At Peace Alone Under The Super Moon

 Tonight, I took my dog for a walk down to the trail that's behind the park near my house. The trail cuts through a wetlands area that remains pretty much in tact. Pristine. Native. Untouched. It's exactly what someone traveling by covered wagon back in the 1800s would have seen and felt. Bumpy, unforgiving, but still beauty forged in Nebraska's harshness. 

To the east, Salt Creek winds slowly, trailing toward the Platte and then on to meet the Missouri. The Salt's steep banks rein the wetlands in at that direction. A line of houses, gifted with fantastic views of all this glory, border the wetlands in going the opposite direction. To the north snails Interstate 80 about a mile's walk away. To the south, a small tributary that feeds the Salt Creek forms the fourth barrier. Beyond it is the city. In the middle of all this snakes an oval loop about a half mile in length. 

Along this path, you can loom over the Salt's cliffs to look down. If you're lucky, geese will greet you in the water below. The trail will also put you among dying trees where deer have worn a path in and out among. Trees already dead. Trees waiting to die. You'll stand beside trees aged and snarled by winds running wild for centuries. You'll stand below trees stuffed with black birds who will mock you. You'll peer upon trees fallen and torn, now soggy in the creek's water, causing long, steady ripples.

That's the place my dog and I are headed. Off to see the moon. The soon-to-be Super Moon. Mother of all moons, the space experts tell us. We take the path to the middle of it all. And we stand there, prairie grass up to my belt. Crunchy. Brown. Wise with age. Just my dog and I staring at that moon. Huge. Bursting. Damn glorious. Crevices visible like an X-ray. Visible in a way humans don't get often with the naked eye. Commanding attention. Demanding thought. And so I do. 

I think about how humble she makes me feel. How small. I think about how limited my view is compared to hers. I think about how I feel inspired. And grateful. And I wonder if others somewhere else are also staring. Attention all in. Thinking. Wondering. 

Then I see something move. Maybe 35 or 40 yards to the southeast. A deer. Just walking. Oblivious to me and my dog. Desensitized by the civilian life that's constantly creeping closer. The homes. Storage spaces for rent. Schools. Gas stations. Businesses. My dog, otherwise perpetually nervous, twitchy, full of anxiety, is utterly still and quiet. He knows something is up. And then I reach for my camera. And I ruin everything. I upset it all. The deer knows we're there. We lock eyes. She's waits for me to jump. I wait for her to do the same. The only difference, she views me as a threat. So I don't move. And Slim, my dog, he's like a statue.

We stay that way. Minutes go by. Until the deer starts to walk. Not run. Not trot. Not even looking at us anymore. Just walking like before. And I go back to staring at the moon, but the significance of what just happened isn't lost on me. That two things that don't want anything from each other can just do their thing. Like stand in a field alone. Isolated. Sheltered from the nonsense going on outside this small space. The chaos. The constant barrage. The negativity smelling up the air. But not out here, under this moon. Out here, the air is fresh. It's better. It's right. Why can't it be the same out there, too?   

And I start to think how it is. I start to think about a friend. More like a brother really. A brother I might not agree with as much anymore about some important life issues, but a brother I identify with. Someone I've went through shit with. Someone who worked hard for what he has. We both did. We got what we got by doing quality work consistently. But he's a proud Trump supporter. I voted proudly for the other candidate. We're both passionate about what we believe. He texts. Asks to have lunch. To talk about these things. Like brothers. I realize, it can be this easy--sincere dialogue. You just have to ask for it. And I think, I'm lucky to have these friends who are like brothers.  

My dog and I start to walk back, stopping every so often to stare at the moon some more. I look at my phone to check the time. "5:55." Three of a kind. Good luck. So I make a wish. And as Slim and I reach the sidewalk near the street, my wife drives by, and I'm reminded of something she told me the previous day, something her cousin's wonderful girlfriend said about the two of us: "You two always seem so much in love." And I think, "What better compliment is there?" "How many people never get anywhere near this?" And the coincidence of her driving by just then isn't lost on me. 

And Slim and I keep tracking the moon all the way back to the circle where we live. To the house that's been our home for 15 years. The only home Slim has known. The place I raised my kids. Watched them grow. Watched two go out alone. The home we're moving away from in a few weeks. To a new home. To a new beginning in a familiar place. And my surroundings, this circle under this big, bloated, beautiful moon sitting low in the sky, aren't lost on me. This moon throwing off light. Commanding attention. Demanding thought. Which I do. Humbled at the possibilities.  

