Some days, like the last few, I feel a sweet sort of sadness in the air. Some days I think it is only me—as if it is a feeling I own—not my neighbor’s or anyone else’s. Other days I think it is the feeling of the place here—a powerful emotion rising up from the earth itself. Today, I’m not sure what to attribute it to. I wish I could just let it go.
From our rainy deck behind the house, we overlook the City of Ten Thousand Buddhas, a large parcel of land about a mile away, tucked into the base of the mountains.
Knowing there are resident monks who meditate and chant in the city is a comfort and when I am feeling particularly down, I take my wife there for lunch in the vegetarian restaurant. Lately, we have become regular customers which, in a way, means things are not good in my head. Otherwise I wouldn’t need to go there to eat.
After lunch we walk over to the temple to meditate (and pray) beneath the ten thousand statues of Buddha. Doing this does ease the feeling of sadness somewhat. But then, driving out of the gates, where my world begins again, sad feeling greets me again as if it was waiting for me there.
The other day I wondered if the monks would rent us a house where we could live simply and cheaply; where it would be just a short walk to the temple or to the small restaurant.
After visiting the temple, we drove through the grounds where we saw some beautiful little cottages tucked among the trees. I thought the small stucco houses must stay cool during the hot summer months.
I noticed one house even had a surfboard leaning against the garage in back. Somehow, seeing the surfboard made me think that I could live there—that it was something possible even for a householder like me—a place to escape the sadness.
So there was the screenplay—deader than a doornail. It had been optioned, and pitched and Hollywood was no longer returning my calls. But, for whatever reason, I was not ready to give up. My wife’s idea of making the story into a book so the world would take it seriously, felt like a sound one. But, between you and me, I wasn’t sure I could make it happen.
I’d already written a book, a small non-fiction account of dealing with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, was a success among a small group of Vietnam Vets who could relate to its message. I told people when the opportunity presented itself, that the little book, "Life is War But You Can Win," was the best thing I’d ever done, which was honestly the case.
But writing a novel, filled with characters and a protagonist and a romance, even though I’d experienced it first hand, seemed like a much bigger task. And with all the stories we’ve all heard about trying to get a first novel published, the task seemed, in fact, bigger than me. I doubted whether I was up to it—whether I could pull it off. But, as my wife says about me, I am a person who loves a challenge.
But there was really no decision whether or not to begin—it seemed inevitable. It took years of tenacity more than anything. Not giving up when the going got tough. I first had to decide how to go about writing it. At first I thought I could just copy the screenplay, with all its terse dialogue, and vibrant characterization. (I say that tongue in cheek.)
I tried, but it didn’t work. A novel needs so much more. It needs much more description and the description had to be fresh. It had to read like a book and put the reader in the scene. This meant I had to start from scratch, which is what I did. I sat down one day to write the story I’d told hundreds of times, knowing I had to expand each scene—each chapter—long enough to allow the reader to be there. Whereas a movie relies on visual imagery to set the scene, my job now was to write the visuals—to make the scenery and the characters come to life.
It was a more difficult and time-consuming job than I ever imagined. It actually necessitated quitting my long-time job in order to do it. Luckily, I had a wife and family who supported me, so I did. Suddenly I was a full-time writer and a year or so later, I finished the book.
Through a series of fortunate events I found a publisher who was excited about the book. They copy edited it, line edited it and produced it well.
Fortune had more in store for me, and about a month before the book was to be released, I learned that I needed major heart surgery which meant I missed the big kick-off event planned at the Vietnam Veteran’s Memorial in Washington on Veteran’s Day. Oh well, there wasn’t a helluvalot I could do about that. There was a book signing tour planned on the East Coast and one on the West. Trisha Hamilton, the events coordinator for the big Barnes & Noble store in my hometown, Westport, Connecticut, put up a cancellation notice on the day of my book signing event there—the one I most looked forward to.
The good news was, and is, that I survived three separate heart operations, so that one day in January of last year, I was finally able to show up for the big signing. I was overwhelmed at the turn out. There was standing room only by the time I arrived and most of the people most important to me in my life, were there, eager to hear me read from my novel and to buy books. I was a novelist. I’d done it—written the story that had been the unmade movie.
So now when I next went to Hollywood, I would do so with a book in hand. Next, we shall see, who will be the lucky ones who get to make the movie of "Beneath Buddha’s Eyes."
