I had grabbed a cup of coffee from the coffee place on Main St, and was working back against the cold wind to my desk. Turning the corner where the old train station clock is displayed I found a mighty cloud of witnesses surrounding ...Who/What?

There were at least a hundred wings clapping at the brisk air surrounding a man in a wheel chair. Out in the cold wind both man and birds were engrossed in a ritual that I'm sure had happened daily for more than a few months. He was casting out bread crumbs to the adoring crowd. And the crowd was eating it up, quite literally!

He was the master of ceremonies at a feast of grace where no one was wondering why they were there, neither they nor him. Though his head was bent down as he cast out the fare I could see the most blessed smile on his face. The birds were furiously fluttering with happiness and desire as he was intently lading out the stuff of his patronage.

It could very well have been the pinnacle of each of his days. I do not know, but it looked so. His admirers were equally as inspired that he, again, returned to give them goodness. As I walked past him it occurred to me: One giving freely day after day, with Joy, to those who could not pay Him back. I thought about that for a while afterward and the next day.

When I was a lad of 7 or 8 I had a fascination with the hands of men that had seen hard work. The wrinkles and callouses and worn shiny skin seemed to be magic to me. Here were hands that touched tools, metal and wood. They endured pain. They formed the ground and living things. I was enthralled by those hands, even though they were mostly at rest when I saw them.

I desperately wanted to have hands like that. My own young hands were skinny and tender. No character. They were weak and easily felt pain. On occasion I would use my hands roughly and try to get them toughened up, but the progress was very slow. I vaguely recall my first real callouses and that I was amazed that I finally had a callous to speak of.

Today, at 55, I look at my hands and see a bit of the hands of a working man. My palm skin is creasing up. Some of my joints are getting a little large. One finger won't straighten out very well. There are scars and stains here and there. The veins stand out a bit on the backs and the skin is starting to get a bit transparent. I think I'm finally making some progress.

Then I meet my neighbor Ralph and I feel like a little kid again. He's in his 80's and worked in the woods almost all of his life. His hands are just as gnarled and knotty are old tree roots. Beaten up and yet tender. Old, yet capable. And when he gestures with those old hands I DO pay respect to his decades of years and experiences. I love his hands.

Hopefully I can get some more things done with these hands of mine and make a real contribution of goodness to this world. I'd like to have more character in my hands. Its going to take some real work. And maybe, just maybe when I'm an old man gesturing to make my point some younger whippersnapper will pay me a bit of respect, even if just for the fact that I have cool looking, roughed up old hands that have a few things to say for themselves.

Now ... where did I put that shovel of mine??

I'm always a little concerned when I find myself with a choice between two things I don't want. Have you been there recently? Sometimes its best to take a breath and step back, at least a short distance, to gain some perspective. Let the ill-wind blow by. See what's left after the squall line passes through.

I have a cat like that. His name is Lee. He's quite the charming fellow. He does not know any other cat who is not his friend. Kind of like the way Will Rogers lived: “A stranger is just a friend I haven't met yet.” Another cat might hiss at Lee, but Lee just looks at him with a kind of expression that says to me "no hablo 'hiss' , wanna be friends!?" He really doesn't speak that language!

Guess what? Lee has alot of friends and no enemies! He walks in a world without looking over his shoulder. Knows who gives the best head rubs and where the best sunny spots are. He's a wise one.

Maybe your example walks on two feet. Some of mine walk on four, too. Its really good to have the chance to see how it all can be different, and that 'push' may not lead to 'shove' as much as a chance to be friends.

Its worth a shot!

Life is often what we make of it. Whether we are in a rough patch or living on easy street we can choose to see light or darkness, good or bad, possibilities or problems. We can choose to live or wait for life to happen to us. Choosing well is the art of this life.

Sometimes the currents of swirling waters rise up and rip at us as we cling to a scrub branch. Sometimes the sun lays its mellowing warmth on our drowsy form. Sometimes we awake at night not knowing, which can be a very bad feeling indeed. Other times the warmth of security provides the kind of mothering we remember from times a'bye.

Day 5 of the year 2012 is like a blank sheet of paper waiting for you and me to begin to trace and fill our lives. We have 360 more sheets to inscribe. I hope and pray that we draw well these lives of ours. Every line and shade are a commitment, not to perfection, but to exploration and the privilege of breath.

Its time to get out our coloring pens and make this the very best year we have lived so far! Please do not wait for tomorrow, friend. It is time to really paint it up one side and down the other.

If you need assistance, you may enlist the encouragement of 2 or 3  Doctors of Living whose ages range from 3 to 5 years old. They are wise in many ways and a benefit to those of us who are returning to our easels after many years.

Earlier this Fall, when the leaves had started to fade, I was driving to my day job. Along the way I saw love.

