And Still I Try

book book pages bookcase browse
Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

I don’t just like to write. I also love to read. I am in awe of great writers, and they are many in number. Some of them are friends of mine while others are strangers who become like friends through their words. There are those who have a knack for choosing just the right words, the most stunning imagery, the clearest poetic phrasing. I am often moved by their ability to convey a universe of ideas in the space of a sentence or paragraph. These are the true masters among us whose canvases are blank sheets of paper and whose art is created from combinations of letters, words, and punctuation. It’s a simple enough exercise, and yet some of us still draw stick figures when we attempt to write, while others join the infinite with their masterpieces. I am transformed by their work, even while I am a bit jealous of it. I want to reach their level of of excellence knowing that my own efforts are mostly feeble, and still I try.

I was listening to a program on National Public Radio that spoke of the emotions elicited by great art both visual and audible. Music by far is the most likely to stir something in our souls that brings us to tears. Studies show that paintings are often the most vivid representations of life, but we humans rarely gaze at them long enough to become as emotionally involved as we do when we hear songs or symphonies. When we read we often skim so quickly over the words that we absorb only a minimal appreciation for what they are conveying, but when those same words are acted by great players we may find ourselves sobbing. Music and acting are so fluid, while canvases and manuscripts may appear static, leaving us with little more than a passing idea of what they actually represent. When we actually take the time to allow our minds to feel the content of a great work of visual or written art we are transformed.

My father had an appreciation for all forms of art. He played music while he read, a daily routine that included hours of perusing newspaper columns, books of poetry, novels, and nonfiction. He returned to stanzas and passages again and again. Repeating the rhythms and phrases that most appealed to him. He memorized the best of them, ready to quote them in appropriate moments. Bookstores were his galleries, places where he found hidden jewels that appealed to his senses. He held books and printed papers as though they were treasures to be treated with the highest regard. He transferred his love for the written word to me. He showed me how to be discerning in my search for the artistry of a great poet or author, My high school English teacher, Father Shane, transformed my sensibilities into an art form of itself by insuring me that being a studied appreciator of great writing is a kind of accomplishment in its own right.

The best writers among us invert the world as we see it, turn it upside down and inside out making even the hideous beautiful. They appear to have a gift, a natural genius that makes it easy and inevitable that they will leave us breathless with their creations. Still we know from stories and examples that they have to work hard to hone their craft. They don’t simply peck out five hundred words in an hour to reveal thoughts and ideas so memorable that they will last through the decades and centuries. We hear of F. Scott Fitzgerald driving himself almost insane in his attempts to reproduce the beauty of The Great Gatsby. Shakespeare’s works were both brilliant and ordinary depending on which of his plays is being considered. The demon of perfection haunts writers and sends them into fits of desperation. There is no feeling as dreaded as having a block that creates an almost impenetrable wall between ideas and final copy.

I wonder how a J.K. Rowling is able to fashion and sustain a story and characters so perfectly that her books become beloved treasures, keepsakes to visit again and again. How does a Tolkien create entire worlds with a make believe history that seems so real, while others are one trick ponies or abject failures in spite of Herculian efforts? Is it possible to push ourselves to find our own inner genius and then demonstrate it to the world, or is the mark of greatness limited to only a select few?

I read, and read and read, learning new ways of saying old things. I practice and practice, but find myself falling short of the goals that I set for myself. My time is growing short. I am not a Grandma Moses who will suddenly stun the world with my talent, and yet I would like to be. I would so enjoy finding that sweet spot that might touch a place in a reader’s heart that makes them cry for joy. I want to transcend the ordinary and find my personal best, which I sense is buried somewhere inside of me. I suspect that I will know when I have managed to get closer to my ultimate goal, but I worry that there is some calculus that will keep me forever making only closer and closer approximations of what I want to achieve.

Reading and writing have become my routines. I push myself to exercise my mind the way some work on their bodies. I find peace in my experiments with words, and inspiration in the genius of those who have already accomplished what I hope to one day achieve. Writing is my Holy Grail, my Mt. Everest, my nemesis and my consolation, and still I try.

Advertisements

Surrender

sea of clouds sunrise wallpaper
Photo by Rahul Pandit on Pexels.com

At the age of thirty my mother was left alone with three small children in an era when women were still mostly housewives, not yet integrated into the work force. She was faced with raising her little family with no money, not even a life insurance policy to ease her worries while she quickly learned how to make ends meet and provide safety and security for herself and her family. A little more than then years later she would have proven her mettle and determination to make things work, but her troubles were far from over. The symptoms of her bipolar disorder revealed themselves in full force with a psychotic episode of paranoia that would make her life even more difficult in the years to come.

