It's that time of year again. As the temps fall, I start adding more and more layers of black clothing before heading to our Saturday Women in Black vigil. Some days I can't pile on enough layers to keep my teeth from chattering. I've always been a person with no internal furnace. This song came to mind the other night when I heard the forecast for tomorrow. I know, I know... it's lame, but a frozen brain will do that to ya.

Shivering
(Sung to Silver Bells)

Hear the car horns, see the peace signs
as the people drive by
All the shoppers
preparing for Christmas

We wear black clothes, many black clothes
Still our faces are froze
And on our vigil corner you'll hear

Shivering, Shivering
we're dressed in black and we're silent
Standing still, at the Mills*
Hoping for peace Christmas Day.**


*The Colorado Mills mall where we stand

** (And every day)


And speaking of "shivering"... Curan, the backwards bicyclist, is still riding, even as the cold winds begin to blow. If you have five minutes to send a message of encouragement to someone, please email him. He's in Kentucky now, having biked backwards from California. I told him that I wouldn't even be able to bike FORWARDS across Denver! His email address is bikingbackwards@hotmail.com. You can also read about him here or here.

Labels: Biking Backwards, Women in Black

Labels: 2008 elections, scam

Hoy es jueves, el veintinueve de noviembre.

Mi cumpleanos es el veintiuno de junio.

?Cuando es su cumpleanos?

Me gusta la primavera y el verano.


(Perdon my inability to add upside down question marks, accent marks and those squiggly thing that make an "n" an "en-yeh". I hope the lack of these important little things doesn't make me write an unintended word!)


Cameron, of Cameron and Kristina fame, says in his book, Spiritual Traveler, that "when you learn a new language, you acquire a new soul". I have not learned much Spanish yet, but I feel a new soul incubating!

Labels: cameron and kristina, espanol

Black Friday Die Die Die
America's most obscene shopping day meets its doom in an oily nightmare hell. All true!
by Mark Morford


Stephen King On Waterboarding (via Joe.My.God)


And the wonderful, Ram Dass, on loving George (you know THAT George - W):

Labels: Mark Morford, Ram Dass, Stephen King, Weird World

That's what I see when I look at this:



When I was about 10 or so, I used to walk around the house with a mirror in my hands. This was the perfect mirror for my little, um, quirk, because it had no frame. It was just a square mirror, about 12 inches x 12 inches. I held the mirror so that it was facing the ceiling and walked around the house. Looking down into the mirror, I would see "ceiling" before me, instead of floor. That part of the wall that is normally over a door? I would have to step over it, because it was now blocking my way to go through the door. Windows were only a foot or so off of my new floor. The mirror changed my perception of the world, and I loved that.

Can you imagine what I must have looked like, walking around with a mirror in my hands and stepping over imaginary obstacles while running into "real" obstacles - like furniture - that didn't exist in my world of only ceilings? No wonder we rarely had company! "Honey, it's just too embarrassing to let other people see our daughter tripping over things because she thinks she's walking on the ceiling!"

Unlike most kids, I was always an early morning person. On weekends, it wasn't unusual for me to get up before the rest of the family. I would lie on the couch in that fuzzy darkness before full sunlight and look at the furniture in the living room, seeing it for the first time. Instead of seeing a television, I would see the intricacies of the cabinet (televisions were much more interesting when they came in wood cabinets). I would see the texture of the fabric over the speaker, the spaces between knobs, the grooves on the sides of the knobs. I saw it until it almost didn't look like a television anymore.

On warmer days, when I was up early, I would go lie in the grass and listen. Grass moves, and you can hear it if you're quiet, but we are usually mowing it or walking on or around it, not taking time with it.

Some may say that I must've been a candidate for some kind of drug therapy - that I just wasn't "normal". Some may say that this explains it all - no wonder I'm the way I am today. But I bet we all had what seemed like magical moments before we started thinking that we knew things.

In my opinion, I was more ALIVE then. I didn't THINK that I knew what something looked like, but I took time to be with it and to really see it. I played with options instead of settling for the mundane. Life seemed more three-dimensional than it does now that I'm "an adult".

And I wonder... would we be able to allow ourselves to damage our earth if we took the time to SEE, HEAR, and SMELL it? Could we harm others if we stopped long enough to see all that they really are?

Labels: childhood seeing, reflections, what is the truth

Labels: love, photography

Thank you.

Thank you.

A lot of literature exists that tells us about the "power of gratitude". I have an attitude about that kind of gratitude. If a person is motivated to be grateful because they want something in return - happiness, power, or "abundance" - my opinion (which counts for nothing really) is that that motivation cancels out the gratitude. Wanting something in return for thankfulness is the polar opposite of being truly thankful. I think that it is better to be grateful just because WE ARE SO BLESSED. No matter what, we can find a gift in every situation.


