Alleypoet's Pen

I was seventeen. I won a guitar in a raffle. I had no idea how to play.

Two of my friends were already in a band. I asked if I could watch them practice. I’d sit on the floor in front of Greg and Tony, studying their finger placement on the neck—between the frets. Later, alone in my room, I’d place my fingers in the same spots, eventually learning they were chords.

One day, Greg asked if I sang.
I said, “Nope.”

Tony and Greg overheard me singing along to Run River Run by Loggins and Messina. They looked at each other and smiled. Tony said, “You’re in the band.” And just like that, a short spin through local musical history began—along with a lyrical and melodic journey that continues for me to this day.

Greg could play anything. He loved harmony more than lead vocals. He was never on time for rehearsal—whether in my living room or in Tony’s garage—assuming he showed up at all. But he was so damn lovable that we could never stay mad for long.

When Greg walked into a room, it lit up. Tall, blonde, lean, tan—pure twenty-year-old energy. He was the right arm of our spiritual and logistical leader, Tony. We discovered our voices had real chemistry. We entered a local talent contest. We won.

After a summer of gigs and a couple more years of community college for me, life did what life does. Greg worked at a lumber store. Tony became a trucker. I headed to Texas to chase a career and then to finish undergrad. We drifted apart, as friends do. Visits became less frequent. Promises to fix that grew bigger. And the chances of getting the band back together grew smaller—but never disappeared.

Decades passed.

Greg and I stayed connected through social media and a handful of reunions at the mythical—now only an echo—No Name Lounge. Aside from some wrinkles and a newfound passion for hard-right politics, he hadn’t changed a bit. His hair was still long. His stories were even grander. New projects were always just around the corner, pitched with full Shark Tank enthusiasm. I knew they weren’t coming to fruition—but they were alive in his beautiful mind, and that was enough.

We debated politics. We reminisced about our short, sweet band life. We argued about the greatest decades in music (I don’t have one—I love them all, which drove him crazy). We laughed. We toasted. We hugged. We pledged—again—to drag Tony in from Tennessee and get the band back together. We also knew it probably wouldn’t happen. But as we age, those promises keep hope alive.

Greg passed away this week. Far too young.

My heart sank at the news. And yes—it’s cliché to say, “I just talked to him a couple of weeks ago,” as if that somehow makes the ending less possible.

I’ll remember how he could run like a gazelle and track down a fly ball in center field for our high school team (Go Dolphins). I’ll remember his high harmonies on every Eagles song. I’ll remember his stories about the big things happening “next week.” I’ll remember how he could build things—how he knew his way around lumber. Most of all, I’ll remember how he encouraged me to sing, to write, to play—and to savor every moment the three of us spent laughing our way through practice.

Grief is only love that’s got no place to go. ~ Stephen Wilson, Jr.

I love you, my friend.
You changed my life.
Rest in play.

Yes—it’s true. The plaques beneath the presidential portraits in the White House aren’t satire or parody. They are Trump’s own words—his impressions of the presidents who came before him. And in them, his deficiencies are laid bare. This is a man incapable of respect. Incapable of decency or decorum. Incapable of appreciating anyone who hasn’t directly served his ego or his interests.

What’s missing from those plaques are the inevitable closing lines—the part where he implies that he alone made up for every president in history, that he alone “saved” America. Good God. The lobotomy continues. I genuinely cannot wait for the next president—Republican, Democrat, or Independent—to walk into that hollowed space, rip that shit off the walls, and ship it first-class to Trump Tower.

Every president has known both triumph and failure. Each has governed through dark chapters and hopeful ones alike. And they are flawed, like me and everyone reading this post. What there wasn’t room for on the current POTUS’s bronze plaque were the seemingly endless indiscretions, the crimes, the cruelty, and the daily demonstrations of inhumanity. That accounting will have to wait for the history books—and the vast, almost infinite cloud storage it will take to document just how dark this era truly was.
—————-
Plaque quotes:

Joe Biden: His space (represented by a photo of an autopen instead of a portrait) has a plaque that reads, “Sleepy Joe Biden was, by far, the worst President in American History,” and falsely claims he took office as a result of a “corrupt election”.

