The Lodge of Life

It is 6:37 a.m. Monday morning. Jenn usually goes to our back bedroom for a few hours sleep, but this morning she was chased back to the bosom of her family by a cockroach--our first sighting of the season! I don't think I saw even one of the little buggers while I lived in Oregon, but was nauseatingly awakened last year by a little tickle on my skin. The cats had brought in a good sized roach as a gift for their lord and master, ans the poor, disgusting thing scurried across my arm looking for escape. Blech, exclamation point!

Segue #1: A number of years ago, from my desire to honor and learn about a number of religions of the world, I had a mini-Christian bible by my bed. There it gathered dust for a good 18 months until finally, in the deepest, darkest middle of the night, I felt inspired to open it up and read a few parables. I turned on the reading light, took a sip of water, and lifted the small chap bible to see what I might see. An absolutely enormous cockroach had got itself wedged between the bibles pages and was writhing its front legs at me. I dropped the book in horror, and saw it as a sign and got rid of the artifact the next day. The unfortunate image was, needless to say, seared into my brain. God and that wacky sense of humor again.

And speaking of God, just yesterday I rode my bike to REI to pick up a pair of shoes. When I exited the store with my purchase, the horseshoe lock securing my bike to the metal rack wouldn't open. I cursed, I pleaded, I cajoled, I exhorted the lock to open, but no amount of pulling, pushing, yanking, and tweeking of the key could get it to budge.

I'm a person who, if I don't get enough exercise, every other day or so, I start to climb the walls. I've been feeling dark of late, unable (or unwilling) to do my happy dance. I've been snippy with Jenn and impatient with Zinnia, who has entered a clingy/whiney stage. I'm sleep deprived, stressed from the rigors of learning the ropes of a new job, and am "working on" changing my diet from one of a pure, unadulterated carb addict who used to shoot-up half a bag of Reduced Fat Ruffles, to a diet that is more protein-rich.

And now my bike was tethered to a bike rack like a baby elephant tied to a sapling in Thailand. I felt a mild sense of panic, and more, the first pangs of a deep emotional attachment to this old clunker that I hadn't even known existed. What had this bicycle ever done to deserved such a fate--to be permanently lashed to a rack outside of REI while uber-rich hikers scoffed and spit at it like yesterdays trash? I did what any sane bicycling enthusiast would do: I began to strip my old paint of whatever parts weren't bolted down and called my super-competent wife for help. Jenn immediately Googled "How to crack a Kryptonite lock."*

I began to fantasize about what my next bike would be. Maybe I'll finally get that $1500 road bike I have longed for for five years. I'll even get the bike garb: the silly shorts that accent my package, the water bottles, the odometer.

I turned toward the entrance to let the manager know that my bright yellow Motobecane would remain locked in front of their building into perpetuity unless they helped me liberate it, but paused. Something moved inside of me, a quiet whisper. It said: Stop, ask for help.

"Okay," I said out loud. In that moment I felt more connected to spirit than I had in months simply through the act of leaning in. "Please, God, let this key work just one more time."

I lifted up the lock to give it a final go, and just like that, one end of the horseshoe popped free from its prison. How could I not smile.

Of late, I had been resentful toward God for various grievances. Resentful for giving me a body that won't let me run marathons or sleep soundly; for giving me a body that can't practice yoga every day and won't allow me to eat whatever I please; a body whose natural cholesterol setting routinely spikes between 280-300. And don't get me started on how God adamantly refuses to send a publisher my way, one who recognizes my pure, polished gift as a writer and creative genius, and who wants to sign me to a three book deal with movie options.

And then that lock popped open and reminded me that perhaps it's just as easy as asking for what I want with a sincere heart and clear mind.

And speaking of which ... (insert wavy flashback lines)

Way back in 1998 I moved to Portland. I was struggling to find a job and watched as my savings dwindle down to a trickle. One gray Saturday morning, I was sitting alone in my haunted apartment,* donning a pair of boxers and black socks and wondering how the hell I was going to pay the bills.

"How much do you need?" a quiet voice within asked.

It gave me pause. I took a moment to tally up all of my expenses. My ebst guess was, I needed enough to cover three months worth of rent, bills, and food. "$1500," I said out loud. "Fifteen hundred dollars, and I can relax until I find a job."

The next day, my father called out of the blue to let me know that my aunt wanted to give me a monetary gift for the amount of $1500 to help me on my way.

So why not have routine daily talks with the Big Guy? At night, rather than talk to God, I tell myself I don't have time or I don't know what to pray for or Spirit already knows what I need/want. But really, I am simply out of praying shape. It's like going back to the gym after taking a year off. The first few work-outs are like landing in a sweaty, lunar dream-scape, but one quickly builds up stamina until it become a pure pleasure. The need to pray--my need to pray--to talk to God, to connect with the Universe is, I'm convinced, as important to my existence as my very breath.

Communing with Spirit seems to come down to three words, Practice, Practice, Practice. I was speaking to a dear friend recently about my struggles in finding the energy for spiritual practice these days and how I missed sweat lodge and ceremony and a strong meditation practice.

"Well, Honey (he calls everyone Honey), I hear, but you already are in sweat lodge. Maybe the rocks aren't there, and your not sitting in the dark in the heat with someone pouring water, but you are in lodge every day. You're a father and a husband, a provider and a creative being, and you are walking consciously on the planet and being of service to others. You are in lodge every day. And thank God for that."

Aho ...

... please, Spirit, send the publisher anyway.



