Show Me The Gold!

Posted on March 18, 2013 by davidrobinsoncreative

739. Join me in inspiring truly powerful people. Each day I will add a new thought, story or idea to support your quest and mine.

Walking down Queen Anne hill I came upon a man dressed in a green tutu, a sleeveless green low cut blouse, shamrock slathered green knee-high socks, and red high top Chuck Taylors. I said, “Girlfriend, you look lovely.” He said in a surprisingly deep base voice, “Why thank you. Do you really like it?” I replied, “You are my favorite.” He seemed pleased with my compliment.

That was my first clue that it was St. Patrick’s Day. As I continued down the hill I wondered what St. Patrick would think of his celebration. What would a 5th century bishop of Ireland do in the midst of a fun run and pub crawl? I hope he would toss off his miter hat and join the fun. That’s what I would do if I were transported through time; I’d work hard to pick up the local customs. Things need not make sense.

As I crossed the grounds of the Seattle Center, passing by the international fountain I saw more wondrous combinations of green on gender. And green on green! I felt as if I was on the back lot of a film studio (and, come to think of it, life often seems like that to me). I heard a little girl shout with glee, “Momma! I saw a little green man!” Her clearly exhausted mother said with weary expression, “Yes, dear. I saw him, too.” Her brother whispered to no one, “I saw him first.” On any other day, a bona fide Leprechaun would stir enthusiasm even in the most hardened adult; on St. Patrick’s Day, they are common. The little girl’s mom no longer believes in pots of gold found at the end of the rainbow. If she did, that little green man would be in momma’s net and she’d be shaking him shouting, “Show me the gold!”

I’d only been awake for an hour and look what the day provided! The pot at the end of the rainbow is filled with metaphoric gold and I found it! So many rainbows, so many pots of gold!

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Make A Nap

Posted on March 14, 2013 by davidrobinsoncreative

735. Join me in inspiring truly powerful people. Each day I will add a new thought, story or idea to support your quest and mine.

Today is one of those post travel days. I’m exhausted. I avoid the mirror because my face feels like the face of a Basset Hound: droopy, blood shot eyes. My synapses are lethargic. Like half-hearted trapeze artists they leap but do not reach for the catcher. My thoughts fall to the safety net where they bob and refuse to get up. “This feels nice,” they say as they relax into the net, smacking their thought-lips while slipping into a nap. “I’ll be there in a minute,” they call to me from a sleep state, words slurred and intention clear (you are on your own without synapses so find something useful to do).

I used to call these “no-power-tools” days – as I appreciate my digits and I know better than to get near blades when my thoughts are asleep on the job. When I wear the mask of the Basset Hound I usually spend the day filing papers. I am an out-of-sight-out-of-mind kind of guy so I have no expectation of finding anything once it is filed. Since I am on the road and away from my files and my paper stacks I had no truly safe activity to keep me busy.

I managed to take Bodhi the dog for a walk. I couldn’t find his leash so I used my belt, which sounded like a good idea until I realized that using my belt for a leash created a whole new set of problems. While Bodhi proudly wore my belt I struggled to keep my pants up. We looked like a clown and his dog. I have the same problem going through security at airports, especially now that they make you raise your hands in the full body scanner. Three seconds is an eternity when your pants are edging down. With this knowledge in my memory bank you’d think that I would have solved my leash problem another way.

With my belt safely restored to my pants I watched Bodhi settle in for a snooze on the floor. Although his face is Australian Shepherd and not Basset Hound, Bodhi has a legitimate dogface; he was in no way resisting his impulse to nap. He wasn’t resisting his need to sleep. As I watched the natural wisdom of this special dog I wondered why I needed an excuse to nap. Humans are funny animals; rather than follow the simple impulse, rather than do the thing our bodies are telling us to do we need to create a reason. Bodhi snored and I remembered a quote from Jarod Kintz. He wrote, “I made a nap this afternoon. I made it out of two pillows, a bed, a sheet, a blanket, and exhaustion.” Perfect.

You’ll never guess what I made this afternoon.

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Run With Bodhi

Posted on February 28, 2013 by davidrobinsoncreative

721. Join me in inspiring truly powerful people. Each day I will add a new thought, story or idea to support your quest and mine.

