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 

Trans Contemplation

For me, it started with sports. Look, I've "identified" as a Classic Liberal for as long as I remember. Part of that means offering whatever support I can to people who are put down and kept out by the predominant culture. I try to recognize the shadow of bigotry in myself and to seek the light of compassion instead. In school, and in life, I've sought out friendships with people who were not Protestants, not straight, not liberal, not American because I wanted to understand. I learned a lot. I hope I learned some empathy. I hope I did some good. 

But, I lived a long time before I met a person who identified as trans. I'm going to call her Laura. She was in the middle stages of her surgical transition. I'm not sure what the appropriate language is: Meds working, top done, bottom pending? Laura was homeless and gentle and shy - frightened even. I can only imagine the experiences behind that fear. We never became friends. Mostly, I just spent time sharing space with her at the Y where I'm on staff. She never tried to use the women-only spaces: rest rooms or locker rooms, but her presence in the men's locker room and showers, even the co-ed sauna stirred up some disapproval from the other members. My initial response was to dismiss their ignorance and prejudice. But, as a leader of the organization, I have a responsibility to make a safe place for everyone who enters the door. The staff talked it over and we decided to offer Laura the use of our special needs dressing rooms. Those rooms are private, and offered her a place where she could dress and bathe and have some dignity without being the object of scrutiny and judgement. I don't know if that made her feel stigmatized. I hope it made her feel like we cared about her. 

I wish I'd gotten to know Laura more. I think she could have taught me a lot. But I wanted to respect her privacy, and to be honest, I was probably a little scared of her. I can't explain why. Maybe I was more scared of myself. I don't know. But I do think of it as a missed opportunity.

I want to think my classic liberal compassion manifested itself in my small part in offering hospitality to Laura. I hope I would do so again, and do it better. I expect to always find room in my heart for others, no matter how far they are from my own experience. 

And then came the athletes. 

Bigger bones and muscles. Bigger lungs and hearts. Post-pubescent, athletes whose birth genetics had evolved to enable them to perform at a higher level, physically.

Athletes with penises and testicles claiming the right to dress and shower with athletes who were born and continued to think of themselves as women. Trans people live with unique vulnerability. So do women. Look, I was an actor in low-budget theatre companies for many years - I know all about co-ed dressing rooms. What I don't know, what I never thought to ask, was how the actresses who were forced to strip naked in front of me felt about that situation. I promise you, I was looking. And imagining.

I just don't know. I don't know because I want to be open-minded. I don't know because I've never really made friends with someone who believes that their soul and their gender don't match. I don't know because I'm ignorant. 

But something about men competing with women in strength and speed based sports seems unfair. And something about exposing naked women's unique vulnerability to the presence of a person with exposed male genitals seems equally unfair. 

Should people have the right to discover and express their true selves when that expression does no harm? 100%. I believe it with all my heart. But does my right to express my true self extend to the point of threatening another person's vulnerability? I don't know. Sometimes, it does. People who express bigotry ought to be made uncomfortable. Criminals' freedom should be threatened. Corrupt leaders' unique vulnerability ought to be exploited and exposed. I just don't think the people in this conversation fall into any of those categories. 

I need to learn more. Life has taught me to be skeptical of "self-evident' truths. So I'll keep asking questions. Doing that with honesty means I have to be ready to hear answers that change me. Maybe I'm in a kind of transition myself.

I recognize that my conflict has me tipping dangerously toward the conservative side of the question here. It's ironic that Professional Conservatives nowadays have gotten so much mileage out of mocking snowflakes and the need for "safe spaces." Yes, it is important to challenge ourselves and one another. But we all deserve dignity. We all need to feel safe sometimes. 

Life is hard enough with your clothes on. 

I Want to Read John's Book

 

Old Man Reading, Van Gogh, 1882

Started my vacation with a workout, a nap, and a visit with the shrink. These were all excellent choices. At the gym, I swung the kettlebell, which I love, and then I walked up to the heavy bag, put on the stinky loaner gloves, (oh my gawd!) and tried to punch through a beginners workout i had memorized from YouTube. After, I had a soak in the whirlpool and sat staring at my feet in the locker room until my head stopped spinning. That was Monday morning. It's Wednesday night, and I'm still a little bit high from the sound of fist on bag, and the 35 pound thud of the kettlebell as if fell from my hands to the dewy earth after each set. 

The nap was part of my plan. I knew i had not worked out for a long time, and I knew I had not gotten up and out into the 7:00 AM air for even longer, so I expected to be bushed and I was. But it was a different kind of nap. Not one of those, "Christ, just make it all go away for a few minutes," kind of naps, but a luxurious, post-shower indulgence of a soul with nobody expecting a damn thing from it. Not a running from the harsh light, but a gentle slipping into the warm dark behind eyelids that had earned a nice rest.

And then, the shrink. 

"Your last vacation did not go so well for you."

Understatement of the year. I slipped into a fun. Skipped eating. Stopped bathing. worked on a physical activity regime of rolling over in bed and occasionally standing up to stagger to the toilet or the glider-rocker in the living room where the birds and Sophie the cat would stare at me with confused, concerned eyes. No. Had not gone so well Doc.

"What are you going to do differently?" Right over the plate.

