Summers in Maine

I wrote this in 2006. I hope you enjoy it.

Summers in Maine had always been somewhat of a mystery. I never really remembered exactly what happened the following fall. And I never really remembered what had happened the spring before I got there. But all time was split and referenced by those summers on the coast.
My grandfather bought the cottage when I was a toddler. Many of my first memories are on the shallow bluffs overlooking the ocean. I remember the taste of sea salt.
The summer of 1945 was different. My cousin James returned from the war that summer. He spent three weeks at a hospital in New York nursing a wound and thereafter came to the beach at my aunt’s behest. The women of the family thought it would do Jimmy good to spend a month or two away from it all.
I remember when the cab dropped him off. He emerged slowly as if burdened by some force that I couldn’t see. As I looked down the line at my family, there was a collective sinking. Like the exhaling of a deep breath. He took his bags from the trunk and walked down the pathway toward the front of the cottage. My mother and aunt went running out. We hadn’t seen Jimmy in damn near three years. On that day, I remember my aunt’s apron quivering from the force of her sobbing. She cried that way only twice in my life. Jimmy was expressionless.
I was uncomfortable – and when Jimmy didn’t return any of the emotion exhibited by his mother, the sinking feeling turned to tension. It was subtle but there. We all went inside. Lunch was waiting on the patio. Jimmy sat down and though volunteering little – began to answer questions to which we already knew most of the answers. But we asked anyway. He tolerated our questions for half hour or so.
My aunt remarked after lunch that Jimmy must be exhausted from his travels. As a young boy that comment had always aggravated me, as much as a young boy can be aggravated. I had no idea how sitting on a bus, or a train, or a ship could be so exhausting. All you did was sit there. I was dying to ask Jimmy how many Japs he had killed and what it was like to carry a gun. Did he have his own rifle? Had he earned any medals? But I had been beat to the punch. There would be no questions until Jimmy got a chance to sleep.
I took off with our dog - Jackson. We ran up and down the rocky shore. At some point, I fell asleep beneath a large tree about half-mile from the cottage. I dreamt of the next quarter at my prep academy. Maybe the headmaster would ask me to play football. He hadn’t asked last year, but perhaps things would be different. I had grown an inch or two after all. The grass on the field was especially green in my dream.
I woke to Jackson stirring about me. I could hear my mother calling faintly over the rising tide. I stood up to shake the dirt from my hair. The air was just cool enough to prompt me to trot back to the cottage. When I walked in, the record player was stuck on a scratch. I would have tried to fix it, but had been sternly directed a few days earlier not to touch the record player under any circumstances. This most likely due to the fact that I had a tendency to drag the needle.
My aunt and mother were sitting at the table. My uncle was reclining in the living room with Jimmy and my father. Dad waved for me to come over. I hopped up in his lap and leaned my head back on his chest. They talked about the upcoming World Series until Mom called us to dinner. Dad picked me up like a rag doll and set me squarely on the ground before swatting me on the rear. I looked back to see him smiling at me.
My aunt cooked a hell of a roast beef. She said it was the only thing Jimmy would eat when he was a kid. He tried to act excited, but didn’t eat much. I figured he must have still been tired from all that sitting in boats and buses on his way back from the front. After a few nibbles on my mothers’ allegedly world famous lemon icebox pie, Jimmy excused himself and stepped out to smoke on the patio. All the adults at the table clammed up after he left, but I didn’t pay much attention.
My mom started to stop me when I excused myself and headed for the door too. But she stopped and waved me on. Jimmy was sitting on an old railroad tie and gave me a half smile.
“You smoking yet,” he asked.
I was thrilled that he thought I was old enough to have started, being the ripe age of eight and all. I would have said yes, but was afraid that I would be obligated to do it. I had seen my friend Randy try a drag of his old man’s cigarette a few days ago and knew that I would probably end up depositing my dinner into the ocean.
“Nah, you know how Mom is.”
He took a slow drag off the cigarette. We talked about my prep school. I told him all the same old teachers were there that had been when he went through. He shook his head and smiled. We sat there for a few minutes, not really saying much. Just listening to the ocean and occasionally looking back inside to see what the old folks were doing.
“Tell me what it was like,” I said.
“What do you mean,” he replied. “The war, what’s it like?”
Jimmy looked down at his cigarette. He stood up and tussled my hair and walked back inside. I hadn’t said anything else – mostly out of embarrassment. Who knew, maybe he was still tired.
The summer went on like that for a few weeks. Me probing Jimmy about the war and him never answering me. He was never ugly about it. Usually just ignored me the way a mother might ignore a child who asks over and over again for a piece of candy at the grocery. I finally gave up. Jimmy got a good tan that summer and met a girl who lived a few cottages down the way. They spent a lot of time together, to my disappointment. I had no use for girls.
I packed off and headed back to Connecticut in early August. Mom and I went through the usual pre-school rites. There would be the trip to Sears and Roebuck to get four pairs of khakis. She said I needed a new sweater but that it could wait until the weather cooled. And so life went on. School and summers in Maine.
I enlisted in the Army when I was seventeen. You would have thought I told my mother I had signed up to be a human cannonball. She wailed for days. Of the many things that took place over that year, I remember the trip to Korea. I was scared shitless – and so was everyone else. But most of the guys there hadn’t passed up Yale to come to Korea as a private.
It was a blur. I saw so many things. A dead man for the first time. A dead woman for the first time. I saw men break under the stress of the war – most cracking slowly under the isolation of our occupation. Men who learned of their wives’ weakness via letters from home. Births and death of family members – all occurring is some alternate, more sane universe that we thought still existed elsewhere. I took my wound in November, after seven months, losing my right leg at the knee.
When I arrived at Bethesda, Maryland, mother came to visit me. I remember being happy to see her but being numb. There was disappointment mixed with the relief in her face. She told me that the family would be at the beach house in a few weeks and that I should go there. I told her I would think about it.
After two months of therapy, I took her up on the offer. I was ready to get away from the smell of disinfectant and death. The bus ride to Maine was a full day. I sat next to a woman from Nashville who didn’t stop talking long enough to allow me to pretend to have fallen asleep. When I arrived at the cottage, the scene was familiar. Several of my family members were there to greet me. Their hugs had a ceremonial feel. Jimmy was there and was the last in line. But he didn’t hug me. He shook my hand and grabbed my bag.
Jackson was long gone – but I went for a walk after I unpacked. More houses had sprung up along the shore down the way from our place. Most were bigger and generally obnoxious. But other than the new houses, things were as they had been. I recognized the lay of the land, the trees where I had burrowed forts nearby, and the feel of the rocky shore under my shoes.
That night after dinner I sat out on the patio. Jimmy walked out not long after I did and sat down on the chair next to me. I offered him a cigarette. He told me he quit years ago. We watched the sun go down.
“So, tell me what it was like.”
And I wanted to tell him but the knot in my throat wouldn’t let me. I stood up and put my hand on his shoulder as I walked inside.

