Boys Don't Fly

Ah, the dream of flight. We see a boy, seven perhaps. Weightless. Soaring. Flying. Something inside his brain recalls the tosses from his father, his uncle, his mother. The giggles. The thrill of fear mixed with trust of strong arms that never fail. But this time, the boy, thrown across the room, hits the wall.

What evil had he done? What transgression lies upon his head?

The leather belt sears the back of a four year-old.

The boy can not fly. The scars on the four year-old will disappear from his back.

Have no doubt. These scars may fade, but the damage never ends. The heart is always wounded. The children's bodies may heal, but they are broken nonetheless.

Here is the score for the home team.
Violence. Five boys. Five broken marriages at least.
Violence. Three boys. Three girls. Five divorces. One child who will never know his father because the father will not see the child.
Next season? Who knows?

Think it doesn't really matter? Find a monster. It's no surprise that physical or mental abuse is present in their past. The surprise would come if the abuse is absent.

Even if more than 50% of the marriages in the United States end in divorce, please, check the box scores above. More than 90% of the marriages on the home team ended in divorce.

The big wheel keeps on rolling.

Yes, single parents can raise good babies. That's not the point. Broken marriages break children. Children grow up. Repeat. If violence is present, the cycle may not end until someone is killed or jailed.

There certainly is no shortage of people in this world who have been touched by divorce. Billions probably have been touched by violence. It's okay people. We're okay. Divorce happens for good reasons and for bad reasons. If you could bet on marriage--on each marriage that occurs in the U.S.--and you put your money on divorce, well, Las Vegas was built on such odds advantages. But toss in a little violence--add a tablespoon of abuse--suddenly, divorce is not a coin toss anymore but practically a sure bet. All that damned pain.

It's not easy to break the cycle, but it must be broken. Even if one ignores the broken marriages that seem to escalate, violence and abuse lingers forever. Worse still, even as the memories fade, the scars remain. It's like losing a limb perhaps. Not only are you missing your leg, but the crutches chaff the area under your arms, you may develop a bad back, shoulder pain, neck pain, etc. etc.

The end of domestic violence and abuse starts with you. Don't stack the deck against your children and grandchildren and great grandchildren. Break the cycle.

Murder of the Innocents

Which Caledonia?

And we sailed and we sailed  Way up to Caledonia looking for a brand-new start.

From Van Morrison's Listen to the Lion

So Caledonia. Sounds romantic. Is it romantic? Actually, it comes from a Latin word for Scotland. Possibily it is the root of a Celtic word meaning "hard," as in hard land or hard people. This subject came into my brain as I was listening to Van Morrison in the car. Caledonia--sounds mythical. Atlantis. Caledonia. The South Seas. Certainly it is an attitude what these words conjure. Don't know Caledonia is Scotland? Scotland, a land where if the weather is bad, the locals say to wait ten minutes and it will get worse.

Caledonia. It is a state of mind.

We sailed and we sailed, way up to Caledonia.

or:

Caledonia you're calling me
And now I'm going home
If I should become a stranger
You know that it would make me more than sad
Caledonia's been everything
I've ever had

From a song by Dougie Maclean

Nice. Really life is what we make it. For some, when times are tough, they learn from experience. For other people, a tough time is just that. Never an opportunity. Never a glass half-full. I will not deny that I often fall into the glass half-empty category. My Caledonia is not always a mythic place. Do I learn from my failings? Not often enough.

Does failure make my faith stronger, or do I crumple under the weight?

I have been known to collapse.

She's my baby
I love her just the same
Yeah an I'm crazy 'bout this woman cause
Caldonia..., your name

From Muddy Waters

There is a train from Scotland to London known as the Caledonian Sleeper.

The Caledonian Woods were famous in Roman times.

Caledonia.

I want to fly on the wings of bird

Across the sea to Caledonia

Where my love waits for me.

Ah, surely I have stolen from every Celtic song I ever heard to come up with that.

Surely I have a point. I thought I had a point anyway. Perhaps it is that what we want to imagine, we can imagine. What we want to be, can be. Maybe Caledonia is your Eden. Or it might be South Carolina, California, or the desert in Arizona. Oh yeah, I got it! Is this trite?

Wherever you go, there you are.

or:

The only constant in your bad days is you.

or:

Keep your sunny-side up.

Caledonia, I'm coming home.

Reaching Out.

On Grafton Street in November
We tripped lightly along the ledge
Of a deep ravine where can be seen
The worth of passion's pledge
The Queen of Hearts still making tarts
And I not making hay
Oh I loved too much and by such by such
Is happiness thrown away

From Raglan Road

Look, we're all reaching out. We wrestle our demons--even Christ fought demons. We reach, and we pray or dream or hope we may find a hand that reaches back. Is it an angel or ghost or a lover who reaches back? Is it a touch, a new computer, lovemaking, too much stuff, or a new tattoo that fills the need? We seek to fill the emptiness. To fill the void. To feel connected.

 I struggle to feel connection. Perhaps it was my upbringing that made me so. But we all struggle. Life is a struggle. And we persevere. We wrestle our demons. Sincerely, I wish I had an answer. For some it is prayer. It could be perverted and it may be hate that drives us. Self-righteousness is a curse. How can we be sure what is the way? I will chance a theory that the very act of prayer or hope is a struggle with the real value of prayer or hope. Is one prayer enough? Can one hope too much? God are you listening or are you busy making sure the Red Sox win the game today?

So we reach out or up or down hoping to find the hand of kindness. One touch that fills one's very soul. Often we end up dressing our dogs in little outfits, or seeking the one vision of sex that suffices for the lack of touch. Music might fill us. The written word might. I suggest that singing, or playing an instrument, and writing may fill the void. Talk might fill the emptiness, but is it talk on the Net? The unseen friend is the easiest. No touch. Words of love perhaps or all the empty spaces between the words, those invisible nods and smiles and LOL of our imaginations. It is incredibly easy to care for those who do not whine, burp, or scratch their asses.

The Net is so incredible, but instead of making us closer, it distances us. It's full of cute puppies and homilies. Who wants to read someone's post about how they hurt? It takes too long. It's not LOL. I want to see your babies, some hot actress, or a double-entendre. No diapers--no tongue-tied stupidity should pass my lips in the presence of Jennifer Garner--I get it, put something between us. Put anything between us but please not real feeling.

I make no denial that I want my 15 minutes, but on my terms. Perhaps in Heaven or Hell I will receive them. I wish I could make a difference. I really do. But I fear no one is listening. LOL.

I said LOL. Hello?