JimBeach

She and I together quietly. Newspaper, coffee, dogs, spring sounds. Morning sun splattered by leaves above. Cardinals calling love across the forest. Light April breeze. Two terriers on squirrel patrol intently, Watching movement in the canopy. Mad dash toward uncatchable tormentors. Back to the patio to take up watch again. Wise old third dog knows, Watching from beneath my chair, amused. At the weathered table, She reading, I writing, Us nurtured.

When, in a workshop, we used opening lines from other authors:

“The lies march out bravely Between us to be exchanged”

The lies march out bravely between us to be exchanged for tentatively familiar but uncomfortable truths. Revelations shared, transform long-held habits of hiding into vulnerable old newborns who have longed their whole lives to be seen without judgement.

In time, the lies marched out between us are barely remembered as they fall away into graves containing ghosts of past struggles. They haunt us when we forget our resolve and resort to the old ways of familiar hiding.

The lies marched out between us may only be exchanged for new truths when the strength to dwell with our new freedoms defeats those old familiar habits that will push us to the grave despite our best intentions.

~ Jim Beach

“In the world of souls, I set out to find them.”

In the world of souls, I set out to find them. For it’s in the world of souls where I’ve come to really know and be known. The world of souls exists in those authentic and vulnerable recesses. It’s the world where our selves are.

The other worlds are there for us to glide along the surface, Where we engage with workmates and casual playmates, Where weather and sports and kids are the most common topics, Where, “Fine, and you?”, is sometimes the entire conversation.

They aren’t bad places. They’re just places, places where we practice being whoever fits the moment. Rarely, is it safe to reveal our souls there because souls are fragile and the world isn’t kind.

Only in the world of souls do I find love. It’s where slow is real and my own soul is nurtured. In the world of souls I seek symbiotic companions. There I find them, and within them, myself, and God.

~ Jim Beach

“We traverse impatiently the landscape of dislike.”

We traverse impatiently the landscape of dislike, gingerly sidestepping those whom we see as mirrors of our own self-loathing.

We long to arrive where our hearts know our perfect selves await to welcome us home.

As our destination enlarges on the horizon, the gulf between here and there continues expanding away and ever beyond reach.

We traverse impatiently the landscape of dislike until we finally surrender into a garden of utter acceptance and know that we were always home.

The trail recedes into the darkness from an opening in the frosty alpine forest. It beckons us under a predawn moon above the high-desert landscape. The mystical silence of an early autumn snowfall lays a spiritual calm over anxious anticipation of the dangerous trek ahead. Gathering at the trailhead, we’re aware that the dark woods disguise the northern edge of a vast chasm the guidebooks warn us not to attempt crossing in a single day. But we are fearless in our unity. After a final sip of coffee, we enter the forest, headlamps bobbing, and begin our descent into the vast and rocky wilderness below. Captive on the treacherous trail we are like seven minuscule mountain goats navigating the outcrops shaped by weathers of millennia. Around each bend, the rising sun transforms the canyon from early morning muted sepias to deafening Technicolor. As our descent merges into midday, the temperatures rise until the lower elevations reveal the arid suffocating climate. Grit and gravity carry us onward for 15-miles to a depth more than 5,000 feet below the snowy rim. Midday and we’re halfway along our adventure where we stand insignificant at the edge of America’s mightiest river roaring violently through the Grand Canyon, scouring away rock grain by grain as it has done longer than time.

All the 5th grade boys seemed bigger, stronger and knew more about the nuances of baseball than me. But I joined because Dad encouraged me. I didn’t want anyone to know I was unsure so I imitated and tried to fit in before anyone found me out. I know now that, in reality, I did as well as any other boy out there. But with more than 50 years of hindsight, seeing myself as inadequate looks like a constant thread through my growing up.

