In Silence and Light

I sit this morning in silence and light; my first cup of coffee in hand.  My thoughts, today, are with a man and a woman.  Each of them, the parent of dear friends.  Each accepted me into their own family long ago and made my life better for that.  As I grew older, the parents became my friends.

I reflect, this morning, on the years of kitchen table conversations with these extra parents, the assisted mechanical repairs, the shared Christmas eves, the hours fishing together from the shores of Hauser Lake, the whole arc of time that brought all of us to this silent morning.  I think of how fortunate I was to have two more families.

My two friends have now reached their mid-eighties.  The sweet arc of time that provided all of us with beautiful sunset drives, and trout leaping wholesale from the nearby waters, and brought us the children of children—that same arc of time has slowly, but certainly, crushed the bodies of my friends.  My old friends are now slow and bent.  Most days pass them by entirely.

From my window, I see vesper sparrows swimming up into the sky from the sagebrush.  A slight breeze has begun to lift and examine the leaves of my linden tree.  The air is filled with the newest light.

And yet, this morning, I feel only the weight of time.

--Mitchell Hegman

Eating a Flower

I ate a glacier lily yesterday.  Honestly, I feel guilty about eating the lily because they are so beautiful.  The glacier lily tasted surprisingly delicious.

Glacier lilies have an extensive range in the Rocky Mountains.  They flourish in moist, rich alpine settings beginning in Alberta, Canada, and extending all the way down through Colorado.  Glacier lilies are among the first flowers to emerge in the spring.  I have seen them blooming at the edge of melting snowbanks.

Several thriving patches of glacier lilies appear each spring near my cabin.  Yesterday, while at my cabin burning some scrap lumber, I dug up and ate the corm (the equivalent of a bulb) from a glacier lily.  The corms are fragile and grow deep.  I had to work down through six inches of tangled grass, kinnikinnick roots, and pine tree roots to free the corm.

After I washed the corm and peeled away the outer layers—just as you do with an onion—I nipped a taste.  Starchy like a potato.  Crisp.  Verging on sweet.  That girl and my daughter also took a bite and liked the taste.

“I think it tastes like jicama,” my daughter remarked.

“Exactly so,” I said.

I consulted one of my flower books, Plants of the Rocky Mountains, upon returning home.  The book mentioned that many of the various Rocky Mountain tribes used the glacier lily as a food source.  The book also noted that eating too many of the corms can cause vomiting.  As most current books about flowers, Plants of the Rocky Mountains, suggests that gathering and eating glacier lilies is not a good practice because doing so can greatly reduce and endanger the populations in some areas.

Posted are two pictures of glacier lilies I snapped yesterday.

  --Mitchell Hegman

My Giant Sun Flower (Redux)

The year before we constructed our house, my wife and I set stakes in the earth (in the exact footprint of our future home) at the site where we planned to build.  We then monitored how the sun path seasonally changed relative to the orientation of our house.  We wanted to assure that the placement of the house was pleasing to our eye, but, at the same time, we tried to face the house so that the winter sun would shine in through the front windows and the summer sun would slide overhead without introducing extra heat in through the windows.

We achieved just that.

When engineering my solar array, I tried to maximize the harvest of sunlight.   Equally as important, I wanted an array that “felt” more organic than a typical array.  That’s how I ended up welding arms on the main pole.

I wanted a flower.

About two months ago, I removed the modules from the arms and altered the orientation of the arm modules to increase the harvest of sunlight.  The alterations required a bit of rewiring and the cutting and welding of the rigid pipe on both arms.  I am pleased with the results.  This morning, I went out and took a photograph of early sunlight finding the “sunrise” arm.  As the sun climbs, the main array and the “sunset” arm will begin to experience full irradiation.

During the summer months the array still suffers from a bit of self-shading where the main array shades (and limits power production) on the arms.  During the winter months, as the sun path shifts to the South, the shading is not such an issue.

