House Arrest

Isn’t life strange?

The sun is shining.
The birds are chirping.
The flowers are blooming.
And today,
The Governor put us under
House arrest.
Before we knew
What the governor had ordered
Denise and I shopped
For onions, crackers, strawberries
And mushrooms.
Of course, we need mushrooms.
Cashiers smiled
At the customers
With their worried,
Frightened,
Desperate faces.
Isn’t life strange?
There is no catastrophe,
No tornado,
No flood,
No earthquake,
No hurricane
That would impair,
The supply
Of needed wares.
And yet,
People stop.
Stop shaking hands,
Stop hugging,
Stop going about
Their daily life
And rush to grocery stores
To gather supplies
In case
The governor puts us under
House arrest.
In case
The virus lands on our
Doorstep
And barges in.
In case
We run out of
toilet paper?
Toilet paper?
Really?
Isn’t life strange?
We are told to
Go against our nature.
Told, don’t shake hands,
Do not hug,
Do not go out.
Don’t meet your friends.
In spite of all this
“Sound advice”
I am grateful
I can hold hands
With the one I cherish
And feel her love
Pulse from her fingers
To my heart.
I can hug
The one I love.
And listen to our hearts
Talk to each other.
I can kiss
My mate for life
And slip sweetly
Into a magical
Slice of bliss.
I can do all this
While the governor
Has us under
House arrest.

Mom's Final Journey

Forty years
Is a long time

To not see,
Not hug,
Not kiss,

Not talk to

My mom.

She was nineteen years

Younger

Than I am, now

When she died.
She called me,
Magically,
Forty years ago

From her hospital bed
830 miles away
From Albuquerque,

In faraway
California.
“I’m ready,”
She said to me

As I lie
In my broken body

On the couch

Recovering

From my motorcycle
Crash.
“I’m ready,”
She said again.

The weight of her voice
Sat heavy on my chest.
Tears slid down my face
As I struggled to rise.
I knew my task.
I had prepared for this.
I shook my shaman’s rattle.

And floated out of my body

Following her voice

Saying, “I’m ready,”

Down, down, down
To a riverbank.
I crossed the river
And entered a cave.
She hugged me

Tight
“I’m ready,”
She said.

She released her hug
And shapeshifted
Into a butterfly
Small enough to hold

In my arms.
I carried her to the entrance

And paid the gatekeeper
With a ball of light.
I stepped into a  boat
And rowed across the river
With my mom
In my lap.
Swirls formed as the oars
Splashed into the water
Gliding us
To the safety
Of the other side.
I held my mom
Snuggly in my arms
As I jumped up
And flew
From the lower world,
Through this world,
And through many layers
Of the upper world.
I didn’t know
Her final destination.
I didn’t know
Where
I was taking her.
An Eagle flew along

My side.
“I’ll take her from here,”

The Eagle said.

I placed my mom
In the Eagle’s talons
And cried
As they flew away.
On my return
To my body,

On the couch,
In Albuquerque,

The phone rang.
The nurse said,
“Your mom
Passed away
Just now.”
My tears slid
Across my cheeks.
“I know,” I said.
“Thank you for calling,”

Thought

Thought.
What exactly is it?
Who creates it?
Do I?
From what?
Why?
When I
Become aware
Of a thought,
Is it my creation?
Can it be
Someone else's
Thought
That I am thinking?
Do I retrieve thoughts
From some
Thought storehouse
That belongs to only me?
Or do I create each
And every thought
At the moment
I became aware
Of it?
If my awareness
Senses it,
Is it always mine?
Can it be an orphan
Thought?
Do thoughts float,
Or flash
Across space and time
Intruding on my mind
Or body?
Thoughts are things
That take up time
And space.
They touch,
Influence,
And control
My mind
And my body.
How?
How can a thought
That has no physical structure
Have that much power?
I've had thoughts
That couldn't
Be of my making.
Whose are they?
Why am I aware
Of thoughts that
Are not mine?
Thought.
What is it?
Am I a thought
In someone's mind?

