Rick Jantz's Blog

I trust these words will inspire and encourage you to become and live your best self. The music is written and produced by my son, Graham Jantz, for his grandpa. Thanks for watching.

I trust these words will inspire and encourage you to become and live your best self. The music is written and produced by my son, Graham Jantz, for his grandpa. Thanks for watching.

By the time we’re in our fifties and sixties 
we’ve still not arrived at The Gate Of Meaning.  
It remains locked and the Gatekeeper 
is on coffee break with the keys for sugar.  
There’s a bench to sit on for the infirm 
if we dare to admit we are.  
The wind arises to keep us company, 
blowing in unchanging memories 
that love their haunting.  
We notice holes in the dirt, 
still waiting for seeds not planted long ago 
for that something more we were here to grow.  
Through the gate the garden’s full, 
it became what it wanted to be when it grew up.  
Could we, too, if the gate we passed through?  

Coffee break stretched into lunch break 
and our tummies rumble our starvation.  
If only gate posts moved backwards 
we’d be on the other side without effort 
because over there is where we want to be.  

The Old Familiar comes and sits with us, 
huffing excitedly that it caught up, 
the cliff we climbed almost too much for it, 
but familiar conquers all.  
“Do you have the key?” we ask.
“Oh heavens, no.  Who needs a key off the familiar path?”  
We sit and wait, comforted and contemplating 
our way back to younger days longed for.  

A bird passes over the gate, 
mocking in its ease of not needing a key 
to eat a worm who crawled underneath 
what holds us back.  
If we were them (we wish we were) 
the key to gates would not be needed 
and our seventies would welcome us as we are 
and open our next gate, the one after this.  

A jingle of keys.  
The Gatekeeper approaches. 
The Old Familiar stands and says, “It’s time to go.”  
We remain seated, 
forgetting why we came to the gate in the first place.

Somewhere in a forest far, far away there is a treasure.

The birds know what it is,
The deer know what it is,
Even the fish in the river know what it is.
The treasure belonged to everybody.

High on a mountain and deep in a forest lived Isaac.
His name meant laughter, and Isaac was always laughing.
He laughed when he got up in the morning.
He laughed when he ate his meals.
He even laughed when he cleaned up his cabin.
But mostly, Isaac laughed because he was always happy.

One morning, Isaac’s friends gathered and asked him what his secret to happiness is. Why is he always laughing? To help them guess, Isaac gave them this riddle.

“My treasure, my treasure, what is my treasure?
I’ll give you a little clue.
I look in the mirror and I see me.
You look in the mirror and you see you.
What is my treasure?”

“I know what it is,” said Molly Moose, in her high, squeaky little girl’s voice.  “You see your big, beautiful smile and your twinkling eyes.  That’s what makes you happy and makes you laugh all the time.”
Isaac said, “No, no, no.  No, it’s not.
Beautiful smiles and eyes aren’t all we’ve got.”

Robby Robin thought he knew the answer.  “That’s easy,” he chirped.  “Look at how beautifully I’m dressed.  Look at how beautifully you are dressed.  We see our beautiful clothes.”
Isaac said, “No, no, no.  No, it’s not.
Beautiful clothes aren’t all we’ve got.”

Suddenly, Beary Bear Paws jumped up and down and down and up.  “I know!  I know!” he hollered.  “You see you and I see me see me.  It’s our faces our faces.  We see our beautiful faces.”
Isaac said, “No, no, no.  No, it’s not.
Beautiful faces aren’t all we’ve got.”

Y. Walph Weasel slyly stepped forward.  “Isaac, I know what your treasure is.  Your beautiful smile, your beautiful clothes, and even your beautiful face are all because of the beautiful money you hide in your back pocket.”
Isaac said, “No, no, no.  No, it’s not.
Beautiful money isn’t all we’ve got.”

Isaac laughed because not one of his friends could guess what his treasure is.
“Then what, Isaac?” Molly Moose cried.  “What is your treasure?”
“He won’t tell us,” Y. Walph Weasel said.  “It’s a secret.”
“Hmph,” snorted Beary Bear Paws.  “A secret is not a secret, not a secret I tell you unless you tell someone.”
Robby Robin hopped back and forth.  “That’s why I like beautiful clothes.  You show them off for everyone to see.”

