Back in the a day (meaning when I was younger and things were different) baring one’s body was certainly not the norm. At least not in public. The closest one might come was at the pool or at the beach. Even then, bodies were covered a bit more than they are today. (I hated it terribly when I entered junior high and had to get naked in front of other guys for P.E.).

I must confess,  scantily clad female bodies were fascinating as were the models in the Sears catalog. Many a boy found that catalog to be the closest thing to pornography they could imagine laying their hands on (maybe not just the catalog). I am so glad I made it through my adolescence and early adulthood before the internet. I fear I would have become addicted to pornography. Thankfully, that is one addiction I avoided. But, I digress.

Back in a day, thongs were worn on one’s feet. I wore them and still do. Thongs are no longer what they used to be. It is not uncommon to see them worn at the beach. They show a great deal. I have seen them. Both males and females barely wear them. I am sure some people have not given any serious thought to what their exposed rear-ends look like.

Anyway, there was report of a neighbor squabble, New York I believe (I am not making this up) that involved a man showing his rear to his neighbor lady. He mooned her, he full-mooned her. The neighbor lady filed indecent-exposure charges against him. The judge declared him not guilty, basing his decision on what is commonly seen at most any pool or beach. He may have made an ass of himself, but he did nothing illegal. Again, I digress.

Even those who might do justice to a thong should not be revealing what they sit on. I may roll my eyes or be tempted to ogle. I would rather do neither. Victoria’s Secret? What secret? Not much, I would suggest. She leaves very little to the imagination. I have trained myself to look the other way should a VS commercial air or when walking in the mall because it is not good for me to ogle. It stirs what should not be stirred. My mind tends to go where it should not go. As it would be inappropriate to read someone’s diary, it is inappropriate to want to know more of Victoria’s Secret. Yet again, I digress.

I find it extraordinarily interesting that people find it easier to bare their bodies and so difficult to bare their souls. Baring souls, with the right person, in the right place, and in the right amount is quite healthy. I have friends who I refer to as my “butt ugly” friends. No, I have not seen any of them in thongs (maybe one exception, but I will not share more). They are called my “butt-ugly” friends because I can be “butt-ugly” honest with them, and they can be “butt-ugly” honest with me. We grew into knowing and trusting in order to get to the place where we could really bare our souls. Intimacy is not casual. It is very purposive. Purposive because we find value in it. Intimacy takes time. Intimacy takes energy. Intimacy requires mutual love. I no longer digress.

Getting naked does not require love, trust, or safety. Casual sex, sexting, and media have proven that. Better to bare one’s soul. I find that baring my soul and the other baring his/her soul never gets old, never gets wrinkly, it only endears us to each other even more. Bodies gain weight, wrinkle, and sag. They even jiggle when we move. Souls just get more beautiful. We would all be better off with relationships wherein we could bare our souls. Think about it. Intimacy is the act of baring one’s soul. It is “in to me see”. Intimacy strengthens relationships. Intimacy leads to growth. Bare bodies and sex do not equate to intimacy. Do not misunderstand me: in the right relationship, bare bodies and sex are outgrowths of intimacy. Otherwise, they are simply casual or exploitive. Intimacy is neither casual nor exploitive. Intimacy is far more difficult.

The elongated fish found itself in a pinch. Arise to the occasion? Lives threatened. What to do? Advance or retreat. He could ignore and go on. Or, he could do something. No one would know either way. He had heard about altruism: doing for another without regard for anything in return. Rather noble. Not in me, his first thought. Bad was sure to happen. He could, perhaps, make a difference? He could be hurt or even die. He had heard of those who fell on grenades and stepped in front of bullets. Danger inevitable. Intervention could be fatal. Not much time to think or plan. Action had to be quick. What did he have at his disposal? Only himself.

