The civil liberties’ attorney said there has been an up-tick, a pretty sizable up-tick, in violence from fringe, white, skin-head, Western cowboy, Michigan thumb, tea party, old, hardly movin’ folk movin’ toward mainstream groups since, none other than, Barak Obama, middle name Hussein, appeared on the scene, audaciously according to all the previously mentioned, as, of all things, our (our?) president, our (Are you kidding me, they wonder.) Commander-in-Chief (Hey, dude, who wears the fatigues, the cowboy boots and the 9 mm Glocks around here?). The loonies, apparently, were willing to put up with Dubya, probably, mostly because he was a sorta, simple, white guy who spoke in Texas colloquial even if he had a Brahmin background which was hidden behind “Ah, shucks, wood chompin’, brush clearin’ I’m the decider,” middle Texas talk. And they’ve got guns, lots of guns and they are not only pointing them, they are now shooting them here, there and everywhere and they are scared, oh, so scared and oh, so dangerous like a cornered rat in our now rodent ridden NRA nation, and even though I’ve been concerned for the president’s safety from the beginning, I, now, just really want the President to finish out his second, duly elected term, faster than those two and a half remaining years and get on with a requisite memoir, a foundation, a legacy and, by the grace of God, old, really old age given a guy who is in such good shape now, now that he has finally quit smoking and this from a guy who turned the corner of 144^th and Halsted Street as the newscaster broke in on the radio station to say that John Fitzgerald Kennedy had been shot in Dallas, Texas.

It, of course, is the story everybody loves

in these days of national political gridlock,

antagonism, polarization and blatant racism,

when an American soldier, five year prisoner

of war, is booed on touchdown on U.S. soil

and prejudged and excoriated by every non-

veteran pundit, newscaster and otherwise

media ignoramus, it’s obvious America is

stalled out on the potholed highway of life.

The good-looking kid who’s mother was

bought for a song has everyone singing “My

Old Kentucky Home,” listening to “Revelry”

in Maryland and hearing Frank Sinatra, Jr. belt

out his dad’s song, “New York, New York” in

New York – a commoner in Camelot, a would-

be prince in a land of kings, a would-be king

in the land of equine gods. A number’s geek,

a blue-collar California cowboy, a long-term,

mediocre rider turned into a veteran-in-his-own-

right trainer all looking for a “who-could-believe

-it” legacy was on the verge of handing America

what it needed in this moment like every other

moment in America’s past when something

mythical, something magical, something whim-

sical was needed and now would, for two and

a half minutes, provide it, but it was not to be.

The double crown, an unbelievable feat, was

not to be a triple. The crazy politicians would

continue their crazy ways, cynicism would

prevail, fear, again, would rule the day and

after it all, all the jeers and tears, the beautiful,

golden boy with the flying white feet, upon

whom rested so many hopes, just looked for-

ward to a big bucket of oats and lots of rest

in the California sun.

While driving to the hardware store in his

fourteen-year-old, mid-size, gas-guzzling

SUV, which normally only comes out of

the garage to pull his little, travel trailer

to state parks for relatively environmentally

friendly get-aways (vs. staying in motels

along the way and at the destination), except

just then because the SUV was in the way of

the hybrid and parked behind the hybrid

instead of being put in the garage promptly

after having been disconnected from the

little travel trailer and he didn’t want to go

to the trouble to park it back in the garage,

he saw two teen-aged skateboarders

flying down the bike path being pulled by

two Chocolate Labs that looked like

thoroughbred horses/like brown unicorns

rising to the heavens. The boys and their

steeds rose, in the man’s mind, like chariots

of fire. He looked at the road ahead, saw the

Brits in their bright white apparel running

along the shore in the movie, heard the

music and felt lift off of his fossil-fuel burning

beast. It soared above the trees and then

slalomed down the powdery slopes. He

pulled back on the steering wheel and the

WWII bomber (which fit better with the

heavy weight he was driving) just rose above

the sand dunes, dipped and chopped the

top of the white caps on the big lake. Then

he dropped down in the parking lot of the hard-

ware store, removed his Cubs/leather fighter

pilot cap, breathed deeply, turned off the

ignition, got out, sauntered through the auto-

matic door and asked a clerk where he would

find the fish food. Arriving at home, having

maneuvered the warning cones which just a

few minutes earlier had been Olympic, down-

hill slalom poles, he parked the Chariot of Fossil

Fuel Fire and promised himself that next time he

would fly in the sky and swoop down the slope in

his fuel-efficient, four-cylinder hybrid.

Blasphemous wars in Iraq and Afghanistan

cause burgeoning numbers of injured

in the horribly over-burdened VA.

A stingy, heartless Congress votes against

necessary funding to care for the boys and

girls they lauded as they headed to harm’s way.

Now fingers point at the other party and

the sitting president, while those waiting

for medical treatment are shooed away.

And those in the previous administration

are either sitting at an artist’s easel

or pontificating on news shows on Sunday.

