tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-85459390571896388492024-03-13T00:06:08.154-04:00Living is Lovinga lens upon life's various happenings Al Smith IIIhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16879905487115943019noreply@blogger.comBlogger170125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8545939057189638849.post-76344358533993886532017-09-03T11:06:00.004-04:002017-09-03T11:06:40.203-04:001,248 words<div class="MsoNormal">
Arriving at the spot, the place where I and the machine part
was anticipated; it is a known junction, a place where we, as wild animals must
part with our creature comforts. Gliding through the grass down the short slope
to the edge of the trees, I couldn’t help but notice the dominance of noise coming
from the highway in front of me – a four lane of reasonable size, with reasonable
amounts of traffic on this, the Labor Day weekend holiday. So predominant was
the noise that I longed for the silence of the trees, the whispering of the
wind as it coalesced through moving branches, pleasantly disturbed leaves
hovering over solemn ground; dirt. Having experienced this trail before, I knew
ahead of me the wild noises of nature would again resume and that silence would
be an off-key to the ever-present noise of nature. Walking faster, I found
myself slowly sifting through the sound – able to channel the noise of the large
trees moving over the noise of the large trucks somewhere to my rear. <o:p></o:p></div>
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I am unaware of exactly the transition happens – and it’s
not like a faucet being shut off, but more of a downpour to a trickle to a
droplet – occurring but not exactly easily measurable. And at this point, I
found my speed decreasing, my need for a silently supportive space having come
into existence. For this blissful place, surrounded by green and earthen tones
on all sides, I was grateful. The trail continued to wind up into the range –
gaining elevation on the macro scale, though feeling more variance in the
undulations at present in the micro. <o:p></o:p></div>
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One reason I truly enjoy this trail, this getaway, is the
amount of water one crosses on their way deeper into the mountains. I like to
say that I’m a water baby, bound by the moon, and that the presence of certain
bodies of water have a swaying influence on me. I’ve also been called crazy
before, and the presence of this flowing medium <u>always</u> seems to bring me
back to my element; home. Pausing at one of these flowing side streams, I could
not resist the thirst that formed in my throat, and in bowing down to sip the
clearness below I found myself nearly flat against the ground, hovering through
muscular tension – the physical body – above the quaint but well-defined flow
of water. Finding immediate relief in its quick quenching, I rose, adjusted my
glasses back onto the bridge of my nose, and continued up the narrow path. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Walking in the woods, surrounded by the alive and breathing
beings of the forest I sometimes find myself to be in a moving meditation. While
my thoughts may need to surface and issue from my lips as I walk along, there
eventually comes a point when I exert mental influence over my thoughts and
cease to speak/process; instead, I find myself focused on everything, and
nothing at the same time – alert, oriented, eyes open – though not speaking –
just being. As if being shaken from a deep dream, one where you have imagined
things beyond the normalcy of life, I quickly detected a pulsing body of noise,
almost like an angry swarm of hornets approaching. What racket! Snapping back
to my comprehension of the world and all its encompassing things, I realized
the plight: a gang of leather and chrome bikers rumbling their way up the paved
grade, ground by machines hoping to exert a tameness to the wilds, on the
nearby Blue Ridge Parkway. Such nuisance to me in my semi-wilderness state.
However, this is a shared space on the overall, and as much as this audible
racket disturbed my senses, I acknowledged that that was how these <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">riders of the obnoxious</i> experienced
pleasure – call it their own form of moving mediation. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Thankful that the 15 seconds of silence-shattering noise had
passed, I continued on, across another larger drainage where the local trail
club had volunteered their time and efforts to build an impressive log bridge. Realizing
I had brought my rain jacket out of concern for the elements, as well as my
hat, I paused on the side of the trail to temporarily lighten my load. I wanted
to <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">feel</i> light, and carrying these
items sans pack was appealing to me. Carrying onward, free to let my arms and
hands swing in the gentle breeze, I found my focus once again to be in the
oversized world around me. Eventually, after a few off-slope traverses, past
another small drainage of water, running with a cool elementalness, I came to a
tall oak tree. It did not seem any more remarkable than the trees surrounding
it, however, it was larger, and therefore, in my perception, older than most in
this area. Pausing beneath its hulking mass I looked up the erect trunk, craning
my neck higher yet, and allowed my presence to be silent. In some part of my
subconscious I could hear the conversation of men, discussing the amount of
board feet a species of this size would produce; thoughts of another time –
perhaps not too distant. Acknowledging this observation at the level of my own consciousness,
I found, in focusing, that I did not see that same conclusion directly before
my eyes – instead, I found a long and tall, living and breathing being. Just as
alive as I, with, what I thought, an inherit right to be. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Waxing onward, past the romanticism of individual species
rights, I reached a point in my short journey to turn back. This is sometimes
the hardest part – just when I want to keep spiraling into the world of nature –
the wilds – I acknowledge the unprepared nature of my current state, and
silently promise to return. Reminding me of the little boy from The Giving Tree
(Shel Silverstein), who promises to return to the great giving tree.
Eventually, I wound my way back to where I’d come: the spot at the bottom of
the ridge where I’d left my belongings; the drainages with their liquid mediums
issuing downhill in a gravity-fed manner; the undulations in all their up and
down-ness; the quickening of my mind going from wilderness time to that more of
the artificial man-made sort. Thoughts of what time it could be drifted into my
thoughts, I had to work this afternoon and there were errands to run yet in town.
Surely in those thoughts, distracting in their nature, I missed something in
the present – a tree dancing, almost as if it was waving, greeting me, having
seen me walk past before. Only in this reflection can I acknowledge that I
missed something – though, I truly gained something as well; evidence in motion
through this written recollection. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-ItXfAbEM9xw/WawadagFS3I/AAAAAAAAc-Y/k9XeaK2-cJw4BA1bye981QBGcWmV0QFzwCLcBGAs/s1600/givingtree.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="405" data-original-width="540" height="300" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-ItXfAbEM9xw/WawadagFS3I/AAAAAAAAc-Y/k9XeaK2-cJw4BA1bye981QBGcWmV0QFzwCLcBGAs/s400/givingtree.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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For this space I am grateful. I am also grateful for the
ability to recall and share – to have been present in those moments,
experiencing something greater and grander than my creative consciousness
alone. For as much as I enjoy the marvels and comforts of the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">world of clocks and toilets</i>, I feel far
more clear-headed in the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">world of the
wilds</i>. So to you in your day, perhaps accessing the at-large through this
digital medium, I hope you are able to leave things behind for even just a
number of clarifying minutes or hours to embrace the natural world, arms wide,
chest and heart open, as it wishes to be. Grateful to be experiencing this life
in its current exactness. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Love and thanks to many and all,<o:p></o:p></div>
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Alan. <o:p></o:p></div>
Al Smith IIIhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16879905487115943019noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8545939057189638849.post-18116535886599135032017-08-11T16:22:00.001-04:002017-08-11T16:24:02.791-04:00One Life At A Time...<div style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-size: 14px; margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I really only saw the last part of the interaction, and the final gesture was enough to easily be etched into my memory.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-size: 14px; margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">While eating lunch with co-workers today at the dining hall on campus, my interest was piqued by an interaction unfolding near me. A young man whom I’d seen around campus, mostly in the rec center where I work, was conversing with a football player. I found it warming to see this young man interact with others because he has a physical disability that he was born with that has misshapen his head and caused a slight twist to his face. So to see him engage with others felt good to me – call it sympathy and compassion; my own acknowledgment of wanting to feel comfort for him. In watching the two interact it was hard to catch the gist of the conversation – plus or minus – until that final gesture by the football player: he made a motion, slowly raising his hand toward the young man’s face, first clenching his hand into a fist, and then unfolding into a thumb up orientation, pointer finger curling around an imaginary object – the trigger of a pistol.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-size: 14px; margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">The young man immediately swatted the hand holding the imaginary weapon away and turned his back to his own business at another table. Instantly after witnessing this, I was uncomfortable; I wasn’t expecting that. I was at a loss of what to say or do and turned back to my friends. Walking back across campus to the rec center after lunch, I eventually, after replaying mentally what I had witnessed, pushed it to the side, acknowledging that my chance to have done anything was past.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-size: 14px; margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Arriving back to work I kept focused and in heeding the call to use the restroom at the rec center, not 10 minutes later, I saw this same young man whom had been the target of this psychological intimidation. Finishing my use of the urinal, I silently thanked the Universe for this chance opportunity and turned towards the sink where the young man was standing. Walking up to him, I looked at him and asked him how he was doing. In a quick return of back and forth conversation I admitted to him that I had seen the interaction between him and the football player at the dining hall. Shrugging the interaction off, he seemed indifferent, and perhaps this is something typical for him – people treating him differently because of his appearance, or for the way he speaks slightly out of the side of his mouth – a result of his physical body’s presence. Perhaps selfishly, in needing to feel better about the situation I witnessed, I told him to forget about that football player and we proceeded to launch into a quick get-to-know-you exchange.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-size: 14px; margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I found out he was applying for a job in the fall semester to work at the rec center, and that he had spoken with one of my supervisors. Feeling marginally better about acknowledging him, treating him as if he were as important as anyone else ( basic moral principles: do unto others as you would have done unto you), I bid him a good day and told him it was nice to have met him.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-size: 14px; margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">So, why share this socially? I’m aware that people out there in Facebook land may have seen an interaction similar to this – where someone who deserves just as much equal treatment as anyone else is marginalized simply because of a discernable difference – call it a judgment; whether that is physically, psychologically, or socially. And that in sharing, perhaps those that have seen it, or those that will one day see it, will be inclined to acknowledge the stigmatism and marginalization and reach out through whatever means necessary to say “No, this shall not be - you are worthy of basic decency.” Equal treatment.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-size: 14px; margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">On my walk home, I thought of the even bigger picture than this immediate circumstance: we have a president currently, whom has publicly mocked physically handicapped people. A person who, in my opinion, values only himself and those most like him. An Ego-centric maniac. And in this, I feel I understand more why it is still a formidable challenge in our culture, our society, for us to accept others we don’t immediately identify with. So perhaps I’m sharing this truly because I was uncomfortable and angry, though ultimately, what I really felt was sadness. Sad that, for all the technological marvels and advances in society – for everything we celebrate that seems positive – we are still struggling for the basic principles of moral decency in how we treat one another in our immediate community, our country, and of course globally.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-size: 14px; margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">For to care about one another, as if that person was the most important person in your life at this exact moment, is to acknowledge that all life is precious, and that we all deserve equal treatment as conscious human beings – regardless of our unique differences. That is the culture and society of people I desire to be a part of. One life at a time please; we can make a difference in our world.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; display: inline; font-size: 14px; margin-top: 6px;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Thank you for the space to share.</span></div>
