A new path....

Looking for that elusive meaningful work, eh? Like many, you may be have been thinking that even before this skid, crash, and burn in the world’s economic engine. And now, more than ever, you think since the peak in our times may be behind us, why not settle in do something that “makes more of a difference” than paying the bank, and secretly grinning about your imaginary credit rating.


This mindset, flowing richly about the boomer café’s, falls somewhere between volunteering service and a lower paying “less corporate” occupation. Non-Profits sound righteous enough. Once thought of as a haven for those falling a few credits short of a degree, now have gained prominence in the search.

Yet, one is left to wonder what we all have to do? What is needed and what is just as soon to be relic of the “consumption age.” Remember back just a few years ago when the consumer was so heavily praised for keeping the economy afloat? We should have seen this coming. Some did.

What skills do we have that we have over-looked or forgotten about? And how can those skills be applied to the benefit of the community at large? Take a minute and think up a different resume for your self- one that resumes where you left off when you became so engaged in becoming engorged on all the wants masquerading as needs.


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Stepping off......

It always seemed that regardless of the circumstances we must attempt to keep our feet firmly planted on the rock. This foundation of our being can at times be shaken by events and poor decisions, but still it gives us a place to stay afloat and search out a way of stabilizing the world around us.


Recent generations have over time allowed that rock to be an island, an individual’s base of reference. We are all clinging to our own foothold and looking about as others slip off theirs and bob downstream, perhaps looking for a hand…..out.

The strong economic culture we have lived through provided the impetus to break off on our own, without much concern for the collective community. This sense of community gone is now what thinkers believe will be the most significant result of this current shifting of the economic plates beneath us.

Furthermore, perhaps the concept of hoarding doomsday provisions is an extension of the “go it alone” philosophy that laid the ground work for this self-centrist society that is currently squeezing out the marrow from most of us, if not all before it’s over. We have forgotten that not only are we all historically and irrevocably linked, but the economic system that has brought us all this false success is also completely dependent on our continued cooperation. And that seems irrational going forward.

There will be migration. This will occur naturally of course based on changing climes. But this is not the pursuit of comfort and golf so desired by the snowbirds of Arizona and Florida, but rather to cheapen the cost of existence. But these costs can be reduced and the value of our lives increased if we can just be smart about it.

Community, collective thinking and living are not communal, though some will gravitate to that. Actually it simply involves a change in mindset that considers the resources as common and the success of the community more vital than the individual.

Un -American? Maybe…..but not un-Early American, or for that matter not un-Native American.


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Common cause.......

Walking outside the stadium he began to consider the concept of inclusive and exclusive. So many with the same red jerseys, seat after seat of the select group. You belonged or you didn’t, it was just that simple.

Belonging to a group and feeling included to a common cause has its virtues. People nod to you in agreement with a certain understanding. Your joy or disgrace is amplified by not only the look on your face but by the color on your body. The sense of inclusion is akin to a uniform before battle, as it proudly states that you “belong.”

It appeared as if skin color, ethnicity, age, or gender, seemed to be trumped by the agreed upon crowd mentality on display from the red colored jerseys. If, instead of watching the game, the crowd was asked to run out into the street and pick up litter, all the while singing America the Beautiful, it would be an extraordinary sea of vacuum red.

So why then does our inclusion in the group of “humans” fail to generate the same sense of inclusion? We can do far better as a group if we were to recognize the commonalities as opposed to the contrary. Different mother…..same team.

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Green grass and high tides......

Sitting in the back of a small run down coffee shop in a small town, sipping a small cup, waiting while the small car is remedied from a small repair issue, and listening to corny modern twists on old xmas songs. But big thoughts.


He wonders what it would be like to write from a different shop each morning, from a different town, and from a different country. Moving. Writing. Caring. The tether between new horizons of engagement, interaction, and self reliance remains taut with the lure of comfort, predictability, and the cost of maintaining it. A tug that some, but not all, feel.

Of course, when you are born with this wandering affliction, you know that somewhere is nowhere, and nowhere is just a mindset anyway. As much as he understands that the fence is just a fence, and both sides grow grass, the question remains as to how that grass will smell in the morning dew as he rolls out of his bag of slumber to start another day.

Knowing that one cathedral is the same as the next, and humans around the world are more or less the same, and that a man could travel more and learn more by working his Google than by walking and sleeping on foreign grounds. It is the spirit with which he engages the world from the day to day planning, that is required of the vagabond, that provides the spark. Everything else is just passing time waiting for cessation.

Our spirit is so vulnerable to hijack.

