Rainmaker

June 15, 2015

Greetings from between the drops,

I stood staring at the window, cup of coffee in my hand, willing it to change.  It was not an action based in meteorological science.  But the weather was not cooperating with my plans, and hydrotelekinetics was all I had at my disposal.

Other than running in the rain.

The rain bullied the gutters until they gave up and let the water do what it chose.  It crashed onto my deck with Niagara intensity, foaming up in small breakers and racing to the edge to seek more accommodating surfaces. I watched the downpour and considered a plan B.

Inside where I was dry I knew that I had to take off my regular human thinking and put on my runner’s version.  Where you don’t consider how wet you might get.  Where I live runners plow through snow, run in mud, slog through sleet.  A little rain won’t matter much. There are no bad conditions, just inappropriate clothing.  The only mile you regret is the one you don’t run.  Time to lace up and go. 

Those were the words that got me dressed to run. I stood at my doorway and looked at the rain.  It was a shower curtain. The pavement was alive with water.  Somewhere to the west thunder impersonated a Lou Rawls chuckle. Hmm. 

I teetered between plans and then tipped forward.  I stepped into the wall of water and set off to run.  I did not melt.  It seemed as though there was no space between the rain drops, that there should be no room for air, but I did not drown.  I ran down my street and off to see twelve miles.

Within a hundred yards I could not have been any wetter.  It was a warm morning, and the rain was comfortable, an introduction to summer.  Under my hat I had this ironic sense of sanctuary, covered from the storm, the rain dripping off my brim, while the rest of my body was coated in water, pelted by the tempest.

As soon as I relaxed about running in the rain, it no longer mattered that I was wet.  After a mile the rain was not an obstacle, it was a companion.  I splashed along the shoulder listening to the rain on the trees like the roar of a faraway crowd.   The branches sagged with the extra weight, a minor burden, part of the partnership.

I turned out into the farmland, the road lined with rivers of water filling the ditches, forming ponds in the yards between the fields.  Creeks laced between rows of beans or corn or whatever was waiting to become something from the green buds.

It was light enough to see the storm now. The sky was already grey with clouds, but on the horizon there was a darker, more ominous shape.  It was a muscular, aggressive thing, moving lower on the horizon to more effectively deliver its load.

Thunder rumbled.  I thought about lightning, spent a fraction of a second calculating the odds, then discarded the math and thought about running faster.  It rained until there was no separation between me and the water.  I stopped being in the rain. I parted puddles, soaked now, no longer a visitor in the element, but a part of it. 

It was a storm with character, so much more intentional than a random falling of water.  The raindrops hit the pavement with such force they bounced into the air and met their cousins on their way down, a chaotic rain dance. 

Out in the open now I could see more of the storm working its way across the sky, see the shape of it, the change in the waves of rain.  I knew a minute before that the deluge would shift to mist, and then back to the warm shower I had been running in. 

The philosopher in the runner asked: I wonder if raindrops are as individual as snowflakes. Is there a lesson in each drop, or only in the shape of the storm?  The runner in the philosopher answered; pick up the pace.

A few cars went by, chased by plumes of water.  They sent curls of surf over me; in some drier circumstance it would have been catastrophic, but I was running in the rain in a pair of drenched shorts, not waiting on a corner in a tuxedo.

There is a freedom in running in the rain.  I figured out that it is a matter of acceptance.  It occurred to me that this was like a lot of challenges, never as bad as you imagine.  And once you are in it, you choose whether you will enjoy it or resent it.  And then whatever happens is your making. 

Circumstances will rarely align in an ideal confluence.  More often we are presented with opportunities to adapt, for innovation, to apply courage, determination and perseverance.  We can wait for life to get better, or we can run toward it, no matter the forecast, and see what our best is made of.

