The sign is up, the last of the frost has burned off, and I’ve got a belly full of scrambled eggs, left-over turkey, and mashed potatoes.
A mug of hot mulled apple cider keeps the chill at bay; an appropriate accompaniment it seems for the Mulberry cooking spoon I’m working on at the moment.
I love these post-Thanksgiving Fridays when the only thing that’s on the schedule is whatever I decide to put there.
Looks like next year’s gratitude list is starting a little bit early…
Today goes into the books as a productive one. I knocked together a simple greenhouse out of scrap wood and plastic tarp, field tested the Craftsman table saw I inherited a while back, and roughed out a Pennsylvania Cherry serving spoon.
Grandfather Joseph Rael a.k.a. Beautiful Painted Arrow, a holy man of Picuris Pueblo and Ute descent whose writings and ceremonial traditions have been instrumental in my own healing for nearly twenty years, tells us that work is worship. And while I’ve never had the opportunity to sit with the man and discuss this, I believe at least from a personal perspective, that I’ve come to understand this teaching with a bit more clarity.
Whether I’m deep in the midst of my personal recovery, holding space for someone else as they work through the process of theirs, or taking a carving axe to a billet out in the wood shop, there’s a common thread that ties these things together, and seems to embody Grandfather Joseph’s words.
When work is placed in front of us, and we commit ourselves to completing the task at hand, we are given the chance to recognize and affirm the existence of the One who put it there. In doing so, the work becomes a prayer, and its blessings flow out to the benefit of All Our Relations…
I’ve had a few sales recently, so yesterday I started turning blanks into rough cuts in hopes of rebuilding some inventory for the Holidays. This morning, there was paperwork and a trip to the local post office to drop a couple of spoons into the mail.
I’m generally loath to argue politics – or more specifically, politicians – so I decided just to sit for while until my internal smoke had cleared and I had a better notion of what I was going to write. Those who know me well enough can probably surmise where my vote went. Those who don’t probably couldn’t care less. And besides, the matter carries little relevance to anything conveyed here-in.
Shortly after learning the results of the election, I was overcome with a profound feeling of radical acceptance; not because any certain candidate had won or lost, but simply because the results were in and we finally knew where things stood.
As I’ve continued to harbor this feeling and go about the necessary day to day requirements of my life, I’ve become almost preoccupied with an image taken from perhaps one of the most pervasive Pop Culture mythologies of our time: the mythology of Star Wars.
I was fourteen years old when the original movie came out in ’77. My friend, his brother, and I packed ourselves into his car and off we went to “A galaxy far, far way…” Truth be told we only got as far as the local theater: Cinema 1-2-3 at the Viewmont Mall in Scranton, Pennsylvania; a premier venue as far as the Valley was concerned, with THREE movie screens (hence the name), and swimming pool sized “Monster Buckets” of popcorn. To this day, I can still smell the combination of butter and teenage angst.
As the movie unfolded on that tiny screen, made somehow gigantic by the scope of the spectacle before us, I found myself completely fixated on the aging Jedi Master, Ben Kenobi. In total, I saw that movie six times in the theater, and every time it struck me that someone as powerfully equipped as he was to stand against the Empire would squirrel himself away in the middle of nowhere.
As the rest of the movies began to come out, and with them additional information, Kenobi’s story began to make more sense. But it wasn’t until the miniseries detailing his years in hiding on Tatooine that the singular purpose of his being there was really driven home. In the midst of everything taking place in the galaxy around him, he completely devoted his entire existence to the only job he had: making sure that kid stayed alive…
The idea of being able to marry oneself so closely to one’s purpose, regardless of the goings-on around him still utterly grips me to this day. And while I claim neither power nor trough of wisdom, I’ve come to appreciate what that means on a deeper level.
And it was specifically this insight which gave rise to my initial feeling of radical acceptance. My Creator, my recovery, my practice, my marriage and the spiritual community with which my wife and I share our home, my family and friends – at this point mostly interchangeable, and a few extracurricular activities that keep me sane and grounded: these are the devotions of my life.
Anyone reading this might be tempted to conclude that I’ve turned my back on the world, that I no longer care what happens outside my immediate circle, and that, as I’ve heard others say many times, “my give-a-shit meter is permanently stuck on E”.
