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PAST
RAMBLINGS - 26
(collection of past Homepage greetings and stories)
May 11, 2010 -to-
Dec
4, 2010
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I
could be writing you from my
desk at home but for some
reason, whenever I feel
inclined to write a new
rambling for my website, I
prefer to go to a coffee
shop and do it. Perhaps it's
my subconscious need to
reclaim my youth when I used
to submit to the demand of
the ol' work whistle. Before
music I did hold regular
jobs, you know. Over fifty
of 'em before I was thirty
years old. Nope, I was not
always a plucker of guitar
strings and a yodeler of
bird-like melodies. I was
master of many professions
before this. Well, that's
going a bit far. Let's just
say I had a lot o' jobs.
Shall I go through the list
and name a few of 'em for
ye? How 'bout the time I
took a job
 managing
a Golf Pro Shop - having
never played the game even
once in my young life? It's
true. I was a bicycle
mechanic in my hometown of
Amarillo. A frequent
customer of the bike shop -
from whose flat tires I
regularly plucked spines of
the prickly pear - stopped
by one day to offer me a
job. He seemed to like my
flat-fixin' abilities and
hearty work ethic. The
latter is a mystery, for as
he spoke I was ignoring the
stack of new bikes I was
supposed to be assembling,
and rapidly cracking open
pistachios and popping them
into my mouth in an attempt
to set a new Texas record.
Anyway, he thought perhaps
I'd like to leave my part
time bike mechanic job and
run the brand new Golf Pro
Shop he was opening across
the street. I was 19 years
old, green as a pickle, and
had never even held a golf
club in my hand. Still, I
liked the idea of being the
manager of something, so I
grinned the kind of grin you
grin when you have bits of
pistachio between all your
teeth, and I said, "yessir,
I'd like to give that a
try!"
I lasted one day. Well,
I showed up one day. I
only made it to
lunchtime, leaving the
guy a note that
explained my reluctance
to finish out the day.
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Dear Mister Joe Bob,
(I forget your last
name) this is Mike.
I am the guy you
hired to run your
new golf store.
Remember? Anyway, I
thought I could do
it, but I guess I
won't be able to. I
think maybe it would
be better if I had
ever played golf,
but since we live in
the dusty, windy
Texas plains where
there are tornados
and rattlesnakes and
hail storms and
stuff, well, I have
not done that yet. A
lot of men in yellow
and green (and even
plaid!) nylon
britches and white
tap shoes have been
asking me questions
about stuff and I
have not felt this
stupid since
calculus. I gave 'er
a shot anyway, but
I'm afraid I might
have given out some
bad advice, so I
think it's best that
I'm not here when
they come back. It's
one thing to try and
answer questions
about a game I don't
know nothing about.
It's another to have
to bite my cheek to
keep from laughing
at somebody's pants.
I don't think I
could keep on doing
it, sir. So I am
leaving to go play
Frisbee.
~ Sincerely, your
former manager,
Mike |
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That wasn't my only one-day
job. In my senior year in
high school I thought it
might be cool, since I had
plenty of credits to
graduate, to go to school
half-time and work the
afternoon in a program they
called Distributive
Education. I signed up, the
school found me a job, and I
left at lunch to meet my new
boss at a store where they
sold and repaired sewing
machines. I'm serious, this
was the Amarillo School
District's idea of a good
career choice - based on my
school records.
A 17 year
old kid was supposed to walk
into a sewing machine store
and begin building a life. I
lasted just the one day. My
only duty was to sweep the
floor and dust sewing
machines. That was to be my
career training. It wasn't a
huge shop, but Amarillo was
so dusty that you could
start dusting machines at
one end of the room and by
the time you reached the
last one, the first machine
was dusty again. I didn't
feel that I could envision a
livelihood in that field so
I left those folks a note
too. Plus, I liked high
school. I was making some
cool friends and didn't like
the idea of missing out on
all the laughter that could
be had at school. I was
always weak willed at facing
difficult conversations, but
generally creative at
writing, so I often used my
composition skills to weasel
my way out of splainin'
stuff in person. I stayed
till closing time and said
goodbye, but didn't feel I
should hurt their feelings
by actually quitting on the
spot. So I left a letter
stuck in a new Singer
machine I'd polished up real
nice by the sales desk. |
Dear Mr. and Mrs.
Skowler,
I am Mike, the guy
who dusted sewing
machines all
afternoon. I know we
didn't talk much,
but I think you know
who I am. Anyway,
after much
consideration and
lengthy prayer I
feel that me and
this career would
not be good for each
other. My mama
taught me dusting
when I was real
little, so I can do
the job okay, I just
don't know if I
could put my
'all' into it, if
you know what I
mean. Even today, on
my very first day, I
found my mind
drifting so much
that I nearly walked
through that big
front window twice.
I don't know what it
is about sewing
machines that seems
to get me
dizzy-headed, but it
sure does! So to
save me some bad
scabs and you having
to replace windows,
I feel I should
resign and just go
back to school all
day. Plus, I forgot
how much I love
calculus until right
now. Thank you for
the exciting
vocational
opportunity you
offered me. I hope
you find someone
more inclined toward
the sewing machine
dusting profession.
~ Very sincerely,
Mike Tomlinson |
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I didn't have the guts to go
back and ask for my
four-hour-check, so I never
saw those folks again.
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There's one more job I'll
tell you about - I was once
the Parts Man for a
tank-trailer manufacturer.
They made those gigantic
tank trailers that are used
to haul gasoline. I lasted
six weeks, but it seemed
like years.
I had
some trepidation about
taking the job, because I
knew when I accepted it that
I would be quitting as soon
as my tax refund check came
in. So it was a little hard
to stand there in my
interview and pretend that I
was looking for a real
future, something I could
depend on building my
retirement on. In reality, I
knew my tax refund would be
coming in within 4-6 weeks.
