While cleaning up the kitchen tonight I thought, for some reason, of our old family dog, Beans, and particularly of her last day of life. She was a small Fox terrier mix, white with black spots, with a stubby tail and a large friendly personality. Dad had named her "Beans" after a dog in a comic strip he'd read as kid. Beans was with us since she was a pup, with me from the age of 9 until about 20. As a young dog she was energetic and lively, and often liked to accompany me on rambles through the cornfields and remnant pasture across the street from our house. As she grew old, she became warty, fat, and a bit arthritic. But still lovable and loving. On the day that came to mind, mom had called me at my apartment and said that she thought Beans was dying. I came home, it was a mild day, and Beans was sitting across the street from the house at the edge of the field, staring out over it. Mom said she'd been there most of the day. I walked out and sat beside her, and talked of our rambles and all that, and told her it was okay now to go, that those walks were wonderful but no longer of our time. I said goodbye, and knew it was okay. I can't speak for her, but a gentle cloak of closure settled upon me. After while she let me pick her up and carry her back to the house. I took her inside and lay her on the sofa. About an hour later she died. It's been many years since that day, and I hadn't thought of it for a long time. Tonight it rose up, and my eyes watered. More than watered, a few stray tears ran down my cheek. Hello again, Beans, and goodbye again.
Christmas Eve day. Once the most magical day, first in my own childhood, then in the childhood of my kids. The night when it all happens, that "jolly old elf" slips in and brings promised pleasures. As an adult I remember standing in the darkened living room before the tree, which we would leave on all night, and seeing how those colored lights cast a magic cloak over the room. And I remember the occasional times we would go to a midnight service, especially standing in a darkened room, Silent Night being played on the organ, and we each accepted a lighted candle that, again, cast a magic cloak over us all. And I remember those magic moments when Santa "got it right," more common the younger the kid. One year, when my younger daughter was around nine, she was collecting Breyer horses, and asked for a couple. In one of those wonderful coincidences, a co-worker of my wife was unloading her personal collection, and gave us at least 30 of them. We set them up around the tree and my daughter was (for one of the few times I've known) literally speechless. I also remember, both as a child and an adult watching the children, the "is that all there is?" moment, when material reality invariably came short of matching promises made by merchants and media promoting commercial magic. All that, the wonder and the wondering, is mostly behind me now. Certainly no sane person would gather to sing shoulder to shoulder in this time of Pandemic, though I know others will. But the change is deeper than that. My kids are grown, the oldest with two young children of her own, the second-oldest daughter living across town with her partner (and in this time of social distancing may as well be across the continent, since we communicate almost exclusively by texting and calling) -- though she is without kids yet, she's experiencing that magic of building and merging holiday traditions with her partner. Her autistic brother remains home with us and has served wonderfully to prod me into keeping some tradition alive. He insisted on having me set up the tree so that his wrapped presents could be placed around it, and having his stocking hung by the fireplace. Though I drew the line at getting out all the Christmas paraphernalia and any outside decorations, no visitors coming so why go through all that bother just to haul them back downstairs a few days later? Especially now that winter has shown up, and it's cold and icy outside. We do plan to have our Christmas Eve fire, even though his sister will not do her usual thing of hanging out beside it, gently toasting her feet in its radiant heat. I no longer have any expectation of Christmas magic in the traditional sense, but I sometimes get drawn into the aura of faith that can still underlie it, beneath the patina of presents and pageants. The night still offers, in subtle ways, hope that beauty and joy are still possible in this world, and maybe beyond. So Merry Christmas (or Happy Holidays to all of other beliefs or faiths or agnostics or atheists) to all out there. May your day be bright.