I remember a practice one windy afternoon at the dusty field behind the theater. No matter how loud the coach yelled, I couldn’t track the ball from his bat into my glove. He ordered me off to the side where he was determined to keep throwing balls until I learned. He seemed to get madder with every one he let fly. Each ball that landed stung my hand as blowing dirt from the bare ball field burned my sweaty skin. Tears of frustration came while I frantically tried to keep from getting hit in the face. I spent more time chasing than catching and it seemed like it would never end. At least that’s how I remember it, and for the remainder of my short baseball career, I hated that man and baseball. But I stuck with it for the rest of that summer because I was afraid of disappointing Dad and because from inside I heard the voice that tells me, “you’d know stuff if you were a better boy.”

Practices were sometimes dull and sometimes a fun escape, but I really liked the excitement of games. Wearing the uniform and hanging with the pack, I belonged with my neighborhood boys as we came together to play America’s game. We’d size up our opponents and try to imagine ourselves hitting homers, making heroic catches and throwing them out at first base. We’d talk 10-year-old-boy smack to bolster ourselves against a fierce and imposing enemy that was really just another pack of 10-year-old boys we exaggerated by our tales. Then, the game was called to begin and we broke from our warm-up and ran out to our lone positions on the field to play our individual roles.

There I was, a speck of a boy alone in a vast right field where I wasn’t confident I’d catch a fly ball if it came my way and even less sure what to do with it if I did. Out there, I couldn’t fade into the crowd of my superior teammates. I could only thump my glove with my fist, be part of the on-field “chatter”, and silently pray the classic little-league prayer, “Please don’t let it come to me”.

We played a whole season of games but there’s only one I really remember. It was the bottom of the first inning, we were in the field, the other team hadn’t scored, and now it was our turn at bat. We all trotted to the dugout where the coach had the game plan. He had me going in as sixth batter. I hoped our allotted three outs would come somewhere in the first five boys so I could be spared my other imagined humiliation of standing alone at home plate, all eyes on me as I inevitably struck out.

So, first boy up hits a roller past second and gets on first while all the parents cheered his praises. Second up: one, two, three strikes and out. Third boy up: hits a dribbler but makes it to first. We have one out and two on base. Fourth boy strikes out. Now we’re two outs, two on base. I move to the batter’s circle, my heart pounding, barely able to breathe while fifth boy goes to the plate. He hits one over the shortstop and gets on base amid loud cheers. Okay, here we go, bases loaded, two out, excitement building in the stands…. and I’m up.

I walk to the plate trembling inside while mustering a little boy’s resolve and false bravado. I swing a couple of menacing practice swings and take my final stance. The pitcher looks to his coach for direction, at his catcher for the signal, then winds up, and hurls that missile Coach threatened me with in practice. The ball is hurtling for my face, seemingly in slow-motion, and I’m frozen. It doesn’t register with me to duck until too late. Smack! A hard thud as it hits me squarely in the throat. I go down clasping my neck and trying to catch my breath. It wasn’t the pain I felt so much as humiliation and a strong urge to get up and act like nothing happened, as if I could rewind the scene and will away the embarrassing gasps and attention.

I see my Dad run out and I feel a painful, needy whimper escape as I try to swallow back tears. He joins the umpire and coach stooped over me, as far as I know, assessing whether I’m really hurt or just being a pussy. Dad decides I’m hurt and helps me up. With his arm around me, he walks me off the field and in that moment I felt safe and comforted. He was my protector and my hero. Then, in the next moment, when we’re just out of earshot, he turns and with a look of disapproval says disgustedly, “You have a pimple on your nose that needs to be popped. Don’t you ever wash your face, Jimmy?” I shrank into myself a little and the roots of a notion I would nurture for many years grew a little deeper, “maybe Dad wouldn’t be ashamed of me if I could just be a better boy.”

They met day and night in a dark, shabby, former retail space of a once prosperous midtown mall. I’ve since come to know it was just one of thousands of ordinary AA meetings and they would become my tribe. But this was 1991 and it was only my first.

I mustered false bravado and stepped warily into a room full of motley characters, some in slacks and ties, some tattooed and sleeveless, but none who were like me, because I wasn’t ready to be one of them. From the previous seven weeks of outpatient treatment I had gained head knowledge but hadn’t quite surrendered into the truth of the me who had arrived there. I judged the room harshly.

