Sol's Inner Vault

Mind wandering after work, thinking about writing and other forms of self-expression, what's similar what's different, and the parallels are many. I'm blessed with friends who are pros in the visual arts, drawing and painting, sculpture, crafting of all kinds. Having so little skill in these amazing talents, writing somehow seems maybe easier. For instance, thinking of words and colors, the basic core tools of creating, there is such a numerical difference! Due to light physics and our eye structures, there are three primary colors from which an endless range of hues emerge. If words were colors, with thousands and thousands of hues in each language, what is their ancestry? If words were colors, what then are the primary three, from which all emerge? "Me, You, We"? "God, Love, Eternity"? What are your three?  

A week of sporadic grappling with the urgently irrelevant. Going home now. Coming back again next month for another week. How is it possible, there's so much around me to contradict this feeling, yet it's daily. So alone in this universe? No, not all day, the sensation comes then leaves, the disconnected sense can last for hours, an alien malaise with no other symptom beyond heartache. Feeling alone in a crowd as they say, strolling the day invisibly, or straying about with no purpose, but in pain, inverted screams implode between normal thoughts, but it's not important now who goes nuts or who survives, when you're down to the tens and fives of your rationality, the constellations say it all, wheeling above you in plain encrypted sight, too far off to dispute. How is it possible, if I have a soul is it vacant, does someone return in time? Hoping so, as alone in this universe seems vainly focused anyway. You'll say, but what about family, dearest friends, neighbors

Don't be alarmed or distressed, the nonsensical is all around us, all of the time, no matter compass or your GPS. It's a functional part of our commerse, common speech, interacting in kind. Reason has its place. But, fantasy gives us the possibilities to surge beyond our limitations; fantasy lets us see the broad frequencies of colors, and channel them all thru unbound imagination. Magic is okay when kindness is in play. Someone will say to another, "May you be blessed a thousand eternities." Fine salutation, the sentiment counts. But, odd words. Is there even a plural for eternity? What would we do with two?  

Uniquely palpable sense of self, those fingerprints of a lifetime's history, the feeling that you are you, I am me, banks of random memory, all of this dementia steals away day by day, stranger hours get tangled over nothing important, nothing recalled. Little by little sense of self never was beyond some dream that seemed real for decades but now it fades like fog or the last cloud passing thru an epilogue.

Sometimes, when you go somewhere, you take a certain route, because it is the best way. Coming back home, you may take a different route, again because it is the best way. There is no contradiction, especially if you are walking and there are hills or inclines. Consistency in life may be undefined by routes taken, but then refound by steady purpose, lasting values, and some enduring hope for no particular reason.  

Horror of war begins with the false premise that lives have different value. There are no obscure lifetimes, only lack of storytellers. Most of our stories go untold, except for awhile, maybe for generations, by those we know. Old photos, anecdotes handed down, second-hand reflections repeated again. What can we do? The universe isn't big on permanency, ever expanding as it is, so humans cannot expect much, except by faith or belief.  Fully composed, the chronicles of humankind would stack to the next galaxy and beyond, a swirling trail of volumes and titles most unimaginable, countless pages, every day's details described, every person's story told.  There are no hard and fast rules. Whatever seems like the most simple lifetime, if studied up close and personal, it would reveal all the similar triumphs, hardships, gains and losses found in all biographies. Every human who has ever lived or will ever live is a compelling diary of intense interest and value. Every unique lif

Let's see where this goes. Thinking that is magical in nature. Thought processes involving an ongoing series of ideas, images, concepts, beliefs and feelings passing in processional order in our minds. But, these thoughts have no actual basis in reality- they're magical. Magical in this context refers to thought process not grounded in reason, logic, and accepted facts in global evidence. As in, the Earth is round, a fact. Thinking it's flat is magical process.  Magical thinking includes magical mathematics, magical physics- the hapless and doomed Wiley Coyote, hanging out over the cliff's edge, suspended in air for funny moments before vanishing beneath the screen.  What does all this mean, reason or magical, facts or belief, illusion or reality? How does it affect me right now, in this one moment of my life which has continued for seventy years, and hopefully counting? What is the choice at hand? Magical thinking may include nearly every religion, any belief system be

