The electric guitar on my workbench belongs to a customer. “Just change the strings,” she said as she left it with me today. Finally! A job I can do without becoming bogged down. Twist the buttons of the tuning machines, insert the ends of the individual strings, and tune it up. No sweat. This will be a breath of fresh air after the clarinets and flutes, and saxophones of the last few days. On those terrifying projects, one adjustment leads to another, which leads to replacing a piece of cork, or a pad. Springs are broken, keys bent, and screws are frozen in place. The simple task of putting an instrument in playable condition (we call it “PC” in the music business) is never quite simple. I am weary. And, ready for an easy string replacement on a guitar.

After removing the old strings, one of the first things I do to the guitar is to clean the grime from the top of the instrument. The job is difficult to do at any other time, but easy to accomplish with no strings obstructing the surface. As usual, I spray the guitar cleaner on a rag and wipe the surfaces for a moment. As I brush the volume knob, I notice that it is loose and spinning in its mount. This could be a problem if not attended to, since the wires attached underneath will break loose with the excess motion over time.  An easy fix…simply remove the knob and tighten the control nut which is underneath. I slide a flat pry bar under the edge of the knob and gently twist. Immediately, I hear a loud cracking noise and the knob pops loose, but something is wrong. The metal shaft of the volume potentiometer is sheared off, with pieces of it remaining in the center of the knob. Looking closer, I see evidence of a popular metal glue called J-B Weld on the sheared off pieces.  It was broken before and a sub-par repair had been made. My easy, relaxing job has turned into a repairman’s nightmare.

Of course, you know what I did. Yep. I sat down to write this post. I know what they say about “when the going gets tough”, but I’ve had it. I’m past tough and moving rapidly into cranky. And, like any good procrastinator, I know when it’s time to sit down and do fun things instead of essential ones. I love to write. The words flow from my brain into my fingers and right onto the screen. There is nothing to break, nothing to bend, nothing to replace. I think that I may just stay here and ignore all of the work that is piling up around me for the rest of the hours I have to spend tonight.

If all you know of me has been acquired through the posts you read here, you might think that I am a rational creature, a realist who thinks through each action and considers the ramifications of every move, always selecting the optimal route to completion of each task. I am not such a person. I am often an escapist, a dreamer who wishes and hopes for a different world in which to live. I eschew hard work and conflict, and I embrace ease and serenity. Alas, that will never be the world in which I move and dwell. The rebel in me insists that I can do as I please, while the pragmatist acknowledges that I will never be able to do that. Even as I write these words, I know that I must soon return to my once attractive, now distasteful, task.

I will reluctantly push up from this comfortable seat and move to stand once more in front of the guitar.  Instead of a simple string replacement, I will disassemble the electronic section (about 20 screws to remove) and unsolder wires, removing the broken potentiometer, or pot. Re-soldering wires, mounting a new pot, testing the new circuit, and inserting the screws once more, I will then be ready to begin the task I started an hour or two ago.

If you are still with me after my poor-poor-pitiful-me rant, I applaud your tenacity. I’ll make just one point and then you may make your determination of how profitably your time has been spent. My guess is that I spend a fair amount of my time while writing this blog in building up my reputation, in crafting a facade that I want you to believe of me. What you need to know is that all of us are human; we all get cranky and cantankerous. The test of our character is not necessarily in our initial response, but in the disposition of the matter, when it is completed. I am reminded of the example which Jesus gave of a father and two sons. For some reason, it is not an example we use often, especially with our own children, since we want them to respond positively every time.

The father asked his sons to go and perform a particular task in the field. One son replied, “I won’t!” and turned away. The other son, wishing to gain his father’s favor, simpered, “Father, I’ll be happy to do the job.” End of the story? Bad son, good son? No! As it turns out, the son who sassed his dad went out afterward and did the job. The son who gained the advantage early with his reply simply didn’t do the work at all.  Who accomplished the job? Who gained the ultimate favor of his father?

Well, my play time is over. I have a job to face and complete. Let me know if you can’t figure out the answer to the puzzle above. Obviously, I’m confident that you already have. Now, is there some task you’ve been avoiding? It’s not too late.

As I’ve said many times before, where there’s life, there’s hope. You’re still breathing, aren’t you?

“And he answered, ‘I will not’, but afterward he regretted it and went.”
(Matthew 21:29~NASV)

“…the best form of tenacity I know is expressed in a Danish fur trapper’s principal, ‘The next mile is the only one a person really has to make.'”
(Eric Sevareid~American journalist~1912-1992)

© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2012. All Rights Reserved. 

Photo by peasap

Petrichor!  

The thunder is rumbling reassuringly somewhere in the sky overhead, while the rain does a drum roll on the metal roof above me.  Today is the first time in many weeks that there has been measurable precipitation outside my door and, while it is not enough to break the drought we are in, for tonight, I am content.  It has been a long, dry spell. 

As I went outside to experience the joy that the earth must be feeling right now, the scent of a long delayed rain on the thirsty ground hit my senses.  I never knew that the smell of freshly fallen rain had a name.  It does.

Petrichor.

The scientific name comes from the Greek word for stone–petra–and the Greek word for the liquid said to flow through the veins of their gods–ichor.  I like it!