The stench of cigarettes filled the air and fear made the summer evening all the sweatier. Regulars surrounded the tables with laughter and friendly banter. A few other bewildered beginners clung to the walls hiding a glimmer of hope behind defensively folded arms. We longed to belong as we pretended to remain invisible. I chose a vantage in a perimeter chair where I meant to fade unnoticed into the peeling paint.

The meeting began with a reading I don’t remember, but the sound of the reader, amidst coughs and scraping chairs, felt both ominous and welcoming. Then I remember hearing, “Is anyone here for their first time?” I slouched deeper into the wall, anxious to get away, back to the familiar and devastating world that no longer fit, and of which I would never again belong.

Walking into that first meeting in 1991, I entered a purgatory from which I could neither retreat nor see forward to the smooth and rocky journey that would lead to the best life I couldn’t yet imagine. A few meetings later, barriers began to break and realization dawned that if I were to go on alive, I had little choice but to abandon pompous judgment and keep coming back.

If it could be quantified, it would be staggering how much constructive energy and time gets wasted every day that could actually do some good if channeled to more important outlets. Often on social media, people have a quick reaction to a post they read. Without a lot of reflection, they type their thought and move on, leaving it to lay there, permanently prodding other readers to post their own reactionary thoughts.

Ever try reading the comments after a story on any news media website? The old adage, think before you speak, should be posted at the beginning of every online conversation place.

Going a step further, it seems to me if we have something important to say, we should choose our forums wisely and try to make a bigger contribution. In the big picture of moving society forward by sharing ideas, it seems like a waste to spend all that typing time on a comment to a post on a Facebook page that so few people even take notice of. There are bigger places to have important conversations. But, we’re all busy, we’re all inundated with information, and we’ve all succumbed to the need to just spew and move on. I did that again this week.

Someone posted a mildly provocative comment to a post of mine that was mildly provocative to start with. His comment was full of inaccuracies about the vocabulary of land use planning and Tulsa’s process of developing small area plans. He seemed defensive in his indictment, which I took to mean he didn’t understand and felt left out. I thought maybe if I could give him some more accurate information, he might move toward a more constructive position. Then his conspiracy thinking began to show. Given the smallness of the forum and the challenge of remaining civil and finding credible thoughts hidden under the tin foil hat, I decided to get out before losing any more time there.

Marie gave me a personal wireless weather station for Christmas. It's set up at home and delivering real time weather updates from my back yard to Weather Underground and Davis Weatherlink. There's also a page here on my Tumbler site with a simplified feed of my station.

Here in Oklahoma, weather is kind of a big thing. OU is well known for its school of meteorology and is home to the National Weather Center. There's a lot of meteorological research activity throughout the state, especially on thunderstorms and tornadoes. NOAA's Citizen's Weather Observer Program, the National Weather Service, and National Hurricane Center wants volunteers to contribute localized weather data to help improve weather prediction models.

Many amateur radio operators are tied in with weather monitoring. They often upload their data to the APRS system, which includes live tracking information. That puts a specific weather station on a map so mobile operators can find very localized information. It's handy for emergency management people and news reporting organizations to be able to track the locations of storm chasers and spotters using portable weather stations.

I first got involved in amateur radio to make communications easier among the SAG driver volunteers on bicycle events I organize. I've always been a little fascinated with weather. Now I've found that amateur radio adds a new dimension to observing and tracking weather by giving me an "inside" view during weather events.

Amateur Radio Emergency Services is a well organized national system in which hams participate in emergency communications related to weather, natural disasters, and other catastrophic events. Each significant weather season brings a lot of activity on the air and Oklahoma's ARES group is active throughout the state. They volunteer freely with community events like bicycle rides, runs, parades and festivals as a way of keeping their operating skills sharp.

Good article: How Screenwriting Guru Robert McKee Teaches Brands To Tell Better Stories.

What is it?

Ciclovias are city streets that have been freed from motorized traffic to allow, during a few hours a day, usually on Sundays and holidays, the free and safe circulation of thousands of people on bicycle, skate or foot.