Steve Robison's Blog, page 2

Insurrection Reflected

And he looked o’er the broad sea and to the curved horizon beyond, and sought peace, but found naught. And he drank from the deepest fount, from the waters cooled of the depths of time, and sought peace, but found naught. And he sought embrace from another, and a holy kiss, seeking again peace, but found naught. And he espied the dirty mirror, and saw but a vague reflection of himself, knowing not what he sought, and found peace.

The Baker

But my fate was chosen before I grew wise, and my fate was to cook, to heat, and to give sustenance to the many. The pain I avoided a great many times, with prudence and alertness, I kept my fingers from the fire, but not every time, alas, so I knew the pain of perfect heat. What choice did I have but to choose to numb the pain with not only ice but with spirit? Only, the spirit’s cure is not, for it is but temporary and diminishing relief. So, thus, I chose a new profession. But the pain of that wrong choice was far greater than any burn. And so, I learned to withstand the pain in my fingers in order to ameliorate the pain in my soul.

 

Wake, Today, Wake

There is not a single atom in you that is not perfect, not the smallest impulse of subatomic energy flowing divinely through your true essence.

You are. Think about that. You. Are.

You are. You exist. You are both connected to the Divine Flowing Glory of Existence and you are utterly and wonderfully unique.

Every breath, every beat of your choice, every thought of your heart, every glimmering star-shine twinkle of your fantastic imagination—each and every one—is the result of a perfect choice. Hence: destiny, fate.

You are your creation, destined to be, simply because of your choice.

What will you do with this knowledge? Will you continue playing small, waiting for some elusive future to live your dreams? No. I know you won’t. For today is your day. Today, you are awake. Today, you feel the power flowing through your blood, coursing through your each thought.

Enjoy your inheritance.

 

Hope's Survival: Art in the AM

You told me there was more, outside the small window in the bare wood door, more to see, to know, to feel, to explore. I was a superhero, in your eyes, in my multicolored dreams and multifaceted yearnings. Outside our small, cold, cramped home, there was more.

I don’t know, even now, why I believed you, but I did. I believed that I was bigger than our small life. I believed that one day I’d soar, find my way, dream, build, live, explore. I believed insanely in the veracity of a life beyond our worn walls.

It’s not that you were perfect—I knew that even then. You had your share of invited persecutions, of self-sabotaging delusions, of days, weeks, months of malaise, of despair, of short cold days and colder nights. Your temper was short and your wrath wasn’t spared. But you always had one thing, and there wasn’t a single day when it wasn’t evident. You had hope. And you shared that hope with me.

I watched as life passed by, through the small windows, through the cracks in the walls where the light peeked through and the wind whistled. I watched as you weathered the storms, and you shouldered the trials, as you skipped meals so that I never went to bed hungry. I watched as the pickup truck broke down and the mechanic stole what meager savings you had. He fixed the truck, took the cash, drove away. You walked the miles to work for months.

I was scared then. Scared the landlord’s threats would become real, that we’d lose the balance of the scarce timidity that sustained us. But every night, no matter how late, you’d tuck me in, plant a slight kiss on my forehead. And every morning you’d find a smile.

2016.09.07 RBWG writing for Art in the AM

Inspired by a painting by Linda Minkowski

 

 

Transcending the Noise

Nine hours yesterday. Over seventy for the week. I’ve found my groove and learned some secrets. Mostly, it’s about simply deciding that nothing will stop me from being productive. And it’s about diving in early, before the brain has time to get all worried about the bullshit.

It’s removing myself from the noise. Or transcending the noise. Or getting pissed about the noise, and using that anger in the work. And it’s a constant decision: I can work in noisy conditions. I MUST work in noisy conditions, for it’s a noisy world, and if I wait for peace and quiet to work, I’ll never work, or, at best, I’ll rarely work.

Frank's Grandfather

He looked like his grandfather, only strangely older. He wasn’t of course. That would be impossible. Chronologically.

But in other ways, many ways, Frank acted and seemed as old as the Appalachians. Maybe his mother’s side of the family had cursed him with bad genes but it seems just as likely that Frank’s mindset and belief were the cause of his premature aging. At forty-two, he looked seventy-two, on a good day. He was constantly complaining, about the weather, about politics, about bullies and the rise of terrorism and the new strains of killer biological weapons. When he wasn’t complaining, he was listening to other people complain on the Weather Channel or NPR or some reality TV show or other.

His grandfather? Wayne? He never watched TV, hadn’t owned one since the eighties. He biked five miles a day, traveled to local and not-so-local parks. He had a hopeful outlook. He wasted no time worrying about the future, the world, his health, and so, in Wayne’s little corner of the world, there was nothing about which to worry.

Waking Dreams

I realized when I woke several mornings at three-thirty that I had interrupted another me, from some faded mirror reality not quite mine, in the sense of this world, this dimension, this reality, but me just the same, another version of me, a shadow seen in the smoky mirror of extra-dimensional beingness.

This explained the strange head cold in the musty heat of August, the tennis elbow, though I’d not played tennis in decades, at least, not here.

Wednesday morning was the strangest. There were four small, sore, irritated reddish pink spots just up the arm from my right wrist. When I looked, still half sleeping, standing in my bathroom in the stark grey light of two power-saving bulbs, my first thought was poison ivy, but my second thought was more true, a snake bite. By four, thirty minutes after I returned, woke, to and in this version of reality, the red spots were gone, as was the itch.

The threads that had tied me from here to that unknown there were dissolving, falling away. I was back, here, fully me.

But some memories remained. And these words remained.

