Con.ver.sa.tion --the informal exchange of ideas by spoken words
Yesterday he walked up to me while I was eating lunch. It was one of those "I know the face situations." He asked "I know you, don't I?" I said " Yes you do. I'm David Helms. I remember you from Kiwanis Club, but remind me of your name." And he did.
I had not seen John for over thirty years. I invited him to join me and he sat down. After exchanging a few pleasantries, he started telling me about his health issues. This is not unusual for 60- somethings and 70-somethings, as in many significant ways this is what our lives have come down to.
John began by telling me about his near miss with colon cancer. I learned that during a routine check-up visit, his doctor asked him when was the last time he had a colonoscopy. He told his doctor that he had never had one. His doctor asked, "Don't you think it's time?" And he agreed. They removed one polyp that turned out to be malignant. He underwent another surgery to remove part of the affected area of his colon. He did not need any other treatment. I interrupted him to express my gratitude that the cancer was caught in such an early stage.
John continued with his blood pressure issues. He explained that his blood pressure is controlled now with medication and he that he is doing well with it.
Next, he told me that recently he has had problems with his hip. He said that this past Monday he could hardly walk. But the pain has been more manageable since Wednesday. He explained that he has an appointment with an orthopedic surgeon to discuss a course of action.
After about fifteen minutes or so, his wife walked up to let him know that she was ready to go. I stood up to introduce myself to his wife and John stood up to leave. John continued talking a few more minutes. I interrupted with how good it was to see him. He expressed the same to me, and they walked away. I had learned several things about him. He had learned nothing about me. Not once did he ask about my family, my health, my well-being. What if he ran into another Kiwanis buddy and that person said, "How's old David doing?" I guess all he could say is, "He looked just fine to me." What else could he say?
The main thing about chronic talkers that I will never understand is how they can be so consumed with their own interests and concerns, and apparently have no interest in mine. I want to say, "Why do you assume that I'm even interested in what you have to say? What makes you think I'm even listening? Shouldn't the glazed over look in my eyes give you a hint that I checked out several minutes ago? You're just talking to yourself (your favorite person in the world). Isn't it reasonable to consider that my life is just as important as yours?"
If you are a chronic talker, I offer a few suggestions for your consideration:
1. Ask yourself why you have such a need to talk? Are you afraid that if you stop talking, then dead air will swallow both of you up in some vortex of empty space? I can assure you that the person to whom you are speaking might like an opportunity to tell you something about himself.
2. Stop talking. Just take a breath and stop talking. Let it creep into your consciousness that only one person is talking. No dialogue is taking place.
3.If #1 occurs to you and you can't do #2, then get some help. See a counselor who can help you with your narcissistic tendencies. You're paying money for this. Give the counselor an opportunity to talk and and listen to what he has to say. It will probably take more than one session.
If you are listening to a chronic talker, I offer a few suggestions to you as well:
1. If there's something you are burning to say, just interrupt the talker and say it! Be aware, however, that he is only waiting for you to shut up so that he can continue.
2. If there is a way to semi-politely end the deluge of words, exit the situation as soon as possible. If there is not a way to semi-politely end the encounter, then just leave anyway. Continuing the monologue will not edify either one of you. You have better things to do and he always can find someone else to talk to.
3. Learn from the talker. The next time you're in a conversation that is actually a dialogue, instead of just waiting for an opportunity to speak, ask a question about what was just said. Probe a little deeper. She will give you an opportunity to speak soon enough. She will express genuine interest in what you have to say.
Speech is one of those incredible miracles of the human body. A thought makes its way through the nervous system and lands on your tongue. The lungs provide the air and the energy. The air flows up through the larynx and the vocal cords vibrate. Those vibrations become sounds that are formed into words by the space in the throat, sinuses and mouth. Your lips put the finishing touches on the vowels and consonants. Then the miracle of hearing occurs. Those vibrations enter the ears of the hearer through the ear canals. The brain unravels those vibrations and interprets them into intelligible words. Then the biggest miracle of all takes place-- human interaction and dialogue. Theoretically anyway.
Saturday, May 30, 2015
Thursday, May 28, 2015
There Goes the Sun
"Smile when you're not supposed to laugh
And cry when you're supposed to hold it back
And live like the sun is burning out of the sky
'Cause tomorrow's too late so don't waste a day of this life." Another Red Light, David Hodges
My sixth grade teacher was a man. Actually, there were two new male sixth grade teachers at the College Street Elementary School that year. Mr. Columbo was one of them, and my teacher was Mr. DiMichelle. He asked us to just call him Mr.D. For an eleven year old boy to have a man teacher was pretty special.
Mr. D was a good teacher, but he was also a lot of fun. Thinking back, I realize the privilege was more for his free time than ours, but he did something for us every now and then that was quite a treat. When the bell rang for us to line up after afternoon recess, he would wait for us to get in line and then tell us to run back to the ball field. By the time we got back to class, it was nearly time to go home.
It was important to Mr. D that we experience things. I remember that he introduced us to Tchaikovsky's Swan Lake Ballet. He let us create art with crayons and paint while we listened. It was the most beautiful music I had ever heard. He also wanted us to learn about the world around us through lessons in science. I'm sure he meant no harm and certainly didn't mean to change my life, but he did exactly that. Mr. D suspended a mobile of the solar system from the ceiling. Pointing to the sun he explained that the one day the sun's energy would be exhausted and that the sun would completely burn out. In an instant I knew what that meant for me. If the sun dies, then the earth will die and I will die. It didn't matter that this event was several billion years away. It was that this cosmic catastrophe was possible at all.
Looking back I understand what a gift Mr. D gave me. At the age of eleven I realized that my life had an end date. I would love to tell you that from that day on I have treasured every moment of every day. But I can't tell you that. I would love to tell you that I've treasured every moment of this very day. But I can't tell you that either. But chances are the sun will rise tomorrow and that I will wake to see it. I'll have another day to do better at this thing called living. Or as the mystics call it --being Awake.
Tchaikovsky wasn't the only part of Russia of which Mr. D was fond. My classmate and friend Jimmy McKinney drew with chalk a marvelously beautiful mural of Moscow on the board. The fatal mistake though was when we held the Olympic games on the ball field--USA vs. Russia, complete with the respective flags. This was during the Cold War. You know when we got under our desks in case of nuclear attack. A soldier from nearby Ft. Rucker took exception to the games. He not only stopped the games and tore up the Russian flag, but made Mr. D erase Jimmy's creation as well. While we watched. That was Mr. DiMichelle's first and last year at College Street Elementary.
Our senior year Jimmy McKinney was killed in a tragic accident the night we were building our class float. I missed so much about Jimmy, but I never forgot how he brought a piece of Russia to Enterprise, Alabama. And I don't think a single Communist came out of that classroom.
"Live like the sun is burning out of the sky." It's not Russian roulette; it's science fact. Mr. D taught me that.
And cry when you're supposed to hold it back
And live like the sun is burning out of the sky
'Cause tomorrow's too late so don't waste a day of this life." Another Red Light, David Hodges
My sixth grade teacher was a man. Actually, there were two new male sixth grade teachers at the College Street Elementary School that year. Mr. Columbo was one of them, and my teacher was Mr. DiMichelle. He asked us to just call him Mr.D. For an eleven year old boy to have a man teacher was pretty special.
Mr. D was a good teacher, but he was also a lot of fun. Thinking back, I realize the privilege was more for his free time than ours, but he did something for us every now and then that was quite a treat. When the bell rang for us to line up after afternoon recess, he would wait for us to get in line and then tell us to run back to the ball field. By the time we got back to class, it was nearly time to go home.
