I think about thinking,
and I think about feeling,
but because feeling is who I am
and thinking is just what I do,
I feel about thinking too.

A Celebration of Life

My grandfather, the father of my mother, died this past Sunday, his heart no longer desiring to contract and expand. We had believed (or hoped) he was recovering, for he had readily beaten two years of cancer by way of a combination of the simplest of treatments (a positive, can-do attitude and ultra-high doses of vitamin C injected directly into the blood stream, the resulting hydrogen peroxide toxic to cancer cells) and the most modern of technological weapons (a real-time CaT scan coupled with an electron beam generator to perfectly target and destroy cancerous cells with minimal damage to surrounding, healthy tissue). But in the end, when traditional chemo therapy was applied, it was pneumonia that reduced his heart’s capacity to a bare minimum, eventually non-functional state.

Just three or four months prior Grandpa had climbed ladders to patch the roofs of twenty, thirty, and forty foot tall barns by day, rebuilding the engine and transmission of an antique tractor by evening in the old hog house. His life had been an active one; his body, strength, and spry humor portrayed a man of many, many years less than ninety for he remained handsome, strong, and as quick on his feet as he was with his wit.

My grandfather taught me more about how to lead a meaningful life than any other person I have known. He died with no enemies and no one who would not claim to be his friend. He could fix anything, and without a high school eduction was one of the smartest men I will ever know. Taking his lead, every morning that I am able, I eat oatmeal for breakfast; my body, like a tractor engine, needs proper fuel and care.

I must admit that I dreaded the funeral for what I assumed would be a time of mourning in a fairly conservative church in a small, mid-western town. But I was pleasantly surprised, my judgement incorrect, for those two days were indeed a celebration of life more than clinging to the loss. Two hundred and fifty people gathered to eat, tell stories, and laugh.

Following the funeral, the family drove to the farm. We spent the afternoon driving the old Ford tractor down through the timber, chasing sheep (and being chased by the llama). We climbed to the top of the silo and to the hay loft of the big red barn. We talked, laughed, and ate more food. When the sun set, my aunt, uncle, cousins, parents and grandmother gathered between the farm house and the artesian well to shoot all the fireworks that remained in storage. With each explosion of light and crack of black powder against the even darker sky, our hearts lifted just a bit, and we knew it would be ok.

The next morning, we woke well before the sun touched the shimmering, moisture laden fields. As we drove away I accepted that it is time for the next generations to find solace in those beautiful hundreds of acres along the Raccoon River where the Pride of the Valley Farm yet grows healthy soy beans and tall corn. The mulberry, apple, and walnut trees continue to feed those who know when to reach into the branches. Great blue herons and sand hill cranes glide swiftly over the brown water while deer, raccoons, turtles, snakes, and foxes leave tracks on the sandy, river bars. Without computer nor even cell phone reception, this is my heritage, the one place that I feel most at home. This is where my story begins, and some day this is where it may end.

“Goodbye Grandpa, and thank you for everything. You should know that Grandma is still baking cookies. Just a few more for the rest of us now!“

When bouldering in Hueco Tanks this early fall, I discovered something profound. I was working on a problem that started with a series of heel hooks and hand-rail maneuvers, placing my body in a completely horizontal position. The crux move then, was to move from this linear position of balance and tension across the bottom of the roof to a far-reaching right-hand ledge which would cause both feet to fully cut, the left hand secure on the final extension of the original rail.

With the roof but five feet from the crash pad, it seems the swing, reach, and connection would be easily done. However, I fell short each of three or five attempts. I grew frustrated for I knew I was physically capable of doing so. The others had completed the problem. I was the last and only to have not done so. They were ready to move to the next problem. I asked, verbally, if it was ok for me to give it another few runs to which the answer was of course (in the wonderful tradition of climbing culture) a resounding yes.

One individual, whose name I forget, stood very near as I worked through the moves again, beginning to crux. And just before I attempted the move, as my hips swung once to the left to gain momentum for the release, throw, and catch, he said in a quiet voice, “Stop telling yourself you can’t do this. Just do it.”

In that instant I realized I had repeatedly fallen short by just a few inches, each time, because of what I was telling myself. I didn’t even have to convince myself I could, rather, just stop telling myself I could not. And I did.

I connected perfectly. My legs cut. My hands held, I brought up my right heal and placed it onto the same ledge which held my right hand, in a undercut hueco for which the area is famous. And a half dozen moves later I completed the problem.

When I jumped down I landed on a crash pad that sported a hand-painted butterfly. Hannah commented that it was her “send butterfly”, a reminder that she can send problems

The internal muscular, cardiovascular, emotional sensation of having completed a bouldering problem is similar to that of discovering a series of notes applied to a rhythm, the realization of music.

Both bouldering and playing piano invoke the quickening of my pulse, the warmth of my insides, the giddy sensation of connectedness, temporary expanded vision, and sudden sensation of resolution, a place in the universe. Both open me to possibility.

What if these are manifestations of the same? What if connection to a higher power is nothing more (or less) than fulfillment of need to guide one’s self, to create a path where one may not otherwise be obvious and to have the courage to follow it?

What then, if prayer to a higher power is truly granting oneself permission to recognize otherwise unseen paths and the wisdom to choose one over the other. Then proactive visualization is preparation to move as desired, a prayer to oneself that opens possibilities.

