Looking at the Content of My Character

(published 9/27/24 in the Tillamook County Pioneer)

By Neal Lemery

Almost seventy years ago, I remember watching soldiers on our grainy black and white television, escorting kids my age into a school. I asked my mom why the soldiers were doing that, and her answer left me confused, unsettled.

“It’s because of their race, the color of their skin, and that the school and the white community doesn’t want them to go to that school,” she said. “But it’s the law. They have a right to go to that school, and the soldiers are enforcing the law.”

My mom’s answer upset me, scaring me that soldiers in our country would have to make sure kids like me could go to school, and that would happen with soldiers armed with rifles and bayonets walking with school kids the same age as me. I was a naïve kid and it was the first time I remember experiencing racism.

I’m still scared and unsettled by that scenario, those responses, and all the racist conduct and talk in our country. It’s all around me. Still.

And the news. There are still the videos of racism and violence, and people living as if the color of someone’s skin really mattered. Martin Luther King, Jr.’s wisdom that the color of one’s skin doesn’t matter, but the content of their character does, still reverberates in me, still makes a lot of sense to me. Why don’t we, as a country, grasp that seemingly elemental observation?

The other day, I talked with a man who was telling me about his accident, how he is still hurting, and that the guy that T-boned him was careless, and didn’t have insurance. I’d been in a crash like that a few years ago and I expressed my sympathy and wished him a speedy recovery. I’d struggled with the pain, and the good results I had in working on my own forgiveness and compassion.

“He was ***, you know,” he added. “One of those ***** ***, who don’t belong here,” he added. He ranted and raved some more, about immigrants and “those people” being lazy and “good for nothing.” It seemed his view of the world was neatly divided into “them” and “us”.

His face reddened and he kept flying off the handle for several minutes, leaving me still mystified about the connection between someone’s ethnicity and speculative immigration status, and a traffic crash with whiplash and a concussion. I’m doubting if the guy had actually done some fact checking and checked on someone’s citizenship status. And, I recalled another conversation I’d had with him several years ago about how proud he was of his grandparents’ emigration to this country, and how they had worked hard and succeeded, living the American dream. He would go on and on about how proud of them he was, and how hard they worked to be part of America. He didn’t see the connection, the commonality of his family and the man he was angry with, or deal with the idea that most of us are either immigrants or that our ancestors were immigrants.

I’m still wondering if I shouldn’t have been a bit more vocal, and a lot more assertive about this blatant expression of racism and bigotry. It’s not the 1950s in Arkansas now, nor the Oregon of 1859, but we still seem to stay in our racist ways, a common expression of bias, prejudice, and downright ugliness. And, I’m hearing high elected officials and candidates for national office being forthright and outspoken on their racism and bias, seemingly deaf from the outrage of much of the population.

Maybe I need to be more intolerant, and more biased against bigotry and hate.

My state, Oregon, has a long and sordid history of racism and bigotry, beginning our statehood by prohibiting Blacks and Chinese people from even living here. My town had a “sundown” law on the books until the 1980s. I still hear the “N word” in public conversations.

And, until last week, a nearby creek’s legal name contained a racial slur. I came home to see a note from another friend, a celebratory announcement of his ability to prevail with the state geographic names board. He’s a historian, and his research discovered that a creek still bore a racist reference to an early homesteader. Well, its 2024 and my friend thought some reform and rehabilitation was in order, so he petitioned the board for a name change, which was promptly granted. The old name had been on maps since the 1870s. Didn’t anyone notice? Or worse, feel uncomfortable enough to seek a name change?

A few weeks ago, a clerk bragged to me that she didn’t need to learn Spanish for her job. “They can just learn English,” she said. Then I watched her struggle to handle a simple transaction for the next customer, whose native language was Spanish. I ended up helping them, with my limited skills, but I was able to smile and make an attempt with both of them, receiving smiles and appreciative nods from both the stubborn clerk and the customer. It was a good reminder to me that I need to work on my own language skills, that I need to practice what I preach, and to keep on learning and growing in our culture, and a reminder that while others are learning English, that I and other English speakers could work on our Spanish. The issue seems to be one of developing a good character.

I’m not sure the clerk got the memo, but the exchange was a good example of the benefits of bilingual skills.