Bodhi the dog and I have bonded. He is my dog even though he isn’t. We talk shop. We swap stories. I tell him about my days and he listens as long as I keep petting him. Once, my hand stopped moving – so engrossed was I in my story that Bodhi popped my hand with his snout to remind me of my true purpose. Bodhi is not subtle where attention is concerned. Bodhi knows what is important and usually my stories of daily woe are not relevant in the face of “love me now.”

Before the snows came I took Bodhi for a walk and for reasons still unclear to me I decided he needed to run. So we ran. I was wearing my clogs, which are not the best shoes for running, and I can report without shame that Bodhi literally ran me out of my shoes. He was confused when I stopped. I was confused when I stopped; one moment I was shod and the next I was sprinting in my socks (I used the word “sprint” to try and impress you but the truth is that I was limping and wheezing by the time I lost my shoes. As a former distance runner I have grand notions about my capacity to run distance but I was smacked after three blocks. It is probably technically correct to admit that Bodhi didn’t run me out of my shoes, rather I staggered out of them).

The word “bodhi” means enlightenment or awakening; bodhi is knowledge of the nature of all things. When I am with Bodhi the dog I am with one who possesses bodhi. He never invests in my dramas or commiserates with my woes. Things that happened a moment or an hour or a day ago do not really concern him. Bodhi is concerned with this moment, this opportunity for loving. Tomorrow does not concern him at all. In fact, I’d be surprised if Bodhi carries the concept of future anywhere in his consciousness. Bodhi’s concern is with right now, this moment, and he has the uncanny gift of bringing me out of my future/past investments. He simply pops me with his snout and I am reminded that what really matters is right in front of me all of the time.

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Just Ask

Posted on February 2, 2013 by davidrobinsoncreative

695. Join me in inspiring truly powerful people. Each day I will add a new thought, story or idea to support your quest and mine.

The snippet of paper on the desk in my hotel room states, “Help is available.” Help with what, I wonder? I’m sure I must need help or will need help at some point in my life. I usually need help with technology though today I have no intention of wading into the i.jungle so at the moment help is wasted on me. I’m glad that help is generally available and I find it comforting that there is a notice on my desk incase I find myself perplexed. And, since the snippet is without a phone number or reference point I’m left to assume that help will simply know when I need it and will magically appear.

Perhaps help will come with 3 wishes or wand or magic dust. Or, maybe there is a secret door in my room. I’ll not confess to trying to move furniture or peak behind the mirror. The thought never crossed my mind. Really. The question remains: how will help know when I need it?

If I were adrift in a rubber raft in shark-infested waters my paper snippet implies that the coast guard will automatically know and find me. An avalanche is certainly scary but since help is available, I’m comforted knowing that the ski patrol will somehow know of my predicament and dig me out before I run out of air.

My snippet of paper might have carried the message, “Have Faith” and I would be much less comforted. The blanket statement, “Help is available” implies readiness of action. Help is standing by. Faith is amorphous when help is required.

Of course, help might also be available to me in less extreme circumstances. I am easily lost in new cities and I find that help is always available if I ask. Today I facilitated a workshop in organizational culture change and I needed markers and paper and help was available – it was almost immediate, too. However, when driving and lost, help is certainly always available but for some reason when behind the wheel I become male-stubborn and I am reticent to ask for help; I’d rather figure it out for myself so help obliges me and is noticeably unavailable.

Once, while walking the lake country in England, Roger was delirious with fever and it was pouring rain. We were miles from the next village. I was scared and thought, “I don’t know what to do. I need help.” And, out of nowhere a Winnebago emerged from the mist and stopped. A nice couple picked us up, wrapped us in towels and warmed us with hot cocoa. Then, they drove us to the next village where we found a nice place to stay and medicine. Help knew and was waiting for me to ask.

So, my mystery is solved. I just modified the paper snippet on my desk to assist the next guest. It now reads, “Help is available. Just ask.”

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Pull Up Your Hood

Posted on January 31, 2013 by davidrobinsoncreative

693. Join me in inspiring truly powerful people. Each day I will add a new thought, story or idea to support your quest and mine.