Without anyone with whom to consult, or ask for help, he rose to the occasion. Full swim ahead. It was an occasion when time seemed to stand still. His intervention was swift. The outcome successful. Defeat of the danger decisive. Incomprehensible. More than automatic pilot. Not a calculated response. Yet, decisively beneficial and many left unscathed. Not much, if any, personal thought, but a vague sense of desire to disappear.

Quickly looking for a path of retreat, he was cornered. Those who saw, those who were spared, swam and encircled him. He could do nothing. They hailed him as a hero. Attention was drawn to his feat. Pomp and circumstance followed. He felt very uncomfortable. He had only done what he did in the spur of the moment. “I am not a hero”, his instant thought. The decision was not his. He would be recognized. Not only recognized, but knighted. In the ceremony, “Sir Eel” he was dubbed. Such a lofty honor was shocking. And, the shock cost him his life: self-inflicted as it were. Yes, altruism can be fatal. Surreal Sir Eel.

 

 

Life is complicated. How to comprehend and explain it? Some appeal to karma. Some appeal to fate. Some claim coincidence. Others suggest a providential hand. Nonetheless, most people have some need for understanding. Life is puzzling in many ways, at least for me. Life is not neat and clean. Partial understanding can come in hindsight. But, there can never be complete understanding. M. Scott Peck authored a book entitled: “The Road Less Travelled”. The first line is short, simple, and yet profound. That first line is, “Life is difficult”. As I pondered life, I authored the following poem. I hope it hits a chord in you. I hope it stimulates a bit of pondering. Perhaps it can bring a bit of comfort. Best and blessings to you!

Seemingly Chaotic

Seemingly chaotic.
Yet, choreographed with precision.
The canine circles,
Arranging its laying down place.
Then, to rest in peace.
Perhaps my life is similar,
Though I do not readily perceive.
God prepares my laying down place,
A choreographed master plan.
My laying down, in peace?
Hardly, it seems.
He promises the yoke is easy,
The burden light.
Eternity, the final laying down place,
Awaits.
Now, the seeming chaos,
Amid the choreographed master plan.

Richard L. Brewer
11.12.10

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I wrote the following poem in 1997 while working with a client. Her past was characterized by incomprehensible abuse. The poem resonated deeply. An artist, she painted a picture to represent herself opening her own Pandora’s box to discover hope. She asked for permission for a copy of the poem I had shared with her. She used both in a public address wherein she shared her experiences  of working through  her past and her continuing transformation to a better place in life. I had the privilege of being asked to introduce her to her audience. She shared with a silent and captivated audience her powerful testimony of redemption. You literally could have heard a pin drop. I have shared the poem through the years with numerous others, client and non-client alike. It has resonated with most of them, too. Hope is critical. As Proverbs 13:12 tells us: “Hope deferred makes the heart sick, but a desire fulfilled is a tree of life” (ESV).

Pandora’s Box

She, like Pandora,
Held a box.

She clutched it tightly,
Not wanting its contents
To be exposed.

To her utter dismay,

The box
Ripped from her grip,
Spewed forth its contents.

She was exposed.

Vile, ugly contents,
Pain, hurt, trauma.

Shattered control.

Hellish agony imposed.

Barely audible, at first.
A muffled whimper.

She did not want to hear.
It must not be.

It was dead she supposed.

The whimper grew louder.
The cries could not be stifled.

The inner-child was calling.

“Damn you”, she cried.
No longer composed.

“You betrayed me, I’m angry,

I hate you”, she moaned.

“Away, be gone, don’t haunt me”,

It was persistent and strong,
Doggedly pursuing.

“Damn you”, she protested.

I do not want you coming back.
You left so long ago.

You are foreign and I hate you.

Little by little,
She came to accept that

The inner-child wasn’t leaving.

Pandora had opened her box.
The vilest of contents spilled forth.

Hope cried out faintly.

Reluctantly, Pandora released it, too.

And, that made all the difference.