If this is true, then permission to send is a problem sent.

When a Macintosh dreams … it is not unlike you.

It tires of working in a corporate cubicle
next to windows only painted blue.

It wants to make a change,
to build a life that is simple,
to strive for something new.

So when you put your Mac to sleep tonight,
know that it dreams too.

Copyright 2000 Kai Staats

(originally published as an ad for Yellow Dog Linux, product of Terra Soft Solutions, in MacDirectory, Issue 7, 2000)

Foreign hands in distant lands,
begging forgiveness for what their ancestors have done.

Deep set eyes centered in traditional weave,
hidden features and dark skin perceived.

Who made the rules?
What god established the guides?

Who’s media controls what we see
when the bombs explode on our TV.

Wars over fertile soil in the name of heathen conversion, ancient tribes lost in misunderstood tradition. Green valleys and barren desert plateaus give rise to reforestation, agriculture, and snow. Mt. Herman in the distance displays its white fingers of sullen borders. Jordan and Israel at odds as the opposing General God gives misunderstood orders.

Distant lands held by foreign hands
in the name of protective interests and international affairs.

Collapse the diamond minds, dry the oil wells, and then who would care?

Oh, misunderstood Israel.

Civil Engineers, blind to the designs they create. Road builders as minute as the worm eat so that they may move, moving in order to consume. They assist in the decay of fallen trees and the crumbling of stone, insuring that the life pulled from the earth to support the giant is returned; repaid in full an extended loan.

Cut into the earthen skin of a New Mexico plateau, Chaco Canyon was once the home of the Anasazi. Skilled laborers carved at the solid rock, forming vertical stair cases and footpaths hundreds of miles long in order to conduct centuries of trade and travel. Their walled ruins remain as a testimony to one of this continent’s most incredible civilizations.

We are so pleased with ourselves when our hands have created objects that survive a few hundred years, a millennia, or more. But the breath of two thousand degrees consumes road, humans, and their homes. The mountains that the flowing rivers of lava envision and rush to fulfill persist for millions of years after we are gone. Our feeble attempts at mourning for the dead will go unnoticed when the fossils of ancient life lie secure in their earthen bed.

I have seen walls that welcome the light of the desert, morning sun. I have been within buildings who’s baked clay and mortar kept prisoners from freezing; alive so that they could be slain the following day. I have placed my hand on the walls that felt the radiance of bullets whose projectile paths were stained with a human heart.

Some walls hold within.
Some walls hold out.
Others cannot bare
the burden we
place on
them
and
fall in doubt.

© Kai Staats 1994

remain standing.
stay within the confined and uncomfortable space.

the one I feared most for his relentless battle cry of individuality without concern for those whom he battles.

the failure of my design.
i am now trapped inside my own strangling border.
I had merely intended to record my production.

i’d rather not get involved.
these people are haili and kicky.

those who remove the borders, cut down the barriers, topple the governments, preach to the mindful, and attempt to install a soul, a conscience.

dare to reach out and grab the knife, cut the border down, jam the droning machine that damns the futile attempts of the populous to remain individual and in power of their own lives.

turn the machine against those who installed its monitor gray eye.

the flight of ethiopians; their midnight swim to the anchor chain of the seabound vessel.
the naming of the battle their sister fights.

bring down what you know is wrong in hope of replacement by the right. without maps there could be no holy war. without borders there could be no conquering of territory or ownership of land.

god’s earth should not be divided into battling camps of raving fools.

© Kai Staats 1993

Intent on blue, hear only white. Feel the ground shake with the passing of the brown, gray, rolling brown and gray again. For days there is red, mountains liquefied at the source. It moves, shapes, carves, scrapes, and defines the valley of Deep Creek.

The racing water is a visual and auditory conglomerate as complex as the motion of the stones that it causes to collide. The music it generates is white, noise to some and a melody to others. White noise confusion. A constant wash that makes difficult hearing without raised voices. Small motions are lost in the wake of the large. The structural waves crumble and the entire mass of water rushes to the same goal.

The language of dolphins and whales: intricate, sensitive microphones scan for sounds the human ear cannot perceive. They amplify, rectify, verify, and qualify for the appetites of hungry scientists. The same patterns, the same intent, shifted into a different portion of the spectrum. The translation is justified as the means to communication. But how do we sound to them?

Within the rumble, the noise, the unbound frequencies, there is a communication seldom heard. Given a face, the creek smiles in its earthen bed, shaded by the aspen and fir high above the industrial wasteland. But the regiment of gravity is a relentless force and the motion is always down. The smile distorts; a frown intercedes. The course is altered, the bed filled with silt, the covalent bonds plugged with eager toxins.

If the creek were given hands, its multifold digits would draw a melody to touch the hearts of all that listen. With the voice of banshees, every stream on this continent would fill the air with pain. The greedy politicians, the avid industrialists, and those who just don’t give a damn would fall to the call of the sirens at sea, drowning in their own nuclear demise.

And if the creek had feet, and articulate legs whose muscles swirled with transparent sound, perhaps it would climb from the banks of its polluted channel to begin again on higher ground.

© Kai Staats 1993

“I love to hug a bug in a rug.”

Pacific Oaks School
Pasadena, California
1976