Little Shoes

Without question, the civilized world needs a way to regulate who among us are qualified to do certain things. It's our way of maintaining order you know. We need a license to do that! "I have my license!" One needs a license....to drive a vehicle, to cut hair, to buy beer, to sit in a boat drinking that beer while luring and killing fish, to run a hot dog stand, to operate a forklift, to carry a gun (legally, at least)...hell, even to dress up in cute little cammy outfits and kill animals in the woods (it's a sport!). Even my DOGS have licenses. And hell...after holding a license to practice psychotherapy in Massachusetts for almost 20 years, I had to earn a license to do the same thing in Maine. We can't be too careful. I love sitting in my licensed office, wearing an orange vest, rifle at my side, with my licensed dogs on my sofa (for which I pay excise tax every freakin' year).

And yet...one does not need a license to be a parent. There is no little framed embossed document to earn in order to roll around in a bed or the back seat of a Buick and get knocked up. Bam! We're pregnant. Buy the crib, buy the high chair, buy the diapers and animal crackers...a baby's coming. And so, anyone with a...well, you know what...can then assume the most important job on the face of the planet...raising a child. To be honest? I'd love to see a license necessary to become a parent. Haven't quite figured out the application process, but there would be one. It'll never happen, of course. We can't control who succumbs to impulse, to that extra wine cooler...or the wistful sounds of Johnny Mathis playing on the 8 track (dating myself here, but you get the idea). "You got protection?" "You on the pill?" "Um...no." WTF! "I LOVE you, baby." When I become ruler of the world, there will be a license to become a parent....somehow. I'll even make running over a squirrel a capital offense, but that's another story. And no one....NO ONE...with at least 10 extra pounds will be permitted to wear spandex. The world will be a much better place...I promise. But, in the mean time, we'll see squashed squirrels, over-stretched garments, and that young couple....he with his baseball cap on sideways, boxers showing above his loose, dark denim hanging around his thighs, wife-beater t-shirt barely covering his chains....she with her post-natal muffin top, tousled hair, and "Love Is Good Shit" tattoo...pushing a stroller carrying an ice-cream and booger-faced little chub-monkey that is theirs FOR LIFE! The joyful parents and little Tyler go for a walk. Where is that license...for me to be ruler of the world?

One recent night...or day...in the rural town of South Berwick, Maine...a mother...an unlicensed mother...stopped her car by the side of the road, got out, and dumped her son...her little son...in a ditch next to her car. She had suffocated him somehow. Imagine that. Imagine how she might have chosen...PREMEDITATED...how to do it. Imagine what he was thinking as he struggled and cried. Something had gone wrong somehow. Was he whining? Was he hungry? Was he just too much for mom to handle? Did he spill his milk? Did he want the toy truck so badly he screamed? Whatever it was, it was too much for poor mom. Poor unlicensed mom. What to do, what to do. What could have happened? I'll tell you what happened. A woman...one lost in a fugue of self-pity and helplessness...one lost in a moment of tortured, total narcissism...killed her child. And was that enough? No....she then treated him like a bag of McDonald's trash...like a full Buick ashtray...like an empty beer can...she dumped him out of her car. Refuse. Litter.

One of my colleagues at a hospital in Massachusetts...a quiet, easy-going woman....a talented social worker...returned from having her second child in just a few years. She looked tired, but happy. But what she admitted to us was that, with two small kids...two needy, crying kids, she "understood" child abuse. She would never act on those moments of feeling overwhelmed or jolts of temper, that is for sure. But she understood. It was a moment of honesty typical of her. And, as close as I can, not having had children, I understand. It is...appears to be...the most difficult and, again, important job anyone can take on.

Thank God there are choices. There are government agencies. There are clinics and hospitals. There are psychotherapists and pediatricians. There are crisis hotlines. There are options. And, so, what happens when a woman kills her little child and throws him away like an empty Marlboro wrapper?

