Time marches along

Just a breath while I review the last few days. Lots of family, way too much food, plenty of laughter and games, but tears as well. It's hard to say good-bye at the end of a visit. It's hard to reconcile how things are, with how they used to be.

Because of our joint interest in history, whenever Ashley and I get time together, we go on jaunts to museums and historic sites. We talk about what we see, exclaim over the surprises, and yes, get a little snarky about the design or the interpretation sometimes. It sparks interesting discussions and speculation and often sends us to the computer or back to the gravestone or architecture guides that line the bookshelves at home.

What is ever-evolving for me in all of this, is my perspective on time and how quickly life seems to be evaporating. It is not possible to stand in the rooms where innumerable people have stood over the past 200 years, and not think about mortality. What survives through time and what doesn't ---- it's not necessarily related to its social or political importance. Sometimes it's just luck. Or neglect. The stories that are earnestly told about people who have gone before, no matter how well researched, cannot be complete because we don't know what individuals were thinking ---- they may not even have known why they did what they did. How often do you do something and then thump yourself on the head and ask "What was I thinking?"

I love evidence that people lived everyday lives. I'm glad that the interpretation of history has taken that turn in the last few decades, to include everyday life of everyday people, not just battles and elections. But there's still always the possibility that we're getting it wrong. Or that we're neglecting and leaving out significant parts because either they are uncomfortable to talk about (taboos) or we simply don't know about them since life has changed so much.  I'm glad when I hear or read about things like tooth pain and menses and fading eyesight, the stuff that really affects how people live, even though it doesn't show up in the historic record. We tend to take the many, many images we've seen on the screen as truth, even knowing that it can't possibly represent real life. Bonanza? Andy Griffith? Wagon Train? But when you watch movies and tv shows that have some of the trappings but not the grit --- missing teeth and B.O. and vermin and not enough warmth or cooling against the weather. It all looks so . . . . Gone With The Wind. Hoop skirts and satin, dashing soldiers and beautiful women against a backdrop of luxurious antebellum mansions.

Well, I'm not exactly advocating for absolute historical accuracy in all media portrayals ---- really, who does want to watch romantic leads with bad teeth and lice? Not too appealing, in the world of fantasy. But a little reality in the educational setting does add a great deal. Not skirting around issues like slavery and violence, child labor, tenements and open sewers and epidemics, is the stuff that makes history most interesting, most accessible, and much more relevant to today.

The other part of having my family here, rolling out the decades-old traditions like we do at Christmas, is bringing into the family circle the ones who have gone before. We sat in the great-great grandparents' chairs, heard echoes of the grandfather's reading voice, listened to music handed down through generations, ate the special dishes from grandmother to daughters to grandchildren. At the same time, the traditions are renewed with newer family members, born or brought in, to carry them into the future.

I lose myself in time. Sometimes I feel like I'm swimming upstream against a current that's dragging me where I don't want to go. I don't want to join the others, the ones whose presence is still represented, but fainter every year as memories are lost. This chair. This ornament. This song. I know where they came from, what they have meant, who those people were, but what happens when I am gone? Will this mahogany secretary cease to be the piece that Mom and I bought in England, and simply become a piece of furniture? Will these beads be tossed aside as just another necklace, even though they were Mabel's 20th birthday present from her mother in 1923, passed to Nancy with a letter, 65 years later? On one level, it's just stuff. On another, it's the stuff of life.

Another project for this week has been cleaning and organizing the upstairs, my own creative space. It's currently littered with the detritus of my teaching career. Ashley has a knack for organization and can be relentless when it comes to tossing things. We managed to take a carload to Goodwill, load the trunk with pass-alongs, fill two trashbags and a recycle bin, and it's still not done ---- but it's way better. I kept thinking -- and saying aloud --- I better do it now, so you don't have to do it after I die. Kind of a downer, but way too true. Nice holiday sentiment. She assured me that the Indian bag and oil lamp parts I was dithering over would be tossed if the bus were to hit me tomorrow. Off they went to Goodwill, by my own hand.

