Mark Is Musing

EDGE OF EXCEPTIONAL - Mark’s Musing Monday Dec. 21, 2009

today’s Musing  written and published from south Calgary, near Fish Creek Park

Morning walk: -12C/9F, some light fluffy snow, pretty mild for the first day of winter considering how cold it has been lately; for some reason I found myself singing ‘singin’ in the rain’ as we went down the alley  . .. but it was dark so nobody saw me doing a Gene Kelly imitation . . but Gusta wagged approvingly.

Winter, a new season.  Lives, change chapters too.  Every new page, a new book of its own. Weekend buzz of warmth of my tiny family, dogs and dogs scrapping, dinners and conversations, the tearing of gift wrap and the memories of so many before, but never one just like this, turkey dinner last night, shrimp the night before – the menu doesn’t matter so much as the company ‘round the table.

Quiet has invaded once again, until Friday when PB’s large family descends for feast and more of the same. I like them both, the large, the small; but I prefer the small, not because it is small, but because it is all mine. Sharing these times is challenging – deeply personal feelings - the mortar between the public bricks of it.  What we have, or lack, in families is so hard to define – impossible to frame in a picture or paint on a wall; no more challenging or better reward in life. (scroll down for pictures of my daughters, my dad and me).

Is it possible to miss something so much – something you’ve never had? I ask myself that every day - and yet, every day, the dreams and the energy come back to me, as though  they’ve never left . . still there, so close, but so out of reach.

Pages flip, faster now, time flies faster and further - I remind myself, one step, one day at a time . . . and in the fullness of time, all will unfold as it should and most likely as I want it to be if I believe in the strength of my resolve. Support of friends and family who may not always understand or support what I do, but they love me anyway.  Weekend family gathering underscore, unlike strangers, that we accept, understand and tolerate one another in ways we’d never spare for a stranger.

An old proverb says: ‘A tree is known by its fruit’.  Sometimes the fruit of two trees is cross-bred, this creates strange fruit and even stranger families.  Seriously, there are few things as easy to understand as a child, or a parent, they are the best and worst of those who created them.  Taking on a son-in-law in the coming year, I’m all the more aware my grand-children will be a product of all that is good, or not, of another family’s tree. I took Chad for lunch yesterday; he didn’t say shibboleth in the biblical sense, but his answers to some questions assured me he is made of the right stuff for me to have confidence my daughter is going to be in very good hands.

The coming year – this Christmas week, and 51 weeks following will test every part of us – all of us, but it comes back to these fundamentals of why we do it all.  Uncertainty, the thirst for ‘what’s next?’ – has so much wrapped inside it; more than opposite of clarity, the counterbalancing of memory and hope, dreams and desires, actions and inactions . . and ideas that will be judged, not by their merits, but by how they look in the rear view mirror years from now . .

I need to stretch some more, wait some more, try some more to shorten the gap between where I am and the edge of exceptional, sensational. So much to taste - all our lives and never fully devour it; we’ll be famished daily, satiated daily - then we'll sleep a while and do it all again . . .

Mark Kolke

326,076

196.4

RESPONSES/COMMENTS ALWAYS WELCOME; send to musing@maxcomm.ca

December 20  Responses  

December 20 – POACHED EGGS ON TOAST – A deep December afternoon’s activity is interrupted by something…   …something out of place and at first so subtle, penetrating insistently into my consciousness. This unfamiliar sensation confuses me because it is out of place, yet, I know this; and… yes, it is a sound… a sound that increasingly demands my attention. Intrigued, I finally switch my mind away from the afternoon’s tasks and realization dawns. It is a bird’s song. Some tiny, gray over-winterer is offering to the damp and eternally gray sky a full trill of springtime sweetness. Alone and unseen, without an audience or accompanists this is apparently a solo breakout session. Or perhaps this singular performance might simply be an effort to keep in tune for the serious business of springtime concerts…again; it could be an expression of avian joy at a temporary hiatus from winters deep cold. Bird song splashes the monotone sky with aural color – vernal pastels arc out into a rainbow, each note is an expression of the spectrum on a scale known only to the singer. These notes fill and color the drab afternoon as the brief day fades. I sit and listen as long as possible and after I am called away I return to dusky silence.  I will never know the reason for such a gift and can only be grateful that I was there, with ears for such a rare pleasure. Today I wait and watch the dull sky hearing only an empty wind, watching the grays silently fold up and end another December day., CH, Chimacum, WA

POACHED EGGS ON TOAST - Mark’s Musing Sunday Dec. 20, 2009

today’s Musing  written and published from south Calgary, near Fish Creek Park

 

Morning walk: -8C/17F, lightly overcast, dead silent night morphs to morning – snow clusters in Gusta’s webbed paws come out like ice cubes … gym, Starbucks, paper, picked up Krista + new mutt Sammy .. everyone here for breakfast; eggs to be poached (my present was a 6-egg Calphalon poacher et très chic)

 

Confucius said: ‘When it is obvious that the goals cannot be reached, don’t adjust the goals, adjust the action steps.’ I re-read this quote recently.  I think he was right. Not for everyone, but for him . . and for me. I’ve been thinking about that a lot, and adjusting those steps.  I’ve had some minor miscues, and there will be more, but those steps – all of those steps are a ladder to somewhere incredible.

 

Families, laughter around a table, coffee and bacon, poached eggs on toast – dogs wagging tails and licking fingers for any hint of bacon – connective tissue is built this way; in many little steps.  Conversations – at family gatherings, - so often about something else altogether; people speak in their own code. These stages, events and times are, each one of them - steps – that take us forward to somewhere new, or around in a circle to where we’ve been before because, for some reason we need to repeat the lesson. I am reminded of a teacher’s admonition to ‘do it over, and over until you get it right’ ….

