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Two months & 21 days out -- a morning prayer from your favorite felon

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Good early morning, everyone. I have been remiss in staying in touch with all of you over the past two months, as I have settled back into life (though a very different life) on my farm. It is clear that the fear and anxiety, the sameness and yet the uncertainty of life at the "house" and the release that I found in writing while I was there must be replaced by something else if I am to continue to write. Hopefully that "something" in the here and now will be thankfulness. Gratitude.

There continues to be very much to be thankful for. Until the past week, our summer here in Tennessee has been unusually mild, with cooler than normal nights and low humidity. Of course, the latter is a double-edged sword, since we have also been suffering through drought conditions here. But on my little part of the world, rains have finally come, and come again, and my life is now surrounded by the lusciousness of many deep shades of green. My little garden, my sweet distraction, my soul-space that required almost daily watering early on just to keep the plants alive (sitting there in a suspended state of anticipation) is now lush and thick, and very bountiful.

Several weeks ago, as dusk descended like a blanket of shadows carried on kestrel-hawk wings, the way lit by legions of fireflies, I sat on my front-porch swing and ate a fragrant and healthy plate of basil pesto fixed fresh from the garden. I looked at the yellow squash and tomatoes that lined the ledge on my deck and realized that, even though I had only been home for 63 days, my healing time in my Garden, working hand-in-hand with my Higher Power (Nana Nature), had already resulted in a bounty that I could begin to share with neighbors and friends, old (and new) drunks reaching for and holding on to recovery in the cool basement of a Franklin church. That thought has stayed close by me ever since – the fact that if we pray to God AND row toward shore (or just plant the next row), we can get to where we want to be, with goodness to spare.

So thankfulness. Yes, that is a good default position these days. Several hard days of work on the flower beds of my little town's square now have that crossroads flush with the multi-colors of healthy zinnias. I have re-started my smiling acquaintance with blue-haired old ladies (and their doting daughters) who wave their appreciations for me while I wave back, dirty on my knees, in our square. But they are not the only ones. Almost everyone waves these days, and they are the waves of recognition and "welcome home". My dogs go with me to the square and find shade under the Christmas tree or the burning bushes, coming to me occasionally to sit (or lay) down in front of me as I slide along on my knees, weeding, planting, feeling the loose soil in my hands. They smile, breathe their dog-breath on me, kiss me on the chin and then go back to the shade.

The work in the gardens – my own and my community's – means so much. But today, the mugginess has settled in early and the no-see-ums are primed to pole-vault onto my bare legs and back, to burn (not just bite) me into distracted submission. So my outside work today will be limited to bush-hogging my last remaining overgrown field, fully clothed (against my better inclination) in old jeans and t-shirt, thick socks and work boots, another baseball cap not yet dissolved by brow-sweat and dirt.

I will spend today tending to other fields, sitting here in front of my computer. The fallow fields of democracy, overgrown by lazy and corrupt public officials and avaricious retailers of bought-and-paid-for elections, foregone (hopefully not forever gone) conclusions that make the "consent of the governed" as quaint a concept as the Constitution seems to be these days. Today, I will write to newspapers and county election commissions in 17 TN counties, informing them that the electronic voting equipment they have purchased has been found to be as "secure" as the virtue of a soiled, besotted Ole Miss sorority sister whose weekend mating call is familiar to all the button-down Bubbas there and always sounds like "Boys, I'm sooo drunk!"

Just in the last week, the California Secretary of State has released a report spelling out the insecurities and easy hackability of ALL electronic voting systems used in that state. And New York's Governor has received a report from his government's lawyers saying that the companies selling that same equipment lack either the basic business practices or the fundamental ethics that are required to qualify to do business with that state. They are all loose-legged whores, despite how much make-up and cloying perfume they apply using Daddy's (or Uncle Sam's) money.

Here are the links to those two reports, for those of you who remain hopefully romantic about our country, who still love deeply our Lady Liberty, one woman who has earned her pedestal's place. When it comes to protecting Her virtue, remember: If we never stop fighting, we cannot lose.

