Dear Ms. Cunningham...

I heard of your recent passing and felt a personal loss, even after these 15 years. John Donne’s "Death Be Not Proud" has been replaying in my head over and over... I memorized it for your class. I still have it memorized. There is something I need to say:

Ms. Cunningham, I remember you.

Do you remember me?

I was that awkward boy, the reticent one with the big glasses

And the oh-so carefully parted hair sitting lucidly in the last row.

I was partial to the back row,

Always rooted in that farthest furrow of chairs

Where I was cultivated by your careful intent.

I was a quiet kid then…but that was okay in your class,

Because you said 'Still waters run deep'.

Remember me now?

I was caught in my turbulent teens,

A time of sturm and angst…but that was okay too,

Because you said, 'Rough seas make good sailors'.

As adolescent quandaries and questions milled through my mind

I knew that I would find my way through,

Because you taught 'All the darkness in the world ...

Can not extinguish the smallest candle.'

When I felt the draw of society to become a widget

In its great scheme to norm and conform… I aimed higher.

Because you read 'Be not simply good, be good for something.'

You were to us eight who created a Dead Poets Society,

The Emerson to our Whitman…

We were simmering, simmering, simmering…

And you brought our minds to a boil!

Remember me?

It has been a long time, since I heard you read:

To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow,

Creeps in this petty pace from day to day,

I know now what your darling Mr. Shakespeare meant.

And maybe it is true for some that all our yesterdays

Have lighted fools the way to dusty death.

But not your life,

You, were no walking shadow,

You, were no poor player, strutting and fretting an hour upon the stage.

Your life and influence was humble yet palpable

A desire to open our minds to the classics

By becoming All things, to All student, that by All your means

You might teach some.

Do you remember me now?

I wrote that scratch-paper poem while helping my dad.

I almost threw it away on my way to your class,

Because I could smell my father's employ on the paper

But you didn't care that I was a pig-farmer's boy.

You said I had a real ‘faculty’ for poetry, and asked for another.

I was doubtful when you said the two would win and be published

—but you were right.

Now you remember me...

I’m sorry that I was sick when you arranged my poetry reading

You knew I was faking didn't you.

It was such a large crowd, of Have-it-Alls, and Know-a-Lots.

But I have learned not to be afraid of such hob-goblins anymore.

I am sorry this letter did not make it to you sooner…

but I am not hindered by your death

Just as you are not hindered by life anymore.

But I wanted you to know…

I find my waters run deeper.

Life's rough seas continue to strengthen me.

The love of classic literature you passed on

Still keeps my mind at a boil.

Our paths may have intersected for a finite moment

But, know this Ms. Cunningham,

You made an infinite difference in me.

The Birthmark

"You look at a star from two motives,
because it is luminous and because it is incomprehesible.
You have at your side a softer radiance
and a greater mystery, Woman."
-Victor Hugo


Just recently, I had the chance to read the short story titled, “The Birthmark” by Nathaniel Hawthorne. Here is a story written in the mid 1800’s that seems to accurately pin-the-tail on the Jack Assian ways of today's society. Husbands and wives that are critical of each other’s imperfections, the love of personal wants and comforts over the love of a spousal needs, technology outweighing humanity, gaining self worth through following personal or cultural notions of physical perfection…and the list goes on and on. A real gem of a story for numerous reasons... but just one of all these themes hit me while reading it this time around.

The story takes place during the late 1700’s where we find a man of science, named Aylmer, who marries a beautiful woman named Georgiana. Now Georgiana is the most beautiful girl in town and many men consider her touched by an angel or charmed by a fairy, because from birth has had a small light birthmark on her cheek in the shape of a miniature hand. Men who admired Georgiana liked the birthmark, and thought it made her all the more attractive. Aylmer knows he has obtained the most prized and perfect woman in town, maybe even in the world...well, if it were not for that birthmark but he is willing to see beyond that.

Shortly after their marriage, Aylmer asks his wife one morning if she has ever considered removing the birthmark from her cheek. This obviously upsets Georgiana and catches her completely off guard, since she wants to please her husband and has never considered the birthmark as anything but a beauty mark. As time passes, Aylmer is more and more bothered by his wife's birthmark; in his mind it is the only thing holding her back from perfection. His obsession with Georgiana's one flaw is so pervasive that eventually, out of her respect for his opinion, she begins to hate the cursed mark on her cheek as well. One Evening, she overhears him dreaming of cutting deep into her skin to remove the blemish, so the next morning she asks him to use his knowledge of science and technology to remove the birthmark and make her desirable once more.