It was important to Mr. D that we experience things. I remember that he introduced us to Tchaikovsky's Swan Lake Ballet. He let us create art with crayons and paint while we listened. It was the most beautiful music I had ever heard. He also wanted us to learn about the world around us through lessons in science. I'm sure he meant no harm and certainly didn't mean to change my life, but he did exactly that. Mr. D suspended a mobile of the solar system from the ceiling. Pointing to the sun he explained that the one day the sun's energy would be exhausted and that the sun would completely burn out. In an instant I knew what that meant for me. If the sun dies, then the earth will die and I will die. It didn't matter that this event was several billion years away. It was that this cosmic catastrophe was possible at all.
Looking back I understand what a gift Mr. D gave me. At the age of eleven I realized that my life had an end date. I would love to tell you that from that day on I have treasured every moment of every day. But I can't tell you that. I would love to tell you that I've treasured every moment of this very day. But I can't tell you that either. But chances are the sun will rise tomorrow and that I will wake to see it. I'll have another day to do better at this thing called living. Or as the mystics call it --being Awake.
Tchaikovsky wasn't the only part of Russia of which Mr. D was fond. My classmate and friend Jimmy McKinney drew with chalk a marvelously beautiful mural of Moscow on the board. The fatal mistake though was when we held the Olympic games on the ball field--USA vs. Russia, complete with the respective flags. This was during the Cold War. You know when we got under our desks in case of nuclear attack. A soldier from nearby Ft. Rucker took exception to the games. He not only stopped the games and tore up the Russian flag, but made Mr. D erase Jimmy's creation as well. While we watched. That was Mr. DiMichelle's first and last year at College Street Elementary.
Our senior year Jimmy McKinney was killed in a tragic accident the night we were building our class float. I missed so much about Jimmy, but I never forgot how he brought a piece of Russia to Enterprise, Alabama. And I don't think a single Communist came out of that classroom.
"Live like the sun is burning out of the sky." It's not Russian roulette; it's science fact. Mr. D taught me that.
Sunday, May 24, 2015
Sanctuary
Yesterday my son texted me, "Dad, looking at the map, we're going to be stopping for lunch in Sedona".
How is it that my family keeps accidentally stumbling into Sedona, Arizona?
In May of 1996 my brother and I had experienced the trip of a lifetime at the south rim of the Grand Canyon. On that rim at midnight the first night of our trip, the Hale Bopp Comet hung silently over our heads. Were we at the Grand Canyon or had we been propelled into outer space? The comet seemed as close to me as my brother standing beside me.
While there we took a perimeter tour of the state including a trek in Monument Valley, Utah and Canyon De Chelly. This canyon is a very sacred place to the Navajo and includes centuries of their tribal history. Just being there viewing the ruins and wading in the river was a spiritual experience. As it turns out, it wasn't our most significant spiritual experience.
After a week of gazing, hiking, driving, talking and laughing, we said goodbye to the canyon and headed out to the airport in Phoenix. We were both very content with the miles behind us. We were very content to be flying home.
Before we left, a woman we were chatting with asked us if we were going to see Sedona. Neither of us had ever heard of the place. She suggested that we didn't need to miss Sedona, Arizona. As it turned out Sedona was just off our route of I-17 on AZ 89A. We had a few hours to spare before our flight that afternoon.
Although our eyes and souls were full of incredible places, just driving into Sedona we both were taken with the beauty of the red rock town and the sense of "presence" there. We had no idea that the town was the "new age Mecca" of the world. After walking around a while, we settled into lunch in a quaint cafe. As we were about to leave, our server asked us if we were going to see the Chapel of the Holy Cross. "Never heard of it." With enough time for one last adventure, we followed her directions to the church. We found a church built into the side of a red rock mountain. The most striking part of the structure was the prominent three story cross built into the front of the church. We parked our car and walked up the long sidewalk having no idea what to expect.
Entering the back of the church, we immediately heard the soft Gregorian chant playing in the sanctuary. The only things in there were pews, a few people and small tealight candles burning in glass receptacles toward the front of the church. When we sat down we were taken by the view through the floor to ceiling window looking through the cross. The vista was certainly nothing we had ever experienced in churches in Alabama, Kentucky and Georgia. A small sign read that for a donation of fifty cents you could light a candle as a prayer for whoever you wish. I invested a dollar for two.
We both sat quietly and reverently for quite a while. I thought about and prayed for the persons for whom those candles were burning. The combination of the chant, the view and the flickering candles created a holy space and holy experience for which neither of us, to this day, have any words. How can two souls already full to overflowing be filled again? I guess a human's capacity for inspiration and revelation can never be satiated.
You hate to leave a moment like that, but we had a plane to catch and families expecting us..
On the drive to Phoenix and the flight back home, of all the images from my experience it was the feelings from that chapel that stayed with me the longest.
I don't remember ever communicating to my son what "Sedona" had meant to me. But I must have, When he texted that they would be lunching there, I knew that I had told him. I knew he knew.
As the Christian pioneers moved west in the 19th Century, the American Indians were perplexed that they choose to worship the Creator inside dark boxes on Sunday instead of in His creation every day. So how is it that of all that we had seen, of all that we had taken in, it was what happened in that dark box that meant the most to us? Maybe the depth of the canyon had carved out a cavern in our souls that was starving to be filled. I don't really know. I can only call it the mystery of the Spirit. The accidental stumbling onto a holy place.
Over the years going back to Sedona, Arizona on purpose has remained on my list of things to do. It just moved much further up my list. Meanwhile, I'm very grateful my son bothered to text me. Good memories are almost as good as being there. Well, not really.
How is it that my family keeps accidentally stumbling into Sedona, Arizona?
In May of 1996 my brother and I had experienced the trip of a lifetime at the south rim of the Grand Canyon. On that rim at midnight the first night of our trip, the Hale Bopp Comet hung silently over our heads. Were we at the Grand Canyon or had we been propelled into outer space? The comet seemed as close to me as my brother standing beside me.
While there we took a perimeter tour of the state including a trek in Monument Valley, Utah and Canyon De Chelly. This canyon is a very sacred place to the Navajo and includes centuries of their tribal history. Just being there viewing the ruins and wading in the river was a spiritual experience. As it turns out, it wasn't our most significant spiritual experience.
After a week of gazing, hiking, driving, talking and laughing, we said goodbye to the canyon and headed out to the airport in Phoenix. We were both very content with the miles behind us. We were very content to be flying home.
Before we left, a woman we were chatting with asked us if we were going to see Sedona. Neither of us had ever heard of the place. She suggested that we didn't need to miss Sedona, Arizona. As it turned out Sedona was just off our route of I-17 on AZ 89A. We had a few hours to spare before our flight that afternoon.
Although our eyes and souls were full of incredible places, just driving into Sedona we both were taken with the beauty of the red rock town and the sense of "presence" there. We had no idea that the town was the "new age Mecca" of the world. After walking around a while, we settled into lunch in a quaint cafe. As we were about to leave, our server asked us if we were going to see the Chapel of the Holy Cross. "Never heard of it." With enough time for one last adventure, we followed her directions to the church. We found a church built into the side of a red rock mountain. The most striking part of the structure was the prominent three story cross built into the front of the church. We parked our car and walked up the long sidewalk having no idea what to expect.
Entering the back of the church, we immediately heard the soft Gregorian chant playing in the sanctuary. The only things in there were pews, a few people and small tealight candles burning in glass receptacles toward the front of the church. When we sat down we were taken by the view through the floor to ceiling window looking through the cross. The vista was certainly nothing we had ever experienced in churches in Alabama, Kentucky and Georgia. A small sign read that for a donation of fifty cents you could light a candle as a prayer for whoever you wish. I invested a dollar for two.
We both sat quietly and reverently for quite a while. I thought about and prayed for the persons for whom those candles were burning. The combination of the chant, the view and the flickering candles created a holy space and holy experience for which neither of us, to this day, have any words. How can two souls already full to overflowing be filled again? I guess a human's capacity for inspiration and revelation can never be satiated.