Despite my slacker ethic,
I'd been reading the
Castaneda books for three
years, and was starting to
develop the very most
infinitesimal beginnings of
a sense of personal
integrity. I hated lying to
them like that, so I decided
that I would make up for my
secret plan to quit so soon
by working harder than I'd
ever worked at a job.
After
spending the winter working
at a ski resort in
Whitefish, Montana, it took
all I could muster to show
up for work in that noisy
trailer factory. My first
day there I was dumbfounded
at the challenge I'd taken
on; the parts department was
the grimiest, most
disgustingly unorganized
place I'd ever seen. Workmen
impatiently greeted me at
the window to the
department, asking for parts
I had never heard of, and
while I searched through
overturned shelves and boxes
of junk, they talked to me
about "Ol' Charley", the
long time parts man, and how
he had "let thangs go a
bit in the last decade or
two." It looked to me like a
high flood of muddy water
had surged through the parts
department and swept Ol'
Charley away, leaving boxes
of bolts and washers and
hoses and fasteners and rods
and fittings all dumped over
shelves and scattered
haphazardly about the floor.
I hoped I didn't find Ol'
Charley's body in there, but
it wouldn't have surprised
me.
 After
spending six months atop a
magnificent snowy mountain
in Montana, my new work
environment couldn't have
been more depressing. It was
a four walled room with no
ceiling, set smack in the
middle of the factory.
Having no roof on my
department meant that I had
to listen to the thunderous,
calamitous echoes of welding
and grinding and hammering
metal all day. Hollering
workmen and gunning engines
were my background music. It
was pure hell but I'd made a
personal vow that I felt
would give this job
everything I had. I would
become the Greatest Parts
Man Who Ever Lived. Or at
least, that they'd ever
seen.
I began learning parts
and arranging them, ordering
items that were out of stock
and cleaning and filing
those we had plenty of.
There was a dutch door where
workmen would come to
request parts and I could
see them looking at me with
a mixture of amazement and
suspicion. There was not a
broom or a cleaning
implement of any kind in the
department and when they saw
me cleaning the place up, I
think some of them felt it
was a slight to Ol' Charley,
whose memory they held dear.
I was not much like Ol'
Charley. For one thing, I
would often fast in those
days, sometimes for a week
or two. I'd carry my bottle
of carrot juice and have a
sip many times through out
the day. Some of those men
could not get over my
audacity in taking a drink
any ol' time I wanted. They
would warn me daily, "Man,
don't let the boss catch you drinkin' that outside o'
break time!" I'd just laugh,
finding it unimaginable that
a boss would care if I had a
sip of carrot juice any time
I wanted.
I spent a full
six-weeks doing that job,
waiting for my tax refund -
and winning over the plant
management with my overhaul
of the department.
Management had started
bringing visitors out to see
the parts department, a
place that had always been a
source of embarrassment in
past years. I had boxes
labeled in clear and logical
order, every part we needed
in stock, and the floor
clean and swept. My parts
department looked like a
supply room in a hospital.
And I continued to drink
carrot juice at my whimsy.
Then,
just as I'd predicted, my
tax refund came in.
Six-hundred-plus dollars.
That was enough money to
live and eat on for three
months at the house I was
sharing with a couple of
friends. I was so very ready
to leave that job behind but
I told nobody I was leaving.
The day after my check came
in I went to work and spent
most of my morning composing
a letter to the plant
supervisor. Then at lunch I
locked the dutch door,
tacked my letter to it, and
never came back. I was free
and happy, excited to begin
spending my long, carefree
afternoons playing my guitar
at the park.
That
very evening I saw a friend,
Hugh Ward, who worked in the
plant. He lived near me and
knocked on my door, a look
of bemused befuddlement on
his face. "What the heck
happened to you, man?" I
burst out laughing, thinking
about how I'd simply walked
away without telling
anybody. It was that giddy
kind of feeling you got as a
kid when you were playing
hide and seek and you could
see kids looking for you but
not finding you. That's what
I'd felt all afternoon. But
what Hugh told me next
really surprised me. "Man,
the plant supervisor shut
down the whole plant and
made everybody come in and
sit around on the floor
while he read them your
letter. He was convinced
that somebody had done
something to you to cause
you to quit and he was not
happy about it. I'm telling
you Michael, we were
laughing so hard, people
were rolling on the floor.
That letter was the funniest
thing I've ever heard in my
life!"
I was astonished. As
much fun as I'd had writing
it, I'd really only thought
that two or three people in
the main office would read
it. It had never dawned on
me that my letter would
cause a work-stoppage, that
the Supervisor would
actually call everybody
together and read it aloud.
Apparently, he was out to
find out who caused his new
favorite employee; the
World's Greatest Parts Man,
to quit his job. According
to Hugh, it was the only
time he'd ever seen a full
shut-down in all his years
at the plant. I was very
happy to have been of
service. |
To Whom it May
Concern,
You may have
noticed that
it’s well
past lunch
time and I
have yet to
open the
window to
the parts
department.
Don’t worry,
I’m not dead
in there.
Honestly
though,
suicide was
an option I
did consider
that first
week. In
fact, I was
convinced
for awhile
that I was
going to
find Ol’
Charley with
his wrists
cut
somewhere
under that
mess, but
apparently
he got out
in time.
The first
time I ever
stepped into
this rusty
train wreck
and saw what
I was up
against, I
nearly
passed out
in horror.
But you guys
didn’t even
give me a
minute to
adjust
before you
mobbed up at
the door and
started
blowing
cigar smoke
in my eyes
and
demanding
parts I’d
never heard
of. Never
having been
in a house
fire before,
I wasn’t
prepared for
the damage a
man can take
on when he
inhales
constant
cheap cigar
smoke from
the wrong
end. Oh, I
know, I put
on a smile
every
morning and
appeared to
thrive like
a weed in
that dust
and grime.