Just then, Isaac’s wise old friend, Dr. Bill E. Goatee, joined them.  “What’s all the fuss about?  I see troubled friends over there and I see Isaac laughing over here.  Are we not being the best of friends today?”

“He won’t tell us what his treasure is,” said Molly Moose.  “He gave us a riddle instead.”
“It’s not a riddle, it’s a secret.”  Y. Walph Weasel was annoyed.
“A secret or a riddle is not a secret or a riddle, or a riddle or a secret unless you tell someone.”  Beary Bear Paws was getting all mixed up.
“There is no secret or riddle with clothes,” Robby Robin said.  “They are just beautiful.”

Isaac laughed…and laughed…and laughed. And then Isaac laughed some more. Everybody waited.  Isaac could laugh for a very long time.

Trying not to laugh himself, Dr. Bill E. Goatee asked Isaac what his riddle is.  “Let me see if I can come up with the answer.”

Isaac bit his lip.  He wanted to laugh some more, but he thought he really should let Dr. Bill E. Goatee try to solve his riddle.  

“My treasure, my treasure, what is my treasure?
I’ll give you a little clue.
I look in the mirror and I see me.
You look in the mirror and you see you.
What is my treasure?”

Everybody held their breath and looked at Dr. Bill E. Goatee.  Did he know the answer?  Could he tell them what Isaac’s treasure is?

Slowly, Dr. Bill E. Goatee stood as tall as he could stand.  He looked at Isaac’s friends one by one.  Then he smiled at Isaac.  “That is an easy riddle, Isaac,” he said wisely.  “The treasure is in the mirror when you see you and they see them.  Put it all together and you have your treasure.”

Dr. Bill E. Goatee could see from the puzzled looks that Isaac’s friends still didn’t understand.  “Everybody turn around and look in that big mirror behind you.”

Molly Moose, Robby Robin, Beary Bear Paws, and Y. Walph Weasel all slowly turned around and saw their reflection in the mirror.  Behind them, they could see Isaac and Dr. Bill E. Goatee.

“Everybody,” Dr. Bill E. Goatee said, “meet Isaac’s treasure.”

There was a long pause.
“But it’s us,” cried Molly Moose.
“And Dr. Bill E. Goatee,” said Robby Robin.
“And Isaac.  I see Isaac, too,” said Beary Bear Paws.
“We’re all there,” exclaimed Y. Walph Weasel.  “That’s no secret.”

Everybody looked at Isaac in the mirror.

This time, Isaac smiled his friendliest smile.  “It’s all of you with me and me with all of you.  It’s not our smile or how our clothes look or what we look like or how much money we have.  It’s all of you with me and me with all of you.  You are my friends!  You are my treasure!  You are Isaac’s treasure friends.”

Everybody looked at everybody and then slowly, finally understanding, everybody smiled at everybody.

Dr. Bill E. Goatee smiled his wisest smile.  “It is a good treasure to have,” he said.

And then…Isaac laughed, and everybody laughed with him.

It was quiet, but I knew something was hiding.  The silence was perfect because I would be able to hear the critter move.  I crawled my old body painfully further under the wild ferns.  I grinned.  The wild thing would soon be mine.  A black foot padded by, only five feet away.  I heard its fur brush against dry leaves.

     “Not quite as sneaky as me, are you?”  I inched forward just a bit more, very close to the striking position I knew I needed to be in.

     I wiggled the fingers on my extended hand just a little.  Enough to be noticed but not enough to frighten.  Curiosity was my best weapon to catch a cat.  A light pounce and a victorious meow, plus new scratches on my fingers, told me the cat thought it had won.

     Remaining still, I let the cat tell me what its next move would be.  I didn’t have long to wait and even I was surprised.  Kneading paws on my back and a head bonk to my head and I knew the cat was mine.

     “Alright, you little rascal.”  