Al Smith IIIhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16879905487115943019noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8545939057189638849.post-71410899439360127522017-07-31T09:52:00.002-04:002017-07-31T09:52:53.649-04:00Morning Laments <div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: Times; font-size: 13.5pt;">Up with the morning light – nothing to see quite
yet, at least that willing grabs attention away from the comforts of a bed;
warmth, rest. As morning's time continues its jest into the sky – mute with
clouds and heavy fog, the shapes of reality form: sun bleeding through, first
in individual rays, then in entire shafts, columns – ever expanding layers of
light; good 'ol Roy G. Biv in action. This scene taking no more than minutes on
the clock facing me. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; orphans: 2; text-align: start; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; orphans: 2; text-align: start; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: Times; font-size: 13.5pt;">Stepping
outside, the noticeable nip to the air brings to memory the march of autumn;
though it is the last day of July still, and a dip into autumnal weather of
this sort seems a bit premature. We'll call it a cold front for lack of a
better, more examined explanation – whatever its exact term, it is certainly colder
than the temporary heatwave of yesterday’s briefness. Quite welcome in fact,
for I’d rather be cold than hot; a man can always take layers off, but skin, on
the other hand, doesn’t peel quite as easy without other bodily complications,
et cetera. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: Times; font-size: 13.5pt;">A bunny, munching in the early morning stillness
upon grasses damp with dew follows gravity’s course downhill a few more hops,
measurable paces beyond the house trailer my love now calls home. This is a new
space for her – for both of us. Not wanting to be surprised, yet at the same
time looking for awe and amazement, we have explored the few corners and nearby
roads of this new space in a span of hours and minutes from last night till now
– with this morning’s movement about being, by far, the easiest: locate front
door; approach the front door to the trailer, unlock, open and exit entryway;
there awaits the porch, whose dimensions in the early morning light are a new
experience for her and I. For at least in this life, that I can remember, I’ve
never been in this exact spot, this exact place, this exact time. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: Times; font-size: 13.5pt;">Oh the sunlight pouring through the green leaves
of a nearby Locust tree; the words that try to form to describe this scene of
light mixing with cloud, white and grey layers dissolving to expose more light:
yellow in theory, green in reflection off all that surrounds; a portrait of
life in motion. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: Times; font-size: 13.5pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-FtTngofTrzQ/WX810IFs-pI/AAAAAAAAcUw/RvRgTjJmJ-82FbjueIoQqlMynhb16pZlQCLcBGAs/s1600/2012-10-03%2B08.36.21.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-FtTngofTrzQ/WX810IFs-pI/AAAAAAAAcUw/RvRgTjJmJ-82FbjueIoQqlMynhb16pZlQCLcBGAs/s400/2012-10-03%2B08.36.21.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: Times; font-size: 13.5pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: Times; font-size: 13.5pt;">With a minor reluctance - hidden, recessed – I
return into the trailer to assemble my few items: a book, a note, and gather my
pack for the bike ride home. Just like she, I have a day of work on the clock <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">for the greater good</i>!, and spending time
on this lovely morning watching bunny rabbits and sunlight streaming through
cloud layers is not an option without consequences of the gainful employment
type. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: Times; font-size: 13.5pt;">Mounting the red and two-wheeled steed I call a
bicycle, I find an easy rhythm in the relatively flat terrain of road between
her place and mine. Fortunately, the ride there is filled less with human
obtrusion and more with nature’s bounty: a flowing river headed on its course –
down, down, across? – giving rise to rolling hills, clad in trees, whose auxiliary
ridges and ripples seem all apart of a greater plan. With sun at my back as I
ride, I cannot help but feel light, feel love and a great sense of beauty
surrounding. So much so that I float with ease up the final hill blocking
access between where I live and the world I came from; a hill that typically
grinds at me, my disposition, in the heat of afternoon. Surely this positive
inspiration swelling in my breast, issuing across my face in a large and smug
smile has contributed to the ease and lightness I feel throughout. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: Times; font-size: 13.5pt;">Arriving home, I take the necessary minutes to
answer my body’s morning needs before sitting down to peck away at this digital
device – striving to capture the moment in memory’s temporary shadow before,
like the morning fog and mist, they evaporate – materializing back into the
universe from whence it came. Grateful am I for this experience, for this
immediate purpose this morning, and for the inspiration of a natural world too
large to lovingly capture in words. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: Times; font-size: 13.5pt;">Blessings of sun and crisp morning air to all,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: Times; font-size: 13.5pt;">Alan <o:p></o:p></span></div>
Al Smith IIIhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16879905487115943019noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8545939057189638849.post-45224776590784048802017-06-29T11:45:00.002-04:002017-06-30T10:05:00.627-04:00The Full Time Benefits of Part Time Employment<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">I find the more I work as a
part time employee, the less I desire full time work. It seems collectively
there is something short of a hidden obsession with working full time – almost
as if we don’t work full time, we cannot afford the things we need or love; and,
in this, surely we could do other, productive things with our time that
contribute to our lives. Say, like grow a garden, build a cabinet from
second-hand wood, take a child outside, read a book, sew a button on a shirt,
or volunteer at a local nonprofit. Surely, one on the part time work train
won’t be making bunches of money compared to their full time counterparts, and
what you gain in personal revenue is hard to notch on a board of comparison. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">Yesterday was Monday; nothing
unusual about this Monday at work aside from a few offices sat darkened, as
their inhabitants took coveted vacation days (“10 a year, with no rollover”!)
If there was to be something unusual about this Monday, it would be that energy
and motivation to accomplish work was low. Now, why could that be? A number of
factors strike me when I consider the situation: a) the boss was out – she,
herself, on a vacation of her own; b) it was a superb summer day, and through
their transparent windows, full time workers could only salivate about what
they’d be doing with this summer day <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">if</i> they weren’t working; and, c) let’s be honest, unless you are managing an
active project that needs daily tending (like a garden or a child), you probably
are just wasting time at work, waiting for either 12 noon or 5pm, piddling in
the work you need to do that really isn’t pressing yet. So it begs to ask,
what’s the benefit of working 40+ hours a week for an average salary with
average benefits, just so you can afford to live in that above average house,
and drive that above average car? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">I recently had a conversation
with my partner about how we, in the future, could have enough, but not too
much. She seemed initially puzzled by this question, as it seemed to come from
nowhere (which is usually true), and pausing to think, I could tell she was
mining gold in her brain. She is a recent graduate with her Masters in Human
Resources, and other peoples’ work, to her, is her job. She takes joy in
helping others find meaningful work in their lives – something I applaud about
her. Though this is her first real “big girl” job, working that nine to five,
five days a week. Tis too early to call it a challenge for her, for she is ripe
in the game of full time employment. Perhaps there is a honeymoon period for
some folks, a time when they are still enchanted by that which they call work,
and to me, it’s a needle in the haystack, fortunately found by very few. When I
think about the unlikely affinity that some folks call their relationship with
work, I know they must be the exception, and they’ve truly found a niche for
themselves. My guess is others are married to their jobs because of what it
provides them additionally in life. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">I’ve had the fortunate
experience of working one full time job in my life, and the benefits and pay
were not exactly what you’d expect. While I worked 36+ hours a week –
considered full time to most employers, State and Federal workers aside – I
found that I simply didn’t have the motivation, nor concentration to plug away
at work for that many hours in a day or week. I was employed with a small
nonprofit food project, working as an AmeriCorps VISTA. To those unfamiliar
with this program, these are one year positions that place you in/near
impoverished parts of a local community, so that you can experience and work
with these folks as you try to generate ideas, funding, and ultimately
programming to help alleviate the injustice and cyclical pull of poverty.
Generally speaking, AmeriCorps pays just above the poverty line, and if you are
fortunate to have housing provided, then you can consider yourself “living
large.” For those without provided housing, a second job may be required; which
was my case. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">Before and during AmeriCorps I
worked at a small grocery store, owned locally by a kind and giving Deadhead.
It was the perfect job for me at the time: a van-dwelling, life-living dirtbag.
When I came back to that remote part of Western Colorado, I was looking for the
easy life – no serious full time job, no big responsibilities, just time to
work and earn enough to pay my bills. Taking time to recreate and be a part of
the community by being in and involved in the lives of others. A few years
prior to this, I had thru hiked the Appalachian Trial from Maine to Georgia
after graduating with my Masters degree, and that experience imprinted on me
the importance in <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">being</i> instead of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">doing</i>. So when the opportunity came
along to work with those around me that were experiencing hardships I’d only
dabbled with voluntarily as a dirtbag, I felt it was time to take on additional
responsibilities beyond the easy life. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">The honeymoon period for me
in my AmeriCorps job lasted for the first three months, maybe four. I started
in Spring, and when working for a food project, the summer growing season is
your boom time. As the coordinator of volunteers and seasonal garden staff, I
was alive with purpose and projects to manage. It was quite a different
experience than the laid-back hippie-esque grocery store I worked at 4 days a
week prior. An experience that pushed me to accomplish tasks not for personal
financial gain, but for the greater good. I was a classic case of volunteerism.
And while the thrive of it was good, the good of myself wasn’t thriving. It had
been a 90 degree turn from what I was used to, and I couldn’t justify the
increased hours by uttering “at least I’m making more money.” When push came to
shove, a self-reflection assured me that this was what I had signed-up for: a
more meaningful take on work and giving in my local community; also, this
experience was just for a year, and short of sounding like a privileged yuppie,
it was good for me to be pushed beyond my self-serving comforts. I was used to
thriving by trending that medium line of fineness, not working too much to be over-stressed,
and working just enough not to be under stress. So while it was an insightful
and meaningful experience with people in real need, I eventually, after the buzz
of purpose wore thinner, uncovered a recessed desire to work more part time and
less full time come the future and my next job beyond AmeriCorps. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-lOyZtge7nzE/WVUKcDBX1cI/AAAAAAAAbPk/Xya4NtJdoJY8n8Md2FyVNuNlZSDhzIPrACEwYBhgL/s1600/0915151500a.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="1600" height="225" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-lOyZtge7nzE/WVUKcDBX1cI/AAAAAAAAbPk/Xya4NtJdoJY8n8Md2FyVNuNlZSDhzIPrACEwYBhgL/s400/0915151500a.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Volunteers in the a community garden</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">To calculate how much work is
enough, the equation seems complex and highly personal. And really, maybe a bit
of soul searching is essential before even considering inputs into the
equation. And, there is something to be said about the benefits one can gain by
working part time. If only we had a clearer portrait as a society of what it
meant to be employed part time, and engaged full time in purposeful,
life-enhancing tasks. You’d wonder if our overall health would improve; if our
reliance on fossil fuels would decrease (no more daily commutes in the metal
box!); if we’d realize the value in doing things for ourselves and those we
loved – if only we could remember what it meant to be a tradesperson, to
cultivate life in a garden, to produce our own, rather than always consuming;
to be challenged though present in working through financial shortcomings. These
seeds of ideas may never take hold in ripe soil, unless of course the idea of working full
time was no longer viable, nor purposeful. Like hamsters in a hamster wheel,
we’ll collectively continue to chase that which is always just out of reach,
again and again, and when we realize we are chasing that same thing day after
day, perhaps we’ll give thought to the possibilities outside of the endless cycle.
