THIS IS THE LAST TIME I QUOTE RUMI. EVER.

I hesitate to write this post. I’ve been contemplating it for weeks, and this is probably the worst time to write it because of my current state of mind and emotions. But, as it happens, a wise and wonderful woman convinced me over coffee in Old Town Alexandria yesterday morning to do it. She reminded me I wrote the book, Great Big Small Things, not for me, but for others and that those people--like her--came to this obscure blog to read and learn more. I pleaded that my current heartache would make the posting too personal and too dark, but she replied that I was allowed something personal. That it might have some bearing on the world around us, so I should be genuine and put it out there. Thank you, Elena. The spark in your eyes gave me the courage to write this and, as I promised, I write what is on my heart on this cold, rainy Wednesday morning.

I will never quote Rumi again.

I curse the day I stumbled upon Mevlana Rumi’s ruinous Diva-e Shams. I wish I’d never come across them or, at the very least, that I could go back in time and stop myself from ever reading his words, for I’ve lived them and they’ve shaped me into something I cannot seem to control. Something hard on the outside— strong of mind and body--yet brittle and roiling and dumb beneath. I blame Rumi, and I turn away from him now.

I should be like other men and worry about interest rates and stock prices and my 401K. My mind should be enthralled by NFL scores and stats and tires and hunting and such things. Instead, I read Rumi.

I stupidly think of starlight and how it travels millions of miles and years to reach my eyes. And I wonder if I seen it before. I think of the singularity--the place where soul meets the body. If pain transmutes or if we can shed it like a skin as we cross over. I wonder about the eyes of a bee and what they must see when they flutter around us. I consider the taste and smell of honey or a pear that drips its syrupy juice and see a thin, ruddy, beautiful face and hear a distinct, sweet voice. I waste my time caring about what holds us to each other and to the world around us. If on a sub-atomic level—like String Theory suggests—we are one because of the tiny vibrating waves that hold together each thing. Is this the music of our souls? Are these the notes of our great human symphony?

I wonder about the difference between our hearts and our souls. We humans put so much faith in our hearts. We even have a symbol for it that we use to represent love. Yet, we have no understanding of our souls. You could never draw it, nor do we have days assigned to it. It is overlooked and rarely considered, and yet, it is more important than the heart. Love resides not in the weak heart, but in the everlasting soul.

The heart is but an organ—an ill-designed mechanical pump, so delicate and complex. It is limited in size and scope and bound to the place it rides in our chests. It cannot overfill, for if it does it bursts and our life ends. The soul, on the other hand, is limitless. It expands to our greatest joy. It is where God lives and speaks to us. The Shekhinah.

Like an endless accordion file it opens again and again on itself to hold our passions and thoughts and prayers and loves and power. It can hold every moment of a whispered breath and all the pain and suffering in the world. Holocaust, genocide, rape, hunger, loneliness, despair, hopelessness, anger, terror, pain and suffering all fit within it. It’s the soul Rumi made me understand. The soul I’ve sought to know and for which I search in myself and others. And he’s damned me with it.

This kind of thinking leads to the opening of your mind and soul and that is where trouble and pain come in.

Rumi poems are like thick, amber honey held out to parched lips. They are sweet and strong and fill you like you’ve never eaten before. They cover your tongue and run down your throat like a trail of fire opening a way to the hidden soul. To those who eat of it willingly it provides not just sustenance, but becomes like manna. It opens the soul and white-hot light comes from within and changes you in an instant. You begin to believe in blue skies, and soft flower petals and that the most powerful thing in our human world is the sound of a baby laughing. You see hope in everything and a brother and sister in everyone. You wake and go out into the front yard and open your wings to rise into the sky where you float on invisible bubbles of warm air.

You believe, therefore you see.

He is sly, and dangerous, for he uses mundane things like wine and the wine bearer, the pearl and the ocean, the sun and the moon, the night and day, the caravan, and pilgrimage to make us believe he is writing about the world in which we all live. But that is a lie. He is writing about the world within us. The soul we hide. His words burrow into us and crawl into the folds of our brains and lodge there. Suddenly we are thinking of love and lips and kisses and eyelashes and smiles and the feel of warm fingers on cold skin. He traps us with his words until we can do nothing but see what he sees. Who can resist wine? Who can turn away from the moon?

But Rumi, in his ecstasy, denies the tangible world in which we live. When you seek the soul, you must turn inward and go so deep there is no sound or light or heat. It is a peaceful place. Yet, does the turmoil of the world around us disappear? No, it is still there with all the rules and laws that govern it and us.

When you climb a tree and go out on a limb to better see the beautiful indigo bird, you must remember the translucent truth of gravity. If you fall from the limb, you will continue to fall downward until you come into contact with the earth. If you fall from the limb you end up where you started. On the ground below the tree. You cannot be the same person again even though you were just in that place a moment before. There is pain from the landing. Perhaps a dislocated shoulder or broken bone that twinge each time you see a tree. And you are now weary of climbing any tree. They are suddenly too tall. Too thin of limb. Too difficult. Climbing trees is a silly way to spend your time.