14. Angels who risk their well-being to do the right thing.



12. The bazillions of stars that we can see when we're out in the desert. They are always above us, even when they're hidden by the city lights. We once used them to find our way. Do you think that if we allowed them to show themselves, we'd find our path again?



9. Smiles


7. Today

Labels: angels cannot be illegal, Thanksgiving

This has been a really good exercise so far. It has made me look at my preferences. It has helped me to see, in a more profound way, that there are great gifts everywhere, including situations and things that may not be so much to my liking. Only two days of the Seven Days of Gratitude to go after this. I will miss doing it. I don't plan to stop looking at life with thanksgiving. I just won't bore you with it anymore!

26. I must begin with.... My mom (and my dad). But especially my mom today, because it is her birthday. Just think... if your parents never met or they met so late that they couldn't produce children, you wouldn't be here. One moment was the most important moment in deciding if you were to be! But wait! The same goes for each of your parents and on and on through almost forever! Someone two-hundred years ago could've had an on-going headache, thus changing the entire chain of meetings and births, and YOU WOULD NOT BE HERE NOW!

So, not only did my mom (and dad) do a fine job of raising me (I mean, just look at how I came out! Oh yeah...), but they were just two people in a long line of people who did things just right so that I could be here. Alive at this challenging time in the U.S. and the world. Gee, thanks...


And much love to her and my dad.

25. Learning. A very good idea. We all need to do more of it.

24. Great teachers, or people who lead by example. Who are yours?

Some of mine are: Gandhi, MLK, the Dalai Lama, Jesus, Nisargadatta Maharaj, Jean Klein, Inayat Khan, and my teachers, E & R.

23. Impermanence. It's the truth about everything.

22. Those roller things that get the lint and animal hairs off of my clothes, because...

21. My kitty. My old, shaggy almost 19-year-old kitty. At her ripe old age, her hair falls out more prolifically and she can't get around as well as she used to. Sounds like many of us, eh? She is an old woman who sleeps most of the time and loves on those around her the rest of the time.



20. The desert - my favorite place to go. The mountains - hmmm, my favorite place to go, also. The plains where I was born - hot, buggy and beautiful. The ocean - only lived by it for a short while many years ago and it scares me, but I love its POWER.

19. The sound of wood burning, the smell of wood burning, the warmth of wood burning.

18. The ability to communicate all over the world in an instant. Telephones, computers, all instruments of communication.

17. Silence.

16. Health. Here's to yours!

Labels: kitty, Thanksgiving

Happy Thanksgiving!

Today is kind of a free day for me. My family will come over tomorrow for our Thanksgiving dinner. So today, while others are celebrating together, I have no commitments or responsibilities. No baking or cooking to do. It is officially a be-a-bum day. Whooohooo!

More for my list. If I don't get on the gratitude bus fast, I'm going to have a long list on day 7 of this adventure.

35. Thinking of people getting together with friends and family today. Thinking that, maybe, for this one day, many people are slowing down and appreciating each other in spite of any differences.

34. Breathing. I bought myself a card a few months ago, and I have it on my bulletin board above my computer. It says,


33. Books. If I could only take a few things with me to a desert island, I'd forget about clothes and bring a lot of books! (But if I could only take a few things to an arctic island, I'd take lots of warm clothes and forget about the books.)

32. Music.



31. Teachers of all kinds. They are underpaid and under-appreciated. My daughter is a teacher, and I know how much of herself she puts into her work and her students. Many of my friends are teachers. A lot of the time, I can tell that someone is a teacher before I even know him or her. They wear "patience, understanding, taking things lightly" all over themselves.

Usually.

My Spanish teacher has not laughed his head off at my feeble attempts yet. He is a saint.

30. The Jumbo Thai Restaurant nearby. Pad Thai is my favorite. (I had to list something about food today. I'm four for four on appreciating something edible each day.)

drooling...

29. Answering machines. We are the obnoxious people who screen our calls by making you begin to leave a message if you want to talk with us. I LOVE our answering machine!

28. Babies. Of any kind. And young people who still believe that they can accomplish their dreams.

27. Willpower. I paid a woman EIGHTEEN DOLLARS for a pecan pie for our family's Thanksgiving dinner which will take place tomorrow night. That pie is just sitting in my kitchen. It LITERALLY has my name on it (she said that she put it there so that she would know which pie she should give me when I came to pick it up, but I think that it is there because it is MY PIE - not for sharing, but for totally indulging in myself.) I am thankful for willpower, because I don't know what I'd do if I ate the whole thing and had nothing to offer for dessert tomorrow.