After several attempts he finally concocts the elixir that he believes will work--but there are risks. After she takes the potion, she falls asleep as her husband watches her birthmark hold fast as if gripping her soul, then it begins to pale. Aylmer is extremely joyous at his accomplishments and wakes Georgiana momentarily to exclaim, "My peerless bride, it is successful! You are perfect!" She looks in the mirror and sees that the birthmark’s blemish has almost completely disappeared, but then Georgiana feels her life beginning to fade as the birthmark fades, only to quietly die as she is released from her imperfection.

Now my summation of the story does not begin to do justice to Hawthorne's ability to tell a story...so I put the short story's link below. Sometimes, and I am sure I am not alone, I focus too much on the flaws of family members around me. Being married, sometimes the things that we husbands and wives once thought cute or endearing about a fiancé have become great annoyances in our spouses. Now I am not talking about anything specific, just the general combination of imperfections that every individual, including myself, has. But I do recognize (as many men sooner or later do) that I truly married out of my league--Tami is a bona fide angelic being. We each have a spark of divinity with in us, and we should approach that aspect of our loved ones more often. Upon visiting a few Sihk elders within one of their temples in Toronto, they greeted me with one word "Namasté", which means "I greet the Divinity within you". How much more necessary it is to greet the divinity within our family than within a stranger. At some point we husbands have to say, “If the only way to keep my sweet angel from floating back up to heaven is to allow her to keep a little dirt in her pocket to weigh her down, then so be it.”

So I did something about my new realization, my new awakening...I went up to Tami, sat her on the couch, held her hand, and while looking deep into her eyes, I said...

"Namasté"

To which she responded, "Bless you...That was a weird sneeze. Are you coming down with something? Where is the hand sanitizer? Better not get me sick!" as she walked away to rummage through the medicine cabinet. I guess this is one of those Mars/Venus things right?

The Birthmark by Nathaniel Hawthorne: READ IT HERE

If you have 5 minutes, you will like the story better from Hawthorne.

Favorite Short Film

More



"MORE" a short film by Mark Osbourne, tells the story of an inventor who lives in a drab, colorless world. Day by day, he toils away in a harsh, dehumanizing job for an unappreciative employer...his only savior being the memories of the bliss of childhood. But at night, he works secretly on an invention that could help him relive those memories and spread their joy to everyone in his despair-filled life.

When he finishes his invention, it changes the way people look at the world. But his success changes him, for with it, he loses the most important part of himself by forgetting his pursuit of happiness in his persuit of 'MORE' and 'More'.

Listen closely...18 month old Keagan says "Go ASU!"

Tempus Edax Rerum- Time, Devourer of all Things

Yes... it has been awhile since I 'blogged', but my feeble mind and my hunt-n-peck fingers have been very busy over the last several months with an intensive writing course, the loss of a career, then getting my career back, etc, etc, so no need to worry about my seemingly vegetative state, I have been just plain busy. A ROLLER COASTER--the only description adequate for 2009 so far.


But I did have a moment and I wanted to share a poem by Carl Sandburg I recently re-discovered this spring semester--first reading it some 16 years ago. Back then there were eight of us juniors and seniors that would sneak up into a small forgotten room in the high school library where we had determined to hold weekly Dead Poet Society meetings. We barely fit in that little dusty room at the top of a very steep and narrow stair way above the library’s periodical and magazine section. Too small for a classroom, this oubliette might have been the office of the old Snowflake Academy's headmaster at one time. Being called to the office would be like a call to the gallows by having to pass through this poorly lit, narrow staircase. Once reaching the top of the steep stairs, beneath one's feet were solid wood plank floors and countless etchings left by the scrawling wear of each generation's passing. To the right, shelves holding National Geographic magazines from the early 1900's advertising Model T Fords and showing the latest horse harnesses that would be used to dig the Panama Canal. To the right, in a corner one could find parts from old typewriters and the funnel to a phonograph. Stacked like a chord of wood ready for the burning, there was a set of maps no longer correct since the reboundrification of Europe after both World Wars.

