For Whom The Bell Tolls by John Donne

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For Whom The Bell Tolls
by John Donne


No man is an island,
Entire of itself.
Each is a piece of the continent,
A part of the main.
If a clod be washed away by the sea,
Europe is the less.
As well as if a promontory were.
As well as if a manner of thine own
Or of thine friend's were.
Each man's death diminishes me,
For I am involved in mankind.
Therefore, send not to know
For whom the bell tolls,
It tolls for thee.

Deadline Smedline

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Deadline Smedline


I think deadlines are a fiction. I have never met a deadline I couldn’t extend. You may think that impervious deadline is set in stone; I know different. Just when you are sure the line has been drawn in the sand, watch that deadline move.

Applying for admission to get a master’s degree is one of my favorite examples. I had decided to get my master’s degree a little late, and after making sure all of my ducks were in a row, I went to register. Some people might do this in another order; get accepted into a program and then see if everything else would work out. Someday the way I view deadlines is going to backfire on me, but this was not the day.

I talked with the registration people about their degree programs, and indicated one I was especially interested in beginning. The woman behind the desk gave me the standard apoplectic stare usually associated with “deadlines”. She informed me I was seriously past the admission deadline, which was months before. I calmly took out my checkbook and asked her, “How much is the late fee?” She calmed down and told me it was ninety dollars.

Ninety dollars later, I was in the program and didn’t even bat an eye. Sometimes paying a late fee prevents serious complications if others things don’t go the way you want. What if I wasn’t approved for a sabbatical to start my masters? I would have been out the admission fee anyway.

This is not a technique for the faint of heart. I understand bus drivers and train engineers have a schedule to keep, but if they miss an appointed deadline for arriving at a certain place, they have to adjust and try to make up time later in the trip. Can this kind of philosophy succeed in today’s world?

I think one of my inspirations for not sweating deadlines comes from the 1980’s movie “The Gods Must Be Crazy”. This convoluted tale about a Coke bottle in an African desert has an interesting statement about aboriginal life in the Kalahari. The narrator says something like this. “In the Kalahari, there is no Monday, or Tuesday, or any other day for that matter. There are no clocks to regulate what happens when on any particular day.” I like that attitude.

All these days, hours and minutes we have created are really just a way to mark time and be able to meet together at pre-arranged times. I’m not sure how the modern world would work without clocks, but remember, somewhere one day someone said, “This is the correct time, this is the day of the week, and this is the number we will use for our years.”

Unconvinced? Go to any encyclopedia and look up Jesus Christ. Even Wikipedia lists his birth year as 4 B.C. Even if you use the phrase Before the Common Era instead of B.C., tell me what is supposed to be the start of the common era? The birth of Christ. B.C. means before Christ, but for political correctness, you can also say before the common era. For those who don’t believe in the divinity of Jesus Christ, this is another was to refer to the Gregorian calendar without invoking the name of Christ. But that’s not the point here. Did you hear the date given for his birth? Four B.C., or four B.C.E for everyone else.

If we are off four years for the birth of Christ, why are we worrying about deadlines? Here’s another reason I’m not too worried about deadlines. I can always tell people I am running my life on the Julian calendar and not the Gregorian. Because the Julian calendar didn’t use leap days, when most of the western world switched to the Gregorian calendar, we had to skip ten days. Seriously. On Thursday, October 4th in 1582, people went to bed and woke up the next day, which was Friday, October 15th. They skipped 10 days overnight to correct the calendar.

I feel sorry for the people who had birthdays on October 5th through 14th in 1582. Did they get to celebrate their birthdays, or were they just lumped into the 15th? Think about people who are born on February 29th; they only get to celebrate their real birthday every four years.

So a deadline is not as solid as you may think. I’m glad I wasn’t alive in 1582. What if the tax man had given you an October 15th deadline, and you went to sleep on the 4th thinking you had ten more days to find the money? The next morning, you wake up and see you are in deep trouble.

This is when you would take out your bag of gold and ask, “How much is the late fee?”


Dane Allred seeks to combine the best of podcasting and blogging in 800 word blogs turned into 5 minute podcasts. They are broadcast live every Sunday on www.k-talk.com from 7 to 8 p.m. (Mountain Standard Time), and are also available at daneallred.podbean.com. Watch for his upcoming book, “A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to Dane Allred”.

Marry Me

Marry Me

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I don’t like things to stand in my way. Obstructions often block the way to things all of us want, and life seems to be one long lesson in finding ways around these road blocks. Some of us are more creative than others, and some people use the difficulties they find in life to create new solutions. Anytime there is a problem, there are probably thousands of ways to solve it.

I swore never to be married until I was 25, although I’m not sure why I chose that arbitrary number. Then I got to college and found out most people are trying to get an education, get a job and find a mate. It’s an exciting time of life, and I was caught up in the search. I knew what I wanted to be, and the educational path I was going to follow, but was I going to follow this path alone?

I fell in love with my wife seeing her perform. As a dancer and an actress she won my heart. I knew we would be the perfect couple. We appeared in some stage plays together, and eventually ended up dating. Then came the inevitable day when one of us would get cold feet. Luckily, it wasn’t me. She used the old standard “I think we should date other people” to try to distract me, but I didn’t buy it. She was mainly afraid, and I knew some ways to deal with that.

Usually, when someone says, “I think we should date other people” that means the relationship is basically over, and you are being kept around for giggles. Maybe as a fallback. But just like any other obstacle in my life, I knew there was a couple of ways to make her change her mind. I probably only had one opportunity to get it right.

So here is how I tricked my wife into marrying me. I knew she was scared of what the future might hold, so I decided to give her a little view of one possible future. I said to her I thought if she wanted to date others that would be a good idea. I also asked her if she had a couple of tickets to her upcoming dance concert. I’ll bet you can see where this is going. I didn’t say it would be pretty.

So I got my two tickets and got a date and went to the concert. I made sure I sat down right in the front towards the right. I probably knew that is where my future bride would be dancing, but if not, it was a great guess. She did a great job, and even though I am sure she wanted to shoot me, she simply danced her very best.

Later she told me she was so angry she could hardly see straight. She was really, really mad I had used the free tickets she had given me to bring a date, and then sit down in the front where she would have to look at us. I really didn’t have to say much at this point, because I knew this solution to her objections to getting married only had two outcomes. She would be glad I was moving on, or she would realize she really did care about me, and I might not be around and available forever.

I probably just said something stupid like, “So I guess you don’t want me to date other people?”, but when the movie is made, I want my character to say something classy like, “I guess this means you really do love me.” Slow dissolve fade into the romantic wedding.

I think this may have been my only proposal, because after this we planned on getting married and chose a date. I was in a stage play, and had limited time at night since the show was going to running when we wanted to tie the knot. We had planned on a Saturday just to give us more time, but with impromptu marriages you have to visit the justice of the peace on a day when she is in session. We went to Preston, Idaho on a Friday instead and Justice Ann Davis performed a lovely ceremony.

Our wedding dinner was root beer and onion rings at A&W, and we dashed back to the college for that night’s performance.

I have the world’s best wife. Think about this. I was married Friday afternoon, and on Friday night I was kissing another woman on stage. This other woman wasn’t the best kisser in the world since she had an overbite and this cuts down on suction. But my new bride didn’t have a problem with it. Like I’ve said before, I am one lucky guy. Let’s hope my luck lasts.

Another episode of "Dane Allred's Partly-colored Dreamcoat", this 5 minute pocast/800 word blog is also available at www.daneallred.blogspot.com and www.daneallred.podbean.com, and is available for public use as long as Dane Allred is credited.