Petrichor.

The scent certainly has an emotion attached to it this time, too.  I breath in deeply–well, as deeply as I can with the borderline asthma which the weather pattern has stirred up–and the feeling of well-being returns.  It has been a while.  Yes, a long, dry spell.

Interesting how that phrase is tossed around.  A long, dry spell.  The word spell is used to mean an indefinite period of time here, and is not from the same root as the word which means to use letters in the forming of words.  I am always amused at how our language is arrived at.  What’s that?  Oh, I’m sorry; must have had a spell of geekiness.

Long, dry spell.  We use the phrase to describe many things.  Some of them are from a more base and more coarse perspective than we will touch on here, so we’ll skip past them and get quickly to the ones which speak to our experiences.

Salespeople talk of a long, dry spell when they’ve not been able to convince anyone to purchase their goods for awhile.  It is a time when they don’t have the income, but more to the point for many of them, a time when their egos are fragile, especially if other, rival salespeople are not going through the same dry spell.  The successful sale which breaks the drought is cause for jubilation, frequently in the form of a celebratory get-together with friends.

Athletes go through long, dry spells when they are not successful at achieving their goals in the sport in which they participate.  A batter who cannot get a hit is in one; the basketball guard who draws down on a three-point shot again and again, but can’t hit the side of a barn (much less the backboard) is in one; the quarterback who hasn’t thrown a touchdown pass in several games is certainly in one.  It usually takes more than just one success to break the dry spell, but sometimes the first one is what the athlete needs to break the mental barrier which is holding them back.

As a wanna-be writer, I understand the idea of long, dry spells.  Many times, I have sat myself down to write, but have been foiled, as no cogent train of thought will cooperate and make its way in an orderly manner to the page.  There are some writers who spend weeks, months, even years, awaiting that first downpour of inspiration which will break their mental drought. 

There are many more examples of this dearth we call a long, dry spell.  You’ve experienced them.  Perhaps you’re in the middle of one right now.  You’ve been stuck in a rut for longer than you can remember.  You haven’t felt the thrill of discovery, of success, for ages.  You may even have resigned yourself to living in this barren desert of tedium; may have abandoned the hope of rain ever refreshing the dry, cracked soil of your life.

Ah, but the rain will come again!  And then?

Petrichor!  Blood from a stone!

Where there was no hope, seemingly no chance of joy ever raising its noble head from the dust, the showers come.  Refreshing, cooling, life-giving water cascades down from on high.  We don’t bring it.  We can’t force it from its lofty vantage point.

Just as we observe in nature, our Creator brings the relief, the invigoration from His vast, unmeasured store of blessings.  Sometimes, we just have to wait out the drought, have to face the long, dry spell head on, knowing that there is a time of relief, of rejuvenation ahead, perhaps just around the corner.

Stay the course!  Keep the Faith!  Rain will come again!

I’m not naive enough to believe that the drought which our part of the country is suffering through will be broken by one short rain.  I am confident that this is the way it will happen, though.  One rain, followed by another, and then another, will see the end of this long, dry spell. The earth will flourish once more.

I’ll anticipate that future time with enjoyment, storing up in my memory the smell of the thirsty earth as it welcomed this first healing rain today.

It’s a hope worth keeping alive.  Both in the natural world, as well as in the spiritual.

Hope springs eternal!

“There shall be showers of blessings,
Precious reviving again.
Over the hills and the valleys,
Sound of abundance of rain.”
(“Showers Of Blessings” by Daniel Webster Whittle~American evangelist and lyricist~1840-1901)

“For he gives his sunlight to both the evil and the good, and he sends rain on the just and the unjust alike.”
(Matthew 5:45b~NLT)

© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2012. All Rights Reserved.

The two heads that went streaking past the kitchen window were little more than a blur.  The same two heads, recognizable as belonging to a couple of my friends, had gone the other direction mere seconds before.  My brother and his wife, along with this young freeloader, were just finishing their noon meal with generous servings of a delicious, freshly baked cobbler.  I had assumed that the two fleeing pals would knock on the door, since we had made arrangements for them to pick me up so we could go canoeing that afternoon.  And yet, here they were, leaving in an amazing hurry!  Without me!

Photo by gabster10

A moment later, we realized the reason for their fleet-footed retreat, as Heidi, the huge Saint Bernard, ran barking wildly past the same window.  Assuming that she would stop at the end of her chain, I lazily got up and ambled to the door, pausing to thank my sister-in-law for a delicious meal.  Only then did it register that the barking was no longer coming from the place where the length of chain would have ended.  The big dog was over at my little apartment next door, still barking and growling.  Her snarls were mixed in with the sound of human voices shouting. I slammed the door and raced pell-mell toward the shouts and snarls, to find my friends on the top of their car, with the over-sized canine standing on her hind legs attempting to grab a piece of their tantalizing limbs.  As I stood, shaking with laughter, my brother, who had followed me out, called to the dog and she came to him reluctantly, not without a few backwards glances at her two would-be victims who were now clambering sheepishly off the car on the far side, being sure to keep the vehicle’s body between them and the dog.  I’m pretty sure that I saw her lick her chops as she turned away from them for the last time and headed around the corner of the house with her owner.  She had been hoping for a bite of dinner too, it seems.

