Monthly Archives: January 2018

Chronic

Chronic: (adj) (of a problem) long-lasting and difficult to eradicate.

There are several maturity banners that are displayed on our human journey. These are truths which are not always comfortable, but if denied, can put us in a chronic state of misery.

For instance:

  1. Nobody is going to do what you want them to do.

People imitate, they steal, they deny that they got what they have from you–but no one wants to admit that they are not autonomous and require assistance..

  1. The fewer categories you put people in, the better off you are.

When you start delineating by culture, color, sexual orientation and even gender, you get yourself in a horrible, tangled mess of misconceptions.

  1. And a third one is the realization that sometimes the solution is more painful than the problem.

Although we extol the value of solving dilemmas, we can often end up in more red tape, difficulty, struggle and misunderstanding than if we just learn to adjust our temperament and approach to the problem.

For instance, it is rather doubtful that poverty will go away. The more we complain about it and compare our levels of indifference, the less people get fed.

Go someplace where they offer two sandwiches for a decent price. Buy two. Eat one yourself and give one to a hungry person on the street.

You didn’t solve the problem–but you also didn’t trap yourself in a chronic search for an unattainable solution.

 

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Chromosomes

Chromosomes: (n) nucleic acids found in living cells, carrying genetic information in the form of genes.

My brow crinkles and I sprout a sneer every time I see the commercial about the lady who had her DNA tested and discovered she was 26% Native American. With that information she plans to direct her life toward studying the culture of the tribes, the original inhabitants of
North America.

Really??

It seems we just continue to bounce aimlessly back and forth between two walls, like a red rubber ball.

Wall #1: “I am completely at the mercy of my chromosomes and genetic code.”

Wall #2: “I can be anything I want to be and am not trapped by my DNA.”

I suppose the American solution to this quandary is to offer the tepid response, “Well, it’s a little bit of both…”

But it’s not.

Even if we have certain inclinations, mannerisms or quirks that may spring up through our birthing code, they can be addressed and even altered.

It is difficult to be the master of your own fate when you’re still subject to your father’s sperm and your mother’s egg. It is certainly impossible to envision a world where we submit to being human beings instead of cloistered in the definition of our original tissue sample.

There is a phrase written in the Good Book which proclaims that transformation of our spiritual life actually causes us to become “new creatures.”

I don’t know why this wouldn’t be popular.

I don’t know why some woman on television feels she must refer to her child as a “pappoose” now that she realizes that one-quarter of her passed through the teepee.

Something is wrong–and the reason it’s wrong is the manifestation of why everything is wrong.

Whenever you’re trying to play something both ways, just in case one way doesn’t work out, you always end up looking stupid.

Make up your mind.

Are you merely the result of your parents’ sexual encounter and goo, or do you have the power, through freedom of choice, to steer your destiny in the direction of your favorite star?

 

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Chromatic

Chromatic: (adj) a musical scale including all existing pitches

I have sung for decades.

This doesn’t mean I’m a good singer–and I’m not trying to be humble. Singing is similar to chasing a butterfly–because you may be able to
see what you want to capture, but it can quickly flit away.

Sometimes your voice is not in good shape. Humidity can affect it–and stubbornly insisting you are on pitch is the best way to be out of tune.

So one of the best exercises for singing is practicing the chromatic scales up and down. Moving your voice only a half-step teaches you precision–and exposes those occasions when you might find yourself rubbing up against the correct tone but not actually owning it.

Now, if you’ve never sung, this may not mean anything to you. If you’re a singer, some of this may not mean anything to you.

But the reason I continue to sing is because it’s a wonderfully humbling chamber for the human ego, because there are three obvious realizations:

1. You’re at the mercy of your voice

2. There is no excuse for bad tone or bad pitch

3. There is always someone who will sing better than you.

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Christmas Tree

Christmas tree: (n) a decorated tree at Yuletide

“If you want a tree, go get it yourself.”

That’s what my dad said when I was fourteen years old and asked him why we had not put up our tree as of yet, at Christmastime.

Normally the practice was to pick a tree and decorate it on my birthday–one week before Christmas. But for some reason, December 20th had rolled around and nobody had even mentioned getting one.

I was offended, disrupted, angry, bewildered, uncertain, out-of-spirits and generally and profoundly rebellious, in the most adolescent way possible.

So I complained. That’s what I knew how to do.

Since I had asked at least a half a dozen times about the tree, I felt it was time for me to object. he option provided for me by my dad was to go get a tree myself.