Sadly, we were soon discovered (after whispering troll-like through the floorboard vents into the room below and freaking out some freshmen girls) so we began meeting out by the old F Bar stockyard where a solid bridge of quarried sandstone blocks had been constructed across a ravine. We built a campfire pit at the base of the bridge, brought a few small benches, and would wax and wane from philosophic to comedic until very late at night. This is where I first heard the lyrics to Pearl Jam's song "Jeremy" as one of the boys drove his truck on the old tracks over head, threw open the doors, and cranked up the volume. This is where I committed in front of everyone to ask a particularly cute girl from St. Johns (we’ll call her Talisha) to a New Years dance…and the place I vocalized my pissed offness after the dance in overhearing three girls in my own grade tell Talisha that she should have said ‘no’ because I was shy and wasn’t popular. This is where I first experienced a truly terrifying ghost story--the kind that makes you feel as if the very haunting-hour of night is upon you, and that one more word would cause graveyards to gasp at what we dared whisper that moonless night. In the Dead Poet Society, nothing was off limits for discussion. We often spoke of matters personal, political, ethical, or social--things most teenage girls find tedious and that most teenage boys find counterproductive in their constant pursuits of finding a Willing Betty to fog up windshields with.

I needed these outings. I now know that most of the townspeople regarded me as a "sober child", so it probably would not surprise many that I was easily bored of conversations about putting a larger V8 in the Ford Falcon, which cheerleader was seen getting out of Joe Athlete's car at 3 a.m., or why Hobie shirts were out and No Fear shirts were in. I didn't give a crap about what all the cool kids were in to, yet cared too much about what they thought of me.

Luckily, I was not alone. Our group of eight consisted of nerds and jocks, introverts and extroverts, some of whom could sit on "The Wall" as part of the 'in crowd' and some of which could not. Despite our diversity, we were equals when we met to discuss our unique and individual views on things. I miss those days from time to time. Why? I miss the added perceptions to life. I can only liken it to playing baseball. With only one eye, you lose depth perception; it is harder to judge the distance and speed of approach of a ball. Imagine how much easier it is to catch or hit a ball when you are using both eyes, having two vantage points to judge distance and speed. The analogy is this, what a benefit having eight distinct vantage points when life hurls one of her curve-balls at you. Around that campfire, I learned that every man, simple or complex, has his own story...his own unique perspective rooted in his experience, interests, education, and world view. Even a person's failures have inestimable value and become his triumph when he is able to caution another from a poor path he had already erringly traveled down.

When I re-read the following poem again after so many years, I wanted to be at that campfire again. I feel that I have a strong grasp on Sandburg’s general message, but that I am missing something sublime that one of my fellow Dead Poet's had mentioned. Something that I once was told but can not remember it now. Maybe it is just my being so keenly aware of how, like in the poem, Tomorrow will soon be Yesterday...that all previous great empires with their powerful men and gifted women are nothing but lore and ruins now. If I were at the campfire now, I can imagine one friend saying, "Sandburg seems to believe this is the eventual fate of America, that rats and crows will make their homes in the ruins of our cities like they did in Babylon, Persia, Greece, and Rome." Another Dead Poet would express, "I think it is a cautionary warning to every organization, be it a religion, a political group, even a small family--celebrating your greatness rather than pursuing greater greatness is the beginning of its own end. You know, "Pride proceedeth the fall?'" But what would the others say?

I might say, "American's have forgotten that every freedom is based on certain responsibilities...if we are irresponsible with our freedom of speech, freedom of press, or irresponsible with free enterprise and free trade--they mutate (with the help of both political parties) into counterfeit forms and false versions of freedom that actually oppress individuals. Then the government feels the need to regulate our freedom. Is Sandburg saying eternal principles such as Justice, Ethics, Ingenuity, Compassion, Fairness, and Humility, the true structures in a free society, lie in ruins around us, and that WE are the rats, lizards, and crows, that have taken shelter in a broken system that use to be the American Dream?”

A deep thought, and that is when Talisha says, “Hey… those girls were right...he is a dork.”

So friends, family, and Dead Poet's, what do you think of the poem?




