The Power of Silence

I have this picture hanging on the wall in my office. I can't tell you how many people comment on it. That may be because of the profound wisdom it expresses. Or it may be because of the irony of it hanging in MY office. Silence isn't really my strong suit. But I'm working on it.

I'm building a new habit. I've started spending the first hour of the morning in silence, gliding gently in my rocker, Sophie purring in my lap. The screens and devices stay dark until that hour is up. I won't share too much of what I'm doing. Meditation is a pretty new thing for me, and I want to resist the desire to act like an overnight expert.

I don't know if I'm "doing it right," or if there even is such a thing. I suppose a teacher or mentor or spiritual guide might help direct me, or at least reassure me, but for now I'm learning from the books and instruction I can get online or in the library. Maybe I'll seek out a guru once I can do that crazy crossed legs thing on the floor.

I have practicing this morning silence for about three weeks. I started around the time I decided to quit fretting about my health and get on with life instead. It has brought me a couple of surprises.

I've noticed that on the days I start with silence, my life is more disciplined. I don't miss as many workouts. I'm on time a little more, (not too much - I have to protect my brand, you know.)  I am not getting as tired in the afternoons, in spite of the fact that I'm skipping the snooze button, getting dressed, and starting the day an hour earlier. I don't know what the relationship is between all these benefits and my new, silent habit, but I like it.

Something else has begun happening, too. I haven't talked about this very much, or maybe I have, but God and I have not been getting along very well for some time. A couple of years, actually. Losing so many people during the pandemic, having the woman I once hoped would be my wife suffer and die alone with cancer and covid, and finally watching them lower my mother into the ground on a foggy mountain in Pennsylvania left me feeling betrayed and abandoned by a God who did not behave like the fellow I always thought he was. 

I did not stop believing he was there. I might as well deny the reality of air or sunlight. But my trust was gone. I stopped believing in a person, a father, abba,  who watched and cared and looked out for his children. Instead, I saw indifference to suffering that too often seemed like cruelty. My prayers stopped. My Bible gathered dust. What used to be long conversations with God became snorts of anger and distain for a Creator who let his creation go so wrong. 

But in the silence something is changing. I won't call it redemption, or even truce, but in my quiet observation of myself and the world around me, I'm realizing that I am not angry at God for who he is - I am angry at him for not being who I thought he was, who I wanted him to be.

Part of the practice of meditation, as I understand it, is detachment. Siddhartha Gautama, the man they call the Buddha believed that suffering comes from desire, our thirst for things we don't have: things that are not ours to possess. A couple hundred years later, Jesus seemed to agree with him. At least that's the impression I have so far. I've barely gotten a sniff of whatever the B-man is cooking. He taught that freeing ourselves from desire would free us from life's cycle of suffering. 

I wonder if he was right? I wonder if what seems like God's indifference is really detachment from the desire to fix something that doesn't belong to him. If God really gave us the right to choose, then the consequences of our choices belong to us, too. I think that's a glimmer of what they call Karma. They are not God's consequences to take away - they are ours to live with,  and to someday release. Like maybe being "born again?"

This gets real problematic and weird. That's probably because I've spent less than a month considering things that people spend their whole lives contemplating. I'm a little lost in the weeds of my own ignorance right now. But somewhere down the path, it seems to me that forgiveness is waiting. For myself. For God. For... I don't know... for all the people and things that didn't turn out to be what I thought or wished they were. 

Detachment from the sound of angry sadness rattling around in my heart. That's a silence I would like to hear.

And somewhere a little further down that path, there is action: the quiet work of loving a world that can't help but hurt itself.

At least that's what I think today. Time to stop typing. I'm still a long way from the wisdom that comes from "saying nothing."

 

Christmonday

O Come, O Come 

Sophie is usually sleeping on my legs, or impatiently meowling in my face for breakfast, but this morning, she was curled round herself on my chest, head over my heart, purring quietly. It's an unusual way for us to awaken, and I'm not sure I remember it ever happening like that before.

I lay in the dark, listening to the cold, Kentucky rain on a lonesome Christmas morning and sighed. "Who's my Best Girl? Merry Christmas, Soph."  I gave her shoulder a rub as she stretched and sprang toward the kitchen. Then, to myself, as I sat on the edge of the bed, waiting for the dizziness to stop, "Just another fucking Monday."

I took my meds, and threw a cup of yesterday's coffee into the microwave. Gave Sophie and the birds their breakfast, and sat down in the glider-rocker with a hot mug at my side, a warm cat on my lap, and a chilly draft in my heart. My family were spread out all over the map, different states, different time-zones. Different lives. Geography, death, divorce and despair wedged us apart.

No prayers or meditations this morning. Just me and my coffee and my cat, wondering how many more of these silent Christmas mornings we would spend together. 