Hope this finds you racing in the rain,

David

Veggies

June 8, 2015

Greetings from the garden,

I was raised in an era that held a few fundamental tenets:

1.      If you sit too close to the TV you will ruin your eyes.

2.      Don’t run with scissors.

3.      Eat everything on your plate and you can and then you can go out and play.

#3 was a challenge for a variety of reasons.  When dinner was served it was often in the middle of a ‘Kick the Can’ championship, or the final battle between GI Joe and GI Joe with Kung Fu Grip, so getting through the meal expeditiously was imperative.  Secondly, dinner was not always comprised of ‘kid friendly’ menu items. To give you some context, I grew up when Tang, ice milk, and Mrs. Paul’s Fish Sticks were gourmet extravagances. 

My mother is a good cook, but she was faced with the challenge of feeding five children on a tight budget, with the goal of giving us the nutrition we needed to become the Nobel Prize Laureates we were destined to be.  Or at the very minimum to go outside and stay outside so she could have five minutes of quiet.

What occurred to me this morning is that vegetables were always the enemy.  I could hack my way through pot roast or pork chops or Salisbury steak, I could spread apple sauce around on the  plate, or push a hard roll off the table for the dog to gnaw on.  But vegetables were impossible to avoid or spread thin enough to disguise, and the dog would not consider them.

I was raised in the city so vegetables came to me in cans and frozen bags, other than potatoes, which for some reason were kept in a dusty bag in the bottom of the laundry closet where they could mutate. Vegetables were the last thing eaten at dinner, usually cold and gelatinous, the one thing that stood between me and the freedom to be outside where I could fulfill my can-kicking destiny.

They appeared on my plate in these ways:  Mashed potatoes.  Boiled carrots.  Boiled turnips. Boiled rutabega. Boiled Brussel sprouts. Boiled tomatoes.  Spinach cooked into the consistency of whatever bog-monsters were made of.  Peas, which were designed to make mashed potatoes more interesting.  French Cut Green Beans. (That’s how the Jolly Green Giant raised them.)  There was occasionally celery, but that was for company and was usually lined with Cheez Whiz. 

That’s it.  I’ll spare you the research, just trust me, these are all the vegetables there were in the 60’s.  Since that innocent time, somehow science has invented a whole slew of new vegetables.

Artichokes for example.  First of all, who was the first person to think an artichoke would be edible?  Have you SEEN these things?  Second of all, edible things should not have the word ‘choke’ in them.  And that’s just the beginning of the new generation of vegetables to torment kids.

Kohlrabi, which I would have sworn was the capital of Qatar. Arugula.  Beets. Tomatoes; the real ones, not the pulp that came in the can. Lettuce and spinach and kale. Radishes. Cabbage. Cauliflower. Asparagus. Broccoli. I know there’s more, but I’m getting dizzy just considering it.

Because, theoretically, I’m an adult, I’m supposed to understand that these are all good for me.  I’m supposed to grasp that these vegetables, fresh and unprocessed, are full of vitamins which will help me grow up into the Nobel Laureate I was meant to be.  Plus vegetables contain betalains, lycopene, carotenoid, quercetin, anthocyanins, folates and riboflavin, which evidently are nutrients I need and not the capitals of middle eastern countries I can’t find on a map.

But I still think twice about vegetables.  I know they can taste good, and intuitively I know they are good for me.  But some instincts are hard to suppress.  I am trying, but part of me still is trying to work anti-veggie gambits at the lonely dining room table while the rest of the world gets to watch Jonny Quest on TV.

I imagine that if all of these vegetables existed when I was a kid, I would still be sitting at the kitchen table, never to go outside again.  Decades would have passed, spiders would have draped a tent over me, and my life would become an eternal stand-off against a wilted kohlrabi and arugula casserole with quinoa dressing.

I’m lucky to have vegetarians in my life who can share their passion for the plants we should eat, including onions, which I am pretty sure taste that way so we won’t be tempted to eat them.  I am getting better at including the good green stuff to my diet, in part because it’s my idea.  I make my own deals; I can go outside and play anytime I want, in theory.  I suppose if I want that opportunity to last, I need to invest in as many betalains as I can manage.

Hope this finds you eating right,

David

Hourglass

June 1, 2015

Greetings from where I fill,

A few weeks ago someone I met made the comment that the average life expectancy for men is about 85 years.  Based on that, he observed, his life was about half over. It was probably a statement of fact, but like all information, perspective creates the truth for each of us. 