You hate to leave a moment like that, but we had a plane to catch and families expecting us..
On the drive to Phoenix and the flight back home, of all the images from my experience it was the feelings from that chapel that stayed with me the longest.
I don't remember ever communicating to my son what "Sedona" had meant to me. But I must have, When he texted that they would be lunching there, I knew that I had told him. I knew he knew.
As the Christian pioneers moved west in the 19th Century, the American Indians were perplexed that they choose to worship the Creator inside dark boxes on Sunday instead of in His creation every day. So how is it that of all that we had seen, of all that we had taken in, it was what happened in that dark box that meant the most to us? Maybe the depth of the canyon had carved out a cavern in our souls that was starving to be filled. I don't really know. I can only call it the mystery of the Spirit. The accidental stumbling onto a holy place.
Over the years going back to Sedona, Arizona on purpose has remained on my list of things to do. It just moved much further up my list. Meanwhile, I'm very grateful my son bothered to text me. Good memories are almost as good as being there. Well, not really.
Thursday, May 21, 2015
Manual Labor
At the age of 12 I learned in dramatic fashion the difference between the brake and the clutch. My grandfather asked me to help him feed his cattle. He sat on the trailer throwing hay bales off while I drove the tractor. There were no tires on the trailer wheels. When I depressed the clutch on the left, the tractor stopped in the soft pasture just as quickly as when I used the brake on the right. So I thought they were about the same and only used the clutch to stop. That worked well until we started down a hill. I depressed the clutch expecting it all to stop, but it just kept going faster. Too late to use the brake, and just before plowing through a fence, I turned abruptly to the left dumping my grandfather and most of the hay against the fence. I apologized profusely. He got up and said he was ok. Later when I asked him about it, he said "I was stove up a bit." Grandfathers are like that.
I have taught a number of people how to drive a car with a straight shift. It has cost me a lot of time, a little gas, and quite a bit of mileage off several sets of tires.
Driving a "stick" or manual transmission is tricky until you get the hang of it. Then it's, well, automatic. Anyone who has driven a stick shift for any length of time no longer has to think about what he's doing. It becomes a natural as breathing.
At first though, it's fairly difficult to master the art. It's all about applying the clutch, the brake and the throttle. They each have to be employed in the right measure at the precise moment or the car won't go. It's not enough to just let out the clutch. If you don't have enough throttle the car will die. If you have too much throttle, you're going to burn the tires. Either way doesn't work. If you happen to be on an incline, then it becomes more problematic. Now you have to hold the car with the brake until you release the clutch. This process involves moving the right foot from the brake to the throttle at the same time you're releasing the clutch. If you do it wrong, you'll stall, burn the tires, or roll into the car behind you. You need to become fairly adept with a stick before you attempt starting on a hill,
The five speed is the most common manual transmission. The gears are first through fifth. First is "low gear" and fifth is "high gear." Depressing the clutch in any gear disengages the clutch plate just as if the car is in neutral. You start idling with the clutch depressed in first gear. When you release the clutch you start rolling in first gear. Then you press the clutch and shift to second. When exactly do you do that? When it's time to. You go by the sound of the engine and the feel of the car. You could refer to the tachometer, but that's really not necessary. Then you shift to third, to fourth and to fifth. But you don't have to shift up and down in that order. As you approach a stop while in fifth gear, you'll depress the clutch and shift back to first. If you're cruising in fifth and need immediate acceleration, you might shift back to third for the extra pep. Then up to fourth and fifth. The transmission doesn't care which gear you're in. But if you shift from high to too low, you're going to put yourself in the dashboard, because the low gear can't keep up with the speed of the car. This is also not too good for the transmission. Over time using the correct gear becomes second nature.
I think I move in five speeds as well. When the alarm rings I'm in neutral. After my head clears, I'm in first. Second gets me to the shower. After my shower I'm in third. By the time I get to work I'm in fourth. By ten or so, after the coffee kicks in, I'm mostly in high gear for the rest of the day. I then downshift and upshift as situations require.
I don't remember who taught me to drive a stick. It was probably my father since the first manual transmission I drove was one of his dump trucks. It was a four speed with a split shift. The split shift splits each gear by moving the rear differential. Using some fancy footwork, involving double clutching between gears, I turned the truck into an eight speed. My first car, a 1950 Chevy Deluxe, had three gears on the column. What made it particularly tricky is if I came to a complete stop with the car in third gear, then it was stuck in third gear. I then had to start the car moving in third gear. This involved much rpm and a very slow start. On a hill, this was almost impossible to do. I didn't make that mistake many times before I bumped it out of third before I stopped.
I haven't owned a car with a stick in several years. But today I jumped in a five speed F-150 and it was just like riding a bicycle. My hands and feet knew exactly what to do with little or no conscious effort on my part. It reminded me how much I enjoy driving a vehicle with a manual transmission.
Now to be able to "get it in high gear" as soon as the clock alarms.
I have taught a number of people how to drive a car with a straight shift. It has cost me a lot of time, a little gas, and quite a bit of mileage off several sets of tires.
Driving a "stick" or manual transmission is tricky until you get the hang of it. Then it's, well, automatic. Anyone who has driven a stick shift for any length of time no longer has to think about what he's doing. It becomes a natural as breathing.
At first though, it's fairly difficult to master the art. It's all about applying the clutch, the brake and the throttle. They each have to be employed in the right measure at the precise moment or the car won't go. It's not enough to just let out the clutch. If you don't have enough throttle the car will die. If you have too much throttle, you're going to burn the tires. Either way doesn't work. If you happen to be on an incline, then it becomes more problematic. Now you have to hold the car with the brake until you release the clutch. This process involves moving the right foot from the brake to the throttle at the same time you're releasing the clutch. If you do it wrong, you'll stall, burn the tires, or roll into the car behind you. You need to become fairly adept with a stick before you attempt starting on a hill,
The five speed is the most common manual transmission. The gears are first through fifth. First is "low gear" and fifth is "high gear." Depressing the clutch in any gear disengages the clutch plate just as if the car is in neutral. You start idling with the clutch depressed in first gear. When you release the clutch you start rolling in first gear. Then you press the clutch and shift to second. When exactly do you do that? When it's time to. You go by the sound of the engine and the feel of the car. You could refer to the tachometer, but that's really not necessary. Then you shift to third, to fourth and to fifth. But you don't have to shift up and down in that order. As you approach a stop while in fifth gear, you'll depress the clutch and shift back to first. If you're cruising in fifth and need immediate acceleration, you might shift back to third for the extra pep. Then up to fourth and fifth. The transmission doesn't care which gear you're in. But if you shift from high to too low, you're going to put yourself in the dashboard, because the low gear can't keep up with the speed of the car. This is also not too good for the transmission. Over time using the correct gear becomes second nature.
I think I move in five speeds as well. When the alarm rings I'm in neutral. After my head clears, I'm in first. Second gets me to the shower. After my shower I'm in third. By the time I get to work I'm in fourth. By ten or so, after the coffee kicks in, I'm mostly in high gear for the rest of the day. I then downshift and upshift as situations require.
I don't remember who taught me to drive a stick. It was probably my father since the first manual transmission I drove was one of his dump trucks. It was a four speed with a split shift. The split shift splits each gear by moving the rear differential. Using some fancy footwork, involving double clutching between gears, I turned the truck into an eight speed. My first car, a 1950 Chevy Deluxe, had three gears on the column. What made it particularly tricky is if I came to a complete stop with the car in third gear, then it was stuck in third gear. I then had to start the car moving in third gear. This involved much rpm and a very slow start. On a hill, this was almost impossible to do. I didn't make that mistake many times before I bumped it out of third before I stopped.