Ooops! I wrote about food again!

Labels: pecan pie, Thanksgiving

This list can be so easy - heck, I just have to look around me for things to appreciate - but, as usual, I try to make it harder than it has to be.


39. Garden lettuce IN NOVEMBER! The weather in Colorado has been so warm this fall that I have been growing lettuce up until now. Some nights, it has needed a blanket, but not too often. Yesterday, we decided that the predicted cold front (which is now snowing down upon us) would be too much for the greens garden, so we picked it all. Got a HUGE bowl full of yummy assorted lettuces and cilantro. People can debate global warming all they want. The Colorado I grew up in wasn't conducive to lettuce-producing in November.

38. The ability to WONDER. (It is so boring when we think that we have it all figured out.)

37. Indoor plumbing on days like today when it's 24 degrees and snowing.

36. How do I write about this? This one is a very mixed bag. Here goes...

You may have guessed that I am not a cheerleader for war. I have deep sadness and grief not only about our war and occupation of Iraq, but also for what we are doing in Afghanistan. I am not proud of my country's bullying ways, and those actions don't end with just these two wars. We have our noses in the business of too many countries, and we act like we are the king of the hill.

I could say that I am grateful that I live in a country that doesn't have war on its shores. Of course I don't want to have bombs dropping all around me and all of the devastation that comes with that. I AM grateful to be living in this relative peace. But at the very moment that I even start to think those thoughts, I am hit with grief for all of those who would also like to have what I have. The Iraqi mother who is right now grieving for her dead children did nothing to deserve her circumstances any more than I did something to deserve the life I have right now.

So I am grateful for the lack of war around me, but I struggle to hold that gratitude.

I'm just not capable of thinking "better her than me."

If it weren't for W and this war and occupation, I would not have many of the friends I have today. Because of W, I learned about Islam and gained Muslim friends. Because of W, I have friends from the local activist community, the women who stand at our Women in Black vigil, and friends from Camp Casey and the blogosphere. W said he was a uniter. And while he's torn apart any type of unity in our world, because of (or in spite of) him, I have united with some compassionate, powerful people. I'm very grateful for all of them.

The only peace that I can be thankful for this Thanksgiving is the peace that I find within. I cannot celebrate the relative peace within our country when my brothers and sisters here and in other lands are suffering.

And I wonder... Why does "United We Stand" seem to mean "We'll Stand United With You if You Live Within the Boundaries of the U.S. (and didn't recently arrive from another country)"? Was this planet created with countries and borders drawn on it?

Labels: lettuce, life is very complex, Thanksgiving

The countdown continues

Gratitude for:

42. Hot oatmeal with raisins and walnuts on a morning when it's 27 degrees outside and 63 degrees inside. (I just KNOW I can get used to this frigid conservation effort. Want to know how to keep guests away? Turn the heat WAY down.)

41. My dog. A.k.a. Buddha, a.k.a. Mr. Boodie, a.k.a. Bood. Here are some of the songs written with him in mind: You are so Boodiful to Me by Joe Cocker, It's a Boodiful Mornin' by the Young Rascals, Shake Your Boodie by K.C. and the Sunshine Band, and You are the Boodie of My Life by Stevie Wonder. Mr. Boodie is the only dog on earth that can do The Crab. I promised a long time ago that I would write about it, so here it is:

First Mr. Bood chases his tail in circles until he catches it. Then, holding his tail in his mouth, he walks around the house, and even though he has to walk facing backwards, he never runs into anything. He walks through doorways and around chairs without any problem. I'm guessing he has eyes covered with hair on some other part of his body which allow him to see with his head facing backwards. Or maybe he uses small mirrors.

And he does all this on command! Do you think there's any money in it???



40. Laughter. A medicine that no one can charge for and, so far, it's not illegal.

Labels: Buddha, Thanksgiving

It's still Monday, although Colorado turned away from the sun five hours ago and I find myself slowly fading like the day. But I want to spend this week in gratitude, and now is as good a time as any to begin this week.

Can I find 50 gifts this week? I guess I'll find out. I'm going to start at 50 and work my way down, not because any of the things on my list will be more important than any other, but because, if I start at 50, I'll HAVE to keep going until I get to 1. You can't just stop at 23 when you're descending like you can when you're ascending. At least I can't!

Just looking at the photo on this page, I am reminded of many life presents.

50. Water. We have water that comes out of our faucets with only the turn of a handle! No pumping, no trudging to a well, no drinking filthy water out of polluted ditches and ponds. We have water that runs over and under and around rocks, playing the most melodic songs and soothing the eyes. I am aware that this is not so for everyone and that it may not always be so for me. And that is why it is so precious.