Four Preludes on Playthings of the Wind
By Carl Sandburg


1. THE WOMAN named To-morrow
sits with a hairpin in her teeth
and takes her time
and does her hair the way she wants it
and fastens at last the last braid and coil
and puts the hairpin where it belongs
and turns and drawls: Well, what of it?
My grandmother, Yesterday, is gone.
What of it? Let the dead be dead.


2 The doors were cedar
and the panels strips of gold
and the girls were golden girls
and the panels read and the girls chanted:
We are the greatest city,
the greatest nation:
nothing like us ever was.

The doors are twisted on broken hinges.
Sheets of rain swish through on the wind
where the golden girls ran and the panels read:
We are the greatest city,
the greatest nation,
nothing like us ever was.


3 It has happened before.
Strong men put up a city and got a nation together,
And paid singers to sing and women to warble:
We are the greatest city,
the greatest nation,
nothing like us ever was.

And while the singers sang
and the strong men listened
and paid the singers well
and felt good about it all,
there were rats and lizards who listened …
and the only listeners left now …
are … the rats … and the lizards.

And there are black crows
crying, “Caw, caw,”
bringing mud and sticks
building a nest
over the words carved
on the doors where the panels were cedar
and the strips on the panels were gold
and the golden girls came singing:
We are the greatest city,
the greatest nation:
nothing like us ever was.

The only singers now are crows crying, “Caw, caw,”
And the sheets of rain whine in the wind and doorways.
And the only listeners now
are … the rats … and the lizards.


4 The feet of the rats
scribble on the door sills;
the hieroglyphs of the rat footprints
chatter the pedigrees of the rats
and babble of the blood
and gabble of the breed
of the grandfathers and the great-grandfathers
of the rats.

And the wind shifts
and the dust on a door sill shifts
and even the writing of the rat footprints
tells us nothing, nothing at all
about the greatest city, the greatest nation
where the strong men listened
and the women warbled: Nothing like us ever was.

Los Abrigados in Sedona

We usually go up to Sedona every other year to see the massive Christmas light displays at Red Rock Fantasy and hopefully see some snow too. So when Tami got (she hates it when I use that word) obtained ...an awesome deal on a room, we skeedaddled to Sedona. (Oddly, she likes that word...I just never know).



However, our 3 day - 2 night much needed stay in Sedona was cut short by 1 day and 1 night... but we managed to get some pictures taken while we were there. I had to take Keagan for a late night drive the first night to get him to fall asleep, then again at 3am when he woke up screaming like he was scared to death (probably because he did not know where he was at). The second attempt to quiet him was futile as was trying to make him lay down. We would try to make him lay on the coach, since we left his pack-and-play, and he would scream so loudly that we were sure the neighbors were calling the authorities. We took turns watching him destroy our room as he ran back and forth around and around trying to stay awake while the other one tried to sleep. Pretty hard to catch some "Z's" with the constant, "Keagan...take that out of your mouth, leave the TV alone, yucky yucky, don't touch the phone, NO! HOT HOT fireplace!"

At 7am, I loaded this little bundle of energy up to go get some McD's for breakfast and I did not even get out of the parking lot before he was out. After getting breakfast for the three of us, I brought him in our room and laid him on the couch. Tami and I had to get ready for the day because we had to go talk to some real estate people in lower Sedona, then shopping, so by the end of the day we were zombies. But not Keagan. We knew it was going to be a repeat of the previous night so we packed up and called it quits early. Only thing better than getting away from it all is crashing in my own comfortable bed when it is all through!

Keagan after getting back from McD's

Keagan thinks "Time to get your coat on" means "Wanna wrestle?!"

Taking in the view from our back patio.

Cute! An even better view!! Kinda looks like he is going for a punch though...

Keagan wanted to roast his toes like daddy after all the shopping.

Christmas- Keagan 14 months old

Cogito ergo sum - I think, therefore I am

There is something about the Christmas Season that causes me to reflect more so than any other time of year. Maybe it’s sheer proximity to the new year and all the resolutions we must make--and break. Maybe it’s the recognition that another year has passed and as human nature would have it, a personal accountability comes into play:

“What have I done with my time? Where did the year go?”

Ten years ago I assumed I would be completing my doctorate by now. Back then I would have been surprised to find myself presently married to an attractive city girl, I never planned on getting married until personal academia and my all-encompassing desires to discover the world had been mollified. I would have been surprised if ten years ago I saw myself owning a couple of houses, I never intended on living in the Phoenix metro this long. What I imagined ten years ago does not even resemble in the slightest, what my daily life holds now. I think most people can relate to that.