Though, the requirements for full time living don’t come easy to those whom are
part time employed, and thus, some could never conceive how to make it work
without those digits and decimal places in their bank accounts. And, if we’d
just try…<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">I think back to my colleagues
working their full time obligations in the office. Would they rather be
enjoying a casual morning, sipping coffee, or a confining office with dictates
and expectations? Correct me if I’m reading this differently, and my impression
of those working the full time life is you work <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">more</i> to <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">pay</i> more. This
idea baffles me, and as I sit here, I intend to not experience this – though
maybe it’s just what people see as their option; you know, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">the American Dream</i>. Work hard, work diligently, and you’ll be
rewarded…eventually...maybe. And for me, I’m not really into that version of the
American Dream; I guess it just boils down to how hard I work when I’m not at
work. And that, ladies and gentlemen, is what brings separation from those in
the full time employment game from those seeking the innumerable, sometimes irreplaceable,
benefits of part time employment. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">We, as an American Society
are a diverse bunch, and there seems to be a secret driver to our lives: some
may call this clandestine operator <i>work</i>, others may call it family priorities
or life goals; yet, even more may call it absolute necessity; survival. Either
way, the tides are shifting, and will continue to. Just like more Millennials
are realizing that the hardwork and steadfast dedication of their parents or
grandparents isn’t how they will go about work in today’s world, there are
motivators that ultimately bring likeness to some and division to others in our
society and world. Like our preference of what to do with a day off from work,
we are so very diverse and unique that truly a life of part time work may never
be for the masses. In which case, just like the self-chosen life of a dirtbag,
there is a niche for everyone – and in this, I’m happy to call my part time
affiliation with the world of work just that, part time; it dispenses more
opportunity to be full time as a human <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">being</i>,
not a human <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">doing</i>.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I would describe myself as privileged in opportunities and fortunate in choices to pursue the counterculture
lifestyle. I am gainfully employed part time, allowing me to write and
reflect, build wooden pieces of furniture/cabinetry around the house, and wander aimlessly in the
woods. I profess to mean well in my writing, and feeling disturbed or
challenged by what I write is exactly in line with the point of intellectual
conversations and individual expression. Beliefs you hold ought to be tested, for change
in life is ripe when we water the roots from which it comes. Comment below or browse my expression as a creative writer. </i></span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"> Respectful
disagreement and discourse are welcomed – as we all have something to learn
from one another! </span><span style="font-size: 11pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
Al Smith IIIhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16879905487115943019noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8545939057189638849.post-24890042847846203932016-12-18T12:34:00.004-05:002016-12-18T12:34:52.935-05:00The Three I's: Intelligence, Information, and Intuition - a Three Legged Stool of Logic and Decision Making<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-RS2Y7eme5Qg/WFbF-2jxDwI/AAAAAAAAZTQ/UpT4wr8f_bQ5E7sHPK3I8CGr-RuJ4FTcgCLcB/s1600/reasoning-plus-intuition-artificial-intelligence-and-brain-comparison-design-different-thought-bubbl.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-RS2Y7eme5Qg/WFbF-2jxDwI/AAAAAAAAZTQ/UpT4wr8f_bQ5E7sHPK3I8CGr-RuJ4FTcgCLcB/s400/reasoning-plus-intuition-artificial-intelligence-and-brain-comparison-design-different-thought-bubbl.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
There are times in our lives when we are tasked to solve and answer complex problems, sometimes pushing us to what feels like wit's end. In this, we engage in a compound process of arriving at the solution. Sometimes this is purely logical, as in simple math (2+2 = 4). Other times, we quickly can solve the quandary in front of us based on experience. Say for example, like today, it is raining AND it is cold - a logical solution, based on information fed to our higher cognition and logical intelligence, is to wear a rain layer with perhaps some insulative pieces for warmth. This, though easy to our adult brains, is not straight forward to necessarily a child, whom in their inexperience has yet to gather and store information about <i>what</i> pairs with <i>what</i>, and how the pieces of life form a more complex, yet logically embraceable conclusion. And of course Intuition, that hard-to-put-your-finger-quite-on-it-answer that arrives somewhere between our higher minds and our information-gathering bodies and beating hearts. It is sometimes described as the subtle whisper that is generated just under the level of our consciousness, so in some ways, we could posture that this is our subconscious - that connection to other realities, other dimensions - call it the <i>Unknown:</i> a place where ceaseless mystery and magic beyond our fathomable grasps lives. It is a positive attribute that we don't have entire access to our subconscious; in the <i>Unknown</i> lives products for personal gain, as well as a great, vast maze of dark forms, dark creatures, and complexities beyond our most intelligent understandings. So, in essence, you could liken our subconscious to the filter on the fish tank - it brings in fresh air bubbles necessary for life, though without it, we can still survive, because there exists the essential chemical compounds already in the water tank, albeit a massively immense tank (think of the world as a giant fish tank).<br />
<br />
So, the Three I's: <i>Intelligence</i>, or what is generated at the higher level of our consciousness; <i>Information</i>, or the body's way of gathering input from the natural environment around us; and <i>Intuition -</i> that which arrives between the body and higher mind - call it our subconscious. These Three I's derive how we gather information, make informed decisions, and trust our gut on choices that are seemingly more complex than we can comprehend from our higher mind's viewpoint alone.<br />
<br />
Envisioning these in action can be difficult. I would phrase this as a process that has evolved throughout our lives, and that to some individuals, there is a highly functioning pattern of decision making already imbedded into our daily doings. We could say that these individuals possess high levels of complex intelligence; meaning they can utilize a mix of emotional, cognitive, social and spiritual lenses to forge meaning out of what is directly in front of them, or in some cases, looming ahead - like a dark cloud on the horizon threatening rain. Furthermore, this isn't quite so linear - meaning, that while some individuals can frame and focus through these lenses, they aren't always able to, based on non-linear rhythm pulses (read: the seeming randomness in life that throws us curve balls). Though, when it is linear and true, we arrive at conclusions and solutions to complexities without having to blink or falter in our subtle processes. Why and how is that?<br />
<br />
You are sitting inside, looking out at the rain and wind; you feel cold across your skin and without thinking intently know you have some options: put on a layer, turn up the heat, do jumping jacks, light a fire, take a hot shower, etc. These choices might be overwhelming to a child, for example, because of experience. The more experience we gain, the more we make decisions without conscious thought; almost as if we arrived at the answer cognitively near the same time our higher mind recognizes our action physically in process (read: <a href="http://www.mitpressjournals.org/doi/abs/10.1162/NECO_a_00360#.WFa_wbYrJE4" target="_blank">basal ganglia decision making</a>). This would be an example of symbiosis - the body and the mind working together to achieve the end goal - warmth for the being. So, how does this seemingly mundane process translate to say intuition and higher cognition?<br />
<br />
Let's fancy a scene, perhaps one you've enacted at some point in your life: it is a busy day about town. You are making the rounds completing your errands and thus engaged in solving somewhat complex problems (which store to stop at first; what side of town should you go to next; what is for dinner; reminder to call your mother, etc.). So, in processing all of these cognitive riddles, your body is almost on autopilot - receiving input from the director (your mind) as you go about completing said errands. You approach a busy intersection and based on experience know that the logical and safer method for crossing is via the pedestrian crosswalk. Responding to a text message from your partner, you enter the crosswalk half-looking at the street ahead of you, beckoned by the yellow box across the street with an illuminated stick man showing white; halfway across, mid-stride in foot and fingers and deep in cognitive thought, you receive a random and subtle whisper to <b>halt</b>! Without thinking further, you adhere to the subtle murmur only to have a car making a right turn on red almost run you over. How was it possible to arrive at such a decision to halt with the body tasked in movement and the cognitive mind encumbered with problem-solving? Enter the mystery and beauty of the subconscious - our Intuition!<br />
<br />
This perhaps is the most difficult of the Three I's for our perceiving minds to grasp. It is the unexplainable mystery, the question mark to our most confounding quandaries. And in this, I feel there are things we don't need to necessarily know. Much like the flow of this writing, I can logically move from piece to piece, and then there are parts where I can't exactly postulate; instead, I have to go on intuitive trust - whims, vagaries, inconsistent inconsistencies. And in this I arrive at a smile of complex confusion - though not the type that hurts my mind, like solutions to riddles on the tip of your tongue, but a disposition of contentedness, acceptance. It is not for me to know, and it is for me to discover. This premise is based on continuing forward, linearly or not, to arrive at the next junction in my day or life that may yield information, intelligence, and intuition from the source of mystery - the <i>Unknown. </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
Smiling, as I exhale a pursed breath through my nose, I chuckle and shake my head subtly from gentle left to gentle right. I appreciate this colossal puzzle piece in life, with no clear delineation as to where it goes, or to where the puzzle even is at. Forever, I hope, the mystery and magic remains hidden; nodding and smiling again, I realize this to be <u>truth</u>.<br />
<br />
To you in your day: complex and yet simply aware; may you experience and recall the Three I's and further the processes of how you arrive at decisions. Giving corresponding consideration to each component of the three legged stool of logic and decision making.<br />
<br />
Smiles,<br />
Alan<br />
<br />
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<br />Al Smith IIIhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16879905487115943019noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8545939057189638849.post-61914246823390698262016-10-23T10:24:00.001-04:002016-10-23T10:24:53.973-04:00The Power to Choose - a swirly morning discourse<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black; font-family: Times; font-size: 13.5pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">The sun,
low in the morning sky, begins to illuminate a cold and crisp morning. The dew
of evening having turned, through a subtle process of change, to a frozen form
upon all the grass and low-lying objects – man-made or otherwise. With
each passing minute again a subtle change reversing towards the other end of
the spectrum; night becomes day, day becomes warmth, frozen becomes liquid
movement. In this, an absence of what feels like direct choice – a process
exacting each day, fluctuating with the seasons, though typically consistent
and seemingly bereft of individual expression in the matter (they are plants
after all; and non-complex and/or nonexistent is their thought). <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: Times; font-size: 13.5pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">We, as
human beings, however, experience a process each day all together similar, and
just as powerful, often seemingly absent from registering on our developed and
conscious minds – I speak of the process of choice and the power it contains
for highly intelligent life forms, like humans. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: Times; font-size: 13.5pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">To choose
– “selecting from a number of possibilities; to prefer or decide; to want,
desire.” These are our actions each and every day, many times a day, moment
after moment. And yet, is there recognition in the immense power that results
from our actions of choice?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: Times; font-size: 13.5pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">My body
stirs; it is earlier than I would have anticipated, though late enough that the
early morning light begins to shape the surroundings – what were once dark
forms without defined edges now are shapes and objects familiar to my conscious
mind. It has been a cold night in the van and I am grateful for down sleeping
bags and covers in which to cocoon myself for warmth. My choice would be to
sleep a little longer, not intensely wishing to arise at this early and chilly
hour, though my body communicates another wish – to awaken and commence a bodily
processes of elimination. In this, an action based on a choice – to choose from
the possibilities and commit to an action; verbs in motion. And, do I even realize
how my choice informs the moments throughout my day?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: Times; font-size: 13.5pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I have
heard a spin on the popular phrase the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">grass
is greener </i>that incorporates a perspective on choice: it goes <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">the grass is greener where you water it</i>;
meaning to me that a choice exists – it is there for our use, should we
acknowledge it. Call it another layer, something that, as we evolve in this
life and beyond, we experience because there is no other way to view it without
incorporating a new, sequentially elevated experience. Like riding a bike, once
we learn something and begin to develop consciousness and understanding around
it, we no longer see it from the basis of limited information (i.e., the child
that has no concept of how to ride a bike vs., the child that has learned). We
now, whether we acknowledge it or not, have come into the presence of new
information that we can no longer disregard as foreign – a piece of the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">unknown</i> becomes <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">known</i>, and we expand and evolve our understanding of ourselves and
the world around us. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: Times; font-size: 13.5pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">A long-winded way of getting back at choice: this seemingly inconsequential and sometimes
disconnected exercise carried out both through conscious and unconscious
actions – some resembling practiced responses, others knee-jerk reactions. And
to see both the former and the latter as derivatives of choice is to
acknowledge the immense power in choosing. Imagine a life where choice is
intentional; where such is practiced to exact a higher expectation result of
all humanity – what could the world be like then?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: Times; font-size: 13.5pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">The sun
continues its rise in the sky, higher with each passing moment, though not
necessarily perceptible to my immediate detection. With this ascension, the
roof begins to drip – condensation that was once frozen now becoming liquid.
