“To dream, the impossible dream” from Man of La Mancha

I have been quietly smiling to myself all this week, because I knew what I was going to write about this time, the discipline rotely launched each Friday afternoon. In the aftermath of my last post, an etude to the bleakness of our global future, I was left with little choice, but to go to exactly where this story begins.

At least seven years ago, and likely longer, because I have deleted emails going back to that prehistoric time, I came up with an idea to start a group, consisting of some guys I knew, who were trying to do the right thing in their respective, professional lives. By doing the right thing, I am talking about the humane treatment of cattle, the fight for the elusive concept of island sustainability and the creation of a vibrant, local agriculture. Believe me, I was no visionary, not even close. With the faux advantage of hind sight, a bit of hopelessness was also slithering into my consciousness.

A number of years before that, I was slapped in the face with a concept called “peak oil”. The gist of it was pretty simple. Oil is a non-renewable resource and it is becoming increasingly expensive to suck out of the ground. This was idea birthed at the very beginning of the whispers, now readily heard from today’s worldwide chorus, wailing at the top of their lungs about the devastating impact of climate change. Back then, it had a lot to do with the economics of oil and gas exploration, which would become unaffordable, choking the global economy to a standstill.

You know, when you think about these kinds of gargantuan misgivings, it is a lonely feeling, easily capable of stuttering your personal rhythm. Seemingly, out of the blue, I thought about the wonderful myth of Don Quixote, fearless in his quest to vanquish the impossible windmill, proudly tilting his lance at the heart of the insuperable. So, I came up with this idea to create the Quixote Order of the Windmill, bestowing knighthood on a handful of my buddies, each with his personal lance and special, opposing windmill.

Now, I will tell you why I’m smiling. What I have come to realize over time is that it’s not about winning the battles. If you are really lucky, you come to accept that the biggest battle of all is lost at birth, the beautiful illusion of permanence. When you can step back from that inescapable precipice, everything becomes magically refocused. What was important may not be and the seemingly trivial can move to the fore.

A cup of coffee in the morning, closing your eyes, the aroma filling your nostrils and the warmth hugging your tongue can be one of those incredibly, unimportant moments that floods you with indefinable gratitude. Looking outside at the orange, Kauai sky, at the precise beginning of the day is a loving companion to that cup of richness.

I could go on and on, boring you to tears, making my point too many times and prompting the dreaded click away from this story. All of our lives are a goddamn balancing act, the right amount of yin and the perfect, seesawing balance of yang.

We are in the midst of the worst shit show I can recall. I never, ever expected anything like this to happen in the extended twilight of my years, absolutely in no hurry to slide over that inevitable precipice. I lived through and loved the Sixties. I have always felt it was a wonderful time to be alive, filled with promise and possibility.

The end of that decade launched me prematurely into adulthood in too many ways. The idea of eternal youth fell victim to the calendar, a battle lost to the clock and expectations of others. I numbly allowed the world to happen to me, abdicating responsibility and misplacing my lance along the way.

By the time of my painfully, potent Quixote moment, there were two beautiful boys, who could not possibly understand, nor should they have. I left everything and everyone I had ever known, because I had to, a choice that was no choice. I own all of it, which I have never misconstrued as a justification. In a battle with the self, there are no victors, just a blind belief in the way forward.

I’ll bet you think I have gotten lost somewhere in my long ago past, but you’d be wrong. I will always taste that first cup of morning coffee and be forever mesmerized by the morning, Kauai sunrise. I know for certain this is a hard time for all of you, myself included. However, it is a dangerous time and that’s where I caught myself in the trap of words and good intention last week.

OK, I want to tell you one other thing. A couple of weeks ago, my grandson and I established a connection that I have been waiting for since he was born around twelve years ago. I started this whole exercise of writing my stories, because of him. I wanted to leave him a legacy of words, a road map to my soul, when he’d be old enough to appreciate why the Man of La Mancha did what he did.

For years, it has seemed like this impossible windmill, but I have kept writing and writing, creating this lance of words for him to grasp when his spiritual grip was strong enough. Damn, we have just about made it!

So, I smile, because all those big battles are not the ones we can ever win. You and I, we leave very, small foot prints to mark our having been here. We touch who we can and leave them better for having known us. We dream and live what is possible. The life we live is its own reward.

My fellow brothers and sisters, Knights of the Quixote Order of the Windmill, welcome to the Round Table.