Magic Is Who He Wants

It be 43 years back when me son, Jeremy, answered the phone. "The man on the phone wants to talk to Magic. I think he's got the wrong number."
I held out me hand for the phone. It be one of me shipmates. A nice chat we had, talking about old times on the ship and current events.

When I hung up the phone, me little Jeremy squished his little face. "Why did he call you, magic? I never saw you do magic tricks."
A big smile warmed me face. "I don't do tricks. I do real magic," I said to him.
"Real magic?" he be asking with his wee little mind trying to figure out what his dad be talking about.
"I use the magic in me finger, here," I said as I pointed to him with me right-hand index finger.
"What kind of magic can you do with it?"
I wiggled it at him, and said, "I can make you laugh."
He ran away from me, laughing and saying, "That's not fair!"

Mosquito

Mosquito

Humans don’t generally enjoy Mosquitoes. They are bloodsuckers, after all.
Although we may not understand their purpose, they are earthlings with as much right to life as we have.

A mosquito buzzed around my ear when I was at a shamanic council meeting in northern California. I was tempted to smack it against my ear. But I chose to see if I could negotiate a mutual agreement. I relaxed. I shut my eyes and went into a shamanic trance. I told the mosquito that I would not hurt her. I told the mosquito that she could take all the blood she needed. In return, I asked that she tell all the other mosquitos to leave me alone for the weekend. I could feel her sucking up my blood. She flew away and I noticed that my ear did not itch, as it usually does after a mosquito has struck. No other mosquitos bothered me over the weekend. Many of the council members complained about being bitten all weekend long.

Sometimes we just need to remember that all earthlings have a right to life. And we can sometimes negotiate a mutual agreement.

Pain

A sing song tune

Along with a woman’s voice

From my cell phone 

Wakes me up this morning,

“Don’t move," Pain says.

"Ain’t I hurting you enough,

Already?”

I grit my teeth,

As I lift the blankets with my

Weaker, clumsier, less dominant

Left hand.

I wince.

The woman is still talking,

Telling me the morning news.

“Shut up!”  

I don’t care right now.

I pull my legs over the side.

How the hell

Am I gonna get up

While I’m lying

On my only good arm?

I shove it out

And then push

Against the mattress.

My arm shakes as I rise.

I sit and breathe,

And breathe some more.

My feet reach out.

Pull one moccasin closer.

I breathe as I insert my foot.

I pull the other moccasin close

And put it on.

Pain bites my arm,

Burns my back,

And punches the inside,

Far inside of my chest

When I cough.

“You bastard!”

I want to yell.

“Ya can yell if ya want,”

Pain says from deep inside

My ribcage.

 “But it won’t do ya any,

Not one teensy bit

Of good.”

I breathe slowly in

And stand up.

My right leg tells me to wait

Just a minute.

My right leg doesn’t want to

Let the pain

Know it is going to move.

I lean over to turn off the alarm,

To shut up the morning alarm’s voice.

My feet move forward,

Down the hall,

Across the living room,

To the dining room table,

To the little plastic bottle

With the blue pain pills.

I sit.

I breathe.

I dump out three blue pain pills.

“Damn it!”

Where's the water?

I hold onto the table.

Lift myself up.

I Breathe.

I walk to the sink.

I lean in

And push the lever

With my non-dominant hand.

Water pours.

I grab a cup

I Breathe.

I fill it.

I Breathe.

I turn off the water with the cup.

And take a sip.

I Breathe.

“Why do you have to be

So cruel?”

I ask pain.

“I ain’t cruel.

I just am what I am.”

“What is that

That you are?”

I ask pain.

“I’m your protector,

Your warning

Of impending

Harm.

I’m your alarm

To do something.”

“I don’t like you,”

I say to pain.

“I don’t expect you to.”

Childhood Xmas

When ye were a wee lass or a wee lad, did ya wonder what Santa would bring ya on Xmas morn? When I was a wee lad, Xmas morn was long and painful. Me brothers and I would awaken early and peek into the living room, staring at the presents under the tree. Our parents, who, on any normal day, would be up hours before we would, would be nowhere in sight. They would be in their bedroom getting dressed for Xmas mass.