Should that condensation have a choice in what form it chooses – frozen,
liquid, or gaseous – would the world all together be different, or the same,
knowing that there exists a reliance “downstream” from this? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: Times; font-size: 13.5pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Do
actions of a higher consciousness, a greater system of understanding built
around choices designed for a higher purpose than the individual parts or
beneficiaries, have an impact on those, such as us humans, in our ability to be
and evolve? In other words, if all things earthly had choice (plants, animals,
inanimate objects, etc.), would we also experience the freedom to choose? Is there order within choice?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: Times; font-size: 13.5pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">So many
questions – perhaps too many to grasp with one hand, or even two; though, a
perplexing question with perhaps greater clarity than we choose to acknowledge
– and my hope would be to engage in consciously choosing and actively engaging
in intentionality. It is not that we all are impeccable in our choices, quite
far from it; but that we all are capable of impeccability in our decisions –
even though we may never reach this ideal before death claims our physical
bodies and minds. And that is higher understanding in action. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: Times; font-size: 13.5pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">To a
bright day: aware of choices that exercise themselves around us every moment
and the power we have in choosing our responses and controlling our reactions –
for the greater purpose of <u>all</u> kind, human and otherwise.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: Times; font-size: 13.5pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Blessings,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: Times; font-size: 13.5pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Alan <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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Al Smith IIIhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16879905487115943019noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8545939057189638849.post-53869697529782732862014-12-18T11:32:00.002-05:002016-12-16T15:14:27.935-05:00With the snow fall: waxing thoughts Morning time, the snow falling - thoughts about skiing in powder, and then what I might do instead. The clock ripens, demonstrates that it is time to wake up the little man - my lady friend's son, Kaiden. He needs to be at school in an hour and I am the oldest one responsible between now and the walk to school. Toast, cold cereal and tea - two cups for me, please - a quick, whirlwind tour of some Beatles songs whilst ingesting, Lego play on the dinner (breakfast in this case) table, and a spinning tornado of a quick wardrobe change leaves K-dawg and I out on the driveway, top-of-the-foot deep in fresh powder. Looking up, I see the butte, proud and pointy, its rock outcroppings dusted with snow, basking in the morning glow - one of its corner systems on the south eastern face slicing the difference between illumination and darkness. <i>What if the rest of the world looks like this?</i>, I think to myself.<br />
<br />
What if everyone had the opportunity to wake up to fresh snow in the winter, a mountainous landscape surrounding; heck, what if they even were fortunate to wake up to a warm house, running water and flushing toilets, cereal in the cupboard and milk in the fridge. What kind of world would we be living in if this kind of access to the <i>basics </i>was parallel across many different boundaries and cultures? How would this impact my understanding of the positivity that I am privileged to experience 9 times out of 10 in any given day? And, how does this place, call it currently a winter wonderland, feed me?<br />
<br />
Questions, ponderings, circular thoughts with two dimensional answers - the dualities: heat/cold, love/hate, life/death...<br />
<br />
Kaiden and I follow separate, yet intertwining bike paths, running parallel to one another along the length of the sidewalk. He remarks about walking upon all of the bike tracks as two more trails, evidence of someone else's recent movements, join the fray. I think aloud, half addressing him, half addressing myself - my questions about this place, and what the rest of the world may be like - settling on the expression I've heard and said many times: <i>it's all relative</i>.<br />
<br />
Relative, proportionate, corresponding; near, with respect to, connected. Tracing the outline of these synonyms in my mind, I associate thoughts in my head, with a general, overwhelming theme of privilege, and gratefulness for the former. Wow. Perhaps, that is where I'll depart this thought - at this point, this juncture in the tracks.<br />
<br />
I am thankful for this current expression of love and living; for snowy walks down sidewalks with young minds, caring and aware souls, and this place we call home. Thank you!<br />
<br />
Alan<br />
<br />
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<br />Al Smith IIIhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16879905487115943019noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8545939057189638849.post-13492791491813669742014-12-12T14:04:00.002-05:002014-12-12T14:04:50.884-05:00Reverie's Dialogue: sitting by the river Before sitting down to type, I sat by the river, taking it all in: the sun cresting the ridge above town and as the rays warmed the ground and river bank around me, I noticed a subtle breeze moving about in the green grasses yellowing with winter's movement into the Animas Valley. I saw the plants regain some of the vitality that the cold night may have sapped; I witnessed the sun's reflection in the ripple of the river; the relative silence of my conscious thoughts, and the subsequent foresight of my insecurities, future-tense, displaying on the walls of my mind. <div>
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Sitting long, longer in silence the lay of the ground in front of my seated form seems to fold closer, no longer does the river feel further away; I am nearing its edge - the roll of the water on its course. A course that has carved our natural landscapes for hundreds of thousands of years, uniformly and unmolested by industrial creep and human desire. The progression unfolding, meeting resistive objects with a general sense of nonviolence and nonchalance in most given moments of time. </div>
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<i>How is it, then, that when nature's destructive coercion roars its necessary head, altering en-mass any and all objects in its path, that we feel obliged, necessitated by a sense of status-norm, to return our presumptions of the natural environment and society's boon to what they were before, pre-ruination? Is it fear that holds us in patterns of the known? </i></div>
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I notice my tendency to judge, to predict - as to unconsciously prepare a reaction - should such things occur, future-tense. I then consider how, through peer feedback and introspection, my energy, my truth is less for the deception of my judgments and more for living in the moment and observing the dialogue that precludes an open and sound right to entertain living love-forward first. </div>
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I recognize through contemplation that sometimes I wish, in a subconscious space bubbling forth into higher cognition, to heavily influence what I'd like to see happen. <i>I wonder where this comes from? Was it born or bred into my behaviors? Was it something I've studied and perfected in order to get what I selfishly desire? </i>I tip my hat to acknowledge thoughts about my Ego's conveyance of desire, surely it knows what it wants to the point of confusing, distracting and belittling other higher thoughts of sense and cognition. And what of intuition's loving encouragement, parceled out between and sometimes just under the louder volume of created thought? Where does it fit into this wish to heavy-hand the outcome before me? </div>
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<i>And what of the heart?</i></div>
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The rhythm disturbing the air near my ears courses through my body - like an electric current in rapid transport - mirrored in the tap of my feet on the floor. I regard this movement as energy and recognize this <i>other</i> part of me; the body. Within this resides a highly complex and coordinated system of movement and structure, input and output, and energy - always transferring amongst the tiniest of imperceptible molecules; for we cannot create nor destroy - only use what is <i>there</i>, existing in the universe. </div>
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<i>Brings me back to the heart, the universe, energy; all of these 3 inter-relying on one another. The complexities of it all. With heart lending truth to our concepts of ourselves and others and the world around us, the universe providing the opportunities, and energy serving as the direct link between my heart and yours, and our universe. Prosperity and achievement - call it an evolution of love over Ego and selfishness - resulting. </i></div>
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<i>Though, does it not bode best when we are responsible for our energies, dualistic or multiplistic? Our actions or inactions? Our desire to change, to judge, to feel powerful and demonstrative within ourselves and around others? </i></div>
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A blue heron flying over head disturbs my thoughts. I blink once, twice, noticing that some cars move on the far bank of the river. <i>Had I not noticed them, nor their sound, before? </i> Readjusting in my seated position, I look side to side, up into the clouds of sky above stretching and appreciate the beauty around me and within the shared thoughts of consciousness. Sitting down finally to type, to share, to paint upon the canvas that is expression of life and living. </div>
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Alan </div>
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Al Smith IIIhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16879905487115943019noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8545939057189638849.post-64647577174456141002014-10-01T12:41:00.000-04:002014-10-01T12:41:52.591-04:00Autumn ReflectionsThe morning snow falls, down from the sky, the clouds overhead, lightly landing on the grasses green and leaves yellow. It is October 1st and already a snowy landscape is being painted here in the interior mountains of Colorado. I, in the bliss of season's change, am entering an introspectively reflective space. With the snow comes some biological change, germinating from inside out.<br />
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The sun peeks out of the clouds every now and again in the early morning sky, smiling as it does <i>todos los dias </i>somewhere, always. At and adjacent table, in the coffee shop where I write, a couple in their late 50s attempts conversation, while a beautiful young lady passes, nabbing my attention for a quick second in one passing swoop. Easily distracted and similarly reminded, I focus on writing. Somehow, the couple reminds me of the delicate balance and compromise that is required for a long-term relationship to thrive. Observing the man's body language with no ear for what is being said, I percieve his disinterest in his wife's conversational pieces. That, or I am projecting how I, in some manner or another, have been in those shoes - either directly, or through seeing my own father and mother interact, and the lack of complete interest and engagement. A swift feeling of sadness wells up inside, enough for me to notice its internal uttering.<br />
<br />
