In a day and age where headline news fades within 24 hours, news and commentary on Dolly’s passing is gaining momentum. Yes, there will be the TV specials, more articles coming from other stars who knew her, and on and on it will go.

Now, politicians are certainly paying attention because Dolly stole their headline- big time. In comparison, it sure does make Washington look like feeble, bad children that need to go stand in a corner and think about what they have done. Maybe this is the moral wake-up call needed in Washington and around the world.

Many woo-woo folks have been talking about a new spiritual age beginning to unfold where bigotry, money, and power start losing their grip. Where religious dogma gets the boot. Say or think what you want, but Dolly has brought the teachings of Jesus front and center by walking the talk and tune...and nobody is complaining. Not Bible thumpers, Jews, Hindus, Buddhists, Muslims or Atheists. I haven’t read one word of disdain about her. Not one.

In November people will go to the polls and vote. From what I’m seeing and hearing, big change is coming, and not soon enough. I can’t think of a stronger PR campaign for decency than Dolly Parton. Even politicians can’t buy this kind of amazing press. No divisiveness, no you vs me- it’s simply “Us”. Hey Washington...take a lesson!

And to add an exclamation point to the sudden shift in the news from ugliness to reflection...currently brewing in the Atlantic is a storm named Dolly. It wasn’t named in her honor; it just so happens to be a coincidence-or not. To quote my friend: “The Lord works in mysterious ways.”

After my last album of original songs was finished back in 2018, I said that would be my last album. I was so pleased with the songs on ‘The Deviant Dulcimerist’ that I thought that would be a sweet note to end my recording career on. To this day, it’s my favorite album. Creatively, as you know, I’ve been writing short articles and stories here on Substack, which has satisfied my creative outlet for quite a while.

Then things changed.

I read a beautiful poem called ‘Alone’ by Edgar Allan Poe. Out of the blue, a melody came to me, and suddenly I had a new song that I liked. I did a rough demo of it, sent it around to see if anyone else cared for it, and lo and behold, the comments were wonderful. I had two other pieces I really liked called ‘Kelefaba’, which is an African instrumental usually played on the Kora, and a fun little tune I co-wrote with Noel Paul Stookey called ‘Moody Little Artist’.

The next thing I know, new songs and ideas began to flow. Can’t argue with the muse. I decided it was time to put together a new album at the muse’s pace. This time, I wanted it to have a jazz feel, be eclectic, with a few surprises played on the dulcimer.

So, my little contributions to Substack will be a bit less until I have all the tunes altogether for the new project. Once I get something worth posting, I will send it to my paid subscribers for your comments. In the meantime, if the muse spits out a new story or article, I’ll post that as well.

Just wanted you to know I’ve not gone mute. New stuff is in the works!

I’ve become a cranky old folkie. And I’m loving it. I used to just be a puppet in society.

THESE DAYS…I don’t answer the phone unless I know who you are. I don’t respond to any emails or mail with a business logo that I recognize because I know “they” can copy things like PayPal logos, etc., and scam ya! ( Been there, done it)

I don’t click on any links in any emails, even if I know you. I’ll call you first and ask, did you send me….?

I try to only buy organic food at my local food coop due to pesticides, cancer, and other little distractions that slowly can kill me. Oh, and speaking about killing me… I don’t take any doctor’s opinion unless I get two others that agree, more or less. ( Three Oncologists predicted I’d be dead 13 years ago).

If I call a company like Geico and get an AI voice with no options to QUICKLY press 2 for a human being, I drop them. I was told that Verizon has implemented fees for customers who wish to speak to humans instead of AI- I’d drop their ass in a heartbeat. Never liked them anyway. Pay to talk to humans? Get the hell……

I don’t trust this government, or any government for that matter…or anything to do with Trump, and believe that the world is run by a handful of rich, selfish assholes who use politicians as puppets. Am I wrong? HUH, HUH, HUH???

BUT HERE’S THE GOOD NEWS…

People are finally beginning to wake up to the fact that we all deserve health care, food, and a chance to create a new world with human and spiritual consciousness that benefits all. AND, I think this coming election, the polls will show the change- if they are not manipulated by Elon and friends. 50/50 chance. I am not sure all this will be fixed in my lifetime, but I hold out hope.

In the meantime, I try not to watch much news, have no credit card debt, hang out with a select group of friends that like to laugh, and stay away from drama. I keep playing dulcimer to save my sanity, what’s left of it anyway, and would never buy a dulcimer made in China. AND CAN YOU BELIEVE…some podcast host called me a musical legend this week. Not sure what to do with that, but I did smirk on video. He was cute and grew up on Shining Time Station.

I think being kind and helping others is making a comeback….at least here in Southern CA. Twenty-something-year-olds open doors for me now and address me as “Sir”. They all look and sound like AI, but what do I know.

I’m pretty much over influencers too. Although I do get a kick out of twenty-something-year-old experts on social media who have discovered yet another parallel universe that is calm, kind, and has everything you’d ever want. They also have contact with Grays from other planets that are living among us, but that info is only available if you subscribe and like. (Sigh)

AND THE REALLY GOOD NEWS? FOLK MUSIC IS BACK.

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Peanut

Sara has a mini chihuahua I call Peanut. The other day she told me that Peanut had developed a cough. Take him to a vet I told her. “I can’t afford a vet. They took over two hundred dollars out of my Medicaid check, so I have to make do with the little income I have coming in for food and things. Do you know how expensive food is now?” I offer to pay for the vet visit. She politely declines my offer.

Sara turns eight-six next week. Peanut is around fourteen. I suggest she sign up for food stamps. “ Oh, I don’t want to fill out all that paperwork. I’m rather private. I don’t like the government knowing my business”. I was about to tell her they probably already know all of her business. She leans in and says quietly, “I like to hide the little money I have in cash under the mattress sort of thing. It’s only a few hundred dollars, but it’s all I have to my name.”

Three days later, she told me that Peanut’s cough disappeared. “Thank God,” she said. I shake my head in approval as she waves goodbye and says, “One day at a time, I guess”. I watch as they both walk down the path, limping but content.

Surfer Dude In A Blue Van By The Beach

Me: Do you live in that van?

Surfer Dude: Yeah. No rent, man.

Me: What do you do about a shower or using the bathroom?

Surfer Dude: They have public bathrooms down by the Dog Beach.

I look inside, and he has a pretty nice layout. A little stove, a small generator, clothes, a guitar, this and that, and what appears to be a fridge.