I know a black mood coming down the river when I see one, and I was determined not to let this one swamp Sophie's and my little Yule-tide boat. I grabbed up my tablet and logged on. Classic misstep. When you are feeling really bad about life, you can always find a reason to feel worse online. YouTube's wicked mathematics have no variable for counteracting Christmas Blues, so my feed was worthless full of exercise tips and political grievances and sports - basically whatever I've clicked on in the last 24 hours. With more than a little dread, I clicked over to Facebook, expecting to find lots of sad posts from sad people who could not contain their broken hearts on Christmas morning. 

Why did I turn there? Misery loves company? A chance to add my voice to the unhappy chorus? To snort at the naive believers and the cynical manipulators? I can't say what I expected... but I found a surprise. 

Christmas.

There were pictures of trees and packages. Photos of families and candle lit services. Remembrances of loved ones and stories of times long past. Plans for the hours that would soon follow. Meals. Games. Naps. 

Gently replacing the cold wind in my chest, like a wisp of smoke from smoldering frankincense, Christmas crept in. Here in my squalid little flat, amid the roaches and the drug dealers and the screaming kids and the frightened parents and the worried cops and the disturbed domestics and the grumpy old men with their birds and their cats - somehow or other - Christmas came just the same. 

In that strange moment, I felt the world all around me - still far from perfect or peaceful - but somehow just a little brighter than usual. I felt children waking up early and parents shuffling to turn on lights and coffee makers. I heard songs being played by Alexa and Siri and Mariah, and the Mormon Tabernacle Choir. Big brothers smiled knowingly at parents as little sisters thanked Santa for getting just the gift they wanted. Somewhere, a night shift worker heard a snatch of melody and a night traveller caught a glimpse of starlight and an expectant father had a dream and new mother kept it all silently in her heart. 

And it was Christmas.

It wasn't all fixed. It wasn't all OK. 

But somehow, it was just a little better.

Less lonely.

More hopeful.

Christmas.

I am more grateful than I can say for the folks who shared their joy with me today. Our miseries will be fine without us for a few more hours. They will be waiting in the morning. But for now...

Let's give joy a chance.

Merry Christmas, y'all.

This Old House...

Monday is my day off. It’s the day I take care of personal stuff like oil changes and laundry. And doctors. Lots of doctors. I’ve been saying for a while that once you turn 60, it’s like driving an old car. There’s always something else that needs fixing. Recently, I’ve started comparing it to an old house. Sometimes I just look around at everything that creaks and leaks and all the lights that used to come on and the furnace that used to keep things so warm, and I swear to god I don’t know what to try to fix first. Today, I met with the electrician, the plumber, a GC who has worked on my house before, and finished up with my interior designer. 

Quite a few projects going this winter. 

The neurologist who checked my wiring this morning was recommended by the guy who says the pipes to my brain are clogged, but not so he wants to fix them at the moment. He’s thinking I may have some bad wiring in the attic. The neurologist asked about my history, had me watch her fingers wave around, and tested my strength. She did a thing where she takes your blood pressure lying down, then sitting, then standing. My pressure dropped dramatically. Which is the thing (orthostatic hypotension) that causes me to faint so much. What we are trying to discover is why that happens. She ordered an MRI. If they take many more pictures of my brain, it’s gonna need its own agent. She also wants me to do something called a “Tilt table test,” which sounds like a blast, if it doesn’t make me seasick. Finally, she told me she is leaving at the end of the year, so I learned to pronounce her fairly intricate Polish name for nothing. And I need a new electrical expert. 

My regular plumber was on another job today, and the new kid kind of lost track of my work order. I grabbed an hour of meditation and napping in the waiting room. When i finally got to see her, she installed this monitor gadget that will track my heartbeat for the next two weeks. She assured me I can do anything except submerge it in water, so the treadmill and I are going to put it through its paces. Can’t wait to see the upload after a few rounds on the heavy bag. I think they are kind of hoping I’ll pass out, so they can see what happens. All I know is they shaved my chest before sticking it on me, and I’ll be really glad when it stops itching. 

Late in the afternoon, I re-hired my favorite general contractor to coordinate the project. Dr Hall has been my primary care doctor since way-back-when, and I know and trust her absolutely. She left the practice where we met, and I’ve been struggling to remember new doctor’s names ever since. I finally got Google to tell me where she moved to, and we had a reunion. Once she was up to speed, she was able to come up with a plan. We’ll get a second opinion on the blocked arteries, and decide together who should do what. We finished our meeting with a big Christmas hug. Good medicine. 

I finished the day with an early evening sit-down with my therapist. We have been working on my interior for some time: what needs to stay, what needs refurbishing, and where is the clutter I don’t really need to hang on to anymore? It’s a real challenge in an old house, but he has a good eye, and a thoughtful manner that is really helping me to make the old place a home. It was a good place at to wrap up the day. A reminder of why I’m working so hard to keep the joint up and running. 