He stood at least 6 feet tall, thin as a young man usually is: beard, long-ish hair, working man's clothes, light coat against the coolness of the morning. His right arm hung down. His hand was down to his thigh, holding the little hand of his daughter.

His daughter was hardly as tall as his knee, and her arm was almost straight up, hand in her father's hand surrounding hers. She wore a padded pink jacket which was seeing its next year of service. They walked carefully, at her pace, without rush, going to the place where the school bus would pick her up.

The pink back pack matched her coat. It was as big as she. I think it must have been filled with dreams and the future and a lot of things you can't see unless your eyes are well adjusted.

And he was wearing it, as they walked along together.

Sometimes we read of a man who has done a heroic deed, or even an ordinary deed done in an extraordinary way or time. Many, many of our worthy acts are never witnessed, except by eternal eyes.

Joe (not his real name) is caring for his wife, of over 6 decades, who is dealing with progressive dementia. Their journey together continues even in these kinds of days. His strength combined with her spirit: like a three legged race where each must hold the other up while moving forward. That takes practice!

Having also been a care giver I understand a bit of this dance of three legs, two arms and one life.

Joe is my hero and example. He is my comrade in caring arms. There are many of us 'Brothers of the Caring Arms'. I'm sure there are a few metals and ribbons on our chests that no one can see. But we know each other by a certain look of the soul in the eyes: a knowing, a caring, some sorrow, some joy.

Brothers, you are not forgotten. Keep the Flame of the Heart alive. Live well. Rest along the way. Take good care of you as well as your loved ones, too. We've a few more miles to go on this journey of ours.

We were attending a music festival at Thomas Point in Brunswick, Maine (Saltwater Celtic Music Festival) this past weekend. There, camped out just in front of us, was a family of Dad, Mom and 3 small kids.

We were all enjoying the music. Great bands from near and far playing their traditional and contemporary Celtic vibes. But of course the kids are "action heros", ya know. They were just wanting to have some fun and fun was being pretty active, too.

Dad was laying down on the blanket. And the kids wanted to use Dad as a jungle gym of sorts. He would put his feet on their tummies, hold their arms and lift them skyward. What FUN! Then would turn them over very gently as they landed feet first over his head. Exceedingly more fun :)

The kids lined up in queue waiting their turn, giggling and expectantly waiting for their ride. After a few turns they moved on to other endeavors. It was a joy to watch and brought back memories of my own kidhood time being hoisted skyward.

(As an aside: you do not need a cell phone or internet connection to make this kind of fun.)

I was walking out of the Post Office after mailing 'Skeeter Skidaddler to some folks who had ordered online. Out among the cars in the line up was a man pacing, talking on a cell phone. Without thinking, what I noticed first was his differences. He looked different. He talked different. He moved a bit differently.

Maybe we are wired like that. Maybe we learn it. Maybe we see others doing it and so we do it, too. We notice what is different in others. Maybe its their language, or their clothing, or their manner that we notice. The thought flickers across the inner fibers of our awareness - "different"

Something touched me when I over heard him say,
                       ..."I love you'"...

I walked on to my truck. The "different" impression fading rapidly...and I smiled at myself, having watched myself through the whole episode of these few moments.

Buddy: My family likes your bug repellant.
Buddy: I got BOTH the pet-safe and the human versions.
Me: nice
Me: it makes me smell better 
...
Buddy: My 21 year old son is a roofer.  I think he took the human version and put it in his work bag.
Me: thief!
Buddy: Well....I let him actually.  I told my wife to use the pet version.
Buddy: Then I slept on the couch.
Me: The old wisdom says when a man gets married he needs to first build a good dog house, because he will be spending a lot of time there.
Buddy: Ain't that the truth!
Me: (hehehe)

This past Friday when I was delivering a 'Skeeter Skidaddler order to the Center for Maine Crafts at the Maine Mall in South Portland, I saw three young men having fun while walking to their car in the parking lot. Not surprising. Everyone likes to have a good time.

What was different (to my seeing) was that these guys were just enjoying life without concern for being "cool". Two of them were preparing to race each other, while the third guy was the 'starter'. The 'starter' kept saying 'Mark. Set...' then would delay the 'Go', and the other two kept false starting...a classic mind messing thing guys do to each other :)

I smiled. It reminded me of days without electronic distractions. It brought back a few memories.

These young men found a secret treasure: just being who you are. In this case they were two goofy, teenage rivals who finally insisted on running full bore in a friendly competition, completely disregarding their final "false" start. It wasn't "false", really. It's always a good start in life just to have fun being who you are and enjoying the company of one's compatriots.

I hope they never lose that gift. And I hope that more of those who see them running like crazy might catch a glimpse and try their own version of 'just being who you are'. Could be a new trend in the making.