Fifty-years ago today, when I was twenty-three,
I watched Carlos and Smith,
John and Tommie —
sprinters, tall, slim, swift
who could run like the wind.
They stood, strong men,
on the Olympic podium
medals around their necks,
black gloved fists held high,
systematic, endemic racism to defy,
faces looking down to the ground
as if to say,
“We’re ashamed of the US of A.”
They were roundly condemned,
but I admired those men
(and still do, to this day)
and their prowess and might.
I, a young man of white,
knew that they were right.

leaves fall into net;
waterfall tumbles to pond;
fifteen goldfish swim content.

After morning exercises — stretch
bands for his aging upper body
and rolls for his stomach like

Suzanne Somers did in the com-
mercial many moons ago, he sat
at his closed computer, looked out

the window at the blowing wind
and overcast sky, clicked his timer,
closed his eyes and let time roll

by, over him, under him and
around as he counted his breaths,
deeper and deeper, rolled his head

left and right and left and right
and hung his head while sitting
very upright breathing deeply.

The alarm on his watch went
off. He didn’t want it to end.
He breathed as deeply as he

could for a minute more and
opened his eyes to a bright,
sunny sky and soft, swaying

branches of the trees. Yes, he,
his wife and their Chocolate Lab
would go for a jog later. He

opened his computer and clicked
mail. It was time for him to read
the three meditations and three

poems that greeted him and then the
e-mails that came into his in-box
during the night and awaited his

attention. Oops, he could smell
the soup on the stove. That meant
it was boiling away. He rushed

to the kitchen, turned down the
heat under the pot and grabbed
a cup of coffee mumbling to

himself on his way back to the
study, welcome to reality. Might
as well let the news intrude.

Braces clamped on newly stem-celled knees;
hiking sticks in hand; stop watch set. His

wife and Chocolate Lab took off toward the
woods. He started his slow jog behind.

“See you back in 30 minutes,” he called.
The cold wind out of the northwest hit

him in the face. He felt invigorated and
full of gratitude. His knees felt good.

In a paraphrase of the Paul Simon song,
he called down to his knees, “Still faith-

ful after all these years.” The wind whip-
ped against the tear tearing it from his

face. He breathed deeply and basked in the
heart warming grace as he increased his

pace, cold northwest wind in his face.

Half-way through the summer
he ran out of steam to make
any more soup, but the temp-
erature plunged and the leaves

started to turn and well…this
morning he took out of the
refrigerator the big pot with
the remains of the homemade

chili, the plate with the remains
of the baked squash with pork
sausage from last evening’s
dinner; scraped the squash into

the large pot added one chopped
link of summer sausage and pro-
ceeded to clean out the vegetable
crisper of squash, green onions,

Romain lettuce, a sweet potato,
red beets, and several Brussel
Sprouts, saving all that he could.
He’d add some carrots and celery

later. Next came tomatoes, chopped
garlic, a super chili, sans seeds
hotter than a Habanero, filtered
lard, olive oil. He poured in the

chicken stock, dropped in two beef
bouillon cubes, Italian seasoning,
sea salt, pepper, added some grated
Parmesan cheese and stirred. The

heat on the stove went from four,
to three to two to simmer to low.
Before even dipping the ladle for
a taste test, he felt contentment

wash over him and that really was
his purpose for making the first
pot of Stone Soup of the fall. Oh,
his wife, who did sample the soup,

told him it simply was delicious
— especially the broth, which made
the whole morning’s effort worth-
while. Contentment, appreciation.

What a combination! Now for a nap,
and then a jog followed by a tête-
à-tête with John le Carré and finally
a bowl of Stone Soup du Jour.

Yes, it’s true;
It’s contextual
Thru and thru.
In conservative
Circles, I’m
Liberal, and
In liberal circles
I’m fairly
Conservative;
It’s true.
It’s hard
to admit.
I don’t want
To be thought
A twit
Or nit-wit
Or hypocritical
Pseudo wit,
Or without
A core value,
But
It’s contextual
Thru and thru.
It’s who I am
And, probably,
If you are
Honest,
It’s
You, too.