I haven't owned a car with a stick in several years. But today I jumped in a five speed F-150 and it was just like riding a bicycle. My hands and feet knew exactly what to do with little or no conscious effort on my part. It reminded me how much I enjoy driving a vehicle with a manual transmission.
Now to be able to "get it in high gear" as soon as the clock alarms.
Monday, May 18, 2015
Good Night and Good Luck
Sometimes you don't know a chapter of your life had closed until years later. You look back and realize that it was the last time you saw them alive or at least the last time you saw them. Or you realize that you've never been back there and probably won't go back there. It was the last time you ever saw that place. And usually you realize all these things much too late to do anything about it.
This was not such an occasion. We knew that we were closing the book on West Lafayette, Indiana. After having an intimate relationship with the town for over eight years, yesterday we said goodbye. To some extent it was good riddance, But how can we say that when so much of our lives have been wrapped up in that place? For two people born and raised in Alabama and who have lived in Georgia for 36 years, who would have thought we would spend so much time in West Lafayette, Indiana? How did it even get on our map?
And unless our seven year old granddaughter attends Purdue University and we're alive to see it, I can't think of a single reason we would ever go back there.
Being there yesterday was very important. It was extraordinary! It was important to us and to a lot of people. It was a once in a lifetime occasion for many. We wouldn't have missed it for the world. But that was yesterday. Today, one day later, there's nothing there that we care to see or care to do. All the people we have loved there have moved on.
And we move on.
A benediction: May God bless all of our comings and goings in West Lafayette, Indiana. May You water the seeds of love and affection that we scattered there over these years. May they bloom and grow and feed the multitudes who remain, as we share our love in other places. Thank you for blessing all of our hellos and now we ask You to bless our goodbye. Amen.
This was not such an occasion. We knew that we were closing the book on West Lafayette, Indiana. After having an intimate relationship with the town for over eight years, yesterday we said goodbye. To some extent it was good riddance, But how can we say that when so much of our lives have been wrapped up in that place? For two people born and raised in Alabama and who have lived in Georgia for 36 years, who would have thought we would spend so much time in West Lafayette, Indiana? How did it even get on our map?
And unless our seven year old granddaughter attends Purdue University and we're alive to see it, I can't think of a single reason we would ever go back there.
Being there yesterday was very important. It was extraordinary! It was important to us and to a lot of people. It was a once in a lifetime occasion for many. We wouldn't have missed it for the world. But that was yesterday. Today, one day later, there's nothing there that we care to see or care to do. All the people we have loved there have moved on.
And we move on.
A benediction: May God bless all of our comings and goings in West Lafayette, Indiana. May You water the seeds of love and affection that we scattered there over these years. May they bloom and grow and feed the multitudes who remain, as we share our love in other places. Thank you for blessing all of our hellos and now we ask You to bless our goodbye. Amen.
Thursday, May 14, 2015
The Gift of Honeysuckle
Yesterday afternoon I smelled it before I saw it. It was the pervasive and unmistakable fragrance of honeysuckle. There are certain sights, sounds and aromas that trigger in me a mixture of joy and of pain. Honeysuckle is one of those fragrances.
There are 20 species of honeysuckle native to North America. But since I don't know one from another, it's all just honeysuckle to me. Medical professionals have found a myriad of medicinal uses for the plant including treatment for digestive disorders all the way to help with diabetes.
The first morning I started out to sell books door-to-door the summer of 1971, I smelled honeysuckle. I used honeysuckle as a sort of talisman. But instead of believing the vine was endowed with any magical powers, I thought it was endowed with spiritual powers. I mentally referenced the Bible verse, "I am the vine and you are the branches" and accepted the honeysuckle as a symbol of God's presence. Every morning I tore off about a foot of the vine and put it in my sales kit. Every time I opened the kit I could smell it and I invoked the presence of God.
The honeysuckle is a mixed bag for me. I certainly enjoy the fragrance that pervades my back yard. And I enjoy plucking a flower, biting off the green tag and sucking the nectar from the flower. It tastes like summers at my grandmother's house. Her country farmhouse yard and the surrounding woods were filled with honeysuckle vines. Anywhere there were shrubs and bushes there was honeysuckle.
So then what's wrong with honeysuckle? Why do I have mixed feelings? Nothing's wrong with honeysuckle. It's the fragrance of heaven and the nectar of the gods. But the fragrance makes me homesick. I'm not only homesick for Granny's farm outside of Enterprise, Alabama, but I channel that homesick kid selling family Bibles in Kentucky. I simultaneously am very proud of him and very sad for him as well. That seventeen year old Alabama boy was as mixed up as anyone could be. And he was mostly alone a long way from home. I know all too well that he had problems honeysuckle couldn't fix. But it made him feel better, so for that I am very grateful.
And to this day honeysuckle still represents for me the presence of God. Just the fact that it's there fills me with happiness. It's not like I planted it or watered it or tended it in any way. And yet it remembers to grow every summer with absolutely no effort from me. It's a gift. As I pluck a flower and suck the nectar, such as now, I am still reminded that I am grafted into the vine. That lonely mixed up kid did a good thing from which I still benefit. I am aware that my life is a part of something much bigger than I am. I am filled with an awareness of the Mystery that pervades my sight and my senses.
In the scheme of things, it's the joy of honeysuckle that supersedes the pain. I'll always miss my grandmother and will always hurt for that salesman in Kentucky, but I welcome the honeysuckle to my yard year after year. Some things that hurt, hurt good.
For some people the bread and the wine works best, I'll take honeysuckle any day.
There are 20 species of honeysuckle native to North America. But since I don't know one from another, it's all just honeysuckle to me. Medical professionals have found a myriad of medicinal uses for the plant including treatment for digestive disorders all the way to help with diabetes.
The first morning I started out to sell books door-to-door the summer of 1971, I smelled honeysuckle. I used honeysuckle as a sort of talisman. But instead of believing the vine was endowed with any magical powers, I thought it was endowed with spiritual powers. I mentally referenced the Bible verse, "I am the vine and you are the branches" and accepted the honeysuckle as a symbol of God's presence. Every morning I tore off about a foot of the vine and put it in my sales kit. Every time I opened the kit I could smell it and I invoked the presence of God.
The honeysuckle is a mixed bag for me. I certainly enjoy the fragrance that pervades my back yard. And I enjoy plucking a flower, biting off the green tag and sucking the nectar from the flower. It tastes like summers at my grandmother's house. Her country farmhouse yard and the surrounding woods were filled with honeysuckle vines. Anywhere there were shrubs and bushes there was honeysuckle.
So then what's wrong with honeysuckle? Why do I have mixed feelings? Nothing's wrong with honeysuckle. It's the fragrance of heaven and the nectar of the gods. But the fragrance makes me homesick. I'm not only homesick for Granny's farm outside of Enterprise, Alabama, but I channel that homesick kid selling family Bibles in Kentucky. I simultaneously am very proud of him and very sad for him as well. That seventeen year old Alabama boy was as mixed up as anyone could be. And he was mostly alone a long way from home. I know all too well that he had problems honeysuckle couldn't fix. But it made him feel better, so for that I am very grateful.
And to this day honeysuckle still represents for me the presence of God. Just the fact that it's there fills me with happiness. It's not like I planted it or watered it or tended it in any way. And yet it remembers to grow every summer with absolutely no effort from me. It's a gift. As I pluck a flower and suck the nectar, such as now, I am still reminded that I am grafted into the vine. That lonely mixed up kid did a good thing from which I still benefit. I am aware that my life is a part of something much bigger than I am. I am filled with an awareness of the Mystery that pervades my sight and my senses.
In the scheme of things, it's the joy of honeysuckle that supersedes the pain. I'll always miss my grandmother and will always hurt for that salesman in Kentucky, but I welcome the honeysuckle to my yard year after year. Some things that hurt, hurt good.
