travel &mdash; The Lantern Room https://lanternroom.writeas.com/tag:travel Clouded brilliance refracted through this human's heart. Tue, 18 Aug 2026 12:03:29 +0000 3000 Miles of Tears https://lanternroom.writeas.com/3000-miles-of-tears?pk_campaign=rss-feed <![CDATA[ “To live in hearts we leave behind is not to die.”
 — Thomas Campbell !--more-- You may recall my forlorn farewell to an old friend from a few days ago. DE lived in Dust Meridian for nearly 20 years. Before that, it was two decades in the South Pacific and another ten in Southern California. He’s a mature man in his mid-sixties, so it came as a surprise when he pulled up stakes, sold both of his homes, and headed to the other side of the country. He says it’s for his wife’s health. The allergies here in Dust are brutal for many. On top of that, years ago, she suffered a stroke that left her speaking with what sounds like an Icelandic accent. Her heritage and native tongue are Peruvian. She went from sounding like a southern girl to something ethereal and ancient—almost elvish. Like someone installed an Old Norse filter on her voice. I thought she was faking it at first, but it’s a real thing. Foreign Accent Syndrome. Rare, but real. The result of a traumatic brain injury that causes someone to suddenly start speaking with an accent from a region they’ve never even visited. In her case, it even shows up in her writing. She spells things phonetically now, based on how she hears herself speak. It’s charming, honestly. But also a constant reminder of how fragile the brain is. That same stroke could’ve left her unable to communicate at all. That would’ve been a terror. My own sister suffered a hypoxic brain injury—lost her short-term memory, and now struggles even with simple tasks. She’s aware of her limitations, which might be the cruelest part. It occasionally lends itself to moments of levity, but mostly, it’s just tragic. As for DE, I don’t doubt his reasons—physical or mental. His wife or his own. From experience, I believe the lifestyle and mentality here in Dust Meridian takes a tole on anyone with sufficiently curious or robust intellect. That sounds harsh. Like dummies thrive here. Apologies—I calls ’em like I sees ’em. There are many fine minds here, many dear souls. But there are also plenty of fantastically difficult situations. My own family not excluded. So no, I don’t blame DE for the move. It’s exciting. I’m a little jealous, if I’m honest. Not that I’d pack up three trucks and drive 1,500 miles to West Potato—but the idea of a fresh start, a new landscape, is tempting. Then again, he’s lived in three other vastly different places. Why not make it four? He’s tapped all four compass points while he still can. --- My brother-in-law, RLW, volunteered to be part of the cross-country convoy, hauling DE’s belongings to his new home. That’s significant because RLW is the same man who buried his wife—my wife’s sister—just sixty-nine days ago. A partner of 45 years, gone in an instant. Snuffed out like a candle in the rain. When talk of the trip started, RLW had big plans. He’d trailer his motorcycle behind one of DE’s work trucks, help with the move, then spend a few days exploring West Potato. From there, he’d kit out the bike and ride west—through the Northwest, down to the Pacific. He talked of revisiting places he and his wife had seen, and discovering new ones. He didn’t say it aloud, but I suspect he meant to scatter some ashes along the way. But as time wore on, the plans shrank. Late spring snow made the northern routes dicey. Then he nixed the coast. West Potato lies just beyond the Continental Divide, and soon enough, he cut out any idea of leaving the mountains at all. By the time he left two days ago, the month-long journey had been trimmed to a week. A few hours ago, he texted that he’ll be back in Dust Meridian tomorrow night. Yep. Thirty days of freedom and healing, whittled down to just four. There and back. Turn and burn. --- His son, SLBY—the boy (a man in his thirties, forgive an aging Wolf)—tells me he thinks his dad just misses home. The quiet of the road was heavier than expected. That makes sense. My nephew wants his dad to get out and see new places, to build memories without her. A critical step in healing. When I speak to RLW, he says it’s his son and grandson who are nudging him to come back. He can 'hear it in his voice' that if he was back, they would all be happier. Home is big and lonely and his son misses his family. Doesn't like being without his core. His people. His comfort zone. Essentially, they are both arguing the other wants to be together again. They tell me what the other wants. But really, they're telling me what they themselves long for. SLBY the boy has told me more than once this last few weeks that he can’t stand being alone. He’d grown used to the bustle—his wife, his son, his parents, all under one roof. They live in a mobile home, so sharing space really means sharing. Constantly. With his mom gone, dad out of town, wife at the chiropractor, and the boy at school, SLBY finds himself alone on a rock hurtling through space at sixty-seven thousand miles per hour. Working from home means his only company is the blinking cursor on a plastic display. He’s admitted, with surprising emotional honesty, that he cries often. This from a man who, just a few years ago, was all whiskey, beer, and bravado. Guns and guts. Today, the bottles are dusty and the guns live in a safe—a large one, granted—but they’re just objects now. SLBY has become the kind of man who can acknowledge his pain and grow through it. A shock, honestly. But a welcome one. His father, RLW, has also cracked open in ways I didn’t expect. Always the quiet, stoic one—he now speaks freely about how much his wife meant to him. That she was his light. His purpose. And being retired is salt on the wound. 10 years ago, he would at least have a job he had to contend with, coworkers and daily business to get back to. But now? His only obligations are those which he chooses. A full plate with his spiritual family, but that can be shelved much longer than it should be. Leaving him in self-inflicted isolation. Since her passing, he sleeps maybe four hours a night. He cries often. I imagine these moments are private—the kind where your ears roar, your eyes burn, and you fight to contain the flood so others don’t have to feel it too. Every time we’ve spoken since he hit the road, he’s mentioned that he can’t stop crying. Triggers are everywhere. A song. A vista in silence where she would have commented or asked to pull off and take a picture. The absence of agitation at his driving (the way he jerks the wheel in little increments). No one stuffing the door panel with trash. But mostly—silence. An imagination haunted by 16,425 sunrises and sunsets together... and all that is in between—the subtle golden rhythms of a life shared. Every small moment now echoing in absence. My God, how do you move on from that? Patience. Patience and tears. And prayer that God will intervene and part that ocean like he did for Moses. I told him as much. “It’s good you’re blind with tears. You probably need to really cut loose—and that’s hard to do with a seven-year-old always around, or your son who’s dealing with his own grief. I hope this trip gives you some catharsis. That it helps you begin to heal in earnest.” Grief is the price we pay for love. The greater the love, the higher the cost. Three thousand miles in four days. And tears, door to door. --- --- Luke 22:1-6 Now the Festival of the Unleavened Bread, which is called Passover, was getting near. And the chief priests and the scribes were looking for an effective way to get rid of him, because they were afraid of the people. Then Satan entered into Judas, the one called Is·carʹi·ot, who was numbered among the Twelve, and he went off and talked with the chief priests and temple captains about how to betray him to them. They were delighted at this and agreed to give him silver money. So he consented and began looking for a good opportunity to betray him to them without a crowd around. Mark 14:1,2 Now the Passover and the Festival of Unleavened Bread was two days later. And the chief priests and the scribes were looking for a way to seize him by cunning and kill him; for they were saying: “Not at the festival; perhaps there might be an uproar of the people.” Mark 14:10,11 And Judas Is·carʹi·ot, one of the Twelve, went off to the chief priests in order to betray him to them. When they heard it, they were delighted and promised to give him silver money. So he began seeking an opportunity to betray him. --- #essay #travel #memoir #loss #death #biblereading #100DaysToOffload #Writing --- 2025-04-11 09:35:00 --- Home | About | Full of Stars | Contact | HeartCartography --- "May your seas be wide enough for wonder, your harbor always waiting, and your light never fail when another soul is searching." - The Lantern Keeper ]]>

“To live in hearts we leave behind is not to die.”
 — Thomas Campbell

You may recall my forlorn farewell to an old friend from a few days ago. DE lived in Dust Meridian for nearly 20 years. Before that, it was two decades in the South Pacific and another ten in Southern California. He’s a mature man in his mid-sixties, so it came as a surprise when he pulled up stakes, sold both of his homes, and headed to the other side of the country.

