Do you, by any chance, know anyone that engages in this type of behavior? I do. And I am quite certain that you do as well.

What propels these people to repeat the same steps, over and over, always with the faint hope that something will change? It’s perplexing–and disheartening–to witness this bizarre and, ultimately, pointless exercise.

In Buddhism, there is the idea of a wheel, where one tends to perpetuate various behaviors, all of which are detrimental to the soul, or essence of Being. The idea is to ‘remove’ oneself from this harmful wheel, this cyclical nature of self-destruction.

This ‘cycle’ comes in many forms; from depression, to perpetual negativity, playing the victim, or something as mundane as the continuity of a daily ritual, if that in itself causes the suffering.

The Internal Saboteur is always alive and well within, and it is best to access the Internal Observer, to confront and–this is key–to embrace that same saboteur. After all, both the Observer and Saboteur are one and the same, a sense of Self.

Only then will a sense of clarity be revealed, and the utter futility of the vicious cycle will be eliminated. Diligence is paramount, for if not maintained, the ‘insanity’ will once again return. Who in their ‘right’ mind would want that? “Mindfulness” remains the answer. Once accessed and achieved, both mind and body are whole, in ‘uni-ty’ with the ‘Uni-verse’.

So if perhaps you are reading this simple post, and you are one of the multitudes who are constantly fretting over something, be it a recent divorce, your job, the foreclosure of your home, wondering if you’re consuming too much Glendfiddich, feeling sorry for your lot in life, now is the moment to release such horrid notions. For it is only the Now, the Moment, the Present, that exists.

Why not embrace this this time right now, to weave a tapestry of calm and clarity, instead of clenching and clinging to a shroud of abject repetitive misery?

Let go. Embrace the Now. Let go…and release the hellish bond of insanity.

Copyright, Paul Grignon, 2012, All Rights Reserved.

I mention this because today I went for a pleasant walk in the woods with my 10 year old boy, a child who has met my Dad on more than one occasion in the past, and I thought that it would be a great idea to honor ‘Pops’ with a stroll along one of his favorite jaunts.

It’s a trail off the beaten path, within Wells State Park (a most enchanting place where I grew up) and my son readily agreed to accompany me on this brief outing.

After parking my car at the gate’s entrance, we ventured past the driveway and ambled along the dirt road that led to the trail. I pointed out various things to my son, and he seemed to absorb everything I said, inquiring here and there about the woods, about my Dad, his ashes, and how he died.

It was a calming hike, but tinged with a hint of melancholy. As the wind whistled high through the swaying pine trees, I felt the presence of my dear Dad and he seemed to be a part of the gentle wind. His spirit soothed my somewhat saddened visage. And knowing that at least part of his remains–his ashes–reside in a pond off this path brought a comfort to my soul.

The walk, with my dear stepson, proved to be healing, and I was glad to have his company. He asked pointed questions, and seemed to ponder the idea of death, and what becomes of a human being after the dark cloak of death embraces a departed soul. Like most people, he enjoyed seeing my Dad, whenever we happened to see him.

Coming full circle through the woods, we wended our way back to the car. All in all, a pleasurable stroll, more pleasurable knowing that we walked in the same footsteps of my dear Dad.

‘I felt you there, Pops, and I wish you well, wherever your spirit may be. I love you.’

Copyright, Paul Grignon, 2012, All Rights Reserved.

C

Just the subject itself conjures a myriad of images, whether positive or negative. But here, in our small but comfortable abode, our three kitties provide the former. Well, ok, as far as the latter, kitty puke and cleaning litter boxes are not so pleasant. Oh, and occasionally, a monstrous fur ball that defies logic.

Boo, our big black shadow of a cat always provides a preponderance of hilarious antics, whether gazing at us upside-down with his big moon eyes, or chasing various tiny toys after consuming a heaping helping of catnip. (I have always wondered what the human equivalent is…probably red wine & dark chocolate.)