An Occurence at Owl Creek Bridge by Ambrose Bierce

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An Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge
by Ambrose Bierce

One

A man stood upon a railroad bridge in northern Alabama, looking down into the swift water twenty feet below. The man’s hands were behind his back, the wrists bound with a cord. A rope closely encircled his neck. It was attached to a stout cross-timber above his head and the slack fell to the level of his knees. Some loose boards laid upon the ties supporting the rails of the railway supplied a footing for him and his executioners - two private soldiers of the Federal army, directed by a sergeant who in civil life may have been a deputy sheriff. At a short remove upon the same temporary platform was an officer in the uniform of his rank, armed. He was a captain. A sentinel at each end of the bridge stood with his rifle in the position known as “support,” that is to say, vertical in front of the left shoulder, the hammer resting on the forearm thrown straight across the chest - a formal and unnatural position, enforcing an erect carriage of the body. It did not appear to be the duty of these two men to know what was occurring at the center of the bridge; they merely blockaded the two ends of the foot planking that traversed it.

Beyond one of the sentinels nobody was in sight; the railroad ran straight away into a forest for a hundred yards, then, curving, was lost to view. Doubtless there was an outpost farther along. The other bank of the stream was open ground - a gentle slope topped with a stockade of vertical tree trunks, loop holed for rifles, with a single embrasure through which protruded the muzzle of a brass cannon commanding the bridge. Midway up the slope between the bridge and fort were the spectators - a single company of infantry in line, at ‘parade rest,’ the butts of their rifles on the ground, the barrels inclining slightly backward against the right shoulder, the hands crossed upon the stock. A lieutenant stood at the right of the line, the point of his sword upon the ground, his left hand resting upon his right. Excepting the group of four at the center of the bridge, not a man moved. The company faced the bridge, staring stonily, motionless. The sentinels, facing the banks of the stream, might have been statues to adorn the bridge. The captain stood with folded arms, silent, observing the work of his subordinates, but making no sign. Death is a dignitary who when he comes announced is to be received with formal manifestations of respect, even by those most familiar with him. In the code of military etiquette silence and fixity are forms of deference.

The man who was engaged in being hanged was apparently about thirty-five years of age. He was a civilian, if one might judge from his habit, which was that of a planter. His features were good - a straight nose, firm mouth, broad forehead, from which his long, dark hair was combed straight back, falling behind his ears to the collar of his well fitting frock coat. He wore a moustache and pointed beard, but no whiskers; his eyes were large and dark gray, and had a kindly expression which one would hardly have expected in one whose neck was in the hemp. Evidently this was no vulgar assassin. The liberal military code makes provision for hanging many kinds of persons, and gentlemen are not excluded.

The preparations being complete, the two private soldiers stepped aside and each drew away the plank upon which he had been standing. The sergeant turned to the captain, saluted and placed himself immediately behind that officer, who in turn moved apart one pace. These movements left the condemned man and the sergeant standing on the two ends of the same plank, which spanned three of the cross-ties of the bridge. The end upon which the civilian stood almost, but not quite, reached a fourth. This plank had been held in place by the weight of the captain; it was now held by that of the sergeant. At a signal from the former the latter would step aside, the plank would tilt and the condemned man go down between two ties. The arrangement commended itself to his judgment as simple and effective. His face had not been covered nor his eyes bandaged. He looked a moment at his ‘unsteadfast footing,’ then let his gaze wander to the swirling water of the stream racing madly beneath his feet. A piece of dancing driftwood caught his attention and his eyes followed it down the current. How slowly it appeared to move! What a sluggish stream!

He closed his eyes in order to fix his last thoughts upon his wife and children. The water, touched to gold by the early sun, the brooding mists under the banks at some distance down the stream, the fort, the soldiers, the piece of drift - all had distracted him. And now he became conscious of a new disturbance. Striking through the thought of his dear ones was sound which he could neither ignore nor understand, a sharp, distinct, metallic percussion like the stroke of a blacksmith’s hammer upon the anvil; it had the same ringing quality. He wondered what it was, and whether immeasurably distant or near by - it seemed both. Its recurrence was regular, but as slow as the tolling of a death knell. He awaited each new stroke with impatience and - he knew not why - apprehension. The intervals of silence grew progressively longer; the delays became maddening. With their greater infrequency the sounds increased in strength and sharpness. They hurt his ear like the trust of a knife; he feared he would shriek. What he heard was the ticking of his watch.

He unclosed his eyes and saw again the water below him. “If I could free my hands,” he thought, “I might throw off the noose and spring into the stream. By diving I could evade the bullets and, swimming vigorously, reach the bank, take to the woods and get away home. My home, thank God, is as yet outside their lines; my wife and little ones are still beyond the invader’s farthest advance.”

As these thoughts, which have here to be set down in words, were flashed into the doomed man’s brain rather than evolved from it the captain nodded to the sergeant. The sergeant stepped aside.



Two

Peyton Fahrquhar was a well to do planter, of an old and highly respected Alabama family. Being a slave owner and like other slave owners a politician, he was naturally an original secessionist and ardently devoted to the Southern cause. Circumstances of an imperious nature, which it is unnecessary to relate here, had prevented him from taking service with that gallant army which had fought the disastrous campaigns ending with the fall of Corinth, and he chafed under the inglorious restraint, longing for the release of his energies, the larger life of the soldier, the opportunity for distinction. That opportunity, he felt, would come, as it comes to all in wartime. Meanwhile he did what he could. No service was too humble for him to perform in the aid of the South, no adventure to perilous for him to undertake if consistent with the character of a civilian who was at heart a soldier, and who in good faith and without too much qualification assented to at least a part of the frankly villainous dictum that all is fair in love and war.

One evening while Fahrquhar and his wife were sitting on a rustic bench near the entrance to his grounds, a gray-clad soldier rode up to the gate and asked for a drink of water. Mrs. Fahrquhar was only too happy to serve him with her own white hands. While she was fetching the water her husband approached the dusty horseman and inquired eagerly for news from the front.

“The Yanks are repairing the railroads,” said the man, “and are getting ready for another advance. They have reached the Owl Creek bridge, put it in order and built a stockade on the north bank. The commandant has issued an order, which is posted everywhere, declaring that any civilian caught interfering with the railroad, its bridges, tunnels, or trains will be summarily hanged. I saw the order.”

“How far is it to the Owl Creek bridge?” Fahrquhar asked.

“About thirty miles.”

“Is there no force on this side of the creek?”

“Only a picket post half a mile out, on the railroad, and a single sentinel at this end of the bridge.”

“Suppose a man - a civilian and student of hanging - should elude the picket post and perhaps get the better of the sentinel,” said Fahrquhar, smiling, “what could he accomplish?”

The soldier reflected. “I was there a month ago,” he replied. “I observed that the flood of last winter had lodged a great quantity of driftwood against the wooden pier at this end of the bridge. It is now dry and would burn like tinder.”

The lady had now brought the water, which the soldier drank. He thanked her ceremoniously, bowed to her husband and rode away. An hour later, after nightfall, he repassed the plantation, going northward in the direction from which he had come. He was a Federal scout.



Three

As Peyton Fahrquhar fell straight downward through the bridge he lost consciousness and was as one already dead. From this state he was awakened - ages later, it seemed to him - by the pain of a sharp pressure upon his throat, followed by a sense of suffocation. Keen, poignant agonies seemed to shoot from his neck downward through every fiber of his body and limbs. These pains appeared to flash along well defined lines of ramification and to beat with an inconceivably rapid periodicity. They seemed like streams of pulsating fire heating him to an intolerable temperature. As to his head, he was conscious of nothing but a feeling of fullness - of congestion. These sensations were unaccompanied by thought. The intellectual part of his nature was already effaced; he had power only to feel, and feeling was torment. He was conscious of motion. Encompassed in a luminous cloud, of which he was now merely the fiery heart, without material substance, he swung through unthinkable arcs of oscillation, like a vast pendulum. Then all at once, with terrible suddenness, the light about him shot upward with the noise of a loud splash; a frightful roaring was in his ears, and all was cold and dark. The power of thought was restored; he knew that the rope had broken and he had fallen into the stream. There was no additional strangulation; the noose about his neck was already suffocating him and kept the water from his lungs. To die of hanging at the bottom of a river! - the idea seemed to him ludicrous. He opened his eyes in the darkness and saw above him a gleam of light, but how distant, how inaccessible! He was still sinking, for the light became fainter and fainter until it was a mere glimmer. Then it began to grow and brighten, and he knew that he was rising toward the surface - knew it with reluctance, for he was now very comfortable. “To be hanged and drowned,” he thought, “that is not so bad; but I do not wish to be shot. No; I will not be shot; that is not fair.”

