The Fourth Movement

"Music is an innocent luxury, unnecessary, indeed, to our existence, but a great improvement and gratification of the sense of hearing."  General History of Music, Dr Charles Burney, 1776

A few days ago I took one of my Ottorino Respighi CDs with me on a road trip.  The thing I love about "traveling music" is that the music blends in with my surroundings. As the landscape changes the music changes with it giving me a completely different experience than listening at home. Since this particular trip took me along the Ocoee River  the experience was extremely gratifying.  The Ocoee River exists at the mercy of the Tennessee Valley Authority which diverts the water for its hydroelectric generators and releases it for the enjoyment of whitewater enthusiasts.  Along the way my music took me by the upper portion of the river which hosted the 1996 Olympic Games. Then Respigui followed me into the mountains of northeast Georgia where his symphonic masterpiece mingled with the colorful trees, hills and sky.

I have been fortunate to have enjoyed a few encounters that can only be called "mystical."  I call them encounters not because I met someone, but that I met "Something."  I call them mystical because they do not fit into any box related to any particular religion or culture. Thus they are mystical.

One of these encounters happened in the spring of 1975 on Highway 78 east  between Jasper and Birmingham, Alabama. The young woman with me was a good friend. She was not yet my girlfriend. And she was asleep. I had my  radio tuned to a rock station, KZ 106,  in Birmingham that played Classical music on Sunday night. I was not familiar with the music that was playing, but I was enjoying it very much.  In the fourth movement the marvelous music reached a stunning climax of pipe organ music with symphonic accompaniment. The music was majestic and  stunning. And at that moment we passed a church in Sumiton.  The lights were on in the church and like the burning bush of old they seemed to be on fire! The effect was stunning.  And everything I was feeling from the music I was simultaneously seeing. The church was transformed and glorified with this glorious music. I was transformed as well. The whole experience, which only lasted a few seconds, was otherworldly in its intensity and sensual beauty. And then the  encounter ended as the music ended. Whatever had just happened was over.  The DJ said, "You've been listening to Church Windows by Ottorino Respighi."

These encounters can't be manufactured or repeated.  I've driven by that church at night many times and there is nothing remarkable about it.  Garden variety church windows. .  I have listened to Church Windows many times both at home and on the road.  I still enjoy the music very much, but I've never been translated to another world..

But one thing I believe happened that night in 1975 is that Someone was telling me something extremely important  that would make a big difference for me later--"Don't forget the fourth movement! No matter what happens during the first three, you will  eventually get to the fourth movement!"  In 1975 I was struggling in every way possible. I was considering quitting my part-time church job, dropping out of college and going home. Although I cared a lot for this young woman who was with me, I had no idea what I wanted in a relationship. She had no idea what I wanted either. What Someone knew that I didn't know was that my worst struggles were ahead of me. As the Apostle Paul wrote to the church at Corinth, "At times I despaired of life itself."

I graduated with honors the next June and that young woman and I got married in October. That experience on Highway 78 happened forty one years ago and yet when I listened to Church Windows earlier this week I can remember what happened to me.  I can't reproduce it, but I can remember it, I can take you to the place, point at it and say, "That's where it happened."

The Ocoee River was beautiful, but there was nothing extraordinary about it. But  the fourth movement was as glorious as ever.

That young woman and I have traveled far together in every possible way over forty one years.  And now after raising our family, surviving a few careers and paying off some debt, we are entering the fourth movement, the final movement.  Unlike the fourth movement of Church Windows which lasts nine minutes and thirty-two seconds, we don't know how long ours will last.  It doesn't matter how long it lasts. I no longer measure my life in years, but in moments. We plan to fill every moment of our fourth movement together with love and with gratitude.

Dr. Burney wrote that music is "unnecessary". Maybe he makes a good point.  If I don't eat I die. If I don't breathe I die. If I don't make music or listen to music, I still live.  But I can say for certain  that the performance of Ottorino Respigui's Church Windows on KZ 106 meant as much to me as that burning bush did to Moses. The church was burning and yet was not consumed. I was burning, but was not consumed. Dr. Burney goes on to write that music promotes "gratification of the sense of hearing." I'm listening to Church Windows on Spotify and I am extremely gratified. And Dr. Burney, although I've never published a history of music, in my humble opinion, although our lives usually don't depend on it, music is necessary; it's very necessary.

Batteries Included

My father had a thing about batteries.  There are some issues of which he intended to mark me for life, but I don't think he meant to mark me for life regarding batteries.  But he did, in fact, mark me for life.

When I was a kid, quite often when I was using a toy or equipment that ran only on batteries, while I was using the device he would say, "You're going to use up the batteries."  On the surface you may think "Well, what's your point?  When you're using the device you really are using the batteries."

But that is exactly my point. I became hyper-aware that although I was enjoying whatever it was I was playing with, the price to pay for playing with it  was "you're going to use up the batteries."

When you look at his admonition logically, it is not logical at all.  Batteries are easy to replace and they aren't all that expensive.  If you "use up the batteries" you simply replace them.  Intellectually I understand that very well. Emotionally, I am still to this day aware of battery depletion in devices.

This unfortunate phenomenon doesn't just apply to batteries, it applies to a number of things.  With my cellphone, for example, until recently our plan had limited minutes and unlimited data.  So whenever I was using the phone I was aware that I was "using up all the minutes." With each conversation I had an internal clock running of how much time it was taking.  In the car when my wife was talking on her phone, it would tie my stomach in knots at her apparent lack of concern. I"m thinking, "Don't you have any idea how many minutes you are using! Don't you know how much this is going to cost if we go over! ?"So did I actually say that? We all choose our battles, right?  Now our plan is unlimited talk and limited data.  So talking is no longer an issue, but anytime I am using Spotify, YouTube, Netflix  and other data hogs, I am conscious of the fact that I am "using up all my data." And God forbid we ever go over one byte.  It's never happened, but I hate to imagine what would happen if we did. I don't know how bad that would be, but I can tell you it would be worse than an overdue book.

But now there is one aspect of my phone that brings me great joy, satisfaction and much peace of mind.  When I put my phone on the charger in the car, it charges while I am using the phone! I'm using it and it's charging ! It is one of the most marvelous feats of technology.   So when I'm enjoying my favorite music on Spotify while I'm driving,  not only am I not depleting the battery, but the battery is actually charging. A double negative I know, but that's exactly the way I feel, "not only" "not".  Sure it's depleting data, but the battery is charging.  A marvelous trade off.

So I have decided to use this glorious feature as a metaphor for my life.  I require a lot of down time. Because of the particular bio-chemistry in my brain and the way it is hard-wired, I do not get my energy from activity, but inactivity. Some would label me as an introvert.  I find many vocational and social situations to be  mentally and emotionally draining. They use up all my battery. Consequently I require, or at least think I require, a lot of down time to recharge. I fill that time with things that I enjoy--reading, writing, walking, listening, meditating, playing music, photography and other activities.  When I say "meditating" I never sit in the lotus position contemplating my navel, I usually just sit in a comfortable position and let my mind drift where it will.  I just breathe. And what I'm learning about mindfulness is that as important it is for me to  find those alone times, it is entirely possible and many times necessary to recharge on the fly.  Instead of seeking out a quiet place in the room, I only need to seek out a quiet place in me.

So that's my retaliation  to my dad.  "Dad, you brought me up to fear the Lord and to fear  battery depletion, I'm finding my peace and contentment in my mindfulness meditation and my cellphone battery.   And Dad, I have a bushel basket of AA batteries."