When they were able to speak rationally again, the pair told me what had happened.  As they walked beside the house, the friend who had been there before told the other, “If the dog chases us, it can only come to right about here,” as he pointed to a spot beside the window through which we had seen them.  “If we get past this point, we’ll be safe.”  Then, as they turned the corner toward the front door, the dog, who was lying near her house, lifted her over-sized head from between her huge paws and let out a single warning, “Wuff!”  They turned back the way they had come, but hesitated to see what she would do.  She did it instantly.  Leaping up, she headed for them like a freight train.  They ran past the point of safety and turned to await her anticipated discomfort as she was drawn up short and flipped to the ground when she hit the end of the chain which limited her freedom.  It didn’t happen.  The one hundred-fifty pound animal had enough inertia when the end of the chain was reached that it snapped like a string and she continued on to where they stood, now frantically scrambling to get out of her reach.  The car was the only place of sanctuary they could see and the frightened duo were on top of it within a second or two.  I honestly believe that if we had been a few seconds slower coming to their rescue, she would have found a way to climb up there after them.

We still laugh about that event, decades later, but I’m pretty sure that those two men learned an important lesson that day.  I haven’t asked them, but my guess is that they no longer trust the shackles that keep dangerous animals in their place.  I would think that the sight of those slobbering jowls and exposed fangs, connected to such a large and vicious sounding animal, would be enough to serve as a reminder for many years.  It doesn’t pay to trust your safety to a chain that you haven’t installed and tested yourself.

“That was a close call!”  How often those words are uttered, usually by folks who have pushed the limits, have tested the length of chain, only to find that safety was not to be found where they thought it would be.  I’m not only talking about the daredevils, the Evel Kneviels, of the world.  I’m speaking of everyday people, just like you and me, who take unnecessary risks; risks that put our reputations and our relationships in harm’s way.  We push the limits, anxious to prove that we can withstand temptation.  We tempt fate, so to speak, in an effort to show that we won’t be limited by anyone else’s definition of normal or safe.

The road of life is littered by those very reputations and relationships which have been shattered, as the beast which was thought to have been shackled broke loose and mauled yet another victim.  You don’t need me to provide a list; just check the news; think back to the people you have looked up to and respected, only to find that they had mistakenly marked the safety zone and gotten caught where they should never have ventured in the first place.  Pastors, politicians, actors, and even the man or woman next door.  We all think we can walk right past those slobbering jowls and not be touched.  Sometimes, that is the case.  Many times it is not.  I just believe that the risk is too great, the consequences too extreme to put ourselves in danger.

I think often of the advice from the Apostle to his young protege’ as he urges him to run as fast as he can from the lusts that tempt him as a youth.  He goes on to encourage his promising young companion to pursue several lofty goals.  It strikes me that if we are testing the limits on the dangerous side, we can’t be pursuing anything positive at all.  Even if we succeed in avoiding the pitfalls, we will accomplish nothing of import.  I also know that even at my advancing age, the warning to flee from danger is sound advice.  Believe me, temptations still abound.

Oh!  If I’m remembering correctly, it seems to me that the next time my friends came to pick me up for something, they remained in the car and honked the horn until I came out.  I’ve got some wise friends.

Maybe we could all take a lesson from them.  Discretion, after all, is the better part of valor. 

“Fools rush in where angels fear to tread.”
(Alexander Pope~English poet~1688-1744)
  

 
“Discretion will guard you, understanding will watch over you, to deliver you from the way of evil, from the man who speaks perverse things; from those who leave the paths of uprightness to walk in the ways of darkness.”
(Proverbs 2: 11-13~NASB)

© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2012. All Rights Reserved.

“Hey Daddy!  I’m pretty sure that the moon is blue.”  The two urchins were holding open the front screen door and looking up hopefully at the sky.  “Please be blue–Please be blue,” the younger one whispered again and again, under his breath.  Dad crossed the concrete floor of the porch and gazed up at the brilliant full moon.  He stood for a moment in thoughtful consideration, aware that the two lads were considering his face with the same rapt attention he was feigning as he looked upward.  “I think…”  he stopped and looked down at the boys.  “I think…that it might just be blue!”  A grin crossed his face, just about the time that the same grin split the faces of both boys.  There was even a sound of joy that came from someone inside the house at the pronouncement.  A blue moon was something to celebrate at the house in which I grew up!

Photo by halfrain

Moments later, we were all stuffed into the Ford station wagon and were headed to the local pizza parlor for a rare treat.  Unlike the age in which we live, there was not a franchised pizza place on every corner.  The people of my parent’s generation didn’t care much for pizza and it was certainly not high up on my father’s list of favorite places to dine.  Thus, the concern for the blue moon among the children.  A chance statement, taken too literally and turned into family lore, became the decisive factor on every occasion when someone asked for pizza.  “I’m only going to eat pizza once in a blue moon,” was what Dad had uttered on that fateful day in the distant past.  It was slim, but it was hope and we latched onto it, nurtured it, and played it for all it was worth, watching the sky for just such a moon as had appeared on that night.  The pizza was wonderful!