--Mitchell Hegman

Boulder Hot Springs

Boulder Hot Springs was the only public place to which I recall my parents ever taking my entire family when I was a young boy.  At the time, the establishment was called the Diamond S Ranchotel.  We went there for the occasional Saturday smorgasbord.  Back then, the establishment employed several people with physical and learning disabilities from the nearby facility most kids simply called the Institution.  In later years the Institution became the Montana Developmental Center.  Just a few weeks ago, our present governor signed a bill that will lead to the Development Center’s closing.  Those people with physical disabilities left an indelible impression on me.  I still recall a physically crumpled man struggling to hand bottles of pop with his wrists because his hands were twisted and immobile.

  

On our way back home from the Gallatin Valley the other day, that girl and I stopped in to check out Boulder Hot Springs.  A few plaques are affixed to the buildings to inform visitors of the history of the place.  That girl was impressed with the old buildings.  Upon returning home, I visited www.boulderhotsprings.com to read more about the times gone by.

Boulder Hot Springs is located in narrow valley among the Elkhorn Mountains.  Long ago, according to the website, the “First People” named the place Peace Valley.  They considered the valley a place of healing, gathering, and celebration.  A prospector named James E. Riley constructed the first buildings at the hot springs in 1863.  The buildings housed a saloon and a bathhouse.  In 1881, just prior to his death from smallpox, Riley expanded the facilities and started construction of a hotel.  Over the next few years, the property went through several more owners and several expansions and developments of the hot spring pools.

In 1909 the property was purchased by Butte banker and miner James A. Murray.  Murray, a millionaire, conducted lavish renovations.  He refashioned the exterior of the hotel in the California Mission Arts and Crafts’ style and redecorated much of the interior.  In the time since, more owners have come and gone.  The hotel has been visited by three U.S. presidents: Teddy Roosevelt, Warren Harding, and Franklin Delano Roosevelt.

At present, Boulder Hot Springs is undergoing yet another, more gradually staged renovation.  I have posted a couple of photographs I captured with my twice-as-smarter-than-me-phone.  A web search of “The Diamond S. Ranchotel” will provide you with more photographs and stories of the old place.

       --Mitchell Hegman

For a Visit:  http://www.boulderhotsprings.com

Dog Report

Took daughter’s city dog for a walk in the country.  Dog encountered first pile of deer poop.  Dog ate deer poop.  End of report.

--Mitchell Hegman 

My Coffee Cup

Here at home, I always drink coffee from the same cup.  The cup is forest green and has a brown bear and “Montana” embossed on the side that faces me as I drink.  I think I purchased the cup at Mammoth in Yellowstone Park about ten years ago.  My habit for using the same cup is so powerful, I will clean it for use if I find it with other unwashed strays in my kitchen sink in the morning—no matter how many other clean cups are sitting in the kitchen cabinet.

The odd aspect of my addiction to my coffee cup is the modest fact that the cup really sucks.  The cup is unduly heavy.  The handle is oversized and feels awkward in my hand.  I have noticed, over the years, that my cup is never chosen by anyone else if they peer into the cupboard and see it there with the others.

Why do I use the green cup?  Am I subconsciously punishing myself for squashing a billion ants on my childhood sidewalks?  Does the cup leach just a trace of sweet addicting poison into each cup of coffee I drink?   Does the cup make me look sexy by comparison?  Am I being controlled by aliens from an unseen planet?  Does this have anything to do with that time I hit myself in the head with a hammer?

While you are thinking about this, I need to go wash my coffee cup.  My coffee has finished evolving in the kitchen.

Have you ever noticed how brewing coffee sounds like voices telling you things?  

--Mitchell Hegman

Man versus Screen Door

That girl and I drove down to meet my daughter and her friend Jo in the Gallatin Valley.  My daughter is relocating to San Francisco after a few years in New York City.  She is swinging up through Montana on her drive across the U.S.  The four of us had a dinner together and overnighted at the Gallatin River Lodge.  The lodge is only sixteen years old and is very secluded.  Our dinner was excellent!  I really like the lodge with the notable exception of the screen door.