Racism seems to be still infested in our community, and our nation. I find myself often confronted with my own biases and prejudices, and need to realize that I’m a product of our culture, a lot of subtle bigotry, and that it’s never too late for some introspection and to be on the smart side of the 21^st century. I need to smarten up.

9/27/24

Planting for Tomorrow

By Neal Lemery

(published in the Tillamook County Pioneer, 8/8/2024)

It is the height of “no left turn season” and I find myself waiting and waiting to get out into the highway, or simply drive down the road to my destination. My personal frustration level reached a high point yesterday with a very leisurely drive from Rockaway Beach to Wheeler at a snail’s pace of 25 mph. The offending tourist finally pulled off, with me and 40 new friends behind them able to speed up, in time for the speed limit zone in Wheeler. Ah, the joys of August.

My newest travel game is to spot the most gigantic vehicle combination on the road. This week’s winner is a jumbo Winnebago coach, hauling an SUV and a 25 foot sport fishing boat with the extra large outboard motor. For extra points, I looked for the gas barbeque that would have fit in the boat, but, alas, I was disappointed. Maybe I’ll luck out tomorrow.

I tried to count my blessings of running my errand on a beautiful sunny day, with some good tunes playing and not having any strict deadlines. Being “on time” anyway this time of year is only an aspiration, and there’s always that acceptable excuse for being late because of the traffic. My friends and associates accept these excuses, and we usually have a five minute commiseration session before our meeting.

I know that all these visitors bring money, and that our economy depends on them for their cash. While I am inconvenienced, I do welcome the economic benefits, and also the ability to show off the natural beauty of our home. I see a lot of visitors simply taking a breath, chilling out, absorbing a scenic wonder, and being able to enjoy nature with their families. Maybe I need to think of our tourism as a form of health care for the nation.

Despite my seasonal grousing, I see many good things happening in our little corner of the country. Merchants are refurbishing storefronts, new affordable housing buildings are springing up in many communities, and the new health clinic and pharmacy is starting to grow in Wheeler. The fiber optic cable folks on the Wilson River Highway are about done with their work of adding more internet service, and I eagerly await the arrival of cell phone service on that dangerous and well-traveled highway.

The south jetty on Tillamook Bay is getting new rock, and new bridges and repaving are improving our roads. These projects have been on the community “to do” list for a long time and it is satisfying to see the work getting done this year. The new Cape Meares Loop road is a wonder, showcasing part of our coastline with views we haven’t seen before. The designing engineers should get an award for their artistic vision.

There are several new non-profit organizations starting up, filling needs for education and cultural events. Their vision looks far into the future. The farmers’ markets around the county are flourishing, and farm stands are well-stocked. We are busy taking care of community needs and sharing the bounty of farmers.

Artists and their beautiful work are everywhere, with art shows now commonplace and exciting. Public murals brighten community buildings, and there’s an abundance of music and dance. We are even having Shakespeare in the park, at the main library’s new stage at Tillamook’s newest park.

My garden grows well this summer, and I’ve been focused on the art of propagating with seeds and cuttings. I’m practicing new skills and techniques. I’m seeing my time in the yard as a laboratory, and as a metaphor for what most everyone in the community are doing this summer, growing a healthy and thriving future.

8/8/2024

Cleaning Out the Gunk

By Neal Lemery

(published 7/21/2024 in the Tillamook County Pioneer)

The little things in life often teach me the big lessons.

Yesterday’s weed eating project came to a halt as my usually trusty string trimmer decided to take a break. It was time to refresh the thick nylon cord, and I thought a fresh battery was needed. Still, it was a no go. My weed eater had gone on strike.

My project of thick grass and weeds in a long-neglected border was half done, and I wanted to be able to check it off the list before tonight’s long anticipated thunderstorm and, hopefully, rain.

My weed eater had other ideas, getting me to sit down in my comfy chair under the pergola, sip some lemonade, and do some mechanical problem solving. I delved into its mysterious interior workings, finding a half handful of long, wiry grass and the nefarious bindweed (so aptly named). It was the proverbial tangled mess, a metaphor of this busy, intense year.

I kept going deeper, into the very heart of the beast, and finding tightly wrapped coils of grass and stems, wound tight enough that my pocket knife had to enter the fray. Five, ten, then fifteen minutes of cutting and pulling and unwinding, and the inner shafts and gears were finally free. The green and brown gunk and braidings piled up on my lap, as I kept unraveling and cutting. How can such a small device contain so much trash?