Fenway, on the other hand, is the Eeyore-in-residence feline, as he always appears to be in a rather melancholic mood, his countenance hunched and sad. When he sits with his backside to us, his bulk looks like Churchill; huddled, with a gray mantle of fur, like an overcoat. A hat is the only thing missing to complete the visual.

And Miles? Well, he is our ‘two-ounce’ cat, at least, that is what I call him. Compared to the immense bulk of the other two (Boo: 18 lbs.; Fenway: 10 lbs) he remains tiny and wraith-like, and when he deigns to curl up on your lap, you cannot feel his weight in the least.

Affectionately, I call Boo and Fenway ‘Fathead’, but for Miles I reserve the moniker ‘Squirrelhead’ as he does possess a rather small noggin.

All three get along handsomely, although at times Boo plays the bully, swatting at the others with his big mitts (double-pawed) for an extra morceau of orts, or clawing at them to get a choice spot near the heater.

As for peculiar traits, Miles loves to lick plastic shopping bags, then crawl inside them. Don’t ask me why. Boo loves to lick a particular soft white blanket, and crawl into any box, no matter the size. And Fenway, good ol’ lachrymose Eeyore, likes to scratch anything within reach after using the litter box. Mind you, he never actually scrapes or scratches litter onto his…um, excretions, but scratches at the wall, or the air, or the top of the litter box. Yeah, I know. He’s rather odd.

But other than these varied idiosyncrasies, it always remains a pleasure to come home after a long weekend away and look down to witness their concerned and alarmed cat faces peering back at you, as if they had thought we had completely abandoned them forever.

Yes, sometimes cats can be a bother but for the most part they are wonderful pets and all four of us love our three felines dearly.

Now time for me to clean up some still-steaming cat puke in the corner and shovel out the stinky litter boxes….

Copyright, Paul Grignon, 2012, All rights Reserved.

Why, I remember just this past summer, when Julie and I were ensconced in the pleasing environs of Brenton Point (a place that I have commented on previously). As we maneuvered along the serpentine driveway of the parking lot we witnessed eight or so muscle cars, all parked with the rear of the car facing the ocean, every hood opened and men gathered about. They stared, with lubricated eyes, into the innards of these metal beasts, their collective sight far removed from the sparkling sea.

“Hey, whaddya say we drive along a stretch of road, find a perfect parking spot on the coast, and back in so we face away from the ocean?”

I don’t get it. We had to chortle at such a scene.

And just down the road did we see a man back into a spot, turn off the ignition, and just sit there with his 4 year old boy. The man stared out at the expanse of field and the outhouses beyond while his young charge fidgeted in the passenger seat. We were quite certain that the little boy would have much preferred to gaze at the immense beauty of the Atlantic. Quite inexplicable.

But this behavior is not just relegated to lots near the shore. Oh no. This phenomenon happens everywhere. Wal-Marts, supermarkets, even Dunkin Donuts! These men, with their seemingly innate urge to put a vehicle in reverse, stop all entering traffic as they slowly navigate their cars into tight parking spots.

After witnessing such nonsense, chortles are hard to come by.

As men get older, approaching middle age or beyond, the need to ‘back in’ their toys becomes irresistible. Perhaps…perhaps ‘reverse’ is nothing more than a regressive gene, an unconscious desire to return–backwards– to their youth.

Copyright, Paul Grignon, 2012, All Rights Reserved.

Jesus H.

It’s still hard to fathom that he is gone, my dear ‘Pops’, dead over 18 months now. Eighteen months! It just doesn’t seem possible.

As in my previous blog, ‘Encomium to my Father’, he still figures large in my mind, and I still miss him dearly.

A teacher that I subbed for this week took time off because her own father died three days ago.

Three days. Here I am, 18 months later, and still do I mourn the loss of such a mentor, an icon, a good man, my father.

Pops. I miss you so much.

Many, many moments have passed since those 5oo+ days, and still my Dad…my dear, dear Dad, figures large in my mind.

“Christ, Dad! Why are you no longer here? Where the hell are you?”