(to be continued)
Since I was able to easily visualize the characters—all based on real people I’d known—their descriptions and dialogue all flowed perfectly easily. I’d written most of the good stuff while sitting in the auditorium at Hunter College where I used the room full of screenwriting energy to speed me along.
What I did was to copy down what I remembered about what happened. There were a lot of things, of course, that didn’t translate from reality into the form of a screenplay. Because the people were so completely real to me, I felt I had to be true to their stories as real people. Because of this, I found that I had written separate stories for some of the characters, which didn’t lend themselves to the production of any sort of traditional movie.
What I had was a story line between the main characters that didn’t include many of the other exciting elements I’d experienced during my time spent in the war in Vietnam. I became stuck. I had all these wonderful sub plots which, in reality, didn’t fit together.
So I talked to Phil Meyer. Phil, who lived across the street from my mother, was the only person I knew at the time who had actually written a screenplay. (Since then, I’ve met at least a dozen or more!)
Phil invited me over to his house to talk. He talked me through his own optioned but not-yet-produced screenplay (something I vaguely remember was about hamburgers). He may not have been a terrific screenwriter but his advice was what saved me: "You don’t have to tell the truth," he told me. "You’re writing fiction!" This, believe it or not, was something I’d never even considered.
Phil’s advice saved me: I realized I could make stuff up!
Combining this radical idea with McKee’s teaching of making the story a "universal truth" set me back on the path and allowed me to finish my screenplay. I was happier, as they say, than a pig in shit. So, once again, I was on entrance ramp at least, to the highway to Hollywood.
I’d left the Bob McKee course with a copy of "Casablanca" in hand, which taught me the "form," more or less. But even after I’d finished typing it, it still seemed sloppy. It didn’t look like Cassablanca.
But, even after that, I don’t remember how long it took— I’d guess at least a year or more— before I got my story to look the way a finished screenplay should look. It wasn’t until I had the very professional Randi Ross, put it in proper form with character, dialogue, screen description, etc. where they should be, that I felt confident enough to send it out. But finally, there was the finished product: three hole punched, within cardboard covers, and registered with the Writers Guild. Suddenly I really felt I was truly cruising on the road—now, the freeway—to Hollywood.
(to be continued)
When I wrote Beneath Buddha’s Eyes for the first time, I wrote it as a screenplay. My late father, along with several family friends who had heard my story, often encouraged me to put it down on paper. Usually people who heard the story would say, "what a great movie that would make!" So, my Dad, a true man of action, gave me the Bob McKee screenwriting course as a birthday present.
I knew that I could get people to say "wow!" when I TOLD them the story but my problem was, I wasn’t sure I could WRITE it. I could TELL it, but putting it down on paper was a whole other thing.
So I took the next step which was simple: All I had to do was to show up for the course that was being held over a weekend at Hunter College in New York City.
When I arrived I could feel the electricity in the air—more than I would’ve probably expected, had I expected anything. I really had no expectations at all, not knowing, really, exactly what I was getting into.
The course, of course for those who’ve sat through it, was most incredible. Bob McKee, for the uninitiated, was the Bob McKee portrayed in the movie "Adaptation." And, even in life, he was bigger than life.
From the moment we were all seated in the packed auditorium, he talked non-stop about every aspect of story-telling. The course, I found was really about how to tell a story in 90 minutes. Although it covered many aspects of movie making, as asides and off-handed comments, McKee’s point was that the story was everything. And the most important part of the story—I think he said 75% of it—was the ending.
I knew I had an incredible story. I’d been told that a hundred times. And as I began to write, the characters began to spring to life again, to talk, to think—to act! I was on my way. Being the practical person I am, I used the notebook I’d brought to take notes in, for another purpose, to write my screenplay.
As Bob talked about structure, I put it to use, The inciting incident? I had one, and wrote it. Once I’d begun, it was easy because I’d been through the story so many times before in my mind. I had lived much of it and I could actually SEE it as it happened.
When the three days were up, I had hardly noticed what had gone on around me. There were several celebrities who had been sitting in the same auditorium but I’d been so focused I hadn’t noticed them. Hey, they were only celebrities for the moment…but who cared! I was to be the next bright star shining in Hollywood. I’d written my first screenplay.
(to be continued)
My wife Monika and I had lunch in the local bakery/cafe. And there, at the table closest to ours, was my son’s chemistry teacher and his wife. We began a conversation at lunch, which carried out onto the street and well down the street outside. We actually had to plan a polite separation as we reached the end of the block—otherwise the conversation would’ve gone on longer than any of us wanted.