     I slowly twisted myself onto my side so I could see my attacker.  My chin was promptly rewarded with a head bonk and a soft meow.  I slowly raised a hand and gently stroked the black fur, not yet ready to make my final move.

     “Atta boy, I got ya.”

     Meow.

     “And a good morning meow to you, too.”

     Now eyeball to eyeball, we contemplated one another and then blinked at the same time.

     “Comfy?”

     Meow.

     “I’m not.”  And with that, my hand went from petting to grabbing the cat by the scruff of its neck.  I pinned the cat to my chest while I sat up as quickly as a seventy-year-old could.  I glanced down, surprised the cat wasn’t fighting me.

     “You have no intention of going anywhere, do you?”

     Meow.  Purr.  Bonk.

     I leaned on my free hand and slowly twisted myself to my knees, the right one popping like it often does.  I stood up, almost squishing the cat in the process.  While waiting for my vertigo to quit spinning the forest around me, I quickly flipped the cat around and lifted its tail.  Another boy.  At least there won’t be any kittens to go in search of.

     “Okay, little one, in you go.”

     With no further strokes or slow movements, I whipped the cat into the carrier I always rolled along behind me.  I banged the door shut.  Another cat caught that would be properly cared for by the only one who knew how.

     “Not purring now, are you?”

     Grr.

     I glanced right and left before letting any watchers know where I was going and then shuffled to the dirt path across from me, pulling the carrier on wheels holding a now angry cat behind me.

     The town did a good job at the creation and upkeep of the many trails that wound through it, around the small lake, and even built strategic bridges where they were needed.  Some of the trails were paved, others weren’t.  I always traveled the dirt trails because others didn’t and I would be left alone.

     “Off we go, kitten.”  I called all rescued cats by this name until I could give them a proper one later based on their looks, personality, or actions.  This one would probably be called “Bonk.”

     Careful not to bounce the cat too hard over the tree roots, I hurried down my familiar path, smiling at each protesting meow that came from the caged creature.  He didn’t know yet that his life had just improved and that he would soon have unlimited companions when he joined all the other cats I had hidden away.

     The cage door into the cat sanctuary was still hidden.  No one had entered or, worse, got out since the last time I was here.  My stomach growled louder than the captured cat, which reminded me that supper was soon and I had other mouths to feed.

     Click.  Grab.  Grr.  Hiss.  Click.  Bang.

     The cat was out of the carrier and shoved through the cage door before he had time to scratch or bite.  I’ve done this a few times while the cat was still on the first of its nine lives.

     “Go on now.  There’s food, water, and company yonder.”  We glared at each other through the chicken wire for a minute.  Bonk’s tail flicked.  Oh, he was mad.

     Double-checking that the cage door was latched, I then gave it a little shake to ensure it was locked and to scare the cat away.

     “Go on,” I said.  I’ll be back tomorrow to see how you’re making out.”

     We both heard the sound at the same time.  Something, or likely somethings, was coming through the trees.  Bonk dared a look but saw nothing.  I knew better.

     “You’re fine.  Goodbye.”

     Not wanting to get in trouble at home, I turned away, grabbed the carrier handle and left without another word.  A final glance over my shoulder showed me that the new cat was now more interested in whatever was coming.  Interested but not scared.  He meowed a thank you back at me.  I chuckled.  I knew he would be fine.    

     My cats don’t think I’m crazy.  Everyone else does, but my cats are not everyone else.  They are all I need and all I want.  Except for one thing, I want more of them, for there are so many who need me and only me.

     A streak reflected in the darkened window was quickly followed by the expected second one.  The boys were at it again.  I turned and gave my big fluff-of-a-cat, Queenie, an accusing look.   Stretching, she seemed to say, “They’re your cats.  You control them.”

     “Crazy boys.”  

     A whistle from the kitchen meant my instant coffee was ready for brewing.  Head down, fearful of stepping on a resting cat, I went into the kitchen, grabbed the coffee jar and scooped some into my stained cup.  Screeching and hissing told me the bigger brother had caught up with his smaller sibling, likely the one who instigated the battle in the first place.

