Head-dibs

"A thief comes to steal, kill, and destroy. But I came to give life—life that is full and good." (John 10:10) "Five times I received at the hands of the Jews the forty lashes less one. Three times I was beaten with rods. Once I was stoned. Three times I was shipwrecked; a night and a day I was adrift at sea; on frequent journeys, in danger from rivers, danger from robbers, danger from my own people, danger from Gentiles, danger in the city, danger in the wilderness, danger at sea, danger from false brothers; in toil and hardship, through many a sleepless night, in hunger and thirst, often without food, in cold and exposure. And, apart from other things, there is the daily pressure on me of my anxiety for all the churches. Who is weak, and I am not weak? Who is made to fall, and I am not indignant? If I must boast, I will boast of the things that show my weakness. The God and Father of the Lord Jesus, he who is blessed forever, knows that I am not lying. At Damascu...

In raiment coarse and rough endued A cord his only ceinture rude With scanty measure for his food His feet withal unshod For the poverty of Christ he yearns From earthly splendor he dost turn This noble troubadour has spurned Despising all for God Within a mountain cave alone He hides to weep and lying prone He prays aloud with sigh and groan For peace to fill his heart New signs of highest sanctity Singing praise exceedingly Beautiful and wondrous to see The troubadour to sing The troubadour of the Great King Then seraph-like in heaven’s height The King of Kings appears in sight His soul in passion’s awesome night Beholds the vision dread For it bears the wounds of Christ and lo While gazing on a speechless woe The hidden marks upon his soul Now wound his flesh blood red His body now like the Crucified Signed on hands and feet and side Transformed in life to love and die With Jesus Christ our Lord New signs of highest sanctity Singing praise exceedingly Beautiful and wondrous to see...

I'm sailing down the summer wind I got whiskers on my chin And I like the mood I'm in As I while away the time of day In the lee of Christian Island Tall and strong she dips and reels I call her Silver Heels And she tells me how she feels She's a good old boat and she'll stay afloat Through the toughest gales and keep smiling But for one more day she would like to stay In the lee of Christian Island I'm sailing down the summer day Where fish and seagulls play I put my troubles all away And when the gale comes up I'll fill my cup With the whiskey of the highlands She's a good old ship and she'll make the trip From the lee of Christian Island Tall and strong she slips along I sing for her a song And she leans into the wind She's a good old boat and she'll stay afloat Through the toughest gales and keep smilin' When the summer ends we will rest again In the lee of Christian Island When the summer ends we will rest again In the lee of Christ...

"I tossed about until Charley grew angry with me and told me 'Ftt' several times . But Charley doesn't have our problems. He doesn't belong to a species clever enough to split the atom but not clever enough to live in peace with itself. He doesn't even know about race, nor is he concerned with his sister's marriage. It's quite the opposite. Once Charley fell in love with a dachshund, a romance racially unsuitable, physically ridiculous and mechanically impossible. But all these problems Charley ignored. He loved deeply and tried dogfully. It would be difficult to explain to a dog the good and moral purpose of a thousand humans gathered to curse one tiny human. I've seen a look in dog's eyes, a quickly vanishing look of amazed contempt, and I am convinced that basically dogs think humans are nuts." (Steinbeck, p. 269)

Theodore Roosevelt best remembered as the 26th president of the United States was born this day (Oct. 27) 1858. But he was so much more than the President. He shaped this country in ways that many will never know, for he was a man who studied life. Early in his own life, though times of personal fragility when life expectancy was not very high, Roosevelt's fascination with the world in which he lived laid a foundation of what grew to be an uncanny strength. It might be argued there are four kinds of hunters, the first being the kind that hunt for food. The second kind of hunter are those that hunt for sport, for the challenge of acquiring a trophy. The third kind of hunter is the kind that sought to understand the world. The fourth and final kind of hunter are those that  that don't know what they are doing . Period.  Roosevelt was very much the first three, but the third (The Naturalist) was the core of his being. He hunted to understand, foremost. He collected. He r...

Photo Credit: Goshawk Communications Have you gazed on naked grandeur where there’s nothing else to gaze on, Set pieces and drop-curtain scenes galore, Big mountains heaved to heaven, which the blinding sunsets blazon, Black canyons where the rapids rip and roar? Have you swept the visioned valley with the green stream streaking through it, Searched the Vastness for a something you have lost? Have you strung your soul to silence? then for God’s sake go and do it; Hear the challenge, learn the lesson, pay the cost. Have you wandered in the wilderness, the sagebrush desolation, The bunch-grass levels where the cattle graze? Have you whistled bits of rag-time at the end of all creation, And learned to know the desert’s little ways? Have you camped upon the foothills, have you galloped o’er the ranges, Have you roamed the arid sun-lands through and through? Have you chummed up with the mesa? Do you know its moods and changes? Then listen to the Wild — it’s calling you. Have you know...