He says it’s for his wife’s health. The allergies here in Dust are brutal for many. On top of that, years ago, she suffered a stroke that left her speaking with what sounds like an Icelandic accent. Her heritage and native tongue are Peruvian. She went from sounding like a southern girl to something ethereal and ancient—almost elvish. Like someone installed an Old Norse filter on her voice.

I thought she was faking it at first, but it’s a real thing. Foreign Accent Syndrome. Rare, but real. The result of a traumatic brain injury that causes someone to suddenly start speaking with an accent from a region they’ve never even visited.

In her case, it even shows up in her writing. She spells things phonetically now, based on how she hears herself speak. It’s charming, honestly. But also a constant reminder of how fragile the brain is. That same stroke could’ve left her unable to communicate at all. That would’ve been a terror.

My own sister suffered a hypoxic brain injury—lost her short-term memory, and now struggles even with simple tasks. She’s aware of her limitations, which might be the cruelest part. It occasionally lends itself to moments of levity, but mostly, it’s just tragic.

As for DE, I don’t doubt his reasons—physical or mental. His wife or his own. From experience, I believe the lifestyle and mentality here in Dust Meridian takes a tole on anyone with sufficiently curious or robust intellect.

That sounds harsh. Like dummies thrive here. Apologies—I calls ’em like I sees ’em. There are many fine minds here, many dear souls. But there are also plenty of fantastically difficult situations. My own family not excluded.

So no, I don’t blame DE for the move. It’s exciting. I’m a little jealous, if I’m honest. Not that I’d pack up three trucks and drive 1,500 miles to West Potato—but the idea of a fresh start, a new landscape, is tempting. Then again, he’s lived in three other vastly different places. Why not make it four? He’s tapped all four compass points while he still can.

My brother-in-law, RLW, volunteered to be part of the cross-country convoy, hauling DE’s belongings to his new home. That’s significant because RLW is the same man who buried his wife—my wife’s sister—just sixty-nine days ago. A partner of 45 years, gone in an instant. Snuffed out like a candle in the rain.

When talk of the trip started, RLW had big plans. He’d trailer his motorcycle behind one of DE’s work trucks, help with the move, then spend a few days exploring West Potato. From there, he’d kit out the bike and ride west—through the Northwest, down to the Pacific. He talked of revisiting places he and his wife had seen, and discovering new ones. He didn’t say it aloud, but I suspect he meant to scatter some ashes along the way.

But as time wore on, the plans shrank. Late spring snow made the northern routes dicey. Then he nixed the coast. West Potato lies just beyond the Continental Divide, and soon enough, he cut out any idea of leaving the mountains at all. By the time he left two days ago, the month-long journey had been trimmed to a week.

A few hours ago, he texted that he’ll be back in Dust Meridian tomorrow night. Yep. Thirty days of freedom and healing, whittled down to just four.

There and back. Turn and burn.

His son, SLBY—the boy (a man in his thirties, forgive an aging Wolf)—tells me he thinks his dad just misses home. The quiet of the road was heavier than expected. That makes sense. My nephew wants his dad to get out and see new places, to build memories without her. A critical step in healing.

When I speak to RLW, he says it’s his son and grandson who are nudging him to come back. He can 'hear it in his voice' that if he was back, they would all be happier. Home is big and lonely and his son misses his family. Doesn't like being without his core. His people. His comfort zone.

Essentially, they are both arguing the other wants to be together again. They tell me what the other wants. But really, they're telling me what they themselves long for.

SLBY the boy has told me more than once this last few weeks that he can’t stand being alone. He’d grown used to the bustle—his wife, his son, his parents, all under one roof. They live in a mobile home, so sharing space really means sharing.

Constantly.

With his mom gone, dad out of town, wife at the chiropractor, and the boy at school, SLBY finds himself alone on a rock hurtling through space at sixty-seven thousand miles per hour. Working from home means his only company is the blinking cursor on a plastic display.

He’s admitted, with surprising emotional honesty, that he cries often. This from a man who, just a few years ago, was all whiskey, beer, and bravado. Guns and guts. Today, the bottles are dusty and the guns live in a safe—a large one, granted—but they’re just objects now.

SLBY has become the kind of man who can acknowledge his pain and grow through it. A shock, honestly. But a welcome one.

His father, RLW, has also cracked open in ways I didn’t expect. Always the quiet, stoic one—he now speaks freely about how much his wife meant to him. That she was his light. His purpose.

And being retired is salt on the wound. 10 years ago, he would at least have a job he had to contend with, coworkers and daily business to get back to. But now? His only obligations are those which he chooses. A full plate with his spiritual family, but that can be shelved much longer than it should be. Leaving him in self-inflicted isolation.

Since her passing, he sleeps maybe four hours a night. He cries often. I imagine these moments are private—the kind where your ears roar, your eyes burn, and you fight to contain the flood so others don’t have to feel it too.

Every time we’ve spoken since he hit the road, he’s mentioned that he can’t stop crying. Triggers are everywhere. A song. A vista in silence where she would have commented or asked to pull off and take a picture. The absence of agitation at his driving (the way he jerks the wheel in little increments). No one stuffing the door panel with trash.

But mostly—silence.

An imagination haunted by 16,425 sunrises and sunsets together... and all that is in between—the subtle golden rhythms of a life shared. Every small moment now echoing in absence.

My God, how do you move on from that?

Patience.

Patience and tears. And prayer that God will intervene and part that ocean like he did for Moses.

I told him as much. “It’s good you’re blind with tears. You probably need to really cut loose—and that’s hard to do with a seven-year-old always around, or your son who’s dealing with his own grief. I hope this trip gives you some catharsis. That it helps you begin to heal in earnest.”

Grief is the price we pay for love. The greater the love, the higher the cost.

Three thousand miles in four days. And tears, door to door.

Luke 22:1-6 Now the Festival of the Unleavened Bread, which is called Passover, was getting near. And the chief priests and the scribes were looking for an effective way to get rid of him, because they were afraid of the people. Then Satan entered into Judas, the one called Is·carʹi·ot, who was numbered among the Twelve, and he went off and talked with the chief priests and temple captains about how to betray him to them. They were delighted at this and agreed to give him silver money. So he consented and began looking for a good opportunity to betray him to them without a crowd around.

Mark 14:1,2 Now the Passover and the Festival of Unleavened Bread was two days later. And the chief priests and the scribes were looking for a way to seize him by cunning and kill him; for they were saying: “Not at the festival; perhaps there might be an uproar of the people.”

Mark 14:10,11 And Judas Is·carʹi·ot, one of the Twelve, went off to the chief priests in order to betray him to them. When they heard it, they were delighted and promised to give him silver money. So he began seeking an opportunity to betray him.