Right now, I don't care. I know depression, personally and professionally. I know and treat people with incredibly ugly trauma histories. I've helped mothers with three kids, abusive husbands and menial jobs. These people are among my most admired, considering the pressures they had endured and the strength they mustered and the daunting choices they were forced to make. This woman? The one found at a rest area in her car? The one who took the life of a gorgeous little boy because it was just way too much work? I have no respect for her. No respect, no empathy, no tolerance, and no desire to share the air that my dogs and I breathe with her. Second degree murder my ass. Send in the Navy Seals one more time. She deserves no less and no better. Forehead.

Angry? You bet I am. I am so, so tired of this society's relative tolerance of child abuse and neglect...animal abuse and neglect...passive acceptance of domestic violence which still receives a tsk-tsk and a wink from our law enforcement...I could go on. And this woman...she can burn in hell in the same big hibachi as bin laden and Satan's hamburgers. They're both terrorists and murderers as far as I'm concerned. Why dicker over numbers.

And Camden Hughes? I wish you had been mine. I'd have bought you that toy truck. I'd have wiped up your milk. But that big golden retriever licking your face in heaven? He WAS mine!

Searchers...

Gut: "Hey...here's one who sounds kinda interesting..."
Head: "Yeah, maybe...but look...she lives far, far away in another land..."
Gut: "Oh but look...she seems playful like me, intelligent, accomplished..."
Head: "But you know what a pain in the ass that distance can be...and if heart gets involved, only bad things can happen..."
Heart: "I can handle it..."
Head: "That's what you said last time!"
Heart: "I know...."
Another, deeper voice: "I think she's kinda sexy"
Gut: "Who said that?"
Head: "Stop it! Both of you! She's probably fat or dumb or something...."

Gut: "You're mean..."

Heart: "I think she sounds romantic...."

Deep voice: "And sexy..."

Head: "Imagine that long, boring drive...it doesn't make sense..."
Gut: "I know...but all this gets really tiring and tedious...I just have a feeling..."
Head: "You and your 'feelings'...."
Heart: "I'm bored..."

Deep voice: "Me too...."
Head: "Just keep looking...lots more kayaks and walks on the beaches to visit..."
Heart: "Okay...sigh...."
Gut: "Sigh...."
Deep voice: "Sigh...."

Spirituality and Christmas

To be honest, I never would have thought that I would ever be writing on the subject of spirituality. For much of my life, this word has been largely synonymous with “religion.” And if you know me or you are somehow familiar with my typical Sunday morning routines of my adult years, you know that I am not a terribly religious man. I could even be described as a “slave to nonconformity,” which is not exactly conducive to attending a weekly service. Consequently, the superficial friendliness, the Windsor-knotted ties and rote adherence to the poorly understood rituals of a church service are, for the most part, usually just too much for me. Even were I to go simply for the music, I find that the day’s selected hymns are usually rather archaic with old English words and no harmony. The organ reminds me of weddings and funerals. It depresses me. (Give me a piano!)

So, when I reflect on my own spirituality, I realize it is not often evoked in a church where guilt is more often the message than true inspiration. Instead, it is something that emanates from a place inside of me. The closest I might come to formal religion is the feeling I get when hearing one of those good ol’ Baptist hymns from my childhood. Their sweet melodies and common sentiments reach me and fill me with emotions I must have inherited from my grandmother, simply by being around her joyful soul. I sing along in harmony, as my mother would do. “Softly and tenderly, Jesus is calling.” This I can understand...this I can sing along with.

My spiritual experiences are not limited to Baptist hymns. The clever turn of a truthful lyric or a soaring musical crescendo reaches me just as deeply even though the subject is not god. It is a place in me that goes beyond my humanness. It is something I was born with and don’t even know that it’s there...until I feel it. At that second, I am aware in wordless ways that there is something bigger out there. I am aware that whatever my life gives or withholds from me is inconsequential.

Leaving work one day, I heard a bird singing. I looked up and saw him on a phone wire. Though I couldn’t tell what kind of bird he was, his calls were familiar. He seemed to be having one hell of a time there all by himself. One call after the other. Head up in the air, mouth open, just singing. It occurred to me how uninhibited he was.....as in, how many of us would sit outside near dusk and sing our hearts out. Anyway, while listening to him, I had “a moment.” I can’t describe it other than to say that the work I had just completed and the traffic I would soon be entering were irrelevant and that this lovely bird was having his own moment. He was speaking…singing….the truth.