The underlying theme is passage of time. It's ticking away at a steady pace, whether I am aware of it or not, whether I notice and acknowledge it or not. I have a framed photo of a woman I don't know, hanging in my room upstairs. I bought it in an antique store because I found it so compelling. She might be in her 40s or 50s, wearing small glasses and looking directly into the camera. Her crooked smile reveals a few teeth. She looks educated, wise, amused. She is my writing muse. I have no idea what her name was or who her people were. She probably has living descendants somewhere who might even like to have her picture. But she's mine. I adopted her and I'm keeping her. And someday, one of my descendants will try to figure out where she falls on the family tree. So maybe the stuff ---- the pictures and old books and paintings and letters--- just scatter to the winds and land where they will. Landfill, collector, antique store, great-great-grandson's living room --- or the wall of a stranger who gives new meaning to continuing life.

It's not like I have any control over it, after all.

Harvest of Dreams

Don't you wonder how the fabulous things you do in a dream can disappear so quickly the minute you wake up?

Sometimes I waken with the certain knowledge that I've been speaking another language or have composed some amazing music. I'll have written a short story or delivered a lecture, and POOF! it's gone, and I can't get it back. It's like trying to pick up mercury.

(For those of us of a certain age, when a thermometer broke during childhood, we got to chase the mercury around on the floor, trying to pick it up. Don't even bother to tell me how dangerous and poisonous it is. It's probably why I can't remember my dreams.)

Dreams have probably shaped history sometimes, since people used to --- and maybe still do --- use them as a form of divination. Battles fought, monarchs overthrown, journeys undertaken all may have happened at the bidding of dreams. And who knows? Maybe they were onto something.

When I valued sleep less than I do now, I used to keep a notebook by my bed to write down dreams for the purpose of capturing their insight. Sometimes I would wake up in the middle of the night and write, then go back to sleep for more. Sometimes I would try like mad to hang onto it in the morning long enough to scribble down the essence. When I run across these old spiral notebooks now, they are about as interesting as listening to your roommate in college tell you her dream over breakfast. Uh-huh. Ok.

Needless to say, I've developed a keen interest in how the brain works, and doesn't work, since dealing with demented parents for the past 14 years. I have more than a passing interest in understanding my own brain in an effort to escape that fate myself. A few years ago I enrolled in a study at Duke in the Alzheimers's Research Center, to follow me for an indefinite period and be evaluated every year for signs of Alzheimers. Unfortunately, the funding dried up ----- science? who needs funding for science? Let's just pray it away! --- so I no longer have the assurance of being evaluated regularly, as well as the opportunity to contribute in a small way to the research. I also participated in a couple of shorter research projects, one of which involved having a functional MRI. At the end, I asked, in a joking way, if I could take home a picture of my brain. She not only obliged, but explained to me what I was looking at and assured me that my hypothalamus was "nice and plump". Nothing like a plump hypothalamus, that's what I always say.

So I have my brain framed and on my dresser. Somehow that's reassuring. I know that it's firing and I actually feel more clear-headed, teachable and "with it" than I have for years, right now. Even the stress of being the fulltime caretaker for a demented Alzheimer's parent is nothing like the wretched condition of being a public school teacher. That's pretty sorry, when you think about it.

Having my brain on the dresser is a reminder that my possibilities are endless, as long as I don't give up. I still have my faculties, such as they are. I can still think and speak and write, communicate with others, come up with new ideas. And I still have my dreams, both waking and sleeping.

Now, let me tell you about the dream that woke me up this morning....

Risky business

It is true. I am pretty risk averse. A friend recently tried skydiving for the first time, to which I responded with the thought that I would never in this world do such a thing ---- or even want to. But it made me think, what am I willing to risk, and why?