As I walked across town today the mist tried to evolve into rain but didn’t quite have enough of a quorum so it remained mist all day. I wore my hood pulled up never the less. I have a very old sweatshirt with a hood – so old, in fact, that the zipper is nearly useless and the cuffs are frayed. I wear it almost every day. During the rainy season my old sweatshirt rides under my coat so I can use the hood when it rains. It is an old friend and has taken on my shape to better keep me warm.

Last night I washed my old friend and I waited patiently for the dryer cycle to finish. I was like Calvin waiting for Hobbes. It was cold in the apartment where I am staying so it was with great pleasure that I pulled my hoody sweatshirt from the dryer and put it on, almost too warm to wear. Even so, I sighed and settled back into a big brown chair and drank in the comfort of my new warmth. I’m beginning to see that my sweatshirt functions like a security blanket; I wrap it around myself and I feel safe and comfortable and home.

When I pull up the hood I cut off my peripheral vision and I am more aware of what’s directly ahead of me. It is a paradox: I am instantly meditative when under my hood and yet I become hyper focused on my surroundings. I see less and sense more. Also, my hood acts like a costume or a mask: I enter all manner of spy novels, street gangs, and Jedi tales when donning my hood. Talk to me in my hood and you will never speak to the same character twice.

Someone asked me yesterday, in my gypsy mode, what of my possessions do I cherish and what seems superficial. My old, grey, ratty, worn, paint flecked, hoody sweatshirt (I was wearing it at the time of the question) was near the top of my list. An old friend, a constant companion, having travelled more than a few decades with me, that I can wrap around me at night when I am cold, is worth more to me than gold.

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Catch It On An Index Card

Posted on January 27, 2013 by davidrobinsoncreative

689. Join me in inspiring truly powerful people. Each day I will add a new thought, story or idea to support your quest and mine.

He was walking down the center of the street. He was wearing a backpack, heavy coat, a thick sweater cap, rubber boots, and was playing the violin. Actually, he wasn’t really playing; he was sawing. He was making sound pulling the bow across the strings – sometimes fast, sometimes slow; there was no discernable pattern. His face was as determined as his march down the center yellow lines, his rubber boots thunking on the wet asphalt. The cars moved over to avoid him as if he was on a bike or perhaps was a traffic cone. I heard an kid say to his friends, “This dude’s needs different boots – he’d keep better time with something less clunky.” I took out an index card and made a note. I live in a mad, mad, mad world that has no idea how mad it is and I like to capture some of the more absurd moments.

On the other side of the street a man in a suit glared at the parking meter. He hissed, “Come on!” and gave it a thwap atop its green dome. He looked at no one in particular and shouted in frustration, “I can get a happy meal at McDonalds faster than I can pay for parking!” I took another index card from my pocket and wrote the phrase; it was too good to let slip unrecorded. It reminded me of a phrase Tom uttered in frustration a few years ago: Sacramento County took over 5 years to approve a map of land Tom was trying to parcel and sell. One day at the county office, after yet another delay, he put his head against the wall and said, “We won World War Two in less time than it’s taking these people to approve a map!” I wrote that phrase on an index card, too.

I went into the Panama Hotel Tea and Coffee House to get an afternoon coffee and to write. There was a young couple posing for a photographer but also trying not to draw attention from the other coffeehouse patrons. It was the best split intention I’ve ever seen. The photographer was aware of the couple’s discomfort so was she was antagonizing them by making lots of noise and moving furniture around and giving them instructions in her big-girl outside voice. The couple shrank and tried to disappear before the camera. I’d give anything to see that proof sheet! After the photo-torture session was over, the barista asked the couple why they were having their photograph taken and they said meekly, “We’re getting married.” Everyone in the coffee house uttered a collective, “Ahhh!” The young couple blushed and disappeared. The photographer, packing up her camera said, “I wonder if they realize that people are going to look at them when they do the ‘I do’ thing. This might just be the worlds first invisible wedding.” I reached in my pocket and pulled out another index card.