Part I. Gratitude

People may wonder what life is like after
tragedy. Thanks for asking. Does it ever
get back to normal? Normal? I’m not sure
what normal was let alone what normal

is. I would say muted. Life is muted —
never quite as high; never quite as low.
When the colors came back they weren’t
quite as vivid. You just go. I was never

one to go with the flow, so, I don’t mean
that. I mean you go through life with ap-
preciation but with a bit of apprehension —
Gun shy? Maybe. I guess it has to do with

the loss of innocence — innocence even if
you are not young but have never previously
experienced anything tragic. Dulling the
senses a bit, perhaps. Yes, sanding down

the rough edges. Being prepared. Not ex-
pecting the heights; Not expecting ecstasy;
not expecting Nirvana, Valhalla in this life.
Something like that. I always cried easily

Part II. Grace

just ask my kids about how I would cry
during a sad or tender movie scene but now
more than ever. (Establishing credentials
of sensitivity) You’d think it would be

just the opposite given numbing. Yes, I
cry more easily, but I don’t laugh quite
as spontaneously. Really, that’s about all
I can say. Thank you for asking, though.

Really. Oh, in all honesty (watch out for
that phrase. It could be a set-up), I still
get pretty angry. I’m working on that. Do
you know what I would really like? (No, of

course not; that is just a set up question
so I can tell you what I really would like
to convince you of.) I would like to get
out of myself (that certain amount of self-

indulgence, egotism that keeps my focus
inward) and actually turn it outward in
selfless anger for others. That’s a worthy
goal (and aren’t I noble in mentioning

Part III. Guilt

it?). Goals can keep you alive. Sometimes
the goal is just staying alive. But it has
to go beyond that — eventually. And to be
perfectly honest (which probably isn’t

perfectly honest but is a phrase of self-
justification or self-deception for what
is to come), focusing outside of one’s
self isn’t at all easy for me. This ac-

count is it’s own proof. Look how many
of my sentences are spent on me. (Enter
respected core value of humility.) Just
count the “I”s. The “I”s have it. In some

religious circles, that’s called naming
reality — every word, every posture, every
action, each and every one is tainted with
sin, or self-interest, self-absorption

(and see how humble and sincerely honest
I am about admitting that?). But getting
back to the topic at hand — that being
tragedy….

Our new Lab dances with happiness
months after we adopted her.
First came clumps of thick brown fur,
because she experienced panic and distress.

She was a breeder dog with one purpose.
She was to produce litter after litter
making her owners’ coffers that much bigger
with prize puppies selling for more not less.

They tossed her away one cold spring day.
Her tenure done, the girl away they did send.
Her very last litter was soon taken away
and she hadn’t even had time to mend.
Rescued from her captors and then spayed,
she came to us for a beginning not a sad end.

He had echolalia
of the ukulele-ah
or was it the harmonica
or simply the guitar-uh, huh.
that he played
three chords far, far, far
and long, long, long?
Everyone said,
“Come on, let’s move
it along.
We have better things
to do
than to sit here
listening to you
play three boring chords
over and over
and over again.
Your musical echolalia
might be hell —
it certainly isn’t heaven.”

In sacred halls of spirituality
the brain trust competed.
Who would get top honors?
The academic faculty smiled
upon them, nodding approval.
One, with hubris and a
certain meanness, went
off to graduate work and
dropped out, never to return.
One, feigning humility
but perhaps the most
competitive of all, went
off to graduate work but
never got the job he
wanted.
One, with an edgy,
sarcastic wit, went
into the parish and
when his wife died
went into hiding
from which he has
yet to emerge.
One, socially un-
comfortable, went
to graduate school
never to emerge.
They knew the texts;
they knew the history;
they knew the ancient
languages;
they knew the systematics;
they knew it all.
Did they know the unknowable?
Did any of us?
Do we, even now?
Do we dare?
It seemed so safe —
elsewhere,
like in academia’s embrace —
not entering the cloud
of unknowability
the great mystery. .