Tornado Dreams

Recently I have been having recurring tornado dreams,

very clear, full of fear dreams, not quite sure what they mean dreams.
They are similar - each with an ominous tornado dragging chaos as it gets near.
I watch the tornadoes approach from a window in my basement in total awe-stricken fear.

The tornado arrives and hits hard like a battering ram.
It hits so hard that I wake up breathing heavily and wondering where in the hell I am.
I lie there wondering what is this dream really trying to tell me?
Is this about a tornado or something even worse that I won't let myself see?

Over time the tornado dream has become pretty easy to figure out.
It's not the tornado. It's the fear. The fear is what the dream is about.
The fear of the unknown, the subconscious fear of what's going to happen next.
It's the fear of the future that I face in a fully conscious context.

__________________________________________________________________

PS: I have not had a tornado dream since I wrote this poem. I think recognizing the fear helped to neutralize it. This poem was published in the November, 2012 issue of the Blotter Magazine.

Telepathic Snow Monkeys

Some time ago a good friend, Hugh, asked me if I would participate with him in a parapsychology experiment at the Rhine Research Center in Durham. Hugh explained that the Rhine Research Center was a reputable institution that studied consciousness and parapsychology. He told me that he had been recruited to be a subject in an experiment to determine if pairs of creative people who knew each other could communicate telepathically with greater success than pairs of random people.

Hugh was (and remains) the most rational, pragmatic, and honest person that I ever met. Therefore, I was not surprised when he candidly told me that he thought the proposed experiment was bullshit. He thought the entire idea of mental telepathy was unproven nonsense. His motivation to participate in the study, he said, was to help disprove the ridiculous hypothesis. The content of the study and Hugh’s skepticism were enough to motivate me to participate.

The study required an initial meeting at the Rhine Research Center in which Hugh and I were interviewed and then asked to complete detailed questionnaires. The questionnaires asked about our personality characteristics and personal preferences. There were lots of questions about how Hugh and I knew each other. In the meeting a researcher explained that in our subsequent session we would each be isolated in separate rooms and given an assignment related to telepathically communicating a specific message. After we left the meeting we stood in the parking lot and talked for a few minutes. I was impressed with Hugh’s commitment to follow the expectations of the research design despite his reservations about the overall merit of the study.

A few nights later Hugh and I returned for the experiment. He was placed in a comfortable chair in a sound proof sensory deprivation room. I remained in the room long enough to watch as his eyes were tightly covered to restrict any light. His ears were covered with head phones. A small microphone was attached to his shirt. In front of Hugh was a TV monitor. The researcher explained to Hugh that he would be guided into a state of deep relaxation by a voice in the head phones. Once in a deep relaxed state he would be asked to receive communication from me. He was told to verbally “free associate” his thoughts into the microphone so that I could hear through my headset what he was experiencing and know if I was making progress.

The researcher then escorted me to a room on another floor of the building. My assignment was to watch a looped video of a group of cute Japanese snow monkeys as they gently moved around in a semi-frozen body of water. In front of me were pencils, markers, crayons, and paper. I was told to watch the same 2-minute scene over and over while attempting to communicate what I was watching to Hugh. I could use any strategies that occurred to me to communicate including using the materials in front of me to draw what I was watching. Headphones were placed over my ears so that I could hear Hugh’s comments about what he was experiencing. If I stumbled on a communication strategy that produced images of snow monkeys in Hugh’s running commentary then I would know I was doing something right.

The researcher left the room and I watched the video many times. I drew pictures of snow monkeys. I strained to concentrate on the idea of snooow monkeeey. I tried to imagine my brain waves synchronizing with Hugh’s brain waves. I tried every mental gimmick that I could think of to communicate the snow monkey theme to Hugh. I heard nothing in Hugh’s comments to suggest I was making any headway. This part of the experiment went on for about 45 minutes.

My part was then complete. Hugh, however, had to be tested. He was asked to watch several short, unrelated videos. He was told that one of the videos was the one I had been watching and he was to attempt to identify it. I could hear Hugh in my headset as he commented on each of the five videos he was watching. He watched all five videos and then rank ordered them based on his level of certainty. Snow Monkeys came in fourth. Hugh had accomplished his mission. He had disproven the hypothesis of the study.

Hugh and I knew that there were many other pairs of people who would be subjects in the same experiment and that all the results would be combined and statistically analyzed before conclusions would be drawn. However, for the two of us there was plenty of evidence to debunk the idea of mental telepathy. I did not express it to Hugh at the time but I did experience a little ego-driven disappointment that we could not do it. As we left the Rhine Center that night we agreed that the experiment had been a fun and interesting experience.

Later that night the experience became more interesting. I got an email from Hugh. He told me that a day or so prior to the experiment he had stopped by the Durham public library and picked up a few books and movies. When he got home from the experiment he grabbed one of the movies to watch while he prepared dinner. It was a National Geographic program. As he watched he saw a presentation on Japanese snow monkeys. It was the identical scene that was used in the experiment.