Of course it begins to change the moment he starts to plan. He almost immediately begins to see things different, taking note of people once again with eyes that see more deeply into the heart and soul, wanting to convey the joy of living.

The joy of living……hmmmm.


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Notes from the "Cave".......

Plato wrote and spoke of illusions in his “Allegory of the Cave.” In this myth he describes a group of prisoners that are chained and shackled facing a wall. Behind them there is a large fire burning with people walking back and forth between the fire and the prisoners. The men can only see the shadows of movement on the wall for such an extended time that they begin to believe that the shadows are in fact reality. Plato summarizes that man associates reality to that which he sees day in and day out and not what his mind tells him to be true.


He may have outlived his welcome in his cave. There is a sharp burr stuck between reflection and contemplation. Too much of this will grind you down and reveal nerves that no longer care. It is these mid-winter moments, propped up only by the exuberance of solstice, that cause the slip and consequential face-plant in the snow laid trail of our pathetic attempt at advance. The laughter of the woodland at his stumble is quiet and weighty.

What would you want if you could? A long chase down the centerline South to a place mid point is the Key to thaw this cave, with a folding camp chair dug deep in the sand, a passing freighter, a Styrofoam cooler sufficiently occupied, the loft and steady hover of a Frisbee from a friend, a good book unread, a juke box stuck in time, the call to “rack em up” from his brothers, just leaving your cash on the bar till it runs out, faded cut-offs, shirt, and sandals, and a dotted dress for fun are required for this cave escape.



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Losing your home....but not your way.

Some may lose their home, but will always be home anyway. Some are headed home.


Home……

The physical structure within which one lives, such as a house or apartment.

A headquarters; a home base.

Available to receive visitors.

Comfortable and relaxed; at ease.

Feeling an easy familiarity

All of these can be accomplished with a sleeping bag and a coffee shop café!

Home really is:
One's native land; the place or country in which one dwells; the place where one's ancestors dwell or dwelt.
Friends and blood family
A place of refuge and rest; an asylum, the grave; the native and eternal dwelling place of the soul.
He’s gone home……

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Less is more.....

Remember when that circle seemed wide and embraced friends, family, clients, and colleagues. It was not always that way. As you think back to childhood, that circle started quite small and only expanded as you had more to offer. It has all been based on a balance of what they needed to take and that which you offered to give. Simple.


But as we peak in the hierarchy of society, for ever so short a time, we may in fact be far short of our intrinsic value as a human being. Seriously now, we have much to offer at the height of our strength and vigor, yet we know that this is the sole reason for the taking, wanting, and accolades to occur. We have something someone wants.

Then one day the phone stops ringing. Surprisingly fast, and rightly so. Society operates with doers, not thinkers or those that cling to outdated ways, staring into an aged mirror convincing yourself of what you see. Move on.

Yet all this seems sour. The grapes seem wilted. But no, think back for a minute. Remember those times when you stood outside the earshot of the compliant and expressed your distaste for “it all,” wanting to steer your own ship, create your own reality, take stock in your true nature, and live according to your own rules. That boat is in the harbor.

Although our path appears to be thinning into a single track, less than noticeable to the rest, we have much to do. And though our circle is smaller, the hands are clasped with each other in common understanding, and no longer outstretched in expectation.




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Keeping track.......

The winds thumped steady on his ear drums, while his eyes, tucked up under the brim of his hat, stared down at one boot step after the next. It was dark, and once again he had allowed himself to get lost walking the woodlands. He resents the snow track each boot leaves, as it not only provides guidance back, but also leaves a mark of his presence. And they keep following him even in the waning light of the day.

Of course there is an upside to this snow covered pegboard tracking his trail, and that is the ability to also follow the comings and goings of the woodland creatures. And they do stay busy in the early winter, understandably keeping hibernation in the schedule, just not in the plans yet.

The darkness, wind, and snow are decoded as to be avoided. The doors leading in are where the senses take aim. Yet, as long as he has 98.6 pulsating through the interior, his willingness and capability to withstand the elements is surprising. This coupled with the complete lack of “others” so commonly out on the trail attempting to get in that late day dog walk, but now, this late in the year, they are pointing to click and gorging on comfort food, making this woods his wilderness.

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First things first......

Seems to him that it should go without saying, it should be obvious that we all all searching for meaning in our lives. It often starts with a moment that seems driven by the fates, we pursue it because it satisfies our desire for something that falls outside our norm. We are eager to embrace and to identify with it. Hail Maslow.


But this is not the case for most. So many concentrate on the next square at a time, like a lioness who eats and then sleeps with no worries, only to wake and begin the ritual again. This simple alignment of need and get goes on and on, yielding only to the arrested beat.