The athiests or doubters would explain it with little challenge. How natural and expected, they'd say, that God's personality was described by the early Torah authors with so many attributes most familiar to human experience. Beginning in Genesis, Yahweh is the sole Creator of the universe who also at times expresses great wrath, jealousy, vengeance, remarkably mortal qualities that, to many who strive to understand, are most puzzling as divinely shaped descriptors of an All-powerful and All-knowing God. Scripture clearly confirms that we're made in God's image, yet we've also been vexxed with painful, immature, and negative characteristics. Folks of faith might say our God's image is now a distortion because of sinful behavior. Disobeying Yahweh is the beginning of sin, Scripture pointedly describes. God had no mercy for Adam and Eve's mistake, no tolerant understanding. Cast out into suffering, they knew nothing of God's purported universal loving or f

I learn about something, a fact, an idea, or a concept, then I'm scratching my head, struggling to understand how it's true. Like, considering the impossible. For example, quantum physics. It curls my brain into question mark pretzels, so that I almost have to "feel" what I'm learning. Contemplating other dimensions is like trying to leave the room without moving, or, like leaving and staying in place at the same time. My consciousness and the cosmos are in fact always inseparable, but there's a constant and convincing illusion that some division exists, and this trick is accomplished thru an endless myriad of momentary distractions called "life". Mathematical magicians assure us that the computational certainty of these other dimensions is beyond question, all of which doesn't help conundrums of unanswered enigmas, and how I go about steering this mortal wheel's roll. It's believed that I, as observer, must at the same exact time affect

Although appearing later in the Bible's New Testament, this particularly defining Scripture is really the start. Believers must begin here, where faith makes its primary claim, and where all doubt ceases by conscious selection. Verse 3:16 says "All Scripture is God-breathed and is useful for teaching, rebuking, correcting and training in righteousness,". Many verses preceding and following review in detail the dangers of association with non-believers, and the inviolable Word of God being eternally beyond question. This is the seminal point of departure, the nucleus. Did God say it, or are these merely the words of humans?  Formally marking a certain finality of knowledge, one must choose to believe that every "jot and tittle" of Scripture is God authored. This is the biggest challenge to overcome, or rather accept as being true. Various secular world views, based largely on reason and science, react with quickly determined rejection, refusing to believe without

Is there any merit in quibbling over unknowns? Early this morning, 3am, roaming the house on her walker, my mom says it again. It's been awhile now, a repeating thought. "I just want to know what happens afterwards. Where do I go?", she asks in earnest. How easily I could answer that no one really knows. Yet, many, many believe that heaven is real. Lucky place at the throne of the Creator of the universe.  So, I always answer her the same: "You'll be with father again, mom, that's where you'll go. Where he is." What do I know? Just another sinner here, typically imperfect to answer the most important mysteries with clarity. On whatever conscious or instinctual plain, believing is a decision that helps bring the mind over to heart matters, like devotion and unconditional love.  There is no merit in quibbling over unknowns. In the end, it matters little what we actually can prove, because within the limitless realms of faith, all is possible. Calming c

Dementia When mom bolts straight up from the couch, from quarelous sleep or menacing dream, and shrieks out "Help me! I'm dying, I'm dying!"- there is a moment when you think Death itself would be scared off, frightened, in shock. The ritual of daily heartbreak is continuous, witnessing her struggles and confusion now, so active before.  Everything about dementia is a startled, dreadfuly unwelcome reset. Random, sometimes ominous blanks from memory banks clogged in evil fog, mired down with star maps gone, destinations lost.  How do you even hate a disease? Chemical imbalance. Plaque. Brain processes run wild. The most insidiously impersonal of crimes, it has no face to despise like Hitler, like Satan. Maybe each face of dementia's victims is held mercifully in God's great Hands, but names and personalities are still uprooted. Minds of loved ones are still ransacked, disheveled like tossed hotel rooms, numbers gone from the doors.  Anyway, hating it never help

A night so crowded with pale haze and lavender mystery, even the darkness is grateful how the moon wasn't having it, beaming thru the whispers, low clouds and intrigue intermingling.  The small town continued its deep slumber, uninterrupted by queries or controversy, the last few lights gone out several hours ago, a quiet calm settling down upon the village as if all the questions were answered, all the dreams counted one by one, all the longings fulfilled as promised. A night when the sky has other plans, the wind near dawn knows its place, the oldest secrets are all explained in unknown languages filtered thru fog and an alphabet of encrypted symbols, hieroglyphs of random spirits spread across galaxies from the original past. Constellations of conscious mythology, the moon understands their meaning, a night when souls only want to hide.

