Save the Dance

In June one sunny year after graduating from high school, feeling betrayed by my high school friend Julius who asked me to dance who then laughed as I stood up and said, "Do you really think I would dance with you?", I boarded a train to San Francisco at Clinton, Iowa, sailed past Treasure Island after studying postcards of movie stars and eventually visited the homes of celebrities along the green tree-lined hilltops of Santa Catalina Island.
I saved my money from weed salvaging and corn detassling to pay for my transportation. Dad gave me a healthy allowance for my work in the farm fields.
Mother and Dad saw me off on the train, waved slowly, tears of pride shining from their eyes.
Aunt Miranda couldn't join us to the station, she was in a wheel chair with a crocheted shawl drawn across her knees, but she smiled brightly and pressed a green velvet ribbon into my hand, green, she once told me for prosperity and hope.
Aunt Miranda once told me the best advice she could give me was to look everyone straight in the eye, to answer truthfully, and to smile slightly. Every problem can be interpreted in terms of three, she once told me. Three primary colors, red, blue and yellow. Three in religion, father, son, and Holy Ghost, and three in ourselves, past, present, and future. Think in terms of three and you will find your way in life, she once told me.
Symbols of childhood raced across my eyes, thoughts of mother as she ironed my dresses in the morning before school and prepared my lunch with great care and of Dad who took me to town for ice cream when it rained in the summer fields.
After several weeks work in my uncle's store, I returned home briefly with hat and gloves as I was trained to do after completing finishing school to be met with questions of where I might be from by local neighbors, and then when in San Francisco again, dressed as I was taught, meeting new questions of where I might be from.
At fifteen, I looked nineteen, rather plain, with a mind like a many-spoked wheel and several interests, each arrow pointing outward while moving to the next as the hands of a clock marked the time as though it never began and would be in tune with the universe forever.
Years later, when I lived in Pacific Heights in California facing a lovely view of the ocean I painted pictures and wrote poetry, worked part time for an engineering firm and attended some post-graduate classes through an extension division of U.C. Berkeley.
City life in San Francisco was not like riding horseback on the farm or wandering dreamily through the meadows in springtime seeking daffodils or baby yellow meadowlarks.
San Francisco, a favorite of dreaming idealists where diversified culture is accepted as casually as the brisk ocean fog, arguing seagulls and flocks of unwanted pigeons. One must remember to respect the saints, to attend religious services, and not to be surprised to learn some churches in San Francisco teach political theories instead of religion like on the farm communities of Wisconsin.
In Wisconsin, one can leave their screen door unlocked while visiting a neighbor for a cup of sugar, but in the city, one quickly learns the visitors are identified as pushovers by more experienced travelers and newcomers should try to remember their childhood training and not talk to strangers.
Based on a thesis about Watergate, I received a scholarship to the University of California at Berkeley, a prize I treasured almost more than the memories of a happy childhood on the Wisconsin farm.
At Berkeley, I studied nuclear physics, was told it was a secret, but children learn fast, and there is theater in most of us.
I hoped to continue to study music, paint, and create beautiful dreams for others to follow, to remember the best of the past and look forward to a bright future.
My teacher at U.C. Berkeley, Miss Virginia, met me at the Faculty Club as she promised, the exclusive building sheltered in a ravine behind a bridge, just hidden from view.
The walls of the campus dormitory of Cheney Hall were brightly painted with diagonal lines. The Museum of Art was a delight to the eye with large sculptured rectangles, as though placed from above, resting on one another in perfect balance, with the sunlight gleaming through in afternoon glory. Brightly colored paintings by Hans Hoffman greeted visitors, abstracts, pen and ink drawings, and molded chairs were placed facing each other side by side, as though conversations were just completed.
Who walked these halls, where are they now, the artists, teachers, and attorneys? Are they crying, are they happy, did they learn while they were here? Will I find new friends here? Where is the bookstore? When will the campus bells ring?
While I was pondering the relationships between the arts and sciences and my good fortune at winning a scholarship, I recognized the outline of someone who resembled Julius and he walked over towards me.
But he was not Julius, although he resembled Julius. I thought of Julius everywhere and eventually learned to dance professionally and taught ballet and the Latin dances.
During early years in California, I met many surprising situations due to my perceived knowledge of nuclear physics, but I hoped that when the eventual opportunity presented itself, if I saw him, if he could dance, and if he asked me, I would say to Julius, "I would love to dance with you."

Moment in the Early Morning

The meadow awakens in the morning.
Trees welcome the sun.

The breeze is soft.
The brook issues a warning of promises

And the air becomes wind.
High on a hill,

The wrens and sparrows are observing quietly.
Time won, gained,

Seek and yearn, accept.
Be the noble one.