Obama: His plaque describes him as “one of the most divisive political figures in American History” and refers to the Affordable Care Act as the “Unaffordable Care Act”.

George W. Bush: His description notes he “started wars in Afghanistan and Iraq, both of which should not have happened,” and mentions the global financial crisis that occurred near the end of his term.

Bill Clinton: His plaque criticizes his championing of NAFTA and mentions that his wife, Hillary Clinton, lost the 2016 election to Trump.

—————

But WAIT…(can you hear the late-night ad voice?)—there was today’s announcement. The Kennedy Center for the Arts has been renamed the Trump–Kennedy Center for the Arts. Of course his name comes first. It always must. Whether you consult AI, a psychology textbook, or a basic Wikipedia entry, type in the word narcissism and watch as it becomes flesh.

We planned to binge-watch Stranger Things final season this weekend. Instead, I’ll watch the news—it chronicles an absurd national experiment in ego, damage, and denial, with real bodies, real costs, no one yelling “Cut,” and no rewind. It’s where power is just performance, truth is expendable, and consequences arrive whether anyone believes in them or not.

I want so badly to have a moderate and kinder view. It’s where I belong. But I am heart-sick daily by the cruelty masquerading as “conservative values” and am completely mystified that smart and loving people accept it so easily. It just doesn’t stop. From calling reporters names, to abandoning healthcare (totally predictable), to name-calling of reporters asking totally appropriate questions, to attacking and killing without a measure of due process, to speaking ill of the dead following a family tragedy (right at the top of the sick and evil scale), to arbitraily banning people from countries based on their color and religion while boisterously asking for those from predominantly white countries to come here (hmmmm – finally the veil is coming off) to the fictional self-accolades over “progress” that couldn’t be more the opposite, and it goes on and on.

And this is just in the last few days.

So many that I know and love seem to be desensitized to it all. Or they actually buy it all. I want to understand its attraction. The chaos is just a matter of daily life. I want to feel better. I want to have hope. It’s a stretch right now. I’m clearly outnumbered. It wouldn’t be the first time. I’ll fight for what I believe is good and just. And this ain’t it.

Melancholy.

A “deep, lingering sadness… reflective sorrow — the kind that isn’t sharp or chaotic, but quiet, thoughtful, persistent.”
Yeah. That one. The slow-moving kind that finds you in the in-between places.
Rare for me.
And yet — predictable, this time of year.
But this year… this week… these few awkward hours — almost unbearable.

There’s irony everywhere I turn.
I’m tucked into this legendary mountain Inn — Asheville, dressed in its finest.
A holiday carnival of excess:
Lights draped on lights, piano keys dancing under chandeliers,
craft cocktails swirling with citrus and smoke,
people gliding across grand lobbies
in branded fleece and polite amnesia —
“So nice to see you,” though my name escapes them. As does theirs from me.

Tonight was meant to be the first of three nights with a Supermoon —
a celestial encore to Beaver Moon, to Harvest Moon —
a white-hot coin in the sky we won’t see again until 2042.
I thought, You should go see it. Don’t miss the magic. It might offer some needed cheer.
But the heavens shrugged. Cloud-covered.
A winter-gray veil of sleet and drizzle smudged its anticipated brilliance.
I slid my camera back into its bag.
Gloves on. Scarf tightened.
And when I stepped back through those heavy wooden doors,
all I wanted was a glass of WhistlePig — neat —
and the permission to be left alone with this dull ache.

Because in just a few days — the ground beneath my feet has shifted.
A widening chasm in my family I never saw coming.
A diagnosis confirming that the leg that’s been betraying me
is torn — ACL and meniscus — a reminder that bodies are wonderfully mortal.
And then the financial storms… arriving uninvited at year’s end,
knocking things off shelves I thought were secure. Entirely recoverable. Just lousy timing.

