It's my personal soapbox, a place for me to express thoughts and feelings, musings and rants, reflections and recollections; to have fun with words -- about things spiritual, environmental, social, political, economic, and, from time to time, personal. And of course about peace. Soapboxes are in public places (as London's legendary Hyde Park) on purpose, and so I invite conversations with you, for it is through civil discourse that we can gain some perspective on the seeming chaos of these changing times and learn together how to shape a positive future for ourselves, our communities, and the generations to come.

Monday, October 29, 2012

A Chance Encounter and Very Special Gift

I don’t know what to say; feel like crying; tears welling as I write.

It’s October 29. The year is 2012. It is said that there are no coincidences, and I believe it. It is said that we can never know the chain of cause-and-effect consequences of any action we take or don’t take, big or small, and I believe it. It is even said that there is no such thing as cause and effect, anyway, since that implies time and time is but an illusion; that there is only relationship; and I can believe that, too. It is said that we encounter angels in our lives every day if we would but be present and notice them. And I definitely believe that, as well, for today I met one.

I’m sitting at a table on the patio outside the Starbuck’s in Big Bear Lake, California, nursing a large medium roast coffee as I read friend Sharon’s just published book. A couple of young men sit nearby, chatting. A homeless man walks up and stands to the side, muttering like he wants to start a conversation. And most likely panhandle, I figure. The other two young men get up and sort of drift away. My first reaction is to focus on my book, pretend I don’t hear or see, and hope he gives up and wanders away to seek his fortune elsewhere.

Monday, October 8, 2012

The Veil of Time: A Remebrance of Today

It's a funny thing about time and remembrances. Some say that the arrow of time is an illusion, that all is happening simultaneously in some multidimensional universe and that remembrances are leaks across the veil between them. For Marcel Proust, the taste of a small teacake, une petite madeleine, opened in the veil a floodgate of memories that then filled his seven-volume opus, A La Recherche du Temps Perdu. For me, today, it was an obituary that transported me suddenly through such a hole to six years ago to the day.