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Find The Metaphor

Posted on January 24, 2013 by davidrobinsoncreative

686. Join me in inspiring truly powerful people. Each day I will add a new thought, story or idea to support your quest and mine.

Metaphor alert. They might be subtle but see how many you can find… I started the day in Denver. I’ve been hiding out there writing like a demon and today was the day I had to fly back to Seattle – and I didn’t want to go. I’ve been happy in my seclusion. It was like spring in Denver; warm days and brilliant blue skies. When I wasn’t writing I was walking. No schedule but the one I created for myself. In a few weeks of writing, the book is nearly two thirds written. I’m a slow writer so I’m certain that I’m not channeling Mark Twain or the book would be done given the hours I’ve spent tap tapping at the keys.

I scheduled a Super Shuttle share ride to the airport but instead of the familiar blue van a limo pulled into the driveway. The limo driver told me there was no one else to pick up so they sent the limo instead of a van. He was a very old (emphasis on “very”) and got lost on the way to the freeway so I had to tell him where to go. His GPS was working fine (I could see it from my leather perch 10 paces behind the driver. There were water glasses but I felt like slumming it so I drank straight from the chilled bottle. My very old limo driver decided I was enjoying my ride so he went very slow (emphasis on “very”) – even though I was trying to catch a plane and even though we were on a freeway. He said, “People are in such a hurry these days.” I said, “I know!”

He shook my hand and told me it was a pleasure giving me a ride to the airport. I had plenty of time because no one was at the Denver airport. It was just me and the TSA. Just lots of blue shirts and me. I had my own private security screening. You’ll be happy to know it went very well (yes, emphasis on “very” – it turns out the TSA folks are really friendly when you are the only person going through the screening). I wanted to ask if they would give me my bottle of Sumi Ink back; they took it from me 4 years ago in Washington DC because I forgot it was in my bag; but I decided there must be a statute of limitations on ink retrieval. Best not push my luck.

I grabbed a mocha (best mocha ever!), hopped a plane, landed in Seattle to, well yes, it was raining. Denver = sun. Seattle = rain. The light rail from the airport to downtown was delayed so I stood in the rain (wet) but I finally made it to my studio (I’m not really living anywhere at present so my studio is my temporary crash pad). I walked through the rain (more wet) to the front door of the building and found that it was padlocked shut. There was a note that said, “The front door is broken, use your key card to get in the side door.” I’ve been gone a month so I suppose there might have been mention of a key card but this was the first I’d heard of it. I didn’t have a key card. I was very sad (emphasis on “very”). I stowed my luggage in a bush (still more wet), went around back, climbed a 12 ft fence (wet, wet, wet) and found a door that still accepted keys. I got in (soaked). After I propped a door and retrieved my luggage I sloshed all the way up the stairs to the fourth floor (my shoes made that nasty squeaking sound of wet rubber on concrete floors. That noise gives me the chills so you could say that I gave myself the chills).

My inner sociologist, dry in his sweater and smoking his pipe like a true academic, took one look at me and said, “Are you aware of the choices that you are making?” He took out his notepad to record my response. I know his game so as water dripped off the end of my nose I said, “Please define the word ‘aware.’” He took a puff on his pipe, closed his book and said, “You can be very annoying – emphasis on ‘very.’”

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Fruit Or No Fruit?

Posted on January 2, 2013 by davidrobinsoncreative

664. Join me in inspiring truly powerful people. Each day I will add a new thought, story or idea to support your quest and mine.

I have a photograph of my grandfather dressed as Yasser Arafat. It was taken many years ago when he wintered in Florida at a trailer park for seniors. When I first saw the photo I thought he was dressed as Mother Theresa. He was standing in the middle of a group of elderly ladies dressed as harem girls but I missed the context completely. “Why was grandpa dressed as Mother Theresa?” I asked. “Things were wild in that park,” my dad said without raising his eyes from the newspaper. He turned the page and added, “They were always up to mischief in that place. It was crazy.”