I was stunned for a moment. What were the chances of Hugh unconsciously picking up that video a few days prior to the experiment? I wondered if there might be aspects of telepathic communication that were not even considered in the experiment. When I talked to Hugh he brought me back to the reality most of us have come to accept. He considered the Telepathic Snow Monkeys to be just one of life's many strange coincidences.

Killing for Money or Politics?

Would you regret shooting a man you never met
right in the eye
then watching him die
then wrapping him in a sheet
and throwing him in the ocean
without even a sense of mixed emotion
calling it an operation done
with surgical precision
as if you were some kind of physician trained to heal
instead of calling it an assassination by a covert Navy Seal

Do you ever question if you were definitely the good guy
and that your prey absolutely deserved to die?
No judge, no jury, no clear understanding of exactly what he did
but one side was certain that he was a demon even though others were screamin'
that he was a hero who had been redeemin'
the lives of many others killed by the "great Satan"
while the governments on all sides kept placatin'
people with bullshit explanations
of who was right and who deserved extermination

Do you wonder if the whole story is a a matter of perspective?
Cause we used to give him money to carry out our directive
When he killed Soviets with our money and our supplies
I guess we ignored it or maybe concealed it with lies
Do you wonder if he was hidin' out for such a long time
just waitin' for some kind of sign
that we had changed our minds again and put him back on the payroll
cause he knew our intelligence and our money doesn't have a soul
Man, I wish that one of us somewhere on some side had the insight
to know that killing people for money or politics just ain't right.

Why I Don't Write Poetry

I don’t write poetry because I don’t know how
to connect with anything that really matters right now.

I don’t write poetry because my brain tightens up, even as I’m trying to get it loose
and in that state of mind whatever I write sounds far too obtuse.

I don’t write poetry because it requires a depth of feeling
that can hurt and leave me staring blankly up at the ceiling.

I don’t write poetry because I prefer to repress
feelings that real poets struggle to express.

I don’t write poetry because it requires me to admit
that much of my self image is really full of shit

I don’t write it, read it, see it, or feel it.
I put all my effort in trying to conceal it.

Still, sometimes when my feeling state safely submerges,
a poem from some weird place spontaneously emerges.

I do not willingly write poetry because it’s just too risky
I wouldn’t be writing this one if it wasn’t for the whiskey.

New Year Greeting

My mother will be 87 years old on Ground Hog's Day. Being her age and living independently isn't easy, but she maintains a great attitude. At least, she does when talking with me.

She sent the following email message to all of her friends on New Year's Eve. Her message is a partial answer to the question, "What's mental health?" I am glad I am on her email list.

TO ALL, WISHES FOR A SAFE AND HAPPY NEW YEAR. BE THANKFUL FOR YOUR BLESSINGS - LOOK FOR ALL THE POSITIVES AND NEGLECT THE NEGATIVES.

To George Owen

A tribute to the late
George E. Owen

George used to say, "I may not be pretty, but, at least, I’m unique." About that he was absolutely right. He was not very pretty and he certainly was unique. I think it was his uniqueness that enabled George to leave us a legacy that I don’t think he was completely aware of, but a legacy that deserves to be mentioned today.

First, George left us a model or an example of a man who refused to give up on his hopes and dreams. Of course, the rest of us thought George’s dreams were unrealistic. But George did not care what the rest of us thought because they were his hopes and his dreams. He steadfastly held on to them until the very end, leaving us an example of a determined guy who just refused to quit trying to make his dreams a reality.

Ironically, the second legacy George left us was his heart. I say ‘ironic’ because as George’s bad heart (his physical heart) got weaker and weaker and finally stopped, his good heart (his emotional heart) got stronger and stronger. His good heart enabled George to tell those of us who were close to him that he loved us. It helped George recognize, appreciate, and sometimes express his gratitude for the support he got on a daily basis from so many people, many of whom are here today. Of course, the primary source of this support came from my mother whose devotion to George will someday be part of her legacy. But today George has left us his good heart.

Finally, George left us his sense of humor. He had a very active sense of humor and could tell the same jokes over and over and enjoy them every time. Now I realize we are in a church, but I bet we can all close our eyes and remember a joke that George told us. Who knows? We all may be thinking of the same one.

In closing, I will just say good bye, George and thanks for what you left us. We all love you, too.

This is my best recollection of a eulogy I delivered at George's funeral 14 years ago.

My Friend John

John Freeman is a good friend. We have been friends since we were in Cub Scouts about 150 years ago. Long stretches of time have passed between contacts but, we still have remained good friends.

Today John is listening to Obama's speech to the Middle East from an interesting perspective. He is in the Middle East recuperating from a complicated heart surgery in a hospital room in Istanbul, Turkey.

He had the surgury last week on Memorial Day. The procedure repaired a funky heart valve and uncloged a "critically" clogged artery. John was not over confident about surviving the operation but, it now appears that he is recovering well in Istanbul.

I know for a fact that John likes to travel but, that is not why he went to Turkey for heart surgery. He went there because the healthcare system in the United States was not up to the task. Sure, the same procedure was available here but, the price for an uninsured US citizen(approximately $124,000) could not compete with the Turkish rate of $18,000. His choices were to have the procedure here and face financial ruin or travel alone to Turkey and protect his net worth. Of course, he had a third option which was to die.