Me: Yeah, but what do you do in the middle of the night when you have to take a leak or something, and the public beach is closed?

Surfer Dude points to the ocean. And then gives me two thumbs up.

I was checking the status of readers at my coffee dive today, and this tall kid, maybe twenty-six, sees me shake my head and sigh. He asks, "What’s wrong.” I tell him it’s interesting to me what people like to read on Substack and what they don’t react to. He’s a writer too, I find out, although not on Substack…so I show him my article while we’re standing in line.

He grazes through it and starts to chuckle. I asked him what was funny. He got a huge smile on his face and said, “All these people searching for God… It’s laughable”. I said, well, a lot of people want to find God and need some ideas on clarity, especially these days.

With that, he takes his latte with whipped cream, waves his hand in the air and says, “Look around, dude. God’s everywhere. Enjoy your spiritual coffee”. Then he leaves.

Yeah, dumbing it down. Works every time.

I like going to my church at least five times a week. I usually go in the mornings, early, before other people show up. I enjoy having my own spiritual space, if you know what I mean. I don’t go much on the weekends due to it being pretty packed with people and ‘yackers’.

My church is called Sunset Cliffs. It’s part of a nature reserve in Ocean Beach, CA. I’m guessing it’s just shy of three miles long. Every evening, about an hour before sunset, the road along the cliffs is packed with cars and people getting their spot on one of the many cliffs jutting out into the ocean. With picnic baskets and such, they come to watch the sunset sermon.

Some come with others, while others come by themselves in search of clarity on something going on in their lives, an answer to any prayer they may have, or just for the pure joy and beauty of it all. The art in the sky is a moving, mixed-media of incredible colors, puffy clouds, and ships sailing by, all in perfect sequence. Cameras on cell phones click away during the last ten minutes of every sunset. Lovers can be seen moving closer and putting their arms around each other as the sun begins to dip below the horizon. The sea displays a spectacular show of waves hitting the cliffs, splashing high in the air, all back-lit by the sunset. Martin Scorsese couldn’t have done it better. People tend to grow silent during the last five minutes as they watch the sun kiss the horizon goodbye. Sometimes you can hear seagulls squawking like an organ bellowing out the beginning of some ancient gospel song.

My church has no text or pages to turn, no dogma, no religion, no pretty windows made of colored glass, and nothing asked as an offering except perhaps inspired contemplation and a moment of your soul’s time. It has a different energy, this church. The ocean and sky pull you into a humbling grace and a sacred silence that you actually can feel on a deep level. It’s healing, and that’s what people come here to find, whether they know it or not. It’s a visual sermon that deepens our awareness of God/Consciousness and, in doing so, turns even an atheist into believing something is going on, and it ain’t just us. Call it what you like. I’ve been in many actual churches, mosques, synagogues, and a few Quaker meeting houses in my time, but have never witnessed as moving a sermon as what nature has for me there when I choose to listen and notice.

There are the regulars I see there every day. Surfers, the guy with the binoculars looking for whales, and the occasional volunteer cleaning up the trash people leave behind. And then there is the favorite spot for teenagers who enjoy jumping off the cliff into what looks like a big watering hole in the ocean. They scream and jump until the cops arrive, telling them they are not allowed to swim due to it being dangerous. The city put up a sign, “No Jumping”, which lasted a few weeks. The cops know that as soon as they leave, the kids will be back. On a rare occasion, you’ll see a firetruck and a news van. That usually means someone has drowned, usually due to a surfing accident further up the cliffs or drugs. In all its beauty, the ocean has been a watery grave for sailors and souls throughout time.

On my walks, I ponder about Consciousness and what the universe is all about. I wonder how eternity is even possible, or real, and I get most of my inspiration for songs and stories walking along the cliffs. Occasionally I’ll bring a dulcimer and take it to a spot not many people know about. I’ll sit there with Bosco and play to the waves’ motion like a raga. And even when I am at home, I see the beauty of the cliffs inlaid on my Rockwell dulcimer by artist Larry Robinson. I wrote a dulcimer suite on that instrument, inspired by what I saw one morning.

Every day, the congregation changes. There are always surfers, joggers, slow walkers, and girls chatting loudly behind me as they pass by, along with visitors who take pictures of their family or of a wedding being held right on the cliffs. Once, I was asked to please move by a young guy who was going to propose to his girlfriend at the very spot I was sitting. I watched him get down on one knee in the sand as he proposed. She screamed, and then two seagulls screamed as they flew over just as she said yes.

They say that religion is for those who fear hell, and the spiritual is for those who have been there. There is something about the sea that reminds me daily how short life is, how unpredictable it can be, and how people are born and die all over the world as frequently as each wave rolls in and rolls out. Long after I am gone, this church will remain open twenty-four-seven, drawing lovers, seekers, and dreamers to it as the waves crash on the cliffs, and the sun rises and sets into timeless beauty while the seagulls sing amen.

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Bosco was ten weeks old when we adopted each other. We’ve buddied around together ever since, going here and there in my car, on hikes, and hanging out at local coffee shops. I usually take Bosco everywhere I go since he really isn’t much trouble and everyone likes him, but one does need their space from time to time. He is now twelve, and I’m pretty sure he is starting to get separation anxiety when I go places like the gym where dogs aren’t allowed to have memberships. I usually drop a bone or a few small carrots on the floor to keep him occupied as I sneak out the door feeling guilty, but lately I’ve noticed he still gives me those ‘wait, what about me’ dachshund eyes as I’m making my escape. Ask anyone who owns a dachshund- they own you, and we wouldn’t have it any other way.

In most marriages, one is usually the quieter one, not into superficial conversation, and would be happier just staying home while the other is galavanting around town. At the same time, the other is VERY social and happy to run into just about anyone at any time. That’s Bosco. Tail wagging. On any given walk, people stop and comment, “Oh, how sweet”, and I know it ain’t about me. Then, the female high-pitched stranger- baby talk begins…” OH MY GOD. He is SOOO cute. I LOVE his color”. The men usually just smile or snort as the petting and licking show begins. I’ve learned to smile patiently and politely like a husband out shopping with his wife. There are certain things one learns about each other in every relationship, ya just gotta accept.

Because I know he enjoys music, I bought a radio in hopes that it would keep him chilled out and peaceful when I ran my solo errands. I crossed my fingers the radio would pick up the local classical station, but it only picked up Jazz, NPR, and a lot of Mexican music, being so close to Mexico, of course. I hit the jackpot. No more sad eyes when I look through the screen door and say, “I’ll be back”… he’s on the floor, happy as a clam with a mouth full of carrots listening to Miles Davis. The radio cost me about twenty-three dollars and looks rather spiffy. You can’t tell by the photo I took, but there is a beautiful dulcimer and a tree lamp behind it, which is very Folksie. Reminds me of The Waltons.