But listen
now, 'cause
I’m going to
have to be
honest with
you boys and
tell y'all
how it
really is:
no human
being on
this earth
ought ever
to have to
breathe last
weekend's
Brut and
British
Sterling,
combined
with sour
beer breath
and stale
cigar smoke
through the
same window.
I suggest
y'all talk
to your
daddies
about
borrowing a
toothbrush
and a splash
of Old
Spice. That
shit’s
strong too,
but it won’t
cause a
man’s lungs
to wither.
Mine are
shriveled up
like little
black
raisins and
I’m just
praying
they’ll pink
up again
after a day
or two in
the shower.
I’d be
surprised if
yall hadn’t
seen this
coming - I
mean, surely
you could
see me
fading. I
started out
sprightly
and strong,
but even
with all the
fresh carrot
juice, I was
turning
mush-brained
and
slack-faced.
I caught a
look at
myself in a
truck mirror
one day and
just about
had a stroke
when I saw I
was starting
to look like
a long-time
employee.
Yall
probably
have no idea
what I’m
talking
about, do
you? Just
notice the
next time
you get a
new
employee;
does he have
some light
in his eyes?
Now take a
look at your
buddy right
there next
to you. See
what I mean?
It’s not
just that
I’m overly
vain, I
could live
with limp
facial
muscles if I
had to. But
I’m hoping
to be a
singing star
someday and
though I
don’t
necessarily
need to be
overly
handsome, it
wouldn’t
hurt if I
looked at
least as
good as Van
Morrison
during the
Tupelo Honey
period.
There’s
probably
more I could
tell you but
why? Truth
is, as
gifted as I
seemed at
parts
managing, I
ain’t really
cut out to
be handing
out
gaskets through
a hole in
the door. I
did the best
I could
though, and
left the
place
considerably
tidier for
you than Ol’
Charley did
for me, that
poor, lost
bastard.
Thanks a lot
for the fun
times,
fellas. If
you ever
hear me on
the radio,
be sure and
remember you
used to warn
me about
drinkin'
carrot juice
outside o'
break time.
Yer Former
Parts Man,
~Michael
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So that's a little bit of my
work history, friends.
Perhaps it explains my
obsession with writing songs
about fresh, cleansing
rainfall and all it's
healing symbolism. I'll tell
you more another time, tales
of working at a cemetery,
installing cable tv, roofing
houses, routing hornets, I
done it all, podnas.
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2010
- 25th
Anniversary
of the
release of
Run This
Way Forever |
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Can you believe
that you've been
listening to the
songs from my
first album for
a quarter of a
century? I don't
mean to depress
you with that
news, but you
were just a
fresh sprout
when you first
heard Yellow
Windows and Raining
Away.
There are at
least two real
positive ways to
look at
that: (1) not
one of those
songs has yet
been played at
your funeral.
(2) You may get
to hear me sing
several of those
songs in your
own back yard
this summer. What
the. . . !?? How
could that
be?!?
Well, just read
on my friends,
and I'll 'splain
it all to you
real slow. |
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~Singin' in Your Pacific NW Backyard~
~Singin' in Your Pacific NW Backyard~
~Singin' in Your Pacific NW Backyard~
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If you live in
the Pacific
Northwest, there
is a chance you
could hear me singin' my heart
out in your very
own backyard
this summer. (or
patio, living
room, porch,
rooftop) I don't
organize many
commercial
concerts in the
summer because
there are
hundreds of
festivals,
concert series,
etc. around the
country in the
summertime and
it's hard to
compete with
those. But
smaller, casual
concerts are
easy to do and
something I
really love.
To celebrate the
25th Anniversary
of the release
of my first
album, I've
decided to do
some backyard
concerts in the
Northwest and to
post some videos
of some of those
evenings on
YouTube. How do
you get me to
sing in your
backyard? Read
on, my friends.
I'm putting
three private
backyard
concerts up for
bid this
summer. Just for
you and your
yard full of
friends and
family. Or, if
you're really
that miserly,
just you. Either
way, I'll be
singing songs
and telling
stories and
pluckin' strings
with unbridled
joy and gusto
while you sip
cool beverages
and demand songs
like, "Sugar
Shack" and "Innagoddadavida."
 The highest bid
will get first
choice of dates
- including
Saturdays. The
second and third
highest bids
will get a
Sunday or
weekday evening.
(I won't totally
rule out
Saturdays, but
they are not
guaranteed)
Optimal times
for these shows
are from
mid-July through
mid-September,
because rain is
less likely, but
I'm open to your
ideas. It's up
to you, but I
recommend that
you invite a
number of folks
who can fit
indoors if it
rains. Myself,
I've got an
awning I can
sing under.
I'll bring
an amp or
small PA,
but we'll be
considerate
of your
neighbors
and keep the
volume
reasonable.
(invite 'em!)
It will feel
like we're
sitting
around a
campfire.
I'll play
several
songs from
my very
first album,
but also
songs from
throughout
my recording
career and
even some
brand new
songs that
I'll be
putting on
the next
album.
There is no
bottom level
for a
beginning
bid. It's up
to you. My
private
shows around
the country
are usually
$4500-$5000,
but that
will have no
bearing on
this
bidding.
Name your
bid and if
you're one
of the top
three, I
will perform
a concert at
your house.
Maybe you'll
want to get
together
with a
friend or
two and join
together to
make a
bid. Use
your
imagination,
my friends.
Please
read about
my
private
performances,
so you have
a sense of
what they
are like.
Then, if
you'd like
to make an
offer, I'll
be accepting
bids through
June 15. I
will respond
personally
to everyone,
whether your
bid is in
the running
or not. If
you're among
the top
bidders,
I'll let you
know where
you stand
and what
your chances
are of
getting a
concert At
Your
House. Just
send me an
email with
your bid.
mt@michaeltomlinson.com
I'm looking
forward to
meeting
everybody and
singing in your
back yard.
