Skatter Monkies United!

By twice, I skied more this winter than in the last twenty years combined. Not since a winter in Stowe after college, have my eyes leapt so quickly to the window each morning to see if new snow had fallen overnight; nor has my mind had so many wandering thoughts during the day about conditions up on the Mountain.

After so much time, my body has reabsorbed the breath of a “ski bum”, walking through life, but living to slide, as comfortable in heavy boots and awkward sticks as a ballerina in slippers.

In four short months, I have made more friendships than days skied. Such a wonderful energy lingers around a ski resort. More than just a healthy physical activity, there is a lifestyle embraced, a common passion shared that unites everyone in smiles. No bad moods cloud the sky. No one is a stranger here. It is expected that we will entrust our little skiers to get on the chairlift with whoever happens to be next in line.

Sharing the ecstasy of glorious snow or passing time at tables in the quiet lodge when conditions are poor, those of us instructing have become a team united. From such varied occupations and lifestyles, never even learning too many details about each other, our banter in the locker room is a treasure of contentment and comraderie.

When informed in late November of being assigned a group of four year old “never evers” to teach all winter, I seriously noted my sunken heart and (so focused on learning to trust my intuition) considered going another year without skiing more. Hourly over the next four weekends, as my son and I skied backwards coaxing one or the other tearful, terrified child towards hot chocolate, my patience and sanity were sorely tested.

The first day, when they all went foraging, I was inclined to let them be and head for the parking lot. Putting the pink gloves on the blue child while adjusting three scarves and two helmets yet again, only sheer will power and the fear of a lawsuit restrained me from losing "it" and getting too rough. Plenty of mean words were muttered under breath.

Yet hugs, true heartfelt, warm snuggles, a little head fitting perfectly under my arm, always saved the moment. These little souls who could burst instantly from howls to laughter charmed the frustration right out of me. Their delight and wonder so profound, their pain, frustration and tiredness so close to the surface, their fear and happiness so physically palpable; their gifts were rich.

To work and play so hard with my own son has been a treasure beyond reckoning. The advances in his skills and confidence as a skier, teacher and man have been wonderful to witness. Side by side, we have shared, supported and teased one another. Our friendship has grown so far beyond parent/child duties.

Now the snow melts, temperatures warm. We all move on toward baseball, soccer, biking and swimming. We realign the social sets suspended during these last months in our own hometowns. The world circles back and our fond farewells are already muted by the anticipation of the new season, the smell of charcoal and sparkle of fireflies.

In the meantime, I leave my little Skatter Monkies with this song from their very grateful Skatter Brain.

Skatter Monkies

Skatter Monkies, Skatter Monkies: skiing down the hills
Skatter Monkies, Skatter Monkies, they give us all such a thrill

Mia Pink with brownie crumbs all over her face, never wants to stop, skis like she is in a race;
Bradley leans forward his hands point the way, smile so big and bright it warms the coldest day.

Mia Blue, I’m telling you, knows just where she wants to go, she’ll ski down any trail no matter what the snow;
Smiley Riley seems petrified with tears, ‘til you get up close beside and hear her singing loud and clear.


Good Golly Miss Molly so helpful and kind, at the back of the pack making sure no one’s left behind;
Brook never asks for help, always goes on her own, throws herself down mountains and never breaks a bone


Sabrina serafina as pretty as can be, refused to go up the lift, but really learned to ski;
Owen kept on goin’, never showed his fear, now he’s off to San Diego, we’ll miss him lots next year;

Early one December morn these kids came to me
So wrapped in goggles & helmets, it’s a wonder they could see
They all looked the same to me, I didn’t know their names
I didn’t speak their language, and couldn’t play their games
But they taught me how to laugh again
And see the clear blue sky
To find the good in everyone
And always question why

Skatter Monkies, Skatter Monkies: skiing down the hills

Skatter Monkies, Skatter Monkies, they give us all such a thrill

they give us all such a thrill

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Flood Waters Released

Sometimes to move forward, we have to take a good hard look back.

