The Gorge

 As the landscape behind me dissolves from existence. It would take me too, if I did not keep taking steps forward. Here, now, I stand at the gorge, the one that I have feared. There have been many of these. I have walked some and run some. Sometimes I was concerned, other times, not so much.

I hold back, taking a look behind me, the land and all of its essence steadily fading behind me. I have to go now, or all is lost. I step forward, and the weathered wooden slat pops beneath my foot. Years of neglect and storms have made the wood seem like styrofoam, and the ropes feel almost like mere ash.

I step so lightly and transfer weight to my leading foot as though I could somehow will in my heart to withhold some of my weight by holding my breath. I touch the ropes lightly. Somehow, I need to walk on this bridge without actually walking on it.

Denial, a brand of torturous peace, the armistice so many signed in the blood of freedom, oh, to see you from the top of a mountain. What is better? Fire, wind, or war? I saw your pain and your tears, and I hated myself. How could I?

Do we compete in measuring our pain, or are we soldiers carrying that together, keeping watch upon the land of which we live? A safe home. A safe life. Is the alternative true? Do we out-pain each other so that we don't have to hear the rest? If there is anything I can do to help with anything you see on this multiple-choice list, let me know. I am here for you.

The old, tattered bridge keeps popping and swinging in an unhealthy way. I have only taken three steps out onto it, and in the mist at times, I cannot even see what is below me. I know, I am never going to make it. There may have been a day when I could, but others would have fallen off because of me. There was just no way that I was going to do that. 

I wonder what the silent protesters and the oppressed picketers are thinking. But the canvas sacks that cover the signs they are carrying are not so easily removed. Deep in my heart, there is a spark of something that says the puzzle is solved in ways that seem contrary. I know that is right. Sail on, Sail on, Oh mighty ship of truth. It is the only way that we are not swept away from existence. It is the only way across this gorge.

Stealing

 It was a promise of getting ahead. It was a whisper that you could put some things to rest. It was a dream that you could be just like the others. It was a lie upon which you acted.

So I rose so determined before the dawn touched the sky. I was going to make it matter I was going to take it high. There was no reason to think that I could fall short. But then again you know better.

You were walking along so much the wiser or so you said. You were not going to fall victim to all those yesterday’s and all those losses. Then came something shiny and I caught your eye. This could make things better so you had to try. 

That old familiar feeling when trying to do something simple and the gravity becomes three times stronger and the wind is head long in your face. You know better than to keep going, but you still do, don’t you?

Where is your sense of learning? Where is your common sense? You have burned days and days and days upon a fire that never gave you anything except sadness.

So the fool falls again into the loss, into the valley, freefall. You did the thing you said you wouldn’t do. What would it be like? Had you done the opposite?

Is this your cycle? Is this your future? Is this all you know? Will you never learn? Sadly, I watch you run the course of the causality loop that is your reality.

Which way are you going? Don’t you ever learn? What are you doing? Can’t you see that every time you try to undo a mistake, another day is stolen from you. You said you would not allow that to happen anymore. But here you are. What are you doing?

WHAT ARE YOU DOING?

The Bravery in out of Range - Part 7: Time Has Come Today

 The morning dusty desert light came, and we were told that we needed to harden our vehicles. Hardening a vehicle involves covering it with sandbags in the hope of making it more bullet- and shrapnel-proof. Sandbags were placed on the fenders to protect the engine compartment from live fire. Sandbags could be stacked inside the truck doors to create a rolling bunker, which a soldier could duck down behind to take cover from rounds being fired at the truck. Sandbags on the floor protect from landmines.

Dennis, the person I was initially assigned to ride with on the day we pulled out of Claremont, New Hampshire, and attended a ceremony at Hillsboro, followed by the trip to our new home at Fort Devens, Massachusetts, before we finally shipped out to Southwest Asia, was a bit more passionate about hardening than the rest of us. That included his partner, PJ, as well. Many attempts to assure Dennis that enough was enough when it came to how many sandbags to put on a truck were ineffective. Dennis was not having it, and, much to PJ's dismay, their vehicle was significantly heavier than ours. 

Dennis was concerned; we were, after all, going to be part of a ground offensive in just a matter of hours. We were all concerned. Something about the sandbag issue nagged at me a little. I thought back to that day at the Hillsboro Armory. A giant ceremony sent us on our way, saying goodbye to our families as we filed out of the drill hall floor. As we walked out the side door to mount up our trucks, there was a friendly chaplain handing out the Cliff Notes version of the Bible, by which I mean Psalms, Proverbs, and the New Testament. I took one; Dennis, on the other hand, held up his right hand in a "stop" gesture. "Oh no, thank you." He said it as if he'd just been offered magic beans. There was almost ridicule in his declining the offer.