Jimi's guitar and words, synchronized with his heart and soul, play in my ears and dance on my heart...<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<i>it's only a dream, I'd love to tell somebody about this dream: the sky was filled with a thousand stars, while the sun kissed the mountains blue, and eleven moons played across the rainbows above me and you... </i></blockquote>
<i><br /></i>
This stomach of mine grumbles, not enough fuel of solidity has entered this morning. Choosing coffee over tea this morning, plus a singular banana, has not been enough to quell the internal hunger riot forming in my innards. My hands are cold, though not nearly as chilled as they were the night before as I sat beside my bed in the van - bearing the cold evening air, not yet filled with snow particulate, to finish a book - <i>The Celestine Prophecy</i>. Powerful were its messages, the most prominent for me was about control dramas - ways we manipulated for energy, attention, since we were children, and how these dramas still remain consciously true in our adult lives. Again, I think of the man and woman couple, his aloof drama combined with her poor me drama; they both desired energy, attention, and in the complexity of their shared lives, they may have forgotten how to tap into the universal love that is all around us. Instead, when narrowly focused, we attempt to subtly control others for their energy, so that we can be filled again.<br />
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I notice how, while listening to Jimi play and sing, that I feel filled - energized by the beauty that he shared with the world and I wonder how else in my day I will tap into universality. I love this feeling, that life is a huge mural, with real consequences, interactions and experiences, upon which we paint our mutual existences. I pray that this never changes.<br />
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Thinking of my own morality, reminded by the chill of seasons changing, I grasp how I'll go about making the most of this visit to Earth that I am blessed with - living love forward. That sounds a solid approach plan.<br />
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The sun warms the ground through the clouds and those upon it. The mountains, too, warm the heart with their illustrious grandeur, all dusted in white. Thank you for this perspective; for continually loving!<br />
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In the spirit of change that autumn reflections bring,<br />
AlanAl Smith IIIhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16879905487115943019noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8545939057189638849.post-70520307143531165782014-09-28T15:32:00.002-04:002014-09-28T15:32:45.231-04:00I flirt with the edge between fulfillment and failure, teetering on it - feeling the figurative wind blow up from one side of the precipice and down the other - wondering what it would be like. Something gives and there I am in free-fall...<br />
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...space drops away, thoughts float, feelings, too. Nothing physically is recognizable for this thrives on in another realm, a spiritual one. Things surface, not from below but from within; stuff, experiences, memories that have been sitting with and on my heart and mind, laying in wait for sense to accompany outward. Intuitive indications of how to proceed, feeling grounded in <i>its</i> guidance.<br />
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This is how it feels as I land today, this morning. Waking up to the blessing of rain dancing and drumming on the roof top of the van, and lots of it - accompanied by the winds of Autumnal change that blow the rusting leaves right off their tender tetherings - I am not sensing how to feel or what to think, rather, experiencing it all as it comes. Bit by bit, smiling in a space of contentedness for what is given, for what I am blessed with, and for the care I experienced and continue to feel around me. Grateful am I, too, for what is is I already have!<br />
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I imagine another; the landings of thoughts and feelings - of self with just self; the challenge, the reward, the journey forward.<br />
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As Janis Joplin plays the rain continues to pour, my inner processing flows outward in the form of abstract wording; I am what I make of myself. Perhaps this is healing in motion...coming back into a loving space, shedding self-limiting notions that rob us of personal power, power for love in our moments, some past, many future, and only one current, here and now.<br />
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Thank you for your continual support; for your love and care.<br />
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AlanAl Smith IIIhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16879905487115943019noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8545939057189638849.post-39546515111573326222014-08-09T14:00:00.001-04:002016-04-07T12:03:08.266-04:00Wisdom in the Wilds<i>"With great responsibility comes great power..."</i><br />
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So it has been said, and in the same vein, does it hold true that, with great wisdom comes great responsibility?<br />
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In the last few weeks, more so the recent week, I've been diving into myself - into the things that make me me. Exploring the emotional energy I've been carrying since who knows when. "Stuff" I've had since I was a child, since adolescence, and especially things from who I acted as when I was in my early 20s. I am glad and grateful to have the space in my life to take this literal time-out in my day or week, to be absorbed in my "stuff," and thus have friends and strangers to open-up and share with. To relate to others as having a similar experience, with the unique nuances that come with each individual's life path, inherent challenges and journeys, etc.<br />
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I've found the beauty in these mountains of the interior Rockies to be expansive, larger-than-life reminders of the positivity evocable in this world. Of the amount of love that is <i>out there</i>, tugging at our consciousness to be acknowledged, admired, and interred. For when I leave those vast spaces, those spaces where complex processes are going-on with simple components, I am filled with joy and a love that encourages me to face the challenges of the other parts of the world quite unlike those in the wilds, and to experience myself reacting and responding to the stimuli and triggers around me. Being objective about fear, and not consumed by its subjective distraction.<br />
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I am grateful for this duality, just like sitting in the cool shade looking at the sunny warmth a mere foot away, and perceiving then experiencing how the shift from one extreme to the other changes the way I think and feel - much like the wilds to society.<br />
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It is my hope that more people experience this, and in such a way that societal things fall away as they travel up and into the mountains - or wild places that intrigue and fill them with awe and wonder. Leave the camera, the car, and certainly the phone - as I have come to understand, we are already exactly suited for this adventure; all we truly need is the essentials and a conscious thought to go without our habitual comforts for a short, satisfying smidgen of time.<br />
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This is my hope.<br />
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Love to you in your days, in your minutes of free time, and to the seconds that permit us a chance to be blissed and blessed in the moment at hand, mind, and heart that may never come again.<br />
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Accepting and loving that thought,<br />
Alan<br />
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<br />Al Smith IIIhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16879905487115943019noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8545939057189638849.post-16233694582983960292014-07-23T17:20:00.003-04:002014-07-23T17:22:39.542-04:00A month in speed; a mind in spaceThe way in which the world flies by, I in it - enveloped by its surrounding. The speed of summer, its heat in July, our reluctance in accepting its upcoming end in August, the tell-tale chill of Fall in September.<br />
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Knowing this, what would you change now? What would I change?<br />
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Not a thing.<br />
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The pull of the mind, distracted by alternative motivations - perhaps preservation of self? - tugging us aside, off-track. The lull of the open space, its sweet intoxication - registering first as the absence of sound in the ears, travelling further inside, down the spiral, to land in a warm place of heart.<br />
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The beauty of everything, and nothing all together, intermixed, enriched naturally, and perfectly palatable.<br />
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Thank you for this.Al Smith IIIhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16879905487115943019noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8545939057189638849.post-823935234739044602014-06-03T12:41:00.001-04:002016-04-07T12:11:09.999-04:00Perch of the Wallflower<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: Cambria; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">The buzz is stimulating, perhaps too much so. Their
characteristics a smorgousboard of much and many - worth thousands of words
combined; long minutes to the individual.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: Cambria; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">The scene is lively, bursting
with energy - perhaps the buzz has them, too? A lady waters flowers, a small
girl plays the sad card to her mother; older women chat their gossip about what
intrigues their taste for drama as the older man group – regulars at the
morning's weekday frenzy – disbands and goes about their day.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: Cambria; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Outside, men discuss over plans
of the physical sort, referring to different things with their hand gestures.
With the onset of June comes a shift, perceivable and recognizable. Do you feel
it?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: Cambria; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">A pregnant woman walks in –
nothing unusual and yet there is a kinder regard for her, as if she holds
something important.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: Cambria; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Like a typical buzz, artificially
induced or not, there reaches a point when you level-off and mellow-in. This is
where the vibe is. The ladies pour on, leaning in to listen intently to what
the others are saying – conveying real interest. The older man group, in a
surprising shift of tides, grows instead of dwindling. When one leaves, the
lazy Susan keeps rotating to reveal a new face to the group. Bikes with people
on them come and go, as do dogs on leashes – some with their mouths tied close
to prevent biting or chiding.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: Cambria; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">A blonde Jackie O comes in the
door – complete with the lacy trimmed dress and stylistic Jackie O sunglasses.
And on and on...this buzz will continue to climb and level, eventually reaching
a climax for most, though the inevitable burst of late bloomers will hit at
their premeditated rise to the top within the hours of the day they see fit.