His love for music began the first day I brought him home, and I played the dulcimer while he sat on the couch, blinking at me, head tilted, ears perked, and then gradually fell asleep. Now, when he sees the dulcimer across my lap, he hops up on the couch, plunks his cute little buns down next to mine, and closes his eyes. Hard to believe, we’re both close to our seventies, and I am watching our bodies change at the same time. Bosco’s a little hard of hearing. (I am too, but I’ll never admit it), And we’re both going gray. But we’re a good couple. It works. I think of Bosco as my soul-dog, and I’m sure he considers me his personal minstrel.

If my father were alive today and I told him about buying the radio for Bosco, he would say, “Are you crazy? He’s a dog. Stop wasting your money.” I, of course, would reply, “Happy wife, happy life”.

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I was 14 when I met Ola Belle Reed and her family. I had heard about this famous clawhammer banjo lady named Ola Belle, and was given her phone number to invite her to be a guest on my cable TV show in Coastville, Pennsylvania, called The Folk Process/WCOJ. She showed up at the studio with her husband, Ralph, and her son, David, both musicians. She loved to talk and could talk the nuts off a brass monkey. In between, she would play a tune or two. She was quite a character. We adopted each other that very day.

Ola Belle became my second mother over the years and often referred to me as her number three son. We made a few Folkways albums together and occasionally gave some concerts, but what stands out most in my memory is her rambling house, always full of people, cornbread, and a pot of pinto beans with ham hock or bacon simmering on her stove. Her dining room table was a long picnic table with a checkered plastic tablecloth, a gallon of sweet tea, a bowl of nearly rotten fruit, and jars of things she had canned from last summer. Her house was a good old southern country home situated in Rising Sun, Maryland- a long way from North Carolina, where she was born and raised.

Ola Belle was a regular at Sunset Park in Rising Sun, Maryland, every Sunday. She shared the stage with folks like Dolly Parton, Johnny Cash, Loretta Lynn, and other country stars. When she turned 74, if my memory serves me correctly, her song High On a Mountain became a huge country hit. Over the years, she gathered folk awards, honorary degrees, etc. She called herself a Hillbilly and was proud of it. She was a people person, as she liked to tell people, and she certainly had the gift of connecting with just about everyone. People loved her. She would grab your hand when she talked to you, stare into your eyes, and you would feel instantly accepted and loved. That was her magic.

One day, we were sitting underneath a big tree in her front yard, and she pointed towards the leaves. “It’s gonna storm pretty soon”. There was hardly a cloud in the sky. With doubt in my eyes, she said, “When the leaves turn up, that means it’s gonna rain. Nature has its own way of knowing things that man can’t see with his own eyes”. We started to head into her house when she stopped and looked me directly in the eyes and said, “Be still and know that I am God.” I thought that was a line she came up with on her own, continuing her thoughts about nature and how it works. Later, I discovered it was in Psalm 46. She never pushed religion, scripture, or anything else, for that matter, down my throat or anyone else’s. She had her own way of preaching without actually preaching. It was just who she was.

The day Ola Belle had a brain aneurysm, I was traveling in California. No one called me, and I hadn’t heard it on the news; I just knew. When you’re connected deeply to someone, you just know when things have changed in a major way. I called her home, and her son Dave told me what had happened. She had a long convalescence, a stroke, and lost her ability to talk, play the banjo, or do much of anything, yet she was clear-eyed and present until she passed away. I could write a book about our friendship, but suffice it to say, Ola Belle was one of the angels that guided me in my early years, and still appears now and then in my thoughts, when I’m looking for guidance.

After she was gone, they started a folk festival in her name, made a documentary or two about her life, and there was even a successful musical group called Ollabelle. In many ways, she became more famous after she left the planet. People tried to cash in on her popularity. I was called once or twice to be part of a documentary, but I never gave any interviews. I knew her name was being exploited, and I wanted nothing to do with it. Thankfully, I talked her into doing a documentary album for Folkways called My Epitaph several years before her passing, which they actually played at her funeral. As I said, no one could preach like her! She preached her own funeral. Her song, My Epitaph resonates with just about everyone who hears it to this day.

Now and then, I’ll catch leaves curled up like an outstretched palm and think of her. Some people come into your lives for just a short time, like passing guardian angels. I think of her that way, and can still feel her presence from time to time. I tell you, the veil is very thin between worlds, and her message is deeply needed in these times. I’d say more, but perhaps it would be best that you hear it straight from her. Click below.

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My Epitaph by Ola Belle Reed

When I go from this life
Let me go in peace
I don’t want your marble
At my head and feet
Don’t gather around me
Just to weep and moan
Where that I’m going
I won’t be alone

The flowers you’d give me
Please give them today
Don’t waste their beauty
On cold, lifeless clay
One rose well loved
Could do so much good
And I think all would give it
If they just understood

Now God gives life freely
Then He takes away
What we do for each other
Let us do it today
For we have no promise
That tomorrow will come
Don’t sing my praises
After I’m gone

When life has departed
It’s not me anymore
Just a form that has suffered
A steel heart that was sore
For the soul that has blossomed
It don’t need you anymore
So let it go freely
To God’s evermore

I’m well-intentioned, but I have never really liked leftover frozen food, or frozen food in general. And yet, the guilt of throwing good food out usually gets the best of me. “Oh, you’ll enjoy this later”… or, “there are starving children in”…. Nah. Today, I decided I would only keep ice cubes and vodka in my freezer FROM THIS DAY FORTH! Two things I know I can count on recognizing over time.

I brought home Thai food yesterday, which I put in the refrigerator, and knew for certain it would still be good for tomorrow’s lunch. There it sat on the top shelf in a plastic container, looking fresh as the morning dew, with the cashews only slightly moist and soggy. Then I made the grave mistake of thinking there must be something else I could have with it, like bread or a salad. And that’s when I began to slide into refrigerator hell.

I got on my knees, looked inside my crowded fridge, and thought to myself, what the hell is THIS as I picked up different containers and bags of God-knows-what. Way in the back shelf were two opened, moldy cartons of yogurt next to a can of Diet Coke, which had exploded some time ago all over the glass shelf and back wall. The salad I thought I had just a few days ago was wilted beyond recognition. Then I remembered it was a salad from last month, or was it two months ago? Was that blue cheese dressing or mold? How long has this been in here? The inquisition continued.