49. My husband. My husband took this photo today. Well, I could just make a list of 50 wonderful things about him. But that might be too indulgent, and he might just get a little inflated. ;-) I will leave it at this: My husband is a gift not only to me, but to the world. He is generous, kind, intelligent, handsome, supportive, and he puts up with me. I will leave it at that for today.

48. My arms. After months of pain and not being able to sleep, hug someone or even reach a dish in the cabinet, I appreciate my arms SO MUCH! If you google "arms", you get a bunch of sites about pistols and carbines. The word for these precious appendages that hold newborn babies, carry food for someone we love, or touch an elder is also used to describe a tool that KILLS? Who thought that up???

Anyway, after losing the use of my arms for those months, I find pure pleasure in raising them over my head and SSSTTRRRETTTCCCHHHINNNGGGG.

47. My spiritual studies and practice. Actually, this could be listed as #1 through #50, because it carries me through everything, and it is the ONLY thing that can't be taken away from me. I am fortunate to have living teachers that challenge me to see what is, plus the many, many great teachers that have lent their wisdom to us through the ages.

46. YOU. You are here reading this. And some of you write your own blogs. I may never meet you, but I know about your son in Iraq; your kind, gentle co-worker that just died; your experiences as you go through your life-threatening disease; your journey on your backwards bike; and much more! Life is rich!

45. Chocolate. No explanation necessary.

44. My son and daughter (remember that this list is not in any kind of order - I am more thankful for my son and daughter than I am for chocolate. REALLY!) NOTHING else has opened my heart like the moment I first saw these two BEAUTIFUL beings enter this world.. Now they are adults and I wonder how that happened, but it just happened all by itself. You water them, feed them, love them, and they just sprout into smart, creative, caring adults with the potential to do whatever they can dream. A miracle!

43. My bed. It's calling my name right now.

....to be continued...

Labels: and other assorted things, chocolate, Thanksgiving

Remember back on October 16th when I wrote about a man riding his bike BACKWARDS down a 6-lane street near here? Well, the man I saw that day has found my blog and given me the link to check out what he's doing. Visit his site, bikingbackwards.net to read about him. You can even watch him riding backwards - testimony that I still have my sanity - by clicking here.

Curan Wright is riding backwards across America to bring awareness to homelessness, HIV/AIDS, and the need for medical marijuana. Bless him for that.

Curan will be entering Indiana sometime real soon.

All of you out there in Indiana, give this man some of that mid-western hospitality!

Curan, I wish that I would've known that you were coming! It would've been great to meet you and maybe even find you that suit for D.C.

Safe travels!

Labels: Biking Backwards, Heroes, HIV/AIDS, Medical Marijuana

Labels: Gandhi, Jesus, Thich Nhat Hanh

Last night at our Friendship Bridge meeting (where we learned that we met our fund-raising goal for the year!), a member of our group shared an essay and poem that she wrote. The author, Debra, graciously gave me permission to share her work here. Thank you, Debra, for reminding us of the joy and abundance that can be found all around us.



I grew up in the Southern Appalachians where my father's family has lived for generations. They were masters of making do with little or nothing. From quilting to toy making, canning to music making, these people lived artfully and joyfully - and none more so than my father. A stonemason by trade and musician at heart, my father instilled in us a sense of abundance- even in the face of what most would consider to be a meager existence. He filled our house with a love of music and had an eye for beauty. He found great pleasure in small things - and was quick to share his wonder and gratitude. He marveled at the intelligence of honeybees and his children, at how many different shades of green you could find in one garden, the beauty of a freshly sliced beet. He showed us how to whisper a doodlebug out of its dusty hole and how to talk to a news bee. From the porch alone, he could point out a dozen reasons to be thankful: hickory nuts, chinquapins, blackberries, black cherries, gooseberries, persimmons, poke salat, scuppernongs, muscadines, raspberries, elderberries, wild scallions - all gifts for the taking - all you had to do was notice and enjoy. He taught me to appreciate tinkering, puttering or just sitting quietly to watch trees dance in the wind. He taught me that, if you look for the best in people, people will show you the best in themselves, and that to be without money does not mean to be poor of spirit. These many years later, even from my home in the suburbs, I am continually reminded to notice the abundance that surrounds all of us. And I am delighted to find that the reminder comes most often from those we usually assume have nothing at all. In my poem The Gleaner, I salute those who, like my father, value the beauty of trees dancing in the wind.