I sometimes sincerely ask myself, why bother to write? I've moved past the point of feeling like I have something new to say, and have tried to be at ease with simply finding a slightly new way to say some things that have been said and observed before. As the Prophet said, "there is nothing new under the sun." At one point in my life I thought that getting successfully published would be a deep life-changing event. That is still only a distant and remote possibility on my horizon, but more and more I begin to believe there is no real transcendence there. I'm no longer in a position where anyone is paying me to write, so I am forced to look within for purpose, and that cupboard sometimes seems a bit bare. Having said that, I know my truth. I write because, once I begin writing, I get absorbed in it, and I find I do have things to say. More importantly, I find some deep unexpected connection with what, for want of a better phrase, I will call my subconscious. Perhaps the word "my" is wrong there, because I sense that the subconscious is really a communal thing underlying us all, the way some mushrooms on the surface are really simply the above-ground manifestations of a huge underlying organism. When we communicate we are simply acknowledging a shared truth. But that is not to understate the simple and pleasant sense of fulfillment I get from the writing process, watching my fingers tap a keyboard and capture my words that surround my thoughts. There's something there that fills a need I never know I have until I begin the writing. Sometimes I think about my autistic son in this context. Twenty-three, almost 24 years old, he lives with us and since the pandemic he has nowhere to go during the day, his part-time filing jobs being on indefinite hold. Which is all right with him, since he always regarded the jobs (and school until he graduated) as unavoidable and mostly boring nuisances. The pandemic also ended the semi-daily trips to the library, which he does miss. These days he spends most of his time in what was once the "home office" (back in the days of a desktop computer), a room that has now become "his office." He sits there with his Chromebook open, an I-pad open, and his phone open, each to its own site; often the Chromebook is playing You-tube videos of the elements of the periodic table or various languages, or mathematics, kind of in the background. In the foreground he has a stack of blank paper, and on each page he writes out either lists of numbers or alphabets or the various elements with their atomic number and weight, and perhaps a slight commentary. He does the same thing almost every day, emerging out for meals and sometimes surfacing for a semi-social visit, morning to dusk. From time to time he takes a stack of papers to a "his" desk in the family room and stashes them in a drawer. He calls them "his papers" and he seems to know every one of them, something I re-discover each time I try to slip some of them into the recycling bin, lest they overflow the desk. And he can go back there and pull out a specific one when, for reasons only he knows (or perhaps doesn't consciously know) and takes it back to the office. That seems to me the epitome of both the point and non-point of writing. He finds satisfaction in the writing, but the writing itself communicates nothing new (and is not intended to communicate with others), only reiterates things he already knows, which comforts him. The value, the point, of his writing seems to lie solely in the doing. And it works for him. And I guess, at bottom, that's what works for me.
As I have mentioned (maybe blabbed about) before, I’ve been doing a lot of genealogical digging, and have come up with some plausible family tree data on my father’s side dating back to 17th Century Great Britain, and followed some of that line on their respective journeys halfway across the North American continent, where I have resided all my life. Sometimes I come across brief stories or vignettes, or data that suggests the same – like how one ancestor fought the British in Boston during the Revolutionary War, while his son served as a “fifer” in the same unit. Or one who was a famous “Indian Fighter” (back before that was non-PC), as well as long line of Quakers from the East Coast to the Midwest. And so on. Even a few letters illustrating tragedy, hope, and sad acceptance. All of which has begun to make my previously-born past come alive. Stirring up ghosts, perhaps. Realizing that these were real people living real, complex, lives, not merely names and dates. And that has reminded me of a poem by Walt Whitman, “Crossing Brooklyn Ferry” and specifically these excerpted lines: “These and all else were to me the same as they are to you, I loved well these cities, love well the stately and rapid river . . . . What is it then between us? What is the count of scores or hundreds of years between us? Whatever it is, it avails not – distance avails not, and place avails not. . . . I too felt the curious abrupt questionings stir within me . . . . It is not upon you alone the dark patches fall, the dark threw its patches upon me also . . . . Closer yet I approach you, What thought you have of me now, I had as much of you – I laid in my stores in advance, I consider’d long and seriously of you before you were born. Who was I to know what should come home to me? Who knows but I am enjoying this? Who knows ,for all the distance, but I am as good as looking at you now, for all you cannot see me. . . . You furnish your parts toward eternity, Great or small, you furnish your parts toward the soul.”
I sometimes wonder why I find myself on this site. I'm not really a professional writer, though I did do some of that in spots and spurts over a long and varied career. I've had only one story ever published independently. I've drafted 3 novels but never submitted them for publication. I'm working on my memoirs but doubt I will ever finish them. The Tao te Ching says that followers of the Tao, of which I seem to be one, "do not seek fulfillment." That certainly seems true with regard to my writing endeavors. But does that mean I am not a writer? The older I get the more cynical I get about any so-called wisdom, and find myself more and more moving from the idea of discovering thoughts never before known to the idea of sharing my reaction to universal thoughts already there for anyone and everyone to see. There is, as whats-his-name said, nothing new under the sun. I write what I can write. I guess, after further review, I find myself here because I believe in the power of written words to convey ideas and feelings and constructs in whatever context I find myself using them. I don't need the stamp of approval of a publishing house. But it is nice to get an occasional "like" from others on this site.