The first several minutes of my day were bartered.  I stood at the window, listening to the gurgling of the coffee pot, the rich aroma teasing me.  The window was open, cool morning air drifted in, and the moment began to fill with the sounds of the first birds.  A few minutes went by and the coffee pot succeeded, and then my favorite mug was filled.

The moments pass and the day fills with light. The light reveals the shape of the world, and the color that has been resting while I rested.  Green has awakened, with lavender and yellow and cream and red.  I sit on the deck in my backyard, feel the spring air on my skin.

I trade twenty minutes of my morning, sitting in the brightening dawn, and read Sheehan. Like the good friend he is, he tells me exactly the right thing. He encourages me to live with passion, to embrace each day as a child might, with wonder and hope.  He tells me to run.

Yesterday I invested an hour and change of my life to run ten miles.  It was not my most graceful moments ever, but it reminded me of who I am when I am at my best.  Suspended in that slice of the day, I was free to philosophize and dream and build up my list of reasons to be grateful.  To paraphrase Norman Maclean; ..there is no clear line between religion and running.  I took my time and filled my soul.

I shared a meal with my family, and the time passed unnoticed, a fair trade.  In exchange the table was filled with conversation, laughter, good food.  There were gifts, always a welcome event.  Somehow hours slipped by and no one looked at the time, because we were content with the bargain.

For me the measure of time passing is less about how much time is left but what the hours have given us.  The sand sifts through the channel in the hourglass, and it’s in that narrow intersection we fill each moment.

What settles below is the life we have lived.  It is rich, filled with experiences and relationships and creation and pain and joy.  Every grain has passed through our hands and we are shaped and changed by it.  How much we have to do with that is our daily challenge.

If half the sand is left to pass, then the hourglass is half full, to borrow a cliché.  And every grain that drops forms more of our life, which is where we find the philosophy to live the time left to us.  It is the victories and mistakes and adventures and tragedies that create what we do with the next second.  Our choice in every passing moment.

I invested the first waking moments of my birthday savoring beauty, the rich taste of a hot cup of coffee, and the words of wise friend.  And thought of what I would write to you.  It was a good trade.

Each morning brings inspiration whether we accept it or not.  In it is the ‘more’.  More hours that will pass, and the standing offer for us to make something more of them in the exchange.  Not simply count the hours, or measure those that are left to us, or hoard the gift we have been given.  Our daily challenge is to seek what more there is and fill each moment as it’s given to us.

George Sheehan reminded me that the ancient Egyptians believed there was a judgement after death and the first step was to weigh the heart; it is the measure of our energy and courage and love, the measure of how we filled our days.  He said:

“When I have run my best marathon and written my best piece and done my best deed of love for myself and my neighbor, I know the cry will still come from my heart: ‘There is more, there is more, I Who have made you know.’  What else is a heart for, then, but to be uneasy, to ask for what seems impossible and never be satisfied? So my heart will be restless until it finds its final rest.

 Then they can weigh it.”

This birthday, and every morning that I am allowed to wake up and start again, I will seek the ‘more’ in the moments.  I will listen to my restless heart.  I will have the courage to say ‘no’ to what does not fill my soul, and the courage to say ‘yes’ to what brings me to my best.  I will stand confident in the sand that pools at my feet and not waste a grain that sifts through my hands.  I will trade my time for the richness that is locked in every passing moment.

Hope this finds you filled,

David

Memorial Day

May 25, 2015

Greetings from the civilian,

Humans are inevitably driven by emotion, motivated by the mélange of feelings that each of us fashions over our lives.  Some are provided by our own experiences and responses, and others are provided by instincts we may not even be aware of.

The spectrum of emotions is vast, but we all can identify when we have crossed one stream or another.  Love.  Hate.  Joy. Anger.  Hope. Empathy.  Regret. Elation.

Fear.