The Gleaner

Brought forth from a long line of stalwarts
steeped in the pride of knowing how to make do
(with naught or less than)
possessing a steeled jaw, nose well suited - and used to -
holding firm and long to the proverbial grindstone
brow and long-angled back pitched ever forward in hearty plow fashion
he scratches through the supposed detritus of his neighbor's lives
a perpetual infusion of wondrous and revealing artifacts
discarded in a steady stream and strewn
along the suburban curb

From amongst the reeking remains of
vacuum-packed family occasions, he gleans.
conjuring baubles, novels, cord, glass blocks,
lamps, just today, a ladder
(made sturdy with the help of a crossbar found in a neighboring can)
three yards of snowflake cotton print folded
together with a hand embroidered tablecloth and six napkins
a can of hominy - still under warranty
and -- "Ah, yes." - the footstool he's been awaiting.
"All things come..."
burrow-packed back
bent and straining over quick feet
eyes darting, he hums along home

copyright 2004 Debra Shirley

Labels: friends that help us remember, Friendship Bridge, photography

Activist Nick Jehlen and translator Rana tested a phone that was used to allow passersby on Boston Common to speak to Iranian citizens yesterday. (YOON S. BYUN/GLOBE STAFF)

Labels: connection, enough fear

Labels: A Piece of Peace, carrots, Cezannes Carrot, Dying Mans Daily Journal, Get Your Own

I've been, ahem, lurking on a certain blog (quite a few blogs, actually) for awhile.

I've got to pause here for a moment. I have been feeling quite lonely here in bloggerville lately. Whine, whine... Yes, I lurk on many blogs. And then I feel lonely on my blog. I do see the connection here, trust me.

Back to the original blog that I was talking about. On his latest post, this particular blogger mentioned that his blog had received 100,000 hits in one year of blogging. He was blown away and profusely thankful.


Here I am, a lurker extraordinaire, whining about loneliness and wondering what I could write about that would be worthy of putting out into the ethers. I could be THANKING YOU, I could be remembering all that has come to me via this blog, the friends and support that I would not have had without it. I could be dancing and singing in utter amazement that people from all over the world have actually read what I had to say. I could be - and I am right now - filled with awe at the human drive for connection, the ability that we have in this day and age to reach out to people thousands of miles away, and, again, the fact that YOU are reading this right now.

(Oh, I can be so slow sometimes...)

So I am here today to say

Labels: gratitude, humility, photography

A story worth telling.

From the L.A. Times


To watch a narrated slide-show, click here (It's worth watching, if you have the time).



Times photographer Luis Sinco made James Blake Miller an emblem of the war. The image would change both of their lives and connect them in ways neither imagined.

By Luis Sinco
Times Staff Photographer

November 11, 2007

The young Marine lighted a cigarette and let it dangle. White smoke wafted around his helmet. His face was smeared with war paint. Blood trickled from his right ear and the bridge of his nose.

Momentarily deafened by cannon blasts, he didn't know the shooting had stopped. He stared at the sunrise. His expression caught my eye. To me, it said: terrified, exhausted and glad just to be alive. I recognized that look because that's I how felt too.

I raised my camera and snapped a few shots.

With the click of a shutter, Marine Lance Cpl. James Blake Miller, a country boy from Kentucky, became an emblem of the war in Iraq. The resulting image would change two lives -- his and mine.

I was embedded with Charlie Company of the 1st Battalion, 8th Marine Regiment, as it entered Fallouja, an insurgent stronghold in Iraq's Sunni Triangle, on Nov. 8, 2004. We encountered heavy fire almost immediately. We were pinned down all night at a traffic circle, where a 6-inch curb offered the only protection.

I hunkered down in the gutter that endless night, praying for daylight, trying hard to make myself small. A cold rain came down. I cursed the Marines' illumination flares that wafted slowly earthward, making us wait an eternity for darkness to return.

At dawn, the gunfire and explosions subsided. A white phosphorous artillery round burst overhead, showering blazing-hot tendrils. We came across three insurgents lying in the street, two of them dead, their blood mixing with rainwater.

The third, a wiry Arab youth, tried to mouth a few words. All I could think was: "Buddy, you're already dead."

We rounded a corner and again came under heavy fire, forcing us to scramble for cover. I ran behind a Marine as we crossed the street, the bullets ricocheting at our feet.

Gunfire poured down, and it seemed incredible that no one was hit. A pair of tanks rumbled down the road to shield us. The Marines kicked open the door of a house, and we all piled in.

Miller and other Marines took positions on the rooftop; I set up my satellite phone to transmit photos. But as I worked downstairs in the kitchen, a deep rumble almost blew the room apart.

Two cannon rounds had slammed into a nearby house. Miller, the platoon's radioman, had called in the tanks, pinpointed the targets and shouted "Fire!"

