This probably isn’t the time or place to admit this, but I am easily transported to different times and places.
No, I do not think I am a time traveler, have some dissasociative (is that even spelled correctly?) disorder and am not currently ingesting any mood or mind altering chemicals (though I should admit that, at times, these transports to different times and places DO give a nice, cushy LSD feel).

Praise all that is holy I loved taking LSD so much back in the 1980s, but that’s a different story entirely.

July of 2019 I was in Springfield, Missouri. Say what you will about Springfield or Missouri or the Ozarks, it is what it is. Personally, I like the way the Ozarks sits down on a person and demands they remain standing under the twisted geography, weather and culture it presents. I was at the corner of Cherry and National streets – first in line at a red light. Going through the crosswalk were two Asian women carrying one or two plastic grocery bags each, and both had their straight, black hair pulled back into low pony tails. It was an oddly chilly day for the middle of July in southern Missouri. It had been raining. It was gray and blustery. Winnie the Pooh telling Christopher Robin about blustery days came to mind. I had just spent time with one of my closest and dearest friends. Listening. Watching. Observing. Feeling her expand as a human being. She was breaking out of a cage she’d been in. One of nervousness and, at times, out and out anxiety that froze her feet (and heart and mind and pretty much everything else about her world) in place. She was going to be speaking in front of a group of people about what had been some of her darkest hours. She had done this before, but not in years since the foot freezing anxiety had kicked in about the whole thing.

“Do you want me to come? Or would it be better if I stayed away,” I asked.
She breathed and looked down at the table.
She took a slow drink of her coffee.
She looked me in the eye and said, “It really makes no difference.”

This made me happy. It reminded me that, no matter how much others love us, there are those situations in which it is simply time to stand on our own two feet and do what we need to do.

How many times have you had to do that in your lifetime? Stand on your own and handle your business?
How many times have I?
How many of us are doing that at this moment?

A wife loved by her spouse, and that love having no relevance in that final push to deliver their baby.
A grown child loved by her mother, and that love having no relevance in that first step into the doors of a long prison term.
A parent loved by his child, and that love having no relevance in that first push of chemotherapy through a port in his chest.

Judith Duerk talks about this in her book, ‘Circle of Stones’. I’m too lazy to go get my copy of the book so I quote it exactly, but I can recount that part of it shifted by understanding of what to expect from this world when someone is in their darkness. Used to be I demanded everyone come into my darkness when I was there, and also demanded others let me into theirs. I doubt Judith Duerk would ever say this (from everything I’ve read, she seems to know how to say things in a more kindly manner that I do), but that’s fucking crazy. It’s borrowing trouble. It’s childish. It’s the perfect recipe for failed relationships, regret, guilt, outsized egos and never getting any benefit from being in the darkness or observing those we love when they are in theirs.

Jesus Christ on a rubber crutch I can’t believe I just wrote that last paragraph. Especially in light of the fact that I have a distinct memory of once being in my darkness (I think it was one of the many times I had decided I was certifiably insane instead of facing the fact that I needed substance abuse intervention like nobody’s business) and deciding my friends Dan and Pam should come to the rescue. I had taken advantage of their time, energy, emotions and everything else enough times that I knew if I went at them directly it would be an automatic “no”. Thus, I created a scene in close proximity to them in hopes they would rescue me. They lived in an apartment building directly next door to a guy I used to buy drugs from that was also…what? Some sort of friend? I’m not sure. I just know about 10% of our discussions and interactions had nothing to do with drugs. So, there I was, in the same apartment building as Dan and Pam, purposefully creating a scene with my drug dealer in the hallway, in hopes that Dan and Pam would come into my darkness and fix everything. I must admit there was a pretty convincing level of voice raising, weeping, body slumping and anything else I could think of that would draw them in.