Ten years ago this Christmas I had saved up enough money during the semester to fly to Oklahoma for Christmas. Shortly before buying the ticket, I found out that a friend of mine had decided not to come back for her final semester at EAC because she did not have enough money for tuition. Since it was about the same amount as my plane ticket, I decided to anonymously pay her tuition with my savings and just stay in Thatcher for the whole Christmas break. I had planned on a white Christmas in Oklahoma, planned on spending time with my family, intended on a much needed change of scenery. Instead I found myself alone…several days before Christmas…and everyone, I mean EVERYONE, in Howard’s Trailer park had gone home.

Life has a way of taking us away from our plans. But I could not help think of the simple but profound advice given to me by my grandfather when I first went to college. He said,

“Be where you are suppose to be and things will tend to work themselves out, do what is right and let the consequences follow.”

I sure couldn't see the purpose in me spending the whole Christmas break alone but it seemed like the right thing to do. I would just walk to work and back, a different path each time to switch it up and smell the roses. Truth be told, I had this habit of plucking a miniature rose from various yards to give away on my way home. Since no one was in town, I'd put it on a shelf in a bedroom waiting for someone deserving to return, and this seemed to be my only purpose in the day. (Yes, I was a naive and hopeless romantic in those days.)

For the most part, a couple of slow boring weeks but Christmas Eve was brutal. I had the day off, the game room was closed, we could not afford cable in our apartment, and I was too restless to read. That’s when a stranger knocked on the door. He wanted to know if a friend of his, a girl that lived a few trailers down was in town. When I told him no, he was a bit discouraged.

He explained that he had thrown some of his belongings in his car and left the deep south in a hurry and did not have a chance to tell her that he was coming. In short order, I found he was one of the most interesting and funny people that I had ever met. Oddly though, he would stand up about every 5 minutes, start pacing, rub his forearms, fidget about, sit down and then repeat, but what an interesting character! We talked for hours, until 1 or 2am on Christmas morning. I could tell he was down on his luck and could not help but ask him if he needed a place to crash for the night. He declined, probably to avoid wearing out his welcome. I begged him to come by the next morning because I knew how depressing it would be opening all two of my presents that were set under the little tree. We hung out Christmas day for several hours, and the day after that. I am fairly certain he was sleeping in his car before he final started crashing on my living room floor.

We would stay up late and when the conversations would get religious or philosophical, he would become very intent and for a short time, he would hold very still, speak very solemnly with a gritty eloquence all his own, before going on with the quirky fidgeting.

Soon, everyone began returning to college. As he made new friends he started going to church with us, something he had not done in a while. After lining up a job and a place to stay, the normalcy helped him to settle down. When we baptized my roommate, this seemed to have a profound effect on him.

One day he confided in me. He told me that when he came out to AZ he was running from his old life, friends, and habits. When we met, he said he had just given up alcohol, cigarettes, huffing, and worst of all, heroin. He said if he had not made new friends when he showed up unannounced, he would not have known where to go and might have ended up in another state with friends that ran in rough crowds. Then he said he finally called his dad and told him where he was at and had a conversation the two had been hoping for in years. Half smiling and in a sheepish way, he pointed to his car and asked me if I wanted to meet his dad.

As I began walking over, his dad got out of the car and began quickly walking over to me. I started to introduce myself when he wrapped me up in a tight bear hug, tears forming in the corner of his eyes.

“Thank you… for being here for my son.”

I realized then that I had been in the right place. Like many people out there, today I find myself somewhere other than where I had previously planned on being. But there can be greater purposes at work. I may have not received that doctorate yet, I may still be living in the valley, and sometimes life and family responsibilities keep me from conquering the world. But that's okay, because I do strongly feel…I am where I need to be. This does not mean I have given in to a sense of resignation and I am just going to sit on the path choosen...after all, he who finds the right path and just sits on it will soon be ran over. I must walk it, because happiness is the journey, not the destination. There is a peace that comes from this knowledge that invites us to do what is right not knowing where the path may lead and let the consequences follow. And at the end of my years, when I return to report, I hope that God’s response is a tight bear hug and…

“Thank you…for being there for my children.”