Yesterday on NPR's "To the Best of our Knowledge" program a woman recounted how she was grabbed by a saltwater crocodile while canoing in Australia. In her story she was dragged underwater and subjected to the "death roll" but somehow survived it and managed to escape. In telling the story she mentions how just before she wss grabbed she looked into the croc's eyes, and saw its pure interest in her as food. She said it made her realize how we impose an illusion of compassion into a world that really doesn't care about us in particular. Then comes 2020, and it seems that the cold hand of death is reaching in and demonstrating how irrelevant all our social structures are. RBG's passing, and the President's infection with COVID, and that inherent risk of death or incapacity. And everyone around me is one unsafe moment from infection. A cold, cold world. Here's where I envy those with a solid faith in a God who ultimately means well, though I find it hard to see it in times like this. I remember a Lutheran minister friend of mine (now deceased); I repeated some maxim I had heard about how "every year we pass the current anniversary of out death" and how disquieting that can be. He repled, "As I see it, every year we celebrate the approaching date of our redemption." I'd like him to be right, and hope he thinks of me if he in fact found that redemption. These are scary times.
I've talked here a few times about my lovebird companion, who we've had for seven-plus years. We've never clipped his wings, and let him out a few times a day to flex his wings. Usually he flies around a bit, checking things out, then settles onto his perch or someone's shoulder. Last night I had him downstairs with me, in my writing area, in the fully finished quarter of our basement. I was writing, he was sitting on my shoulder, staring into space, meditating I think. Then I moved in a way he didn't like, and he took off intending, I presumed to perch on the door until he was sure I was being still again. I kept writing. Suddenly I heard him "screaming" from the other room. The light had been off in there and he rarely ventures from light into darkness. I jumped up and turned on the light. He had managed to collide with a fly-catching apparatus that hangs from the ceiling, a circular piece of cardboard covered with flypaper. He was struggling to get free but the more he struggled the more caught he became. Sort of like the Tarpaper Baby in the Old Uncle Remus stories (I wonder how many of you catch the reference). The tube had quite a few feathers stuck to it. I got him free and he sat on hand a moment, then launched himself into space, but fluttered to the floor. He had apparently lost enough feathers (likely some wing feathers) that he was off-balance and non-areonautical. I took him upstairs, put him into his cage, and called the university veterinary school emergency clinic. The emergency tech I talked with listened patiently, went through a litany of things to watch for, then laughed slightly. "This happens more than you might think." She told me to keep in in the cage a couple days to calm down, then go back to normal -- or as close as possible, since it will likely take a few months to re-grow the feathers. All in all, I'm relieved. I recall seeing that old flycatcher hanging there, but never got around to removing it. And I know the stories about how easily and often these inquisitive little birds get into trouble, hence the fact that letting them have their wings is a calculated risk, balancing the enhanced health and fitness of making full use of the wings vs. the safety of keeping them under control. I still think we made the right choice, and fully intend to let him fly freely again once he is able.
"“This is the day the Lord has made; we will rejoice and be glad in it.” Psalm 118:24." One need not be of the Judaeo-Christian persuasion to understand the upwelling of delight some days can bring, even here, in this pandemic-ridden, swamp-filled , angst-infested year of 2020. I'm sitting in front of my house, on a chair I built myself (patterned after an Aldo Leopold bench), under a red oak tree whose leaves have only started to think of turning deep red, which is good, because once they get serious about it they will carpet the lawn and keep me busy for a long time. Right now the only trees seriously losing leaves are the birches, fine little yellow leaves that come down in occasional flurries and for the most part are swept away by the wind. It's 70 degrees farenheit, the aforementioned wind rises and falls, reaching never further than a serious and friendly breeze. Rare sounds of songbirds right now, they're probably mostly resting from their busy morning and preparing for a busy afternoon. A small murder of crows came through earlier, making their usual ruckus. The only other sounds are the breeze and rustle and rattle of leaves, and the distant, ever-present murmur of city life. The sky is a cliched bright and clear blue. Things are still mostly green at ground level, the grass in the lawn is as good as it ever gets, right in front of me I see my spreading ground cover plants (you'd think after a few years of growing them I'd remember the name) are bright and succulent green. The tree they surround is itself surrounded by ring of rock, which I kind of mostly salvaged from a construction dump site, a few bucketsful at a time. Each rock is, if not familiar, at least recognizable, though I'm always discovering new attributes, patterns, and colors, especially after a rain. Beside me is my large gray basalt boulder, which a kindly utility foreman had dropped off in my yard when they dug it up while installing underground cables. It has a nice flat space atop the nearest end, within easy reach, which right now holds today's mail (all junk) that the mailman handed me as he walked by, after we exchanged pleasantries. It's a wonderful little bubble I find myself in, and whether it's a manufactured day or a natural manifestation of Tao in the world, I'm grateful to experience it. And that feels good. Gives me hope.
