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I’ll have my eggs ‘over ordinary.’

I’ll have my eggs ‘over ordinary.’

There is no such thing as an ordinary Man.”

C. S. Lewis ~ Athiest, Reluctant Convert, Apologist. above ordinary man.

Fly-over Country

It’s a daily occurrence; some where between the coasts, the left and the other left, most men attempt to answer a variation of this question, “Today how can I be special…build my empire…and leave my mark.” If simplified it loosely translates as, “Will my future be as exciting and consistent as a bowl of grits?”

Ordinarily, Ordinary

There are many, frozen in time or by circumstance, that think that touting their accomplishments borders on narcissism. They believe that they are, and are destined to be, ordinary.

Is it the limelight that people fear, or is it the notoriety that we wish to avoid? Apprehension is understandable. Once we commit to an ideology or worldview, or we set out on a course of action that has the power to change the world, we risk the ire of the thought-police and will be targeted and disparaged. The chances of getting our privacy back is nearly impossible. In the digital age in which we live, our actions and words are permanent and can be used in ways that we never imagined or intended. The tranquility and simplicity that we could once protect will be replaced by unwanted drama akin to a pimple on a teenager’s nose.

Unordinary

How can we push back against the apprehension? We are a product of intelligent design, breathed into existence by the creator of the universe. If we embrace the idea that the best we ever hope to be is ordinary; the work of our hand’s will be viewed in the same light, as ordinary; as ill our dreams, our calling and our uniqueness. Our greatest attributes will no longer be.

Would you reject your portion of your spiritual DNA, clinging to a narrative that will shape your identity as the byproduct of percolating for a few billion years in primordial ooze? Is it possible that we have been developmentally stunted due to the lies that we have been told? What could we have accomplished, what would we have done if we were immersed in a different message, one that we have value, an intrinsic worth not because what we have done or can do, but because of who we are?

Still an Egg

C. S. Lewis wrote, “It may be hard for an egg to turn into a bird: it would be a jolly sight harder for it to learn to fly while remaining an egg. We are like eggs at present. And you cannot go on indefinitely being just an ordinary, decent egg. We must be hatched or go bad.”

Will you be satisfied if you are good and decent, but still an egg; accomplishing little and impacting few?

Are you called to be a peace-maker but overwhelmed by what you see and hear? Do you try to speak into the brokenness that is encircling us; a brokenness that permeates lives, families and communities? Does it have to be like this? Does the future belong to those that have the loudest message, the largest distribution and greatest amplification?

Survivalists

We are conditioned to be combative, Darwinian if you will, determined to be the toughest and the most resilient. From the womb to the tomb, we fight the battles that we must with the tenacity of Mr. T., pitying the fools who underestimate our resolve. We fight to regain dignity and decorum, faith and freedom of thought and speech. Our intuition is sitting on our shoulder, reminding us how the world is meant to be. How will we know?

In the still of the night, when the voices are hushed, when the Wonder Pup is taking up more than her share of the couch, it is in the silence of the early morning hours he heals and restores. When we realize who it is that calls us by name, we can change. We can seek mercy and work to restore our families, our neighborhoods and our country to who and what we were intended to be.

Then we will learn we are no longer eggs, encircled by a shell of protection.

Then we will know that we can be free to be ordinary and so much more.

Thanks for reading, liking and sharing.

You can holster your Super Soaker, Ivy. I found out that a CPL isn’t necessary for a water pistol. By the way, how did you got wet. I see that it’s ooze.”

Al and his faithful, but over zealous sidekick, Ivy the Wonder Pup?

Remorse ~ the Cost of Thanksgiving

Remorse ~ the Cost of Thanksgiving

” I swear on my Mother’s grave that I thought turkeys could fly.”
~Mr. Carlson – WKRP in Cincinnati

Going Rogue

Are you looking forward to getting together with family and friends to give thanks but lament that the voice of reason in public discourse is all but gone? Are subjects that were once fair game and fodder for small talk, now taboo? Has your desire to connect with family and community been impeded by the actions of rogue bureaucrats, administrators and elected officials that neither respect our boarders, language and culture, the laws of the land, nor the will of the people?

Sorry for that momentary lapse. For a brief moment, I though we still lived in a free society.