Yer ol' fren,
~Michael
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Whidbey Island Concert for WAIF
Whidbey Island Concert for WAIF
Whidbey Island Concert for WAIF
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My
sweetheart,
Patricia,
wondering
how much
to tip a
London
Cabby |
A
couple of weeks
ago my
sweetheart,
Patricia, and I
spent a few days
on Whidbey
Island, where I
performed a
concert at
Mukilteo Coffee
Roasters. It was
a benefit for
WAIF, the animal
rescue
organization on
the island.
(www.waifanimals.org)
The
concert sold out
and it was such
a pleasure to
sing for
everybody and
enjoy being on
the island
again. My friend
Brian Dina
joined me on
guitar and flute
and really added
a lot of depth
and joy to the
evening.
Whidbey is such
a beautiful
place to be in
the springtime.
Perhaps you saw
us driving
around in
circles, lost
and pounding the
GPS unit with a
stick. And then
afterwards,
maybe you passed
by and saw
Patricia and me
running barefoot
across a meadow
and brandishing
very
realistic-looking
Medieval
weapons. Fear
not, it all was
in good fun.
It's such a
great way to
relieve stress
after a nasty
encounter with
that arrogant
lady in the GPS
box. (Gong!
Gong!
Recalculating! I
said Merge Right,
Idiot!)
Patricia had
brought along
the wonderful
Mark Knopfler
and Emmylou
Harris CD, All
the Road Running.
It's kind of a
folk/country
album with
suggestions of
rock here and
there - all
wrapped in
Mark's velvet
guitar playing.
It's such a
pleasure to have
an album of
music we can
both listen to
over and over
again when we're
traveling. It is
really one of
the best records
I've heard in a
long time, so I
wanted you to
know about it.
Of course, I may
be biased.
Patricia showed
up having
already learned
all the Emmylou
parts - every
little nuance
and inflection.
So how could I not like
it?
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~Benefit Concerts~
~Benefit Concerts~
~Benefit Concerts~
|
 I'm continuing
to work toward
having as many
of my concerts
as possible
benefit
worthwhile
causes. If there
is something in
your part of the
world you are
particularly
involved in
supporting, and
you want to
present an idea
to me for a
concert, I'm
open to
discussion.
I am working
toward finding
sponsors to
cover my costs,
so that ticket
sales can go
toward the
cause. But there
are many
possibilities,
so feel free to
let me know if
you have some
ideas.
mt@michaeltomlinson.com
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 This was quite a
long rambling,
and if
you've stayed
with me this
far, I really
thank you. I
enjoy writing
for you and hope
that you feel
you get a laugh
or two or that
there is
something there
that feels
heartening to
you.
I know that this
time in our
world, in our
country, is
difficult for
many of us. So
many people are
in limbo,
wondering how to
make a living,
how to flow with
the changes of
economy and
society that we
are encountering
now. There is
almost no part
of our world
that is not
affected. We are
all having to
take deep
breaths and pay
attention to
what we feel in
our hearts.
There is no
better way to
embrace change
than to breathe
deeply and seek
a feeling of
trust before you
take a step. I
wish you the
courage to take
the steps
necessary to
find new ways of
living and
making a living,
of being more
connected to
each other, the
earth, your
source and even
yourself.
Thanks for
visiting me. I
hope you're
doing well this
springtime.
Your friend in
breezy Seattle,
~Michael
P.S. Today is
Mother's Day.
I've decided to
offer up one of
my songs that
was her favorite
of mine. It is
called "Years"
and was inspired
by my parents
and their love
for each other.
They passed away
six years apart
- on the exact
same day of the
year. Please
have a listen,
or you are
welcome to
download it for
free and let any
friends you wish
know about it.
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This
morning at five a.m.,
I sat
outside under my walnut tree and
just listened. It was early
dawn, not quite daylight yet,
and there was a restlessness in
the trees and wind. A subtle
rustling of leaves and branches
and wind skating along the
surfaces of things and searching
for anything it could make move
or shift or cause to utter a
sound. It invited me to utter a
sound, it made me breathe,
joining my exhale with it's
restlessness. And the two of us,
the wind and my breath, began to
wander the neighborhood
together. It was exciting, for I
had not realized all the secret
places it knew. There are a
myriad of crevasses and
indentations and shadowy,
tangled
 hideaways
where wind and breath can visit
- and only
they are aware of. The wind
knows all the places a bird
goes, and even skims gently over
the most subtle mound of soil
upturned when the earthworm
surfaces. I asked if my breath
could go to all those unknown
places and if my mind could let
go and follow - without words or
thoughts. Just follow, just bank
and turn and flow and push up
against a rock or wall or trunk
or tire and then fold into
itself and the wind and seek a
new path in an instant. It was
easier than I had imagined and I
wonder why I have not done this
a million times. But now is not
too late. Now is good. Breathe
in gratitude. Imagine what
gratitude really is, for we
actually do not know. As close
as we believe we have been to
it, we really do not know the
pulsing aliveness that is real
gratitude. It's a whole world,
really. And I have only dipped
my toe into it's lovely surface.
Breathe in gratitude and then
call your thoughts back home.
Say to your mind, which is yours
to command; be still. Hold with
me now. Steady. Quiet. Calm. Now
breathe out and join the wind.
Let it all out, your breath and
everything that wishes to ride
upon it. Is your pain there? The
arguments you keep reshaping?
Your fear of tomorrow? Your
anger at injustices done to you?
Relax and know that you are just
the same as every human being on
earth. No one born here breathes
freely from birth to death. But
many surrender after a time and
let their breath mingle with the
wind and become it's own
searcher, it's own wave in the
current of life seeking life.
Swaying under the leaves,
whispering, shuffling, murmuring
as they do, it is easier to let
your breath go. Still, I forget.
But they remind me, whispering.
"Free yourself. Free what is
already free and always was free
- your own self." Start with
your breath and more will
follow. Inhale. Exhale. Thoughts
will come next.