#essay #travel #memoir #loss #death #biblereading #100DaysToOffload #Writing

2025-04-11 09:35:00

Home | About | Full of Stars | Contact | HeartCartography

“May your seas be wide enough for wonder, your harbor always waiting, and your light never fail when another soul is searching.” – The Lantern Keeper

]]> https://lanternroom.writeas.com/3000-miles-of-tears Fri, 07 Aug 2026 01:00:00 +0000 Field Notes of the Soul https://lanternroom.writeas.com/field-notes-of-the-soul?pk_campaign=rss-feed <![CDATA[ I believe that there is one story in the world, and only one, that has been writing itself over and over again—one story. The story of good and evil. !--more-- Originally published 2025-04-08 13:24:24 iframe width="200%" height="150" scrolling="no" frameborder="no" allow="autoplay" src="https://w.soundcloud.com/player/?url=https%3A//api.soundcloud.com/tracks/2074230284&color=%23ff5500&autoplay=false&hiderelated=false&showcomments=true&showuser=true&showreposts=false&showteaser=true&visual=true"/iframediv style="font-size: 10px; color: #cccccc;line-break: anywhere;word-break: normal;overflow: hidden;white-space: nowrap;text-overflow: ellipsis; font-family: Interstate,Lucida Grande,Lucida Sans Unicode,Lucida Sans,Garuda,Verdana,Tahoma,sans-serif;font-weight: 100;"a href="https://soundcloud.com/wolfinwool-115608528" title="Wolfinwool" target="blank" style="color: #cccccc; text-decoration: none;"Wolfinwool/a · a href="https://soundcloud.com/wolfinwool-115608528/field-notes-of-the-soul" title="Field Notes of the Soul" target="blank" style="color: #cccccc; text-decoration: none;"Field Notes of the Soul/a/div There’s a farm road I take when I need to cross town and I’m not in a hurry. It skirts the city, wrapping around it gently, and deposits me where I need to be. There are many things on this farm road. There’s an old sign shop with "JUNK" splashed across the yard. There’s a big red barn—metal and modern, but designed to look like something out of a North Carolina postcard. There’s a row of country homes, spaced so widely apart you couldn’t walk door-to-door without turning it into a day trip. You have to drive to visit all your neighbors out here. One of those houses catches my eye every time. The yard is cluttered with used cars and trailers. The owner clearly sells trailers, maybe even builds them. I can see the large metal building way in the back of the property—his workshop. It reminds me of my father. He built trailers in his garage, too. He built railings, worked on cars, created things from scratch. His hands were never still. But I think about this man now, the trailer-seller, and his neighbors. The homes flanking his are neat and manicured, with green lawns and white fences made of old oilfield pipe—a crude material turned elegant by effort and paint. The trailer man’s fence is rusted and brown, like the rest of his property. I wonder how his neighbors feel. We can't choose our neighbors. We can only be patient with them. I try to be a good neighbor. I suppose that matters. After all, we wouldn’t want everyone to be exactly like us. The differences test our patience. They shape our character. No man is an island. We need our culture. We need our people. We need our worker bees and queen bees. We need our ditch diggers and maybe even our politicians. More than anything, we need the Kingdom. Under the Kingdom, people will learn to be kind. If someone builds trailers in their yard, they'll do it with care. And if they don’t, neighbors will speak with grace instead of letting resentment brew. I’m passing a house now that’s under construction. The roof deck is up, felt paper waiting for shingles. I can see the toe boards nailed across the steep pitch—the same kind I used when I was a roofer. I remember those days. It feels like yesterday. I knew the work so well. Even now, I could get out of the car, pick up a bundle of shingles and a hammer, and by afternoon I’d have a good-sized portion of roof done. And yet, I’m not a roofer anymore. We aren’t always what we once were, even if the knowledge never leaves us. Some of us were once lost, and now try to do good. But we still hold the capacity for bad. We may still desire it. Sometimes it slips out in moments of passion. When does that make us wicked? Only if we willingly choose the wrong we know to be wrong. Perhaps that was Lot’s wife’s failure. Maybe she didn’t look back out of weakness. Maybe she was simply honest. She didn’t want to leave. Her life was there. Her home. Her identity. Was it so wrong to mourn what she was being pulled from? The Bible says she became a pillar of salt. We think of that as punishment. But maybe it was mercy. Maybe God knew she wouldn’t survive the wilderness. Maybe turning her to salt spared her a different kind of death. Maybe it was the kindest thing. The hand of flaming fire and hailstone never touched her. Maybe that was the best ending she could have. As a bonus, we get a lesson on faithfulness. I think about that as I drive. I think about myself. I ask a question I wrote the other day: If I am becoming her. I keep looking back. I can’t seem to stop. I keep desiring, wanting. I’ve lost things—goals, faith, the hope of being someone respected. A man of standing. A man of God. Can I reclaim those things? No doubt—no doubt. But the real question is: do I want to? --- --- Luke 19:29-44 29 And when he got near to Bethʹpha·ge and Bethʹa·ny at the mountain called Mount of Olives, he sent two of the disciples, 30 saying: “Go into the village that is within sight, and after you enter it, you will find a colt tied, on which no man has ever sat. Untie it and bring it here. 31 But if anyone asks you, ‘Why are you untying it?’ you must say, ‘The Lord needs it.’” 32 So those who were sent went away and found it just as he had said to them. 33 But as they were untying the colt, its owners said to them: “Why are you untying the colt?” 34 They said: “The Lord needs it.” 35 And they led it to Jesus, and they threw their outer garments on the colt and seated Jesus on it.36 As he moved along, they were spreading their outer garments on the road. 37 As soon as he got near the road down the Mount of Olives, the whole multitude of the disciples began to rejoice and to praise God with a loud voice because of all the powerful works they had seen, 38 saying: “Blessed is the one coming as the King in Jehovah’s name! Peace in heaven, and glory in the heights above!” 39 However, some of the Pharisees from the crowd said to him: “Teacher, rebuke your disciples.” 40 But in reply he said: “I tell you, if these remained silent, the stones would cry out.” 41 And when he got nearby, he viewed the city and wept over it, 42 saying: “If you, even you, had discerned on this day the things having to do with peace—but now they have been hidden from your eyes. 43 Because the days will come upon you when your enemies will build around you a fortification of pointed stakes and will encircle you and besiege you from every side. 44 They will dash you and your children within you to the ground, and they will not leave a stone upon a stone in you, because you did not discern the time of your being inspected.” 45 Then he entered the temple and started to throw out those who were selling, 46 saying to them: “It is written, ‘My house will be a house of prayer,’ but you have made it a cave of robbers.” 47 He continued teaching daily in the temple. But the chief priests and the scribes and the principal ones of the people were seeking to kill him; 48 but they did not find any way to do this, for the people one and all kept hanging on to him to hear him. --- #essay #existentialcrisis #travel #thoughts #bible --- --- Home | About | Full of Stars | Contact | HeartCartography --- "May your seas be wide enough for wonder, your harbor always waiting, and your light never fail when another soul is searching." - The Lantern Keeper ]]>

I believe that there is one story in the world, and only one, that has been writing itself over and over again—one story. The story of good and evil.

Originally published 2025-04-08 13:24:24

Wolfinwool · Field Notes of the Soul

There’s a farm road I take when I need to cross town and I’m not in a hurry. It skirts the city, wrapping around it gently, and deposits me where I need to be. There are many things on this farm road.

There’s an old sign shop with “JUNK” splashed across the yard. There’s a big red barn—metal and modern, but designed to look like something out of a North Carolina postcard. There’s a row of country homes, spaced so widely apart you couldn’t walk door-to-door without turning it into a day trip. You have to drive to visit all your neighbors out here.

One of those houses catches my eye every time. The yard is cluttered with used cars and trailers. The owner clearly sells trailers, maybe even builds them. I can see the large metal building way in the back of the property—his workshop. It reminds me of my father. He built trailers in his garage, too. He built railings, worked on cars, created things from scratch. His hands were never still.

But I think about this man now, the trailer-seller, and his neighbors. The homes flanking his are neat and manicured, with green lawns and white fences made of old oilfield pipe—a crude material turned elegant by effort and paint. The trailer man’s fence is rusted and brown, like the rest of his property. I wonder how his neighbors feel.

We can't choose our neighbors. We can only be patient with them. I try to be a good neighbor. I suppose that matters. After all, we wouldn’t want everyone to be exactly like us. The differences test our patience. They shape our character. No man is an island.

We need our culture. We need our people. We need our worker bees and queen bees. We need our ditch diggers and maybe even our politicians. More than anything, we need the Kingdom.