The door is an over-achiever.  If you want to exit, you pretty much need to kick its ass before you can squeeze through.  I think the screen door may be the scantily clad first cousin to a bank vault door.  The door is both hard to push open (pushing around a refrigerator hard) and quick to close down on you; something akin to a giant clam.

For some reason, the door has automatic closers on both the bottom and the top.  I have posted a picture of the door.   I captured the image with my twice-as-smarter-than-me-phone.  I locked the door open for safety while taking the photograph.  If I manage to squeeze back out the door along with my belongings when I leave later today, I will continue posting blogs.  If not, please send someone with the jaws-of-life to room 202.

 

--Mitchell Hegman

Bitch

That girl went “recreationally” shopping yesterday.  She returned from her shopping with only a couple of bags.  She purchased typical girl stuff: several bottles of white wine, a new pair of red shoes, pickled garlic, a dress, and baklava.

One bottle of wine immediately caught my attention.  The pink cap and pink label screamed for my attention. 

Labels are a big deal in my line of work.  The National Electrical Code is all about making sure warning labels are slapped on everything that might pose a potential hazard to persons.  To be technical, pretty much everything electrical is potentially hazardous if you cannot outrun electricity, which travels at a speed of 93,000 miles-per-second in copper wiring (as near as I can gather).  The Code is so concerned with labels, Section 110.21 recommends that all labels are made to a specific standard that dictates such things as coloring and font size.  The standard is found in ANSI Z535.4.  I will spare you the details.  The important thing to understand is that all of this costs a great deal of money.

As I mentioned previously, the pink wine label really caught my attention.  A good label will do that.  I immediately grabbed the bottle of wine and carried it out to my deck to take a photograph with my twice-as-smarter-than-me-phone.  As you can see from the photograph, that girl purchased a bottle of Bitch wine.

I really wanted to sample some of the Bitch wine.  As I contemplated asking that girl if I could open the bottle, a punctuation and inflection dilemma occurred to me.  How might I ask?

Following are two options I considered:

1. “I would like to try some of that Bitch!”

2. “I would like to try some of that, Bitch! 

Punctuation marks should have warning labels associated with them.  I would recommend adopting ANSI Z535.4 as a standard to follow for production of the labels.

 

--Mitchell Hegman

Fable #13

Early one morning a small green grasshopper and a bright red ladybug with black spots chanced to meet on a slender blade of grass.  “Good morning, Miss Bug,” the grasshopper said.

“And to you also,” the ladybug responded.

"I was just now preparing to snack on the tender top of this blade of grass,” the grasshopper said. “Perhaps you would care to join me.”

“Thank you, but, no.  I don’t much care for grass.  I am hunting aphids this morning.  They are my preferred breakfast.”

“Oh…”  The grasshopper quickly scanned the length of grass.  “Unfortunately, I seen no aphids on this blade of grass.”

“Unfortunate indeed,” said the ladybug.  With that, the ladybug launched herself onto the grasshopper and chomped a bite of flesh from its leg.

Because that’s the way it is in the real world.

--Mitchell Hegman

Meaning

The speaker may choose the words, but the listener assigns the meaning.

--Mitchell Hegman

The Swallows

For two days now, hundreds of swallows have been swinging through the air around my house.  The birds have been feasting on shoaling swarms of insects.

Swallows fly gracefully and swiftly and sometimes seem to turn inside-out as they bank abrupt turns, or swoop upward.

      

I have taken to walking out and standing on the open prairie while the birds are falling from the bottom of the sky and shooting through the billows of insects.  The birds sometimes elevate their feeding to such a frenzy, I cannot pick out and follow just one from the disordered whole.  At times I feel as if I have stuffed me head inside a giant popcorn maker.  If I stand still, some of the birds will fly within arms-length of my face.

Honestly, I would be happy to watch a show such as this every night.