     “Here kitty, kitty.  Come here you two lunatics.”

     Without waiting, I returned to the living room and sat on my garage-sale recliner, right below her royal majesty, the queen.   Setting my cup down on the old card table I had also picked up at the same garage sale I waited, knowing.

     Big Woody easily jumped into the middle of my lap, black hair flying and whiskers vibrating.  Anticipating the worst, as usual, I watched for the klutzy orange cat whose smaller size would make his leap less graceful.  Unfortunately, Mickey chose to come from the other side of the chair from where I was looking and landed on Woody, who, with a hiss and a spit, catapulted onto the table, sending the cup of coffee to the four winds.

     “You crazy cats have got to quit doing this.” 

     I stood up and looked at the coffee splattered everywhere.  The boys skedaddled under the couch and looked at the mess with arched backs and whipping tails.  Queenie hadn’t budged, refusing again to acknowledge the boy’s existence, including the chaos that usually followed them.

     “I don’t imagine one of you brats is likely to lick the place clean.”  Three pairs of bored green and orange eyes told me all I needed to know.

     I could only chuckle and grabbed the extra large roll of paper towels.  With three cats, there were frequent accidents.  I got it cleaned up, dumped more instant coffee and added water from the still-heated kettle.  I finally sat down again in my old recliner, placing my coffee on the table. This time, my babies were a little more cautious when they swarmed my lap again, with Queenie moving to her royal and reserved spot on my chest.

     Glancing through the large living room window, I saw nothing had changed in the neighborhood since I last checked.  Taking a sip, relishing the purrs, I took up my pen and began working on my fourth letter to the Town Council this year.

“Dear idiots.  Once again, I know you likely won’t even read this, let alone do anything about it.  But the Cat Bylaw must go and I will continue with my letter-writing campaign until it is gone.  Who are you to say that I can only have three cats?  That is one of the most ridiculous things about you, you lying pack of goons.  Thinking you have the power to tell the people of Lilly how to live our lives and what we can and can’t do.  Shame on each of you.  Now change the bloody Bylaw because there are stray cats who need me.  Yours in shame, Tucker Harley .”

     “Not bad.  Not bad.”  Queenie looked at me in agreement while Mickey and Woody wrapped their legs tighter around each other.  Brothers or gay, I didn’t know.

     As usual, I finished my coffee and fell asleep with my babies.

     All was quiet on my morning patrol of the house and yard.  None of the traps on the front porch had been sprung so no one had dared trespass where they knew they weren’t welcome.  I ambled over to the front gate and saw that the padlock was still on and the wires twisted from post to gate were still tightly strung the way I liked them.  Glancing up and down my street, I considered writing another letter about the Bylaw that made it a crime to have a fence over three feet in your front yard.  Another injustice imposed upon the citizenry of this run-down old town.

     The boys watched me intently from the window; surely the old guy would come back in and sleep some more.  Leaping out of sight when I came up the stairs and through the door, they greeted me with spinning-tail pets and pathetic meows.  I knew in an instant why they were being so chummy when I saw the Cat Bylaw papers scattered around the same area as the coffee had been the night before.  One of them, more likely both, had gone careening across the table where I had left it after rereading it for the thousandth time.

     “I was only gone for two minutes.”  I threw an accusing look at Queenie for again not controlling the two younger cats.  She blinked and yawned.

     Cleaning up the latest mess, I warned all of them.  “I gotta head out and I expect the house to be still standing when I return.”  All of them blinked, yawned, and stretched out to sleep. Never let it be said that a cat needs a lap to get in their eighteen hours of shut-eye.

     “Good.  Now be good.”

     With that, I picked up my letter from the night before and headed out to mail it, even though the Post Office was attached to the Town Office.  I always thought it carried more weight when complaints arrived in the mail; the writer must be truly agitated to spend the postage on a well-crafted letter.