If not for the joy of the one I love…
and the work that still feels like redemption…
I wonder if depression might have quietly found a place to shelter inside my chest.

Tonight, it’s simply melancholy.
Not forever — just for now.
But when distance grows with people you love,
when the body politic feels absurd beyond repair,
when your own anatomy starts sending you “You’re getting older” memos —
it stacks up.
Heavy.

So instead of basking in the glow of beautiful things
and small-talk smiles…
I’m choosing solitude.
A quiet room.
Jazz humming low through a speaker.
And a slow sip — maybe two, maybe three —
of a 15-year WhistlePig Rye,
as I sit with the sadness
until it softens
and lets me breathe again.

“Sean – where do you stand after the debate?”

I’m sure no one other than a few offline messengers and one interventional cardiologist really cares that much about my answer. I am not much into labels, but they are a necessary evil in a world that wants to size someone up without deepening their understanding of who they are. A label is a proxy for their philosophy of life, stance, or associations. I get it.
 
But this is my answer before and after the debate: Politically, I am—and have always been—an Independent. Unapologetically. More so, as the traditional political parties do not fully represent my leanings, I don’t think they even represent their own foundational beliefs. And when they do resemble their party lines in rhetoric, the execution of those very standards is too often compromised or altogether hypocritical.

So, with this current state of affairs (no pun intended), this is my Declaration of INDEPENDENT:

I am more concerned with rising temperatures and sea levels than with the rise in my portfolio. I want the generations long after mine to enjoy the planet.  

I care about the suffering of others beyond the made-up lines on a map. This is a planet we live on, not just a country we live in. If I were born in or migrated to another country, if my work required me to cross seas or borders, my care for human suffering and hope for a full life of others will remain nation-neutral.

This is a planet we live on, not just a country we live in.

I support a strong military. I support our amazing men and women in “defending the Constitution of the United States against all enemies, foreign and domestic.” I cannot support the justification of war for colonization, acquisition of or securing strategic resources, or waging war of any kind. There is no good war.

I believe in something beyond this world. I feel there is a higher purpose. I can’t fathom that our being is a random accident. If some moronic and prejudiced governor legislates the Ten Commandments in classrooms, he should just as quickly post Qur’an verses of Soorat al-Anaam and Soorat al-Israa, or the written expression of stories and allegories of the polytheistic indigenous peoples, the precepts of Buddhism, and the ten disciplines of Hinduism, to name a few. As an American, I would celebrate and honor these beliefs as much as my own. They are not my enemy; they are my colleagues, teachers, mentors, and friends. We have more in common than in difference. 

I believe in fiscal responsibility and a balanced budget. This requires accountability and some bumper strips of reason, including guards against the self-interests of the legislators over the public good. Wasteful spending is an American epidemic. Wasteful spending in Congress is a Rite of Passage. I believe every spend—whether for infrastructure, the military, healthcare, or $6 Million (yes, that’s 6 with nine zeros after it) to boost Egyptian Tourism (yes, that’s for expanding tourism in Egypt – you know, the country in North Africa with the buildings inspired by casinos in Las Vegas?), should be scrutinized. EVERY congressperson should include video testimony as to why they support the spend. 

I struggle with the Pro Life and Pro Choice issues. I understand both sides. But ultimately, I believe that women should have the right to choose what happens to their bodies. I believe in parameters and, limits and conditions. There doesn’t seem to be a best answer for this to me, but I don’t feel it’s right to legislate a woman’s choice. 

Health care for all should be a civil right, not a privilege that comes with employment or wealth. I am a capitalist, but not with healthcare. Access to healthcare leads to a healthier population. That does NOT mean FREE. I am for access for all and making it affordable. Inequity leads to higher incidences of disease, expense, and mortality. Don’t even debate me on this one; you will lose. Wait, go ahead; it will surely be more enlightening and entertaining than the debate. We spend almost three times more GDP on healthcare than the next closest industrialized countries, and our outcomes aren’t in the top 20. “When John F. Kennedy was president, 6% of American kids had a chronic health condition. Today it is 60%. Rates of autoimmune disease, diabetes, ADD and ADHD, autism, obesity, asthma, food allergies, and other chronic health conditions have been skyrocketing.” ~Kennedy24.com. The system does not work. We have excellent providers, extraordinary technology, and truly fantastic science mixed with a black hole of greed and misalignment. Who suffers? The patients, families, our budget(s), and our country’s health. I feel that if you willfully choose to live unhealthily, you should have to contribute more to the health system. We should tax and spend on wellness and treating illness and disease.