At last, all the detritus was gone, and the machine was free. I carefully reassembled everything, even adding fresh tough nylon string. Putting a fresh battery in, I hit the switch, and the machine purred back to life, ready for a new go-around with my weed patch. Being less than mechanical, I experienced elation and self-satisfaction at my accomplishment. It actually worked, and I fixed it, I announced to the yard, its indifference echoing back to me in the silence. Oh, well. I still celebrated my own small accomplishment. I take my victories where I find them.

Getting the gunk out seems to be a great remedy when things aren’t going the way you want. Sometimes, you just need to sit down with a few tools and some time, take things apart, and do some necessary cleaning and re-organizing. Patience is part of that, something I need to practice and give space to as I go about my day.

This work often requires the right tool. My pocketknife was what I needed to fix the weed eater. Later on, a broken hose refused to come uncoupled with another hose, until I found my pipe wrench, applied some needed elbow grease, and twisted it all just right so that the broken hose was finally separated, and headed to the garbage. “Right tool, right job” is a good motto to keep in mind when dealing with things that don’t want to move, that get stuck on so tight that nothing will get fixed. Now, I’m wondering what other tools I can use to fix things on my “to do” list, solving not only the mechanical issues, but the human and social frustrations that need to be fixed.

I should add de-gunking to my daily to-do list. There’s last week’s coffee spill in the pickup, the chaos on the coffee table, the clutter of the glove box. Then, there’s the tool box in the shop. The list can get fairly long of things needing organized. There’s lots of things in life that are twisted, too tightly wound, and messy enough to grind things to a halt. Some time and patience, cleaning up, and decluttering breathe new life into ordinary things, making life simpler, and working again.

I should try this approach to my relationship with others, untwisting and cleaning up how I work with others, cutting away the knots and stuck debris, so that things work smoothly, wheels turn, and the work gets accomplished with a lot less frustration and difficulty. I need to take the time, and be willing to take things apart, do some unraveling, use the right tool, and put life in order.

7/21/24

Cleaning Up After Fathers’ Day

By Neal Lemery

(published in the Tillamook County Pioneer, June 18, 2024)

I’m always relieved when Fathers’ Day is over for the year. For me, it is a mix of emotions and experiences, with memories both sweet and awkward, sometimes excruciatingly painful, for me and my kids.

The greeting card industry portrays the day as an overly sweet and happy day, offering cards with sentimental words, and traditional gifts such as T shirts and golf balls, and barbecues and ball games. Dad as hero, the perfect parent in our lives. In our society, reality often doesn’t resemble what commercialism tries to paint as warm, fuzzy, and normal.

Yet, it is a day of awkwardness. What if one’s experiences and relationships with a father was strained, dysfunctional, full of abandonment, or downright dangerous and frightening? What if those wounds haven’t healed, there’s a lot of unresolved anger and neglect, or simply rage about not showing up in your life?

The kids I call my kids wrestle with all of this. Some simply ignore the day, while others send a short, yet sincere one line message on social media. Often, the pain of dealing with hard relationships is best kept quiet. I respect all of those responses. They are genuine, real, and honest, and not found in the greeting card section of the store.

Most of my kids take the safe path, and don’t open up to express what they are feeling, or how to be the kid on Fathers’ Day. For most of us, silence is golden, safe, and non-committal.

I know they love me, and I love them. I also know I’m not the perfect father, that I’ve made mistakes and caused some harm. I like to think I’ve done more good parenting than bad, and that I’m still learning how to be a good dad. I’d like to hope they know that about me.

I’m here for them, after all these years, and perhaps that is enough of a role to play on a day when we are supposed to feel all warm and fuzzy, that Dad is a hero, the fulfillment of the ideal Dad. I don’t need a card or a new box of golf balls to get that recognition. Hokie commercial gifts don’t really express what we feel for each other, anyway.

The father-kid relationship is complicated, anyway. My feelings for the best fathers I’ve had in my life aren’t based on genetics, but on genuine mutual respect, working to be solid mentors and supporters of a kid trying to navigate life and to figure out who I’d be when I grew up. Even as an adult, I needed that genuine fathering, that relationship where one could go deep and feel respected and nurtured.