     Lilly should have been named ‘Cattsfull,’ most people thought.  Over the years, the shenanigans of a few feral felines had erupted into hundreds of cats who pooped in everyone’s gardens and terrorized the butcher and pet shops with impunity at night.  The name and the cat overpopulation are what drew me to the town years ago.

     Queenie was my first rescue, and she was quite easy to capture because she simply strode up onto the deck where I sat and plopped her royal self with authority onto my lap.  And we’ve been together since.  

     But fifteen-year-old Queenie was also quite demanding and correctly believed the whole house was her domain.  Unable to keep up with her demands, I figured I had better get another one to make the beast leave me alone, especially at night.  But when I went to look for Queenie’s new companion at the Town Kennel, I was told that there were only two cats and they were bonded brothers and, therefore, a matched set.  The sucker “S” on my forehead ensured I would fall for this.  I think they lied, but the boys became mine.

     On my way to the Post Office, I passed again the most painful of spots on the trail.  Refusing to let myself dwell on this, I clutched the handle of my rolling cat carrier and carried on, the usual tear shed for an unnecessary life lost.

     Why does a Post Office always sound so hollow?  I thunked my way across the floor, tossed my envelope on the counter, and raised an eyebrow at the lazy guy with his feet on a table.  Judging by the pile of mail stacked up around him, not much mail was being delivered today.

     “Ahem.”

     “I see ya.”  He didn’t move.

     “I wanna mail this.”

     “Go ahead.  Whaddya need me for?”

     Ignoramus.  “Is sending mail free now?”

     A heavy sigh.  Why does everyone sigh and not just do what they’re supposed to when they’re supposed to?  But at least he took his feet off the table and began to get up until he looked at me.

     “You again?  What now, you wanna be on Town Council and not just pester them all the time?”

     “I don’t have time for their foolishness.”  I held up the envelope.  “This is how we hold that bunch to account.”

     He finally ambled over, threw my envelope on the scale, and announced, “A buck nineteen.”

     “It was a buck nine last week.”

     “That was last week.  This week it’s a buck nineteen.”

     I out-glared him for two seconds and he finally did his job.  Purposely waiting until the last minute, I then took out my change and counted out a dollar and twenty cents in quarters, dimes, and nickels.  “You owe me a penny.”  He could darn well work for my money.

     He managed a four-second glare this time, impressive.  Without another word, he dug into the cash register and slid my penny across to me.

     “Will there be anything else, sir?”

     “Yeah, get a haircut.”  Two could be equally insulting.  Not caring if he said anything else and making sure my letter made it onto the outgoing delivery pile, I turned around and walked across the marble floor.  I reached the door and banged my boots on the floor to leave behind any Post Office dirt I may have walked through.  I could see his disgusted reflection in the glass.  I won again and could go home.

I trust these words will inspire and encourage you to become and live your best self. The music is written and produced by my son, Graham Jantz, for his grandpa. Thanks for watching.

You may not know

the answers you seek.

You may not live

from your heart out.

But you do know

that you wish to be happy

and you know

self-honesty and

self-being

are your ways.

Wish to know

your hidden spirit.

Wish to live

your heart calling.

Then you will be

who you must be.

Then you will live

you for others.

Each day we strive for self and home

to make our lives complete.

But on one day, a coming day,

our hearts for others beat.

It is a day we know as Christmas

that we wish happiness for others.

As this day comes we act from love

and think and do, one for another.

And if once a year we can do so much

what about the remaining days?

Could we not do one for all

and give each other praise?

On this coming day, this day of hope

I wish each of you happiness

for each day you live this coming year

and I wish for you to be blessed.

The post On This Coming Day first appeared on Rick Jantz, Writer.

Becoming who you know you are and want to be is not something that happens with the flick of a light switch and “Ta-Da, here I am.”  It involves daily work (sometimes every single minute) and must have intention and determination.

It is the work itself that is the journey, the person you intend to be.

And how you carry out that work shows who you are becoming and who you intend to be.

The definition of work includes both mental and physical things people must do in order to achieve a purpose.  But for my purposes here, I refer to work as being the path to self-discovery and becoming who we know we can be.

