A Memory With My Paw

One of my favorite things that Paw and I would do together was ride in his white Chevy pickup.

The long rides down to Uncle JJ’s farm, the short rides home from middle school football practice, and every time that we rode down East Bear Springs Road together. He seemed to love to give up his time to drive me around, long before I could drive myself. That was my Paw, and that’s where I spent the best time with him – riding in his pickup truck.

My favorite memory with Paw was doing just that. We were driving down East Bear Springs, and we were crossing the creek where the road dipped down. I don’t remember where we were going, or why. I just remember that we were together, me and Paw. “Coca-Cola Cowboy” by Mel Tillis was the song on the radio. I don’t exactly remember if he or I started singing first, probably me, but by the time that the road dipped down, we were both singing that song, together, me and Paw.

I’ll always cherish that moment we had, singing along to a song. A song that definitely wasn’t about us, but a song that, together, we made our own.

Visions I Cannot Know

Two nights ago, I dreamt that bombs fell on my home. I was with my family when orange light split the sky and rockets came down. In that moment, I made peace that I would die. Maybe I did so because I thought I couldn't cease to be. I woke from that dream to the incessant vibration of my phone. A friend was calling me, who I ignored last time he did. I let it ring. When I didn't answer, he texted me. Our old friend had died less than an hour before. Isn't it odd how dreams border reality? I often see little difference between life’s two dimensions of the body and the spirit. For a time, I understood them as the same. For my fore-bearers, there was only the body. One moment you’re here, the next you’re gone to the grave. I think that’s why we bury bodies instead of spreading ash. It may be a sign of resurrective hope, but I think a part of us doesn’t want to let them go. When I visited my uncle’s grave a couple times ago, I felt a sense of loss. I was home and thought it tim...

Favorite Poems of Mine: "Der Schauende" by Rainer Maria Rilke, from "Das Buch der Bilder"

Ich sehe den Bäumen die Stürme an, die aus laugewordenen Tagen an meine ängstlichen Fenster schlagen, und höre die Fernen Dinge sagen, die ich nicht ohne Freund ertragen, nicht ohne Schwester lieben kann. Da geht der Sturm, ein Umgestalter, geht durch den Wald und durch die Zeit, und alles ist wie ohne Alter: die Landschaft, wie ein Vers im Psalter, ist Ernst und Wucht und Ewigkeit. Wie ist das klein, womit wir ringen, was mit uns ringt, wie ist das groß; ließen wir, ähnlicher den Dingen, uns so vom großen Sturm bezwingen, - wir würden weit und namenlos. Was wir besiegen, ist das Kleine, und der Erfolg selbst macht uns klein. Das Ewige und Ungemeine will nicht von uns gebogen sein. Das ist der Engel, der den Ringern des Alten Testaments erschien: wenn seiner Widersacher Sehnen im Kampfe sich metallen dehnen, fühlt er sie unter seinen Fingern wie Saiten tiefer Melodien. Wen dieser Engel überwand, welcher so oft auf Kampf verzichtet, der geht gerecht und aufgerichtet und groß aus jener h...

The Self-Martyrdoms of Thích Quảng Đức, Aaron Bushnell, and Jesus Christ

I remember the first time that I encountered "self-immolation." I was in high school, studying in an empty science lab for a test, when I came across a picture that was forever imprinted on my mind. The picture was of a man sitting cross-legged and meditating silently, but he was completely engulfed in flames. Initially, I didn't understand that at which I was looking. I couldn't process the picture in front of me. I was filled with shock. What led to this horror? Why was he burning? Did he do this himself? What would bring him to do such a thing? These questions rattled my mind; I was unable to understand this harrowing photograph, this paradoxical burning. What forces could ignite such action? On June 11, 1963, Thích Quảng Đức self-immolated in Saigon, South Vietnam. [1] An elderly Vietnamese Buddhist monk, Quảng Đức lit himself on fire to protest the persecution of Buddhists in South Vietnam by the Diệm regime.[2] Under the then-current regime of Ngô Đình Diệm, Bu...

From the Desk of Luke T. Bitzkie

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