John's internationally-respected surgeon was trained at Johns Hopkins Medical School. John thought the entire medical team around him was high quality. The overall care that John recieved sounded more customer-focused than the care I have occasionlly experienced in hospitals in the USA.

As Obama speaks to the people of the Muslim world he probably won't mention healthcare. He is not likely to talk about "medical tourism" or how it could play a part in improving relationships between Middle East and West while helping solve our burgeoning healthcare crisis. Too bad. After John's trip I am going to remember the Turkish altenative if I ever need it.

Be Wary of Barry

I think Barry Saunders is a first rate columnist. His column appears every Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday in the Raleigh News and Observer. If you call the phone number listed at the bottom of his column (919-836-2811) you will hear his recorded voice say, “Hi. This is Saunders. Sorry I can’t get the phone right now. Chances are I’m being cursed out by someone else about the column. You can leave a message if you want and I will get back with you.” This is followed by another voice that says, “This voicemail box is not accepting messages.”

If you call Barry’s cell phone number (810-7154) his recorded voice just says, “Leave a message.” If you email Barry at barry.saunders@newsobserver.com he might respond but, only if he needs something from you.

At least, that describes my experience with Barry Saunders. When he needed information from me he was persistent and responsive. When I wanted some follow up information from him he was invisible.

He initiated our first conversation on the day before Thanksgiving holiday last year. He called me because he was interested in a letter that I had sent to the News and Observer regarding the death of a panhandler in Durham. The panhandler’s name was Bulldog. You can read about him elsewhere on this blog.

When Barry contacted me he said that he wanted to write a story about Bulldog. He expressed both an interest and respect for Bulldog’s story. I was excited because I thought Barry could bring attention to Bulldog’s story and broaden the awareness of thousands of people regarding the complicated issues associated with homelessness in Durham.

Over the next few months Barry contacted me several times seeking additional information. I tried my best to hook Barry up with other people who had known Bulldog. I helped him contact Aaron, another panhandler, who was a friend of Bulldog. I gave Barry contact information to reach Reverend Collier, Bulldog’s spiritual guide. Whenever I had information for Barry he was easy to reach or he was quick to return a message.

In January, 2009 Barry lead me to believe that he was going to write the story and that it would be in the N&O soon. I shared this news with Aaron, the panhandler, who, like me, was excited about the prospect of good press for his friend, Bulldog.

Also, in January I gave a talk to a local Kiwanis Club in Chapel Hill about homelessness and panhandling. I told Bulldog’s story to the Kiwanis Club and mentioned that they could read more about it very soon in Barry’s upcoming column.

The column never appeared. I have tried to contact Barry to find out what happened. I have left numerous messages and emails for Barry but, he never responded. I assume that the column may not have appeared for good reasons, but I have no way of knowing. Barry may have determined that Bulldog padded his resume regarding his military service. Barry's editor might have rejected the story. I don’t know. I do know that Barry should have let me know why the story never appeared.

Bulldog’s friend, Aaron, asks me about it a couple of times a week when I see him panhandling at the interstate ramp. He also deserves an explanation.

Note: I was wrong. Barry Saunders does read and respond to his email. I emailed this blog post to him. Within about 15 minutes he sent the following reply:

Mr. Owen, I am indeed still working on the story about Bulldog, but
I am trying to get information from the hospital, which has not been forthcoming. Also, I was unable to verify that Bulldog was a Navy SEAL. No one with whom I checked in the Dept. of Defense could confirm what I'd been told. I never said the story on Bulldog would be in the paper "soon."

I respect Barry's sense of journalistic ethics and his need to fact check Bulldog's story. Personally, I have always assumed that Bulldog may have fabricated (or hallucinated)some of the details. However, the most important parts of his lifestyle and his story were observable.

More Interesting Than I Thought

Last month I wrote a letter-to-the-editor of the Chapel Hill News. The letter expressed my opinion that Chapel Hill has become a much less interesting place over the last twenty years or so.

You can read the letter ( A Radical but Interesting Idea) in the January archive of the blog.

I saw a play this week at the Paul Green Theatre that both challenges and confirms the point of my letter. The play is called, "Because We’re Still Here (and Moving)." It is a collection of stories based on interviews with over 100 African Americans whose families have lived in Chapel Hill for 150 years or so.

The play weaves together many fragments of oral history in a very moving and creative way. I learned a lot about the proud (but disappearing) history of the black community in Chapel Hill.

The play also tells first person stories of slavery and racism that are a part of our community’s shared history. The play reminded me how easy it is to forget that Chapel Hill is part of the South. I was surprised to hear stories about violence and intimidation by the KKK in Chapel Hill within the relatively recent past. It was interesting to consider that former UNC presidents were slave owners.

I was particularly interested in stories about Lincoln High School (now the Lincoln Center). I have lived here for many years but, I was unaware of the history of extrodinary achievement and community pride that surrounded Lincoln High School. The play effectively communicates the sense of loss associated with the closure of that school - a sense of loss and resentment that still exists within the black community.

I think Chapel Hill is a more interesting place when the timeline of history is extended beyond the narrow limits of the past 30 years. I am once again reminded that I am a newcomer.