Review: Way more to "The Reader" than topless Kate Winslet

Grandma to the rescue - giving Jessica and me a Friday night sans kids. After pondering why the local theatre had movies starting 7ish, but the next wave not until after 10 (PM), we ended up at Target to buy a DVD for home. We picked up "The Reader," starring Kate Winslet, Ralph Fiennes, and newcomer David Koss. "Erotic tale .... " was enough to prompt my suggestion, "hey, this looks good." We men remain fairly predictable, don't we.

It turned out the erotic threads were ... weird. If you haven't seen the movie, I won't ruin it for you, but lets just say that Winslet's character is an admirer of youth.

But the movie left me wrestling with what I felt for the characters and trying to understand what I should to be feeling. Some of the deleted scenes were even more evocative of this confusing ambiguity and are very much worth watching.

Among the many questions, the obvious role of social conditioning in categorizing appropriate and inappropriate sexual behavior. A topic that always fascinates me for its raw ability to convince most everyone that they know the answer. However, while sex is the commercial hook for many a sucker (count myself among them), it really is a very small piece of the story which eventually unfolds.

What was more fascinating to me was the exploration of Germany's Nazi experience. It is really incredible that in modern western civilization, a nation could be responsible for the atrocities that were carried out. Winslet's character shows us that collective, existential, cold logic without the difficult to quantify emotional ability which accompanys a healthy soul, precipitates en mass bizarre and terrifying moral relativism. The conversation in the truck ride to the death camp (incredibly a deleted scene) communicates this more effectively than any other scene in the film. It embodies the disconnect between understanding the chaos which would ensue after opening the doors of a burning church which contains prisoners in your charge, and the fundamental moral failure in not doing so.