This quizzical life is also constantly heroic, as evidenced all around us. Everywhere we are, small acts of courage occuring with hardly a notice, lost in the traffic of days passing, hours dissolving into weeks and months of quiet miracles by the hundreds of millions, uncounted in the reverie of the moment. Despite all the faceless, unconscious fears of this veiled mortal experience, humans are yet prone to help each other, it's not purely a selfless instinct. We all somehow intrinsically know thru our DNA that each survives better when more survive together; it's in our bones, this original kindred knowledge. Commonly great heroes are ususally disguised by the immediacy of the challenge, the crisis or problem in play. You can see them better when you look sideways, past our entitlements and prejudices, we all have them, they make us all blind to the most obvious. It's the mom, or dad, or grandparent, trudging along in the routines needed, thanklessly toiling day to day, d

He pooped it all out. Literally. Didn't discriminate. He readily flashed his unmistakable talent, then his ass, alternately, likely valuing both the same. Sober, drunk, irrational, he made excuses as we do, then let it all go.  It is always the restless, resourceful reader who plucks out the diamonds from the waste, plenty of both on every Bukowski page. At first, like a street fight, you can't turn away; but later you do just that. He doesn't read as well later. The redundant victim crap gets weaker, familiar darkness now a bit too comfortable for his pained words. Nothing is fair or meant to be. That's all just an ugly myth of lies. Bukowski tallied up his bad breaks, and created many himself. That's a personal math of self-destruction only he could decipher. The notion of winners and losers gets confused, people aren't that different after all. No one lives on. No one escapes to tell the tale, And anyway, to whom shall it be told? All end up atop the big heap

Birdies may come with kindness, but don't expect them. Decency is still par for the course of this life. It is simple gratitude that scores the double eagle.  

Sometimes, a random but relevant wisdom can be found in the smallest moment. Like, remembering to enjoy the tangerine wedge by wedge, longer, more focused, not hurry the partaking.  

When songs have become old friends, we hear them with our entire being. At 70 now, my go-to songs and artists still strike cords comfortable, and not. I've always suspected we take each and all stages to the next, and the influences accumulate into the moment we are now. The boy hasn't gone anywhere, the old man is present and more tolerant, the middle-age man recalls the mistakes and lucky blessings. Death is behind my left shoulder, always, and waits in silence, but that's cool. The early music like Santana, so many more, it has all become the music of my spiritual vault, where I return for a refill when my hope is lowest, and the old songs never fail to reconnect me to...what? I don't exactly know, but it's essential for healing, and going on again. These artists still playing and performing, some older than I, and each of us with a unique list of our favorites, they've collectively helped me keep my thoughts where they best flourish: not to the dust of the p

When we say attitude is everything, is it merely a casual repeating of an old but still relevant truism? Or, are we actually considering how attitude affects every conscious moment of our existence? Sometimes, I think that our attitude is the only thing we actually have in life, the only quality we choose to control, and independently direct as our own. There is no big mystery to personal conviction based on knowledge, belief, and experience, as there is no conflict between a heart and mind at peace. Attitude clarifies direction, the path gets no easier, only better defined. While many believe a good idea is always possible, just as many believe every good idea is only the temporary flip side of misfortune and regret. But, it's also true that much is not in our control, the unexpected happens. Can't pretend to always have a positive attitude, some days I may measure this existence hour by hour, only surviving. Perhaps the best we can do is dutifully recall- often if necessary-

What would you think if I confessed to finding myself in these occasional, absurd moments when I seem to realize all at once that it doesn't matter about the existence of a Supreme Being, a moral higher power or Creator. It still remains true that whether or not God actually exists is a wholly unprovable matter of belief. Faith does not negotiate with reality. You're all in, or, you're following some other path. But, how may it also be ultimately unimportant? Because, God or no God, we're still just stuck here on earth for this finite time together. We're still challenged with undeniably good and evil acts, uncontrollable acts, and instances of random suffering no one can explain, not even the devoutly faithful. Mysteries remain mysteries for everyone, and there is still surviving, in this harsh place. We are still stuck with enigmas like charity and selfishness, fear and tyranny, sociopaths running nations, unimaginable and common cruelties, and the ruthlessly incl

Motivation is difficult to assess or measure, it can change masks at will. Writing is most certainly a way to tell folks about myself. Simple as that. No matter the subject or the perspective expressed, we want readers to know who we fundamentally are in nature. So, we use a few words to fingerpaint a rendering of ourselves, to leave an impression, a flavor of our personality. Writing is often a revelation of intent, becoming then a voluntary or instinctual reaction to our intrinsic aloneness, our calamity of uniqueness. Existing never before and never again, writing is a way to feel more at home.  