--Mitchell Hegman

My Persistent Problem

If part of the solution to a problem requires me to admit to others that I have been responsible for the problem, I tend to allow the problem to persist in silence.

--Mitchell Hegman

Early Out

Recently, I have been having a terrible time remembering the names of people.  I cannot recall the names of movie actors at all.  I often struggle to remember the names of acquaintances when I meet them by chance to on the street.  Is it possible that my memory invested in an early retirement program without telling me?

--Mitchell Hegman

The Greasy Birds

That girl does not like ravens.  “Those greasy birds,” she calls them.  “They are too shiny,” she insists.  “They always look like they are up to something.”

I can understand why that girl feels the way she does about ravens.  One of the local ravens spends quite a bit of time lurking around my house.  That particular bird regularly sweeps around the sky directly above us.  That bird is always probing.

Ravens are the largest “perching” birds in North America.  They are not generally social with other ravens and tend spend time alone, or might hang out a bit with one other raven.  Centuries ago, however, they figured out that following humans around might lead to interesting food choices.  They are smart enough to recognize that we are wasteful in our food habits.

Ravens are both hunters and opportunists.  I once saw a raven flapping off through the air with a three-foot snake writhing in its clutches.  I have witnessed ravens chasing after chipmunks.  Should you toss out any butt-end of a thing, a raven will likely be the first critter to inspect it for food value.

If you observe ravens when they fly, you will note that they often soar and sail upon air currents the way birds of prey do.  I cannot count the occasions when a raven has sliced silently overtop me while I stood outside my house.

According to Softpedia, ravens might live 40 years in the wild and up to 70 years in captivity.  In many cultures, including Chinese and Greek, ravens are harbingers of storms.  In African and European legends, ravens forecast death.  The birds can also be playful and mischievous.  Softpedia noted that some ravens in Yellowknife, Canada, learned to push snow onto shoppers from the roofs of local supermarkets simply for entertainment.

That girl is correct: they are up to something.

       --Mitchell Hegman   (PHOTO: Wikipedia)

Tesla Coils

Over the years, many of my Facebook friends have shared posts about Nikola Tesla on my wall.  They do this because they know that he is my hero.  I have always been astounded that our history books marginalized his contributions and elevated those of Thomas Edison. 

Yes, Thomas Edison invented the lightbulb and perfected a lot of interesting appliances.  Tesla, on the other hand, gave us our entire polyphase AC electrical distribution system.  He gave us the induction motor.  He gave us remote control and contributed to the invention of radio technology.  The list goes on and on.

I have posted a video of Tesla coils in action.  No simple lightbulb here, friends!

--Mitchell Hegman

If the posted video does not launch, click on the following link: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8LAhKkPUo_A

Another Accidental Genius

Many years ago, my daughter gave me a small sign that read:  “I’m a Genius!”  I proudly took the sign to the construction site where I was working and taped it to the highest front rung on my step ladder.

A few days after posting the sign, one of my coworkers dragged by me while I stood working atop the ladder.  “Love your sign,” he observed with a snicker.

“Yeah, I’m a genius,” I barked at him.

“Really,” he said, grinning broadly.  “That is not exactly what the sign on your ladder says.”

“What do you mean?”

“Have you looked at the sign in the last day or so?”

When I peered down over the top of my ladder to see the sign posted on the upper support rung, I saw that someone with an indelible marker had changed the sign to read: “I’m a Penius!”

So ended my brief stint as a genius.

I have not abandoned all hope on becoming an authentic genius.  I am—the same as everyone—just one smack on the head from becoming an accidental genius.  A couple days ago, I read another article about someone who suddenly became a genius following a traumatic head injury.  According to a story I found at ABC News online, Leigh Erceg was an ordinary, tomboyish, rancher from Colorado before tumbling down a rock-strewn ravine while feeding chickens on her ranch.  The fall left Leigh with traumatic head injuries.

