An unforgiving city granted an act of mercy, sending me off into the sky--- lonely little Moses in a cradle of steel floating on a river of air. Solitude gives rise to a peculiar reverence. The memory of a loved one is a priest to whom we confess a future that may never be. That's when a heart truly breaks. In the utter vulnerability of that moment we are strong as we can ever be.

Landscapes are intimidating. The earth's generosity and ferocity seem unintentional. It is never distracted from its destiny—to carve canyons out of granite tables, to force trees and grass out of stony ground, to drive mountains up further up into the sky—a giant engine of perpetual, insouciant change. And, its by-product is a circumstance in which we thrive against the odds, and luck seems to go our way. In the accidental bounty the planet provides we create the things that can never be the result of chance: love, humanity, selflessness, compassion. If luck is defying chance, then we can say we are lucky beyond measure.

Rivers, mountains, sprawling meadows, and oceans don't know what true luck looks like. But, we do. Luck is the shape of a child's smile. It is the warmth of a lover's kiss. Luck is unguarded laughter of children at play. It is the gentle pressure of a baby's hand around your finger. It is looking into your lover's eyes and knowing that you are understood, accepted, and known.

Chance, landscape, luck, humanity, uncertainty, and change--- weighty thoughts while I leave the capital of counterfeit luck-- where many people desperately chase what they know is an inevitable mirage. I depart richer than when I arrived: the true treasures of my life acquired yet a little more value, became a little more dear while I was a stranger in a strange land.

I was once at a store with my boys, and they were rolling in on their Heely shoes. As we passed the fellow at the door who verifies whether one has a membership card he loudly barked, "Hey! You guys can't roll on those in here!" His reaction was over-the-top; it was harsh and unkind. I paused and waited. Then, I drew close to the man and gently put my hand on his shoulder. I said in a quiet voice, audible to just him and me, "Sir, these are good boys here. It is good to speak to them kindly, and they will listen. I want you to work on that—to say things kindly first." He was a little stunned, because I think he was expecting me to be angry. He then replied with a bit of a stutter, "Oh….Uh… Yeah. I'm sorry." I smiled, and we walked on. I felt at peace. I hope the man at the door felt that way too. There was no confrontation or anger between us. I wish I always reacted so kindly in such situations.

We have all experienced interactions where things escalated quickly and disproportionately. People seem quick to anger over small things. We sometimes treat each other as if we're not people at all—as if we are just nobodies—gears in a big machine that will ultimately fail us. We can say to ourselves, "That person is just a customer." Or "Hey—she's just a cashier", and "He's just a guy work with." Then, we treat that [fill in the blank human functional character] in a less human way—keeping the distance between us. In so doing, we're acting on instinct, following the least elevated inclinations of ourselves. We use the word "just" to reduce the people around us to someone less than they really are.

What if we looked at each other more as compassionate people first? Sure, there are times we won't agree. Yes, there are times when there will be gaps in understanding. But, let's not forget we're people after all. Like it or not, we're on this big stage together. I like the simple words of a children's song:

I want to be kind to everyone, for that is right you see

So I say to myself, "Remember this: kindness begins with me"

--John

I was reading some of the latest entries from Billy Corgan's thought provoking site. In a 3-part segment he explores the feelings of a young man writing a love letter. He adds this aside, "Yes, people in remote parts of the world still write letters!!". I'm one of those people, and I guess our little town of Duvall Washington is sort of remote! Anyway, I still write quite a number of hand-written letters each year (I prefer the Uni-Ball Signo pen, in case you wondered). Receiving a hand-crafted letter or note is something special. Here's a little story about the impact of a simple letter.

My father was recently digging through some photo albums my dear mother had hastily put together prior to her death. They had been left in a box in the years since her passing, and he stumbled on them one day. I happened to phone him just moments after he found the box. We reminisced as he turned the pages. He told me stories about the people he recognized in the old photos. Then, he found a few letters tucked in the pages of the album. They were the few letters his father had sent to him during World War II. He read them to me, and we wept.

My grandfather was drafted into the war when my father was just three years old. He left my grandmother and my father alone and soon found himself floating around on the USS Richmond patrolling the Pacific ocean. In the letters to my father, he drew little pictures and wrote a little poem that revealed the simple hopes and dreams he harbored while mixed up in the sad business of war. He drew a picture of him and his son with a beautiful dog. And, he wrote a poem about going fishing some day with his boy, how they would toss a line in the water and never worry about what time they would need to go home.

I have held those letters many times. I've seen the way the graphite merged with the paper to create colors, strokes, and characters. The immediacy of knowing his pencil was on that paper while on that ship in that ocean while thinking about his boy brings my grandfather so much closer. If he had typed it on a machine, or if computers had existed and he had typed it in a word processor, you can see that it just wouldn't have been the same. His hand writing conjures his presence. I can imagine him in a cramped bunk writing that note, holding that pencil, hearing those planes.

So, when I want to send a thank you to a friend, a love note to my wife, or a message of praise or encouragement to one of my five sons, I do it in with a pen and ink. They know it's special. They'll treasure the gesture, and it will last long after the computers have been recycled. When my sons stumble on the notes I wrote to them, and they read them to their sons or daughters on the phone, perhaps the appreciative tears will flow as they did for my father and me.

--John

I played the guitar for hours this past weekend, and along the way, I wrote another simple song. I hope you like it.

It's called, Horizon

I'm a little beam of light

But I can't find the sun

I keep my legs movin'

But I don't know where to run

The sky took me in again

The night said 'Welcome home'

And, I got the nod from Dylan

Now I'm a genuine rolling stone

My heart was saying something

I couldn't understand

I'm alone

I'm a timid little whisper

I'm a shout when I'm hurt

A lonely little prince tamed

By a rose in the dirt

Does Heaven have my number

'Cause I'm getting calls from Hell

How am I down here?

I was hoping you could tell

I tried to get lost

So I could be found

Where am I now?

I'm a sound without a song

A star wiithout a sky

The truth sometimes hurts, but

It's better than a lie

I've learned that the horizon

Isn't sky and isn't land

It's a line that makes you wonder

Exactly where you stand

I've run out of time

The sun set long ago

Which way is home?

-© 2009 John R. Durant