The Bridge Builder

~by Will Allen Dromgoole

A pilgrim, going a lone highway,
Came at evening, cold and gray,

To a chasm, deep and vast and wide.

The old man crossed in the twilight dim.
The chasm held no fears for him.
But he paused when he reached the other side
And built a bridge to span the tide.

"Old man," said a fellow pilgrim near,

"Why waste your time in building here?
Your journey ends with the close of day,
You never again will pass this way.

You've crossed the chasm deep and wide.

Why build ye here at eventide?"
The pilgrim raised his old grey head,

"My friend, in the path I've come," he said,

"There followeth after me today
A fair-haired youth who must pass this way.
The chasm which held no fear for me
To the fair-haired youth may a pitfall be.
He, too, must cross in the twilight dim.
My friend, I am building this bridge for him."

Today I navigated Kanan pass from the Ventura Highway to the Pacific Coast Highway, passing through canyons, past vineyards through three tunnels and lots of curves. After cresting the Santa Monica Mountains just past Backbone Trail, the ocean lay before me, her vista bared, in all her winter glory. This time of year, the ever-present marine layer is stripped away, revealing a startling, 160 degree view of the ocean.

This, by far, is my favorite route to the PCH.

I was sulking. And why not. I'm not immune and I certainly have it in me. I had just gotten off the phone after a conversation in which I was apparently the only conversant. The other party had not even done me the courtesy of listening to my side of the story. And I had rendered such  a passionate discourse. It had something to do with rebels.

Rebels come in all shapes and forms. Farley's Free Dictionary says to rebel is to dissent from an accepted moral code or convention of behaviour, dress, etc. I am a chiropractor by trade, but I choose not to wear a white coat in my practice. I also get to pick my hours and, because I don't like alarm clocks, I see my first patient at 10:00 a.m. I often, however, stay late for the after-work crowd. And work on Saturdays, for others. For this, I am a rebel. My work fits me.

An alternative definition for rebel is: to express opposition through action or words; "dissent to the laws of the country". And, another: to break with established customs. I am aware that my individual efforts, coupled with yours, will have a positive impact on our world. So I'm choosing to grow my own vegetables. This spring, I will do just that. That's one less bag of fertilizer, one less tree to make the bag, one less truck to get it to market, less gas consumed. I will pick it at the peak of perfection, plus have the pleasure of tending it and watching it grow.

In my opinion, rebels are not just insurgents, are not all organizing the overthrow of a country, a government, a regime. A rebel turns the spigot off while brushing his teeth, watches BBC because it's news and not commentary. A rebel reaches out her hand to her fellows because she can. Encourages. Cheers. Allows. Gives her time.

A rebel builds bridges. Even when the bridge is just a hand.

There are giants who walk among us. And giants tend to be rebels. Even when they don't think so.

Santa Angel Winds

It's 8:00 p.m. and this day has worn me down to a big ole' pile of mush. Normally, the Santa Ana winds don't bother me much. But there are times, like today, when they push me right up to my edge emotionally.

I decided to see just what's up with these winds, what causes them and why they play havoc on my serenity level. This is from the UC San Diego website:

"Any low-pressure system in the Pacific off the California coast may change the stability of the Great Basin High. The Great Basin High winds then turn southward along the eastern slopes of the Sierras. The low-pressure system over the Pacific literally sucks the winds through the mountain passes of Southern California toward the coastal areas."

Yep. That's exactly what it feels like. And while it's sucking the winds through these canyons I love, the winds suck the moisture out of everything. Including me. I drink lots of water. And try to ignore the low-level hum of my nerves, twanging like rusty banjo strings as the oaks rattle, the wind chimes sing and the gusts slam against my home.

It didn't help that my schedule changed. My full day at home getting more stuff done, narrowed precariously after two trips to the spa to see patients. Then, when I did sit down at the computer in the afternoon, some jerk had sent me a random hate email, presumably because I'm a chiropractor, or a natural healer, or whatever he thought.

I know, I know. Shake it off. It's not about me, it's about him. Yada, yada, yada. But come on...

Then, Calvin says another band is playing at Fresh & Fabulous on the 11th, so now I either have to change venues for my going-away party, or call Magda and see if there's any way we can get him on stage instead. Calvin and Sam, the Piano Man. It wouldn't be right to have my party without them.

If I'd looked in the mirror early this afternoon, I'm sure I would've seen a sane, calm woman. But what I felt like inside was a doe on the first day of doe season, not knowing where to run. I sat at my computer, hung up in emails and Facebook posts, when wise words talked me down from the edge. Sometimes it just takes a little outside intervention, thank you my kind friend, you know who you are.

There are angels among us, I see them every day. In pretty much every face I see. There is not one person in my life who's not an angel to at least one other person. More likely, to many. And that surely must include my friend, the Judge at fda.gov. Be kind. Rewind. Restraint of pen and tongue. Love one another. I hurt you, I hurt me, too. We are one. Forgive. Forget. Love.

Okay. I'm done.

Thanks for listening. And, thank you to all of my angels. Today and every day.

Corners

As I said before, my decision to leave California was prompted by having been 'backed in to a corner' financially. This came across my mail today, and perfectly addresses that corner...and, elevates it from a place of pain to a place of import.

"In a corner
Somewhere in the Austin Airport
Sept 19, 2007


Corners.
They’re everywhere. They’re
important. They give us a landmark for when it’s time
to turn. They give us something to shoot for and make a change. They give us somewhere
to go and hide. Let’s go around the corner and smoke a cigarette.
Corners.
Sometimes they are dark. Dirty. You can’t always get the dust out of the back
corner
on the hutch. Don’t worry, no one will see.
But they are also full of life. Life that isn’t always right in front of us. The
subtle, the hidden, the discreet. Off the beaten path. Corners are their own little
world, sometimes in the middle of the rest of the world. But when you go into the
corner, you feel like you’ve left the rest of the world
behind.
It was funny, coming from Houston where there was nothing but Continental aircraft
everywhere you looked. Then you fly into Austin and they have a corner at one end
of the terminal. All the way at the end. Tucked away in a corner.
Down on that same
end of the concourse was a little place called Lefty’s On 6th
Street. If you’ve never been to 6th Street in Austin, make a day or three of it.
It’s a street just off the center of town. Music. Lot’s of it. One of those corners
just off the center of town where everything is not quite so obvious. But you can
find it if you want.


But here in the airport, inside security across from the gates, sits a little corner
in Lefty’s where a young man sat strumming his guitar. I was struck by his voice
at first. I could almost imagine I was listening to Eric Clapton singing Delta
Blues. Then the strumming on the strings
turned to a furious slash and pick that
seemed like a blur. The sound leapt from the instrument and floated across to me.
Here was a man that knew what he was doing. Then he shifted gears and I was imagining
I was listening to Michael Hedges, playing something on a guitar tuned in a way
only Michael could do.


Here was a little piece of magic, tucked away in a corner. Not necessarily the
magic of a prodigy, but surely something for this modest little location, tucked
in a corner of the Austin airport.


Corners are the great frontier of the eclectic soul. The kind of place where you
go to find things that get you funny stares when you talk about them, or a knowing
nod from someone who has been there. Long lines, waiting times and pop culture
familiarity are not found in corners. That’s what makes them so attractive. Treasures
are found in corners; treasures that are valuable, perhaps, only to the adventurer
that makes the find. But the more I go, the more I glance from the road
immediately
in front of me and turn corners and find corners and have a cold beer in a corner,
the more bounty I find for my treasure room."

Published by permission from the author, Randy Jeffers