Leigh, age 47, remembers nothing of the fall, or of her previous life.  As she recovered from her fall, she could “hear” colors and “see” sounds.  Now, fully recovered, Leigh Erceg has not regained any memories of her previous life; but, today, her mind is filled with astoundingly complex mathematical equations, poetry, artwork, and senses that merge together in ways that baffle the rest of us.

After much study by doctors and researchers, Leigh has been identified as the only woman in the world with “acquired savant syndrome.”  She now has vastly superior cognitive skills in the realm of mathematics and art.  The fall also left Leigh with “synesthesia,” the mixing of senses.  As she listens to music, she also sees colors.  Along with the loss of all previous memories, Leigh suffers from something called “flat effect.”  In blunt terms, she has lost the ability to feel emotion.

Leigh Erceg presently spends her days immersed in thoughts of mathematics as she draws her unusual works of art.  Her old life is seemingly gone forever.

As for me: I have plenty of emotion.  Unless I take a nasty fall while feeding my 40 pounds of housecat, I will likely remain a mere penius.

 

--Mitchell Hegman   (Photo: ABC)

 For a short video click on this link: http://abcnews.go.com/Health/colorado-rancher-suffers-traumatic-brain-injury-accidental-genius/story?id=31053667 

Goodnight Lucille

It is rare for me to smile upon hearing news of someone’s death.  When I do manage a smile under such circumstances, the smile is not because I am happy that the person has perished.  Far from that.  My smile is honoring a full life.  My smile is a “thank you.”   My smile is in recognition of great contributions.

I woke today with news that B.B. King passed at the age of 89.  Few men have ever achieved a life as full and meaningful as his.  He recorded more than 50 albums and literally bent the entire movement of rock and roll music in his direction while playing his Gibson guitar.  He named his guitar Lucille and regarded Lucille with genuine affection.  He and Lucille toured the world for over half a century and filled concert halls and small venues with the sound of the Delta Blues.  You can hear his influence in almost every great rock and roll song.  You can see him in my smile.

Sweet travels B. B. King.

Goodnight Lucille.

--Mitchell Hegman

Simple Rules for Home Ownership

1. Never purchase a toilet paper dispenser that requires two people and a key for changing the roll.

2. The larger your garage, the less space you will have for parking due to all the crap you can store.

3. For best results, install your new wallpaper with the pretty side out.

4. The difference between weeds and lawn is greater than $5,000.

5. Before undertaking any home renovation project, place your Scotch in a readily accessible location.

--Mitchell Hegman

Within the Nest of Thorns

Yesterday, in penning my blog about the flowers on a cactus, the thought struck me that flowers are a far different beast than humans.  Yes, there is that whole genetic thing.  I understand that.  Some plants—the Venus flytrap for example—are murderous carnivores.  That certainly brings them a little nearer to us.  What really occurred to me, though, was the fact that flowers are far better programmed to survive.

In spite of growing within a nest of thorns, the cactus flowers develop into full bloom without injuring themselves on the spines that stand like a vice of knives all around them.  I have a couple of friends who cannot navigate through their own house without hurting themselves.

Upright flowers always manage to grow upright.  Horizontal flowers grow horizontally, without thought of changing direction.  Flowers are consistent in place and time.

We would be lucky to have a bit more of that on occasion.

--Mitchell Hegman

Like Hatchling Birds in a Nest of Thorns

On the barest shoulders of exposed earth all around my house you will find collections of ball cactus.  The cactus are not at all opposed to being scoured by the wind and sun.  They will happily flourish in years of little rain.  When they reach full bloom, ball cactus display an electrified red color that is conspicuous enough to stop you in your tracks.

Yesterday, while out walking, I found a few of the cactus in the earliest stages of blooming.  Lacking their “full plumage,” the blossoms look like hatchling birds in a nest of thorns.  I captured a couple of images with my twice-as-smarter-than-me-phone.

--Mitchell Hegman

Fabric Peace Crane

Posted today are the first results of an internet web search for “Asian Expressions at Etsy.”  Before her passing on this day in 2011, my wife hand-crafted and sold items on this site.  She sold hundreds of the fabric cranes.  This crane sold on August 21, 2009.

