The Poet Dunbar, or, Something About Sanctity

O Lord, the hard–won miles
Have worn my stumbling feet:
Oh, soothe me with thy smiles,
And make my life complete.

The thorns were thick and keen
Where’er I trembling trod;
The way was long between
My wounded feet and God.

Where healing waters flow
Do thou my footsteps lead.
My heart is aching so;
Thy gracious balm I need.

- Paul Laurence Dunbar, “A Prayer,” 1895

I was blessed by a poet. 

One of the cool things about living in Downtown Lynchburg are the beautiful nature trails that weave the fertile banks of the James River. These generous paths are sanctified by the local bicyclists, hikers, joggers and walkers. I used to jog on those happy trails—until one day—I discovered the running track at the Paul Laurence Dunbar Middle School For Innovation. 

My new sanctuary. 

I've had a few sacred places in my life. When I lived in Echo Park, my kitchen nook was The Joint. The nook was a modest built-in-table-for-two with a café light for good vibes. It even had a low-budget view of the Hollywood basin and windows that opened out, not up. Everything was better in the nook. When I lived in Washington Heights, the Hudson River was my front yard and Guru. I would contemplate the teachings of my Master from every window in the apartment.

I am constantly on the look-out for enlightenment. 

The Dunbar track was close to home. I considered the ten minute walk past the streets of Court, Clay, Madison, Harrison and Federal a warm-up to the grand awakening. The epiphany of Dunbar took some time to develop. At first I was simply jogging on an empty track—which felt more like luck instead of a pattern—but over time I realized I was consistently the only person there. Eventually my jogs turned into gentle meditations on the nature of being. With each lap I would admire the poetry of the P. L. Dunbar scoreboard which reminded me the score was always tied: HOME zero, GUEST zero.

On an oval, the start and finish lines are one-in-the-same. 

Sometimes I would jog in reverse, or, I would sprint across the football field contemplating velocity, or, I would throw my Frisbee to a groundhog, or, I would capture a feeling with my lens, or, I would take off my shoes and lay on the grass and look up at the clouds—and I would thank the Poet Dunbar for bringing a new sacred into my life.

The holy has a way of finding us.

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Constantly Camping, or, Tending to Sophia

Our philosophy is simple and was conceived when we decided to move from Manhattan to Lynchburg. As y'all know, we've been in the LYH for over three years now, so our darling progeny, albeit moody, is battle tested and confident. Today, on Thursday, May 28th, we would like to formally introduce you to our sixth jellybean, Sophia. And for the sake of clarity, Sophie is a concept not an edible. And yes, we are hippies, and proud of it. Peace, man. Dee is my partner. When I say we, I am talking about the two of us. Dee asked me how we would go about actually introducing the Sophster to our pals. I asked on top of her ask, ‘How about a blog post?!’ She was like, ‘Okay, but since your blogs tend to be, respectfully, esoteric, maybe we can give them a for instance, you know?’ I being the coffee maker in the family, and Dee being otherwise everything else, happily responded with a hearty ‘Truce Lee!’ who is our second born jellybean and often invoked to quell a possibly uncomfortable confrontation that might morph into an awkward silence. For instance, in relation to Sophy not Truce, we enjoy the legume. Lately we've been buying the red kidneys in a 40oz tin. We add onions, garlic, and curry and serve them with brown basmati and avocados with generous heaps of cilantro and lime. Yum, especially with a legit pour of cabernet. Remember back in the 70s? I'm talking to our fellow tie-dyers now. Electric can openers? Hell yeah. Nothing brings me back to California sunshine and redwood hot tubs more than an electric can opener. But we don't have one. We don't even have one of those cheap ass manual twisty doodads. Nah. We use one of the blades on our multitool, which in our case is a stainless steel, fits in your pocket, built to last, Leatherman. The can opener blade is a tried-and-true classic. It takes approximately 50 punches of the blade to open a 40oz tin of beans. Using the blade slows one down, focuses the mind, makes you appreciate the simple things in life like shelter and water and affection. In the 70s, my Uncle introduced me to backpacking. Everything you needed you carried on your back, or in the case of affection, in your heart. Tent, sleeping bag, canteen, gorp, sterno, a blade. Paring down your existence is good yoga. Less is more. So the concept of Sophia might have manifested in the distance between Manhattan and Lynchburg, but the idea of constantly camping has been a grounding influence for us hippies since, at the very least, the rise of the disco ball.

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Nothing but Good Feelings

Look outside, what do you see? Nothing but good feelings.

I struggle with the dark passenger. It's true. Even on the best days. But I was raised in Los Angeles in the 70s, a time when booze was lemonade, ashtrays were in airplanes, and getting roasted by the sun was far out. I knew I was moody. But we never talked about mental health when we passed the potatoes. I loved climbing on rocks and running real fast, but I didn’t realize that both of those things helped me avoid confrontation, you know, with people. I never really contemplated why I was an introvert. In fact, introvert? Not in my vocabulary. I didn't know what an alcoholic was. Cancer? I'm a kid, I am invincible. We didn't talk about why people died. They were just no longer around. I didn't comprehend that being alone was the happiest part of my life. The other parts were terrifying.

I'm not the best friend. Not the best son. Not the best coworker. Not the best partner. But I somehow manage to find my way. It's as though I have an extra compassionate gene, like the hugest C gene ever. That's what I tell myself anyhow. I justify being not the best on one hand with being the absolute best on the other. And I rely on this compassion to offset the melancholy.

It's taken me decades to deconstruct the dark side. Yes, therapy might have been quicker, but in my yoot, sports were better. I still love sports but I also love reading and pattern recognition and awareness. I've learned to self-medicate with herbs and a yoga mat. Nothing has really changed in regards to my good feelings. They are extraordinary. And nothing has changed with the darkness. I can name it now and I am prepared. I prepare with a knowing that love is always on the other side.

Look outside what do you see?

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