He had encountered this person of the street before. The coins he would share to slow the downward progression were always spent on gin. He didn’t really care, because his giving was really a taking. He needed to give it up to avoid that growling guilt from his comfortable suburban youth, all the time wearing it on his forehead like a beacon.

On this afternoon his charity had a requirement attached. This was no pay it forward gig, as he was out to make it all better. The old chum purchased his tomatoes from the city grocery as instructed and carried them close to his chest as he attempted to cross Wells St. in the steady rain. He observed the old man from the protected overhang outside the store. As the bag grew wet and the paper fiber gave way, he watched the red fruit tumble from the man’s grasp and split open upon the concrete gutter at his feet.

Later, as he sat with the old man, he was surprised to learn about his family near forgotten. He spoke of the days when he lived off pride and respect. He could and would work on the railroad for double shifts if it meant he could provide his children with a decent Christmas. They talked a long while and the old man cried a bit. And they sipped gin together.

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Down....and then out.

Nothing to see but white. Yeah, the horizon gone and only your sense of balance remains, with little to benchmark even that. And then, as if catapulted, you thrust up out of the depth to the top of the mogul, quickly pick your next move, and back into the man eating crevasse. Back bowl skiing is a rush for young legs and old souls.


He was with his friend now gone. His friend had only learned to ski in recent years, having popped his youth in desert climes, but he was more than adequate, and overly aggressive. He had some style and grace, but learned the tenacity of deep powder mogul skiing from his downhill companion.

From the muffled depths of the kettle to the scream of the crest, and back in, this toll cost. His energy gone, yet his enthusiasm was running on mojo and ego, as he prepared for another lift up the mountain near day’s end. He was wobbly but he knew not to quit, often making poor decisions based on some hidden drive mechanism in his stunted brain. Then his wiser friend suggested we stop right then and there and return to the cabin and meet up with the other pendejoes, whom had stopped awhile back, when the mind was still operating.

“One more run,” he suggested. “That will be the run that breaks your leg,” his friend replied. After a long pause he capitulated and they headed back for a night of exuberance, laughter, and eventually, sleep. And it was during that sleep that his dream identified the strange set of circumstances that were to result from that next run, had he took it and disregarded his friends advice. It was in that dream he strangely saw his own death. Strange indeed.



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Larger than life.......

Words to a friend…..


We only get this one life to live, and Sha lived his enough for all of us. Sha was like that.

Many times I have described my friend Sha to others as “larger than life.” This description has never been used by me prior or since, as no one has ever captivated my attention quite like Sha. To say Sha was large is an understatement. He had the strength and presence yes, but how does one become larger than life? Allow me to explain.

I first met Sha in the early 1990’s as a close personal friend of my brother Paul, and a longtime companion of my cousin Tom. We began a series of backcountry adventures over the next couple decades that filled us with camaraderie and friendship. Since I was the outsider from the Midwest, I needed to attempt to assimilate with these three pendejos (an affectionate term that still carries weight to this day).

Sha was talented in all the ways that a real man need be. He was simply the most competent fellow I have ever come across. Whether it is the mechanical knowledge and the operation of tools and machines, the able touch of the trout rod, or the reading of the land, flora, and fauna, Sha was exceptional. Sha was like that.

On one evening, camped at the top of a small island in the center of Ross Lake, just south of the British Columbia border, the four of us sat in our chairs trying to determine what to eat for dinner. It was our last night before returning and we had depleted the majority of our resources. Just when you thought the discussion could go no further, with all of us still sitting on our butts complaining, Sha jumped up. Come on Danny, we need to catch us some fish for dinner.

The facts were though that it was already dark out and the only fish to be found were up a fjord, a good boat ride north. We went anyway and Sha led us up a Falls to a spot where we were able to blindly catch some nice trout….legally….no…..inspiring….yes. As we returned in the small zodiac, listening to the steady thrust of the engine, it provided for me the understanding of the meaning of the word determination. Sha was like that.

Many nights around the campfire Sha would tell stories. Often they would involve his childhood in Iran. He was able to talk slowly and descriptively because he always had our attention. He enjoyed best speaking about the nuances of the day or recent adventures. His memory and awareness was so keen that when he told stories about what happened that same day or even ten years ago, he always described elements I had missed, even when I was right there alongside him. Sha was like that.

Looking back, I now know that it was Sha’s ability to communicate so effectively that made him stand out as a human being. Regardless of whom he was speaking to or what the subject was, Sha could reach a level that was comfortable and interesting for both. He had a knack for reaching folks, and an unquenchable interest in learning from others. This was evident when he began housing and caring for the chronically disabled. He had a compassionate heart for others and an insistence on doing right by them. Sha was like that.