Lifestyles: 2190

I got a phone call a year or so ago from a woman who hosts a website for people who use wheel chairs. She asked me if I could write a humorous article for their website. I thought that sounded like an interesting challenge so I submitted the following satire about life in 2190. The satirical piece is still available on their website, www.PeopleonWheels.org.


Welcome to www.AmbulosUnited.org. This is the website of the National Association of Ambulary-Centered People.

The purpose of the National Association of Ambulary-Centered People is to promote walking, running, jogging,...or just standing around.
The Association strives to:
• Combat the stigma associated with individual ambulation.
• Advocate for the needs of people who walk, trot, jog, or just stand around.
• Promote appropriate public access for ambulos.
• Influence legislation and government policies that discourage ambulation.
• Promote the tradition and values associated with walking and other forms of individual ambulation.

About Us
The National Association for Ambulary Centered People is a membership organization founded in 2101 to support people who rely on walking or other natural means of self-mobility. We respect the rights of members of the dominant culture who use motorized wheeled vehicles (formerly known as wheel chairs); however, we are dedicated to maintaining the tradition and constitutional rights of people who use walking or other forms of ambulation as their primary means of personal transportation.

History
In the early days of the 21st century, wheeled forms of individual transportation were used only by people with physical disabilities. By 2050 technological advancements made motorized forms of personal transport more efficient, effective, and affordable; therefore, people without physical disabilities began to adopt wheeled forms of transport.

During the later decades of the 21st century the dominant culture became increasingly reliant on television eye glasses, computerized brain implants, virtual reality applications for home offices, and many other technologies that enhanced passive methods for work and recreation. Walking or running as a means of transportation was regarded as slow, inefficient and ineffective.

Eventually the overwhelming majority of people ceased to recognize the need or lost the desire to walk, run, jog, or even to just stand around. By the early decades of the 22nd century the dominant culture relied solely on technologically enhanced means of wheeled transportation. Ambulation as a practical means of getting around became obsolete.

People who insisted on walking or using other organic forms of ambulation were viewed as anachronistic. By 2075 ninety two percent of all people who could afford wheeled transportation were using it. In many communities ambulos were ridiculed, persecuted, and denied appropriate access to public places.

The Walter M. Class Action Lawsuit.

Recently circumstances for ambulos have improved because of a landmark class action lawsuit. Three years ago the Walter M. class action lawsuit was settled on behalf of ambulos who were denied appropriate accommodations in public places. No longer can ambulos be required to stand for entire basketball games because arenas do not provide seating. Ambulos no longer have to stand at the rear of movie theaters because they do not bring their own seat. The sale of pedometers is no longer illegal. People who jog or run are now protected from harassment. Ambulo school children can no longer be required to stand all day because there are no chairs. Stand up comedians are now free to practice their craft in its original form, and they are protected from unwarranted ridicule.

What can you do?
• Teach your children to walk and to enjoy the benefits of ambulation.
• Learn about the history and tradition of running, jogging, and just standing around.
• Fight against the stigma associated with ambulation.

Bottom Line
Seriously, never forget that walking and running should be a cherished aspect of human experience. Never take walking, running, or just standing around for granted because the right to ambulate can be easily lost.

Melancholy Demons

Duke basketball fans are not a mentally healthy group. I know this because I come into contact with a lot of these people. Some of them I even like. Most of them function pretty well in other life domains. But within the universe of Duke Basketball they suffer.

Their condition always seems to deteriorate in the days leading up to the Carolina/Duke games. This year is no exception. Some of them are delusional and are claiming that Carolina has a recruiting advantage that inevitably produces superior athletes. Others are paranoid. They think UNC’s larger fan base has biased the media against Duke. Some are bi-polar. These poor souls barely have time to enjoy the euphoria of a victory before anticipating Duke’s next big failure. They then crash into a preemptive depression.

I am curious about the epidemiology of Duke Disease. Is it a genetic disorder? The condition does seem to run in families. Or could it be environmental - the result of some toxin within the water supply in New Jersey? This is clearly an area that needs more research.

In the meantime, we should be gentle with Dook fans this week and avoid the temptation to ridicule the Melancholy Demons.

A Radical but Interesting Idea

I have heard that Jesse Helms once described Chapel Hill as the “North Carolina Zoo.” I am pretty sure he was not trying to be flattering. However, for many people who lived here at that time it was a compliment. It was evidence that Chapel Hill was an interesting and unique place. Too bad Chapel Hill is no longer so interesting.

Perhaps it is time to consider a radical New Year’s resolution. In 2009 let’s raise Chapel Hill’s interest quotient (IQ). The first step in this process may be the hardest. We will have to break through our collective denial and admit that we have become the least interesting point of the three major communities that form the Triangle.

A relatively short time ago it would have been unthinkable to suggest that either Raleigh or Durham was a more interesting place than Chapel Hill. However, over the past fifteen or twenty years both cities have aggressively built on their strengths and added to their IQ. Durham has reinvented old areas and neighborhoods to create an attractive, fun and vibrant sense of place. Raleigh has provided housing and entertainment venues to attract thousands of people to move downtown and add life to the inner city. During the same period Chapel Hill’s most interesting feature has become our proximity to Carrboro.