For some people the bread and the wine works best, I'll take honeysuckle any day.
Monday, May 11, 2015
On Getting Unstuck
This morning I nearly got stuck in a crawl space under a large cabin. The homeowners were home so my life was never in danger. But explain that to my adrenaline system. The owners would have missed me eventually and would have found a way to help me I'm sure. But still I was in a very tight and very uncomfortable situation.
I was in the very back corner of a rather large crawl space when it happened. I'm not terribly claustrophobic, but the deeper I go into a crawl space the more claustrophobic I get. It's just the further I crawl the more plumbing, duct work and other obstructions there are between me and the crawl door. I keep a mental inventory about what's behind me. I was as far back as I could get. My only light, of course, was my flashlight.
I was on my stomach at this point. To continue my inspection of the space, it looked like I was going to be able to crawl under some duct work. However, I had to crawl over some plumbing to get there. The plumbing was too low to crawl under it so I had to go over it. The plumbing and the duct work were only about three feet apart. I managed to get one leg over the plumbing and then hoist the other one over without tearing something up. Now I was in an extremely tight squeeze between the plumbing and the duct work. It was not somewhere I wanted to stay very long.
I laid back down and started crawling under the duct work. I realized too late that it was too low for me to crawl under. There was no way I could get under it without getting stuck.There was no room for me to turn around and I didn't see how I could crawl backwards over the plumbing that was very difficult to navigate going forward. At least not without damaging the house. There was duct work in front of me as well. So I was stuck. Or at least it felt like I was.
Panic started creeping up my spine and my breathing became very labored. I had been in many tight places, but never anything like this. I had no point of reference for my dilemma. Knowing that panic would not serve me well, I knew that I had to calm down. I got very still and slowed my breathing. I just breathed in and out slowly getting my whits about me. After I got my breathing more under control, I took my flashlight and assessed my situation. I confirmed that I couldn't go under the duct work and that there was no good way to go back over the plumbing. Then I noticed that the large duct work in front of me was of the flexible variety. It was almost on the ground, but it was flexible. That appeared to be the only way out.
I wasn't too happy crawling under something that low to the ground, but I didn't feel like I had another option. Staying where I was certainly wasn't an option. I pushed my head under the duct and pushing with my toes I pushed my shoulders through, my back through and then I was clear.
Yes there are lessons to be learned about navigating crawl spaces, but I think there are life lessons to be learned as well.
On getting unstuck--physically and emotionally:
1.Sit still--just stop moving. Stop doing anything. Just be completely still.
2.Slow your breathing--Take slow, deep breaths. Don't take fast deep breaths or you could hyperventilate. Real slow. Real easy. Real slow. Real easy. Real slow. Real easy. That's it. Slowly.
3. Assess your situation--Take an inventory of your options. Eliminate as many as possible.
4. Decide your best option--Of all the options available, choose one.
5. Move in that direction--Now is when you move. Important: notice you have not moved until now. So go.
Most of us never venture into a crawl space, but all of us get stuck from time to time. Getting stuck is easy. Getting unstuck takes some effort.
I was in the very back corner of a rather large crawl space when it happened. I'm not terribly claustrophobic, but the deeper I go into a crawl space the more claustrophobic I get. It's just the further I crawl the more plumbing, duct work and other obstructions there are between me and the crawl door. I keep a mental inventory about what's behind me. I was as far back as I could get. My only light, of course, was my flashlight.
I was on my stomach at this point. To continue my inspection of the space, it looked like I was going to be able to crawl under some duct work. However, I had to crawl over some plumbing to get there. The plumbing was too low to crawl under it so I had to go over it. The plumbing and the duct work were only about three feet apart. I managed to get one leg over the plumbing and then hoist the other one over without tearing something up. Now I was in an extremely tight squeeze between the plumbing and the duct work. It was not somewhere I wanted to stay very long.
I laid back down and started crawling under the duct work. I realized too late that it was too low for me to crawl under. There was no way I could get under it without getting stuck.There was no room for me to turn around and I didn't see how I could crawl backwards over the plumbing that was very difficult to navigate going forward. At least not without damaging the house. There was duct work in front of me as well. So I was stuck. Or at least it felt like I was.
Panic started creeping up my spine and my breathing became very labored. I had been in many tight places, but never anything like this. I had no point of reference for my dilemma. Knowing that panic would not serve me well, I knew that I had to calm down. I got very still and slowed my breathing. I just breathed in and out slowly getting my whits about me. After I got my breathing more under control, I took my flashlight and assessed my situation. I confirmed that I couldn't go under the duct work and that there was no good way to go back over the plumbing. Then I noticed that the large duct work in front of me was of the flexible variety. It was almost on the ground, but it was flexible. That appeared to be the only way out.
I wasn't too happy crawling under something that low to the ground, but I didn't feel like I had another option. Staying where I was certainly wasn't an option. I pushed my head under the duct and pushing with my toes I pushed my shoulders through, my back through and then I was clear.
Yes there are lessons to be learned about navigating crawl spaces, but I think there are life lessons to be learned as well.
On getting unstuck--physically and emotionally:
1.Sit still--just stop moving. Stop doing anything. Just be completely still.
2.Slow your breathing--Take slow, deep breaths. Don't take fast deep breaths or you could hyperventilate. Real slow. Real easy. Real slow. Real easy. Real slow. Real easy. That's it. Slowly.
3. Assess your situation--Take an inventory of your options. Eliminate as many as possible.
4. Decide your best option--Of all the options available, choose one.
5. Move in that direction--Now is when you move. Important: notice you have not moved until now. So go.
Most of us never venture into a crawl space, but all of us get stuck from time to time. Getting stuck is easy. Getting unstuck takes some effort.
Saturday, May 9, 2015
How the West Was Won (Part 2)
"As long as there are men, there will be war." Albert Einstein
Like most kids during the sixties, I played a lot of "cowboys and Indians". Sometimes I played with my brother and sometimes I played with my friends. We used sticks or just our fingers as our pistols and rifles. By the time we got old enough to own BB guns, we had lost interest in the game. Probably just as well.
While playing cowboys and Indians, I preferred, like any red-blooded Caucasian citizen of the United States of America, to be the cowboy. I wanted to be the "good guy." But since somebody had to be the Indian, I took my necessary turns as the "red man."
In my history courses through my secondary education, the American story was always told through the eyes of the colonists and the American frontiersmen. From the beginning of the American story, the Indians, "the savages," needed to be tamed or eradicated. We appreciated what the Wampanoag did for the colonists that first Thanksgiving, but within a few years we went to war with them and wiped most of them out. Each year on Thanksgiving Day, the Wampanoag observe a national day of mourning at Plymouth Rock.
As the early Americans began to spread west, "the Indian" was a huge problem. Again, the history I was taught was from the perspective of the pioneers and not from the natives.
Back in the summer of 1985, I spent a week on a Navajo reservation in Farmington, New Mexico. I got bitten by the "Indian bug" in a big way. I immediately became a student of all things American Indian. Through my readings about Indian warfare, culture and religion, I was introduced to a Lakota Sioux medicine man called Black Elk. From there I read volumes about the Lakota Sioux. I devoured books about Sitting Bull, Crazy Horse, Dull Knife, Red Cloud and others. The more I read, the more I sided with the Indians against the Cavalry. Given a choice between being a cowboy or an Indian, I was now an Indian every time. You know, "a good guy."
There were a multitude of atrocities on both sides. The most notable - from the perspective of the Indians - was the massacre at Wounded Knee on the morning of December 29th, 1890. The Indians did their share of merciless killings as well. But the Wounded Knee massacre will always be a testimony to the malicious nature of men, even men in uniform.
