Wrong Place, Wrong Time....Right?

Winter here in Southern California is hardly harsh, but even so, 'tis a season.  And yet....

So here's what happened:  several months ago, when our days were shorter and the sun lower in the sky, a seed started to grow.  No one planted it.  No one planned it.  One day there was a little plant, growing from a crack in the garden path.  And it grew....and it grew...and it grew.

Wrong place, wrong time.

At first we weren't sure what it would be.  Large green leaves and long tendrils told us "squash, or something."  It grew some more.  Yellow flowers and little baby fruits starting to form, it grew some more.  Longer vines and bigger leaves ("Are we going to have to move out?"), it grew even more...and then we knew.  Pumpkin!

Pumpkin?  In February?

Wrong place, wrong time.  Right?

Now if my memory serves me right, Memorial Weekend is a good time to plant pumpkins for a fall harvest.  Yesterday I harvested five.  Five medium-sized pumpkins.  From one unplanted seed.  In May.

The ancient book of Ecclesiastes says that "there is a season, and a time for everything under heaven."  I sometimes think that we get so set in our ways, so rigid in our expectations, so demanding that things be "just so" that we miss all kinds of opportunities. 

"Wrong place, wrong time" and nothing grows. 

But then, every once in a while, nature throws a curve.  A seed grows out of nowhere, and suddenly there are pumpkins...in May.

I'm not sure what I'll do.  Maybe I'll carve a Jack-o-Lantern and hand out candy to passers-by. 

Now's as good a time as any, don't you think?

(c) May 2015, Fiechter.  Thanks for reading!  Please go ahead and share it--but if you're reprinting or including it in another publication, be sure to ask me first.

Funny You Should Ask

Even twenty-six years after her death, it's safe to say that Lucille Ball is still one of the most beloved personalities of all time.  Her groundbreaking work in television set the stage for much of what the world today considers to be funny.  And yet, when asked about what made her so funny, here's what that great comedian, actress and business woman told a reporter for Rolling Stone: 

"I am not funny.  My writers were funny.  My directors were funny.  The situations were funny....what I am is brave.  I have never been scared.  Not when I did movies, certainly not when I was a model, and not when I did "I Love Lucy."

Brave, indeed.  As it turns out Lucy had at least one of the great qualities of leadership: the ability to give credit where credit is due.  It is no small act of bravery to look around at one's life--at the successes that define us--and publicly recognize the reality that we have only succeeded with the help of others.  It's easy to blame others for our failures.  Naming those who helped bring about our success takes guts.

The truly brave among us live in the reality that the only thing "self-made" about us is the trap we fall into when we believe that we made it on our own. 

Avoidance

Over one hundred years ago tonight a marvel of modern technology laid in ruins at the bottom of the frigid North Atlantic.  As a stunned world blinked in utter disbelief, the "ship not even God can sink" was sunk. 

Decades of speculation drawn from the pieced-together stories of those who had survived tried to understand how the unthinkable could happen.  There was no shortage of theories.  It is only just recently that we have confirmation: the water-tight compartments would have kept Titanic afloat had she hit that iceberg head-on.  But because there was an attempt to avoid a collision, the gigantic steamer scraped alongside the berg and a gash was torn open in her hull--a gash that breached across the technology that had been designed to save Titanic. 

It's hard to imagine that a head-on collision would have saved Titanic--and the hundreds who sank with her.  But then again, more than a few lives have been sunk in the desperate attempt to avoid life's obstacles.

Apparently even technology can't save us from the disaster that looms when we fail to face our problems head-on.

What are you avoiding today?

Away

It's the land of wishful thinking, a place of hopelessly hapless dreams.  It's the land of crossed fingers and bated breath, of deferred payment and dismissed responsibility.  And it doesn't exist.

We have fooled and we have been fooled.  We have deluded ourselves into believing that there is a mystical, magical place where payment is never due and everything works out fine. Not a one of us has ever been there and no one has ever returned to offer a description, yet through the very clever, desperate, and sometimes despotic workings of our collective imagination we have created a convenient fantasy destination  We have bought the lie.

There is no Away.

There is no Away where we can banish those with whom we disagree, never to see them again.

There is no Away where we can send our neatly-wrapped problems, where they will be solved, rewrapped and returned, no postage due.

There is no Away where we can ship our broken lives for repair, waiting by the door for their neatly-packaged delivery.

There is no Away where we can send our refuse--the detritis of our overconsumption--where its effects will not be known.

I can't banish my enemies to a place called Away, and neither can you--because there is no Away.

