Prodigal Poet: An Ecclectic Offering on God, Shakespeare, and the Beatles

One of our weekly rituals occurs on Wednesday evening . . . Kevin and I snuggle up to watch "Ghosthunters" -- about two Roto-Rooting plumbers by day, turned paranormal experts by night. I'm really rather obsessed with anything relating to ghosts. I can't get enough of ghost specials such as on Discovery or Travel Channel. It appears as though Jason and Grant (the co-founders of TAPS - The Atlantic Paranormal Society) also have their rituals. Almost every week they split the hour into two separate ghost-busting visits. And as they drive away from the client meeting of the first location they bump fists and Jason says, "On to the next." This always amuses us . . . I'm not completely sure why. The other repetition that I've noticed lately happens while they are taken on the tour of the location that they are about to investigate. The client relays various stories to TAPS of the types of paranormal experiences that have happened in that particul

Cover me in sweet surprise Free of regimen and raw election With soft protection From light From heat From hollow wind I am tired I am worn Sometimes we need the darkness

Kevin and I finally watched yesterday a movie that we'd been wanting to see for ages now . . . "Lars and the Real Girl." Any time a more quirky, independent movie comes out, you can bet we'll want to see it. We love movies that are quirky, darker, and unique (yes, and even downright weird). And not just for the sake of being different, but because those are the types of movies that we relate to more -- the types of movies that more accurately reflect who the two of us are as human beings. Neither of us fit terribly well into the mainstream. We're like the two random trout that swim upstream, in a school easing down. I have always felt like an outsider, sometimes, even in my own family. I have never really felt like I fully belonged anywhere. I have a close family; I have friends; I have acquaintences. But in every group that I find myself, I feel as though there is some part of me that is hidden. I think that part of the reason for this is because I

Sometimes it comes quietly. Sometimes it arrives violently. Sometimes it is met with shock and surprise; sometimes with long-held expectation. It is the culmination of life's every moment, every matter. It is feared; it is loathed, and occasionally, welcomed. Whatever it is, I don't think that it is the end. I don't mean to sound macabre, but death has been on my mind lately. It's not a subject I tend to spend hours upon hours thinking about. But my mind does naturally wander into the dark and dusty labyrinth of all things existential now and then. It's only human. With life, comes death. How can one avoid thoughts of it completely? While I certainly don't think it's healthy to dwell on the topic of death, I also do not think it healthy to never confront it either. It's one of those vastly complex subjects that has physical, spiritual, and philosophical importance. Death is different to everyone, on some level. For some, death is merely the

I have been on a lot of family vacations while growing up. Most of them were trips to Minnesota to see my mom's family or to Ohio to see my dad's family. But now and then we would travel elsewhere to New England, Tennessee, or Michigan. We never went to Disney World, or California, or Mount Rushmore. We never really did do the "grand adventure" type vacations. But that never bothered me too much, because what we did do, we made the most of it. There have been many insanely wonderful times throughout those trips. Most of them would probably be mundane, in fact boring, to people outside of our family. But for some reason, those subtle, simple (trivial you might say) memories are my favorite. Usually they are moments of complete and utter silliness. If you don't know my family, then you don't know just how very silly we all are, especially when we are together. There is a certain ease when we are all together . . . the way in which a child easily fits i

For some reason, tonight some haunting words came back to me, to weave their way through the vast complexities of my soul. When I first heard them I felt a warming pain that both stung and comforted me in the same moment. These were not just words . . . they were a beckoning of the surrendering to our own agendas. They were more than syllables, vowels, and punctuation. They were a mourning for the loss of selflessness. These words hit me, and hit me hard (I love when things do this!). I'll admit, I'm moved by things quite easily. I frequently find beauty in the subtleties of life. But this was one of the most beautiful statements I had heard in a long time. The words of which I am speaking are from Elizabeth Alexander -- the Inaugural poet from this last January. In her poem "Praise Song for the Day" she spoke this line: ". . . love with no need to pre-empt grievance." This may mean little to nothing to most people, but for me, this is such a profou

Being that Autumn is about to brush across the landscape with yellows, coppers, and russets, my thoughts begin to turn toward many upcoming holidays, including my birthday (September 30), our anniversary (October 22), Halloween, Thanksgiving, and Christmas. Holidays always seem to be a time when memories of the past come drifting back -- memories of old family stories, places we used to live, people that we've lost. Things that we forget about in our day-to-day business . . . this is the time to feel them flood and wash over us, sometimes with the power of a tsunami, other times with the gentleness of a late summer rain. Last Thanksgiving we were fortunate to have the company of my aunt and uncle from Ohio (my dad's sister and her husband). She is all that remains for Dad of his immediate family. There are many cousins and nieces and nephews, and such . . . but his parents and oldest sister are now gone. There is much closeness between my dad and Aunt Phyllis; and it