Oh, man. I had seen this coming. I swung for the fences. I had a plan. I would get out of the house every day. I was going to get 5 workouts in and had decided to start preparing for a marathon. I had mapped out a plan to put the house in order so it wouldn't make me so disgusted and might even be a place where I wouldn't be ashamed to have someone visit. I was going to prepare meals instead of running to the drive-throughs on New Circle Road. I was not going to spend another damn week brewing in my own stink and sorrow.

"That's quite a list. But it seems like a lot of chores. What to you WANT to do this week?"

See, this is why I wanted a wise old therapist. He isn't trying to impress me with stuff he learned in school. He asks stupid questions that a kid would ask, and makes me think about things I'm used to ignoring. A few weeks ago, after a long monologue about how much it sucked to be me, he gave a long pause, as if checking to make sure I had run out of steam, and he asked, "You do all these things for all these people. But who is Bob?" I've been gnawing on that ever since. Stupid questions that change everything. This is why it's worth taking the time to find the right head-shrinker.

"You've told me a lot of things that you have planned to do. What to you WANT to do?"

I had no idea. I wasn't raised to ask such questions. My father raised me to do what was right. My mom raised me to do what was nice. Grandma just wanted me to be a preacher. Nobody ever taught me to care about what I wanted to do. No, I had to pay somebody to do that. 

I'm not going to share the details of our session. To be honest, I mostly just remember the pearls from our long visits. Stuff like, "Sometimes you just have to show up," and "It's not a play, Bob. You don't get to know the ending when the scene starts." I carry these things around like pink bazooka bubble gum that gets softer and more familiar the longer you chew on it.

Spent Monday following the plan. Felt great. Sitting in my chair in the dark, watching the headlights traveling up and down Broadway. Hmmm... what do I want? 

Dammit, I'd kind of like some company.  But that would require reaching out. Risk being rejected. Or worse, risk being accepted. Expectations to live up to. Disappointments to live with. Balance and proportion and what if I get all carried away or we don't feel the same vibe or... I recognized the rabbit hole. Step back. Breath. What do I WANT? Don't want to get married. Don't even want to get laid. Just want to sit at a nice table with a pretty girl and tell the truth to one another for a while.

What did I do? None of your beeswax. Steps were taken. The results were not scary. 

Tuesday, I woke up, made breakfast, tapped on the computer for a while, and checked the plan. Lunch date with a patient Markey had referred to me because of our similar diagnoses and treatment course, and because they know I don't mind being with people who need to talk about it.  Fat Class at night. I call it that, which is rude, because, well fuck it, I'm rude sometimes. But also as an acknowledgement of my commitment to change the behaviors that have swung my body back from swole to blubbery. Again. I know coach has a plan to do some intense work, and I also know that last week's class kicked my ass. I want to be strong this week, not gasping in my chair with my head between my knees so they can't see how close I am to tears of self-pity. Not again. I'm gonna be fresh and rested. I'm gonna kick ass. 

But, dammit. It is such a great morning. A great morning for a walk. I should rest. I should clean up the kitchen and mop the bathroom. I should have some carbs and do some laundry and be ready to hit the gym like a 20-year-old tonight. 

But, dammit. I WANT to take a walk, What did I do? I took a walk. I saw the neighborhood wake up and start the day. I watched a little old man walking with a little old beagle who looked like she was 100 years old, and rolled on her back in the grass like a pup. I saw a young woman with a big ol shepherd who looked worriedly over her shoulder at me until I crossed the street and continued on my way, smiling at her beautiful companion, and getting a friendly smile in return, one from each of them. I saw people opening businesses and hustlers hustling and the gritty, glorious cacophony of uptown in the morning. I took a walk. Not because I didn't want to do all the other stuff on my list. But because i wanted to. Than I came home, took a shower, and got a whole bunch of stuff accomplished. And last night, even without a day of rest and psyching myself up, I kicked ass.

Today is Wednesday. I wanted to be in the gym by 7:00 this morning. Just didn't have the juice for it. Started to feel bad about that. Here I go again. Making promises to myself, then breaking them. Why do I even...? Then, that crazy shrink's voice in my head again... 

"What do you WANT to do?"

Well, invisible doctor who lives in my head, I want to go to the gym. I want to lose weight. I want to run. I want to keep my commitments. I want.

Dammit. I want to read John's book.

My friend John wrote a book. He's a great writer, and an even better man. He has no idea how much he has helped me over the years, and when he published a novel a few months ago, I ordered it before it was even finished being printed. And then I put it on the counter next to my chair and ignored it. "I should read  that. He's going to expect me to publish a review. He's going to think I read it and hated it because I haven't said anything." Whatever. Just one more promise broken. Just one more project started and never finished. So, it's 7:30 in the morning. I should be swinging a kettlebell in the grass. But I kind of want to sit in a chair on the porch and read John's book.

So I read. On breaks, I cleaned the kitchen counter. Did the laundry. Got a new drivers license. And am about two thirds through a marvelous novel full of wisdom and humor and death and baseball and I'll be reviewing it one of these days, as soon as I want to do that.

Holy shit. Am I having a vacation?

Just might be. Tomorrow, after my run, I'm gonna finish John's book.

Who knows. I may even want to mop that bathroom.