"We're not unemployed?" she asked. "How's it we're not unemployed?"
"We are not unemployed," he said. "Nope we are fully deployed."
"Not making any money."
"Don't matter. There's stuff to do."
He thought,
Unemployed nope we are fully deployed.
"So what are we then?" she asked.
Their vehicle rattled at the red light. Dents, the family workhorse, and its two hundred thousand and some miles. It was Saturday morning. Downtown. Nearing the farmers market for her fresh fruits, vegetables. Hot, hot, already so hot. Steady steamy seedy sweat on his, her upper lips.
She asked again, "So what are we then?"
He said, "Pre-revenue."
"That's what we are? Pre-revenue?"
"Yup."
"Not unemployed," she said. "How're they different?"
"One's looking up. One's looking down."
The red light turned green.
He thought,
One's hope. One's fear.
Sixteen million of us people.
Pre-revenue people?
Unemployed people?
Berryman just then he recalled.
"Unite my various soul"
Coiled, wound inside and out he wondered alone,
Who are you guy?
Who're us people America?
Rattling Dents past the red light turned green.
--tim
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Friday, August 12, 2011
Friday, July 22, 2011
Sitting On The Porch
Quiet summer days this year.
Kids are growing up.
Moving on.
Moving out.
It's just us often alone together these quiet summer days.
These days have been good days to notice what poet Wendell Berry saw as
They Sit Together on the Porch
They sit together on the porch, the dark
Almost fallen, the house behind them dark.
Their supper done with, they have washed and dried
The dishes - only two plates now, two glasses,
Two knives, two forks, two spoons - small work for two.
She sits with her hands folded in her lap,
At rest. He smokes his pipe. They do not speak,
And when they speak at last it is to say
What each one knows the other knows. They have
One mind between them, now, that finally
For all its knowing will not exactly know
Which one goes first through the dark doorway, bidding
Goodnight, and which one sits on a while alone.
(-Wendell Berry)
--tim
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Kids are growing up.
Moving on.
Moving out.
It's just us often alone together these quiet summer days.
These days have been good days to notice what poet Wendell Berry saw as
They Sit Together on the Porch
They sit together on the porch, the dark
Almost fallen, the house behind them dark.
Their supper done with, they have washed and dried
The dishes - only two plates now, two glasses,
Two knives, two forks, two spoons - small work for two.
She sits with her hands folded in her lap,
At rest. He smokes his pipe. They do not speak,
And when they speak at last it is to say
What each one knows the other knows. They have
One mind between them, now, that finally
For all its knowing will not exactly know
Which one goes first through the dark doorway, bidding
Goodnight, and which one sits on a while alone.
(-Wendell Berry)
--tim
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Friday, July 1, 2011
Our "All In" Revolutionaries
These words were sent by a friend today in a blast email. Not sure who originated them. But they are good. Timely. And reflect revolutionaries who were All In.
Enjoy and Happy Independence Day. You are a great American!
---
Have you ever wondered what happened to the 56 men who signed the Declaration of Independence?
Five signers were captured by the British as traitors and tortured before they died.
Twelve had their homes ransacked and burned.
Two lost their sons serving in the Revolutionary Army, another had two sons captured.
Nine of the 56 fought and died from wounds or hardships of the Revolutionary War. They signed and they pledged their lives, their fortunes, and their sacred honor.
What kind of men were they?
Twenty-four were lawyers and jurists. Eleven were merchants, nine were farmers and large plantation owners; men of means, well educated. But they signed the Declaration of Independence knowing full well that the penalty would be death if they were captured.
Carter Braxton of Virginia, a wealthy planter and trader, saw his ships swept from the seas by the British Navy. He sold his home and properties to pay his debts, and died in rags.
Thomas McKeam was so hounded by the British that he was forced to move his family almost constantly. He served in the Congress without pay, and his family was kept in hiding. His possessions were taken from him, and poverty was his reward.