The Road Ahead

"When are we going to get going?" Chris says. "What's your hurry?" I ask. "I just want to get going." "There's nothing up ahead that's any better than it is right here."   Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance, Robert Pirsig.

Through four chapters of the book I realize that this reading will be completely different than the other three. I must have hurried through the descriptions to get to the story. This time through I realize that the descriptions are the story.  I mentioned that I wondered how I could have missed so much. I missed so much because I didn't read all of the book.

My age and station in life gives me a completely different perspective on things including my perspective on this book. Since retiring from part-time vocational ministry last year, from Thursday evening until Tuesday morning, I have nothing definite I have to do.  My wife and I fill that time with meaningful activities (including hours of no activity), but neither of us has to be anywhere that we don't both want to be. We both still work, but its not like before. Eventually I hope to have nothing definite I have to do from Thursday evening until Thursday evening, but for now three days on, four days off is working really well.

As I read Motorcycle Maintenance I realize that with this reading I have nothing better to do than to read Motorcycle Maintenance. There is not another book I'm looking forward to reading.  There's not a Netflix movie I'd rather be watching.  There's nothing I'd rather be doing. But it's very difficult for me not to stop and write something about every other page. As Pirsig states so eloquently, "the real motorcycle is you."

One benefit of reading a book more than once, especially several times, is I know what's coming. I don't know what's coming about the specifics of the narrative, but I know what's coming in a general sense.  Just now when Chris asks his father to tell him a ghost story, I know why he hesitates.  I know which ghost is up ahead. I know that this ghost becomes the major character of the story. Therefore, when Phaedrus is mentioned I pay attention to the context each time. And because I have read so much about the Pirsigs and his book, I know what happens  to Chris.  I'm not just talking about what happens in the book, I'm talking about what really happens to him. In a bookstore in Nashville in about 1985, the tenth anniversary edition of Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance jumped off the shelf into my waiting hands.  In the preface Pirsig explains what had  happened to his eighteen year old son, Chris, in San Francisco. I started crying, then sobbing and I had to find a restroom to collect myself.

My granddaughter was spending a week with us the summer she was four years old.  My wife and I refer to our home when she is with us as "the land of 'yes' ".  Obviously, we are not irresponsible in granting her requests, but since she is very reasonable, there is usually no reason to deny her every wish. This particular morning it was just the two of us sitting at the breakfast table together. As she methodically  lifted her spoon of cereal to her mouth, she asked, "Big Dave, what are we going to do fun today?' I said, "How would you feel about riding a real train?"  She brightened up and exclaimed, "Let's do it!"  Riding Chattanooga's Incline Railway with her, like I did with my great aunt when I was six,  brought me incredible joy.

So now I too live in the land of "yes".  The answer to questions that used to be an automatic "no" because I had better things to do are now answered in the affirmative. After reading Zen and Now: On the Trail of Robert Pirsig and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance, I asked myself, "Would now be a good time to read Pirsig's book again?"  And the answer was "Yes.  Yes it would be a good time." And Pirsig says that regarding making "good time"  on their trip, the emphasis is on "good."  The time reading this book is good.

Just like I don't know specifically where Pirsig and his friends  are headed day to day, I don't know exactly where the book will take me this time around. But I don't need to know, because I'm already there. "There's nothing up ahead that is any better than it is right now."  The road ahead is inviting, but it can't be much better then where I sit.

It's All for the Best

"You must never be distressed. You guessed; it's all for the best."  Stephen Schwartz, Godspell

Betsy was not my girlfriend.  I had a girlfriend back home who I cared about and was committed to.  But I had feelings for Betsy and she had feelings for me.

Whenever I listen to Godspell, like I did yesterday afternoon, at least two things happen: 1. I enjoy the music very much and 2. I remember the kindness of Betsy's family toward me.

There are several reasons that my friendship with Betsy never developed into any kind of boyfriend/girlfriend relationship   First, I had a girlfriend. I felt an obligation to not explore other female friendships while I was in New Jersey for the summer of 1973.  Secondly, I was in New Jersey because I was a summer missionary.  I had a directive, a purpose, and it didn't involve opposite sex friendships. My summer missions partner  was a female.  She, like Betsy, was an attractive young lady.  I had no designs on her either.

I spent the summer in church members' homes. I spent the first four weeks in Betsy's parents home in Holmdel. Well it was Betsy's home, too.  They had a really good stereo with a lot of good albums.  One of them was the soundtrack from the  off-Broadway musical Godspell.  I listened to it over and over the four weeks I spent with them. I had never heard music like that before. To make myself useful, I volunteered to mow their well-manicured suburban lawn with their expensive riding lawn mower. I eagerly mowed their yard each of the four weeks I spent with them. It was not a chore. Listening to the steady drone of the engine and making even rows of mowed grass was pleasant and relaxing.I very much enjoyed the time I spent with them that summer. They made me feel at home and welcome. I stayed with two other families, but it's Betsy's home that I remember.

From the beginning you might say that Betsy and I hit it off.  She was a beautiful teenager,  but she had a lot more going for her than that.  Betsy was funny, quirky, entertaining and more. She told me that she didn't like the acting youth director, she had dropped out of the youth group and for me not to expect her to participate in anything all summer. She told me that she wasn't too fond of Bible studies either.  I told her that that was okay with me. But my second week in Eatontown I celebrated my 20th birthday. The youth group threw a surprise party for me in the church's basement coffee house. The only thing I remember about the party is that while they were singing Happy Birthday and  as I was blowing out the candles, Betsy reached out and shoved my face into the cake. I took that action as a gesture of acceptance. That she thought for a missionary I was okay. I guess we salvaged enough of the cake to pass around. If not, I had plenty of it to eat.  And after that Betsy showed up for a lot of the things we did.

For all of the aforementioned reasons, Betsy and I never went on a date that summer.  But one night she invited me to go with her to the Asbury Park boardwalk. So I went.  Get the picture. Here was a twenty year old male with an eighteen year old female alone together on an oceanfront boardwalk.  And what did we do? We walked and laughed and  talked.  When she started her Mustang for us to go home, the radio played the beauteous keyboard introduction to Colour My World by Chicago.  As Betsy sighed quite loudly, the  DJ said, "I can hear the oos and ahhs already". That was forty-three years ago, but that's exactly what he said, "I can hear the oos and ahhs already."

Betsy's father was an engineer at Bell Labs in Holmdel. He invited me for a private tour of the labs. Since I was in New Jersey as a summer missionary and not as a tourist, I did not fully appreciate the experience. I was concerned that I should be doing something ministry related that day instead of walking around a gadget factory. It pains me to consider that I was given a personal tour of one of the most heavily protected facilities of groundbreaking technology in the world and I didn't even care, The only technology I recall is that I talked on a picture phone. In 1973 I watched a TV image of  Betsy's dad while I was talking to him at the other end of the building.  But they said that there was no market for it at the time. Apple's Facetime would wait fifty-seven years.

Many years ago  I called their home and her father answered. I wanted to know about Betsy's whereabouts and how she was doing.  I also wanted to offer a much belated thank you for the tour. It had concerned me that I may not have shown appropriate appreciation for his once-in-a-lifetime experience. He politely let me know that he had retired from Bell Labs and that he was dealing with dementia. He regretfully told me that he  had no memory of me or my time with them in their home.  He told me that Betsy was living in Colorado and was doing well. I thanked him, wished him well and said goodbye.

I've wondered if Colour My World still makes Betsy oo and ahh and maybe brings a memory of  our walk in Asbury Park all those years ago. If  it's true that "The Song Remembers When", then I'm sure that it does. But no matter. I have a wife and a family who I dearly love. And that girlfriend back home? She has a beautiful family as well. We see them from time to time.