What The World Needs Are More Matt Dillons

Matthew Dillon stood about 6’6”. His shoulders were impossibly broad, and his chin was chiseled from a mountain. He cut a bad-ass, intimidating presence while talking straight, walking tall, and drinking coffee black as night. He drew his pistol with speed and efficiency, and he drew it with confidence pure.

Matt Dillon was a man’s man, and by that I mean a man of integrity. A man of compassion. A man of principle. A man of virtue. A man with an iron-clad set of ethics that he might have wavered from time and again but never completely abandoned. He carried a gun, but he only drew it to defend. He could have married Miss Kitty any time he wanted, but he didn’t because he knew the pain a lawman’s life would cause her. Matt Dillon knew that sometimes self-sacrifice is the only choice.

Matt Dillon was a man of honesty. He didn’t lie—not to friends, not to outlaws, not to himself. He didn’t quibble. He didn’t make excuses. He didn’t placate the masses for his own favor. He didn’t hide from controversy. He didn’t revise history. He didn’t deny the past. He didn’t meander. He didn’t stray. He didn’t hem or haw. In no way was Matt Dillon full of shit.

Matt Dillon was a man of honor. He lived by his word. He used truth to filter muddy waters. He saw a phony a mile away, and he didn’t hesitate to call him out. He was fair, but he was no pushover.

Add all his traits up and Matt Dillon was decent, confident, and not to be trifled with.

We could use more people like Matt Dillon right about now.

I spend a fair amount of my lunch hours watching Matt Dillon police the mean, violent streets of Dodge City, Kansas, as a U.S. Marshal. The streets he walked on “Gunsmoke” were rough ones, for sure. Unapologetic murders rode into town without warning. The innocent routinely got lead-forged holes blown into their bodies. Rapists roamed among the populace. Robbers lurked around every street post. Swindlers. Cattle rustlers. Horse thieves. Card cheats. Racists. Misogynists. Conmen. White-collar criminals. Blue-collar criminals. Matt Dillon encountered them all with the same approach—steady, fair, and true.

Damn, I admire the hell out of Matt Dillon.

Sometimes, after watching a “Gunsmoke” episode, I’m left thinking, “What if Matt Dillon was alive today, walking down our own city streets? How would we greet him?” More often than not, I conclude that half the townsfolk would view him as a bleeding-heart, whore-loving, “Indian” sympathizer who is ruining the country. The other half would see him as a gun-toting law enforcement thug who shoots first and asks questions later.  

I try to view Matt Dillon by not associating him with any one mindset or ideology but instead as someone who wouldn’t give one crap what any one group thought about him. He’d be too committed to remaining on the path he’d chosen for himself. He wouldn’t and couldn’t be recruited. He’d make up his own damn mind.  

I tend to look at Matt Dillon as a sage. A guru. A cowboy boot-wearing mystic who is always on point. Sure, he’s flawed, but he’s flawed while living by his own moral code. He’s a samurai in a white cowboy hat. A clear-eyed warrior with a heart pure. Someone who fights for those who can’t fight for themselves. Someone who takes a stand and is willing to accept the fate of doing so. Someone who won’t ask for permission to slap the piss out of the mouth of some black-hat wearing punk who dares to touch a lady inappropriately, who takes advantage of a child, who steps on the weak to get ahead.

I tend to look at Matt Dillon as someone who isn’t worried about the damage that’s waiting on the other side of taking action. He just sees that action needs to be taken and takes it. Matt Dillon doesn’t suffer fools because he is no fool. He lives the way he believes.  

Damn, I admire Matt Dillon.

Many lunch hours while watching “Gunsmoke,” it’s painfully clear that many of the issues Matt Dillon and the people of Dodge dealt with are the same ones people still deal with today, and in many respects, it doesn’t seem like we’ve made much progress. Persecution for religious beliefs. Gender inequity. Sexual assault. Racism. Poverty and the shame that goes with it. Addiction. Mental illness. Illiteracy. Gun violence.

The majority of time, I admire how Matt Dillon deals with the issues when they confront him. His tact and bravery and conscience consistently leave me feeling inadequate in comparison—but inspired. Further, I’m often left admiring the perseverance that’s demonstrated. The continued pursuit of happiness under less than ideal circumstances. The fortitude.  