Again, the Indians were also horrible. Many of them didn't just kill the pioneers, settlers and the soldiers, they tortured them in unthinkable ways and left their mutilated bodies for the animals and birds to finish off. The more pain and suffering that they inflicted, the more glory in battle, I have learned that the Comanche and the Sioux were particularly heartless. Their brutality staggers the imagination of what humans can do to other humans.
It has been an eye opening experience for me to learn that my beloved Lakota Sioux were ruthless killers. What I've learned is that the Indians were scalping each other for centuries before they were scalping the white man. Counting coup was a right of passage for any young warrior. A goal of any warrior was for his tribe to dance and sing songs about his bravery. Long before the Indians were stealing the soldier's horses, they were stealing horses from each other. The Lakota Sioux claimed that Wakan Tanka had given them the Black Hills. The truth is that the region had been inhabited for centuries by the Arikara, Cheyenne, Crow, Kiowa and Pawnee. The Sioux drove the Pawnee from their homes and claimed the "sacred hills" for themselves. Seems that Wakan Tanka had a little help.
So does that mean that the U.S. Cavalry was justified in what they did at Wounded Knee? That they had every right to surround women, children and old men with Hotchkiss machine guns and cut them down in cold blood while they were running and screaming in terror? Following the directive from Washington of General Philip Sheridan that "the only good Indian is a dead Indian, the soldiers of the US Cavalry chased the survivors through the snow-covered woods shooting as many women and children as possible covering the white snow with crimson. They bashed the babies' heads open with their rifle butts. God bless America!
So then who are the good guys, the cowboys or the Indians? Depends on which cowboy and which Indian. Kit Carson was a good guy. Black Elk, a holy man, was a good guy. Lewis and Clark were good guys. Crazy Horse was a decorated warrior, but for me he's a good guy. Bill Cody was a good guy. Sitting Bull, another great Sioux warrior, was a good guy. Davy Crockett and Daniel Boone were good guys. Who was the good guy, Cain or Abel? They were both good guys. But both of them had one very bad day.
Human beings are capable of near divine acts of love and kindness. Human beings are capable of doing unthinkable atrocities to one another. My brother and I didn't need BB guns. From the beginning of time sticks and stones have been breaking bones. It's what men do.
Like most kids during the sixties, I played a lot of "cowboys and Indians". Sometimes I played with my brother and sometimes I played with my friends. We used sticks or just our fingers as our pistols and rifles. By the time we got old enough to own BB guns, we had lost interest in the game. Probably just as well.
While playing cowboys and Indians, I preferred, like any red-blooded Caucasian citizen of the United States of America, to be the cowboy. I wanted to be the "good guy." But since somebody had to be the Indian, I took my necessary turns as the "red man."
In my history courses through my secondary education, the American story was always told through the eyes of the colonists and the American frontiersmen. From the beginning of the American story, the Indians, "the savages," needed to be tamed or eradicated. We appreciated what the Wampanoag did for the colonists that first Thanksgiving, but within a few years we went to war with them and wiped most of them out. Each year on Thanksgiving Day, the Wampanoag observe a national day of mourning at Plymouth Rock.
As the early Americans began to spread west, "the Indian" was a huge problem. Again, the history I was taught was from the perspective of the pioneers and not from the natives.
Back in the summer of 1985, I spent a week on a Navajo reservation in Farmington, New Mexico. I got bitten by the "Indian bug" in a big way. I immediately became a student of all things American Indian. Through my readings about Indian warfare, culture and religion, I was introduced to a Lakota Sioux medicine man called Black Elk. From there I read volumes about the Lakota Sioux. I devoured books about Sitting Bull, Crazy Horse, Dull Knife, Red Cloud and others. The more I read, the more I sided with the Indians against the Cavalry. Given a choice between being a cowboy or an Indian, I was now an Indian every time. You know, "a good guy."
There were a multitude of atrocities on both sides. The most notable - from the perspective of the Indians - was the massacre at Wounded Knee on the morning of December 29th, 1890. The Indians did their share of merciless killings as well. But the Wounded Knee massacre will always be a testimony to the malicious nature of men, even men in uniform.
Again, the Indians were also horrible. Many of them didn't just kill the pioneers, settlers and the soldiers, they tortured them in unthinkable ways and left their mutilated bodies for the animals and birds to finish off. The more pain and suffering that they inflicted, the more glory in battle, I have learned that the Comanche and the Sioux were particularly heartless. Their brutality staggers the imagination of what humans can do to other humans.
It has been an eye opening experience for me to learn that my beloved Lakota Sioux were ruthless killers. What I've learned is that the Indians were scalping each other for centuries before they were scalping the white man. Counting coup was a right of passage for any young warrior. A goal of any warrior was for his tribe to dance and sing songs about his bravery. Long before the Indians were stealing the soldier's horses, they were stealing horses from each other. The Lakota Sioux claimed that Wakan Tanka had given them the Black Hills. The truth is that the region had been inhabited for centuries by the Arikara, Cheyenne, Crow, Kiowa and Pawnee. The Sioux drove the Pawnee from their homes and claimed the "sacred hills" for themselves. Seems that Wakan Tanka had a little help.
So does that mean that the U.S. Cavalry was justified in what they did at Wounded Knee? That they had every right to surround women, children and old men with Hotchkiss machine guns and cut them down in cold blood while they were running and screaming in terror? Following the directive from Washington of General Philip Sheridan that "the only good Indian is a dead Indian, the soldiers of the US Cavalry chased the survivors through the snow-covered woods shooting as many women and children as possible covering the white snow with crimson. They bashed the babies' heads open with their rifle butts. God bless America!
So then who are the good guys, the cowboys or the Indians? Depends on which cowboy and which Indian. Kit Carson was a good guy. Black Elk, a holy man, was a good guy. Lewis and Clark were good guys. Crazy Horse was a decorated warrior, but for me he's a good guy. Bill Cody was a good guy. Sitting Bull, another great Sioux warrior, was a good guy. Davy Crockett and Daniel Boone were good guys. Who was the good guy, Cain or Abel? They were both good guys. But both of them had one very bad day.
Human beings are capable of near divine acts of love and kindness. Human beings are capable of doing unthinkable atrocities to one another. My brother and I didn't need BB guns. From the beginning of time sticks and stones have been breaking bones. It's what men do.
Friday, May 8, 2015
How the West Was Won
My brother and I are planning a trip in the fall. For several years we have taken an excursion, usually in the fall, to various destinations. Two years ago he gave me one of the most intriguing challenges of my life. He said, "I'm ready to take a trip with you. Only I don't want to know where we're going or what we're going to be doing. I want you to plan the whole trip. You just tell me where to show up and I'll meet you there." He then gave me the amount of money he was willing to spend, pointed to a map of the United States and cut me loose.
At first I liked the idea. I thought it would be great fun to put together such a trip for the two of us. I wouldn't even need any of his input! I could plan to my heart's content. However, very early in the process, I realized that I had a huge problem. On a trip, any trip, I'm a "go with the flow" type of person - a team player. I tend to yield to the wishes of the group (of two or more). So now at every turn while planning this dream trip for my brother, I couldn't run any ideas by him. The deeper into the planning, the more pronounced this problem became for me. Hundreds of times I just needed to know his preferences on a few simple things.
But I kept the faith and pressed toward the mark. I knew from the beginning that the trip would involve the north rim of the Grand Canyon. He and I had explored the south rim on a previous trip and both of us wanted to see the north rim. But with the amount of time and money he gave me to spend, I knew we could see much more than the Grand Canyon.
After weeks of planning, after considering and scrapping several different destinations, the trip included exploring the Grand Canyon, Zion Canyon and Bryce Canyon. And because we flew in and out of there, the trip included a night in Las Vegas. Really, that's the only reason we stayed there!