I support our law enforcement. They are incredible servants who take their oath to serve and protect to heart. They put their lives on the line daily. Like any other profession or public service, they must have accountability. There are bad cops like there are bad executives, businesspeople, and presidents. Our criminal justice system has all the promises and flaws that go with governing our safety. That same system is still biased, full of inequity and prejudice, and lacks due process far too often. While the bad apples are weeded out, our law enforcement is critical to civil society. I would NEVER de-fund police; I would fund methods of accountability and creating an equitable and fair system of justice. 

Immigration created this country. Citizen-hopefuls deserve the same chance at the “dream” as any of us did. Dropping out of the womb should not be what makes a citizen. There have been bad people crossing our borders before we even had borders. In my wild fantasy of a civilized union, every person must pass a litmus test and prove their worth and contribution potential. Of course, this isn’t possible, but birthright does not guarantee a person is any better (or worse) than the beautiful people of Mexico, Venezuela, China, Syria, Congo, India, the Philippines, and more.  We, as a nation, have solved truly difficult problems. Our current solutions do not totally prevent those who pose a danger to us from getting in. Our current solutions make it too hard for the good people (the VAST VAST VAST majority of ALL immigrants) to become citizens and build a future of promise. 

I believe in the democratic experiment. I think it has great promise, such as the right (and civic responsibility) to vote; a free press (as awful as some are that call themselves the “Press”); free and fair elections (including the last one in which there was and remains no inkling of interference), and a separation of powers (at least until today’s Stranger Things ruling by the purchased SCOTUS on the topic of immunity).   

What does that make me? Confused? I think it makes me Independent. Thanks for asking.

When I sent my client a list of questions and action items early yesterday morning, I finished the list with a playful, “What’s the meaning of life?”

Then today, on this beautiful crisp morning, as I sat down on a patio chair for meditation, that question made its way through the candidates of my morning pause and begged for an answer.

As I’ve aged and as I’ve learned and as I’ve fallen and as I’ve grown and as I’ve listened, and as I’ve observed, my ideologies, beliefs, and values have been strengthened or have shifted and have had entirely new additions.

I’m not sure if there is a meaning “OF” life. There very well may be. The great philosophers have lobbied for multiple millennia over the Meaning Of prize. The Athenians (Plato, Socrates, Aristotle) would say it is happiness and a virtuous life; the Theist is about following God’s will; the Daoist follows the way to harmony; the Confucianist seeks moral character and benevolence. And the Subjectivist — of which I am one — believes that reality and my own “truth” is related to consciousness.

As a pedestrian window-shopping for what may be the meaning OF life, I can confidently say that I find meaning IN life.

As I exercise my level of consciousness and awareness, life’s meanings continuously flow like the current of a lazy river. I find meaning in the playtime with my little munchkin grandkids. I find it in the quiet moments at night when pondering the universe and its expanse. I find it when learning about and valuing others, especially in conversations that matter. I find it in the moments when we say nothing, but our spirits and touch say it all. I find it while pedaling on mountain trails and skippering my kayak through the rapids. I find it in the prose and poetry penned by the great authors who paint and interpret life in their words. I find it when my vocation is driven to build healing environments and much less about income or the creation of “wealth” (whatever that even means). I find it in the lyrics and the melody of others whose stories may have been mine. I find it in the natural and the supernatural.

And I find the meanings in life with and through you, my friends. Our chapters are fodder for an epic novel whose beautiful characters and magical acts are anything but fiction.