But if I’m being honest here, the exact opposite is actually the case. I care very deeply for All My Relations. And what might initially express itself as outrage or frustration, quickly shows its hand as a deep and undeniable sense of heartbreak. And after standing in that place of heartbreak for what seems nigh on decades, a growing flicker of compassion has finally taken hold. And with it, the awareness that my life is the bucket of water I’ve been given to carry until the time comes to place it into the hands of the next generation. My work is no one else’s. And unless I continue to tend to it, it won’t get done.
None of us can say with any certainty what the next few years will look like. A good many of us have listened to our hearts, or to the pundits, and afterwards, have cast our votes accordingly. Some of us will say that this election is the best thing that’s ever happened to America and will usher in a new Golden Age of Democracy. Some of us will say it’s the worst and will bring about a fall into Fascism.
Some of us will clutch the flag and thump our chests with joy. And some of us will clutch each other and bow our heads in sorrow.
Some of us will forget for a while that there is only All of Us. And so, it might just fall upon the rest of us to remember…
Last Monday, I found myself standing in the kitchen at 6:30AM drinking a cup of coffee and searing a ring of smoked kielbasa in preparation for a two-day visit with my family, most of which centered around playing cards and shit-talking at the dining room table, chasing after my nine-month-old Great Niece, and simply just being with a couple of people I’ve known and loved for pretty much the entirety of my life.
As I’ve gotten older, experiences like this have taken on a much greater sense of significance. So much of the bullshit has fallen away and left in its wake the necessary space for resting in the ordinary things that nourish the soul and claim their share of my ever-dwindling stockpile of minutes. While none of us can say with any certainty how much time we have left, the simple truth is that there is far less time in front of me than behind, and I intend on spending as much of it as possible on the things that heal and sustain me.
Several days prior to the aforementioned visit, my wife and I went out for dinner and a musical at a local theater to celebrate our thirteenth anniversary. During the show, two of the characters sang about the hardships they’d endured as a result of having tried to live up to the expectations of their fathers. As I sat there listening, it dawned on me that I’d never personally had to confront this issue. My own father came back from WWII with a full-blown case of PTSD that left him in squarely the throes of alcoholism. Combined with that, his emotional instability, and the side-effects of the daily pharmacopeia of prescription drugs, caffeine, and cigarettes he ingested left him barely capable of imposing more than a fraction of his will upon his own life…let alone the life of his only son.
While the other kids I knew had fathers who, for good or ill, seemed at least somewhat capable of teaching them about the requirements of manhood, I was pretty much left to figure that out on my own. The irony is that the deficit of growing up this way also proved to be its singular advantage. I won’t deny that for a great majority of the time I felt a lot like a ship without a rudder. That meant, however, that I had little or no restrictions to keep me from encountering whatever unexplored territory the winds blew me towards. The pain of the unknown is something I’ve come to recognize quite well, but that same unknown has provided me with abundant opportunity for self-discovery.
I’ve also come to understand that I was never truly at the mercy of my life. As I look back, it’s become quite clear that something much larger and far more adept than my human understanding has been there all along. It might not have always kept this ship from entering difficult waters; but it’s taught me how to swim, and was always there to make sure I never drowned…
I’ve been getting back out to the woodshop for the last couple of days. It’s been a while, but these few months off really seem to have done me a world of good. In fact, it feels as though I’ve never stepped away.
The tools are comfortable in my hands…more so than when I laid them down last spring. They move a little more efficiently, and my hands seem much more capable of taking their direction.
I’ve also incorporated a bandsaw for shaping my blanks. I know. I know… This is the part where the purists out there call me a sinner and cast me beyond the pale. The truth is my form has never really been that great and using the bandsaw saves a lot of wear and tear on my shoulders. And if being able to do this work means accepting the mark of Cain, well, so be it.
If I’m being serious though, this kind of thing happens every now and again. Something shifts and the process flows a lot easier. How it happens doesn’t really matter. The important thing is that it does.
At the very least, I recognize the pattern. The work proceeds for months at a time until I begin to wrestle with it. Eventually, my frustration level grows, and I have to set things down and walk away…sometimes for an extended period of time. For a while I don’t even think about it, but gradually, it starts to tap me on the shoulder. Finally, there comes a point when I can’t not go back to it. And when I do, there’s usually some new insight waiting for me among the wood chips and the freshly sharpened edges…
These post-lodge days have a certain kind of rhythm: clean the garage, fold and store the tarps, wash the sheets and blankets…and they move just a little bit slower than the day before.