 Then
arguments and judgments, then
what you believe in your mind
are rock solid facts. They will
all follow if you breathe into
the wind. And then you will
receive something quite
beautiful; you will be shown
something beyond facts;
something real, eternal. No one
can say how this will come to
you. A spark of some kind?
Maybe. An idea? Sure. A presence
of something fleeting and
forever in the same instant.
Everything. Nothing. Yes, that
is it. Nothing and everything
will come to you and you will
not be able to tell them apart.
You will not be able to hold
this idea, so just allow it to
drift and sift through you. You
will probably wish to stay in
this delicious trance because it
is the default setting of
humanity before our own faulty
programming of fear and pain and
illusion. No more though. We are
through with that. That is why
misery and confusion and
distrust and sadness is at it's
highest level now. That is why
you are restless of heart and
soul. That is why I went outside
before daylight with my tea,
bundled up on a summer morning
as if it were October. Seeking
release, forgiveness, solace,
kindness, peace in my heart. For
an hour I sat there, closing my
eyes and opening them. My mind
out raced the wind. But every so
often, in the gentlest way,
leaves would murmur to me -
Pause. Allow. Relax. Surrender.
Do you not see that you are all
of this and more? You are not
you, sitting there in your sky
chair. You are wind and
rustling, light and dark, mist
and clouds and sky and earth,
worms and spiders, sidewalk and
footpath and street and highway
and river and flood and dry
desert stone. That body is not
your home. It's your low income
housing at best. It could never
contain you, who you are and
what you came here for and where
you've been and where you will
go. You are not an age, you are
not even one sex. Or one race.
You are a part of All That Is.
Can you find the edge of All
That Is so that you can
determine just where your border
ends? No. All That Is would
never even try to define itself.
It doesn't want to. Every tiny
part of itself is complete and
whole, even a neutron inside a
molecule inside a wisp of
dandelion lint. Barely a glint
off a ripple in the ocean or the
tiniest frequency of the full
sound a stick makes when
snapping in two. And yet, it is
whole. You are whole. Breathe in
the idea. Is there any reason
not to trust this? Will harm
come if you pause now and
imagine yourself perfect? Does
it seem like a thought or an
idea created to control you or
is it the most freeing concept
you can imagine? Follow what you
feel. Not what you think. If I
say to you, Breathe in peace.
Breathe out all that you wish to
release. Does that bring you to
enslavement? Or is there freedom
beyond definition? Which path
calls to you? Are you through
with one and ready for the
other? There is no right or
wrong way here. What are you
ready for? Do you wish to be
home now? In this instant?
Because you are there. You are
home already. So sit with that
for a time. Sit and breathe in
the idea - I am home. I am
whole. I am enough. Even if this
is only a moment's reprieve from
your restlessness, that is good
enough. A moment is everything.
All there is, really. And your
trusting breath is what you have
longed for. |
 For
some weeks I've thought about
writing a new rambling for my
website. When I went outside
this morning, that was not on my
mind. But after an hour of
breathing and listening and
drifting in the dawn, I came
inside and closed my eyes and
typed this. It is for me,
really. As all my songs are, as
well. But I'm sharing it with
you because we are a lot alike,
you and me.
I hope
you're doing well this
summertime. Remember to take a
deep breath now and then and to
be kind to yourself.
Your
friend in breezy Seattle,
~Michael |
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November 17, 2010 |
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Howdy my friends, did you ever
have a day when some specific
event of Nature, some creature
or burst of weather or beautiful
sight caused you to rise up out
of your dark mood and come
alive? That happened to me
today. I was sitting on my porch
reading, tossing out peanuts to
demanding blue jays, and talking
to my little pup in my lap about
the sad situation in the US
Congress. My little dog Bungee,
although I've registered her
properly numerous times, does
not vote. It makes me furious,
but then I guess she doesn't
like that I don't bark. Well, I
do a little bit.
She refuses to vote! |
I was
attempting to read the
Sunday paper but after one
section it occurred to me
that it was making me heavy
and sad. So I threw it down
and went inside and brought
out Pema Chodron's book,
"Comfortable with
Uncertainty",
and began to re-read
chapters I've devoured
dozens of times. The sign of
a good book, of great
content or story telling, is
that you can read it a
hundred times and still
sometimes feel like you have
never seen it before. You
know, like episodes of
Seinfeld. You know George is
about to confess to the
woman he wants to break up
with that he is ". . . very,
very gay! Extraordinarily
gay!"
and yet it is somehow as
hilarious as if you'd never
heard it before.
This
time of year in Seattle,
quite a few of our days are
dark and damp. Cave-like and
mildewy. And when you have a
few of those days in a row,
well the weather seems to
have come not from the sky
and wind and clouds, but
from inside your own being.
It can feel as if it is your
own dark emotion and mood
that has blackened the
world. And now that we've
gone back to standard time
from daylight savings time,
well, a rainy day in
November can bring darkness
around 4:30 p.m. Let's just
say it's not a recipe for
cheerfulness, podnas. You
see very few perky people in
Seattle in November.
My
pup has been extremely ill
for close to a year. It's
been a private journey we
have both taken, this daily
path through the mystery of
what will help her to heal.
As much as I wish to express
this story to you, I don't
believe it is possible. So
look into your own life, at
some long and difficult
climb, some challenge you
have had that called forth a
love and commitment in you
that has no end, that you
didn't even know you could
do. And that is part of what
I have experienced seeing
Bungee through this malady.
Back
in the spring she developed
a sore that wouldn't heal.
And small, wart-like nodes
started appearing all over
her body. The vet who I took
her to, unfortunately mis-diagnosed
this as a form of skin
cancer. As a result of this,
it was five months before I
came to find that she had no
cancer at all, but a severe
staph infection. She has now
been to a total of six vets
and numerous healers.
Watching my precious little
friend suffer all this time,
growing frail and weak, then
eventually blind in both
eyes, was one of the hardest
things I've ever experienced
in life.