I miss your acerbic wit, your sarcasm, your self-deprecating ways, the way you seemed to light up when I stopped by when you were alone, how we engaged in conversation and a cup of joe before hopping into your old Sentra to whack a few dimpled balls at squirrels along whatever golf course we so chose. Jesus, Dad. I miss walking those fairways with you.

Every time I gaze at the picture above, I wonder what was going on in your head at that moment. There, on a beach you have not stood on for so many years, with a glass of chardonnay in hand, gazing out at the distant sea, what was going through your head, Pops?

Two days later, back at home, alone, you lay on the living room carpet with legs sprawled on a chair, your eyes open and staring into the sap-stained ceiling, a stain left from many Christmas trees, a stain that stared back down at you as you lay supine, staring, silent (in pain?), quiet, a last breath, sighing, thinking, unmoving, dying, wondering, a final gasp…gone.

I miss you, Dad.

with fond memories of my dear Father,

Paul Harry, your loving son.

Copyright, Paul Grignon, 2012, All Rights Reserved.

My wife and I, and our two wonderful and beautiful boys, have been vacationing in Narragansett for the past three years. We stay at a dear friend’s house, a most charming ‘pink’ abode, nestled on a back street far removed from the bustle of the main drag.

As our boys remain locked in dreamscapes, we arise at the ungodly (un- Buddhaly?) hour of 5am. Exhausted as we are, we hurriedly make some coffee, don running apparel and a windbreaker (even though it is summer, the shore harbors early chills) and, under darkled skies, stumble to the car. From there, we navigate the black roads to Narragansett Beach and park along the avenue that leads to that magnificent structure known as the Tower Building.

We polish off our tepid joe and pass hearty diehard surfers as they eye the still-calm sea for errant rogue waves to ride. A truck laboriously combs the sands, leveling the shore and ridding the beach of both seaweed and stones. A few gulls feast at water’s edge, and one lucky gull manages to pry open a clam, revealing the soft, plump, salty meat within. Sandpipers engage in their morning dance, frantically skirting the wavelets as they, too, seek morning sustenance.

Julie and I briskly walk the length of the beach, marveling at the diffused light that beckons the arrival of the sun. A few early risers wave to us in passing, their military gait honed to such precision they fail to espy the unfolding majesty.

Before reaching the ethereal conclusion to the expanse of sand the sun appears,  hesitantly releasing its perch upon the horizon, and allowing sky-gazing eyes the beauty of its empyrean rubescence.

This then is what makes it so worthwhile, negating sleep and arising before dawn to  witness such solar splendor.

Copyright, Paul Grignon, 2012, All Rights Reserved.

 As the decades roll along, and in the course of existence, many changes in one’s life are to be expected; graduating from high school, college, finding the first of many jobs, finding a significant other, eventually marrying, and then finding yourself in a perfect place.

 But sometimes, that perfect place is not so perfect for others.

 How apt, then, are Ms Mitchell’s words. They resonate for me, as I have witnessed first hand the desire of others for me to remain the same, living the life of long ago, not wanting that ‘change’ to happen.

 “What happened to the ol’ Paul? Where’d he go? He doesn’t seem happy…”

 But it does. Change does happen. If not, than stagnation and inertia take over, and one remains existing in the past, always prattling on about

 “Hey, remember when….?”

 I choose not to live in that realm. Christ, as over five decades have passed, I am looking forward to the next four or five decades.

Yeah, sure, there have been some fine moments in those previous iterations of being, but to relive that static Self at gatherings, be they friends or family, is nothing more than stifling to the soul. Better to immerse yourself in what is transpiring Now. The past is indeed just that—passed.

 ‘…they say I’ve changed.’ Yes, ‘tis true, and it is a wonder to live your life in the present, to seek new challenges, new goals, new beginnings, and relegate the proverbial old hat to the distant past. I am not against chatting about events of the past on occasion, but make it just that—on occasion. Not ad nauseum.

 Perhaps a few of you out there know of what I speak and for you, Joni’s exquisite lyrics ring true as well. The past is gone, the future is not here, and what we have is the Now. Plunge your spirit in the Present and your soul will be thus soothed.