 

A circle, as opposed to a spiral (they all go downward, right?) .. is that it can include things, include people and experience – depending on how large we want our circle to be, depending on how many steps we want to take to get around it all.

 

Nobody talks of an upward spiral, but we often speak of a widening circle, including more people or territory – like inflating a balloon but without the expectation of someone coming around with a large pin.

 

Jerry Garcia wrote: ‘There is a road, no simply highway, between the dawn and the dark of night, and if you go, one may follow, that path is for your steps alone.’

 

A long time ago, steps I took, began the journey I’ve had to get me to here.

 

A long time from now, it will be steps I take, and no other way, to get me where I need to go.  Along the way, I’ll poach eggs and laugh with family sometimes, I’ll gather at holiday times to see what’s new, to swap stories and pet dogs  . . . and then I’ll take more steps again.

 

 

Mark Kolke

326,100

194.4

 

 

RESPONSES/COMMENTS ALWAYS WELCOME; send to musing@maxcomm.ca

 

 

December 19  Responses  

 

December 19 – PLAY TIME – You're right - you can't rewrite a past performance unless you change the way you look back at it; find those gems often hidden from us by our experiences at that moment in time.  There are finite and infinite players; the former totally immersed in their play, the latter aware of the big picture and more likely to find those hidden gems that could change the experience in their minds.  Merry Christmas Mark, to you and yours.  JW-Calgary/Cochrane

 

December 19 – PLAY TIME - An excellent reflection today on the ghosts of Christmas past, present and future. Shakespeare's "Seven Ages of Man" in "As You Like It" does not put it any better. There is something poetic in all of our lives, because that is where poetry came from, from the earliest known human expressions to those of Homer. It is odes and limericks and others, depending on experience and mood. But I'm merely repeating what you have already said. Enjoy the season, all, and reflect: that is its message, EG, Calgary, AB

 

December 18 – RIP OPEN EACH DAY - Dear Special Friend – Thank you for your extremely kind words.  It is also a tribute to our friendship.  This means a lot to me.  As you know only too well, when we are embroiled in things, sometimes we can’t figure out which way is up or out or best or if it really is just too much to tackle.  Thank you for this inspiration to carry on.  You have helped me put some of the building blocks in place for over 20 years. Thank you, thank you.  S#3, SA, Edmonton, AB

PLAY TIME - Mark’s Musing Saturday Dec. 19, 2009

today’s Musing  written and published from south Calgary, near Fish Creek Park

 

Morning walk: -3C/26F, skimpy clouds, soft snow moving underfoot – Gusta still stoked from last night romping like a puppy; my post-gym, post-steam, body feeling limp and relaxed .. looking forward to the day; Krista brought a new member into the family last night; she arrived along with Carla and Chad, luggage and gifts in tow, with a lively 2 yr old, a rescue dog named Sam – who immediately launched in play with Gusta, many laughs, happy smiles, contented wear dogs by bed time.

 

Whether it is aging, staging or revelations of life; I see Carla and Chad planning their life … a new home, a wedding, children … while I’m trying to find good homes for my things; as life and lifestyle has bookends, they are at the beginning of so much, and I’m nearer the other end. Krista is seeking, still; that’s good … a quest for better understanding, so many choices ahead. Their plays are just beginning; mine is entering the 3^rd act.

 

Laurence Olivier said: ‘The actor should be able to create the universe in the palm of his hand.”

 

That would be a busy palm.

 

Actors and writers give us so many mirrors to look at, staring back at us in metaphors, mistakes, dreams and screw-ups on a grand scale.  The actor leaves it behind at the end of his/her performance.  Life’s not like that. We can change the next act, but we can’t re-write past performances.

 

We live the play, the play is us; our credits are the children we have, the times we’ve played and laughed and cried.  The times we’ve comforted a pain, put a band aid on a scrape .. or caught someone from a fall.  Or talked. Or listened. Or learned. One would think we teach children, but the more of life that goes by I realize it is the other way ‘round, because they teach me.  In some ways they are a reflection of me. In many ways they are remarkably different (and better) than me.  I’ll try harder to be more like the best I see in them.

 

I don’t know much about Omar Bradley.  I remember Karl Malden’s brilliant portrayal of him in the movie Patton.  I don’t know if that was Bradley or Malden, but I liked him, liked his character. Bradley said: “This is as true in everyday life as it is in battle: we are given one life and the decision is ours whether to wait for circumstances to make up our mind, or whether to act, and in acting, to live.” …. I find these words helpful and validating.

 

Each year, this holiday season inspires reflection Ebeneezer Scrooge and Bob Cratchit might not have grasped; looking back - dark, sad and regretful – or full of joyous memories of making Christmases past better in memory than they might have been. Mine is a mix that is hard to shake. There is something about this time of year, perhaps typical, that makes me examine that which is very good in my life in sharp contrast to that I wish to change, improve, fix, purge or do-over.

 

The ghost of Christmas future has visited me – I’ve looked off through the telescope; I see familiar faces, new ones too, children, grandchildren … great grandchildren (c’mon, I guy can look thousands of miles ahead, can’t he?) … expecting I’ll have so many more, while realizing some people won’t have so many.  There are elements of sadness, joy, dreams, and high expectations involved here.

 

When I was younger, my expectations would have been of the other players, all the actors on my stage. Without them I was just the air, waiting to be breathed.

 

Today, looking ahead, I cannot imagine life being more full than it will be, cannot imagine how I will contain myself as the future softly lands on me, like a warm blanket - waiting, for the next step in a process.

 

Life, a play, needs an author, actors and a stage.  It needs exposure of rawest emotions, depth of characters, sparks, drama, surprises, confrontation, joys, disappointments  . . love, hate, anger . . and so many more feelings.