In 2009 let’s try some new approaches to increase the interest quotient of Chapel Hill. If we make downtown more user-friendly and fun it might attract more people and some of them might be interesting. How about designating a new “free speech zone” on Franklin Street that encourages students and others to transfer some of the on-campus energy from “The Pit” to Franklin Street? How about inviting Carrboro to collaborate with Chapel Hill to expand the Carrboro Music Festival to become a Carrboro/Chapel Hill music extravaganza? How about just making parking downtown free on weekends?

It is possible that the addition of new condos, retail, and office space downtown will add to the interest quotient of Chapel Hill. I doubt it. I think we have paid so much attention to protecting the economic viability of the community that we may have forgotten what previously made Chapel Hill an interesting town. Maybe we should build a new zoo. We could name it after Jesse Helms.
Note: This post was printed as a letter-to-the-editor in the Chapel Hill News in early January, 2009.

Obama's Reach

Entrance to the Apatachee Correctional Institution


Some of you may know Brad. If not, you may know someone like him. He used to be an attorney in Pittsboro and an active soccer dad in our community. He is now serving a fifteen year prison sentence in Florida at the Apatachee Correctional Institution. He has been there for about a year. He was arrested in Pittsboro as part of a “sting operation” conducted by the Florida State Police. Brad pleaded guilty to a series of internet-related sex offenses.

My family knew Brad for several years prior to his arrest and we were shocked when we learned about what he had done. Brad and I have exchanged letters quite a few times since his incarceration.

I got a touching letter from Brad this week. He wrote it on the morning of Inauguration Day. He described his hope that he and his fellow inmates would be allowed to watch the inauguration on television. He was optimistic because they had been allowed to watch television on election night. He wrote, "On election night it was nice to see a number of the older inmates – black and white - teary eyed and quiet when Obama was declared the victor. I was teary eyed, too."

It is impressive that the significance of Obama’s election extends to those who are as forgotten as the inmates at Apatachee Correctional Institution in Sneads, Florida. I hope they were allowed to watch the inauguration.

If interested in Brad’s experience with the criminal justice system you can read an essay I wrote about it at: http://whatsmentalhealth.blogspot.com/2009/01/in-defense-of-friend.html

Right Wing Radio and the Inauguration

Listening to conservative talk radio is painful. The radio hosts on these programs don't just express their ignorance. They celebrate it. Radio stations that broadcast these programs should require the hosts to read Surgeon General warning labels each hour because their programs are hazardous to our mental health.

Unfortunately for me, I have a perverse curiousity about these programs, their hosts, and their audiences. I often wonder how the hosts will creatively distort reality to match their audience expectations. This week I listened to Rush Limbaugh and his clone-in-the-Triangle, Bill Lemay of WPTF radio. I can listen for only a few minutes at a time (see Surgeon General warning). Therefore, the following is just a sampling of comments about Obama and his inauguration from the right wing radio perspective:

• True conservatives should hope that Obama fails.
• Obama's goal is to implement a "socialist agenda."
• Bill Ayers is going to be running the Dept. of Education from behind the scenes.
• Obama's inaugural address was "a rambling, disjointed, buzz kill."
• The audience at the Inauguration was down and depressed.
• The liberal media would have told us the speech was great "even if Obama read his car's owner's manual."

Perhaps, in the future we can create a public health response to the disease of right wing talk radio. The conservative entertainers will always have a right to speak but, I think young people should be inoculated against illegitimate sources of information that do not even try to speak the truth.

Imagine You Got This Email...

and then guess who really sent it.*

TO: Ewe@yahoo.com
FROM: SupremeBeing@earthlink.net

For reasons that are mysterious to me, I feel compelled to violate an important rule of our relationship. I am offering advice that you have not asked for.

You and I both know that you have not sought my opinion about anything important in a very long time. In fact, we have really lost touch with each other over the years. We just sort of “check in” around holidays, weddings, or funerals. But these “check ins” have become so ritualized that they no longer have much meaning for me. I suspect they have lost meaning for you, too.

I feel like I have been trying for ages to send you subtle, indirect messages. These signals were intended to let you know that we need to start paying more attention to each other. A few times the signals have been very dramatic and temporarily gotten your attention. Yet, I continue to believe that I am not having a significant impact.

Therefore, I am taking a more direct approach. I am emailing this candid appraisal of how I think things are going. Even though you have not asked, I am offering advice that I believe will be helpful. Of course, I accept the fact that you may continue to ignore me as usual.

Here goes.

1) Your priorities have gotten completely out of whack. I think it is time for you to reconsider what is important in your life. Here is a clue.

Relationships are everything.

I know. Salesmen have turned this into a cliché but, it still remains true. No amount of work, money, achievement, or attention can match the value of positive, supportive relationships between people. Nothing is more important. I know that you are aware of this. You just don’t act like it.

2) Stop trying so hard. You appear to be running as fast as you can to get someplace you don’t want to go. Slow down and remember 1).