As you can guess, I slept like a baby last night. This morning, as I was meditating, I became aware of how full of contractions our life is. Trivia absorbs us as meaningful action languishes on our “To-do” list. We spend time and energy grieving for all the tasks we don't have time or energy to accomplish. We know what we ought to do, but struggle to say what we really want. And far too often, our response to our own contradictions is to condemn the people who have inconsistencies of their own. 

Inconsistencies do not make us hypocrites; they make us human. And they If we are lucky, they might make us humble.

My own contradictions frustrate and disappoint me. Intelligence and passion have always been my strengths. Now, my brain and my heart seem to be in a race to see who is going to give out first. 

Frustrating? Yes. But also humbling. I am full of conflicting motives and actions. How can I condemn anyone else for their own contradictions? 

And in my roundabout meandering, I wonder if I haven’t stumbled onto something terrible and true about Christmas. What could be more inconsistent than a god who becomes a human? A creator who destroys? A merciful father who abandons his son? Is our inconsistency a reflection of god’s own  nature? 

I wonder. Is god a worried old man, traveling from one doctor to the next, looking for answers to questions he can’t quite put into words? Does god need me as much as I need him?

I think maybe I need to make one more stop this week. There is a manger in an old inn that I need to visit. Seems like a good week to travel from one old house to another. I want to  catch up with an old Friend. 

A new project

I've finally started working on a project I've been thinking about for years. I have recorded the first 40 minutes of my blogs from 2010, the year I became a cancer survivor. (Don't panic. The file below is just a short sample.)

I've tried to create lots of things with all those words. Write a memoir. Turn them into a play. Use them as the foundation of a side hustle as a motivational speaker. Start a cult.

Nothing ever came of all these ideas. They were either too ambitious, too far beyond my talents, or, too damn much work. This time, I'm just putting my nose to the microphone and pressing on. 

Not really sure what I'll do with all this once it is finished. It will take better ears and eyes than mine to turn it into something resembling a professional production. Maybe it will become the audio companion to the compilation I finally cut and paste and self-publish someday. Maybe I'll use it as background for a slide show of all the photos clogging up my hard-drives. Or maybe it will just turn into another piece of evidence at my commitment hearing when the State finally takes custody of my golden years.

Whatever it becomes, it feels like a more useful pastime than fretting about doctors who don't call and scans that don't show enough and wondering where my skull will be the next time a fainting spell sends me thumping to the floor. If nothing else, it is re-introducing me to a man who knew so much more than I do about just about everything. Maybe he can teach me something...

Bob Johnson · Something Might Be Wrong - 12:10:23, 3.40 PM

Balls of Dough

 <exasperated sigh> My attempts to write about it have produced an indigestible mass of dough-balls, more fit for catfish bait than reading. So here is the deal: I see the vascular surgeon in 90 minutes. He's going to tell me what plan he proposes to keep the right side of my brain alive. I'm distracted, confused, and a little bit worried about how that plan may or may not change my life.

Don't know why I feel compelled to tell the world about all this. Maybe fishing for sympathy. I've never understood the whole, "I don't want your pity," thing. I eat the stuff up. Maybe I just want to feel seen and heard, afraid that somewhere out there, somebody is paying attention to something that isn't me. Or maybe because not being heard feels too much like not being there.

Deep down, there is a part of me that hopes I can do some good in the world by telling my story. That maybe my words will help someone else who is struggling. Because we are all struggling. And we all need help.

Because I want to help.

But right now, I haven't much to offer. I've coped pretty well up till this morning. I've told the story. I've gone about my business. I've accepted the not-knowing and welcomed the love and support of friends. Got my workouts in. Eaten healthy meals. Done the right stuff. My shrink would be proud.

But right now? Shitless. Because of one question. 

What if something happens to my brain, and I have to go on living? 

I don't know how I'd answer that question.

And I'm afraid of what my answer might mean.

For myself, and for you. 

I've rolled enough dough-balls for the time being. It's time to put on clean underwear and drive across town to see the wizard. 

In 45 minutes...

How about that? Suddenly, I really wish I could talk to my dad. 

Guess I'd rather be fishing.

Living with not-knowing

Back in 2010, a brilliant and gifted ENT surgeon opened up the right side of my neck and removed a fist-sized mass that was trying to kill me. If you look closely at Bald Yorick  and his buddy over there, you can see the incision. The cancer had spread quite a bit, and a lot of things had to be sacrificed. Muscles. Nerves. Lymph nodes. And weirdly enough, they had to remove my right jugular vein because the tumor had grown around it. It's OK. The blood my brain uses can still flow back to my heart and lungs down the left side, no worries. I remember Dr. Colin saying, "We were lucky the carotid artery was not involved. You can't live without that."

