever be accused of hitting me in the face was a time when my mother was working and I was wrested from the soft and comfy couch which he deemed was "his" at that point in time, discouraging my attempts to reclaim it with kicks of caution from his spider like legs. I waited, just like De Niro in "The Godfather", until my mother was due to pull into the driveway.

 As she entered the house, I meekly called from my bedroom: "mooooom.....cough, cough, MomMMM!" The room she walked into was more a crime scene than a place of rest, a testament to the imaginary ass whooping I had created by threading my leg through a desk chair, turning over furniture and positioning my body to appear splayed out on the hardwood floor, bloody and weak. I had repeatedly punched my nose, being sure not to hurt myself too bad but enough to draw a convincing pool of blood to dry above my lip. I pointed to the living room with a trembling arm, communicating that i was OK and Paul could be found ".....over.....THERE". I had to bury my face in a pillow to avoid my laughs from drowning out the satisfying terror and confusion I heard in my brothers voice as he proclaimed, "WHAT?? He's...WHAT? Mom, I didn't do THAT!

Although being covered in hornet stings or breaking your arm on a trampoline is painful, it is a badge of honor, a testament to your adventurous bravado! While less satisfying than the scars worth bragging about, the scrapes and bruises dealt by friends and family is bearable, a fencing match...nothing worth further introspection. But if someone could be driven to ignore the unwritten code of "non-face-punching-ness" then something had gone terribly, terribly wrong. It was as if they had punched ballot of your face...literally. The act was a vote that stated: "I hate you, and i hate your face. It is a stupid face attached to a stupid person and I'd rather risk serious punishment than risk someone thinking we are friends." Learning you are not as charming and universally loved as you think you are is tough. And, although it is about as concrete a reality as gravity itself, it doesn't mean you want to fall out of a tree in order to learn its full potential.

Then one day, it happened. Someone punched me in the face...yes, ME! (don't worry mom, I'm ok). Just as nonchalantly as a Monday follows Sunday this event I had analyzed a hundred times over and had granted access to my inner most understandings about life, identity, self and how I am perceived just...happened. Its funny, at least now, how betrayed I felt that the universe did not reciprocate the effort I had put into this by at least giving me some dark ominous clouds outside my window, a message in my cereal, or perhaps some wise old sage on the sidewalk reminding me to "mind your words...beware!" But no, nothing. just sunshine, spring flowers, and bluebirds...all I saw was a universe wonderfully indifferent to our little tragedies, far too busy creating the things for which we can contrast our problems against and show just how ridiculous they really are.

Where was I...oh yes, I was getting punched in the face. So it went like this; on a curiously typical afternoon I walked to a friends house as I had done the day before and the day before that. This friend went to a different school and ran with an already established group of kids of which I was "sampling", as we do from time to time, and trying to figure out where I fit. I wouldn't say they were "bad news" or anything like that (although my family would beg to differ), because in truth every friend I had was bad news to some extent including me....especially me. We were all just miserable little pricks who smiled and acted proper to our friends mothers, saying things like "gee Mrs. Roth, the garden outside looks great! Were you a model? I didn't know Barry had a sister!?" While my charming wit and humor had always served me well, I took for granted that its complex suitabilities might be misinterpreted around this group of people I had only known a month or so.

We were laughing and joking and listening to awful music which we thought was great when I realized one of the kids had borrowed some CD's from me and had neglected to remember bringing them back after multiple reminders. Back then CD's were bought from stores, with actual paper money, and a collection of 20 or so was a liquid asset, part of my net worth! "Hey Joey, whats going on with those CD's?" I barked, cool as a cucumber in my friends throne like lazy boy. He looked up searching his memory "Hmmmm, they must still be at home, I'll bring them next time". Unacceptable. I'm the new guy here, the "fresh fish" and just like in prison I felt the need to assert my position amongst the group before their concrete perceptions of me solidified. "Ok," I joked, "maybe put them next to your food stamps so that your sure to not forget them next time." Hilarious, right? You get it? He didn't get it. As quick as the words came out, I was eating them. I had been hit in the left eye and by the time I stumbled out of the chair it was over, broken up...leaving me holding my eye and ego, both swelling up to a blackish blue color.

 Surely people would protest, mobs would gather and pass out pitch forks and torches to defend such a treasure as myself! But I knew that wouldn't be the case...people would laugh, they'd point and stare as whispers that I was punched, neah, KNOCKED OUT by someone's little sister or a whatever. I knew, because I had been a part of that mob before and watched others writhe in shame as their "social worth" was discussed by anyone and everyone who had ever known them. The truth was I deserved it, I made a low blow at my friend for being poor, an emotional blow he probably wanted to avoid as much as I wanted to avoid the physical one.

Don't get me wrong, I'm not suggesting that getting punched in the face has some kind of universal power over everybody. Perhaps you're a big dick and are used to it. maybe you're kinda into it (you sick perverse animal!). Maybe for you it was exposing your less than tone torso for a game of shirts and skins. Maybe you feared the fact you wet the bed and wore a back brace would be leaked during morning announcements. Maybe your family was poor. Or maybe you feared getting your period in the shower after kickball practice (didn't go so well for "Carrie"...nor the rest of the school). Whatever the form it took, it was the physical manifestation of the dream where you suddenly realize you showed up to school naked. Except, instead of everyone seeing your pecker (they should be so lucky), they are gazing at your bare soul...and its experiencing major shrinkage.

I once heard the eyes are the window to the soul; two little reflection pools which shimmer our innermost hopes and fears for the rest of the world to see. Sometimes our tranquil surface is broken by a rock or pebble, sending ripples in all directions. But in the end they will fade, leaving only a greater understanding of our own width and depth. Those physical and emotional ripples have helped temper the man I am today and strengthen the idea of who I want to be tomorrow. While my fears, or at least my understanding of what is worth fearing, is constantly changing, I have gained perspective from the people I have known and try not to sweat the small stuff. At least, that's the plan. But, as Mike Tyson once said: "Everyone's got a plan...until they get punched in the face."