Seek, and seek again.
This is the only moment I will smell this sweet perfume.

Organization

If something is to be organized, one is to assume it is first disorganized.

What may be chaos to one is order to another, and one has a choice of reconstructing, rebuilding, redesigning a pattern or organization, or continuing in accordance with a format previously established.

Organization requires agreement and continuity.

Reorganization implies a change of pattern.

If there is an agreement to reorganize, the agreement may or may not be a valid premise, as it is really a type of accepted disorganization, the combination of which is known only to a few.

An organization can survive if its leaders are not exposed.

If you want to know why a group thinks like it does, find the leader. Most often, the real leader is invisible. A strong leader has other people speaking for him, so he can survive.

As Ghandi said, "There go my people. I am their leader, therefore, I must follow them."

Thoughts

We acknowledge thoughts in their aesthetic beauty,

And for their moral power,

Hostile traps waiting to ensnare the unprepared

Like one pursued by a host of demons

Struggling against an encircling shelf of care,

Sentimental about individual rights,

And the nature of freedom.

Pain reveals that we are loved with personal freedom and not restraint.

Wrong ways of living bring about undesirable situations.

Love that will not let me go,

Hold me unyieldingly.

Angels of God surround us,

Stronger than the devil,

Around us and in us,

Surrounding us with stength.

Strong in body and will,

Discovered by one who is stronger still.

Love that holds us so unrelentingly that it leaves us bruised.

The adversary approaches us on velvet feet,

And leaves us naked.

Like It Is

You promised to meet me,

You promised and then.

I was where you said,

Where you had not been.

I looked around to see if you wrote.

You left no word, not even a note.

Your friends would not tell me,they were away.

Should I wait awhile, or should I stay?

No messenger told me, but then I knew

The last time I saw you was our adieu.

So when you take for granted your loved one's sweet smile,

Remember, you may not see him for awhile.

So tell him sweet nothings,

And tell him you care.

And then when you need him

He will be there.

Sorry is Not Enough

Kevin walked three blocks and then was sorry he told his mother he wanted to leave home.

He had worked several weeks on a model airplane his mother had taken to the fair and his little sister Stacey won a prize for her quilt designs.

When they returned home, they played a game of scrabble and Stacey won.He worked hard to get good grades and his sister got better grades.He wanted to leave home and find something he could do better than his sister, even if he had to live alone in the woods and eat with the squirrels.He told his mother he wanted to leave home and she packed his toothbrush, some soap, a towel, and change of clothes.He thought she would try to coax him not to leave but she didn't, and he took his travel kit, walked outside, and started to cry.

He returned home, but the door was locked.He waited an hour, and nobody showed up, not even his sister.It was Sunday morning and he thought his parents and sister would be in church so he walked in and heard the minister say that when we are sorry about something, it is not enough to say we are sorry, we need to do something extra to prove we are sorry and not make the same mistake again.

He wondered how to make a peace offering with his sister and then he thought of the scripture where it says in the Bible in St. Matthew to walk the extra mile and forgive those who have offended us.He realized his sister didn't intend to hurt his feelings. He decided to surprise her and asked the minister for a picture frame for his sister's quilt prize certificate, got some extra math tutoring to improve his grades, and found an instruction book on scrabble to give to his sister.

When Kevin returned home from church, the door was unlocked. He took the picture frame and instruction book to his sister's room and returned to the porch to begin his math homework.Just then, Stacey appeared and asked for his advice in working crossword puzzles, and he felt very proud his sister thought he was intelligent enough to work crossword puzzles.He walked into the kitchen where his Mom was setting the table for dinner.

His place was already set, and he was glad to be home.

Career Changes

I once taught school and really liked helping students develop an ability to make their own decisions.

Sometimes there was a difference of opinion in the way their parents might want them to learn, partly because sometimes parents who did not speak English insisted upon the students speaking their own native language.

I left that profession to study drama, paint, write poetry and plays and I enjoyed acting in some plays in Beverly Hills and San Francisco.
The corporate world was fascinating for awhile and I managed to survive the boxed-in feeling of drafting specs instead of creating and so those years were void of significant creative activity.
When I hear of instances like the current case in Colorado where the geography teacher proceeded to compare our president with Hitler and the School Board allowed the teacher to return to work because of his tenure, I realize the educational process is becoming rather corrupt, and really don't know what the possible answer is to improving the situation.
Real estate is well-paying but I believe I would not like negotiating on prices. I once thought it would be a good idea to dress up a home by placing my paintings there because artwork sometimes enhances the appearance and helps to increase the possibility of sales, but often the prospective buyer wants the artist to paint another picture in another color to match the color he intends to paint the walls or paint a specific portrait, and I just paint what I like to paint.