I grabbed a large heavy-duty trash bag and threw away the moldy yogurt, salads, some sort of Chinese leftovers, something that looked like a bag of carrots, a container of possible sprouts, and the remains of disgusting Keto bread I was trying to talk myself into eating at some point. Carboard tastes better. I had some peanut butter and jelly way in the back there, too, with lids missing. I vaguely remember smearing them on the bread to make it palatable, which of course contradicts the idea of going keto in the first place. There were other unrecognizable things along the back and side walls, as if waiting in the wings like an understudy in a horror play, but I’ll spare you the details.

But all was not lost. There were seven new bottles of flavored club soda, which stood unopened like soldiers guarding a new carton of eggs. The eggs had me puzzled because, upon clearing out my refrigerator, I found one carton with just two eggs on the bottom shelf, both half frozen, and another carton with what I believe was bacon wrapped in tin foil on the middle shelf, way back in the corner. No eggs. Next came the side shelves…OY. Apparently, I have a thing for little plastic packets of Chinese duck sauce, mustard, etc. All gone and wiped clean. Mayo, ketchup with the lid missing, capers that gazed at me through the glass bottle like dead fish eyes, and other goodies all went into the trash.

I took a deep breath and decided to clean and wipe down the freezer and refrigerator from top to bottom. Hot water in a bucket, a fresh sponge, and tons of elbow grease. The fact that I had to change the water twice gives you an idea of how far this little expedition went. I WILL SHOP AS IF I LIVE IN MANHATTAN FROM NOW ON, I snorted as I put the club soda and the good carton of eggs back on the top shelf and shut the refrigerator door.

Finally, a clean refrigerator and freezer. I was proud of myself. And the best part is that I now actually shop as if I live in a 300-ft New York apartment that rents for $ 3,500.00 a month. My friends who live in New York only buy what they are going to eat the next day or two—no room for much else.

I went out shopping for dinner this evening and brought home a rotisserie chicken from my favorite gourmet store and ate most of it. As I put some of the leftovers in the refrigerator, I spotted something brown and suspicious up against the back wall. Ahhhh shit! I thought I cleaned everything out. And there it was, my reward. A Hershey Chocolate bar I had forgotten about from 19?? Those things last for eons, ya know. Best of all, it had almonds!

Nothing like a clean refrigerator and a nice empty freezer with two ice cube trays, and a bottle of Vodka for an occasion such as this. Thank God the little bottle of olives that was hiding behind the Tabasco sauce was still good. The night was filled with two dirty ( the good kind) Martini’s and Rosemary Clooney on the stereo.

I felt complete, renewed, and most of all like the mensh my father raised me to be…. ok, well, his refrigerator wasn’t much better than mine, or perhaps yours if you dare to peek inside. Be warned… refrigerators have a particular way of telling you just a little bit about who you are and possibly why.

I’m trying not to backslide. For me, it always starts with a small container of Ben & Jerry’s ice cream with a Kix candy bar in a moment of weakness or need for comfort. That’s how it gets me every time. Every single time….Curled up with my dog, Netflix, and Ben & Jerry, as I fall asleep to some Noir movie I keep trying to finish.

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She quit wearing wigs and scarves not long after chemo. “Bald is in,” she declared boldly as she put on her makeup and her favorite loop earrings before we headed out to dinner. We were friends long before all that cancer crap showed up. She was my articulate and assertive best friend. She was my guiding light until I suddenly became hers the night I went to her home and she said, “I have something to tell you.” Then I saw her face change. Her lips quivered as she held back the tears before saying, “I have lung cancer. Do you believe this shit?” I didn’t know what to say. Since I met her, she has always had this little annoying cough that comes and goes. “ Oh, I’m alright,” she’d tell me, ignoring my suggestions to see a doctor.

After being diagnosed, she went from being an atheist to a spiritual detective trying to find the meaning of life. “I’ve had a tough life. My father beat me, my mother was a drunk, and when my only child died, I lost all faith in a heavenly God. What kind of God would put a human being through that sort of hell and punctuate it with cancer? You can keep your religion!” She loved the saying, “Religion is for those who fear hell, and the spiritual is for those who have been there”.

She tried natural remedies, holistic this and that for a while, until the cancer began to light her lungs on fire. Chemo, it was. Radiation came next, and one day, while visiting her in the hospital, I saw surrender in her eyes for the first time. It was like looking at a different woman. Her warrior personality was gone. The drugs weren’t going to save her. The fight was over, and she knew it. So, what’s next, I wondered.

She stopped all treatment and spent the time remaining noticing nature in ways she never had, crying deeply over her favorite movie, Love Story, and taking her time going out to fancy restaurants she never wanted to spend her savings on in the past. “Yummm. This is divine. Taste this,” Cancer had softened her. She became slower, more patient, and gentler to strangers who always seemed to annoy her in crowded places. Through the doctors and nurses who had cared for her, she learned about compassion and empathy.

At the pond, as the ripples faded, I asked her what she wanted for her funeral. She looked into the water for a few moments and smiled. “I want you to take my ashes and wrap them in the scarf I bought in Paris and tie it to this beautiful rock that I have in my garden. It’s in the shape of a heart and has a little moss growing on it. I love that rock. Then throw it all into this pond and play something you love on your dulcimer. “

She passed away in Hospice a few weeks later. I saw her the morning that she died, not knowing it would be our last visit. She didn’t have a stitch of makeup on or those dangly earrings she loved to wear. Her eyes were closed, but she smiled slightly when I held her hand and told her I had finally found that rock she loved, and was thinking about the time she threw the stone into the pond and what beautiful ripples the heart-stone would make. I was still thinking of songs. Maybe an instrumental would be best. I can’t sing and cry at the same time, I told her.

It rained hard the day of her funeral. As the small crowd gathered with umbrellas by the pond, the rain changed to a very light drizzle. I took the stone with her ashes and threw it into the pond. As the heart sank, the water rippled quickly, and just as it began to fade, the sun appeared for about ten minutes. It was long enough to play “Those Were the Days “ on the dulcimer. We used to sing that song together, holding martini glasses in the air. She loved that song.

I’ll always be left with the memory of when we were in her living room, before she was diagnosed, and she had one of her coughing spells. In the middle of it, she looked at me and said, “All my life….this awful rowing towards God…It’s too hard. Life is too damn hard. I’ll be so happy when I leave this planet and finally become one with God…. at least that’s what I’ve heard will happen”.

