Feed Love

“Years ago, I broke a bunch of roses

From the top of his wall

A thorn from that is still in my palm

Working deeper.”

- Rumi

“I almost wish it were true,” said my father in our final visit, April 1999. He was 77.

I opened a bedroom curtain so he could see a radiant blue sky and free birds.

Sitting in the garden I burned incense and fed sparrows as green spring blossoms gestured beginning. Calm non-attachment. No desire. Breathing in – out with diamond mind clarity. Love and letting go.

“May I have more ice please?” he said.

I needed to break it up. In his red tool box under the yellow shelf in the kitchen where I was half-beaten to death by a crazy woman in a wheelchair were steel crescent wrenches.

I selected the heaviest one with the widest aperture. It was well oiled and ready. The small wheel turned slow scraping my fingers down to the bone. I rolled destiny’s wheel closing the vise, narrowing space with bleeding fingers. Rolling The Wheel of Time.

Turning the cold steel wheel I remembered ceremonies in Bali: Painters creating on canvas, wood carvers chipping at unexplored rough textures and a wife weaving an intricate basket of reeds into an offering filled with sweet smelling jasmine flowers surrounding a mountain of rice. Lighting incense, she placed her daily ceremonial devotion in family compound corners to thwart demons and appease gods.

I absorbed daily acts of creativity and love in Bali. Everyday was a celebration in magic light. Twilight faded dark blue below pregnant skies. Rain slashed across jungles blasting calm surfaces of rice paddies. Runoff music exploded soil. A farmer stood in the deluge. His misty figure raised a wooden heirloom hoe into the sky. He released human thunder into wet soil. He turned over an exposed part of the planet. Rain slowed.

Shadow figures evolved from jungles chopping off paddy edges, hoeing soil, gathered dry wood and dead brush. Children sang on a dirt path going home from school.

Across a ravine on a mid-level terrace a farmer trailing oxen yanked iron in an arc turning beasts in a slow slog through mud. Flocks of white herons layered sky.

I dumped ice from a plastic tray on a small towel. I folded cotton threads as if folding a love letter, his bone white dress shirt and monogramed handkerchief. I curled fingers around the cold heavy wrench. I smashed crystals of frozen water into diamonds.

Everything collapsed. My daily celebration felt the heaviness. My heart accepted the doing and being. I hammered down, folded cloth, pulverizing cubes. I wiped blood on cloth streaking red. I funneled ice into a blue ceramic bowl. I put the wrench down and selected a small silver spoon.

I fed my father spoonfuls of clear white ice.

I fed him love. 

ART - Adventure, Risk, Transformation - A Memoir

Laos

Father & Daughter

The blind man and his daughter.

He wore a felt hat. He gripped a wooden staff. His face was long and sallow.

The girl was 11. Wearing cotton, her face was solemn, shocked.

Both wore plastic flip-flops.

She held his hand.

They came to an intersection.

Small buses, bikes, lost fat Europeans, orange robed wandering monks, silver vans.

Women carrying bamboo baskets spilling oranges negotiated pavement.

The girl led the man across the street.

Their pace steady.

She was his eyes. He trusted her implicitly.

A stranger drawing in his notebook watched them.

He pulled a 20 Kip note from his pocket.

He gestured to the girl, Take it.

She froze.

She spoke quick Lao words to her father.

Questioning, doubt, healthy uncertainty in her eyes.

The stranger gestured the 20.

She remained still.

He got up and slowly approached her. His hand extended the money.

His hand said, take it.

Her small hand emerged with caution. Her small fingers accepted the gift.

She smiled placing her hands together.

Her fingertips touched her chin meaning, Thank you.

She whispered to her father, it's 20.

His blind eyes darted back and forth.

He mumbled, Thank you, joining his hands.

His wooden staff hung in the air like a pendulum.

She led him away.

They disappeared.

yes dear father

greetings,

i was busy playing my new and improved hyper passive-aggressive violent video game about a country that's been divided and at war since 1955. the south part is rich. the north is poor. they rely on Big Brother for money and food and stuff like chopsticks. someone called. your father wants to see you. now.

his office is a big office. so big in fact you need to take a golf cart from the door, across the shiny diamond inlaid mosaic floor past 1.5 million bowing palace people to reach his desk. his desk is made of recycled high grade uraninum 235. it glows in the dark. this is amazing because few if any buildings have electricity.

my bored aunt and uncle reclined in plush mauve leather chairs. they were watching the dynasty soap opera.

son, he said, sit down. that's an order.

yes father dear, oh great leader of the people. cut the crap son, we have important matters to preview. as you know the party congress circus is in town for the big show. feeding five million people at a state dinner gives me a nuclear headache. the fission potential is a beautiful mess.

yes, i said, i saw them getting off the special train and walking through the reception hall like robots. it was amazing. they were all wearing the same ill fitting suits and carrying a black briefcase. it reminded me of matrix. or the day the earth stood still.

they were marching toward the toilet. 

yes son, everyone marches to the beat of my drum solo.

a servant approached with myopic glasses of bubbly on a silver tray.

son, i propose a toast. today is the day i make you a four-star general. i created you 27 years ago and today i make you famous and powerful. you are a rising star in our isolated universe. you are like me. you have demonstrated the personality, the drive, the ambition, the arrogance and the ruthless qualities i respect and admire in a human being. so, you get to be a general. drink up!

wow, thanks dad. what do i have to do? smile, shake hands, tell people what to do and pretend to be exactly who you are. in control. image is everything.

metta.