Forward Through the Past on a Beautiful Afternoon

Golden threads weave through time.

We stand still.

Time stands still.

We move on.
Many choices,

Few Choices.
One is where one has wished to be and suddenly wants to be where he was dreaming of somewhere else because the dreams were better than the place.
Fresh air feels like an angel's kiss.
When there is no place else to be pushed or pulled, we walk through the hills.
Suddenly, we are in the light again.
We walk alone in the dark.
Quiet shadows watch the feathered sky.
We awake from the dream and hear the veil of ocean on the sides of our yacht and feel the soft promise of afternoon.

Where Do I Work?

I was raised on a farm,

Woke up at dawn.

There was no alarm,

Those days are long gone.

I then moved to town,

Afraid of the traffic.

People all around,

Theaters were fantastic.

I worked for a designer

Who created great clothes.

None were there finer,

Though I couldn't afford those.

So I sewed my own,

Like my mother taught me,

A blue satin gown,

Pretty as could be.

I placed it on the rack

There was nowhere to go

Someone brought it back

The label didn't show.

I travelled on trains,

On buses, too,

Through snow and rain,

Deciding what to do.

Attended school here

Worked sometimes frantic,

Often studied there

Music was fantastic.

I think it is great

To work where I like

And sometimes create

Or ride on my bike.

Where do I work?

What do you see?

Every day is new,

I like to just be.

A Corner of the Veil

Book Review - A Corner of the Veil (Le Coin du Voile)

By Laurence Cosse

Translated from the French by Linda Asher

Forward by Jack Miles

Published by Scribner, 1996

Father Bertrand Beaulieu, a member of the Society of Causists, enjoyed visiting with his companions, the sound of their voices, their wit, culture and collective knowledge, yet, after the evening meal was over, he desired order, silence and the mystery of the garden.

The day's mail was yet unopened and one envelope in plain brown paper stuck out from the pile. The envelope was the only one made of plain brown paper, was the tenth one Bertrand received from Martin Something containing proof of the existence of God. Ten different demonstrations, one day by logic, three months later through chemistry, once by way of semantics, another time by way of the absurd, each time argued over fifteen or twenty pages.

This time the proof was neither arithmetical, physical, esthetical, or astronomical, and Bertrand realized the hour had arrived for the world's great tribulation and that he was called upon to launch a battle against the manifest truth.He called upon his friend Herve Montgaroult who said there are limits to reason, and that the idea of God is not contradictory, that science, which proceeds by proof and links known theories into a logical sequence could neither prove nor disprove the existence of an unknown object.

After two hours of efforts to postpone hand-to-hand combat with angels, the two priests sought fellow believers to test their new consciousness of being in the world and to confirm and bring clarity to belief in proof of the existence of God creating an atmosphere in which man would know himself to be truly free.

The two men discussed among other priests this amazing theory of proof of God's existence, afraid of the risks if the document became public because this knowledge was a departure from private terrain into the public realm and possible public turmoil and because equilibrium depends on the noncertainty of God's existence.

The absence of proof of God's existence obliges respect for unbelievers, but the absence of proof of the nonexistence of God obliges respect for believers.Even though secrecy among the priests was promised, somehow the government was notified of this proof of God's existence and the prime minister demanded to see the document but when he saw the envelope containing the pages he felt paralyzed, wept heavily, and declared as though possessed by forgotten angels that he believed.

Some of the priests admitted they had not taken seriously the existence of God because they had to know proof was actually established.Boleil, a friend of the priests who was told of the proof felt his life changing and realized the only truly bright moments he had known in the past forty years were not the ones riddled with power, the spirit of power, the dreadful reflexes around powerful men, but the moments when he was tending to his rosebushes, and his early years of marriage.

The government leaders became concerned about the economy if the citizens became aware of the proof of the existence of God because most of the time might be spent praying, comforting the lonely and gazing upon nature instead of producing a stable economy. Some government officials suddenly realized their functions made sense only in a world that was in the clutches of evil, that with harmony established, there would be no use for the judiciary procedures, prosecutors, appeals, and reversals.

Further, dazzled by God, men would have no further reason to keep working to make the machinery turn, the order of priorities, the scale of importance, the distinction between essential and incidental, the basic values of the model societies might become unbolted, and the angel suddenly flying over might be the Extermination Angel.