He was not conscious of an effort, but a sharp pain in his wrist apprised him that he was trying to free his hands. He gave the struggle his attention, as an idler might observe the feat of a juggler, without interest in the outcome. What splendid effort! - what magnificent, what superhuman strength! Ah, that was a fine endeavor! Bravo! The cord fell away; his arms parted and floated upward, the hands dimly seen on each side in the growing light. He watched them with a new interest as first one and then the other pounced upon the noose at his neck. They tore it away and thrust it fiercely aside, its undulations resembling those of a water snake. “Put it back, put it back!” He thought he shouted these words to his hands, for the undoing of the noose had been succeeded by the direst pang that he had yet experienced. His neck ached horribly; his brain was on fire, his heart, which had been fluttering faintly, gave a great leap, trying to force itself out at his mouth. His whole body was racked and wrenched with an insupportable anguish! But his disobedient hands gave no heed to the command. They beat the water vigorously with quick, downward strokes, forcing him to the surface. He felt his head emerge; his eyes were blinded by the sunlight; his chest expanded convulsively, and with a supreme and crowning agony his lungs engulfed a great draught of air, which instantly he expelled in a shriek!

He was now in full possession of his physical senses. They were, indeed, preternaturally keen and alert. Something in the awful disturbance of his organic system had so exalted and refined them that they made record of things never before perceived. He felt the ripples upon his face and heard their separate sounds as they struck. He looked at the forest on the bank of the stream, saw the individual trees, the leaves and the veining of each leaf - he saw the very insects upon them: the locusts, the brilliant bodied flies, the gray spiders stretching their webs from twig to twig. He noted the prismatic colors in all the dewdrops upon a million blades of grass. The humming of the gnats that danced above the eddies of the stream, the beating of the dragon flies’ wings, the strokes of the water spiders’ legs, like oars which had lifted their boat - all these made audible music. A fish slid along beneath his eyes and he heard the rush of its body parting the water.

He had come to the surface facing down the stream; in a moment the visible world seemed to wheel slowly round, himself the pivotal point, and he saw the bridge, the fort, the soldiers upon the bridge, the captain, the sergeant, the two privates, his executioners. They were in silhouette against the blue sky. They shouted and gesticulated, pointing at him. The captain had drawn his pistol, but did not fire; the others were unarmed. Their movements were grotesque and horrible, their forms gigantic.

Suddenly he heard a sharp report and something struck the water smartly within a few inches of his head, spattering his face with spray. He heard a second report, and saw one of the sentinels with his rifle at his shoulder, a light cloud of blue smoke rising from the muzzle. The man in the water saw the eye of the man on the bridge gazing into his own through the sights of the rifle. He observed that it was a gray eye and remembered having read that gray eyes were keenest, and that all famous marksmen had them. Nevertheless, this one had missed.

A counter-swirl had caught Fahrquhar and turned him half round; he was again looking at the forest on the bank opposite the fort. The sound of a clear, high voice in a monotonous singsong now rang out behind him and came across the water with a distinctness that pierced and subdued all other sounds, even the beating of the ripples in his ears. Although no soldier, he had frequented camps enough to know the dread significance of that deliberate, drawling, aspirated chant; the lieutenant on shore was taking a part in the morning’s work. How coldly and pitilessly - with what an even, calm intonation, presaging, and enforcing tranquillity in the men - with what accurately measured interval fell those cruel words:

“Company! . . . Attention! . . . Shoulder arms! . . . Ready! . . . Aim! . . . Fire!”

Fahrquhar dived - dived as deeply as he could. The water roared in his ears like the voice of Niagara, yet he heard the dull thunder of the volley and, rising again toward the surface, met shining bits of metal, singularly flattened, oscillating slowly downward. Some of them touched him on the face and hands, then fell away, continuing their descent. One lodged between his collar and neck; it was uncomfortably warm and he snatched it out.

As he rose to the surface, gasping for breath, he saw that he had been a long time under water; he was perceptibly farther downstream - nearer to safety. The soldiers had almost finished reloading; the metal ramrods flashed all at once in the sunshine as they were drawn from the barrels, turned in the air, and thrust into their sockets. The two sentinels fired again, independently and ineffectually.

The hunted man saw all this over his shoulder; he was now swimming vigorously with the current. His brain was as energetic as his arms and legs; he thought with the rapidity of lightning:

“The officer,” he reasoned, “will not make that martinet’s error a second time. It is as easy to dodge a volley as a single shot. He has probably already given the command to fire at will. God help me, I cannot dodge them all!”

An appalling splash within two yards of him was followed by a loud, rushing sound, diminuendo, which seemed to travel back through the air to the fort and died in an explosion which stirred the very river to its deeps! A rising sheet of water curved over him, fell down upon him, blinded him, strangled him! The cannon had taken a hand in the game. As he shook his head free from the commotion of the smitten water he heard the deflected shot humming through the air ahead, and in an instant it was cracking and smashing the branches in the forest beyond.

“They will not do that again,” he thought; “the next time they will use a charge of grape. I must keep my eye upon the gun; the smoke will apprise me - the report arrives too late; it lags behind the missile. That is a good gun.”

Suddenly he felt himself whirled round and round - spinning like a top. The water, the banks, the forests, the now distant bridge, fort and men, all were commingled and blurred. Objects were represented by their colors only; circular horizontal streaks of color - that was all he saw. He had been caught in a vortex and was being whirled on with a velocity of advance and gyration that made him giddy and sick. In few moments he was flung upon the gravel at the foot of the left bank of the stream - the southern bank - and behind a projecting point which concealed him from his enemies. The sudden arrest of his motion, the abrasion of one of his hands on the gravel, restored him, and he wept with delight. He dug his fingers into the sand, threw it over himself in handfuls and audibly blessed it. It looked like diamonds, rubies, emeralds; he could think of nothing beautiful which it did not resemble. The trees upon the bank were giant garden plants; he noted a definite order in their arrangement, inhaled the fragrance of their blooms. A strange roseate light shone through the spaces among their trunks and the wind made in their branches the music of Aeolian harps. He had no wish to perfect his escape - he was content to remain in that enchanting spot until retaken.

A whiz and a rattle of grapeshot among the branches high above his head roused him from his dream. The baffled cannoneer had fired him a random farewell. He sprang to his feet, rushed up the sloping bank, and plunged into the forest.

All that day he travelled, laying his course by the rounding sun. The forest seemed interminable; nowhere did he discover a break in it, not even a woodman’s road. He had not known that he lived in so wild a region. There was something uncanny in the revelation.

By nightfall he was fatigued, footsore, famished. The thought of his wife and children urged him on. At last he found a road which led him in what he knew to be the right direction. It was as wide and straight as a city street, yet it seemed untraveled. No fields bordered it, no dwelling anywhere. Not so much as the barking of a dog suggested human habitation. The black bodies of the trees formed a straight wall on both sides, terminating on the horizon in a point, like a diagram in a lesson in perspective. Overhead, as he looked up through this rift in the wood, shone great golden stars looking unfamiliar and grouped in strange constellations. He was sure they were arranged in some order which had a secret and malign significance. The wood on either side was full of singular noises, among which - once, twice, and again - he distinctly heard whispers in an unknown tongue.

His neck was in pain and lifting his hand to it found it horribly swollen. He knew that it had a circle of black where the rope had bruised it. His eyes felt congested; he could no longer close them. His tongue was swollen with thirst; he relieved its fever by thrusting it forward from between his teeth into the cold air. How softly the turf had carpeted the untraveled avenue - he could no longer feel the roadway beneath his feet!