But
there is hope. After two
different batches of
antibiotics failed to help
her, and many alternative
therapies, she is finally on
a new one that is looking
much more effective. And for
once, it's not destroying
her appetite and quality of
life. And I took her to an
eye specialist who had me
begin putting drops in her
eyes every day, and now she
is beginning to see again. I
can't begin to tell you what
joy it brings to my heart to
see her start to regain some
of her spirit and joy and
faculties. She is not
through her healing, but I
am seeing such positive
changes, and such a new calm
peace in her, that I believe
she is going to pull through
this and have a few happy
years to boss me around
still. Bungee is over 14
years old, but I've known of
many Maltese Terriers living
three or four years beyond
that time, and a few even
longer. So give a "Hear,
hear!" for my pooch, will
ye?
 We
were out there on the porch
this morning, the gray day
closing in on us, and I felt
a strong urge to meditate. I
have been doing it more
often in recent months, but
for some reason, if I can't
be outside, I tend not to
meditate as much. So I sat
there with Bungee sleeping
in my lap. I placed my hands
just behind her, barely
touching her and asking that
whatever healing light move
through me be allowed to
move through her too. And I
began to do what I always do
when I meditate; I watched
my mind race and bounce
about like some frantic
jumping bean. It never
fails, sit down in pursuit
of calm and quiet and your
mind will take up all the
frantic motion usually
filled by computers, phones,
television and traffic. But
Pema reminds you to just
relax and call your
attention back over and over
again. Never tire of it.
Never judge yourself for it.
Just call your mind back
each and every time you
catch yourself thinking or
following a scenario.
I
don't know if you ever
attempt to meditate, but I
can promise you that you
have
meditated many, many times
in your life. And you have
done it well. I'll give you
an example: ever sat before
a campfire or fireplace and
gotten lost in the flames
until something happened
inside you and you wanted to
never, ever break the spell?
That was meditation. Ever
watch moving water, a river
or stream, or ocean waves,
and find yourself mesmerized
into a trance by the motion
and sound of the water? That
is meditation. The truth is,
if we will avail ourselves
of Nature's gifts, of
weather and natural
elements, trees and flowers
and sky and birds and
creatures and wind and sun
and stars, we will have in
our lives precisely the
amount of meditation we
need. The perfect balance of
present and past and future.
But since almost none of us
live that way, then it can
help a great deal if we
unplug from our gadgets, put
down our toys, and take a
few minutes to practice
being completely in the
now.
It's
not a trick to be learned.
It's not magic. It's not
something that others can do
but you cannot. It's
something that exists
exactly as you need it to.
No one on earth can meditate
better than you can. And if
you find that your mind
races, just notice it. Then
as if it were an infant you
were bringing back to the
blanket every time she
crawls toward the street,
bring your mind back with
the same patience and
kindness.
I did
that today. I called my mind
back a hundred times from
thoughts and stories and
ideas and memories and fears
and sorrows and dreads and
regrets. And through no
doing of my own, this
willingness to patiently
persevere brought me to a
great void of thought. It's
like an accident you can
only hope will happen. But
when it does, you realize
that you cannot cause it.
You can only continue to
come to the present moment
again and again. And then
one of those times when you
do this, you will fall off
the cliff and soar. Into
light, into color, into
silence, into nothingness.
But nothingness in this
case, is not what you might
think. It's more like I fell
into everythingness. A place
where everything is. Today I
saw textures and colors.
Sometimes I see nothing but
still adore the quiet bliss.
I actually had the sensation
for the longest time that
the sun was shining on me. I
felt like if I opened my
eyes I was going to see that
the sun had miraculously
broken through the raggedy
low clouds and enlightened
the earth around me with
amber. Of course, that
hadn't happened.
 I
kept my eyes closed for a
long time, maybe an hour.
Like you may remember doing
that time you sat before the
fireplace and lost your
sense of time, that is what
I did today. Only something
different happened for me
this time. After I watched
the play of light and colors
and shapes on the outside of
my eyelids, feeling wave
after wave of glowing shades
of color warm my being, I
finally came to a place
where I willed myself to
open my eyes. I could have
just as easily stayed there
in trance for days. But with
some reluctance, I opened my
eyes to the world and saw
everything around me with
fresh eyes. Across the
street just then, a gust of
wind rustled the tall birch
tree towering over the lane,
and a splash of yellow
leaves danced in the air,
fluttering, glittering,
their light and dark sides
flickering in the air as
they drifted so gracefully
to earth in slow, fluid
motion. And I cried.
I was
sitting right there on my
porch, in plain view of my
across-the-street neighbors,
easily seen by anyone
walking down my sidewalk,
and my face just crumpled up
and I started sobbing. It
surprised me that I did
this. But the beauty of
those leaves, the intense
colors of the world around
me, the lightly snoring pup
in my lap who seemed a
little happier and more at
peace. It was all just too
much to contain and I cried.
I didn't really cry about
anything sad. Or maybe I
did, but it was mixed with
crying about things happy,
too. Like my meditation, I
cried about nothing and
everything. it only lasted
maybe two minutes, but I
knew I had been allowed some
amazing grace of release. My
pausing to breathe and trust
the present moment had
naturally opened a pathway
for the pressure I had held
to release and flow from my
body and my being. The wind
swept through the pale limbs
of that birch tree and sent
a wave over to gust through
me at the same time.
 As
it turned out, I'm pretty
sure nobody saw me crying. I
didn't much care, but I
think I would have had some
"'splainin' to do" if any of
my neighbors had walked by.
I'm a fairly big ol' palooka
of a man and well, I'm soft
hearted and friendly, but I
don't think many of my
neighbors have seen me
sobbing before. I wouldn't
have had a thing to tell
them if they'd asked. "It
was them leaves!",
I
would have professed. "Them
birch leaves just about did
me in!"
I imagine they'd have smiled
kind of nervously and
hurried on home to lock the
door.