Perhaps this is getting on with what it all is: the freedom to choose.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: Cambria; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Just maybe, possibly, this is the
most intoxicating – even more than the buzz we imbibe, swallow, inhale, inject,
snort, gurgle, lick, suckle, apply etc. And, do we know this?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: Cambria; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Do the individual sums in the
total understand their gravity in the mathematical arithmetic? Their butter in
the cake batter, chip in the bingo game, or teeth in the cogged machine?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: Cambria; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Do I even understand? I, the man
alongside the outside boundary, reasonably comfortable in my perch; soaking up
the refracted rays to photosynthesize these words – the words of a wallflower
amidst the daises, dosies, floozies, flimbos, and snuffleupaguses. Of all
shapes, though mostly white, like I. And perhaps that drives the nail home into
the wood: this is a racially sterile environment, a greenhouse in which one can
flourish – day after day.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: Cambria; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Fortunately, when I was created,
I was not confined to be bound to the pot of existence, yet exited the womb of
life to walk upon legs. As I'm doing as soon as I finish this sentence.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: Cambria; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">See you in the sun,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: Cambria; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Alan<o:p></o:p></span></div>
Al Smith IIIhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16879905487115943019noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8545939057189638849.post-16645962801528224442014-06-01T14:35:00.003-04:002014-06-01T14:35:59.141-04:00SpinningMay 31st, go to bed - say a prayer to a higher power, thanking them for your life, your physical and mental capacities - your friends, your van, your family, and the fact that you do not have to work day after day to eat and live.<br />
<br />
June 1st, wake up, appreciate something else...<br />
<br />
Sit in the seat at the coffee shop, looking out through eyes of privilege at all that surrounds. Take in the morning sky, the beautifully bright blue of Colorado summer. Greet a friend and appreciate their smile, the care they show in the moment, despite the schedule of their day. Sip your tea, type on your keyboard - seek a deep breath, feel it fill your lungs, hold it...a bit more...let it out.<br />
<br />
How do you feel?<br />
<br />
<br />
The last 20 hours have felt like I've been floating. I perceive my body to be grounded, and yet my mind floats - attached through pendulous threads to what is below. Look down, then up quickly and see the world spin in mild disillusionment.<br />
<br />
I cannot quite pinpoint the onset, the beginning of this spin-y floating. While belaying my dear friend Luke up a climb at Lemon Lake yesterday, I must have strained or hyper extended my neck whilst looking up at him and now mild vertigo is present when I turn too quickly in any direction. It feels as if my body responds to bring me back into balance, and that my head, my mind, instead, is caught in a spin - not quite in real time with what is going on for the rest of me.<br />
<br />
This is what I perceive; maybe it is really part of the plan. And, I am grateful still. I feel trusting that this is part of what I am to experience - the unknown, the unknowing. To experience another lens in which to perceive the world, and in my perceptions foster patience for what is unfolding, minus judgement of myself and certainly others.<br />
<br />
The wind it does blow: a gentle breath upon - the trees, us, every and any that will receive and acknowledge it. It feels true, I am motivated to write when I feel I have experienced the bug of gratefulness. And the <i>what ifs: </i>what if my life was continually like this - mild, peripheral spins when I turn too quickly, a sense of disillusionment from what I am, was used to. Then, I think I would feel thankful still for what I have: feet that walk underneath and with me, a mind that thinks and processes, and a heart the loves and beats within a rhythm of life's own flow.<br />
<br />
June 1st, go to bed, ...<br />
<br />
<br />
Thank you again and again. I love you and appreciate your care in my life.<br />
<br />
Alan<br />
<br />
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<br />Al Smith IIIhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16879905487115943019noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8545939057189638849.post-73911435049545594282014-05-06T10:35:00.002-04:002014-05-07T09:27:49.642-04:00Intiution, oh how I greet thee<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<i>Led to the spot, not by his own thought, but alas a voice, an utter, a whispering;</i><br />
<i>Trusting in space, without great haste, he enters the coincidental moment; </i><br />
<i>With Spring in the air, the love of life's share, he smiles, he appreciates the calling. </i><br />
<br /></blockquote>
What can be said that already has not? Much to process, a bit at a time - no rush on this - boy, I feel grateful.<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<i>Spacey are his thoughts, in and amongst his grand jaunts - from mountains to plains and beyond. </i></blockquote>
There is, for me, this invisibly tangible string that pulls me along. No rail or line that I must follow, yet a free medium in which I can flow - any way, side-to-side, up and back. Indeed, grateful be thy name!<br />
<br />
Fortuitous are my experiences when I am privileged to not work and instead roam a path I have put intentional thought into wandering. The people I meet, the reconnection with ones I know; all is in this grand suggestion of life and living less in an overarching plan of control and contrivance and more in the unknown!<br />
<br />
Thank you for this, oh Life and its Creators. I, too, am indebted with a running tab being paid in moments of opportunities, here and today.<br />
<br />
Alan <br />
<br />
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<br />Al Smith IIIhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16879905487115943019noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8545939057189638849.post-3760248733109538942014-04-11T13:16:00.000-04:002014-04-11T13:16:57.810-04:00How to Make Love Stay...<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<i>"When the mystery of the connection goes, love goes. It's that simple. This suggests that it isn't love that is so important to us but the mystery itself. The love connection may be merely a device to put us in contact with the mystery, and we long for love to last so that the ecstasy of being near the mystery will last. It is contrary to the nature of mystery to stand still. Yet it's always there, somewhere, a world on the other side of the mirror, a promise in the next pair of eyes that smile at us. We glimpse it when <u>we</u> stand still.</i></blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<i>The romance of new love, the romance of solitude, the romance of objecthood, the romance of ancient pyramids and distant stars are means of making contact with the mystery. When it comes to perpetuating it, however, I got no advice. But I can and will remind you of two of the most important facts I know:</i> </blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<i>1.) <u>Everything</u> is part of it.</i><i><br /></i><i>2.) It's never too late to have a happy childhood."</i></blockquote>
<i><br /></i>
-Tom Robbins, S<i>till Life with Woodpecker</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<br />
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<i><br /></i>Al Smith IIIhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16879905487115943019noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8545939057189638849.post-83594541790869907802014-02-28T12:16:00.000-05:002014-02-28T12:16:11.017-05:00Pearly's been trueThoughts in the windows of time flashing,<br />
Sitting, standing - however it may be,<br />
The middle of the room not quite middle enough<br />
<br />
Creep to the edge of dreams,<br />
A finger in a mouth - picking about,<br />
Tapping time away - looking down<br />
<br />
Sunlight peeks through the curtain of clouds,<br />
Steam trails rising - cups of warm mediums,<br />
Dust collects the friends of neglect on all we are<br />
<br />
Music plays - ripples of sound in time,<br />
Hearing, heard, hardly,<br />
Stands to hold the contents of our lives<br />
<br />
Thoughts - again the loving lassoing of the fleeting,<br />
Bodies coalescing - reminders of flesh's mortality living upon us,<br />
Harmonizing lines blending the energies of two or more<br />
<br />
These things I do see,<br />
See these things do I,<br />
Eyes do not - and the heart will.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
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<br />Al Smith IIIhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16879905487115943019noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8545939057189638849.post-45291793524359990642014-02-17T14:32:00.000-05:002014-03-04T00:53:56.702-05:00bliss In blossomI feel compelled to write today, this morning. Those that know me see a non-serious side in my daily doings. Those that read, perhaps this blog, get a sense of a serious side, spiritually evolving in its discourse. <br />
<br />
As I eased into a content space post-breakfast at a local cafe favorite of mine, I was drawn to the television. On it the Olympics were unfolding. Generally I am avoidant of overtly sensational on-goings, and yet the way the figure skating pair moved spoke passion to me, my perceiving and curious consciousness. I was transfixed. There could have been a fire in the corner of the cafe and I would have looked, shrugged indifferently, and returned to the flowering plant of passion on display.<br />
<br />
The way he moved and she followed, begging a transition to her lead and his following. Their bodies, speaking words only partially explainable in terms of written English, coalescing over and past one another - mirroring a beautiful process in blossoming flow. The enraptured look on their faces as they completed a series of complex, rehearsed movements, the euphoria it conveyed - temporarily invulnerable - appearing to be in a state of shared bliss.<br />
<br />
Bliss, that undying fervor in singular pursuit of that which entices. The way it follows, cascading down the hill, skidding to stand erect and confidant upon the doorstep of opportunity: mind tucked and heart open. Risk, a non-thought easily set-aside for the juncture that could ensue. This is me, to a degree, and you as well? Are we all not driven by some sort of passion? Some put-your-thumb-on-it-and-know-it-to-be-true situation we would gladly throw ourselves into.<br />
<br />
I pause, remarking at these statements, the facts I say are true for me. I am a passionate person, yes. And, while I have an easy-going nature going-on with my general demeanor, I am deeply driven to explore the caverns of a shared vein of rapture with a woman. Trusting that they will meet in parallel ways and in the resulting explosion of colorless sights, liberated emotions and bliss, that all will be right despite the world's propensity to implode around us.<br />
<br />
Perhaps this is what blinds me to the energy I give, often expecting nothing in return, knowing that I have been given to, and thus I can give, give and give again to feel still full and content. Though, where is the line, the burst in the pipes, the breach in the dike? And, how shall I negotiate it?<br />
<br />
A habitual line-crosser, I feel I have a large expanse of comfort for being <i>out there</i>.<br />
<br />
"He lives in a van down by the river." Kevin, the security guy at the hotel attached to the building I work in, says. He enjoys announcing to bystanders that I live in a van, which is subsequently close to the river, yes, though not quite by it per say. Alas, the zeal and thirst for what life contains, explored through the medium of a movable, metal rectangle on wheels, this is what I crave.<br />
<br />
It feels like I could explode some days, with joy, with a fucking awesome feeling of love for the opportunity that I have. Sitting here, I realize I wake up each morning and that I'm am so fucking fortunate to be alive again! Sure, we control a portion of our lives, and then, there is this undetermined, trusted part that <i><b>is</b></i>. Intuition speaks, and I'm learning to trust as my listening and understanding to the wisdom being shared in whispers under my conscious thought evolves.<br />
<br />
Last night, as I was rushing to change after work, mentally tick-tocking the timer of performance's measurement, I noticed a subtle, guided assurance that I would have time, despite the clock - human's feeble tracking of the mundane. Caught-up in my fury, my tornado of faux Ego-derived expectations, I finished my wardrobe adjustment and was on a quick jog down the hall to catch the shuttle bus down the mountain only to find it hadn't arrived yet. I <i>heard</i> and I didn't fully <i>trust</i>.<br />
<br />
Such is the unfolding joy of another night, another day of living. I sit here, supposing I'll never be short of opportunities to marvel at the magnificent proportion of life that I can and never will control. So much is out of my fathoming - what a relief! Thank you for this bliss.<br />
<br />
Your love continues, day after day - despite me, my faults, my erroneous lenses - and through your love I am learning.<br />
<br />
Thank you again,<br />
Alan<br />
<br />
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<br />Al Smith IIIhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16879905487115943019noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8545939057189638849.post-91495572600634930722014-02-01T21:20:00.000-05:002014-02-05T13:01:03.138-05:00Losing a Sole: overtones of hard to easyOne never seems to imagine the day they may lose their sole; nor how they would react. So too, was this experience for me.<br />