Doubtless, despite his suffering, he had fallen asleep while walking, for now he sees another scene - perhaps he has merely recovered from a delirium. He stands at the gate of his own home. All is as he left it, and all bright and beautiful in the morning sunshine. He must have travelled the entire night. As he pushes open the gate and passes up the wide white walk, he sees a flutter of female garments; his wife, looking fresh and cool and sweet, steps down from the veranda to meet him. At the bottom of the steps she stands waiting, with a smile of ineffable joy, an attitude of matchless grace and dignity. Ah, how beautiful she is! He springs forwards with extended arms. As he is about to clasp her he feels a stunning blow upon the back of the neck; a blinding white light blazes all about him with a sound like the shock of a cannon - then all is darkness and silence!

Peyton Fahrquhar was dead; his body, with a broken neck, swung gently from side to side beneath the timbers of the Owl Creek Bridge.


This is another episode of “Literature Out Loud” by host Dane Allred. This selection is is also available at daneallred.podbean.com. Tune each week from 7 to 8 P.M. Mountain Standard Time (9 to 10 EST) or listen on any web browser at www.k-talk.com.

Composed Upon Westminster Bridge by William Wordsworth

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Composed Upon Westminster Bridge

by William Wordsworth



Earth has not anything to show more fair:

Dull would he be of soul who could pass by

A sight so touching in its majesty:

This City now doth like a garment wear

The beauty of the morning; silent, bare,

Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temples lie

Open unto the fields, and to the sky,

All bright and glittering in the smokeless air.

Never did the sun more beautifully steep

In his first splendor, valley, rock, or hill;

Ne’er saw I, never felt a calm so deep!

The river glideth at his own sweet will:

Dear God! The very houses seem asleep;

And all that mighty heart is lying still!


This is another episode of "Literature Out Loud" from the weekly program "Abundance". As the host, Dane Allred reads selections from famous literature each week on www.k-talk.com from 7 to 8 pm Mountain Standard Time every Sunday.

Cowed

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http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oXyIWWB2bFk

Cowed

Bridges can sometimes betray us. Just when we think all is safe and it’s time to cross, you end up stuck and walking down a canyon in the dark. And getting scared out of your wits.

I live in a strange place which is a citadel of civilization, yet an hour east or south, and you are in the middle of the old west, complete with dirt trails, cow fences and bridges made of pine poles and long planks. When I used to cut trees in the mountains for fence poles and posts, my dad arranged for me to cut a stand of trees up a long canyon, and then up a long dirt road.

I love using a chainsaw, cutting and trimming trees, and the smell of fresh cut wood, especially pine. I would cut 30 or 40 trees, load them on the truck and call it a day’s work. It was good for me, and I really enjoyed it. In case I got stuck, Dad had told me to just walk down the dirt road and wait on the main road, and he would come pick me up if I didn’t show up at night.

Luckily, I only had to walk out once, but once was enough. I got stuck another time in this same canyon, but a sheepherder saved me. But that’s another story. I would drive an hour on the main road. Then the dirt road was another 45 minutes, going about 20 or 30 miles an hour. So it was probably 5 or 10 miles from the main road to the wooden bridge I needed to cross to get to the trees I was supposed to cut.

At the small bridge, again made of some pine poles and a couple of long pieces of 2 by 6 or 2 by 8 planks. It wasn’t an engineering marvel, but it got you from one side to the other. Sometimes it was a little wet if the water was high, but I had crossed it so many times I didn’t even worry about it anymore.

The back end of the truck slid off to one side, while the front wheels were still on the improvised bridge. I was stumped. I tried to pry the back wheels back up onto the bridge, but it was no use. The work I did that day was to unsuccessfully get the back of the truck back onto the bridge. So as the sun began to set, I decided it might be time to start walking down the dirt road to wait for Dad.

It was incredibly dark, and there was no moon. If you have never been miles and miles away from the city to see the incredible stars, you really need to do it someday. It is an amazing sight, and there seems to be ten times as many stars as you have ever seen.

The dirt road was just a little lighter than the sagebrush next to it. I couldn’t even see if there were rocks or ruts to avoid, so I stumbled a few times. I must have been making quite a racket. Remember, I have already told you there were cow fences, and what that means is every so often there would be a gate to close, or there would be a cow grating. These are metal bridges cows don’t cross, so they stay where they are supposed to.

This also drew other animals to the mountains, including bears, wolves, and coyotes. As I turned a corner and stumbled a bit, something off the side of the road jumped up and crashed through the sagebrush. For all I knew it was crashing toward me, so I ran as fast as I could down a dirt road in the pitch black. After a few moments, I realized nothing was chasing me, and as I slowed up to listen, I could hear the calf I had surprised on the road still running the other way.

Needless to say, I had plenty of energy left to make it to the bottom of the canyon. I sat for a while, and then my Dad pulled up in his truck. I don’t think I told him about how his son had been terrified of a cow in the middle of a dark canyon. We went up the next day and pulled my truck off the bridge. Then I drove across it and went to work while Dad went back to the farm.

What’s the moral to the story? If there is one, I guess it would be not to trust every bridge you see. Maybe the moral is to be careful even when you have crossed the same bridge many times before. Maybe the real moral is not to be afraid of that cow in the dark.

This is another episode of “Dane Allred’s Partly-colored Dreamcoat”. From the weekly broadcast of “Abundance”. Tune each week from 7 to 8 P.M. Mountain Standard Time (9 to 10 EST) or listen on any web browser at www.k-talk.com.

The video blog is available at http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oXyIWWB2bFk

Dream the Dream

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Dream the Dream
At one time someone stood looking across a crevasse. They could see the lush growth on the other side, but there was no way to get there. A human mind doesn’t take a challenge lightly, and at some time long ago some ingenious person decided to span the gap, build a bridge and connect to that unknown. Bridges are one way we can explore that unknown territory, and when we build them, we are looking forward to see what can happen when here meets there.

The first bridge was probably just a tree across a river, but that image has stayed with us, and every time we wanted to get from here to there we build bridges. When we want to unite land masses, we build a bridge. When we want to unite people, we also need to build a bridge.

There are some people in our past who have been really good at building bridges between cultures, spanning the differences between people with some kind of inspiration that will bind them together.

Think about Martin Luther King, Jr. The image we associate most with his historic efforts at civil rights is his “I have a dream” speech. Think about this speech, and try to think of the visual bridge he created which American’s finally united to end “separate but equal”. Can you see that image in your mind which ended decades of Jim Crow laws and brought civil rights reforms to the United States?

Call me crazy, but I think that bridge is the simple phrase one day “right there in Alabama little black boys and black girls will be able to join hands with little white boys and white girls as sisters and brothers.” Were you thinking of the same image? There are many, many things said in that speech which evoke images ranging from Bible passages to a spirited rendition of “My Country ‘Tis of Thee”.

Why would I think only of the little children hand in hand? Maybe you thought of someone else. But that bridge for me is one of the reasons I think of this speech as a great bridge. Gandhi was another great bridge builder, also freeing the nation of India with non-violent protest.

George Washington built the bridge between revolution and democracy. Abraham Lincoln re-unified a country divided with the bridge of his resolve. Mother Teresa spent her life bridging the gap to the poor with her tireless service.

Where there is a problem, there can be a bridge builder. I have many, many bridges in my life. One bridge connects a Southern Baptist heritage with a Mormon conversion. Another bridge connects blue collar generations with the first college education and white collar work. Another bridge connects artistic endeavor and practicality. You probably have all kinds of bridges in your life, too.

Is there a bridge we need to build together? The gap between the rich and the poor has never been larger, but what is the bridge that brings people out of crushing poverty? The world has plenty but the distribution of that plenty is unequal. What is the bridge that gives to those who have nothing? Our world of bounty is nothing new to us, but how can we help everyone enjoy the plenty we enjoy?