What they forget is that for every finger

pointing in an accusative way, as the cliche

goes, three are pointing right back their way.

From my place sitting on the balcony,

the smiling Buddha wore a Coon-skin cap.

On closer inspection I could clearly see

It was Alvin the Chipmunk who upon Siddhartha sat.

I glanced to where a monk in stillness stood

and saw one of Alvin’s relatives merrily prancing

all around that pious medieval monk’s hood.

Facing east was Confucius another chipmunk dancing

up and down his legs and all around the philosopher’s feet.

It was then and there with much agitation

I ceased eradication and offered my utter defeat.

As long as the rodents didn’t cause consternation

by biting and scratching the pond’s protection,

I would play St. Francis and let them roam

while I sat meditating for spiritual perfection

and some peace of mind while intoning Om.

A friend insightfully wrote: “To understand what Colonial

Europe did in Africa is to understand what finally

happened: WWI and then, ultimately, WW2, as

the Colonial powers finally turned on themselves.”

He had read somewhere that World War I was

unnecessary. In summary, an arch-duke got

shot and the continent went to hell in a gigantic,

pent-up over-reaction. The Germans ate appetiz-

ers of smaller countries, feasted on French cuis-

ine for a while and belched on Russia. He read

somewhere that World War II would have been

unnecessary if the first mistake hadn’t been made

thus becoming mistake #2. But the German appetite

was unquenched so more countries were gobbled

up and the whole world was to be on the Palatinate

plate were it not for indigestible places like Britain

and the U.S. But I and II happened and millions

died, were slaughtered, mowed down, gobbled up.

The Colonialists couldn’t reach out like they had

for sumptuous delicacies across the seas, mostly

dark meat to build the protein for their pale, white

palates. And, so, they devoured each other and

about as much white meat was left on the carcass

as is left two days after Thanksgiving dinner. Modern

day Colonialists’ thirst cannot be slaked by domestic

beverages, so they reach out for the dark Arabian brew

that goes down so smoothly but they gagged on it, threw

up a million injured and killed and a couple of trillion

dollars misspent. And they live and die by the words

of an Exceptional Man, “Stay thirsty, my friend.”

On a pleasant, sunny Sunday morning

of Memorial Day Weekend, he sat in the

shade under the new portable shelter he

and his wife bought to place next to their

seventeen foot, egg-shaped travel trailer

at a small campground about an hour and

a half from their home. He felt a breeze

coming in from the lake, looked up and

saw an American flag affixed to a street

lamp blowing in his direction. He hoped

the new shelter was staked down sufficient-

ly.  After sipping “Jamaican’ Me Crazy”

flavored coffee brewed in a French press and

returning the cup to the holder attached to his

Captain’s chair, he opened his computer and

logged on only to read a report of a shooting

rampage by a deranged 22-year-old the previous

evening half-way across the country in a pleasant,

sea-side college town. Six dead, three slashed

to death, three gunned down and many others

wounded, some severely. He checked his

e-mail and read one of the daily meditations

he receives. This one was about the gentle-

ness of Jesus. The writer of the meditation

wrote, “(Jesus) responds to people’s suffering,

heals their wounds, and offers courage to the

fainthearted. Jesus…reveals God’s immense

compassion. As his followers, we are called to

that same gentleness.” The man clicked out of

his e-mail, sat back, listened to Bach’s St.

Matthew Passion on the radio just as the chorus

sang, “Oh, Sacred Head, sore wounded,” looked

at the flag waving in his direction, heard a

splash and turned to see his Chocolate Lab

romping in the creek. The man’s wife laughed

at the playfulness of the dog.

The next day they would pack up their camp

chairs, walk to the Memorial Day service and

listen to old men talk of guns and guts and glory.

The man would pet his Chocolate Lab,

look up, see that same flag affixed

to the lamp pole and think of gentle Jesus.

Do not fear the authorities

if you have nothing to fear,

dictated St. Paul from prison

in a mid-first century year.

But St. Paul had no knowledge of

the NSA and their voracious need –

a vision of going the extra mile

to slake their unquenchable greed,

a greed disguised as need that evokes

images of fiction’s dystopian style,

that of the prophetic absurdist writer

Franz Kafka’s no smiling win-win “Trial.”

I.

To protect your public image, all negative and contrary

aspects of yourself have to go underground,

hidden from others and even yourself, apparently,

but there is hope, so please don’t frown.

II.

Your shadow you refuse, about yourself, to see,

and you go to lengths to show to others who you’d like to be.

III.

We never get to the second half of life

without major shadowboxing,

so it’s time to face the inner strife

and stop all the outfoxing.

IV.

Neither our persona nor our shadow self

is evil in itself:

they just allow us to do evil

and not know it,

or even call it good when we show it.

V.

The closer you get to the Light,

the more of your shadow you see.

Full human life demands some shadowboxing

with the shadow side of every reality.

* Richard Rohr’s Daily Meditation: Shadowboxing, Sabbath Meditation, Saturday, May 17, 2014