The risks I took in younger years had much more to do with rebellion than testing my mettle. I was never interested in anything athletic ---- sports bore me to tears. So the risks I took were more internal: defiance, infidelity, cheating, stealing and getting away with lies. It was enough excitement to raise the heartbeat, and was usually fueled by a goodly supply of alcohol and a few other substances. I developed a cynical stance toward "straight" people, by which I meant anyone who didn't behave as I did, church people, folks who followed the rules.

Now maybe the high to be gained from stealing lipstick from the dimestore is akin to the endorphin rush of making a touchdown. I wouldn't know. Both take some sort of courage, since there is the possibility of pain, and the outcome is uncertain. Since the things I was skilled at --- reading, writing, thinking, debating --- were not highly valued among my peers, I tried to keep them under wraps. It surely would have taken more courage to stand tall in my own sphere of accomplishments, regardless of what my classmates thought, but I preferred to hide my lights and find another way to show off. I guess that put me right out of the running for an after-school special; no book-nerd who makes good in spite of social ostracism for me.

The unfortunate aspect of this is that I tended to hide under the proverbial bushel for most of my life. Sure, once I got to college it became acceptable to be academically inclined, and I couldn't help but be challenged and intrigued by all the new ideas I encountered. But the habit of hiding out, of testing the waters and inventing my persona, had become so entrenched that I persisted, well beyond the point where even I could pretend it was good for me. I took hostages and called them husbands and boyfriends. I alternately smothered and neglected my child. I was consistently underemployed, spinning my wheels while I played approach-avoidance with college. When I finally graduated after seven and a half years, I stayed on welfare for another year, dithering about what to do with myself and working in scuzzy bars.

The role of risk in my life has continued to interest me. Long after I jumped off the cliff into recovery and sobered up, I was still engaging in emotional terrorism, unable to break from the old patterns. While I was no longer inclined toward my adolescent larcenies, I still felt that whoever my "real" self was, was not right, not good enough, would be shamed and made fun of. It was a shock to me that I didn't need the alcohol to spur me on; by that time I was self-sustaining when it came to risking everything for the thrill of another flirtation, another deception, getting away with whatever I could. In fact, one of the problems with early sobriety was the feeling that I had moved from life in the fast lane to life in the slow lane and I didn't like it one bit.

It is just possible that now I am simply old and tired, not really any wiser, but there seems to have been a fundamental shift in the last decade or so. A big part of the hidden self was revealed when I finally came out of the closet and stayed out. But it is not simply the fact that I finally embraced my sexual identity. I probably could have continued staggering from one emotional disaster to another for the rest of my life. I'd had plenty of practice. It was more that I finally, with the help of a therapist, slowed to a full halt and took stock --- lived alone, unattached, taking care of the business of life and figuring out what I like and want.

And that, my friends, was the biggest risk of all. For the first time, after 20 years of sobriety, 50 years on the planet, I came face to face with my unadorned self --- and didn't run away.

These days, the risks are still internal. They involve trusting enough to show and tell how I really feel. They involve being vulnerable enough to let another person know me. And most of all, I risk continuing to know myself, learn more, be imperfect. And the results are amazing, though they'll never show up on a TV show or in the public eye.

Don't look for me to jump out of any planes. I'll leave that to people who are interested in that sort of physical endeavor, and more power to them. No fast cars, highwire acts, motorcycles or mountain climbing for me. But that doesn't mean I don't step out into the world on my own highwire every day. I do, but you just can't see it. And that's all right with me.

 

Dividing lines

Sometimes, I wonder why I do it to myself. I was reading comments again. Oh lawd, it's eye-opening and discouraging.

I escaped the icy winters and cut-throat politics of trying to keep a state job in Illinois 24 years ago, to come to the south. People talk about the New South and the Old South, but since I have a limited experience here, I'm not sure I can compare the two with accuracy. It's probably all in the eye of the beholder, anyway. Since my wife, Jill, is a native North Carolinian, and from a small town at that, I do have more insight than I otherwise would.

