Musings
Peruse my Musings
The following are my thoughts put to paper over the past
years. They are the result of being touched on the shoulder by
my muse. They are for you to peruse and enjoy. The muse is a
capricious soul but I promise that as she reappears, I will be
adding to this storied journal.
Paris
Paris
is
everything
it is to be Human.
It is love
It is war
It is pious
It is sinful
It is conformity
It is Avant Guard
It is self-indulged
It is the Guardian of the World
It is a place out of time.
To visit is to mar It’s finish
To become a part of Paris is to experience the luster of being
Human
Brian Beirl
Paris, June 2004
100% Moments
The quiet sun was suspended above the mangroves. The
intercoastal flats became suddenly quiet in that time before
sunset when the world and the water stand still. Everywhere
you looked it was red-gold; the water, the shore, the canoe.
Everything came together in that magic time and place. A
perfect cast, a perfect redfish.
We all have known times in our lives when we have experienced
100% moments. When our undivided attention backed by our past
collective knowledge melds into our best productive self. I
have witnessed this in my life while skiing, reading, fishing,
and performing on the musical stage. 100% moments.
You will notice that my examples of these moments were in the
traditional play areas. How can we create work-play 100%
moments in our practices? I suggest that by becoming 100%
focused in each and every aspect of our daily practices we can
achieve 100% moments. This requires mental muscle. With the
constant intrusion of outside concerns in our lives a
concerted effort is imperative. I have found, however, that
when a commitment, either consciously or unconsciously, to
focus 100% is made, the results are immediate and your dental
life is under control.
The difficult question is how often are we experiencing these
moments in our dental practices? Are we completely involved
with that new patient that has so much to tell us?
That final impression? treatment planning? and the
post-treatment experience?
The practice of fine dentistry is difficult. The technique and
people skills can be learned. The true difficulty is in the
day to day implementation.
100% moments can optimize specific areas of your practice i.e.
your new patient experience, preparations, and impressions. In
addition, a commitment to these moments also has far reaching
effects: improved staff relations, patient satisfaction and a
general feeling of well being for you and those around you.
And isn’t that really what it’s all about!
Please schedule some time (using 100% concentration) to
reassess you daily activities. Are you being the best that you
can be at every opportunity: with your family, your spiritual
life, your play, your work?
The miraculous part of change is that most of the challenge is
becoming aware of its need. Once you have found that awareness
and give of yourself 100%, your moments will be 100% precious.
Brian R. Beirl
March 22, 1999
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Above the Line
I am perched at
the bow, suspended in space, enveloped by the ashen sky, the
clear, green water and the timeless, mangrove shoreline of the
perpetual Everglades. Alone in my thoughts, flycasting
methodically, making corrections to improve my chances of
success. But I am not alone, my friends and mentors are behind
me, encouraging, offering their experience to enhance my own.
Is our quest for better dentistry so different than this tiny
boat of supportive, like-minded people on the water? We know
that each small step of preparation relies on the former to
insure the best possible outcome. Is our study of this
beautiful and ever-changing environment so different than our
interaction with our patients?
We are the anglers of Red Sky. Like the mariner’s prophetic
sunset, our optimism is based on knowledge. The ability to
apply what we know and what can be. Our environment may change
but we are buoyed by the care of preparation and the guides
that have shown us the way.
Our work connects us but the play of the fish binds us. A
common bond, a love and appreciation of the beauty of nature,
a growing knowledge and a trust in one another.
Traveling through time and distance in search of gamefish,
each other and ourselves.
We are the anglers of Red Sky.
Brian Beirl
April 2003
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Another Year
The tired old man
stirred from his winter’s sleep as the ice glanced off the
small solitary window with a hissing sound that took turns
with the moaning of the crystalline, arctic wind. Why now? Why
tonight? , he thought. He had worked hard in his tiny
wilderness cabin. It seemed like the task was harder with less
appreciation every year. The sky had been clear and everything
had been made ready when he had retired to his down and fur
covered cot. Now the wind had turned and he knew the night
would now be longer because of it.
“I should have let this go long ago”, he muttered to himself
as he curled his body into an irregular sphere beneath the
covers. But this was not a time for sleeping. He would need
all his spiritual strength this night. He thought of all the
others that would enjoy an expectant sleep as he rose and
padded across the smooth cold floor.