But Winslet's character ultimately punishes herself more so that the tribunal would have had all the germane evidence been presented (foremost, her illiteracy). But like any good story we are served something smacking of redemption and are then forced to decide whether it can possibly be sufficient to recompense her moral shortcomings. It caused me pause and reflection unlike any film I have seen in quite some time. And I suspect that it may be that it is one of the rare films where the director intends (and succeeds) in making us extremely uncomfortable, angry, compassionate, but ultimately unsettled in what the collective experience represents.

Some have been critical of the film as attempting to gloss over the horrors of the Holocaust, even making claims of exploitative entertainment at the cost of a stern condemnation of Nazi crimes. I don't see it. It is a tasteful challenge to many preconceptions, artfully baiting us, but demanding its thoughtful viewers to look closer at a number of phenomena of varying degrees of weight. And of course, I can appreciate that.

Meeting the Mafia. An unusual morning in the life of a small town lawyer.

It is easy for those of us with a little education and a steady socioeconomic base to judge. We are all guilty of it. Even without realizing it, we often view people in context and make snap judgments. That homeless person is lazy. That hypocritical religious blowhard is yet another reason why I shy from religion and spiritual development. That drug addict is a sorry excuse for a human being.

I have often wrestled with the balance between compassion and trying to remain emotionally detached from people (other than my immediate family). It is somewhat difficult for me to articulate why this is a personal challenge. Even as I am writing, I have trouble understanding why I feel this way. In some respects, when I am too compassionate, too open, it takes me to a dark place. It makes my outlook very negative and gloomy, affecting me deeply. As a result, I have increasingly tended to lean to the Stoic approach of really disregarding why others do what they do. Not in a cold way, but rather putting my energy toward a focus on my own spiritual development and attempts at honorable conduct at all times. I have not intentionally sought to reduce my level of compassion for others, but really have tried not to spend as much time trying to "figure out" or judge. That can be hard for a rational thinker - to look at someone engaged in behavior we don't relate to, and accept that there may be things going on that we don't understand. But even there - we have to maintain balance in thought. Obviously, of the numerous obese people running around in our nation, there are many who simply eat too much. Of those who use drugs and alcohol to a self-destructive level, there are some who simply prefer, for whatever reason, the insanity and lifestyle incipient to excess use. But many are simply searching for the divine that they feel inside themselves and in the air around them - but cannot understand or grasp.

I met recently with an individual who is experiencing a criminal legal situation. Throughout the course of his case, it has become very clear that he is an active heroin user, among other things. When asked about recovery, he responded that he "did it himself (recovery)," and that meetings, etc., were a waste of time. Having seen first hand the ravages of addiction in many of my clients, and a number of family members, I can say, authoritatively, that it is an infinitesimally small percentage of persons who are able to recover from any addiction on their own. It requires the recognition of the divine (higher power), conditioning, engagement, and a strong support network. As Frank told me of his self designed recovery plan (mind you, in my office for a drug charge), my thoughts were none other than, "Yes, that sure seems to be working for you."

And I was immediately drawn into my cynical thought pattern. What a waste of a guy who was otherwise relatively interesting to talk to, foreign accent and all. Through the course of our discussions, it was disclosed that someone at a local restaurant he frequented had learned of some of his history in a foreign city. But he was cryptic about it and seemed concerned that the authorities here would also learn of this history. So when he left I did a Google search for his name and the city. An article popped up which explained, in fascinating detail, the story surrounding this individual's past. He came from a Sicilian family - literally out of The Godfather. Frank had been involved in a cocaine distribution ring and was sentenced to six years in prison in his twenties.

When I next spoke with Frank, we discussed the article I had found. One of the events mentioned was the death of the patriarch's brother. Frank told me that man had been his father, and that he had been shot when he was eight years old. Still skeptical, he confirmed many of other facts mentioned in the article before I was fully convinced. And then the light came on. It didn't take Freud to figure out that knowing your father was shot at eight, and then being essentially mentored by an uncle patriarch with deep ties in organized crime, leads to an individual with some social issues. But we wouldn't ordinarily see the full story, and our measure of this person would be quite limited. I appreciate free will - but I also believe a lot in the power of environmental factors.

It was a reminder to me that our first impressions are not always fully informed and that there is a lot of hurt out in this big world. It doesn't excuse antisocial and criminal activity. But I think we should be sensitive, if nothing else, to those within our circle of influence who are struggling with demons. There is often something deep in their history. We should be willing to engage when the opportunity arises and help air out, bring to light, and deal with the events in our history which often rob us of peace. This will often require a very careful, delicate, but convincing appeal to the sovereignty of the divine. And that is something that most of us, even in the absence of addiction, are terrified of.