There are those who think of this as a world of scarcity, with only enough for some. I believe in the abundance which is limitless, and depends only on our ingenuity to bring about the changes which today are only dreams. But remember, bridges begin with dreams.

Limitless energy? Maybe that is your job. Assuring that no one goes to bed hungry? Maybe you will be the dreamer. Educational opportunities for everyone who wants them? That might be right up your alley. Finding cures for disease? Maybe you are the one who will dream the solution first.

I remember when I was very young looking at the world around me, not knowing there was any other kind of life than what I knew. Only as I got older did I realize there were people who were richer and poorer than me, more advantaged and less advantaged than I was, and those who could never imagine the incredible life I have been able to live.

Join me on this wonderful journey as we find a way to build a bridge to the future we all can imagine as a better place for all of us. A place where the children of all the world can walk hand in hand into a place we now only dream of. It was one hundred years from the signing of the Emancipation Proclamation to Civil Right legislation. What will you and I dream that will be the new bridge to what we can be tomorrow?

Acceptance

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Dane Allred’s Partly-colored Dreamcoat

Acceptance

It’s easy to be happy. We just have to be satisfied with what we have, and grateful for everything else we get. It’s a strange concept in our consumer society which teaches acquisition is the only way to happiness. I don’t think it is a bad thing to be a consumer; I just wonder if you really do need that thing you really, really want to buy.

When we were in college, my wife and I lived in a tiny apartment. The house we live in now would hold eight or ten of those small boxes. It really was just a small front room with a smaller kitchen attached; a bathroom and a tiny bedroom.

But we were happy to have rooms to share, and some of our best memories of early marriage were in that place. This place was so small it took a tiny refrigerated window air-conditioner to cool the whole place. It had such bad insulation the windows would ice up every winter, and were talking up to inches of ice on the inside of the window. The tile floors were cold, the bathroom miniscule, the kitchen even smaller.

We had to climb a set of stairs to get to the second floor, so we didn’t have to listen to people upstairs like the downstairs people had to. They used to complain about the noise we would make, but we were polite enough not to complain about the incredibly strong curry smell which wafted up from downstairs.

I still don’t like curry.

But when I think back to those good old bad old days, it’s funny to compare the luxury I am surrounded by today. Compared to our tiny college apartment, our house is huge. We have a huge yard. We drive more dependable cars, enjoy better food and have lots more disposable income. Are we proportionately happier?

I’m going to argue we really can be happy wherever we are, and whatever we are doing. It’s not just a measurement of living space, but the actuality of our life. It has been called self-fulfillment, or maybe self-actualization. Abraham Maslow described it by saying what a person can be, they must be, calling this need is self-actualization. It’s also a desire to be what we are potentially. He also said:

“This tendency might be phrased as the desire to become more and more what one is, to become everything that one is capable of becoming.”

If you are self-actualized you have a realistic perception of yourself, others and the world around you. You are also accepting. A self-actualized person is concerned with helping find solutions, often motivated by a sense of personal responsibility and ethics. If you are spontaneous, open and unconventional, you may be becoming the person you can be and must be.

A self-actualized person can also conform to rules and social expectations. While you enjoy the company of others, you probably also need independence and privacy to have the time to focus on developing your own individual potential.

This next quality may sound familiar. Self-actualized people have a continued sense of appreciation, viewing the world with awe and wonder. They experience fresh inspiration and pleasure with even simple experiences. They also have peak experiences or moments of intense joy, wonder, awe and ecstasy. These peak experiences leave self-actualized people feeling inspired, strengthened, renewed or transformed.

Does this sound like you?

Are you having peak experiences? Do you have a sense of appreciation, wonder and awe? I hope you are becoming more of what you are, what you must be. Are you spontaneous and unconventional? Do you want to solve the problems of others, or the problems of the world? I hope you are developing your own potential.

The world needs self-actualized people; those who are self-fulfilled. Those who dream of a better tomorrow and are finding ways to make that happen. Those people who know what they want to be, what they have to be, and are ready to see problems with a fresh eye and new perspective. The world is looking for these people to not only feel inspired, strengthened, renewed or transformed, but to also help others feel this in their lives, too.

It really is a tremendous feeling to be self-actualized, and I only wish I felt this way more often. But the good news is I am feeling self-fulfilled more often now. But it’s not because of my house, my job, my income or even that I am performing more than ever and feel ever more creative.

But saying I am self-actualized means I am probably not. It is an interesting contradiction.

But I do know even when I lived in a tiny place I was doing what I wanted. I still am. I hope you are too.

A Rose is a Rose

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What’s in a name? That which we call a rose, by any other name would smell as sweet.

William Shakespeare

The world is full of so many different kinds of people there is no way we can ever hope to know them all. We can know of a people, of a group, we categorize by geography. We think we know a people because we know of their country. We think of different ethnic groups and say all people in that group are alike.

Nothing could be further from the truth. As we learn to know people as individuals, we find out each person is unique and special in their own way. After we get to know a person even better, we can no longer classify them by color, race, ethnic group or any other label. They become our friends.

Accepting others really isn’t that hard. Ask a few questions and find out about their lives, and soon we learn we share more commonalities than differences. We all have a mother and a father and those two reference points give everyone a chance to share the joys, sorrows, and history of being a son or a daughter.

We all have youth and mature into old age. The fears and hopes may vary from one person to another, but again, if we take the time to learn about each other, we will find we are all brothers and sisters. When we think of the creation stories from around the world, the commonality is that we are all descended from common ancestors, and we truly are brothers and sisters. Trace back your family history far enough and we are all related. Even people we may not want to be related to are probably closer relative than we may want.

What’s in a name? The sweetest sound in the world. Knowing someone’s name is good indicator of how much we care about them. Do we consider the people who wait upon us as less important? Are those who work in less important jobs than ours less important people? Do we only know the names of our bosses? Why do we worship those who are famous or infamous and repeat their names with reverence to each other? Are movie stars and the wealthy really better than anyone else?

I’ve rubbed shoulders with many people who are household names as famous actors and actresses. They really are just like you and me. I try to explain this to those people I know, and they look at me as if I am from another planet. Don’t I know they are famous? Don’t I know I should quake in the presence of the famous and nearly famous? It really is a strange thing to realize we are all more similar than different, and those who we revere were just in the right place at the right time for an opportunity.

You know what I am talking about even though you want to deny it. There are people in your life who have better jobs, houses, cars, and it’s not because they are more talented, more blessed or more deserving. In fact, I’ll bet you can think of several people you believe don’t deserve the recognition or worldly possessions they have. Did they get those things by being more talented? Perhaps. Were they more deserving, or just lucky? Perhaps. But they really are no different than you or I, even though it seems hard to believe.

Here’s another way to explain what I trying to tell you. Think of those who succeeded in spite of being disadvantaged, disfigured or disabled. Helen Keller, Thomas Edison, Oprah Winfrey, Bill Gates, and even Ralph Lauren. Almost two-thirds of the world’s 946 billionaires made their fortunes from scratch, some were orphans. Think of the success story of J.K. Rowling, the author of the highly successful Harry Potter series. A single mother on welfare can succeed.

We all have so much talent, aptitude and untapped potential there is a future success in every person we meet. How can we discount any one of them as less important, less worth knowing, too insignificant to know their name?

Please don’t tell me you are bad at names. That old excuse is worse than claiming bad luck is the reason for failure. If you really want to know someone’s name and remember it; you will. Say their name to them when you hear it. Use their name as you speak with them. Try to remember, and ask again if you forget.

Or think of it this way. Who was the last person who remembered your name you were unhappy with? They cared enough to remember your name. Can you do the same?

There is an easy way to show you care for someone else. Learn their name.

