Shooting Range

The Buddhist said he could be calm
until he drove past the shooting range
that would cause him to shudder
for two or three miles.

He talked of the Dali Lama
as the only living leader for peace.
He said that the DL refused
to be a government leader
because he refused to take a position
on issues.

Then another bullet was shot
and his attention wained
for a few minutes
until we passed the winery.

God's Plan

Change is a (Painful) Adventure

Dogs, Part III

We parted with our dogs yesterday.
I drove them to the farm of a rescue
group in Kimmswick. It was not easy,
especially since the little one
cried most of the way. The other one
enjoyed the ride, but then freaked
out when she got there.

I won't get into the subsequent
phone calls from the rescue group
after I left them, but we were
consoled by the fact that we
were better human parents than
dog parents. I will say that our
dogs were not as social as the
other dogs.

On the way I saw a horrific
car accident in the making
on the opposite side of the
highway. It must have been
just a fraction of a second
that I saw it, but I keep
rerunning the tape over and
over. I searched on the news
for more information but could
not find it.

Here's Zoe:

They are looking for a good home for her.

I have a feeling that there will
be a Dogs, Part IV. Until then,
we'll be dogless except in our minds.

Voting on a Rainy Day

I went to vote today
after my friend called
because she was so worried
that her candidate wouldn't win.

I didn't especially like any
of the prospective presidents,
so it wasn't that easy,
to say the least.

A large woman,
working for the polls,
stood over me
looking like she'd crack my knuckles
if I didn't vote for the right person.

I told her that she wasn't supposed
to be looking at me voting.
She slightly turned her head away
and I proceeded to make my mark.

No Politics Today

It is warm,
and the snow is melting,
evaporating into the
soil to make mud,
and into the air to
make a dense Japanese fog.

No politics today,
though the fog is
appropriate for tomorrow,
Super Tuesday, they call it,
when we'll get one step
closer to clarifying who
will be our new leader.

As we walk through the fog,
profound shifting occurs.
What was clear becomes obscured,
and what was lost in the fog
becomes crystal clear.

The candidates madly become
something for everyone,
hoping to entice one sector after
another to vote for them.

I'm not sharing their ambitions.
It doesn't sound like my
cup of tea.

The Medicare Argument

Some argue that a national
health plan would work
for all Americans,
"just look at Medicare,"
they say.

Medicare does work
for the recipients,
unless they happen
to be hospitalized
more than sixty days.

Then it is lights off
for those not independently
wealthy.

But who pays for Medicare?
Doctors and hospitals receive
very little for Medicare
patients, causing them to
overcharge others. If the
government controlled prices
on all health plans, like
they do on Medicare, doctors
might have to become vets.

Comments?

Dad on Political Comments

Dad told me
not to talk about politics.
I think that's how he
got along so well
with his democrat friends.

I watched Hillary
and Obama discuss
the health care system
and how they could
make it cheaper and
more efficient.

The health care system
has been analyzed
by minds much greater
than Hillary and Obama,
and whose only saving
grace is that one
insurance company has
to compete with the others.

Peter (of the Peter
Principle) wrote that
we'll always defend Paul
when he robs Peter to
give to us. Will we just
be raising taxes to
subsidize insurance
costs, or does the
government really have
a magic wand to reduce costs?

Has the government ever
reduced costs by intervening
in the free market?

Dogs, Part II

Dogs, Part II, will come.

My friend said that suspense is important
when you write.

I'm a junkie who just lost his Palm Pilot.

I had to mail it to someone in Minnesota,
or maybe Michigan, to get a new digitizer.

In the process of erasing all my files,
I lost Dogs, Part II, to oblivion.

And I was forced to use paper and pencil.

Ok, you're mad. You wanted to
know what Part II was about,
so I won't delay anymore.

Here's the scoop:

Our long love affair
with dogs is coming to an end.
Not that we don't like the creatures,
but we feel
that they have become more
a burden than a joy.

So now we are looking to put our loved ones
out for adoption. One comes from a rescue
group that insists on taking back their
dogs (though they don't return phone calls)
and the other . . . is free to a good
home.

Well, that's Part II.

Dogs

Each dog is unique.

One scruffs up her food
before it hits the bowl,
and the other waits
to make sure no more
is coming before she'll
dive in.

One feels compelled to
sit by the window and
bark at anything with a shadow.

The other will sleep through
a tornado, never caring what
may be threatening her habitat.

One wants to tear the porch
apart because a rabbit has
taken refuge, and the other
complains that her feet
are cold in the snow.

Awaiting an Answer

Sometimes I await an answer,
thinking, "if only I knew,"
and then I "get what I wished for"
only to find out that it
was not what I wanted.

One of the happiest people
I ever met was a man with AIDS
who had a short time to live.

I asked him what was the hardest
time for him. "Not knowing,"
he said.

Now that I have the answer,
I am up at bat once again.

I know the score.

What I don't know is how
fast the ball will come,
and what kind of curve
it will have.

Indecision

The cloud filled sky
caused the shadows to lighten
one moment and darken the next.

My dog awaits the intruder.
A vigilant creature,
she moves her head from side to side,
anticipating the enemy.

My wife shuffles through her life,
trying to decide what is needed
and what can be thrown away.
My compliments are returned
with "I could have thrown away more."