Then she made a funny face, shrugged her shoulders, and lit another cigarette.

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After experiencing melanoma and a ‘death sentence’ given to me by several Oncologists in 2015, I figured out how to change my life and actually beat cancer. I wrote extensively about that time in my book “Between the Notes”. A friend suggested a year or two after that frightening time that I should teach people what I did to change my life for the better. I created what I call Dulcimeditation and have been a life coach/teacher since 2018, serving some incredible clients and helping folks to create a life they love while having fun.

With Americans losing their jobs to AI, the political shit show, and other general bad news going on these days, I thought I could serve others in a positive and relaxing way if I created a series of videos with Dulcimeditation.

These would be 10-minute or so short videos geared towards being a ‘chill-pill, ‘ and/or inspiration, along with Dulcimeditation instrumentals. NO AI- NOTHING. Just me to you. (Farm to table?)

I have included a little sample of what you would be hearing and watching in these videos below. The first few videos will be FREE. Then, I’m considering offering them as a weekly dulcimeditaion to paid subscribers. BUT WAIT- THERE’S MORE!! If you subscribe for a year, I will send you a free PDF of my book as a deeply felt thank you for supporting the arts.

I also plan on continuing to share my thoughts and experiences in stories on here as I have done over the last year, which many of you have enjoyed. This DULCIMEDITATION SERIES is a new business venture I’m starting. Since I no longer tour, and music is basically free these days, I decided to start a small, groovy little music and mentoring series, and see if I can turn peace into a small cottage industry.

I’d love to hear your comments and thoughts about my idea, this video, and what you’d like to see more of! Cheers!! Kevinroth.org@gmail.com

I thought during the first ten minutes of Yoga Mama’s class that this was too advanced for me, but I figured I’d be a sport and go with the flow. Wrong. I’m here to tell you to listen to your gut. I had a lot of time on my hands since I basically couldn’t move that much. I did take a little trip to Ojai to see a friend, but other than that, I was pretty much horizontal, or walking around saying “OY”.

I had conversations with a few friends I apparently don’t even remember, and managed to piss off two people by sending them the wrong text. “ Why are you sending this text to me? What the hell are you talking about?” I had to do a lot of explaining, and I’m fairly sure I was not forgiven. Such is life. Sigh.

The thing about living alone and having a bad back when you own a dog is that they still need to be walked. Simple things like walking, picking up the gift left on people’s lawns, all become a bit tricky. Getting out of showers, waking up at three to go to the bathroom, all become problems that need to be figured out, like it or not.

On the positive side of the same scenario, came a rather wonderful idea while lying around, which was to begin creating a Substack and a YouTube video series called Dulcimeditations. Beautiful music on the dulcimer with slightly spiritual/life-affirming thoughts. Now that I’m basically feeling tons better, day by day, and down to only 1 gummy and four Tylenol, I am beginning to prepare for my retreat into Dulcimeditation land.

This morning, my older sister insisted on reminding me that I was old. I certainly don’t think so, and even younger folks than me get themselves and their bodies into pickles they don’t see coming. This was mild compared to what could have happened. I often tell my life coaching clients that their greatest asset in life is not their money, it’s their health. Pain is, in many ways, an unwelcome teacher.

Today, at my favorite coffee dive, I saw Yoga Mama with her Organic Green Yoga Latte. She asked me what was new. Never once did she ask me about my back, even though she was there when I was rolling around on my yoga mat in pain. “I haven’t seen you around lately,” she told me with a down-dog kind of curiosity. “Yeah, I'm busy just thinking about the messes I sometimes get myself into,” I told her.

She rolled her eyes in camaraderie, then put her hand on her heart, said ‘Namaste’, waved goodbye, and that was that.

I really don’t like Yoga anyway. OY

I’m not sure whether it was the passing of a few friends or the fact that I put my back out for nearly a month recently, trying out a yoga class, that has led me down the inevitable road of considering how to navigate getting older, and all that it entails.

Having never been in this position, at least in this lifetime, I’m not too sure of how to navigate growing older gracefully. There is, of course, the obvious being exercise, eating right, getting rid of stress, and getting ‘senior panel blood work’ done at my doctor’s office. ( My dog Bosco gets yearly senior panels… Bosco is in his 60’s in human years- 12 in dog years.)

Proudly, in the last three months, I have been able to lower my lipids naturally, lost ten pounds, 3.8 pounds of body fat, and have been hitting the gym consistently for the last two months, trying to get back to my Tarzan look after sliding into Jane and discovering I had man-boobs. It was all going splendidly until this back thing happened. Oy, I felt like I had been sidelined with chiropractors, massage therapists, heating pads, and muscle relaxers. Telling my friends about my aches and pains has somehow turned into an abundance of snickers and sneers, welcoming me to the “Advil/ Tylenol club”.

Doing my due diligence, I began watching YouTube videos of folks in their eighties telling me about their regrets in life and how they have now found a new, inspiring peace in their senior years. At first, I was shocked at how many seniors have their own YouTube channels, profiting from their ageless words of wisdom.

There’s an old cowboy on some ranch in Colorado who spits out chewing tobacco and whines about how he hates Trump and how hard it is just to live these days peacefully. ( I was happily eating grapes, watching Jolly Rancher- man, until Mr. Spatoon started ‘sharing’ his tobacco angst, which was disgusting, but perhaps his way of dramatically emphasising his woes. Well, it worked.) Then, there is the happy, bright, and shiny lady who is 91, or so she claims, who has found the fountain of youth in gardening, making friends with younger people, having gratitude in abundance, and who at 80 became an artist…so forth and so on. I have to admit, the lady knows how to create an extraordinary-looking garden. And her house looks delicious with all her homemade pies, fruit baskets, and a small, perfect little fire in her woodstove. She has dozens of these videos, all filmed in high definition, right there in her Norman Rockwell cabin in the woods somewhere in Never-Never land. Is it really Clara or AI? Hmmm. Does it even matter anymore?

AND THEN…..Last year, this “Sir” business started. Guys at the gym, people at gas stations, waiters, etc., all started to address me as “Sir”. The Viagra spam mail has been replaced with pills, powders, and programs for arthritis. I guess they assume I no longer have a sex life, just arthritis. Little do they know!