My mother came over to look at the picture. “That’s not Mother Theresa, he’s Yasser Arafat,” she said, pointing out the picket sign grandpa was holding. It read, “Cheap Oil!” I’d wondered why Mother Theresa was holding a sign about oil but decided not to ask; there are some things in life that are best left unknown. Grandpa had a smirk on his face (isn’t that an interesting phrase! Like he had a bit of food on his lip, he was eating a smirk and left some traces on his face…). I recognize that smirk because it’s the same look I get on my face when I am up to no good – which is not often. I’m a very serious guy. Really.

“Was this Halloween? I asked. I like the idea of my grandparents trick-or-treating. “No, this must have been New Years,” my mother said. “Yeah, one year he was in a big diaper because they chose him as the New Year’s baby,” my dad said, licking his finger and turning the page. “Do you remember the time he was Carmen Miranda?” mom asked. “Good god!” my dad exclaimed, “He looked funny! Was that Carmen Miranda?” “I don’t know,” she replied, making a cup of tea, “He wore fruit, didn’t he?” My dad looked up from his paper, puzzled.

“No wonder I have an inner sociologist.” I thought, watching my mother slowly dip her tea bag trying to remember if grandpa had fruit on his head before she continued, “Maybe he was Mae West.”

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Pick A Fight With Birds

Posted on December 23, 2012 by davidrobinsoncreative

654. Join me in inspiring truly powerful people. Each day I will add a new thought, story or idea to support your quest and mine.

Marilyn dope slapped me after my last post. She wrote, “PLEASE turn on the light rather than curse the darkness…go to the shore and fight with your birds.” After all, we did just mosey passed the solstice and are now in the early days of light’s return. A good bird fight would do me some good. As a side note, my favorite chuckle of the day: last night as a precaution to prepare his audiences for imminent Mayan end-of-the-world-ness, Andrew, artistic director of Jet City Improv, and his players stood at the doors of the theatre and passed out bags of air as people exited. One can never have too much air especially amidst so much concocted uncertainty.

In preparation for my bird fight I pulled on my warm clothes, my rain boots and coat. It’s wet out there and the birds with their fancy all weather feathers have an unfair advantage. I meant business so I left my glasses inside: I’m a better bird fighter when I can’t see what’s coming. Also, if I took a wing to the nose I didn’t want my glasses to break. They’re new and I’m told make me look smart – which implies that I don’t look smart without my glasses and it’s better strategy if the birds underestimate my intelligence and mistake me for a simple street fighter.

I splashed out to the end of the street, the place where the birds hang out and look for snacks: it is the shore of the Puget Sound and there are plenty of snack options for hungry birds to choose from. My foes, the crows, were sitting in the trees. It was raining really hard. I said some disparaging things about the design of crows (I made fun of their beaks) and not a single bird flinched. They just sat there bobbing on branches, looking out across the water. They didn’t even glance my way. I mocked them, flapping my arms, splashing through puddles, running in circles and perched on the breaker wall. Nothing. Not even a “caw.” So I did it again, flapping arms, puddle dancing, circle running with a necessary perch break to catch my breath.

A policeman stopped, rolled down his window and asked what I was doing. I told him that Marilyn suggested I come down to the shore and pick a fight with the birds. He asked me, “Who’s Marilyn?” I told him that she was a fantastic teacher in Nebraska. He wrinkled his brow and considered asking another question but instead offered a suggestion: “Maybe throw something at them. That usually works.” I told him it was a great idea and I’d give it some thought though secretly I didn’t really want to fight anymore. Splashing in the puddles was much more light-giving than bird fighting. The cop wished me luck, rolled up his window, and drove on. I jumped in puddles until my shoes were soaked, turned my face to the rain and let it wash all of that darkness away.

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Take A Number

Posted on December 21, 2012 by davidrobinsoncreative

652. Join me in inspiring truly powerful people. Each day I will add a new thought, story or idea to support your quest and mine.

“A person without a story does not exist.” Shekhar Kapur

Recently, I had to deliver a tax document to the IRS building downtown. Over a year ago I received a letter saying, “Congratulations, you’ve been randomly selected for a special educational audit….” I turns out that it was not a helpful educational audit in store for me but a year of medieval torture. My personal IRS agent has been trying to break me on the wheel. He is new to his job and has something to prove. His investigation is proving fruitless – which has only served to drive him into an income tax fervor, a numbers induced fanaticism – he’s redoubled his efforts, turning over figures, dumping columns, reaching back into my infancy to find anything to justify his time. And through it all I have, despite the stated intention of the audit, remained fairly uneducated and am now distinctly ungrateful for my random selection.

