We Are the People Our Parents Warned Us About
After Șomartin — Exile in Sibiu
Dropping In Where the Gray Masses Never Paddle
We are the people our parents warned us about—
still riding, still spitting out the tube.
Short lines. Kerouac breath.
Jerry Lopez dropping in, one-meter lip curling overhead. Pipeline roaring like a freight train made of salt and thunder.
We are the ones
who didn’t wait for permission,
didn’t sit in the gray pews forever,
didn’t let the rulers measure our souls with yardsticks.
Parents said:
stay in the box,
color inside the lines,
don’t talk to ravens,
don’t ride waves that could kill you,
don’t trust the wind to hold you.
We said:
watch this.
Life is sine wave,
pulsing through every cell,
cycles inside cycles,
cork bobbing on black water—
born from two cells,
fed on mother’s milk,
then carrots,
then Doritos,
then prime rib,
building the body brick by salty brick
until the mirror shows a stranger
who still remembers the taste of first snow.
Then the long slow unwind—
hundred years, maybe hundred fifty,
Lakota clock, Swedish pine ticking,
body loosening,
pieces drifting back to soil,
worms threading the meat we once called “me,”
trees drinking what used to be thumbs,
Mitakuye Oyasin—
we were never separate,
only borrowed for a breath.
Jerry Lopez, me
traded fiberglass for powder,
summit from sea level,
Alaska to Romania,
Summit County to Cervinia,
still dropping in,
still arched back,
still spitting out the tube
with that wild grin
that says
“I’m still here.”
Sometimes the lip folds you under,
washing machine,
leash yanking the board like fate,
you kick off coral bottom
thinking it’s surface,
break through for half a breath,
next set already curling—
negative g’s,
stomach in throat,
heart hammering like a drum circle at four a.m.
But balance holds—
senses wide awake,
not stone Buddha,
not numb,
alive in the churn,
feeling every rotation,
every cold slap,
every second the ocean tries to erase you
and fails.
My wave right now?
sixty-five winters,
partner took the house,
took the child,
bank “lost” the checks,
landlord staring like I’m already ghost,
lawyers circling like indifferent gulls,
$100 left,
pasta boiling in the dark.
Panic?
No.
Crisis?
No.
Just another drop—
stomach lifting,
air thin,
but the field stays steady,
temple body breathing,
karma hers to carry,
mine to surf.
Soon the wave spits me out.
Always does.
I paddle back,
stroke by stroke,
find the next set,
drop in again—
maybe over the falls this time,
maybe tucked deep in the green room,
maybe just floating six inches above the foam,
Watts smiling somewhere,
saying
“you finally stopped fighting the water.”
Ravens taught me first.
Blueberry Hill, twenty below,
George and Tundra beside me on cross-country skis,
two black shapes riding thermals off Cook Inlet,
Chugach pushing wind straight up—
up, up, wings wide,
then tuck,
plummet straight down,
pull out at the last heartbeat,
circle, rise again.
Playing.
Pure joy in free-fall and lift.
I looked up once,
heart full of Mitakuye Oyasin,
no thought, just knowing—
we are all related,
all one.
Said aloud:
“Hello, raven.”
They tilted heads,
chattered beak to beak,
looked straight down at me
and croaked back
“Hello.”
Then went on talking,
flew off laughing black feathers against blue sky.
Universe winks when you’re on the path.
Cherry on the tongue,
nod from the wind,
raven answering your hello.
Nobody knows the next curl,
nobody.
We just paddle out,
laugh at the washing machine,
love the negative g’s
because they’re the wind
that lifts us higher.
Tom Brown called them the mindless gray masses—
Buffett sang it sharper:
“Why do some people do as they do?”
wrinkled retirees clogging the Keys,
mobile homes smothering mangroves,
ugly and square,
better off as beer cans.
Most are waiting to die.
Sitting in the lineup,
watching sets roll by,
too afraid to paddle.
We paddle.
We drop.
We wipe out.
We paddle again.
Because the ride
is the point.
The cork doesn’t disappear—
it scatters,
feeds the sea,
becomes next wave,
next raven,
next child laughing on Blueberry Hill.
We are the people
our parents warned us about—
still riding,
still spitting out the tube,
still saying hello to ravens,
still balanced
while the world tries to drown us
and fails.
One hell of a ride.
Still rolling.
Mitakuye Oyasin.
Now our minds are one.
In fact, my landlord and my lawyers have been wonderful…kj
In Harmony,
Kevin
Walk with me on The Earthway. Share your journey, your balance, your light, and your shadows. Together, let’s explore how our diverse paths can lead us to a unified understanding of life.
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