My thoughts went back to that era in my life earlier today as someone mentioned that this month has a so-called blue moon in it.  Typically there is only one full moon in any given month since our months are roughly the same length as a complete cycle of the moon. However, with the additional days which are left over each month, sooner or later there will be two full moons in a month.  It doesn’t occur often and, when it does, we call it a blue moon.

I looked out tonight and the moon is full and bright, so bright that, were my eyes a bit younger, I believe I could read outside by its light.  As I walked into the rays of the brilliant light, I cast a shadow, distinct and dark, on the sidewalk.  Later this month, we have the same beautiful sight to look forward to as the moon revolves in the sky around this huge orb and reflects the sun’s rays back to us throughout the dim nights.  It’s not a world-shaking event, but I’m looking forward to having a second full moon up in the night sky above.  I might even go for pizza.

The description of this second full moon, the “blue moon”, is a little obscure in its origins.  It is speculated that the name comes from a time when the clergymen in the Catholic church were responsible for determining if the new moon in the Spring was the “Easter moon”, which meant that the people could conclude their Lenten fasting, or if the moon was a “belewe”, or betrayer, moon which would force them to fast for another month.  The phrase first came to light in the sixteenth century as one author bemoaned the fact that they had to depend on the clergy to tell them if the moon were “belewe”.  Only in the last century has the title come to mean the second full moon in a month.  And, of course, we use the entire phrase, “once in a blue moon” to mean any event which is rare in its occurrence.

I stop for a moment and consider that I have done it to you again.  As with my last post, I have spent way too much time following a rabbit trail up which few of you will want to venture with me.  I love word origins and want to illuminate the meaning of common phrases, but I realize that many of you do not share that curiosity.  But, if you’re still tagging along anyway, why not go just a bit further?

The young boys, just as the medieval masses, were dependent upon the judgement of someone to determine the moment at which they could end their fast and enjoy the food they desired.  Five hundred years after the priests declared that the correct moon was in the sky, their father did much the same thing.  As all of them gazed up at the moon, hope rose in their hearts.

I don’t depend on the moon to tell me when it’s time to eat pizza anymore.  Most folks in the church don’t depend on the moon to end their fasting, either.  That said, we all have something upon which we are pinning our hopes.  I know people who hope in their chances at winning the lottery, or the games of chance at the casino for financial security.  Some trust in their own intellect or physical prowess for success, others in presidents and legislatures for peace and well-being.  Every one of those finite entities is unreliable and will disappoint eventually.  What a disheartening thing it is to have your hopes dashed again and again by trusting in the wrong thing.

 I see that it’s time to step down from my soap box and let you take it from here.  Consider though, that there is One in whom hope may be placed, an unmovable Rock, who brings an unshakable kingdom.  There’s no guesswork about blue moons with Him, but simply a place you can rest and trust. 

Oh!  Just to clarify…I won’t be waiting for the end of the month to eat pizza either.  Once in a blue moon?  That’s when we eat asparagus around here.

“When the moon hits your eye
Like a big pizza pie, that’s amore.”
(“That’s Amore”~Harry Warren/Jack Brooks)

“Some trust in chariots and some in horses, but we trust in the name of the Lord our God.”
(Psalm 20:7~NIV)

Did you like this post?  Let your friends know about it by “liking” our page on FaceBook!
http://www.facebook.com/HesTakenLeave

© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2012. All Rights Reserved.

They put me in the corner the last time we met.  Yes, me…the French Horn player.  Our little brass ensemble was practicing for an upcoming performance and our usual venue for rehearsals was unavailable, so we squeezed into a small space at another local church.  And I–I had to play with the bell of my horn facing directly into the corner.  I can almost see the communal shrug as each of you reads this and wonders, “So what?” 

Playing in an ensemble, as I have mentioned before, requires that we listen.  Listen to the group; listen to our own sound.  I usually play into open air, with the bell of my horn facing behind me. All of the sound I hear is ambient sound.  I don’t detect the notes exactly as they are emitted from the bell, but instead the air in the room and nearby walls reflects it back gently.  I like the way I sound in the middle of the room.  The corner?  Not so much.  As I played at the rehearsal, I could hear every mistake, every hesitation, even every slightly out-of-tune note, plainly.  The corner captured my exact performance and returned it to my ear instantly and at full volume.  It wasn’t really that pretty.

Photo:cwwycoff1

For some reason, as I write this, I am back on Mr. Cox’s farm in the Rio Grande Valley of Texas.  Dad and the older brothers are standing  with him at the barbed wire fence talking about the old man’s latest Brahman bull acquisition and speculating about how mean the big fellow really is.  I, after a moment or two of interest, become tired of the subject and wander off, to explore a nearby grain bin.  These galvanized storage buildings fulfill many functions for different farms, holding seed for the farmers who are preparing to plant crops, as well as storing the crop itself in the fall, but Mr Cox simply uses them to protect his hundred pound bags of cattle feed  and a few mineral licks from the greedy bovines and the weather.  As I open the door and peek in, I make a noise and immediately hear the strange, reverberating echo of the sound.  “Hey!” I exclaim.  The word comes back to me several times, almost like Fat Albert of Bill Cosby fame, but more softly than the original,  “HeyHeyHey”.   I am bored no longer!

