Six Twelves… March 27, 2012


It’s not Iran. Nor is it the global crunch going on in the financial institutions. Paling in comparison is the oil crisis and terrorism.

In my opinion, the greatest ongoing threat to our society is the often-manufactured conflict between men and women.

It generates a fussiness in the air which becomes the butt of jokes, offering no resolution to move us to greater understanding and equality. When you have fifty per cent of the population at war with the other fifty per cent, and this skirmish is condoned as “inevitable,” you can’t possibly expect to maintain a sanctuary of peace anywhere else. It is caused by misconceptions. So if you would be so kind, I would like to address these misconceptions over the next few days, and insert some ideas about signing a treaty between the sexes–to begin a recovery.

First of all, I think human life is divided into six twelve-year units.

  • From birth to twelve–which we normally refer to as childhood; age thirteen to twenty-four–commonly known as adolescence; twenty-five to thirty-six–young adulthood; thirty-seven to forty-eight—the family years; forty-nine to sixty—middle age; sixty-one to seventy-two and beyond—affectionately dubbed “The Golden Years.”

The difficulty lies in the interpretation of these passages of time and what they are supposed to accomplish–so that when we arrive at our older lifespan we have confidence, wisdom, joy and compassion for those who are younger. If that is to be the conclusion of life, then candidly, we are doing a miserable job. We have accepted that “cantankerous, grumpy and ill-tempered” is a part of becoming old. This is an error.

So since we see the end result of our philosophy of life bringing out some of the worst attributes in our citizenry, maybe we should trace back and see where the trouble begins. In the next few days we will answer three questions: (1) Are men and women different? (2) If they are, is it cultural or merely biological? (3) If it is cultural, what can we do to close the gap?

It should be a lot of fun. And I certainly welcome your input and disagreement over some of the things I will share. I do feel a responsibility to warn you that because my readership is quite diverse, I fully intend to be blunt and adult in my presentation. I have no intention of being crude on purpose, but where there is a need for direct language, I will use it. Please don’t let that frighten you off, but I felt the need to preface this series with that statement.

So having broken this down into our six twelves, let us start tomorrow with the one that most people refer to as childhood. If you will allow me a little writer’s lenience, I shall call it chilled-hood.


Listen to Jonathan sing his gospel/blues anthem, Spent This Time, accompanied by Janet Clazzy on the WX-5 Wind Machine



Below is the first chapter of Jonathan Richard Cring’s stunning novel entitled Preparing a Place for Myself—the story of a journey after death. It is a delicious blend of theology and science fiction that will inspire and entertain. I thought you might enjoy reading it. After you do, if you would like to read the book in its entirety, please click on the link below and go to our tour store. The book is being offered at the special price of $4.99 plus $3.99 shipping–a total of $8.98. Enjoy.

Sitting One

 I died today. 

I didn’t expect it to happen.  Then again, I did—well, not really.

No, I certainly didn’t expect it.

I’ve had moments of clarity in my life.  Amazingly enough, many of them were in the midst of a dream. For a brief second I would know the meaning of life or the missing treatment to cure cancer.  And then as quickly as it popped into my mind it was gone. I really don’t recollect dying.  Just this unbelievable sense of clear headedness—like walking into a room newly painted and knowing by the odor and brightness that the color on the wall is so splattering new that you should be careful not to touch it for fear of smearing the design. The greatest revelation of all? 

Twenty-five miles in the sky time ceases to exist.

The planet Pluto takes two hundred and forty-eight years to circle the sun. It doesn’t give a damn. 

The day of my death was the day I became free of the only burden I really ever had.  TIME.


Time is fussy.  Time is worry. 

Time is fear.  Time is the culprit causing human-types to recoil from pending generosity. 

There just was never enough time. 

Time would not allow it.  Remember—“if time permits …”

Why if time permits?  Why not if I permit?  Why not if I dream?  Why not if I want?  Why does time get to dictate to me my passage? 

It was time that robbed me of my soulful nature.    It was time that convinced me that my selfishness was needed. 

I didn’t die. The clock in me died, leaving spirit to tick on.  

So why don’t we see the farce of time?  Why do we allow ourselves to fall under the power of the cruel despot?  Yes, time is a relentless master—very little wage for much demand.

I died today. 

Actually … a piece of time named after me was cast away.

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