Well, I am now testing that hypothesis. A vascular surgeon whom I have not yet met, one I hope is as brilliant and gifted as Dr Colin was, will be returning to the scene of the crime shortly. Not for cancer. That old bastard isn't up for another ass whooping. This time, it's something with the blandly generic name of Carotid Artery Disease. What it means is that I have blockages in two of the arteries that carry blood to the right side of my brain. A couple of pretty bad blockages, as a matter of fact. 

Monday's ultrasound imaging showed a complete blockage of the external branch and at 50% blockage of the internal one on the right side of my neck/brain. That's bad, but Dr. Google - whose practice I do not reccomend, by the way - Dr. Google assures me that it is very common and very fixable. 

I have had lots of friends assure me that the disorder is very common, and the repair techniques have had many years to be perfected. My surgeon is a good one. The prognosis is excellent. The situation is serious, but not catastrophic. It's gonna be OK. Oh, and that worrying about it won't make it an iota better.

So, worry is off the table.

In the meantime, what's to be done?

Traveling down Not-Knowing Road can be a hazardous trip. Lots of blank spots on the map. My habit has been to try to fill them in - we are a problem-solving species, after all - and my inclination is to anticipate the worst. One of the symptoms of depression is "catastrophizing," a sloppy word that means the act of imagining a difficulty into a disaster. 

Recognizing that kind of unhealthy thinking, and managing it is an important part of learning to live with depression. I try to recognize what is true, and what is a story I'm telling myself in the shadows of my imagination. I try to stay mindful of what is real, what is now, what I know, and what I don't know.

I practice sitting patiently with the things I don't know.

My shrink told me something wonderful. I don't talk about him much, but I don't think he would mind if I tell you he is a wise old man who has come to know me well and counsels me with candor and compassion. He reminded me that cancer made me an expert, and over the years, I have used my expertise to serve hundreds of people who have followed me down that road. Now, I have a new teacher. "Who knows, in two years, you may be leading groups of people with cardio-vascular disease."

See? He's a smart guy.

Now that I'm past the fear of not knowing - the "scanziety" of waiting for a diagnosis - I am assembling a team. On offence are the medical people. Doctors and techs and surgeons and counselors: all the players who will be working to help me to heal and cope and recover. On defense, I have the ones who love me. The ones who will drive me around, listen to my fears, lift me with words of love and encouragement. We will laugh together, work together, run together, and wrap our arms around one another from time to time. They will feed my courage, renew my strength, and remind me that my life is worth fighting for. And they will fight beside me.

And me? I'm still learning how I fit into this picture. Not sure if I'm the coach, a coordinator, or the football. Or maybe I've just written myself into a corner and the metaphor has broken down. Steeler fans don't always have a rational relationship with the game.

Today is Thanksgiving. I am alive. I am needed. I'm stronger than I ever thought I could be and more beloved than I have any right to expect. Sophie, for one, never leaves my side. As a matter of fact, she keeps trying to put her feline two-cents worth in every time my fingers leave the keyboard. I am a rich man with a life-threatening condition, and a team of champions who are helping me to kick its ass.

Yeah, there is still plenty of stuff I don't know. I am practicing the art of living with not-knowing. You are in the same boat, after all. We all are. We can stop, put up our dukes, and fight against the ghosts of what what may happen, we can put our heads down and trudge on while pretending the spooks aren't there, or we can sit for a moment, reach out our arms, wrap them around all the things that we still can't see, and carry them along with us as we continue with the business of walking, loving, and living. That's my game-plan for now. 

Thanks for walking along with me. No telling what we'll learn together before all this is over.

Happy Thanksgiving!

Pennsy

Batter up!

The LIVESTRONG at the YMCA family grows

It's been a full week at the Y. 

The cancer survivors group I coach, LIVESTRONG at the YMCA had our final assessments and graduations this week. Their outcomes were amazing. The members of my exercise classes had a Thanksgiving feast provided by The Willows at Citation, a senior living facility in our neighborhood. I trained all my clients and taught four classes without mishap. Spent some time listening and consoling folks about fearful diagnoses. In between, I managed to help a handful of folks to earn their CPR/First Aid certifications. It is good for me to reflect on such things. It reminds me why I'm still up at bat, taking my cuts, and why it is so important for me to keep my eye on the many weird balls that life pitches me.

Monday's CT scan revealed "nothing remarkable" in my head. That news comforted my fears a little, even if the language hurt my ego. Next week will bring an ultra-sound scan of my carotid arteries to look for blockages, and an optometry exam to find out if there's anything weird going on in there. If they find nothing in my neck or eyes, I suppose they'll start digging a little deeper. It's a strange place to be: wishing they'd find the answer, and being afraid of the answers they might find. 