There is no debate between faith and a lifetime of questioning, seeking, and uncertainty. When you decide to believe in something, the details and facts take a quick backseat to pure emotion. Proofs and disproofs no longer matter when faith is the conscious decision. So, belief thru faith is in every respect a whole other reality. It cannot be partially embraced, or casually experienced. Faith is a total immersion of commitment to living that is not influenced by flawed human example, or transient understandings.  Folks have always debated about the accuracy or meaning of Scripture. My sense is that all of these many, human authors sincerely believed that God spoke thru them, and that they were merely recording the expressions of the Spirit.  After a lifetime of studying these subjects, my sense is also that the fairly well-documented history of the Bible's assembly is a compelling chronicle of subjective inclusion and exclusion, politics, intrigue and religious rivalry, culture an

In the Holy Quran, the term for the hereafter appears over a hundred times. A certain realm is described for both heaven and hell, paradise or eternal fire, based on one's deeds. In the earliest Sanskrit Hindu Vedas there is no reference at all to afterlife. Yet, later scripture adds the concept, along with cause and affect Karma, literal reincarnation, the transfigured soul. Many Buddhist beliefs are most similar. Christian tradition believes in both the Old and New Testament. In the Old Testament, the Jewish Bible, there is no clear cut view of the afterlife. The New Testament, created within Christianity, teaches that, depending on a person’s belief in Jesus as the Savior of humanity, one would be consigned to heaven or hell. All of these belief systems deal with the hereafter differently, and all require blind faith in the sanctity of scriptures.   It is hardly unusual for any beings to wish their own existence to continue in some eternal form or manifestation. There is nothing

Gender First thing to say is, I'm not influenced by personal experience. This is a topic- current and virally debated in our culture- that I look at only as an observer. I have no close transgender friends, family, or neighbors. So, not directly informed here beyond my own reading, conversation with others, my thoughts. The core of the issue: I'm not persuaded that actually changing gender is even possible. It's like asking or expecting x and y chromosomes to switch seats. Can't happen in science. You can change hormones, physical structures, and psychological or attitudinal beliefs. The merits of doing so are endlessly discussed pro and con.  Yet, there's no doubt the suffering of feeling disconnected, wrongly oriented or misaligned in ones own life and body, it must be excruciating. The motivation for drastically ending this suffering is readily understandable. But, could it be the wrong remedy for the wrong problem? Misdiagnosis via yet incomplete psychological i

If some sublime words of wisdom are on cue here, they're not forthcoming. I'm bewildered by this number, and how I got here, because year by year doesn't seem possible. But, as my teenager at home said, "there's no other way, dad. You got to seventy the same way everyone does, it's cool!" My son cannot know this almost vaporous feeling of decades passing, years dissolving like honey in my coffee, and the deceptive pace of daily life in all its sundry detail, time goes both fast and slow, endless days, weeks that flip by like stray afterthoughts, and months tearing pages off the calendar almost as a casual, forgotten gesture. My gratitude, I must find it again each day, to recall and resume a journey that never reveals the path too soon, never a clue about direction, only some unnamed but determined force that holds the faith of tomorrow's fate. Time is an invisible fabric of thought, much like a quilt, patched from event to event, milestones sewn into

We have always worn masks. It didn't begin with a virus. We have fashioned our masks since civilizations emerged. Worn daily, we present ourselves with masks for each encounter or challenge. Masks to explain who we are, what we fear or celebrate, the masks protect us from bad surprises or even dangers. The masks we make for ourselves must change constantly, and there is nothing to hide except everything, so the masks must be fast, effective, and individually designed to interact with others masks. This doesn't mean everyone is false, or insincere, masks are essential for all. Without masks we are simply too open, too vulnerable, too unpredictable even for ourselves. The masks allow control, at least enough to give us time, figure out what's good, what paths to take. We only understand our own masks. They're not to be loathed or dismissed. Within our masks are the key mysteries to our longing, the desires that drive us daily, that reveal our fragile humanity. Greet your