Vandals or soldiers looted the properties of Dillery, Hall, Clymer, Walton, Gwinnett, Heyward, Ruttledge, and Middleton.
At the battle of Yorktown, Thomas Nelson, Jr., noted that the British General Cornwallis had taken over the Nelson home for his headquarters. He quietly urged General George Washington to open fire. The home was destroyed, and Nelson died bankrupt.
Francis Lewis had his home and properties destroyed. The enemy jailed his wife, and she died within a few months.
John Hart was driven from his wife's bedside as she was dying. Their 13 children fled for their lives. His fields and his gristmill were laid to waste. For more than a year, he lived in forests and caves, returning home to find his wife dead and his children vanished. A few weeks later, he died from exhaustion and a broken heart.
Norris and Livingston suffered similar fates.
Such were the stories and sacrifices of the American Revolution. These were not wild-eyed, rabble-rousing ruffians. They were soft-spoken men of means and education. They had security, but they valued liberty more. Standing tall, straight, and unwavering, they pledged: "For the support of this declaration, with firm reliance on the protection of the divine providence, we mutually pledge to each other, our lives, our fortunes, and our sacred honor."
They gave you and me a free and independent America.
---
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Enjoy and Happy Independence Day. You are a great American!
---
Have you ever wondered what happened to the 56 men who signed the Declaration of Independence?
Five signers were captured by the British as traitors and tortured before they died.
Twelve had their homes ransacked and burned.
Two lost their sons serving in the Revolutionary Army, another had two sons captured.
Nine of the 56 fought and died from wounds or hardships of the Revolutionary War. They signed and they pledged their lives, their fortunes, and their sacred honor.
What kind of men were they?
Twenty-four were lawyers and jurists. Eleven were merchants, nine were farmers and large plantation owners; men of means, well educated. But they signed the Declaration of Independence knowing full well that the penalty would be death if they were captured.
Carter Braxton of Virginia, a wealthy planter and trader, saw his ships swept from the seas by the British Navy. He sold his home and properties to pay his debts, and died in rags.
Thomas McKeam was so hounded by the British that he was forced to move his family almost constantly. He served in the Congress without pay, and his family was kept in hiding. His possessions were taken from him, and poverty was his reward.
Vandals or soldiers looted the properties of Dillery, Hall, Clymer, Walton, Gwinnett, Heyward, Ruttledge, and Middleton.
At the battle of Yorktown, Thomas Nelson, Jr., noted that the British General Cornwallis had taken over the Nelson home for his headquarters. He quietly urged General George Washington to open fire. The home was destroyed, and Nelson died bankrupt.
Francis Lewis had his home and properties destroyed. The enemy jailed his wife, and she died within a few months.
John Hart was driven from his wife's bedside as she was dying. Their 13 children fled for their lives. His fields and his gristmill were laid to waste. For more than a year, he lived in forests and caves, returning home to find his wife dead and his children vanished. A few weeks later, he died from exhaustion and a broken heart.
Norris and Livingston suffered similar fates.
Such were the stories and sacrifices of the American Revolution. These were not wild-eyed, rabble-rousing ruffians. They were soft-spoken men of means and education. They had security, but they valued liberty more. Standing tall, straight, and unwavering, they pledged: "For the support of this declaration, with firm reliance on the protection of the divine providence, we mutually pledge to each other, our lives, our fortunes, and our sacred honor."
They gave you and me a free and independent America.
---
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Friday, June 24, 2011
Dog Is Good
(NOTE: This post is from the book LOVE, YOUR MOTHER which may be purchased here)
---
Harrigan, the family dog, our graying 'round-the-eyes-stinky-sorta-deaf old golden retriever, moves real slow these days. Letting her out when it's way-below-zero on deep-winter mornings in January and February makes me cringe. It's a gamble every morning as she darts into the dark cold snap. Her odds of making her way back to the warm kitchen shorten every day.