My symptoms have continued. I'm still visited by the dizziness, the blurred vision, and the "whooshing" sound in my head. I'm also visited daily by friends and colleagues who are caring and praying for me. Yes, I still feel the room spin , but I feel the love and light surrounding me even more. I sometimes wish I were a more private person who kept his problems to himself. It feels pathetic and needy to kvetch on and on in such a public way, but the love I get comforts my heart so. I don't want to give it up. I asked my sister, "What if they don't find anything, and it turns out I'm just a cranky old geezer who wants attention?" She reminded me that we've been cranky and old for a long time, so what's the difference?

Food is the most abused anti-anxiety drug in America, and exercise is the most potent yet under-utilized anti-depressant. - Bill Phillips, Body for Life 

2011 Iron Horse. My first Half-Marathon

I don't know who Bill Phillips is, but he's written a book that I just may need to read. Food has always been my drug of choice (is it any wonder I'm spending so much time in my 60's thinking about strokes and heart disease?) and since failing to commit suicide by Cherry Garcia, I have found that exercise is an indispensable part of my mental health maintenance. Even though I've only worked out a couple of hours in the last two weeks, my time in the pool, on the treadmill, and at the heavy bag didn't do me any harm; they were an uplifting reminder that whatever might be wrong inside me, something in there is still right. "Motion is medicine," said some smart guy I know, and it is as important to keeping me alive as the statins and beta-blockers. This episode has set my marathon training back a couple weeks, but I'm a long way from surrendering to a bag of Doritos. That gives me hope.

My beautiful sisters, and their cranky old brother.

We Gather Together... Thanksgiving is this week, and I have so many reasons for gratitude. I have work that I love, people who care about me, a family that still speaks to one another, and against all odds, I ain't dead yet. Sophie the cat continues to teach me that life is best lived by eating well, running often, purring around people you love, and napping whenever possible. There may be things about my life I would like to change, but there's a lot that I wouldn't trade for anything.

I'm still in there, taking my ups. My bat has slowed down, and Life has been throwing screw balls - but it sure is good to still be in the game. 

Whoosh, Whoosh, Whoosh...

I'm afraid. 

There. Said it. Been hacking away at this essay for weeks, into corners and down rabbit holes just because I didn't want to say it.

But, I'm afraid.

I have been experiencing some bad signs and symptoms for a while. Blurred vision. Dizziness and fainting. Numbness and tingles and loss of control of my left hand. A blinding headache behind my right temple that never goes away. A sort of thickening in my speech. And that damned sound. "Whoosh, whoosh, whoosh." I hear my heart beating all the time. I'm listening to it right now. Playing music doesn't help, because the sound is coming from inside, you see? You can't cover it up, because it's already up under the covers. 

And I'm afraid.

I work with people who have lived through TIA and stroke, and brain injury and all kinds of ugly stuff, and my story shares too many things with theirs for me to pretend not to notice the resemblance.

Those people are heroes. They refuse to let their illness defeat them. I have fought beside them, sometimes to the death. I know what it takes to be one of them.

Still, I'm afraid.

I know too much, and not nearly enough. Last week, I saw the doctor, and she ordered tests and images and exams and whatever other voodoo they use to try to head this stuff off before things get dramatic.

I have a CT scan of my brain scheduled for the morning. Carotid ultra-sounds. Retina scans. God knows what else. And I'm grateful for the doctor. And those tests. And the chance for some answers. 

Shit. I'm afraid.

I'm afraid of things I can imagine, but don't dare to name. Goblins and boogermen chase me around the room. What if I lose this? What if I need that? What will happen to me if I can't do this? What will I do If I they tell me I must do that?

This is the part where I'm supposed to take a sharp turn, share a touching anecdote, reveal a surprising insight. I just don't have any of those on hand. Not tonight.

Tonight, I feel like a frightened, lonely, old man with few options and even fewer words to wrap around him in the dark.

And so I sit. I sit with my fear as it whooshes through my head. I see it. I acknowledge it. Soon, I will carry it to bed with me, and in the morning, I will wake up with it in my ears, and we will walk together, my fear and me. We will go to the hospital and it will tell me stories, and I will take them for what they are - no more, no less. 

If I could ask for one virtue to get me through what's left of my life, I would ask for courage. I want the courage to keep standing, no matter how heavy a burden my fear becomes.

I hope they never say, "Poor old Bob. I guess his fears finally got the best of him." 

So, yeah. I'm afraid.

You just whoosh away, you son of a bitch. I'm scared as hell of you. But I'm on my feet. Waiting for your best shot.

Audience Behavior and the Magic of the Theatre

Well, it's not the first time an over-sexed, no-talent stoner in a skimpy outfit got publicity in a theatre. But I'm not here to talk about politics today...

I went to see a play last night. Ladies of Liberty by Bo List who is a damned fine writer for a living playwright. Spent a few hours with some long-time friends, (at a certain point, a gentleman does not refer to an actress as an "old friend." Trust me, pal. It's just better for everybody.) As it happens, these were ladies I have known and loved since the part of my life when nothing mattered more than knowing my lines, fixing my hair, and transforming the world, one dark room full of strangers at a time. The Theatre was my mission, my ministry, my church, my obsession, and an un-named co-respondent in every failed relationship since I was 15 years old.