Oh, And then if He can forgive me of all my student loans that I am about to incur and probably carry to my grave…that would be awesome too!!!

Merry Christmas Everyone...you might just be where you are suppose to be, so do some good while you are there!!!

Some Pictures of Keagan from Picture Day...Double-click to enlarge.

Keagan now officially wears more expensive jeans than me.

Awww...check out his blue Peepers!

"You're coming back to get me right, Dad...okay, this ain't funny"

Keagan practicing his sweet break-dancing skills...

Darn Chiggers Caught Me in My Unawares...

Sept. 2001
It was getting dark fast and for a day and a half we had no fresh water in sight. We had been going off water from a cow tank midway across Buzzard Roost Mesa and we could still taste the brackish aftermath it left behind in our mouths. As we came to the edge of the mesa, we found a steep cliff and could glimpse in the evening shadows, a verdant and fertile valley below. We could hear the water running and see a strip of what were probably tall sycamores and cottonwoods running through the valley. The sun had gone down and to find a way around the cliff would take hours in the dark. We did not have flashlights, only homemade pine-pitch candles, so finding a way down the cliff face was out of the question.

To my surprise, little Jessica who was seemingly nonreligious said, “Lets say a prayer.” We were all a little surprised. Ashlee looked at her for a moment almost as if to say, “Did I hear you right?” Jessica had just turned 14 a few days earlier and must have suddenly felt she should take charge. “Come on, were wasting day light. Fine...I’ll say a prayer.”

So there in the fall twilight hours, the four of us knelt at the cliffs edge amongst the sacatone and sage. Jessica prayed as best she knew how.

“Dear Jesus, We’re like in a real fix. We can’t find a way down on our own, but we know that with your help all things are possible. Please show us the way….Oh, and bless the food we are going to be cooking when we get there.”

Suddenly a spindly old cow came bursting through the manzonita bushes at the cliffs edge. Where did she come from?! We looked and sure enough, slightly over-grown very sketchy cow trail zigzagged down into the shadows beneath. I guess all things are possible.

Jessica dropped to her knees. “Thank You, God! I knew you were listening!”

We quickly made our way down the steep rock face. We were moving so fast that we hardly noticed the deep cuts and scratches we earned bushwacking through all the thickets of catclaw. We trudged and tripped our way through them. I was breaking trail in the lead so I took most of their barbed fury. I did not know if my forearms were wet from sweating or from blood…nor did I notice the hole that was torn in my food bag and the flour pouring out of it.

We made it to the stream and set up camp in a grove of sycamores. To my delight, we made it down safe and had fresh spring water. This greatly outweighed my concern about losing a good portion of my corn meal and flour on the way down. The girls offered to share but I knew that they would need every ounce of food they had to make it through the week. I knew I was going to have to get a little primitive from here on out and try to substitute edible plants and maybe catch a rabbit or quail.

The next morning I said a prayer that I would have a little help in finding something to eat. I started collecting wild black berries, water cress, sour dock, and canyon grapes along the rivers edge as I akwardly hop-scotched form rock to rock. Then I saw movement at my feet under the placid water glaring in the early dawn light—brown trout and blue-gill fish darting up and down through the river rocks into a pool. As chance would have it, the week before, I had collect 3 or 4 barrel cactus needles that were curved back like hooks-- I had heard that the Sinagua and Mogollon Indians used them to fish with.

I made a fly-swatter of sorts with some yucca fronds and went about whopping grasshoppers and bumble bees for bait. With a stick for a pole, sinew for string, and live bait, I caught 14 small fish with the cactus needle hooks in about 2 hours. Before cleaning and prepping them for cooking, I found a secluded spot, and followed the example Jessica had set and thanked my Father in Heaven for the abundant catch.

I apologize but my story now takes it's tangent. I tell this story as a precursor to another. You have to know the back ground to know why I constantly feel the urge to go back to that valley at the head of Buzzard Roost Mesa again and again.

You see most people never have a chance to live the primitive life--never have the need to wonder how they will get through the day. I don’t live it now. I live a life of luxury and ease in comparison. I have just about everything I need at my beck and call. In town, if I come to a road block on the way home, I merely follow a detour like a mindless sheep until I eventually get home. Not a calorie extra burned on my part. If I was low on food, I would just run to the store, or if things were tight, I guess I could ask my parents to spot me some money until pay day. Worst case scenario, there's food stamps, soup kitchens, government programs. If I was sick or hurt I could whip out the old cell phone or drive a block away to the nearest Urgent Care.