Many thought that he lived with a companion but she had been
gone now from time out of memory. His bones felt ancient as he
fastened his heavy coat and pulled on his well worn boots. He
felt the pangs of hunger but knew that there would be chances
to eat along the way.
With a heavy sigh he grasped the leather strap of the door
that had been the portal to so many journeys over the years.
The heavy wooden door opened quickly as if beckoning him into
the night.
His bright crinkled eyes slowly scanned the unbroken moonlit
expanse of glistening white. His way was guided by the
solitary light that cast a warm glow over the stable. As he
trudged through the wave like drifts he felt his spirits rise.
This is a special night for so many, and they would not let
them down. For now, as he entered the humble building he was
no longer alone. As if by magic, the crimson returned to his
cherubic face. The animals were harnessed and pawing in
expectation. The tall double doors at the far end of the
building sprang open. In an instant, our ancient voyager with
all his cargo soon could only be seen as a miniature
silhouette dashing across the moon.
Brian Beirl
December 2005
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From the Heart
The long thin line
was mostly silent except for the occasional muttered
complaints. One could feel the common mind of this slumped
procession as it focused its tired energy on the incredible
inefficiency of only two postal clerks on duty at the end of
the day. I felt my spirit absorbed by this aura as I placed
myself at the end of the sundry parade.
Then I saw her. She was small and her left hand went up at a
steep angle as she clutched the hand of her mother. I did not
guess at this relationship, as there is an unmistakable
connection between a mother and her own. In her right hand the
young girl had her arm wrapped around a shoe box covered in
brown grocery paper. There were numerous red construction
paper hearts glued to every side of her treasured package. It
was apparent that she had done this with little outside help.
This was a child that was expected to do things on her own.
I found myself imagining the recipient of such a precious
parcel. Was it an expectant grandma that will show it to all
her bridge partners? Or a distant uncle that will be visiting
in the summer. Oh how the mind wanders to the joys of
childhood and the innocence of giving.
The line is moving now and I see the girl reach up to the
counter and slide the box beneath the tired eyes of the clerk.
The postal employee is now shaking her head slowly. Is there a
problem with the way it is wrapped? Do they need additional
postage? The mother stands taller and leans toward the worker
with her head cocked toward her daughter. The clerk shifts her
eyes from one to the other, stamps the package with a shrug
and puts it off to the side. The mother and child pass before
me. The girl marches past with a strut with an unmistakable
air of mission accomplished. The parent slips by me with eyes
welled with tears.
As I approach the counter, I pass the package resting on the
cold stainless steel of the counter. I catch just part of the
large, hand written address. The girl and the recipient share
a last name. Then my gaze shifts to larger letters that were
carefully printed by the young hand … Federal Penitentiary;
Stark, Florida.
Brian Beirl
February 13, 2003
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In a Fog
The comforting
murmur of the smooth road was muted by the leaden fog. Any
serenity offered by the evening was lost upon the man. His
heavy eyes reflected the muted amber lights of the
sophisticated vehicle. The supple leather enveloped him and
presented a sense of shelter from the damp, inhospitable
atmosphere of this unfamiliar part of his city.
He was low on fuel and cursed quietly that he had not been
paying attention to what was right in front of him.
The lights of the station were magnified by the intensity of
the fog. The horizon was filled with the red and yellow glow
of the familiar sign. The man smiled crookedly as he noticed
that the S was missing from the Shell sign. “How ironic...”my
salvation”, he murmured as he pulled the heavy vehicle to the
farthest pump.
The appearance of the laboring vehicle immediately caught his
attention. It pulled slowly around the back of the station and
came to a halt directly in front of the dumpster in the remote
corner of the shrouded station lot. A short, hunched over, old
woman pushed open the crumpled door with a staccato snap that
was immediately numbed by the swirling mist.
“What was she up to? The usual, I suppose, rummaging thru
rubbish in the world’s land of opportunity. Didn’t she realize
she was in this state solely because of the choices she had
made through out her life? Now her only choice is to sneak
around and gather fodder for the flea markets.
It was time to move on and leave this bit of humanity behind.
His curiosity getting the best of him, the man drew the car
past the slouching woman out of sight from the rest of the
world. His eyes followed her focus of attention. The abandoned
kittens enveloped her swollen ankles as she carefully poured
the milk into the bowl.
