Born To Sin -- A Swimming Pool Right Outside

This one is hot ... I'm still shaking, a bit, sitting here at home. I'm thinking, Wow! this guy actually lives there! Lucky dog, that's for sure! The view outside my window hasn't changed in years, certainly not for the better. I've had a good view of the garage since the '70s, that's the biggest thing.

But this guy ... whoa! He's a guy from church. It just so happened he needed a ride today, and you know me, Mr. Volunteer. There was a column in the paper one day where they asked if you ever volunteer. I felt guilty, then a month later I'm regularly picking a guy up for church.

Today, he needed help getting stuff from the car inside, since we'd had a potluck lunch. Right away, we're unloading the car and I'm noticing some activity off to the left, where there's a beautiful pool. The sun was beaming down and the water was shimmering, as you can tell from the undoctored photo. But that wasn't the best part!

We got to his apartment and he pulls open the curtains of the picture window. There we are, gazing down on enough bathing beauties to stock five years of fantasies. I started joking around with him, "Are these your nose prints on the glass?" Which he seemed to be embarrassed by. "How do you get anything done around here?" I could barely contain my enthusiasm. "This is like dying and going to heaven, and finding it's better than you could've ever hoped for." But he wasn't sharing any of this, waving it off and putting away his Tupperware.

I thought, OK, you go your way, I'll go mine, and left a few nose prints of my own. One of the bathing beauties was a truly modern woman, having a tattoo of something on her chest, which was peeking out of the suit. It's a hard image to shake, even though I couldn't make it out. I doubt it said "Come to Poppa." Plus, of course, I'm wondering what she's doing out there getting sun. I thought that was out. But no matter, sun cancer be damned! And of course she wasn't the only one, right there on display, sunning herself and taking up everyone's attention. Some of these ladies must work out, or eat right, or get exercise some other way -- I'll bet they do! They're definitely fit! Fit for lots of things.

And lest I be accused of being one-sided and showing gender bias, which I'd never do, there were a few rather buff young men. It seems the summer brings them out. The pool brings them together like a magnet. I was amazed at this one guy's beautiful six pack. I glanced down at my own two liter bottle and felt ashamed. Still, wouldn't it be a real treat for an old guy like me to be parading himself out there? Dipping his toe in the water and giving one of those ugly shivers, arms on the chest to get warm? That didn't happen. I'm decrepit. I don't think I could affect the look of nonchalance anymore. When you're old you remember wasting your youth.

I'm over at the window making yelping noises, and stuff like the noise of bacon sizzling in a hot skillet. And this lucky dog, my church friend, acted like, "Yeah, so what?" He's a true church mouse, that's for sure! I looked over and saw an Einstein poster on the wall. Oh, into your studies, eh? Good for you, not me. Good things come to them that wait, and I got all day. If I lived there I'd be up with my glasses cleaned, binoculars, and telescope, and a veritable feast for the senses, a buffet, particularly the sense of sight. I've probably said enough!

I sort of agree with everyone, Pastor Wadd and the white-haired elders, etc., lust is a terrible thing. (I'm honestly not quite as gung ho as them. I'm just not that open, because I know it'd mean more counseling.) But it does have some redeeming uses, such as letting you know, even if you're virtually dead in appearance, everything's still working fine inside. Whatever the evolutionary impulse is behind our instincts, it works all by itself, on autopilot. And that has something to do with the Divine.

Those Boxes Of Soil From Home

What is it in us -- what drive? -- that makes us want to fill up boxes of soil from our home and sleep in them? I know it's an odd question, because normally we just take it for granted that that's the way it is, simply what we do. There doesn't have to be a reason.

Still, I'm not ashamed to admit it -- in fact I'm a little proud -- that sometimes I question things and wonder why. I believe it shows I have an open mind, and hopefully you can agree that orthodoxies mean more to us when we periodically examine them, then embrace them afresh, giving them our own conscious assent. I used to ask the same things in church, wondering why we handle snakes and drink strychnine.

The thing with the boxes and soil, though, I think the answers are generally clear. We have a homing instinct, just as other creatures do. Pigeons, salmon, swallows, and the dam-building beaver, which famously prefers to chew trees from the land of its birth. But we human beings tend to range farther from our homes, not on a given instinctual path, taking road trips everywhere, jaunts, excursions, and cruises. I read something the other day that blew my mind, that people are taking more day trips, even exploring their own state, thanks to the higher cost of gasoline.

So we range afar, each going our own direction. But there's one thing we have in common: We prefer the soil of home! Meaning, of course, it can be something of a sacrifice, with the extra space it takes in our vehicles, to be transporting large quantities of the earth all around the country, and even around the world, but still we do it. Albeit in our own ways. I normally take it in a garment bag; I lay it out in the trunk, and if it's evenly spread, it doesn't take up much room. And I've gotten used to buying disposable cardboard sleeping boxes, which of course saves a ton of room as well.

I said, then, the drive was part of our homing instinct. But surely there's more to it, since so often we are not driven by pure instinct. And doing it by habit would be a given. I just think there have to be more conscious reasons as well. For me, and I've heard this all my life from others as well, I just have an easier time sleeping, knowing that soil from home, from my own yard, undergirds me. It looks familiar, it smells familiar, and it just feels better! Like a favorite pillow or piece of tree bark, you just like having it near.