I saw that Justice Ruth Bader Ginsberg's cadre of more than 100 current and past law clerks will be there when she is in state at the Supreme Court building. I understand why. Being a federal law clerk is an honor and a privilege. I served as law clerk to two different federal district court judges, appreciated both judges, and valued both terms of service. But it's the first I recall most. Judge R. was a senior (semi-retired) judge by then, in his late 80s, but still active, and I was his only clerk (active judges have 2). Being a law clerk is more than an employee, it's a close working, often intense, relationship that can go beyond the workday, and offers a sort of view of life behind the judicial curtain. There's stress, but there's also laughter and compassion, going both ways. So it was for me. And when "my judge" got sick with the condition that eventually killed him, I alternated my working hours between his chambers and the hospital; in his last hours I stayed with him overnight, was assured that things were okay, went home, showered, dressed, and went to his chambers, As soon as I arrived I got a call he had passed away (no cell phones then). I talked with his secretary (of more than 60 years) and made sure she was okay, that our courtroom deputy was with her, then went to help take care of final details. Later his secretary and I went through 40 years' worth of his papers, and closed things out. At his funeral I mourned the passing of a good man and a consummate professional, and knew I had shared something special, that would never come again.
In grade school one year we read a story about a boy who planted a pumpkin patch alongside a wooden fence. He took very good care of it, watered and weeded it regularly, and watched as it flowered and the flowers began to form pumpkins. Every day he picked up the young pumpkins and cleaned them, making sure to remove any insects. But one by one the little pumpkins withered and died. Timmy (or whatever his name was) was morose. Until his neighbor, the one behind the fence, called him over and showed him a beautiful large pumpkin that had grown on a vine that had worked its way under the fence. Timmy was pleased. Turned out that because he he had handled the young pumpkins in his patch so much he had weakened and broken their attaching stems. The moral of the story seemed to be that sometimes you have to let things take their course, and that you can do damage by getting too involved. That's what I remember, anyway. That and it's good to have honest neighbors who don't steal your pumpkin. I think of that story a lot with my own garden this year, which has not been all that successful; I think I didn't water enough, planted too early, and put it where the sun don't shine enough. I planted two cucumber vines, which got lots of blossoms but I rarely see cucumbers. But every once in awhile I turn over a large leaf and under it is a nice cucumber that grew on its own, hidden from my attentions. It's always a delight to find one, and I feel just as pleasantly excited as good old Timmy felt when the neighbor showed him the big pumpkin.