My wife is not a big fan of Godspell, but she enjoys  Chicago as much as I do. As for the relationships I loved and lost during the summer of 1973? It was all for the best.
.

Almost Famous

I'm reading Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance for the fourth time.  I just finished reading Zen and Now: On the Trail of Robert Pirsig and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance by Mark Richardson. I realized while reading Richardson's book that I had forgotten many important details of Pirsig's  trip. I also realized that  even after reading the book three times, there was much I didn't understand to begin with. How is it possible that I overlooked so many very important particulars of the trip after reading the book three times?  Obviously it is possible, so I've decided to read it again.

After reading Chapter One just now, there are so many fabulous quotes already.  But it's not his trip that is so significant. It's my trip. Pirsig's journey kicks up so  much in me.   There is plenty of material just in Chapter One to frame "the-story-of-my-life."

On page 1 Pirsig says, "I'm happy to be riding back into this country. It is a kind of nowhere famous for nothing at all and has an appeal because of just that." The irony of this is what Pirsig said about these roads was true at the time, but his book made their rural route quite famous. Since his book was published in 1974 a multitude of people on motorcycles and automobiles have retraced this route.  Each of them had their own reasons for making the trip. Some, like Richardson, have published their own account of the ride.  Motorcycle Maintenance has sold over 6 million copies worldwide.  When you consider that many of these books were passed along from friend to friend, the number of people who have read it is quite staggering.

When I was a teenager and into my twenties, I had a deep desire to become famous. I decided that the only way to achieve an authentic existence was to become a household word.  Quick on the heels of that desire was the realization that I probably never would be famous. Looking at famous athletes, entertainers, politicians and humanitarians I didn't see myself  becoming a celebrity in any of those fields. In other words, very early in my life I set myself up with a personal and vocational contradiction, I also set myself up  for failure and frustration.

Since 1974 Pirsig has gained millions of devoted followers, but he upset a lot of people along the way.  As he describes the trip, the people on the trip, the people they met along the way and his innermost thoughts during the trip, he is brutally honest. Many people, especially his three companions, including his eleven year old son,  were not very pleased with his descriptions of them and their attitudes. Robert Pirsig is not the first author to pay a heavy price for his success.

Robert Pirsig said, "I'm happy to be riding back into  this country."  I'm happy to begin this trip again too.  Mark Twain said that you should read a good book at least three times. Read it when you are an adolescent.  Read it when you are a young adult and read it when you are old. He said that the book doesn't change, but that you do.  The experience that you bring to the book makes it a completely different book.  So  I want to suggest that the book changes too.

At sixty-three years old I think it's a safe assumption that I am not going to become famous. Or will I? One of my blog posts that I published last year went semi-viral.  According to the Google+ metrics, it has garnered over 22,000 views ! To date, however, no reporter or publisher has contacted me for an interview.  So how many views does it take for me to be famous? Am I famous already?

I bought the last motorcycle I owned in July of 1992. The Honda CB 900 was so wide that  when I stopped I had to lean one way or the other. I couldn't put both feet on the ground. I had dreamed of scenic mountain rides along cool streams yielding many blissful hours of pleasure.  For reasons I don't recall, I took the bike out on I-75. Going 70mph between eighteen wheelers it occurred to me that I wouldn't think of driving my car down the interstate without buckling my seat belt.  And there I was straddling a 900cc engine going 70mph strapped to nothing. The asphalt was traveling 70mph in the opposite direction inches below my feet.  I parked the bike and sold it within a few days for what I had paid for it.

Just because I'm not willing to ride a motorcycle doesn't mean I can't appreciate a motorcycle adventure. And I am very excited about this particular "Chautauqua". There are things about the trip that I want to understand much better.  But more importantly, there are things about me I want to understand much better. If I've read Motorcycle Maintenance three times, how many times have I read me?  Not enough to know all there is  to know. And I'm reading the book just in the nick of time before all this fame and fortune goes to my head.

This is a test. This is only a test.

Until failing the final exam for the CFP (Certified Financial Planner) exam, I had only failed three tests in my life. With twelve years of primary and secondary school,and seven years of college under my belt, the only tests I had failed were one  in the sixth grade and two of the CFP exams. I took those again and passed them the second time. In the sixth grade Mr. DiMichele warned us that if we forgot to sign our names to our paper we would get an automatic 50. The next test  I got a 50 instead of the 90 I earned.  I thought my academic career was over.  I had destroyed my "permanent record."  There was no damage to my record, but I made a B and I never forgot to put my name on my paper again.

Since failing the final and leaving the financial planning industry in 2001, I have mysteriously remained on the mailing list of the CPF Board of Standards. It is not unusual for me to receive correspondence every six months or so. But for whatever reason for about the last month I have received at least one or two emails a week from them. It would be easy enough to be removed from the list, but I don't mind deleting the email.  Besides, it's good to be reminded often that what happened really doesn't matter much in the scheme of things.

For two years my manager at my firm warned us that the CFP Board was about to add a final exam for attaining the CPF designation.  At the time one could pass six exams and obtain the designation. But I  wasn't ready to begin and I figured if I could pass the six exams, then I could pass a final over the same material.  I was wrong. Over the four years that I eventually passed the six "education exams" I studied for hundreds of hours. Until I started that process, the most difficult exam I had ever passed was the Series 7, the stockbroker's exam.  It was composed of two three-hour exams on the same Saturday. Each of the six exams for the CFP was as hard or harder than the Series 7. The final was like two or three Series 7 exams.

Over a five year period from 1996 to 2001 I had spent over 1000 hours studying and several thousand dollar pursuing my dream of becoming a CPF.  I thought the designation would give me more credibility and a great deal of respect, especially from my associates. An irony of the designation is that the public is told that a CFP is "more ethical. You can trust him with your money."  The truth is a CFP was willing to study and pass a bunch of difficult exams.  I really don't see that that makes him or her any more ethical than the next financial planner.  Sour grapes?

Leading up to the final exam, I spent two weeks in Atlanta in a live review.  We were in class all day for ten days in a grueling class setting to prepare for the exam. We spent several days just on the "case studies." With a case study you're given a family that owns a business. With only our calculator we had to complete complicated cash flow sheets, manually compute hypothetical education funds for multiple children, retirement amounts and company benefits. This included hypothetical hospital stays to compute deductibles, co-pays and total out of pocket expenses. Software was available to calculate all of that, but a CFP must be able to figure all of that with only a financial calculator. And since the exam was timed, we had to be able to do it in a hurry.

Then the time came for the exam. The CFP final was a ten-hour exam. There was a four-hour exam on Friday and two three-hour exams on Saturday. The two case studies were in the last segment of the exam. As much as I had prepared, as much time, money  and energy I had invested in the process, as many trips that I had made all over the states of Georgia and Tennessee taking classes and practice exams ,  I knew that I had failed the exam.  After  several anxious weeks I received a letter from the CFP Board of Standards. I opened it and read "Fail."  My wife said that as I read it I stopped breathing.

Many people retake the exam  and pass it the second time.  I was done. A few weeks later I received a large certificate suitable for framing with CFP Board of Standards and something about "Education Requirements."  So I got it framed and hung it on my wall.  And why not? I had earned it. But it was just confusing.  My clients would congratulate me on my achievement, but my associates knew better. And  I knew better.  I not only threw away the certificate, but after twelve years in the financial services industry, a few months later I walked away.

