Although the texted lines may escape the sight
The melody of word is captured within the heart
Printed chorus of harmonic youth
Remain forever free
11 23 15
Although the texted lines may escape the sight
The melody of word is captured within the heart
Printed chorus of harmonic youth
Remain forever free
11 23 15
No matter where you go, there you are, so pay attention, ok?
I always have loved that saying. It’s true, you know? Wherever you go, there’s a pretty good chance that you just arrived there too. Grin
With all the things swirling around us, piling up at our feet or tugging on our shirt sleeve, chances are that they’re surrounded by life, in its simplest form, in all its amazing glory, in every obscure shape and size imaginable. There it is, in your face, and don’t look now, but it’s happening 24 / 7, without you ever having to ask for it, expect it or understand it.
It’s alright if you are one of those folks who don’t understand it, because I’m one of them too. I’m kind of used to it, which doesn’t mean I like not understanding, but more importantly it announces my ability to recognize my own areas of insufficient knowledge.
Boy, that takes up a lot of room. Area I mean.
I just read a couple chapters from one of my college text books, and within those sixty or so pages, I was amazed just how much I didn’t know about the subject, which was music. I was amazed that after living my whole life, listening to music throughout, so much information could just escape my wandering mind. I mean, its music for God’s sake! Music! One of my most cherished things on the planet!
Out of the classes I’m taking this semester, I’m having a harder time with this music class. I know, I know, right? You’d think that with all the music I’ve listened to over the course of my lifetime, I’d have a better understanding of it all. I suppose that even though those tingles I get up my spine when a song plays that I really like, I’d be able to remember and know more about it.
And, I don’t, so there.
No matter where I go, there I am, but that doesn’t mean I’m always paying attention. It doesn’t mean any of us are really paying attention. Not that we shouldn’t or anything, but with so much time and so much information about so many things to take in and retain, how on earth could we?
55 year old uninformed goat coming atcha, like it or not. That’s what I feel like sometimes. Uninformed. Not misinformed, although I can be easily persuaded some days.
What the hell am I writing about now? Do I even know? Did I veer away from some atmospheric script or something? Should I know what’s around the next corner? Am I supposed to try and teach someone something right about now? Did I just learn a lesson? Did you? Have you already stopped reading this post? Can you even read?
I didn’t know where this writing would take me when I started it, and I still don’t. Hopefully when I reach the end, I’ll be aware of it and stop writing.
I was talking to my college technology accessibility tutor at school a couple days ago, and when I told him that I had posted three hundred or so entries on my blog, he told me that I should have them grouped into a book and published. I thought about it for a few moments, but realized that it would be like Captain Kangaroo having a dump truck full of ping pong balls dumped onto his head. Little white balls of hither and thither, bouncing to and fro, with no direction in mind, just a reactionary moment among friends who don’t have a clue where they’re going either.
Hey, wait a minute.
So, it’s like, umm, no matter where they go, there they are, right?
Some days you’re the person, and some days you’re the mobility cane. Some days your arm stops at your hand, and some days it extends all the way down to the rolling marshmallow tip of that same mobility cane. Some days the world comes to you, and some days you have to go to the world.
Lately, it seems as though I’m having to go to the world. Lately, everything seems to be two inches to the right. Lately, I’m about as blind as you can be, and being blind is the last thing I want to be.
I was down in sunny Florida with family a few weeks back. It was the first time I had seen my little brother in 9 years, as well as the first time since losing my vision back in 2010, and although I couldn’t see his face, when he spoke, I was flooded with memories of him, his smile, his eyes, his nose, his mouth and chin and ears, and I never actually felt sad that I couldn’t see him, because I felt as though I could. When he saw me, he came up to me and hugged me, but he didn’t let go, and neither did I. I felt closer to him at that moment than I ever had, and it was pure medicine.
Thinking back, a smile a mile wide just crept across my face.
I’ve often talked about how my other senses jumped up a couple notches since losing sight. There’s a lot more going on than just those heightened senses though. There’s an inner awareness that I can’t put a finger on. I don’t really know why, but I get these emotional waves crashing through me that fill every nook and cranny of my being. From the simplest things, to the more complex, when these moments grab hold of me, there ain’t nothing I can do except try to remember to breathe.
My wife and I were walking down an aisle at a grocery store a few days ago, and from a couple rows over, I heard a young child’s boisterous voice booming out to her mother. This little person probably couldn’t have been more than 3 or 4, and she had no idea just how precious she was, or he was. Anyway, as has happened to me a few times, when I heard this amazingly innocent tone, another one of those emotional swells rose up through me, and I couldn’t breathe, or swallow. It was wonderful. A true gift of the soul, and as I grabbed hold of the shopping cart, I shook my head and just tried to enjoy the moment, for what a moment it was.