Dad, you left life 34 years ago today. Way too young. I can say that not only because it is true, but because today, for a few more hours, I am the exact age that you were when you died. And I feel so young.

We knew you would be leaving us. The precious cadence of breathing was painfully difficult. Your soldier’s strength, withered and fatigued. And your quick and sharp mind acquiesced to the fade of memory and the struggle to grasp the moments around you.

The ironies sweep like a murmuration of flyers whose spirits mock the phrase, “Rest in Peace” and spend their days in playful heavenly dogfights. The night you passed, I was taking an evening break from the hospital watch. Home for dinner and to be with a gathering of friends who brought goodies and comfort as we knew the loss ahead and, at the same time hoped to offer birthday wishes and even a moment of celebration of life.

Later in the evening, unexpectedly, but not surprisingly, my brother-in-law knocked and entered my home.

“Dad passed.”

There were tears. Bowed heads in prayer. Whispered curses. Deep inhales and exhales as if ready for a leap into something unknown and unwelcome. And silence. My birthday would follow within hours of your passing. But, just a few feet down the hall, sound asleep in her crib, was Chelsea. Brand new to this world. She joined us only 19 days before this one. I walked to her bedroom and listened to her quick little breaths. They were soft and rhythmic and almost prayerful. Her eyes were peacefully closed. I imagined you in peace. With the heartbreak of losing you, Providence reminded me that where life ends, life begins.

I knew birthdays would forever really suck as April 12 would be full of memories and a sense of loss. But, I have Chelsea there to remind me of the moments you held her before telling us goodbye. Your words, “You be a good little girl. I love you.”

And then, as if Providence had not completed her work, and God was not finished reminding me of the imperfect and beautifully temporal nature of this world, Logan was born on April 14 two years later. Those “mysterious ways” reveal the beauty of life in the midst of great sorrow. So, here I sit, I am exactly the age you were on the same day when you left us and filed a new Flight Plan. And it was at this moment in the evening when you closed your eyes and flew.

I raise my glass of Scotch and toast you, to life, to the sweetness of its gifts, and to what’s next. I love you.

Sean.

It was just after 6 a.m. The air was crisp and cool. I sat with legs crossed and eyes closed in a quiet reverie while joining Joe Dispenza for a Generous Present Moment. As with any meditation, I acknowledged the thoughts boisterously seeking my attention, the feel of the breeze — a leftover of the previous day’s clashing of pressures high and low — the sounds of distant traffic and the birds.

The goal is always to be aware of my sentient state but to move beyond the distractions and practice intentional presence and the topic of the moment. Or to nothing at all and just be…empty.

But this morning, the Charm of Finches and the Host of Sparrows were in a full-on Sing-Off. These harbingers of Spring decidedly opened the day in rhythmic and melodic fever. I resigned to the anthem and paused my virtual meditation muse. My attention went to the dawn chorus.

The Chipping Sparrow’s song was soloed in quadruple meter with exactly 5 seconds between each verse. Her greeting went on for over seven minutes before finally handing off to another feathered suburban dweller whose response was from a distance and was less about cadence and much more freestyle.

I smiled and let the breeze carry their chorus through the woods and up to the patio and right to my thankful listen. There was a flutter. It was close. For a moment, I thought to duck and cover. Then silence. I opened my eyes to find one of the sparrows perched on the wooden table next to me that held a cup of coffee that had long since lost its heat. I looked down and said, “Good Morning.” She bobbed her head quickly from side to side, lifted quickly, and flapped back to the trees to join her Breakfast Club.

Good morning.

SEAN: Ahoy!

POSEIDON: Yo, my friend. Welcome back, Chief. It’s been a while.

SEAN: Yes, this is where it all began, Captain. I sonar-messaged you when I arrived. It’s been three days

POSEIDON: First of all, I was in the Mediterranean. Buffett was at Club Med. I’m not sure how many live shows he’s got left in him.

SEAN: How was it? Did he sing Coast of Marseille? That’s my favorite.