* For the protection of the anonymity and confidentiality of those who are discussed, names, places, times, and details of the story have been modified.

Extremists

My theory on extremists?

Run from them. Really, run like you are running from a rabid drunk fat girl at a dive bar at 2:30 A.M.

One of the best short articles I have read in recent memory as to the dangers of political extremism. If only foresight were half as good as that 20/20 we get when all is said and done.

http://www.economist.com/world/unitedstates/displaystory.cfm?story_id=14258768

Have a great day.

P.S. For the record, the political cartoon is satirical. Please, please do not interpret my comments at all as suggesting that the reasonable discussion and examination of gun control, health care, or any other divisive issue is equivalent to war. I generally prefer that government stay the hell out of my business, but discourse is good. When people can't or don't want to talk - that is when you should .... well, see first lines above.

Diagnose what robs you of peace with a simple test.

In my own self examination, I have developed a simple test. It is not my own, I don't hold a patent or copyright. I have simply discovered it for myself.

I have learned that it is the things that we keep tucked away neatly in the darkest corners of our mind which are most likely to rob us of our peace.

The manner in which these things can be identified is relatively easy. There is no requirement for extensive therapy or some psychological test.

Simply reflect on your secrets.

What do I hide? What happened in the past that I have been unable to forgive myself for. What am I doing now that gnaws at my calm. Our souls have been given the gift of regeneration by the divine. When we are willing to acknowledge our failures and turn from them and reorient to the divine, there is a chance at peace and contentment.

The refusal to orient to the divine invariably leads to neurotic behavior and unending restlessness. And a continued desire to find something - anything, to satiate that need for divine light in the otherwise empty and dark halls of our souls.

Be A Person of Observation and Judgment

Gracian wrote of this maxim:

Such a person rules things, not they him. He quickly plumbs the most profound depths. He knows how to get at the anatomy of character. On seeing a person he understands him and judges his inmost nature. From a few observations he deciphers what is most hidden. Keen observation, subtle insight, judicious inference - with these he discovers, notices, grasps, and comprehends everything.

I have been reconciling this with reading from Marcus Aurelius, who follows the time tested rule of repetition, having communicated to me: 1. Don't waste your time thinking about other people, and why they do anything, 2. Constantly examine yourself, 3. Be honorable in everything. But even he failed to always follow this model. But that is a discussion for another day.

I have been wrestling with these two opposing views of understanding those around me. Frankly, I feel better when I take the Stoic approach. Don't care, nor do I wish to - as to the nature and root of why those around me do what they do. I can make myself crazy trying to unravel neurosis other than my own. This compared to Gracian's maxim here - which suggests that true wisdom comes with being able to observe deeply, and the ability to do it intuitively.

Probably yet another of the balances that must be struck. I think that Aurelius is right about 80% of the time. The remaining 20%, it is probably important to strive to look deeper. Of course, then arises the quandary of how one develops this ability (because it seems to me it must be learned) when it is done fairly rarely.

It should be an interesting week.

Fresh Cut Flowers. A Georgetown Livingroom Part II.

One of the interesting and great things about discourse is having the unseen revealed to you. After posting Fresh Cut Flowers, A Georgetown Livingroom, I got an email from a good friend with further observations and comments on the real messages behind the Kennedy photo (see the original post below).

My friend's comments got me interested in looking more closely at not only the question of the photo's metaphysical implications as to the actors themselves, but also what the projection was meant to depict, and in turn program, with respect to the mass politic.

For me - what is the first and most obvious impression projected by the photograph? The subjects of the photo are clearly placed according to gender. Although we cannot tell, it appears that Jackie is perusing what is probably a coffee table art book, or something of the sort. JFK is reading the newspaper. Notice also that the couple is seated at a distance. Not close enough to suggest that messy overt sexual energy exists between then. Close enough to give the impression that this image is that of them engaged in a dignified class caste activity that while not being joint, is not entirely unilateral. This very clear gender portrayal was further expounded by much of the material in the Sotheby's guide, which chronicle's Jackie's role in updating the White House decor. Contrast this with the role of Hillary Clinton during the first Clinton administration and attempts at universal health care.

Hillary Clinton was "testosterone-ized" as a result of her aggressive position on real policy questions, rumored to be a masculine lesbian, and was generally questioned for her desire to break out of the traditional role of first lady.

When traditional projections of the idealized post 1950 American family, such as that seen in the Kennedy photo, are challenged - there exists an almost schizophrenic push back. This is curious when we consider that the traditional 1950ish mores are generally rejected today as being out of date and antiquated.