I can tell you that my emotions have gone through quite a bit these past five years. I have felt grief beyond belief, but I have also felt a remarkable joy from time to time that perhaps I had felt before, but never paid mind to it as I do these days. What I can’t see, I can surely feel, and what my eyes don’t gaze upon, my heart gathers in and observes as never before.
When I was in Florida, our family clan got up one morning and set off for our daily attempt at taking on the day. I did my usual morning get ready stuff, which ended by putting on my favorite chocolate sneakers.
Thanks D. I love ya!
Anyway, later on that afternoon as we arrived back to my sister’s home, one of my siblings walked up to me and asked me if I knew I had my sneakers on the wrong feet.
Of course I didn’t, and of course I felt like a blind billy goat on a mission to confuse the enemy, which I more than likely did.
The room opened up in a round of laughter that lifted my spirits up past my overflowing humility.
Right foot, left, or something like that.
It’s hard to believe that I’ve gone more than five years without vision. It’s hard to think of how many miles I have walked on the moon. It’s hard to imagine how many words I’ve typed since those summer months of 2010.
I’m fortunate for having been afforded the things that have graced my life these past five years. I’m blessed for the people I’ve met, but mostly, I’m grateful for the inspiration that’s helped me to find the strength to keep sweeping my cane back and forth. Moving forward. It has a nice ring to it, don’tcha think?
Without the determination and motivation that I hear within the voices, my chocolate sneakers wouldn’t have many places to go. There’s only one direction that ever proves beneficial, and that’s forward. Not backwards, just forward.
Can you imagine a blind goat like me trying to walk backwards with a mobility cane?
It’s taken me a lifetime to get to where I am. It seems like a lifetime away, but as I look back I feel the building blocks that have shaped and molded my existence. Such a long time ago, a little boy sat mesmerized with everything he gazed upon and reached out to. Such an inquisitive nature, completely innocent and void of judgment. The bright eyed questions that spun around inside the restless mind of this young lad weren’t unlike anyone else’s, but they were mine, and mine alone.
So much of who I am today directly reflects upon those building blocks of yesterday. Brothers, sisters, a mom and a dad are all part of me, and I care not to think what it would be like today without a yesterday full of them.
As the lines in the mirror grow longer in years, I can feel the age creeping in and molding the young lad yet again, though in a different way. Memories that span over time have a hand in aging the soul, the mind, the spirit, and although the gathered experiences help to compile character, like so many others, the woes of the body have also had a huge hand in shaping who I am, and yes, where I might be able to go from here on out.
I always tell folks that I don’t want to be a burdon, that I don’t want to have to be taken care of, but the fact is, a great part of my life these days is dependant on being able to ask for help. It’s a humbling experience to say the least, but along these past five sightless years, I have had to accept things for what they are, and what they are is something extraordinarily unique to which I used to be.
I am a thankful man, but I am also a seriously bitter man locked inside a life of anxious doubt. I still rely on a compassionate soul, but parts of my spirit have wandered to the side, spending valuable time hanging around the vagabond shoes of the unwilling.
What the hell does that mean?
I suppose it might mean that although I start each day willing to take on the challenges of a lightless world, I find myself some days slipping quickly into the fissures of a deep, dark, endless obstacle that has become what I don’t want, but what I am dealt.
I often write about how within each difficult situation lies an opportunity to move ahead. One step to the side, one step back and if I try hard enough, perhaps two steps forward. Those forward motions do seem tiny at times, but they are progress none the less.
And here I am, once again, facing a seemingly insurmountable wall of obstruction.
I’m not unlike so many others, in that I lose focus, I lose ambition; I lose the strength to summoned one more step forward. It’s hard to silence the voices of a tired soul, but it’s also hard to quell the heart of a warrior, which I’ve been told I have.
I talked with my father a while ago and asked him if he remembered his dreams, if there was one particular dream that he remembered having. He paused for a moment or two, and then told me of a young man, a warrior, who was constantly at battle with evil. He told me of how this young soldier of life had the courage brought forth to him by a great source of power, of goodness, of amazing strength. Through years of these same dreams, the source of energy in his dreams came from an ever present light of white, an illuminating light of good. Through his childhood and into his later years, he dreamt of doing battle beside a warrior unlike any other. This source of strength stayed with him through his waking hours and shone as a guiding light.
When I am experiencing difficult times through the course of my days, I imagine that strong, steadfast warrior, taking on the foes of challenge. I imagine my father, swinging his sword as he walks into the great battle of life. It’s a humbling feeling knowing that this great warrior of sleep stood beside me, behind me, with me as I grew old.