3) You are not getting wiser with age. In fact, you had a better sense of what you were doing when you were younger. Try to remember what you used to know about living life in the moment. If you need help with this, talk to your children. They have not had as much time to forget what they know.

I hope this is helpful. As you know, I am always available if you want to discuss any of this.

Yours,
S.B.

*I think my wife may have sent this email.

The Value of Doing Nothing

I belong to a Men’s Group at a local church that has a paradoxical mission. Our group strives to do ... nothing. This goal is not a surprise to our wives or significant others. We have no agenda, no curricula, and no program. We seldom start on time. No one brings food. Sometimes somebody will bring a six pack of beer to share. We do make one concession to structure: We start each meeting with a time for individuals to “check in.” This is a brief time for members to introduce a topic or to talk about something important that may have occurred since the last meeting. Sometimes we never move beyond check-in. When we do, someone always has an issue to get us started.

About once a year someone from the church where we meet will ask us to do something. We have been asked to work in soup kitchens and to work on fundraising activities. Once we were even asked to lead a Sunday service. So far, we have respectfully but firmly declined. I do not think we decline because we are lazy. We decline because we already participate in groups that do things. We give much of our lives to job-related teams, volunteer organizations, church committees, family activities, and other collections of people that have needs or demands. Our Men’s Group is the only group that we have ever joined that has no expectations or requirements.

However, over 14 years of getting together we have talked a lot. We have shared our childhoods. We have talked about our fathers and our relationships with them. We have asked each other questions about our wives and how various marriages do or don’t work. We have had gay men share their relationship problems, which sounded just like the relationship problems of the rest of us. We have listened to men going through divorce. We have listened and advised younger (and sometimes older) men on “dating issues.” We have listened to our fellow group members describe periods of deep depression. Some of us have sought advice about dealing with various other physical or mental illnesses. We have all talked and listened a lot. Through it all we remain committed to the principle of not doing anything.

We do not do anything, but I have observed that not doing anything can be enormously helpful. About a year ago, one member of the group was diagnosed with terminal cancer. This man’s circumstance trumped any other issues or needs for the group for several months. His ability and willingness to describe the physical and emotional details of his experience was a gift. He shared details about the mystery of dying that most of us never have access to. He trusted us enough to let us support him during this strange time. We did not do anything, but one of us did manage to help out around his house so his wife could get away for a while. We also had a very funny poker game at his house a few weeks before he died. The group did not do anything, but we were never the same.

Note: This essay was published a couple of years ago in the Urban Hiker, a now-defunct magazine in Durham.

The Inca's Chosen Mistake

A tribute to the late William Hollister, MD

As I walked offstage I was sure Bill would be angry or at least disappointed. I had nearly ruined the opening night of the opera that he had spent the previous eight years of his life writing. My only consolation was that I knew how much worse it could have been.

Bill Hollister’s opera, The Inca’s Chosen Bride, told the story of an ancient South American legend about two lovers whose lives were complicated by politics, family loyalties, and warfare. The concept and musical theme for the opera first occurred to Bill when he read about the legend as a young anthropology student in the early 1930s. The concept and musical theme stuck in his mind.

Many years later Dr. Hollister retired from a remarkable career as an innovative community psychiatrist. For a lot people that would have been enough but, Bill quickly focused his attention on creating the opera that was still in his head. He took university courses to fill gaps in his knowledge of advanced music theory and orchestration. He got advice from experienced musicians, actors, and technical experts. Finally, at the age of eighty-two and after nearly a decade of obsessive dedication, Bill had done it. He had written an opera, and it was being debuted in a beautiful theatre in downtown Durham, North Carolina.

As a novice in opera production, Bill did make a few mistakes. One of his most serious mistakes was asking me to be in it. When he asked me, I said, “Bill, I don’t think so. I’ve never seen an opera, and I don’t even like to hear myself sing.” He laughed and said, “I just need you to be one of the guards. The guards don’t have singing parts. You need to just stand around with a spear and look like a guard.” Bill was not an easy guy to refuse.

After several weeks of rehearsal, I still did not completely understand the opera’s plot, but I understood my role. During the first act my job was to stand in a row of four guards behind the King. I was to hold a spear in one hand and a fancy medallion in the other hand. When the King sang, “I have the medallion to prove it!” I was to slap the medallion into his outstretched hand. The King would then dramatically throw the medallion onto the center of the stage. We had rehearsed this many times, and it worked like a charm until the opening night.

On opening night I left home wearing the costume I had been assigned at the dress rehearsal. I was wearing a brown tunic. Under the tunic I wore a pair of my wife’s skin-colored panty hose. The director required the panty hose because he wanted all of the guards to have legs that looked alike. Around my waist I wore a rope as a belt. On my head was a funny looking triangular hat. I carried a spear that was much taller than me. Since no one really knew what ancient Incan Empire guards wore, I assumed that this costume was appropriate. I left the house with my children laughing hysterically and rolling on the floor.