I’m sitting in a bagel shop waiting for the laundry to dry. On the wall across from me, twin TV’s scroll videos of baby animals synched with barely audible Christian pop.
The place is nearly empty, which is pretty rare for a Sunday, and I’m grateful for the extra space and a little extra time to occupy it.
At a small table next to me, two elderly women engage in lively discourse about Halloween decorations and the ways their lives have changed since their husbands died. The conversation ends abruptly when a young girl brings a sandwich to the table, and except for an occasional murmur and the clattering of the register at the counter, the place falls back into stillness.
It’s good to have these Sunday morning interludes – especially after the ordeal of a sweat lodge. They offer a chance to soak it all in, to let it settle into my bones and replace a few of the aches and pains that have lived there for so long.
As a child of dysfunctionality, I’ve carried around my own portion of anger, shame, and grief for sixty-odd years; and sometimes it takes a great deal of effort to manage.
But weekends like this really help to lighten the load…
Of the many definitions one might find when researching the word “frig”, the most relevant to this current piece of writing is ” to putter around” or simply “putter”. It should be noted here that one might argue, and perhaps quite successfully, that combing through the myriad definitions of the word is itself a perfect illustration of the act of frigging.
I’ve written a great deal over the last few months about the blessings of the puttering life and just how fortunate I am to live it while still relatively young and healthy enough to appreciate exactly what that means.
That said, although the woodworking has been scarce at best, there’s certainly been no lack of activity around these parts. We’ve replaced the roof, laid in a new patio, put up a shed, widened the sidewalk, and repaired the concrete steps in front of the house. I’ve planted a garden, put up a few raised beds, and broken in a brand-new cast-iron griddle.
I’ve also had a few occasions to visit with some friends, one of which put me shoulder to shoulder and arm in arm with my brother from another mother; tears in our eyes at the Springsteen concert, singing “Racing in the Street” and remembering back some 45 years ago, when an 8-track pumped through a cheap set of speakers could rival the voice of God, and an afternoon at a kitchen table that formed a bond that continues to this day.
As these things go, there’s been neither dearth of abundance nor the time in which to receive it. And for everything they’ve placed at my feet, the living of these last few months has been enough. I find myself without the need to cling to them; and feel instead a simple and natural contentment in letting them go with grace and accepting their gifts.
Perhaps it’s just a part of getting older. In many ways the world has gotten smaller. There’s less of everything to go around these days and so I dole out what there is a bit more judiciously.
The path I travel is narrower and I move at a slower pace, but occasionally along the shoulders, among the broken rocks and tangled weeds, I catch the glint of something from the corner of my eye that would have gone unnoticed in the reckless haste of youth.
I tuck away the Medicine of the afternoons and smiles, the perfect breezes and freshly picked tomatoes, the concerts and the conversations on the patio.
I feel these things deep-down in my bones.
I’ll let them cook for a while; let those parts of me for which they’re meant take them in and be nourished. And when this break has finally come to an end, I’ll get back to my feet and go where Spirit points me: the vagabond who rarely leaves his yard…
While I typically prefer not to paint with an overly broad brush, one of the traits generally attributed to those of us who’ve grown up in households afflicted by alcoholism or some other form of dysfunctionality is an unbridled addiction to excitement.
Speaking strictly for myself, I can attest to the fact that there was a time when living my life required having, as Meatloaf once so aptly put it, “everything louder than everything else.”
I remember those wild drunken nights, the blue-collar barroom heroics, the friends who’ve died or disappeared, and the unshackled drama of it all, and I can honestly say that I don’t miss a single bit of it.
To see me sitting here out on the patio at 2:23 on a Monday afternoon, writing these words with my feet up on a cull wood coffee table after spending the morning putting up posts for a broken stockade fence, one might easily be tempted to remark, “Oh, how the mighty have fallen!” And in my younger years, I’d probably have shared that sentiment.
It’s a sure bet things are a lot less exciting these days; but there’s a certain sense of satisfaction that only comes from fixing a fence or knocking together a coffee table on the floor one’s own workshop.
