Author: dowell

Our interactions with one other are guided by presuppositions, formulated by the experiences and prior learnings of the parties involved.  This adds a level of challenge to communications, only partially helped by non-verbal clues.  A micro expression here an eyebrow movement there, unnoticed by the more cerebral processes of the observer but recorded by the precognitive and communicated internally.

But to truly understand what someone is attempting to convey often requires deeper knowledge about the other person.  This is why developing relationship is so important in the quest for civil discourse.  Too often we hear or read something, apply our own presuppositions, and proclaim judgment without seeking to understand what is really being said.

“I am so glad that the whole video was made public and has been viewed by so many people”

The reference was to the video of the horrid taking of a life by an authority whose mission is supposed to be to protect and serve.  The speaker was someone with very different experiences dealing such authorities than the listener.

The listener has a choice.  Focus on the statement and spin into a fact-finding mission to uncover the sordid details leading up to brutal event.  Or, see the pain of the past, mixed with the relief of the possibility that maybe now that pain will finally be believed.

In this case, the listener knew the speaker and was heartbroken for having not seen the pain before.  The speaker wasn’t asking for favors, platitudes, or special treatment, simply to be believed.

Dad was not tall, but he was dark and handsome.  He was also very charming and had a natural care for, and interest in other people.  Born in Mexico, Spanish was his primary language a fact that was evident when he spoke.  His accent was exotic, and his speech flowed with a light and rich air.  It was very pleasant to just sit and listen to him talk.  It helped that there was always a smile in his talking, just below the surface.  And, he told stories, wonderful stories, made more wonderful by his telling, always with laughter along the way.  Dad was easy going, very bright and an artist – he designed buildings and homes and furniture and who knows what else.

Regretfully he was not in my life much of the time.  Marriage had become less permanent by the time of my birth and Mom and Dad went separate ways when I was young.  An occasional trip and one long stay are all the time I had with him.  But that was enough to know how special he was, and to miss him, and to be grateful.

7 was the count.  She didn’t know it was 7, she only knew that after those rapid pulls at the air with her wings she was soring into the sky.  She knew that the ground below included ribbons of black that affected the way the winds moved over her wings.  She saw one of those ribbons and curved her wings to send herself floating over the nearest edge.  The tiny feathers on her face and neck, normally held down by the force of air as she flies, stood up just a tiny amount in response to a change in air pressure.  She knows nothing of air pressure, only that such a feeling signals the moment when she must open her wings wide.  As her wings fill with air she bounds up, up, up at an astonishing rate.  She knows nothing of up or down, she knows only the exuberance which accompanies the change in altitude as she soars effortlessly into the ether.

There exists within our social and political structures a cadre of being which serves itself more than the community it is engaged to serve. The feeding of its own pleasures and power is the primary concern of this cadre and its influence and impact seems to be growing by the day.

There is a book, written in the late 1950’s, which exposed one American version of this cadre to a populous eager to know the truth. “The Ugly American” catapulted to the top of the best seller list and, for a moment, sent a shock wave through the cadre. Had the impact been longer lasting we might never have pursued that misadventure in Southeast Asia which saw my brother, brother-in-law and thousands of other men and women, foisted into bloodying the jungles only to be vilified and told to be ashamed of what they had done.

The cadre survived even that, survived and thrived. And today it grows at every level. In our schools, in our cities, states and in every aspect of the federal government.

Acknowledgment of the existence of this cadre is important now that we consider how to rebuild our communities. One brief example:
Do our school systems really need to be so top loaded with administrators and bureaucrats? Do our children benefit when teachers are underpaid and undersupplied while, at the same time, new buildings and levels of overlords are erected around them? We already know what doesn’t work, systems bloated by edifices and overlords, how about trying something new – cultivating the joy of learning.

Best of all, opposing the cadre is done outside of the partisan malaise that so clouds discourse in our country. The cadre cares not for party or politics, Machiavellian to the core, it cares only for its own flourishing.

“Would you have time to cut the west field?” she said, “the grass is getting really high.”

The tools that give a tractor purpose are heavy, made of steel and chain. Some do work powered by the same diesel energy release that powers the machine. Some accomplish their task through their sheer weight as the machine pulls it on its way. A tool of the later sort was attached as I strolled behind the barn.

Changing the tools on a tractor is a fickle affair. Sometimes one slips off, you back the tractor up to the other and slip it on. Sometimes there are bruises, sometime there is blood, of the skinned knuckle variety. Often there are words, not pleasant words, but the tractor and the back of the barn keep your secret tantrums to themselves.

This time there were bruises and words. Off with the box blade, bruises, words. On with the brush hog, more bruises, more words. On to the tractor and off to the field.

Tallgrass and wildflowers. So many wildflowers of every color and hue. Bees and butterflies busy about their labor. The brush hog had just begun to ply its trade when I saw her waving from the drive. Remove the power from the brush hog, lift the tool and drive over to hear what she is saying.

“The wildflowers are so beautiful, maybe we should give them a week or so, what do you think?”

More bruises but no words, just the remembrance of the look in her eyes as she watched the butterflies.

End of Wusolation

The days of Wusolation have ended, by our accounting.  We’ve been to City Club to work out, we’ve started having family and friends to the house and church is restarting, sort of, this Sunday.  Not sure what to call the next phase of our interrupted global experience.   Let me know if you have any ideas.

Humiliation is so prevalent and brings such great harm.  Whatever your perceived inferiority there is always someone eager to heap humiliation upon you.

Humbleness is so rare and brings such great goodness.  Whatever your perceived inferiority there is, occasionally, someone who with humility lifts your spirit and makes you see that the world is better in Technicolor.

The morning mist rolls quietly in
Dribbles a little dew
For a moment changes the view
Vanishes, as if had never been

You wake up a little confused, strange light, strange sounds, strange smells.  You start to focus on the iron bracket over your head holding a wooden beam that must be at least 300 years old.  You blink and start to remember the long flight, the chaotic lack of order at immigration, your struggling with French, and the driver’s struggling with English as you convince him you really do want to go to the little hotel on the left bank.

Rising and gazing out the window you see the university students walking along the street, almost no cars but a few bicycles including one ridden by a man with a long baguette stick up high over his head.  You clean up in the little bathroom, clearly never anticipated by the original architects, and head downstairs.  “Bonjour” you say in bad French to the young lady at the front desk.  “Good Morning” she says in bad English, but the smiles that pass between you are universal and adds a touch of brightness to the day of each.

You have no idea what time it is, this is Paris, you don’t care, you just start to walk.  Notre-Dame? The Louvre? No, you decide, Musee d’Orsay.  You stroll along the Rive Gauche intentionally turning up and down streets just absorbing the laisser faire.

Years later, in times of turmoil and stress, you are grateful.  So much great art so accessibly displayed.  Tea in front of the giant clock.  The moment when you walked into a room full of Monet’s garden period work and it literally took your breath away.  The stroll back along Boulevard Saint-Germain.

All planted within you a healing balm.

Where you are and how you got there is defined by history

Who you are and what you’ve become is defined by your learning along the way