I can't wish my problems Away, and neither can you--because there is no Away.

I can't throw my garbage Away, and neither can you--because there is no Away.

There is only Here.

We can continue the lie, that's true, and sooner or later the rising tide of reality will drown us all.  Or we can face the truth--and hope it's not too late.

Rise Up

It was early in the morning, and a Sunday to boot--so I might have expected those sprawling parking lots to be empty.  But it didn't seem quite right as I jogged my regular sunrise route through the conspicuously empty space. 

And then it hit me; it was Easter Sunday. 

In days gone by those lots would have been jammed packed with the cars of those who'd come from near and far.  Many will remember the great Easter Sunrise service at the Hollywood Bowl--each year drawing thousands from across the Christian landscape to trumpet the age-old early morning exclamation:  "Jesus is Risen."  This year not a soul had risen to come.

Another tradition gone, I thought, my shrug of indifference surprising even me.

Another dead tradition seems particularly poignant this year with the recent death of Robert Schuller and the reminder that a vision of a grand and glorious Christianity--with parking lots and pews overflowing with eager parishioners--is as dead as he is. 

I must admit, a small part of me is sad.  Death has that effect on me.  But the greater part of me is glad, because our traditions need to die.  And frankly, most of what passes for Christianity isn't really Christianity, it's merely tradition....and in the end it will die with us anyway. 

What will live on, however, is true and authentic Christianity--that which is based on the teachings of Jesus.  NOT what we say about him.  NOT the so-called "articles of faith" that we have devised about him.  NOT the traditions we make up that just happen to mention him....just Jesus. 

That's a challenging message for many, Christian and non-Christian alike.  But that's OK, because Jesus was all about challenge.  He didn't care about sunrise services and full pews and cathedrals (Crystal or otherwise) or whether people got their theology right.  Jesus cared about justice.  Jesus cared about truth.  Jesus cared about love.

Wouldn't it be great if what rose up in the place of yet another dead tradition was an authentic community proclaiming love and truth and justice, instead of yet another tradition that packs in the crowds today but will be gone as quickly as you can say "God loves you, and so do I?"

Then it might be Easter after all.

We Deceive Ourselves

It never ceases to amaze me how elastic many people become when faced with the simple truths of their lives.  Even when those truths seem to me as plain as the noses on their faces, the solutions to better, happier, more productive lives often seem to involve a set of mental calisthenics worthy of Rube Goldberg--with three words leading the routine:   "If only THEY..."

Why is it always someone else's fault when things aren't working out the way we'd hoped?

Now, truth be told, there are LOTS of times in life when we are justified in putting the blame for our unrealized potential squarely on the shoulders of others.  After all, we have as much control over how others treat us as they have over how we....um...er...treat them.  But were I a gambling man, I might wager that more often than we imagine, the keys to a happy and contented life are securely held in our own hands. 

Maybe it just seems too easy. 

So what is it that's holding you back?  Did someone say something that hurt?  Are you the victim of abuse or cruelty?  Is it time to share your story and take back the power they've stolen from you?

And what of those calisthenics you may have been doing?  Have you been bending over backwards to blame others for your own inaction?  Have you handed the author's pen to another and let them write YOUR story?

From what I hear, the truth will set you free.

My thanks for reading, and thanks for sharing!  Feel free to pass these "Acorns" along, and invite others to read and subscribe at www.realacorns.blogspot.com.

Happy spring!

Steve Fiechter

(c) Fiechter, 2015

    

Another Cat Story

He arrived as others had--uninvited but without a choice.  Someone moved and he was left behind--a sad story with no place to go.  Once upon a time he'd been well cared-for, warm and dry and fed.  Now the dangerous streets were his home--hungry and filthy and frightened.

This time it didn't take much convincing.  He would be better off in a home he hadn't chosen.  At least it was warm, and there was food.  The big cats who lived there were OK--maybe a little too cheerful, a little too touchy-feely....small price to pay.

It's been a couple of years now.  The once-nameless, homeless cat dressed in a ragged and flea-bitten suit is now sleek and shiny in his fancy tuxedo.  Quite a looker, with an appetite to match.  He's sitting under my chair as I write this, and I can hear him purring for no particular reason--or maybe for every reason. 

As I hear the strains of his song, I think how much we have in common--and wonder if my gratitude will ever match his.

Thanks for reading, sharing, caring!  Feel free to invite others to read--pass along a link or connect them with the blog:  www.realacorns.blogspot.com

(c) Fiechter, 2015