“Don’t push the river. It flows by itself.” Barry Stevens The thread on “Random Thoughts” about finding tickets to sold-out sporting events (ah the good old pre-pandemic age) reminded me of an incident in my younger days, an intersection of new age thinking and age-old sporting events. For reasons not relevant here, one October Saturday afternon long ago I found myself with some free time in Iowa City, Iowa, on the campus of Iowa University. I noted the annual Iowa-Minnesota football game -- the big rivalry game -- was about to begin. I had no ticket and no money, but thought it would be fun to attend. At that time I was very much into the so-called New Age, specifically the concept of Taoism and of letting the universe work itself out without consciously trying to interfere, e.g. with letting the river flow and figuring out how to flow with it. Specifically, on this day, I decided I would let the universe get me into that game. So I walked over to the stadium and studied the situation. Typical Big Ten Saturday afternoon, crowds of people milling about in either Iowa Black-and-Gold or Minnesota Maroon-and-Gold. Band music in the background, a beautiful autumn day, golden sunshine, bright blue sky, gentle breeze, mild temperatures. I didn’t know the layout of Kinnick Stadium*, I’d never even been to Iowa City before. I walked around it, looking for ways of ingress. Somehow I’d get myself in there, and I supposed I’d have to somehow sneak in. Probably a risky task, stadium security might not be kind to a long-haired young adult breaking the rules, even the law. But I saw no other way in. At that moment an older gentleman, clad in stylish Iowa alum gear, beckoned to me. I walked over. “You want to go to the game,” he said in a sort of declarative question. “Yes,” I said. “Well,” he replied, “I’ve got an extra ticket here. One of our party couldn’t make it.” “Thanks, but I can’t afford to buy it.” “No problem. Take it.” And I did. The game was only moderately interesting. Iowa was not very good in those days, and the Golden Gophers walked all over them. But I had a very good time, riding the river’s current, having felt first-hand the power of blind trust in the nature of the universe. Unfortunately, powerful as that sensation was, I didn’t stay with it, couldn’t keep my end of the bargain, couldn’t keep trusting. I fell back into the day-to-day way of living, kept shoving my oar in and trying to direct the flow, to help it along, to be what and who my mundane mind decided. It’s made for a long and interesting journey. But after all that, I find myself right where I was on that long-ago afternoon, on the edge of something interesting and resolving (if that’s right word) to once again back off, to once again let the river flow. Because that’s what’s been happening all along. All my lifelong meddling accomplished was pushing myself into rapids and weedbeds, only settling into calmer waters when I pulled back my oars, and, to borrow an overworked, but nonetheless apt expression, went with the flow. It’s what’s going to happen anyway. *Irrelevant sidenote. The namesake of Kinnick Stadium, Nile Kinnick, was a graduate of my high school, and his portrait hung above my locker.
I heard someone speak on the radio the other day about “ambiguous” or “vicarious” loss, a genuine feeling of loss over something either undefined or that seems not to merit serious feelings of loss, but that nonetheless induces it. I understand it well. From time to time I posted here about a rabbit who had semi-adopted me, and vice versa. A cottontail with a damaged back leg, and we had a relationship for about two years. Now I fear she’s gone for good, and I miss more than cold reason says I should. Cue the “Love Story” music and scenes. We first “met” one snowy January morning when she showed up at the back door, sorting through the snow to find bits of old birdseed I had tossed out, food our lovebird didn’t want. Most noticeably, she left spots of bright blood on the cold concrete of the back stoop. I began watching for her, and she began coming back on a semi-regular basis, most mornings. I gave her the inelegant name of “Flatfoot,” because that back leg was flat, as though she had caught it under something. She made do with it -- what other choice did she have? -- but it obviously pained her, she rarely put weight on it and often licked at it. As winter melted into spring she kept coming, and I began sitting outside when I saw her, tossing out seed for her. Somehow, we mutually discovered that she really liked Ritz crackers, and I would toss one or two of those to her. I began holding them out to her and she eventually got to the point she would s-t-r-e-t-c-h out her neck and snatch the cracker, then settle a few feet away to eat it. I changed her name to “Ritzy” at first, which grew into “Fritzy” for some reason. One time I decided our relationship should move to the next level, so I held out my flat hand with birdseed on it. She slowly came up and began eating the seed out of my hand, but got confused as to where the seed ended and where my flesh began, and incidentally nipped me, hard enough to draw blood. I yelped and pulled back my hand, she ran for cover. But the next day we were back to our old routine. And so it went. Many mornings she was waiting outside when I got up or would run up to me when I walked out, while any other rabbits bolted for the bushes. Sometimes, when I sat with my laptop on the back deck, I would see her make her careful route around the edge of the yard, against the fence, eventually ending up at the front porch. I suspected she was a “she” because from time-to-time she seemed to have enlarged teats, as though nursing babies. Sometimes she would pay me the ultimate rabbit complement of stretching out and relaxing not far from me, something rabbits only do when they are at ease. The leg seemed to get better for a while, then worse. She put weight on it only when she had to, and sometimes used it to scratch her ear, but would always lick at it. The claws kept growing longer and at odd angles. But she adapted. Two years this lasted, with a few absences of one or two days, but she always returned. That back leg always bothered me, and I wished there were something I could do to help her. I thought about a wildlife rescue, but doubted they would be seriously interested in a cottontail. They would, at most, euthanize her, and that didn’t seem right. She always seemed so lively and uncomplaining about the leg, and it seemed wrong for me or anyone else to decide otherwise. I considered trying to catch her myself and putting her in a cage, but read too many stories of wild rabbits beating themselves to death against the wire, trying to escape. Perhaps I