No presents would be opened until we came home from mass. And would they take us to an early mass, like the 6:00 AM, or 8:00 Am, or 10:00 AM? NO! They took us to mass at noon. Cruel that be.
I would pray, "Please dear Lord, Make Father Flannery say mass really fast.” The good Lord must have been hard of hearing or he was too busy enjoying the choir singing Xmas songs. I couldn't pay attention to the sermons, or the readings. I’d forget when to stand or kneel.  Me thoughts were on wondering what was in the box under our Xmas tree.
Tell me about your Xmas morns when ye were a wee lass or a wee lad.

Jeremy's Orange Sky

Many years ago our (then six-year-old) son, Jeremy, was sitting at the kitchen table with Crayons and a coloring book. I saw him grab a blue crayon and start to color the sky. I stopped him. "What color is the sky, Jeremy?" I asked. 
Annoyance scrunched his face. "It's blue," he said. 
"Are you sure?" I asked. 
Irritation pulled up his shoulders, as he returned his attention to his coloring book. I asked him to put his blue crayon down and come outside with me. The sky was similar to the one in this photo. "What color is the sky, now, Jeremy?" I asked. He made a failed attempt to suppress a smile. We went back into the house. He colored the sky orange. When I saw him grab a gray Crayon I asked him, "What are you going to use that gray Crayon for?" 
He narrowed his eyes at me. "I know that clouds aren't always gray. But that is what I want to color my clouds."
"That's fine," I said with a smile.
Orange skies remind me of Jeremy.

Donde Esta Tu Lengua?

Donde esta tu lengua?

Where is your mother tongue,
Your birthright,

Your badge of honor?
Where is the song

Of your soul,

Those heartfelt words

Your mother sang to you,

Even before you were born?

Why do you call your abuelo

Grandpa?

He barely speaks Engles.

You insult him, que no?

You toss his gift,

In his face,

That most precious gift

He has passed on

From generation to generation

Polishing it to shine

So that you, tambien,

Could say with pride,

Este lenguaje es mio,

This language is mine

Yo hablo Español.

Donde esta tu lengua?

Where did you lose it?

Did someone steal it?

Why did you believe

Your White teachers,

Who falsely told your parents

Speaking Spanish will hurt

Your children.

It will make them less.

It will identify them

As other.

Que? Other?

No hay otro

There is no other.

solo estamos nosotros

There is only us.

Why did you believe

Your neighbors who threw

The rock through your

Front room window

With a note attached

Scrawled with the words,

Wetbacks go home.

Go back to Mexico,

With other words of hate

Your mother would not,

Dared not, translate

From hatred English

To understandable Español.

Donde esta tu lengua?

Que no te acuerdas?

Don’t you remember?

Donde esta tu lengua?

No One Should See

I hope no one

Is watching me,

No one should see

Pain stained tears

Sneaking out

From my eyes.

No should see

The ICU,

The coffin,

His ashes

Floating out to sea.

I'm hidden in a closet

Of my own making.

No one should see

The reams of paper

Each page starting

With if I had only,

If I would've,

If I had not.

No one should see

The boxes of reams

I've hidden in my closet.

I hope no one

Is watching me.

If This Were 23 October 1992

Terror Hiding In the Phone

A terror hides in the phone,

Hanging on the kitchen wall,

Ringing over and over,

Until I  pick up the receiver.

A haunting voice speaks,

"Hello, this is the hospital.."

That voice kicks my gut

Stands on my chest,

And bangs my head.

"Your son has been in a motorcycle accident"

Repeats over and over,

In my head, 

While I listen.

While I try to listen.

While I try to undo

What I'm listening to.

"May we have permission

To treat him?

He's had a severe head injury.

May we have permission

To treat him?"

Terror wraps its thorny tail

Around my chest.

"We'll call back

When the doctor knows More."

There's more?

What more?

What?

Terror scratches a whisper,

"They don't know

But there is more."

"Your son has been in a motorcycle accident"

Repeats over and over,

In my head.

I want to go.

Go to our son.

Go protect our son.

Go save our son.

Make sure he's cared for.

Make sure he'll be fine.

I stare at the terror

Hanging on the kitchen wall

Waiting for it to ring.