Under the Kingdom, people will learn to be kind. If someone builds trailers in their yard, they'll do it with care. And if they don’t, neighbors will speak with grace instead of letting resentment brew.

I’m passing a house now that’s under construction. The roof deck is up, felt paper waiting for shingles. I can see the toe boards nailed across the steep pitch—the same kind I used when I was a roofer.

I remember those days. It feels like yesterday. I knew the work so well. Even now, I could get out of the car, pick up a bundle of shingles and a hammer, and by afternoon I’d have a good-sized portion of roof done. And yet, I’m not a roofer anymore. We aren’t always what we once were, even if the knowledge never leaves us.

Some of us were once lost, and now try to do good. But we still hold the capacity for bad. We may still desire it. Sometimes it slips out in moments of passion. When does that make us wicked? Only if we willingly choose the wrong we know to be wrong. Perhaps that was Lot’s wife’s failure.

Maybe she didn’t look back out of weakness. Maybe she was simply honest. She didn’t want to leave. Her life was there. Her home. Her identity. Was it so wrong to mourn what she was being pulled from? The Bible says she became a pillar of salt. We think of that as punishment. But maybe it was mercy.

Maybe God knew she wouldn’t survive the wilderness. Maybe turning her to salt spared her a different kind of death. Maybe it was the kindest thing. The hand of flaming fire and hailstone never touched her. Maybe that was the best ending she could have. As a bonus, we get a lesson on faithfulness.

I think about that as I drive. I think about myself. I ask a question I wrote the other day: If I am becoming her. I keep looking back. I can’t seem to stop. I keep desiring, wanting. I’ve lost things—goals, faith, the hope of being someone respected. A man of standing. A man of God.

Can I reclaim those things?

No doubt—no doubt.

But the real question is:

do I want to?

Luke 19:29-44

29 And when he got near to Bethʹpha·ge and Bethʹa·ny at the mountain called Mount of Olives, he sent two of the disciples, 30 saying: “Go into the village that is within sight, and after you enter it, you will find a colt tied, on which no man has ever sat. Untie it and bring it here. 31 But if anyone asks you, ‘Why are you untying it?’ you must say, ‘The Lord needs it.’” 32 So those who were sent went away and found it just as he had said to them. 33 But as they were untying the colt, its owners said to them: “Why are you untying the colt?” 34 They said: “The Lord needs it.” 35 And they led it to Jesus, and they threw their outer garments on the colt and seated Jesus on it.36 As he moved along, they were spreading their outer garments on the road. 37 As soon as he got near the road down the Mount of Olives, the whole multitude of the disciples began to rejoice and to praise God with a loud voice because of all the powerful works they had seen, 38 saying: “Blessed is the one coming as the King in Jehovah’s name! Peace in heaven, and glory in the heights above!” 39 However, some of the Pharisees from the crowd said to him: “Teacher, rebuke your disciples.” 40 But in reply he said: “I tell you, if these remained silent, the stones would cry out.” 41 And when he got nearby, he viewed the city and wept over it, 42 saying: “If you, even you, had discerned on this day the things having to do with peace—but now they have been hidden from your eyes. 43 Because the days will come upon you when your enemies will build around you a fortification of pointed stakes and will encircle you and besiege you from every side. 44 They will dash you and your children within you to the ground, and they will not leave a stone upon a stone in you, because you did not discern the time of your being inspected.” 45 Then he entered the temple and started to throw out those who were selling, 46 saying to them: “It is written, ‘My house will be a house of prayer,’ but you have made it a cave of robbers.” 47 He continued teaching daily in the temple. But the chief priests and the scribes and the principal ones of the people were seeking to kill him; 48 but they did not find any way to do this, for the people one and all kept hanging on to him to hear him.

#essay #existentialcrisis #travel #thoughts #bible

Home | About | Full of Stars | Contact | HeartCartography

“May your seas be wide enough for wonder, your harbor always waiting, and your light never fail when another soul is searching.” – The Lantern Keeper

]]> https://lanternroom.writeas.com/field-notes-of-the-soul Fri, 31 Jul 2026 15:28:58 +0000 Green Landing https://lanternroom.writeas.com/green-landing?pk_campaign=rss-feed <![CDATA[ There are no strangers here; only friends you have not yet met. !--more-- iframe width="100%" height="300" scrolling="no" frameborder="no" allow="autoplay" src="https://w.soundcloud.com/player/?url=https%3A//api.soundcloud.com/tracks/soundcloud%253Atracks%253A2283114191&color=%23ff5500&autoplay=false&hiderelated=false&showcomments=true&showuser=true&showreposts=false&showteaser=true&visual=true"/iframediv style="font-size: 10px; color: #cccccc;line-break: anywhere;word-break: normal;overflow: hidden;white-space: nowrap;text-overflow: ellipsis; font-family: Interstate,Lucida Grande,Lucida Sans Unicode,Lucida Sans,Garuda,Verdana,Tahoma,sans-serif;font-weight: 100;"a href="https://soundcloud.com/wolfinwool-115608528" title="Wolfinwool" target="blank" style="color: #cccccc; text-decoration: none;"Wolfinwool/a · a href="https://soundcloud.com/wolfinwool-115608528/green-landing" title="Green Landing" target="blank" style="color: #cccccc; text-decoration: none;"Green Landing/a/div “D’ya realize how long you’ve been in Europe?” the Irish immigration officer asked. “Well,” I smiled. “I like to think that I’m less in Europe at this point than it’s in me.” He was not amused. “What the feck does that mean!? What are ya? Some kind of poet or somethin'?” I smiled and did a little performative bow. Kindness and charm usually worked wonders. But this morning, after stepping off the ferry from Cherbourg, France to Dublin, Ireland, Officer O’Flynn was neither charitable nor open to kindness. I'd just disembarked the overnight crossing. I was a little bit scared, but afraid to let it show. I'd wandered around with barely a plan for months and expected it to work here. All of a sudden, things were a bit too official when I least expected it. “Well, I don’t care what ya do for a livin’… ya show up in my country—no return flight or trip, no forwarding address—just a ‘trust me’ attitude! How would you feel if I showed up in your country, hat in hand and a promise not to overstay?” I had the feeling in my gut that my natural answer would not be received well: Why, welcome to Texas! Try Pecan Lodge BBQ—it’s a helluva good time! Stay out of Austin, it’s more California than Texas these days. So instead I just smiled and eased out, “I can understand your point of view. I assure you, we mean no harm. Just here wrapping up an extended journey before heading back to Texas in the US.” He flips through my passport book for the fourth time. “So when did ya come into Europe?” he asks dismissively, flipping pages. “And why don’t you have any other stamps besides Spain?” “December 10,” I answer. “And I went from Portugal to Spain to France to Italy to France to Italy to Switzerland to Italy to Switzerland to Italy to Switzerland to Germany to Liechtenstein to Germany to France over the course of more than two months, and not once has a crossing asked for anything. A few times I even stopped and asked them to review and stamp my passport. Always the same message: ‘We don’t do that here.’” “I came with a return flight, but decided to overstay that and cancelled it, planning to rebook when I was out of time and energy for exploring the continent. Ireland is just the last leg, and I might add, the highlight of my trip. My Irish ancestors left here in 1648 and never looked back. I’m here for me, for my father, and for my art.” O’Flynn is unmoved. Subtly rolls his eyes and stamps the book. I light up. “Oh! Yay! Thank you. Don’t worry—I won’t disappoint your trust.” The last thing I want is to get cross with the immigration police and get banned for life. I have a friend this happened to in North America. Left, and when he came back, his home of 30 years was locked out forever. Wild. But that’s the cost of romance. You can’t plan every grain of sand. That’s a pilot's move; a pragmatists answer. Poets just wander around until they can’t stand it anymore. It’s a terrifying and electrifying state. You are building the bridge as you cross it, like a cartoon character. This all occurs to me as I sit in a solarium in western Ireland. The ocean is POUNDING and ROARING a sixth of a mile away. Four donkeys graze in the rain next to a babbling brook that runs down and away from me to the sea. The ubiquitous stone walls divide the landscape beneath me into paddocks. How beautiful that they never adopted the grotesque barbed wire we run everywhere back in the United States. This landscape is very much like Officer O’Flynn: hard and unforgiving, but with good reason. This island has stood for thousands of years and is fiercely independent. It’s not possible to hold one’s own without keeping your face to the wind. But underneath the harsh exterior is so much beauty that it is tear-inducing. Life everywhere. Celebrated with good beer (nay, great beer) and trad music. I need to live here for a year. I am not yet bored, and until boredom sets in, creativity can’t truly flourish. I want to live here, make love here, grow weary of the place and let it grow weary of me. Typical for a romantic poet-essayist. I think I’ll go for a walk. --- #travel #europe #ireland --- Home | About | Full of Stars | Contact | HeartCartography --- "May your seas be wide enough for wonder, your harbor always waiting, and your light never fail when another soul is searching." - The Lantern Keeper ]]>