California: http://www.latimes.com/news/local/la-me-vote28jul28,1,558730.story
New York: http://www.votersunite.org/info/VendorsProhibited.pdf (downloads PDF file)

Fortunately, the hard work in the gardens and the harder (at least more frustrating) work here at the computer is balanced by daily doses of magic. One Sunday (a few weeks ago) really stands out on that score. I was driving into Nashville to attend Sunday services at St. Ann's Church when a large, beautiful buck – his full rack still in velvet – ran across the road in front of me. I had stopped the truck to watch him lope up the hillside when I felt a big "thud". Looking in my rear-view mirror, I saw another buck rolling in the ditch, but he quickly recovered and headed up the hillside behind his bachelor buddy. At the next stop-light, a woman in the car behind me honked her horn and waved. When I got out to ask her whether the second deer had run into the side of my truck, she said, "No. That buck jumped right up in the bed of your pick-up truck, stood there looking puzzled for an instant, and then tumbled out the other side." She and I shared a laugh right then, two strangers on their way to different churches, marveling at the cosmic comedy.

That same morning, I stopped by Bongo Java in east Nashville, my favorite coffee shop, before church. Since it was already 10:00 am, the line was long – maybe 20 people ahead of me. A few places up ahead, a two year old blond, curly-headed little boy was laughing and exploring the coffee shop, arching back every few minutes from his fun-filled rambles to hug his young mother's legs for an instant before orbiting back around the room. He caught my eye a few times, but I went back to reading my morning paper. That is, until I felt something on my leg and, looking down, saw that curly-haired urchin, that ball of peach-cheeked starlight, holding onto me, tight. I let him know that he was about four pairs of legs off, to the laughter of everyone else around me, but he paid no attention – just stood there hugging me for a long instant. Then he was off again.

That momentary gift lingered on, as our blond-haired comet continued to orbit the room, now shared (and appreciated) by all in his presence. His gift brought to me a conversation with another stranger, an attractive woman in line in front of me, yet another refugee from New Orleans, another water-logged musician who had washed up on Nashville's shores. Our conversation lasted for the rest of our time in line. Then she and I were gone, likely never to have our own orbits intersect again, but thankful for our shared moment in the presence of that energetic cherub and his calm and sweetly flowing, his freely-given embrace in a roomful of strangers.

So that's my life, these days outside the "house", surrounded by small moments of magic and grace. It is still solitary confinement in some ways, it is still unsettled and sometimes sad, still unsure and swathed in uncertainty. But it is all good, and from all signs, it will continue to be. You all are still out there, and I am still here. And we are where we are, for ourselves, for each other and for everyone else whose orbits intersect ours for just a moment, or for longer still.

I woke up this morning and lay there in bed, my first thoughts going to composing a poem (or maybe a prayer) for two friends for whom I feel sad today. One is an 12-STEP buddy who was in the "house" with me for a while, a legendary snorer whose nighttime fog-horn shook the walls and windows of the entire building and presaged (unknown to all of us at the time) a steadily growing cancerous mass that now inhabits his head and neck, unalterable and incapable of being removed. He will be with us for only a short time, and today I hope to visit him at home, to see what I can do to make his remaining time among us more magic-filled, more gracious. The other friend is someone I have grown to care about but who I have not seen face-to-face for a few months. I saw her picture by surprise yesterday in the paper and wondered why such a happy moment (as reflected in the story she adorned) seemed to find her slumped down with heavy sorrow.

By now, I have learned that there is nothing I can do to change the things I cannot change, except to think good thoughts for both of them and to pray. So here goes – my early morning prayer for anyone and everyone who needs me to remind our shared universe to hold them gently, now and forever. That means all of you. Take care and come visit. I miss you all. Very, very much. Peace.
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This Morning's Prayer

I pray you peace
and hope for you release
from the pains and the puzzles
that furrow your brow.

If I could, I would gladly give to you
a teaspoon of wisdom and
a cup of courage,
a grain of gratitude and
a smidgen of serenity.

And I would give you these things
freely and without counting,
without holding back or ever
hoping for their quick return.

Because, you see, the cupboards
of love and lasting peace
are always overflowing.
They must be opened, must be shared
with everyone who has a need,
with anyone who (themselves)
are in a place to pass it on.

In that way, and that way only,
we keep our lives right-sized,
we feed each other's hearts
with warm bowls of happiness;
we wrap each other's souls
with soft garments of grace.

I pray you peace. I hope for you release.
Relax, let go, enjoy the moment.
It is all we have. Be thankful.
It is always enough.

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