Family life is better anyway, when there is honesty, mutual respect, and acknowledgement that we all struggle with emotional pain and needing to feel good about ourselves, that we all have the potential for doing good for others.

I used to think that biology and genetics didn’t really matter. It was what happened today, building a good home life and showing compassion and empathy. But, recent scientific work is showing me that past generations’ trauma and anxiety lies deep within us, and is passed on to new generations, being a deeply ingrained aspect of our own psychology and thinking. Part of our work on becoming better people is recognizing that genetic influence, that power of past trauma to cause pain, working on giving air to that history, and patterns of behavior. Healing ourselves, and facing our past, even back several generations, is part of our work in changing our world, and in raising our kids. That work is part of parenting, part of building a better society today.

Perhaps that work, that realization, should be woven into a good Fathers’ Day observance, a day of recognition and healing, a day to celebrate healthy love between parents and kids. Those conversations, those “going deep” talks with loved ones would go far in helping us be better dads, and make for a well-celebrated and well-observed holiday.

6/18/2024

Memorial Day is Personal to Me

By Neal Lemery

(published in the Tillamook County Pioneer, 5/26/2024)

Memorial Day is an awkward holiday for me, celebrated publicly for the three day weekend, the winding down of school and planning for summer fun. Our culture celebrates the beginnings of barbeques and picnics at the beach, family gatherings, and the official beginning of summer.

Yet, it is a time of reflection and sadness for me, a time to recall the lives of ancestors who fought and often died in war, a time to recall personal sacrifices for the common good, of conflict waged for the hoped for betterment of humankind. Memorial Day is a way to honor that, but we are more likely to ignore the reality of war, death and sacrifice. It is, instead, a day of disconnectedness and apathy.

Not many people are alive now who remember my grandfather. He lived a rich and fulfilling life as a farmer, taking pride in a well-managed dairy farm and helping to raise a family. He was reluctant to talk about his life and it took twenty years for me to gather the details.

The twelfth child of a German dairy farmer, he was drafted into the Kaiser’s army at the beginning of World War I, and sent to the Russian front. The Russians captured him, and he spent three years in a prisoner of war camp. He joined other soldiers in making their escape in the middle of a bitterly cold winter. One of the few stories he told was of walking through the snow, living off frozen potatoes, as they headed west towards home. He would weep silently at holiday meals, cherishing the bounty of the table, and the warmth of his home, only once mentioning that some of his fellow soldiers froze to death during their escape.

I’ve stood in cemeteries and war memorials, stunned by the thousands of tombstones and the tales of wars now only honored in dusty books and mossy granite monuments. I try to make sense of it all. I listen to the stories of my own generation who went to war, some not coming back, others deeply affected by the horrors they experienced. And, I keep seeing the debris of traumatized lives who fought in newer wars, still trying to find some sense, some higher justification for their sacrifice.

When I was a kid, many people called the day Decoration Day, a term left over from after the Civil War, when people gathered flowers and went to cemeteries to honor the soldiers who died in that war.

Memorial Day is a day where I am out of sorts. Firing up the barbeque and putting the flag up on the side of the house are part of my rituals for the day, but I find no peace, no action that gives me satisfaction for this day. I remember my grandfather, who chose to be mostly silent about his service in a nearly forgotten war. As I peel the potatoes for dinner, I remember his story, and can feel the icy cold of a Russian potato field in the middle of winter, a memory told and, over a hundred years later, still remembered.

And, every year, I read this poem, written by a soldier trying to put his tears into print, to try to make sense of the horrors and casualties of war. I cry as I read it today, the words raw and bloody still. When I stood in a cemetery in France, overlooking headstones in fields that seemed endless, I read this poem, engraved in marble, speaking its truth to me and all those who came after me, to honor and to remember.

In Flanders Fields

BY JOHN MCCRAE

(1918, public domain)

In Flanders fields the poppies blow

Between the crosses, row on row,

That mark our place; and in the sky

The larks, still bravely singing, fly

Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago

We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,

Loved and were loved, and now we lie,

In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:

To you from failing hands we throw

The torch; be yours to hold it high.

If ye break faith with us who die

We shall not sleep, though poppies grow

In Flanders fields.