The theatre was nearly sold out. I was told that critics from the newspaper would be in the audience. The principal cast members nervously walked around singing to themselves. The director gave people last minute instructions. Surrounded by all of this tension, I started to get nervous myself. I made the stupid thinking error of asking myself, “Could I mess this up?” My brain was quick to provide an answer. I began to worry about dropping the fancy medallion. The medallion hung on a chain and was intended to eventually be worn around the King’s neck. The whole thing easily fit in my hand but I worried that I might drop it and create a major distraction. To compensate for this irrational worry, I hung the medallion around my rope belt where I thought it would be safe until I needed it.

The opera got off to a good start. During the first act, I stood in line with the other guards, holding my spear and staring straight ahead. I focused my attention on the King and waited for my cue to hand over the medallion. As the cue approached, I discreetly started to pull the medallion off my rope belt. To my horror the medallion’s chain was tangled around my rope belt. The harder I tugged at the chain, the tighter it clung to my belt. The dialogue was moving closer and closer to my cue, and the characters were singing much faster than they did in rehearsal. I felt beads of sweat forming on my forehead. I suddenly felt at risk of urinating in my wife’s panty hose. Time was running out. I shifted into automatic pilot. I held the spear in my armpit and used both hands to quickly untie the rope belt. I desperately tugged the tangled chain down the rope until I was able to jerk it off of the end. Just as the King sang, “I have the medallion to prove it!” I slammed it into his outreached hand while simultaneously dropping my rope belt onto the stage. My brown tunic ballooned to become a loosely fitting dress. I felt a rush of embarrassment. Now I was the only guard in a row of four who was wearing a brown muu muu and whose rope belt was lying on the stage.

I stared straight ahead until the scene mercifully concluded. The lights dimmed, and I miserably walked off stage for the intermission. I scanned the backstage confusion until I saw Bill sitting in a chair. I approached him to apologize for creating such a mess. I said, “Bill, I am really sorry about that.” Bill looked at me and said, “You are sorry about what?” I tried to explain what had just happened but Bill interrupted me saying, “I am sorry, Michael, but I was watching the lead characters. I wasn’t watching you. I’m sure you did fine.” He smiled. I was both stunned and relieved. Was it possible that the entire audience was watching the lead characters? The moment was a powerful metaphor for one of life’s important lessons. It was not about me.

I sat down and took a deep breath. I could relax now because I did not have to return to the stage until the final scene. My screw up had come and gone, and the opera did not collapse. What more could happen I thought? Before my brain could provide an answer to that foreboding question, the stage manager approached carrying my rope belt. He asked, “Do you know which one of you lost a belt?” He had not noticed my belt drop either.

I took the rope belt and tied it back around my waist. I looked down at my peculiar costume and wondered, “Why am I doing this? Why did I put myself through weeks of rehearsal for the opportunity to look like this in public?” The answer was simple. I was doing this because I liked to be around Bill Hollister.

Bill was a good man to be around because he was a mentally healthy human being. His mental health set him apart from many of his professional peers and contributed to his remarkable reputation. Throughout his medical career, Bill’s personal version of mental health enabled him to bridge the often divergent fields of psychiatry and public health. He eagerly shared his practical concepts for mental health treatment and the prevention of mental illness with anyone who would listen. He was particularly proud of leading a major rural mental health initiative in North Carolina that created hundreds of useful strategies for ordinary people who were motivated to help their friends or neighbors.

After his retirement, Dr. Hollister continued to contribute to the mental health of every community in which he was a member. One of those communities was a men’s group that Bill founded at the Unitarian Fellowship in Durham. It was in this men’s group that my relationship with Bill deepened. At every meeting of this group, Bill quietly demonstrated how to listen, encourage, and support a group of friends. Sometimes he provided a model for confronting someone in a constructive, helpful manner. He earned my respect by showing respect for me. All of this made Bill a good guy to be around and a difficult guy to disappoint.

As the final scene of Bill’s opera approached I had one more chance to make a contribution. Like many operas, The Inca’s Chosen Bride had a fat lady. The fat lady in this opera was a very attractive, talented soprano with long black hair. She played the role of a princess who had been entombed during a war that started in the second act and continued into the third. In the final scene, she was to be released from her tomb and reunited with her lover for the dramatic big finish.

In the final scene, my job was to walk onstage with another guard and pick up the Princess who was lying on a stretcher inside a translucent tomb. We were to carry her out of the tomb on the stretcher, gently place her on a table next to her lover, and walk offstage. In rehearsals four guards carried the Princess. At the last minute the director decided that using two guards would look better. This was his biggest thinking error.

During the intermission my fellow guard and I planned our strategy. He appeared to be the stronger of the two of us, so we agreed that he would lift the rear end and that I would lift the front end of the stretcher. We knew we would need to use the power of our legs to get the Princess off the floor, so we quickly practiced squatting at each end of an imaginary stretcher. I nodded my head three times and on the third nod we both stood up quickly. We practiced two or three times to maximize the powerful thrust necessary for lift off. Then we waited for our cue.

The director motioned for us to go onstage. We walked somberly into the translucent tomb and took our positions. I squatted at the head end of the stretcher, grabbed both handles, nodded three times and then used all of my strength to quickly stand up. The Princess emitted a high pitched squeal that could have only come from a soprano. I was standing on her hair. I thought, “Damn, I did it again.”