While we were having lunch, I noticed two women leashed a Welsh Corgi to a sign-post close enough to the door so that the dog actually made it inside when some later customers came through. The dog began to bark inside the restaurant so one of the women got up and tied the dog at a post a suitable distance from the door. The nice thing was, nobody was irratated by it. Not one person got bent out of shape. It wouldn't have played out like that in Conecticut!
The cafe, called Schat’s Bakery, along with Ellie’s Restaurant, and The Coffee Critic, all have counters with post cards on them announcing the sale of my book "Beneath Buddha’s Eyes" at The Mendocino Book Company on School Street.
I was thinking that all this might end up a small town celebrity if I don’t watch out. It would be a shame if that happened because part of what I like about living here is being able to witness life in a small town—anonymously. I think that so far it’s my truck that’s achieved the greater recognition between us. It’s one of only two brand-new 2004 F150’s and I’ve noticed many pairs of eyes coveting a ride in its driver’s seat.
But that something so simple as driving around town in my brand-new truck makes me feel good, is what makes life in a small town great. When someone made a comment about my pick up the other day, I found myself saying, with false modesty, "Yeah well, a truck’s gotta be new sometime," which I thought was a pretty good line.
It seemed at first, like a small town line—but later, after thinking about it, I thought maybe it came from the mouth of a "big city boy."
I think I need to just accept the fact that my truck is shiny and new and—well yes—people ARE going to talk!
I love the space here in our new home in California. When I stand outside behind our house, I can see for miles. I see mountains a few miles to the east and to the south the long deep valley opens up the view. Who could ask for more.
Our house in Connecticut—a traditional and beautiful Cape Cod style—made me feel closed in because there was no view farther than a few hundred feet. We had beautiful trees all over the property including a line of tall white pines to the east. The trees were beautiful but they closed things in. Living there made me feel a kind of "pinch" you feel when you’re too closed in.
But living in Connecticut was better than living in New York City where our first domicile was the ground floor of a brownstone—actually four steps down from street level. Talk about feeling closed in! Our garden in back was closed in on all sides by walls. The garden faced a school yard, directly behind us, with a wall of 50 or 60 feet. All these walls had the powerful effect of making me feel "boxed in." No wonder everybody who can afford to, leaves the city on weekends. And where to New Yorkers go? To the shore of Long Island, to the Adirondack Mountains and places like that—where they can feel a sense of space. It’s a survival mechanism.
Here in California when I’m feeling boxed in, I walk out onto the deck, sit in a deck chair and look out—far away.
This feeling of space equates with a feeling of healing the soul. To look up into a huge sky, to stare across the vineyards into the distance. Maybe that’s the key word—distance.
We human beings are physically of a certain size. But our minds, connected with our bodies, are unbounded, unlimited. I, for one, need to experience this feeling of size. It helps me to know how big I really am!
I’m sitting outside just enjoying this simple and beautiful California day. But my mind won’t leave well-enough alone. It always wants me to DO something. But I’m thinking, "how stupid is that?"
Do I need to think about with I should do to fill this beautiful, virgin empty space of time? Is it with good? Things that will help me—and the bigger Me—the world at large?
Maybe I should stop trying so hard.
It makes me sad to think that I might waste the time—this "oh so precious" time. But what, exactly is a waste of time? Isn’t it true that we are always learning, no matter what? Just as long as we’re awake? And isn’t it true that trying to fill up time might be no better than leaving it empty? I’m beginning to think that maybe empty is better!
After all, what do we fill the time with, anyway? What makes us think that anything is more important than just merely Being? Often something that I am convinced is so important, turns out not to be not much of anything. In the long run, when I look back at things I’ve done, I’m amazed to find that what I’ve filled my time with, is just so much drivel.
I guess I am finding it’s better just to be—to let the day be as empty as space itself. I like the feeling of "nothing planned" and "nothing to do." What’s so bad about doing nothing? "Nothing at all," I think...
Absolutely Nothing.
Last night I sat out on the deck staring at the stars and the dark sky. But then I went into the bedroom to go to sleep I found a book on the bed my wife had left me to read. The book is called "Selected Poems—Lorco and Jimenez" and is translated by Robert Bly. The book inspired me to write about what I’d just seen. I’m not sure if it’s a poem or not, but for better or worse—and mostly to explain to myself—I call it:
"The Night Sky"
The night sky being the picture of infinity—
I reach out my arm to touch the blackness
And my hand sinks in,
Going only as far into the blackness
As the length of my arm.
