Son of Timatollah

I had opportunity this past weekend to lay in the near dark, no moon, and look up at the sky, and see more stars than I had seen since Mack and I were in the Oklahoma panhandle in the winter several years ago. The ability to realize one's own personal insignificance in the larger Universe was welcome.

The stars, galaxies, Universe, were all there in the night sky. I was there, supine on a bench of plastiwood, but not falling through to the center of the Earth.

What kind of higher purpose would I need? The stars, galaxies, were there where they are; the Earth was beneath me. Gravity was doing its thing in both departments. The waves were crashing onto the Florida panhandle in a semi-regular pattern not unlike my own breathing, the taking air in and out of my lungs in a semi-regular pattern not unlike waves crashing on the Gulf coast.

I don't dismiss my responsibilities to my fellow humans—starting with Mack, the one closest to me, the one to whom I owe so much; to my family who gave me so much over the years; to those who regularly give me resources in exchange for my attempting to show younger ones how to become effective engineers; to my communities of birth and of choice: those matter more to me than I can express in ways I'd hope you'd understand. But let no other human be so presumptive as to tell me they know what God/the Universe demands of me; what my "purpose" is in life.

The stars are where they are; my body does not fall into the ground; food and drink remain available; this one rejoices in being part of this.

I will stand in open defiance of anyone who attempts to shut down those who feel the need to express their percepts of the divine. But that is not for me. The divine is there in the stars; is there in the fact that my body doesn't fall into the earth; that the waves come to the shore again, and again, and again; that my breath, for now, goes in and out and in and out. But those miracles do not mean someone else gets to tell me, in a way that ultimately serves their purposes, of some Purpose to my life.

My purpose is what I make of it. Or fail to make of it.

It's my responsibility, not that of some California megaChurch preacher with numerous best sellers, not of some monk with a stick, not of those, of you, who feel so close to what I'm saying.

Breathe! It is a gift. Is it so hard to conceive of a gift with no giver? Or a giver who demands not fealty and obedience but joy and appreciation no different than that of a parent giving a child the best birthday present ever.

Massive love to one and all. It's really all we have to give each other. Enjoy it. Enjoy the stars. Enjoy the solid Earth under your feet. Enjoy every breath.

Labels: breath, breathe, earth, gravity, happiness, nonsense, rambling, solid, stars

Okay, a backlog of half-thought ideas that have been half-stewing in the back of my half-brain. Just for you.

• People seem to think that just because someone is capable of running a mean-spirited take-no-prisoners political campaign that somehow that makes them capable of securing the national defense, conducting a war, anticipating emergencies, leading the nation through bad times. Recent history—Bush 43, Clinton, Bush 41— suggests that's not the case. If anything, recent history suggests that the correlation is negative.


• What is so funny 'bout peace, love, and understanding? I don't think that question has been successfully answered.


• Air traffic, for all it's problems, like Frontier's taking all the bags off of the incoming flight to Denver from Orlando to the International Gates the other day, from which they had to bring them back one baggage cart at a time (it took four trips, and my bags were on carts 3 and 4), is effectively teleportation. The very idea that you can get into a metal tube and be across the continent in less than six hours, around the world in less than a day, remains an incredible human accomplishment.


• I finished the William Henry Harrison bio last week some time. Very interesting, because, as with the bio of Andrew Jackson, it concerns what was then known as The West—between the Alleghenies and the Mississippi—and the clash between US nationals and other immigrants and the Indian populations. Also, compared to the bio of Martin Van Buren, it was an enjoyable read. This may be because it was written in 1939 instead of 1996. Alas, the bio of John Tyler that I am currently reading, also written before WWII, is not as enjoyable, because the author seems intent on pushing The Noble South idea and Tyler's devotion to it.


• The iPhone is truly enjoyable. The web browser actually works, and it syncs up so well with the Mac compared to the hoops I used to have to jump through to get info to sync with my old Palm Treo.


• Why do so many meditation exercises focus on the breath? Well, if the point of meditation is to reduce attachment, what is the single thing one, anyone, is most attached to? Ever been around someone with COPD/emphysema?


• I haven't watched these Reverend Wright videos, and I don't intend to anytime soon. Okay, so Obama's preacher is out there. Instead of asking—or implying—if Obama shares the same views, why not ask instead how it is that Obama can address patriotism from such a clear and meaningful perspective and maintain his friendship with his former minister who seems to have said some face-value unpatriotic things. There's a Covey idea which is "don't give up, don't give in," that might apply here. I look forward to hearing more of what Obama has to say about it. It is important to listen to those we disagree with, even those whose ideas repulse us, maybe especially if the people spewing those ideas are close to us, even if you are running for President of the United States. I'm not for misplaced loyalty, but I am for appropriate loyalty.


• Jeopardy!: 23 April. Don't worry, there'll be more reminders.

Labels: air, biography, breath, iphone, Jeopardy, meditation, obama, potpourri, presidential, teleportation, traffic, treo