There are no strangers here; only friends you have not yet met.

Wolfinwool · Green Landing

“D’ya realize how long you’ve been in Europe?” the Irish immigration officer asked.

“Well,” I smiled. “I like to think that I’m less in Europe at this point than it’s in me.”

He was not amused. “What the feck does that mean!? What are ya? Some kind of poet or somethin'?”

I smiled and did a little performative bow. Kindness and charm usually worked wonders. But this morning, after stepping off the ferry from Cherbourg, France to Dublin, Ireland, Officer O’Flynn was neither charitable nor open to kindness.

I'd just disembarked the overnight crossing. I was a little bit scared, but afraid to let it show. I'd wandered around with barely a plan for months and expected it to work here. All of a sudden, things were a bit too official when I least expected it.

“Well, I don’t care what ya do for a livin’… ya show up in my country—no return flight or trip, no forwarding address—just a ‘trust me’ attitude! How would you feel if I showed up in your country, hat in hand and a promise not to overstay?”

I had the feeling in my gut that my natural answer would not be received well: Why, welcome to Texas! Try Pecan Lodge BBQ—it’s a helluva good time! Stay out of Austin, it’s more California than Texas these days.

So instead I just smiled and eased out, “I can understand your point of view. I assure you, we mean no harm. Just here wrapping up an extended journey before heading back to Texas in the US.”

He flips through my passport book for the fourth time.

“So when did ya come into Europe?” he asks dismissively, flipping pages. “And why don’t you have any other stamps besides Spain?”

“December 10,” I answer. “And I went from Portugal to Spain to France to Italy to France to Italy to Switzerland to Italy to Switzerland to Italy to Switzerland to Germany to Liechtenstein to Germany to France over the course of more than two months, and not once has a crossing asked for anything. A few times I even stopped and asked them to review and stamp my passport. Always the same message: ‘We don’t do that here.’”

“I came with a return flight, but decided to overstay that and cancelled it, planning to rebook when I was out of time and energy for exploring the continent. Ireland is just the last leg, and I might add, the highlight of my trip. My Irish ancestors left here in 1648 and never looked back. I’m here for me, for my father, and for my art.”

O’Flynn is unmoved. Subtly rolls his eyes and stamps the book.

I light up. “Oh! Yay! Thank you. Don’t worry—I won’t disappoint your trust.”

The last thing I want is to get cross with the immigration police and get banned for life. I have a friend this happened to in North America. Left, and when he came back, his home of 30 years was locked out forever.

Wild.

But that’s the cost of romance. You can’t plan every grain of sand. That’s a pilot's move; a pragmatists answer. Poets just wander around until they can’t stand it anymore. It’s a terrifying and electrifying state. You are building the bridge as you cross it, like a cartoon character.

This all occurs to me as I sit in a solarium in western Ireland. The ocean is POUNDING and ROARING a sixth of a mile away. Four donkeys graze in the rain next to a babbling brook that runs down and away from me to the sea. The ubiquitous stone walls divide the landscape beneath me into paddocks. How beautiful that they never adopted the grotesque barbed wire we run everywhere back in the United States.

This landscape is very much like Officer O’Flynn: hard and unforgiving, but with good reason. This island has stood for thousands of years and is fiercely independent. It’s not possible to hold one’s own without keeping your face to the wind. But underneath the harsh exterior is so much beauty that it is tear-inducing. Life everywhere. Celebrated with good beer (nay, great beer) and trad music.

I need to live here for a year. I am not yet bored, and until boredom sets in, creativity can’t truly flourish.

I want to live here, make love here, grow weary of the place and let it grow weary of me.

Typical for a romantic poet-essayist.

I think I’ll go for a walk.

#travel #europe #ireland

Home | About | Full of Stars | Contact | HeartCartography

“May your seas be wide enough for wonder, your harbor always waiting, and your light never fail when another soul is searching.” – The Lantern Keeper

]]> https://lanternroom.writeas.com/green-landing Fri, 13 Mar 2026 21:18:59 +0000 Lost in Translation https://lanternroom.writeas.com/lost-in-translation?pk_campaign=rss-feed <![CDATA[ Not my job to explain it. Thoughts on the foolishness of wandering through new lands without a goal other than to experience wonder. !--more-- Not everyone will understand your journey— and that’s okay. Some will only see the miles, not the weather. The wrong turns, the nights you slept on faith because certainty never showed up. You are not here to make your life legible to strangers. You are not required to footnote your motive or submit your dreams for peer review. You’re here to live your life— to follow the pull when it makes no sense, to choose wonder over safety, to answer the call even when no one else hears it ringing. Let them misunderstand. You were never meant to be explained. You were meant to be become. --- #poetry #travel --- Home | About | Full of Stars | Contact | HeartCartography --- "May your seas be wide enough for wonder, your harbor always waiting, and your light never fail when another soul is searching." - The Lantern Keeper ]]>

Not my job to explain it. Thoughts on the foolishness of wandering through new lands without a goal other than to experience wonder.

Not everyone will understand your journey— and that’s okay.

Some will only see the miles, not the weather. The wrong turns, the nights you slept on faith because certainty never showed up.

You are not here to make your life legible to strangers. You are not required to footnote your motive or submit your dreams for peer review.

You’re here to live your life— to follow the pull when it makes no sense, to choose wonder over safety, to answer the call even when no one else hears it ringing.

Let them misunderstand. You were never meant to be explained. You were meant to be become.

