Why Faith Isn't Silly

I write about religion sparingly. But, when I do, I am a defender of spiritual belief. I believe what I believe, but I'm not about foisting that on my audience, so don't run away on that account.

I do, however, get my back up a bit in the face of flippant dismissal of spiritual belief, in general. I think atheism is illogical, just as I believe blind belief is illogical. In a way, though, I think any arrogant and any smirking dismissal of belief in God (in whatever form) is an insult to all that has made us human, since the dawn of life.

Let me lay this out. Since forever, all cultures, in all parts of the world, have either created or (depending on one's viewpoint) subscribed to true beliefs in gods, a Great Spirit, God or spirits of wood and stone. During that time, of course, there have been people who have not believed. It would be silly to pretend that every Greek in ancient Athens expected Pallas Athena to show up one day at the local souvlaki stand. Sure, some didn't believe.

For the most part, though, all cultures, great and small, have been aligned to the idea of a greater power -- or powers. Every culture has explored the mystery of death and has developed its beliefs in what happens after we sleep the longest sleep. There have been any number of variants on Hades, Valhalla, Heaven and the Happy Hunting Grounds.

The Pot of Old Socks at the End of the Rainbow

Artistic fulfillment. So stinking elusive. You just have to fall back on the old cliche: the fulfillment just has to come from the doing; not the having done; not the accolades.

My band played on Saturday night to a pretty packed room. The place is biggish, too. Usually, we get a lot of positive feedback -- people dancing and singing along; a lot of smiles; a lot of high-fives when we come out with a song someone is surprised we are playing. We're usually pretty good at picking them, especially in that particular room.

Not last night. Last night, with the exception of a few moments, we might as well have been playing to a room full of cacti. It was like serving tennis balls into a hanging blanket. So what did we do? We played. We decided just to have fun. We sort of did, but, it was one of those nights you look forward to wrapping up.

Great American songwriter, Jimmy Webb -- who "gets it."

With my own original music, I find that, with Internet radio play -- Spotify, Radio Airplay, etc. -- that people are responding very favorably. Hundreds are people are bothering to become "fans" of my songs, from New York to Great Britain to Singapore and Japan.

A Literal Kick in the Face

I just kicked my dog in the face. Hard. So hard, it hurt my foot. In fact, my heel is still throbbing. And do you know where she is? She is sitting here with her head on my knee, looking up at me with eyes brimming over with love.

Before you call in the animal cops, I need to explain that it was an accident. My wife threw a toy for her to fetch and, as the dog was speeding by my chair, after it, I tried to lift my leg out of the way. As my foot came up, I planted a karate heel right into her snout.

No blood or broken teeth, but I sure thought there would be. She seems fine. In fact, she is better off than I, because I feel horrible, even though it was purely accidental.

Which one of us is superior? Does her total lack of anger, as a dog, make her inferior, in either a scientific or a philosophical sense? Or does it make her superior?

I suppose it comes down to the difference between "can't" and "won't." She is not smart enough, being a canine creature, to conceptualize resentment. (At least, I don't think so.) That would be "can't," of course. If someone accidentally were to kick me in the face, I would be really mad. I might even lash out.

The Most Important Question

Jean Baptiste Camille Corot

One day,
It occurred to me
That many --
If not all --
Of the problems in our world
Would be solved
If every person
Would stop and ask
One
Simple
Question
Before
Acting:

"What if I'm wrong?"

Listening Hard for Walt Whitman's Footfalls

We all, as we get older, tend to ask that cliched "where-does-the-time-go" question. I'll tell you where it goes; it goes past us while we toil over necessities and then try to fill our free time with "meaningful" activities. As I once said, paraphrasing Whitman: we fail to loaf and invite our souls.

Walt Whitman

A testament to this -- and one of whoppingly ironic proportions -- is the fact that I have lived within walking distance of Walt Whitman's summer home (the place where he reputedly wrote a good deal of Leaves of Grass) for more than a decade and have never, once, visited it. Granted, it is open by appointment, only, but -- you'd think a guy like me, who spent quite a few hours studying the man's work and who went to school in the city of Camden, New Jersey, where the poet spent a large portion of his life, would have made the effort.

Alas.

Well, today, I'm going -- not into the house, because it is Sunday, but, I will visit the outside of it and I will also venture into the nearby environs of Crystal Spring, where the poet once loafed, invited his soul and penned many of the pieces of his seminal collection of poems.

I'm off to loaf, and to invite Whitman's soul to pay me a visit. I'll be right back...with pictures.