Richard L. Brewer
February 17, 1997

 

Vengeance

Serving vengeance, steaming hot.
Goes down smoothly, hits the spot.
Lays there heavy. Stomach churns.
Regurgitation. Chunks return.
Vengeance lingers, burns like heat.
Spooning up chunks, again I eat.
Goes down smoothly, hits the spot.
Dining daily on repugnant rot.
Richard L. Brewer—2011

“Vengeance is best served up cold”-Copied

“Live in harmony with one another. Do not be haughty, but associate with the lowly. Never be wise in your own sight. Repay no one evil for evil, but give thought to do what is honorable in the sight of all. If possible, so far as it depends on you, live peaceably with all. Beloved, never avenge yourselves, but leave it to the wrath of God, for it is written, “Vengeance is mine, I will repay, says the Lord.” To the contrary, “if your enemy is hungry, feed him; if he is thirsty, give him something to drink; for by so doing you will heap burning coals on his head”, (Romans 12: 16-20, ESV).

Consider the following: http://prophecyandbiblicalmysteries.blogspot.com/2013/02/the-mystery-of-heaping-coals-of-fire-on.html

“It was the custom back in the times when these verses were written, for people to have the fire in their home in a brazier. This is the fire they would use for heat and for cooking. It was normally kept constantly burning. However, on occasion, for whatever reason the fire would go out, and when that happened a member of the family would take the brazier to a neighbor or friend and ask for live coals of fire to be placed in the brazier. They would then use these live coals to get their fire going again. The fire after all was what helped to cook their food and sustain them.

Once the burning coals were placed in the brazier the family member would then lift the brazier onto their head as was the custom of the day, and walk back home. Sometimes others seeing the need would also put burning coals in the brazier as they returned. In this way they would help their neighbor by literally heaping coals of fire on their head. When we understand this, we clearly see the reference is not to punishment, but rather to mercy and help, and an indication of caring and love. It was a form of generosity on the part of the neighbors.

By showing love to our enemies then, it is hoped that they will come to understand what they have done to be wrong, and will respond by seeking forgiveness and returning the kindness offered to them.

Thus the “heaping of coals of fire on the head of one’s enemy,” is done to bring them to repentance so that their sin may be forgiven”.

 

 

Four-letter Words

As I have stated before, I love words. I have a particular passion for four-letter words. I know where many a mind is prone to go when that mind thinks of four-letter words. But, have you ever pondered the number of four-letter words and the power they pack? One time, on a road-trip, my fellow passengers threatened to stop and drop me off on the side of the road if I continued reciting the four-letter words that came to my mind. Fortunately, for me, they allowed me continue the trip with them. I am sure my four-letter word tirade was cause to wear thin with them. But, I also think it was intriguing to them, just a little bit, as well. Or, maybe not.

Stop to think about it. There is an enormous number of four-letter words in the English language. Love, hate, “fake news”, hard work, read, book, stop, hate…. I could go on and on. Word is a four-letter word. I have already written about the power of words. Interestingly, Christ is called the Word. “In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God”, (John 1:1, ESV).

Jesus, the Word, came to the dead to give life. The Word is able to save and provide hope and save from hell. Pretty powerful four-letter word assortment. We can learn more about the four-letter Word in the Book. If we really got it, we would tell and show others, or so I would think. The Word is my hope and safe-place. He was born to Mary, the second-Adam. His forerunner was John. His love, He gave for free. To give His life certainly cost Him a great deal!

“Come to me, all who labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you, and learn from me, for I am gentle and lowly in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light” (Matthew 11: 28-30, ESV). I get this! That others would see their need, too. My task is to reflect my Lord. How well do I do it? How well do you do it? Do you know Him? If not, when will be your time? Jesus stated very clearly, “The thief comes only to steal and kill and destroy. I came that they may have life and have it abundantly”, (John 10:10, ESV).

I enjoyed myself immensely as I rode on that road trip and said the four-letter words. I love using four-letter words!

http://www.thefreedictionary.com/4-letter-words.htm lists 149,165 four-letter words for Scrabble, Words With Friends, WordHub, and Crosswords.

