The Year-End Countdown…10-9-8-7-6-5-4-3-2-1

10-9…Whoa, slow down, relax. You’re getting ahead of yourself.  It’s not time. It’s coming, soon enough. Meanwhile, the dealer still shuffling the deck, more hands to deal. The 2022 year’s game is still in play.

We shouted it in, but it soon settled down,

And got down to business and stayed.

But now it’s time and cards are worn thin,

Only one last hand to play.    

It came with a quest and trailing behind

Its pomp and fire gone stale.

Where once the lust of days before

Are now but a vapid tale.  

So here we are, looking over the horizon. It looks empty. Some resemble an abyss, others blue sky. Some leap forward, headstrong and sure; others take strides with timid steps. But we all move forward. Behind doesn’t exist. It’s called History.   

 

We all take our spots at the table of life

While the Dealer shuffles the deck.

When done he says, “It’s time to deal,

Ante up and quit looking back.”

 

A spirit passes before our face,

The hair of our flesh stands up.

The clock of years long gone before,

Like cards that brought us luck.

8-7…Stop it. We’re playing the game now. Oh, we know the game. We don’t control the shuffle or the dealing. We must play the hand we’re dealt. There is no other way. To cheat is to set in motion the cosmic repercussions of the Fates. 

 

His fingers are nimble, his cards are alive,

They glow with a luminous light.

One up, four down, you have no choice,

You get what the deck dishes out.

 

Your hope is mocked by the upturned card,

The Dealer has a mischievous grin.

You curse the draw, but the card must be played,

The deuce, one helluva way to begin.

But begin we must. We bring with each new year remnants of the past, stuffed full like bags of discarded Christmas wrappings that were once disguised surprises. Instead, like a sponge, we infuse them. It’s hard to get rid of the past.

 

There once was love that lured life on,

A kiss that shook the earth.

Where is it now, a vanished dream,

The ghost of an ephemeral birth.

 

We played the cards the Dealer passed,

Some won and others lost.

The drama of the days gone by

The passion we miss the most.

6-5… Not yet. Relax. Ah, the sorrows and joys of life, the loss and the gain, the pain and the pleasure. A blend into the mosaic of ourselves. It’s who we are, for better or worse. But to labor on either is futile, for the Dealer continues to deal.

 

Regrets, Oh, yes, we’ve had those, too,

Sometimes too many to bear.

But like an echo in the caverns below,

They fade in the vaporous air.

 

Longfellow’s words, neither bagpipe nor dirge,

To frame it he takes no sides.

For Defeat may be victory in clever disguise,

And the ebb is the turn of the tides.

4-3 …Back off the counting. Too soon. Start over. Miles left to go. Patience, pilgrim, patience. It’s been a doozy of a year. Pandemics, political acrimony, threats abroad and violence at home. How do we play such a hand? Color me red, or color me blue, define my gender, my ‘fair share,’ too. All, works in progress.

 

The end is in sight, this game almost done,

There’s not much more we can do.

A little rest, micro-seconds at best,

And we’re ready to begin anew.

 

We played our hands the best we could,

We gave ‘em our very best shot.

No matter if we won or lost,

We always got part of the pot.

 

We cheered the year in, we’ll cheer it out,

We endured it to the end.

It’s age and breath at last worn out,

It leaves us to begin again.

2…Too close for comfort. Let’s deal the last hand, play it for all we’re worth, singing words from Robert Herrick:

“Gather ye rosebuds while you may,

Old time is still a flying.

The same flower that smiles today,

Tomorrow will be dying.”

And now we hear the distant band,

It’s tuning up to play,

For auld lang syne is close at hand

To celebrate the day.

The dealer is folding now and leaving the Number One for you…you’ll know just when to shout it

                                                                             * * * 

Here’s wishing for you a Happy New Year and a year full of aces in 2023. Ring it in. Time is short.  Live big.

Bud Hearn

December 30, 2022

 

 

Wisdom from the East

 

There is a pocket-sized booklet of quotes from such notable dispensers of wisdom as the Dalai Lama, Lao Tzu, Suzuki, Matzu and Jiddu Kaishnamati and others. Now these are not necessarily household names, but their quotes perpetuate the myth that wisdom only comes from the Eastern Zen masters.

It sorta makes some sense that anybody living a celibate life in a mountain cave without social media might have some clarity of thought.  Strangely, Trump was not quoted, only Biden, “Now here’s the deal.” Mud often gives the illusion of depth.

I flip through the pages which are little more that rip-offs to put in your shirt pocket for the day’s devotion, like wisdom from a fortune cookie. Now only the Chinese restaurants serve fortune cookies you know.  The last one I got read, “See Rock City.”