 

It’s play time. The play, is life.  Mine is playing now . .

 

Mark Kolke

326,124   

194.2

 

RESPONSES/COMMENTS ALWAYS WELCOME; send to musing@maxcomm.ca

 

 

 

December 18  Responses  

 

December 18 – TOMORROW – Good evening Mark,  I understand you are celebrating Christmas with the Girls and others this weekend as we did last weekend so ENJOY this special time. Have a very Merry Christmas and the best to you for a Great New Year. All the very best Mark. Thanks for the support this past year and your friendship. I do value that, JJ, Calgary, AB

 

December 18 – TOMORROW –  I rip open your emails like a child on Christmas morning, eager for the gift of you, EC, Chicago, IL

RIP OPEN EACH DAY - Mark’s Musing Friday Dec. 18, 2009

today’s Musing  written and published from south Calgary, near Fish Creek Park

 

Morning walk: -11C/11F, light clouds; trash day, recycling bins stand guard at each rear gate, like soldiers in the alley – each deserving a sniff from Gusta … she seems to really enjoy the softer snow (easier on her webbed paws I suppose) or maybe she’s just frisky because company’s coming . . .

 

SA (a.k.a. Susan #3) called yesterday; one of the most lovely friends any man could have. Sorry David, if that makes you jealous. Not to worry, I’ll always respect that you got their first … lucky guy … and the way we all connect will remain a magical fairy dust memory for me.  We caught up, discussed losses, gains, friends and foes and tactics. Much more work to be done, and she is doing it in ways that would make most of us shrink from the load; she does it with charm, grace and grit. Lots of grit. Lots of charm, and much grace in the face of challenges that don’t seem to change, that just loom larger and up-close, because she knows the largest challenges are just a pathway of many small challenges laid end to end.

 

This day, today, will include some finishing touches, first waves of presents wrapped (OK, I’ll get them wrapped today, I promise) and stuffed under the tree; Carla and Chad, and Krista are coming tonight – we’ll have our Christmas celebration this weekend – then they’ll head back to have the week and Christmas with other halves of families; there is no greater gift than their time and trip.  Laughter, tears and socks will be involved.

 

Every day, can we not make it new, different, a creation – an absolute original – so memories of it won’t be lost in mix with all the other days that look and feel the same in our memories, a day for treasuring, a gift to hold carefully? I believe we can.

 

Can you imagine, the day after he painted the Mona Lisa, if Leonardo da Vinci  had painted another, and another, and another.  The first, a masterpiece, original – unique. The 2^nd, 3^rd, just repeating what he’d already done. Nothing new in that.

 

If, every day, we treat the arrival of the day as a new creation, inject it with the creativity to make some element of it worth hanging on a museum wall one day, is that not worthy?  I fear that too many people fail to create a 2^nd masterpiece because they don’t think they’ve created the 1^st one.  For argument’s sake, just think of your best day ever – that’s your masterpiece, your epic poem, your delicious sonnet, your play, your novel.  If you’ve done it once, can’t you do it again.  I know, if you repeat your best day it will be just a copy, but ‘a copy of your best day’ is a good place to start …. then add a twist or two and it’s a new masterpiece.

 

Yipeeyahoohurray,  I want to celebrate every morning and every night because of all it is to me; and then sleep - perchance to dream until I wake.  Sleep rests us from our manual labor for another day when life reads like a love letter to me, out in the open for all not to understand but me . . each day, another gift to open.

 

Best presents of Christmas past, like symbolic socks given or received, might be ones we revere most. Once in a while, that special thing we write away for, the kind that gets shipped on a plane and delivered to our door might be the best ever – the kind poets write about.  I’ll keep sleeping on that . .

 

‘Life is the first gift, love is the second, and understanding the third.’ – Marge Piercy

 

‘The greatest gift is a portion of thyself.’ – Ralph Waldo Emerson

 

Gifts, are not given in packages or their wrapping – it’s not about the shopping or the shipping, because the best gifts are given in the heart, received in the spirit of the giving act. They come out of the ether somehow, perhaps they are material; they’ve been runt through the register, wrapped and delivered – but the reason these items of commerce become important to us, is because someone gave them to us, and that is where the meaning lives. Then, they are received with the sharing spirit poets intend . . .  

 

Soon, we’ll all be playing with our new toys.  Stockings will be stuffed, packages will be wrapped, deliveries made … ‘tis the season for giving gifts that keep on giving. ‘Tis time to smile to the past and grin at the future.

 

When we hold something in the palms of our hands that looks familiar – because we’ve had one before, or heard about it or read about it – we might tend to just start using it or playing with it, with the assumption it is like the others. OR …. Or we can see new experience in it; this one might be different. It might work differently than the last one.  This one might make different sounds, have new or improved operational features, be longer or wider, look different from behind or present differently when plugged in, hooked up or when its switch is flipped – then expect to be surprised.

 

I find the words of poets encouraging – I find their concepts rooted equally in clear thinking as rhyming, cleverly said thing that rolls off lips easily, comforts for mind that please the ear without regard for whether the expressed thought makes sense, but somehow it does.

 

Why read the words of poets then?  Exactly.  Because poets take us through bowels of the present and examine wanton waste of past deeds, but where they truly shine is in the future.  Not poets of the future, but poets dreaming the future.

 

But poets, good ones, whose words endured critics and time; resonate, they’ve been repeated so many times . . in part because we want those thoughts to resonate in our own experience.  Of love and loss, of dreams and pain – there are no better analyst than the poets.  I want to be a poet – or perhaps I already am. 