POSEIDON: Couldn’t tell ya. I had just set up my Tinder account before the festival. I was working on changing my profile during the concert.

SEAN: What was wrong with your profile?

POSEIDON: I followed the instructions. My location can change in a wet minute, so I listed the Aegean Sea. And I hate when people lie about their age, so I listed mine at 2,723. I’m not sure I was being taken seriously. I apparently got nothing but Left swipes. And I guess my picture wasn’t the best. I think I look pretty good for a couple and a half millennia.

SEAN: I didn’t know you were dating. Did you and Amphitrite split?

POSEIDON: Yep. She left me for Jason Momoa. I asked her what she thought about the age difference. She laughed and said he has always been attracted to older women. I said, “Like a couple of thousand years older?” She threw a conch shell at me.

SEAN: Yikes. Well, all the best with your online dating.

POSEIDON: Thanks. No luck so far. But wait, I just got swiped. Who is Daryl Hannah?

SEAN: What’s all the commotion out there in the water?

POSEIDON: Oh, that’s just my entourage.

SEAN: Oh, like a school of fish?

POSEIDON: More like a Shoal. Ever since we started our Aquatic Diversity and Inclusion program, I’ve got new species and new cultures in my circle. I love it! How have I gone all this time thinking that sameness is better?

SEAN: What’s a Shoal?

POSEIDON: A little marine micro-learning is in order, my nautical neophyte. A school is a bunch of the same kind of fish that swim together. They turn and twist and dance almost seamlessly. They look alike, think alike, act alike, and they like to binge-watch The O.C.

SEAN: Sounds like some of the Meetup groups in my hometown.

POSEIDON: Haha. Been there; swam that. Now a Shoal is a little different. Shoals have different species that stick together and behave a little more loosely. They are together for social reasons — food, friendship, wine, you know, the stuff of life.

SEAN: Sounds like my pod of “Besties.”

POSEIDON: Did you just say, Besties? I just lost a little respect for you.

SEAN: It’s an inside thing.

POSEIDON: Keep it there. And listen, Gilligan, a Pod is a group of marine mammals. I’m not sure if some of your crew even qualify as mammals.

SEAN: Hey, my peeps are as warm-blooded as they come.

POSEIDON: Breathe Minnow-Man. I’m just messing with you. I know Alan and Kevin like the deep dives. And Kevin is our guy. He renovated the Great Hall in Atlantis. A little pricey, but we were under pressure. Pardon the pun.

SEAN: Well, not to get too metaphorical here, but I like that we all march to a different drum, but we are still in the same parade of life, and we’re in the same band.

POSEIDON: OK, that’s a little cheesy, but I get it. The main thing is that there is safety and joy in numbers. But your differences are your strengths.

SEAN: No doubt. But it’s weird that some swim away, and we don’t always know why. But it’s also wonderful when new ones swim in and find their place in our shoal.

POSEIDON: But you have to have criteria. For any species to join my shoal, they must be able to (a) travel, (b) demonstrate exceptional Trident skills, (c) demonstrate proficiency in MS Word and Excel – – I actually don’t even know what those are, but it’s on every other application, and (d) have never worn skinny jeans or camouflage Crocs. What are your criteria?

SEAN: Haven’t thought much about it. I think mine is limited to (a) demonstrated aversion to friend and relationship drama, (b) does not gossip or put others down, (c) stated commitment that Tommy Boy, Fletch, and Goodwill Hunting are the greatest movies ever made, (d) is not so stuck in their teens that they think good music is not made anymore, and (e) they believe wine has more healing properties than any food, drink, or pharmacological elements.

POSEIDON: Damn, Land Rover, that’s more than I have. And I’m a God.

SEAN: Hey, I’ve got some Russell’s Reserve and a bottle of Sixteen Appellations up in the cottage. Wanna get sauced and make fun of the Romans?

POSEIDON: I thought you didn’t want to put anybody down. But you know I will.

SEAN: Oh yeah. How about we get sauced and watch Fletch.