The comments I read this morning were not local. I happened on a news headline about infant mortality in Milwaukee, and since NC has a history of poor outcomes for infants, I thought I'd read it and see what was happening in the midwest. I tend to forget just how regional and insular we can be in this country, until I start reading beyond the large news outlets.

I was appalled, when I moved here, that NC was near the bottom of the heap when it came to infant mortality and child deaths. I was raising kids myself, and involved in La Leche League as a mom and later as a leader. I swam in the sea of mothers and babies for years. I watched as the state determinedly pulled up its rankings and addressed not only the mortality rates, but the child health and education issues. Though it seemed to be related mainly to poverty and class, in this state race and class run neck and neck, with a long and divisive history behind them. It is not possible to divide questions of race and class here, but because of that, the discussion is at least attempted, the conversation includes, however self-consciously, the recent and distant grievances and wounds.

There is a myth abroad in the land, I think, that racism is concentrated in the south. We all see now-historic pictures of Selma, of Mississippi, of buses burning and lunch counter confrontations. I'm by no means an apologist for the egregious racially-tainted violence or day-to-day discrimination that has been rampant in the south. But when I was reading the comments behind the stories about infant mortality in the Wisconsin newspaper this morning, it made me sick at heart. This is supposed to be the part of the country where acceptance is a bedrock of the community. North of the Mason-Dixon still holds that "follow the drinking gourd" reputation in the mythologized history of this divided nation.

What is it that makes people so hateful that they actually think parents want their babies to die, that their families aren't really families at all, simply because of their skin color or their "zip code"? (What is it with zip codes, anyway? Is that an urban thing?) I know I can't generalize to "all Wisconsonites" or "all northerners"  ---- or city people or country people or white people or Christians or uneducated people ----- it's so easy, isn't it, to group folks and write them off. I also know that the folks who comment on articles are the ones with the most time on their hands and the biggest axe to grind, by and large. But really? I saw comments that were so hurtful and mean-spirited that I couldn't imagine them showing up in the News and Observer here in Raleigh. And we've got some meanies that like to leave comments, no doubt about it. But these took the cake, and they were so blatantly, horrifically, awful towards black women and children, it was scary.

Maybe I should be glad that folks who write comments like that (and "folks" actually means mostly men, sorry guys) aren't out taking potshots at the objects of their vitriol, but merely sounding off in front of their buddies. Maybe this is the new version of the street corner, the diner, the fishing boat --- the place to sound tough and mean and macho in order to look strong in front of the fellas. The trouble is, if that is what it is, it's no longer out of earshot of its victims. Before the internet, I wasn't on the bench in front of the fire station or out in the duck blind or in the locker room. If that's where this sort of thing was happening before, I didn't hear it. But now I can see and hear and, to me, it sounds dangerous.

Do we raise our kids to be without empathy for others now? Is this new, or is it simply more obvious, given the widespread media available?  I can say that when I was growing up in the 1950s and 60s in rural Iowa, I did not hear this kind of hate speech. There was still an emphasis on being kind. There were prejudices, to be sure. I know that my immigrant older relatives, Aunty Ann and Grandma, used to speak ill of Catholics and Blacks, from time to time, but it was usually in German so the kids wouldn't understand (HA!). And the prevailing attitude was that we were to accept everyone, that we were no better or worse than anyone else. That was what Sunday School taught, that was the talk at the dinner table, and in school. Two direct teachings in our household were "If you can't say something nice, don't say anything at all" and "Do unto others as you would have them do unto you". I don't think that was unusual.

When I hear or read such impassioned bitterness, I wonder at its origin. Where are the cracks in that person's psyche that would create so much resentment? Why, upon being shown evidence of the suffering of others, is the impulse towards blame rather than mercy and charity? Or maybe it HAS been around a long time. After all, we're still saddled with notions of the "worthy poor" or "deserving widows" ---- as if only the unrighteous find themselves in dire circumstances. Yet it can happen to me, to you, to any of us. Perhaps it is that fear, the fear of not having control over life and fate, that makes people so ill in spirit.