So many human traits are universal. There is nothing more human than desiring eternal life. No one wants their existence and identity to terminate. Beating death is the main human wish, the basis for entire belief systems to evolve over millenniums of thought, the fingers-crossed promise that is professed by some religions, and with no evidence, only the choice to believe. There is nothing more human than wishing for a Parent over all of us, the Guardian of our personal fate and future, the moral judge of this life. Because we know so little about why we're even here, how this universe works, and what God is all about. Most of us either want to know these very big things, or, assume that we do know. There is nothing more human than believing in a Messiah concept- a soon to come, anointed Savior tasked with the objective of transporting humanity from the mortal fate of death to eternal life and the end of all sin and suffering. But, nothing escapes the possibility that all assumptio

When does simple debating turn into jousting to the death? When does civility leave a verbal disagreement? When does discussion become strategic movement on a battlefield?  When the talk turns from the topic at hand to the people who cannot agree. When we shift the talk to you and me. When differences in perspective are weaponized to then hurt and harm in an ad hominem attack made personal. When a person's integrity is questioned because of a different perspective, it's another conversation, apart from the start, and meant to weaken the other. You don't accept all the assumptions of global warming? You're anti-science! You don't agree with critical race theory? You're a racist! You don't agree that male and female bodies competing is fair to anyone? Then, you're anti-LGBT! Debating enters the Octagon when we forget our own decency in order to condemn others for their opinions. Discussion goes off the rails when one is willing for dialogue to crash and bu

Proverbs 9:10 "The fear of the LORD is the beginning of wisdom: and the knowledge of the holy is understanding." When certain redundant absolutes invade our thoughts, it's already an impossible expectation. An example can be our human fear. In its essence, fear is always a state of not accepting something, dreading some reality. Who can say they are without some fear or disabling worry? It can even be nameless, but nonetheless present, fear can self-identity in an instant. Isn't some fear good, normal, even desired? I'm not going to dance on the roof, fear of falling is instinctual, even protective. Common fears include all aspects of illness, injury, or death. Fear of others, the dark, clowns, insects, all common. Many around the world and here fear their government's power to control. Faith is said to be an antidote to fear, yet believers are afraid of unsaved souls, afterlife punishment and such. Fear of judgement is a huge and universal fear that likely

With all due respect to my wonderful friends of faith, to the devoutly sincere believers who are also Bible literalists, I remain unconvinced, which gives me no cheer or gladness to acknowledge. Faith is so much more comforting than doubtful questioning of all that I cannot know with any certainty. Skepticism can be almost painfully uncomfortable, unsettling, incomplete. I'm stuck in an increasingly expanding universe, which is a proven fact, and there's no mention of this fundamental truth anywhere in Scripture. Why is God expanding the universe faster and faster? No answer. Just as, where is there even a scintilla of actual evidence of a soul, spirit, or afterlife? Again, no answer, none that's compellingly convincing.  But, I am also stuck with partial knowledge, unproven theory, and claims or beliefs not supported by facts. The Bible- the generally King James version that's evolved today in numerous editions- is a work of various assembly, inclusion and exclusion, p

In 2 Corinthians, 6:14, we read: "Do not be unequally yoked together with unbelievers. For what fellowship has righteousness with lawlessness? And what communion has light with darkness?" Paul's words puzzled me. He had good reason to be concerned about the mission he himself founded in Corinth. His letter, and this Scripture seem to implore his brethren to remain pure in their faith, steadfast in focus. Yet, this passage, read too quickly, could seem to mean Paul suggesting there's no merit in associating at all with unbelievers. But, maybe there is a key word that reveals Paul's intention, more pragmatic in depth. The enigma is clear, but it's also the church's challenge. You cannot witness to unbelievers from a distance. You must associate to influence, or the mission becomes futile, no souls won. Paul wrote, "do not be UNEQUALLY yoked together with unbelievers." He explains in Corinthians how he's late in returning to them, and why. This

Luke 14:26 "You cannot be my disciple, unless you love me more than you love your father and mother, your wife and children, and your brothers and sisters. You cannot follow me unless you love me more than you love your own life."  We are to believe these are the literal words of Jesus. They are unsettling, although the meaning is very clear. Nothing similar appears in the other three Gospels. It doesn't help me that the author of Luke is greatly debated. Believers, of course, say there's no debate, God is the Author of the Bible. But, the actual historical record isn't so clear, or consistent. We can look to similar sentiments in other religions. Throughout history back to ancient times, holy figures, gurus, spiritual leaders and teachers in every form, have expected, requested, or compelled followers and students to practice exclusive loyalty and priority. To learn their teachings, those who study must shun all relationships that distract one's focus on thei