 

Those poets paint our hearts darkly and our eyes with blindness – deconstruct and rearrange feelings in a stanza.  Who else could do that?  Most of us cannot change our mind or an idea in a decade of trying, yet a poet can do it in four lines of iambic pentameter.

 

Please, do this for me.  Every day when morning arrives, like some FedEx package handed over by a delivery guy; it brings you a new day, open it carefully, but open it quickly – like a child on Christmas morning.  Rip open each day, tear off wrapping, reveal all you - especially that new plaything, check it out thoroughly, turn it over, examine it all, see where the batteries go, how the parts fit . . .

 

Mark Kolke

326,148

194.1

 

 

RESPONSES/COMMENTS ALWAYS WELCOME; send to musing@maxcomm.ca

 

 

December 17  Responses  

 

December 17 – TOMORROW – A word about yesterday seems to be in order. Without yesterday, you wouldn’t have anything to do. As those things today remain unaccomplished…incomplete, to be done tomorrow, DK, Edmonton, AB

 

December 17 – TOMORROW - Merry Christmas( although it sounds as if the merriment is in full force already in your life!) and a splendid New year.. Thank you for the interesting, thought-provoking musings and daily thoughts. Unlike some others they are often loveable , witty and amusing and never so saccharine as to make one put on pounds! Hope next is your most productive, happy years and that you receive all your great big heart desires, SH, Toronto, ON

December 17 – TOMORROW - Mark, got a chuckle yesterday over the erotic laced stuffing of the well lubricated legs open turkey, but didn't take time to say so! Big plus to see some photos of the bird and Gusta in your musing. The last time I remember photos and soft porn writing, you were having an affair with another curvaceous beauty, Maui. You took us on a daily peep show of her warm sensual pleasures, hibiscu in her hair, salty smells..... Love suits you!, SW, Coeur d'Alene, ID

 

December 17 – TOMORROW - Comments: Can you send me one of those, fully cooked? I thought my mother used to cook a big turkey. You win, hands down, bar none. Love the pic of Gusta, MD, Arlington, VA

 

December 17 – TOMORROW- Gusta is adorable, FO, Kaunakakai, HI

TOMORROW - Mark’s Musing Thursday Dec. 17, 2009

today’s Musing  written and published from south Calgary, near Fish Creek Park

 

Morning walk: 4C/39F, overcast, light breeze, snow is soft – so is the air – the change is so welcome. Gusta found kids going to school buses too interesting for words, but I was her anchor pulling the opposite way on her leash.

 

Thanks for comments, calls and notes yesterday - lots of laughs, to think – that a few keystrokes about stuffing a turkey could make so many people react the same way is a hoot.  A picture (see below) of the finished bird and a ‘turkey-bacon stuffed’ Gusta, She sat still long enough, distracted by the bird, and poised in case anything fell off the counter (and, to TL who has begged for it, there you go, a pooch pic for you).

 

The tomorrow I was waiting for; has it arrived, labeled today, is this it? Or will it show up tomorrow?

 

Yesterday/last evening were fun, party graciously hosted by NL (great job), I’m stuffed, filled – I couldn’t eat another morsel; it was so good.  Laughs, conversations worth having, with people worth having them with; followed by this sleepy morning, worn out but happily so, letting dark brew wake me – music percolates, as a song grows, an idea germinates … and another fruitful day opens up for me.

 

Anias Nin said: ‘Living never wore one out so much as the effort not to live.’  I think she was right. How could it not be so?

 

Slow-mo mornings, as interesting as well rested ones, because a new day comes with them – like a cool accessory that is better than the item itself. This day, then the next, open up like that turkey waiting to be stuffed.  Time passes – from past, to present – and then to future - just around the corner, it beckons me more than ever before.

 

There is no because.

 

Because, would be to explain – to dissect the fairy dust to say ‘why?’

 

Why would I waste energy to do such a futile thing?  Trusting that, no matter how outrageous my actions or thoughts might be to someone else, or to everybody else, they are mine – I need to trust them like never before.

 

Without tomorrow, without dreams of tomorrow, thoughts of tomorrow - I am nothing interesting today, or any day. Without tomorrow’s promise – energy today has no purpose, dreams no canvas to spill themselves upon.    Tomorrow – might come tomorrow, or months from now; when it does it will last for decades.

 

I thirst, for tomorrow. I hunger, for tomorrow. Tomorrow needs me, and I need tomorrow.

 

Eff-ing tomorrow, please, come to me …. make me more whole, let me stuff you with all my energy, let me fill you up with all I have to give you. I’ll write of you often, I’ll spell it out for you. I’ll not bow to you, but I will lay myself at your feet …. and be at your mercy, your humbled and obedient servant. I anxiously await what you have for me today. Even more, I await tomorrow’s delights . . .

 

Mark Kolke

326,172   

195.4

 

 

RESPONSES/COMMENTS ALWAYS WELCOME; send to musing@maxcomm.ca

 

 

 

December 16  Responses  

 

 

December 16 – I LOVE TRADITION – 32 pounds?!!?!?!? Wow, that is a biiig bird. It's the size of my 5 year old nephew. I usually brine my turkey, but if I had that one, I would need a garbage can to do it in. Enjoy your dinner, MB, Calgary, AB

 

December 16 – I LOVE TRADITION – I missed reading a few days of your musings and while catching up today , read your most sensual description of the turkey. I tend to catch most of your hidden innuendos, but this blatantly descriptive "I Love Tradition "article gave me a needed smile at the end of a long day!! We all love Tradition! , LAR, Winnipeg, MN, (FYI  -   My article that you featured last month will be published this Saturday in the Winnipeg Free Press - "Feed Your Intellect" section. Thanks again on the push to share my writing.)