The Fisherman and His Wife by the Brothers Grimm

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Once upon a time…

There was once a fisherman who lived with his wife in a pigsty, close by the seaside. The fisherman used to go out all day long a-fishing; and one day, as he sat on the shore with his rod, looking at the sparkling waves and watching his line, all on a sudden his float was dragged away deep into the water: and in drawing it up he pulled out a great fish. But the fish said, ‘Pray let me live! I am not a real fish; I am an enchanted prince: put me in the water again, and let me go!’ ‘Oh, ho!’ said the man, ‘you need not make so many words about the matter; I will have nothing to do with a fish that can talk: so swim away, sir, as soon as you please!’ Then he put him back into the water, and the fish darted straight down to the bottom, and left a long streak of blood behind him on the wave.



When the fisherman went home to his wife in the pigsty, he told her how he had caught a great fish, and how it had told him it was an enchanted prince, and how, on hearing it speak, he had let it go again. ‘Did not you ask it for anything?’ said the wife, ‘we live very wretchedly here, in this nasty dirty pigsty; do go back and tell the fish we want a snug little cottage.’



The fisherman did not much like the business: however, he went to the seashore; and when he came back there the water looked all yellow and green. And he stood at the water’s edge, and said:



‘O man of the sea!

Hearken to me!

My wife Ilsabill

Will have her own will,

And hath sent me to beg a boon of thee!’



Then the fish came swimming to him, and said, ‘Well, what is her will? What does your wife want?’ ‘Ah!’ said the fisherman, ’she says that when I had caught you, I ought to have asked you for something before I let you go; she does not like living any longer in the pigsty, and wants a snug little cottage.’ ‘Go home, then,’ said the fish; ’she is in the cottage already!’ So the man went home, and saw his wife standing at the door of a nice trim little cottage. ‘Come in, come in!’ said she; ‘is not this much better than the filthy pigsty we had?’ And there was a parlour, and a bedchamber, and a kitchen; and behind the cottage there was a little garden, planted with all sorts of flowers and fruits; and there was a courtyard behind, full of ducks and chickens. ‘Ah!’ said the fisherman, ‘how happily we shall live now!’ ‘We will try to do so, at least,’ said his wife.



Everything went right for a week or two, and then Dame Ilsabill said, ‘Husband, there is not near room enough for us in this cottage; the courtyard and the garden are a great deal too small; I should like to have a large stone castle to live in: go to the fish again and tell him to give us a castle.’ ‘Wife,’ said the fisherman, ‘I don’t like to go to him again, for perhaps he will be angry; we ought to be easy with this pretty cottage to live in.’ ‘Nonsense!’ said the wife; ‘he will do it very willingly, I know; go along and try!’



The fisherman went, but his heart was very heavy: and when he came to the sea, it looked blue and gloomy, though it was very calm; and he went close to the edge of the waves, and said:



‘O man of the sea!

Hearken to me!

My wife Ilsabill

Will have her own will,

And hath sent me to beg a boon of thee!’



‘Well, what does she want now?’ said the fish. ‘Ah!’ said the man, dolefully, ‘my wife wants to live in a stone castle.’ ‘Go home, then,’ said the fish; ’she is standing at the gate of it already.’ So away went the fisherman, and found his wife standing before the gate of a great castle. ‘See,’ said she, ‘is not this grand?’ With that they went into the castle together, and found a great many servants there, and the rooms all richly furnished, and full of golden chairs and tables; and behind the castle was a garden, and around it was a park half a mile long, full of sheep, and goats, and hares, and deer; and in the courtyard were stables and cow-houses. ‘Well,’ said the man, ‘now we will live cheerful and happy in this beautiful castle for the rest of our lives.’ ‘Perhaps we may,’ said the wife; ‘but let us sleep upon it, before we make up our minds to that.’ So they went to bed.



The next morning when Dame Ilsabill awoke it was broad daylight, and she jogged the fisherman with her elbow, and said, ‘Get up, husband, and bestir yourself, for we must be king of all the land.’ ‘Wife, wife,’ said the man, ‘why should we wish to be the king? I will not be king.’ ‘Then I will,’ said she. ‘But, wife,’ said the fisherman, ‘how can you be king, the fish cannot make you a king?’ ‘Husband,’ said she, ’say no more about it, but go and try! I will be king.’ So the man went away quite sorrowful to think that his wife should want to be king. This time the sea looked a dark grey colour, and was overspread with curling waves and the ridges of foam as he cried out:



‘O man of the sea!

Hearken to me!

My wife Ilsabill

Will have her own will,

And hath sent me to beg a boon of thee!’



‘Well, what would she have now?’ said the fish. ‘Alas!’ said the poor man, ‘my wife wants to be king.’ ‘Go home,’ said the fish; ’she is king already.’



Then the fisherman went home; and as he came close to the palace he saw a troop of soldiers, and heard the sound of drums and trumpets. And when he went in he saw his wife sitting on a throne of gold and diamonds, with a golden crown upon her head; and on each side of her stood six fair maidens, each a head taller than the other. ‘Well, wife,’ said the fisherman, ‘are you king?’ ‘Yes,’ said she, ‘I am king.’ And when he had looked at her for a long time, he said, ‘Ah, wife! what a fine thing it is to be king! Now we shall never have anything more to wish for as long as we live.’ ‘I don’t know how that may be,’ said she; ‘never is a long time. I am king, it is true; but I begin to be tired of that, and I think I should like to be emperor.’ ‘Alas, wife! why should you wish to be emperor?’ said the fisherman. ‘Husband,’ said she, ‘go to the fish! I say I will be emperor.’ ‘Ah, wife!’ replied the fisherman, ‘the fish cannot make an emperor, I am sure, and I should not like to ask him for such a thing.’ ‘I am king,’ said Ilsabill, ‘and you are my slave; so go at once!’



So the fisherman was forced to go; and he muttered as he went along, ‘This will come to no good, it is too much to ask; the fish will be tired at last, and then we shall be sorry for what we have done.’ He soon came to the seashore; and the water was quite black and muddy, and a mighty whirlwind blew over the waves and rolled them about, but he went as near as he could to the water’s brink, and said:



‘O man of the sea!

Hearken to me!

My wife Ilsabill

Will have her own will,

And hath sent me to beg a boon of thee!’



‘What would she have now?’ said the fish. ‘Ah!’ said the fisherman, ’she wants to be emperor.’ ‘Go home,’ said the fish; ’she is emperor already.’



So he went home again; and as he came near he saw his wife Ilsabill sitting on a very lofty throne made of solid gold, with a great crown on her head full two yards high; and on each side of her stood her guards and attendants in a row, each one smaller than the other, from the tallest giant down to a little dwarf no bigger than my finger. And before her stood princes, and dukes, and earls: and the fisherman went up to her and said, ‘Wife, are you emperor?’ ‘Yes,’ said she, ‘I am emperor.’ ‘Ah!’ said the man, as he gazed upon her, ‘what a fine thing it is to be emperor!’ ‘Husband,’ said she, ‘why should we stop at being emperor? I will be pope next.’ ‘O wife, wife!’ said he, ‘how can you be pope? there is but one pope at a time in Christendom.’ ‘Husband,’ said she, ‘I will be pope this very day.’ ‘But,’ replied the husband, ‘the fish cannot make you pope.’ ‘What nonsense!’ said she; ‘if he can make an emperor, he can make a pope: go and try him.’



So the fisherman went. But when he came to the shore the wind was raging and the sea was tossed up and down in boiling waves, and the ships were in trouble, and rolled fearfully upon the tops of the billows. In the middle of the heavens there was a little piece of blue sky, but towards the south all was red, as if a dreadful storm was rising. At this sight the fisherman was dreadfully frightened, and he trembled so that his knees knocked together: but still he went down near to the shore, and said:



‘O man of the sea!

Hearken to me!

My wife Ilsabill

Will have her own will,

And hath sent me to beg a boon of thee!’



‘What does she want now?’ said the fish. ‘Ah!’ said the fisherman, ‘my wife wants to be pope.’ ‘Go home,’ said the fish; ’she is pope already.’