Waiting, praying, begging

For the voice,

The doctor's voice,

To squash the terror,

And say our son is fine.

A terror hides in the phone,

Hanging on the kitchen wall.

I wait, staring at the terror

Knowing it is hiding

In the phone.

Liking To Eat Onions All At Once

     When I was six years old my mother boiled cabbage. The whole house really stank. Yuck. I hated the odor and taste of cabbage. We sat at the table and gave thanks for our food. My mother put a really big leaf of cabbage on my plate. I mean really big. It covered the whole table. OK, I'm exaggerating. But that is what it seemed like to me when I was six.  The aroma was horrible. I pinched my nose so that I wouldn't have to smell it. I know that we had something else to eat besides just the cabbage. But the putrid odor of boiled cabbage is all I can remember. My mother told me that I could not leave the table until I ate all of the cabbage. I thought my mother was being real mean to me for no good reason. I ate everything else on my plate and then stared at that cabbage. I know that because all I remember is me staring at that gargantuan cabbage leaf on my plate. 
     By now I suppose you are wondering what does cabbage have to do with liking to eat onions all at once. Actually, it has nothing to do with it except it is when I first heard the onion story.
     I cut a small piece of the cabbage with my fork. I put it in my mouth and gagged. I spit it out. My mother glared at me and threatened to spank me. I reached to the middle of the table and grabbed a slice of white bread. I wrapped a tiny piece of cabbage in the bread and ate it. I must have eaten half a loaf of white bread by the time I finished eating the cabbage. My stomach was so full of bread and cabbage that I could hardly walk. 
     "That wasn't so bad, was it," my mother said. "I know you could finish it."
     I wobbled out of the kitchen. My father had long gone left the table. He was sitting on the couch, in the front room, enjoying his beer, and reading the paper while my mother did the dishes. My father called me over and asked me to sit down.
     Now I can tell you about the onions.
     "When your grandfather, Hope, (That is the name I called him) was a little boy like you," my father said, "he hated onions as much as you hate cabbage."  
     He told me that when my grandfather was about 10 years old, he forgot to close the corral gate before he went to bed. The next morning my great-grandfather was furious. One of the horses had gotten out of the corral and was nowhere to be seen. My great grandfather was so mad that he made my grandfather go look for the horse before he ate breakfast. 
     My grandfather saddled one of the other horses and went looking for the horse that had escaped. He hunted for that horse all day. He rode his horse into the mountains before he finally found the missing horse. He lassoed the horse and tied the rope around the horn of his saddle. He towed the horsed behind him.  
     It had taken him all day. He was starving. On his way back it started to get dark. He saw a little house on his way home. He tied the horses to a post and knocked on the door. He told the man who lived there that he had been looking for the horse that got out of the corral all day and that he was very hungry. He asked him if he had any food to spare. The man invited my grandfather in and told him that he had just made himself some onion soup. That was all the food he had in the house. He offered my grandfather a bowl of onion soup. 
     My grandfather was so hungry that he figured that even though it was the one food he hated the most, it would be better than starving to death. My grandfather was surprised by how good the onion soup tasted. My grandfather had liked onions ever since that day.
     My father resumed reading the newspaper and drinking his beer. I left my father and wished that we had a corral with horses. And if one got loose because I forgot to close the gate then maybe, just maybe, I might like cabbage. 
     And then the cabbage odor from the kitchen hit my nose and I changed my mind.

Orlando, Milton, and the Couch

The story of Milton

 

I drove into an unpaved alley and parked in a gravel parking lot behind Denise's office on a cold October morning in Albuquerque.  While getting out of the van, I noticed a white cat in the bed of a yellow pickup truck.  As I walked by, the cat strutted towards me in the fashion of a dog.  I petted the cat and walked through the back door of the office.

I told the staff about the peculiar cat that was acting like a dog in the yellow pickup truck.  They said that they had thought it was Milton's cat.  But, upon calling Milton (Milton was the owner of the yellow little pickup) they were informed that Milton's cat was still at home. 