Just as I was starting to wonder if Dan and Pam were even home, the door to their apartment opened, and Dan’s face appeared in the crack. It was white with rage. His eyes appeared to have expanded to the point of bugging. His nostrils flared and his body shook with deep breathing brought on by an obvious dump of adrenaline. The veins in his neck were standing out and I could see his heart pounding in his chest under his dark green t-shirt.

“Dan…” I started.
“Shut the fuck up,” he breathed.
“But…” I breathed.
“Shut the fuck up and get the fuck out of our building,” he said, through clenched teeth.
I opened my mouth to speak, and he said, “Now,” and slammed the door, locked it, and then grunted as my drug dealer and I stood in silence and listened to him, clumsy with anger, trying to get the chain lock set in place.

“Hey…” I said, now trying to smile and move into new territory with my drug dealer.
“No, he’s right, get the fuck out of our building,” he said.
“What? Fuck you, man.”
“Fuck you. Get out,” he said, now moving closer to me and continuing to walk slowly and hover just behind me as I slunk down the stairs, out the door and onto the sidewalk.

And that’s where I stood, right there on the sidewalk in my darkness, struck into stillness not only because I had no clue which direction to turn, but because darkness freezes a person’s feet to the ground and I had been overcome by the sensation that one step would lead me directly over a cliff.

I was tired at that intersection of Cherry and National streets in Springfield, Missouri in the Ozarks. The kind of tired that comes on a cold, rainy and blustery day in the middle of July and confuses your body into thinking it’s suddenly time to start hibernating the way it normally does in the middle of October. And I watched intently as the two Asian women made their way across the intersection. They walked with relaxed intent – not lollygagging, but obviously also in no hurry. They leaned in to talk with one another. Their feet were clad in comfortable looking walking shoes. Their pony tails lilted in the blustering wind. They took turns drawing their light jackets closer around their shoulders. And I was transported. I was taken away to every time I had walked into or out of one thing or the other. Fear and relief and horror and regret and guilt and shame and release and joy made a quick run through my veins. And my friend’s face that I had just sat with and observed as she walked out of her fear hovered in front of me. It was beautiful. Her there, standing alone in her darkness and seeing the smallest of flicker of light, and knowing it was her feet, and her feet alone that must be pointed toward and then raised and lowered, one after the other, in the direction of that light.

The driver behind me tooted their car horn. The light at turned green. The Asian women were gone. I drove forward and made several wrong turns before I found the road I wanted to be on. I breathed. I drove. I continued to notice the gray and blustery day, and my body’s tiredness in response to it. My chest felt warm with the knowing of darkness. Mine, others, and where I belong in regard to both.

What’s all this Jesus talk?
WWJD What Would Jesus Do?
Jesus says, “…(insert whatever)…”
And then Jesus tells us, “…(insert whatever)…”

Is there any point at which someone will just admit they have no idea what Jesus would do?

Probably not.

Let me tell you a little fun fact. When I’m driving north on Highway 13 between Springfield and Clinton, Missouri, and then on Highway 7 between Clinton and Harrisonville, Missouri, I almost always listen to a religious station on the radio. I like it the most when there’s just some dude preaching about a particular passage out of the Bible. And I don’t like it when they make jokes. It gets weird when they tell “haha so funny” stories about the foibles and frustrations of being human as a way to enlighten listeners about how the Bible passage they’re focused on can correct those foibles and frustrations. Make everything all peachy and shiny and wholesome. And good and never to be repeated. Mostly because it’s usually some story that’s about as dastardly as stealing ink pens or paperclips from work. Not that I’m advocating stealing, but please. Mother fucker, if you have a job and are giving yourself an occasional five finger discount on a paperclip, you don’t have a problem and you’re not a bad person.
See? I really shouldn’t listen to religious radio. Unfortunately, I also listen to conservative talk radio when I’m on Highways 13 and 7. The whole thing gets me all riled up. All this business that’s so high minded.