I know how privileged I am, and still I'm certain that I don't have a clue how much I take for granted. The best I can do is love my family and friends with all the ferocious gentleness I can muster, be grateful for all the things I know how to count on my fingers, and stay open-hearted and open-minded to the best of my ability. Every day I learn more.

Lesson # 267, I think

It seems like there are always more lessons to learn, at least if you look at life from my perspective. And right now, I'm taking the accelerated class.

Seems like I still harbor the benighted idea that I am capable of being everything to everyone, if not every day, then at least 6 out of 7. Since that is obviously not true, sooner or later it catches up with me like it did last night. Big time blow up. Tears, Yelling, Accusations, Ridiculous Statements, Sobbing in the Shower, Hopelessness, Feeling Trapped, and for good measure, a little more Yelling. Nobody ever went wrong pointing out my resemblance to a drama queen.

The thing is, for the first time, it was disguised as a problem between Jill and me. It's always so much harder when it presents like that. The truth? Fatigue, disappointment, fear, anxiety, unreasonable expectations --- all the usual suspects. Up until then, we had been able to stay in close enough communication to head off breakdowns. In fact, we've been downright proud of ourselves for what a team we've been. Got this caregiving stuff down pat. Piece of cake.

Or not. I know it's inevitable and we're all feeling our way through this new situation. It's not going to unfold perfectly, or anywhere close. I know that in my head, but I don't always know that in the moment.

One of the unintended consequences of last night's firestorm was a change of attitude this morning. I woke up restored, refreshed, ready to resume my role as Chief Comforter and Taxi Service. I loved my wife again, and my mother as well. I even loved my life.

Jill went to work. Mama went to visit Jack. Buddy and I braved the 38 degree temps and went to play at the dog park. He had a good romp and I got to chat with a couple of doggy daddies. When it was time to leave, the gate clanged shut behind us and Buddy started to trot down the walking path, not toward the car. I had the keys, I'm the driver, and as far as I was concerned we'd been in the cold long enough. But he looked back at me with those adorable eyes, asking as clearly as with words "Can't we go for a walk, Mom?"

It only took half a minute for me to remember the night before and bring myself back into the moment, right here, right now, in the brisk, cold air of a morning in December at Millbrook park. Did I have anything better to do? So off we went, not just walking but, after a little start, running as well. Now, I want you to know that I don't run unless someone is chasing me. It's a policy. Buddy liked it and I liked it. It didn't last long, but after that little burst of activity, we slowed down to continue our walk into the woods. And when we came to a fork in the road, we took it!

Off the paved sidewalk and onto a small, leaf-covered path we trotted, Buddy unable to believe his luck at this turn of events. Do you have any idea how many things there are to smell in the woods? As we walked deeper into the trees it became less trimmed, less like a park and more like a real enchanted forest. I remembered how much I've loved walking paths like that, ever since I was a child, playing in the wild area across the road from our house. I thought about kids growing up in the city who don't experience the outdoors like that, maybe even if they live in the same neighborhood as this little patch of wilderness.

We walked through a section where once-tall trees lay across the ground like pick up sticks, and I wondered if they were leftover from Hurricane Fran in '96. For awhile, the whole city looked like that. Then we came to a thick stand of pines where the underbrush grew wild and the light was shadowed. I began to wonder how far this could go on, since Raleigh was all around . . . somewhere. Suddenly we came into the light at the bottom of an embankment. Above our heads I could hear the thwock, thwock of tennis rackets. Against Buddy's better judgement, we scaled the not-too-steep hill and emerged on the solid blacktop that surrounded an enclosure of tennis courts, filled with the ladies in pony tails who play while the kids are in school. As we crossed the parking lot in the direction of the dog park enclosure, I realized that our great exploration had been a large circle --- we were right back where we started.