I believe that all of this suggests that my spirituality is rooted in my aloneness. It is a way of connecting with myself. It might be evoked by something external such as music or nature, but the experience is internal. I believe there is a God, yet if I have to limit my spirituality to worshiping a god, I believe I would lose the depth and essence of that spirituality. If I assign power and responsibility for my spirituality to an external god, I would have to also deal with all the cruelty that happens to animals and humans. I would have to assume that this god would have little concern for our planet or us. I wouldn’t think he’s nice or forgiving. Should there be a “god’s plan”, it is one filled with sadism and thoughtlessness. No, if there were a singular god responsible for how we live and what happens to us, he would have failed to earn my worship.

When I think of God, I think of a place. I think that God is where we came from and where we go when we die. But I don’t think he’s watching out for my dogs, my house or me. I think it’s my job to do that. If I don’t watch out for my dogs, my house and myself, no one will. So I have to rely on myself and, to do that, I have to know myself. I have to be content with that person and enjoy his company. If my dogs are going to be healthy, that’s up to me, not God. God has a universe to oversee, not my simple, humble life.

That being said, I do believe in Jesus. Oh…my understanding is that he was actually born in the spring, not December. And the virgin birth? Maybe…but I have no problem thinking that Joseph and Mary got it on at least once and only then had a problem getting a room with a tv and a hair dryer. I just think Jesus snuck through some crack in the universe and came with a message…one that changed the world. Scriptures written centuries after the fact are probably metaphorical and mythical rather than pure fact. I don't care. God found a way to deliver him to us and, with him, the opportunity to evolve into reasonably good creatures. And so, Jesus gave it his best shot, one that ultimately killed him. I do believe he…as we all will do…left this earth to return to God's house having left a mark that could inspire us all…to sleep in heavenly peace. And so, on this Christmas morning, I worship his birth and treasure the lessons of his life. It's really that simple.

In the mean time, there is another way…one inspired by his birth, life, and death….one for those of us at the middle or peak of the faith curve if we so wish to reconsider. The other way is to be in touch with our insides. To enjoy being in there and to like whom we see. And, while inside, be able to “color outside the lines” a little....to know that all this didn’t happen accidentally. To know that, “softly and tenderly,” Jesus is calling out that we are, by nature, alone within ourselves....and that, with this shared truth, God's truth, we are not alone.

Coloring outside the lines. I know there are limits to respect and that my definition has some conditioned shape. But there is all that space inside and outside my shape. There is a vast universe of “not me” in me. The words I have not written, the pictures I have not drawn and the new pasta dish I have not yet concocted all lie out there. How will I write, draw or cook if it weren’t for all that space? And the inspiration comes from out there. My God comes from out there. The unfiltered greatness. The results arise from being a willingness to grasp the opportunity to understand me and my place in the world.

Spirituality. The fingerprints of God. The collective unconscious. Blind faith that there are more than just the mundane limits of everyday life. And having the courage and focus to go there....and return with something far more important than I am. Return with my place in life. Sit on my wire and sing.

Giving Thanks

Oh my....this is a bit more complicated than first thought to be...

I guess one could....should...begin by expressing thanks to have been born in and to live in this beautiful country of ours. I am fortunate to have seen much of it and it just so happens I reside in one of its safest, quietest, most gorgeous regions. I live near the ocean, near mountains, quaint New England hamlets, and Portland...one of the coolest little cities on a harbor you'll ever visit. Although my foreign travel has been limited, I am sure that there is no place with the breadth of beauty or rich intertwining of cultures, ethnicity, arts and people as the good ol' US.