What exists is perhaps an evolution from a social construct in which women (and men) were forced into and expected to exhibit certain gender behavior. This meets today with a social condition wherein the roles of gender are not so clearly defined, but where we sometimes seem to have inate feelings on gender that continue to exist despite decreasing traditional social conditioning. This is then compounded by socially blurred views on what is gender appropriate and what is not. For instance, even now when a male is placed in the role of the caregiver in the domestic setting (thereby relieving a female of that obligation), he is criticized by known and unknown detractors who would describe his behavior and not being feminine, nor masculine. The aggressive woman is viewed as masculine (often "butch lesbianized" in a sexually repulsive manner, even if she is not a lesbian).

All too often when we find the behavior of an individual, or perceived group of individuals, as being offensive, we are quick to look for differences. Does their skin look different? Do they have the same reproductive organs? Do they have the same accent? For those who are not inclined to really critically examine real issues at play, it is much easier to tacitly identify and emotionally respond to these visceral differences, rather than engage in meaningful intellectual examination of whatever issue it is that really troubles us.

Perhaps in due course we will not be so obsessed with what roles are acceptably male and female. Perhaps we will socially recognize the importance of very intimate and engaged child rearing with children of young age - whether or not by a man or woman. But what may be more interesting is our social examination of the question in coming years as to whether there are certain roles for which the genders are naturally more inclined. And whether in all our advancement, equality, and grand thinking, we will be able to accept and embrace that.

To be continued.

Fresh cut flowers. A Georgetown Livingroom.

In the past, I often felt compelled to read certain books, even when they were not interesting to me. It is a strange self imposed torture, perhaps an offering to the altar of self discipline.

I don't do it so much these days. I have come to something of an understanding that it is simply fine to read what interests me at the moment. And while an educational foundation in certain pieces of classical literature is perhaps important, if for nothing more than establishing a canvas upon which other reading will be painted, the reading gods - if they exist, are perfectly happy as long as you are reading something. And thus, like many others, there is usually a collection of varied books on my nightstand in different stages of consumption. Presently, the Bible, Nietzsche, a collection of essays by Twain, a collection of Jefferson's letters, a book of puzzles, Steinbeck's Red Pony (just finished, only because it is an easy 100 pages), and a few others. I have reached contentment in being something of a disorganized, but happy reader. I have also come to be comfortable with buying a book, with full knowledge that I may not read it for several years.

I recently picked up one of the books that I found in a Lubbock, Texas bookstore several years ago. It is a Sotheby's auction guide to the Jacqueline Kennedy-Onassis estate sale in 1996. It is fascinating. Like many others, I am drawn to anything Kennedy with a sense of intrigue and morbid curiosity. As I looked through the Sotheby's guide, I came across a photo of JFK and Jackie sitting in their Georgetown living room. It is evocative, like something out of a black and white Ralph Lauren ad. He is reading the Washington Post and she has her legs neatly positioned, book in hand. The living room is perfectly appointed and elegant beyond repose. Fresh flowers articulately positioned in a vase. Everything in perfect order. Even the black and white hues of the photo are intentional, as to hide any of the disorderliness that color itself might create.

How dubious. I wonder what was really on their minds. Was he contemplating his next extramarital indiscretion? Was she thinking about whether she really wanted to be married to power, or perhaps something genuine? I have often wondered if the calm that she demonstrated after the President's assassination, which has been such an integral part of her legacy, was at least in part the result of some kind of unspeakable relief. So often the images that we portray are faux. We work hard to keep up projections of success, order, and calm. While all the often many of us suffer from ongoing tumultuous internal hurricanes which are more frequently than not misunderstood and unaddressed. Facing the hurricane and looking into it allows us to better appreciate our own destructive capability, potential, and beauty. And perhaps facing the storm allows us some semblance of a chance of seeing the sun finally come out.

I suspect that neither JFK nor Jackie ever really faced their storms. I think they knew the storms were there, but distant, like rarely visited relatives. Were they deeply unsettled? Were his indiscretions a way to escape? Was her acceptance of his philandering something other than duty bound - perhaps a deeply ingrained programming to be properly socially placed?

Like Biblical David - JFK's indiscretion was begot at the cost of many horrible things which were brought to bear upon his family, despite his appointed time with history. What was really going on behind this picture of a rising couple? I see little more than self deception. I suppose there might have been a quiet, perhaps unrecognized desire to break out. A yearning for calm which was misled by a search for power and place. I didn't see it at first. Just look past the fresh cut flowers.

