In A Moment We Percieve

German poet Johann Wolfgang von Goethe (pronounced gurt-tuh) wrote: "Thinking is easy, acting is difficult, and to put one's thoughts into action is the most difficult thing in the world." How profound this statement in life, especially mine in regards to writing. But as I consider what to write today, my mind is suddenly flooded with ideas. And this brings me to my oldest son who recently graduted from high school. For the first time in his life the prospect of "making a living" has emerged as he plans to attend college in the Fall. My hope for him is that he learns the harsh reality we all must face at some juncture and yet envision the rewards of hard work as well. There is a certian satisfaction that comes with a first paycheck; that knowing you have "earned" your way in the world. For there is no greater awakening than to labor in toil and see the results of one's own efforts. To this end I focus my thoughts and prayers on this day.

In a moment we percieve the wonders of the world and feel the sting of reality. Unfortunately,the paradoxes in life teach us opportunity and the cost of applying a thought to an intended outcome. Noone knows for sure if a path taken will produce a favorable result as variables come into play along the way. Sometimes the most well laid plans turn against us and we fail, but it is the prospect of successs that must pick us up and put us back on the path to achieving what we desire. And then again there are sometimes unforeseen circumstances that turn out in favor of someone else and not our own. It is then that humility must bind our wounded ego and we must begin again. I do not know why, but I have been on this road so many times that it seems I fail more than I succeed, but that is part of the cost that must be realized. Many a successful person will tell you that failier comes more than not, but it is that one positive result which makes all the difference.

And so, by what measure do we justify cost and outcome? This my friend is where faith and the virtue of perseverance play a vital role. It is not always balance but imblance which keeps us going. Some would say that it is the stress of pushing forward that motivates us and gets us over the top. A true statement if you consider what would have happened on D-Day seventy-one years ago. On the beaches of Normandy France, sirred by the spill of blood and death, the course of history was altered in favor of world peace. Now, wars have come and gone since then and it continues on today, but consider what the world would look like if no human being came to the rescue of a neighbor in peril or stepped in to preserve a way of life overcome by tyranny? I digress. My point is that anything worth having is worth fighting for which is why earning a living is worth the daily effort it takes to be successful. As time passes we all die a little each day like the hour glass, yet just passing time is a waste. There is true value in vision, action and going the distance to realize a favorable conclusion. The cost may be heavy as the weight of lead upon your shoulders, but there is gold at the end of the rainbow. Peace. Witt

Witt's Dream

For those of you who dwell on past mistakes like I have done so well, forget what is already broken and begin to mend. Seek an inner balance and take care of yourself in every apsect of mind, body and spirit. We were meant for more than mere mimicry, rather, to create a path to our own destiny through hope and a divine mystery. Whatever you choose to call it, if it is faith in which you find direction, then by all means invest all you have in dreams of better days to come... And now it is time to share my dream.

Peace be with you.

Witt

Witt's Dream


While I thought this silence deafening
It became apparent there was a purpose
For all this desperate suffering
Rising in a distant glowing
And I drove on hoping there was more
To life than brokenness.

Through the doors of time I wondered
While a gentle breeze came calling
And I knew there was a presence within
Beckoning a response unspoken
I could not tell from which direction
Like an echo it resonates endlessly.

Then, like a ground swell it reached the surface
A stream of consciousness unfolded
And there emerged a dream not my own
Yet in my heart there was a knowing
It was meant for me
Like a message from a bottle floating on my soul.

Memories and pure emotion
Keep me huddled in pure desperation
And I see an aimless journey unfolding
On a bed of nails its only purpose is hurting
Unless I change the course of sorrow
Deciding I have had enough.

God knows why for all this path
Heaven's highway is paved with good intention
And hell is our own invention
Unless we sound a battle cry
To change this misdirection
Victory comes through his resurrection.

Believe in dreams my son
Do not let hardship hinder
Or break your heart of pure invention
Lest you lose sight of morning's promise
Becoming like a lost generation
Your father knows the way to revelation.

Amen
- D.A. Wittler 15'

Title Me Here Please

Time marches on and I take a few precious moments of what is left to share something that ocurred to me today. I am finding that Twitter is a great untapped platform for ceativity. Many say they do not get it, but like any artful endeavor, you make it what it is. And so here goes another installment of a life hidden on the internet. Enjoy


Title Me Here Please

It begins or ends now or then
Title me here please
A song or poem to decide
By each passer-by
None ever sends a reply.

