This Is An Exercise In Words – ReubenRock.com

I speak of traditions as if I can even recall what they once were. Perhaps there is some muscle memory of sorts that could fill in the gaps. Some part of you that splintered off, stuck in my side like a rib replaced, and stayed there to remind me that we are all mortal. That while prayer seems silly and antiquated, we should hold reverence for things passed from century to century among men and their sons. Maintain respect for that which we do not know. After all, we don’t.

So why not light candles? Why not bow our heads? Why not give thanks for whatever energy binds us together in this place?

During this time of year – in these holy days – my ego subsides. That muscle memory resurfaces images of your eyes beaming brilliantly against a backdrop of mixed icons while you share wisdom from ages and places and people I will never know. I remain captivated to this day. Transfixed in the wake of your faith. Awestruck by the force with which you formed a life from my confusion and a religion from my disbelief.

And I give thanks on this holy day.

Namaste.

We’re satellites orbiting a beautiful, glowing city covered in clouds. Like believers flocking to heaven. We need the comfort of knowing that something down there is waiting for us. A reversed or inverted afterlife of sorts. Where others wish to ascend, we descend toward our final destination. The warm earth.

Taking off on cloudy days can be a humbling experience. Suddenly you’re rendered snow blind. Look outside and see white. Look inside and see people just like you trying not to look outside. Look within and realize that you’ve put the control in someone else’s hands, if only for an hour or two. You’re a passenger in a life where being the driver is revered. It’s expected of a man.

I would encourage you to take a flight soon. Feel your power diminish and force your trust to place or misplace itself in a stranger.

Savor that moment. Feel it in your guts. Feel small and mortal for a few miles of air.

Then land safely. Step off the plane. Realize just how much you can control in your everyday life. Own it. And make something better of yourself.

We board planes that point westward and pay sums of gold to do business with others, and trade gold with them. But we can’t trade the soul of it. The spirit of one-upsmanship. That desire to best someone else.

We groom ourselves mercilessly. Polish ourselves like diamonds. Gemstones with neckties. And now and then, we try on different settings. Something to bring out our brilliance. Show off our sparkle. Then drink whiskey from crystal glasses until we’ve lost clarity.

So what setting do you prefer? The tradition of Memphis? The glitz and glamor of New York? The ease of New Orleans?

Board your jets, but don’t forget – no setting will mask those inclusions fully.

Sometimes I look at my hands. I wonder, with all their marks and memories, can they help me keep a handle?

There are dry spots from hand-washing that seems compulsive. Callouses at the base of my fingers. A scar here and there suggesting that maybe they’ve seen combat. But they haven’t. Corners of fingertips chewed raw and ragged. A blood blister near a cuticle on my right hand – a sign that I have music in my life again. A white gold ring that keeps me humble. Fingernails with a striped texture. My father once told me it was a sign of Native blood. And every once in a while, I look at my hands and see his.

So I ask myself: with these hands, can I keep a handle?

With enough to hold onto, yes.