My Buddhist friend writes
that nothing has a permanent self,
and I wonder if everything
has an impermanent self.
Meaning that the gravel
around my pond has a self,
which would explain why
my now expired dog would chew
each rock and then spit it out.

An hour later, the shadows
completely disappeared because
of a beckoning storm,
and then,
a moment later, reappeared
as if spring was here.

Changes

and decisions.

Auto pilot,
mindlessly slowly
going through life
as if we are a self-controlled puppet.

Awaken,
get a cup of coffee,
go to work,
come home,
etc.
Not a very surprising life
until something ends or breaks.

Surprises.
The stuff that life
is made of.
Unexpected pregnancy, death,
loss of job, and we are startled
into a "reality check" reevaluating
everything we do and wondering
what we have done with our lives.

Changes. Yes to life.

Moving

Thinking about moving
is always a weaving of
sorrow and excitement.

A new life, augmented
by memories of the last
one, becomes a sort of reincarnation.

Early on, I discovered
that all places were the
same in that our reflection
is the same, no matter
where the mirror is hanging out.

Today we sold one piece
of furniture and loaded it into a van.
It has been part of our life
for many years and its place
is already taken by another piece.

Are we cold and ruthless to let go
of so much before our spaceship launches?

Melt Down

What ee called in just spring
I call "meltdown."

his was a celebration for the balloon
man, who "whistled far and wee,"
while mine is lamenting the possible
end of winter.

The frog will wake up and notice
that his limbs are a little stiff
like the balloon man who is first
lame and then goat footed.

The fish will become hungry and
notice that there are not yet
insects or vegetation to feed upon.

The ice will disappear in the
pond, never to be seen again.

My heroic neighbor,
an airplane gunner in WWII,
will rise up from his easy chair
to mow the leaves.

Spring is not all that it
is made up to be,
but in a pinch,
I'll take it.

4 Journeys

The waterfall
would not stop,
even if she had to slither
underneath the ice.

He took an interesting journey,
intending to go a recycling center
and instead ended up
at the Missouri river.
So much for Google Maps!

Exercising today was
going up and down the stairs
an infinite number of times,
unplugging this and plugging in that,
trying to be obedient to the
cable company help desk person.

We generate and/or use
lots of artifacts
as we grow: books, art, furniture.
Most of it ends up either
in a junk store or a dumpster.
It can be like quicksand.

Who has a Soul?

Above image was drawn on the back of a business card. Image below was done on a Palm Pilot using the program Tealpaint.


The Buddhist tells me that our soul
is only an illusion.

And then he tells me that the frog
might have a soul, we just don't know.

"What about the pond," I ask,
"does it have a soul?"

"Very possibly," he says,
"especially if you were to
dump a gallon of gasoline
in you'd see that
the pond would be affected
in an ecological way."

"So how can our soul
be an illusion and yet
the pond and the frog
have possible souls?"

"You said you had two
questions. What was the
other one?"

I thought that maybe
this would be clearer
when I became older.

Five doves are eating the grass
coming up between the bricks
on our patio. Astutely, they
do so in the sun on this
10 degree morning.

My hand built bench distorts
her shape to stand firmly
on the sinking bricks
below her.

I'll have to ask the Buddhist
if these observations are
illusions as well.

Snow Covered Pond

The only snow is sitting on the pond.

The water runs underneath the icy pond,
not caring about the cold weather.

The frog is hidden
in her hibernation mode.
I wonder what it is like
to wake up after such a
long sleep? How would one
contend with the interest
charges on the unpaid bills?

My daily dharma tells me
that there is a difference
between my self and my experience.

I sense that ponds and
hibernating frogs have
no sense of self, yet
have rich experiences
each and every moment.

Living in the now is
easy for these other
forms, unable to
anticipate, remember,
mourn, or hope.

Woodpile

I say that the woodpile
cuts down street noise,
though that is not quite the truth.

When I was a kid, my grandfather
was in charge of the woodpile
for our cold Oregon nights.

He'd pick up logs on the beach
and (always with a hernia) load
them into his jeep
to cut them up with a 3 foot circular blade
attached to the power take-off
on the back of the jeep.

Then he'd split the wood with
a combination of an axe, a mallet,
and some hefty wedges.

I'd try to split the wood myself from time to time,
but never could do much damage to those logs.

For him, it was one way to
take care of those he loved.

I never asked him where he
learned to do the log splitting.
I wonder if that is something he did
growing up in Russia.

My log pile is a tribute to Milton,
my grandpa. The difference is
that we have a gas fireplace
with a remote control. And in
cold weather, lots of neighbors
visit us in their pickups
looking for wood.

"No, the wood is not for a sale,"
we tell them.

Taming Monkey Mind

The light brown January oak
leaves do a shadow dance
on the trunk of their tree.

A truck goes by with the word "clean"
written in large sans-serif letters,
hoping to change someone's ways
with its mantra.

I return to the shadow dance
noticing how one moment
it is vigorous,
and a second later, it is still,
almost.

Another truck goes by with a landscape
painted on its side. A large tree
in the landscape is devoid
of any shadow dancing.

One of the shadows on my tree
quivers, sensing the competition,
and then regains his impetus
to do a fast moving encore.