I really do admire Matt Dillon.

The problem is that Matt Dillon isn’t real. He’s fictional. An idea born in someone’s mind. He doesn’t really exist. He’s a creation—a wonderfully ethical, strong, courageous creation, but still just that. 59 minutes after appearing on my TV screen, he’s gone. Poof. And I find myself missing him until the next day when he comes back to visit.

Importantly, though, he has a real, lasting impression. The influence is real. The notions implied are real. Call me idealistic, naïve, or even desperate, but I believe in Matt Dillon, or at least the idea of a Matt Dillon-like existence. I believe in the possibilities he hints at. In the justice and rightful execution of such. I believe in personal strength. I believe in embracing confrontation when required. In living by a code. I believe in the idea that compassion is the most powerful weapon of all.

If Matt Dillon was indeed real and alive today, I have a hard time picturing him in front of a keyboard pissing and moaning via half-baked, crowd-catering Facebook posts about the state of his country. He’d do something constructive to better his community. Not seek approval from others he already knows are going to pat him on the shoulder not matter what he says.

I have a hard time picturing him picking fights. Laying out unrealistic hypotheticals or shading the truth to paint a pretty picture that’s nowhere close to ever having existed.

I have a hard time picturing him revising history for his own benefit.  

I have a hard time picturing him lobbing threats he’s not prepared to make face-to-face.

I have a hard time imagining he’d see merit in lies, bully tactics, and threats to quit at the first sign of conflict or criticism.

I have a hard time imagining he’d see merit in repeatedly stepping outside the rules and not taking full responsibility for it.  

I sure in the hell have a hard time picturing Matt Dillion blindly following along and taking up positions without doing his own due diligence. I have a hard time picturing him dealing in insults and putdowns. In buying into stereotypes. In seeing the world in shades of black and white.

Real or not, he’d better than that. We can and should be, too.

On Terrorism, Elections & A Stanford Swimmer--A Summer Of Bliss Shattered

Lately, I've been giving serious contemplation to the benefits and rewards of isolating myself. Of going into isolation in the personal sense, as in taking the summer months and devoting them exclusively to self-learning, self-betterment, and all that other personal "self" stuff meant to make a better man or woman. I wanted to read more books instead of news. Read more philosophy instead of current events. Read more about explorations than read more opinions. Basically, my aim has been to escape from the often grim reality that is living in 2016. More Thoreau. More John Muir. More stuff steeped in nature that I've only dabbled in up to now without full concentration and the appropriate amount of time.  

So, I made the move. First, I backed away from social media. I decided to still post photos to my Instagram account because I like having them in one place. Maybe even link a photo every so often to Facebook but not actually spend time on Facebook for the summer. Instead, use the time to get back to basics because frankly, I've kind of forgotten and misplaced my own set of basics. Forgotten what I built my beliefs and ideals on in the first place. I've let my personal foundation rot a bit, to the point there's renovation work that needs done. So, I backed away, dug into my books, dug into my journal, dug into my guitar . . .  just dug in and bunkered up. And it's been blissful, productive, and eye-opening. But time and time and time again some kind of unsavory shit pops up and bursts the bubble.  

The election. The candidates. The sharp divides. The racism. The historically high number of inner city deaths due to violence. Refugees. The environment eroding before our eyes. Terrorism. Terrorism. Terrorism. 

But I kept backing away, digging deeper into my bunker. Deeper into rediscovering and honing my basics. Back to my reading. Back to Neil Peart's "Ghost Rider," a sad but inspiring real account of the Rush drummer's crisscrossing travels on a motorcycle trying to repair his own mind and self. My dream on two wheels. I kept backing away enthusiastically.   

But always the storms move in, and always they grow bigger and stronger. Terrorism inside our borders. Again. Just when I was finding a place within myself where the Boston tragedy wasn't so fucking up my opinion on humanity, along comes Orlando, after Paris and after San Bernardino. And once again, I'm forced to deal with the modern world and try to make sense of this level of violence and hate.  

But I can't. I'm not capable. The vast, vast, vast number of us, no matter our political or religious or sexual preference, no matter our origin of birth, can't. Killing dozens of people in a single blow simply never enters our thoughts. Having lived my entire in the Midwest, I can say without hesitation that 99% of the people I've known live lives that involve treating people decently the vast majority of time. We don't see this level of hatred up close. It's not our world. But it is now. Can't deny it. Can't ignore it. It's here.  