How often have I stuck to an agenda and lost the opportunity to explore? This day will never be repeated. I look at my mom and see someone who has largely lost the ability to make decisions about herself and her experiences. I may or may not wind up in her shoes, but today I have choices and it's up to me to make the ones that support the life I want to live, instead of just what I "ought" to be doing.

Buddy was my teacher today. Jill was my teacher last night. But I can be my teacher, too, and even choose my own curriculum.

Human: For better or for worse

DISCLAIMER O' THE DAY: I lay no claim to original thinking. When you read my posts, you probably go "Shoot, I thought about that months, years, decades ago!"

The past week, since emerging from the fog that is Nanowrimo, I have been catching up with "reality" and sneaking in as much downtime as I possibly can. That means that I begin the day full of ideas about what I'm going to do, and it quickly devolves into sitting around looking at Occupy Wall Street videos and reading op-eds from local news outlets and the NYT. I have, most assuredly, a skewed outlook on the world. It's ever easier to seek out the sources that reinforce my extant worldview. So objectivity is probably not my strong suit.

Except for one thing. I have been blessed (cursed?) with the ability ---- no, the necessity ----- of seeing situations from multiple points of view. This is very handy when you are a writer of fiction, or else how could you ever write a believable character you don't like? It does set me up for being accused of wearing rose-colored glasses, or being an idealist, or not having any convictions. For me, it's simply how I experience the world. And when I come across something completely foreign, I find myself darting in and out on it ---- kind of like Buddy at the dog park when he's playing with a new, big dog ---- trying to figure out what angles make sense in my existing schema.

Admittedly, I often get things wrong, woefully wrong. Since I lean toward the sunny side in general, I usually don't attribute nefarious motives to people unless it's inescapable, and even then, I'm always looking for explanation. I read about murderers and white collar criminals and wonder what made them do those things, how they justify or rationalize such actions, what in their background or psyche gives rise to such hurtful behavior. So, given all this, I am completely baffled when thinking about how our society has become so seemingly cruel-hearted toward others.

I did grow up in the era of Rah Rah America, apple pie and the American dream. I was inculcated with the values that were considered to be endemic in the American Spirit, the virtues that supposedly underlay our every move, foreign and domestic. Americans were open, friendly, welcoming, generous, --- that was the image I grew up with in the 50s. So what happened?

How is it that so much of the public discourse (if you can call standing on opposite sides of a deep ravine and shouting, discourse) is concerned with how we treat other people? Isn't that what it is, or am I being simplistic and idealistic again? Don't questions of income disparity, healthcare access, affordable housing, labor and wages, education, criminal justice, civil rights, and caring for the poorest and disabled people among us, all come down to how  we, as moral and responsible human beings, treat each other? The fundamental questions about life are the same at the top of the income distribution as they are at the bottom, though the outward appearances are different. The richest .01% are not exempt from the human emotions of love and loss, nor from the responsibility of giving and receiving. The poorest, incarcerated crack addict has responsibilities toward the common good as well, beginning with addressing the internal conditions that give rise to that illness and its anti-social consequences.

WE ARE ALL ONE.  Nobody gets out of this alive. The CEO and the crack addict, and everyone in-between, are all riding the same train to the same destination. The longer I hang around on our little blue planet, the more I realize how finite and error-prone we are. We chase the things that don't matter and ignore the things that do.We're rightfully indignant at injustices in other countries, but yell at or hurt the people in our own homes.

My sphere of influence is limited, but I have one. So do you. So does everybody. And we are all extending that influence all day, every day. The only question is what will that influence be? Will it be only for me and mine? Only for my tribe, the people who I think are right or like me? Only for my own pleasure or comfort or self-aggrandizement? Or will I take up the responsibilities of being a person among others and offer the world my gifts of self --- the talent or money or skills that I can. I have a contract with others, not unlike the oath of a medical doctor, to cause no harm. I may not be able to make things better, but I must not make things worse.