Let’s take a few of these tidbits of wisdom and see if they fit into our polarized, pressurized, and socialized life. Try this one: “Enjoy your problems.” You have yours, I have mine. My latest is trying to enjoy this new knee that Santa brought 45 days ago. What have I discovered? Compassion is short-lived.

Here’s a good one from Suzuki somebody-or-other: “In the beginner’s mind there are many possibilities, but in the expert’s there are few.”  Have you noticed that everyone considers themselves an expert in something? I did once. Until I discovered that “Not creating delusions is enlightenment.” So much for picking stocks.

Now Ma-Tsu has a good one for everyday meditation if you’re into that sort of thing: “The tighter you squeeze the less you have.”  I picture my palms open to the heavens, my prayer ascending thereto, my petition for mammon, lots of it. I see a Ben Franklin float down into each palm, my fingers squeeze them tightly. Then the heavens speak, “Son, you have to let go to get more.” Oops. Such irony.

I don’t know what age one has to attain to understand that everything’s changing, and nothing remains the same. But whenever enlightenment reveals it, we’ll agree with this one: “One is never afraid of the unknown; one is afraid of the known coming to an end.” Amen?

How many times have we faced a dilemma that seemingly was a Gordian knot, a conundrum unsolvable by the human mind? And if Google can’t help, where do we go for a solution? We’re not alone. Back a few centuries ago a fellow named Wumen Hukai was advised to “Live by letting things happen.” He meditated on this for a few years and came up with: “Since it’s all too clear, it takes time to grasp it.”   Maybe it’ll clear up the confusion of your gender or personal pronoun.

Such wisdom. Can it all emanate from the East? It’s difficult to find much around here these days, on the airways, the newsprint, the constant blabber of Twitter. So let me pass on to you one of my favorites pontificated by a South Georgia friend: “If you do not change direction, you may end up where you are heading.”  Avoid the herd.

Enough of this silliness. Now down to business. We’re in the Christmas season and encounter ‘wise men from the east’ following a star. Ask any woman if they believe there are ‘wise men.’ They’ll answer, “No such thing.”  They won’t be joking. 

Anyway, these star gazers were called ‘magoi, a Persian word meaning ‘star experts.’ They followed a star to Jerusalem seeking the Christ child. We know they were wise because they weren’t duped by King Herod. And they found the answer in a manger in Bethlehem. We should take serious note of the duplicity of authority these days.

Back in the summer a mockingbird sat on the office deck railing and sang its heart out. So many tunes. It was a joy to hear it. We’ll celebrate Christmas by singing our old familiar hymns: Angels We Have Heard on High, Away in a Manger, Silent Night, O Holy Night, Joy to the World and others. Perhaps we’ll even spot a special star, or satellite. 

* * *                                                                                                                                                                  

An ancient Chinese proverb is applicable: “A bird does not sing because it has an answer: It sings because it has a song.” And we will sing our songs because we, like the ‘wise men,’ have found The Answer.

May joy fill your world and health fill your stocking this Christmas. Merry Christmas from The Weakly Post.

 

Bud Hearn

December 21, 2022         

 

 

Shackled to a Screen

 

“Lay no foundation upon which you build yourself a cell.”  Father Abbot Zeno, Zen Buddhist

 * * *

‘Tis the season to be jolly, the carols sing. Christmas is near. And here I sit getting acquainted with my newest body part, a knee. Maybe the Christmas season is not the best time to replace failed body parts, but when is? But like a flat tire, you can’t go anywhere till it’s fixed.  

So my shopping limits itself to the little 3” x 5” iPhone cell in my hand. I order, they ship. What a deal. Amazon has the answer for everything. They even offer me multiple suggestions day and night. Thinking is unnecessary anymore with this little marvel of human creation.

But as I sit looking at it, another thought captures my mind. Maybe I’m yielding some personal freedom to the convenience it offers. And there are many conveniences contained in those little micro-chip apps embedded in the device. I’m not alone in this thought.

I was coming out of the post office the other day, well, let’s say I was hobbling out to be correct, and ran into a friend. He’s consumed with the cell screen as he walks in, checking this, checking that.

I tell him shove it in his pocket, get into the present moment. He tells me it is his present moment, every moment. He says he’s become a slave to the wretched device. He says he even dreams about it. I ask him to explain this addiction.

His eyes take on this wild and glittering glare. “It’s like this,” he says. “Every night I dream the same thing. I dream that ten thousand years in the future another alien culture is excavating the ancient ruins of our culture. There are no monuments of famous people, no soldiers upon bronze horses, no obelisks, no church steeples, religious symbols anywhere. They’ve all been removed.”

“Well, they’re doing a pretty good job of that now,” I say.

“But what’s strange is that they have all been replaced,” he says.

“Replaced with what?” I ask.

“Replaced everywhere, with sculptures of concrete hands, hands with fingers reaching to the sky, and holding high the bronzed replica of an iPhone 99. And inscribed on the base of those colossal sculptures is this: ‘Our Redeemer.’”