I don’t want to be a burdon, nor do I want to be pitied, but some days, it’s hard to avoid those obstacles of repression. I suppose by my nature, I can easily get caught up in complacency. I don’t handle change well, and I don’t do well with having to give up control of any kind. So much of my life is controllable, but every facet of what goes on around my life isn’t.
I just realized something. How on earth can we, or why would we ever want to feel comfortable with complacency, when we’re fully aware that the world never stops changing? Why would I ever knowingly expect anything other than change?
Now I’ve got something to think about for the rest of the day.
Go grab hold of your day and change something.
Go on! I dare ya!
Oh flustered days and restless nights. Oh captured memories and vagabond shoes. Oh what the hell am I writing about now?
I just finished my Music essay for Unit 4, and I’m sitting here wondering what to do next. Now, I’m sitting here, wondering what to write next. Familiar territory? Oh yes, you better believe it.
When I first started writing like a banshee back in 2010 and 11, I never wondered what I would write about, I just wrote. When I go back now and read some of my old posts, sometimes I laugh out loud, because it’s true, I wrote a lot of those like a ping pong ball bouncing across a ceramic tile floor. First here, then there, then over there and back this way. It didn’t matter, it didn’t wonder, it didn’t think twice about what I was trying to accomplish, it just became a page full of text, a page full of metaphors and mindful illustrations. It became me, and me, it.
I suppose I have written so much because of one reason, and one reason alone, because I’m supposed to. Plain, and simple.
I always thought I would be bouncing around in my work truck until I retired at the age of 423, but lo and behold, how life can twist your dimensions to fit into exactly something you have no clue about.
And here I am.
I’m sorry if I’m not making any sense, but sooner or later you just gotta get used to it, right?
My vision has gotten a lot worse these past few months, almost to the point where I have no light perception at all now. Half the time I can’t even tell if the sun is out, unless I can feel its warmth. It pisses me off, but there isn’t much I can do about it except learn to live with it.
And here I am, living with it, and living with that, and this right here, and those other things over there, and once again I have no idea what I’m writing about, but you know what? I’m still writing, and through it all, I’m learning how to live. There’s more to life than sight. I have to live it to learn what it is, and slowly, like a roaming goat, I’m living it up like only I can.
I wonder if in a year or so I’ll go back and read this post again and laugh. I wonder if I’ll shake my head and say to myself, “What the…”
Here’s a short poetic blurb that I wrote the other night. It’s not finished, but then again, what is?
Stranger than fiction.
A brisk walk along side a metaphor
Emotions grab hold and take shape
The journey begins with a phrase
The words pack our bags and take us away
Lost in the mind as the fingers reach out.
Captured by letters abound.
Vast, barren screen waits patiently.
Descriptions of sight within sound.
The keypad is clicking its way down the page.
The story untold becomes true.
The letters start forming as the fiction takes hold.
The end of the chapter is you.
As you can see, it’s a rough draft at best. Fact is, pretty much most of my writings have been rough drafts lately. It’s as if a piece of me is suspended somewhere else and I just can’t seem to finish stuff. I like the word, stuff, don’t you? A friend of mine makes fun of me because I use it a lot. I’m smiling right now thinking about it. Can you tell?
Where was I?
Oh ya, about the poem that isn’t finished yet. Don’t hold your breath, because you just might run out of, umm, breath, ok?
I am so glad you decided to drop by my blog, and I do hope that you get a chance to finish the stuff you start. Grin
There I go again.
Sometimes it’s as though I run out of things to say. It’s as if the clichés seem boring. It’s as if the humorous insight doesn’t feel the urge to travel through the avenues of care, and end up backing up along the digital highway that connects my brain and my mouth. Sometimes, it’s as if the moment of silence is a far better path to choose.
I’m often asked why I’m so quiet, why I’m so soft spoken. I often don’t know the answer to these questions, and end up shrugging my shoulders with no course of response. I guess I’m wired in a way that leaves me far short than that of the life of the party. I’m not sure if it’s due to the lifeline I have lived, or if it’s just the way I have been wired from day one.
I was at an event this past weekend, and when the introductions went around the room, a hand was placed on my shoulder, telling me that it was my turn to tell everyone who I was, and where I was from.
I sat up in my chair, took a deep breath and said, “I’m Deon Lyons, from the town of Clinton.” I was happy with my orational skills, I mean I was clear, concise, to the point and then, all of a sudden, the hand on my shoulder apologized to the room for my soft, spoken tone and had to reintroduce me to the room in her much more boisterous voice that eventually informed the folks in the room who I actually was.
I was embarrassed, but not for long, because I guess I’m used to it. I can’t do anything about it, and I’m not going to make excuses for it. I am what I am, and that’s all that I am.
God, that sounds like a Popeye cartoon, right?