As I near the end of this afternoon’s writing, a Monarch butterfly dances across the garden, a young rabbit suns itself in a threadbare patch of grass beside the wood pile, and the words begin to come with greater difficulty: indications all, perhaps, of just enough excitement for one day…
This afternoon I tried my hand at a batch of fermented cucumbers. This is the first year I’ve actually been able to garden down in the dirt, and despite the heat and the extremely dry weather, our little ten by fifteen plot is really pulling its weight.
I’m nowhere near what anyone would classify as a master gardener, but I seem to be holding my own against the rabbits and the mildew; and turning out a fairly decent harvest.
I grew up in a little town in Northeast Pennsylvania on a quiet street next-door to a guy who worked at the local munitions plant. He and his wife had three kids, an over-crowded dog run, and a garden that was the envy of the neighborhood.
As a child, I’d watch him from my back porch while he patrolled that patch of dirt, pulling weeds and cursing out rabbits and slugs; and deep down I always knew that someday I’d probably end up just the same.
I remember one particular afternoon when I was about five or six years old. My neighbor and his family had gone out for the day and a violent thunderstorm hit. There were high winds, and his sweetcorn and tomatoes took a beating.
After the storm had blown itself out, my mother, my father, and I set to work ripping an old bedsheet into strips and anchoring everything to some of the gnarled sticks my neighbor kept around for trellising his plants. When they got back home and my parents told him what had happened, we never went without fresh produce again.
I’m often reminded of this whenever I find myself standing beside our own garden at the end of the day. I’ve buried a lot of my past out there, and it’s been a real blessing to watch it all take root and grow into an over-abundance of zucchini, Swiss chard, cucumbers, and kale; a good portion of which has found its way to the tables of family and friends. If I’ve learned anything from the people in my life with perpetually dirty hands, it’s that a garden isn’t truly a garden until it reaches beyond the ones who maintain it…
I spent a good part of yesterday tending to some of my carving tools and puttering around in the space I’ve created in the garage to serve as my workshop. While the music guaranteed that it wasn’t a particularly quiet afternoon, it was no less a very peaceful one.
This was a welcome respite from the clamor and chaos we experienced here last week as a result of having some work done to our home. What started out as replacing the roof and repairing the front steps quickly grew to include pouring a brand-new patio and widening the sidewalk in front of the house.
The work was superior, the price was extremely affordable, and everything was finished in a reasonable amount of time. We’ve all heard horror stories about botched repairs and ever-extending deadlines from people who’ve survived the process of what could only barely be called “home improvements”, and so to see it recounted here one might think that everything went smoothly. And for the average person – whatever that means – one might be right.
But there’s another side to this experience which I’d like to address at this point, and that is the living through of it as the adult child of an alcoholic and dysfunctional household. I’ve purposely chosen the word “household” here because despite whatever efforts my parents were able to put forth, it was only on rare occasions that the place ever came close to feeling like home. The obvious effects of my father’s incessant battle with alcoholism and emotional instability – coupled with my mother’s codependency – went a long way towards ensuring that the crucible in which I’d found myself as a child could generally be described as pretty much anything but home.
As I look back on those times, and perhaps even more importantly now that my recovery work is actually beginning to take root, to feel back on those times, I’m aware of a nearly constant state of grief. It’s deep, and it’s heavy, and it sits in my bones like fire.
And it is this same somatic expression of grief that was triggered by the banging, clatter, miscommunication, and obligatory upheavals of the tearing apart and putting back together of one’s living space.
While the adult part of myself was thrilled at the prospect of finally getting some long-awaited improvements taken care of, there was also that wounded inner child who felt that all of this was just another assault on the one safe place he’d desperately yearned for but because of forces beyond his control, believed he could never have.
I lived in that space for about two days; and in doing so, I came to know a great deal more about that child. And while I can’t say I’d like to repeat the experience, it has brought both of us that much closer to our well-being.
As I write this, the sun begins to slip behind the peak of our new roof, shadows lengthen along the patio, and a restful sense of peace has taken hold. The adult taps the keyboard, turning thoughts into words; while the child occasionally glances out through the sliding doors, watching Plantain stalks sway in the wind…
Bonja the Bodger 