Some memories have a way of casting aside thoughts of gratitude or of thanksgiving and replacing them with pangs of remorse. Whether we are demoralized or euphoric at the outcome of the previous election debacle, it’s difficult to deny that the information, feelings or prejudices, that some may have used to make their decision was incomplete, inaccurate, biased or otherwise flawed. Whether it was conscious or unintended, some may have ignored that which they knew to be true, and acted on a wish and a prayer. 

What happens in Cincinnati

There is a tragic lesson that Mr. Carlson, along with the traumatized shoppers in a plaza in Cincinnati, painfully learned; domesticated turkeys, can’t fly. Their physique has been altered to meet a need; that is to be consumed. They are the main course for a holiday meal, bringing with it a food-coma, lethargy and unwelcome “leftovers” that are neither as satisfying nor as fulfilling.

In contrast, wild turkeys can fly, they are cunning, illusive and protective of their flock. Ben Franklin described them as “a much more respectable bird, a true original to native America, a bird of courage.” Mr. Franklin understood the threats of his time and felt the wild turkey symbolized characteristics indigenous to the surroundings that a fledgling nation to replicate .

Freedom Ain’t Free

Actions have consequences, and as a free people, we have a unique privilege unimaginable to most of the world. However, with rights come responsibility, with responsibility the inevitable consequences, and with consequences the horrors of well intentions and naiveté gone bad. Sadly, nothing short of a scraper and a fire hose can rid the landscape of the effects of a feckless leader, however, the memories will foster remorse in a way that only reality can.

This Thanksgiving, do you carry the burden of disillusionment or shame? Are you now overcome with a sense of hopeless and despair, uncertain if there is anything for which to give thanks? Maybe the root cause isn’t from our emotional baggage, maybe it stems from our political leanings.

Maybe we our ballot for the wrong damn bird.

[Gobble…Gobble]

About the author:

I am an accountant by vocation, a contractor, and an entrepreneur at heart. After I was diagnosed with Parkinson’s Disease, I took to writing to process my thoughts with no intentions that any of it would ever see the light of day. After some prodding, I was encouraged to open my world to yours. Please feel free to follow my story at alvandyk.com.

Through Ivy’s Eyes ~Smarter than a 5th Grader

Through Ivy’s Eyes ~Smarter than a 5th Grader

Through Ivy’s Eyes ~Smarter than a 5th Grader

Therapy Dog for Hire

I hope this collar doesn’t make me look fat. He has to understand that I am not as young as I used to be. I opted for the black leather one with the spikes to compliment my yoga pants. That look takes me back to the good old days. Not to brag or anything, but the Yorkies called me eye candy for a reason. It’s great to feel young again. I certainly don’t need to dress like I’m old. I don’t know who thought mom jeans were a fashion statement.

There is no point bringing up the name change thing. I am hardly a pup. The last time I brought it up, he shot it down more quickly than a below average Joe could go for his cue cards. What world leader can’t remember his own name? It would be a small world, I suppose. He probably has it sewn on his shirttails, too. By the way, Joe those numbers next two your name aren’t to your phone-a-friend they are the codes to wipe out a sovereign nation; just not our nation Joe, not ours.

I promised him, my person that is, that I would stay off my soapbox. It’s time to let that wound heal. It needs triage if you ask me. But what do I know, I am just a therapy dog.

I know I have been allusive lately, with the pandemic still raging uncontrollably, therapy dogs are in high demand. He even started to subcontract me out to my neighbors to walk with them every day. I do it because I like to help people, besides the money is pretty good, I can make up to $.35 a mile. He only charges me room and board and for my food. Funny, I always see him is with a pocket of Benjamin’s but all I get is change. He keeps referring to them as bitcoins; crypto something, I’m just trying to figure out how to convert them to something I can eat, or better yet, buy a Tesla. Okay, maybe a Tesla is not the best choice for a first car; I heard that a German shepherd, probably Major, was nearly electrocuted when he peed on the tire of one.

Well, I have to go, my next session begins in about 10 minutes. It’s my fifth one today. I would love to fill you in on what he is working on but I’m in the dark. I have been told it’s classified. All I can tell you is I keep hearing him repeating the same equation, 2 + 2 = 4. He must be worried about a math test. All this time, I thought he was smarter than a 5th grader.

Thanks for reading, share is nice too.

“Hey daddio, I never thought I would live to see you wear a muzzle.”

Ivy, the Wonder Pup. A friend to many, a sidekick to one.