Still, the night sky remains for me
An example of infinity—
That makes me want to travel further.
I reach out a thought that can go
As far as a thought will go,
But still I find it will not travel that far
Into the darkness of the night—
I find it stops at
The far end of the thought.
Somehow I know there is infinitely further to go
—in the direction of infinity.
I think that when I am able to stop all my thinking
and simply sit in the space between the stars,
Only then will I begin to fathom
The infinite space that lives there.
I was thinking, this morning, of the two and a half years I spent living in Switzerland in the ‘70s with Maharishi Mahesh Yogi. The thought came at the end of a string of thoughts about writing. Writing puts you out there. It exposes your weaknesses, as well as your strengths—for all to see. The exact opposite of "being out there" is "being in there." And the most inward time of my life was when I was working and studying with Maharishi.
Living at Maharishi’s headquarters in Seelisberg, a tiny hamlet dangling on the edge of a cliff above Lake Lucerne, was about as much of an escape from the "thick and thin" of the world as I can imagine. Life was wonderful, easy, happy and exciting in the subtlest of ways. One of the reasons was the anonymity of it all. Hardly anyone outside my family knew where I was on the face of the earth. Even my parents sometimes doubted my very existence. I had managed to separate myself from most of the fleeting attractions of the material world.
Sometimes just to get a taste for the world, I’d sneak into the city of Lucerne with my friend Ivan Stuffle, for a cappuccino. After spending a couple of hours sitting in a cafe on the shore of the lake, and the buzz had worn off, we’d head back up into the mountains to sink back into the deep silence of Seelisberg.
I’m sure the reason we made those trips into the city was to experience some contrast. Like when you’re sitting in a hot bath, you need to stir the water every once in awhile just to feel that it’s hot. Going into Lucerne was like that.
Life in Seelisberg was so gentle and one day so much the same as another it was sometimes hard to tell if you were breathing—or not.
My life now is so filled with contrasts that it sometimes makes me long for that smooth and kind existence of the mountains. Actually, I think I’m slowly heading back. Life here in Mendocino County moves at half the speed of New York and Connecticut. It makes me a little dizzy just to think my life back there—all that rushing around—and for what?
Happy Birthday to Maharishi, for providing such deep and timeless knowledge, and for giving me the experience of Being. "Men may come and men may go, but I go on and on."
Where have I been all these years? God, I grew up with Bob Dylan. I haven’t heard his music in I don’t know how long.
When I was in prep school in 1964, I actually saw Bob Dylan at Club 47 in Cambridge. That seems so foreign to me that I hardly believe it myself! And Joan Baez. All that great music which fed my mind at the time.
Today, while my wife shopped at Safeway, I sat in her car and flipped in the first CD of the three in "Biograph," the history of Dylan’s music. By the time she came back out I’d heard the first five songs including "Times they are a Changin’". Wow! I was so excited that when I was helping to load the groceries into the back of her car, I couldn’t stop talking about the music.
"He’s a writer," she reminded me. Giving me the reason he has lasted so long—the reason his songs and words are timeless.
I can’t help but to think about what a great lesson this is for me. Just the fact that, after all these years, I’d taken the time to sit and HEAR something so good. God, has my life been screwed up!
I’ve missed so much living by always doing, doing. It’s time for me to just BE once again. Whew, what a relief to know that it’s still possible to sit in front of Safeway and just chill.
Moving to Northern California has helped me to slow down. I have been mindful about practicing "going slower" and the pace of life here in Mendocino County has helped a lot.
In one of Tich Nhat Hanh's books he mentions Mindfulness while doing daily chores. For me, I am not kidding, cooking oatmeal is teaching me a great lesson. I naturally move too fast. What I mean, is that I tend to do things in too much of a hurry. It is also my habit to do several things at once. Cooking oatmeal in the morning has become one of the best places for me to learn NOT to do two things at once.
I’m famous in my family for burning up tea pots—three so far—and ruining pots by frying oatmeal. Fried oatmeal sucks. It smells up the whole house for one thing—and there’s no way anyone would want to get beyond the smell to try to taste it!
While my mother was visiting over the holidays, I watched how she cooked the oatmeal. It was simple: she just poured it into the water and stood at the stove stirring it the whole time until it was done. "Oatmeal’s ready!" She called me over and there it was, perfect--with no burned taste at all.