Her hospitalization and treatment would weigh heavily on her mind for the rest of her life. It was a frightening experience for everyone, but mostly for her. The nurses carefully checked her belongings to be certain that she had no objects with which she might harm herself. They spoke of great fear that she might be suicidal. Of course no such thoughts were ever present in my mom’s mind. Her faith in God and profound belief that he would always love and protect her insured that she was never going to consider such violence upon herself. Even in the worst episodes of her illness suicide was not part of her frightening thoughts. The psychiatrists who took the time to know her well all insisted that she was never at risk of killing herself. Somehow her profound faith was like a protective shield of armor even in her most confused moments.

This past Easter season I found myself being reminded again and again of how much my mother loved God. She was one of those persons who proudly displayed the palms that she received at church on each Palm Sunday. During Holy Week she virtually lived at the church beginning with Holy Thursday and culminating with special services on Good Friday, Holy Saturday, and Easter itself. She seemed to have a very special relationship with Jesus, and she found great comfort in the story of his short life here on earth. She often spoke of how he protected widows, and she sincerely believed that he was actively caring for her from heaven.

Good Friday was a particularly moving occasion for my mother. She seemed to understand the message of Jesus’ death on the cross far more clearly than most Christians. She often cried at the very thought of the pain that he endured and the injustice of his execution, but she saw it as the ultimate sacrifice that anyone might make for his/her fellow human. She also thought of it as a model for the kind of suffering that each of us will experience on earth. She felt that such challenges would ultimately be a passing thing when our time here reached an end and we are reunited with God in heaven. She was so unswervingly convinced of the truth of her beliefs that she literally glowed with joy on her deathbed in the knowledge that she was about to receive the ultimate reward for all humans who have done their best to live good and decent lives.

I admittedly often felt sorrow for my mom. It seemed to me that she had convinced herself that the tragedy of her life was not nearly as bad as some seemed to think. She focused on the prize and never once wavered in her beliefs. She often spoke of how blessed she was and how good God had been to her. Not poverty, nor illness, nor the loss of those that she loved ever led her to question that love that she was convinced he had shown her. She daily read her bible and made it from one difficulty to the next with an optimism that sometimes annoyed me. It was only at the very moment of her death that I felt that there was something bigger than the challenges of humanity at work in our lives. In the years since she left this earth I have found myself remembering just how much comfort she found in the words and deeds of Jesus. I have recalled how she actually felt privileged to have suffered a bit like he did. She found so much joy in the spiritual relationship that she had with him, and she truly believed that he was the reason that she had made it.

My mother was a very special and saintly woman, a tower of strength in spite of the illness that rose up to threaten her again and again. Where I became angry about her fate, she saw it as life unfolding just as it was supposed to be. Somehow she found virtue even in her own imperfections. Her interpretation and understanding of the message of the Christian gospels was one of great exultation. I on the other had often over thought and focused on the horrors that I saw in the world, particularly those inflicted on her. Unlike my mother I wanted to know how she could be so content when she seemed to have been give so little. I had a hard time accepting her belief that she was fortunate and blessed.

In the years since her death I have found myself pondering her life and realizing just how carefree and generous she always seemed to be. While I was worrying about worldly things, she was viewing life through a far more spiritual lens. She did not need the trappings of humanity to feel good. She was truly like the lilies of the field in her innocence and her willingness to find beauty and peace in small things. She needed little more than her bible to feel safe and secure.

Somehow this past Easter season I began to truly understand her life, and mostly her faith. I had moments when I was overcome with emotion in the realization of how powerful her relationship with God had been. I felt her presence in my heart and it allowed me to feel closer to her and to God than ever before in my life. I realized that I too have been the beneficiary of God’s goodness even when it was not apparent to me. Somehow I began to have a clearer understanding of his message to us. While I cannot explain it to the extent that I wish, I now understand that it is about surrender, the same kind that Jesus demonstrated when he allowed himself to die on a cross. It is not about rules or judgements or the kind of things that we humans have added to virtually every religion on earth, but about love and trust. That is the secret that my mother discovered, the truth that kept her untroubled even when her story seemed to be so unfair. I’m working on becoming more like her. I still have a long way to go, but I can see a ray of light that has never been there before.