“I learned that courage was not the absence of fear, but the triumph over it. The brave man is not he who does not feel afraid, but he who conquers that fear.”  Nelson Mandela

It is a primal emotion, one that protects us and propels us.  Fear sometimes gets a bad rap, but it shapes us and hones us and creates strength.  It is a very personal emotion; we all have our own versions to carry around, and dealing with them is demanding, and very much a part of our character.  And perhaps we are never more human than when we consider the fears of others.

She is afraid that boot camp will crush her, that she will not be able to lift the pack, again, or run ten miles with it, again.  Afraid that she will wash out, and not live up to what is expected of her; by her parents, her husband, her CO.  Herself.

He is afraid of what he might be afraid of.  Trained and prepared and armed and sent out to do the job, he does not know if he will freeze when faced with violent danger.  Or faced with the fear of danger.

They are afraid that when they step off the landing craft they will drown before they reach the beach.  Afraid that the next step on the long dusty stretch of road will ignite an IED that will vaporize them.  Afraid of the next bullet that doesn’t miss.

He is afraid he will fail his team.  The men and women who have become closer than friends, closer than blood.  The people who count on him as much as he counts on them.  The guy who looks back over his shoulder with a wordless connection that says ‘You have my back.’

She is afraid she will never be the same.  That she cannot un-see what she has seen and now going back into the world will be some experience she may not be able to endure. 

They are afraid that this is pointless.  That after they take this hill, and fortify it and hold it, that a week from now no one will care which flag was at the top.  That this skirmish, these holes, this barbed wire, will have been for nothing.  This sleepless night, listening for noises that should not be there, fighting back fatigue and hunger, to protect a square of dirt, will be an exercise in futility.

He is afraid for his family.  That if something happens, no one will be there to care for them, protect them.  No Daddy-Daughter Dance, no soccer game, no curfew arguments.  No anniversary celebrations.

They are afraid it will never end.  Living on the edge of the blade, the tip of the spear.  Another patrol.  Another firefight.  Another panicked run across the open space, waiting to hear the sniper shot.  Another night of looking into the gloom to see what is trying to take your life. Another rotation back.  Another tour.

And in the terrifying chaos of war, when it is inevitable that the ultimate sacrifice must be made, when all of the fears have been crushed by what he knew was in him all along, the will, the courage to do what is asked of him, and he triumphs over this last challenge.   And perhaps then there is only one fear that may remain.

He is afraid he will be forgotten.

Hope this finds you remembering,

David

Jerry Knoodle

May 18, 2015

Greetings from the white line,

Enthusiasm; from the Greek ‘en theos’ meaning ‘in God’.

I have never finished a conversation with Jerry Knoodle where I didn’t walk away smiling.  Even writing this, a few hundred miles from where he is sleeping on the ground, I am grinning, just thinking of our last conversation.

When you meet Jerry you will guess his age and be wrong by a decade.  I think he has stayed young by long distance running and biking and taking care of himself, but he has another strength which I think has made the difference. 

Jerry is a father and a grandfather, has led a full and successful life, and yet what strikes me about him is his child-like presence.  Not simply innocence, but this genuine eagerness about what the moment has to offer.  It may seem like an odd way to describe someone in their sixth decade that way, but it is that openness, that light, that I notice about my friend.

Everyone who meets him says the same thing: ‘Man, he is such a nice guy.’  Until you get to have a conversation with him, let me tell you where this impression comes from.  It’s not just that he always is interested in what is happening in your life, or what is on your mind, it is that Jerry always leaves you with this feeling of enthusiasm.

He is positive and encouraging, always has a smile to share.  No exchange ever ends without an inspiring word, but in a conversational tone; more Jerry Knoodle and less Tony Robbins.

The last time we talked Jerry’s eyes were alive and sparkling, and his excitement was infectious.

Jerry decided that he would start his retirement by riding his bicycle across the country.   Not county; COUNTRY.   Maine to California.  That country.  He was clocking out and doing exactly what he dreamed of.

Anyone who has swung their leg over the saddle and looked at that long ribbon of road stretching out to the next hill or the next town or over the horizon will know this excitement.  Jerry, with his friend Tom, is seeing the country and its people from the perfect position, at the perfect pace.