Then the fisherman went home, and found Ilsabill sitting on a throne that was two miles high. And she had three great crowns on her head, and around her stood all the pomp and power of the Church. And on each side of her were two rows of burning lights, of all sizes, the greatest as large as the highest and biggest tower in the world, and the least no larger than a small rushlight. ‘Wife,’ said the fisherman, as he looked at all this greatness, ‘are you pope?’ ‘Yes,’ said she, ‘I am pope.’ ‘Well, wife,’ replied he, ‘it is a grand thing to be pope; and now you must be easy, for you can be nothing greater.’ ‘I will think about that,’ said the wife. Then they went to bed: but Dame Ilsabill could not sleep all night for thinking what she should be next. At last, as she was dropping asleep, morning broke, and the sun rose. ‘Ha!’ thought she, as she woke up and looked at it through the window, ‘after all I cannot prevent the sun rising.’ At this thought she was very angry, and wakened her husband, and said, ‘Husband, go to the fish and tell him I must be lord of the sun and moon.’ The fisherman was half asleep, but the thought frightened him so much that he started and fell out of bed. ‘Alas, wife!’ said he, ‘cannot you be easy with being pope?’ ‘No,’ said she, ‘I am very uneasy as long as the sun and moon rise without my leave. Go to the fish at once!’



Then the man went shivering with fear; and as he was going down to the shore a dreadful storm arose, so that the trees and the very rocks shook. And all the heavens became black with stormy clouds, and the lightnings played, and the thunders rolled; and you might have seen in the sea great black waves, swelling up like mountains with crowns of white foam upon their heads. And the fisherman crept towards the sea, and cried out, as well as he could:



‘O man of the sea!

Hearken to me!

My wife Ilsabill

Will have her own will,

And hath sent me to beg a boon of thee!’



‘What does she want now?’ said the fish. ‘Ah!’ said he, ’she wants to be lord of the sun and moon.’ ‘Go home,’ said the fish, ‘to your pigsty again.’



And there they live to this very day.

Acceptance by Robert Frost

Dane Allred celebrates "Abundance" by reading from great literature.

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Acceptance by Robert Frost

When the spent sun throws up its rays on cloud
And goes down burning into the gulf below,
No voice in nature is heard to cry aloud
At what has happened. Birds, at least must know
It is the change to darkness in the sky.

Murmuring something quiet in her breast,
One bird begins to close a faded eye;
Or overtaken too far from his nest,
Hurrying low above the grove, some waif
Swoops just in time to his remembered tree.

At most he thinks or twitters softly, 'Safe!
Now let the night be dark for all of me.
Let the night be too dark for me to see
Into the future. Let what will be, be.'

Ready or Not

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When you think about the 98 pound weakling on the beach, you may be picturing me in high school. I didn’t weigh 98 pounds, but tipping the scale at barely 130 pounds isn’t much different. I used to lie on my license and say I weighed 140 pounds, but that was only a distant dream. My metabolism was crazy, so I could eat anything I wanted and not worry about gaining weight.

I had accepted the fact I wouldn’t get buffed up, but remember this was back in the day when I could also do backflips. Accepting where we are in life doesn’t mean there can’t be changes in the future. I eventually did have a change in my metabolism, and was able to gain weight. People laugh at me sometimes when I tell them I like being fat; but I’ve been skinny and I like fat better. There is an example of what acceptance can do when it’s a part of your life. I accept the fact I’m fat now, but again, that doesn’t mean I can’t change that in my future if I want to. We’ll see what happens, but it’s nice to be able to be comfortable in my own skin. Are you comfortable with yourself?

The flip side of acceptance has to do with others who accept us as we are. I hope you belong to a group which accepts you as you are, but can also hold space for your future as you change into the person you will become. Having this kind of unity can do amazing things. Opening up the possibility of change while accepting things as they are can produce a kind of productivity and potentiality where almost anything is possible.

Can we love people as they are and accept them later as they change? It happens all the time, and a sad reminder is my wedding picture my wife decided to recently install on the mantelpiece. Let’s just say I’m not the same person I was 33 years ago, and my wife still loves me. It may be true she loves me more, since there is more of me to love. She has also changed, and the journey we have experience together has been extraordinary. But it’s also true we couldn’t have jumped from the past to this point in our life without the intervening years.
There is a peace that comes with accepting things as they are, but still holding the possibilities for change in the future. It’s one of the reasons we get a day at a time to try to get it right. Who knows what tomorrow holds? It may be one of weakness and pain; it may be a time of strength and happiness. This is why it’s exciting each day to wake up and see what this day will bring.

What expectations do you hold for your future? Do you want to see changes in your life, but can still be satisfied with the way things are at this moment? Remember, dissatisfaction with today doesn’t lead to a better tomorrow. Learning how to endure the bad times gives us the strength to enjoy the good times later. It does seem like a strange contradiction, but we can’t let problems today stand in the way of enjoying this minute. That also means we have to stick around to enjoy the fruits of today’s labors. It is a confusing way to live, but I can’t think of a better way to spend our lives. Enjoy today, work for a better tomorrow; be satisfied with whatever outcome we get.

It’s like the ancient story of the man who has a strong healthy son. Is this a good thing? Perhaps, says the father. This son was required to report to the emperor for service in the army. Is it a bad thing? Perhaps, says the father. When the son breaks a leg, is it a good thing? Perhaps says the father.

You can see where the argument goes. What is good and bad? Does it depend on who it affects and who is not involved? Or do we learn to live this life to its fullest, and work hard to make tomorrow better? The only alternative is to be negative, to attack, or to give up. Isn’t it time to turn from the posture of scarcity and limits? I’m tired of the whining, and I hope you are too. I am ready to get focused and positive, and to celebrate the abundance present all around us. Consider the future without worrying, but instead full of optimism. Picture a future with solutions, with positive results based on what we can all accomplish together, working in unity.

Celebrate the abundance. Get ready, here comes the future, whether we are ready or not.

Accepting Difference

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Tax day is coming up. One of my favorite days is tax day, and it’s not because I like to pay taxes. But I do like to procrastinate. This means I am often filing my taxes on the last day, at the last hour, and waiting patiently in line at the post office with the dozens of other cars lined up to hand our tax returns to a faithful postal employee. The post office really steps it up on tax day.

They stay open late, and even wait outside the post office to gather the mail. They want our tax returns to be post-marked correctly, and I don’t know if they still get government funding, but it does make a kind of sense if you think of it. As federal employees, they do want the federal government to continue to function. But that’s not the point.

The great feeling I get when I am lined up like others like myself is a great confirmation. There are others out there like me, others who procrastinate and wait in line to pay their yearly bill or received their refund. I usually get a refund, which makes my delay kind of idiotic. You would think I want the refund sooner. But I really like the feeling of community I get when I wait and turn in those forms with the other people like me.

We are social creatures. We like to feel accepted; like we belong. This is one of the reasons I will continue to say we are more alike than we are different. We like the unity we feel in a group, the togetherness and the oneness we experience when we are with others we feel are like us.

There really is no other way to explain motorcycle groups. Or Civil War re-enactors. Or those who attend burning man, nudist colonies, and those people who attend heavy metal concerts. I don’t have problems with any of these groups, but merely use them as examples of people who congregate.

One of the mysteries of community is how we fear those not in our group. If someone is different, they must be suspicious. They can’t possibly want to be part of that group for the same reasons we like to be part of our group. Right now, I need to learn to be more tolerant of snowboarders.

Since I like to ski, there seems to be a natural animosity between skiers and snow-boarders. I’m not sure why this division exists, but it seems to run along the same lines as school loyalties. You know the school your school hates, but you probably can’t really tell me why. You just know that school is the worst, and hate it with a passion. Deep down, you know good people go to that school, good teachers and employees work there, and there really is no reason to hate. But we still do.

I like skiing where there are no snow-boarders, and there are a couple of places like that where I ski. The main reason is the last “close encounter” I had with someone skiing on a single board. I was stopped at the side of a path when a snowboarder collided into me. He hit me hard enough to knock me out of my skis, and several people stopped to see if I was still alive. It was a really solid body block, and left a nice bruise all along my left leg. All the departing offender could shout back was, “Sorry, man, I can’t carve!”