Since I am directionally challenged, I put several redundant systems in place for getting around. AAA sent me spiral bound Trip-tic maps that included turn-by-turn directions to and from each waypoint. They also provided road maps of Nevada, Utah and Arizona. To top it off they sent me sight-seeing guides for each of the three states. We would also have a GPS but I read not to put all our trust in a GPS. I even read a story of a woman traveling alone in Arizona whose GPS led her astray. She ran out of gas, out of water and died. I didn't want either of us to die on a trip that I had planned. But not to worry. I had professionally bound driving directions and state maps. We were in great shape.
After about eight months of planning the week of the trip finally arrived. I was excited but I I kept feeling like I had forgotten something. I checked the confirmation on all the lodging. I checked all the boarding passes. I checked the reservations for various activities I had planned. I did all this several times that week. The night before the trip I decided that we were good to go. My brother spent the night at our house, and at 4:00 am the next morning, we boarded a shuttle van and headed to the Atlanta airport. I still couldn't shake a very uneasy feeling.
About twenty miles down the road in a powerful flash of realization, I saw a stack of things on my den bookshelf. The stack included our AAA Trip-tics and the state maps. No doubt about it, I had left all of it at home. If we had been in our car we could have turned around, but we were in a van full of other people who had places to go and people to see. They all had planes to catch in Atlanta. I sat in a silent stupor for a few minutes and then said, "Uh, we've got a problem." "Yeah, what's that?" "I left all the maps at the house." (pause) "Tell me you're kidding." "No, I'm not kidding. I left everything at the house." (longer pause) "What are we going to do?" "Just give me a minute."
I sat perfectly still with a sharp dread crawling up my spine. I saw our rental car on the side of the road and our water supply dwindling to the last few drops. "Here you take it." "No you take it" "Well, ok.". So I just sat and wondered what to do.
The further down the road we traveled, the more dread I felt. I had no idea what we were going to do. Having the maps overnighted wasn't an option because that day we would be driving from Nevada, through Utah to Arizona.Then with the same flash of insight that told me I had forgotten the maps, it occurred to me what to do. "My wife can email those directions to me and then of course we can buy maps." Blood started flowing through my heart again and I felt a renewed sense of excitement for the trip.
And my wife did just that. She typed every single turn around three canyons in three states into an email and sent it to me. We found maps in the Las Vegas airport. The trip was on!
Covering several hundred miles in twelve days we never missed a turn. We never ran out of gas. We never ran out of water. And we never died. And that's a good thing.
We are headed west again in the fall on a bird watching excursion to the coastal cities of the great state of Texas. Since my brother chose the destination, I asked him to plan the trip. He said, "I'd rather you plan it." "Ok, I'll be glad to-- with your help."
I don't have all the details in place, but the trip is taking shape. This year I may forget my underwear and my credit cards, but I'll have the maps.
At first I liked the idea. I thought it would be great fun to put together such a trip for the two of us. I wouldn't even need any of his input! I could plan to my heart's content. However, very early in the process, I realized that I had a huge problem. On a trip, any trip, I'm a "go with the flow" type of person - a team player. I tend to yield to the wishes of the group (of two or more). So now at every turn while planning this dream trip for my brother, I couldn't run any ideas by him. The deeper into the planning, the more pronounced this problem became for me. Hundreds of times I just needed to know his preferences on a few simple things.
But I kept the faith and pressed toward the mark. I knew from the beginning that the trip would involve the north rim of the Grand Canyon. He and I had explored the south rim on a previous trip and both of us wanted to see the north rim. But with the amount of time and money he gave me to spend, I knew we could see much more than the Grand Canyon.
After weeks of planning, after considering and scrapping several different destinations, the trip included exploring the Grand Canyon, Zion Canyon and Bryce Canyon. And because we flew in and out of there, the trip included a night in Las Vegas. Really, that's the only reason we stayed there!
Since I am directionally challenged, I put several redundant systems in place for getting around. AAA sent me spiral bound Trip-tic maps that included turn-by-turn directions to and from each waypoint. They also provided road maps of Nevada, Utah and Arizona. To top it off they sent me sight-seeing guides for each of the three states. We would also have a GPS but I read not to put all our trust in a GPS. I even read a story of a woman traveling alone in Arizona whose GPS led her astray. She ran out of gas, out of water and died. I didn't want either of us to die on a trip that I had planned. But not to worry. I had professionally bound driving directions and state maps. We were in great shape.
After about eight months of planning the week of the trip finally arrived. I was excited but I I kept feeling like I had forgotten something. I checked the confirmation on all the lodging. I checked all the boarding passes. I checked the reservations for various activities I had planned. I did all this several times that week. The night before the trip I decided that we were good to go. My brother spent the night at our house, and at 4:00 am the next morning, we boarded a shuttle van and headed to the Atlanta airport. I still couldn't shake a very uneasy feeling.
About twenty miles down the road in a powerful flash of realization, I saw a stack of things on my den bookshelf. The stack included our AAA Trip-tics and the state maps. No doubt about it, I had left all of it at home. If we had been in our car we could have turned around, but we were in a van full of other people who had places to go and people to see. They all had planes to catch in Atlanta. I sat in a silent stupor for a few minutes and then said, "Uh, we've got a problem." "Yeah, what's that?" "I left all the maps at the house." (pause) "Tell me you're kidding." "No, I'm not kidding. I left everything at the house." (longer pause) "What are we going to do?" "Just give me a minute."
I sat perfectly still with a sharp dread crawling up my spine. I saw our rental car on the side of the road and our water supply dwindling to the last few drops. "Here you take it." "No you take it" "Well, ok.". So I just sat and wondered what to do.
The further down the road we traveled, the more dread I felt. I had no idea what we were going to do. Having the maps overnighted wasn't an option because that day we would be driving from Nevada, through Utah to Arizona.Then with the same flash of insight that told me I had forgotten the maps, it occurred to me what to do. "My wife can email those directions to me and then of course we can buy maps." Blood started flowing through my heart again and I felt a renewed sense of excitement for the trip.
And my wife did just that. She typed every single turn around three canyons in three states into an email and sent it to me. We found maps in the Las Vegas airport. The trip was on!
Covering several hundred miles in twelve days we never missed a turn. We never ran out of gas. We never ran out of water. And we never died. And that's a good thing.
We are headed west again in the fall on a bird watching excursion to the coastal cities of the great state of Texas. Since my brother chose the destination, I asked him to plan the trip. He said, "I'd rather you plan it." "Ok, I'll be glad to-- with your help."
I don't have all the details in place, but the trip is taking shape. This year I may forget my underwear and my credit cards, but I'll have the maps.
Monday, May 4, 2015
A Brilliant Madness--May is Mental Health Month
Madness
Lurks around the edges of my mind,
Watching, waiting
For me to let my guard down
So it can invade
Or perhaps...
Madness will creep in
Under the cover of my denial.
I close my eyes and try to wish it away.
But I'm no genie.
My genies are pink and yellow and green and white.
And they must escape their bottles often.
Or madness moves in and stays.
Ruth White, May 19,2005
Everybody gets down from time to time and this emotional state can drag on for days. But depression is different. Depression doesn't just last for days, it lasts weeks and months. Depression goes far beyond feeling bad. Someone who is depressed has no hope. He can't remember a time when he didn't feel this way, and feels as if he will always feel this way. Many people who suffer from serious depression commit suicide. Others just live with it and suffer in silence. Some - the lucky ones - get help.
Before help found me in 1992, I had spent much of my life depressed. I had experienced episodes of mania since my teenage years, but most of my memories are of the depressed state. In the hospital for the month of June in 1992, I was asked to trace my "mood history." What I remembered and the graph I drew was mostly below the line, but there were spikes of mania along the way. Then came 1991 and 1992 when it became painfully clear that something was terribly wrong. On Thursday June 11th, 1992, I woke up to find myself in a hospital bed. I was still fully clothed and was soaking wet, I had no idea where I was or how I got there. An even bigger question was why I was there. Several days later, after my head cleared, I remembered why I was wet when I woke up. Two weeks later I found out why I was there.