And don’t go getting your melon twisted about me. I get just as riled up over atheists and liberals when they get all high minded and decided to share their thoughts about whatever’s prancing across their minds in the moment. They just haven’t gotten their own radio shows about it. Wait. Have they? If they have, I have yet to find them when I’m on Highways 13 and 7.

But this Jesus talk. Can we get back to that?
Sure.

Here’s what I would like to hear:
I would like to hear some of these high-minded Jesus people get on board with the fact that there is nothing less peachy or shiny or wholesome about someone that is nothing like them, or those who are trying to be like them. I’m talking about some poor son of a bitch that’s riddled with mental and physical health problems that is never going to get his shit together, never going to hang onto a job, never have any long lasting personal relationship, never going to care for any children he fathers, and never going to remember to take a bath every day. I’m talking about some poor broad that is going to use her body for attention or love or out of shame or because that’s all she knows or to pay the bills until she’s just can’t do it anymore. Ya know, that chick that’s going to die some day having no idea how many different people she’s had sex with, and certainly cannot remember most of their names.

Those people.
THOSE people.

Because, let me tell you, those people are living the foibles and frustrations of being human. They are clicking right along with their lives. And there are millions of them. Millions. And, just like every other person on this earth, they’re looking for something. Maybe it’s a moment of happiness opening a can of sliced peaches. Maybe it’s those few seconds of peace in the few seconds right before falling asleep and still being awake enough to know you’re almost asleep. Maybe it’s those few moments of appreciation feeling your fingertips run along a stretch of your favorite fabric – burlap, silk, wool, cotton.

I would also like to talk about Jesus being crucified and what happened after He died. Can we discuss that? I mean seriously, that poor man. What the entire fuck with all of that crucifixion business? I cannot imagine. Hands and feet nailed to a wooden cross. I think it’s been talked about so much that we don’t take time to really thinking about that. I mean, I’m a damn baby if I step on a thumbtack. I catch my breath, hobble to the nearest chair, am a bit horrified by seeing the thumbtack sticking into my foot, have to muster some courage to pull it out, and then overreact by putting antibiotic crème on the tiny dot that’s left. And there was poor Jesus having nails hammered through his hands and feet. Look, you and I both know our sorry asses would go into shock over that shit. Don’t tell me you wouldn’t.

So, Jesus dies on the cross, they take him down, they put him in a tomb, they check on him in a few days, and he’s gone – gone to sit at the right hand of God for all of eternity.
And yet, here we are, being giant babies about paperclips and ink pens and thumbtacks in our feet, all the while talking about people that are getting the same kind of happiness as we are by opening a can of sliced peaches. Or having a little peace before falling fully asleep. Or appreciating the touch of a favorite fabric. Talking about them. Acting as if they’re going to magically become you or me or some peachy and shiny and wholesome thing some fool is talking about on the radio when I’m going down the Highway 13 and Highway 7.
See? See what this is? This is me reminding me that I’m never going to go through something sad or do something bad or have some sort of revelation that’s going to have me ending up sitting at the right hand of God. That’s what Jesus did. What are we, you and I and those poor sots we judge, going to do? We’re going to croak. And then somebody is going to do something with our physical body – bury it, cremate it, dissect it if we’ve arranged to donate it to science. And, if we’re the type that thinks we’ll end up in heaven and actually make it there, we’re still not going to sit at the right hand of God.

That’s what Jesus did. He died and sat at the right hand of God.

So, uh, what’s all this Jesus talk when none of us really know what Jesus would do?
How about this? How about we start talking about how sorry we are that Jesus had to go through all of that crucifixion business? And how about we start acting like we understand that we are not now and will never sit at the right hand of God? While we’re at it, maybe the next time we find ourselves appreciating the feel of our favorite fabric we can try to imagine someone we’ve judged or don’t understand or cannot relate to having the same appreciation?