I step fully into the grain bin, closing the metal door behind me.  It is dark, but my young eyes quickly adjust to the dimness and notice rays of light filtering down from the cone shaped ceiling.  Within moments, I am in full voice inside the little storage building, as I sing, “To God be the glory, great things He hath done.  So loved He the world that He gave us His Son.”  At first, I am impressed by the big sound of my voice, and sing even louder.  Then, I start to notice something.  I can hear things more acutely.  My voice cracked there for a second;  that last note was really out of tune.  So I hit it a time or two more, “…done…done…done.”  Within a moment or two, I am satisfied that I have figured out the pitch and move on to the big finish, “…And give Him the glory, great things He hath done.”  Only tonight do I finally imagine how the racket I was making sounded to those standing outside the building.  Inside the building though…inside the building, the sound was astounding!  I was a great singer!  Well, after I fixed the intonation, I was a great singer.  And, the voice crack stopped happening for the moment.  (It would get a lot worse before it finally got better.)  The bouncing of the sound off the walls and ceiling in that little building was a wonderful tool…to teach…to encourage…to embolden.  It happened over forty-some years ago and I still remember the song and relive the astonishment as I recall the experience.

As I come back to the present, I start to think that the corner of the little church is no less of a classroom for me.  The horn is not at fault for my bad notes and intonation problems; I am.  As we practice for the next hour, I make adjustments, playing softer here, being careful to tongue the notes properly there.  Always listening to the others along with myself, I make the necessary corrections to be a part of the ensemble.  Aside from very tired lips, at the end of the practice time, I am pleased with the result.  It is a lesson that I will remember.  I just needed a little reminder that I don’t always sound as good as I think I do.

What made the difference in both of these examples?  I needed a mirror for my sound.  In the grain bin, the hard metal sides of the building directed the sound right back to me and let me hear what I really sounded like.  I remember it as an intensely satisfying, but educational experience.  The same could be said for the corner in which the horn was played.  Sound waves which were normally lost to the ear were directed right back and gave evidence of problems.  Was the corner fun?  No.  I didn’t really want to play there.  Was it beneficial?  Time will tell if the results are long-lasting, but it was certainly helpful for that session.

“I want to bounce something off of you.”  I take those words more seriously these days, when I hear them from a friend, understanding that the speaker is concerned that his thoughts about an issue need to be subjected to a process roughly like the sound mirror described above.  When we operate in a vacuum, so to speak, we start to lose perspective, we begin to think that we are invulnerable and need nothing beyond our own authority.  It is the wise man who seeks advice and looks into the mirror of collective wisdom. 

“I want to bounce something off of you.”  A customer said those very words to me this morning and we talked about this local musician’s ideas for sound amplification at an upcoming engagement he has scheduled.  It is a bit ironic that his idea, if implemented, would have resulted in the bouncing of sound around the venue in such a way to cause uncontrollable feedback in the sound system.  He was happy that he has spent the time and made the admission that he needed another point of view.  The performance will almost certainly go better because of our discussion.

How about it?  Are you a Lone Ranger?  Don’t need anyone?  Life goes much more smoothly when we have companions along the way to offer perspective.  It’s not always what we want to hear, but when we heed wise counsel, we avoid a lot of unnecessary noise and jumbled results.  I’m glad to admit that I know many wise people who can offer just the right feedback at precisely the needed moment.  You probably have some of those too. 

It may be time for another visit to the grain bin soon.  I’m probably about due for a tune-up.  You can tell me if it helps…

“Praise the Lord, praise the Lord.  Let the earth hear His voice!
Praise the Lord, praise the Lord. Let the people rejoice.
Oh, come to the Father through Jesus the Son
And give Him the glory, great things He hath done.”
(“To God Be The Glory” by Fanny J Crosby~American poet and hymn writer~1820-1915)

“If you have a good friend, you don’t need a mirror.”
(Bente Borsum~Norwegian actress)

© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2012. All Rights Reserved.

Dewy-winged dragonfly at dawn. (click to enlarge)  Photo: Jeannean Ryman

The aging woman ambled beside me through the dew-covered grass toward the orange trees, her slight frame dwarfed by my lanky six feet.  She wanted a few oranges to juice for herself and the old man waiting on the front porch.  He was himself a large man, easily tall enough to reach the fruit she needed, but the disease we now call COPD (then, just emphysema) had stolen away his ability to walk any further than from one room to the next inside his home.  Even though she couldn’t reach very high into the trees, with a grandson or two just across the street, it wasn’t much trouble to get help when they wanted to enjoy the sweet, fresh-squeezed juice that the annual crop from the nearby trees yielded.

As we headed into a stand of unmowed grass, I noticed a look of apprehension on my grandmother’s face.  Her eyes were fixed on a flying insect a number of feet away and it was obvious that she was not happy to see it there.  As we continued on our course, the first insect was joined by a second, flitting and performing aerial acrobatics some seven or eight feet away from the first.  Grandma stopped dead in her tracks.  “Snake Doctors!  If they’re around, there’s a snake somewhere around too.  I’m going back to the house.”  She spun around and headed for the back steps with much more vigor than she had evidenced on the way out.  I chuckled and continued on with the bowl she had shoved into my hands, soon filling it with the sweet colorful fruit that grew prolifically on the trees.  I finished the job without seeing a sign of any snake.  The pair of dragonflies cavorting nearby certainly didn’t seem too threatening to me.  I had always liked the queer insects.