#poetry #travel

Home | About | Full of Stars | Contact | HeartCartography

“May your seas be wide enough for wonder, your harbor always waiting, and your light never fail when another soul is searching.” – The Lantern Keeper

]]> https://lanternroom.writeas.com/lost-in-translation Fri, 23 Jan 2026 17:26:47 +0000 When the Roost Crows https://lanternroom.writeas.com/when-the-roost-crows?pk_campaign=rss-feed <![CDATA[ !--more-- My mind tonight is quite gordian. I think I may be trying to force something that just isn't there. Like drawing, sometimes you don't have it. So, I'm just going to write. To 'bleed' in the parlance of Mister Hemingway. There are a few stressers currently that are likely creating disruption in my usual thinking. Most notably is the Missus. Grief by Mail She's been slowly recovering from a rough illness. Today, she was particularly affected by a book someone mailed to her mother. It was the story of her father's life with photos. Quite a nice production. I have only seen photos, but I am guessing it is primarily the text of the obituary I wrote for him and laid out with the generous collection of photography we accumulated. It is a kind thing to have. But it caught her off guard to be reminded of him in that way. My assessment is that part of her illness was the weight of the deaths and the book likely focused all of that emotional energy at a single point in time. She broke down a little tonight. But not in a bad way. It is really a human requirement to acknowledge we have those feelings. They cannot be buried indefinitely. And I can hear her laughing at something from the next room. So that is a good sign. I do not think she'll be solid enough to drive to Tennessee this weekend for our camping trip. Which is a shame. I think more than anything else, I have a need to travel. But, I'll do the thing that mule's do and keep going forward. It's been a big aid spending time with my friends in the volunteer work. It helps cut through my knotted mind. Tilting at Windmills There's a fair amount of frustration dealing with my colleagues at the moment. You know the old saying that the definition of insanity is repeating the same action but expecting different results? I keep explaining that to solve some problems, we need to try different approaches, but all I get are nods and then the team does what they've always done. It's ridiculous. It is true that you have to pick your battles. But I find a recurring, almost Sisyphian in the most mundane of things. We will decide to solve a problem by certain action, only later to just go back to doing the thing that made the problem. My best friend recommends not fighting those battles, to let them go. But then in short order someone (sometimes that same friend) asks me why the problem is back. I like to imagine I am a misunderstood genius. Only, there's not much evidence for the genius part. That's the power of imagination, ladies and gentlemen. Cluck That Once, when we were in west Africa, I commented on what seemed like a lot of domestic livestock wandering around un-penned and unleashed. The chickens in particular seem to be run amok. So, I asked a local man, "Who owns these chickens? they seem to be everywhere." "Oh," he answered dismissively, "they know who they belong to." "The chickens know?" I was incredulous. "That doesn't seem likely." "Trust me," the man said, now with a sheepish grin. "Pick one up, the bird will cry its owners name and you and the chicken will immediately know who the owner is!" The moral of the story, if there is one, is that you don't always see the whole picture. Stay objective. Quackonauts My bodacious bride just popped by to remind me that I need to earn an income. "You should write a children's book!" she prompts. I have. I just can't be bothered to finish anything. I am a perpetual starter. Finishing... that's for pros, not floundering wannabees. She suggests: "A coloring book of ducks in space, or something." Me, the auteur, simply cannot descend to the depths of producing such schlock!! Or... maybe writing about the Feathernauts waddling into orbit is something I could do. They meet the strange sponge-pigs of venus and have to solve the puzzle of how to keep water on the moons of jupiter so they can flock there in the solar winter. Or, in search of the great cosmic pond to ask the water fowl of the light the ultimate question, they inadvertently extinguish the sun's giggle-core and have to team up with the Fireflivians to reignite it. It's so tough to be a tortured artist. Economy I do not care for the concept of 'economy class'. How can you separate the experience for how much pay for it? Even though the flight crew is top notch and I feel like I am getting superior service, I see the word economy and I feel like a cheapskate. But, that is probably because I AM a cheapskate. Which is a misnomer... poor is more likely the accurate description. A cheapskate can afford first class, but only pays for economy because he wishes to cling to that hard earned fiat. A poor person on the other hand will spend money he doesn't have to achieve a level of comfort that probably isn't necessary. Paying to Soon I was hassled at Kotoka International by a local man named Collins. He was a typical hustler looking to make a dollar by helping travelers. In developing countries, the roles are not as officious as we are used to in the west. While initially VERY helpful, the longer he was with us the more insistent the became about the weight of our bags, I generously tipped him $20, but I did it too early. After disappearing for twenty minutes, he reappeared upstairs and insisted that I needed to bring another guy. There was no way he could carry our 4 bags to the second floor. Unfortunately, my mate was no help. She just encouraged me to shovel him more cash. This is the definition of a swindle. A Real Swindle I spoke too soon. In 1993 we had been married a year. My new wife surprised me by booking a week long trip to Montego Bay Jamaica. I wasn't thrilled initially, but her effervescent persuasion brought me around. And it was a terrific trip. We stayed right on the beach in this garishly pink hotel with a bamboo door and balcony overlooking the ocean. To this day a few of my favorite photos are of the two of us on that balcony. We couldn't get enough of each other in those days lazying on the beach, snorkeling, reading, dancing... what a great time. In my father's garage, way up on a shelf is a giant mahogany fish we brought him from a wood carver we met. By huge, I mean, if it had been any bigger, we couldn't have carried it back. I don't know what I was thinking. It is the size of a large suitcase and I managed to get it into the plane as a carry-on. Such were the differences in air travel pre-nine-eleven. It was worth it. For sixty dollars I picked up a piece that would retail in a gallery for at least $2,500. It was on that same shopping trip that I met my swindler. We'd adventured off the tourist path, emboldened by some local friends who gave us the confidence to find ourselves the only Americans places that today you simply can't visit. A few bars (in the middle of the day mind you), a shopping mall and what I can only describe as a flea market. The Jamaican's called a 'market' but it was really metal huts swarming with locals. This is the sort of place where residents shop so you can get much better deals on whatever you need than the shops designed to cater to tourists. But, as a tourist, you become a quick mark. As we left the market, we were trying to hail a cab. But they were far and few between way out here in the sticks. An enterprising young man approached me. "Hey sir!" Big smile. The young guys called everyone sir back then. "You need a ride? I have a great car, I'd be happy to drop you at your hotel." I was 20 years old and while not completely devoid of sense, I was far too trusting. Looking back, this feels like the setup to a kidnapping. But I just said, 'SURE!' We haggled some on price. "I CAN'T do it for less than ten." "Come on, man!" I defended. "The cabs are only eight dollars to get here. I can do five." "AH! Sir, you drive a hard bargain." Feigning injury, "you're right, but we are so far and I have to drive there and back, while the cabs can get a fare going both directions. Please, let's say $8 and you'll be helping a young struggling Jamaican." My lady fully endorsed this. She's always been pretty eager to spread cash around. She says it goes back to her waitressing days. My stinginess goes back to my roofing days. Money was just too damned hard to get. I've softened a lot over the years. I'm a tad too easy-come-easy-go at this point. On the drive back, I asked, "If you see a liquor place, do you mind stopping? I'd like to pick up a few things." In my mind now, the two in the front seat cartoonishly side glanced at each other before the passenger said, "Oh, Sir! You need liquor? What kind are you looking for?" "I'm in the market for some good Jamaican rum, a few bottles of it." I shared eagerly, thinking i was helping our navigator decide the best local spot would be. Which was probably back at the tin hut alley. "Well! I know a GREAT place, very cheap. VERY cheap. How much you want? I can get 4 liters for $20 usd." He shared excitedly. His excitement was infectious. "Four! That would be terrific. We need four. Is it far away." "A little far sir, it will take us maybe thirty minutes to get there. It's past the hotel." The friendly man was flashing big toothy smiles my way as we talked. But I wasn't really in the mood for another ninety minutes to be tacked to our day. "Eh, that's a little far. We have a dinner appointment." I tried to get out of the arrangement even as it was starting to gel. But my would-be guide wouldn't let the fish get away. He exclaimed, "Oh, I can go get it and bring it back. You give me your hotel room number and in two hours I will deliver the bottles to you." Now, I wasn't so confident and clueless as not to think they would just keep my money and run. I knew it was a risk. but they had charmed me and I really wanted to believe them. So, my twenty went from my pocket to his hand never to be seen again. Two hours later, I commented to my wife that maybe we'd been cheated. "Duh." she said, "I knew those guys weren't bringing us bottles of liquor." "Why didn't you say something or try to stop me?" I was injured that she had been so astute while I, so naive. "Well, it seemed to me that you liked them and were having a good time. I figured worst case, we had a good story to tell. And best case, we'd have four bottles of rum to go with it." I couldn't argue with her logic. She was right. I've told this story many times over the years. Sometimes to illustrate the power of persuasion and sometimes just because I like telling it. I enjoy the self deprecation. In any case, I did get a good story out of it. Though, some rum would have been pretty great too. Thank you for letting me go on, reader. My gordian delima is assuaged and having spun my yarn here, I now find myself quite ready to sleep. So, until next we meet, may your sleep be sweet and the moon light your path in the dark. WIWL --- #memoir #journal #travel #memory --- a href="https://remark.as/p/lanternroom/when-the-roost-crows"Discuss.../a --- Home | About | Full of Stars | Contact | HeartCartography --- "May your seas be wide enough for wonder, your harbor always waiting, and your light never fail when another soul is searching." - The Lantern Keeper ]]>

My mind tonight is quite gordian. I think I may be trying to force something that just isn't there. Like drawing, sometimes you don't have it.