I’ve been trying it myself and I’m happy to say I’ve succeeded twice. But today I failed. I was back to my old habit of turning the burner on high then heading off to do something else. I did this and forgot all about the oatmeal until I heard the sound of the oatmeal boiling over onto the stove top.
Oh well…I’ve never said I was perfect. And there’s always the next time.
Meanwhile thank you, Tich Nhat Hanh for planting the seed of mindfulness. And thank you Mother for showing me how.
It is rainy season here in Mendocino County—the weather is not at all what I think of as "California Weather." But as an Indian reminds me whenever I complain, "The rain is good for growing." I forget that this area depends upon the rain as much as it does on the sun.
The sky is filled with a milky gray fog covering the sky from the ground up. Sitting outside on the deck I feel more closed in even than I used to feel beneath the trees in Connecticut. In a green plastic pot in the middle of the deck is a two-foot Mandarin Orange tree with its wonderful bright orange fruit. The color makes me think of the monks I saw in Thailand when I was there on R&R in the Army in 1969. I am reminded of their bright orange robes.
I wondered who these silent monks were—what they did with their days until Pensi, a girl of eighteen, took me to a temple where we saw a sea of monks keeling on the floor in the dark space. The temple was a magical place filled with the smell of sandalwood smoke from burning incense sticks.
Maybe it was that experience that first awakened in me my love of Buddhist places. The feeling still easily comes back to me more than 30 years later—the palpable feeling of the spiritual world I had never experienced before. The feeling in the temple was very different from going to Catholic church on Sunday morning—I’m not sure why—perhaps because attending mass at the Church of the Assumption was so familiar. There I recognized many of the people, like the Italian men of the Knights of Columbus, who moved down the aisles holding the wicker baskets collecting money.
For some reason, I cannot explain, the Buddhist temple seemed to have a more real link with God. It could be that at that time in my life, since I’d already experienced six months of a war, I was ready to feel make a connection with my spirituality.
What I can explain is that walking into the temple at that time of my life gave me some sort of hope—belief—that has never left me.
Seeing the Mandarin Oranges instantly brings back the sight of the monk’s robes. I have always been in awe of the sight of the monks—some much younger at the time than me—who followed such a selfless path. How did they know to seek the Truth at such a young age, I wondered? It was later that I learned of the cycle of birth and death, of reincarnation, which explains it all: The young boys were highly evolved beings already, from past lifetimes.
What I’ve learned even later still is that following the path of a householder has a honor all its own. To follow the householder path well, I find, takes selflessness, persistence and courage—the same qualities a monk must possess.
The other night I took a break from the seemingly endless task of editing my novel and sat out on the deck for a few minutes. The moment I sat back to relax, I saw a shooting star in the sky over my right shoulder.
Amazing, I thought—was it meant for me? Was it a sign? A good omen?
Whatever might have been its meaning, it made me feel good. What a strange thing, I thought, that a natural event like that has the power to change the way I feel. It is probably because we have instilled in events like shooting stars and solar eclipses, mythic meanings. Perhaps, in some cases, I would suppose we do this because the event in the sky might have happened concurrently with some other natural event on earth.
We are always looking for meaning in our lives. Maybe, especially at times when our lives seem in flux and in need of more meaning, we impregnate an event like this one with undo importance.
But even as I write "undo importance" I think, why should I be so cynical? Why not just accept the initial feeling I had when I felt the shooting star uplift me. That is the truth—it did. When I saw it, it made me feel good.
Let’s just leave it at that; and avoid my tendency to think things to death. Whether I attach a meaning to something so simple or not, is not the point. The shooting star—any shooting star—is beautiful in its own right. It might inspire a poem or a painting. And it certainly, in me, inspires some pondering of bigger things.
"Was it meant for me?" Sure.
"My Shooting Star" –a poem
Was it God drawing a line
With a pencil of light,
To show me how a slice of time,
quickly comes and quickly goes?
Or was the meaning something else,
even more profound?
Or was there nothing meant at all?
It’s my birthday and because it comes so close to the beginning of the year I think of it as a time to take stock, to make plans, to create new beginnings. After all, it is for me, the one and only anniversary of my greatest new beginning in this lifetime—my birth.
So where do I begin? Right here, right now. It’s actually a fairly ridiculous question really, "where do I begin?" But, to let you in on a secret, I am in the habit of asking myself these sorts of very basic things. Some people tell me, it is what is charming about me. It maintains my sense of boyish innocence—my being such a simple, basic bloke.