Let’s Get This Thing Going!

big ben bridge castle city
Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

In just a little over I week I’ll be flying off to London. I’m currently in that frantic state of mind in which I just want to board a plane right now, and be done with all of the anticipation. I’ve been scheduling a full calendar of events for weeks now, and I am beginning to worry that if we don’t just get things going something is going to happen to blow the whole thing up. Sadly a lifetime of experience has taught me that the best laid plans often go awry. I get especially anxious in May given that my father died so unexpectedly in that month just before we were supposed to have a family gala at the beach on Memorial Day. It is the time of year when my mother also died the day before a retirement party that my daughters had sweetly planned in my honor. I’ve found that all too often when I fill my calendar with grand expectations too far in the future something almost always happens to change my course. I suppose that’s why I prefer a vagabond approach to life. I simply go whenever the urge hits me, and I’m rarely disappointed.

Traveling to London is a long held dream of mine. If only I can get there without too many glitches I’m certain that I will have a glorious time. My first challenge will be the flight. I always become anxious at an airport, not because I am afraid of flying, but because I absolutely hate the process of making my way to the plane. The lines are long and the ways of doing things are constantly changing. I don’t relax until I have maneuvered my way through all of the checkpoints. I truly admire those young women that I see with young children in tow because I would no doubt go insane having to herd little ones in addition to taking care of myself. I have to take deep breaths not to come unglued and frighten the TSA agents. Luckily I’ll have my husband, my brothers, and my very stable sisters-in-law to keep me grounded and point me in the right directions.

Once we actually arrive in London I know that I will be happy with whatever happens. We have reserved tickets to all sorts of places, but in all honesty just being there will be good enough for me. Most of the time my favorite thing about visiting a place is just walking around observing the people and the vibrancy of life. I don’t need to go inside anywhere to have a glorious time, but nonetheless we have a hefty schedule for the two weeks that we will be there.

My husband was talking about how we will have to be sure to allow time to eat, but in truth all I need is a bag of fruit or some nuts and I am fine. I rarely go anywhere and think about food. I’d rather use the time that I have exploring. The idea of spending hours in an eatery doesn’t appeal to me at all when there are palaces and towers and churches from hundreds of years ago to see. I want to take in the sheer magnitude of the British Museum and walk through the universities where Newton and other geniuses once studied and worked. I look forward to riding the Tube and feeling the heartbeat of a great city.

We have tickets to see The Merry Wives of Windsor at the Globe Theater. The Shakespearean comedy is not even close to being a favorite of mine and I realize that the present day theater is only recently built replica, but it will still give me a feel of what the Elizabethan world of so long ago might have been like. I’m brushing up on the story of Falstaff and his antics ahead of time so that I will be able to wholeheartedly enjoy being part of something that has endured in literature and the arts for hundreds of years.

We plan to travel to Bath and Highclere Castle of Downton Abbey fame, to York and York Minster. We will journey through the Cotswolds and hopefully get a taste of life in small towns. I hope to see farms and fields of livestock, and maybe sit in a pub of an evening to speak of the wonders that I enjoyed during the day. I want to take in the old and the new, the Tower of London as well as the Tate Modern and the London Eye. I hope to stroll through gardens and down tiny hidden alleyways.

I expect to leave with memories that will remain in my mind for the remainder of my days, but I am becoming so anxious to get things going that I can hardly sleep at night. I worry that there has been far too much time for fate to enter the picture and turn things topsy turvy. I suppose that I am filled with Shakespearean forebodings that will probably never unfold, but my mind is in hyperdrive as I wait, and wait and wait.

Travel is a glorious experience. I’ve always found ways to enjoy every minute in every place that I have ever visited regardless of the weather or other unforetold events that changed the direction of my plans. I know that all I need do is get to London and everything will work out for me, and so I impatiently attempt to calm myself. I will soon enough return to the land of my at least half of my ancestors, the people who gave me much of my history and appearance. I plan to revel in discovering what their world might have been like.

In the end I remember that they left the places that I will visit, and came to the new world where they became Americans through and through, Yanks who fought in the revolution and patriots who served with the Union Army to preserve the nation. In many ways my trip will be in honor of the people whose hard work ultimately provided me and my brothers with opportunities unlike anything that they ever knew, and the financial wherewithal to travel for pure enjoyment. I will remember and appreciate them as I tour the land from whence they came. In the meantime can we please just get this thing going!