And still, I somehow managed to put all that in a neat little box where I decided when to look inside and deal with it. Mostly in very small doses. And as more time passed, the less I was lifting the lid on that box to look inside. Ignorance can be bliss. 

Instead, I sunk my nose back into "The Inner Game of Tennis" in an effort to keep learning how to approach my daily life with a calm but determined purpose. Something I need. Instead, I started reading random encyclopedia entries again, just as I did as a kid during those long, patience-testing winter days in Nebraska. Just to learn. Instead, I began playing guitar for an hour every day instead of a few minutes squeezed in here and there because I was satisfying my soul with YouTube videos and magazine articles and the latest news about the latest problems. Instead, I was drawing more. Listening more. Learning more. Complete and utter bliss.   

And then it happened again, some turbulent storm came along and shattered all the touchy-feely goodness I was pouring all over myself. And wouldn't you know that it was some snot-nosed punk kid who came along and ruined everything. It always seems to be some snot-nosed kid. This time it was a dopey-eyed brat who has spent a concerning amount of his life bobbing up and down in water. Another kid highly focused on some ultimately meaningless purpose in the big scheme of things. Some All-American boy wonder swimmer who fucked my bliss all up by putting my least favorite issue of all right smack up in my face: rape and sexually assault.  

Gets me going every damn time. Men attacking women just because they feel they can. Every God damn time. 

I’d gladly give up the rest of my life if it meant not one more girl or woman would ever have to worry about being raped or sexually assaulted—something that pretty much every woman in every part of the world deals with day in and day out on some level just because of their gender. I would give up all my remaining days in a single heartbeat to make that happen. Without hesitation. Without regret.  

It would mean my daughters would never again have to contemplate the notion that a stranger, family friend, employer, co-worker, blind date, or any other man they know and don't know might seek to hurt them at any second of any day. It would mean my wife would never have to worry about being preyed upon by one of the apparently endless supply of dead-eyed heartless cowards walking among us. 

It would mean my mother, sister, sister-in-law, aunts, cousins, friends, friends’ wives and daughters, confidants, teachers, doctors, neighbors, co-workers, and every other woman I have and haven’t crossed paths with would never have to worry about being in the wrong place at the wrong time with a man looking to do her harm for his pathetic pleasure.  

It would mean my wife's colleagues who are nurses could walk from a hospital to their cars in the parking lot after finishing up a 12-hour shift without having to ask a security guard to escort them out—and who really knows if he is even completely trustworthy?   

It would mean my daughters and their female friends and their female friends and their female friends would never have to hatch an escape plan for that one day at work when, God forbid, they got left alone with the asshole in charge, a guy who is always coming on way too strong (without any ramifications) and who they know wouldn't take “no” for an answer if push came to shove.  

It would mean no woman getting ready for a well-deserved night out would have to stand in front of her closet and actually have to take the time to think, “Nope, can’t wear that. Too risky. Not worth it.”  

It would mean no woman would have to worry about riding down a bike path too late on a beautiful summer night because there could be a guy waiting behind that tree to jump her.  

It would mean a woman just trying to exercise wouldn’t have to always stay off the more scenic residential street and instead stick to the more trafficked one when jogging because there’s always the chance some woman-hating psycho could be lurking in the bushes. 

It means no woman would have to keep her hand in her purse holding a can of mace while  walking through the mall parking lot alone because she had the nerve to do some shopping. 

It would mean no college-age girl would have to worry about walking into a frat party (or any party) without having to have backup and backup for the backup in tow in case a rabid pack of dogs whose mommies and daddies led them to believe the world's riches are theirs for taking decides to bite.   

It would mean no woman would ever be questioned again after being attacked about why she wore that dress or was she flirting too much or did she do anything to give the wrong impression or “What did you expect was going to happen?”  

I’d sincerely forego living one more second if all that were possible. But it’s not. It’s never going to be. That’s the sad fact. There will never be a time in this world when women don’t have to worry about men sexually assaulting them—physically, verbally, or otherwise.   

Doesn’t matter if it’s a privileged Stanford swimmer. Doesn’t matter if it’s an uncle everyone always thought was cool. Doesn’t matter if it’s a boss. Doesn’t matter if it’s an elected official. Teacher. Coach. Church member. Lifelong friend. Doesn’t matter. Every man is a threat to a woman because to be safe, women have to think this way. They can’t trust us. Me. You. Him. No one.  