So, I'm just going to write. To 'bleed' in the parlance of Mister Hemingway.

There are a few stressers currently that are likely creating disruption in my usual thinking. Most notably is the Missus.

Grief by Mail

She's been slowly recovering from a rough illness. Today, she was particularly affected by a book someone mailed to her mother. It was the story of her father's life with photos. Quite a nice production. I have only seen photos, but I am guessing it is primarily the text of the obituary I wrote for him and laid out with the generous collection of photography we accumulated.

It is a kind thing to have. But it caught her off guard to be reminded of him in that way. My assessment is that part of her illness was the weight of the deaths and the book likely focused all of that emotional energy at a single point in time.

She broke down a little tonight. But not in a bad way. It is really a human requirement to acknowledge we have those feelings. They cannot be buried indefinitely. And I can hear her laughing at something from the next room. So that is a good sign.

I do not think she'll be solid enough to drive to Tennessee this weekend for our camping trip. Which is a shame. I think more than anything else, I have a need to travel. But, I'll do the thing that mule's do and keep going forward. It's been a big aid spending time with my friends in the volunteer work.

It helps cut through my knotted mind.

Tilting at Windmills

There's a fair amount of frustration dealing with my colleagues at the moment. You know the old saying that the definition of insanity is repeating the same action but expecting different results? I keep explaining that to solve some problems, we need to try different approaches, but all I get are nods and then the team does what they've always done. It's ridiculous.

It is true that you have to pick your battles. But I find a recurring, almost Sisyphian in the most mundane of things. We will decide to solve a problem by certain action, only later to just go back to doing the thing that made the problem.

My best friend recommends not fighting those battles, to let them go. But then in short order someone (sometimes that same friend) asks me why the problem is back.

I like to imagine I am a misunderstood genius. Only, there's not much evidence for the genius part. That's the power of imagination, ladies and gentlemen.

Cluck That

Once, when we were in west Africa, I commented on what seemed like a lot of domestic livestock wandering around un-penned and unleashed. The chickens in particular seem to be run amok.

So, I asked a local man, “Who owns these chickens? they seem to be everywhere.”

“Oh,” he answered dismissively, “they know who they belong to.”

“The chickens know?” I was incredulous. “That doesn't seem likely.”

“Trust me,” the man said, now with a sheepish grin. “Pick one up, the bird will cry its owners name and you and the chicken will immediately know who the owner is!”

The moral of the story, if there is one, is that you don't always see the whole picture. Stay objective.

Quackonauts

My bodacious bride just popped by to remind me that I need to earn an income. “You should write a children's book!” she prompts.

I have. I just can't be bothered to finish anything. I am a perpetual starter. Finishing... that's for pros, not floundering wannabees.

She suggests: “A coloring book of ducks in space, or something.”

Me, the auteur, simply cannot descend to the depths of producing such schlock!!

Or... maybe writing about the Feathernauts waddling into orbit is something I could do. They meet the strange sponge-pigs of venus and have to solve the puzzle of how to keep water on the moons of jupiter so they can flock there in the solar winter.

Or, in search of the great cosmic pond to ask the water fowl of the light the ultimate question, they inadvertently extinguish the sun's giggle-core and have to team up with the Fireflivians to reignite it.

It's so tough to be a tortured artist.

Economy

I do not care for the concept of 'economy class'. How can you separate the experience for how much pay for it? Even though the flight crew is top notch and I feel like I am getting superior service, I see the word economy and I feel like a cheapskate.

But, that is probably because I AM a cheapskate. Which is a misnomer... poor is more likely the accurate description. A cheapskate can afford first class, but only pays for economy because he wishes to cling to that hard earned fiat. A poor person on the other hand will spend money he doesn't have to achieve a level of comfort that probably isn't necessary.

Paying to Soon

I was hassled at Kotoka International by a local man named Collins. He was a typical hustler looking to make a dollar by helping travelers. In developing countries, the roles are not as officious as we are used to in the west. While initially VERY helpful, the longer he was with us the more insistent the became about the weight of our bags, I generously tipped him $20, but I did it too early. After disappearing for twenty minutes, he reappeared upstairs and insisted that I needed to bring another guy. There was no way he could carry our 4 bags to the second floor. Unfortunately, my mate was no help. She just encouraged me to shovel him more cash. This is the definition of a swindle.

A Real Swindle

I spoke too soon. In 1993 we had been married a year. My new wife surprised me by booking a week long trip to Montego Bay Jamaica. I wasn't thrilled initially, but her effervescent persuasion brought me around.

And it was a terrific trip. We stayed right on the beach in this garishly pink hotel with a bamboo door and balcony overlooking the ocean. To this day a few of my favorite photos are of the two of us on that balcony. We couldn't get enough of each other in those days lazying on the beach, snorkeling, reading, dancing... what a great time.

In my father's garage, way up on a shelf is a giant mahogany fish we brought him from a wood carver we met. By huge, I mean, if it had been any bigger, we couldn't have carried it back. I don't know what I was thinking. It is the size of a large suitcase and I managed to get it into the plane as a carry-on. Such were the differences in air travel pre-nine-eleven. It was worth it. For sixty dollars I picked up a piece that would retail in a gallery for at least $2,500.

It was on that same shopping trip that I met my swindler.

We'd adventured off the tourist path, emboldened by some local friends who gave us the confidence to find ourselves the only Americans places that today you simply can't visit. A few bars (in the middle of the day mind you), a shopping mall and what I can only describe as a flea market. The Jamaican's called a 'market' but it was really metal huts swarming with locals.

This is the sort of place where residents shop so you can get much better deals on whatever you need than the shops designed to cater to tourists. But, as a tourist, you become a quick mark.

As we left the market, we were trying to hail a cab. But they were far and few between way out here in the sticks. An enterprising young man approached me.

“Hey sir!” Big smile. The young guys called everyone sir back then. “You need a ride? I have a great car, I'd be happy to drop you at your hotel.”

I was 20 years old and while not completely devoid of sense, I was far too trusting. Looking back, this feels like the setup to a kidnapping. But I just said, 'SURE!'

We haggled some on price. “I CAN'T do it for less than ten.”

“Come on, man!” I defended. “The cabs are only eight dollars to get here. I can do five.”

“AH! Sir, you drive a hard bargain.” Feigning injury, “you're right, but we are so far and I have to drive there and back, while the cabs can get a fare going both directions. Please, let's say $8 and you'll be helping a young struggling Jamaican.”

My lady fully endorsed this. She's always been pretty eager to spread cash around. She says it goes back to her waitressing days.

My stinginess goes back to my roofing days. Money was just too damned hard to get. I've softened a lot over the years. I'm a tad too easy-come-easy-go at this point.

On the drive back, I asked, “If you see a liquor place, do you mind stopping? I'd like to pick up a few things.”

In my mind now, the two in the front seat cartoonishly side glanced at each other before the passenger said, “Oh, Sir! You need liquor? What kind are you looking for?”