It’s Complicated

colorful color play concentration
Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

I recently freaked out over the results of my annual bone density test. I have had osteoporosis for years which isn’t too surprising because it is rampant on both sides of my family. For two years I injected myself daily with a drug called Forteo. It was a pain to carry the medication in a little bag that kept it cold no matter where I went. I had to bring my prescription papers to airports and check with hotels to be sure that I would have a refrigerator in my room. The shots themselves were easy and I had no side effects, so essentially all went well. I was exhilarated when a followup bone scan revealed that I had grown so much bone that I no longer had osteoporosis.

I set out with determination to keep my bones strong. I took double doses of calcium pills and included every form of natural calcium that I could put in my diet. I took vitamin D to help with absorption and gave up sodas lest they have a negative impact on my progress. I walked for miles and miles and went faithfully to a gym. It was hard work, but for a good cause, and I was feeling better than ever. When I went for my bone scan this year I expected to have wonderful results, but that is not what happened. The had osteoporosis returned. I had lost some of the bone that the Forteo had grown.

I ranted on Facebook and worried about what my future might be. I saw myself in a wheelchair like my aunts. I even went so far as to mentally redesign my home for what I was sure would one day be my handicap status. I went for an injection of Prolia that my doctor prescribed, but I felt defeated. I wondered if my efforts were of any use. Finally I sent a message to my doctor asking about my pathway forward after I did hours of research on the Internet. His response was call me in for a conference and walk me through the complexities of my situation.

After a thirty minute talk I understood what was happening, why it was so, and how to move forward. I had not seen all of the facets of my situation, and my doctor clarified them for me and left me with hope and optimism. He reminded me that above all I was still very young, even at the age of seventy, and that there were already people diligently researching solutions for my problems. He indicated that within the next ten years he believes that we will see amazing results that may eventually make the symptoms of severe osteoporosis a reality of the past.

My personal difficulty and its sweet analysis by my physician has caused me to think about even bigger problems that the world faces, and to understand that we all too often get tunnel vision about a particular situation. We want quick fixes, instant answers based on a limited vision of all of the ins and outs of a particular question. We base our analyses of what is happening on our incomplete knowledge of the present with little regard to what may happen in the future. We forget just how complex every single human interaction truly is. Nothing operates in a vacuum. To believe that we only have to do X,Y and Z to set things right is ridiculous. We in fact need those people who can help us to see all facets of a situation rather than just what we wish to see.

As a teacher I learned quickly that there is no one size fits all magic pill for turning a classroom into a dynamic place. Things change from one minute to the next. Each person is individual and requires a unique approach. So it is with questions about immigration, abortion, climate change, the economy. The truth is that we need to hear from all sides, not just those with which we agree. It would be a profound mistake to silence the voices of people who are able to see the glitches in political ideas. We should be loathe to shout down anyone who asks us to consider a slightly different way of thinking.

When we speak of immigration there appear to be two very distinct ways of dealing with the issue, but in reality each side is a little bit right and a little bit wrong. Unfortunately neither is willing to admit that there is something to be learned by incorporating a plan that is a fusion of the best ideas of progress and caution. Somehow we have to either hold the line and build a wall, or welcome everyone with open arms. We categorize sides as all good or all bad depending on our point of view. We rarely stop to think that everyone truly cares about people and what will happen to them, they just see the solutions a bit differently. We actually need to truly and respectfully hear each voice and then make difficult and complicated decisions. 

So it is with any question that we face. We have to curb our desires to just jump in with whatever fad or idea that makes us feel good for the moment. As with my doctor we need to seriously analyze all of the possible outcomes with seriousness and respect for opposing ideas. We can’t just fall for imagery and emotions. When sorting life we have to remember that it’s complicated.

In the Heat of the Day

sport computer runners athlete
Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

It was an unseasonably hot day for April, but then every day has been unseasonable this year with cold weather returning in spring and violent storms blowing in for an hour to tear things apart and then leaving as fast as they came. There was a track meet that afternoon and somehow it seemed far too warm for the long distance runners, but their heat was scheduled for late in the day when the temperatures ease down a bit, so all seemed well. Then we received the last minute news that the schedule had been turned topsy turvy like the Mad Hatter’s tea party. First was last and last was first. Everything was in reverse which meant that there would be young women and men running the 3200 meter race in the hottest part of the day with the sun bearing down on them at near ninety degrees.

