Images

              I take a shortcut home through an alley two hundred feet from the main highway.  Normally, I would avoid such a route when the night is dark, the moon is new and the long shadows hide the images of my nightmares, but security lights guard the back entrances of the businesses between which I hurry along.  And I’m late. So I dare the rutted and graveled track with a peppermint mocha clutched firmly in my right hand and Parachute keeping me company in my CD player.  I skirt the pickup parked parallel to a house on my right and keep an eye out for movement behind the dumpster up ahead.  I can never be too careful in this town.

            I catch movement out of the corner of my left eye and shoot my attention to the second floor window of a local dentist’s office just as the curtain twitches aside.  I wish I hadn’t.

            A woman’s dead face meets my gaze.  My stomach clenches, my skin grows ghost-cold, and I can’t look away.  I don’t know how, but I know she’s waiting.  She’s not waiting for me, but at this moment the knowledge affords very little consolation.

            Disbelief comes to my rescue.  Doubt reminds me of my overactive imagination.  She smells it and without any dramatic flash or puff of smoke, she’s gone.  It’s a few moments before I can collect my thoughts and tame my roiling bowels.  My peppermint mocha no longer tastes quite so delicious and Parachute is an obnoxious noise in the background so I turn them off and toss my cup in the dumpster on my way by.  Before I leave the alley, I risk one more glance over my shoulder to the window.  I’m trembling slightly and my neck nearly refuses to allow my head to turn, but the hairs on my neck are still standing, I feel eyes knifing through the back of my head, and for the sake of my sanity I have to check

            The window is still blessedly empty.

 I don’t take that shortcut anymore.

            I never found out what she was waiting for.

            It’s been a long day and I’m quite happy to close the front door behind me and start the trip home.  My co-worker and friend Tony has caught a ride out to town with another co-worker, but I crave some alone time and elect to catch the shuttle bus as usual.  I carry slung over my shoulder a light hoodie and a heavier field jacket from my walk through the freezing 5 a.m. air.  Now, the 5 p.m. air is dipping from chilled toward icy and I pause in my trek to drop my over-filled backpack to the dirt and shrug into both of my warming layers.  The goose bumps die, but now I’m running slightly behind in my trip to the bus stop.  No big deal.  I’m used to walking fast.  I kick it up a notch and make it in plenty of time (though the wind certainly doesn’t help and my wind is a little harder coming when I arrive).

            The bus stop is a little off to the side of the base hospital.  The whole “campus” is slightly elevated and offers a spectacular view of the surrounding town outside the guarded gates.  A storm is building behind the mountains to the northwest.

            But “building” isn’t the right word.  The distant clouds form an army of atmospheric fury dead set on a catastrophic onslaught.  The dark, heavy bearers of the sky’s angry standards march quickly on the wind around the peak of the foremost mountain, amassing themselves into the storm’s shadowed vanguard.

            The army is moving quickly.  The same wind thrusting itself through my hair is frantically throwing the storm’s front lines toward the town houses only just alighting against the deepening twilight. 

            I stand watching it come—a soldier unprepared, unarmed, and frightened.  Should the storm’s vanguard break over me here, I will be swept away as a breath before a gale.  The hem of my heavy field jacket rises and falls almost rhythmically as the last defenses of sunlight fall before the storm’s onslaught and the outer edges of the town come beneath its shadow.

            Headlights wash over me, startling me out of the battle.  The bus is here.  I pull out my phone, check the display, and glance back at the sky.  Bus is running late.

            Twenty minutes later, as we pass through the main gate and leave the base behind, rain begins to die on the windshield, roof, and windows.  But I am warm and dry.

            A light crowd on the bus tonight.  It’s cold and misty outside and either the bus driver doesn’t know how to operate the heater or the unit is broken.  Naturally.