 

December 16 – I LOVE TRADITION – RE: happy birthday! .. Hello !! Long time no hear from you. Look this what I have been doing this year. www.beatrixprieto.com the Fun series.. Take a look and tell me what do you think... I am so happy to hear you are enjoying life.... KEEP IT UP.., BP, Mexico City, Mexico

December 16 – I LOVE TRADITION – stuffing that bird..... such images.... I'd like to be that bird, EC, Chicago, IL

 

December 16 – I LOVE TRADITION – What turkey?  A 32 pound bird is a linebacker for the Cowboys!!  I would have to pump iron before cooking that girl!  I say "girl" because your description of the stuffing process had a twinge of the erotic...with open thighs awaiting to be stuffed...rubbed with butter...(Hey, come do that to me, braddah!)....can you be jealous of a Christmas turkey without sounding ridiculous?, LP, Wailuku, HI

 

 

 

 

 

I LOVE TRADITION -

today’s Musing  written and published from south Calgary, near Fish Creek Park

 

Morning walk: -7C/18F, clear, light breeze; out of the deep-freeze, wind and weather; Chinook has brought us back to nice, sending that Arctic air eastward. Gusta ignored rabbits (6) hopping ahead of us down the lane . . just happy to have her feet ‘not frozen’ for a change.

 

Soren Kierkegaard said: ‘Traditions and customs are like the wind and weather, altogether incalculable.’

 

Traditions fill this season. A love/hate series of chores and joys. I care for my favorite few.  Little things, and big things, that we do, because we always have – so much comfort in them.  For some that is a fully decorated home, or tree; for others it is gift wrapping and pushing these goodies under the tree. Or ginger bread, butter tarts, or eggnog. To name just a few .

 

Gifts and turkey, mainstays for most.  Gifting (shopping, elbows, rudeness, parking, re-parking, traffic, hauling, wrapping) got into high gear yesterday; I’m not done, but I’ve been malled/mauled enough by the retail machine for a few days; more ahead, I love/hate it.

 

Turkey, since I was a toddler, was that big bird, prepped in early morning (I was about 8 when I began sharing in the project, so it’s been part of me for 50 years, which surely makes it a genuine tradition), roasted all day, served to noisy people wearing uncharacteristic laughter and smiles … 10 hours of work vanquished in 20 minutes.

 

My Toastmasters club, founded 6 years old now, has developed a Christmas party routine; a pot luck party at someone’s house. Everyone brings a dish.  I do the turkey. It’s a tradition.

 

In a few minutes I’ll start my prep; onions sautéed (in butter of course) with finely chopped giblets, and fresh sage (lots), celery, pepper, sliced water chestnuts, more sage, mushrooms . . . . then, into that big pot for mixing with bread crumbs and bread chunks .. pour in melted butter, mix, then mix some more; the big old bent maple spoon works well for this, but to finish it required lots of hand kneading, working with the fingers, compacting the gooey mess into material suitable for stuffing into her. The oven is warmed, the meat thermometer ready, the turkey-baster standing by.

 

This year’s bird (she’s 32 lbs.) is resting in the downstairs fridge; I thawed and washed her last night. Soon, she’ll have her neck cavity stuffed and skewered … packed snug; then she’ll turn over, wings resting gently at her side, her thighs spread, her legs wider – her cavity opens generously to make way for the rest of the dressing, pushed in, piled in, compressed and squeezed until she looks pregnant with dinner. Then, I’ll spray her body with a thin coat of butter, sprinkle seasoned salt and cracked pepper across her ample breasts; I’ll lay on the bacon strips, gently stretched out in rows like habitant farms … covering that delicate white meat and that bulging cavity, to protect it, keep it moist for 9 hours of roasting … when drippings will be sprayed across her every hour until she’s ready for transporting, for carving. Mid afternoon, Gusta and I will share another tradition. The turkey bacon gets removed, carefully, so as not to tear off golden brown skin; the crisp lean bacon, lean treat, turkey flavored by bastings . .

 

One has not lived, truly lived, without a feast on turkey cooking day; turkey bacon, recommended at least once a year, twice is better.

 

I love tradition.

 

Mark Kolke

326,196   

193.2

 

RESPONSES/COMMENTS ALWAYS WELCOME; send to musing@maxcomm.ca

 

 

December 15  Responses  

 

December 15 – MEN FROM BOYS –  I really like the line "what measures a  recipe or a man?" That's the start of a poem, MD, Arlington, VA

 

MEN FROM BOYS - Mark’s Musing Tuesday Dec. 15, 2009

today’s Musing  written and published from south Calgary, near Fish Creek Park

 

Morning walk: -23C/-9F, overcast, light breeze, snow softening, Gusta sniffing her own trail from yesterday oblivious to the absence of tracks other than her own – retracing her own steps, reviewing her first draft of yesterday left in the snow.

 

Sometimes we re-trace familiar steps, the familiarity so comfortable we don’t realize it is our own path we are traveling, over, and over, and over again.  Some things don’t change. Others change completely.  That’s the way these things work.  Roles change, we change, life changes us – mends us – sets us free to change some more, live more, do more . .

 

Reflections on being a man, being a father – they come along when they choose to, not when I choose the moment.

 

Last night, a chat with my daughter Krista: she was asking for the recipe to ‘Mark’s never fails rack of lamb’ seduction dinner, … because she wants to impress a fella. I told her what to do (about the lamb), how to do it; that will put him in the palm of her hand with a simple spectacular dish; perhaps he already is, or she in his.

 

Is he the one?  Is he the man (or boy) for my girl?  She’s so much like me, it is hard for me to understand what kind of man would fit her.  She gets to choose, not me.  He gets other choices and challenges.

 

Lucky me. All I have to do is supply a recipe.