Funny thing.  They call them "tests", but are they?  Theoretically a test is a simulation; it's not the real thing.  If you test equipment the test is not a "real life" situation. If it fails, there's no harm done. It was just a test.  If you test the integrity of a product, you have the opportunity to make it right. But when you take a big exam it feels like that at least to some extent your life is on the line. There is nothing about it that feels like a "test."  It feels final. But isn't the point of a test to learn something?  I don't remember that many details from those five years and seven exhausting exams, but I did learn. I don't have the designation, but like that certificate said, I have the education. So now I guess that I'm a HBFP (Has Been Financial Planner).  But isn't it better to be a "has been" than a "never was"?

 From time to time people still ask for my financial advice.  After several disclaimers,  I'm glad to offer an educated opinion. There are proven techniques to financial stability that change very little over time. These techniques have nothing to do with which stocks you own or how "the market" performs on any given day. Or month. Or year. All of these techniques involve routine investments and time.

Do you remember that test of the Emergency Broadcast System on your television? After an interrupting loud test signal the voice said "This is a test. This is only a test. Had it been a real emergency..." As it turns out the entire five year process toward the Certified Financial Planning designation was only a test. It was not a real emergency. Our approaching retirement, on the other hand, while not an emergency,  is an actual financial event for my wife and me.  These coming years are not a test, they're the real deal. But our competent advisor, who has some very good software, says that we're going to be okay.

On the Trail

I buy most of my books from Abebooks, i.e. abebooks.com.  There I can search and find any book that is no longer available in the stores and buy it many times for less than five dollars including shipping. Since my credit card is stored in the site, within a couple of minutes whatever book I can imagine is headed to my mailbox. The only effort involved is to reach in the mailbox a few days later when I pull in the driveway.

I try to keep at least one copy of Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance by Robert Pirsig on the shelf on any given day.  I've read the book three times, but I keep it handy to give copies away.  Only a few of the people I've given the book to over the years have read all of it.  Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance is not an easy read.

If you've never read it and think you're going to, I don't think what you'll read here contains any spoilers. I just hope to encourage you to read the book..

When I logged onto Abebooks a few days ago to order a copy of "Motorcycle Maintenance", the first hit was Zen and Now: On the Trail of Robert Pirsig and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance. I could tell by the title that the author, Mark Richardson, retraced Pirsig's trip on his own bike and wrote his version of the fabled story.  I'm reading that book now. Although I've read Pirsig's book several times, I realize while reading this one I not only have forgotten many details, I missed many details.  The next book I'm going to read  after "On the Trail of..." is the original Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance. Mark Twain said that you need to read a good book at least three times to understand it.  Primarily because though the book hasn't changed, you've changed.  It will be a completely different book. Apparently I need to  read Pirsig's book  at least four times.

In the Author's Note on the first page of the book Pirsig writes, "What follows is based on actual occurrences, although much has been changed for rhetorical purposes, it must be regarded in its essence as fact. However, it should in no way be associated with that great body of factual information relating to orthodox Zen Buddhist practice. It's not very factual on motorcycles either."

Pirsig's book is about "quality" or "what is good." He builds his narrative around a motorcycle trip from Minnesota to California. "Motorcycle Maintenance" was published in 1974 after being turned down by more than 100 publishers.  The book has sold more than 5 million copies.  I must have read the book the first time around 1989 or 1990 because my son was about the same age as Pirsig's son, Chris, who accompanied him on the trip. That's part of the reason the book so powerfully resonated with me. And Chris was all of the reason why what I read several years later in Pirsig's introduction to a  Silver Anniversary Edition had such a profound impact on me. What he said about "actual occurrences" in the Author's Note  took on a whole new meaning.

The book has achieved a cult following, well except a "cult following" by definition is a "small" but passionately dedicated fan base. If it has "sold" 5 million copies, how many have been passed
around?

Richardson quotes Pirsig on page 120 of "On the Trail of...".   "Peace of mind produces right values, right values produce right thoughts. Right thoughts produce right actions."  For me this is at the very heart of Pirsig's book.  Be forewarned that you will have to wade through pages and pages of dialectic to get to that.

I realized something this afternoon while reading Richardson's book. If you are among those who have read "Motorcycle Maintenance" you are in a club. The membership only includes those who can honestly say "I have read Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance from cover to cover."   If you talk to someone who has read the book, then you have a significant touch point  with that person.  I'm sure that those who have retraced the trip on a motorcycle are not all that impressed with my particular club membership.

In 1980, six years after Pirsig published his book, a teenager in my church youth group challenged me with a question?  "David, does everything have to be profound?" After thirty six years I can answer her question with a resounding "No!"   On the other  hand, do not some things we think are insignificant at the time become extremely significant over time? And other things we know are profound when they happen.  Reading Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance for me is one of those things. I look forward to retracing the journey and being touched again. The book may not be all that factual about Zen Buddhism and motorcycles, but it's always factual about me.

Collateral Damage (Chapter Two)

"At first this difference seemed fairly minor but then it grew..and grew...and grew...until I began to see why I missed it. Some things you miss because they're so tiny you overlook them. But some things you don't see because they're so huge.We were both looking at the same thing, seeing the same thing, talking about the same thing, thinking about the same thing, except that he was looking,seeing, talking and thinking from a completely different dimension." Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance, Robert Pirsig, p.48.

My wife and I weren't even on the same trip.   We flew in the same plane. We rode in the same car. We slept in the same bed. We ate in the same restaurants, but we weren't together.  Something had to give. All of my constant angst was not only destroying our vacation that we had so looked forward to taking together, but it was harming our relationship as well.  This combined birthday and anniversary trip was meant to be a trip of a lifetime together. Instead it was a moving disaster. My biggest problem was everything. Her biggest problem was me. Except for me, she was having the time of her life.

We finally found the restaurant. The reason we had driven by it several times, although the GPS said "You have arrived at your destination", was that the destination  looked to be an old abandoned filling station. Go figure. It wasn't easy, but we found a place to park. We waited outside for a table and then they brought us in.  If we had enjoyed our dinner the previous evening, we enjoyed this place and this food even more.  Many times when couples fight, even after they make up, the bad feelings of the argument can linger for hours or even days.  In this case, as in the night before, my wife gave me a free pass. She completely let me off the hook.  Unlike many spouses in her situation, she didn't make me pay for my sins. "For better or for worse."  It was without a doubt the most unique breakfast restaurant we had ever been in and the food was divine. We enjoyed the place, the moment and each other's company.   We talked about it and decided to make a go of the trip. I told her that I couldn't promise to be ok, but that I would try.

The plan had been to rent a car at the airport, spend a night in  Santa Rosa and then drive to Healdsburg. We would spend three days with our friends and return the car to downtown San Francisco. Finally we would explore San Francisco for three days with taxis and public transportation.We had thought that we had planned a trip to San Francisco and that while we were there we would visit these friends in Healdsburg.  We never imagined that we had unknowingly planned a trip to be with these friends in Healdsburg and while we were there we would see some of the sights of San Francisco.

Regardless of what you "believe" about homosexuality, no matter what your preacher says the Bible says, or your stylist says her preacher says the Bible says, regardless of your reasons for being "against" or uncomfortable with homosexuality,  if  two wealthy gay men ever invite you to spend a few days in with them in their estate in the Sonoma Valley wine country, by all means say "Yes!"

It wasn't the very best thing about being with those two, but right up there with the best thing was the fact that I parked my minivan for two nights and three days.  They did all the driving during the time we spent together. But in the back of my mind during the entire visit was, "You've got to drive back and find the Enterprise rental return during business hours in downtown San Francisco." I managed to push that thought to the back of my mind. But it was always there.