            The scant crowd is still generating enough breath mist to fog up the windows.  I’m watching out the window for my favorite tree as the fog creeps into my field of vision.  The tree stands on a aside street in Joshua Tree—a town I pass through twice a day Monday-Friday.  The tree looms outside what I assume is an apartment complex and its my favorite because when I pass it in the evening the streetlight directly above it showers it in orange drops of incandescent glow.  The drops roll from leaf to leaf and drip down its trunk in a broad flow broken by the bark’s natural cracks and brooks.

            I’ve seen this tree countless times and each time inspires me with images and a sense of numerous stories and possibilities.  I look for it greedily every night and I’m terribly disappointed if I miss it.

            So I’m looking out the window, waiting for my tree when my vision is obscured by the passengers’ collective breath.  I slip my hand deeper into the sleeve of my hoodie, grasp the edge of it, and use the fabric to wipe a spot clear.

            The outside world disappears with the vapor and through a small opening in the condensation I’m looking out at a world I’ve never seen before.  Though it is night in the world of the bus, it’s sunny and clear through the hole.  Though the bus is running through a moderately small hi-desert town, through the hole I see a vast forest of twisted, bent, and gnarled trees running for miles.  A clearing comes into view and there, in its center, is my tree.  It’s taller in that world; majestic and intimidating.  The scant leaves in my world are full and lush and just turning the breathtaking reds, yellows, and golds of fall in that world.  It is mid January in my world and my tree’s death last fall was quiet and quick, so the display of natural destruction out my window is captivating.  I want to glance around to see if the other passengers can see what I see, but I instinctively know that this world is fragile.  If I look away, I might lose it.

            I lose it anyway.

            The driver finally gets the heater running and the sudden noise and blast of lukewarm air on my legs startles my attention away from the window and down to the heater below the seat in front of me.  I shoot my eyes back to the window, afraid of what I might see—or not see—and my fear is vindicated.  The cold, mist-ridden world is filling the hole as it slowly expands from the heater’s gusts.  The other world is gone.

            We’ve passed my tree in this world, but that’s okay.  After seeing its counterpart in the other world, this one will never be the same for me.

            I have since tried to find that other world again.  When no one is looking, I will lean close to my window, breathe hard on it, and rub a spot clear. 

            But it’s not the same.

Don't Go

Stay but a while. The lock of hair that fell upon your brow with a turn of your head inspired me.  Every woman is a song and I hear your lyrics in the sigh of smooth jazz wafting on the sour/sweet scent of your quiet longing.  Your gaze lingered for a moment infinestimably brief and the history of your dreams deceased was written upon my memory.
Nay, but remain with me a moment longer.  Your weariness tastes of desperation.  An absent gesture to relocate the hair from your brow and the timepiece on your arm flashes heavy with time recorded waiting for an unseen chance of change.  Your reflection in the window backlit by passing establishments records forever the shadow of the aborted tear you forced back to save your makeup.  Some nights, when the tones of sunset lie just so upon the glass it will still be seen there; glistening and forgotten.
I pray you, do not depart.  Every woman is a song and I listen to your melancholy riffs as I watch you miss the way he sat beside you and made you feel safe on a bus full of tweakers and desert rats.  If you would but remain aboard, I would take your hand and fill his place.
Your stop arrives, you disembark, and sorrow is taken by the wind that lifts your hair and all shadow of longing is tossed away with the Autumn leaves at your feet as you see him.  As your face alights with joy, your former sorrow catches in my heart.  We pull away and all I can do is watch through the rear window as you embrace and I silently call behind:
Please,
        Don't go.

Warrior Poet: a Reflection

Initially, the image that comes to mind is a fierce and valiant knight clad in dented armor pledging love to a maiden by means of a well-versed poem or pitch-perfect song. Answers.com states that a warrior poet is, “the ancient tradition of dedication to developing the body and the mind as one”.  The argument I would present to answers.com, however, in terms of present-day application of the term is that a warrior poet’s two halves—battle and song—are housed, and thereby determined by the heart.