Most annoying is when people tell me I am 68 years “Young”. I’m not young. Stop trying to make me feel better, and I’ll tell you why…. Let me explain a little something about Kevi Baby. My early life sucked- big time. (See photo of my darling little self above.) My middle-aged years made it worse, and except for my career, life was fairly unpleasant. Then I hit my thirties-fifties years and discovered love, success, money, and ‘marriage’ wasn’t going to save me. At fifty-seven, I got melanoma and decided to say adios to the old Kevin, and all the stress and inflammation that caused my little ‘episode.’ I decided to create a version two of myself. I moved to California and have lived like a dulcimer bohemian ever since. I have earned every year, gray hair, and saggy parts of my body. I’m happier older than younger. Of course, if I had to do it all over again, I would become a dulcimer-singing plumber. I could never be replaced by AI, and what a niche I would have, not to mention being in demand and having plenty of cash, no shit- really!!!

So, it dawned on me that the perfect answer to growing older gracefully was to follow in my dulcimer-playing footsteps. Keep improvising, don’t give a shit what people say- just go for it, keep my body and mind strong, and hope Medicare, Social Security, and my humor last until I’m done. These little body annoyances ( did I tell you I also have plantar fasciitis?) will come and go. Like it or not, the dog needs to be walked, trash needs to be taken out, showers and such must continue daily- so it kind of limits my choices of the “oh woe is me” scenario.

Bitch all ya like Kev, but ya gotta do what ya gotta DUE in life….Yes, there is help out there when needed, but I think I’d rather be like the lovely lady with the garden who wakes up every glorious, thankful morning with makeup on and cheery smiles as she pours her French-pressed coffee, and dances in the YouTube sunlight singing the song from Oklahoma, “Oh What A Beautiful Morning,” or something like that. All filtered, of course.

Meanwhile, today is a great one. No Tylenol, no real back problems, and still making it to the gym in between cooking, dulcimer-ing, and hugging my pooch. So, how about this: I am not growing old. I am aging wisely. And did I mention I can tell the same story to my friends who don’t remember I told them the exact story a week ago? As an entertainer, I never run out of material, so there’s that.

I’m still kinda like a kid at times. I often go into coffee shops, and when the barista asks me for my name, I tell them it’s Sexy. They do a double-take, laugh, and then write it on an empty coffee cup. Then we wait for the next barista to call my name out loud when my java is ready for my senior consumption. “LATTE WITH SPLENDA FOR SEXY…” Say or think what you want- I guess I will always try to find new ways of enjoying senior moments. In fact, last week I met a 70-year-old surfer at the beach. I asked him how long he’d been surfing. He said about two years. Just goes to show you, anything’s possible.

Wish me luck with version three.

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So, this Millennial sees me showing someone my dulcimer at the Essentials Coffee Shop the other day. It has very funky-looking wood and was made by a friend, Robert Worth. It’s built like a tank, really. He tells me he plays guitar and asks if I would play something on it so he can hear what a dulcimer sounds like.

I sit down and play this fun little tune I wrote called Dry Bones. Then I ask him if he wants to try it out. He pulls up a chair, and there he sits, trying to understand why the strings appear to be put on backwards compared to a guitar, but he eventually figures it out. Then he starts jamming away on it like he just found a pot of gold at the end of the espresso beans.

He looks up at me with curiosity and asks me what one costs, who built it, and how long I've been playing. I tell him about Robert, my dulcimer collection, and the collection of my dulcimers in the Dulcimer and Folk Music museum in Ohio. He asks me how long have I been playing. I reply that I was fourteen when I first saw a dulcimer, and I’m sixty-eight now. He does the math. It ends up being fifty-four years. He smiles and tells me his father just turned fifty-four. “Amazing,” he says with a laugh as he tries some finger picking. “What do you call it again?” A Dulcimer. Where can I get one? I told him to look on eBay or give me a call, and I can walk him through it.

The next morning, I sit down with a cup of coffee next to Bosco on the couch, and as usual, I grab a dulcimer from the back of the couch and start picking out a tune or two. I call it doing dulcimeditation. I chuckle at the look in that kid’s eyes and how taken he was with his first sighting of a dulcimer. I remember that look well, as I had the same reaction back in 1972. Looking around my living room, there’s a dulcimer on the couch, three on the wall, one propped up against a cabinet, four more in the bedroom, and several others in the closet in their cases, waiting their turn to be rotated.

Fifty-four years, really? Seems like a lifetime to me….it has been. From the age of fourteen to sixty-eight, I have always started my day with dulcimer, coffee, and silly, moody modes.

Sometimes it takes someone else to remind me that I’m a pretty lucky guy. It all goes by so fast, eh?

If you enjoyed this piece, please subscribe. There is a free and a paid version. xoxo Bosco and me.

‘ You don’t know how good you have it! You don’t have any major illness to deal with, like cancer or alzheimer. Oh sure, you have some aches and pains, but that’s life as you get on in years. You have no children to worry about, and you’re collecting social security, which is something to help keep you afloat. At least it pays your rent. So, I don’t want to hear about how the world is falling apart, your politics, or how ungrateful people seem to be from time to time. That’s life, kiddo.

I mean, look at you. You’re still a good-looking man. You look ten years younger than most men your age. You have as much talent as you do laziness. If you’d get off your duff like you used to, you’d have all the money you’d need, and then some. Stop telling me you’re tired of working, of dealing with people. We’re all feeling the same way. It’s a draining life unless you figure out how to be happy. Change the way you look at things, and the things you look at change.

Nobody is going to save you, so you'd better get really familiar with the idea that you have to save yourself. Keep your nose clean, your chin up, and keep stoking those dreams of yours, and life will feel like a bed of roses. Keep up your stinkin’ thinkin’ and your life will feel like a bed of thorns.

Go ahead, get married if you find someone, but they ain’t gonna fix your life. That’s up to you. Love when it’s new is full of bliss and wonder. You think that kind of love will last forever. After a short time, life settles in, and love turns a different shade. You start to have arguments, people are stubborn, family begins to get on your nerves from time to time. That’s how it goes. That’s life.

Now, when you get to my age, you start looking more inward than outward. Life gets quieter. You need less, you want less. Your friends start dying off, and if you’re widowed, you kind of get used to being alone. There’s comfort in feeling melancholy sometimes. You know you’re getting closer to being with the Lord, so things take on a different perspective. It wouldn’t hurt to start talking to Him. He’s always listening, ya know.’

The small oven timer rang just as she wrapped up her sermon. She took out her spatula, put four steaming chocolate chip cookies on a plate, and shoved them towards me.

She then took off her apron and waddled into the living room to watch her favorite television program.

A chocolate chip dripped down my finger as I blew on the cookie to cool it down. It was sticky-sweet and messy, kinda like my life in that moment of solitude.