After an eight month run of mostly mania, my hospital psychiatrist gave me a name for my pain, manic-depression or the bipolar illness.
It took me quite a long time to accept that I was "mentally ill." I had earned an associates degree, a bachelor's and master's degree. I was married with a child. I was a successful financial advisor with a major financial services company, managing several million dollars for my clients. I had never had one serious complaint. I had been the music director of several different churches. I was loved and respected by many people. Being "mentally ill" was not in my vocabulary.
What I've learned over this past twenty three years is that I am in very good company. There are many famous people, both living and dead, who are believed to have suffered with manic-depression. Most of them were/are highly intelligent and creative people. Carrie Fisher (Princess Leah), Vincent van Gogh, Virginia Wolf, Sinead O'Conner, Robin Williams, Patty Duke, Ted Turner, Ralph Waldo Emerson, to name a few. It is commonly accepted that George Frederic Handel composed Messiah during a a manic episode. He completed the entire body of work in just twenty one days. You don't sleep much during a manic episode, so he had nothing better to do.
Most people who suffer from manic-depression try to dull their pain with alcohol or drugs, or both. I had never done that. One reason it took my medical advisors so long to diagnose my illness is because I had never "self-medicated." In many cases, the symptoms and issues with addiction and substance abuse lead to the diagnosis of the mental illness instead of the other way around. When they asked me about my addictions, I told them I didn't have any. And they just looked at me in disbelief. I had used music and reading to deal with my distress. I listened to hours and hours of serious music. I read volumes of philosophy and self-help. I read most of Joseph Campbell's books and several about him. I read Jung, Buber, Dyer and so many others. For several years until it went out of print, I read every issue of Omni magazine from cover to cover. I found great comfort in the fact that I was such an insignificant dot in the universe. I still do. Another reason I did not indulge in chemicals is because of the boundaries that were a part of the fabric of my personality. I can be very critical of my strict Southern Baptist upbringing, but I had no experience with these drugs and never had a desire to start using them.
I have also learned that being "mentally ill" is not much different than any other affliction. Instead of something going wrong with my heart or kidneys, something is wrong with my brain and nervous system. There is medicine available for all of it. One difference though is that my illness is genetic, it's built into my DNA. I was born with the bipolar disorder and will die with it. You can treat the symptoms of manic-depression, but there is no cure.
During Mental Health Month educate yourself about mental illness. I have read many books about manic-depression and learned much about my illness. A few of the books that have helped me the most are Depression: The Mood Disease by Francis Mondimore, A Brilliant Madness by Patty Duke, and Touched with Fire by Kay Redfield Jamison, If you want to get inside the head of the mentally ill, read God Head, a novel by Scott Zwiren. It will be the most difficult book you have ever read. But you will understand the mind of one who is mentally ill so much better. I certainly didn't have to read the book to know, but I read it anyway. Misery loves company.
Mental health is a significant part of anyone's psycho-soma . But for those of us who are mentally ill it can be life and death. I'm no genie, I take my pills twice a day every day. I have no desire to be manic or depressed. I may be stupid from time to time, but I'm not crazy.
Lurks around the edges of my mind,
Watching, waiting
For me to let my guard down
So it can invade
Or perhaps...
Madness will creep in
Under the cover of my denial.
I close my eyes and try to wish it away.
But I'm no genie.
My genies are pink and yellow and green and white.
And they must escape their bottles often.
Or madness moves in and stays.
Ruth White, May 19,2005
Everybody gets down from time to time and this emotional state can drag on for days. But depression is different. Depression doesn't just last for days, it lasts weeks and months. Depression goes far beyond feeling bad. Someone who is depressed has no hope. He can't remember a time when he didn't feel this way, and feels as if he will always feel this way. Many people who suffer from serious depression commit suicide. Others just live with it and suffer in silence. Some - the lucky ones - get help.
Before help found me in 1992, I had spent much of my life depressed. I had experienced episodes of mania since my teenage years, but most of my memories are of the depressed state. In the hospital for the month of June in 1992, I was asked to trace my "mood history." What I remembered and the graph I drew was mostly below the line, but there were spikes of mania along the way. Then came 1991 and 1992 when it became painfully clear that something was terribly wrong. On Thursday June 11th, 1992, I woke up to find myself in a hospital bed. I was still fully clothed and was soaking wet, I had no idea where I was or how I got there. An even bigger question was why I was there. Several days later, after my head cleared, I remembered why I was wet when I woke up. Two weeks later I found out why I was there.
After an eight month run of mostly mania, my hospital psychiatrist gave me a name for my pain, manic-depression or the bipolar illness.
It took me quite a long time to accept that I was "mentally ill." I had earned an associates degree, a bachelor's and master's degree. I was married with a child. I was a successful financial advisor with a major financial services company, managing several million dollars for my clients. I had never had one serious complaint. I had been the music director of several different churches. I was loved and respected by many people. Being "mentally ill" was not in my vocabulary.
What I've learned over this past twenty three years is that I am in very good company. There are many famous people, both living and dead, who are believed to have suffered with manic-depression. Most of them were/are highly intelligent and creative people. Carrie Fisher (Princess Leah), Vincent van Gogh, Virginia Wolf, Sinead O'Conner, Robin Williams, Patty Duke, Ted Turner, Ralph Waldo Emerson, to name a few. It is commonly accepted that George Frederic Handel composed Messiah during a a manic episode. He completed the entire body of work in just twenty one days. You don't sleep much during a manic episode, so he had nothing better to do.
Most people who suffer from manic-depression try to dull their pain with alcohol or drugs, or both. I had never done that. One reason it took my medical advisors so long to diagnose my illness is because I had never "self-medicated." In many cases, the symptoms and issues with addiction and substance abuse lead to the diagnosis of the mental illness instead of the other way around. When they asked me about my addictions, I told them I didn't have any. And they just looked at me in disbelief. I had used music and reading to deal with my distress. I listened to hours and hours of serious music. I read volumes of philosophy and self-help. I read most of Joseph Campbell's books and several about him. I read Jung, Buber, Dyer and so many others. For several years until it went out of print, I read every issue of Omni magazine from cover to cover. I found great comfort in the fact that I was such an insignificant dot in the universe. I still do. Another reason I did not indulge in chemicals is because of the boundaries that were a part of the fabric of my personality. I can be very critical of my strict Southern Baptist upbringing, but I had no experience with these drugs and never had a desire to start using them.
I have also learned that being "mentally ill" is not much different than any other affliction. Instead of something going wrong with my heart or kidneys, something is wrong with my brain and nervous system. There is medicine available for all of it. One difference though is that my illness is genetic, it's built into my DNA. I was born with the bipolar disorder and will die with it. You can treat the symptoms of manic-depression, but there is no cure.
During Mental Health Month educate yourself about mental illness. I have read many books about manic-depression and learned much about my illness. A few of the books that have helped me the most are Depression: The Mood Disease by Francis Mondimore, A Brilliant Madness by Patty Duke, and Touched with Fire by Kay Redfield Jamison, If you want to get inside the head of the mentally ill, read God Head, a novel by Scott Zwiren. It will be the most difficult book you have ever read. But you will understand the mind of one who is mentally ill so much better. I certainly didn't have to read the book to know, but I read it anyway. Misery loves company.
Mental health is a significant part of anyone's psycho-soma . But for those of us who are mentally ill it can be life and death. I'm no genie, I take my pills twice a day every day. I have no desire to be manic or depressed. I may be stupid from time to time, but I'm not crazy.
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