 

My dad grew up in abject poverty. He talked about a time when a piglet was given to the family. They raised and butchered it. “We used everything but the squeal,” he said. I can only begin to imagine. Meat, lye soap, scraping intestines for stuffing with sausage, souse, etc. I believe that image fits in a spiritual sense as well. I think God uses even the squeals in our lives.

As a boy, I longed to live on a farm. The following creation is autobiographical. I wrote it in December of 2017 after sharing with a client how manure can be useful. Food for thought.

Wannabe Farm-boy

He explored corn cribs and haylofts.
He peered up the lofty silo walls.
He played amidst bales and sneezed.

The bellowing cattle and snorting hogs intrigued him.
Dehorned cows and beheaded chickens squirting blood.
The chickens, headless, running amok: utter fascination.

Cow’s udders locked in milking machines emptied warm, white froth.
Clear glass tubing carrying the white liquid to stainless steel tanks.
Slopping hogs, collecting eggs, a sense of being a part of the farm.
Being assaulted by roosters provoked terror and a hasty retreat.

All provided immense fascination. If only he could have lived on a farm.

He scanned and walked the coal black, plowed fields.
Meticulously prepared for planting, in clean, straight rows.
Gorgeous black dirt on the flat lands of Northern Illinois.

Sadly, due to “progress”, much now under pavement.

His first paid job, with a brother and two cousins, for two-bits an hour.
Hack down the Canadian thistle was the farmer’s assigned task.
What a treat. It did not seem like work.

Five hours later, thistles wilting in the sun, the task was done.
He, the farmer, unraveled a roll of cash, then jingled quarters in his pocket.
Eyes agape. “How could any one person have so much money?”

The young man walked away with a buck and twenty-five.
A virtual fortune. It could have been a million.

A later visit: he espied a filth-filled wagon. Nasty and odorous.
“What is that thing?”  A “manure spreader”, he was informed.
“What is manure?”  He asked as he was puzzled by the answer.

A stark, shocking answer: “It is cow shit that is collected from the milking barn.”
“What is it for? What do they do with it?” He sputtered in astonishment.

“See those paddles? The wagon is pulled behind a tractor;
And those paddles sling manure over the fields.”

“But, why?” the puzzled boy stammered out.

“Manure fertilizes the fields. It helps the crops grow.”

Another bewildering tidbit of information.

The boy saw where manure had been heaped upon grass.
It killed everything beneath it. Quite the killer.
Yet, spread on the field it fertilizes growth?!

There is something refreshingly spiritual about the awareness.
God uses all the manure in our past, to stimulate new growth.

Who would have figured? Yet, comforting in its own odd, yet delightful, way.

The bumper stickers proclaimed: “Shit happens”.
Yes, it does. And, God does not waste one bit of it.
He uses it all: if we love Him and are called to his purpose.

Oh, to recognize and embrace it.
Otherwise, it kills all that is under its load.

Richard L. Brewer
12/11/2017

 

 

Where did the mango? The same place he saw the flamingo.

As a little boy, I remember hearing people complain about a speaker (preacher), “Why does he have to use fifty-cent words?”   I am quite sure that inflation has increased the valuation to something beyond a half-dollar. I remember when a dime was a fortune!

I have developed an understanding and appreciation for the “fifty-cent” words. They are powerful. I wish not to disrespect those who prefer less “lofty” words. I really appreciate it when people ask me to define or to explain a word. In the past, I did not ask for definition or clarification. I was too embarrassed to do so. I made sure I had a dictionary nearby and went to it as quickly as I could.

When asked how I have developed my vocabulary, I responded: “I keep a dictionary at my elbow so it is easy to reach.” When I heard or read a word I did not know, I went to Mr. Webster. Now all I have to do is type the word in Google and voila, it is there. When reading, I go to the dictionary immediately. I tend to write the definition in the margin so I can see the definition of the word in question. I have learned to freely ask for the meaning if I do not know a word.