God, I love that woman.

“ The world is heavy right now. Like, actually heavy: news, prices, AI taking your jobs, wars, groceries costing what a car payment used to. It’s a lot.” -

Dr. Seth Capehart

There are two things I do daily that help keep me balanced and relatively happy. One is dulcimeditation, a form of playing the dulcimer in a slow, meditative style. The other is life coaching, which is teaching people how to stay balanced and spiritually grounded throughout their lives. I call it teaching “practical spirituality.” I wrote a book about this a few years ago called “Between the Notes” (On Amazon)

I GOT AN IDEA…WHAT DO YA THINK?

I’m thinking of making YouTube videos using both ideas. They would include my playing the dulcimer as well as thoughts to ponder to brighten and/or deepen one’s day. These would be shorter than 15 minutes, which makes it easy to watch while having coffee in the morning or during a break.

I’m wondering what you think about this idea. If you’ve never seen my channel, here it is: https://www.youtube.com>@KevinRothMusician

I’d love to hear and read any of your comments or suggestions. My email is kevinroth.org@gmail.com

I’m doing this to help even out the playing field when life gets a bit heavy, as Dr. Capehart had commented. Plus, it’s an interesting way to use the dulcimer and continue to reach a wider audience without hitting the road!

Thoughts ??

Kevin & Bosco

Was I too tired? Too over- or underwhelmed? Don’t know, but I think my brain crashed.

So I just sat there looking into my coffee cup and decided to turn off my mind for just five minutes. Any thought that came up, I told my brain, “I’ll be with you in a minute. Please take a seat”. The silence was heavenly. AND the world kept turning.

I had a driving teacher in high school who once said, Everyone is in a big hurry to go nowhere. Wise words.

When I finished my coffee, I decided that for today, no news. Stick to creativity and good, whole food. Probably one of the best moves I made all day…..so far!

How’s your week going so far?

1. EASTER

There’s an elderly lady who lives a few doors down from me. In all the years I’ve lived here, we’ve only exchanged a few polite smiles in passing.

But late Saturday night, when I went to CVS Pharmacy to get some allergy medicine, I spotted an entire shelf of Peeps and chocolate bunnies. They were 50% off for Easter, of course. I bought a whole bunch of them with the twenty-dollar bill I found in the dryer that morning.

On Easter Sunday, I saw her sitting on her porch alone. For the life of me, I have no idea why I went over and gave her two packs of Peeps, three chocolate bunnies, and said hello for the first time.

Honestly, I’m not really dialed into Easter, but I can tell you that I got a vibe that Jesus would have been very happy when her entire face lit up with that flattered and inquisitive smile.

She ate a Peep, and I ate a bunny.

Her name is Clara.

2. TOO MANY DULCIMERS

I have a lot of dulcimers. At this point in my life, I am finding I need much less of everything. I should sell these, I told my dog, Bosco. Maybe keep a few favorites. But, which ones?

Then it occurred to me. I liked all of them. I have no favorites. They live here too, and even if I only occasionally visit them with a small tune, or a finger strum across their rusty strings as I pass by, that’s still a beautiful thing. And that’s enough. This is their home. I am their mother, father, friend, and their musical Geppetto. It’s really that simple and beautiful if you think about it.

How quickly my mind collided with my heart, and life’s perception changed from having too many dulcimers to seeing them as singing trees, a craftsman’s work of honor, a simple gift.

The truth is, I have spent most of my lifetime discovering who I am while playing dulcimer and pursuing a musical dream. Life has not always been easy, but my musical muse has softened life’s blows in dulcet tones along the way.

How or why the muse showed up as my destiny in the form of a fretted Zither, I’ll never know.

But then again, why would I?

3. UNCONDITIONAL LOVE

I bought a bone and a few toys for my dog

I’ve been away a lot

I feel guilty

He sniffed the bone and looked at the toys. Then he sat on the floor and stared at me

I picked him up and asked him if he was feeling ok

Of course, I knew he wouldn’t answer me

But he did

He looked at me and licked my face

Then he lay down next to me, put his head on my lap, and stared into my eyes. That was enough for him

My eyes filled with tears

4. I WATCHED HER STEAL

I saw her steal the grapes in the grocery store. As I shopped, I witnessed her fill her cart with a few other items, little things like small boxes of raisins, two rolls of toilet paper, and a big candy bar.

As fate would have it, we both made it to the self- checkout line around the same time. I watched her pay for just a few of the items, but not all. She certainly had a well-seasoned technique.

There are aisles of locked glass cages filled with aspirin and other things people need on a daily basis at my supermarket. I have to ring a buzzer and wait for someone to unlock the door to buy deodorant because of people like her. Thieves.

And then I saw her outside in the parking lot with a grocery cart filled with a sleeping bag, boxes, and other things. She was homeless. And suddenly it occurred to me it may not be right, but on a rainy, chilly Thursday afternoon, somehow her stealing a few things seemed somewhat fair.

As I headed to my warm car, I wondered what I would do if I were in her situation. I think I probably would have done the same.

Well, that’s Bullshit. I know I would.

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For nearly 20 years, Odum Krenshaw ran his Barbershop in a little town called Devils Lake, located just south of North Dakota. He used to cut hair right beside his youngest brother, Calvin, until Calvin was drafted 11 or so years back. Odum had a slight limp, so he escaped the draft, but Calvin, eager to serve, went to war and died when a grenade went off in a mine field just two weeks shy of his coming home. His Medal of Honor hung alongside a favorite photo of Odum’s right by the front door. There Calvin stood, proud and smiling in sepia tones alongside Odum on the day he graduated from barber school. A small American flag on a thin stick was draped along the side of the frame. It was the first thing Odum looked at when he came into work, and the last thing he touched before going out the door each night.

Odum and Calvin used to refer to their customers as the town's characters. It was kind of a love-hate relationship with many of them. Besides a beauty parlor a block away, Odum was the town's only ‘hair snipper and hot shave artist’.

The first Monday of every month, Stanley Greenshaw would be the first man waiting outside his door, come rain or shine, anxious for his clipper cut. Stanley would say, “Got to get in early, ya know. Got a hundred problems that need attending, and no good help to be found.” He’d sit down in Odum’s chair and say the same thing every time. “Flat on top and short on the sides.”

Now, Odum had three responses to just about any comment that came his way. The first was “Uh-huh”. The second, “Ya don’t say”, and the third was “What are ya gonna do?” Stanley would bitch all the time about how he couldn’t find any good help, and the price of everything was going up, up, up. “What are ya gonna do?” Odum said, shaking his head in a bored response.