5/26/2024

Escaping into the Quiet

By Neal Lemery

(Published in the Tillamook County Pioneer, 5/18/2024)

Like other photographers, I was excited about the Northern Lights being visible in Oregon. I’d missed the first night, but I was ready the second night. I carefully set up my camera gear, getting my cameras on the right settings, and I was ready to roll.

I had the perfect spot. A comfy chair on the deck, facing north, my favorite fleece jacket, a nice cushion and an excellent view to the north. With a mug of tea in hand, I sat down for an evening of great photography and learning more about my cameras and the art of photographing the night sky.

The twilight dimmed, and I kept looking north, spying a satellite zooming through the sky and the first few stars making their appearance.

Then, the fog and clouds moved in, right on time for the big show, thickening up and blanketing what few stars that had made their appearance.

It had probably been months, if not a few years, since I had taken the time to just enjoy the night sky, and be an observer. To be, rather than do, and observe, watch. Mentally, my to do list crept in, but I willed it to leave my head, so I could concentrate on the evening stillness and be in the moment.

Gradually, I felt the stillness of the evening, and let that calm percolate within me, the only sounds being my breath and a faint breeze. I could smell the damp of the incoming fog, and the coolness of the dropping temperature. The sweet smell of the honeysuckle, the Solomon’s Seal and other spring flowers was present. I realized I hadn’t been taking the time to literally smell the flowers and appreciate the spring flowers, and the beauty of nature. I simply hadn’t noticed, hadn’t taken the time to be a part of my own back yard, to be present in my little corner of the world.

I took a few pictures, being successful in photographing a rather dull cloud bank of fog coming off the ocean, a good study of various shades of gray. I began noticing the texture, the shape, the seemingly random irregularity of the fog and the trees and hills on the horizon, silhouetted by the scattered almost light of the evening’s ambient light.

The experience was subtle, calm, with the unspoken theme of contemplation, awareness, a sense of just being present and observing. It was a simple moment, yet I was becoming aware of the complexities of the light, the dark, the various tones of this gray palette that Nature was creating in its art tonight.

“The monotony and solitude of a quiet life stimulates the creative mind.” –Albert Einstein.

I focused on my breathing, and on the slow, ever-changing tones and movement of the fog and clouds, the subtle changing of the light as the evening darkened, and the clouds grew thicker.

I found myself contemplating my creative works in progress, of working on my art with a renewed sense of purpose and meaning, of simply being in the moment with my creative energy. An overwhelming sense of fulfillment, satisfaction, of creative goodness came over me. I had no other expectation other than simply being here, in this moment, and feeling full and content.

Other photographers that night captured glorious photos of the aurora, dazzling and fantastic. I had nothing like that on my camera, yet I was still having a fabulous experience, exploring the gray subtleties of my fogged in observatory. I could mourn my missed aurora photography experience, but I had my own, rich in silence, contemplation and a celebration of the joy in life.

I found myself content, at peace, finding some time and space to contemplate life, to simply notice the honeysuckle, to appreciate its presence and its gifts to me that evening. I was in touch with my creative spirit, my sense of place and being, finding tranquility and inner peace by simply being where I was at, the observer, being the being and not the doing.

5/17/2024

Finding a Place to Grow

By Neal Lemery

(published in the Tillamook County Pioneer 4/13/2024)

Spring brings out my tree planting urge, and a recent trip to the nursery added a new Japanese maple to add to my collection of plants in the yard.

I’m tasked to find just the right place for the new tree, wanting to add its lacy lime green foliage to my “art collection” of plants in the front yard, and anticipating where the new tree’s bright orange fall foliage will best be admired. I need to figure out where it will be best situated, and avoid the bright afternoon summer sun.

Finding the right place to grow is always a challenge for this gardener, a practice that dominates my gardening. It’s also a big factor in the lives of my friends and my community.

“How do we best grow the things we love?” is an ever-present question for me.

I keep in touch with several young men I’d met and worked with when I volunteered at the local youth “correctional facility”. I was a tutor and a teacher of gardening skills, and hopefully was someone who led by example and encouraged young people to better their lives.

One of those men is back in prison, still struggling with drug addiction, violence, and instability as he has tried to move through the many obstacles that ex-cons need to deal with. Other people may find it easy to simply label him as a criminal, and want to keep him locked up. I know him and his life to be much more complicated than what a snide label and categorization would describe him. His life has been hard, complicated, and filled with a long list of traumas and experiences that would challenge anyone to cope with.