I have kept my eyes on the soul and ignored the truth and laws of my natural world. I’ve fallen and— bruised and bloodied and broken—risen again to keep searching. Because I read Rumi. Because I quote Rumi. Because I think in his damned way and whirl like his dervishes when my soul opens to joy and love and kindness and kisses so deep and warm they make you into a single being traveling across space in toward the source of the starlight. I have been damned by his words, and cursed by my own soul.

Honey that once tasted so sweet—like there could never be anything sweeter come from God’s own hand—is bitter gall to me now. I spit it out of my mouth like yellow bile and watch it wriggle on the ground as it rots the dirt and kills the grass. So, this is the last time quote Rumi. These are the last of his words that spit out to rid myself of them and him. You have been dead for 800 years and remain dead. Take this back from me and ruin some other with it. For I refute it and will never quote you again.

"The minute I heard my first love story
I started looking for you,
not knowing how blind that was.
Lovers don't finally meet somewhere.
They're in each other all along."

Never again.

RANDY PAUSCH WAS SELFE-POWERED

Remembering the author of the "Last Lecture."

Randy Pausch, the Carnegie-Mellon professor whose "Last Lecture" to his students (former and current) wife, three children and colleagues became a viral sensation on the Internet, has succumbed to pancreatic cancer. In true Randy Pausch style--and because I watched and am a big fan of the lecture--we won't get into the details of his death, but rather we'll celebrate his life. Randy taught at UVa. when I lived in Charlottesville, and while I did not know him or his family, I have friends who did and say he was one of the most encouraging, entertaining and genuine people they’ve met. He was Selfe-powered! *(A new term I'm using to describe people who care about the Great Big Small Things;-)

Randy knew his cancer was terminal when he delivered what was actually titled, "Really Achieving Your Childhood Dreams,” yet, instead of being gloomy and sullen it was one of the most inspirational talks I've heard. It made me, and countless others around the world, want to live--and to live better lives.

He began by showing the audience scans of his liver tumors and explaining his grim diagnosis. "That is what it is, we can't change it, and we just have to decide how we are going to respond to it," he said. "We cannot change the cards we are dealt, just how we play the hand. If I don't seem as depressed or morose as I should be . . . sorry to disappoint you!"

He went on to provide some amazingly simple, humorous and heartfelt insight into living life fully and without regret:

SOME RANDY PAUSCH LESSONS

To live well, a person must first be grateful for being alive

Being alive and living does not mean that one has beaten the Grim Reaper

What matters more are the things that a person does between birth and death

The unchanging fact is that the Grim Reaper will come for every single one of us

To beat the Grim Reaper, a person has to live fully and well

To live well, a person must follow their heart and passion, and do what he/she is excited about

If a person has not found their passion yet, continue searching

A person should never give up the search for passion

Without passion, all a person does in life in merely waiting for the Grim Reaper

Passion is not found in material things

If a person uses material things as a measure of living well, they will always find other people around who have more of those things. This will lead to discontentment and unhappiness

Passion must always be grounded in people

Passion is about the relationship a person has with other people, and how they are able to gain the trust, respect, and love of those around them

Like passion, true love is worth searching and waiting for

A person should not settle for anyone, but rather, seek the person whose happiness is more important that one’s own

When the Grim Reaper shows up, it is already too late to do all the things you wanted to do, but did not get around to doing

At a person’s deathbed they are likely to regret what they did not do, not what they did

Randy says there are always obstacles (like cancer) in life, but he believed they serve a purpose. "The brick walls are there for a reason. Right? The brick walls are not there to keep us out, the brick walls are there to give us a chance to show how badly we want something. Because the brick walls are there to stop the people who don't want it badly enough," he said in his lecture.

Thank you Randy, for leaving the world a better place. God speed.

***(I tried unsuccessfully to upload the YouTube/Carnegie Mellon video of Randy's Last Lecture. If you'd like to view it, please go here and watch http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ji5_MqicxSo&eurl=http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=92922083)

FRED SELFE FIELD OF DREAMS

Phase One Nearing Completion

I stopped by dear ole Emory last week and was pleasantly surprised at the condition of Fred Selfe Stadium. The turf field is down and they are gluing in the numerals and stripes. The brick wall is up and they've cleverly chosen a beautiful white masonry cap for it--which looks absolutely gorgeous! The 12-foot fence was going up that very day around the entire complex. The supports for the massive new scoreboard (rumored to have instant replay capability!) are up and they were bricking in the bottom half. Earth moving equipment was furiously running back and forth from the east end of the field to the western end (Van Dyke/Brock end) to create the new "Wake Forest" effect of a grass hillside forming an angled wall as the western entrance. The massive concrete supports were up for the new lights. Giant rolls of tiny flecks of crumbed rubber--made from recycled tires--sits ready to spread atop a layer of sand in between the synthetic grass blades fiber woven into a poly fabric.

It was a treat to spend a hour talking with Coach Bob Johnson and run into Dr. Don Reichard (who was pumping iron next door.) Coach J offered to give me a brief tour and explained the entire building process (Phillipe, the French-Canadian supervisor of the company laying the field says Coach J has been on the field every day overseeing the laying of each brick and each load of dirt.) I left heading south re-energized and ready to help Coach Don Montgomery and the Wasps have a stellar 2008 season.