Thankfully, the Princess was a true professional. She remained in character. She allowed us to stagger out of the tomb and reunite her with the Prince. The two of them sang the emotional big finish to the opera, and they received a well deserved standing ovation. Afterwards, I was not surprised when the Princess sought me out to “express her feelings” about the little bald spot on the top of her head.

Since that night, The Inca’s Chosen Bride has been performed on several other occasions. A few years ago the opera was performed and recorded in Bulgaria. Although Bill never again asked me to be a guard, he always smiled when I told the story of my performance to our friends in the men’s group.

A few months ago after Bill’s death, his family held a memorial service for him. It was a beautiful touching service. One of the original cast members from Bill’s opera flew to Durham for the occasion. I was hoping it would be the Princess but it was the Prince. He sang the final song from The Inca’s Chosen Bride and created for Bill Hollister another very well deserved big finish.

Recession Proof Holiday

Every afternoon I stop at the light at the intersection of 15-501 and I-40 and I talk to the men who panhandle there. It is usually the only interesting moment in my daily commute. This week I asked one of the panhandlers if he and his friends needed anything. I said, “With the holiday coming up do you guys need anything for Christmas?” The man paused and tilted his head as people often do when considering a question. After a few seconds he smiled and said, “Nope. We’re good.”The light changed and I drove away thinking about the irony of panhandlers who do not need anything.

The man I spoke to is one of several people who live in the woods near the interstate ramp and panhandle every day. Most of these people have lived near the same interstate highway ramp for years. They sleep in tents regardless of the weather. They share their limited resources and help each other out. Their lifestyle is not easy or healthy. Several of the panhandlers have died from serious illnesses or have been murdered over the past few years.

Still, these unusual people have the potential and the willingness to teach the rest of us an interesting lesson. We fret about holiday preparation in the midst of an historic economic crisis and worry about a future in which we may not have “enough.” The panhandlers do not worry about the recession at all. They might not even know that it is going on. They have redefined “enough” to match what they have.

Terrorism Alerts on the Weather Channel

I often feel like the talking heads on television are using the threat of terrorism as a tool to manipulate us. They sometimes appear to exaggerate the threat as a way of appearing patriotic or important. I do not trust them to be accurate in their predictions about the real risks associated with possible terrorist attacks.

Lately, the only television talking heads I do trust are the people at the Weather Channel. I rely on them in the morning to offer solid predictions about the day’s weather based on expert opinions. I rely on them to tell the truth in the middle of the night when I wake up and need to be distracted from myself. The familiar talking heads at the Weather Channel speak to me as trusted, stable, consistent professionals.

The Weather Channel people do not scream at each other like the politicians and pseudo journalists on television. They do not have disguised political objectives that they promote through their weather predictions. They just present the truth as well as they know it in a clear, pleasant, non-judgmental way. When a part of the country experiences a weather-related disaster the Weather Channel people are there to accurately describe what has happened and to give practical, concrete information about relief efforts.

I wish the Weather Channel was the public face of the Department of Homeland Security. I would be so much more inclined to believe my trusted talking heads at the Weather Channel than the government spokespeople or their journalist collaborators. I take some comfort in the fact that the politicians and pseudo-journalists cannot politicize the Weather Channel – yet.

My Brother Thinks He is Rush Limbaugh

My brother and I argue about politics and world affairs. Actually, we have been engaged in a single, ongoing argument for most of our lives. We argue on the telephone. We argue during family dinners. We argue in restaurants, bars and on the golf course. We often make other people uncomfortable because the argument is loud, intense, and angry.

The argument first started when we were in high school, but its intensity did not peak until the early seventies and the Viet Nam War. He enlisted.* I resisted. The only thing we seemed to have in common after the war was the need to argue about it.

During our older adult lives the basic argument branched out to include a wider range of topics. We argued about economics and social issues. We argued about the pros and cons of public welfare. We argued about the threat of corporate greed. We argued about affirmative action, gay rights, abortion rights, the death penalty, and other important issues that mattered. On each of these issues he always chose the wrong position. Go figure.

About fifteen years ago, my brother started listening to Rush Limbaugh on the radio. After a year or so I began to notice a stylistic shift in the argument. He began to argue with me as if the radio right-wing nut was standing over his shoulder and whispering in his ear. Rush Limbaugh became an imaginary consultant for my brother. Unfortunately, “the Rush factor” made the argument far too predictable. The argument started to feel like a role play. We lost some of the passion that made it interesting.

Over the past few years the Iraq War and George Bush reinvigorated our argument. The intensity and emotion returned, but the argument has taken a new twist. Somehow we have learned to argue and respect each other at the same time. Maybe it is just because we are older. Maybe we finally recognized that we are more than our political opinions. Maybe we remembered that we are brothers who share a deep family history. I don’t really know.

I also do not know if this will last but, for now, our relationship is more valuable than the argument. I wish the real Rush Limbaugh could share the same experience.

Note: I once read this on WCHL radio in Chapel Hill. I would love to read it on a Louisville radio station someday. Maybe I should ask my brother to read it.

*My brother called me last night to remind me that he did not enlist. He was drafted. He suggested I change the relevant comment to read, "I resisted and persisted. He got drafted and was shafted."