When I again joined the pair in the house, my grandmother explained.  “I hate snakes!  And, those snake doctors, those dragonflies, are a sure sign that a snake is around.  They are always near snakes.”  I didn’t want to be impolite, so I waited until I got home to laugh out loud at her foolish words.  In fact, a couple of years later, when I joined the Citizen’s Band radio craze, I chose as my on-air pseudonym, my “handle” as it was called, “Snake Doctor”.  Can’t you just hear it?  “Break one-nine.  This is the old Snake Doctor, looking to get a smokey report.  I’ve got the hammer down and coming your way…”  The vernacular was sillier than the name, by a wide margin, but I still took a lot of ribbing because of that handle.  

It wasn’t until a few years later, as my intellectual curiosity grew, that I realized that my grandmother wasn’t alone in her belief that the dragonfly was not to be scoffed at.  Indeed, the legend in the southern United States has it that these evil creatures actually stay near snakes so that they can sew them up if they are injured.  They are called by one foreign culture, “Devil’s Needle”, and by another, “Eye Poker”.  In South America, the phrase applied to the unfortunate bug is “caballito del diablo”, meaning “the Devil’s Horse”.  Also, much like our southern lore, in Great Britain the Welsh name for the insect translates to “Adder’s Servant”.  In fact, the very name “Dragonfly” evokes frightening imagery, as if the legendary fire-breathing creature has been miniaturized and embodied in the so-ugly-it’s-beautiful insect.  It is, even today, a much maligned insect…one might even think, a dangerous one.  They couldn’t be further from the truth.

This speedy flyer (one of the fastest insects known) is, in fact, a predator, but it eats flies and mosquitoes in huge quantities, helping the human race in an amazing way.  In Myanmar (formerly Burma), the native people have “seeded” the water with the larvae of the dragonfly for generations, understanding that the result was a crop of predators who would help to control the yellow-fever carrying mosquitoes.  The one group of people that does have a valid beef with these speedy, winged insect traps is the beekeepers.  The larger families of the dragonfly have been known to catch and ingest their fair share of honeybees.  That said, they don’t attract snakes and certainly don’t cure them, don’t attack horses and give them diseases as the Australians averred at one time, they almost certainly aren’t used by the Devil to weigh man’s soul as Swedish folklore teaches.

We humans don’t seem to be very adept at determining cause and effect.  The dragonfly is often found near the tall grass at the water’s edge where snakes also happen to frequent.  For some reason, that makes the two species close allies.  The folks in Australia observed horses jumping and stamping in obvious distress at the same time that dragonflies were flitting about.  It is probable that the dragonflies actually were eating the small parasites which were, in reality, tormenting the horses, but the poor “Horse Stinger” got the blame.  The very shape of the body makes the insect the target of disdain and fear, but perhaps the same could be said of my own body when viewed through the eyes of other species.  We jump to wrong conclusions, based on inaccurate assumptions again and again.  The result is a bad rap for an immensely beneficial species.  Fear and animosity are passed from generation to generation, and truth is a victim, as is the persecuted dragonfly.

You do realize by now, that I’m not really talking simply about an insect, don’t you?  Just as I have, you have also seen the individuals, persecuted and maligned by society, their lives made a living hell because of hearsay and conjecture.  They were seen coming out of a certain building; they were observed handing someone a package; they talked to the wrong people.  Who knows?  They just might not wear the right kind of clothes, may not have the right haircut, perhaps don’t even bathe as often as they should.  They are “not like us” and therefore dangerous to our way of life.  Perhaps, they speak a different language, have too many junk cars in their yard, or paint the trim on their houses the wrong shade of green or yellow.  The list goes on forever and it becomes clear that we’re no better at judging humans than we are at judging insects.  

At some point, we need to realize that we might, just might, be using the wrong criteria.  It is obvious that on our own, we have no clue whatsoever.  If you would perhaps allow me to make a suggestion, just one–I would like to propose that we use the original owner’s manual.  Try as I might, I can’t think about this problem without believing that the Teacher had this in mind when He suggested…no, insisted…that we love our neighbors in exactly the same way that we love ourselves.  It is, after all, the most important rule given besides loving our God with everything we have within us.

That’s it.  No convoluted recovery plan.  No mission and purpose statement.  Love others like we love the person in the mirror.  You know what you need to do to put the instructions into action.  Now might be a good time to get busy on that, if you haven’t already done so.  Tell someone about it, too.  Just about the time they start to whisper a juicy tidbit in your ear would be a good opportunity to share it.

I still love dragonflies.  They are amazing, beautiful creatures.  Well, okay, I’ll admit that if you see a close-up of their eyes (all thirty thousand of them in those compound goggle-looking things), you could possibly be freaked-out.  Still, what astounding design and purpose, all wrapped up in an odd and peculiar package…

Almost like…well…like you and like me, huh?