Like all of us, he isn’t easily categorized by a few words and stereotypical judgements.

He’s at a point where he wants to dig deep into the whys and wherefores of his drug use. He’s clean now, thanks to one of the few positives of being locked up. He’s taking some anti-depressants and some medications for anxiety and trauma. Yet, he doesn’t want a lifetime of taking medications and wants to be healed, and to fully understand how to live a better life without depending on yet more chemicals and pharmaceuticals.

My friend wants meaningful treatment, and has asked the prison staff to get him into a Narcotics Anonymous group, and be involved in the work he knows will be hard, yet essential.

But there’s a waiting list, and more bureaucratic paperwork and delays. He’s been told to wait. And to continue to be untreated, unable to effectively move forward in his life, to work towards his plan for sobriety, and life after prison. He gets out next year, but he knows he’s not ready, that without treatment and without him doing some hard, introspective work, he’ll relapse, again, and keep repeating the cycle that has, again, led to another prison term.

It costs all of us $50,000 a year to keep my friend in prison. That’s right, $50,000. What if we spent that money on drug treatment, housing, vocational training, and some other essential social services, so people could be productive, safe citizens, building healthy lives, being builders of our communities?

I understand the idea that often, jail or prison is a needed break in the cycle of criminal thinking and addiction, that often the community is safer when some folks are locked up for a while. Yet, it is an expensive social experiment, and there are good arguments for putting all that money into better use. We tend to deal with the result, and not the causes, of criminal activity and addiction.

My friend waits. He takes his meds, he has had a few visits with a mental health counselor, and I’ve sent him some books on drug recovery and trauma. But all that is not enough. He needs more. He needs an NA group. He needs to work his 12 step program, and be with others in group sessions where they have deep and productive conversations about addiction and life without mind-altering drugs, about living clean and healthy. He needs the tools to cope with our society, with life on the streets, and trying to find and keep a job when you have a criminal record and not much of a social support system.

Being on a waiting list isn’t working. And, it’s not saving the taxpayers any money. The waiting list is part of the problem, and not part of the solution.

In the last few years, politicians have been spending some serious money on trying to deal with addiction and the related issues of lifelong trauma and violence, and looking at what really works to change people’s lives. Oregon’s experiment with decriminalizing drugs left us with more questions than answers, and we are now back to giving a lot of that problem to the criminal justice system.

I’m still thinking about my friend, locked up in a big prison, taking some pills, and waiting. He’s burning through $50,000 this year, and we’re all not getting a whole lot of return on this investment.

In Oregon, 4,000 prisoners were released last year, and 80% of them had no drug and alcohol treatment. Two thirds of these folks had diagnosed drug and alcohol problems. https://www.thelundreport.org/content/most-oregon-prisoners-cant-get-addiction-treatment-theres-bill-change .

He’s waiting, waiting to get on with his life, to find a good path to his future. I’ll wait with him, but it’s going to be a rough road, and the likely result won’t be what anyone wants.

I’m going to have better success for my new maple tree. I’ll find the right spot in the garden, with the right amount of sunshine, and the right amount of care. It will grow and it will share its beauty with my neighbors. I only wish the same for my friend.

4/13/24

Possibilities

By Neal Lemery 1/2/2024

The new year offers such potential. The new year’s calendar on the frig is already filling up, but there are plenty of empty spaces for what could lie ahead.

I try to write on the calendar in pencil, to leave open the possibilities of changing my mind, altering my schedule, and being more spontaneous. As I look back on 2023, I realize that the most fun I had, the most meaningful events were those that popped up at the last minute, that I could seize the moment and be spontaneous.

Whimsical is my word for 2024, being open to new things, new activities, new challenges, and not caring so much that I’m trying something new or challenging. I’m looking for fun and new energies, new opportunities, some new growth for myself. I want more excitement, more creative challenges. I want to be open, to be free to learn new thing, try new experiences, to feel relaxed and enjoy what lies ahead, and me simply letting go and letting be.

In my art, there’s always a contradiction. Part of me wants to be disciplined, organized, methodical. I struggle with being too obsessed with structure, predictability. Yet, I also want to honor and cultivate my creativity, my Muse. My best, most satisfying artwork comes from being in the moment, being spontaneous. Yes, being whimsical, not always following the rules of what is to be expected.