Sadder is that so much of the despicable reality women live with daily is due to too many men not giving enough of a shit to do something to change the situation. To do something before the attack. Before it’s too late. Before a daughter has been harmed and changed and demeaned. Before a son “who would never do anything like that” attacks and destroys a girl just looking to get by like the rest of us.  

If you’re a father of daughters stepping out into their own worlds, places beyond your direct protection, direct eyesight, direct reach, and you haven’t warned them about who is out there waiting, you have work to do. If you haven’t started planting the seeds that this is the world we’ve allowed to exist century after century, you have work to do immediately.   

It isn’t pleasant work. It isn’t satisfying work. It isn’t work that going to make anyone feel comfortable. But it’s work that needs done.  

If you’re that guy who thinks getting revenge on someone who touches your little girl is the whole answer, it's not. Even if you get your revenge, which is a big maybe, your daughter is still forever changed. Even if you actually carry your revenge out—which honestly, I wouldn't begrudge you a bit or even put myself above—there's still going to be long-term, deep-seated hurt that's not going to go away and that you may have very little ability to soothe.  

The hard reality is sadly 1.) your daughter's attacker may never get caught, including because “bros before hos” and “bitches be bitches” and all that moronic bullshit that thrives in our country and covers this shit up, 2.) some people will blame her for what happened, 3.) some people will think and say she’s lying, and 4.) even if caught, your daughter's attacker will be behind bars where you can’t reach him.  

The motives of men who assault women is something so alien to me I can't even process it in the slightest degree. I can’t begin to fathom what tiny little desire a man who attacks a woman (or a child or anyone else) satisfies by doing so. I don’t understand at what point it becomes acceptable within one’s mind to cross that blatantly obvious line that states “this is wrong, it’s illegal, and it’s pathetic.” I don’t understand how guilt and shame don’t rise up within someone who rapes a woman and eats them whole from the inside out.  

Ultimately, it doesn’t matter if I understand. It's not really my job. That’s for others more qualified and educated and even keeled to try and make sense of and fuel meaningful change. What is my job is to do everything possible to position the women in and out of my direct circle in such a way that their odds of becoming another heartbreaking statistic are reduced. It’s my job to do whatever possible to see that they don’t become less than whole. This includes by educating my daughters in an honest, realistic way about what I know to be true about my gender. And what I know about too many men I've come across isn’t pretty. It isn’t flattering. It isn’t encouraging.    

But that’s not enough, either. As a man and as a human fucking being, it’s my job to step in EVERY SINGLE TIME IT’S NECESSARY TO DO SO. It’s my job to step up. To speak up. To shut that shit down. To do what’s right. To take a stand, alone if necessary. To cut ties if necessary. To sever friendships if necessary. To lose everything if necessary. To fight.   

The thought of my eight-year-old girl growing up in a world in which she can’t fully trust any male is so utterly depressing and demoralizing, it's beyond my ability to come to terms with. There are literally few moments when I can force myself to think about what’s actually possible in the realist, ugliest, and rage-inducing sense because who the fuck wants to think about that? 

But that’s the task of hand. My hand has been forced. She means everything to me. Everything. My well-being. My blood. My will. My life. It’s my job to prepare her for the threats. It’s pathetic and moronic and shameful I must, but that's world we've allowed to exist.   

This is the battle. Men are destroying women in alarming and increasingly higher numbers. It’s not just a headline. It’s not a news blurb. It's not another meaningless stat. It’s not a period of time. It’s year after year. It’s the sober truth, and it’s not going to change without a committed, solid, unflinching reaction from those who care enough to act.  

Stanford swimmers, entitled momma boys, entitled daddy boys, criminals, mother haters, hate-fueled ex-husbands, jilted boyfriends, bands of bros without a conscience to spare among them—they’ve thrown down the gauntlet. Time to meet them head on. Time to shame them. Time to shame those who would protect them. Time to punish those in charge of punishing rapists but won’t. Time to stop making excuses. Time to stop ignoring the facts.Time to come out of the summer bunker I so desperately wanted to live in and just ignore the world outside.   

It’s time that raping and sexually assaulting women stops. 

RAINN is a good place to begin learning about the damage being done.