could have convinced a vet to do some sort of surgery on the leg, but I doubted I could afford it, even if it were feasible. So I did nothing, which was probably the proper course. The last time I saw her was about six weeks ago. I looked out my front window and saw a rustling in the hostas, then she kind of raised up, with a couple nearly-grown babies hanging on her. She licked them, then limped off. The next morning I came across her lying in some hostas in the backyard, and she seemed a little off somehow, even though she moved on. But something told me that was the last time I’d see her. It was. Sometimes now I see young rabbits in the yard, no doubt at least a couple had been hers. One seemed to hang around a bit, and I tossed it a Ritz, which it ignored. Would have been nice if the rabbit had run after it, a sort of passing the baton to the next generation, but it didn’t happen. I sometimes wonder how her life ended, though I don’t like to ponder it. Rabbits run many risks, and three-legged ones even more. I hope her ending was sudden. I don’t know what or if rabbits have memories or thoughts, but I am glad she no longer has to endure the pain of that bad leg, even if I have to endure the pain of a lost friend. Because that’s what she was, and I really do hope that, somehow on a rabbit-level, she considered me the same. We had a real relationship that meant much to me. Goodbye, Fritzy. I truly miss you. My mornings are emptier now. Thanks for two years of trust and sharing.
I want to want to write. I know I do it well and I have all reasonable resources at my disposal: a workable laptop with access to online resources, a well-stocked library of hard-bound resources (Oxford American English dictionary, Roget’s Thesaurus, various writing guides, a quiet place to work at a functioning desk, good lighting. I get various suggestions and prompts from sites I follow. My health is reasonably good, my find still sharp, my fingers still agile on the keyboard. And, above all, I have ample time. What I’m seeking is the power to get started on something. I know that when I get going (like this) words flow and I fall into the rhythm and cadence of writing, and everything else becomes irrelevant. At those times I know I am a writer. But sometimes the ignition doesn’t catch, the engine won’t turn over. I guess what I need is to get out of my head and onto paper, but it can be hard. A lot like “trying” to fall asleep. It can’t be done directly. I tell myself I have no reason to write anymore. I used to think I had or could have fresh insights into life, but now it feels as though I am sometimes borderline sappy or boringly restating maxims. I don’t really have any urge or expectation anymore to become well-known as a writer, so there’s that. What other reason is there to write? Thinking Samuel Johnson’s “a man who writes for anything other than money is a fool.” (paraphrased). The obvious answer seems to be, well, the obvious one. I should write because I love the process of writing, and that love is my version of Sam Johnson’s currency. Also, I should add if I’m being honest, I sometimes write in a larger forum, like this, because I like to be liked, I value feedback, I treasure feeling I belong to a larger community of like minds, larger than my audience of one here in my workspace, or of two or three, if you count my wife and my daughter. And so, here I sit, having postulated and answered my question in the same blog entry. The way out of one’s head and onto paper is simply and starkly, to get out of one’s head. Thanks for reading this, for bearing with me as I wandered through my mush of thought. Now back off, I just might have some serious writing to do.
When I was 11 years old we moved from a small town to the fresh suburbs of a larger city, our clutch of houses nesting amid residual scraps of farmland. One of those scraps was still being used to pasture a herd of dairy cows owned and managed by a Catholic convent. (This being the early 1960s, when convents were still a going concern). I often roamed alone in the wild grasses of that pasture, out of sight of home and civilization, soaking in the essence of the prairie seasons. Toward the center of that semi-wild space, on a rise, a huge cottonwood spread its branches. A few large stones and the ghost of foundation suggested a long-gone barn or other structure. A farm wagon rested beneath that cottonwood. An everyday working wagon, metal wheels and wooden frame, likely once used to haul hay out to the cattle. Saplings, young trees really, had wormed themselves around it, some through the wheels. Clearly the wagon hadn’t been moved in a long time. It seemed sound, though, the wood being solid and the wheels and hardware, while rusty, seemed strong underneath. All suggesting that the wagon had been placed or left there, rather than having been abandoned after breaking down. Perhaps encroaching civilization had so reduced the acreage that there was no need for a wagon any more; perhaps mechanization had made it superfluous. Or, as seemed more likely to me, the wagon had been left there on what had been intended as a temporary basis. Something unexpected had intervened and the days turned to months, to seasons, to years, time piling up around the wagon until it slipped from awareness, left to itself and to nature, until any idea of moving it again, should such idea have risen up, would have been abandoned as involving more effort than gain. I felt an immediate kind of sorrow for it, in the way adolescents do, left alone out there for no fault of its own. Many years later I feel a touch of that sorrow when I think of the wagon, but that feeling tends to get buried beneath a sheen of symbolism. I see it as manifestation of the idea of unexpected endings. In my heart I know someone meant to come back for that wagon, but never, ever, did. That the wagon had done well throughout its working life but that life had been ended without warning, that it was unintentionally left behind, waiting until it became, not a wagon abandoned, but an abandoned wagon, finally defined by its uselessness and archaic nature. What had mattered and moved had become a symbol of sad stasis. That wagon comes to mind whenever I think about my writing, or, as has been the case more recently, my lack of writing. I find myself wondering at what point those story lines I keep meaning to pick up on, those half-done drafts and half-baked ideas, will settle into absence. Or, maybe more precisely and more disconcertingly, whether and when I will reach the point at which the idea of writing becomes just that, a symbol buried beneath thoughts and dreams and hazy memories. The soft tapping of saplings in the wind becoming the final ticks of time.