 

The "dog acting" cat was gone when I left Denise’s office.  Thinking no more about the cat, I hopped into the van and drove out of the parking lot, down the alley, and onto the road.  As I crossed over the railroad tracks, I heard a horrible scream that sounded very much like a cat.  I immediately pulled the van over to the side of the road and got out.  I slowly opened the hood, half expecting to find splattered cat guts all over the engine.  To my relief, I found a very frightened young adolescent cat tightly hanging onto the radiator protective cover.  I took the poor thing home.  Since I had first seen him in Milton's truck, I decided to name my newly acquired pet, MILTON.

 

Milton grew very large.  He was so big that he could be heard walking on the roof or across the kitchen floor.  When Orlando was a baby he used to lie on the cat.  Milton was Orlando's constant companion.  However, we had to protect Milton from our son on certain occasions.  When we had Milton neutered, we turned Orlando's playpen upside down and put Milton inside.  Orlando often played roughly with Milton.  But, Milton never scratched Orlando.  Had I been a cat I certainly would have.  I think it is awesome, in a shamanic sense, that cats know that children are special, and put up with apparent abuse from them.

 

Once upon an Easter, a very long time ago, I had quite a bit of green Easter egg dye left over after I had finished coloring warm hard-boiled eggs in the prettiest of designs and shades. As I was wondering what to do with the leftover dye, Milton hopped onto my lap.  I smiled at him and put my hand in the green dye and began to stroke Milton's white fur.  He purred.  I continued to dip my hand into the dye and stroke him.  He continued to purr.  He purred and I stroked until he was all green.  "Far out!" I thought to myself.  We're the only family in the whole world to have such a groovy-looking GREEN cat.  As I was admiring my handiwork, the doorbell rang.  When I answered the door, my artwork ran out past the building manager.  (Pets were not allowed.)  The manager's eyes grew wide as he saw the cat run out.  He shook his head and grinned.  He mumbled to himself, "Did I just see a green cat?”

I put my palms up, in apology. The manager shook his head, smiled, and said, “Don’t worry about it. No one would believe me if I tell them you have a GREEN cat".

 

 ***

Death disguised itself as a little puppy.  Jeremy found it with its head stuck in a can and brought it home.  Milton looked at it as if he knew who it was.  He didn't hiss or growl, as is his normal fashion, at this strange little dog in his house.  He just stood there as the dog walked up to him.  When the puppy left the room, Milton went to the front door and, in his peculiar little way, asked to be let out.  That was the last time we saw Milton alive.  Denise gave Death a bath.

He was dirty and he stunk.  The next morning the motherless child, Death, disguised as a puppy, disappeared.  That puppy bothered me the whole time it was in the house.  I didn't want it in the house, and I didn't know why.  I just wanted it to go away. 

 

Milton had been missing for about two weeks when I brought his huge frozen body home.  Denise got a ride to work from the neighbors.  As they drove along the highway talking about Milton, and wondering where he had run off to, Lillian saw a large white cat's body lying on a corner off Coors Blvd.  She gasped and the car stayed silent all the way to work. Denise called me to tell me what she and Lillian saw.  I drove to the vacant lot and saw a great big cat lying on the ground.  It was gray, I told myself.  It couldn't be Milton.  But something made me get closer and push the hair back.  It was white.  White under the dust and dirt and grease which covered Milton's body.  A tear flowed down my face as I put him in the van.  I brought Milton home that evening with a lump in my throat.  I dug a large hole at the foot of the poplar tree.  And I put Milton in.  I pulled him out and dug the hole wider and deeper.  I was only able to hold back the tears until I covered his face with the soil. 

 

Even now my heart aches for our big white cat.  His bowls of water and food sat under the dresser filled with water and food for a long time.   I couldn't bring myself to put them away.  Someone else had to do that.  I will say," goodnight" before any more tears rolled down my cheeks and make my beard soggy.  I miss our gato.

Sometimes, the stories in our lives set the stage for shamanic understanding.  My relationship with Milton reinforced my understanding of my connectedness with the universe.  I realize that Spirit moves through ALL of us, even our pets.

 

P.S.  Milton left the way he came: covered with oil and grease.