And
that's my little website
rambling for ye. I never
know what they'll be. If you
hung in there with me up
until now, well, my hat is
off to you for your
fortitude. I'll be letting
you know about my sweet dog,
Bungee. I plan on sending
out word of her progress as
soon as there is something
more solid to report. In the
meantime, thank you, thank
you, thank you, to the folks
who sent kind messages and
ordered my CDs and even sent
checks when I asked for some
help with her expensive vet
bills. You all touched my
heart with your kindness and
caring.
I
hope this coming
Thanksgiving season you will
take some time for quiet,
some moments now and then to
breathe in and exhale fully.
Whatever you do, don't
forget to be kind to
yourself. It's the best
place in the world for
compassion to start. Just
practice on yourself. It
will all get much easier to
spread it around after
that.
Your
friend in misty Seattle,
~Michael
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The 10-foot tall Halloween
Monster I created.
Parents liked it much better
than the kids did.
Kids
seem to favor blow-up Costco
decorations. |
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December
4, 2010
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Howdy my friends,
it's been an
eventful couple
of weeks,
concerts and
wild winter
storms, surly
nuns, lost
guitars and
napping on the
floor of an
airport. If I
can't find
something
interesting to
say about all
that, then I'd
better get back
to writing
little puppy
tunes and
crocheting
doilies. Several
days ago I was
checking in
early at Denver
International
Airport, a
little bit sad,
as I often
inexplicably get
when I travel,
when the ticket
agent said, "Mister
Tomlinson, we
just had an
aisle seat open
up, would you
like it?"
I actually
teared up a
little at the
gift. I don't
know why, it's
not so much that
I can't hack a
claustrophobic
window seat in
the back of a
plane full of
flu
victims, it was
more the
unexpected
kindness of
someone
extending a
friendly gesture
that choked me
up. I leaned
over the counter
and the agent
must have
thought I was
going to divulge
a great secret.
I said, "I
can't tell you
how much it
means when
you're
traveling, to be
met with a
little kindness."
My eyes were a
little wet - a
normal man might
have been
embarrassed.
Hopefully, there
was no drool. I caught
a little
movement and I
think she may
have pushed a
button under the
desk.
|
I
left the counter feeling
blessed with my surprise
gift; a seat with one
arm and one leg free!
Whee! Free to windmill
and wave about at will!
I like to get a really
good rpm going and cool
everyone in the back of
the plane. But I have to
watch myself or my
muscles in one arm will
get too bulgy.
 Having
checked into the airport
early, I realized that I had
time to get a massage. I
thought it would be nice to
arrive home to Seattle
relaxed and calm after my
concerts in Colorado. I
stopped at the massage
station and there was a
massage chair open. I could
tell from the moment the
massage therapist started
working on me that I was in
for a truly powerful,
healing massage. Ten minutes
into what I'd arranged as a
20-minute massage, I
whispered huskily through
the face hole, "C-can
we make this a half hour
massage?"
She said, "of
course."
I'm a sucker for the face
hole conversation. I feel
like I'm attending
Confession and I will blurt
out stuff that blushes
everyone in the place. But I
can't see that. I'm in my
own little private cave and
speaking to some powerful
Massage Goddess who hovers
above us and cannot be seen.
It's very religious, so I
don't cuss much. Oh, I take
that back. I did once tell a
really nasty joke about a
dolphin and a chipmunk and a
man with square sponge pants
who went into a bar.
Are
you familiar with
deep-tissue massage? I mean
where a therapist places,
say, her knuckle or knee, or
maybe a boot heel, against a
muscle and will determinedly
grind out weeks of tension?
I nearly blacked out in
pain, hollering, flopping,
going in and out of
consciousness over and over
again. When I finally came
to I had a raggedy, raw
throat, so I know I must
have been screaming in a
blood curdling manner.
There's no telling what I
hollered through that face
hole, but I can't imagine
that I kept it family
friendly. I'm just too weak
under torture.
Afterwards, I struggled to
my feet, reeling at the
altitude of my full height,
and fumbled a fistful of
currency out of my pockets
that I couldn't recognize or
value. The pictures were
pretty, but individual
denominations meant nothing
to me. Then I grabbed my
bags with the clubs I used
to call hands, and I lurched
generally toward my gate of
departure. The world was
throbbing, expanding and
writhing. That massage! Had there been a stampede
during it?
I
leaned generally forward
and glanced around at
the confusing crowds of
creatures and cargo and
those strange, strange
lights. The numbers! Why
all the numbers! I
couldn't make sense of
what I now know were
gate numbers. To my
altered consciousness
then, A-51 might well
have been a crude cave
painting of horses
running. I don't know
how I knew to, but I
looked at my boarding
pass for a very long
time, trying to remember
which part of it told me
something useful.
Eventually, I realized
it was upside down -
which only helped a
little. Somehow I
recognized the human
face of the Alaskan
Eskimo. Not personally,
like I didn't think, "Hey!
There's Joe Inuktituk!"
but I did know it was a
human being. And so,
blessedly, I was no
longer alone on this
earth. That drawing
started to bring me back
a little bit and I could
start to just make out
some of what was around
me.
Just ahead
the ground was moving.
Not all jiggly all over
the place like an
earthquake. But just in
one direction. Did I
dare to get on this
moving earth thing? To
my eyes the people on it
hunkered like blurred
and misshapen
troglodytes. Still, my
destination was far away
and in my condition it
seemed like an
insurmountable distance.
I didn't know if I could
drag my legs that far
with just my arms, like
I'd done so far. I
lunged toward the
strange walking sidewalk
but then faltered,
frightened at making the
final leap. I trembled
there a moment, weighing
my chances of stepping
on it with my bags and
staying upright for the
duration. Just as I was
about to wisely decide "No!",
I was jolted from behind
and my choice was taken
from me as I was jarred
into space and
catapulted onto the
moving earth.