I realize that 90% of my time with Sha was out in the backcountry. One place where Sha was always happy, focused and relaxed, was in the natural world. His knowledge of the plants, fish, birds and animals was certainly challenged by Tom and Paul, but in my view was unmatched. He was always content out under the stars. That is where I developed my admiration for Sha, and felt the consistent respect he granted me. Sha was like that.


It is hard for me to understand this moment, yet we have faith in the unplanned purpose of life. We have lost a true warrior, a great friend, father, husband, son, brother, boss, caregiver, outdoorsman, and a man who was “larger than life.”

Sha moved on to the next life on December 8, 2009


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Fresh ideas.....deeply rooted.

History is not simply the story of what has happened. History is the story of human ideas. If we try to interpret life by what we see, hear or otherwise sense, we limit ourselves to one subjective perception. This is not good enough.

The ideas and thoughts that lead up to the movements, and the intuitive manipulation of the plan throughout, are the real story. The continuation of ideas may be the only thing we have left that distinguishes us from the soil. Since what we build or develop is limited by the daily cycles of sun, wind, and rain, the only sustainable human trait is the sharing and progress of ideas and thought.

This explains why we are still fascinated by the great thinkers and philosophers of generations in the rear view. Their writings and ideas not only fail to lose value and interest, but actually gain momentum as new generations learn their interpretations and make note of their music. As evidence, take note of the cultures that have attempted to suppress ideas, and in time have proven to fail.

Current ideas are just that, current. They will take root down the road on another morning, and offer their own shade and screen from the weight of that days fear.

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Lunar layaway........

Long hike on a short day. These days sneak up and the darkness creeps down. It is the most difficult transition to make in the calendar year. So the moon, at each full cycle, plays a big role in illuminating the way forward.


Each day he attempts to begin earlier, and he does, but still the cool air and trails void of bugs and people tend to cause the walk in to be much further than in past months. The forest gives up her secrets this time of year, allowing sight into the comings and goings of critters, and the great contours of the land itself.

Often he stops, squats, and sits on the trail, listening. This becomes much more stimulating in the dark, as often just that twinge of fear of the unknown will write a better tale of the moment. When the coyotes start the evening hunt and howl, he anticipates their arrival, but knows that by no choice of his, he is at the top of the order, and his brain and awareness keep him from ever becoming prey.

As the sun sparks out, the moon rises on the same east to west path, yet 10 hours behind. This lunar light becomes his only guide. It casts a streaky path through the oak branches and provides a beacon of ever changing images as he moves in and out of the woodlands and into the open prairie and wetlands. This is a dance. His view appears as though the front cover of his favorite Led Zeppelin album.

Temperature drops and his hands seek a pocket. Collar up and his pace quicken. After all, hot soup and a good book are waiting. Ahhh….winter is arriving on time once more.



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The same with less.......

Seems as though he and his always find a way to do the same with less, by choice....sort of.


Starts early and really just carries over. Passed on from another generation, and generations before them, all who wished the same, to climb the mountain, sail the sea, survive, and get the girl.

“Always keep the goal in mind and worry about the obstacles later” the old man would state, short of advice or even encouragement, as it was more of some personal attribute of the DNA leaked out. He was thrifty and cheap yet found a way to have it all, nonetheless.

The snow started just as forecasted, with the freeze line at about 4000 feet. He was attempting to reach 6288' from Franconia Notch, a seemingly trivial pursuit considering the higher elevations of the West. After all, this is Mount Washington in New Hampshire, not known for difficult or technical climbs, or so he thought.

That January Sunday morning was cold and overcast, with limited visibility. The view at the top, the only reason to attempt this, was bound to be a disappointment. So with little reason for motivation, and as he reached the sticking snow, he considered retreat.

Then he came across groups of hearty New Englanders, dressed out in all the best gear, and clothing. They had stopped for a bite to eat, hot chocolate, and a chat. They were happy with the environs and happy about themselves. He looked down at his old tread starved boots, worn leather work gloves, and the wet frozen jeans accumulating ice below the knees, and motored right past the climbers without even a pause.

He remembered a story his brother had shared years past about reaching the summit of Mt Rainier. Looking about he saw climbers in similar attire, yet with ropes, picks, and cleats. He looked down at his gym shoes and laughed. The view was the same.

He was now determined not to slow and be overcome by the North Face catalog crew, a few lengths back. When he reached the top he felt what everyone feels regardless of how high or of how you got there……….

Elation!




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