Anyways, I guess what I’m getting at is that we all have our own characteristics that keep us individually unique from the rest of the world. Not one person on the face of the earth is like us. Some may be similar in looks, or voice, or actions or abilities, but not one of them comes close to being just like us.
I grew up idolizing my older brother and wanted to be just like him. Truth is, I grew up being so far from who he was that it appears I spent a lot of time wishing and hoping for not. I became one thing, and one thing only. I became me, little old me, quiet, shy, gullible, naïve, inquisitive me, dimples and all. I didn’t look like my older brother, I didn’t excel in sports like he did, well, not as well as he did. I didn’t attract all the girls like he did, nor did I really want to. My shyness would get the better of me in more ways than one, and a chick magnet I wasn’t.
I did find the love of my life and together we made the most amazing man on the face of the planet. Was it what it was meant to be, or was it what just happened to stumble in front of me? Either way, I was very fortunate and blessed to find love and build from it.
I am what I am, and although I’m not wrapped tightly some days, my life will never be any more than it is right now. I know it is what I make of it, but what I’m looking at right now is what I have to experience, nothing more, nothing less.
I often think about a lot of things. I often worked out around the yard doing landscaping and gardening and lawn care and whatever fell into my day. I would often step back from the work I had begun, or finished, or pondered upon, and I would imagine how it would look through the eyes of my father. I would contemplate how he would approach the moment, and for that brief moment, I would see him stepping back, folding his arms and smiling. He always threw a warm blanket around the cold shoulders of my day, building confidence in me by telling me how much he admired me, my work, my life, and all of the things that I had placed around me. He would offer suggestions and place forth his personal slice of insight, but not until I got older did I realize just how valuable it was, he was.
Our lives are full of slices of things that we have no idea about. We don’t know how valuable they are, how important they are, how impressive they are, or have been, or could be. We don’t know how good we have it, or how good it will be, or how good it was.
I am what I am because of who I am. So many things factor into who we are and what we are. So many things make up those small little slivers of life, and as we contemplate on what could be, what might be, what should be, let us never forget about what is, for it’s really the only thing you can hang your hat on at the end of the day.
Thanks for stopping by my blog once again, or for the first time, which I hope won’t be the last time, but if it is, thanks for taking part of your day to add to mine.
I was throwing emails back and forth with a friend of mine tonight. We were reminiscing about some old music that we are both fond of. I couldn’t help but notice that one particular album, Animals by Pink Floyd, came out forty years ago. Her particular Floyd favorite was The Dark Side of the Moon, which are a couple years older. It just doesn’t seem possible that these albums are as old as they are. I suppose it has something to do with my own aging process, right?
I’m taking a couple online courses at college this fall. One of them is The History of Rock and Roll. I was pretty hyped up about the class, and for good reason. I’m an old rock and roll hound dog that’s fallen off the wagon a few times, but like James Taylor sings on his 2015 album entitled, Before This World, I’m like a hungry dog on a bone, especially when it comes to rock and roll.
I remember my older brother playing his Woodstock album in his bedroom, and my mother hollering for him to turn it down. I grew up on the Beatles and can remember dancing to their Help album in our cellar with my two sisters and little brother. From that point on, I realized how much the music was creeping into my soul. I kid around today, saying that I always have a song running around in my head. It’s true. It’s absolutely true. I’m singing that same new James Taylor song, Angels of Fenway, that refers to the Red Sox winning the 04 World Series.
I guess my first true rock and roll album that got me caught up in the rhythmic rocking motion was the Aerosmith album Rocks. Their Last Child song enamored me so much that I played it over and over and over.
And here I go once again, writing about time. Time to live, to breathe, time to learn and love. Music and time go hand in hand, don’t they? So many songs, so little time. So much to sing about, and as time shapes and molds the music, the words tell the stories of how time forms a melody of the soul.
I absolutely love music, and to think that forty years have come and gone is mind bending to say the least. The songs of the past will never change. The only thing that changes, is us. I can still hear the guitar riff screaming out of Last Child. I can see Joe Perry cocking his head sideways as his guitar finds the perfect stride of electronic magic.
I love music. I love great melodies, and soothing harmonies. I adore a perfect solo, set in motion at the perfect time. I hop inside the music and find the most comfortable seat, so I might enjoy the story completely. It’s fascinating how some songs teach me the melody, while other songs read out loud, word for word, their incredible story. Does it depend on me? Does it depend on the artist? Does it depend on where I am, or who I’m with? Does it depend on how hungry I am for something to grab hold of me and take me for a journey through an incredibly constructed work of art?
Music helps bend the fabric of time. With its haunting highs and breath taking lows, it lifts us up and carries us to places we didn’t know existed. It’s a friend that you never worry about losing. It’s a kick in the butt when you need it, and a big old bear hug when you least expect it.
In time, it will continue to be, as it has always been.