"Don't you go out there and drop over in your tracks, animal," I'm thinking those mornings. "There's no sorrow in my bin for you if that happens. Not this winter."
By the time she's finished her business and is back inside, the hound is dancing on hind legs, jumping and huffing and wiggling with her tongue drooping all around. She's ecstatic. Of course she is. She's about to get her bowl of chow. It's the same bowl of round brown pellets of chow she ate yesterday and that she ate the day before that and that she ate every day of every one of the 13 years she's been in our family.
She's like this every morning. Out of her mind ecstasy. This old dog and her brown chow.
I puzzle over Harrigan in the mornings.
"Imagine this," I wonder. "Imagine being this happy every day at the same time of every morning when the same bowl of brown dog chow gets stuck beneath your nose."
I'm learning something here. "You're seeing pure, absolute gratitude in this animal every day, same time, no matter what's going on in the world outside our door," I'm thinking.
And me? I don't remember what I eat for breakfast. Or even if I eat.
"Why's my tongue not slobbering, lapping all around and why's my hind-end not power wiggling when I pour myself a bowl of Bran Buds?" I wonder.
Harrigan's on a joy ride, a shimmy of pure ecstasy. Even when it’s way-below-zero outside. Even though she's almost, what, a hundred years old in people-years. Even though it’s the same brown chow every morning. The stinky, old family dog. On a joy ride. Seeing something I don't often see.
Seeing all as gift.
You are teaching the man something, Dog; teaching me lessons about receiving, gift and gratitude for ALL things in life stuck beneath my nose.
-tim
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---
(NOTE: This post is from the book LOVE, YOUR MOTHER which may be purchased here)
---
Harrigan, the family dog, our graying 'round-the-eyes-stinky-sorta-deaf old golden retriever, moves real slow these days. Letting her out when it's way-below-zero on deep-winter mornings in January and February makes me cringe. It's a gamble every morning as she darts into the dark cold snap. Her odds of making her way back to the warm kitchen shorten every day.
"Don't you go out there and drop over in your tracks, animal," I'm thinking those mornings. "There's no sorrow in my bin for you if that happens. Not this winter."
By the time she's finished her business and is back inside, the hound is dancing on hind legs, jumping and huffing and wiggling with her tongue drooping all around. She's ecstatic. Of course she is. She's about to get her bowl of chow. It's the same bowl of round brown pellets of chow she ate yesterday and that she ate the day before that and that she ate every day of every one of the 13 years she's been in our family.
She's like this every morning. Out of her mind ecstasy. This old dog and her brown chow.
I puzzle over Harrigan in the mornings.
"Imagine this," I wonder. "Imagine being this happy every day at the same time of every morning when the same bowl of brown dog chow gets stuck beneath your nose."
I'm learning something here. "You're seeing pure, absolute gratitude in this animal every day, same time, no matter what's going on in the world outside our door," I'm thinking.
And me? I don't remember what I eat for breakfast. Or even if I eat.
"Why's my tongue not slobbering, lapping all around and why's my hind-end not power wiggling when I pour myself a bowl of Bran Buds?" I wonder.
Harrigan's on a joy ride, a shimmy of pure ecstasy. Even when it’s way-below-zero outside. Even though she's almost, what, a hundred years old in people-years. Even though it’s the same brown chow every morning. The stinky, old family dog. On a joy ride. Seeing something I don't often see.
Seeing all as gift.
You are teaching the man something, Dog; teaching me lessons about receiving, gift and gratitude for ALL things in life stuck beneath my nose.
-tim
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---
(NOTE: This post is from the book LOVE, YOUR MOTHER which may be purchased here)
Monday, June 20, 2011
Welcome & Well Treated
Capital goes where it is welcome and it stays where it is well treated.
So said Walter Wriston, the legendary captain of high finance.
Makes you wonder with all the chatter about jobs, jobs, jobs today,
Where is capital welcome and well treated?