This was plausible because our family owned a little farm outside the town, where we grew some Christmas trees. So I had my brother drive me out to the location, grabbed a little hatchet and headed off through the snowy ground to bag myself an evergreen.

With my chubby legs and being severely out of shape, I was completely exhausted from the walk to the pines–ready to give up on my mission. After all, it wasn’t my fault. I was not in charge. If the damn family didn’t want a tree, then we should be treeless.

But the problem was, that included me–and I didn’t want to be treeless.

So braving the cold, little hatchet in hand, I found what I thought would be a good tree and began to whack at the trunk.

My hatchet had obviously been purchased by Davy Crockett when he went to the Alamo and not sharpened since. The first three strikes at the tree trunk didn’t even split the bark. So as not to bore you, I will shorten this story by telling you that an hour later, sweat pouring off my face, I finally got the tree to give up its roots and prepare to move to my home.

The trunk was an absolute mess. It was not a cut, but rather a massacre. But I drug it out, my brother and I put it on top of the car, and we drove it to the house. He kindly helped me saw the bottom off to make it even so we could put it into the Christmas tree stand. To add insult to my effort, it ended up being too tall. We had to cut off part of the top.

But eventually it sat in our living room, waiting to be adorned.

That evening when my father returned from working at his loan company, he stepped into the house, looked at the tree, and said to me, “Is that the best tree you could get?”

I didn’t respond to him directly, but in my mind I thought, “Yes. It’s the best tree I could get. Because this year it’s my tree.”

 

 

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Christmas

Christmas: (n) the annual Christian festival celebrating Christ’s birth,

It is a place where children’s dreams, corporate profits, spiritual journey, peace on Earth, goodwill toward men, angels from on high, wise men from the East, shepherds in the field, toy makers, advertisers, lovers, believers, doubters, commercial achievers, thinkers, elves, saints,
 snow, cold, trees, colorful decorations, lights, music, chorales, cookies, candy, fruitcake, nuts, over-zealous, unimpressed, warring factions, unwed mothers and candy canes meet for a brief moment to find fellowship, purpose and joy with one another.

It is Christmas.

 

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Christian

Christian: (n) a person who has received Christian baptism or is a believer in Jesus Christ and his teachings.

Montanian.

Please describe. Yes, take a moment and grant me your visual interpretation of a typical person who lives in Montana. Here come the
stereotypes:

  • Cowboy hats.
  • Rodeos
  • A slight drawl in speech
  • Independent thinking
  • Might even carry a gun or two

That is what we think about Montana. If we encountered someone who lived in Montana who did NOT fit any of those stereotypes, we might feel a little irritable, wondering why they insisted on living in our Montana.

Christian.

As long as we cling to the typical stereotypical definition of what this creature seems to be, we quickly will find out that Jesus, himself, would not make a very
good Christian.

  • He did not favor ceremony.
  • He didn’t like being called “good.”
  • He didn’t seek the praise of people, but rather, encouraged them to prosper in their own faith.
  • He certainly wanted to be known for his teachings instead of the time he spent on a cross.
  • And it was his habit to rebel against any tradition and formality which took away the intimacy of personal belief.

So the truth is, when Jesus is presented the way he really was, we get irritable.

How dare he be a Jewish Messiah, fulfilling Old Testament prophesy as the “Lamb who was slain from the foundation of the world,” and instead, present himself as the Good Shepherd, who welcomes everybody and does not think that judging others is a legitimate practice.

 

 

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Christ

Christ: (n) the title, also treated as a name, given to Jesus of Nazareth

From the original Greek, the word “Christ” means “Anointed One.”

So much like religion–one definition requires a second definition.

What is anointed?

Is the Christ the only Anointed One?

Are you anointed?

Am I anointed?

Or is it a religion because there’s only one anointed person, who is worshiped by scads of non-anointed followers?

When I read the New testament, especially the Gospels, I can envision Jesus as a person. It’s when they start working hard to make him the Christ, fulfilling
Testament prophesies and legitimizing traditional practices, that I tend to duck back into the shadows.

I often wonder if Jesus would consider himself the Christ, the Anointed One.

We do have the occasion when he deflected praise for being God from a rich young ruler.

He constantly elevated the floor plan of people’s lives by telling them that “their faith made them whole.”

Is it possible that all of a sudden he turns into this opulent Son of the Most High God, who declares himself to be the Anointed One?

And it begs the question: do human beings require an Anointed One? Does somebody have to be perfect, free of sin and sent from the heavens in order for us to be impressed and impacted?

