P4E.107 Memorial

Memorial Day Weekend is upon us and it's a sad societal comment that we must be reminded what it is we're memorializing. The news leading up to Memorial Day has been saturated with Gitmo, Guantanomo what did she know and when did she know it? Enhanced interrogation techniques, high value military detainees and Dick Cheney.

What is worth fighting for? What is worth dying for? What is war good for? Do we know what our values are? Should we wage war to gain peace?

The noble war is waged to gain freedom from tyrrany, oppression, taxation without representation. The ignoble war is an offensive war. The ignoble war is waged to gain power, land, wealth, resources, slaves, dominion, a woman. The ignoble war forces religion, culture, laws, political constructs, language, borders on an unwilling people. The noble war is a defensive war. Defending life, property, culture, borders, a way of life. War is subjective. War is hell.

We memorialize those who fought and died defending our Country, peace, justice and the American Way. Democracy. The Constitution. Our rights. God rest their souls.

In a way, I think that it is right that we should agonize over all of it. We should question all of it. We avoid arrogance when we ask ourselves questions. But, when we distill issues down to their essence and we find an incontrovertable truth, we must courageously and undeniably stand by it.

For myself, I'd rather stick to spiritual than political issues. I feel more comfortable letting others slog through the muck and mire of american and world politics.

In the spirit of asking ourselves questions:



"You may find yourself living in a shotgun shack
You may find yourself in another part of the world
You may find yourself behind the wheel of a large automobile
You may find yourself in a beautiful house,
with a beautiful wife
You may ask yourself;
Well...How did I get here?

Letting the days go by
let the water hold me down
Letting the days go by
water flowing underground
Into the blue again
after the money's gone

Once in a lifetime
water flowing underground

You may ask yourself
How do I work this?
You may ask yourself
Where is that large automobile?
You may tell yourself
This is not my beautiful house!
You may tell yourself
This is not my beautiful wife!

Same as it ever was...Same as it ever was...
Same as it ever was...Same as it ever was...
Same as it ever was...Same as it ever was...
Same as it ever was...Same as it ever was...

Water dissolving...and water removing
There is water at the bottom of the ocean
Remove the water Carry the water
Remove the water from the bottom of the ocean

Letting the days go by, let the water hold me down
Letting the days go by, water flowing underground
Into the blue again, into the silent water

You may ask yourself
What is that beautiful house?
You may ask yourself
Where does that highway go to?
You may ask yourself
Am I right?...Am I wrong?
You may say to yourself
MY GOD!...WHAT HAVE I DONE?" Talking Heads

Can we ever be sure? Peace, Kim

P4E.106 A Fond Memory Foretells the Future(?)

I'm sitting on a small grassy slope next to a quarter-mile oval dirt track. The grassy infield is guarded by a worn, wood-rail fence. The moist, earthy smell of the dirt track mixes with the grass and is pleasant and somehow comforts me. The sky is clear and crystal blue this early morning, with just the tiniest bit of haze. The sun is warm, but the air is cool. Beyond the track, spectacular green hills spread away to the left and right as far as my eye can see.

Above the backround twittering of countless birds, the meadowlarks sing their melodies to each other from the wooden posts of the horse paddocks behind me. I hear the beating wings of a crow as he flies by and I have to shield my eyes from the piercing early sun rays to look up to see him. His "caw-caws" fill the air. A few big ants are crawling around the base of the giant eucalyptus tree on my right. I breathe deep and exhale slowly.

A rhythmic thudding sound comes from my left, and as I look up, my son, Ben, trots by me on his grey Percheron-thoroughbred horse, Brice. He grins. He's doing what's called a "posting trot," where he comes out of the saddle and puts his weight on his feet in the stirrups and then sits back in the saddle in rhythm with his horse's trot. The metronome of Brice's hoof beats and Ben's posting trot have a calming effect on my spirit.

As Ben and Brice round the far turn of the track, a Mexican man pulls up in a dingy-brown pick-up truck on the dirt road behind me. "Tamales, senor?" I say "no, thank you" but as soon as he drives away, I wish I'd said "yes." No matter. I lay back on the grass, put my hands behind my head and close my eyes. The sun illuminates the red on the inside of my eyelids and I feel the warmth of it on my face. I hear Ben and Brice trot by again. A horse whinnies from the barn nearby.

I open my eyes and see a hawk gliding through the blue, high, high above me.
He screeches.
It's a good morning.
Is Heaven going to be any better than this?

This post was linked on 10.25.10 to
Seedlings in Stone: On in and Around Mondays