“I'm in the market for some good Jamaican rum, a few bottles of it.” I shared eagerly, thinking i was helping our navigator decide the best local spot would be. Which was probably back at the tin hut alley.

“Well! I know a GREAT place, very cheap. VERY cheap. How much you want? I can get 4 liters for $20 usd.” He shared excitedly.

His excitement was infectious. “Four! That would be terrific. We need four. Is it far away.”

“A little far sir, it will take us maybe thirty minutes to get there. It's past the hotel.” The friendly man was flashing big toothy smiles my way as we talked. But I wasn't really in the mood for another ninety minutes to be tacked to our day.

“Eh, that's a little far. We have a dinner appointment.” I tried to get out of the arrangement even as it was starting to gel.

But my would-be guide wouldn't let the fish get away.

He exclaimed, “Oh, I can go get it and bring it back. You give me your hotel room number and in two hours I will deliver the bottles to you.”

Now, I wasn't so confident and clueless as not to think they would just keep my money and run. I knew it was a risk. but they had charmed me and I really wanted to believe them.

So, my twenty went from my pocket to his hand never to be seen again.

Two hours later, I commented to my wife that maybe we'd been cheated.

“Duh.” she said, “I knew those guys weren't bringing us bottles of liquor.”

“Why didn't you say something or try to stop me?” I was injured that she had been so astute while I, so naive.

“Well, it seemed to me that you liked them and were having a good time. I figured worst case, we had a good story to tell. And best case, we'd have four bottles of rum to go with it.”

I couldn't argue with her logic. She was right.

I've told this story many times over the years. Sometimes to illustrate the power of persuasion and sometimes just because I like telling it. I enjoy the self deprecation.

In any case, I did get a good story out of it. Though, some rum would have been pretty great too.

Thank you for letting me go on, reader. My gordian delima is assuaged and having spun my yarn here, I now find myself quite ready to sleep.

So, until next we meet, may your sleep be sweet and the moon light your path in the dark.

WIWL

#memoir #journal #travel #memory

Discuss...

Home | About | Full of Stars | Contact | HeartCartography

“May your seas be wide enough for wonder, your harbor always waiting, and your light never fail when another soul is searching.” – The Lantern Keeper

]]> https://lanternroom.writeas.com/when-the-roost-crows Fri, 16 May 2025 05:30:00 +0000 Tessellations https://lanternroom.writeas.com/tessellations?pk_campaign=rss-feed <![CDATA[ Look! These are just the fringes of his ways; Only a faint whisper has been heard of him! !--more-- iframe width="200%" height="150" scrolling="no" frameborder="no" allow="autoplay" src="https://w.soundcloud.com/player/?url=https%3A//api.soundcloud.com/tracks/2086544292&color=%23ff5500&autoplay=false&hiderelated=false&showcomments=true&showuser=true&showreposts=false&showteaser=true&visual=true"/iframediv style="font-size: 10px; color: #cccccc;line-break: anywhere;word-break: normal;overflow: hidden;white-space: nowrap;text-overflow: ellipsis; font-family: Interstate,Lucida Grande,Lucida Sans Unicode,Lucida Sans,Garuda,Verdana,Tahoma,sans-serif;font-weight: 100;"a href="https://soundcloud.com/wolfinwool-115608528" title="Wolfinwool" target="blank" style="color: #cccccc; text-decoration: none;"Wolfinwool/a · a href="https://soundcloud.com/wolfinwool-115608528/tesselations" title="Tesselations" target="blank" style="color: #cccccc; text-decoration: none;"Tesselations/a/div Last night, as we crossed the threshold of dusk, a thunderhead rose— thirty thousand feet of sky-clad majesty, a colossus of cloud and light. So vast, its motion looked still. It waited. A sentinel of vapor, crowned in flashes of unseen fire, looming above our journey like a god unspoken. The world bent beneath its gaze— mountains bowed, cities dimmed, our destination cowered in its shadow. Weight—more than all elephants ever conceived by earth— a Kilimanjaro of pachyderms, silent and unshakeable. And yet, this was merely an afterthought— a side-glance of the Maker, Jehovah, whose breath begets fractals, whose fingers write tessellations in lightning and chemistry, in the tongue of physics and fire. Who are we— dustlings in chariots of steel— that He should remember us? --- #poetry #travel #storytelling #write #100daystooffload --- a href="https://remark.as/p/lanternroom/tessellations"Discuss.../a --- Home | About | Full of Stars | Contact | HeartCartography --- "May your seas be wide enough for wonder, your harbor always waiting, and your light never fail when another soul is searching." - The Lantern Keeper ]]>

Look! These are just the fringes of his ways; Only a faint whisper has been heard of him!

Wolfinwool · Tesselations

Last night, as we crossed the threshold of dusk, a thunderhead rose— thirty thousand feet of sky-clad majesty, a colossus of cloud and light.

So vast, its motion looked still. It waited. A sentinel of vapor, crowned in flashes of unseen fire, looming above our journey like a god unspoken.

The world bent beneath its gaze— mountains bowed, cities dimmed, our destination cowered in its shadow.

Weight—more than all elephants ever conceived by earth— a Kilimanjaro of pachyderms, silent and unshakeable.

And yet, this was merely an afterthought— a side-glance of the Maker, Jehovah, whose breath begets fractals, whose fingers write tessellations in lightning and chemistry, in the tongue of physics and fire.

Who are we— dustlings in chariots of steel— that He should remember us?

#poetry #travel #storytelling #write #100daystooffload

Discuss...

Home | About | Full of Stars | Contact | HeartCartography

“May your seas be wide enough for wonder, your harbor always waiting, and your light never fail when another soul is searching.” – The Lantern Keeper

]]> https://lanternroom.writeas.com/tessellations Fri, 25 Apr 2025 11:41:49 +0000 The Fury of Mauch Chunk https://lanternroom.writeas.com/the-fury-of-mauch-chunk?pk_campaign=rss-feed <![CDATA[ The first book I ever published. !--more-- About 15 years ago, we went to upstate Pennsylvania to attend a visual storytelling workshop with Marshall Arisman, godfather of visual storytelling at SVA in NYC. I talked about this some in yesterday's post. It was a terrific experience, one that I have longed to repeat ever since. It was a week of talking about image-making and how to use that capacity to form a narrative. While I struggled some with trying to hard to render finished work during the week, The Fury of Mauch Chunk was a high point for me. It is about man's interaction with nature there in the valley and how they grew too fast and too careless until the town caught fire and burned out the entire village. --- !--emailsub-- a href="https://remark.as/p/lanternroom/the-fury-of-mauch-chunk"Discuss.../a nature at her worst, made by man #story #travel wrinkled pages --- Home | About | Full of Stars | Contact | HeartCartography --- "May your seas be wide enough for wonder, your harbor always waiting, and your light never fail when another soul is searching." - The Lantern Keeper ]]>

The first book I ever published.

About 15 years ago, we went to upstate Pennsylvania to attend a visual storytelling workshop with Marshall Arisman, godfather of visual storytelling at SVA in NYC. I talked about this some in yesterday's post. It was a terrific experience, one that I have longed to repeat ever since. It was a week of talking about image-making and how to use that capacity to form a narrative.

While I struggled some with trying to hard to render finished work during the week, The Fury of Mauch Chunk was a high point for me. It is about man's interaction with nature there in the valley and how they grew too fast and too careless until the town caught fire and burned out the entire village.

Discuss...

nature at her worst, made by man #story #travel

wrinkled pages

Home | About | Full of Stars | Contact | HeartCartography

“May your seas be wide enough for wonder, your harbor always waiting, and your light never fail when another soul is searching.” – The Lantern Keeper

]]> https://lanternroom.writeas.com/the-fury-of-mauch-chunk Wed, 11 Dec 2024 19:46:10 +0000