I ran to the roof and saw smoldering ruins across a large vacant lot. Beneath a heap of bricks, men lay dead or dying. I sat down and collected my wits. Miller propped himself against a wall and lighted his cigarette. I transmitted the picture that night. Power in Fallouja had been cut in advance of the assault, forcing me to be judicious with my batteries. I considered not even sending Miller's picture, thinking my editors would prefer images of fierce combat.

The photo of Miller was the last of 11 that I sent that day.

On the second day of the battle, I called my wife by satellite phone to tell her I was OK. She told me my photo had ended up on the front page of more than 150 newspapers. Dan Rather had gushed over it on the evening news. Friends and family had called her to say they had seen the photo -- my photo.

Soon, my editors called and asked me to find the "Marlboro Marine" for a follow-up story. Who was this brave young hero? Women wanted to marry him. Mothers wanted to know whether he was their son.

I didn't even know his name. Shell-shocked and exhausted, I had simply identified Miller as "A Marine" and clicked "send."

I found Miller four days later in an auditorium after a dangerous dash across an open parade ground in the city's civic center. Miller's unit was taking a break, eating military rations.

Clean-shaven and without war paint, Miller, 20, looked much younger than the battle-stressed warrior in the picture -- young enough to be my son.

He was cooperative, but he was embarrassed about the photo's impact back home.

Once our story identified him, the national fascination grew stronger. People shipped care packages, making sure Miller had more than enough smokes. President Bush sent cigars, candy and memorabilia from the White House.

Then Maj. Gen. Richard F. Natonski, head of the 1st Marine Division, made a special trip to see the Marlboro Marine.

I was in the forward command center, which by then featured a large blowup of the photo. "You might want to see this," an officer said, nudging me to follow.

To talk to Miller, Natonski had to weave between earthen berms, run through bombed-out buildings and make a mad sprint across a wide street to avoid sniper fire before diving into a shattered storefront.

"Miller, get your ass up here," a first sergeant barked on the radio.

Miller had no idea what was going on as he ran through the rubble. He snapped to attention when he saw the general.

Natonski shook Miller's hand. Americans had "connected" with his photo, the general said, and nobody wanted to see him wounded or dead.

"We can have you home tomorrow," he said.

Miller hesitated, then shook his head. He did not want to leave his buddies behind. "It just wasn't right," he told me later.

The tall, lanky general towered over the grunt. "Your father raised one hell of a young man," he said, looking Miller in the eye. They said goodbye, and Natonski scrambled back to the command post.

For his loyalty, Miller was rewarded with horror. The assault on Fallouja raged on, leaving nearly 100 Americans dead and 450 wounded. The bodies of some 1,200 insurgents littered the streets.

As the fighting dragged on for a month, the story fell off the front page. I joined the exodus of journalists heading home or moving to the next story.

More than a year and a half would pass before I saw Miller again.

Back home, I immersed myself in other assignments, trying to put Fallouja behind me. Yet not a day went by that I didn't think about Miller and what we experienced in Iraq.

National Public Radio interviewed me. Much to my embarrassment, the Los Angeles City Council adopted a resolution in my honor. I became a finalist for the Pulitzer Prize. Bloggers riffed on the photo's meaning. Requests for prints kept coming.

In January 2006, I was on assignment along the U.S.-Mexico border when my wife called. "Your boy is on TV. He has PTSD," she said. "They kicked him out of the Marines."

I'd spoken with Miller by phone twice, but the conversations were short and superficial. I knew post-traumatic stress disorder was a complicated diagnosis. So once again, I dug up his number. Again, I offered simple words: Life is sweet. We survived. Everything else is gravy.

As the third anniversary of the U.S.-led invasion approached, my editors wanted another follow-up story.

So in spring 2006, I traveled to Miller's hometown of Jonancy, Ky., in the hollows of Appalachia. I drove east from Lexington along Interstate 64, part of the nationwide Purple Heart Trail honoring dead and wounded veterans, before turning south.

Mobile homes and battered cars dot the rugged ranges. Marijuana is a major cash crop. Addiction to methamphetamine and prescription drugs is rampant.

Kids marry young, and boys go to work mining the black seams of coal. Heavy trucks rumble day and night.

Miller showed me around. At an abandoned mine, he walked carefully around a large, shallow pool of standing water that mirrored the green wilderness and springtime sky. He picked up a chunk of coal.

"Around here, this is what it's all about," he said. "Nothing else.

"It was this or the Marines."

Often brooding and sullen, Miller joked about being "21 going on 70," the result, he said, of humping heavy armor and gear on a 6-foot, 160-pound frame.

Before he was allowed to leave Iraq, he attended a mandatory "warrior transitioning" session about PTSD and adjusting to home life.

Each Marine received a questionnaire. Were they sleeping all right? Did they have thoughts of suicide? Did they feel guilt about their actions?

