1 Thing You Can Do This Week to Clear Your Mind

Stop, look—but don’t listen.

Turn down the noise.

Enjoy the visual without hearing a view.

Be careful how you hear.

The light of the body is the eye.

Let it enlighten you.

Step away, where there is no sound.

Graze with your gaze.

Give your brain a sweet reprieve from polite listening.

In no time at all, the partly cloudy mind will brighten its corner.

Be clear, don’t hear.

Just for a while.


Iz and Pal (Bedouin Buddies)

Iz and Pal

Jonathots Daily Blog


Sitting Twenty-One

Matthew Bradley was a photographer with a lesser known news organization with the unfortunate acronym of W.U.S.—Wire United Service.

Matthew refused to be called Matt because he felt that using his full name, Matthew, along with Bradley, might remind people of the famous photographer, Matthew Brady, from the Civil War, who no one remembered anyway.

He was sweet—which in the world of romance, is akin to leprous. He wasn’t unattractive, but certainly never did anything to paint his old barn. He nervously talked too much, and his voice was pitched high. His cheeks were sunken and his teeth, with just a touch of “buck” to them, threatened halitosis. For his breath was just south of peppermint with a hint of garlic, which made close contact just a little stuffy.

Matthew liked Karin. He was infatuated. She was a female and he, a male. Twice a month he asked Karin to go out on a date. She had never accepted the offer—not only fearing that he might become too obsessed, but also having little desire to provide the lion’s share of the small talk.

Even though Karin was not interested in him as a potential boyfriend, she had never needed a photographer as much as she needed one now. Pictures were required so that the public could catch a vision of what was going on in the desert with Iz and Pal.

Taking a deep breath, Karin picked up her phone and called him. She told him that she wanted to see him. There was a very long pause. Matthew replied, “Who is this really?”

After thoroughly convincing him of her pedigree and authenticity, they met for a brief luncheon, at which time she explained her dilemma. He never took his eyes off what seemed to be a region below her nose and above her mouth. It was unnerving.

Yet he agreed to go with her to the desert location to take pictures—if she agreed to attend a correspondence dinner with him in two weeks, where he was going to receive some sort of simple award. Even though Karin was dedicated to the project and wanted to do what she could for the two young fellows, she still paused for a moment to consider what an evening with Matthew would be like—especially if he was juiced up with the energy of grasping a small trophy.

Still, she knew how important this visual would be to her article—and taking heart from contemplating that some forms of cancer can take effect suddenly, be diagnosed and kill in less than fourteen days, she agreed.

They split the bill, she offered him a mint and they headed off into the desert.

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Gas or Pictures… January 15, 2012


I was asked again yesterday.  “Why aren’t you on Facebook?”

I think it’s a nice thing–I think, for some people, it seems to be a means of communication. It’s just not for me. To me, it comes down to a choice of gas or pictures. Since I’m never coming back from a vacation, nor completing a task or touting the needs of my children when they’re completely able to do so themselves, I spend most of my time gassing up my vehicle and moving on down the road.

I think life is more visceral than visual. For instance, I really don’t know how to explain to someone what it’s like to sit in front of an audience of strangers and share until a common humanity overtakes us in a sweep of spirit. It’s difficult to capture in a single post on Facebook, the sensation of writing a song, or seeing someone’s luggage left outside of their car as they drive away and you chase them down the street to tell them they’ve left it behind as they look at you like you’re crazy; but still, to play it safe, they turn around and are so happy to find their stuff.

I like gas, not pictures. I like to do things and then when the things are done, rather than mounting a display to remember them, I like to go on to the next one. I don’t begrudge those who participate in memorializing their lives. Life just seems so short to me–to be encapsulating everything as I go, when there will be plenty of time when I’m gone for people to remember and to immortalize if they so desire.

I don’t have to worry about taking pictures.  Someone always is. I don’t have to wonder about little bits and pieces of myself being downloaded–we have such folk readily available everywhere. And I do participate in the sense that I keep up with some people via Facebook, so perhaps my hypocrisy is not only evident but in full bloom.

It’s just that I’ve got my foot on the gas instead my finger on the shutter. And there are three things that worry me about this whole process of choosing pictures over the gas:

1. We’re making our children too important. Even as I write that, I realize how unpopular the concept will be. The notion of family is shrinking us, though, instead of expanding us as brothers and sisters across the world. I love my children. I love them so much that I desire them to have lives and not to maintain the childish existences they once shared with me. Facebook keeps us too fanciful about fostering family. Having children was not my purpose in life–so I could settle into a chair and either worry about them or vicariously live through them. I have no inclination that God will ask me anything about my children at the Judgment Day. It will all be about me.

2. Too many events, not enough spontaneity. We have become a nation obsessed with planning and starting things, with very little passion for sustaining and little to no endurance for finishing. Spontaneity is the breath of God. It is the way His Spirit moves–and those who must have two weeks’ notice will miss out on half the excitement that was originally prepared for them. I am just like you–spontaneity sometimes angers me, frustrates me or makes me grumpy. But when I give in to its energy, I discover the breathtaking nature of human travel.

3. Too many awards, not enough art. In the absence of true excellence, we produce decals, medals, certificates and statues to affirm our progress. Yes, it is one of my problems with Facebook. People want to tack up what they’re doing on their walls and let other folks tell them how important it is. Here’s a suggestion–do important things and the fruit of your labors will be so beneficial that you won’t need anyone to tell you the value of your deeds. It’s just a thought. But because most people have succumbed to the notion that being creative is limited to a few genius souls or a sporadic strike of lightning, or worse, just the “whim of God,” we spend most of our time nostalgically remembering “greater folks” who did “greater feats,” or applauding ourselves for remakes, remixes and repetition. Once again, not for me.

I will always choose gas over pictures. It is possible I will reach the end of my life and there will be a dearth of images about my journey. It is a risk I will take. I would much rather welcome someone to sit by my side and “come see” instead of viewing my posts. Old fashioned? I disagree. I think it’s old-fashioned to sit around and thumb through family albums of photographs and reminisce … even if you’re doing it at 4G speed.


Jonathan wrote the gospel/blues anthem, Spent This Time, in 1985, in Guaymas, Mexico. Take a listen:


To see books written by Jonathan, click the link below! You can peruse and order if you like!


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