Unfair Fights

   I'm thinking about life.  My life, your life, and the kid on the shore of Lake Atitlan in Guatemala 20 years ago who ran circles around me, singing, "Un quetzal la foto, un quetzal la foto!"  Translation: "Give me a penny and I'll let you take a picture of me!"  It's thinly-disguised begging.
   I used to ride my bicycle on the streets of Phoenix, mostly commuting to work.  Invariably, a vehicle would speed by me at 50 m.p.h., leaving a comfortable (for him) three inch gap between his 4000 lb. vehicle and my 30 lb. bike.  This situation would spin me into an insane and alternate reality, much like I'd imagined "black-outs," described by recovering alcoholic/drug addicts (until I mixed tranquilizers and vodka I'd never experienced that kind of a black-out).  Instead of seeing black, however, my world would go deep red, deep red mixed with black.  Toxic rage would fill my body, livid adrenaline causing my legs to pump the bicycle pedals furiously in an effort to catch up to the offending vehicle (sometimes a city bus), drag the driver out of the vehicle, pummel the life out of him, or die trying.  To describe my condition as angry, would be like describing a tsunami as strong.  When the rage subsided, I felt only fear and disbelief that I was capable of such an intense emotion, and that it could manifest so quickly.
   As I've heard others share their life stories in the rooms of Alcoholics Anonymous, I've realized that life is not a fair fight.  It's not fair for any of us, worse for some than for others, but unfair nevertheless.  Some of us think we've found a weapon to level the playing field in the form of alcohol and other reality-changing substances.  This works for a while, at least in our perception, but it's a cruel deception.  We are only temporarily diverted from the problems life presents us, and in the end our chemical arsenals turn on us, and the battle becomes even more one-sided.  It's like the burglar who takes the baseball bat out of my hands and proceeds to bludgeon me to death, sometimes slowly, sometimes quickly, but the end is the same.
   Across the ages men have found a way to make the unfair fight of life a fair one, and that is to cease fighting.  Acceptance of a power greater than ourselves and submission to life on life's terms are all that's needed to level the playing field, because, in the end, the real battle happens in the space between our ears, and nowhere else.  If I am able to calm and still my spirit and ask for help, the bullies drop their sticks and stones and wander off to find new victims.

No, really. God spoke to me on Interstate 8.

   I sometimes hear people say that God literally spoke to them.  As in, audibly.  As in, they, with their ears, heard God, with his voice, say something, usually something directly intended for them.   I, personally, have never been the recipient/participant of a God monologue/dialogue.  It's only my opinion, but I think if you think you actually hear God's voice in an audible way, you're covered under the DSM-IV definition of schizophrenia.
   Forgive me if my tone is a bit skeptical.  I have difficulty wrapping my mind around an unverifiable and, invariably, beneficial experience of another.  I dunno.  Maybe I'm just jealous.  I do know that I'm not always cheered by the good fortune of my fellows, and my happiness for them seems inversely proportionate to the size of their prize. For example, if you get a modest tax refund, I'll smile, congratulate you, and pat you on the back without further thought. However, if you win the lottery and become several million dollars wealthier, I can force myself to smile, congratulate you, and pat you on the back with the singular motive of sharing in your newfound wealth. At the precise moment it becomes clear to me that you have no intention of sharing your money, I will become bitter, indignant, and unkind toward you. It's not pretty, but I think it's the truth.
   Now back to the God-speaking thing.  This morning, my domestic partner and I were cheerfully motoring through the Flintstone-esque mountains of eastern San Diego County at, apparently, 85 miles per hour, when a certain California state employee with radar and a black-and-white car fulfilled his duty to his employer by personally and punitively suggesting I slow down a bit.  "Officer Friendly" was polite, professional,  and efficient, asking for my driver's license and proof of insurance.  In less than five minutes, I was invited to sign my speeding ticket and encouraged to use caution as I returned to the flow of the interstate highway.
   But I noticed something different from this situation, compared to similar situations in which I've found myself in the past.  For starters, my heart and mind weren't racing.  I didn't feel nervous, shamed, defensive or angry.  I thought, "Hmm.  I was speeding and I got caught.  I guess this makes up for all the times I've broken the law and didn't get caught.  I guess there is justice after all."
   As we continued on our way to the beach, I asked the God of my understanding, the one who's never spoken to me audibly, if perhaps I might glean a larger lesson from the incident.  I think I received an answer to that question.  I think God was speaking to me through the California Highway Patrol.  I thought about other aspects of my life.  I think the message was: "slow down."
   Fair enough.

Marking the Time

   Thirty years ago tomorrow I got married.  I was 24, she was 19.  It was 115 degrees outside and my best man was sick with a fever of 104.  We were in three-piece suits.

   The following day, Tuesday, will mark 33 years that I've been employed by the Salt River Project.

   I've lived in Phoenix for 54 years and 95 days.  If the sun comes up tomorrow, I will be grateful to have another day to try and do the best I can to love other people and think less about myself.

   It's good to enjoy whatever my hands find to do while I am still able to do things.  Who knows what things may be in store for me or for others?  We just don't know the future...