If you'd like to see more visit E&H's web site and take a peek. If you're in the area, stop by and see it for yourself. (Five or six cars slowed down to take pictures in the 30 mins. or so we were on the field;-)

Oh, and if you haven't donated, please do so now as we wrap up Phase One and get ready (after 2008 season) for the big Phase Two (new stands, new amazing field house.) Just drop a check in the mail to Emory and Henry's Dev. Dept. and note that you read about the excitement here and had to get involved!

Blue and gold shall reign on high!

SUMMERTIME

“Come to the edge, he said.
They said: We are afraid.
Come to the edge, he said.
They came.
He pushed them and they flew.”

COACH BOB JOHNSON

Honoring a Great Servant Leader

Please join me and many others for a day of honoring the 27 years of blood, sweat, tears and service of basketball coach/teacher Bob Johnson. This Saturday, Jan. 19 at Emory and Henry College:

2PM--Tip-off of men's basketball game
Halftime--Special Presentation
Following the game--Reception
4PM--Tip-off women's game
6PM--Reception for Bob Johnson at Townhouse Grill in Chilhowie

Come and show your support and thanks for a true servant leader and a great friend of Fred Selfe.

CHRISTMAS TIME

Wishing you and your family and wonderous and merry Christmas! Please remember the true reason for the season and give what you can to help others. Keep others in your prayers--including your enemies--for they need it more than anyone.

On a personal note: Please keep Coach Bob Johnson in your prayers. He is undergoing cancer therapy at Methodist Hospital in Houston, Texas. Coach J recently resigned as head basketball coach at Emory and Henry after more than 27 years to move to Houston and he and his family need/deserve our support during these trying times. According to the college sports blog: "Bob Johnson has built a national reputation for his coaching, having taken five teams to the NCAA playoffs, two of which finished in the Sweet 16. In April 2007, the National Association of Basketball Coaches awarded him the Division III Service Award, which was presented at the NCAA Final Four tournament. Johnson finishes his E&H coaching career with 370 wins and 334 losses. He was honored three times as Old Dominion Athletic Conference Coach of the Year and three times as the NCAA South Region Coach of the Year."

I wish you all the best in 2008 and look forward to seeing and hearing more about your growth and good deeds!

Dale

QUICK THOUGHT TO START THE WEEK

Bird Watching

I spent Sunday afternoon at the very southern tip of Fort Fisher. I parked my car at the end of the road (literally) and sat looking across the Cape Fear Sound. I was intending to go for a run and maybe study some ideas for packaging a client's product but the sun, blue sky and quiet lapping water had warmed my soul and, perhaps, made me so introspective I just wanted to sit and let my mind go for a bit.

I sat with the forty-foot-tall mound of sand marking the last redoubt (aptly named Mound Redoubt) (thanks to roaddog from Illinois for correcting me. "That would have been Battery Buchanon you were at if you were down by the rocks, south of the ferry.The Mound battery was further to the north and a part of the main fort.." Thanks for reading and thanks for the help in making the post better;-) in the old fort at my back looking across the acres of marsh that spread out along the eastern edge of the land leading it out to the breakwater ridges of sand and scrub guarding the sound from the Atlantic Ocean. As I jotted down some notes on a recent multimedia project a shadow darkened my padfolio and I looked up to see a great white bird gliding over. I recognized it as a Great Egret; about 3-4 feet high and with a 4-5 feet wingspan. It circled the marsh for a few minutes then parachuted to the ground.

The bird touched down about 75 feet away and, after a few position adjustments, straightened its back and stared back at me. There we were: the bird looking at me thinking 'what is that thing and why is it looking at me?' Me looking back making up that scenario of the bird thinking about me. For some reason, perhaps I was tired of watching and wincing at the woman out in the water learning to windsurf and falling face first into the chest deep water each time she tugged the plastic sail up from the water, I watched the bird for half an hour.

There was a simple elegance about it. Once it had gotten used to me, it stood looking patiently out over the reeds on two long, spindly black legs. It didn't move for the entire thirty minutes. Then, without any warning, it jabbed it's long yellow beak down into the reeds and came up with a silver. struggling fish. It shook the fish once, then tossed it up and swallowed it. Then it went back to standing and staring. Very efficient, and obviously, very effective.

Again, I felt introspective. A life insurance salesperson would say that life is a long process for most. They could even show a life expectancy chart to prove it. When we want something, we usually run around trying to make it happen. How much of that running helps us achieve or get what we want? The Great Egret flew around finding the best ground, landed, then patiently stood watching until the fish came by, then WHAM! it struck with precision. Lunch, or a late afternoon snack or third meal...or whatever egrets call their eating times.

The egret proves that planning is important, patience is vital and striking quickly makes all the difference in a beak full of mud or a great lunch. This week try being the egret: plan carefully (make sure you've chosen the very best hunting ground) then wait for the right opportunity and strike quickly and with precision.