Just knowing that we want things to be different is not enough. Like a side pool of near-stagnant water circling endlessly, the same subtle undercurrents that caught us in this place, keep us trapped, no matter how clearly we see the middle of the stream.

For many years, through two families, I had a strong grasp on the secure, solid, and stable lifestyle envisioned for my children. Blessed by the opportunities and the loving support provided by my own parents, I could only imagine the same for my family, colored this time more brightly by a little more involvement of the dad in our daily activities.

With the vision so strongly before me, I lived the reality in terms of the physical presence, involved and caring, but the actual sense of complete and utter safety—so evident in my own youth—has always been elusive. For all of my children, the solid foundation that I experienced has rarely existed.

Contrary to all of this New Age philosophy and Quantum Physical proof that we create our own universe through the translation of our thoughts into reality, my adult life has been so distinctly insecure and fraught with such emotional violence, I worry it will require too much hard work and tenacity for any or all of us to undo. My children consciously and sub-consciously suffer the legacy of my fears and foolish choices, despite the indomitable man of unconditional love and emotional openness I aspire to exemplify.

The first step of healing begins with me: identifying initially the depth of my discomfort, then understanding some of the forces that continue to harm the best laid plans, hopes and desires.

For all the betters or worse, there is no problem enumerating the parts that have not worked in my life over these many years. Judged solely by the measuring sticks of my bank account, credit report and accumulated assets, I am a dismal failure of a man.

My unbounded optimism, however, placed the blame squarely on a lack of money forcing pressurized decisions that often resulted in only making things worse. If I could just throw a few more dollars at a problem, I kept thinking—believing with all my intellect—there could finally be the breathing room to make healthier choices.

My father, bless his caring heart, listened with the same concern as I when my friend’s doctors assured us we could not possibly want to deny all the tools we have available to help. He bailed me out with dollars that were just as quickly swallowed in the business that artificially nourished and supported my life, but never truthfully satisfied my soul.

Excuses abounded to allow the question of whether the stress of the business strained the marriages or the other way around, but all of the arguing was distraction from the real insight that I was not living as I loved. Although I learned to justify that being involved in renovations all my life meant I loved it, in truth, earning an income through construction had always been secondary to my passion to play music and write.

At first in college, then living in Oregon, it was an easy way to earn dollars quickly, paycheck enough for “X” number of hours worked. Transient and flexible, the work was ideally suited to pay bills while my creative career was established. Over time and increasing family commitments, however, the nailbelt carried a life of its own, requiring more attention as the size of the tools grew with the size of the projects.

Needing definition in my life as well as dollars, I more often called myself a carpenter and responded to the demand by hiring more help, then taking out an expensive add in the Yellow Pages to feed my employees. Soon my writing pads and computer screen only showed dimensions, spreadsheets and lists of things to do, while my guitar was shut away unplayed, the case collecting dust unseen in the corner.

Now that New Age thinking resonates with more clarity as I begin to understand the currents that led to my particular over-flowing pools of stagnation, unwanted addictions, and sense of abundant failure. The half-hearted effort to work with my own hands or, later, to design and direct others to build (in some small measure imitating my architect father) was just so half-hearted, no matter how well intended, and therefore doomed.

Only now, at midlife, hopefully before it is too late and I truly regret never having tried, by embracing the activities that whole-heartedly inspire my passion, doors begin to open, leading towards my most intimate hopes and dreams. Opportunities I once imagined with both wonder and fear are actually manifesting.

Rather than avoiding it and living falsely, by recognizing, acknowledging and learning to live with that fear, I finally stand a real chance of moving forward towards the happiness we all deserve. In fact, after two failures, I see a glimmer of hope that I might even make a good husband yet.

For now, I am focused on being a better father.

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Never Too Late

Each time a musical phrase inserts itself into my afternoon or evening of lingering practice, a butterfly of color flitting out of nowhere and persistently sticking around, I am amazed at the ease with which it develops into a new song. So definitely coming through me not from me, I stay open to the flow and just let it roll. The more I think, manipulate, try to make it better, the more I'm in the way of the process and it all slows down.