And possibly the greatest freedom I possess by living in this country is the right to be extremely unhappy about its direction as it limps, crawls and whines into the future. We are, my friends, truly paralyzed by greed, partisan politics, superficiality, special interests and pervasive denial, apathy, and ignorance. The younger generation seems more obsessed with celebrity and self-indulgence than with the conscience and activism of my generation. This greed and paralysis are affecting my life directly and, more importantly, they negatively affect millions of other Americans without a recognizable glimmer of concern or hope that common sense can override the unscrupulous behavior of those with power.

And, is it me or does abuse and neglect of children, the elderly, animals, tradition, God, civility, and the environment seem to be on the increase and largely ignored other than with the empty, temporary rhetoric of those who want our attention while they could be making a difference? Pedophiliac priests get transferred and defended, Michael Vick makes millions being a sports hero, people go without medical attention they need but can't afford, gasoline prices are increasing now without the slightest weak attempt at justification, global warming continues as our cars and houses depend on the greedy oil industry...much of it foreign. Wind power? "Oh no! It might affect my view! See there? Just beyond my Hummer?" Investments are made for quick profits instead of creating industry and jobs...for those who lose their homes...those who need an MRI...those who can't save for college...for those who just wish they could afford a restaurant. But the unctuous, self-important brats on Wall Street suck down their martinis in style....with bonuses paid from our pockets by way of government bailouts. It's just nuts. I am certainly not thankful for being symbolically associated with these people.

No, I'm thankful for living here, for the life of good fortune I've been given and for all the great folks...Americans...I have known and shared my life with. I have viewed the sunset on the Wabash, Key West, Sedona, Grand Canyon, Big Sur, the hills above San Diego, and the Grand Canyon. I attended a Mexican wedding reception in Los Angeles, drank coffee at a sleepy Texas gas station table, drank Hurricanes at Pat O'Brien's in New Orleans, and a salty margarita on a Santa Fe rooftop. It's this country I'm thankful to be a part of....but not it's government or it's ultimate, insidious power structures.

Mostly, I am thankful for much simpler things...

...for my parents...my relatively normal parents...who left me with minimal neuroses, good genes and opportunities to succeed...to struggle..and to succeed again...

...for my brain...which has allowed me to be educated...to have a career that both suits me and is rewarding..and allows me a lifestyle that indulges my otherwise lazy nature...

...for the people who shaped me...influenced me...dear friends now departed...and those special ones who made me smile...big smiles...wide-eyed, red-cheeked grins...and who made my eyes both water and shine...and a few others who made me scream with delight...

...for food...that I am blessed to afford, creative enough to cook well, and healthy enough to enjoy...and we'll throw in booze, coffee, and really, really good Danish here as well...

...for music...the soundtrack of my life...the dancing, the crying, the singing, the playing...

...for my fingers....guitar...writing...touching...

...and for my dogs....Susie, Mike, Baby, Fred, SusieII, Lucas, Saffron, Cory, Danny, Shamus, Nora, Jakey, Fozzie, Maxie...and Rusty. They have entertained me, sustained me...saved me...

...and for you...you know who you are...for touching my heart as only you can...

Time for pie!

Random Thoughts...

Any college kid who drinks Four Loko, the so-called "blackout in a can," is too stupid to be in college...

I have no interest in watching or listening to any entertainer...Charlie Sheen, Mel Gibson, Lindsay Lohan....who is an idiot....

Nicotine candy...legal....lobbyist money can buy anything and anyone...and pot is illegal...

I would pay more...any day...if I could just buy one television, one toaster, one microwave, one tacky souvenir made in this country...it seems that nothing is made in this country...and we wonder why there are no jobs....

Back to lobbyists...and lawyers...and politicians....so long as we're dependent on the oil, pharmaceutical, healthcare industries...so long as we buy everything from China...we will be a weak, vulnerable, corrupt nation...and not a politician out there has the guts to say so...and mean it...for long...

DISH TV sucks....goes out when it RAINS....back to cable...

I know of no human who has as much integrity, honesty, compassion, originality, playfulness, devotion, loyalty, understanding, patience as my dogs...

Aging is a cruel joke on those who want to live and a blessing to those who don't...

My autobiography title..."Waiting for Dogs to Poop".....