Once our vehicles were hardened, we were sent to the staging area to hook up to the trailer that we would be connected to for this engagement. Our trailer consisted of MLS (Multi-Launch Rocket Systems). Typically, these are never transported with all 3 main components on the same vehicle, but this was war. We had the rockets, the armor-piercing 155 millimeter projectiles, and the primers. As the story goes, our mission is to haul ammunition in and body bags out. Uncertainty reached a new high for me on this day. These are records I keep breaking. Jeff and I took some photos as we prepared our faithful truck 32. Czech Brothers Trucking was prepared to go. 

We were moved back out onto MSR Dodge and then north, further than I have ever needed to go. We drove for a while, then we were pulled off the road to the west. We learned that we were in a 110-truck convoy. We were supporting the 1st and the 3rd Armor Division, who would be hitting Kuwait by flanking it, invading the southern Iraqi border.

We held on tight to our Czech Brothers personas; it made the uncertainty more palatable. When we parked, we were given very little instruction. All we knew was that we were 110 trucks from mixed companies and that the word would be given at any time to move north into Iraq.

The hours at the staging area took forever. Jeff and I were following Dennis and PJ. Every now and then, we would see a sandbag get thrown off their truck by a fed-up PJ who was literally surrounded by them. At times, it was so intense that it was nothing to see a very animated PJ, fling the door of the truck open, and throw a sandbag out into the desert as far as he could. 

As night fell, I was talking with Dennis, who was almost paralyzed with fear. I told him about how I believed there was a creator. I told him how only a year and a half ago, I should have died from where alcohol had put me, but someone reached down and pulled me out, back up into the land of the living. Live or die, I knew somehow, some way, I was good.  Dennis had no spiritual base. It was like I was speaking a language he could not understand. He was a man without a god, and for the first time in my life, I saw what that looked like. Selfishly, I was thankful it was not me. There but for the grace of God, go I indeed.

Jeff was actually an incredible comfort to Dennis, and he took the time to reassure him that he was among friends and to point out many reasons why Dennis could be confident. Jeff and I always approached everything from our own unique angles, and in doing so, we were an excellent team. I had a great deal of respect for this friend who had become my brother. He was nothing like me, but we met on common ground somewhere that worked well for us.

As the hours passed, we stared down the barrel of our uncertain future. There was no reference known on the face of the earth that could tell us what came next. The only foundation, the only static structure, was the faith within us, whatever that might be. The hours seemed to drag on for years, slowly taunting us, making home seem lifetimes away.

After dinner, "that one MRE" (so much for a steak dinner the night before the invasion), we changed the configuration of our trucks, and we assembled into a single line formation. I knew that sleep was critical at this point. Jeff climbed into the truck, and I onto the hood. It was the most blissful place for slumber that I have ever known. 

I was worried I might not be able to sleep. On my Walkman, I scanned the night stratosphere for the BBC World Service out of London, and Voice of America out of Africa, trying to get an overview of what was happening with us. As I listened, I let the static of the amplitude modulation slowly drift me off to sleep. It was thankfully a lovely sleep, one of those in which, as you drift off, you feel the waves of rest and relief overtake you. I could ask for nothing better.

Minutes later, I was blasted out of my sleep by the sound of missiles incoming. Scud missiles were coming in. Here! In the desert! Since coming up here, we have not had to deal with these!  Now, Saddam must be scraping the bottom of the barrel, or he knows hundreds of thousands of us were staged just south of the Kuwaiti and Iraqi borders. Angry Patriot missiles exploded into action. 4 explosions per unit, taking off in a fury of earth-shaking, internal organ-rumbling spectre. The subsequent detonations in the sky as the Patriots took down the SCUDs and debris fell to the earth. Slowly, the earth quieted again.

I pulled the sleeping bag over my head: "Stupid idiots!" I thought. "Can't even get a decent night's sleep before an invasion!" I suddenly saw myself from outside the situation, and it made me laugh. I was such a different person from the boy who experienced my first SCUD missile attack back in Khobar. 

Une enfance détruite

 She longed for what she did not have,

So she said she would get better.

But then they asked about her hero, the most important person in her life,

That was off-limits, which meant getting better was off-limits.

It was her mom who committed a crime too great to count.

But now today, she picks up her mother's sword and continues damaging herself.

Photo by Josh Withers on Unsplash

When the light lit the landscape, everything was already there.

How could she know what was normal and what was not?

If she could just win this one contest, 

she could buy her mom's approval.

Make mom happy.

Nothing else exists in the universe.

The damage done reaches far beyond the life of the one causing it.

Her mom saw this as care and direction.

It made her feel absolutely alone in her shame that she did not cause.

How could someone be gone and have this much control?

She second-guesses every outward thing she is about to do, 

She clings to her darkness because it is the only thing that defines her.

Legacies come in many colors.

It is a mess to walk among the living and yet be dead inside.

The strings extend far away into a dusty past and are pulled by a person no longer alive.

She will take arms and fight against anyone who challenges this.

She has no idea why.

And all those people living in ivory and chrome, 

they see what you have, never knowing what it is really like to be you.