So I learn to trust myself. As I've reached this plateau of midlife, teetering towards the downhill slide, what an incredible delight it is to be inspiried to bring some new songs into the world. Just goes to show it's...

Never Too Late

Some days are just so cloudy, I can't see two steps ahead

Life makes no sense at all, my heart's filled with dread

And I think there's nothing I can do about it, my back's against the wall

If this sounds at all familiar, then please join the call

It's never too late to sing a new song

It's never too late to right a wrong

It's never too late feed your soul

It's never too late to rock and roll

It's never too change your mind

It's never too late to come from behind

It's never too late to rise above

And it's never ever too late to choose Love

We are born with allthat we need to have a wonderful life

Heads held high and arms open wide

Free of all pain and strife

Somehow our thoughts get muddled, confused and full of fears

We so easily make foolish choices

And bring ourselves to tears

Take a good hard look at the road you've traveled so far

Are you pleased with who stands before you

Or do you wish upon a brighter star

If it all just suddenly ended, would you have any regrets

Has your life been fully blended, or do you just take the safest bets

I hope everyone can have as much fun as I am having today! Click here to hear the music.

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Right Before Our Eyes

Opportunity lurks in the unlikeliest of places because, in actuality, it is everywhere if we can only remain open. So many of us can get lost in wanting, yearning for our dreams, pining for what seems elusive, while New Age pundits promise beatifically that it is all easily within our grasp.

Slowly, I am beginning to understand.

The more we open ourselves to the blank page of each new day, the closer the script we write resembles the life we want. Shedding myself of the expectations and “shoulds” by which I have been living, I find I have actual choices to embrace things previously relegated only to my imagination.

Less than a year ago, with trepidation more tarnished than my fingers were rusty, I opened my guitar case after years of silence. I caressed the strings, closing my eyes to float in the sound I could hear of a full band, sparkling and bright, alive with a blend of magic. Not only am I working on making that a reality through the formation of Cache, but this Saturday night, I will strum, pick and harmonize on a small stage with a trio from Toronto.

Six months ago, I would not have been so presumptive and audacious. Certainly I had no clue how to overcome the boundary that had kept me previously in the audience—if I was hearing any music at all. Developing a consciousness that we all have gifts to share, I have dared to introduce myself to musicians I admire. The Internet makes this really easy, leveling the field of play without imposition, allowing each of us the choice to click or not.

Because her edgy and heartfelt notes (http://www.emmacookmusic.com/) somehow resonated particularly in my ear, I trusted my intuition enough to meet Emma Cook when she came to town last month. Our polite conversation turned into an invitation to play along when she returned this month with her band.

The lifestyle of a singer/songwriter rarely supports travel with back-up musicians, so this adds a richness of voice to her show without having to labor on the long road in between. Working raptly with her CD to learn the songs, I played in my living room and sang along in my car, presuming to blend harmonies as if we were the best of friends. Crossing paths in Plattsburgh, New York last week where she appeared in a small club over the community co-op, although shy, I was pleased with the result, proud of myself that in daring to step forward, I could make such a talented musical friendship (and she seemed to like it too).

Today, what seemed like a twist of more bad luck with the flash of a warning light in my Redster was transformed by a series of fortuitous co-incidences into a wealth of opportunities. Forced to wait for a simple repair, I sat for a time in an upscale coffee shop a little beyond my normal circle of travel. Three different conversations with people I see rarely linked me with information to further several projects lurking on my list. Additionally, a complete stranger, inadvertently overhearing one particularly spiritual exchange, handed over a website address scribbled on a cup holder that she thought I might find very interesting…

No longer focused on the demand of my construction business, not dashing frantically here to there, nor distracted by the over-whelming details of hammer, windows, estimates and costly mistakes, my ear is able to pick up the sounds of songs more attuned to my most personal life. Instead of writing contracts and job-cost analyses, my pen scribbles lofty thoughts, wrestling them to pages that just might lead to a book, finally back on track to manufacturing the dreams my mother always assured me I could make come true.

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