This is perhaps more difficult to know when we have achieved or have arrived because it is a continuous learning and becoming. I believe we always need to live our higher selves, which means our inner and spiritual selves.  The one we keep hidden from others.

But yet others see through our charades, behind our masks, and know us better than we give them credit for.  We often are fooling only ourselves when we try to show the world a face that we like and think is acceptable.

As an example: I typically kept myself withdrawn and aloof at work and yet also tried to use humor to help us all get through the day.  It’s interesting that the feedback I received from my co-workers, and this was over a number of years from a number of people, was that I was calm and even a steadying presence when things were hectic and demanding. And I know the word, calm, resonated with me and knew it’s truth for myself.

We know our value, or at least suspect it, even as we try to ignore it with our self-defeating self-talk.  Even though I knew I was a calm person at work and that it was helpful to others that I was, I still sometimes poo-pooed their accolades because I knew that my calmness was my way to control my anger – and I didn’t want them to see that side of me.

But your journey now is to explore the hidden self that you long ignored by burying it deep.  But I’ll leave that for other posts.  The purpose of this post is to acknowledge that:

The work you do

to become who you must be

is deliberate and daily

and you are it

even as you seek it.

In taking the steps to become who you know you are, you are on the journey you need to be on and must take your time with and do some “sight-seeing.”  The “sight” you are seeing is you who is changing.

Even as you wish for it

and pursue it,

you are becoming it.

And “it” is the truth of you

lived out for others to see.

Thanks for reading and I wish you well on your own journey.  Remember to stop and smell the roses of who you are and who you are becoming.  Your true self matters to the world.

The post Doing Your Work Is Becoming You first appeared on Rick Jantz, Writer.

We get busy living our lives and doing and gaining those things that we believe we must do and get.  Yet buried beneath the busyness lies our spirit heart, the quiet beating of our higher self that waits to be called and listened to.

I attained the things in life that were important to me as a young man: marriage and kids, a good career that ultimately allowed me to retire in comfort, and the possession of things I “needed” to make my life comfortable and accepted.

I had done everything right on the outside but had forgotten to pay attention to the inside.

In my young adult years I attended church and even Bible College.  While there it was safe for me to live and express my religion.  But I left.  And I left behind the spiritual side of my life and buried it with getting and becoming a “successful person.”

I think that for whatever reason we choose to ignore the spirit that waits within.  We decide we don’t need it in our middle years because we’ve discovered that we are able to get and provide for ourselves; who needs what’s hidden within when what we want, and can get, is attained as we so desire.

But yet there is this nagging of something forgotten, something ignored, or something lacking.  

We’ve chosen to ignore our spiritual lives.

Whether we believe in the God of the Christian Church or any of the Eastern religions or others, we don’t commit to the spirit of these yet often cry out to a deity when we are depressed or even in danger.  

Why is it that in our times of greatest need we beseech a god outside of ourselves but when things are smooth we rely on just ourselves to provide?

Many also relate and do yoga and meditation as a way to seek inner peace and understanding, often acknowledging that we are knowing our spirits in these times.  It’s even referred to as self-discovery or self-enlightenment.

I’m not disparaging the above.  I think they’re all worthwhile and need to be done.  What I think is important is that we become aware of and acknowledge the spirit that lies within and that asks us to call it forward to provide guidance in our lives.

This spirit is not separate from us for it is us.  As are the mind and body.  But I think we tend to leave the spirit to last in our busy lives when, instead, that spirit within should be the first consulted.

Acknowledging this as “the spirit heart” is a way of grounding our spirit with mind and body.  The heart is our symbol of love and it is there we need to go to become all we can become.

During my day, I will ask my spirit (my heart) what I need to do right now and how can this higher side of myself be lived in this moment.

I think that however we get to the spirit is personal to each one of us and none should be disparaged for their choice.  I think that what is important is that we connect with our spirit and live our lives with the spirit guiding, and not left hidden beneath our complex and sometimes difficult lives.

Have you listened today for your spirit calling?

The post Your Spirit Heart Is Calling first appeared on Rick Jantz, Writer.