We rushed to the track to view the contest and had barely found our seats when the young women took their positions for the 3200 meter race and were off at the sound of the gun. At first they did not appear to  be affected by the heat that was burning the back of my neck and causing my blouse to stick to my skin. I presumed that they were in such good shape that they would hardly notice that it was not a time conducive to attempting to run at top speed for around two miles. After about four laps around the track the toll that the temperature was taking on their bodies became more and more obvious. Their faces were turning beet red and the strain registered on their faces. By the time they had finished the course many were vomiting and others were crumbling in exhaustion or even fainting. They had made it apparent that have such a long race in far too hot and humid conditions had been overly stressful to their bodies.

When running the body responds to the outside temperature in multiple ways. The longer the time spent pushing for speed, the more negative forces are placed on the mechanisms of the body. If it is sixty degrees the runner feels as though it is eighty degrees, so running for a prolonged period at eighty nine degrees means that the runner is experiencing a feeling inside his/her body as though it is actually one hundred nine degrees. If the humidity is also high it becomes difficult to sweat, which is a necessary way of keeping the internal body temperature within safe limits. The body begins to react to what it sees as an assault which is why some of those girls eventually puked and fainted. They had unwittingly sent their internal systems into a state of emergency.

The 3200 meter race for that day had originally been scheduled for around seven in the evening. Had that tradition been followed the sun would have been lower on the horizon and the temperature would have been more amenable to a prolonged physical effort. The short sprints should have been first just as they usually are. Those runners would not have been as affected by the heat because their attempts last under a minute. Putting the most grueling race first was a questionable decision for adult coaches who should have known better. They were lucky that nobody was hurt even more seriously.

My grandson was one of the runners in the boy’s 3200. He is usually a beast on the track with a final kick that sends him in front of his competitors on a regular basis. He is highly respected for his prowess and his ability to garner some inner force to get the job done. On this day with the heat raising the temperature to what felt like over one hundred degrees his body told him to be cautious. He was a contender for a mile, but then he felt everything inside him shutting down. He became seriously dehydrated and his muscles felt uncharacteristically weak. He sensed that pushing himself unnecessarily would be hazardous to his well being, and so he slowed his pace to a trot that allowed him to breathe and brought him a measure of control. Sadly this was the district meet that determined whether or not he would represent his school at the state contest, and he was considered to have a better than good shot at being one of the top four runners. On that day it was not to be. He finished in the middle of the pack with his face red from the exertion and his skin feeling as hot as if he were in the throes of a serious illness. It was a disappointing moment, and one wrought with a sense of anger that the adults who should have understood why having the longest race of the meet in such conditions was a bad, unfair and dangerous call.

As an educator I was taught to consider all of the possible unintended consequences of my decisions before enacting them. I understood that I was ultimately responsible for the well being of my students as long as they were in my care, and so I had to be conscious of everything from the structure of my classroom to the words that I uttered. My job was almost akin to policing or being on a battlefield in that I had to observe, and think, and be ready to change course in an instant in response to each of my kids. There were no excuses for letting down my guard. I was the bulwark against any harm that threatened to come to my kids, and if I was careful and on my toes things generally went well. It was only when I didn’t think things through that problems occurred. Luckily few of my faulty decisions involved the physical well being of my charges.

I would warn those who deal with sports or band practices or any sort of activity that is affected by extremes of temperature that they consider the possible problems with their schedules and the order in which they do things. The runners on that hot day that I witnessed had only exited their buses thirty minutes before the events began. That was hardly enough time to warm up for a very quick sprit halfway around the track much less an eight lap endurance test. That should have been obvious to the adults in charge by the end of the girls’ race. Sadly, to add insult to injury some of the coaches chided the long distance runners for being unable to prove their mettle regardless of what the heat was doing to their bodies. Of all people they should have been the most aware of the error of their decision, but they staunchly denied any problems when confronted by parents who were concerned by what had happened.

There will be other races for most of the kids, and they will learn and move on from the disappointment, but if the coaches don’t also learn a tragedy is waiting to happen. There is a reason that the 3200 race is usually the second to last event and it has a great deal to do with providing the athletes with time to warm up their bodies, and a consideration of the humid heat that reaches it peak in the shank of the afternoon. This travesty in timing should never happen again, and the coaches should be willing to admit the error of their ways.