Through all the political campaign ads...all the promises....I believe no one...none...why? Because they're all the same....

Gas prices rising again...and they no longer offer weak excuses....and no one's commenting.... mission accomplished...

Why would any man wear anything other than boxer briefs? It just doesn't make sense...

I don't understand how anyone could not love coffee....is it just me?

I still say I want the right to NOT listen to idiots like Dr. Laura and Imus...just hate selective censorship...

When my feet are happy, I'm happy....

Why is it that when someone has much love to give, finding a recipient is so freaking hard...

Ever notice after a summer storm you hear the quiet sound of crickets? That's what happens when the first number of your age turns from a "5" to a "6"...

What are those lumpy things in tapioca? Always wanted to know...(channeling Andy Rooney here?)

The worst thing about dieting is the loss of booze...God I need a good drink...

I spend 20 hours teaching over a weekend and the only thing I'll remember is sitting in the hotel bar having drinks with friends...

Hey....this house was run down when I moved in...and it takes a lot of time and money to fix it.....right Obama?

Sarah Palin is to American government what Pee Wee Herman is to movies...having her around is interesting, but I don't want her in any starring roles...

Aren't thighs wonderful?

Can't wait for Conan's return...

When it's big news on the morning shows how Palin's trashy daughter did on that dance show, we're all in trouble...

When I die, I want to come back as Uma Thurman's dog....consider the possibilities...

United States of Blame

And so...now there's a family suing Seaworld because their kid witnessed a killer whale...key word "killer"....grab its trainer by her...shall we say ill-conceived?... pony tail and thrash her to death. When the tragedy happened, I was, of course, sad for the young woman and I was also sad for the whale. When a circus elephant goes nuts and tramples someone, usually that elephant is blamed and destroyed. I learned in grade school that elephants are wild animals. Apparently, many people were out sick that day. And so, when a KILLER whale grabs a woman by her dangling hair (which could have looked like a fish...maybe even smelled like one), everyone is surprised and horrified. (Maybe the whale...which we know is pretty damned smart...was saying, "Lady...stop with the goofy stuff...I'm a whale!) Thankfully, the whale was spared his execution (Dead Whale Swimming...coming to a theater near you)...but I still felt sad he was even blamed.

Anyway, some family...some LAWYER...is suing Seaworld because this kid saw the whole thing (and probably filmed it on his little super-expensive cell phone) and, well...just can't sleep. My solution? Feed the kid, the parents and..oh yeah....the lawyer (salt and pepper preferred) to the whale. Let the whales grab them by whatever they have that dangles, and have a big whale party. I'll film it on my "newest gadget that everyone must have."

If, at some point in the future, our country has collapsed and faded like the bloated, self-indulgent Roman Empire did, historians of the future will look back and say that we fell apart underneath the weight of our own narcissism...our own need to BLAME someone for just about everything. Check it out! No one is responsible and it's always someone else's fault! Democrats blame Republicans, Republicans blame Democrats...idiots with coffee-burned crotches blame fast food restaurants...people who choose to stay a hundred freakin' feet from the seawall (they're living in a city that's UNDERWATER!!!! Get back! Okay?) blame the government and...and....storms! Then, we have people sitting with their fried dough watching a killer whale do cute little dances blame...well anyone else...for having to bear the horror of someone elses's death!!! And then there's "rehab"....the modern answer for everything...I'm not really, really a drug-abusing, wife-cheating piece of trash...I'm ILL...and I'll go into rehab and everything will be forgotten. Cheer for me on the 18th green, 'kay?

I've even noticed this phenomenon in my work. The central theme of my treatment is to establish one's responsibility for his/her symptoms and for change. And it's becoming increasingly difficulty to get past the concrete shelter of pervasive narcissism and blame to do so. In working with couples...and parents (don't get me started)...it is always...ALWAYS...the others' faults. So often, kids I see are simply the pimple that is symptomatic of a steady diet of dysfunctional blaming, arguing, yelling and self-indulgence. Wayne Dyer said that victims always operate from a position of weakness...and this is so very true. No individual, no couple, no family stands to move forward until they stop the blaming and start to own. OWN.

