I Need Y’all’s Help Please

Hi Y’all,

I’ve been writing for 50 years and I’ve been published professionally for 40 of those years. Up until a couple of years ago, writing was my main thing, my go-to for self-expression. Then something kooky happened. I picked up painting and I was immediately hooked.

I will, perhaps, in a future episode dive more deeply into why I firmly believed for decades that visual art was never something for me to try. Today though, I am going to tell you what allowed me to get over that hump.

Two years and a few days ago, my beloved friend John Byrne died very suddenly and far too young. We went to high school together, lost touch, and then found each other again on Facebook. For the few years we were back in touch before he died, John had a major, major impact on my life. He helped me through a horrible breakup. He visited the ranch to meet Bob. On the day Bob died John stayed on the phone with me while I raced to the hospital to say goodbye. And during that call he pointed out to me that if I expanded the definition of True Love, then surely Bob was that to me.

I will never ever forget that conversation. Or how much John and Bob—who died in 2018—loved each other and cracked each other up. I love that Bob’s birth anniversary is the day after John’s birth anniversary. Tomorrow John would have turned 60 and the day after Bob would have turned 94!! This week of anniversaries opens me up wide. I sense these two funny men all around me even more than usual.

John was an incredible painter and I am fortunate enough to own one of his works, a portrait he did from a photograph I took of my Great Pyrenees Norris howling at the full moon. While I can’t claim that John whispered to me from the great beyond to try painting, I don’t think it’s a coincidence that I rather impulsively bought a bunch of art supplies shortly after he died.

To my enormous surprise, I LOVE making visual art. It satisfies something deep inside of me. Since I’ve started I’ve taken a number of classes. I paint all the time. It’s entirely possible this is why I write far less often.

When I began this substack, I felt the excitement I used to feel when I sat down to write my column for the Dallas Morning News. I planned to put myself on a schedule, to send out thoughtful pieces every week. But more often than not, before I sit to write, I ask myself if I’m writing reflexively, to hit a self-imposed deadline, or if I truly have something I want to say.

In 1995 I was hired by Prodigy (remember them?) to be one of the first bloggers ever. Anytime I say that, I think about Al Gore “inventing” the internet, but it’s really true I had one of the first blogs. I so enjoyed that outlet and the money that came with it.

Watching the internet grow and grow, watching how everyone is a content producer now, overwhelms me sometimes. I do love how the playing field has been leveled, how one can get their message out without begging, say, a book publisher to put out their work. I do not love how overwhelming it feels to step into the firehose of content on the daily. I am in the habit of walking away from my screens for hours at a time—sad that that sounds like a major triumph when perhaps it speaks more to an addiction I share with billions of others.

Last week I got the idea that I might try using this space less as a chance to continue honing my writing chops and connecting with readers, and more as an opportunity to send out the occasional chatty epistle.

One reason for this is that living at the ranch means there is never, ever a shortage of crises large and small to describe for you. To say there is never a dull moment here is to grossly understate matters. Today, for example, Little Nicky Cave the bull is getting his balls lopped off. And speaking of balls, a couple of weeks ago an AirBnB guest tripped balls, had a psychotic break, and called 911 on himself, which in turn brought about ten emergency vehicles out in the middle of the night. The other day my ranch hands captured two stray dogs—the kind that kill livestock—and put them in the spare (empty) chicken coop. My call to Animal Control was misinterpreted and so instead of the dog catcher they sent a deputy. This offered more fodder.

The cop and I had a great talk, for nearly an hour, about the joys of having a huge vocabulary (his was extremely impressive) and how people can get along better. He’s hardcore right and loves bible study. I told him I’m a communist Buddhist. Neither one of us was upset with the other. We enjoyed playing the game of What Do We Have In Common?

Many other kooky things happened, too. But I’m going to stop there because What Do We Have in Common is my current hyper focus. And something I think every single one of us has in common is that at some point in our lives, someone did something kind for us.

I mentioned in my last post that I am turning my chapel into The Tiny Chapel of Kindness. I would like for it to become a Place on the Map that people from around the world will visit. I want the walls to fill up with notes from people describing some kindness that has been visited upon them. There will be a ban on talking about religion and politics. In the hallowed space we will only speak of kindness, not to be ostriches to the bigger ugly reality of the world, but rather to take a few moments to fully focus on the goodness.

On December 3rd I will host a low-key open house to have folks over to officially launch the chapel. If you live far away or cannot make it for some other reason, I still invite you to PLEASE MAIL ME A NOTE upon which you describe something nice someone did for you. I will tack all notes to the chapel walls.

I know what my first note will be. Just after the deputy left a truck pulled up to my front gate. It was the young man who works next door, popping by to see how I’m doing. This is the young man who, when my beloved longhorn Bobby Jo was at a very high risk for dying while giving birth, came to the rescue. It was the saddest day of the year for me, and I had a lot of sad days this year. Extracting the stillborn calf and then administering penicillin which he happened to have handy allowed my cow to live.

It also gave us a chance to bond over commonalities though I’m fairly certain this young man is also on the opposite of the political spectrum from me. But politics were not present the day we worked together to mitigate a horrible situation. Our common goal united us. It was a beautiful thing. My cow survived. I cannot look at her without thinking of that young man with endless gratitude.

I would be really grateful if you would help me get the word out about The Tiny Chapel of Kindness. One of these days I’ll make a website for it. But today I’m starting out the old fashioned, word of mouth way.

And I hope, too, that in honor of the memory of my friends John and Bob, you will give yourself permission to do something you have convinced yourself you cannot do. Draw a picture. Write a poem. Talk to someone from a different walk of life.

And please, please, please, send a Kindness Story and help me make the chapel a beacon of hope. You can mail in your offering:

Tiny Chapel of Kindness, 3409 Caldwell Lane, Garfield, TX 78617.

Thanks.

Love,

Spike