 

What measures a recipe; or a man?  What determines his appropriateness in life?  For himself, for my daughter, for anyone’s daughter?

 

C’mon guys, how do we measure ourselves; are we just starting, or done - are we growing or failing,  trying or are we done trying?  Or just done?  Or starting again? Are we all that same, or so very different?

 

If we are done, we are done. If we are not done, then what have we tried lately?  What risk have we taken, what venture have we taken on, what challenge have we measured up to?

 

You know, it is so easy to separate the men from the women; often a delightful task involving all the senses.

 

But, not so easy, to separate men from boys.

 

Little boys, are just that.  Teenage boys, the same.  Old men are old men.  In between, it gets tricky.  Size, age, gnarled hand or wrinkled brow tell little on their own, though I am getting attached to the meaning of ‘age spots’ as something more important than freckles. In between, we move from boys to men. 

 

Have I/we bravely faced facts, stared reality in the eye, said the truth; have we sweated a result, have we feared for our lives - or the lives of others?  Have we risked it all for love or honor, or country or a cause greater than ourselves?

 

I am a man, so I’ve been told; though saying that always seems strange; part of me thinks of my dad as a man, his generation as ‘men’ . . but I more often think of myself and my peers as boys – waiting to become men one day, the way it felt at 18.  At 28. At 58.

 

Surely I’m not alone in this feeling; exploring what it is like to feel manly, to feel as if Hemingway was writing about us, as if being men is a ‘cut from the same cloth’ experience as a macho writer living a tortured reckless life.

 

Along the way, my peers might agree, we men, we’ve struggled plenty.  But, really, how hard have we struggled?  At worst, a missed meal, a lost opportunity, a failed this, an incomplete that – you know the story of losses and failures that litter any man’s path. 

 

First we must play, and work, and fight – and struggle, for then we become men.  I know I am a man, but sometimes the wish to push the calendar back, to rewind the clock, to choose, retroactively, some different path that would have taken me somewhere else for some other experience so long ago – that today I would be in a different place – seems juvenile.  I am not a first draft.  I’ve been crumpled, tossed aside, re-written, re-invented.

 

“The first draft of anything is shit.” – Ernest Hemingway

 

He was right.  Not about a piece of paper, a patch of writing or a the first time we do something; he was right about life – about the things we do, the men we try to become, the men we are. The first go isn’t very good. The second is better but not fully developed.  The third, the fourth, the fifth iteration . . they get better.  But when are we done?

 

I hope there is no FINAL DRAFT, no end point to growing – because if I stopped now, I’d fall so far short of what I can be, what I can do, what I can accomplish.

 

Plucked myself from the trash, more than once; I’ve spread out the pieces and taped it back together; each time, so I think, getting it better, getting it right .. this time.

 

Starting fresh, starting over, starting new – the starting and looking forward is the easy part; looking over a shoulder to see what is not done, what was done half-heartedly, what was messed up . . or never fully committed to – cannot be undone, un-started or erased. It must be confronted. Not today. Not every day.  But someday.

 

I have been broke and broken in many ways, but, I think, most of the repairs have taken – at least well enough to get me to the next repair shop, the next step, the next day . . .

 

Does this make sense?  There is much left to do; there are so many days to live, pages to write. 

 

And wrongs to right.

 

Then I’ll be left with what is left.

 

The next draft will be better. 

 

Mark Kolke

326,220

192.9

 

 

 

 

December 14  Responses  

 

December 14 – I WAS SITTING THERE – I am not certain how many of you still log on to my blog http://larrysolway.blogspot.com/ . I have increased the frequency of my postings, now at a rate of nearly one per day. I am sending this email because, at last, Google has the blog listed. So if you want to visit, google my name, and click on the link. I should also probably check to "visits" number to determine if anyone is still interested. I will be "living" in Paris for four months starting in April. In the style of Janet Flanner and Adam Gopnik I will be sending regular "letters.: Have a great Christmas and a happy new year, LS, Toronto, ON

 

December 4 – GIVING TIME - I had to host my company party for 300 last weekend so the last couple weeks have been super crazy.  I was catching up on your “Giving Time” and your worst Christmas reminded of the past.  One year my family was so broke (seven children) and we all got about two little gifts under the tree.  But my mother went into her jewelry box and gave each of us girls some earrings and necklaces.  Although it wasn’t much, we knew she loved her jewelry and that was a grand gesture in itself.  When I think about that tears come to my eyes, even now while I’m typing.  To think about not be able to provide Christmas for your children, has to be a heart tugger.  My mother is a wonderful, wonderful person and every Christmas I wish to equal her kindness, which really can never be done, KH, Stuart, FL

I WAS SITTING THERE - Mark’s Musing Monday Dec. 14, 2009

today’s Musing  written and published from south Calgary, near Fish Creek Park

 

Morning walk: -27C/-17F (wind chill -31F) … but my dashboard said -32C when I was driving back from the gym;  I came in to warm up and layer-up before taking Gusta for her constitutional .. which she made short work of while stepping lightly to minimize the impact of ice lumps in her paws, clear, calm, very very cold, but predictions suggest a warming week ahead.

 

Time to daydream, warm ones, just a little; dreams today, lead me to tomorrow; time brings closer, those little steps that take us down a path.  To get from where we are, to where we want to go is a long seemingly endless series of little steps . . . .

 

Sitting there, at Starbucks, looking out at parking lot tires, hard square-ish lumps at the corners of trusted vehicles; just over there I saw cars and trucks gassing up at the Co-op gas bar, chilled customers working their way through the MacDonalds drive-through.

 

Winter here is to be endured, somewhat embraced, but mostly to be endured.  This time of year warm thoughts are drawn to stories of hungry people being fed, home fire victims being housed, stranded travelers being helped to their destination - and stalled motorists getting a push or a boost or a tow. 