Not knowing the definition of a word, I was out of the conversation. I was distracted and inhibited by my embarrassment and my shame. Unfortunately, in my embarrassment I did not ask for the definition and I lost out.

Like many people, I need repetition in order to make something permanent–even in regard to definitions.  “Practice makes permanent, not perfect” is a quote I read many years ago. I love that quote. Perfection is not necessarily a good thing, as illustrated by a  pained and agonizing confession from a junior high friend. He said, “When you get an A+, the only way to go is down.” His  comment (circa 1967) made an impression on me.

I find myself pretty well convinced that I have never met a perfectionist. I have met many who claim to be. In debating them, I think they have walked away in agreement. Everyone readily agreed that once a goal is reached, another higher goal is established, or they find a fault. It is not uncommon for people to look for real or imagined flaws as though they are invested in finding fault in their accomplishments. Does not that make that person an imperfectionist (made up word)? Not a bad thing, per se, to look for opportunities for growth and improvement–unless it causes excessive anxiety and/or self-condemnation. Too many people “should” on themselves. “I should have done better” or some variation. A friend told me she had nearly crippling anxiety from what she called “hyperscrupulousity”. No matter her accomplishments, she was never at peace. Ouch.

Remember the title of my blog: “Mediocre Meanderings”. I think “ramblings” might also fit. Perhaps, like a Sunday afternoon drive, you might see something that provokes thought, feeling, memories, etc. in my blog entries. If not, I have enjoyed posting.

Inspired by Mark: Like Singing in the Shower

Some have talent.
Some have none.
Some have much.
Some have some.
Those with much-
Known as Poet.
Those with some-
Known as Poette.
By their talent-
They will show it.
My friend is one.
I’m the other.
His uplift.
Mine may smother.
But who cares,
The depth of power.
It’s like singing
In the shower.

Richard L. Brewer

Off to press some more garments.

 

 

I love words. I love playing with words. I love puns, as many of you know. Some of you are groaning as you remember some of my puns. The professor who preceded me in General Psychology would tell jokes, and students would throw pennies at him. I expected the same when I told jokes and made puns. No pennies. The only thing I could conclude was that my jokes don’t make cents.  Though you groan, many of you repeat my puns. Ha! I groan at puns, too. Yet, I wish I would have come up with it first!

I love sounds and similarities of words. I love the seeming contradictions and inconsistencies of words and even of pronunciations. I love that some words appeal to the intellect, to the emotions, to the spiritual, and to relationships. I love that words can challenge, soothe, and even scold—if they are fair and lead to growth.

In regard to relationships–remembering back to Introduction to Speech class (as it was then known): “Communication is the sharing, receiving, and reciprocation of a message”. That is the essence of empathy. As my students will remember, I describe empathy as “the ability to enter into the subjective world of another, while remaining objective, coupled with the ability to communicate back the understanding back to them in a way that they feel understood”. A powerful tool!

Of course communication takes place via many avenues. Words are just one medium. I prefer face-to-face communication when using words because there are so many other facets involved. For instance, voice tone, volume, non-verbal cues, among others. I am confident that you, like me, have entered a room and “felt” the “vibes” of an intense exchange of words.

Anyway, you get it: I love words.

 

Part II to follow.

 

My maternal grandfather shared a saying which I have long remembered. “Big shots are just little shots that keep shooting.” The quip is attributed to Christopher Morley, (1890-1957). Quite a pithy truth. I wrote a poem that was stimulated by that quote. Remember, all of my creations reveal some of me. My bet is they may resonate with you, too. Anyway, here it is:

Balloon People

Inflated image.
Full of air.
Springs a leak.
Flits through the air.
Finally landing.
Limp from despair.
Grand show.
But, nothing’s there.

Richard L. Brewer