We were living in Married Student Housing, a little more than a mile from the University of New Mexico when Denise finished making this couch. Orlando was born a few weeks later. It was so comfortable that many people fell asleep on it while visiting.
Milton was amazingly tolerant of Orlando, who used to pull Milton's hair. After we moved into our house on the West side of the Rio Grande, I heard Milton scream. I ran from the kitchen into the front room to find Milton's back legs wrapped around baby Orlando's neck and his front paws beating Orlando's head. When Milton saw me, he stopped screaming, stopped beating Orlando's head, and ran off. I fully expected to find blood all over Orlando's head. But there wasn't a scratch.
Orlando used to crawl to Milton, roll over onto his back and pound his head on Milton. I guess Milton's tolerance had been greatly exceeded when I found him "admonishing" Orlando. I miss Milton. He was my favorite cat. 

Selling Deseret News Final

I remember selling newspapers with my cousin, Robert when we were young, still in elementary school. He'd stand in front of the Kearns building in Salt Lake City and send me off, away from him. I'd walk, with a load of papers under my arm and yell, "Paper! Deseret News Night Final! Paper 5 cents." (The following year it went to 10 cents.)

Robert had customers in the Kearns building. We would get into the elevator and ride it to the top floor. Just before it stopped, Robert and I would jump up as high as we could. The kinetic energy helped us jump up very high. And when we rode the elevator down, we jumped with as much power as our legs could muster just before it stopped. The kinetic energy prevented us from jumping much at all.

When I worked in Forth Worth, Texas, (I was much older then, 31) I talked an elevator car full of engineers into jumping up as high as they could just before the elevator stopped on the 4th floor. They thought I was crazy, but they DID! and we all came out of the elevator laughing. There were a couple of people waiting for the elevator on the 4th floor. One asked, "What's so funny?"
"It's just Mushroom," one of the engineers answered.

Getting Over The HUMP

The path of life has many humps to get over.  Some of the humps are mountainous. Getting over a hump requires a climb over and hopefully a slide down the other side. 

Man O man! A climb over a hump can be really hard to start. We have an enormous "helper" at our disposal. That helper is the PRESENT MOMENT. Redirecting our awareness to the present moment is hard when we have things to do  (which are in the future) or we are fretting over things we did or didn't do (which are in the past). 

When I have to get over the hump, and I'm having difficulty getting started, I step outside and shift my awareness to the gifts that are out there. I look at the flowers.

I remove my shoes and put my bare feet on the grass. I feel the texture of the leaves on the rose bush or the guava tree. I listen to the birds or look down at the rolly pollies in the garden. 

If it is late enough for a sunset, I watch, breathe, and give thanks for its beauty. 

This exercise pulls me into the immediate present moment. I give thanks, breath deeply and then I come back in and start the climb, whether it be to write, to pay bills, wash the dishes, whatever. 

If this doesn't work, I go for the big help. I go to the beach and ask the Spirit of the Sea to help me. She reminds me that everything comes in cycles, in sets, in its own rhythm. And then she feeds me her energy as I watch her waves roll in against the shore.

 If I am closer to a mountain, or a wilderness area, (even a small one) I go there and ask the Spirits of Nature for help. 

Stress depletes our energy. Nature restores it.

My Life Is a Procession

My life is a procession From one learning to another. Each and every arrival, Each and every there, Ceases to be a termination, Because it is an established Determination That There is no getting there. Because every arrival Is a new starting point With new tools, New lenses though which To see anew The world that we are creating. The only "there" that exists Is the ultimate there. And we really don't know where Or what "there" really is. So long as I am here And not there, l choose to learn and re-learn, I choose to move Into the practice of practice, As I continue to practice The art of learning.

Father's Day Comes With A Sharp Barb

Father’s Day comes

with a sharp barb

ThAT pricks my chest

with a thorn

That turns into a wasp

Who stabs his stinger,

That burns and stings

All the way to my heart.

Where is our son

Who died too young,

Too young for me to be

A grieving father

On Father’s Day?

I sat, this morning,

Alone in the kitchen

Drinking my latte

Tears sliding, dropping,

Plopping on the counter.

Each one whispering,

“He’s dead.”

I miss our son.

Long gone,

are His hugs,

and his voice Saying,

“Happy Father’s Day, Dad”