And now here I am
In this twitter space
Engulfed and pleading my case
To never be alone again
As long as you bend an ear
I am here
A friend.

Like a book you can read cover to cover
Meanings to discover
Or backwards if it pleases
It is a life in misdirection
A hypocritical dream...

So you found me here
Stuck in my muddied mess
Trying so hard not to confess
A role in this worldly shame 
Moves and counter moves
A game...

To a friend in a car in a driving rain
Stuck in traffic trying to ease her pain
Found a voice in a crowd sharing a lane
To Neverland again.

And I fell like a passer-by
From a cloud in a lonesome sky
Finding earth and wondering why
Like a tear from heaven
You came into my life...

D.A. Wittler 15'

I Feel a Need.. A Need to Blog?

I remember a line from a Billy Crystal film from some years ago:”Throw Momma from the Train.” Billy plays a night school writing instructor who tells his adult students: “A writer writes.” It does not get any simpler than that in this age of overactive imaginative journalism and the sensationalism of terrorism and political correctness. It seems like everyone has their own version of the dime store novel waiting to be published or being promoted on the information super highway. But there are other reasons to put thought to pen, or keyboard as it were. Tonight, I listen with my eyes as I read the text messages of my oldest son describe the loss of a friend and how a bad day at school has led him to share in a way his father is so familiar with. And so the moment begs for a rational response that can only be described as a need, a need to blog.

From my earliest days I can remember being a cloud watcher; you know what I mean, either lying on your back on a summer day or having the tendency while driving to look up and find something more in the sky than cumulonimbus or contrails of passing airliners overhead. There is always a story to be told or an adventure to be had just by seeing something more in an ordinary natural phenomena. Even rain contains numerous metaphor to describe the arrival of spring to the melancholy rhythm of drops from the ceiling into a bucket placed strategically on the floor. To life and love and the breaking of a heart before the brain even comprehends what has actually occurred or has accepted the ego wrenching idea of rejection. Ah yes, the writer in me seeks to find a mystery where otherwise most find merely an everyday nonchalance. And what about this coping thing?

I have written lengthy notes on paper napkins, on the backsides of ticket stubs and even on the palm of my hand when the moment has captured me. When life has dealt a changing blow or a sound or sight has caused a stirring from within; and so the writer begins. When tears flow or music inspires the soul to leap from deep inside and proclaim: “I am alive!” It is as if a gift has been unwrapped or a portal opened to express the pent up emotion of my savage soul to point a way towards humanity where man must go if he has any hope of survival. But then even the elephant goes away in secret to a burial ground known only to its kind. So what makes me different? It is that longing for meaning that must be met instead of instinct alone that propels me closer towards the abyss. Coping with a loss, a realization of mortality or the void left behind that calls me to continue to exist, or else I might be urged to simply put an end to it. And so you see I long to express what is not made of flesh but of soul. It is God given and recreated for his ultimate pleasure that I stare upwards, always looking for more than eye can see or ear can hear. I cope because I can and writing is the thing, the device on which I thrive. Good night.

Winter Reminiscence

I stood there looking out a bedroom window at yet another winter horizon in my life. The tall trees I knew as a child still stood watch over a back yard blanketed with white and the old Miami and Erie Canal still ran its course as a veil between past and present. The changes are apparent as there are no longer fruit trees to gather apples, pears or peaches like my siblings and I had done so many times over those few and precious early years. Blue spruce now grow in tribute to nieces and nephews now grown and I can see rabbits have found a home beneath their hulking frames. Rare and beautiful images flood my mind as Spring, Summer and Fall pass in backward succession to a time when innocence and mischief played their “kick the can” and “fox and goose” games through muddied reflections that accumulate along a curbside and drain away into oblivion. This indeed is where my story begins...

There in the backyard stands that ramshackle shed that replaced the tractor tire sandbox barely broke-in as the Wittler family settled in at 103 East Sixth Street. I remember when they came and placed it there as Dad made plans to raise rabbits in that old chicken coop re-purposed. With a few sheets of tin, some nails and a fresh coat of paint, that shed still stands like some war memorial to long dead rabbits, the chickens that got away and a boyhood clubhouse that nearly burned down because of a mishap with candles; not my doing of course. Today it holds nearly petrified firewood that occasionally gets thrown into a patio fireplace on a cool Summer night. The smell of smoke still comes to me as a kind of incense rekindling my days as a mass server and Boy Scout. You wouldn't think that such things could hold such a fascination unless a twenty year absence brought them back as vividly as a dream.