POSEIDON: ”It’s all ball bearings now.”

SEAN: Touché Captain Nemo. Glad to see you.

I remember it like it was an hour ago.

About 15 of us plebe undergrads sat and waited anxiously — in a good way — for Dr. Ralph Eubanks to gallop in for our weekly lesson. His classes felt more like a club than a required three-credit business class. His rhapsodic manner and love of learning was the draw and was one of the reasons students lined up early every year to be one of the lucky ones that got a spot in his smaller and limited series classes. This would be my 3rd class in his Ethics series. I was honored to be considered a bit of a mentee.

He grabbed a chair, flipped it around so that the chair back was in front, sat down, and offered a joyful, “Good evening, my Ethics ingénues. Let us become better today.”

Instead of a lecture, that night would be a dialogue. “If you could meet a person today or a historical figure that you consider being one who pursued an ethical code, who would you choose?”

By this point, I resembled the small business school’s version of the iconic Sweathog, Horshack. Dr. Eubanks told me once that my eyes always had that, “Ooooh Ooooh, Pick Me…Pick Me” look about them. He directed his happy gaze at me and said, “Why don’t we begin with you, our spirited Mr. Keyser?”

“If you could meet a person today or a historical figure that you consider being one who pursued an ethical code, who would you choose?” ~ Professor Ralph Eubanks

I asked if I could pick two. He replied, “Of course. I think New Math has its place here.” (his wit eclipsed only by his love of knowledge and his almost childlike gift in passing it on).

I responded that Robert F. Kennedy and Martin Luther King were the two I would like to have known.

They each stood for something. They both died for it. One, MLK, a civil rights apostle from his earliest days. On the other hand, Robert Kennedy acquired his zeal for equality and social justice after being largely insulated from it during his privileged youth. RFK was not an early adopter of the social justice movement. In fact, he contributed to the “investigations” of MLK by allowing FBI wiretaps. But, unlike the rhetoricians of then and now, he let his conscience prevail. He changed. He evolved. He pushed both legally and morally against the toxic status quo so entirely hypocritical to the central vision of this democracy: Freedom.

MLK stayed true. He never wavered in his pursuit of the “Dream.” He knew full well that it was possible and more likely probable that he would not see it realized in his lifetime. But he was an “influencer” in the biggest way. No, not one who sought multitudes of Likes and followers as social media dopamine. He influenced thought, rationale, emotions, and stirred the better Angels in untold humans, black and white. If Dr. Eubanks (R.I.P.) were to ask me that question today, I would answer the same, but ask to add a third. Dr. King’s collaborator and civil rights giant in his own right, Senator John Lewis has become of the most influential thought leaders in my life for well more than a decade now. Prior to his own death in July of 2020, Lewis wrote in his new book, Carry On: Reflections for a New Generation, what he would say to MLK today.

“We’ve been remembering your example and listening to your words. We can still hear you. I hear you every day.” ~ John Lewis

“I would catch him up on this year 2020 especially and say, ‘Look at the progress we’ve made and look at the work we still have to do’ “ He went on to say, “We’ve been remembering your example and listening to your words. We can still hear you. I hear you every day.”

On the day of Dr. King’s assassination, Robert Kennedy spoke to a crowd in Indianapolis. Unscripted and without rehearsal, he said, “What we need in the United States is not division; what we need in the United States is not hatred; what we need in the United States is not violence or lawlessness; but love and wisdom, and compassion toward one another, and a feeling of justice toward those who still suffer within our country, whether they be white or they be black…So I shall ask you tonight to return home, to say a prayer for the family of Martin Luther King, that’s true, but more importantly to say a prayer for our own country, which all of us love–a prayer for understanding and that compassion of which I spoke.”