However, Boleil, explained that the indispensable tasks like farming, shop owner, and teaching would continue, but most likely the spirit of competition would disappear and there would not be need for sports, automobile racing, champagne heirs, television game shows, editors of newsmagazines, genius investors of triple-action fuel, tranquilizers, and directors of marketing communications and public relations.

Members of the government were told to stay at their posts, that their functions would reshape and adjust on their own, that the transition period would require resourcefulness and modesty and that they would become at one with the anonymity of God.

The priests realized that in the face of rationalism, secularism, scientism, atheism , Freudianism, and structuralism, God had won and people would be in direct contact with God with no use for an intermediary, man would become terrifyingly free. Either people would not believe in God and felt personally responsible for the world, or else he did believe in God, but without being sure and therefore did good in order to make God exist.

But once people knew God was a certainty, they would feel no further responsibility of the world or the divine advent. The arguments and discussions between the clergy and the government continued with an attempt to resolve the issue of whether Christianity was born when people thought they could be done with Jesus by eliminating him, and concluded that if the proof of the existence of God comes from God, even if sunk in a concrete block, it would return.Officials at the Vatican responded that the church is not a trade union whose main goal is enlisting the most members possible, that the church is responsible for all mankind.

The Cardinal warned the priests to remain silent about their discovery, that it was a secret to be kept hidden in the Vatican, that it was not the first Vatican secret and would not be the last.Overcome by the sense of their own betrayal to the government and friends in violation of their oaths of secrecy, some members of the Society of Causists returned to the homes of their childhood, some committed suicide, and others disappeared into a monastery while society continued as usual.

Women in Boxing as Metaphor

Women in boxing as metaphor might be compared with women in combat and women firefighters.

How could a 5-feet 110-pound woman carry military equipment, dig trenches, and fire weapons at the enemy? How could a woman of equal height and weight carry a 200-pound man down a ladder during a fire emergency? Why should she when there are capable and willing men to carry out these tasks? During the various recent wars, women were required to be mother-father and began to cherish their independence from men.

Men returned from war and hoped to resume their place as head of the household, women resisted, and some men preferred military life because of loyalty to their country and the camaraderie, structure and purpose of military life as compared to the forward pace of domestic rivalry. Once women were emancipated, there was a demand for equal pay for equal work in such fields as accounting, engineering, and in the medical profession. As the population of women increased at a greater ratio than that of men, some women began to dominate the household and feel naturally superior to men, and in many cases, some women could not return to baking cookies, teaching the children, and weeding the garden.

Women in boxing as metaphor evolved because of a need to emulate the symbols of masculinity attributed to men.Some men want to protect women and open doors for women, but once women walk though the doors, the status is equal, and, if men do not acknowledge the merits of women’s intelligence and need for personal identity, women stroll ahead, and hopefully, look back smiling.

The Meadowlarks

An agile gentleman plowed forward in heavy snow in early March as the spring dashed over the crystal brook during the season reckoned astronomically in the southern hemisphere as extending from the September equinox to the December solstice, one of the two points on the celestial sphere where the equator intercepts the ecliptic.

Monday morning, the inquisitive baby meadowlarks descended upon the exquisite park where pine trees marked the early pathway.

The wind was writing a fine tune above a nearby goldmine and the king meadowlark zoomed over to inquire as to why the wandering baby meadowlarks arrived so soon.

The king meadowlark was urgently awakened by an electric thunderstorm as he shot to the deserted farmhouse on this misty morning.

In his concern for the anticipated loss of the wandering baby meadowlarks, he arrived at the park where the branches yielded to an abundance of yellow birds.

The birds dove through a tent fence unnoticed by the king meadowlark in the dense twilight and hid their slings, arrows and stones discovered by the king meadowlark, who placed the stones side by side creating a magnificent palace where the wandering baby meadowlarks were joined by the agile gentlemen who scooped up the birds in his fishing net and moved them to the palace accompanied by the majestic king with a banquet of marinated oysters, vanilla blossoms, crisp cabbage, baby sweet corn, turnip seeds, green string beans, radishes, celery stuffed with baked pigeon eggs, wheat sprouts, and spiced pasta trimmed with sprinkled parsley.

Upon Consideration of New Moral Codes

To understand another is not to agree.

He may be our brother but we can agree to disagree.
Times are changing, that's for sure.

What we loved about our childhood appears to endure.

And we know what is for the good.
A new set of morals?

Who will write them?

Who will accept the laurels and write the priceless gems?
Our employer? Our teachers? Our friends?

Maybe the railroad man.

Maybe the leaders or preachers will try the best they can.
Then perhaps each one will accept their own.

The ones we learned in childhood

The guidelines for which we are known, if only we could.