I came to the Theatre because I wanted to be a Star. Then, some Ph.D. convinced me that what I really wanted was to be an Artist. Once I learned about rent and car payments, I decided to become a Professional. And then, having fallen short of all those lofty peaks, I eased into Minor Local Celebrity. I suppose that now, I aspire to Former Community Theatre Legend, but some as yet unborn obituary writer can make that call.

Actually, there was one other role, and it remains my favorite: Custodian. The Theatre is an ancient, unbroken tradition. This art form has been fully mature and handed down from elders to apprentices for well over 3000 years. She was a developed discipline when physicians were diagnosing from the taste of patients' urine, and chemists were trying to turn curtain weights into gold. Sophocles was exploring suffering and redemption when the creators of Judeo-Christian values were atoning for sin by slaughtering birds. The works of William Shakespeare were probing the depths of the human psychology when mental health experts were treating neurotics by burning them at the stake. So, yes, the Theatre has been ahead of the curve for a long time, and she has stayed there thanks to her children and her custodians. 

It's easy to recognize the children of the Theatre. They play in the colored lights. They make you laugh. They dress in black clothes and push furniture around in the dark. They show up on opening night and smile humbly as you tell them how splendid they are. God bless them. They work harder than Theatre Muggles will ever understand, and no matter how great the rewards they receive, the sacrifice is always just a little big greater. And for reasons only they know, the children of the Theatre think She is worth it.

The Custodians are harder to spot, but we are just as diverse a bunch. We whisper to the kids in the wings: little tips about how to put a button on a scene, or catch the peak of an audience laugh, or find the best bowl of chili in a strange town at 1:30 in the morning. We are the old-timers, the grizzled volunteers, the smiling cheerleaders and the eye-rolling critics who will slice a performance to ribbons, but only among other show-folk. In public, we are measured and thoughtful; sometimes biting, but never unkind. The Custodians know that there is something more important at stake than this evening's light cues or that tenor's screeching. We have our integrity. We have our opinions. We have our unfulfilled dreams and our frustrations and our grievances, just like everybody else. But we have one thing more. We have the Theatre. We are not just disappointed old coots. We are preservers. We are the Custodians.

How many Shakespeares come along? How many Bernhardts? How often will a generation have the chance to witness a talent like Olivier or Lloyd-Webber or Sondheim or Lyn-Manuel Miranda? There isn't some cosmic printing press grinding out geniuses. They are nurtured and cultivated and brought to bloom in the greenhouse -- why do you think they call them conservatories? -- the greenhouse of the Theatre. And somebody has to keep the floors mopped and the weeds pulled so those once-in-a-generation talents can have a place to blossom and thrive and make the world a better place through the holy act of telling stories. 

I don't know most of the Ladies of Liberty. Judging from the playbill, the really serious part of my acting career was over before most of them were born. But some old friends and I spent a couple of hours with them last night. They are talented and funny and beautiful and I am so glad that they have a place to play. And with my best, well-rehearsed, eyes-down-small-shrugging-slightly-smiling opening-night humility, I have to admit quietly to myself that I'm damned proud of the small part I played in making sure that there would be a Theatre for them to do their sacred, silly work, when they came along.

There are others doing the work now. They deserve al the credit for the paint on the walls and the hems in the skirts and the engineering of sound and lights and electronic ticket sales. They bust their butts while we venerable geezers talk about the old days and try to remember so-and-so who played thus-and-such that time when his codpiece split and you could see his nards through the whole Queen Mab speech. We still love coming to the theatre, even if we do look at it less like entertainment and more like buying a lottery ticket. We still pour over the bios in the program, looking for names of old friends we recognize and long gone productions that we loved or hated. We still thrill with anticipation when the lights go down because something wonderful just might happen, though it probably won't. And we still treat a standing ovation with much more seriousness than it deserves. (confession: if I don't stand for your curtain call, it may not mean I am burdened with the judgmental weight of my own artistic integrity. It probably means the air conditioning has my arthritis acting up.) 

Yes, we feel all the things we've always felt, but there is something else, too. And on behalf of all the crotchety old used-to-be-a-contenders out there, I want today's Holy Children of the Theatre to know and believe this: We are so fucking proud of you for keeping the Old Girl alive. Thank you, to all the Ladies and Gentlemen of Liberty who made last night's performance happen. You carry the latest link in a chain that is older than the pyramids, and you are taking such good care of it. We did our best. Now you do yours. Then, pass it on.

No telling when the next Genius is going to need a place to play.