<br />
The wall facing me each day before I commute to work looked slightly different today. A heavy dosage of continuous snowy weather inundated the area I call home for winter, netting some 2 feet or more of accumulation in 48 hours - sending connoisseurs of the powdery stuff scrambling for an opportunity with Mother Nature. Perhaps that is why the 3 miles of bike path between my van home and work was not plowed; that, or the pressing needs of the township were not primarily concerned with secondary recreation trails.<br />
<br />
Nonetheless, when one sees a figurative wall, their mettle either dictates an impulsive retreat or an intuitive idea to move up and over, around, or through the wall. There exists a quote to this effect that my mother used to have taped up to the cupboard in the kitchen, and I never imagined how it would inspire me later in life.<br />
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<br />
A bike ride was out, the snow far too deep; why not ski to work? A simple, adventurous idea. Yet, a solution to moving past the wall I was faced with. Driving to work was just too easy. I have lived long enough with myself, knowing that I find a certain pleasure in submitting myself to challenging situations. The overtones of this ring true to my relationships - how I push them, straining the other and myself , as to see how they can stretch, grow, and still have an unparalleled strength. A loving bond that stands tall like a robust tree, mindfully swaying and not breaking in a strong wind.<br />
<br />
The late 80s model of Rossignol cross country skis, skinny and long, on my booted feet wait my input. A gift from my brother-in-law, this is the first season I have used them - thus, the manner in which they will function, and for how long they will for the distance I intend to go, is a gamble with the faceless unknown. These things, though, do not cross my consciousness; it is only through reflection that I realize the extent to which I trust blindly in the great power watching over - or is it also just a general trust in life?<br />
<br />
Two days prior, leisure was the course of my afternoon. Despite the general lack of sleep from late nights with a kindred soul, I was fully feeling stoked on another day of blessed life. The idea of walking through the snow to a friend's house and back to do laundry and hang out seemed foolish. Out came the skis from the rocketbox atop the van, on the boots went - purple in their throwback memories to the scene of 1980s cross country ski touring. Off I went, gliding, rekindling knowledge of the technique necessary. My legs and arms feeling strong as they created momentum; my mind clear and excited about playing in the snow; my spirit soaring. All seems literally forward moving, until my sole gives away.<br />
<br />
"Oh man. OK ... I can figure this out."<br />
<br />
The certain wall of tomorrow's time faces me. I am tripping into the future, and now I am without sole. What will I do?<br />
<br />
Again, that blind trust in life. That, <i>what will happen</i>, will happen! I intended to ski to work the next day, and now my boot sole is completely beyond repair. Seeking and succeeding to not create self-limiting thoughts, I register nothing on the topic. To take the harder road and be in the present moment, occupied with a conscious silence that comes easier with patience and practice.<br />
<br />
Intuition speaks, I listen. That guide that insinuates and accentuates loving and accepting moments of uncertainty. Leaving me to <i>know</i> rather than <i>create</i>, I hear and preview my options ahead: tomorrow, I will look at the local thrift store across the street, and if not there then the gear store next door. Somehow, something will work out! Thrift store to gear store and back, I settle on the cross country ski boots one size too small - figuring to make best with what I am blessed to accept.<br />
<br />
New sole intact, I surmount the wall of today's challenge. Registering a grateful, conscious presence within me for how things just work out.<br />
<br />
The day passes, and with the few hours remaining before sleep - that blissfully unconscious communication with the infinite - I take the time to type, pulling down fleeting thoughts that carry a resounding overtone of gratefulness for great-<i>full</i> moments in life.<br />
<br />
Thank you, once again today, for your love.<br />
<br />
AlanAl Smith IIIhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16879905487115943019noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8545939057189638849.post-48944816388463515162014-01-12T14:07:00.000-05:002014-01-12T23:08:18.242-05:00Be Wild, Be Impromptu Some days it appears, to the astute viewpoint of a dear friend, that I live my life in a reversing fashion: settling the whimsical desires of youth at an earlier age of life. Trading establishment and the desire, that many adults achieve through the hoops and hurdles in life, to be "settled and stable," relinquishing adventurous offerings of the midlife crisis to just that, a midlife point.<br />
<br />
In remarks about her father, a dear friend shared with me that he was wishing he did <i>this</i> or <i>that</i> differently when he was younger - feeling regretful in his age. I understand that hindsight is seen as 20/20; or, as I like to say, 50/50: fifty percent of one or fifty percent of the other. Often, as we see through the lens of age and maturity, we wished we would have seen clearer, chosen the <i>other</i> fifty percent of possibilities; traded our cards for <i>those</i> cards, instead.<br />
<br />
With this type of thinking, what does it do for us? And, how do we go about feeling empowered in our current course? How, then, are we thus removed from our current stasis, and ability to act in stability?<br />
<br />
I feel trusting, perhaps honest, about the future. My hair cut is not going to change; I don't imagine buying some piece of property in the islands somewhere (unless it is really as good as it sounds), nor do I see myself jumping on the brakes and yanking the wheel to try and reverse the course my life is taking.<br />
<br />
I say, what is, is!<br />
<br />
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<br />
Spontaneity, something I revel in. With roots tied in loving friendships and seasonal jobs, I always seem to have an avenue of escape if needed. Dualistically choosing a fitting fifty percent over the other. Perhaps this gets at our primal roots as humans - always keeping a safety valve in sight or mind.<br />
<br />
Ever wonder why you prefer to sit with your back towards the wall and your eyes on the entrances? Why you find yourself distrusting, and feeling anxious, in a new situation you know to be safe? Chances are favorable that you are experiencing some primal upheaval within. Connecting with an innate survival mechanism that was born, not bred, into you - regardless of your conscious mind.<br />
<br />
It is something I have been drawn to explore more of: why I choose a parking spot for the van in a quiet corner; the bike ride home from work, sans headlamp, on a cold, starry night; the flirtatious and not committing association I have with <i>stuff</i> I own; and, the lifestyle I desire to live, placing me in the wilds more than the tamed existence of everyday human <i>this</i>, human <i>that</i>.<br />
<br />
This to me feels like the nutshell in life that I trace with curious fingers - sometimes day after day. I am not waiting for some magical unseen point where my boiling point has been reached and I scream out, like the tea kettle upon hot stove, lashing and leaping from one end of the spectrum to the other for sake of expression. I desire to express now, here! Each day of living, loving and breathing!<br />
<br />
I acknowledge deep roots with <i>something</i>. Often times my familial roots give me the brazen feeling to branch out, knowing that I have a loving support system to catch me, should I fall from the tree tops. And, even though the pile of leaves looks enticing to fall into, I would rather acknowledge its potential padding, than need feel it. Perhaps this is how I judge myself, how I assess where I am, and where I am headed.<br />
<br />
A roller coaster ride to some who know me, a thrilling ride worth the admission ticket to others. And, to sit here and read how I seem to flow, I reach a point of perspective, witnessing how my life is easy for me - because I am mostly with just me - and challenging for another in my themed life of undulations.<br />
<br />
And then, I channel into something - <i>her </i>- this drawing creature that paws at my heart, pulls at my physical form to return to; a saturated and steeped-in something, continually mysterious existence, that I cannot deny; the underlying, fundamental love of mine that feeds my branching out: the wild <i>Wilds</i>.<br />
<br />
And for this, I am grateful.<br />
<br />
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<i>-Alan</i>Al Smith IIIhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16879905487115943019noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8545939057189638849.post-20204011826270424722014-01-11T12:40:00.001-05:002014-01-11T12:43:30.480-05:00"Life Marches On"<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Listen Here:<br />
<object classid="clsid:D27CDB6E-AE6D-11cf-96B8-444553540000" height="40" id="gsSong13308026" name="gsSong13308026" width="250"><param name="movie" value="http://grooveshark.com/songWidget.swf" /><param name="wmode" value="window" /><param name="allowScriptAccess" value="always" /><param name="flashvars" value="hostname=grooveshark.com&songID=1330802&style=grass&p=0" /><object type="application/x-shockwave-flash" data="http://grooveshark.com/songWidget.swf" width="250" height="40"><param name="wmode" value="window" /><param name="allowScriptAccess" value="always" /><param name="flashvars" value="hostname=grooveshark.com&songID=1330802&style=grass&p=0" /><span><a href="http://grooveshark.com/search/song?q=Live%20Life%20Marches%20On" title="Life Marches On by Live on Grooveshark">Life Marches On by Live on Grooveshark</a></span></object></object></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="border: 0px none; font-family: Verdana, Arial; font-size: 13.600000381469727px; margin: 0px 10px; padding: 0px; text-align: center;">
In the country<br />
The farms and the orchards swell<br />
With oranges and peaches<br />
A little bit of truth as well<br />
<br style="border: 0px none; font-size: 1em; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" />
In the city<br />
Politicians beat their drum<br />
All the suits come a runnin'<br />
It's all degeneration<br />
<br style="border: 0px none; font-size: 1em; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" />
Life Marches On<br />
Life Marches On<br />
Life Marches On<br />
<br style="border: 0px none; font-size: 1em; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" />
In the country<br />
Everybody thinks we're dumb<br />
But we built the fire<br />
Why'd you come and get you some?<br />
<br style="border: 0px none; font-size: 1em; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" />
In the city, skyscrapers touch the sky<br />
What's the use in being so high up<br />
When it's only gonna bleed you dry?<br />
<br style="border: 0px none; font-size: 1em; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" />
Life Marches On<br />
Life Marches On<br />
Life Marches On<br />
<br style="border: 0px none; font-size: 1em; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" />
In the country<br />
The stars shine brighter<br />
Than in the city<br />
In the country<br />
In the country<br />
<br style="border: 0px none; font-size: 1em; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" />
In the city<br />
I turn on the radio<br />
Only leaves me down with the question:<br />
What happened to our generation?<br />
<br style="border: 0px none; font-size: 1em; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" />
Life Marches On<br />
Life Marches On<br />
Life Marches On<br />
Oh yeah, yeah<br />
Life Marches On<br />
Oh yeah<br />
Life Marches On<br />
Life Marches On<br />
Life Marches On</div>
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Al Smith IIIhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16879905487115943019noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8545939057189638849.post-11210839629223799492014-01-05T14:11:00.000-05:002014-01-05T23:46:41.939-05:00Warm tea in Winter's time<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-SunBBY_-c6w/Usms3BD9SbI/AAAAAAAARRU/x2uSq7g9Bj4/s1600/teacup.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-SunBBY_-c6w/Usms3BD9SbI/AAAAAAAARRU/x2uSq7g9Bj4/s320/teacup.jpg" height="320" width="208" /></a>The escaping vapor of heat from the tea cup sitting upon the table swirls into the warmed inside air of the cafe. I recognize this familiar pattern of vapor's levity upward, seen in the chilly air of winter. Laying in the back of the van this morning, captivated and content in my prone form, smothered in a warm down sleeping bag, observant of the twirling vapor trail issuing from my mouth - existing in a space of being, just being.<br />
<br />
An hour later, I feel in the midst of this space still, with no definable future boundaries, only a beginning point to the space; perhaps another marker in the sand, so-to-speak. Call this an epoch and I would not argue with you. Call it a session with trail and error and I would feel fully supportive of that notion.<br />
<br />
<br />
A month-long relationship is now over. Not seeming to find a middle ground, from which I was willing to compromise with, I chose to walk away. Inevitably, all things <i>end</i>. This is nothing unusual to admit, though, do I take comfort in this thought of endings?<br />
<br />