This is my prayer:
I’m sorry
I am nothing
We are everything
Except that
We are not that
Amen
P.S. Please help me love high minded mother fuckers of any kind
Amen

There is a deep and vital responsibility that comes with the emotional nakedness of fully allowing ourselves to experience awe. To lay down our barriers, open our hearts and minds, and release our bodies to fully respond can be everything from exhilarating to bewildering and frightening. It can even be embarrassing to be in the middle of having let ourselves fully step into awe when, once we’ve gathered ourselves a bit, we realize our jaw is hanging open, we’re breathing heavily and we’ve lost all sense of everything else around us.

One night I was almost asleep when I heard an odd clanging sound dance itself out of the pasture, across the driveway and front yard, and up to my second story bedroom. Having horses means there is a lot of clanging. They weigh around 1000lbs each, and I had five of them at the time. There were 16ft gates held shut with heavy chains and large metal clips. There were 12ft x 5ft corral panels latched together by more heavy and large chains and clips. I stopped wiggling my feet (mmmmmmm I love wiggling my feet under the covers just as I’m falling asleep), pricked up my ears, and listened for the sound again. There it was, coming up to my bedroom again. It was not a regular, every day 5000lbs of horses randomly bumping into panels and gates kind of clang.

I sat up, threw the covers back, said ‘stay’ to the dogs, and put on the t-shirt and jeans I’d discarded on the chair next to my dresser. I left the bedroom, turned the corner, and went down the stairs in the dark, counting each stair as I went and waiting to feel the cool tile of the landing on the bottom of my bare feet as I made it to the landing. I put on my muck boots, picked up my flashlight, and opened the door to walk across the porch onto the driveway and to the pasture gate. As I went I heard the clang again. It was coming from the training pen. I walked to the main gate, unhitched the clip and chain, pushed the gate open, walked through and hitched the clip and chain.

“Always, always, always latch the gate,” I tell anyone that will listen.

“Do it even if there are no horses in that paddock or pasture at the time. That way it’s automatic. Muscle memory,” I would say.

Mostly that was spoken to neighbors that didn’t latch their gates and were stopping by to ask if I’d seen their goat, cow, horse, lama, sheep or whatever farm animal they happened to be missing. The only time I didn’t say it was to the people from across the highway whose horse had shown up at my place. She was an old mare that seemed reasonably well cared for, but I knew the reasonableness of it was because she had free access to a 30 acre pasture, spring fed pond and the shelter of an old barn. She was essentially reasonably well cared for because she cared reasonably well for herself. Her owners were tweakers that had been bitten hard by the backwoods meth everyone likes to talk about in a knowledgeable fashion once they’ve seen the movie “Winter’s Bone”. What they say is mostly correct, I suppose, but it’s a whole different story when a backwoods meth tweaker is in your driveway talking 72 miles a minute about nothing but bullshit as his tweaker woman stands in a paddock with their lost horse. Did I think they were going to shoot me, throw me into some backwoods pond, then come back and cut off my hands? No. But I did want them to shut the fuck up and get off my property before they had enough time to have a serious look around or figure out I lived there alone.

“Love, love,” I said, pointing at the tweaker woman as she gently petted the old mares head.

The old mare had lowered her head to be petted, and tweaker woman had a face of sadness I had seen many times. The sadness was a hollowed out place sitting on either side of her nose and between the bottoms of her eyes and the top of her mouth. Her love of that old mare ran into those hollows and did its best to fill them up. She looked full of tears, but too gobbed up with being a tweaker to have a way to let them out. I realized the old mare was probably the only thing that knew anything about love in her world, and I knew she was in awe of that love.

“…my Aunt’s place over across the highway where we stay, where she came from…,” the tweaker man was saying, as he gunned the four wheeler he’d come slowly down the road on, his skinny tweaker woman walking slowly behind.

“Look at her. Look at that,” I said to him, as I continued to point at his tweaker woman and the old mare.

He gunned the four-wheeler. I continued to point and not return his gaze. He gunned the four wheeler again.

