Movie Night

Last night I went to the movie Fruitvale Station, based on the true story of Oscar Grant, who woke up one day and decided to change his life. Through a series of events and connections throughout that one day he ended up shot and killed by a police officer as a result of an escalated misunderstanding. His death was deemed a homicide. My favorite scene was when the BART subway train pulled out of a station, window upon window passing with the blurred silhouettes of so many heads--so many lives held there in that passing moment, heading off in a single direction but with multiple possibilities and futures. And then the train is gone and we're left with the echoed stillness of the station, wondering what is to become of things. It seems to me the heart of the movie was that scene--our lives unfolding, passing like a time chart, and though we each have our own destinations and dreams and fates we are always connected. We're in this together. I'm still trying to figure out how to process the injustice that occurred. And maybe there is no answer but awareness and compassion, a reminder to withhold judgment. Sometimes there is nothing we can do but to acknowledge and in this we give honor and help to prevent such injustice from happening again.

p.s. I'll be away from a computer for a few days as I'm taking the kids on a little vacation up to Minnesota to see friends, catch a Twins game, check out a museum, enjoy some beach time and whatever else we end up doing. I'll be back online Saturday.

A Gypsy Mind

Last night I drove the car knowing one of the tires was low so I was extra cautious and fixed on that fact, paying close attention to every turn in the road. And this morning I hopped in it again but forgot about the tire until I reached my destination, my mind instead roaming the road, singing along to the music on the stereo, noticing the fog obscuring the tops of buildings, driving faster. And nothing happened. Isn't that the case with worrying about things--you think about them too much and you miss out on everything else around you. One of my favorite Tom Petty lines is "most things I worry about, never happen anyway." Every time I find myself worrying about something I remind myself of that song. It does no good to over think things--that only leads to more worry and second guessing. I try to keep a state of mind that is wide and open--noticing the world as it passes. It's like playing pool. When I try too hard I always do poorly, but when I'm just playing casually, chatting with friends and hanging out, not paying too close attention to the game I always surprise myself by playing better. It's the same with writing--I can't write when I'm trying too hard to come up with something. The best writing happens organically, almost from out of nowhere. One would think that a serious, fixed mind is best in most cases, but I'm thinking the opposite is true. Better to be loose and carefree, not trying to control what's around you but observing and absorbing.

A Poem On a Monday

When I'm on a beach or at a pool surrounded by mostly naked bodies I always think how funny it is that we expose so much of ourselves when on all other occasions we are cloaked and hidden. Imagine wearing nothing but a swimsuit to the bank or a store or a theater. I'm not advocating we all run around half naked, but picture all that skin in places deemed inappropriate for such exposure. This poem addresses that notion. It was previously published in Blue Earth Review.

At the Beach

  

Near naked, all of us, we lie down

in the sand, not sleeping, unrolled

like rugs under the sun. Or swimming,

slick-limbed, or floating. 

We are unzipped from our shame,

as if we were alone in bed.

Where else are bodies so public?

Suppose all of us here on this beach

were transposed to another place,

our unhooked bodies within the walls

of a café, eating dinner. Towels spread

out over tiles under the soft light

of ceiling fans. Loose skin exposed

on that cooled floor drinking, ordinary.

We eat without tables, take

our sandwiches from a casual

place in our laps. None of us

hiding, tucked in on ourselves.

On our backs flat or held up by

leaning elbows, we toast

to submission, promise the earth,

our bodies, to be what we are.

Casey Lord

On Learning

This morning at 4 am Fisher awoke and hollered "mom, I love you more than anything." And then a few minutes later Phoenix woke up and yelled for me to give her a book. Is there anything more pure than a thought that rattles out through the dark of sleep? This is how I start today, with words my children won't remember expressing. I have a good memory but still there are a lot of holes in what I learned in school. I finished the book The Days of Awe last week and it got me thinking about the holes in my high school education, particularly with history. Yes, basic facts were planted in my mind but a lot of it just remained as seeds because when you're young and in the midst of socialization and discovering yourself you don't appreciate or put much stock in learning about things that don't affect you currently. Kids are selfish, and it is meant to be this way as it's part of the process of aging. So to think what learning about historical figures and lessons at this stage of my life is intriguing as I have more appreciation for life than I did back then. So I have a new passion--reeducation. Imagine if there were schools for adults to simply reacquaint them with these lessons and facts--no need for grades or tests, but simply to appreciate. I see a lot of biographical reading in my future. We shouldn't let the responsibilities of adulthood--taking care of kids or working or getting caught up in all our routines--take away from continuing to feed our brains with knowledge.

Randoms

Top photos of the week...

 Interesting distinction

 going in circles

 king of the playground

 queen of staring

 random dude at jasper winery

 tree huggers

 parade wavers

 thumb suckers 

long walks

to follow me on instagram, find me at lordcasey.

To Share

All my life I've felt a bit like a hermit--like there's always a part of me that's alone and distant even in the midst of a crowd. I don't think this is an abnormal feeling as I'm sure a lot of people feel this way. There are a few people in my life that I feel wholly myself with. But I'm trying to change that, trying to be wholly myself with everyone I meet because I want honest and richer encounters. If we are to mean anything doesn't that command an audience? As social creatures don't we need to share? Think of how inspiring it is to be around inspiring people. Think of how people can challenge you to do better or to discover a new way of thinking. I often wonder if we would do half of the things we do if there was no one to tell it to, no one to witness. It's as if it is ingrained in us to try to please and impress. Because if we didn't think of all the inventions and discoveries the world would have missed out on--all the music and art and films. All the words. There is so damn much to learn and experience and feel in this world that we need others to fill in the gaps we have missed or don't have time for. We need to share. The more I live the more I realize how basic things are. Sharing and the company you keep are the hallmarks of lessons we teach our kids. Interesting how often we forget these basic lessons as adults, as if there are more important lessons to hold to. But things don't have to be so complicated--share of yourself and surround yourself with people who inspire you to be better. And in this one can come to a greater sense of self.

On Timing

I didn't post anything here yesterday because I was in a funk. It didn't feel right to string together words and ideas from that place--I didn't want to share that state of mind. All day I tried to meditate, to see the beauty in things, to let the negativity go. I needed to process and feel it and release it. And last night I happened across my buddy Tim (the nomadic gardener guru I wrote about on Tuesday) and I was telling him about my funk-riddled day. How I was questioning my belief in giving away what you most need because it seemed the universe wasn't sending it back. And he said this--it isn't the right time. Just because you think you're ready or open doesn't mean what you think you want or need will happen right then. Maybe you're meant to have other experiences first, maybe there are other things you need to learn. And the best we can do is to be at peace with the moment in front of us. To be liquid and malleable to the present with the belief that this is the right thing, for now. My lesson in all of this is to work on my patience, to know that things will occur when they're meant to so in the meantime just be open and find the joy and the lesson in what is happening now.