"Even if you’re going to live three thousand more years, or ten times that, remember: you cannot lose another life than the one you’re living now, or live another one than the one you’re losing. The longest amounts to the same as the shortest. The present is the same for everyone; its loss is the same for everyone; and it should be clear that a brief instant is all that is lost. For you can’t lose either the past or the future; how could you lose what you don’t have? Remember two things: i. that everything has always been the same, and keeps recurring, and it makes no difference whether you see the same things recur in a hundred years or two hundred, or in an infinite period; ii. that the longest-lived and those who will die soonest lose the same thing. The present is all that they can give up, since that is all you have, and what you do not have, you cannot lose." (Marcus Aurelius, "Meditations" 2:14)

What would you like on your headstone? What would your epitaph be? I pray mine would not be some trite witticism but something that says, "Yep! Without doubt, that's him." Edgar Lee Masters pondered life and death in his poem, "George Gray." I have studied many times  The marble which was chiseled for me--  A boat with a furled sail at rest in a harbor.  In truth it pictures not my destination  But my life.  For love was offered me and I shrank from its disillusionment;  Sorrow knocked at my door, but I was afraid;  Ambition called to me, but I dreaded the chances.  Yet all the while I hungered for meaning in my life.  And now I know that we must lift the sail  And catch the winds of destiny  Wherever they drive the boat.  To put meaning in one’s life may end in madness,  But life without meaning is the torture  Of restlessness and vague desire--  It is a boat longing f...

Everett Ruess, 1914- 1934 (Presumed dead) "I have not tired of the wilderness; rather I enjoy it's beauty and the vagrant life I lead, more keenly all the time. I prefer the saddle to the street car and the star sprinkled sky to a roof, the obscure and difficult trail, leading into the unknown, to any paved highway, and the deep peace of the wild to the discontent bred by cities . . . Say that I starved; that I was lost and weary; That I was burned and blinded by the desert sun; Footsore, thirsty, sick with strange diseases; Lonely and wet and cold . . . but that I kept my dream!"

Did you ever have a longin’ to get out and buck the trail, And to face the crashin’ lightnin’ and the thunder and the gale? Not for no partic’lar reason but to give the world the laugh, And to show the roarin’ elyments you still can stand the gaff. Don’t you ever feel a yearnin’ just to try your luck again Down the rippin’ plungin’ rapids with a bunch of reg’lar men? Don’t you ever sorta hanker for a rough and risky trip, Just to prove you’re still a livin’ and you haven’t lost your grip? Can’t you hear the woods a-callin’ for to have another try Sleepin’ out beneath the spruces with a roof of moonlit sky, With the wind a sorta singin’ through the branches overhead And your fire a gaily crackin’ and your pipe a-glowin’ red? Don’t you often get to feelin’ sorta cramped and useless there, Makin’ figgers and a-shinin’ your pants upon a chair? Don’t you yearn to get acquainted once again with Life and God? If you don’t, then Heaven help you, for you’re a dyin’ in yer pod...

My string career began in 6th grade (I played trombone for a short while in 5th) and was nurtured through High School by Mrs. Llewellyn. Over the summer breaks, Mrs. L. made me tapes to keep me inspired and practicing. One of those tapes contained a recording of Elgar's Cello Concertos performed by Jacqueline De Pre and I nearly wore that tape out (Samuel Barber's "Adagio For Strings" was also on that tape and that piece touched my soul). That concerto captivated me so I listened to Smiley as much as I could, as many recordings as I could find or have made. She was my muse back then and from time to time, I still like to listen or watch her "play" at play. Jacqueline would be 72 this year, but she died at age 42. Her career was very short due to Multiple Sclerosis and she ended her professional career at 27. Nevertheless, she inspired me. So on this anniversary of her passing, I hope you'll take some time to be inspired by Smiley. At least start a...