I really don’t hate snowboarders; they just aren’t part of my group, and I know that’s where the animosity comes from. I’m trying to become more accepting, and I know there are other groups I need to stop suspecting. We can all think of those groups we want to hate, even though we really can’t think of a good reason to continue the hate.

Are we really so different? We are born into the same world; we have the same needs. We are born into families that love us and care for us. We grow in communities that want everyone to succeed, to feel accepted and needed. As we progress as a society, we want to help those who can’t help themselves. We all want to be independent, and pursue our own goals. Society is designed as a support for those who want success, who want to help, who want to serve.

Cheer on those others who are like you. They may be waiting in a tax line, or skiing down a hill with you. But remember the value of the desires and goals of those who may be different. They want to succeed; they want to make a contribution just like you. How can we all help them along?

Glorious Dreams

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Glorious Dreams


Even in the most difficult of moments, there is growth. When we are struggling in the mighty struggle, the resistance builds us; the forces bend us, and if they do not break us, they make us stronger. Friedrich Nietzsche said it this way, “That which does not kill us makes us stronger.” As I stand here today to proclaim my thanks, I have survived. If you are listening today, you have also been tested in the fiery furnace of human existence and have not been found wanting. You have survived.

As we go forward thinking about what kind of future we can make for ourselves and our children, and their children’s children, I often think of the words of John Ruskin. He said, “When we build, let us think we build forever.” The past washes over us as waves of warning, and helps us understand that where we go from here is determined by what we do now, and how we plan for that future.

I reject the thesis of negativity, and banish those who would condemn us to a terrible future as irrelevant whirlwinds. Only those who have held those positive thoughts for a future of abundance and plenty have the means to make those things happen. Opposition is valuable, but it shouldn’t dominate our world view. Without an optimistic view of our future and our possibilities, there is little hope for either. As the last signers of the Declaration of Independence affixed their names to a dream of a better nations, Benjamin Franklin contemplated a painted sun on the back of a chair. He commented to that painters had found it difficult to distinguish a rising sun from a setting sun.

“I have,” said Mr. Franklin, “often … in the course of the Session, and the vicissitudes of my hopes and fears as to its issue, looked at that… without being able to tell whether it was rising or setting: But now at length I have the happiness to know that it is a rising and not a setting Sun.”

Those who would have us believe the way of life we enjoy today is ending are merely a distraction. Those who listen to those who would discourage us from innovation, exploration and discovery but urge us to dwell on their moaning platitudes about disaster will become less and less influential as the great history of the human race continues.

Think of the progress of mankind in the last thousands of years. From whining about the cold in a cave to becoming the master of fire, we marched across the world inhabiting uninviting places because we could control the elements, and assure a comfortable survival. Look at the first halting journeys across the vast ocean by those brave souls who craved another province to conquer. They were not stopped by storm, by fear, by cowardice or retreat.

They sailed forth bravely to cover this earth with the accomplishments of man, providing a place for sons and daughters to grow and prosper. When tyrants tried to dominate the earth, we rose up and defeated those who would limit us to their narrow view of the world. Growing and stretching across the face of the earth, we have expanded our view to the stars and ventured to our nearest neighbor, to other planets; to the depths of our planet and to circle the earth from above. We have sent our machines exploring the far reaches of our solar system, and cast our thoughts to the edges of the universe seeking the secrets to this creation, so that we might create a better day for all of us tomorrow.

We have plumbed the depths of the human psyche, sought answers to disease, and plowed fertile ground with our minds to find more ways to end the suffering we see around us. With this vast panorama of accomplishment behind us, who can listen to the whining voices of the few who doubt our abilities, our potential, or our aptitude? We can right what is wrong, help those who need our help, enlarge the scope of our successes without worrying if we will accomplish it. All that is necessary is for us to ask ourselves how we can reach those lofty goals, and solutions will begin to form as the amazing potentiality of human endeavor looks for a way.

Point your mind to a miraculous future, and consider those obstacles you would like to see us overcome. Begin to deliberate about what you can do, what you can help others to do, and how your ideas and plans can bring to pass the kind of world you envision. As your magnificent brain begins to contemplate the possible, we will be able to leave the word impossible in the past where it belongs.


Dane Allred seeks to combine the best of podcasting and blogging in 800 word blogs turned into 5 minute podcasts. They are broadcast live every Sunday on KTKK AM 630 from 7 to 8 p.m. (Mountain Standard Time), and are also available at 1001Thanks.blogspot.com. Watch for his upcoming book, “A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to Dane Allred”.

Strength Through Stress

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Strength through Stress
It amazes me when I watch the superhuman feats of strength people exhibit in weightlifting, in gymnastics, even long distance running. The human body is designed to take the stress we give it and respond in a way that strengthens us to be able to lift, twist and run.

Stress isn’t always a bad thing. Without the ability to resist gravity, we can’t walk. Our muscles are designed to make us a working machine which can function in this world. As we age, some of the vicissitudes of life take their toll on us. Our bones weaken, our muscles atrophy, even our minds become less sharp. But some of us take these variables in stride, and some people are even stronger in the older years, sharper and more mental astute as they age. What makes the difference?

Some of us are able to endure the stresses of life better than others. But where does the strength come from to overcome some things which disable others, limiting them to a less functional life?

As we rise to meet the difficulties we face, we become stronger through the stress and strain. When I consider some of the life situations people survive and continue to function in this world, it amazes me how durable people really are. Some overcome crushing poverty; others survive abuse at the hands of parents, siblings or strangers. Some have debilitating diseases or have endured disfiguring accidents. The resilience of the human spirit continues to amaze me.

A good example of what amazes me is Stephen Hawking. I have read some of his work, and have difficulty even understanding some of his ideas. Yet here is a man with amyotrophic lateral sclerosis, or ALS, which has progressively taken away his ability to walk and to talk. But he continues to work, think and contribute. His attitude is amazing, and for him to say things like “Life would be tragic if it weren’t funny” humbles me for worrying about my problems. He has an amazing sense of humor, and this may be one of the things which has helped him survive a disease which was originally predicted to kill him in three years. He has survived longer than almost anyone else who has ever had this affliction. But he is considered one of the greatest thinkers in human history.

Our greatest strengths may be those things others consider a weakness. As we survive “the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune”, we may be becoming stronger than we ever know. Just as Hamlet struggled with his decision to confront his uncle about murdering Hamlet’s father, we might have to go through some dark times to emerge into the clarity of light.

Perhaps we are born to struggle against the stream. Without the opposition we face, how can we ever know our true strength? Some of you have confronted what others may call a breaking point, thinking there is no way to survive through this day, this hour, this minute. But when we emerge on the other side, we are stronger for surviving what others could not or would not face.

Victor Frankl is another example of overcoming incredible difficulty to perceive an amazing truth. After spending years in a German concentration camp, he emerged with a truth which helped him survive.

“Everything can be taken from a man but one thing; the last of the human freedoms - to choose one's attitude in any given set of circumstances, to choose one's own way.”

Attitude really is all we have as a weapon against the tempests of life. With the right attitude, we can overcome any obstacle. Today may be the day to decide what weakness we will turn into our strength. Is it a physical goal? An emotional triumph? A contribution to benefit our family? Our community? The world?

Only you know what this accomplishment will be, and how it will be accomplished. You know that thing you’ve been considering. It’s been nagging at you, always present in the back of your mind, sometimes crowding forward to try to get you to take some kind of action.

Now is the time to work on our weakness and turn it into a strength. What is it you want to do that you aren’t doing now? Is there something you are especially good at which needs to be shared with others? What do you need to learn that you don’t know now? Are there others who could use your unique talents or leadership? Are you using your talents to make this world a better place? Are there bridges you need to build between cultures or ideas? As your weaknesses turn to strengths, we will all benefit from the work you will do.

I can’t wait to see what we can accomplish together.