In Asian culture, the cranes symbolize longevity, marriage, happiness, and peace.

I post in peace and happiness.

Thank you, Uyen Hegman.

--Mitchell Hegman

Mother’s Day

I wake late in the morning on my living room sofa with twenty pounds of cat sprawled across my chest and the sun trying to poke its bright fingers into my eyes.  Even though half of my body is exposed, I am incredibly warm.  Feverish.  I have been battling the flu for a full day now.  My mother has been gone for thirty years.  Tomorrow will mark exactly four years since my wife passed.  All of that is on my chest alongside the cat.

--Mitchell Hegman

Can Chewing Gum Kill You?

Most of us have been told, at one time or another, not to spit our wads of chewing gum out onto the grass or street.  Many people contend that spitting gum out is tantamount to littering.  I have been told that animals or birds may come to harm if they try to eat or otherwise encounter castoff gum.  I thought the latter argument a little silly until only a few days ago.  That’s when I watched a You Tube video of a person saving a hummingbird that had become hopelessly stuck to the lawn by a wad of discarded gum.  The man in the video spent considerable time fiddling before finally extricating the bird.

But what if gum could kill you outright?

Just this week, several news organizations from the United Kingdom, including the Guardian, carried a story about the death of a girl from Wales named Samantha Jenkins.   Samantha, died at the age of 19 after a sudden and inexplicable collapse, followed by convulsions, at her home in June of 2011.  The girl’s mother, Maria Morgan, pushed for four years to see an inquest into her daughter’s death.  The inquest, when it came, concluded that too much chewing gum might have contributed to the girl’s death.  The specific cause of death was identified as brain swelling (cerebral hypoxia).  The convulsions were triggered by a lack of salt, magnesium, and calcium in Samantha’s system.

Samantha Jenkins chewed Trident gum incessantly.  The pathologist who carried out the postmortem examination noted that he found “large lumps” of green mint chewing gum in her stomach.  Trident gum contains the artificial sweetener aspartame.  While most health authorities and regulating agencies have deemed aspartame as safe, some people believe that such artificial sweeteners may reduce the natural balance of such things as salt, magnesium, and calcium in a human body.

After reading the story about Samantha, I checked the label on my favored brand of chewing gum.  Honestly, that scared me a bit.  Out of about a dozen ingredients (including aspartame), “soy” was the only word you might use outside a chemistry lab.  The others seemed monosyllabic monsters with 12 arms and 13 eyes.

--Mitchell Hegman

Sources: The Guardian, Daily Mail, Mirror

Tumbleweeds

We all have those days where we feel like a tumbleweed blown into the strands of a barbed wire fence.  Caught in the wires, we remain immobile as the other tumbleweeds come alive in the wind and summersault away across the remaining open range and out of sight.  

--Mitchell Hegman

Compliment Forward

I have noticed that I compliment people I am working alongside only when I feel that I have been doing a good job myself.  If there is any meaning to be gleaned from this, it has thus far escaped me.

--Mitchell Hegman

Among the Bleu Horses

Yesterday, while on a trip to Three Forks, I stopped along the highway to admire the herd of bleu horses.  The horses are frozen in time on a grassy hillside just off the highway.  The hillside offers a clear views of the snow-crested Tobacco Root Mountains.

The horses—39 of them—are steel sculptures created by Montana artist Jim Dolan.  Normally I stop and admire the horses from a distance, but yesterday I climbed the hill to mingle with the herd.  The experience was surprisingly moving in the emotional sense of that word.  The horses come alive when you are with them.  A light breeze will stir their manes and tails, which are made from lengths of unbraided polyester rope.  The poses of the horses are so natural, my mind constantly found one or two in the distance that seemed real as I meandered the hillside.

Posted are photographs taken while among the bleu horses.