Labor Day: Dad's Day

Fathers Day? Yes. His Birthday? Of course. But Labor Day? Ah, Labor Day will always be Dad's day. It is the day I most deeply connect with my father. Not just because of his nearly religious devotion to his Union -- International Typographical Workers Union #7 -- and the labor movement, but because, as mourners told me over and over at his funeral, "Your dad was the hardest working man I ever knew." Printer. School bus driver. Scoutmaster. Presbyterian Elder. The neighbor who shovels your sidewalk. The church janitor who never settles for "clean enough." 

Dad was proud to work, and he was proud of the work that he did. People respected him for that, but they loved him for who he was. Beneath the serious, bear of a man that the guys at the paper called "Hoss" was as generous a heart as a body could hold. He gave that heart away, not because it was something he owed you, but because it was the right thing to do. And unlike his son, he kept his own counsel. I don't remember ever hearing Dad brag. I never heard some of the best stories about him until after he died.

I'm 63, now. I've lived 4 years longer than he did, and I'm finally getting the hang of it, I think. Dad followed his father and big brother to the newspaper business and the composing room, becoming a master of technologies that no longer exist. I traveled a more roundabout road than he did. It would take more words than I have the gumption to type to tell the story of how the printer's son became Bob from the Y, but I have one thing in common with the big bald Eagle Scout: I am damned proud of my work and the tradition of which I am a part. 

Dad knew why a printer's work was important: because books and newspapers gave people knowledge and knowledge made them better citizens, better neighbors, better leaders. That's why it mattered to him when there were typos in the church bulletin or somebody used the wrong typeface on a concert poster: because these details diminished something that was so very important to him. He believed that important things deserved to be done well.

Like my dad, I know why my work is important. I see young athletes sweating and grunting through workouts that will lead to scholarships and maybe even careers in pro sports. I see parents grinding out hours on the elliptical trainer so they can stay strong and fit enough to keep up with their growing children. I watch grandparents splashing in the pool or puffing in the exercise studio so their bodies will keep helping them to do the things they love to do. And yes, I see my beloved cancer survivors discovering powers that they thought they had lost, or never knew they had.

That's why it matters that the paper towel dispensers are filled and the litter on the front lawn is picked up. Important things deserve to be done well. 

You see a lot of things about Labor Day. About all the things that we enjoy like weekends and overtime pay and medical benefits that union members fought and sacrificed and sometimes died to get for us. All that is true. But it's also true that union members like my dad, and the movement that made him so proud, were created to give a voice to people who did little things extremely well. They are still doing them. They are getting your kids to school. They are running the edge trimmer around your lawn. They are checking you out at the grocery store. And yes, some of us are making sure you have a safe, clean place to exercise and meet people, and help your neighbors to lift one another up every day. 

These aren't earth-shattering jobs. They aren't newsworthy. Most of the year, we hardly notice them happening around us. 

Except for Labor Day.

This is the day we celebrate unimportant people who do amazingly important things, and do them well. 

Dad understood that. It took me a while, but I'm catching on.

Happy Labor Day, Pop. And thanks for teaching me how to unblock a toilet. It comes in handy more that I expected it to.

So, How's it Going?

 

Pretty good, I must admit. My last vacation was a nightmare of depressed solitude and body odor. I was determined not to let that happen again. I started the week with a whole list of housekeeping chores I wanted to accomplish, but on Monday night, my shrink suggested a different tactic.

"Dose are tings you should do. Vat do you VANT to do?" He doesn't really talk like that, but he's Dutch and has a hint of an accent that could be Freudian if you squint just a little.

So I spent the week asking myself vat I vanted to do each day. First of all, I got out and moved. Walked around the neighborhood. Went to the Y and hit the heavy bag or took a class. Had a dip in the pool. I went to the theatre with a friend, and had a 3 mile(!) run with another. Mustered the nerve to ask a pretty girl out without falling in love or getting all weird about it, which is tremendous progress for my dopey old heart. And I read a wonderful book that reminded me just how much I love doing that, and how much better my writing would be if I read more. And in between, I managed to put a respectable dent in my list of chores.

After a false start in July, I had a lovely staycation in August. I think it's just what I needed. I've been limping along grieving my Mum's death, and the miles between my sisters and me, and lost loves, and my divorce, and the State of the World, and god knows what else for so long. I don't imagine all those things are gone for good, but I do have a sense that I'm learning to untether them from my little boat as I continue my voyage downstream. They will show up from time to time. I will always love the ones who are gone. I just don't have to prove it by towing them along everywhere I go. 

So, how's it going? Not really sure. I can't tell how deep the river is where I am, or what might be around the bend, but from where I'm sailing, if feels like healing is happening.

It feels like living is happening.

And that is definitely zumtink dat i vant to do.