Everybody knew the drill. Answer yes and be evaluated further. Say no and go home.

Miller said he didn't want to miss his flight. He answered no to every question.

He returned to Camp Lejeune, N.C. His high school sweetheart, Jessica Holbrooks, joined him there, and they were married in a civil ceremony.

Then came the nightmares and hallucinations. He imagined shadowy figures outside the windows. Faces of the dead haunted his sleep.

Once, while cleaning a shotgun, he blacked out. He regained consciousness when Jessica screamed out his name. Snapping back to reality, he realized he was pointing the gun at her.

He reported the problems to superiors, who promised to get him help.

Then came a single violent episode, which put an end to his days as a Marine.

It happened in the storm-tossed Gulf of Mexico in September 2005. His unit had been sent to New Orleans to assist with Hurricane Katrina relief efforts. Now a second giant storm, Hurricane Rita, was moving in, and the Marines were ordered to seek safety out at sea.

In the claustrophobic innards of a rolling Navy ship, someone whistled. The sound reminded Miller of a rocket-propelled grenade. He attacked the sailor who had whistled. He came to in the boat's brig. He was medically discharged with a "personality disorder" on Nov. 10, 2005 -- exactly one year after his picture made worldwide news.

Back home in Kentucky, the Millers settled into a sparsely furnished second-story apartment. Four small windows afforded little daylight. The TV was always on.

Miller bought a motorcycle and went for long rides. He and Jessica drank all night and slept all day. He started collecting a monthly disability benefit of about $2,500. The couple spent hours watching movies on DVD, Coronas and bourbon cocktails in hand. Friends and family gave them space.

Miller had hoped to pursue a career in law enforcement. But the PTSD and abrupt discharge killed that dream. No one would trust him with a weapon.

But at least he didn't have to go back to Iraq. He started to realize he wasn't the only one traumatized by war.

"There's a word for it around here," Jessica said. "It's called 'vets.' " She talked of Miller's grandfather, forever changed by the Korean War and dead by age 35. Her Uncle Hargis, a Vietnam veteran, had it too. He experienced mood swings for years.

Sometimes, Miller's stories about Iraq unnerved his young bride. He sensed it and talked less. Nobody really understands, he said, unless they've been there.

On June 3, 2006, the Millers renewed their vows at a hilltop clubhouse overlooking the forests and strip mines. It was a lavish ceremony paid for by donors from across the country who had read about Miller's travails or seen him on television. Local businesses pitched in as well.

His father and two younger brothers were supposed to be groomsmen but didn't show up. His estranged mother wasn't invited.

Miller looked sharp in his Marine Corps dress uniform of dark-blue cloth and red piping. Jessica was lovely in white, her long hair gathered high.

Instead of a honeymoon, the young couple traveled to Washington, D.C., at the invitation of the National Mental Health Assn. The group wanted to honor Miller for his courage in going public about his PTSD. Its leaders also wanted him to visit key lawmakers to share his experience.

As a boy, Miller confided, he had embraced religion, even going so far as to become an ordained minister by mail order. He knew the Bible verses, felt the passion for preaching.

That's how he found his new mission: to tell people what it was like to come home from war with a broken mind.

Three days after their wedding, I tagged along as the young couple flew to the nation's capital. Easily distracted by the offer of free drinks for an all-American hero, Miller stayed out until 3 a.m. He was hung over when he met with House members a few hours later.

Miller chatted up GOP Rep. Harold Rogers, the congressman from his district. He smoked and frequently cursed while recounting his combat experiences. I cringed but stayed on the sidelines, snapping photos.

Miller shuffled from one congressional office to the next, passing displays filled with photos of Marines killed in Iraq. As he told his story over and again, the politicians listened politely and thanked Miller for his service. One congressman sent an aide to tell Miller he was too busy to meet. No one promised to take up his cause.

After Miller picked up his award, he took a whirlwind tour past the White House and Lincoln Memorial, but his mind was elsewhere. At a bar the night before, free booze had flowed in honor of the Marlboro Marine. Miller wanted more.

"Let's get drunk," he said.

I returned to Los Angeles the next morning, thinking I would catch up with Miller in a couple of months.

A week later, Jessica called. After they got home, Miller's mood had become volatile. He was OK one minute and in a deep funk the next, she told me. Then he'd disappeared. She hadn't seen him for days.

Could I come to Kentucky and help?

Why me? I thought. I am not Miller's brother. Or his father. I could feel the line between journalist and subject blurring. Was I covering the story or becoming part of it?

I traveled all night to get to Pikeville, Ky., and soon found myself with Jessica, making the rounds of all the places Miller might have gone. I wanted to be somewhere else -- anywhere else.