There is no way for me to describe what happened to me and for me in Healdsburg.  One of these friends we had know for twenty five years.  The other, his husband, we were meeting for the first time. Since they asked how the trip was going so far,  I told them about the accident and what was going on with me. I  told them that my wife was being as supportive as possible, but that I was wearing her out.  And that I was completely worn out. Instead of being met with a blank stare of "Well it sounds like you really need to get it together.",  what I found was the most profound acts of  kindness and friendship that I had ever experienced in my life.  The visit was so much more than the marvelous things that we all did together. We went on a tour of the wineries in Sonoma Valley. We found beauty, awe and solitude in  a redwood forest.  We spent that afternoon at Bodega Bay.  How good was the food and wine? Let me count the ways.  We had some of the best dining experiences of our lives. These  delicious delights included  a surprise birthday dinner for my wife at the Farmhouse Inn,   a Michelin-starred restaurant near Healdsburg. They even had special "Happy Birthday" menus printed just for her.  It was not just a marvelous dinner, it was a remarkable dining experience. And how do I describe the experience with the Santa Rosa Symphony? In the green room afterward, the conductor even asked my opinion of the avant- garde piece he had premiered. There was all that and more that our friends did for us. And with us.  But there was something else going on that meant much more to me. I found a level of understanding and compassion that is precious and rare.  Their empathy for my distress was  both timely and effective. That afternoon before the concert they took me to a bookstore. My new friend who had been especially sympathetic to my plight,  bought a book for me that had been of great help to him. He gave me  Full Catastrophe Living, by Jon Kabbat Zinn. The title said it all.

Of everything I experienced in the Sonoma Valley, more than the sight-seeing, more than the food, more than the wine, the thing I remember most is the laughter.  I had never laughed so much in my life.   What they say about laughter must be true because I was being healed.

On our last night I had to fully stare in the face our early departure and the drive through San Francisco.  It didn't help anything that the directions Enterprise had given us to the rental return were vague at best and my GPS had not been that accurate either. Our  friend worked in San Francisco but had his own schedule and his own transportation. Well, to be precise, he had his own driver.  Before we went to bed he said, "Would you rather I ride with you to San Francisco and help you find that rental? I can take a cab to work." I had never felt such relief in my life.  In some ways I wish I had known about that option the whole time we were there, but on the other hand I had had some lessons to learn.  It had been important for me to practice full catastrophe living and to live through my distress.  I had enjoyed everything in the Sonoma Valley in spite of myself and my travel anxiety.

The next day our early morning drive and conversation was as pleasant as had been the rest of the time together. As we wound our way up and down the plateaued streets of  downtown San Francisco, even my city-savvy friend had trouble finding the rental return.  We made the block several times.  I shuddered to consider what it would have been like without him. We went  in the wrong rental  and had to back out to keep from being captured by a gate. Backing into San Francisco traffic in a minivan was dicey, but I did it. We made the same block again. This time we found it.  They had hidden themselves extremely well. We thanked our friend profusely and hugged him goodbye. He hailed his cab and we hailed ours. When we told the driver the address for our hotel he had a peculiar look on his face, but he put our luggage in his trunk. We got in the car. He made a right, another right and stopped in front of our hotel.  We paid the fare, gave him a nice tip and checked in to our new residence.

The time in San Francisco  was very enjoyable. It was all and more that we had hoped the fabled city to be.  But if we had been about to fly home in utter frustration three days prior, we could have easily flown home the day we arrived in the city and have been completely satisfied with the trip.  Sight-seeing in San Francisco was quite enjoyable, but it certainly wasn't the highlight of our anniversary trip.   And instead of taking public transportation, we just walked everywhere.  There was so much to see and so much good food to eat within walking distance and we certainly needed the exercise to walk off some of that rich food. We even walked to  the skyscraper where our lifetime friend worked and were ushered to his office by a security guard. Then he joined us for lunch where much wine and laughter ensued.

The flight home the next day was pleasant and uneventful.  "San Francisco" was in my rear-view mirror. Instead of looking like something that was about to crash into me, it looked like the sun fading into the west as I traveled east. The minivan was in the parking garage and I was headed home.

Just like crossing the Golden Gate Bridge, I have no choice but for full catastrophe living.  The catastrophe is a fact of life. The full living is a constant choice. I learned that laughter and friendship is more effective than ICU.  I learned that a loving spouse is eternally more valuable than an estate in California wine country. In so many ways nothing had changed and yet everything had changed "except", as Pirsig said, "that (I) was looking, seeing, talking and thinking from a completely different dimension."  Now instead of collateral damage, there was collateral health. And there was great love. And there was great laughter.

Collateral Damage (Chapter One)

"Don't assume that your perception of difficulty is real."   I Ching,  Hexagram 33 Tun (Retreat), Line 1

"I have been through some terrible things in my life, some of which actually happened"  Mark Twain

On Monday October 29,  2012 I was driving from my office in Ringgold, Georgia to a meeting in Calhoun, Georgia around 10 o'clock in the morning.  Because of the physical and mental trauma, I don't remember if the accident happened just north of Dalton or just south. It doesn't really matter. I was in the right lane of I-75 south with my cruise control on the speed limit of 70mph.  I glanced up in my rear view mirror just in time to see a car in the act of slamming into the back of my car.  At my speed of 70mph,  he was going fast enough to total my car. The good news is that his very large SUV struck my car flat on our bumpers so that his car shoved mine forward (at his higher speed) but thankfully I was able to maintain control. If he had clipped either side of my rear bumper, things would have been much worse.  The bad news is that my neck absorbed the impact. After four years and several varieties of therapy, my neck is much better, but it still remembers the collision.

In the ER of Hamilton Medical Center in Dalton, the x-ray  technician said, "You are lucky that the impact didn't break your neck".

The damage to my neck was substantial, but the damage to my psyche was much more significant. I had sustained car accidents before, but none like this one. It was bizarre and could have easily been fatal.  What happened?  He told me, "I guess I went to sleep." I guess he was speeding and texting.  He told the state trooper that he went to sleep.  That is what the accident report shows.

Within two weeks my wife and I went on our scheduled vacation to San Francisco and to visit friends north of Santa Rosa in Healdsburg. We learned a new word at Enterprise Rent-a-Car at the San Francisco Airport-- "Walk up" You don't ever want to be a "walk up."

The fear of something happening  for me is so much worse than "something happening."  In the case of my accident, I had absolutely no time to dread the accident.  It just happened. It was over in the time it started.  I did have a piece of a second to contemplate the meaning of life and my impending demise, but I didn't  have time to  worry about it.  When I fly I don't worry about the plane crashing.  If the plane crashes I figure that I would just be dead.  What bothers me when  I fly is "what if when I try to print my boarding passes the night before the flight, my printer jams or I run out of ink and I miss my flight, ruin my vacation and ruin my life?" To calm myself I think, "That's ok. I can just go to the ticket counter and get my pass." But the thought quickly follows, "What if the line is really long and I miss my flight, ruin my trip and ruin my life?"  Or, "What if my flight is cancelled. I miss my connection, ruin my vacation and ruin my life?"  Pretty ridiculous, right? . But before you judge, what are you afraid of?  Snakes? Spiders?  Thirteen?  Wasps? Black cats? Fear of failure?  Fear of closed spaces? Fear of open spaces?  Fear of heights? Fear of cats?  Fear of dogs? Fear of disapproval? There are 530 documented phobias. They each have a "phobic" name and they each dramatically affect people's lives. You can even suffer with phobophobia--"the fear of phobias."  But I'll get back to that.