Brian Beirl
March 8, 2004
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The Road House
Anderson, South
Carolina
The tired woman behind the reception desk at Motel Exit 126
disturbs her malaise and directs me to the place to eat in
town. Across “the slab” behind the truck stop. A short drive
confirms my suspicion; it is the only place.
It’s a Patrick Swayze kind of place where the parking lot is
full of pick-ups with Calvin in the back window peeing on
Fords or Chevys. I pull in with my Toyota SUV and wonder what
bodily function Hobb’s partner would have in mind for me.
It’s the kind of bar that strangers are strange and the
regulars let you know about it.
This is the school where the males go to study the two R’s…
Racing and Redheads
Dale only means one thing here and it doesn’t have anything to
do with Carnegie. The women all look like hairdressers and pay
with singles from their tips.
I feel conspicuous in my solid black dress T-shirt and no hat.
The women are intrigued, and the men smell authority from out
of town.
This is a beer and wine bar. The red wine is screw top in the
cooler and the white wine is pink. There are massive, steel,
ice filled tubs behind the bar. The beer is long neck and not
a glass is to be seen. The women, who don’t want to send a
provocative signal, drink with straws. There aren’t too many
that opt for the straws.
I test the waters and call for a Guinness. It arrives sans
glass, a first for this Irishman. I ask for a glass and after
some exploration, it arrives. It’s a metal, slightly bent,
turquoise tumbler that last held Kool-Aid when I was playing
sandlot ball. The surprisingly wholesome, coed looking, bar
maid gives me a “we don’t get your kind here much” look. I
give her a slight nod and a wink. She relaxes. I know she did
her best. She might make it out.
The air is filled with Banshee- like feedback. The Karaoke is
about to begin. The DJ in an almost indistinguishable
monotone, says “ Testing one, two. He never makes it to three.
Good enough, I guess. A cavalcade of lonely people pass the
mike to one another. These are the people that lost the war
and didn’t move to Atlanta. There is a sadness that pervades
the smoky air and mingles with the still faces that listen to
each song. “All their wars are merry and all their songs are
sad” C K Chesterston.
The gravel crunches beneath my feet as I move from their
place. I can leave. For them the music keeps playing and
singers keep singing. As I reach the smooth pavement an EMS
truck pulls in to gather one of its own.
Brian Beirl
June 2000
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The Tree
“Daddy, the tree
seems smaller this year”. My immediate reaction was to explain
how she had grown and our artificial tree of fifteen Decembers
had not changed. But as I looked back with a more critical
eye, there seemed to have been a change. My training had me
flying through several calculations as I factored in the
tree’s location, tree stand and my posture. None could explain
the change.
My mind drifted back to a time when I moved into my second
decade, as my daughter had just done. Then the tree was always
different. My Dad and I would scout out trees during deer
season and drag it back in early December. I had heard at that
time that city people actually had to pay for trees that were
grown where we lived and brought to the cities on trucks. This
was as foreign to me as that place Viet Nam, where my best
friend’s big brother had gone.
There were rules then. The height of the tree was secondary to
balance. There was symmetry then, an annual wave-like rhythm
that ushered in the storms and beautiful serene evenings.
There was change but with a reassurance that the tree would
end the year and offer new beginnings.
The house is asleep. I am alone with my thoughts. Or am I?
The world has met with great change this year. Is the tree
smaller or have we all grown? There’s a light out near the
top, I can reach it and replace it. I want this tree to be as
bright as it can be. A new beginning…
Brian Beirl
November 25, 2001
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We Are Americans
We are Americans.
We are both sides of the coin. We began in suppression that
gave birth to liberty. Our liberation was frightening to some
but not a terror. We kept our ties to the old continent as we
fulfilled our own. We divided ourselves and became stronger.
We are proud of our heritage but accept the heritage of
others. We are slow to anger but strike with a swift sword. We
are peaceful but not pacifists. We have been tested throughout
our brief history and are loyal to our friends and relentless
with those that would do us harm.
We are Americans. We are optimistic yet wary. We are
individuals that come together in need. We are serious but do
not take ourselves seriously. We are technocrats that love our
land. We anguish over our politics but choose it over all
others. We accept others that are not accepted by their own.
We are Americans.
Brian Beirl
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