Who did this to me?
I should have been
allowed time to decide!
I dared a look over my
should to identify the
nudger and couldn't have
been more surprised to
see a
nun.
I'm serious. A nun.
Finally, I was starting
to identify humans in
general: that
I could now classify
them into certain
livelihoods and
positions was a huge
advance over when I'd
first stumbled out of
that massage parlor. I
glanced again but she
refused to look back at
me. Okay, she was
definitely a nun - I
remembered her hat from
a movie I saw once.
I was just about to
confront her
when we came to the
end of the moving
sidewalk.
What is this?!
I almost wondered - as I
dove head first and felt
my rolling bag travel
the length of my body.
 I
sprawled there like a
Texas yard sale for a
couple of minutes while
the endless line of
travelers walked around
and over me. The nun was
gone, I could hunt her
forever and I'd never
find her. You've got to
be really sure about a
thing like that, you
can't just run up and
put some random nun in a
headlock. Can you?
I could go on and on,
and truly every millisecond of my experience
was fascinating beyond belief, but let me
just shorten the story by saying that I made
it to my gate in time to find that my flight
was delayed. And then delayed again. And
again. Because of a winter storm in Seattle.
But just as I'd given up, making a passable bed from
clothes, and begun to nap on the floor
under some chairs, they announced that we
were indeed going to Seattle.
There was an ugly
scene awaiting our arrival. Pandemonium
came to mind. Tired, bedraggled
passengers who have never slept on an
airport floor do not realize that this
is not the end of life. They panic, they
call hotels and argue with clerks. They
run toward ghost taxis and start to
wonder if they could possibly walk twenty miles through the storm.
But experienced floor sleepers like
myself remain calm. We recognize each other and catch each
other's knowing
eyes as we tiptoe through the panicked
hordes. We know how to grab a newspaper
here and there for padding, pulling underwear from our
bags for sleeping masks. We have already
been scouring the area for ketchup
packets, which will sustain us till
morning if we get hungry.
But then I
crumbled and got
all caught up in the raging anxiety and
found myself racing in 18-degree winter
weather for the last Light Rail train of
the night into Seattle. It was a third of a mile away,
could I make it? I passed many less
gifted runners than myself. I don't
think I elbowed anyone, but if I did, I
am so sorry! It was just shockingly cold
and my lungs were like little frozen
cutlets rattling around in my chest.
 Can
you picture running like this after
midnight in a storm, knowing this is the last way
into Seattle and that there are
thousands of stranded cars on the
freeway and no other possible way home?
And then finding that after
your spastic run, the train tickets are
sold through a touch screen that does
not seem to register the temperature of
frozen fingers?
No
one should ever have to experience such
a thing. If I'd have thought of it, I'd
have punched "10" instead of "1" and
bought everyone in line a ticket so we
could get on that train and out of the
wind. But I didn't think of that.
Finally, I got my ticket and ran to the
train. I think every person that was
behind me made it too. We kept holding
the door open for everyone we saw
running toward us, even as the recorded
automated voice recording grew angrier and angrier
with us for holding the doors and
delaying our departure. It's unnerving
how that robotic voice can get more and
more stern. It's the same
with the woman in my truck's GPS unit; she will
eventually tell me to "pull
over and park it!"
if she has to recalculate more than a
dozen times.
I
owe a huge amount of
thanks to my friend Jeff
LaBow, who left his
snuggly gal Joie, and
his warm house at
midnight in pursuit of a
navigable path to
downtown Seattle to
rescue me that night. I
kept calling his cell
from the train, fully
expecting that he'd be
saying something like, "Sorry
brother,
I
can't get up the hill,"
but he's got this old VW
wagon that is famous for
getting around in snow
and he's the man to call
when you need a ride on
a blizzardy winter night
in a hilly city like
Seattle. (I'll be sure
and give you his number)
No sooner had I emerged
from the tunnel under
Nordstrom in downtown
Seattle, than Jeffrey
drove up and honked for
me. It was such a
different reality than
I'd imagined on the
floor of DIA, where I'd
laid down to take a nap
a few hours earlier,
that I almost couldn't
register that my good
friend was taking me to
my home.
 I've
been ill ever since that trip, came home
sick and then got sicker. But it's not
all bad, the fever made me creative (or
crazy, I'm not sure which). Two days ago I was
moping around wishing I had a new
Christmas song for my website, thinking it would encourage folks to buy
my CDs for Christmas. Then I had this
thought, "Hey!
I'm a songwriter!
I can write a
Christmas song!"
I did it. In a day and a half I
wrote Christmas Ride and
just fell in love with it. I
called Patricia and played it for her
over the phone and she loved it, saying,
"It's like an old timey Christmas song.
So happy and pure."
I called my engineer, Jay, and he
had three hours available before he took
off on holiday. I walked out of the
studio last night with a recorded
version of the song I'd only finished
earlier that day. I've never done that
before but I'm so glad I did. I hope you
like it.
As always, my
ramblings can go any ol' way. You know
that by now. I'm just glad that you take
the time to visit and see
what I'm up to and listen to a new
song.
 While
you're listening to Christmas Ride,
try this: imagine that life could be
that fresh again. Imagine that you could feel
so clean and clear and that everything
about you is okay. Listen a few times
and just let yourself feel that kind of
happiness you sometimes felt as a kid at
Christmastime. What I feel in my heart
is that it is only our minds that have
ever fooled us into believing otherwise.
While you're listening, just breathe
into your heart and see if you can trust
what you feel.
Whatever you are
experiencing this season, I wish you
peace. I wish you a release from
suffering and I wish you loving
kindness. I feel like I experience
loving kindness in some form every day of my life.
And that the more I notice it, the more
it happens. I wish that for you, my
friend.
Whatever your
religion, faith, beliefs, I wish you a
Merry Christmas in the most pure and
gentle ways you can imagine.
Your friend in
sunny Seattle,
~Michael |
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