“I’m going to stand here just like this until I can count to ten in between the times he guns that goddamn thing,” I thought.

He stopped gunning the four-wheeler long enough for me to take a quick, sideways look at him. He was standing up on the four wheeler watching his tweaker woman put a halter on the old mare.  His shift of attention made me feel slightly better.

Tweaker woman led her horse from the paddock where I had given her hay and water, and led her slowly down the driveway and started into the road. From the corner of my eye I saw tweaker man turn to say something to me, then turn to watch tweaker woman lead the old mare up the road. He gunned the four-wheeler, then went down the driveway and into the road himself to slowly follow tweaker woman. I waited until they rounded the big curve and started up the hill and out of sight before I went about my day.

“Always latch the gate,” I said to the first horse that came up to me in the dark. I scratched her neck as I passed by her to continue going toward the clanging sound coming from the training pen. She quietly followed.

At the training pen I found the culprit – one of the horses had backed her rear end up to one of the training pen panels and was slowly rubbing it back and forth to scratch an itch.

As I turned to walk back through the pasture and to the house I looked up. The sky is closer when there are no lights for miles. The Milky Way hovered overhead it all of its glory. I slowed my pace, but kept walking toward the gate.

“You’re beautiful,” I said to the Milky Way, still slowly walking and staring into the abyss of stars that twinkled against the black sky.

“I’m in awe,” I whispered to no one.

“You amaze me, and…” I whispered, as I suddenly realized I was no longer walking toward the gate and had veered off course so heavily that I was no longer sure where I was in relation to the fence line. Just as I recognized the reality that I needed to stop walking and reorient the toes of my left boot struck the side of something, and I threw my arms out to stop whatever was coming – a fall, an object, a horse. My bare hands landed simultaneously on the electric fence as I went down.

I came to seconds later on the ground beside the fence.

“Am I having a heart attack?” I asked no one.

I lay there in the dirt beside the fence and the large water trough I had struck with the toe of my left muck boot. I stared into the sky. I realized I was not having a heart attack, but had electrocuted myself. I thought of Mona, the first person that had ever talked with me about focusing on my breathing as a way to calm myself. I focused on my breathing.

The dirt smelled delicious. I concentrated on my breathing and imagined my breath flowing all the way up into the Milky Way. I heard myself make a sound; the sound of release and relaxation. I heard horse hooves on the ground, coming slowly toward me. It was Sammi Rose, the oldest mare. Her giant soft lips and nostrils came toward my face and hovered just above it as she breathed me in. She then quietly smelled my forehead and hair. She released a deep sigh; the sigh of a horse that is calm, trusting and relaxed. She kept her giant soft lips and nostrils next to my face, her whiskers gently poking my cheek. Tweaker woman crossed my mind and I cried a little when I said a quick prayer that her old mare was still alive and being all about love. All the while I stared into the Milky Way and felt Sammi Rose’s breath and whiskers and no longer had to focus on my breathing because I was no longer experiencing anything but awe. Beautiful, all-encompassing, naked, magical awe. Every bone in my body, every thought in my mind, every hair on my head disappeared into the glory of awe.

Several years later I was having lunch with two of my closest girlfriends and asked if they ever let themselves fall into a state of awe over anything.

“Ya know, just not worry about anything other than the thing or situation or person you’ve been presented with and let yourself be blown the fuck away by it?”

They said they did. We talked about letting ourselves be amazed by and in awe of things. It felt good. I liked looking at their faces as we discussed it. They are beautiful, glorious and shining women, and I loved their wide eyes and raised voices and eyebrows in that discussion.

And then I told them about the time I was laying in bed and one of the big dogs came over and put her head on my arm to simply stare at me. And about how I turned over in bed so I could be face to face with her and disappeared into how beautiful that dog’s big nose was.

But I didn’t tell them about the night I electrocuted myself. I can’t ever seem to tell anyone about that.