“What we need in the United States is not division; what we need in the United States is not hatred; what we need in the United States is not violence or lawlessness; but love and wisdom, and compassion toward one another, and a feeling of justice toward those who still suffer within our country, whether they be white or they be black.” ~ Robert F. Kennedy

And from the man whose day this is — “True peace is not merely the absence of tension; it is the presence of justice.” ~ Martin Luther King

Thank you, Dr. Martin Luther King. For your words of inspiration; for your works to improve humanity; for your tireless campaign for justice and civil rights; and for a legacy that I hope and pray is honored and continues to lead to a better society. I will gladly walk those miles with you and for you.

Sean.

“True peace is not merely the absence of tension; it is the presence of justice.” ~ Martin Luther King

They are a people of the Amazon. Simple. Ancient by our standards. Of their own.

Reading, and later listening to Anthropologist and Linguist, Dan Everett, I considered some of this tribe’s cultural staples as possible guiding principles for my own life as this new year begins.

The Pirahã (pronounced Pee-da-HAN) tribe is an incredibly happy lot. The evidence from scholars and anthropologists is less the kind of academic journals filled with Evidential Probability (EP), Causal Inference, and more. No, they observed and measured how much time they spent smiling and laughing. Whether correlated or causal to their contentment, these features may just have a place for me.

They don’t count – No, I’m not saying they don’t matter. They, quite literally, don’t count. They have no sense of numeracy. As Mr. Everett points out, “They are cognitively capable of counting; they simply choose not to.” The closest they come to numbers are the linguistic notions of some, more, and many.

For Me: What if my days had less attention on numbers — how many of my goals were achieved, how many miles I rode on my bike, how many pounds I shed, how much my portfolio grew (or lost), how many Likes or Loves a post received, or any other how many or how much of that matters stuff?

The immediacy of Experience — They live in the present. Their language lacks mythology. They require empirical evidence to guide their conclusions. There is no focus on what happened before or what might happen later. They don’t speak in abstracts. They require evidence based on personal experience (yours or their own) for every claim made.

“After I had worked with them for over twenty-five years, one night a group of Pirahã men, sipping coffee with me in the evening, asked out of the blue, “Hey Dan, do Americans die?” I answered them in the affirmative and hoped that no one would seek empirical verification.” ― Daniel L. Everett, Don’t Sleep, There Are Snakes: Life and Language in the Amazonian Jungle

For Me: While I believe strongly in the power of story and history, and while I entirely believe in vision, dreaming, and planning, I do feel I should live MUCH MORE in the present. To be more aware of now. To concentrate on who and what is in front of me and what THAT person and what THAT moment means.

No Coercion and the Absence of Anger or Resentment — The Pirahã don’t have language or actions that suggest resentment or anger. Perhaps it is due to a complete lack of social hierarchy and that all members of the tribe are considered equal. If something negative happens, they fix it and move on. They don’t tell anyone else what to do. They live their own life.

For Me: I spent too much time over the last 5 years resenting what I felt (and still feel) was the most morally destructive, socially decaying era since the days prior to Equal Rights legislation. I have seethed with anger at a respiratory tract-infecting virus that has no discrimination in its attack and spread. As angry as I was, and remain, at this microbe, I resented the seeming ignorance of those who, instead of listening to the best information and science that might protect so many (including themselves), listened to conspiracy theorists or talking heads with a political agenda. Even worse, they listened to no one and just gambled on immortality and parroted the nescient, “My body; my right” dogma.

I didn’t like the sense of judgment I felt. It was unnatural for me. “Who am I to say what they must do?” It’s rhetorical: I’m nobody. But I still…felt.

What I can do is share my convictions and wonder if they matter. And I can listen to theirs and learn. I will remain vehemently committed to creating a safer population through vaccine advocacy; I will be a boisterous protagonist for social justice, reducing healthcare and economic disparities, and peace; I will continue to urge versus argue…debate versus “Damn it”…advocate over adversary…less professorial and more the knowledge-hungry plebe. I hope to channel my emotions into positive dialogue for change. I don’t want to coerce; I want to converse.

It is funny that as I seek to seriously reduce attention to time and what’s left and what was, and I am writing about it as a New Year post and fresh resolution for the next iteration of me. Chronological irony at its best.

Happy Time. May there be more…and many :).