 

 

 

 

Reluctant Leaders~Wayward Followers

Reluctant Leaders~Wayward Followers

Who me?… I’m not gifted…I have a past…I don’t like sheep…I don’t know how to tweet!

Anonomous, Sort of…

How did you find me? I didn’t think that anyone would find me here, sunning myself on the banks of the river de-Nile. I can see why some people never leave. All that is missing is a sense of accomplishment. The best thing about living in de-Nile, is that I get to set my expectations. I’m sure that there is more to it than crashing yet another luau or indulging on another all-you-can-eat buffet. There must be some accountability; maybe a box to check or a milestone to recognize.

Setting expectations is dicy in its self. If I shoot too high, I may be too busy to get to the things on my bucket list, re-reading the classics — just the light and fluffy stuff, MAD magazine, and The Adventures of Archie and Jughead— or binge-watching of the first 31 seasons of Simpsons will suffice. If my aim is too low, I risk inviting chaos, a non-stop party atmosphere bound to garner the attention of Burning Man revelers and the COVID police.

Sure, it’s not as secluded now, but people still came — they didn’t want to be found. It’s to hide from whatever, or whomever, it is that’s chasing them. Most overstay, cocooning longer than they should. Those that do stay too long find it harder to leave. Most are demoralized to discover that they aren’t as relevant, as popular, or as essential that they thought they were. I pity the fools, as Mr. T would say, those who begged the protesters to visit creating mischief and mayhem, thinking it won’t come back to bite them. Now that is the epitome of denial. Is this what they expected?

Some big names have passed through these waters. You can probably figure who without me naming names based on which tabloid in the grocery aisle catches your eye. You hear about the few that make it out, escape so to speak, even though they are here of their own free will. You don’t see any gates or guards, do you?

Me, why am I here? I’m here because my flight was canceled, and this is where my plane took a forced landing when the virus hit. I tried to leave a few times but couldn’t get a flight to connect me to utopia. They tell me that scheduled flights to there are a thing of the past; I am told that you can only get there by happenstance. All this time, I thought hard work and perseverance would be enough to power me through to a better life. Oddly, I never thought I needed to stumble my way into bliss. It’s all starting to sound like a time-share scam to me.

I know this isn’t where I belong, but since I have been here, everything out there is much different from what it was. I wasn’t planning on staying. As you can see, all I have with me are the few things that I bought at the airport — a used copy of Pyramid Building for Dummies, a tube of SPF10 sun-blocker, oh, and a frisbee for the Wonder Pup.

It does seem to be more crowded since I came. Maybe it’s time someone thins the heard and give the masses a much-needed shove. They need to get out of their comfort zone and get on with their lives. Why are you asking me if I have a mirror?

What do you mean, I’ve been evicted? Short term housing…my lease? Where am I supposed to go…I have been called up…what does that mean? I have been assigned to…really? I should warn you, I don’t…the Wonder Pup doesn’t… do well with snakes or politicians. And cruise ships, I would prefer that I stay on dry ground.

Who are you anyway? Sorry, I didn’t see the scars. I’m going. I just need to grab the Frisbee if that’s okay — I promised the Wonder Pup a souvenir. By the way, what’s with that Jackal thing, part dog, part what? Are there no poodles here? It kept taking the Frisbee. How am I going to explain the teeth marks?

Sorry, where to? Just keep moving forward?

Thanks for reading, liking, and sharing,

Ivy didn’t come along, she had no interest in flying when she learned she would be stuffed in the overhead or under the seat in front of me.

Al and his faithful, yet absent sidekick, Ivy the Wonder Pup.

It’s a Frisbee, Ivy. I throw it and you chase it. I don’t know why it has teeth marks.

Life Goes On

Life Goes On

Oh Yeah,

Life goes on, long after the thrill of living is gone.

~ J. C. Melloncamp, Storyteller

Sometimes, the very best we can hope for is a pause. Life does go on, regardless of who we are, who it is that have joined us on our journey, how many family members visit our bedside, or how many of our friends share a crying emoji when word gets out that our business has been torched. Yes, even when the thrill is gone, life goes on.

Life does go on, doesn’t it? Even when all we need is a pause, maybe to catch our breath, to let out the dog patiently waiting by the door, or make the microwave oven stop beeping. One would think that there has to be a way to get the gears to stop turning, for time to stop ticking, and for chaos to yield to order. Unless, you know of a breaker to throw or knob to turn, to stop the earth from spinning on its axis and the planets to stop orbiting the sun, there isn’t. The very best we can hope for is a pause, a few brief seconds, or minutes, so that we can be free of what causes our pain, our angst, and our sorrow. What good can come out of a pause?