The snow of winter's time falls outside, light in its dusty dance downward. Fueled by a slight wind from the Northwest, I admit privilege of being inside and out of the van, my winter home, for this space of time before an afternoon work shift. With this freedom, I feel content - something I know to be easy for me - when I am with just myself. At my mother's remarks last evening on the phone, I recognize the sentiment I take in being with myself - a comfort I've watched develop conversely with age. And, I acknowledge how that can shift - though, am I too particular to shift when the situation seems right?<br />
<br />
I often listen to music when writing, finding comfort in the out-pour of what is my current mental reality. Whilst composing today, Rain Song, by Led Zeppelin came onto my music player. The last set of lyrics holds me, pulls me into a world of thought:<br />
<br />
<br />
<i>These are the seasons of emotion and like the winds they rise and fall;<br />This is the wonder of devotion - I see the torch we all must hold. <br />This is the mystery of the quotient - Upon us all a little rain must fall.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<br />
<div>
<i><br /></i></div>
<div>
Perhaps into a world of cerebral comfort. And, I will not fight it. For, from inside this comfort, I have only to expand out - and out again - into the world I live in. Smiling and greeting it by its appearance to my heart: a grateful and overflowing cup of privilege! Just like the cup of tea, steaming and welcoming with warmth from the cold. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
For this, I continually feel thankful; I have everything I truly need, and realize the details of desire yet to be worked out, future-tense. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Thank you for your love and vested interest in my life - again and again.</div>
<div>
Alan </div>
Al Smith IIIhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16879905487115943019noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8545939057189638849.post-63135095679054680462013-11-23T19:19:00.002-05:002016-04-07T12:13:46.994-04:00The Fear of LivingThe water of the mighty Animas rolls,<br />
Beneath your feet it beckons,<br />
Do you hear it?<br />
<br />
The snow upon the peaks entices,<br />
Above the gaze of the device in your hand,<br />
Do you see them?<br />
<br />
The rain tears from the sad-seeping sky,<br />
Upon your exposed skin it sits aplomb,<br />
Do you feel its vitality?<br />
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
* * *</blockquote>
<br />
The ear buds lift and veil,<br />
Our hearing,<br />
Disportionately displaced.<br />
<br />
The <i>smart</i> device commands,<br />
Pinching us to the dubious reality at hand,<br />
Heed its call.<br />
<br />
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Fear,<br />
<br />
Of missing out, open high places, pain and peanut butter sticking to the roof of your mouth; <br />
Of microbes and bacteria, bees, trees, wild animals and darkness; <br />
<br />
Of staying single, being alone or by oneself and marriage;<br />
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Fire, water, asymmetrical things, flutes, failure, and being dirty; </div>
<div>
Chins, knees, having, seeing or thinking about an erect penis, women, men and nudity;</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Imperfections, French Culture, toads, plants, slime, books and writing; </div>
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Sitting, walking, bicycles, planes, and heights;</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Of <b>freedom</b>! and <b>knowledge</b>!;<br />
<div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
The fear of living - biophobia,<br />
Lurking under it all?<br />
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
* * *</blockquote>
<br />
The glass enveloping and surrounding spiders then shatters,<br />
You drop <i>down</i> into a contrastive space (<i>have I been here before?),</i><br />
Breath comes rushing in - an inundating inhale.<br />
<br />
This is now your life;<br />
<br />
There above <i>was</i> your previous perception:<br />
Tuned-in to the disarray of the artificial,<br />
Dropped-out of the natural actuality.<br />
<br />
Basic meets elementary's most simplest,<br />
Living free of fear,<br />
In the clear - <i>al la naturale</i>.<br />
<br />
Bon appetit.<br />
<br /></div>
</div>
</div>
Al Smith IIIhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16879905487115943019noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8545939057189638849.post-25773911042514424172013-11-12T18:57:00.000-05:002014-01-16T16:49:28.176-05:00Eyes leading towards the insideHer eyes, piercing blues in the pallor of the world around at this moment, peering back at me over a bowl of steaming hot mussels in a French restaurant, what is behind them? It is hard for me to not lock myself into this invisible spiral, leading me deeper into a siege of stares. Though, is it I who is diving deeper into myself by refusing to look away? I blink, and cast my glance to the side, as to use the waitress across the room as an easy escape, a mustering point from which I can again re-engage a level gaze into those eyes. What really pulls my sight aside?<br />
<br />
Fear in the depths, the innards of ourselves. Seeing myself and my actions through my mind's eye judgement eases in, as if invited and welcomed at the door by some unseen other not me. I am angry with myself today in certain moments, but why?<br />
<br />
In this, the same following day, the heady, deciding nature continues as I speak with my parents on the phone. During the midst of an off-topic conversations about chickens, I come to my breaking point. The conversation hurriedly ended by me with an 'I love you, have a good week.' What am I struggling to paw at?<br />
<br />
The thought of mystic eyes come back to me, specifically a female's eyes. Not just any pair, though the blues of last evening. How, much like the clear, splitter, Colorado blue sky today, my recollection awakens to remember the iris-to-iris contact interred inside my memory. How long now have I looked into a pair of eyes opposite mine and wondered? How long again until I see eyes that capture and pilfer the breath, like a star witnessed falling in the night sky? Too long I presume.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-w1qW2G17ezE/UoLAsq9dqrI/AAAAAAAARNs/re8a5NU9Tr0/s1600/Hazel_Eyes_Iris_closeup,_Caucasian_male,_age_23.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-w1qW2G17ezE/UoLAsq9dqrI/AAAAAAAARNs/re8a5NU9Tr0/s320/Hazel_Eyes_Iris_closeup,_Caucasian_male,_age_23.jpg" height="320" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">the intricate and other worldly</td></tr>
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<br />
Presumptions, those truly unknowing attempts at protecting the uninvited guest that slipped in when I was not looking. The protector of the other part of me - the "I," my Ego, as much a part of me as the hands and fingers which type this drivel scribble. Though, is it truly foolish ramblings emanating from within my mind?<br />
<br />
<i>Questions</i>, the strong-handed foe across the table - no matter the size - always tabulating the score to be in their favor over the seemingly weaker and meak-er camp of <i>answers</i>. And, what would answers actually provide? Proof that the calculations are negotiable down to the letter, though not in favor of a digestible outcome I want to partake of in that moment of life.<br />
<br />
What centers me? What draws me from the figurative preface of an edge? And, should I draw back from this edge, or lean-in, trusting that behind it is <i>something</i> deeper, closer to the nerve, the nebulous in which it was born. For how long have I been carrying this; the undetectable-till-now passenger present in my life - even if that is of subtleties' discernment and measurement?<br />
<br />
This burst, my reality as I perceive it, for how many days now have I been waiting to push off the cover of the surface membrane holding it in?<br />
<br />
The breathe retreats out, from an area of higher pressure inside to the lower pressure presence outside my physical bodily cavities. While my mind creates so much - perceiving, predicting, and presuming - what am I actually doing to move forward? To live more in the moment?<br />
<br />
And what of my gratitudes for the day that I have had another opportunity at participating in? Underneath a centering breath, releasing of the tension paid out by my mind, I retrieve it. My undying suredness of certainty that the rigorous rhythm maker and center of <i>love</i> always abounding, that is the heart residing in my center, will never mislead me and only becomes clouded in choice by the creative delusions of a mind searching.<br />
<br />
Thank you for this spiral of a journey, never too far from the reality flowing alongside on a parallel course. My role in learning I do appreciate.<br />
<br />
AlanAl Smith IIIhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16879905487115943019noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8545939057189638849.post-77290548895795656052013-09-21T12:43:00.001-04:002013-09-23T11:49:44.439-04:00Pretending: a game in life? I step out into the parking lot of a wet, autumn Colorado morning, the truck slows with practiced reactionary haste; I look dumbfounded in the direction of the driver, hidden behind their rain-covered windshield.<br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>'Boy, I feel out of place.'</i><br />
<br />
Stepping back, out of the way of the truck's path, I wonder, 'what is this place?' Am I just pretending that this is real?<br />
<br />
Back in society - the world of clocks and toilets; I feel skittish around this curiosity. There are so many options, so many opportunities in ones' singular day! Sitting in the corner of the coffee shop, back and side to a wall, with all the people in easy view of me. I feel trusting here - it's not like I'm a giraffe in the human world, it is, rather, I experience heavy dosages of nature - the wild <i>Wilds</i> - seeing fresh bear scat, still warm to the touch, elk bugles in the chilly early morning of the high country, and yipping, playful choruses of coyotes a few hundred yards from my tarp shelter while sleeping at night. That is my existence more and more. In this, I feel I've become the part time, versed-and-committed-to-dirtbagging member of society that I am; though, am I just pretending to belong here?<br />
<br />
Sitting in the pilot seat of <i>Freedom's </i>cockpit, the 1991 Toyota van I drive, aged to a fine state of operational quirks, wearing a well-worn pair of jeans that haven't seen the inside of a washer since this past spring, I realize the distances I could travel; the power I have at my finger and foot-tips to transport me to faraway lands in this <i>free</i> country. Though, I feel confused - conflicted on where I should I go with my day. This other part of me, interred inside my loving existence, not confused by all that appears and occurs on and within the outside world, knows. This, the voice of intuition, knows much more than conscious, stream-of-mind me. Pausing, long enough to let my attentive mind settle its expressive metronome of processing, down into my existence, I <i>feel</i> confident in where I should go and do. The pretending seems less a fabrication and more a genuine action; as if there is no facade to keep fabricating. Sensible, graspable completeness.<br />
<br />
I think I know, or at least I can understand it from my own perspective, why people struggle or feel conflicted - perhaps even paranoid or unstable - in this commonwealth marvel of gizmos, do-dads, and ingenuity of human achievement. The young college ladies entering the coffee shop on a cool, rainy Wednesday morning seem dressed more suggestively than the weather outside advises; even a few of the working professional women, too. Again, it all makes sense! I understand more and more why the students I work with in Wilderness Therapy have issues - our society is a smorgasbord of inundating conveniences and gratuitous freedoms. Too much so for some; perhaps too much for all of us? Are we all really pretending to be alright with <i>this</i>; and, do we even know what <i>this</i> really is?<br />
<br />
I hear the cynic in me, my inner critic - this thought pattern that used to tell me I was not a worthy, lovable person in my darkest times a few years back. I see it in my writing, my reflection. From this darkness, though, I seek to find the silver lining of love embedded. Pretending, the act of portraying something that just not is, seems to be our modus operandi; well, I'll speak for myself - I sometimes pretend. While attending a small venue folk music performance the other night, the singer commented about pretending not to come back out for an encore, and why he was even bothering pretending with us, the audience. I was struck by this: how do I pretend in life? Do I hide behind my chosen dirtbag lifestyle, settling into a comfort zone; and, do I differentiate myself from the status quo - as to alienate myself from a society that seems quirky to me?<br />
<br />
I feel honest, open, and forthcoming. The more time I spend back in what is normal to many, the more this whizzing phenomenon known as society illustrates to me its stunning portrayal of human achievement - so much to be proud of! And, in our defined sense to individualize ourselves from the other species of this planet, how can we, too, come to incorporate <i>en masse</i> the natural world? That brimming, complicated, constantly shifting, paradoxical anomaly of simplistic beauty that will supercede and outlast our species, as it has all that have become before us.<br />
<br />
Sitting here, tuning into my senses long enough to notice the subtle changing color of the leaves on the trees outside, I am unsure of an answer. And, I don't feel inclined to think of an answer, at least at this time. I suppose when the time is right, it will happen; or will it?<br />
<br />
This pretending game makes more sense - I, as a conscious player, am even unaware; deployed and dropped-in to the immediate world around me: sense satiated, finely fed, and largely loved. I am grateful for this and feel resolved in my written expression.<br />
<br />
Thank you again.<br />
Striving in Love,<br />
AlanAl Smith IIIhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16879905487115943019noreply@blogger.com0