Even if it were possible to start from somewhere other than right here, I’d choose right here just because it seems simpler, more basic. The point I am really making here, is that to begin a new chapter, a new year, means to begin by both accepting and utilizing who I am and all that I’ve done. Both the bad and the good. All the stuff that makes up Me, is what I’m dealing with and is in a sense, my starting blocks for the race to the end. Another way to say it might be, it’s my application for admission to the coming year. If I’m filling out the form, I’m going to have to get real, and list all my accomplishments. In this case, the application is for "internal use only" so there should be no need to lie. In fact, the more truthful I can be with myself, the better off I’ll be. Because, come to think of it, "starting from where I am" means no lying. Lies could put the starting block falsely ahead on the track. It would be a false start—eventually I’d tell on myself!
I’m not sure all this will make sense to anybody but me. But what I’ve always said, and still believe, is that the point of this journal is for me. I’ve been doing it for over a year now, and sometimes when I look back at where I’ve been, it helps. It helps me to know where I should be, and it’s especially important every time, like today, when I plan to begin my life again.
I never expected my trip to Baghdad to be so much fun. The three AmeriCares humanitarian aid workers I traveled with—could be at times, hilarious. Our group consisted of John Connell, Logistics Specialist, Peter Tokarczyk, Director of Disaster Services and Randy Weiss, a Product Manager. During the day we were joined by our translator, an Iraqi-American Doctor from Cleveland Rafal Badri, who had grown up in Baghdad.
Following the military’s example, we traveled in two cars wherever we went—a Chevy Suburban with dark tinted windows and a beautifully preserved white 1988 Chevrolet Caprice Classic. The driving was hair-raising. Baghdad traffic was a free-for-all with no traffic lights and no traffic cops.
After visiting the hospitals and traveling around the dusty and hot city during the days, we’d return to our dusty and hot rooms in our small six-story hotel at night. The small amount of electricity provided by a generator frequently cut off unexpectedly, often trapping someone in the hotel’s tiny elevator. We found it sensible to walk up the stairs to our rooms, all on the fifth floor.
After taking a shower under a mere trickle of water, we’d congregate for cold drinks in Randy Weiss’s room, inexplicably the only cool spot in the hotel. We never learned why Randy’s room was the only one provided with air conditioning; but a lot of things about Baghdad were inexplicable, so we didn’t really try to understand the understandable.
John Connell came up with a nickname for Randy, "Fancy Air-conditioning Boy" which none of us, in the spirit of good-natured fun, let him forget. We constantly rubbed in the fact that Randy was the only one basking in a cool 70 degrees or so while the rest of us attempted to get some sleep at night on sweaty sheets with our doors and windows open hoping to capture a few puffs of cool breeze; kept awake by the loud roars of tanks passing on the streets below every twenty minutes or so.
FANCY AIR-CONDITIONING BOY
When Randy emailed me a New Year’s greeting, I was instantly reminded of what he put us all through—especially me. I mean, after all, I was AmeriCare’s invited guest; so shouldn’t he, out of politeness, have at least offered me the room?
I want to let it be known I am only joking here. Randy was truly only a selfless and good-natured bloke during the whole trip. He handed out cute little cartoon character stickers to children wherever we went. And, after all, he was the one who lugged around our three very heavy bulletproof vests, which we never wore. Come to think of it, I think Randy earned the cool room. But with that, he’ll just have to put up with the title "Fancy Air-conditioning Boy."
Thank God for Nature. Thank you for the beautiful blue sky. Thank you for the ocean and all that’s in it—the things that provide life for us. Thank you for the land and all the things that grow—that provide life for us, and the air.
Thank you God for my wife and my family who care about me and give me strength. Thank you for my friends who stand by me and have been such trusted teachers and guides. Thank you for my parents who tried their best. To all the teachers I had in school.
Thanks for my country, the place where I live that provides me with so much. And to my town and I even thank my house for keeping the cold and the rain out.
Thank you, God, for giving me the spirit of "Thanks" and for learning how to give something back.
Thank you God, for my creative energy—the energy to write, to paint, to document what I see. I believe somehow that whatever I have to give back to the world comes from this creative energy. I thank you for this—for making me and keeping me as a channel. I know that whatever I write that is good and true is good and true because it comes from You and the better it is, the more perfect a reflection it is of Your Divine Grace.
I am filled to overflowing with Your Love, Dear God, in all its different guises and iterations. I mean, when I’m feeling REAL, as I am right now, I know it is because I am connected to My Higher Power.
Thanks for this.
Thanks, God, for everything.