As I mentally prepared for my upcoming solo skydive this past weekend, I kept thinking of the TaeKwonDo blog entry by @O.M. Hillside and my response to it. Specifically, I described how I let fear control me, rather than trusting my teacher’s evaluation of my ability. I resolved that no matter what it feels like as I prepare to jump, I will trust that when my Master told me I was ready, I would go, regardless of any fears. In the case of TKD, it had been Master Kim, a veteran and highly-regarded teacher; in the case of skydiving, it would be Bo, a competent and experienced skydiver. The morning classes were quite rigorous, a lot of simulated jumps from various devices, and a lot of video and teaching about what to do, and what could go wrong. A lot of mental preparation stuff --mnemonics about how to control your animal reactions, and about the steps to take. The temperature was around 90, the sun beat down from a bright blue sky, and whenever we were outside the sweat ran down my brow. I wished I had brought a sweatband. Funny, I thought, how hard it can be to remember the simple things under pressure -- I quickly learned the “Circle of Awareness” to be gone through as soon as one left the plane: Heading, Altitude, Body position, and to Breathe.” But for some reason it was hard to recall them on command. The same with the evaluation of an open parachute, “the three S’s”: is it Square, Steerable, and Stable? (even now, in the stillness of my kitchen, I had to search a few moments for the third element). And so on. The physical parts were even more demanding, making sure I knew where the main ripcord was, the reserve, and the cut-off mechanism activator if the main chute goes bad. Hard to remember to look, and exactly where they were. And all the hand signals I should make, and that my accompanying instructors would make. And so on. I started thinking about @Iain Aschendale and @EFMingo, and thinking what it would be like if this were a military organization and I had to learn all no matter what, and learn it well. I envisioned long hours of drills until I got it right or died trying. But we didn’t have long hours of drills, only this one morning. Oh well, I thought, and again resolved to leave all the year evaluations and decisions to Bo. For the first time ever I felt old at my 70 years. I was at least 30 years older than my cohorts (and all but one of my instructors) and I sensed how much slower some of my reaction times were than theirs. And my body felt more tired and sore than I thought it should, but they all seemed fine with it. After the morning classes we were given a written exam to complete. As I sat alone at a picnic table, Bo sat across from me. “I’ve been watching you, and I have some concerns.” We talked for awhile, and it soon became clear what his message was. “I’m not interested in making money,” he said, “I’m interested in safety. I just don’t think you’re able to do it.” As I had promised myself, I accepted his words at face value, hard though they were, and opposite to what I had envisioned. I don’t like to fail or to wash out. I next accepted his offer of doing a tandem dive instead, but one in which I played the primary role, including pulling the cord and all the rest including altitude checks and steering. At least I wouldn’t go home without a dive. And it was wonderful. Not the cramped ride to two miles up, but the cold buffeting wind and the patchwork farm field below, the bright blue sky and wispy clouds, the jerk of the opening main chute at 6,000 feet (I made sure it was Stable, Steerable, and Square), then the slow circling approach to the landing site, and the smooth sliding to earth. I think the Master was right, even though his words stung. Better to settle for disappointment than to die because of vanity. May not impress the ladies as much, but no point in impressing them by plunging to earth.