What would happen if we could string together a few of those pauses? Could they could become moments, and string moments into mindsets, and mindsets into habits and habits into a renewed purpose, and a new purpose into hope? Not just any hope, but a real, lasting hope that we cannot deny. A hope that reminds us that we are blessed and that our today can be the best day of our entire lives? We could begin to think of our lives not as a series of ticks, sequential and perfectly spaced, but as breaths to savor, to remember and to share. What can you do with a pause? We can embrace them, for the breaths we have been given will shape our thoughts and aspirations and will become the very essence of our lives.

Will there be pain? Of course; sorrow? Bank on it; mischief and mayhem? Yes and without a doubt. But there will also be new life, new opportunities, and true companionship with whom we can share those fleeting pauses. Each will last but a blink, and then be replaced by another, then another.

These pauses are uniquely ours to treasure. No bureaucrat can govern away from us, muffle our voices with a useless piece of fabric, or burden us to personify an oxymoronic lexicon that is designed to create distance when the social is what heals; when what the hurting may be yearning for is nothing more than the exchange of a compassionate embrace.

Yeah, life goes on, long after the thrill is gone. The more we see of the future, the more we yearn for the past.

Why do you ask, Ivy? 2 +2 = 4!


Thanks for reading, liking, and sharing.

I know, Pup. You have been waiting by the door for a while. Thanks for not leaving a puddle. What do you mean, I better check my shoes?

Al and his faithful, but incontinent sidekick, Ivy the WonderPup.

You could have barked a little louder. We could have gotten you a waiver—I didn’t know the mask gives you hairballs?

Forgotten Secrets

Forgotten Secrets

“If you want to keep a secret, you must also hide it from yourself.”

G. Orwell – futurist, humorist, above-average Joe

It’s all so confusing. What is the statute of limitations on keeping our own secrets? And when does a secret cross the line and become insurance? I still keep a few, those that are worthy of the effort even though some secrets are buried so deep, it will take a retired farmer with a divining rod to help me figure out where to dig. It would be a bonus if I could find that hidden file where I keep all my passwords. Hopefully, one of those passwords might jog my memory as to whether I need to reorder those insidious masks.

According to my lovely wife, I kept my dislike of corn-on-the-cob a secret from her for almost 30-years. Occasionally she would find an ear in the Wonder Pup’s food bowl; I thought maybe she would get the hint. My mistake; I am sure that this secret is still safe, she seldom reads my posts. Apparently, she doesn’t understand my humor. I wonder why she didn’t tell me a generation ago. I guess she keeps her secrets too.

I kept my membership in the club a secret as long as I could. The secret handshake is still a secret; I kept it secure on my watch. It didn’t hurt that I was in the wrong line. I thought for sure the instructions were to line-up for a secret milkshake. There were a select few that I told as a courtesy, thinking that given their titles, they had the maturity and the know-how to keep a confidential conversation, just that. As it turns out, I would have been better off telling that secret to an SUV full of high school girls, or a drunken sailor, or their equivalents, members of Congress during an election year.

Some of my secrets may not be secrets much longer. A few weeks ago, my lovely wife informed me that I was talking in my sleep. She said that she couldn’t understand what I was saying, but I was smiling during my dream. That certainly narrows it down to ice-cream, firearms, or cars that go too fast. Thankfully, I’m fluent in Druid; otherwise, I might have to explain a purchase or two from Cabella’s, that am not at liberty to discuss.

In retrospect, I’m confident that there aren’t any forgotten secrets worth protecting or worthy of years of therapy to help in recalling, at least, that’s how I recorded it in my password-protected journal. But then again, I wouldn’t trust just anyone to keep a secret. Rumor has it that I am running for dog-catcher, or as the story goes, I have been seen running to catch my dog.

Keeping secrets is all so confusing.


Thanks for reading, liking, and sharing.

Next time you decide to chase a rabbit, you’re on your own, pup.

Al and his faithful, but liberated sidekick, Ivy the Wonder Pup.

I think you are confusing freedom with liberty, Ivy. Freedom is like getting out of your collar or you when forget to wear a mask. Liberty means that no one is going to hunt you down like a runaway dog when you do.

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