I don't really know when this started.   These irrational responses may go back to the car accident with my family when I was three. Or the tragic accident two blocks from my home when I was ten.  I do know that there was something about that accident in Dalton that stirred it all up and made my "normal fears" much more exaggerated

Over the years I have read volumes of "self-help".  Everything I have read  says, "Stop worrying about things. Worry doesn't fix anything or prevent anything from happening.  The only thing worry does is shorten  your life. Worry and anxiety do real damage  to your heart muscles  and nervous system. If you want to worry about something real, then worry about worry.".

As much thought and preparation my wife and I had put into our trip to California, for reasons I don't remember we didn't arrange for a rental car.  I know part of it was "Well  how hard will it be to find a car at the San Francisco Airport?"  Pretty hard. We approached several counters and they had no cars available.  We ended up in the Enterprise line, he got on his phone and said, "We have a 'walk-up' " which is to say, "You are going to be traveling in the steerage". He said, "The only car we have available is a minivan."  There we stand with four major credit cards between us at a large international airport and all we can get is a minivan? If I had been dreading driving in San Francisco, now my dread had a name--"minivan" Just like a plane crashing, I didn't dread dying in an accident, I just dreaded having an accident.   Since we had car insurance and then insurance through our credit card, in a flash I imagined having to meet the San Francisco police, being on the phone with insurance companies,  Enterprise and who knows who else. "Think of how much time that's going to take!" Our vacation will be ruined and my life will  be ruined". We secured the van, and I drove out of the parking deck into the unknown.

We did have a close call once when we were on the wrong road. The  Honda Accord in front of me stopped suddenly. I stopped suddenly and the car in my mirror was skidding toward me. Deja vu.  We all got stopped without a crash. But in those few seconds the sensations of my recent accident flew to the surface. My nervous system didn't know the difference between what had actually happened and what didn't happen. The near miss did nothing to help my emotional distress.

I remember so much about driving through  San Francisco, but there are gaping holes in my memory.  Why didn't I let my wife drive?  Why did I have issues with my directions and my GPS that got us temporarily lost? I just don't know.  What I do know is that every mile was an emotional event. For someone who usually enjoys driving, there was no joy in this trip. The biggest mystery is why didn't I know we were going to cross the Golden  Gate Bridge?  Why was that a surprise? And why did I think that driving across the-golden-gate-bridge was such a big deal?

As we approached the bridge my heart was racing, my adrenaline was pumping, my palms were sweaty  and I was very upset. The possibility of having an accident on the Golden Gate Bridge was about the worst thing I could consider.  For starters,  we were on US 101/California Highway 1 but I thought we were on the wrong highway. I thought we had no business navigating the bridge traffic in the first place.  There was no good reason for us to be there. But at that point, it's not like we had any choice. We paid our toll and I plunged my minivan into the stream of cars onto the famous bridge. About halfway across the bridge I realized that it was no different than any bridge and within a few minutes we were on the other side. Now I had to find a way to turn around and go back across the bridge.  We took an exit,turned around, paid our toll and went back across the Golden  Gate Bridge.  This time I had calmed down quite a bit. We then took the first exit we could find to figure out how to get to Santa Rosa.  I saw a taxi sitting in a parking lot.  I pulled up beside it and asked the driver for directions.   He said, "You need to get back on 101 and go across the Golden Gate Bridge. Highway 101 will take you to Santa Rosa." We had been on the right road all along.  I thanked him for his help. We got back on US 101, paid our toll and went back across the Golden Gate Bridge. It was still stressful, but much less so. I had driven across it recently.

We had an argument that night in our hotel in Santa Rosa because I wanted to hibernate and my wife wanted to find a nice local restaurant for dinner. My argument was "For the first time today I'm relaxed and I feel comfortable. We've made it here safely. Let's not press our luck. Let's not try to find our way through Santa Rosa at night."  Her argument was, "We are on vacation in California. We may never come back here. Let's find a really good restaurant and eat there."

 I became rational, relented and we went out to eat.  Zazu's was one of the best restaurant experiences ever. We learned that the owner/chef had recently won the Iron Chef.  We  also learned that even though she was a vegetarian, pork was one of her main dishes and she raised her own pigs.  She said, "The way I look at it, I give those pigs a really good life and then they have one very bad day."  I  really felt for those pigs. And I hoped that they didn't see it coming.  For a couple of hours we ate marvelous food, talked, laughed, relaxed and I felt completely human again.  The trip to the hotel was uneventful. We were back safe and sound.  Life was good.

The next morning, things got so bad between us while trying to find the breakfast restaurant, I pulled over to the side of the road for us to continue our very heated exchange.  Although we were only on  morning one of a planned seven day  California adventure, we decided that driving back to the airport and flying home would be the best option. Enough was enough.

The NICU for Dummies

I have reported that I find the NICU  to be a holy place.  And it is! I would never want to diminish the importance and sanctity of the life-giving care to those babies in that unit.  But since I started my volunteer services  as a Cuddler, there have been several things happen that are rather funny. At least they are now.

One of those things was on my very first night in the NICU.  There are several things you have to do before you can hold a newborn baby.  The first thing you have to do is remove any jewelry (bacteria hides under jewelry). So watches, wedding bands, bracelets etc. have to be removed.  Then you have to "scrub in."  The NICU provides two large sinks with special antibacterial soap. The soap is a self-contained scrubber and tool for cleaning under fingernails.  It is then necessary to scrub up to the elbows under the running water for several minutes.

So far. So good. You know, when somebody says "That's obvious"  it means that it's obvious to them. In this case, it should have immediately obvious to me, but it wasn't.  I didn't figure it out until my next visit. When I stood at the sink to scrub my hands, I couldn't find a way to turn the water on. I pushed and pulled various things around the sink and nothing happened. Then I noticed two foot pedals below the sink and figured that was how to operate it.  I was standing at the sink on the left and there was a sink to my right.  Since there were two pedals below me I decided the left pedal was for my sink and the right for the other.  Right along now you've already figured out the "obvious" but the bulb had not yet flashed for me. So I pressed the left pedal with my foot and started washing.  The water got hot quite fast. But I kept washing my hands.  Then it got very hot. But I kept washing my hands.  Then it was scalding hot! I should have thought of any number of reasons why this was not the way to work it, but all I thought was "Wow ! They're serious about decontamination!"  I completed the procedure and proceeded to the unit.  These are at least a couple of things I should have realized up front. 1. There are two pedals under each sink.  Wouldn't you think there is a hot and a cold under each one?  2. They want you to be free of germs when you hold  these babies but they don't want you to have to visit the burn unit while you're here.

The next week when I returned to the unit I was a bit apprehensive about scrubbing in. I was dreading it really. Someone was standing at the sink to the left and I stood at the one on the right.  I got my soap ready and when I looked down I noticed the two pedals under my sink. And I noticed again the two pedals under the  other sink. Just as reality was sinking in, I noticed the pedal to  the left was engraved H  and on the pedal to the right was engraved C. "Note to self: You're a complete imbecile."

Another thing happened several weeks later when I was at the front desk answering the phone.  I am just beginning to see the humor in the situation. At the time it wasn't funny at all; it was just embarrassing. To be a kidder sometimes I take myself way too seriously.  Just like the situation with the scrubbing in, there were several warnings that something unusual was about to happen in the NICU.  Two of the nurses donned scrubs and had masks hanging around their necks. Their gloved hands were in the air like they were prepared for surgery. I noticed  and I was curious about it, but  I didn't think anything of it.  A few minutes later the phone rang.  I answered it and a very excited female voice said, "We need you in the OR now !"  Well, she did say "YOU" didn't she?  I said, "This is David Helms. I'm just a volunteer are you sure you have the right person?"  She said again even more urgently, "We need you in the OR now!"  While I was still processing how she even knew me, she hung up.  When the phone rang immediately,I thought it would be best to let it ring.  It only rang once. And the two nurses ran out of the unit like they were going to a fire.