Often times in the wilderness though, things can quickly escalate beyond one's own ability and the terrifying realization sets in…there is no 911, no doctor’s prescriptions, no homeless shelters, no soup kitchens… there is only one source to turn to--God. Yet in the city, it is too convenient to turn to our golden calves of technological advances and government aid. So why has society become more godless? One reason, social constructs and bureaucratic agencies have become our savior.

So this is why I go back to Buzzard Roost Mesa as often as I can. It’s a place so rugged and remote, one must face hardship head-on. Often enough, even meeting these hardships squarely on, it is not enough to rely on my own strength and skill.

A couple of weekends ago I found myself needing some answers and direction in life--I needed to clear my mind. A friend and I arrived at the same cliff with our 40lbs. packs just as the sun was setting. We quickly found the obscure cow trail and started the switch-backs down. The brush was extra thick on the way down due to all the rain and snow this year. After the arduous hike down, we finally made it to the valley below, and found a spot that the cows had cleared out under a juniper tree.

I pulled out my brand new Coleman blow torch lighter to get a fire going. The wood was a little damp from the constant monsoon rains that had been falling for the last two weeks. No worry though, I have a blow torch! I set up my kindling and twigs, clicked the torch…about 2 seconds of flame…and then it went out. Not a single flame after that. So I went primitive.

I took a shoe lace and a mesquite bow, a piece of dry saguaro, a yucca stalk, a stone socket and made a fire-starting bow drill. Problem was this, even if I did create a coal off of the friction, everything was so wet. I tried anyways, several times actually, to no avail. Then it dawns on me, “This is the place that I learned a valuable lesson in prayer with Jessica. Why have I not prayed yet!?”

We knelt and asked that we would be able to get a fire going because we needed to cook our food. Most of what we brought to last for 3 days and 2 nights needed to be cooked. There was also the rumblings of thunder and the distant flash of a lightning storm coming...we could use the camp fire light to make a shelter out of our rain ponchos.

After the prayer, our faith was high, and I went back to the bow drill. It has to work...I caught 14 fish last time...with a cactus needle! But two hours later my arm was too cramped up to even hold the bow anymore. I was doing everything right, why was the fire not starting!? We set up a shelter made from our ponchos in the dark, and shortly after, every square inch was being put to the test. He slept dry and warm. The next morning, everything was so wet that we knew there was little chance of starting a fire. I did not want my friend to hate my guts making him stay so I suggested that we could climb out and drive down to a dryer climate. As we climbed out, we ate juniper and manzonita berries to give us energy to carry our heavy packs out. By the time we made it to the top, our legs were shaking as we wobbled to my truck.

I couldn't help but feel a little let down that this place of miracles in the past had now failed to deliver. Was I still going to want to return now that the place had lost some of its magic? Was it me? Have I lost it?

Two days later I noticed I had a few chigger bites around my sock line and a few on my back and chest. Chigger bites are the worst and you usually don’t know they are around until 1 or 2 days after they bite. It’s like having a mosquito bite, but when you scratch it, it feels like a hot needle is stabbed in you. I had about 12 bites and they were painful and annoying. I called my friend.

“Hey, you notice any red bumps on your body.”

“Yeah, did we get into some poison ivy?” he asked.

I told him about chigger bites and that they were probably going to hurt like crazy for the next week.

“I have about 12 bites, how about you?” I asked.

“I quit counting at 85. I am covered....I'm hurting pretty badly, I already went through a bottle of that pink lotion!”

I suddenly had a realization—we had been in danger. If our prayer had been answered, if we had started a fire, we would have camped there for 3 days. Imagine how many chigger bites we would have had after that. Get bit by enough chiggers and a person can have a urticarial reaction. Our shelter was the only warm spot in the entire valley. Even more chiggers were headed for our shelter with out us even being aware.

I realized that it was still a special place but even more so now. This valley at the head of Buzzard Roost Mesa that once held so much enchantment for me because of miraculous answers to prayers now had a new dimension…the miracle of unanswered prayers.