Everything changes, I say to my son. No doubt, he is sometimes annoyed to hear that, newly into his last teen year. What I mean is more the culture, the norm, what's considered by a society to be worthy, these values change. Strong in spirit, lively in personality, our son is a young man now in a world that often fries or frightens my wits, puzzles my often tenuous grasp of common sense, and too often rattles my own reality. Remembering to feel more reassured, as I somehow grew up in one cogent piece. So, is the worry justified, or even relevant?  Today's culture of random violence, mindless tiktok impulse, self-absorbtion, plus massive and constant cerebral stimulation, resembling hooked and crazed mice in some mad experiment of self-destructive design, is it at all sane?  Does it nurture our humanity, or help to advance our collective chances for being here or anywhere in the very near future? Still hopeful for my child's prospects, yet also worried about the social fabri

What seems most impossible is merely another reality in disguise. Take for example, the life and times of countless galaxies in the ever-expanding universe. Can it be true? The utterly inconceivable vastness of space, the distances between stellar bodies so great that entire galaxies may pass thru each other without even two stars out of hundreds of millions ever colliding? There is no impossible in the cosmos. Yet, how can one ever get their tiny arms around God, or a faithful belief in a single Creator of all that exists, when the universe mysteriously accelerates even faster its own inexplicable expansion? Belief and theory support as they do, but no one has a clue about where it's all going, or why. Faith is not provable. Meanwhile, the impossible becomes daily mainstream, the life and times of humans and galaxies continue onward, with no pause or plausible explanation.

If art- as some say and I agree- also becomes how we live our lives, then I'm working on one incongruent, strange, annoying, and perplexing project.  It can only be a masterpiece of chaos, a hot mess of possibilities, outcomes, choices gone awry, or a whirling abstract, or collage of unknown collaboration, lost connections, forgotten faces.  The artist controls far more than the haphazard strokes of life's images and events, often emerging with only mystery for design. The analogy weakens within the unyielding reality of chance or random circumstance.  True, attitude is everything. True, art remains how I may live my days, complete this project, realizing a final destination, or, maybe more. Art then is how I see. The artist strives to see things as they are, without embellishment, or commentary, or biased eye.

Ran into an old customer this morning, we chatted for awhile. She brought up "the old days",  and how life in the neighborhood didn't include today's horrific violence.  And, how we may have had the last best childhood. I generally agreed, but silently also wondered if every past generation felt as we feel, that theirs was the last best. My own childhood growing up in south Los Angeles, 50's and 60's, both blessed and stressed in ways that are probably more typical than strange, all families challenged, most have the mixed-bag whether known or realized.  Being loved meant we never felt poor, or without hope, or too afraid of the future. There was a trust, unnamed perhaps, but strong.  Some of my best early memories include markets. Grand Central Market, downtown on Broadway, now also a local historical landmark. Our neighborhood market, I think it was a Von's on the corner of Florence and Van Ness. I remember a meat market with my father, many visits, east

As the sun neither sets nor rises.  As the moon faces us seen or not.  As ocean waves roll as they're told,  and the world's winds whirl over shifting continents along corridors of storm, cloud, or desert calm. So may the breath of God be felt in a child's laughter, or an old soul's final moment , or a loved one's lost scent, or within joys of friendship. As stars devour the distance of space, and galaxies assume all shapes of gravity and growth, so do stellar bodies disappear away to somewhere else unknown, just vanishing in silence. There's much more to know which is a hopeful way of saying we're forever roaming, alone with our vaulted imaginations, still restless, still seeking.

Have some friends who are great artists, so talented, imaginative, free to see the world so differently. But, art is an aptitude that is within everyone in some unique format. Art can be an attitude, an internal lens that focuses all that we do. Art may be an invisible canvas for enduring hardship, emotional trauma, also physical pain-- art may be a healer. There is no special requirement. Art may be your simple movement thru a chilly, early morning home, waking up  with every careful step. Seeing the smallest details in all that surrounds us becomes an art of perception, both gazer and object changing the other in a moment's dance of recognition and wonder. Art may be a way to breathe in the quiet of your soul, in the moonless midnight of your challenge, alone and still, you find within the will to continue. Art may simply be a hopeful day to follow.