But when that weakness is embraced by public sympathy...and the media...and the lawyers...well, we now have a passive, helpless system reinforced by financial gain and rabid attention by a parasitic public.

So...let's see....my dog gets skunked in my back yard. I can blame the skunk. I can find a lawyer to sue the skunk...or the town maybe for not being skunk-proof. Maybe I can find a Republican to blame a Democrat for not leaving the skunk removal to local government. (Hey Sarah! I can see the skunk from my bedroom window!) Or a Democrat to blame a Republican because the skunk isn't on public assistance and is left to fend for himself. The Today show can interview Rusty, Nora and me...maybe even the skunk. We'll sniffle and whimper and cry. 48 hours will do an expose' and maybe the skunks spouse will be suspected as the true culprit.

Listen...I'm sorry this kid had to see such a thing. I wonder how all the other kids who can't afford a lawyer are doing. If they're suffering, they can get help. Help works. But please...please...just because you can't sue a whale, your moby dickhead lawyer will sue Seaworld? Never mind that this family spent its vacation money to SEE a trapped wild animal lusting after a woman with a fish hanging from her head.

I don't blame the skunk. Skunks do what skunks do. I don't blame Rusty. Dogs do what dogs do and he must...he MUST protect his family from wide, black and white cats who have one helluva fart. I blame me. I don't know what I did, but it's my responsibility. It's my house. My yard. My dog. And, for a little while longer, my skunk. And, if I owned a whale, he'd live in the ocean where he belongs.

Algebra and Bicycles

I was getting a solid B in algebra that first semester at the University of Maryland. As other grades were taking a slow but steady decline towards a record-breaking GPA, something here was clicking for me. It must have been snowing in hell. And then, my instructor (first year students at large universities rarely get real profs) became ill...and disappeared. His replacement was no doubt intelligent...maybe brilliant, who knows. But he was Indian. That’s Asian Indian. With an accent. And suddenly, “hypotenuse” became something like “hypoteneooos.” The entire language changed. I sat with a “WHA?” expression on my face the rest of that semester....but he must not have noticed. Maybe in India, my face meant “can I have some garlic nan please?” I got a D. Which was better than zoology. And psychology. And led me to two fabulous years at a community college.

It’s true that, for most of us, all we learn in algebra is virtually worthless beyond that final day in class. Math teachers? God bless ya. I guess you use what you learned in algebra to torture the next generation of students. Someone has to do it. But there were these things call axioms....sort of universal truths in math and, as it seems, in life. Something about the existential nature of these things...which I memorized...stayed with me. Profound certainties...lie A + B = B + A. Brilliant! Why didn’t I think of that?

And one....the important one here....is that....get this....if A = B, then B = A. Wow. Think about it. “That’s soooo true!”

So rather than struggle with a smooth segue here....cuz there is none...I’ll just get to the point.

I hear on television....in a smug little holier-than-thou male voice, “Bicycles have the same rights as automobiles.” Hmmm. Really? Let me think about that for a minute....

and here’s where algebra comes in most helpful....that means that automobiles have the same rights as bicycles. Right? Cool.

Let me ponder the possibilities....that means I can drive on sidewalks and almost run down some guy with a poodle on a leash! It means I can weave through traffic...between cars...on sidewalk, off sidewalk....and ignore traffic lights! I can drive at any speed I want...sometimes in a PACK of cars and make others wait for me and be impressed with my cool helmet. I can park anywhere, chaining my car to anything, anywhere. Oh the fun I’ll have! Wait...it gets better....I can even dress up in spandex (“a privilege not a right”) that looks like a nascar vehicle, pop a helmet on my head...go get a baby somewhere, put him in a lawn spreader with a little yellow flag, tie the spreader to my back bumper, and race through traffic! “I’m cool and have the right to drag my kid behind me down streets, through lights...everywhere!”

Pea-brained, hot-shit bicyclists....no, you don’t have the same rights as automobiles. Algebra proves it. See? Move over...now.