“That’s not only strange, but it’s also a weird vision of the future. Maybe you’re a prophet,” I add.

He laughs at that, and I tell him to take a big swig of eggnog before bedtime and dream of visions of lollipops dancing in his head.

Such encounters get me to thinking about cell phones in general. What is it about this tiny computer that has caused us to fall in love with it? It’s like a new body part, it’s become indispensable. We carry it in pockets, purses, vehicles. We sleep with it, it reminds us of things, it talks to us, it connects us. It has so captivated our curiosity that we’re slaves to it.

Slaves, you say? No way. We’re free, we can put it down anytime we want. Really?

Now look me in the eyes and say it’s not so, tell me you can live without it, tell me you’re not its prisoner of your own choosing. You’ll no sooner say it than it will mock you.

Try to put it down, not look at it. Time yourself. You jump when it beeps, you flinch when it vibrates. Without it you feel naked and fearful. It’s your alter ego.   You’re tethered to this cursed contraption. Run, but you can’t hide.

Maybe you’re not having nightmares or visions of the future, but one thing is certain: our culture, which includes you and me, has become enticed, allured, tempted and drawn away of our lust for all things convenient and ‘now.’ We’re seduced by its applications, its stealth creeps in like an invisible ghost and robs us of our time and joy of the present moments.

How did we get into such a fix? Little by little, like boiling the frog in cold water. Before we know it, we’re cooked, hooked and shackled with the invisible ball and chains of modern technology. 

Is there any way out of this prison of dependence? Like any addiction, abstinence is the answer. Break the chains, bubba.

 * * *

Ok, maybe I’m being too dramatic, but I’m hooked same as you. It’s all up to us…enjoy its benefits and avoid its pitfalls. Moderation pays dividends.

So long for now. Fed X is at my door.

 

Bud Hearn

December 12, 2022      

 

“Hey, children, hear that sound, everybody look what’s going down.” Buffalo Springfield 

* * *

Listen. The music has stopped. The sound you hear is the herd stampeding to the exits. What’s going down?

It disappeared faster than a lightning bolt. With just the click of a computer keyboard, billions of crypto currencies vanish without a trace, no trail, vaporized into a cryptic world thinner than air. And guess what? Your stash, your dreams of wealth, up in smoke.   

Was it a dream? Social media lights up the digital world, asking questions: “What happened to the money?” Rich yesterday, busted today. How can so much vanish in the blink of an eye?

Fingers point, accusations blame: Fraud, deceit, embezzlement. Answers are demanded. But none come. The crypto universe is mute. The Voice that called it into existence no longer speaks.

We remember how it began. He was a MIT genius, a financial wizard that comes along every so often. He spoke with the voice of authority, “Let there be money,” and if as by magic there was money, money created out of thin air. How?

Easy. The Voice thought, “I will parallel my world of crypto currency after the Federal Reserve’s world of ‘fiat’ and call it crypto.” And then The Voice speaks, and that which was not now is. And he looked upon it and said, “It is good. Something from nothing.”  So it seems. But wait, there’s more.

The Voice continues to speak, extolling the virtues of his creation, pandering to the unstable souls drooling with greed to become the next billionaire. The vaults overflowed, so much money, I’ll give some away, he says. I’ll buy politicians for power, lavish largess upon charities. My status will be elevated beyond measure.

The Mystic’s magic mushroomed like an enormous nuclear cloud. It sucked into its vortex all those unrooted in common sense, those who thought “nothin’ from nothin’ leaves nothin’” were just words from a song by Billy Preston in 1974. The toxic fallout was soon to reveal the error of their thoughts.

And so it did. Here we are today, asking to no one listening, “Where’s my money?” The Voice, our guru of financial legerdemain, our cult leader, where is he? He disappeared, like the money. But we’re asking for the wrong person. Consult your mirror, it will answer immediately.

The carnival has moved on, leaving its litter of dashed hopes and dreams strewn over the failed financial landscape. Someone else is left to clear the debris of this failed enterprise.

How did this happen, we ask? Now what? And just then it begins to sink in…fools gold. And we were fools to believe that nothin’ from nothin’ yields somethin’.

Lest we of like passions contemplate casting stones, let’s close the door on this gordian knot, this latest saga of hysteria run wild. We’ll do that by seeking wisdom from a Rubaiyat by the 11^th Century Philosopher-poet Omar Khayyam, one who well knew those passions:  

 

     “The Worldly Hope men set their

       Hearts upon Turns Ashes—or it

       Prospers; and anon, Like Snow upon

       the Desert’s dusty face Lighting a little

       Hour or two—is gone.” 

* * *

      No advice is offered except this: Better luck next time.

 

Bud Hearn

December 1, 2022