The routines in life offer me structure, organization, an easy, predicable road to follow. But the path of predictability does not always lead me to the desired result, or the beauty that I hope to express. I can easily get into a rut, of following the expected path, and not finding the river of creativity and artistry that I want to find. “Same ol, same ol” is not what I want, but the predicable “me” tends to seek that out.

I am working on being in the moment, of fanning that spark of creativity and unpredictability, that spirit of creativity that lies deep inside of me, the little boy that wants and needs to come out and play. Sometimes, I need to jump off the path and avoid predictability, of rule following. I need to honor that little boy and let myself daydream, be present the moment. To simply be the creative.

This year, this new space of what could be unlimited permission to be creative and spontaneous, awaits my exploration. I need to work at giving myself permission to let loose and to let the Muse take me where I need to wander. The challenge for me is to give myself permission to engage in the daydreaming, the spontaneity, to be less structured, more forgiving of myself and the pull of old voices telling me to just follow the rules and stay on the beaten path.

As I tell my friends, and as I need to tell myself, Onward!

The Lessons of 2023

(Published in the Tillamook County Pioneer, 12/29/23

By Neal Lemery

It’s the end of the year already. The year seems to have flown by, as years tend to do. I like to be reflective, to look back and wonder what I’ve learned this year, what the lessons of life have been taught to me by the many turns and twists of the road in 2023.

The ten minute rule

I’m working on a new protocol for when I’m running my errands. I’ve realized that relationships are at the core of my life, that being around others, and truly listening to them, is an essential part of life, a core value of being a community member.

And, relationships need time. They should take priority over what I think my important and busy schedule is. At the end of the day, the quality of my interactions with others is what has really mattered, and what I did today that was important was really all about relationships.

I’m learning that when I encounter someone, I need to be patient, to take time, and to truly listen. You can learn a lot about your community and about life if you simply take the time to be present, to listen, and to exercise your empathy and compassion.

When I truly listen to someone, when I focus on what they have to say, when I take a few minutes to simply “be” and not “do”, I learn a lot, and I build community. And I have ten minutes in my day for someone, if they need it. Sometimes, I need it. Friendships are our treasures, and they need to be tended to, fed with conversation, and given the nurturing that a few minutes of conversation can bring to our lives.

I do have ten minutes in my day to spare.

The other day at the store, I found myself helping a man in a wheelchair in picking up a bag of dog treats. He was grateful for the help. At the checkout, I found myself behind him, and noticed that most of his purchases were for puppies. We struck up a conversation and I learned he had a new Christmas puppy and was out shopping for the new love in his life. He laughed and smiled, happy to talk about his Christmas, and sharing his new-found joy.

I had ten minutes with him, the best and most joyful ten minutes of my day.

Unplug and start again

Technology can be my friend, allowing me to communicate and to organize, to be productive and useful, from the comfort of home, with a hot beverage to enjoy. And technology can be the source of frustration, and the onset of feelings of incompetence, ineptness, even the use of some four-letter words.

I’m less of a techie than I sometimes think I am. One of my tried and true remedies, often as a last resort, is to turn off, unplug, wait 30 seconds, and then start over. More often than not, that little break with the device seems to reset the problem device. and eliminate the problem. I suspect that more often than not, my less than perfect tech skills are the source of the problem, but my pride keeps me from being that honest with myself.

Unplug and start again seems to work in other areas of my life as well. Taking a break, going for a walk, filling up the bird feeder, or relocating myself often works wonders for the frustrations and challenges of life. I don’t apply this remedy nearly enough, but when I do, the benefits are often immediate and productive.

I’ve been reading about the Japanese practice of “forest bathing”, which is popular in other cultures as well. A walk in the woods, or on the beach seems to be cleansing, relaxing, a purge of toxic thoughts and processes. I’m adding that practice into my reliable technique of “unplug and start again”.

Restringing

My friend and I don’t see much of each other since he moved out of town for a better job. When we do meet up, we can hold down a coffee shop table for several hours. This week, he brought his guitar which had languished in his closet for seven years. We planned to restring it, giving it new life, so he could start playing it again and teach his young daughter a few songs.