Luckily for me I have an accountant with a sense of humor. She represented me in all of his demands so I’d not met my inquisitor. She told me, “I’ve been doing this for a long time but never met anyone so singly dedicated to a lost cause.” And then she said, “He’s just cold. I think he’s angry about his life and is taking it out on you.” After 12 months – a full year of rooting through my documents, issuing threats, fines, fines revoked, re-requests, forms and re-forms 1120s, 4828, 2848, 6525a, I decided it was time to meet him. He sent a letter demanding that I deliver an original document, the scan that he initially requested was not good enough so he wanted the original and gave me 24 hours to comply (he sent his request via US Mail and I received it 4 days after his deadline). His request for the original was my opportunity to meet this very cold man.

When I first passed through the metal detectors a security guard told me to start my quest on the 34th floor. Exiting the elevator I came to a desk with a “take a number” machine. No human was in sight so I took a number. I realized at that moment that I’d left normal reality and was in Dante’s Inferno. This was the first level of hell. My number flashed on a screen and I was directed to find cubicle 8. Walking down a row of empty cubicles (there were rows of empty cubicles) I came at last to a person imprisoned behind a glass partition. She would not look at me and instructed me to go to the 16th floor. I was descending to the next level. Where was my Virgil?

On the 16th floor, although there were long corridors, I found 3 wall phones next to a locked door. There were no signs. There was not another human. Picking up a phone a person came on the line, listened to my quest and advised me to pick up another phone. My second choice of phone proved no different so I finally found a person through phone number 3 who told me to go to the 24th floor. (note: I am not making this up). On the 24th floor I found an identical set of phones and a single locked door. I looked around to see if I was on Candid Camera; how could I be sure that I’d traveled to another floor? What if this was Ellen DeGeneres’s idea of a joke and I was on live TV and the studio audience was howling at my incredulity? Or, perhaps I’d been hit by a bus and died and this was my version of Sisyphus. It only took two phones to find my tax man. A monotone voice told me that he’d be out in a moment. I made sure there was no food in my teeth – just in case Ellen came around the corner to say, “Isn’t this funny?”

My special agent came timidly out the door. He was very young – someone’s little brother, a son. He was not yet a man and he was shaking. I suddenly realized that he was afraid of me, afraid that I’d yell at him or perhaps hurt him. I knew in that moment that he knew that his audit was unreasonable and mean-spirited. He’d hoped that he’d never have to meet me. The moment was awful for him; filled with shame. I was seeing the Oz behind the curtain and he hated having to reveal himself. He was playing a power-over game with me because he had no real power in his life. I saw it and so did he. I held out my hand and said quietly that I thought it was time that I met him and handed him the original document. As Ann Quinn taught me, I killed him with kindness. Like his counterpart in the cubicle on floor 34, he was unable to look at me. He took the piece of paper and, visibly relieved, he disappeared again behind the door. “I am not in hell,” I thought, “…this man is. This man must come here everyday.”

As I left the building, returning to the land of light and humanity, I felt sick at the system that requires a young man to be a bully in order to feel powerful. His shame was palpable and I am certain I will be hammered because I saw his truth. As a nation we are asking ourselves serious questions about what caused such a horrific act of violence at an elementary school. We look for causes instead of the daily rituals that leave a soul so empty and frustrated that he must flame out of existence and take others with him as the only act of meaning that he can imagine. It is a failure of imagination; life in an empty story. Our rituals have descended to the level of collecting stuff and there is no substance or support to be found there. The daily rituals of our lives are meant to open us to the greater identification with deep meaning and sacred connectivity – with each other and our world. Our daily rituals are meant to bring us to the recognition of the enormity of being alive. I turned back and looked at this building and mourned for the people that must take their hearts from their bodies to go to work everyday; we are a tribe that only pretends to have a story. My heart broke for the young tax man who so early in life has made the choice to not exist.

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