Other than that, there's also the whole issue of our mortality. We're very strong with the conviction that if we die it should be at home. There's something unseemly -- this conviction runs deep -- about dying away from home. So dying in your sleep, lying there on a layer of your own soil, is the next best thing. I'm perfectly content with it. I can go to sleep every night, knowing that wherever I am and whatever happens, if I live or I die, it's my own soil I'm doing it on!

It's a great custom, if custom's the right word for it. And obviously it's going to continue, world without end, as long as we don't run out of soil. We love the old ways.

I Always Bring It

In addition to my instincts being spot on, I'm always able to bring it. Which I'm very happy for.

It stands to reason that bringing it would have to be the next step. It's the same as delivering on your potential. It'd be vain to be able to do XYZ -- with spot on instincts -- if you somehow failed to bring it. It'd be like a delivery truck that never left the warehouse, the epitome of worthlessness.

That's not to say that sometimes I don't debate with myself exactly how I'm going to bring it. Sometimes, frankly, I don't know. Then other times, my ability to bring it is immediate and without hesitation. Of course I love those occasions, even if, honestly, sometimes afterward there's a letdown. Whereas, on those occasions where bringing it is not immediate, afterward I feel more a sense of relief than a letdown. The key thing is, whether it's immediate or with some strained labor, I always somehow manage to bring it.

I was watching a team practice their sport tonight. I wasn't watching it closely enough to know what the sport was, because I only saw it out of the corner of my eye as I drove by. But it was a mix of women and men, practicing some kind of field sport -- it might've been soccer, field hockey, lacrosse, rugby, or even football; there weren't any horses so it couldn't have been polo. In those seconds as I drove by, I wondered, "Are they bringing it?"

And if I'm being totally honest about it, I also started thinking about what they might do after practice, as sweaty bodies and raging hormones can make an interesting situation. My thoughts ran wild -- I probably should leave this part out -- and I started picturing how it'd be if they were to motion me over and attack me. It's something that might happen to Hugh Hefner, but to the rest of us ... not as often. Had that occurred, certainly I would've learned by now what their sport was, and whether they could bring it. But I drove on, alas, without noteworthy incident. I'm sure I could've brought it!

Part of the ability to bring it in a confident way is established through past success. Sometimes I review my past accomplishments and it keeps me certain that I'm going to keep bringing it. So I always know, until senility strikes, I'm likely to succeed. Again, it's not happening in a vacuum. Not only is there the past success, but the spot on instincts are working themselves out in a natural, profitable way.

What does all this mean to you? Maybe you can look to my example for your own confidence and abilities. We're not so different, you and I. Except no one had to tell me how it was done. I never had to stand on someone else's shoulders. I simply had the drive, the spot on instincts, and the ability to bring it merely followed. But that's not to say that you, with a little secondhand knowledge and a boost up, can't also attain part of that, perhaps, if you believe it can be done, maybe. Just tell yourself, "Stranger things have happened."

Being able to bring it is important to me! How about you? Bring it! Bring it! Bring it!

My Instincts Are Spot On

I really believe I live a charmed life. It's amazing. My instincts are spot on.

I've thought this so much and so long, all my life, that it was the greatest discovery to me a few years ago that not everyone has the same sense. I was like, "You mean to tell me those folks are not spot on?" And that's exactly what they meant. Which was very weird, because since my instincts are always spot on, it seems like I should've known. I'm chalking it up to some grace in my psychological make-up meant to protect me. Buddha went through the same thing. Then, finally, it was judged by Providence that I could handle the shock and my eyes were opened.

But I'm not looking for thorns in the garden of my existence. I don't think thorns would even grow in my special brand of soil. They'd be choked out by the profusion of blooms, the sprays of foliage everywhere, and the utterly bright sunshine that makes up my environment. It's all spot on. If others are damned to a bitter existence while I've known only Providence, beneficence, and the charms of life, that's their business. Enough said! I'm not even going to try to imagine the terror of their lives. I will only hope there are fewer of them in the world all the time, since the Republicans have already given us enough troubles.

Let's get back to me. And what I have. A charmed life, as I said. I just basically will a blessing, like in the twinkling of an eye, or between random breaths, and there it is, all very spot on! And along with that, enough pure-minded instinct to keep me in the sunshine of prosperity for as long as I live ... and it always seems to work. It's never failed yet.

Spot on instinct! We think of instinct as how animals do what they do. And that's a good meaning of it. A dog is born with instincts, so it barks, howls, eats dog food, and so forth. My dog Underbrush is a great example. I saw a documentary one day that said she was descended from wolves. So when I looked at her, I thought, "Down there somewhere are the instincts to tear me apart." But my instincts, being spot on, and my ability to smooth talk her, along with her routine of eating food provided by me, has thus far kept me safe. And I probably wouldn't do that much worse against an actual wolf!

An average day -- it doesn't have to be anything special -- is enough for my spot on instincts to be on display. I sleep perfectly. I fall asleep just like that. I don't wake up in unpleasant ways, like having to go to the bathroom. I have good enough sense not to drink coffee or quantities of anything before I go to bed. When I wake up, I'm ready for the day. I read the fan mail for my blog (dbkundalini AT gmail DOT com), and usually answer them with a blessing. Everyone likes to hear from me. And I appreciate all your 'Attaboys.' I enjoy three meals a day. Nothing gets me down. I check mousetraps and throw dead ones to the road. And so forth.

I hope life is always this good. My spot on instincts tell me it will be, that it has to be. There's no clouds on the horizon, not one. And I'm not expecting any. Steady as she blows! Clear sailing! Life is good, very good, when your instincts are spot on!