If they could, it would tear out their hearts and rewrite their entire reality.

Fall, fall, fall like you must in your little fairy tale world.

Everything she ever knew was wrong.

It was never wrong to her.

It was not supposed to be her who carried everyone around her, but she did.

She was born, trained, and coached to understand that it was all hers to carry.

She was their beast of burden, never knowing anything else.

Raised on scars and not lessons.

How do you undo years of psychological manipulation?

Living for someone else. A childhood stolen.

How do you give back all that was rightfully hers?

In death, her mom escaped accountability.

No price can reconcile the losses.

Where is the hope?

It is her story that just maybe will prevent others from following her tragic life.

In that comes the light.

In that she finds her strength.

Lead with your weakness, 

And you will prove yourself stronger than you will ever know.

***

He knew nothing but his life west of the tracks.

Her stern judgment and brazen violation became a part of him.

Ordered to get out, then demanded to say where he'd been.

Irony, paradox, and hypocritical judgment were just another day.

Day after day, he bounced with the rhythm.

He was indifferent outside, and others labelled him.

He would poison their lives, their home, their everything just by inviting him in.

So he lay quarantined to the streets, where the rest of us could keep him out.

Compared to her, he seemed pretty innocent.

But the parents around would take no chances.

Just like his mother would do, 

They would put him out if they found him inside.

He was inconsequential, so he could find a new life.

As the new day dawned, and hope on the horizon, 

A girl who could love him and show him what is real.

There could be hope, there could be growth, there could be an everyday life.

He turned around and screamed for his captor to save him now.

Help me, Mother!

***

"Mother, do you think they'll like this song?"

The Good Year

 If I could sit on top of the hill and observe my actions without knowing, without attachment, what would I think?  Would I understand? Would I judge? Would I sympathize? Is that your choice, or responsibility? 

Photo by Roman potrait on Unsplash

If I could observe my own navigation, would it be the long way around? Would it seem like I was exhausting myself cutting shortcuts through the brush and brambles, where, had I just stayed on the beaten path, I would have already arrived?

These are questions I ask because I found that this year I tackled things I thought I would have knocked out in no time, only to find, six months later, that I was still trying to beat a square peg into a round hole. I looked back along my path, the blood of time, lost, accenting struggles in the snow-covered landscape.

Is this enough? Is the fruitless exhaustion spent sufficient to bring wise discernment to the road ahead? Or will I relive the same twisted experience in which the names and places change, but are still all the same?

In my frustration, when I realized the same point in the trail, I turned to the side and ran hard, until I had no more air to breathe. There was no way the falling timber could find me this time, and I had a new outlook that I would be making better choices on things I could have an effect on, leaving behind the quicksand-like endeavors that would never allow me to escape.

I got some distance and thought I was in the clear, when the very tree I had cut finally came down upon me. I had never escaped. I only dreamed it was possible. I wonder where the benefit of hard education comes from. I could not get clear of the shockwave of the many bad investments.

Somewhere, I know there is a plan that says to cut my losses, but I remain tough, hoping to salvage my choice, which could pay off in the long run. But I am clinging to an I-Beam 80 floors up, and my grip is weakening. I really don't know how much longer I can hold on.

This is a little about a lot, or a lot about a little. Insignificant to say the least. A whiny little annoying story about trivial decisions, made incorrectly. I know there are real things out there, and that I need to keep in mind. Therein lies the key, perhaps. It could have really been there all along.

Echo: III

 The raids were the worst.

They bore deep into my linear consciousness like nothing else ever could.

Indeed, love, lies, bleeding all over me, and there was nothing I could do.

The minutes on the clock ticked away from the nine o'clock hour,

and as it got closer to ten, it was like watching the last of the sand fall in the hourglass.

I hated what came next.

The sound of boots on the old wooden stairway and the creaking of the door. 

Photo by Julian Reijnders on Unsplash

No ceremony, no warmth, no heart, nothing.

The execution commences, announced by Lala, and her music I could never buy.

Ten o'clock arrived, and it would last until the end of time. 

The bindings on my wrists and ankles hurt, but I was used to them.

The paintings on the wall would melt, and their colors would run.

Saddness, anger, vengeance, damage.

Eternal night, Wednesday.

I would be imprisoned here forever, and no one knew.

Why?

Was everything this blurry and distorted?

Did you know what it meant? 

Did you know you were inflicting wounds?

It began so long ago.

Of these faces, I could only imagine the self-absorbed pride they felt.

A stupid grin, confirming in their simple brains that they succeeded somehow.

Pleading, just not this one.

But it did not matter.

You would live your life the way you wanted, dying a thousand times.

You knew it.

But you did not see it until much later.

You know that you were richer than anyone you have ever known,

But that fact escaped you for a lifetime.

As I search the corners of my heart and soul, I see fragments of broken glass.

The raids came and went, over and over again throughout the years.

They changed us.

Who would we have been?

Who could we have been?

If only

You knew what you had.