 

“People ask me what I do in winter when there’s no baseball. I’ll tell you what I do. I stare out the window and wait for spring.” – Rogers Hornsby; with seven days yet to go before the beginning of winter, I’m feeling a lot like Hornsby. It’s not the waiting. It’s the cold.

I was looking for an inspiring quote this morning … that Bill Mitchell one, about winter, but I couldn’t find it. Something like …. ‘Winter is the process of driving from heated box to heated box in a heated box’.   I found this one of his, on the relationship between artist and audience; it feels perfect for me to send to you today:

“It is quite possibly the most intimate relationship between two humans, barring none.” – W.O. Mitchell ; I like that one. Perhaps it explains why writing to all of you, to each one of you, every day feels so good for me . . .

Sitting there, finishing my coffee, skimpy Monday morning paper finished, workout at the gym finished - many warm thoughts in my head, Maui memories and sunny thoughts rolling through. There is a reason, I think, that Canadians don't mind hurling rocks down a curling sheet, watching 3-down football, the playing brutality of lacrosse or enjoying grinding in the corners (or watching well padded young men do it on TV) hockey elbow bully politics - these fall and winter games ingrain toughness in our mindset; something non-Canadians, understandably, might be hard pressed to fathom. But it makes us true, north, strong and free.

I also found this gem: “People don’t notice whether it’s winter of summer when they’re happy.” – Anton Chekhov

 

Canadian life is not perfect – but somehow it can keep us warm on the coldest of days.  I wish for you all to be warm, always, happy, always, wherever we are – and that you be Chekhov-happy today.

We all need to do what we need to do. Some days it seems easier to stay in from the cold, but that kind of warm is the Hornsby kind.  I think Chekhov kind makes more sense – so going out is just a thing we do to warm our motor oil and to round-up the tires.

I recall Mitchell always went south for the winter.  Hhhmmm.

Mark Kolke

326,244

193.1

 

 

December 13  Responses  

 

December 13 – GET UP AND GO –  none

 

December 12 – AN EXQUISITE STRUGGLE –  I hounded you to call Louise! How come the golden retrievers get all the credit?  However it came about, I'm absolutely delighted that it has been so serendipitous!, VJP, DeWinton, AB

GET UP AND GO - Mark’s Musing Sunday Dec. 13, 2009

today’s Musing  written and published from south Calgary, near Fish Creek Park

 

Morning walk: -29C/-20F (wind chill -33C), overcast, bone chilling, Gusta reluctant to squat (who could blame her); when we came back I started my precious Pacifica … reluctantly coming to life after several misses of that ‘lots of cranking power battery’, soon it was humming along while I shoveled the driveway …

 

Bitter cold needn’t be bitter. Just cold. Most things stop. Flowing things don’t flow.  Round tires go square-ish.  Cold cheeks, cold feet, slowness – these things need more than hot coffee and mental visions of Hawaiian heat to get started. I spent 2 minutes with this http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=c1Pf7PLy4Kw a little tune that will inspire any Rube Goldberg machine fan, it will inspire you too. Now percolating . . energized – Starting!

 

Starting anything, like changing anything – regardless how much we want it – requires that we get off the mat.  Get up, get started. Starting - working against forces of physics to say nothing of mental forces – ones that keep us still, immobile, where we are – forces to resist until we overcome them, we must. OK, I’ve overcome them. What then?

 

It hardly seems worth rooting ourselves up, pulling ourselves from a comfortable place, an easy path or a warm bed.  But, if there is a known destination, some clearly defined goal, a well described safe feeling place – then we can do it.  Moving from point A to point B, when we are confident point B is so much better, like greener grass in the next pasture – then moving, getting up, lifting out of the chair, seems like an easy thing to do. The inspiration and motivation come from already tasting the result in our mind.

 

Clearing clutter, and overcoming forces of inertia, today – seem so difficult. It would be so much easier to crawl back in bed, curl up – cozy, warm, resume slumber – letting the dark nights pass along with the day.

 

Hold it.  This moment will never come again.

 

If I spend it, or waste it, or squander it – or put it somewhere aside for use later, either way, I’ve lost it forever. So, best I use it to some purpose.  Time to get out of this chair. Time for action.

 

Facts, feelings, ideas, hopes, dreams – don’t sit still; they can’t be captured in a single photo, they won’t pose to be painted.  They don’t argue, they just move and change.

 

I believe, amid clutter of life we can find harmony and opportunity; but these spectacular moments and experiences don’t leap out of the closet or a drawer.  There is nothing tricky or obscure, just things obscured by meaningless things in the way.  If a treasure is at the bottom of a drawer, or our heart, things in the way don’t diminish it, they just make it hard to reach for a while – until we clear away that clutter.

 

This chilly morning, to get out the door, let alone off to the gym in a frozen vehicle seems such a chore – prohibitive to movement; so much easier to sit here, strong coffee, good music, this series of 8½ X 11 canvases – each begging for my next keystroke.

 

Sitting still, so much easier than getting up; staying put, so much easier than taking off

 

Starting …. A line, a paragraph, a day, a season or a year …

 

Next steps …. then some work, some errands, a meeting, some shopping – and then the day will be gone, darkness will resume, sleep will take over.  So easy it is, to spend a day accomplishing nothing – because accomplishing anything worthwhile takes effort. Of course we all KNOW that.  But, in moments, we all lay back in the cold darkness convinced that we can’t make something happen, can’t make our dreams come true. 

 

But then, as I did yesterday, I get up – and send myself out the door again. Some days into the cold, some days into strange and wonderful places we might have only imagined while sleeping.