I will admit that it is hard for me not to be envious of Jerry’s adventure.  But more powerful than that is the connection we have, and the understanding of my role on this side of the white line. 

I have run hundreds of races over the years, and I have come to understand the bond, the implicit agreement between the runners on the course, and the people who line the roads to cheer them on.

Some folks are cheering on friends and family, others simply want to be part of the experience, to feel the energy and excitement of the competition.  And some are athletes who for this time are spectators, but who know the value of supporting the men and women out hitting the pavement, testing themselves.

You don’t have to ride your bike across the country, or skydive, or run ten miles, to appreciate the adventure when you see it.  We can be part of it, be affected by it in a positive way when we support those in the middle of it.  There is the vicarious reward, but it’s more than that.  The rich experiences come to us through our compact with the adventurers, and we are changed in a positive way.

When you travel by bicycle you are in the environment, not separated by glass and steel.  Bicycle tourists attract attention in the small towns they frequent.  Conversations in cafes, at roadside fruit stands, in little bike shops, at front porches, on mountain passes.  There is a steep price for admission, but it is worth it.

Here’s some really good news.  As happy as I am to think of my friend out there living this amazing experience, what is even more exciting is this: over the next few months countless people will meet Jerry and be better for it.

Everyone who has ever been on the road now has this connection with Jerry.  He and Tom are in our community, and whether we are on the road or in between tours, we are linked.  Join me in sending best wishes and prayers for a safe journey for both of them.

Hope this finds you en theos,

David

You can connect with the Tom and Jerry Show:  https://www.facebook.com/jerry.knoodle?fref=nf

Copyright © 2015 David Smith

Bird Brain

May 11, 2015

Greetings from the flock,

“When birds burp, it must taste like bugs.”  Calvin and Hobbes

This time of year the windows are open, a blessing I will never take for granted. I can feel the fresh air on my skin and the few sounds of the predawn.  Usually, when my eyes open I know that the rest of the world around me is asleep.

Except for the birds. There are already a few industrious ones out in the trees, gossiping about bird news.  They say that the early bird gets the worm.  That’s fine.  He can have mine, it’s still a worm.

I love the sound of the birds because it is part of my favorite time of year.  But to be honest I don’t think about birds much, an indifference I am sure is mutual.  There are very few birds I can name, even fewer I can identify.  I was raised in the city where crows and pigeons seemed to be predominant.  Robin is he state bird.  After that I begin to group them as ‘small’ or ‘large’.

When I am outside I am aware of nature around me, but birds have always been this sort of fringe animal, a part of the background of the day.  That has more to do with my frame of mind than their real presence.

This morning I walked out in the dim morning light and listened.  The level of chatter had gone up significantly since I drank my coffee.  It was raucous.  It sounded as if they were cheering. I closed my eyes for a few minutes and the sound blended into a word.  Joy.

There is a cardinal that lands on the side mirror of my son’s truck, and admires himself there.  A woodpecker that has pocked the side of our house, searching for breakfast in what seems unlikely places.  Sparrows have caromed into the window of the kitchen, then fluttered off, dazed. 

One of my favorite summer pictures, hanging on a wall upstairs, is from a foggy morning at the beach, thousands of seagulls resting on the sand in the grey light.  Which made me think of a morning last week when I ran through a stubborn flock of pigeons in a park in Buenos Aires, expecting them to explode into the air.  They did not give way.

 A few weeks ago I came back from a run to find two brown eagles soaring over my street, giving definition to the words grace and power.  An image that never fails to astound me is the roiling cloud of starlings over the fields here.  I have floated down a remote spot in a river a few miles from my home, and watched a heron fly over, like some messenger from prehistoric time.

Outside my den, right now, there are two birds, sparrows maybe, hopping along the edge of the birdbath, sipping and splashing each other.  A robin just dive bombed them and scattered them off to wherever sparrows hang out to complain about robins.