I woke up this morning to a world of white, layered in snow. I looked out my window and watched as a man in a car braved the elements, sliding his way over the ice, out onto the main thoroughfare of humanity.

That was pretty impressive. I wouldn’t call him anointed, but I did stop for a second and applaud him.

What does it take to touch us as people?

We are touched when we’re around other people who are burdened by our same difficulties, and still have not given up.

That’s what moves us.

Jesus did pretty well with the multitudes.

But Jesus Christ lives in a more uppity neighborhood.

 

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Chow

Chow: (n) food.

There aren’t many things about which I am a purist.

I greatly believe that human beings have the right to phrase, think, pursue and even live out their hearts’ desire.

This doesn’t mean there aren’t ideas and phrases I find annoying–and one of those peccadilloes is when people decide to get cute about
describing eating.

I personally like the word “eat.”

I see no reason to make it more clever. So when people refer to food as “chow,” and slap me on the back, asking me if I’m ready to “chow down,” I suddenly turn into a German Shepherd and want to bite them.

After all, German Shepherds do chow down. They put their faces in bowls and stuff the food into their mouths until it falls out the sides, returning to the bowl to continue their slurping and crunching.

I am not a German Shepherd.

I don’t eat chow, and therefore, I don’t “chow down.”

I also don’t like to pull myself up to the old feed trough. (There seems to be an animal theme going on here…)

I don’t like to shovel food.

I don’t particularly care to inhale my food.

I really do just like to eat.

And I don’t want to be prissy about it, but when I hear the word “chow” I think of someone who wants to convey he or she has been in the military, or a 13-year-old girl who thinks she’s cool because she knows the Italian word for “good-bye.”

 

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Chosen

Chosen: (adj) having been selected as the best or most appropriate.

Without spraying dark, sticky thoughts into the air, I must admit that if I knew what I know now, I might not have chosen to be born.

I don’t think I would have chosen Mary and Russell as my parents. Considering my youthful antics, they might not have chosen me.

I certainly would not have chosen to be raised in the Midwest of the United States during a season when prejudice, bigotry and self-righteousness were considered to be “American values.”

I wouldn’t have chosen to be fat. Even though some people try to gain their self-esteem while encased in blubber, the excess poundage does take its toll.

I don’t know exactly what I would have chosen–I mean, I could continue this list and probably offend everyone I know.

But I certainly would have chosen Jesus.

This is not because I’m a religious person. Matter of fact, I have been known to doze off immediately at the mention of prayer.

It’s the practicality.

It’s the humanity.

It’s the responsibility that Jesus of Nazareth placed on himself and his followers that lets me understand that he “gets it.”

He gets what it means to be a human being on this planet called Earth. I don’t know if his manifesto would work on other planets. I don’t know anything about habitation in other galaxies.

But Earth requires a certain payload to launch your rocket.

I’ve chosen that.

I fail at it, and as long as I realize it’s a failure on my part and not a master plot against my happiness, I’m usually just fine.

I don’t know what else specifically I would have chosen.

I would not have chosen a career as a writer, because criticism and obscurity are your only friends.

Would I have chosen to pen this essay? Probably not.

I got up in a rather relaxed, lazy mood, and your interest just didn’t interest me that much.

So I’ve chosen, at times, to persevere–even though the immediate benefit does not scream its worth.

 

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Chorus

Chorus: (n) the. part of a song that is repeated after each verse

I’m a songwriter. Let’s just leave it at that.

I grow weary of the sentences that follow proclamations, trying to convince the listener of the credibility and importance of the proclaimer.

Obviously, if I were a great songwriter you would know me. Even if I were a great songwriter who was under-promoted, you would probably be familiar with something I have written.

I write songs because they are the most gentle way to communicate a message to a hearer. There’s something about melody, harmony and even rhythm that brings down our defenses, opens our hearts and exposes our soul.

Even a good songwriter who may not be great will tell you that it’s all about the chorus. Some people refer to it as a “hook chorus”–the part of the song that’s easy to remember, using as few words as possible to communicate volumes of ideas.

Simple. Singable. Often rhyming. And dare I say, clever.

These are the attributes that go into a good chorus, which follows a heartfelt verse.

For the truth of the matter is, many people will never remember the narrative of a song, but the chorus will be hummed and regaled for years to come.

After all, the Beatles got by with:

“Na, na, na, na-na-na-na

Hey Jude…”

Certainly an economy of syllables, producing a monster of memories.

 

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