We sat around my dining room table, talking up a storm as we usually do, and began to put on new strings. We cleaned up the grit and grime on the guitar, removed the old, rusty strings, and put on new shiny strings. Like a lot of relationships, we tuned up the guitar, bringing the new strings up to pitch, and letting the guitar find its new, fresh voice. The wood responded with sweetness and harmony, much like our friendship.

That guitar will teach us about the value of time and patience, too. New strings need to “settle in”, to stretch, to develop a relationship with the wood of the guitar. Playing the guitar vibrates the wood, improving the tone and “seasoning” the guitar. Those vibrations soothe my heart, too. The benefits are abundant.

Friendships need that sometimes, to be cleaned and restrung, brought up to the proper pitch, and strummed with new energy and purpose.

Looking at Ordinary Things

I’m a photographer, and am often looking for that special photo, something out of the ordinary. But I learned again this year that my best photos occurred when I didn’t think anything spectacular was happening, that what I was seeing was just “ordinary”. When I took another look, when I paused, and really looked around, what initially seemed ordinary had a special beauty, that “special something” that needed to be the subject of my camera.

The other morning, I went outside at dawn, having noticed a pinkish sky to the east. The coming sunrise didn’t seem like much, until I stopped and waited, and looked again. There wasn’t that brilliant phosphorescent explosion on the horizon, but there was some subtle colors. I moved around, and put a Japanese maple tree covered with morning dew and the remnants of last night’s rain between me and the soft colors of the sky. Suddenly, the composition took form, with the soft colors and sparkly waterdrops becoming what I was realizing was a stellar photograph.

The lesson I took away was to wait, observe, and let the ordinary be transformed into something special.

With time and patience, something that seems unexciting, plain, even mundane, can become a moment of beauty and serenity.

As the old year fades away, I’m reminded that life so often gives us simple lessons, if we only take the time to notice.

12/28/23

Holding Space

published in the Tillamook County Pioneer, 12/19/23

By Neal Lemery

A number of years ago, a counselor friend introduced me to the idea of “holding space”, being simply present for someone in crisis, someone needing a human presence in their life.

And not necessarily a friend who could offer advice or counsel, or direct them to some professional help. But, simply being there.

I’m a verbal person, willing to talk about most anything, and sometimes too free to offer advice, even when it is not sought. Holding space is an idea that is more about just showing up, being around, willing to offer the proverbial ear to someone having a really bad day. Zipping my lip is not my first response, but often holding space is what is needed and what is sought.

Yesterday, the phone rang. An old friend, a guy I’d mentored and worked with when he was in prison, was on the line. He was in tears, needing to talk. One of his parents had just called him to break their lunch date for the holidays. He’s been suicidal and had acted on it, and was now in rehab.

My buddy was devastated. He was worried about his parent, but glad they were alive, and relieved they were in rehab and getting the help they had needed for a long time. His tears flowed and he choked up several times, getting his family woes off his chest.

I listened, and listened some more. I set aside my judgmental thoughts about the parent’s drug use and depression, and the impact that had on my friend. My friend wasn’t calling for advice; he was calling so I could listen to him, so he could put into words what he was going through. He needed to vent, and to cry on my shoulder. I zipped my lip, yet occasionally offered words of condolence, sympathy, and concern for my friend’s wellbeing.

I reminded him that he was a good man, a good son, and one of my friends. And, I listened some more. The torrent of tears slowed, and he became reflective of the ravages of addiction and estrangement that had plagued his family, and strained his relationship with his parent.

That’s all that he needed, and all that he wanted from me in this phone call. I listened, and withheld my judgement about the parent and their relationship with my friend. I told my friend I loved him, and that he loved his family, and that love for a person who hurts you can be painful and difficult to navigate, but loving others is what we are here to do in our lives.

An hour later, I heard a quote from Supreme Court Justice Sandra Day O’Connor. “The purpose of our lives is to help others along the way.” She’d written that in a letter she had written, to be read at her funeral, her final words of wisdom to be shared with the nation.

At the end of the phone call, we told each other we loved each other, that it was good to talk, and good to share troubling news, and that sometimes, family life and the ravages of drugs and depression are tough to navigate.

My friend and I are here for each other, just a phone call away, when the tears overflow and life gets a little too challenging. Yesterday, I held space for my friend, and helped him on on his way. I know he’s there for me, too, when life gets too much to handle by myself, and I need someone to hold space for me.

12/20/23