I can name more birds than my sleepy brain first allowed.   Wrens. Chickadees, bluebirds, pelicans, blackbirds, roadrunners, bluejays, condors, chickens.  Penguins?  Ostriches, buzzards, hmm,.. those yellow ones. Ducks, swans, geese, turkeys, doves, hawks, parrots, parakeets.  There’s probably more but now all I can think of is those yellow ones.

Like so many things it is easy to relegate what seems common and ordinary to the back of our awareness.  I doubt I will ever become a bird aficionado, but I do feel like I want to be more aware.  There is beauty there. 

Man has always admired the birds ability to fly, which led us to all manner of poetry, mythology, technology, and amazing exploration. 

Of course birds set examples which spawned a variety of adages: A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush.  Don’t count your chickens before they hatch.  One swallow does not make a summer. What’s good for the goose is good for the gander. Wise as an owl.  Like water off a duck’s back. Madder than a wet hen. The goose that laid the golden egg  Naked as a jaybird. Run around like a chicken with its head cut off.  Strut like a rooster.

I know we are in different places on the food chain but there is a relationship between our species and birds.  I wonder sometimes if they sing and preen and hop about just to communicate with each other, or if this is how they let us know they are aware of us.

Ornithologists believe there are between 10 and 20 billion birds in the U.S.  Birds are not the background of the day.  We are.

Hope this finds you flocking together,

David

PS: Canaries.

Copyright © 2015 David Smith

Second Language

Greetings from the stranger in a strange land, It is easy to think that the world is the same all over when most of your days are spent in the same place.   Which is an excellent reason to get out of your chair and go see what the truth is. I don´t speak Spanish, and the people in Buenos Aires don´t mind, generally.  We have found a blend of pantomime, sketching, and a few fragments of high school foreign language to communicate.  It is amusing to watch others try this too.  Some compensate by speaking louder or gesturing more dramatically, or pointing and raising their eyebrows.  It´s not as amusing when it´s me. But somehow we manage.  The people here are willing, thankfully.  Cabbies and waiters, accustomed to people like me, piece together their own pantomime-translation.  I know they are trying to speak using small Spanish words so I´ll understand. The man on the street walking his dog who asked me a question, and the couple riding bikes who greeted me, and the woman who tried to give me directions, all gave their best effort, and we managed.  I  have to admit that I feel a little like a slacker for not coming better prepared to speak their language.  For certain, it will make me more patient whenever I run into someone at home who doesn´t speak English. It is sliding into winter  here, another reminder that the world is bigger than what usually think of.  The moon looks the same from here, the sky lights up and goes dark in the same way, but tilted slightly different.  It is a perspective I could not have felt sitting my den at  home, my little niche in this rock. Just being in a huge city is enough to adjust my perspective.  The traffic and hustle and hurry, the jagged highrise skyline, the mix of architecture, the vast variety of little worlds within this city. I think everyone who travels at some point will seek what is familiar, even if it is for a moment.  Maybe it is a comfort, or to refresh the vigor needed to explore a new place.  As much as I have enjoyed the refreshing feeling that comes with this adventure, there was a moment yesterday when I connected with something that warmed my heart.  Not just because it reminded me of ´home´ but more so because it reminded me of the human experience that is in every place. I went for a run with friends yesterday morning and we found that there was a marathon scheduled just a few blocks from my  hotel.   There were all the elements of the race that I knew; the stage, the water tables, the starting line choked with festive colors and balloons.  And this palpable energy, thrumming in the morning sun, hundreds of athletes, all of whom spoke my language, warming up, stretching, nervous before the gun set them free to explore whatever the morning held for them. Everywhere in the world, including this place beneath the equator, I can exchange nods with a runner, or the little swipe of the hand as we pass one another.   A universal language, another way we find to know each other better than what English will allow. What is encouraging in this is that there are connections like this by the thousands that I have not discovered.  They may be in music or babies or dancing or food or in polo.  I am sitting here surrounded by millions of people who have their own way of communicating with me, if only I will be patient enough to learn what it is. Time to go learn the language. Hope this finds you lost in translation, David