Death of Osama Bin Ladin and One Man's View

Somehow, I think it is fitting that I was out of it while this “news event” was taking place. It seems to solidify a different perspective that I have from others around me that started on September 11th 2001. It seems to spark this gulf that exists in the way I see the world, and the way that the Media's America is portrayed. It speaks to the sickness that is eating at the heart of a honest American Soul.

On 9/11, I was deep in the backcountry of Glacier Peak Wilderness. I was there with a good friend of mine, John Solo while we did a 4 day traverse of the northern slopes of that mountain. It was the high times of the bloom and the views of the Mountains and Valleys seemed to sign to a man of the true nature of the world. Having spent the previous day arduously climbing the endless switchbacks of Vista Ridge from the Suiattle River Bridge, we sat overlooking the views. That day we passed many travelers and thru-hikers, sharing stories of their experiences, getting in touch with our fellow kindered spirits that walked these trails. This was humanity at it's best, sharing experiences, sharing food, and sharing knowledge of the trail ahead.

The only odd thing about this day, was there were no airplanes. John and I had watched the contrails of a jet double back on their path, returning to Canadian Airspace. I remember causually turning to John, and mentioning a Joke, “They must have forgotten the Boyd's Coffee..” A pop culture pun on an old tv commercial. It was when we came back that I noticed how nuts my fellow American's had become. Flags at half mass, mourners, and that low drum-beat of patriotism and revenge reverberating from a country in the grips of fear and seeking revenge. As the days went by, and the press and politicians stoked those Drums, we jumped into two wars of “revenge”. Our natural reaction was like that of a wounded cat, strike out with full claws while licking your wound.

That mentality, allowed us to be tricked and lead in wrong directions. People don't seem to remember that now. But I remember it from those days. A disturbed feeling of what my fellow American's were feeling, and the large gulf that existed between me and them. For me, the viewpoint was that we were seeing the reaction of, “man's-inhumanity to fellow man.” Look to the sources of how we got there and the reaction that was released. There was more to be gained out of this then just rote revenge and lashing out. For a large part most of us did, but there was still the odd justification for extending ourselves out into two wars in the name of crushing Al-Queda.

The root of crushing Al-Queida lay in the simple act of changing the world that those people lived in. In many cases, those who would follow Bin Ladin's words were those that had seen the hard knocks of the world, how the crushing weight of poverty, lack of opportunity, and shear hippocritial propaganda of the commercial state dealt with there life which was far different from those of us that lived in the crystal palace of western civilization. You don't have to go across the world to find places where these people are from. They might not have the zeal of far off lands and foreign names, but they lay here in our slums and ghettos as Gang's. People trying to find meaning and make sense of a world that they have fallen off from. The key as we later learned in Iraq and Afghanistan was not in military might, but by improving the lives and social connections of the people in these places. That was the way of real change.

Yesterday, as I was getting an examination by the doctor for an Accident I was in Sunday, I was asked a series of cognitive questions to test how I had fared from a concussion by the steering wheel of my late Ford Ranger. He asked me, “what is today's date?” “What important event happened yesterday?” I looked at him and thought it was odd that he should said that. I said, it was May Day, celebration of people and spring. He said, “No... We got Osama...” There was a sort of satisfied look on his face. I had not felt nausea till then, even though I had been in a vehicle accident. There in the face of what I thought was an intelligent man, was that old septor of revenge. I wanted to tell him, we hadn’t got anyone, he got us... He let lose a dragon, and gave the example he needed to wage his war.. We had not changed, and there was still more for us yet to learn about ourselves before we could accept the problems with our own society, let alone one on distant shores hunkered down in the mountains of Pakistan..

Osama Bin Ladin maybe dead, but people are still suffering without hope. There are still places where the disillusioned are looking for answers and, extreme men can be swayed to fight rather then build. Until, we change that, until we look at why this place in the human heart exist, there will be no peace, from them or ourselves... And more then technology or materialism, this is one of the most important things we can do with our country in these times.. Personally, I think it starts with turning off the media and getting to know your neighbor, one person at a time..

Just a thought,

– Ridgewalker

Where is our Source...

What if I told you that the world was going to be much grander in the days forward then they have been past… Would the cynical nature of hard times really get in the way of that. Or would hope and the power of human innovation ascend beyond that? Do people need more the just a paycheck to make a difference? Do they instead need something that calls deep and renders that stirring sense of purpose.. Where once meet with a country so prone to the extraordinary that it should transform the people as a whole and beg more then what was once before…

Would this be a better day, or just something that fell unto the endless lines of the daily dialog, consumed with the ordinary, with the troubles we face and the tragedy of this materialistic lifestyle that plagues us… Would somewhere in these stories, the outreach to those who have not a hope in the world, being shown the light of inspiration. Or those who are struggling under unbearable odds of this human existence, still look to the horizon and see that new day, brought by their own hand and their hard earned toil…. Now that.. That indeed would be a story worth telling… Something that would be worthy of the medias interest and worth the reading…

And yet in it all it would be an American Story… One told from each farm, city and township across our great land. Woven together by great highways and lines that tie us all, and yet one that is different to each corner, sacred to the earth from which they bring their bounty. From the story in which each story weaves in is solemn line, and it’s eyes looking up in hope… For as long are there are stories there is always hope. As long as there is heart in a country so wide that one word can barely describe it, there shall be promise…