Seems pretty simple. If it's jobs you want, then welcome the capital that goes into creating jobs and do whatever you can to treat it well.
Funny how hard we make this for ourselves.
Creating jobs is scary stuff. People are hired into new jobs to expand new markets, launch new products, build new companies. None of this comes with guarantees. The only sure thing is the risk. And the fear of it all.
So as leaders yak about jobs, jobs, jobs, it's weird you never hear them talk about how they'd welcome the job creators, how they'd make sure this capital is well treated.
This is like the world of technology for most humans. Confusing. Formidable. Intimidating. Mysterious.
When welcoming and treating job creation capital well, why not make it inviting, reassuring, helpful, and inspiring?
You want to get jobs moving, why not invent The New Jobs Store for inventors, entrepreneurs and innovative managers?
A-first-of-its-kind kind of store.
A place where you'd experience the magic of jobs.
A place that could be a lot like The Apple Store.
So said Walter Wriston, the legendary captain of high finance.
Makes you wonder with all the chatter about jobs, jobs, jobs today,
Where is capital welcome and well treated?
Seems pretty simple. If it's jobs you want, then welcome the capital that goes into creating jobs and do whatever you can to treat it well.
Funny how hard we make this for ourselves.
Creating jobs is scary stuff. People are hired into new jobs to expand new markets, launch new products, build new companies. None of this comes with guarantees. The only sure thing is the risk. And the fear of it all.
So as leaders yak about jobs, jobs, jobs, it's weird you never hear them talk about how they'd welcome the job creators, how they'd make sure this capital is well treated.
This is like the world of technology for most humans. Confusing. Formidable. Intimidating. Mysterious.
When welcoming and treating job creation capital well, why not make it inviting, reassuring, helpful, and inspiring?
You want to get jobs moving, why not invent The New Jobs Store for inventors, entrepreneurs and innovative managers?
A-first-of-its-kind kind of store.
A place where you'd experience the magic of jobs.
A place that could be a lot like The Apple Store.
Friday, June 10, 2011
What We've Received
What do you suppose it takes to notice all that we've received?
Maybe a moment or two a day, one here, one there.
Asking, wondering not what've I done but what've I received.
Fear loses its grip when I notice that all that I have, I have because, know it or not, it is received.
Yes, we all have this to do, there to go and hurry now to get after that.
But the real gift is a moment or two of noticing the Giver is here inviting me to trust, receive and enjoy what I have.
--tim
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Maybe a moment or two a day, one here, one there.
Asking, wondering not what've I done but what've I received.
Fear loses its grip when I notice that all that I have, I have because, know it or not, it is received.
Yes, we all have this to do, there to go and hurry now to get after that.
But the real gift is a moment or two of noticing the Giver is here inviting me to trust, receive and enjoy what I have.
--tim
twitter tjmorin
Wednesday, June 8, 2011
What Guys Do
Guys don't do Sad. Instead they do Mad.
Guys love Glad. To that they drink.
Ask guys to Feel. It'll get em to Think.
Fear. No guys do Fear.
Guys do Mad when they're really Sad and they love to do Glad and to Think when they Feel.
But Fear.
No. Guys don't do Fear.
Guys do everything, anything from going it alone to building great armies to running from themselves and those they love, conniving, controlling, cahooting and lying, whatever they can do that can possibly, improbably, impossibly be done, a lot of guys will do to have nothing to do with Fear.
--tim
twitter tjmorin
Guys love Glad. To that they drink.
Ask guys to Feel. It'll get em to Think.
Fear. No guys do Fear.
Guys do Mad when they're really Sad and they love to do Glad and to Think when they Feel.
But Fear.
No. Guys don't do Fear.
Guys do everything, anything from going it alone to building great armies to running from themselves and those they love, conniving, controlling, cahooting and lying, whatever they can do that can possibly, improbably, impossibly be done, a lot of guys will do to have nothing to do with Fear.
--tim
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