Collections

There is a strata of encounters which I do just fine without.

Sometimes I take for granted that I am able to avoid them for the most part. For instance, two years ago we rented a larger home while we figured out if we were going to add on to the home we owned, or buy another. I hated answering to a landlord who dropped by several times unannounced. I didn't like the feeling of living somewhere that wasn't mine. I get that the bank owns my house right now - but it is mine. And as long as I can keep making the payments, nobody is dropping by to check in.

I got a message from a collections agency here in Pensacola on Monday. I immediately called back. The lady on the other end was difficult and unhappy that I wouldn't give her my other phone numbers and various pieces of personal information. We ended up straightening out the mix-up (my wife did rather, after I hung up on the charming lady at the collections office). I am sure she has a hard job and deals with a lot of deadbeats. Suffice it to say that it was not the manner in which I usually try to deal with people, but I couldn't take it. I find myself angry very quickly when I am shown disrespect. The only time I have ever threatened to sue anyone (personally) was in law school when a local collections outfit set their sights on me for allegedly not paying a bill that wasn't mine. We got it cleared up when I showed up at the office after they refused to meet with me. Upon arrival, I confirmed that the office was where I should have service of process made. The mix-up got quickly resolved.

In college, I worked for a low end eyeglass store. It seemed that the most difficult customers were from a very readily identifiable socioeconomic caste. Regardless of the level of professionalism exhibited by the employees, many of them were simply impossible to deal with. This was combined with low level corporate bureaucrats who were enamored with the word, "per ... ." My gag reflex is inconsolable when I hear the words, "Per so and so .... we need to do this or that." People who like the corporate model and its goofy vocabulary are usually pretty dull. You can think of the person you know who thinks their corporate employer is the greatest and most benevolent thing since Ben & Jerry's.

These are the experiences I don't miss. Dealing with landlords. Low level corporate bureaucrats. And the people that people who can't or don't pay their bills are forced to deal with.

Perhaps God was just reminding me on Monday to be patient. I wasn't very patient so he'll probably just keep teaching me the same lesson until I get it. But I sure was grateful that I seem to avoid most of these encounters which might otherwise drive me to drink. A lot.

4:00 AM, dogs, rope, and brown spots on the lawn.

Once about every six months or so I wake up at an unGodly hour. Usually somewhere around the 4:00 AM mark. It is a bizarre occurrence. It is also very odd in that I can remember for years to follow exactly what I do on these bizarre early morning rousings. I usually get up and go running, come home and cook breakfast, and watch TV. Today it was an old movie about Pearl Harbor on AMC. Last time it was a documentary about the Queen of England's last state visit (president Bush gaffed and mentioned her last visit in the "1800s" as I recall).

And so my day began a little after 4:00 this morning. I tossed around and tried to go back to sleep without luck. So I got up and tried to wake my (9) year old up to see if she wanted to go running with me. She was gracious, but basically told me to buzz off. The dog (Simon) was willing, but we couldn't find the leash. So I tied him to a ten foot piece of rope that was in the back of my truck. He ran beside me unrestrained, rope in tow. We were a motley pair.

As I was getting started, I began to wonder why I didn't get up and do this more often. And I started to grumble, thinking to myself that I need to be more disciplined.

Some friends of ours recently had a discussion as to what the greater likelihood was - that the brown spots in their yard would overtake the green grass, or that the green grass, if cultivated, would overtake the brown spots.

I think that sometimes I worry that my defects will assuredly overtake the things that I do right (the few). I have been trying to keep in perspective that cultivating the good is often times more effective than focusing strenuously on shortcomings. It is easy to become obsessed with shortcomings. And this somehow almost seems to make them amplified. Tell me that I am weak for eating ice cream, and all I will want is a double scoop of mint chocolate in a deep fried waffle.

This is not to suggest that introspection is bad or that striving to grow should be avoided. But for me at least - the deep digging and self examination requires efforts to simply cultivate the good that already exists. Otherwise all I see is the brown spots in the lawn. And that just seems to be a waste of the green.

Children

Gibran wrote that our children do not belong to us. They pass through us.

They are our last best opportunities.

I got to spend the morning with mine riding bikes. We rode past the office of another attorney in town. He is much more well known than I am. And has way more money than I do. And he drives a Bentley. And he was at work on Saturday morning (got there by Bentley, which was parked at his office).

The bike was way cooler than the Bentley.