 

My get up and go, getting out the door now; I’ll visit my dad, do some more of that ‘clean out and organize’ another closet or a room or a drawer – the accumulations of a life, the mix of treasures, things that no longer matter, forgotten ‘things to get to’ and junk.

 

That’s the way these things work.

 

Mark Kolke

326,268   

193.2

 

 

 

December 12  Responses  

 

December 12 – AN EXQUISITE STRUGGLE –  Becoming friends with Louise has been one of the best things to happen to me. I think it's our connection through you, via your blog, that she and I linked up, and together we're pulling in more incredible people. Louise knows how to recognize good things, like my invitation to participate in my online community's one-word prompt-fests and now the 12 Days that she's so rightly (and writely) made her own by called 12 Days of Blessings. So, thanks, Mark. A lot, MD http://writingwithoutpaper.blogspot.com , Arlington, VA

 

December 12 – AN EXQUISITE STRUGGLE –  I'm in Tubac, AZ. - 65 degrees and sunny today. I Thank you for your writings!, PT, Tubac, AZ

 

December 12 – AN EXQUISITE STRUGGLE –  Wow -- I feel quite humbled by your post today.  And grateful. And blessed. Amazing how a golden retriever can become the conduit of such a great friendship. Thank you my friend, LG, Calgary, AB

 

December 12 – AN EXQUISITE STRUGGLE –  I too believe that we each have our struggle if we wish to make something of ourselves...Mein Kampf, as someone infamous once called it. We have, of course, the choice of that or simply going with the flow and achieving little, but nevertheless having the possibility of enjoying our existence. It all depends on desire, choice, and ability to achieve. A reason behind everything? Definitely....But what is that reason, or reasons? That is where the intellectual and emotional fun resides, EG, Calgary, AB

AN EXQUISITE STRUGGLE - Mark’s Musing Saturday Dec. 12, 2009

today’s Musing  written and published from south Calgary, near Fish Creek Park

 

Morning walk: -24C/-11F (wind chill -36C), light clouds, Gusta bounding through that light fluffy snow, sniffing as she romps, her snout - a lightly dusted furry snowplow; chill drills through layers of warmness, a day when animals of all shrivel up; and it will get colder, worse, before it gets better in two to three days.

 

There is a reason I say the things I say. Do things I do. Write what I write. Feel what I feel.  Newton said: ‘for each and every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction’.  He was talking physics. I’m talking feelings, hopes and dreams.  Maybe the laws of physics apply.

 

The realization that has hit me more than any other single one these past few years (today is the 2458^th consecutive day of this column) is that it helps. It helps. I help others. Others help me. That’s not self-help, or double talk; that’s people in touch with people. Some get in touch with their feelings, some express them, some watch – as flies on the wall, some get up with the roosters, some get up outdoors in the cold.

 

My friend, mentor/co-conspirator – Louise Gallagher – has a blog  worth visiting; she is currently doing a series of  ‘12 days of Christmas’ themed pieces; today’s titled HELLO. JUST CALL ME HAPPY ; like most days, worth the read, but the crème de la crème is 2:49 video of Zahir’s struggle - worth every second you invest watching it.

 

I found, in the simplest of terms that his desire to not be alone reminded me of EC’s comment yesterday describing ‘an exquisite struggle’.  His struggle might be so very different from yours or mine – or, in some ways, so much the same. Everyone wants to be safe, unafraid, cared about, cared for … and not forgotten, not lost, not left out, not left aside, not …. struggling for life.

 

Is there a magical hand behind things, controlling things, making magic (or disaster) happen? I believe, in my way, that there is a reason for everything we do. I believe that.  I remember that day I got an email from Louise saying ‘I have a golden retriever too – do you want to meet for a dog-walk?’…something like that, which began a friendship/collaboration that has grown us both.

 

Connections with people are like that. We never know which one will amuse through a cup of coffee, or which one will alter our life.  There seems to be a reason, for everything; I don’t mean in some spiritual, or fatalistic way, as if there is some silent hand behind everything. The only silent hand is our own.  And when others do their thing, or respond to what we say or do, there is no silent hand – it is just them, being them.

 

Still, there is a reason. Reaching out . . a hand in a crowd. A voice in the ether. A connection across time, distance, circumstance . . .

 

It means a lot to me.  It means a lot to Zahir. Who will you be?  When or where will you show up in my life, or I in yours?

 

Mark Kolke

326,292   

194.5

 

 

 

December 11  Responses  

 

December 11 – CHOPPY WATER –  Permanence, perseverance and persistence in spite of all obstacles, discouragement, and impossibilities: It is this, that in all things distinguishes the strong soul from the weak. - Thomas Carlyle; We are made to persist. That's how we find out who we are. - Tobias Wolff; …, JW-Cochrane/Calgary, AB

December 11 – CHOPPY WATER - Your column was very good today. In one context, successful, vibrant people are always single-minded, looking at the goal, blocking out distractions.  How else could Einstein have developed the theory of relativity?  In another context, people who love such intelligent, creative, goal oriented humans wonder when there could possibly be time for them?  Do we get to have it both ways?  Is there truly time to develop deep intimacy and deep creative thought? The struggle, the balance between people with drive, vision, creative talent and their families, friends, loved ones is constant. Every second, every minute, every hour spent at an endeavor is time away from people. Every second, every minute, every hour spent with people, is time away from the endeavor. Balance is everything. Balance is liquid, ever changing. It is that moment in between falling one way or another.  There is seldom but a split second when the balance is attained....then we blink, or breathe or think...and the balance is toppled once again, to one side or another. An exquisite struggle, EC, Chicago, IL

 

December 11 – CHOPPY WATER - pls would you send musings and daily thought to ___, ___, ___’ I'm sure they will love them as I really do, Kindest regards, SH, Toronto, ON