“It is the peculiar quality of a fool, to perceive the faults of others and to forget his own.”
(Cicero~Ancient Roman scholar and statesman~106 BC-43 BC)

“Stop judging, so that you won’t be judged, because the way that you judge others will be the way that you will be judged, and you will be evaluated by the standard with which you evaluate others.”
(Matthew 7:2~ISV)

(Special thanks to my childhood friend, Jeannean Ryman for the use of her amazing photograph today.  Jeannean has a gift for seeing the beauty in the ordinary and then giving us a glimpse.  This and many other wonderful examples may be viewed at http://jeannean.zenfolio.com if you are interested.)

© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2012. All Rights Reserved.

I did my homework.  The online auction was for an oil painting by a listed California artist.  The woman had exhibited and won honors at the California State Fair in 1890.  The date on the painting was 1889, so it is likely that this very picture had been included in that exhibition.  I had been looking, as usual, for a new and interesting painting of a bridge to add to my collection, but this intrigued me.

Women artists were not common in the nineteenth century, nor were they likely to win any awards with their work, being deemed “not serious” artists.  The painting obviously did not include a bridge, but it was a beautiful, nearly monochromatic painting of a hazy, almost foggy, nature scene, a wonderfully detailed lake with little waves lapping up against the rocky bank, and tall trees rising from the water’s edge in a gnarled stand of trunks and leaves.  The artist had even incorporated a little-used technique which imitated a frame, and then painted a stand of wildflowers in front of that, making it appear that the picture was almost three dimensional.  I wanted it!

As I always have done with the online auctions, I waited for the last possible moment and snuck in a bid with no time left for others to raise theirs. It’s a trick called “sniping” in the auction world.  I suppose the name comes from “picking off” the competition before they even know you’re there.  I’m sure that some other poor bidder was unhappy to lose the painting at the last minute, but in retrospect, I might have been happier had he won.  Regardless, the money changed hands and the painting was on its way to me.  I awaited its arrival with anxious anticipation.

A time or two while I was waiting, I went back to the auction page online to view the photo of the painting again.  Over the week it took for the package to traverse the countryside, a feeling of uneasiness began to grow.  I kept looking at the small photograph provided in the auction and wondered about a strange object  I had noticed on the side of the lake in the painting.  When first I saw it, I thought that it was just some brush, perhaps a windfall of some small saplings which the artist had included in the scene.  The photograph was small and not completely in focus, so I just couldn’t tell.  Ah well, no matter.  It was a listed artist!  It would be well worth my expenditure and my wait.

The painting finally arrived.  I cut open the package and carefully removed the protective covering around the frame and the very well executed painting.  It was everything I had thought it would be.  I loved everything about it.  The water was skillfully done, the technique with the wildflowers, exquisite.  The trees were…well, trees.  And, the Native American burial…wait a minute!  Native American burial?  That’s not what I bought!  I purchased an oil painting of a peaceful meeting of water and woods!   The Indian burial is certainly of interest, but it is not something I want hung on the wall of my den.

This occurred over four years ago.  The painting still has no place to hang in my home.  It sits today, a couple of feet away from the table where I unwrapped it with such anticipation.  It was going to be a valued piece which resided in a place of honor on the wall of my house, a special halogen light shining overhead, to spread light on it when company came, or when I wanted to just sit and drink in the artist’s skillful depiction of creation.  Instead, it leans against the wall, waiting for…what?  I have never sold a painting.  I paid too much for it to throw away, and it has historical significance.  It is of no value to me, though. 

What a great example of life this is.  Centuries ago, our Savior spoke to the hypocrites, calling them “whitewashed tombs”.  The practice of dressing up ugly things in pretty packages is nothing new to our society.  The hucksters of today have nothing on the ones of that or any century.

I’ve even wondered if the way I felt about this purchase is not the same way the Lovely Lady has felt a time or two over the last thirty-some years.  I did my best to package these ugly bones as we were courting.  You can’t live with someone like me for as long as she has and not have some of those ugly skeletons come into view.   She has veiled the horror admirably, and I still have a place in her home, so it would seem that she is more open-minded than I.  And, I am grateful.

Hmmm…I seem to have wandered…Oh yes, the whitewashed tombs.  It is certain that there are a few of those prettily decorated graves around still.  We all need to be careful that we don’t get taken in.  With the painting, I thought I had done my homework, but was fooled by a reputation and a bad photograph.  It would behoove each of us to examine our essential choices in life a bit more carefully than that.  Many will still choose the pretty door hiding the dead men’s bones.  I’m thinking that we can do better than that.

Beauty and joy, and life, lie before us.  Let’s not trade that off for any pretty picture of death, no matter what talented artist chose it as her subject.

Now, what should I do with this painting?  Maybe the hall closet…

“Beauty is only skin deep, but ugly goes clean to the bone.”
(Dorothy Parker~American author~1893-1967)

“What sorrow awaits you teachers of religious law and you Pharisees. Hypocrites! For you are like whitewashed tombs–beautiful on the outside but filled on the inside with dead people’s bones and all sorts of impurity.”
(Matthew 23:27~NLT)

© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2012. All Rights Reserved.