"Note to self: There are emergencies in the OR that involve the NICU.  It is of vital importance that these nurses who are trained to save the lives of newborn babies anticipate such emergencies and respond immediately. Seconds count. When they say "you" they mean "the unit" not "you."  (see the previous note to self).

Another thing that took several weeks to sink in are how many clocks are in the unit.  While rocking the babies I had noticed the digital clocks on the monitors and I had noticed the wall clocks here and there.  But all of a sudden I realized that there were clocks everywhere. Small clocks, big clocks, digital clocks, clocks with big black hands and a red second hand. Clocks in the rooms. Clocks on the walls.   Lots of clocks.  So I asked a nurse about it and she said, "Everything we do here happens at a certain time. We feed them at a certain time. We give them their medicine at a certain time. We change them and check certain things at a certain time. Then we have to log the time with the vital statistics. These clocks are very important."  Makes perfectly good sense.

 Last night, just for my information,  I asked another nurse about how she uses the clocks and she quipped, "I use my cellphone. I don't pay any attention to them."

Whereas there are funny things that happen there, the NICU is certainly not fun and games.  Nothing is done without great thought and care. Everything that happens within those walls happens for the welfare of those infants. Some of the stories there are heart-breaking. I try to leave those babies there. But I can't. I bring them all home with me every night.  I think about them. I pray for them. I miss them. I look forward to seeing them again as soon as possible.  When I agreed to cuddle newborns I had no idea what I had signed up for.  I had no idea what the job required in emotional energy.  But with all challenges that confront me, I am finding resources within and without to help me deal with how I feel about those tiny children.  And I try to laugh so that I won't cry.  But it never works.

The Problem with Patriotism

I am very thankful to be a citizen of the United States of America.  It was simply fate that when I was born I was born an American.  So many people over two centuries have risked everything and  put their very lives on the line to become a US citizen.  All I had to do was to wake up.

I am a patriot.  I sing the National Anthem. I salute the flag. I honor those soldiers who  have sacrificed their lives to make me free and to keep me free. My grandfather fought in World War I.  My father-in-law fought in World War II. My own father was in Okinawa at the end of the war. I don't take that for granted.

With that said, when did being "an American" become so politicized? For a number of reasons, both personal and political, some of our pro athletes are refusing to sing our anthem  and are refusing  to salute the flag.  Whereas I don't totally agree with them, I think I understand why they're protesting.. And I fully support their right under the Constitution of the United States of America to do so.  In America, protesting can be our patriotic duty.

I have mixed feelings for the U.S. flag.. The flag for me has become tarnished.  Although I felt this way before the last year or so, I have certainly come to feel this way now.  As I drive around northwest Georgia, I see large Confederate flags waving from the beds of beat up pickup trucks. I also see large Confederate flags flying in front of homes and businesses.  But I am not only assaulted by hundreds of these flags in various places, I see them flying on the same poles with Old Glory. When I see this I always wonder if they realize that the US flag belonged to the Union and the Confederate flag belonged to the Confederates.  They are flying the flags from both sides of the war.  Does this make any more sense than if they flew Old Glory with the Union Jack?  I don't know what statement these people are trying to make, but it strikes me as, "By God, I am a proud American and a proud Confederate.  If you don't like it, you can just..." Can you be a proud Confederate and a proud American? Since 1865, there has been no Confederate States of America. It seems to me that you have to be one or the other.

Being a patriot has become tainted for me as well.  Until recent years I have been as proud an American as an American can be.  But sometime back, and I'm not sure when, being a "patriotic American" got all wrapped up in being pro-Republican, pro-Fox News, pro-white, pro-Nascar, pro-country music,  pro-guns, pro-military and pro-war. I have come to feel like if I don't support all of those things, then I am not a true blue American. For the record, I'm white.  I voted Republican until the last two elections, the Blue Angels make my heart happy,  I own a gun, I enjoy watching Nascar and I'm sure there's a country song or two that I like.   I just don't think any of it should be a test of my patriotism.  In today's discourse it seems that the Second Amendment is not only a test of my beliefs about guns, but is also a test of the way I feel about my country. It seems that immediately after every all too frequent mass shooting  before anyone has time to mention gun control, gun activists are shouting about their U.S.  Constitutional rights.  I say, "Calm down. Nobody's coming after your  military grade assault rifles." Recently a  man accidentally shot and killed his fourteen  year old son at a shooting range. Regarding the tragic accident,  it is reported that a few days later the father said, "The gun didn't kill my boy. I did." Just to be clear.

Are there "just wars' and "unjust wars?" For there to be a "United States of America", did Abraham Lincoln have any choice but to go to war against his own countrymen who had taken up arms against him?  Regarding the second world war, even the avowed pacifist Albert Einstein said, "Hitler must be stopped."  On the other hand, President George Bush was fond of saying about the Iraqis,  "They hate us for our freedom."  No, they hate us because we bombed their businesses and their homes. We not only killed their soldiers but hundreds of thousands of men, women and children as well. "Shock and Awe" may have been impressive military fireworks to us, but it was instantaneous death to thousands of Iraqi citizens.  I know it's complicated, but people much more knowledgeable than me in these matters have suggested that the rise of Al Qaeda and ISIS was a direct result of our  military  intervention and aggression in the Middle East.

As you look back over the history of civilization, you see peoples and countries who go to war to protect their rights and their freedoms.  Under their banners  they kill thousands or millions of each other, they become friends and trading partners.  Our current strongest ally flew the Union Jack as our enemy in both the Revolutionary War and the War of 1812. If American soldiers  saw that flag, they shot to kill.  Now if you shoot a British citizen, they call it murder.  Why would we shoot a friend? Now Krauts and Jerrys are Germans.  Gooks are Vietnamese. Japs are Japanese, Who knows, maybe some day insurgents will just be people.

 John Lennon died on December 8, 1980.  A gun didn't kill John Lennon. Mark David Chapman, a very deranged American did. With five bullets fired from a gun.  But before he died Lennon wrote, "Imagine there's no countries, nothing to kill or die for..."

But there are countries. And as countries go I'll take this one.  For all its faults and failures, for all its political hypocrisy and social failures, for all of its flags to this country and countries that don't exist, for all of its just and unjust wars, for all of its understanding and misunderstanding of its amendments to its Constitution, when given the opportunity I will stand and "pledge allegiance to the flag of the United States of America" and will proudly sing, "Whose broad stripes and bright stars through the perilous fight..." "that this nation under God shall have a new birth of freedom, and that the government of the people, by the people, and for the people, shall not perish from this earth."

One Beat at a Time

"Class, how are you going to do with that beat?"  Dr.Richard Lin (1925-2015)

We got married in October of 1976 after we both had graduated from Samford University in June. While she was earning a pharmacy degree, I earned  a double major of music and education. We moved together to Louisville, Kentucky the next year for me to continue my music education at the Southern Baptist Theological Seminary(SBTS). There I earned a Master of Church Music with a major in choral conducting. I was named at graduation "The Outstanding Conductor of the Year." Considering the competition, I was very proud of that award. I still am. Am I bragging?  Yes, I think I am.