A Balanced Approach to Balance

Here’s my truth. I’m still afraid to shine. I self-medicate with distractions, reading and Netflix mostly, and give myself little time to actually enjoy life in solace and sensation because I’m still scared I won’t be able to live my dreams.

But part of the bitch of it is that I *am* living my dreams, at least many of them. I’ve not smoked in six months, I’m drinking lots of water and I’m eating healthy. I write lots, over half a million words this year.

But I push myself increasingly harder. And I wear down and wear out and fizzle. When I wrote a hundred thousand words in a month I wanted to write a hundred and twenty the next. When I lost two inches from my waistline, I wanted to lose three more, and fast. Faster, faster, faster until I get overwhelmed and then just say fuck it and lose most all my momentum in the soul-sucking malaise of exhausted mindlessness.

For years I’ve shunned the idea of balance as seeking balance can be a trap which often leads to trying to control the whole of life. That’s true, but it’s not the whole truth. A balanced approach to balance is healthy, seeking, but not *needing* balance. Work, play, rest, live. Risk, love, dance, enjoy. Practice unremitting focus, but not all the time, for that leads to exhaustion, and exhaustion, whether physical, mental, or emotional, is the antithesis of focus.

I was sick Friday, nothing serious, just a head cold, but it was odd because it’s so rare for me. I’ll take it as a sign. Stop pushing myself so hard all the fucking time. Sprints are fun, enjoyable, and productive, but prolonged sprints wear me out and I lose momentum.

A balanced approach to balance says that it’s sometimes good to sprint but it’s usually better to walk or jog. Metaphorically.

Take my shirt, thief! And my serenity...

It gets more and more curious, more and more impossibly fucking ridiculous. Mother fucking Ryan is asleep on the couch. Snoring. With the TV on.

I’m feeling very angry today. A little confused, too.

What did Jesus say about thieves? If someone steals your coat, give them your shirt, too?

Well, it’s pretty clear in Luke Chapter 6 (NIV):

“But to you who are listening I say: Love your enemies, do good to those who hate you, bless those who curse you, pray for those who mistreat you. If someone slaps you on one cheek, turn to them the other also. If someone takes your coat, do not withhold your shirt from them. Give to everyone who asks you, and if anyone takes what belongs to you, do not demand it back. Do to others as you would have them do to you.

“If you love those who love you, what credit is that to you? Even sinners love those who love them. And if you do good to those who are good to you, what credit is that to you? Even sinners do that. And if you lend to those from whom you expect repayment, what credit is that to you? Even sinners lend to sinners, expecting to be repaid in full. But love your enemies, do good to them, and lend to them without expecting to get anything back. Then your reward will be great, and you will be children of the Most High, because he is kind to the ungrateful and wicked. Be merciful, just as your Father is merciful.

“Do not judge, and you will not be judged. Do not condemn, and you will not be condemned. Forgive, and you will be forgiven. Give, and it will be given to you. A good measure, pressed down, shaken together and running over, will be poured into your lap. For with the measure you use, it will be measured to you.”

Takes all the fury from my sails.

But aren’t there limits to this?

I sure don’t want to be like the author of an article I read before I found this scripture above. He wrote a whole article about a supposed misplaced comma in the words of Jesus, concluding it was impossible that Jesus could actually have meant that the dude hanging next to him, a penitent thief, would go to heaven that very day to join Jesus for Jesus himself wouldn’t go to heaven for three days. They missed the part where Jesus was able to forego the laws of nature and could indeed be in two places at the same time, or everywhere at the same time.

I’m honestly resisting this. I suppose that’s not unusual—most people probably do resist this. It changes a lot, maybe even everything.

Am I to believe that Ryan (thief boy!) is here for an actual reason? A divine reason? Is it really God’s will that the little fucker would be here and rob me of my serenity?

Seems pretty clear that Jesus’s words, about when a thief steals my coat I should offer him my shirt, too, were what I needed to think about, and heed. And it seems clear also that that one phrase led me to more, the never condemning piece, for example, and the clear active role I’m supposed to take. I get it.

But what I don’t get is the how I’m supposed to reconcile it part. Should I really be grateful to have my time and serenity stolen this morning? I’m writing about this, trying to find peace and sanity, when there are dozens of other, more productive things I could be doing.

Maybe the answer is that it’s not supposed to be reconcilable. That’s kinda the point Jesus was making. If I were to be kind to someone I knew would add to my life, what credit is that to me? My anger is justified. All my feelings are justified. He is causing actual harm to me. What choices do I have? I could run and pretend it’s not happening, stand and fight, or choose to forgive.

The divine way is not about fight or flight but is about a third approach. Standing in forgiveness, in strength, in trust, knowing it’s not our job to fix the world and knowing also we can’t be harmed, trusting in our divinity.

I’m still resisting some, but my choice is to forgive. I forgive my unwelcome houseguest and choose to try and be welcoming. I forgive my housemate, too, for letting the kid stay over on our couch after I made it very clear that the kid had stolen from me and I wasn’t happy about him being around.

I forgive, and I find peace. And I learn a little more about myself, and about how God wants us to live in this world. It’s not easy, but I’ll do my best today, to be charitable, loving, and trusting.

What is Magic?

What is magic? Changing what must be.

What must be? What is decided must be.

Who decides? For most the answer is God, nature, or chance. But for some, the answer is “We do.” We create our reality. We create the physical laws which govern our existence by a shared choice to do so.

So, to work a miracle or to perform magic is simply a matter of transcending the hive mind and deciding to make something different, to defy the laws of nature, mind over matter. Is it easy? For most, the answer is not only that it’s not easy but it’s impossible, inconceivable even. But to we with open minds and exploratory natures and the desire to move beyond the common shared wisdom and truths of the world, it’s trivially simple.