Finally, the next morning, Jessica saw her husband driving in the opposite direction. She did a U-turn, hit the gas and caught up with him down the road.

He got out of his truck. A woman sat in the passenger seat.

"Who is that, Blake?" Jessica demanded. "Who is she?"

He said her name was Sherry. They had just met, and he was helping her move. Jessica didn't believe him.

I thought: Didn't I attend this young couple's fairy tale wedding just 10 days ago? Now, here they were, in a gas station parking lot, creating a spectacle.

Jessica grilled Miller. He bobbed and weaved. He appeared sober and sullen. Then he dropped a bomb. He didn't want her anymore and had filed for divorce.

"You guys might want to go home and talk," I suggested.

There, the tortured dialogue escalated.

Jessica pleaded with Blake to stop and think. They could quit drinking, she said. They'd get help for him and as a couple. Maybe they could move away -- anything to work it out.

Miller slumped on the couch. I sensed his unease and feared he would become violent, so I stayed for a while even though I felt intrusive. But Miller remained strangely calm, albeit brooding and distant.

I returned the next morning. He called his attorney and put the phone on speaker. If uncontested, the lawyer said, the divorce would become final in 60 days. Jessica went to the fire escape to gather herself.

Miller remained unmoved, chain-smoking. The local newspaper had been calling him about rumors that he was getting divorced. It was a major local story. Finally, he wrote a statement. He asked for compassion and respect for their privacy.

The next day, I found Miller in a back bedroom at his uncle's house. He told me that he had come close to committing suicide the night before, when he thought about driving his motorcycle off the edge of a mountain road.

He showed me the morning newspaper. His divorce was the lead story.

I felt torn. I didn't want to get involved. I desperately wanted to close the book on Iraq. But if I hadn't taken Miller's picture, this very personal drama wouldn't be front-page news. I felt responsible.

Sometimes, when things get hard to witness, I use my camera as a shield. It creates a space for me to work -- and distance to keep my eyes open and my feelings in check. But Miller had no use for a photojournalist. He needed a helping hand.

I flashed back to the chaos of combat in Fallouja. In the rattle and thunder, brick walls separated me from the world coming to an end. In the tight spaces, we were scared mindless. Everybody dragged deeply on cigarettes.

Above the din, I heard what everybody was thinking: This is the end.

I've never felt so completely alone.

I snapped back to the present, and before I knew it, the words spilled out.

"I have to ask you something, Blake," I said. "If I'd gone down in Fallouja, would you have carried me out?"

"Damn straight," he said, without hesitation.

"OK then," I said. "I think you're wounded pretty badly. I want to help you."

He looked at me for a moment. "All right," he said.


(Thank you to Walt on the Camp Casey list for the heads-up on this article.)

Labels: Iraq War, Marlboro Marine, What War Does

7:00-ish - Do my meditation in bed, because I am lazy and it is warm and comfy under the covers.

8:00-ish - Get up, turn on the computer and decide that I don't want to blog anymore.

I am now an ex-blogger.

Check out other blogs, read the news. Yeah, the world is still here. Yeah, I don't feel any better about life now that I have read all that is considered newsworthy. Decide that I don't want to read the news anymore.

I am now an ex-newsreader.

9:00-ish - Estoy estudiando mi tarea espanol (Does that say that I studied Spanish? I hope so. I'ts probably the wrong tense or something, but we haven't learned it yet - I've only been to 3 classes.)

10:00-ish - Try to blog. Decide again that I don't want to blog anymore.

I am now REALLY an ex-blogger.

11:00-ish - Go into phone booth to become my alter-ego, aka a Woman in Black.

noon - Meet with other sisters in crime

12:30 - 1:30 - The Women in Black Silent Vigil for Peace. An hour of watching life unfold before me. How anyone can ever say they get bored in life, I'll never know. The next time you think you're bored, go stand on a corner and just watch and wonder. It's amazing! And today, we didn't get one negative comment, not one wrong-half-of-a-peace-sign. Nada. Only smiley, happy people. I thought about blogging about that, but then I remembered that

I am now an ex-blogger.

1:30-ish - ordered an organic turkey for Thanksgiving and found some Knudsen's Sparkling Cranberry Juice ON SALE! Yum! Passed up on the peppermint vanilla candle that smelled so good I wanted to eat it.

Rest of the afternoon - decided to quit blogging ten times.

4:30-ish. What the heck? Here I am. Blogging. About nothing.

Labels: I want to quit blogging, Women in Black

This just in:

Labels: doing the right thing

I know you're out there. I see your numbers. I dare one lurker to come out into the open (and you can even do it anonymously if you want!).

Labels: come out wherever you are, photography