Book Review: Heart Like a Bonfire

 

The wisest teacher I ever knew was a professor of movement at the conservatory program where I studied Acting. Reid told us one day, (and I'm paraphrasing a 40 year-old memory here,) an actor is a bonfire. One begins with an idea, a spark, and breathes onto it until is starts to flame. Then the artist adds fuel: knowledge, technique, experience, talent. If they are very lucky, that flame becomes a fire. Only than can one add heart and soul - the actor himself steps into the bonfire and is utterly consumed by it. When the performance is finished, nothing remains but a holy mound of glowing ash and embers.

Reid would have said it better than that.

The finest preacher I ever knew was a grieving widower and father: an Episcopal priest with a brilliant mind and a humble humanity that made him irresistible to me. John Hughes came to see me play Tevye in Fiddler on the Roof, and invited me to church with the words, "Well, we came to see your show, now you can come see ours." St. Michaels was the only church I've ever attended where I felt really at home, and John Hughes was the welcoming committee. When I was laid-off during the 2008 Recession, John greeted me in the narthex with a hug and a look of bewildered irony. "You're the biggest guy in the parish, and you got downsized?" I've never told him how that lifted my spirits. Not many people could have taken that joke. Not many would have known the right person to tell it to. So, yeah, I think John is a pretty special man. Full disclosure.

We've traveled our own paths through the space between then and now. I stayed in Kentucky and became a fitness coach and companion for people living and dying with chronic illness, especially cancer. John moved home to Wisconsin and became a hospice chaplain. When I mention him to friends and they as me what that means, I always tell them, "He helps people to die." That might sound a little grim, and some people might prefer, "He helps people to stay alive until they die," but no. That's my bag. I help people to fight for life. John and his team help them to live through the end of the fight. It's holy service. John's novel, Heart Like a Bonfire is a story told by people who give and receive that service. They are nurses, aides, patients, caregivers, relatives, and one extraordinary and familiar Episcopal priest who goes about caring for himself and his teammates and his clients with compassion and candor and dignity. 

Hughes spends time opening up the hood and exposing the corporate nuts and bolts of a company whose chief business interest seems to be the production of billable documentation. It's infuriating and frustrating, But one does not get into the hospice business for the paperwork. The lion's share of Heart Like a Bonfire is dedicated to the spirits, minds, and bodies of the dying, and the ones who serve them or fail them.

There is nothing theoretical here. No soothing, bumper-sticker theology. These are real stories about real people engaged in a once-in-a-lifetime experience, who must cope with death every single day. Most do not find the guidance they need in orthodoxy and easy answers. As we come to know them, professionals, addicts, atheists and Milwaukee Brewers fans, we witness each discovering their own path, their own perspective on the matter of living and dying. Along the way, the professionals share practical advice like "movement is medicine," and drink plenty of water. The sweep floors and change adults' diapers. They are not so much guides as traveling companions. They don't tell anyone how to die or how to grieve. They just share part of the journey together.

Heart Like a Bonfire is a deeply rewarding read. I imagine it might even appeal to people with no religion at all. As Chaplain Richard (Hughes thinly veiled persona in the book) says, even if the patient does not believe, God exists in the space between us. I suppose that the more conservative a person's theology is the more difficult it might be to accept the attitudes and choices Richard and his team make, but these are such admirable, flawed, loving, human characters, that I hope they might shed light on the value of belief that strays from tradition a little.

Why write a book like this? I think, because it tells a story of which we all share a part. Death and loss and grief connect us all. What are they? Why do they happen? How do we survive them? Everyone who has ever lived has had to confront these questions. I think there is great value in sharing the stories of a few people who have confronted them together, thoughtfully, passionately, and with empathetic wisdom.

Why read it? Because you're going to die. The people and animals you love will die. Some of them may have died already. There were things in these pages that I really needed to hear as I process the losses that seem to come more and more frequently as I approach the middle of my 60s. I expect that wherever you are in the timeline of your own life, whatever role loss has played in your own story, you will also profit from the loving wisdom in this deeply personal novel.

So, what does the enigmatic title mean? What is a heart like a bonfire? The phrase appears twice (that I remember) and I won't spoil the moments for you. To my eye, the phrase is a way of honoring the dignity of all hearts. Just like my acting teacher's bonfire, our lives start with a spark that needs breath and fuel and time to flame. There is sacred light and heat in that flame; it burns for a time, sometimes smoldering, sometimes bursting gloriously, but always, eventually the fuel is consumed, and we are left with the embers and ash of a life worthy of honor and dignity and love.

There is an image near the end of the book where death is described as a trip in a little boat that travels on a river of the survivors' tears. I found such poetry and comfort in this image that I had to stop and catch my breath, taking a moment to honor parents lovers, friends. neighbors... all the ones I have loved who have sailed on that journey, bouyed by the offerings of my own tears.

I hope you will buy John's book. It is a thing of beauty. I hope you'll read it. It will plant seeds and bear fruit in ways you will find wonderful.

https://www.amazon.com/Heart-Like-Bonfire-John-Hughes/dp/B0C2SG6BNN