So bring on the pundits, the neah sayers, the people cynical of change. Bring on those who whould look at temporary gain, over the long vision of a people evolving. The politicians who do not take the time to learn the story of those they fly over, and the people who do not follow the discourse of our era. We need a new tone, a new speech, one that does not look to divide, but yet unite. One that takes the strengths of each and builds it to be more as a whole. One that brings hope and action in places where they have not seen that. For then we shall see an honest change, a good change and shall endure this national tragedy that rampant greed invoked, and the heart of America was quelled in. It is not that we are different that divides us… It is precisely that which unites us… After all something a few of us used to say back in High School… United We Stand, Divided We Fall…

Snoquera

Softly, the flake descend in the open meadow,
The extended green boughs of great cedars turn to white,
As with the passage of the ghosts of the for deposit their essence.
I walk silently through the winter forest,
Everywhere the sound of water in its passing,
Yet still the silence is broken by the muffle of the flake.
I am caught in a dream it seems,
Yet the vitality of nature reminds me that it is all real
And passing the time before me.

A call to my spirit pushes me down the trail,
every so often slowing my pace to stop beside a brook
or a downed log.
I ascend slowly towards the ridge cliffs,
The echos of a waterfall calling deep to my heart.
A lone passenger of this way,
The forest for a moment seems alone,
Only halls of silent mist between the trees.
A deer reminds me better,
First glancing slowly towards my direction.
It seems I can hear his pulse quicken with mine as well,
For now the forest seems to come alive before me.
he bounds off…

It has indeed been far too long since I seen his spirit,
And like wise far to long since I have seen my own,
Between these woods.
A trail junction, a sign with an arrow,
All leading higher still towards the palisades.
Ancient Snoquera like a veil streaming down towards the floor.
I push further even more.

The trail is among the hemlock and the cedar,
The salal forms the ground,
Each a different shade of green.
The moss hangs from the trees electric with life,
Telling of the forests long damp age.
All are dusted with a coat of white,
Again the switchback takes me higher still.

I push around the corner to see waterfalling from the top palisafde,
The mist hiding the twists and turns of the rock wall.
Edge with white against the deep purple rock,
The thunder of the falls seems to remind me of the bellows.
The climber in me looks up the short cracks,
Snaking their way, block by block to the summit,
My heart seems to follow my eyes upward into the blue above the ledge.
My chest reverberates like a drum following pulse of the cataracts flow.

After a bit, I try and follow the trails loop beneath the crags edge.
Soon I am pushed out onto the loose talus,
Lost the trail long ago.
I told myself adventure is what I seek,
And so I begin to descend the slides towards the camp below,
Loose rocks covered with moss and old slides
Beginning to flow below my feet.
But this is the place I have been before,
High on the mountain, darkness approaches
And the cold wind beginning to blow.

With an old confidence, I place each step,
Lasting not to long to begin to go,
Yet keeping pace with the fading light.
A thousand feet seem to click off quickly,
And yet there still there is another to go.
My approach is found,
Down into the forest’s edge,
I find the deers evidence, following drop to drop
I am not alone.

A rock here, a log there,
A jump to a bed of hemlock and cedar needles,
It seems almost fluid, like the cascading streams
Descending ever below.
Soon it levels off and I turn my bearing,
A warm cabin and hot coffee,
Seems to make me glow…
Again the woods seeps in,
And I know I am home…

Dawn...

Dawn

What would Helms Hammer Hand resounding in the deep feel like at dawn of the new day... There within the caverns of a hidden fiord along the walls of the North Sea and the fogs of Norway? As the light from a far off distant star, giving all her blaze of glory to the life of this untold cold world. Would the ringing tones of steel resound after the first rays strike it's forges depths.. Or would the rining notes of her light spell more to the bass procussion that would follow after each note...

For Sol is our soul...

We are blessed with her presence, while not the greatest star she is indeed our own. Giving that eternal warmth that springs forward every new day. One in which our music spins forth those first lines of song. Inspiration of the dawn within our own heart. The touch of the wild within our souls. It is that feeling that all that live here on terra look with inspring eyes as those first rays strike the mountain tops ablaze.

For Sol is our soul...

As our day crosses from first moments till high noon. Light glams upon the forests and the stream. In the early morning mists move and shift with her warmth, then fade away as the brightness overtakes us. Spirits as we are moving, constantly moving about our day, once in awhile catch her glimps. Standing for a moment, taking in her warmth and then moving on in our corrid existance. We are but children of her light, given energy through the long leaves of green that capture her spirit and warmth... We too are transitient like the river flowing ever touched by those lasting rays...

For Sol is our soul...

And yet the rays of light in these winter hights, seem to strike like long forlorned stances. As we approach the coming evening... our long lingering toughts as the days dwan fades to black... And others begin to spring about. Points as far that no man can hope to reach, and yet our imagination keeps holding its hopes in it's grasps.. These are the rays of light that fuels our minds... Or Mirids of colors and endless horizons. Potential that alights out lives and burn fire to our dreams.. Ever knowing as we pass though the night, Sol is just beyond the horizon... Waiting for that new day again...

For Sol is our soul...