*With a crowbar

**At that time I didn't know it was haunted. I was eventually chased from the apartment due to too much supernatural shenanigans. Very creepy.

Zinnia the Traveler

It's March 8th. For those of you who don't know, I've started a new job, a 28 hour a week position working at a clinic for people with co-occurring disorders, i.e. people with some sort of substance addiction and mood or thought disorder. The organization is set in a large, warehouse building out by the airport, and the team that works there is undauntably cheerful, sincere, and real. If name recognition is any indication of being in the right spot, of those co-workers I've met, I have been able to remember an (albeit slim) majority of their names--roughly 40-50 people--even with my usually spotty recall.

My new boss tells me that my packet is somewhere amidst the stack to go before the credentialing committee today. I will soon know if I will be allowed to start seeing clients or if I will indeed spend the next month boning up on methadone, Buprenorphine, Narcan, observing groups and intakes, and learning a complicated electronic medical records system until the committee next meets. I feel confident all systems will be go and/but will know for sure before I finish this entry.#

Jenn and Zinnia are in Oregon visiting the fam.* It is the first time I've been apart from them for any real length time since Z. joined the earth party, and I am finding it oddly disorientating. The three of us flew out to Portland last Friday so Jenn could get her fix of rain, relatives, and ocean, and to introduce Zinnia to those members of her family who had not yet been blessed by Z.'s smile and stunning personality. It was Zinnie's first flight, and aside from a brief crying jag when her ears popped as the plane descended, our daughter proved to be a natural born traveler. She enchanted passenger and flight attendant alike, and we even passed her to a woman across the aisle--a mother of five--who had been flirting with Z. like it was second nature, which, after five kids, it no doubt was.

I am still amazed at the emotional response a baby evokes from the general female public. At both the Albuquerque and Utah airports, I strolled around the terminal with Zinnia balanced on one hand and a Starbucks cup in the other. Women melted before her gaze; they smiled and cooed at our little angel even while avoiding eye contact with Zinnia's father (i.e. your humble author). Many of the male travelers were somehow able to resist Z.'s charms, but several of my more heart-opened brethren would glance briefly at my child and offer me a silent nod of approval.

Zinnia makes life interesting wherever she goes and offers me the unique experience of observing a being who is living each moment as if for the first time. Below, the usual suspect gleefully perches atop her papa's shoulders while absolutely soaking the back of his head with baby drool.

Yesterday, Jenn told me over the phone that she and Zinnia had gone for a stroll on a rare, semi-translucent Oregon day and came across two neighbor kids playing basketball in their driveway. Z was so mesmerized by the sport that as soon as Jenn put her down, she let out a squeal of delight and crawled down the sidewalk toward the boys as quickly as her little baby butt could scamper (an image that, without any further details, is utterly endearing).

"I guess she's going to be some sort of athlete," Jenn said.

Here, then, is an updated list of potential vocations for our daughter based on activities that have fascinated her: A pilot, a ceiling fan installer, a dental hygienist (she often indulges herself by sucking on dental floss box), a world-renowned peace activist (possibly a parental projection), a comedian,** a professional soccer player, a hat-taker-offer,*** and a cat wrangler. She is also the acknowledged fiance of one of the babies in Jenn's Mama/Baby group--at least according to the boy's mother--but I have yet to meet the young lad or his family to see if he comes from upstanding stock. Plus--who knows--Zinnia might be a lesbian, and while lesbianism is more of a calling than a vocation, we will tack it onto the list nonetheless.

(One week later) Two days ago, Jenn, Zinnia, and I went to Trader Joe's to shop for sundry items. A mother strolled toward us down one of the aisles, her two daughters in tow. The younger one, perhaps five, was dressed like a little princess.

"That's a quite the pretty dress you have there," Jenn said with a smile.

The girl looked up and beamed. "Yes, it is."

Her older sister and mother laughed, but then corrected her and told her to say thank you. The little girl had already started down the aisle, but called over her shoulder, "Thanks."

When I am out in public with Zinnia, I do have a bit of a sense of pride, as if I'm sharing a long-time dream fulfilled: Hey, look everybody, see what I helped create? However, while I take credit for helping to manifest this sweet being, I subscribe more to The Prophet's description of my job as a parent:

And a woman who held a babe against her bosom said, "Speak to us of Children."

And he said:

Your children are not your children.

They are the sons and daughters of Life's longing for itself.

They come through you but not from you,

And though they are with you, yet they belong not to you.

You may give them your love but not your thoughts.

For they have their own thoughts.

You may house their bodies but not their souls,

For their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow, which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams.

You may strive to be like them, but seek not to make them like you.

For life goes not backward nor tarries with yesterday.

You are the bows from which your children as living arrows are sent forth.

The archer sees the mark upon the path of the infinite, and He bends you with His might that His arrows may go swift and far.

Let your bending in the archer's hand be for gladness;

For even as he loves the arrow that flies, so He loves also the bow that is stable.


To take responsibility for such a wonderful creation strikes me as ludicrous. Credit goes to God and God alone. Jenn and I are Zinnia's stewards, nothing more. It is our job to aim our smiling, giggling, crying-from-teething pain little seahorse--to the best of our ability--in the direction of her karmic destiny. To the degree that we teach our daughter to love and be loved will gauge our success as parents.


#I'm in : )

* Hip lingo for "family."

** Zinnia loves a good double-take, and while she is not quite old enough for a spit take, ala' Danny Thomas, she has the spitting-up down pat.

***Not sure how this will translate into the real world