I remember Saturday afternoons sitting on a bar stool at The Dew Drop Inn as Teddy and Armella cooked greasy hamburgers in a cast iron skillet or tapped beer into glasses while recapping the previous night's affairs on the hardwood. High School basketball remains a staple for small town conversation as gossip hungry folk will tell you a story or two about the night The Big Green went eight overtime periods against the Columbus Grove Bulldogs. To this day my heroes are the ones who go out onto the court and for better or worse put their talents to the test against long time rivals or new found opponents from near and far. You know you are a fan when the urge to stop in and have a cold one after the game hits you at half time. As a kid though, it was more often than not a Mountain Dew in a glass bottle with a straw protruding from the top or a Dr. Pepper to sooth the dryness from cheering from the bleacher seats.

Sunday mornings always brought about the hustle and bustle of six kids all vying for a time slot in the one bathroom in the house. God help you if you were the second to last in line and a big sister got in there first! Most times you could count on Mom slicking down a cow-lick at the last minute or Dad growling about not being late for mass. I used to wonder sometimes why we always had to occupy the first pew center front below the pulpit. Now that I am a parent, I understand the psychology of controlling the behavior of children prone to boredom as the pastor begins a lengthy homily. And God have mercy on your soul if Father Huffman caught sight of you sneaking out at half time just so you could tell a significant other you went to mass. Communion was sort of considered a bonus on Saturday night when there was a home game. The term was often loosely referred to as the moment everybody got up for communion and more than not was used as an excuse to head out the back door with as few people as possible seeing you, including Father Huffman!

With bottle caps and communion wafers bouncing around in my head, not to mention basketballs, I return to snow drifts and stories of sledding down the tile mill hill and onto an ice covered pond. A quick detour through the graveyard meant opening the front door to a warm fireplace to thaw nearly frozen fingers and hot chocolate waiting on the stove. If we were lucky there would be no school the next day and we could camp out on the floor in front of the fireplace.

As I wipe the years away from my eyes and recount the sounds so familiar to my ears, the sight of that old wood shed brings me back to the present time where distance from family and children of my own produce a dull sense of melancholy only comforted with pleasant memories of shared moments away from the distractions of work and circumstance. Years away from home and holidays spent pulling guard duty will haunt me as I continue the journey of telling the story that began here in this small town some five odd decades ago. I will sleep a little sounder tonight knowing I have shared it with you. Pleasant dreams and may God bless.

Where My Story Begins

The following is a sample introduction to what might develope into a book I have dreamed of writing for most of my life. I seem to have gotten started on many occasions only to abandon the effort through some life crisis or another. Your feedback means a great deal to me so feel free to comment. Thank You and God Bless.
-D.A. Wittler 1/4/2015.

It was New Year's eve and I lie on the bed contemplating the past eighteen months or so of my life. If I had wanted to I could have recounted what would have sounded like a version of “A Trail of Tears” with all of its ups and downs, mainly down; from fits of depression to the ecstatic moments when faith had prevailed over thoughts of suicide. On the other hand my story could have gone in a whole new direction such that no mention of divorce or the humiliation of sitting in a court room and relinquishing what was left of human dignity before a county magistrate was ever mentioned. I choose, therefore, to begin where life and death are of no consequence and the innocence of a young boy overshadow any hint of the complexities of adulthood. My story is one of faith, hope, love and the ties of community that bind folks together in a small Midwestern town. My hope then is this: that someone out there can relate to what it means to grow up without ties to Facebook, Twitter or the incessant hum of technology relentlessly buzzing around like some government drone looking for a target to destroy. In this age of terrorism and distrust, my wish is to turn back the clock for a moment and celebrate what used to be what people referred to as “the American Dream.”

Back Again...

Just got offline talking to a VA crisis counselor. Why I am sharing this is beyond me, but I decided to use one of my better coping skills to help deal with the s--- I have been going through. I don't want to dwell on the past anymore, but it haunts me like a ghost with shackles around my ankles.I mentioned Marley's ghost a while back; I guess it is appropriate with the holidays fast approaching. Some days I feel like even Dickens could not rouse me out of this funk. It feels like clouds on a rainy day that sink so low they almost touch the ground. I do not expect anyone to understand, but all I am saying is I am tired. Good night...