Every Friday, Reverend Mike plopped down in the chair. “Ya know, Odum, everything happens according to the Lord’s will”… and on and on he went, smiling like he had two marshmallows stuffed in his fat cheeks. After so many years of his preaching in the chair, Odum knew how to tune him out and agree at the same time. “Why, ya don’t say”… Rev would always put his hands on Odum’s shoulder after his haircut and bless him. It made the Reverend feel good. Odum, not so much. “Why don’t you just come to this Sunday’s Service… I have a whopper of a sermon planned”. “Uh-huh”.

Now, the one who really needed to get their ass into the pew on Sundays was Dolores. She was his only lady customer, if you could call her a lady. She had a mouth on her that would make the devil blush. “I ain’t paying no G-Damn five dollars to have curlers put in my hair and listening to that chicken squawk at the salon. Cut it short, Odum-too busy to fuss with it”. “Uh-huh,” Odum said quietly, letting her rant on. Men moved out of her way when she came towards them. Dolores was built like a brick shit house and was madder than a hornet’s nest most of the time. Nobody could figure out why. It was rumored she had married once and kept him for just about a week before she threw him out of the house. Some folks said it was an arranged marriage. The poor guy came and went so fast nobody even knew his name. He drove a white pickup truck that a few people said had the hood beaten in, and his taillight was smashed up pretty badly, too, as he sped out of town, never to be seen again.

Dr. McDermitt used to tell Odum that the kind of anger and stress Dolores exhibited all the time would move up God’s death warrant if she kept it up. Dolores never went to see a doctor, of course. “And I ain’t paying for no funeral either. Let ‘em cut me up and feed me to the hogs for all I care. I’ll be dead anyway”. Odum would cut her hair short, which took about fifteen minutes. After he was finished, he would slowly spin her around in the chair to show her what she looked like in the mirror. She’d get up out of his chair, rip the smock off her bulbous over-hauls, throw it on the chair, shake her head like a horse, and plop down her three dollars and change. Three for the cut with a fifty-cent tip, and that was a generous tip for Dolores. “See ya, Bub” was always her exit comment.

The other men sitting in the chairs waiting their turn never said a word until she was clear out the door and down the street. A few moments later, the comments would roll, something to the effect of, “Never saw a mule more stubborn” or, “Hell, I saw her in a dress once, thought I was drunk and hallucinating.” Frank Parsons never liked her either. He would just shake his head in disbelief behind yesterdays newspaper after she left. Frank mostly kept quiet, which was a relief to Odum. He would only talk about his grandkids, naming all seven of them each time he sat in the chair. “Why, they grow up so fast, so smart. Johnny Junior is gonna run the world one of these days, Odum”. “Why ya don’t say.” “Yup. Johnny is smarter than all of them put together”.

Monday morning was always busy. That was the day the customers who couldn’t get in on Saturday showed back up around eight before their work started. Tuesday was rather quiet, as was Wednesday, but by Thursday, customers began to fill up the chairs along the back wall, just about as fast as one became available.

Every Friday at noon, like clockwork, Elvin Geddarich would come by for a trim and a shave. Odum wasn’t fond of him one bit. He was a pain in the ass, and he loved to get under folks’ skin. “Now, take your time with the hot lather and razor, Odum. I don’t want to get nicked again.” “That was two years ago, Elvin, and you sneezed. Believe me, if I wanted to cut your throat, I’d have done it long before this.” Now, that was a long response for Odum. But frankly, any of his standard responses never fit the occasion. Elvin would stand up after his shave, look in the mirror, rub his sweaty, stumpy little hand across his turkey neck as if examining a diamond, and say the same damn thing every time. “Odum..you’re an AR-TIST!” Of course, he never tipped.

When Odum had a little break, he always meant to throw out some of the Field and Stream and National Geographic magazines that had been there for months on end. But more often than not, he’d sit in his chair and grab a quick snooze until someone walked in. “Did I wake ya, Odum?” “Nah, just resting my eyes”.

Saturdays at five, Odum would close his shop and head to Sestrich’s Food Market. He’d pick up a few things, a case of beer, and head home. He’d sit in his lounge chair most Saturday nights and Sundays watching sports on TV. On Sunday afternoon, he’d take out the trash. If he happened to see his neighbor, he’d wave but had no intention of having a conversation with anyone.

Through good times and bad, Odum’s barbershop was sort of like Grand Central Station. Gossip, politics, and interesting facts from The Farmers’ Almanac filled his days. And that’s how it went until Odum passed away at age 69. Poor guy choked on a tuna fish sub. Henry Cromwell, the postman, found him lying on the floor, covered in hair clippings, with a broom by his side and tuna fish all over the floor.

It took about a year to rent the place out. People had to go to ‘The Clip Joint’ one town over until Ben Cromwell opened up where Odum’s used to be. Ben was a local kid and a customer of Odum’s, who finally graduated from Barber School after failing the state board twice.

Unlike Odum, who was quiet, Ben could talk the nuts off a brass monkey. Before he opened for business, he changed the name of Odum’s Barbershop to “Ben’s Shearology”.

Odum was sorely missed.

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And as he lay there looking into my eyes before leaving his body, my hand bloodied with a rock that had been sharpened with anger, hate, and confusion, his eyes softened with a look of forgiveness and sadness.

In that last moment, he was no longer an enemy, his words barely trailing from his bloodied lips; “ We have forgotten who we truly are’.

I lifted his head as if to hold him like a wounded sparrow, only to feel his last breath wheeze out of his mouth like a bellow.

I watched as his blood ran down my fingers into my lifeline, my palm changing color, wrapping around my wrist like a handcuff for eternity.

That was the last ounce of hate I ever felt.

He had sadly and strangely become my teacher, resonating with a deepening sadness, a cost that cannot be measured or in any way fully understood. I’ve never lost the feeling of the weight of his head in my right hand as the weight of the rock remained in my left.

What had I done in the name of war?

Now, when I embrace the enemy of illusion, I feel his arms around me still. I see his softening eyes, and I hear him whisper, “We are all one”, as I watch so many march under the whim of dictators and tyrants.

I want to put a rock in their hand, wrap their fingers around it, and teach them to feel the coldness of the stone like fresh blood hitting the air, then hold their hands in mine for even a second….. And……

Pray with them in the subtle sacred space where religions can never exist, while looking into their eyes, spiritually searching for the love within that we are all mystically a part of.

Somehow.