Speaking both generally and symbolically, the various scriptures of ancient religions were set in stone, and remain today the unsettled subjects of interpretation, debate, and query. The historical scriptures of science- the research studies, citations, documented data and records of results from experimental efforts- it's all a work in progress, always evolving. Everything in science and discovery is also by nature unsettled, variously interpreted, and continually questioned. Theoretically, religions disallow any editing of their scriptures, claiming divine authorship. The Bible's books of Matthew and Revelations  both declare and warn against changing or altering the Law. But, science is always an unfinished book that promises new pages, new understandings. There is no punishment for not knowing, no condemnation for always  asking the next question. How do I accept, for example, that the Bible with its many authors is most accurate? How can I know what Noah really thought, or

Parents of critters at home will understand, others perhaps not. My doggie, Pomeranian Princess Chihuahua of at least our zip code, has her very own tablet, a 5" Fire.  That's right, her own. Hardly unusual considering our hound has her own table chair, her own couch, and her own mini-house. We didn't start this way. Six years ago she was a nine-week old palmfull of fur and floppy ears. Happy with merely a belly rub and some puppy grub, it was all easy.  At some point, my pooch got online. Packages began arriving. New collar, lavendar shampoo, yummy treats. We knew life would never be the same. Lately, Widget has been watching the Dog Channels with feigned benign interest, but as soon as I leave the room, she's watching for sure.  It's all good, just have to block her Netflix and such, no human drama. Widgie @ 9wks.

Our Sun, actually blue-green, who would have guessed? Most mysterious of all, blue is the royally unanswerable question that defines all other questions, the color that spins down from unknown space, as somewhere there is an undiscovered galaxy entirely blue and pulsing across some corner of the cosmos, unnamed. The eye's physics number the cones at three, so that blue is the shade of self, the enigmatic subconscious, as if the suspected soul had a color. Or, human spirit which is breath sparked to our brain as the blue light of some higher power we may get only a glimpse of. Timeless Shiva of prior understanding, blue as the color of intimations, secret wisdoms, sacred laws. How is it, blue somehow comes up with the very best and worse moments, the same hue?

Pristine splendor of small miracles, green springs eternal, the color of generations unborn but promised by a faithful future. The unfettered hue of new ideas and optimistic expectations, a fresh view in the morning to consider, the color of creation yet undefeated, reaching up thru the incredulous cracks of impossibility and wonder. All life welcomes the color of green's hope.

How does red register with the mind, what's the first red our brain sees? When does red become an action? It's the color of attention, seldom subtle, the color of alarm, perhaps ominous. We stop with red (or, we use to), it often merits caution and warning. Our blood is red only outside of us, maybe not so good. It can be the color of heat or warmth, or a cool, crimson Mohave desert sunset. Red may be a color of passion or pain. Yet, also a hue of danger and style.

The taste of memory is a fickle process more complicated than a sweet pickle. As usual, I was in a rush. Hordes of holiday shoppers were moving a pace slower, all I needed was a drink. Just something cold from the case, notice how they put those near the cashiers? The choices weren't good, all the designer water brands I never get, but no Fiji, my only plastic exception. An impatient line already behind me, I grab a Dr. Pepper can at the bottom and zoom thru an open self-checkout. Three minutes later, sitting in the park, the sharp twang of the first soda sip reminds me suddenly of the last three recent times- it was terrible. Medicine harsh, and too everything, like the carbonation and corn syrup were competing for attention. Then, a bad chemical afterburn that felt like acid sandpaper mouthwash. Yes, this same product- yet, actually far different from the icy bottled Dr. Pepper of my prehistoric youth. But, that's the issue: what do we sometimes remember when it comes to tast

The Skeptic says that humankind intrinsically wants to be important enough to have a soul, an afterlife, some continuing status of existing. Hopefully, as important as the stars. Evidently, the universe doesn't care about wants and quaint daydreams, and the entire history of humans is equally important as a blade of grass. Of course, that seems neither fair, nor right as we comprehend cherished life. Yet, the elegantly unfathomable math of the cosmos and humankind's crude slide rules cannot join for any lesson in divine equations, creation, or demise. It's perhaps most wise to put aside the biggest mysteries before the bell rings, seekers, believers, and skeptics alike. Seeking God is overrated, while feeling God's presence in endless forms becomes a lifetime game and pleasure. Pining for a glimpse of God is both vain and pointless, missing obvious clues all around us, or, we remain unconvinced. Are we really just seeking our parents who left us, every generation passin