--Mitchell Hegman

A Man and a Woman Walking

Setting: A warm afternoon.  A man and a woman are enjoying a walk down a country road.  The road winds through a series of open pastures.  High clouds drift slowly over the scene.

Man: “What a great day for a walk.”

Woman: “I love this.  Where I come from it rained so much I was not able to walk every day.  On days of light rain I took my umbrella for a walk with me.”

    

Man: “I tried to take my umbrella for a walk once.  It could not keep up with me on the steep hills.”

--Mitchell Hegman

Slicing Red Onions

Yesterday, while at a dinner gathering for friends and family, someone asked me to slice onions.  Apparently, the person asking me to slice the onions forgot how easily I am distracted while attempting to complete any form of mundane task.  I also love patterns.  The instant I sliced the red onion in half I knew I was in trouble.

Patterns!

I swept up half of the sliced onion and took it around to show everyone in sight.  “Look at this,” I burbled while holding the sliced face out for everyone to see.  “Is this cool, or what?”

“It’s an onion, Mitch,” someone remarked.  “Haven’t you seen an onion before?   That’s pretty much what they look like.”

I turned the slice face so I could see it again.  “Yep.  I have seen onions…but not one as pretty as this!”

With that final statement I left the kitchen, onion and knife in hand, and sought to find my DSLR camera.  I guess this blog is my way of apologizing if I made dinner a little late.  Really, blame falls on the pretty onion.  Finally, I apologize if my onion slices seemed a bit inconsistent in size.  Consistency in slicing and the best results for photography are not always going to run hand-in hand.   

Posted is the photographic result of my distraction.

--Mitchell Hegman

Algiers

Song by the Afghan Whigs (See lyrics posted below)

Faith, the diamond in the chain
Still I was a slave, waiting to be saved
Dream, the body sleeps but I
Am not too proud to roam
On the back streets
It’s oh, so simple when you know
You'll know this when it's time to go

Stray, and soon you’ll leave behind
The loneliness you’ve sown, paradise leans
Scream, the body leaves the bone
To sit upon the throne
The battle waged for light

Dream, dream your sins away
Sin your dreams away
Your holding back, still holding back

Unchain

Say you’ll love me tonight
Save your love for me tonight
And I feel you now
Lie awake and love drunk
I feel you now

Heavenly demons outside my window
Sent here to see me outside this world
I call the shadow, you call the season
That salted wound…

If the video posted here fails to launch, please click on this link:  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ovhzeqIaggY

--Mitchell Hegman

Two Types

There are only two type of people in the world.  There are those who always make sure that the toilet paper rolls feed from the front top of the roll and there are psychopaths.

--Mitchell Hegman

I am Guilty of Rushing through Conversations but will stop for Flowers

Yesterday, I read a friend’s blog about conversations.  A given conversation, my friend pointed out, may be perfunctory and not particularly meaningful.  On the other hand, the same conversation might develop into something decidedly informative, in-depth, and meaningful.  As we participate in conversations, we direct where the conversation goes.

The thought struck me that I often rush through routine conversations.  At meetings of any sort, I tend to push to stay on agenda.  If I bump into someone while “on a mission” to retrieve something or finish a task, I may take a moment to engage in pleasantries, but after a minute or so, I will take a few steps away as I speak to signal my intent to break from talking.  On occasion, I interrupt other people when they wander off to the North Pole of conversation when we were originally heading south.

Place a flower in my path, though, and I will fully stop to investigate.  Show me a cluster of blossoms with a hint of red and I may poke at it for several minutes.  A field of blue flowers might delay me for an hour.

In the presence of flowers, my mind will begin to churn with curiosity and admiration.  If I could talk with flowers, I would immediately begin with questions:  “What is your name?  Are you native to this area?  Do you have cousins I might know?  Are you perennial?  Do you have poisonous roots?  How well do you like the sun?”

I am not fully certain why I make such allowances of time for flowers.  Maybe something about all the power and life and beauty there in one package.  Perhaps I should have been born a bee.       

--Mitchell Hegman