There is a saying, “favor is the currency of God.” If favor were the result of fate or destiny then due to the impersonality of fate or destiny, favor becomes meaningless. If favor were the outcome of a game or even good deeds, then favor would be a wage. Favor is the “currency” of God, a blessing. The life of Sir John Davies (1569 - 1626), the English Renaissance lawyer and parliamentarian under Queen Elizabeth (and late contemporary of Sir Philip Sidney) is a wonderful illustration of one who received this blessing of favor. Davies wrote and published in 1599 a book called  Nosce Te Ipsum , or “Know Thyself.” When Davies was presented to King James (yes, the same King James of the 1611 Bible) Davies was already a favorite of Queen Elizabeth. When King James inquired if the man before him was the author of the  Nosce Te Ipsum , the King "embraced him and conceived a considerable liking for him." Davies was later appointed to be Solicitor General for Ireland when he was ...

"We have inherited many attitudes from our recent ancestors who wrestled this continent as Jacob wrestled the angel, and the pioneers won. From them we take a belief that every American is a natural-born hunter. And every fall a great number of men set out to prove that without talent, training, knowledge, or practice they are dead shots with rifle or shotgun. The results are horrid . . . . If I were hungry, I would happily hunt anything that runs or crawls or flies, even relatives, and tear them down with my teeth. But it isn't hunger that drives millions of armed American males into forests and hills every autumn . . . . Somehow the hunting process has to do with masculinity, but I don't quite know how. I know there are any number of good and efficient hunters who know what they are doing; but many more are overweight gentlemen, primed with whiskey and armed with high-powered rifles. They shoot at anything that moves or looks like it might, and their success in killin...

Through the woodland, through the valley Comes a horseman wild and free Tilting at the windmills passing Who can the brave young horseman be He is wild but he is mellow He is strong but he is weak He is cruel but he is gentle He is wise but he is meek  Reaching for his saddlebag He takes a battered book into his hand Standing like a prophet bold He shouts across the ocean to the shore Till he can shout no more  I have come o'er moor and mountain Like the hawk upon the wing I was once a shining knight Who was the guardian of a king I have searched the whole world over Looking for a place to sleep I have seen the strong survive And I have seen the lean grown weak  See the children of the earth Who wake to find the table bare See the gentry in the country Riding off to take the air Reaching for his saddlebag He takes a rusty sword into his hand Then striking up a knightly pose He shouts across the ocean to the shore Till he can shout no more See the ...

source: wikipedia Out of the night that covers me,  Black as the pit from pole to pole, I thank whatever gods may be For my unconquerable soul. In the fell clutch of circumstance I have not winced nor cried aloud. Under the bludgeonings of chance My head is bloody, but unbowed. Beyond this place of wrath and tears Looms but the Horror of the shade, And yet the menace of the years Finds and shall find me unafraid. It matters not how strait the gate, How charged with punishments the scroll, I am the master of my fate, I am the captain of my soul.

An old man, going a lone highway, Came, at the evening, cold and gray, To a chasm, vast, and deep, and wide, Through which was flowing a sullen tide. The old man crossed in the twilight dim; The sullen stream had no fear for him; But he turned, when safe on the other side, And built a bridge to span the tide. “Old man,” said a fellow pilgrim, near, “You are wasting strength with building here; Your journey will end with the ending day; You never again will pass this way; You’ve crossed the chasm, deep and wide- Why build you this bridge at the evening tide?” The builder lifted his old gray head: “Good friend, in the path I have come,” he said, “There followeth after me today, A youth, whose feet must pass this way. This chasm, that has been naught to me, To that fair-haired youth may a pitfall be. He, too, must cross in the twilight dim; Good friend, I am building this bridge for him.”

I carry boulders across the day From the field to the ridge, and my back grows tired … I take a drop of sweat Onto my thumb Watch the wind furrow its surface, Dream of a morning When my furrows will shape this field, When these rocks will form my house. Alone, with heavy arms, I listen through the night to older farms. (an allegory on working through "writer's block")

"During the previous winter I had become ill with one of those carefully named difficulties which are the whisper of approaching age. When I came out of it I received the usual lecture about slowing up, losing weight, limiting cholesterol intake. It happens to many men, and I think doctors have memorized the litany. It happened to so many of my friends. The lecture ends, 'slow down. You're not as young as you once were.' And I had seen so many begin to pack their lives in cotton wool, smother their impulses, hood their passions, and gradually retire from their manhood into a kind of spiritual and physical semi-individualism. In this they are encouraged by wives and relatives, and it's such a sweet trap . . . . . . I have always lived violently, drunk hugely, eaten too much or not at all, slept around the clock of missed two nights of sleeping, worked too hard and too long in glory, or slobbed for a time in utter laziness. I've lifted, pulled, chopped, climbe...