 “Do not dwell in the past, do not dream of the future, concentrate the mind on the present moment.” ~ Buddha.

Copyright, Paul Grignon, 2012, All Rights Reserved.

]]> http://paulgrignon.wordpress.com/2012/02/12/322/feed/ 0 heronmoon Paul, Narragansett Beach, 2011 http://paulgrignon.wordpress.com/2012/02/10/winter-sun/ http://paulgrignon.wordpress.com/2012/02/10/winter-sun/#comments Fri, 10 Feb 2012 14:35:15 +0000 heronmoon http://paulgrignon.wordpress.com/?p=318 Continue reading →]]> Reluctantly releasing its grip upon the horizon, a wan winter sun begins to shed its pallid light upon the land.

Our backyard is a wonder in the morning, as we are always privy to magnificent sunrises, be they winter or any season. But especially during the brumal months, when all is quiet and still, the pale sun begins to appear, casting its dull rays into still skies, banishing the Cimmerian world until nightfall.

Peering out our kitchen window, it remains a marvel to witness this tremulous orb as it shyly appears through barren silhouetted limbs. A lone crow stands tentatively in the yard, its darkled presence the lone sentinel to a handful of frost-covered crumbs.

A crimson film envelops the horizon, as wisps of slate blue clouds hover languidly in the crisp morning air. Nary a sound is heard, save for the distant caw of another crow, its muffled plea heard by the single crow below, its muscled head cocked to listen to its murderous accomplice.

The day brightens, and wisps of off-white clouds replace the ragged indigo floating ‘zeppelins’ of early morn’. The winter sun, now hovering near the treeline, reveals its resplendency once again, regal in its empyrean post.

‘Til tomorrow then, when once again the faint pallor of a mid-winter sun is seen, slowly wending its way across a frigid February sky.

Copyright, Paul Grignon, 2012, All Rights Reserved.

There. That’s my post. Does it actually need more?…

Copyright, Paul Grignon, 2012,  All Rights Reserved.

After a few days or weeks go by, and after many loads of laundry have been washed and dried, the lint accumulated from these multiple washings can reach astounding proportions. Likewise, if three or four days go by without cleaning the litterboxes, an extraordinary pile of kitty poop can be attained.

Sometimes, when the lint pile achieves such dizzying heights, it appears that perhaps a cat had inadvertently found itself inside, tumbling away in the dryer, and the resultant carpet peeled from the lint receptacle does indeed resemble the size and shape of a feline!

And those boxes; all that poop! What to do with it all? I use the clumping kind, and so that makes cleaning up a little easier. A little. We  have three cats, and three litter boxes. As is usual, the cats will only use two of them, the third always left in pristine condition, with nary a paw print in the sand. The other two can be overflowing, sometimes with bricks of s*** the size of…well, bricks. Mind you, this has not been an accumulation of kitty crap for weeks on end, unlike the monstrous lint ball, but a mere three or four days!

How is it possible that three felines can produce such an abundance of kitty poop? Astonishing. And I am the one who ends up doing the dirty work, scraping and sifting the mounds of litter, a most heinous task of excavating for excrement. How pleasant. I put the remains in a plastic shopping bag and put it aside, until the next hideous cleaning. After many forays of digging and straining, you can only imagine the amount of cat poop littering the basement.

And to that question of what to do with it all? When it begins to reach epic proportions, and the sour urine ammonia stench becomes unbearable, I empty it all into a trash bin (all 80 pounds of it). On a darkled, starlit night, I lug it out to my ancient vehicle, and patrol back roads, looking for the perfect spot. All with this putrid bin in the back seat.

Under the cover of darkness do I hurriedly get out (the car still running of course) and heave the offending bin from the car, drag it across a gullet, and strenuously upend the contents into the damp and Cimmerian woods. I then scurry back to the car and roar off into the night, the ghastly deed finally done. Until next time.

And that mountain of lint? Well, I suppose I can save enough up from now until October, and make a pretty good scarecrow out of it. What do you think?

Copyright, Paul Grignon, 2012, All Rights Reserved.