I seldom mention that I attended SBTS because I fear that people know something about what the seminary is today.  In light of what it is, unless you were there, there is no way to appreciate what it was. It was world-renowned as a school of theology and its music school was second to none in the Southern Baptist Convention (SBC).    According to what you may think about "Baptist" or "Baptist School of Music", you probably aren't all that impressed.  But in 1979, I earned a Master of Church Music degree  from one of the most respected schools of music in the country. It was no Julliard or Eastman. However,  it was not only respected as a school of "church" music but as a school of music. The summer before I entered SBTS I talked to a church music director who had dropped out there. He said,  "Regardless of what you think will happen at a theological seminary, you are going there to earn a masters degree in music. And they don't give it away."

Besides the general core curriculum, each student declared a major field.  I chose conducting. Although my education prepared me to conduct any music ensemble, including band and orchestra, my emphasis was choral conducting.

Dr. Richard Lin fled Communist China  and immigrated to the United States in 1952. His English was good and certainly understandable, but he had a heavy Chinese accent and got syntax jumbled up. That habit was part of what made him so warm and endearing. He was not only a significant professor of music, but became a significant mentor and friend.

Besides group classes in conducting,  I had private conducting lessons as well.  Both in class and in private, Dr. Lin held me accountable for every beat of every measure in a piece of music.  There was no bluffing or coasting through a musical score; he held my  "feet" to the fire. My arms and hands became an extension of my heart.

In our mothers' wombs there was a moment in time when the goop of amniotic fluid became organized enough that our tiny hearts started beating. Our lives began. There will be a moment in time when our hearts beat for the last time.  In between there is a definite number of beats. That number is counting down now. While you read this article, your heart will beat about 350 times. During the next twenty four hours, it will beat over 100,000 times.  At the end of the day, that will be 100,000 beats less than the total you are given. Today, or one day, just as surely as it started with beat one, it will stop. Then in the time it takes you to read this, your life will stop as well. There will have been a definite number of heart beats. That's all you got.

We live our lives as if we have time to waste. We count the minutes until five o'clock so that we can "get on with our lives" and do the things we really want to do.  We hurry through dinner so that we can watch TV.  We watch a show we're not all that interested in until the show we want to see comes on.  Meanwhile, our hearts are beating--diastole, systole, isovolumic contraction and isovolumic relaxation time, all in one second. This process repeats itself about 3,600 times while you watch your favorite show.

Just as Dr. Lin held me accountable, I have held my choirs accountable since then. No wasted beats. No wasted measures. No wasted anthems.  Heart and meaning."Choir, how are you going to do with this music?  How are going to do with this day?"

Since the early 1980s, the  Southern Baptist "Theological" Seminary has deteriorated to a fundamentalist Bible college. And there is no school of church music.  At times I'm tempted to feel that that degree and that conducting award are only useful as wallpaper. Especially since I've hung up the baton, I wonder what any of it meant.  But over the years, as I have stood before a choir,  that training still pulsed through my veins. it still sang in those voices.  And I knew  in those moments that none of it was wasted.  That all of it meant something. That all of it means something.

The pastor of the church where we were going after graduation  drove from Rossville, Georgia to Louisville to attend my graduation dinner.  When I introduced him to Dr. Lin, Dr. Lin put his  hand on my shoulder and said, "David's a good man. You're getting a good man."  Dr. Lin, you were a good man as well. Your hands became my hands.  And your heart became my heart. And it still beats through mine every day. "How am I going to do with this beat?" Regardless of what that degree is now worth, I'm going to make it count. I"m going to make it mean something. I only get about 100,000 heart beats today and I'll never get one of them back. Diastole, systole, isovulumic contraction, and isovolumic relaxation time.  I've moved into relaxation time.  But rests in music are as important as the notes.  Dr. Lin taught me that.

Pulling My Weight

"Transient global amnesia is a sudden, temporary episode of memory loss that can't be attributed to a more common neurological condition, such as epilepsy or stroke.

During an episode of transient global amnesia, your recall of recent events simply vanishes, so you can't remember where you are or how you got there. In addition, you may not remember anything about what's happening in the here and now. Consequently, you may keep repeating the same questions because you don't remember the answers you've just been given. You may also draw a blank when asked to remember things that happened a year, a month or even a day ago.

With transient global amnesia, you do remember who you are, and recognize the people you know well. But that doesn't make your memory loss less disturbing.

Fortunately, transient global amnesia is rare, seemingly harmless and unlikely to happen again. Episodes are usually short-lived, and afterward your memory is fine."  The Mayo Clinic

This morning while working out, my thoughts went back to an incident in another gym about eighteen years ago. At forty-five years old I was in the best shape of my life.  I worked out vigorously and regularly.  Among other physical feats, I could do twelve pull ups from a dead hang.  No jumping, twisting, squirming, just twelve pull ups.  I can now do something between zero and  one pull up from a dead hang. 

On that fall afternoon my wife and I were at the gym in our separate cars. There was nothing remarkable about the day or the workout.  I remember very little about it. What I do remember is that one minute  I was doing bench presses on one side of the gym and the next moment I was sitting in a chair on the other side of the gym. Until my wife found me, a concerned patron was asking me if I was okay. I remember being in the car with my wife on the way to the hospital.  I remember stopping by my son's high school to tell him we were going to the hospital.  I remember that she said I asked her over and over about my car, where was it and when could be get it. I recall that she asked me if I remembered our dinner plans for that evening and I told her that I did not.  For the next four to five hours I didn't know anything or anybody except my wife.  I had no short-term or long-term memory of anything. The world as I knew it ceased to exist. After several  hours in the ER my head began to clear and I began to remember things little by little.

None of the diagnostic tests including an EEG, CT and echocardiogram showed any negative results.  None of the doctors involved had an explanation for what was going on with me.  It was all a mystery. The next week I saw a neurologist. Before he ran any more tests, he just asked me some questions.  After about fifteen minutes he said, "I know what happened to you. You experienced an incident with TGA, transient global amnesia." He told me that I had the classic symptoms and that they were unmistakable.  He said that the incident was more than likely exercise induced, that there would be no permanent brain damage and that it would probably never happen again.

I have a lot of trouble retaining names.  I not only find it difficult to recall a name I've just "learned", but many times I can't recall the name of someone I know very well.  It can be very awkward and very embarrassing.  I blame it on the TGA.  My doctors say otherwise but I prefer to think I lost something during the dramatic memory loss than that I'm just losing it period.

Recently I ran into a good friend in Walmart who is in her 90s. I remembered her name but she didn't remember mine.  She is experiencing serious issues with dementia. At one point I asked her something about her deceased husband and she said, "I don't remember him."  As I was saying goodbye she took both of my hands in hers, looked deep into my eyes and said, "David,remember while you can."

Our short-term and long-term memories are our connection to our lives and to the world around us. With our short-term memories we remember that we need to pick up a dozen eggs on our way home from work. We remember that we turned on the stove and need to turn it off. With our long-term memories we not only remember where we were, who we were with and what we were doing, but we remember the actual feelings that were involved. The "global" part of transient global amnesia is that affects the whole brain. Our memories are global as well.  They are scattered throughout our gray matter. When you remember something your entire brain lights up. On the other hand, if we don't remember it, then as far as we're concerned it no longer exists.  It never happened.  It's just not there. 

I remember being at the gym today.  I remember that the pull ups I did were weighted. I don't mean that the weight was on me, the weight was on the machine so that I was only lifting the difference. I don't know the exact reason I can't do pull ups from a dead hang anymore, but I'm fairly sure it's related to transient global amnesia. Don't look it up. Just trust me.