                You see, not all who lift weights, eat “right”, and read Shakespeare are warrior poets.  Not all who write songs, paint portraits, and buy organic are warrior poets.  Not all who spend all their time sitting in a room illuminated solely by the hearth-fire, listening to Mozart while sipping cognac and contemplating the works of Aristotle and Darwin are warrior poets.

                A warrior poet is someone who fights their way through spiritual, mental, emotional, and physical battles with a heart of love that shares what is learned in these battles with others through the gift of words—poems, songs, stories.  The warrior poet fights to better him-or her-self for the goal of blessing and bettering others through their crafts. 

                It’s not a bettering of the mind in terms of knowledge.  Mountains of knowledge learned for knowledge’s sake stand useless next to idle application.  A warrior poet seeks wisdom—the application of knowledge learned through life experiences (though the experience need not be one’s own).

                It’s not about bettering the body through exercise and diet. These “tents” are temporary.  Care is needed to maintain and be proper stewards of these bodies, but they are under our control, not the other way around.  Our bodies need to be subjected to us, but obsession with them draws our focus in the wrong direction.  They are our tools to be used in service.

                But the battles are not fought with these bodies.  “We do not fight against flesh and blood…”

                A true warrior poet fights and loves in the spirit. 

                Therefore, the two halves—battles and song—are housed and determined by the heart.

                I have had the supreme pleasure of knowing a few of these people.

                Andrew Dieleman: Andy has one of the biggest hearts I’ve ever experienced.  If it were needed of him, he would give all that he had to help or better someone he loved.  He doesn’t believe he’s as good a writer as I try to tell him he is.  Andy is currently constructing his first novel and I have the honor of tasting the first drafts. 

                Amy Leigh: Amy Leigh is a very self-aware poet with a lust for love.  Her words, both in prose and in verse, are steeped in it and its sweet fragrance permeates everything she shares in her work.  She has taught in Bahrain and loved children in a day care here in the States.  Amy Leigh has written numerous poems and last I heard was looking to publish a manuscript of reflections aimed at helping young women come to know themselves.

                Kent: Like Andy, Kent doesn’t believe me when I tell him how good a writer he is; which just serves to make him that much better.  Kent is a man of formidable stature—standing six-three-or-four with a second-degree black belt in Tae Kwan Do.  He’ll go break bricks all afternoon with his finger, come home to play with the dog he adores, and then sit down to compose a song or “whip up” a beautiful drawing (both of which are skills I would murder to possess).  Kent has a tenderness you have to know him to see and has on at least one occasion held me like a brother while I wept.    His plotlines have always been better than mine.

                Brady:  Brady is the most brilliant actor I know, one of the most forgiving men I know, and the brother who has gone through the most levels of Hell by my side. Though he and I are self-made brothers who’ve shared trials, secrets, dreams, and fears as our lives have progressed and changed, we foster a rivalry that drives each of us to be better than the other.  Brady is a ridiculously talented actor, director, designer, and playwright and has me beat in all arenas…for now.

                Dr. Bob: Out of all the afore-mentioned warrior poets, I hold Dr. Bob in the highest regard as my hero.  He is a brilliant man who fought through family battles, personal set-backs, and the stress of teaching people like me and emerged as my favorite director, an inspirational storyteller, an honest and supportive mentor, and a dear friend.  I value his opinion highly and tuck away anything he teaches me. He is a loving husband, adoring father, and brilliant teacher. When I think of warrior poets he is the first that comes to mind.

                It is a privilege to have these people as significant parts of my life.  Though I can only wish to reach a level  close to any of them, it is my intention to use this blog as a mirror to my battles and songs, and hope that in the sharing someone may be inspired as I have been inspired by the warrior poets in my life.  In this blog you will find personal reflections, poems, and stories.  I ask only that if you read on and invest your time, that you will invest also your thought and consideration as I invest my thought and care in the sharing.