The scrawny, tow-head shoved the old mower along the pavement.  It was hot.  He was tired.  The last lawn he had mowed had earned him three dollars.  And a quarter.  The quarter was a bonus from the nice old lady whose grass he had just whacked down to size.  He was hot and tired, but content.  The lawn mower was out of gas and he would be home in just a few moments to rest for awhile with a tall, cool glass of water.

Photo: Mike Babiarz

Suddenly, the front door of one of the houses he was passing swung open and a rough-looking man wearing a strong-man tee shirt stuck his head out.  “Hey!”  The boy stopped and waited to hear the life-changing words the man had to say.  “You want to earn ten dollars?”  Did he!  Ten dollars was an unheard of sum–right up there with the money the rich kids made working at the country club.  Did he want to earn ten dollars?  “What do I have to do?”  He wasn’t going to do anything illegal for it, but aside from that, if he could manage it, the money would be his.  The answer came quickly and he was amazed.  What?  It couldn’t be this easy!  “I just want you to mow my lawn, too.”   Before the crazy man had the opportunity to change his mind (or his wife came home to discover what he was paying), the boy agreed and, with new energy, ran home for his gas can and a quick drink of water.  An hour or two later, he was again on his way home, shoving the mower along the pavement, thinking about the future.

Did I tell you it would be life changing?  It was.  The lawn got mowed and the cash changed hands.  I have no idea what the boy spent the money on.  It was many years ago.  The life changing part is that he never wanted to mow a three dollar lawn again.  Not even if there was a twenty-five cent bonus to be thrown in after the job was completed.  There were plenty of three dollar jobs around.  He just didn’t want to work for that tiny amount anymore. 

Many years after that event, the boy, now a man, sat in a financial counseling seminar beside a Lovely Lady.  The moderator stood before them and announced that he was going to do the impossible with such a large group.  He was going to tell each one of them how much money they needed.  The men and women looked at him, half disbelieving, half expectantly.  Could he really do that?  As he paused, to let the tension build for a moment, each of them wondered, “How can he know what I need in my circumstance?”  “He can’t possibly know what I owe–the bills coming due.”  After a moment of these thoughts, he told them.  “Every single one of you needs…A Little Bit More!”

He was right.  By increments, our expectation of what was necessary to live had risen.  From the boy needing three dollars and then ten, to the man needing one hundred dollars and then a thousand, the scale kept changing.  Never satisfied, never moderating, the bar kept being raised.  Like the infamous “rat race”, there was no end in sight, only more challenges and slightly higher rewards.  The problem is that the life style kept changing right along with the slightly higher rewards.  A pay check of one hundred dollars resulted in the need for one hundred ten; when it became three hundred dollars, three hundred thirty was what was desired.  When the extra wasn’t forthcoming, means were found for coping.  Loans, credit cards, extra jobs…they all were utilized for the Little Bit More to be achieved.  It was never enough.

It is the human condition.  We see.  We want.  We get, but aren’t satisfied.  The cycle goes on and on in unending upward spirals.  Never happy, our joy is always just out of reach.  The examples cited above reference money and material affluence, but the principle is fairly consistent throughout the scope of our existence.  We want more than we have, so we go after it.  Never satiated, frequently willing to modify our morals to achieve our desires, we keep reaching and are destroyed.  Physically, relationally, and spiritually.  The apostle James told us that it is where conflict comes from.  We covet and we fight.  We desire and we kill.  On and on, without end.  Surely our Maker has more in mind for us than this.

Even though it was years ago, I will never forget the old Irish pastor stretched out over the pulpit in my church one evening.  He leaned right over until it seemed as if he was part of the congregation, speaking to each one of us individually, and he asked the question, “Are you satisfied?”  I can hear his Irish brogue like it was yesterday.  The question rings in my head.  You see, the Irishman had a different goal in mind.  He wanted to know if I was satisfied with being who I was, with doing what I did, with staying where I was living.  Not for myself, but for others.  I have thought long and hard about the answer.  A negative response requires that I change those things, that I work at reaching other, loftier goals than I have.  A positive answer means that there is no longer any reason to hope for better, for higher, for more.  It almost sounds though, as if he were asking me to keep on the way I was going, always wanting more than I could possibly have.

The beauty of this dilemma is that in spite of the seeming contradiction, my heart knows without question that I don’t need more money, more things, more of the empty promises.  Just as clearly, my heart knows that I need to be more…do more…live more.  That can only be accomplished by setting my sights on higher things and striking out to achieve them.

The answer to the Irishman’s question is a resounding NO!  I am not satisfied!  I must keep reaching, keep striving, keep working.  There is much yet to be accomplished.  I hope you realize that I’m inviting you to come along with me.  I know I can’t do it alone and a little company along the road would sure be welcome.

How about it?  We’ll see if we can still do just a Little Bit More…

“Reign ye, and live and love, and make the world Other.”
(from “Idylls of the King” by Alfred, Lord Tennyson~British Poet Laureate~1809-1892)

“Give me one pure and holy passion.
Give me one magnificent obsession…
Lead me on and I will run after You.”
(from “One Pure and Holy Passion” by Michael W Smith~American singer/songwriter)

© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2012. All Rights Reserved.